by Ruth Rendell
Wexford wished now that he had gone himself, for he was made irritable by this enforced inactivity and by thoughts of what he had left behind him at home. Tenderness he felt for Sylvia, but little sympathy. Robin and Ben had been told their father was going away on business and that this was why they were there, but although Ben accepted this, Robin perhaps knew better. He was old enough to have been affected by the preceding quarrels and to have understood much of what had been said. Without him and Ben, their mother would have been able to lead a free, worthwhile and profitable life. The little boy went about with a bewildered look.
That damned water rat might have provided a diversion, but the beast was as elusive as ever.
And Neil had not come. Wexford had been sure his son in-law would turn up, even if only for more recriminations and mud-slinging. He had neither come nor phoned. And Sylvia, who had said she didn’t want him to come, that she never wanted to see him again, first moped over his absence, then harangued her parents for allowing her to marry him in the first place. Wexford had had a bad night because Dora had hardly slept, and in the small hours he had heard Sylvia pacing her bedroom or roving the house.
Loring came back at twelve, which was the earliest he could possibly have made it, and Wexford found himself perversely wishing he had been late so that he could have snapped at him. That was no way to go on. Pleasantly he said: ‘Did you get any joy?’
‘In a sort of way, sir. They recognized the wallet at once. It was the last of a line they had left. The customer bought it on Thursday, August fourth.’
‘You call that a sort of way? I call it a bloody marvellous break!'
Loring looked pleased, though it was doubtful whether this was praise or even directed at him. ‘Not Rhoda Comfrey, sir,’ he said hastily. ‘A man. Chap called Grenville West. He’s a regular customer of Silk and Whitebeam. He’s bought a lot of stuff from them in the past.’
‘Did you get his address?’
‘Twenty-two, Elm Green, London, West 15,’ said Loring.
No expert on the metropolis, Wexford nevertheless knew a good deal of the geography of the London Borough of Kenbourne. And now, in his mind’s eye, he saw Elm Green that lay half a mile from the great cemetery. Half an acre or so of turf with elm trees on it, a white-painted fence bordering two sides of it, and facing the green, a row of late Georgian houses, some with their ground floors converted into shops. A pretty place, islanded in sprawling, squalid Kenbourne which, like the curate’s egg and all London boroughs, was good in parts.
It was a piece of luck for him that this first possible London acquaintance – friend, surely – of Rhoda Comfrey had been located here. He would get help, meet with no obstruction, for his old nephew, his dead sister’s son, was head of Kenbourne Vale CID. That Chief Superintendent Howard Fortune was at present away on holiday in the Canary Islands was a pity but no real hindrance. Several members of Howard’s team were known to him. They were old friends.
By two Stevens, his driver, was heading the car towards London. Wexford relaxed, feeling his confidence returning, Sylvia and her troubles pushed to the back of his mind, and he felt stimulated by the prospect before him when Stevens set him down outside Kenbourne Vale Police Station.
‘Inspector Baker in?’
It was amusing, really. If anyone had told him, those few years before, that the day would come when he would actually be asking for Baker, wanting to see him, he would have laughed with resentful scorn. For Baker had been the reverse of pleasant to him when, convalescing after his thrombosis with Howard and Denise, he had helped solve the cemetery murder. But Howard, Wexford thought secretly, would have refused that word ‘helped’, would have said his uncle had done all that solving on his own. And that had marked the beginning of Baker’s respect and friendship. After that, there had been no more barbs about rustic policemen and interference and ignorance of London thugs. His request was answered in the affirmative, and two minutes later he was being shown down one of those bottlegreen painted corridors to the inspector’s office with its view of a brewery. Baker got up and came to him delightedly, hand outstretched.
‘This is a pleasant surprise, Reg!’
It was getting on for two years since Wexford had seen him. In that time, he thought, there had been more remarkable changes, and not just in the man’s manner towards himself. He looked years younger, he looked happy. Only the harsh corncrake voice with its faint cockney intonation remained the same.
‘It’s good to see you, Michael.’ Baker shared Burden’s Christian name. How that had once riled him! ‘How are you? You’re looking fine. What’s the news.’
‘Well, you’ll know Mr Fortune’s away in Tenerife. Things are fairly quiet here, thank God. Your old friend Sergeant Clements is somewhere about, he’ll be glad to see you. Sit down and I’ll have some tea sent up.’ There was a framed photograph of a fair-haired, gentle-looking woman on the desk. Baker saw Wexford looking at it. ‘My wife,’ he said, self-conscious, proud, a little embarrassed. ‘I don’t know if Mr Fortune mentioned I’d got married – ’ a tiny hesitation ‘ – again?’
Yes, Howard had, of course, but he had forgotten. The new ease of manner, the happiness, were explained. Michael Baker had once been married to a girl who had become pregnant by another man and who had left him for that other man. Finding that out from Howard had marked the beginnings of his toleration of Baker’s rudeness and his thinly veiled insults.
‘Congratulations. I’m delighted.’
‘Yes, well…’ Awkwardness brought out shades of Baker’s old acerbity. ‘You didn’t come here to talk about my domestic bliss. You came about this Rose – no, Rhoda – Comfrey. Am I right?’
Wexford said on a surge of hope, ‘You know her? You’ve got some…?’
‘Wouldn’t I have been in touch if I had? No, but I read the papers. I don’t suppose you’ve got much else on your mind at the moment, have you?’
Sylvia, Sylvia… ‘No, not much.’ The tea came, and he told Baker about the wallet and Grenville West.
‘I do know him. Well, not to say “know”. He’s what you might call our contribution to the arts. They put bits about him in the local paper from time to time. Come on, Reg, I always think of you as so damned intellectual. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Grenville West?’
‘Well, I haven’t. What does he do?’
‘I daresay he’s not that famous. He writes books, historical novels. I can’t say I’ve ever set eyes on him, but I’ve read one of his books – bit above my head – and I can tell you a bit about him from what I’ve seen in the paper. In his late thirties, dark-haired chap, smokes a pipe – they put his photo on his book jackets. You know those old houses facing the Green? He lives in a flat in one of them over a wine bar.’
Having courteously refused Baker’s offer of assistance, sent his regards to Sergeant Clements, and promised to return later, he set off up Kenbourne High Street. The heat that was pleasant, acceptable in the country, made of this London suburb a furnace that seemed to be burning smelly refuse. A greyish haze obscured the sun. He wondered why the Green looked different, barer somehow, and bigger. Then he noticed the stumps where the trees had been. So Dutch Elm disease denuded London as well as the country. He crossed the grass where black children and one white child were playing ball, where two Indian women in saris, their hair in long braids, walked slowly and gracefully as if they carried invisible pots on their heads. The wine bar had been discreetly designed not to mar the long elegant facade, as had the other shops in this row, and the sign over its bow window announced in dull gold letters: Vivian’s Vineyard.
The occasional slender tree grew out of the pavement, and some of the houses had window boxes with geraniums and petunias in them. Across the house next door to the bar rambled the vines of an ipomaea, the Morning Glory, its trumpet flowers open and glowing a brilliant blue. This might have been some corner of Chelsea or Hampstead. If you kept your eyes steady, if you didn’t look south to the gasworks or east t
o St Biddulph’s Hospital, if you didn’t smell the smoky, diesely stench, it might even have been Kingsmarkham.
He rang repeatedly at the door beside the shop window, but no one came. Grenville West was out. What now? It was nearly five and, according to the notice on the shop door, the Vineyard opened at five. He sat down on one of the benches on the Green to wait until it did. Presently a pale-skinned black girl came out, peered up and down the street and went back in again, turning the sign to ‘Open’. Wexford followed her and found himself in a dim cavern, light coming only from some bulbs behind the bar itself and from heavily shaded Chianti-bottle lamps on the tables. The window was curtained in brown and silver and the curtains were fast drawn. On a high stool, under the most powerful of the lamps, the girl had seated herself to leaf through a magazine. He asked her for a glass of white wine, and then if the owner or manager or proprietor was about.
‘You want Vie?’
‘I expect I do if he’s the boss.’
‘I’ll fetch him.’
She came back with a man who looked in his early forties. ‘Victor Vivian. What can I do for you?’
Wexford showed him his warrant card and explained. Vivian seemed rather cheered by the unexpected excitement, while the girl opened enormous eyes and stared.
‘Take a pew,’ said Vivian not ineptly, for the place had the gloom of a chapel devoted to some esoteric cult. But there was nothing priestly about its proprietor. He wore jeans and a garment somewhere between a T-shirt and a windcheater with a picture on it of peasant girls treading out the grape harvest. ‘Gren’s away. Went off on holiday to France, you know – let’s see now – last Sunday week. He always goes to France for a month at this time of the year.’
‘You own the house?’
‘Not to say “own”, you know. I mean, Notbourne Properties own it. I’ve got the underlease.’
He was going to be an ‘I mean-er’ and ‘you know-er’. Wexford could feel it coming. Still, such people usually talked a lot and were seldom discreet. ‘You know him well?’
‘We’re old mates, Gren and me, you know. He’s been here fourteen years and a damn good tenant. I mean, he does all his repairs himself and it’s handy, you know, having someone always on the premises when the bar’s closed. Most evenings he’ll drop in here for a drink, you know, and then as often as not I’ll have a quick one with him, up in his place, I mean, after we’ve knocked off for the night, and then, you know…’
Wexford cut this useless flow short. ‘It’s not Mr West I’m primarily interested in. I’m trying to trace the address of someone who may have been a friend of his. You’ve read of the murder of Miss Rhoda Comfrey?’
Vivian gave a schoolboy whistle. ‘The old girl who was stabbed? You mean she was a friend of Gren’s? Oh, I doubt that, I mean, I doubt that very much. I mean, she was fifty, wasn’t she? Gren’s not forty, I mean, I doubt if he’s more than thirty-eight or thirty-nine. Younger than me, you know.’
‘I wasn’t suggesting the relationship was a sexual one, Mr Vivian. They could just have been friends.’
This possibility was apparently beyond Vivian’s comprehension, and he ignored it. ‘Gren’s got a girl-friend. Nice little thing, you know, worships the ground he treads on.’ A sly wink was levelled at Wexford. ‘He’s a wily bird, though, is old Gren. Keeps her at arm’s length a bit. Afraid she might get him to the altar, you know, or that’s my guess, I mean. Polly something-or-other, she’s called, blonde – I mean, she can’t be more than twenty-four or five. Came to do his typing, you know, and now she hangs on like the proverbial limpet. Have another drink? On the house, I mean.’
‘No, thank you, I won’t.’ Wexford produced the photograph and the wallet. ‘You’ve never seen this woman? She’d changed a lot, she didn’t look much like that any more, I’m afraid.’
Vivian shook his head and his beard waggled. He had a variety of intense facial contortions, all stereotyped and suggesting the kind a ham actor acquired to express astonishment, sagacity, knowingness and suspicion. ‘I’ve never seen her here or with Gren, you know,’ he said, switching on the one that indicated disappointed bewilderment. ‘Funny, though, I mean, there’s something familiar about the face. Something, you know, I can’t put a finger on it. Maybe it’ll come back.’ As Wexford’s hopes leapt, Vivian crushed them.
‘This picture wasn’t in the papers, was it? I mean, could that be where I’ve seen her before?’
‘It could.’
Two people came into the bar, bringing with them a momentary blaze of sunshine before the door closed again. Vivian waved in their direction, then, turning back, gave a low whistle. ‘I say! That isn’t old Gren’s wallet, is it?’
Vague memories of Latin lessons came back to Wexford, of forms in which to put questions expecting the answer no. All Vivian’s questions seemed to expect the answer no, perhaps so that he could whistle and put on his astounded face when he got a yes.
‘Well, is it?… Now wait a minute. I mean, this one’s new, isn’t it? You caught me out for a minute, you know. Gren’s got one like it, only a bit knocked around, I mean. Just like that, only a bit battered. Not new, I mean.’ And he had taken it with him to France, Wexford thought.
He was making slow progress, but he kept trying, ‘This woman was almost certainly living under an assumed name, Mr Vivian, never mind the name or the face. Did Mr West ever mention to you any woman friend he had who was older than himself?’
‘There was his agent, his – what-d’you-call-it? – literary agent. I can’t remember her name. Mrs Something, you know. Got a husband living, I’m sure of that. I mean, it wouldn’t be her, would it?’
‘I’m afraid not. Can you tell me Mr West’s address in France?’
‘He’s touring about, you know. Somewhere in the south, that’s all I can tell you. Getting back to this woman, I’m racking my brains, but I can’t come up with anyone. I mean, people chat to you about this and that, especially in my job, I mean, and a lot of it goes in one ear and out the other. Old Gren goes about a lot, great walker, likes his beer, likes to have a walk about Soho at night. For the pubs, I mean, nothing nasty, I don’t mean that. He’s got his drinking pals, you know, and he may have talked of some woman, but I wouldn’t have the faintest idea about her name or where she lives, would I? I mean, I’m sorry I can’t be of more help. But you know how it is, I mean, you don’t think anyone’s going to ask, I mean, it doesn’t cross your mind, does it?’
As Wexford rose to go, he was unable to resist the temptation. ‘I know what you mean,’ he said.
Chapter 7
‘You’re not having much luck,’ said Baker over a fresh pot of tea. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll have someone go through the Kenbourne street directory for you. If he did know her, she might have been living only a stone’s throw away.’
‘Not as Rhoda Comfrey. But it’s very good of you, Michael.’
Stevens was waiting for him, but they hadn’t got far along Kenbourne High Street when Wexford noticed a large newish public library on the opposite side. It would close, he guessed, at six, and it was a quarter to now. He told Stevens to drop him and park the car as best he could in this jungle of buses and container lorries and double yellow lines, and then he got out and jay-walked in most unpoliceman-like fashion across the road.
On the forecourt stood a bronze of a mid-nineteenth century gentleman in a frock-coat. ‘Edward Edwards’ said a plaque at its feet, that and no more, as if the name ought to be as familiar as Victoria R or William Ewart Gladstone. It wasn’t familiar to Wexford and he had no time to waste wondering about it. He went on into the library and its large fiction section, and there he was, rubbing shoulders with Rebecca and Morris. Three of Grenville West’s novels were in, Killed With Kindness, The Venetian Courtesan, Fair Wind to Alicante, and each was marked on the spine with an H for Historical. The first title appealed to him most and he took the book from the shelf and looked at the publisher’s blurb on the front inside flap of the jacket
.
‘Once again,’ he read, ‘Mr West astonishes us with his virtuosity in taking the plot and characters of an Elizabethan drama and clothing them in his fine rich prose. This time it is Mistress Nan Frankford, from Thomas Heywood’s A Woman Killed with Kindness, who holds the stage. At first a loving and faithful wife, she is seduced by her husband’s trusted friend, and it is her remorse and Frankford’s curious generosity which contribute to the originality of this compelling book. Mr West sticks closely to Heywood’s plot, but he shows us what Heywood had no need to attempt for his contemporary audience, a vivid picture of domestic life in late sixteenth-century England with its passions, its cruelties, its conventions and its customs. A different world is unfolded before us, and we are soon aware that we are being guided through its halls, its knot gardens and its unspoilt pastoral countryside by a master of his subject.’
Hmm, thought Wexford, not for him. If Killed With kindness was from Heywood’s play of almost identical title, The Venetian Courtesan was very likely based on Webster’s The White Devil and Fair Wind to Alicante – on what? Wexford had a quick look at the blurb inside the jacket of that one and saw that its original was The Changeling of Middleton and Rowley. A clever idea, he thought, for those who liked that sort of thing. It didn’t look as if the author went in for too much intellectual stuff, but concentrated on the blood, thunder and passion which, from the point of view of his sales, was wise of him. There was a lot of Elizabethan and Jacobean plays, hundreds probably, so the possibilities of West going on till he was seventy or so seemed limitless.
Killed With Kindness had been published three years before. He turned to the back of the jacket. There Grenville West was portrayed in tweeds with a pipe in his mouth. He wore glasses and had a thick fringe of dark hair. The face wasn’t very interesting but the photographer’s lighting effects were masterful. Under the picture was a biography: