Roger accompanied the other to the car. When the car had gone, he turned and stared at the house. He’d never claimed it was beautiful — it was far too chunky and heavily proportioned — but time had converted it into something with its own permanent attraction. It was history. The history of England and of the Ventnor family, and knowing how badly it needed repairing but being unable to do anything about it, he had felt that he was letting down the Ventnors. Now, that was over.
A red van drove up. “Afternoon, sir,” said the postman, a round-faced man who always seemed to be smiling. “Two for you, both local.”
As the van left, Roger opened the first letter. The best-man-to-be was going abroad on business for a month and wanted to make certain he was au fait of proceedings. The second letter was from the manager of his bank in Prestry and was very brief. Could Mr. Ventnor go and see him at his earliest, underlined, convenience. Roger looked at his watch. There was time right then, and that would leave the next day free when, if it remained fine, they were going to bale the hay and stack it in the Dutch barn.
He drove to Prestry, parked his car in the council car park and paid the sixpence fee. The bank was five minutes’ walk away, on the far side of the main road.
The manager was middle-aged and pleasant and there was a hesitancy about his manner, which suggested he did not like doing what he was about to do. “Nice of you to come along so smartly, Mr. Ventnor. Do sit down. Cigarette? …I’m afraid I’ve had a communication from head office. They are worried about the state of your overdraft.” He picked up a sheet of paper. “One thousand four hundred and twenty-three pounds, five shillings and sixpence. Head office has asked for that to be reduced as soon as possible.”
Roger was surprised. “But it’s only a short time ago you agreed to let it run!”
“Yes, I know.” The manager moved uncomfortably in his chair and began to tap the fingers of his right hand on the arm.
“You put on a limit of two thousand.”
“Yes, but — Look, could you make some sort of reduction that would enable me to calm head office down? Even a couple of hundred would have the right effect if I talked hard enough. After all, your family’s banked with us for a very long time. Is there a small parcel of shares you could cash?”
Roger smiled rather wanly. “If there’d been any going, I’d have sold them up a long time ago.”
“What about savings bank or premium bonds?”
“If my memory’s true, there’s one pound six in the Post Office Savings Bank.”
The manager’s fingers began to tap more rapidly. “The house is mortgaged, isn’t it?”
“For all it’ll take.”
“And the land?”
“The same, and the death-duty beetles are still reaching out with both hands. Can’t you get your chaps to let things ride for another couple of months? Once I’m married, everything can be settled.” He hated having to say that. It was as though his marriage was the solution for which he’d been searching, whereas it hadn’t been like that at all.
The manager’s face flushed. “I’ve already… explained things to them, Mr. Ventnor, but one of the directors lives near here and he read the local paper and he seems to think… that the marriage… might not take place now.”
Roger found himself wanting to laugh. Did they really think that Elizabeth was going to break off the engagement because Margaret had killed herself? Was that what love and trust meant to them? Bankers were said to have water in their veins, not blood. Iced water.
“If you could just make some sort of repayment…” The manager gestured vaguely with his right hand.
“All I can promise at the moment are more bills, due in at any time.”
“I’m sure you’ll be able to manage something, Mr. Ventnor.” The manager had thrown a lifeline to himself — he’d been taught to be sure people could manage.
After a few irrelevant questions and answers concerning crops, the price of barley, and the slump in the broiler world, Roger left. The manager’s goodbyes were excessively cordial and tinged with a great deal of relief.
As he returned to his car, Roger amused himself by wondering where fourteen hundred pounds could possibly come from, were it really necessary to find such a sum. Valuable family antiques? The valuable ones had all been sold. A hidden store of sovereigns? What a hope! An unsuspected Rubens or Correggio? An expert had viewed all the paintings in the house. The only ones of any value were those of the family, and a top value of a thousand had been placed on them. To sell those would be like selling the house.
It wasn’t very amusing, wondering where the money would come from if it had to come. He switched his mind to other subjects.
Chapter 7
Fisher typed out his report and not for the first time wondered what the hell happened to all such reports when they reached H.Q. A large dusty cellar?
He rubbed his two forefingers which were the only ones he could use for typing. The Stukeley case. No known artist had left the district, no known artist was acquainted with Margaret Stukeley, no known artist had ever been seen out with her. He leaned back in his chair. It was odd how your more intelligent criminal so often tripped himself up with his own intelligence. An uneducated person would have specified Margaret Stukeley’s lover as no more than a man — and the search would have been endless. But Ventnor knew details lent verisimilitude, so he tried to paint in part of the picture and named an artist, without bothering to realise that artists were very severely limited in numbers, with the result that they could all be questioned.
He picked up the report and took it down to the superintendent for the latter to read.
Hancock looked through it. “Can you be quite certain your chaps have interviewed everyone?”
“Within the obvious limitations, yes, sir.”
“We’ve got to move carefully, you know. Even if Bazlow has been on to us asking us if we’re doing anything.”
“Has he, sir?”
“Didn’t I tell you?” The superintendent looked up.
“No, you didn’t.”
“Thought I did… Trouble with him is, he waffles on without saying anything definite and then you suddenly find he’s been asking for bloody miracles.”
The D.I. mentally cursed the superintendent. The betting was that the other had left Bazlow with the impression that Fisher was just drifting along with the case at a time when Bazlow should have been convinced that Fisher was straining every gut in his body. “What did you say to him, sir?”
“Who?”
“Mr. Bazlow.”
The superintendent rubbed his jaws. “I calmed him down… I’m becoming worried, Fisher, that we’re beginning to take a little too much for granted in this case.”
“In what way?”
“You state that every artist in Prestry has been questioned. But artist can be a very wide word.”
“We’ve interviewed short ones, long ones, with beards and without, ones who claim to make a living and others who work the dole racket.”
“You don’t quite understand me, Mr. Fisher. Artist could mean someone who isn’t a professional but only an enthusiastic amateur.”
Fisher’s impatience came nearer the surface.
“After all, in my spare time I do a little painting.”
Fisher was quite certain that the paintings were appallingly bad.
“What we must not do, Mr. Fisher, is to be too ready to close up lines of investigations other than the ones which concern Ventnor.”
“Naturally, sir, but you’ve got to remember that even Margaret Stukeley’s girl friends say that right up to the end she never mentioned the name of another man.”
“I’m well aware of that. But… Well, frankly, it’s not a very pleasant case, is it? The family’s lived there since the year one.”
“Does that automatically make Ventnor incapable of giving the girl some abortion pills?”
“Of course not. But it does make the whole business rather sad.”
&n
bsp; Fisher shrugged his shoulders. He’d got over the sad side of things. Or liked to make out he had.
“Anyway, as of now there’s no suggestion of an arrest, is there?”
“Nowhere near enough evidence, sir, and a lot of what we have is hearsay and useless for court.”
“You know, even after all these years in the force, I’ve never really decided whether the rules of evidence keep the scales of justice even or merely gag the poor perishing policeman.”
“We won’t have to worry in this case. We’ll get him.”
“Whatever you do, don’t ignore other possibilities.”
“Naturally not, sir.”
“All right. I’ll send this report off with the others.”
Fisher left the room. It was frustrating to discover what had been going on. Now, he’d have to close the case pretty smartly if Bazlow was to gain the right sort of ideas.
*
When Roger returned home there was a chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce parked in the drive. A coat of arms was discretely painted on the front door.
Roger parked the Victor behind the Rolls. The chauffeur smiled at him and briefly touched his cap in a half salute. Roger went into the house and from the drawing room came the sound of Brentwood Wheeldon’s rather high-pitched voice. Roger grimaced. He would have welcomed a different character as a father-in-law.
Wheeldon stood with his back to the fireplace and his hands clasped behind him. He was a small man with a face that never seemed to have any colour in it. His very dark-brown, almost black eyes were set too closely together. As he saw Roger he looked at his watch. “I’ve been waiting nearly half an hour, Roger.”
“Sorry, sir, but I didn’t know you were coming out here.”
Patricia looked as though the visit had seemed to her to have lasted a couple of hours.
“I want a word or two with you.” There was no query as to whether it was convenient. Wheeldon had not reached his present position in the world by studying other people’s feelings.
Patricia stood up, using her right hand to support herself. “I’ll drive over to the village, Roger. There are one or two things we need.”
“Tell John to take you. It’ll do him good to have something to do,” said Wheeldon. He cut out any pleasure his gesture might have given by making it seem he was more concerned in getting his money’s worth from his chauffeur rather than in helping Patricia.
She winked at Roger after making certain her action could not be observed by Wheeldon and then limped out of the room. Her leg was giving her considerable pain.
“I’ve come to find out the facts,” said Wheeldon, as soon as the door closed.
“Facts of what?” queried Roger.
“Did you give that girl the pills?”
“No.”
“You were the father though?”
“I wasn’t.”
Wheeldon shook his head impatiently. “It’s a very nasty mess and I told Elizabeth so.”
“And she replied?”
For the first time, Wheeldon’s face held an expression. “She refused to listen to what I had to say. Elizabeth’s been taught loyalty — but she hasn’t yet learned when to use it. I suppose you know what’s waiting for the man who gave the girl those pills? A criminal action.”
“So I’ve gathered.”
“And have you also gathered that there could be a charge of murder?”
“Murder?” Roger half smiled. “That’s a bit far-fetched. Unless someone forced her to take the pills — ”
Wheeldon interrupted him. “You don’t really know anything and like the rest of your generation you haven’t bothered to find out. I’ve seen my solicitor. The penalty for supplying an abortifacient is five years, and for being responsible for the girl’s taking it there’s life imprisonment. If the girl dies the charge is manslaughter or murder — murder if the supplier knew what would happen, or could happen, if the girl took the drug.”
“They call that murder?”
“Yes.”
“I thought murder…” Roger came to a stop. As Wheeldon had just said, it seemed he hadn’t known anything.
There was a short silence.
“I’m not the father and I didn’t give her any pills,” said Roger.
Wheeldon had not listened. “Elizabeth isn’t marrying a man who’s in jail.”
If he were in jail, Elizabeth wouldn’t be able to marry him. “I give you my word I haven’t any idea where Margaret got those pills.”
“When did you last see her?”
“When Elizabeth and I realised the way we were heading.”
“The police are still making inquiries about you.”
“Are they?”
Wheeldon’s voice expressed anger. “I’m very friendly with the chairman of Steeley and Brights and he’s told me that the police have been making inquiries in the office where the girl worked.”
“Perhaps they’re trying to trace the artist father who gave her the pills.”
Wheeldon swept the sarcasm aside. “I gather on good authority that there’s no trace of any artist.”
“You sound pretty certain that I did give her those pills.”
“Why the devil didn’t you send her to someone who knew what he was doing? Damn it all, Roger, you’re not a fool! You must have known there could be trouble. A hundred pounds would have taken care of everything, but instead of that…” Wheeldon put his hands in his pockets and jingled the coins in them.
Roger made no answer.
“I’ll be frank, Roger. I’ve told Elizabeth what I think she ought to do. In this world, one has to pay for one’s stupidity.”
Stupidity here, thought Roger, meant not organising things quietly and without fuss so that if there should be trouble it landed on someone else’s shoulders.
A charge of murder cast a very bitter shadow. Roger found his right hand was shaking slightly. Where the hell was the artist? What was going to happen if for some reason he couldn’t be found?
“Was that the car?” asked Wheeldon.
Roger heard the front door of the house open and then shut.
“I must be off, a mound of work to do… I want to know what happens, mind.” Wheeldon marched across to the door, looking like an arrogant but anaemic bantam cock. He met Patricia in the hall and made a hurried, almost curt, goodbye. The chauffeur opened the rear door of the car and he settled in the back seat. The Rolls purred away.
Roger, standing in the centre of the hall, lit a cigarette.
“What goes with the leviathan of industry?” asked Patricia, as she linked her arm with his and they walked slowly back to the sitting room.
“He was pleased to tell me I was one very big fool for not arranging Margaret’s abortion quietly and unobtrusively, as any real gentleman would have done.”
They entered the room and sat down.
“Did you tell him you knew nothing?” asked Patricia.
“Of course. But he didn’t bother to believe me.” Roger stood up and paced across to the near window and stared out across the lawn. “It probably makes me a bloody fool, but until now I hadn’t really considered either being disbelieved or the consequences of being disbelieved. But if they don’t find the artist — ”
“Brentwood’s visit’s done some good then, because it’s been perfectly obvious to everyone else that the police think you gave Maggie the pills.”
“Do you know what the charge could be, Pat?”
“For providing the pills? Something nasty.”
“Murder.”
She turned around and stared at him and her voice rose. “Who said?”
“My father-in-law-to-be. Being a very thorough gentleman, he’s already consulted his lawyer.”
“But murder’s something like… shooting a man.”
“Margaret died.” He ran his hand over his forehead. “I seem to be working myself into a muck-sweat. They must find the chap. In any case, whatever happens, they can’t prove I gave her the pills if I didn’t.”
“No.”
“For God’s sake, why not?”
He gestured with his hands. “If I had done, what would have happened? Everyone would have immediately jumped to the conclusion I was carrying on an affair with Margaret at the same time as I was unofficially engaged to Elizabeth, and that I must therefore be the father of the child. I wasn’t going to be a bloody fool and risk that.”
“It’s no good shouting at me.”
“All I’m trying to do is to tell you why I didn’t give them the whole truth.”
“And if the police find out of their own accord that you met Margaret after March?”
“How can they? In any case, they’ll find the artist and bring the whole stinking mess to an end.”
“Suppose they don’t find him?”
“Let’s carry on and be really cheerful. Suppose I’ve been sent to jail for life.”
Patricia, who normally had a hasty temper, forced herself to speak quietly and calmly. “If you’ve any sense at all, you’ll tell the police and Elizabeth precisely what happened.” She was terrified because Roger and Reton Park Hall were threatened.
“And shall I add to my statement that on the Monday before she died I tried to find out how she could have an abortion, but failed?”
“Oh, my God!” She put her hand to the twisted side of her mouth and, quite unconscious of what she was doing, ran her fingertips over the skin. “You’ve never told me that.”
He crossed to the settee and sat down. “I suppose I didn’t want to confess to anyone, not even you or myself, just how stupid I’d been.”
“Did you — Are you sure you didn’t get hold of anything?”
“Are you thinking of joining the other side, then?”
“Of course not, Roger. Can’t you see? I just wanted to know exactly the — the mess you’re in.”
“The mess? Getting bigger every day. There are the police and all their nasty little suspicions. And then there’s the bank manager.” He was gaining a perverse kind of pleasure from cataloguing all the troubles. “The bank manager didn’t call me into Prestry to suggest I be given a plaque as their best customer of the year.”
The Burden of Proof Page 6