A Dangerous Deceit

by Marjorie Eccles

  He could feel the frost from where he sat, and feared he might have lost whatever sympathy had been generated between them. It had been a mistake to imply that any breath of scandal – however far in the distant past – could have touched the family of her future daughter-in-law. In that world in which she moved, such a thing would reflect itself on the Scroopes and would have to be avoided at all costs. Social snobberies like that were a far cry from life as he – and almost everyone else, he suspected – knew, but just because they were beyond his experience didn’t mean they didn’t exist.

  After a while, a trifle less coldly, she said, ‘I take that to mean Mauritz had been pestering Margaret’s father too?’

  Reardon might well have thought this of Mauritz, had those payments been made to him, and not to Aston. He had come to believe that they must have been working in collusion, but he was not, however, about to befog the issue by bringing Aston into this discussion with her Ladyship. Perhaps he had already gone too far. She was sharp, quite intuitive, and Aston or Mauritz, it was not going to take her long to put two and two together and reach the conclusion that Osbert Rees-Talbot had been hounded into taking his own life, with all that would mean to the Scroopes. Either way – past or present scandal – they would see themselves as being allied to a family tainted with disgrace, ridiculous as that was. They might, he thought, be living in a Jane Austen novel.

  Yet even while he was thinking this, she said something which made him decide that he may have been doing her less than justice.

  ‘My son – Sir Julian, that is – has been a fool,’ she said bluntly. ‘And we do not yet fully know what the consequences of that will be. I love him as a mother, but I speak as someone who is not easily deceived. I tell you, whatever the man Mauritz had done, Julian could never have committed murder on him. Not even,’ she added with a sardonic trace of humour, ‘if it was to save his own life.’

  She stood up, a signal that the interview was over, and he followed suit. He towered above her but did not feel he had the advantage. ‘Thank you for talking to me, my lady. I have a small request before I leave. May I borrow that photograph, please?’

  She hesitated only fractionally before pushing it across the table. ‘Very well.’ Suddenly she asked, ‘How old was that man?’

  ‘Mauritz? It’s believed he was in his thirties.’

  ‘I thought younger, but then I am a bad judge.’

  Could it possibly have been relief he heard in her voice?

  Twenty

  Making regular reports to his superintendent was necessary but awkward. An afternoon meeting had been fixed up, too early for Reardon to knock off for the day afterwards, yet late for getting on his motorbike, riding to Folbury and then back home again, when he’d sworn to snatch time to take Ellen to the concert she’d been looking forward to for weeks. Hopefully, he might just be able to make it.

  It was the sort of thing you had to take in your stride. DS Cherry was a good boss, a competent and experienced officer, a colleague of long standing. At the moment he was, as he put it, up to his eyebrows in paperwork, but it was only a matter of time before he decided to put in an appearance at Folbury: Reardon had a reputation for not working by the book, and Cherry kept a watching brief. Especially now. Though Cherry himself had had reservations about the decision to suspend the Snowman case, he too had his bosses and he’d had to bend to the prevailing wind; he must be feeling chuffed now that his doubts had been justified, despite the lack of convincing suspects as yet for either murder.

  He listened to the account of Sir Julian’s admissions and what had passed between Reardon and Lady Maude the previous day with a lengthening face. ‘Tread softly there, Bert,’ he warned. ‘One step out of line and we’ll have the chief constable, the high sheriff and God knows who else on our backs.’

  Not to mention the press – that dainty, irritating little creature, Judy Cash, in particular. Before it was suggested they might need more men on the strength, Reardon grasped the opportunity to put in a general good word for the back-up he was getting in Folbury, and in particular to praise the work Gilmour was putting in. The sergeant was out to impress him, of course, knowing that backing from him would speed up his transfer, but Reardon had early marked his potential, even as far back as when he’d worked with him on the Broughton Underhill case. He was impetuous on occasion, but he was capable, as well as being ambitious. When he’d developed the necessary protective carapace he’d be even better.

  Ambition, in Reardon’s own experience, was a double-edged sword. He himself had disappointed Cherry by refusing further promotion to chief inspector after his marriage. Satisfying to the ego, no doubt, but although the downside to life for anyone in the detective branch was that it too often cut into your personal life, he had no desire to be swamped with paperwork on top of that, desk-bound, with less and less opportunity for the sort of work that had made him want to be a policeman in the first place.

  Back in Folbury at last, having divested himself of his motorcycle leathers and helmet, he found Joe scrutinizing the photograph Lady Maude had lent him with a magnifying glass.

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t have recognized the old girl from this, sir,’ the sergeant remarked, ‘and you say she denied either of the Rees-Talbots were on it, but still … this fellow here’ – he jabbed a finger at a young man lounging on the grass – ‘you know, Lily Aston has a picture of Osbert that belonged to her husband, taken with some other officers. I wouldn’t like to say for certain, but I wouldn’t be all that surprised if this was him, though I’d like to have another look at Lily’s picture and compare it with this. Can you give me half an hour to go and persuade her to let us borrow it, sir?’

  He was off like a shot, almost before he’d been given agreement, bagging one of the police bicycles to pedal off to Cherry Avenue. Standing at the window and watching him go, Reardon frowned. If Gilmour’s suspicions proved correct, if the two men in the photos did prove to be one and the same, it followed that Lady Maude had been lying. Again.

  And she had almost convinced him.

  When Lily Aston opened the front door Joe was immediately struck by the emptiness of the narrow hallway. There was room to pass now that the cumbersome, laden coat rack which had previously hindered progress had disappeared. All that remained was a coat, a hat and a raincoat hanging from pegs on the wall.

  He couldn’t help noticing a difference in Lily, too. She was not looking at all well, cradling a bandaged hand against her body. She became flustered when she saw Joe’s eyes on her, and her unbandaged hand went to her hair. Maybe that was what made the difference, Joe thought doubtfully. It sat in rigid waves either side of her parting, and he wasn’t sure that it improved her appearance, but if she thought it did, perhaps that was all that mattered. The way women felt about their hair was an unaccountable mystery. Maisie had been talking about getting hers bobbed, though it was her best feature, long and thick and a glossy dark brown, and he didn’t understand why she was so anxious to get rid of it. ‘Don’t suppose you do, but you don’t have to spend hours washing it and waiting for it to dry,’ she’d retorted. True, but he hated the idea of it disappearing at a few snips of the scissors.

  Lily was willing enough to let him borrow the picture of the group of officers she had shown him. ‘In fact you can keep it,’ she said in an offhand way. ‘It’s no use to me. The major wasn’t my friend after all, so it doesn’t mean a thing to me.’

  It was an enlarged photo that had been framed, and not heavy, yet he noticed the wince as she attempted to lift it from the wall. ‘Here, let me. What’s the matter with your hand?’

  ‘Thanks. It’s my thumb – that cut I got from the key when I was unlocking the cupboard to get the desk key out for you. It’s gone wrong,’ she said resentfully. All his fault, of course, that she’d had to open the cupboard in the first place! ‘Been giving me gyp.’

  ‘You want to get it seen to.’

  ‘Oh, I got some stuff from the chemist.’

 
‘Shouldn’t you let the doctor see it?’ He hesitated, then said carefully, ‘You don’t look well, you know.’

  ‘I suppose I’ll have to if it doesn’t get better, but it’ll be all right.’ She stared at him. Two hard spots of bright colour had appeared on her cheeks. She said challengingly, ‘I know I don’t look so good, but it’s not my thumb. You haven’t noticed I’ve had my hair waved, have you?’

  ‘It’s … very nice.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. It’s awful. And my new shoes don’t fit properly, either.’ And without warning her face crumpled and a bewildered Joe was leading her to a chair, where she sat weeping, sobs heaving her skinny frame, her fingers raking through her hair. He was nonplussed. He didn’t know what else to do, apart from patting her shoulder awkwardly, so he just waited until presently she regained some control of herself. ‘Well,’ she said, scrubbing angrily at her face with an already soaking handkerchief, ‘made a right fool of myself there, didn’t I?’

  ‘Mrs Aston, I mean it,’ Joe said. ‘Your hair looks quite all right.’ And it did look better than it had, looser now that she’d mussed it up. ‘Anyway, that’s not what’s upsetting you really, is it? All this has been a nasty shock and you’re bound to feel like this sometimes.’ He was shocked himself at the ideas that were suddenly coming to him, unbidden. And he knew he was being less than adequate, devoutly wishing some woman – even that pesky reporter – was here to help her. ‘Shall I make you a cup of tea?’

  ‘No, it’s not tea I need. I know you mean well, but you’d best be on your way.’

  He could only do as she asked. Some people were not easy to help.

  Reardon was talking to Waterhouse in the DI’s office when he got back, so he had to wait. He undid the brown paper and string that had wrapped the picture and laid it on the desk, but his thoughts were now on something else entirely.

  Well, Lily, after all.

  Lily, looking ill and grey, nursing her bandaged hand. It must have been a nasty cut she’d got from that key. A key? He took out his own bunch of keys and jiggled them on his palm. None of them looked sharp enough to inflict a cut. You were more likely to hurt yourself on the sharp ends of the split ring itself. They were the devil to open sometimes in order to remove a key. Was that what Lily had been doing? Because the little key to the desk he had asked for was on her husband’s officially missing ring with all his others – including the one to the foundry?

  That coat hanging from the peg in the hall was a brown tweed mixture – and the woman Gladys Ibbotson had seen running away had been wearing a brown coat. Aston had dropped Lily off that morning on his way to the garage to leave his car. Easy enough for her to have walked over to Henrietta Street for some reason rather than do her shopping, and then followed him into the foundry.

  He could all too easily imagine what could have happened then: taking a God-given chance … giving him a shove when his back was turned … holding him down with her foot, the dominated dominating, at last. Such an ignominious death, even for an unlikeable character such as Aston had apparently been. Could Lily’s resentment have pushed her so far to the edge that it no longer mattered? And why now, after putting up with him for all those years? Was it just a case of the worm turning? Or had something else triggered it off?

  Well … The hat on the other peg, for one thing. It was a man’s hat, a soft grey trilby. Aston had famously worn a bowler, rain or shine; it had made him a familiar figure to the residents of Henrietta Street, though only by sight. Most of them had never spoken to him.

  ‘He didn’t know what was going on behind his back,’ Eileen Gerrity had said. And hadn’t she also said that Mauritz was capable of flirting with any woman, whatever her age … even Lily Aston? She wasn’t by any stretch the kind of woman you’d dream of flirting with, though presumably Aston had once found her so, enough to marry her. But I’ve never seen her other than when she’s upset or ill, Joe reminded himself charitably. I don’t know what she can be like, really. She could have hidden depths, be sentimental enough to keep some token of her lover, such as that hat, just as his own mother had treasured his father’s dressing gown and kept it hanging on the bedroom door until the day she, too, died. He saw it now, a dark plaid with a frayed collar, surely the subconscious memory which had started all this speculation?

  A new lease of life, it must have seemed to Lily, if Mauritz had led her to believe there was some future with him. She was easily led – look how she had been persuaded to trust Judy Cash. It was all speculation, but if that was what had happened – and if Aston had killed Mauritz and Lily learnt about it … what better motive for killing him than revenge?

  Joe sat still for a moment then looked at his watch, pushed his chair back and rushed off in search of Stringer. Eventually he found the driver with his feet up on a desk, dunking ginger nuts in his tea. ‘Quick, I need the car. I need to be at Henrietta Street before half past five.’

  Stringer looked offended. He was here to take orders from Reardon, not Joe Gilmour. Who said he was authorized to order the car just when he wanted? He picked up another ginger nut. Then nearly lost his balance as his feet were lifted off the desk. He decided not to argue.

  Joe caught Eileen just as she was putting her coat on. ‘I won’t keep you. Just tell me one thing. Was Lily Aston having an affair with Wim Mauritz?’

  Startled, she paused in the act of picking up her handbag, then laughed. ‘Well, I’d hardly call it an affair – though she might have seen it that way. I told you, he gave any woman the glad eye. I reckon he couldn’t help it.’

  ‘Where did they meet? You told me your boss didn’t socialize with his customers.’

  She looked away, then shrugged. ‘Well, maybe he did in this case. OK, OK, yes, he sometimes used to invite Mauritz home for supper.’ She looked doubtful, perhaps having heard of Lily’s meals. ‘Or maybe just a drink.’

  ‘You didn’t know he was living in Henrietta Street?’

  ‘Who, Mauritz? Here, you mean? You can’t be serious! His sort, living in this street? Nobody lives here that doesn’t have to.’

  Reardon was waiting for him when he got back. ‘Took your time, didn’t you?’ he asked impatiently. It wasn’t like the DI to have his eye on the clock, but it was complicated to explain that he hadn’t just that moment come back from Lily’s house.

  ‘Sorry, sir, but—’

  ‘Is that the photo, then?’ Reardon interrupted, suddenly catching sight of Lily’s picture lying face downwards on the desk.

  ‘Yes, sir, but there’s something else first.’

  ‘Something else? Like what? All right then, carry on, but make it quick.’

  Lily and her situation depressed Joe. He was sorry for her, but he’d no choice. If she’d killed her husband, then … ‘Right, sir.’

  Reardon looked at his watch but settled to listening without making comment, not even when Joe had finished. ‘That’s theory, not proof,’ he said at last. ‘You’re running away with yourself, lad. Where’s the evidence? How did she know Aston had killed Mauritz? And if she did, why did she keep quiet? Why did she wait all this time before taking revenge? Why kill him at all, in fact? If she’d shopped him, that would have been enough to get him out of her life, all right.’

  Reardon had never put much store by Lily’s guilt. And put like that …

  Joe felt like a raw rookie. Why hadn’t he kept his mouth shut until he’d thought it through? ‘She did lie about Aston never bringing customers home, sir – Mauritz in particular. Well, they both lied about that, Eileen Gerrity as well as Lily – but I think in Eileen’s case it was because she won’t let herself believe Aston might actually have been a murderer. She may still have some feelings for him – more than likely the only one who has!’ Reardon was drumming his fingers impatiently on the desk now, but Joe went on, ‘Anyway, Lily seems to have been dazzled by Mauritz. He fancied himself as a ladies’ man, and I think maybe she lied about knowing him because she knows she’d been taken in. More or less as Eileen bel
ieved.’

  ‘That may be so, but how convinced are you that she’s capable of murdering her husband? She’s evidently neurotic, but would she go that far?’

  Joe didn’t think Lily neurotic, just someone at the end of her tether. Reardon hadn’t seen her sobbing. ‘I don’t honestly know.’

  Reardon considered him, then closed his eyes, giving the impression he was doing some complicated summing up in his head. When he opened them again, it seemed as if he might be interested after all. ‘It’s a possibility, of course. No more than that. All right, we’ll go and see her again. Not that I think there’s anything in it. But for now, let’s concentrate on this other thing.’ He turned the picture the right way up and laid it flat. ‘Any luck?’

  ‘Still not sure.’ Reardon placed the photograph borrowed from Lady Maude alongside and Joe indicated the officer Lily had said was Rees-Talbot. ‘I wouldn’t lay bets on them being the same chap – the small photo’s not all that clear, and all these officers with their slouch hats and moustaches tend to look alike, don’t they? All the same—’ He broke off suddenly.

  ‘Gilmour?’

  Joe was staring at the photograph received from Lady Maude with a bemused expression, all thoughts of Lily banished from his mind. Why hadn’t this been obvious before? Reardon followed his pointing finger and took a closer look.

  ‘See what I mean, sir?’

  He frowned, not at first seeing what Joe had seen, but after a moment or two comprehension began to dawn. They stared at one another in silence as the kaleidoscope shifted and reformed into a different pattern, and all of a sudden, things began to take on another, altogether different focus.

  ‘Well, well. Good work, Gilmour.’ He sighed, then said, ‘Give me a minute. I’ll have to let my wife know our plans have changed.’

  He picked up the telephone as Joe left the office. So that was why he’d been so tetchy. It occurred to Joe that making those sorts of telephone calls was going to be part of his future too, some day, if he was lucky. And part of Maisie’s to receive them.