Off the Record

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘I think it’s possible. After all, he knows a lot about how she’s situated and they clearly got on well enough.’ Jack cocked an eyebrow at his friend. ‘It’s all speculation, I know, but it could be a motive.’

  Rackham was unconvinced. ‘Isn’t she a bit old for that sort of thing? She must be fifty-odd if she’s a day.’

  ‘And that’s too old, is it? Think about it, Bill. Here’s a woman who’s been discarded by her husband. She’s used to admiration. She must have resented it. It’s only natural that she should. I know she talked about ‘Poor Andrew’ but I didn’t get any impression she was fond of him and I know Hector Ferguson couldn’t stand the man. From what we’ve heard, Dunbar wouldn’t have wanted a divorce. He’d have to make her some sort of settlement and, by the sound of things, that would have seriously dented the apple cart, if not overturned it altogether. Then, along comes Bryce, who thinks she’s the caterpillar’s boots, and, all of a sudden, life without Dunbar seems very attractive indeed. All that high falutin’ stuff about freedom needn’t have been made up, you know. It’s always easier to exaggerate an emotion that’s really there, rather than invent one from scratch.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Rackham. ‘By jingo, Jack, it really is possible, isn’t it?’ He swallowed. ‘They could have planned it out between the two of them. When I first interviewed Mrs Dunbar, she said she’d written to Dunbar in Falkirk and Bryce replied, saying Dunbar was in London.’ He puffed his cheeks out unhappily. ‘Is she capable of it, though? Maybe I’ve been totally taken in, but I find it hard to believe she could actually hold a pistol to Dunbar’s head and pull the trigger.’

  ‘Bryce?’ suggested Jack softly.

  ‘Bryce was in Falkirk.’ Rackham’s lips thinned. ‘Or so I’ve assumed. At least Mrs Dunbar told me that Bryce had written to her from Falkirk. That’s something I can find out. There was a man in the corridor. I wonder if the chambermaid would recognize him?’

  Jack’s landlady, Mrs Pettycure, poked her head round the door of her sitting room as he came in to the hall. ‘Is that you, Major? A Mr Carrington’s been on the telephone. He’s rung twice, wanting to speak to you. He’s at a Captain and Mrs Lewis’s. He wants you to slip over and see him. Very insistent, he was.’ She felt in the pocket of her apron. ‘I’ve got a note of the address here.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Jack, picking up his hat. ‘I know where it is. If he rings again, tell him I’m on my way.’

  Stephen Lewis answered the door. ‘Major Haldean? It’s good of you to come.’

  He certainly was a good-looking beggar, thought Jack, remembering Mrs Dunbar’s censorious comments, but he wasn’t any sort of empty-headed stage-door Johnny. Captain Lewis struck him as a decisive, intelligent man who was not only worried but wary as well.

  ‘Hector Ferguson brought us the news. I believe you called to see him earlier this evening. He’d just finished telling us what was what when Gerry himself turned up.’ Was it Jack’s imagination or was there a slight reservation when Lewis said his cousin’s name? ‘We’re all pleased, of course. Very pleased. It’s just that . . .’ He broke off and ran a hand through his hair in a bemused way. ‘I don’t mind telling you, though, it’s knocked us all for six. But please, come into the sitting room.’

  The fashionable sitting room was warmly lit by shaded lights glinting off polished mahogany, glass, silver and the rich leather bindings of books. There were four comfortable brocaded armchairs, a sofa, a grand piano and a large, ornate gramophone with records in a mahogany case beside it. To a man freshly released from Brixton prison, it must have seemed like a vision.

  Molly Lewis and Gerard Carrington stood up as he came into the room. It wasn’t, Jack thought, as they came forward to greet him, just the furniture that had drawn Gerard Carrington here.

  Molly Lewis was a quiet, self-contained woman in her early twenties, attractive in a square-necked turquoise silk dress with her chestnut hair cut fashionably short. Her jaw was too determined for beauty but she looked an extremely capable sort of person. Judging by the quick, encouraging glance she gave Carrington, she certainly felt protective towards him. She had, Jack thought, a maternal nature, the sort of woman who needed to look after someone. An Otterbourne trait? That probably wasn’t a bad guess, remembering the way her father had organized everyone’s lives for them.

  ‘It’s very good of you to come and see us, Major,’ said Molly Lewis. Her fingers clasped together nervously. ‘Gerry’s free and that’s wonderful of course, but we don’t understand.’

  Carrington’s shoulder twitched as if he was about to put a soothing hand on her arm. He hesitated, thought better of it, then stuck his hands in his pockets. His face was gaunter than Jack remembered but he still had the same air of rumpled bewilderment. ‘Were you responsible for my release?’

  Jack nodded.

  Carrington put a hand to his mouth. ‘Thank you,’ he said at last. ‘I’m more grateful than you could ever realize but . . . but I don’t know why I’m free.’ He pushed the bridge of his glasses back up his nose. ‘No one explained anything. They just said I could go.’

  Hector Ferguson, who had gravitated towards the piano as naturally as a compass needle points north, looked up with a sheepishly embarrassed expression. ‘Thank goodness you’re here, Haldean. Everyone’s bombarding me with questions and I don’t know any answers. I was so bowled over when you turned up at home I never thought to ask you the whys and wherefores. I felt such an idiot when I realized I hadn’t actually asked you any details.’

  Molly Lewis swallowed convulsively. ‘We’re worried, Major. Is it over? Is Gerry safe?’

  Stephen Lewis turned from where he was standing by the sideboard with the soda siphon poised over a glass of whisky. ‘Soda in yours, Haldean? Right you are. To put it bluntly, we’re all having kittens that Gerry could be arrested once more.’

  ‘I think you can rest easy about that,’ said Jack, taking the glass Lewis offered him.

  Gerard Carrington shut his eyes momentarily, his shoulders slumping in relief.

  ‘So what happened?’ asked Stephen Lewis, busy once more at the sideboard with the siphon and the whisky decanter. ‘We’ll understand if it’s all hush-hush, but we’re dying to know the truth. Help yourself to something to smoke, by the way. There’s some decent cigars in the box or cigarettes if you’d prefer.’ He handed round the drinks then sat down in the chair across from Jack, looking at him inquisitively. ‘I don’t know if you can tell us about it?’

  ‘I can’t see why not,’ said Jack, reaching for a cigar. As succinctly as he could, he told the story of the letter. Although outwardly at ease, one part of him stood back, observing everyone’s reactions.

  Hector Ferguson was frankly jumpy, his eyes abstracted and his lips occasionally moving as if he were conducting a soundless inner dialogue. Molly Lewis and Gerard Carrington listened intently. Carrington, he thought, was so wound-up he was just this side of a breakdown. He had seen men look like that in the war, strung out by exhaustion, fear and frayed nerves. Molly Lewis, sitting beside him on the sofa, obviously knew how great a strain Carrington was under. She inclined towards him and her hand moved every so often as if she wanted to reach out and comfort him.

  Jack shot a glance at Stephen Lewis. He was certainly listening to Jack – his questions had been very much to the point – but his attention was focused on his wife. His hands were clasped together so tightly his knuckles were white. He’s a possessive man, thought Jack, with sudden insight. He’s possessive and as defensive and alert as a wary guard dog. Molly Lewis had better watch her step.

  When he had finished, Gerard Carrington looked at him blankly. ‘So that’s it? My God.’ His eyes screwed shut and he buried his face in his hands. ‘It’s so trivial. That letter would have been so easy to overlook. I wouldn’t have stood a chance. Thank God you wrote to Dunbar, Steve.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lewis slowly. ‘If it had gone by a different post or if I hadn’t written at all, things
might have been a bit tricky, old man.’

  ‘Things are still tricky,’ put in Hector Ferguson. ‘Not so much for you, Carrington, but for anyone else with a motive.’ He looked at Jack. ‘You heard my mother this afternoon, chucking accusations around.’ He smiled nervously. ‘It was all hot air, of course. After you’d gone, both Mr Bryce and I told her she was talking nonsense, but she couldn’t resist the drama of seeing herself as the chief suspect.’

  ‘Your mother?’ asked Stephen Lewis, his forehead furrowing. He turned to Jack. ‘Is she a suspect, Haldean?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Jack.

  This bald affirmation knocked the wind out of Ferguson’s sails. He stared at Haldean, aghast. ‘She can’t be! Not seriously. She’s just not capable of it. The trouble with my mother is that she can’t help but give a performance.’

  A performance. Yes, it had been the dickens of a performance. He’d thought as much at the time and, what’s more, he could remember exactly when the natural woman gave way to the performer. Don’t you see? Hector Ferguson had said. If Gerard Carrington is innocent, someone else must be guilty.

  Hector Ferguson was as pale now as he was then. He was worried about his mother or – Jack mentally sat back – was it the other way round? Was his mother worrying about him? Hector Ferguson hated his stepfather. Oh, dear God. That made so much sense. With a sickening feeling, Jack suddenly realized how much it explained.

  If Evelyn Dunbar knew her son was guilty, she would pull out all the stops to throw them off the scent. It was at least as likely as her staging a double bluff to conceal her own guilt. It all stacked up.

  Evelyn Dunbar had been sorry for Gerard Carrington. As long as Hector was safe, she could afford to be openly sympathetic but with Carrington cleared, Hector was in danger again. That’s when she’d changed her tune. First of all she’d volunteered herself as a suspect and then tried to throw suspicion on Stephen Lewis. Hector Ferguson had been looking forward to running the firm, but his mother had unexpectedly wanted him out of the way, safely across the Atlantic in New York. His alibi; Ferguson had an alibi. Come tomorrow, he must get Bill to take that alibi apart. He wanted to prove Hector Ferguson was innocent. And if he couldn’t . . .

  ‘What on earth did she say, Ferguson?’ asked Lewis. ‘I know you said she relished the role of chief suspect, but that’s nonsense. You say she was chucking accusations about. Whom did she accuse?’

  Ferguson twisted with embarrassment. ‘She didn’t mean it!’

  ‘Who?’

  Ferguson took a deep breath. ‘You.’

  Lewis’s jaw dropped and for a moment he, Molly and Carrington sat frozen in shock. Then he laughed incredulously. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s crazy, Lewis,’ said Ferguson miserably. ‘Ask Haldean.’

  Lewis whirled to face Jack. ‘She said it to you? With Inspector What’s-his-name in the same room?’

  ‘I don’t think Inspector Rackham thought she was serious,’ said Jack quickly.

  ‘She said it for fun?’

  ‘Not fun, exactly,’ said Jack. ‘She was worried.’

  ‘Worried? What’s that got to do with it? She must be off her head. I didn’t want Dunbar dead.’

  ‘Please, Lewis,’ pleaded Ferguson. ‘Don’t take any notice of her. She gets silly fancies.’

  ‘It’s a bit more than a silly fancy, it’s insane! Can’t she see that? I can’t possibly have bumped off your ruddy stepfather.’

  Gerry Carrington cleared his throat. ‘You were at Colonel Willoughby’s, weren’t you, Steve?’

  ‘Absolutely I was. Tell her, Ferguson. We need to nip this nonsense in the bud.’

  ‘The trouble is, I don’t know if she’d believe it,’ said Ferguson miserably.

  Lewis put his glass down with an irate click. ‘Good God, I haven’t made it up!’

  ‘Of course you haven’t, Steve,’ said Molly. ‘You left for your uncle’s as soon as you got the message. It’s a ridiculous accusation and Mr Ferguson knows it.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Ferguson, grateful for her support. He looked at Lewis apologetically. ‘My mother knows you and my stepfather didn’t always see eye to eye, that’s all.’ He attempted to smile. ‘I wouldn’t take it personally.’

  ‘It’s hard to see how I can’t take it personally. It’s important, Ferguson. She’s not merely some middle-aged woman, she’s the owner of Dunbar’s. You’ve got to make her see sense.’

  ‘I tried,’ said Ferguson.

  Lewis blew his cheeks out in exasperation. ‘This is absolutely ridiculous. Apart from anything else, it’s going to play the devil with business.’ He slumped back in his chair and drained his whisky. ‘What about the merger?’ he demanded. ‘That’s still on the cards, isn’t it?’

  Ferguson swallowed. ‘Er . . .’

  ‘For crying out loud! This has got past a joke. What am I meant to do? I can hardly ask Uncle Maurice to tell her I was with him. The poor old beggar was in rotten health to start with and this burglary business has just about put the tin lid on it. I don’t know if he’s going to recover. He’s certainly in no fit state to trot up to London just to convince your mother she’s talking out of the back of her neck.’

  ‘Could Mr Ferguson go and see him?’ asked Molly.

  ‘I’d rather not,’ said Ferguson quickly. ‘After all, what on earth would I say? I can’t tell a complete stranger my mother’s got a bee in her bonnet that his nephew’s bumped off my stepfather. He’d throw me out neck and crop, and I don’t blame him.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Jack, ‘she might believe Carrington.’ He looked at Carrington. ‘He’s your uncle too, isn’t he?’

  Carrington looked startled. ‘Yes, he is, but I’ve never met him.’

  Jack knew that perfectly well. That was why he suggested it. Colonel Willoughby hadn’t recognized his assailant. If Gerard Carrington could be brought face to face with the Colonel, Jack wanted to be there to see it. Sir Douglas Lynton, the Assistant Commissioner, had been heartily sceptical of Carrington’s innocence. The burglary might be nothing more than coincidence but the opportunity to bring Carrington and his uncle together was too great to be missed.

  ‘Why should Mrs Dunbar believe me?’ continued Carrington.

  ‘She would,’ said Ferguson confidently. ‘She likes you.’

  ‘I could go, I suppose,’ said Carrington thoughtfully. ‘I never did reply to his letter and I should have done, you know. I’m not at all sure of my welcome, though. Will you come, Steve?’

  Lewis laughed sardonically. ‘Not on your life.’ He glanced at Ferguson. ‘If I turned up your mother could argue I influenced the poor old beggar into saying what I wanted him to say. I’ll leave this one to you, Gerry.’

  ‘I’ll come with you if you like,’ said Jack. ‘I can’t swear to it, but I’m sure my Aunt Alice, Lady Rivers, has mentioned a Colonel Willoughby. And, granted it’s not just a social call, it might be useful to have an impartial observer along. We can run down tomorrow, if that’s OK. Would your mother believe me, Ferguson?’

  ‘Heaven knows what my mother can believe,’ said Ferguson. ‘She might. She’s like the Red Queen and can believe six impossible things before breakfast. Not that,’ he added hastily, encountering a look from Lewis, ‘she wouldn’t have any reason not to believe Haldean. Or Carrington, come to that.’

  ‘Do you mind, Steve?’ asked Carrington. ‘After all, I know I should see him, especially as he’s ill, but I don’t like the idea of checking up on you.’ His face lengthened. ‘The more I think about it, the less happy I am. With all due respect to your mother, Ferguson, it’s a silly idea.’

  ‘I know,’ agreed Ferguson quickly. ‘I couldn’t agree more.’

  ‘You go, Gerry,’ said Steve Lewis, flicking the ash from his cigar. ‘You too, Haldean.’ He laughed cynically. ‘With Mrs Dunbar trying her level best to convince the cops I’m a murderer, I need someone to tell her and anyone else to whom she sees fit to mention it that it’s a loopy idea. The sooner,
the better.’

  TEN

  The next day Jack had an early start. He called to see Bill Rackham, who greeted him with distinctly modified rapture.

  After hearing his latest idea, Bill Rackham buried his head in his hands. ‘Let me get this straight, Jack. After persuading me that Evelyn Dunbar isn’t off her rocker but capable of conspiring to murder with Sonny Boy Bryce, you’re now telling me that Hector Ferguson is your most favoured candidate?’

  ‘I wouldn’t go as far as that, but he is a possibility, isn’t he?’ Jack glanced at his watch. ‘Anyway, I’ll leave it with you. I can’t stop. I promised I’d call for Gerard Carrington. We’re going to see his Uncle Maurice. Ferguson rather tactlessly told Stephen Lewis that his mother accused him of bumping off the dear departed. Lewis wants someone to make it clear to her that he was too busy smoothing pillows and generally being an angel in the sick-room to be doing anything of the sort.’

  ‘He doesn’t honestly think we’d take her seriously, does he?’

  ‘No, I don’t think he does, but if Mrs Dunbar goes round muttering accusations, it’ll make the proposed merger a bit awkward.’

  ‘Yes, I can see it could lead to a bit of a frost. Why are you involved? Sheer kindness of heart?’

  ‘Not really. I thought it might be interesting to be there when Carrington met his uncle. You remember I had the idea that the burglary was contrived?’

  Rackham sat up. ‘By jingo, I see what you mean.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘I can’t see it, though, Jack. If Carrington thinks his uncle might recognize him, he’d hardly invite you along to witness it, would he?’

  ‘You wouldn’t think so, but he might be prepared to brazen it out. I thought it was worth doing, anyway.’ He picked up his hat. ‘I must be off.’

  He drove to Carrington’s rooms on Tavistock Square and, drawing the Spyker up outside a block of flats dwarfed by the bulk of University College, pipped the horn cheerfully.

  After a couple of minutes the door opened, Carrington came out, stopped, indicated with a complicated wave of his hand and shrug of his shoulders that he would be back shortly, and disappeared back into the house. Jack grinned, took off his motoring gloves and, sitting back, lit a cigarette.