Off the Record

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘It’s not up to him to decide how I arrange the policing,’ said Rackham. ‘After all, he’s safe enough in the house and the object of the exercise is to put Carrington out of circulation, not scare him off to try another day. Hello, here’s Mrs Lewis.’

  The door of the house cautiously opened and Molly Lewis beckoned them in. ‘I’ve been watching out for you.’ There was honest relief in her welcome. ‘I’m really glad you’re here. Steve was so horribly twitchy after it happened that I gave him a sleeping-draught and packed him off to bed.’

  ‘It’s probably the best place for him,’ said Rackham. ‘You actually saw Carrington?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ She took a little anxious breath. ‘I saw him quite clearly. I couldn’t be mistaken. I wanted a walk in the rose garden, as it was such a lovely evening, and Steve was having a cigar on the terrace. Then I thought I heard what must be a badger or a fox or something moving in the rhododendrons. I’d just decided that it really must be a fox, when the bushes parted and Gerry looked out with a gun in his hand. I saw both him and the gun in the moonlight. I screamed and the gun went off. Steve dived for the ground – I thought he’d been hit – then Gerry ran off. I could hear him crashing through the bushes. I got to Steve as quickly as I could. Perhaps we should have tried to chase Gerry, but Steve was far too upset and I . . .’ She broke off.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Lewis,’ said Rackham comfortingly. ‘Speaking for myself, I’m glad you didn’t decide to go after an armed man in the dark. You did exactly the right thing. Is Superintendent Clough around?’

  ‘Yes, he’s in the library,’ she said leading the way. ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ she repeated. ‘I feel much safer now you’re here.’

  Superintendent Clough, a stocky man with a military moustache and an abrasive manner, couldn’t add much to what Molly Lewis had told them. He and his men had searched the garden thoroughly without result. He was dubious of the wisdom of apparently leaving the way free for Carrington tomorrow but, as the Chief Constable had instructed him to offer every assistance to the Yard, he didn’t have much choice but to agree. Nothing, however, could make him like it, and he couldn’t refrain from giving the much younger Rackham some lessons, as he phrased it, in practical policing. He intended to spend the next day combing the area for Carrington. That, in his opinion, was how the man would be caught, not lying back supine and waiting for him to strike again. Local knowledge, he said, emphasizing his remarks with a strike of his fist on the table, was the key. The implication, which Rackham could hardly miss, was that although Scotland Yard had failed to find Carrington, he would.

  It was two o’clock before Jack went to bed that night. Even though he was tired, a niggle of worry drew him to the bedroom window. Something – he didn’t know what – wasn’t right. The moonlight, chopped into fragments by the trees, bathed the house in shifting, shadowy, silver spears. And somewhere in those shadows was Carrington. Brilliant, rumpled, likable Carrington with a temper that flared like magnesium fired by a Bunsen burner. He frowned at the darkened garden once more and yawned. Something wasn’t right.

  Despite his late night, Jack was up early the next morning. The breakfast table was still being laid as he went into the morning room. Mrs Lewis, he was told by the housemaid, who was setting out the dishes on the sideboard, had also risen early and was in the garden somewhere.

  It was a glorious summer’s day. Jack walked down the steps from the terrace on to the dew-bright grass and felt in his pocket for his pipe. Molly Lewis, a wicker basket of roses in her hand, rounded the path at the bottom of the garden. He was just about to call her, when he heard the sound of a window being raised. He looked back at the house and saw Bill Rackham leaning out of an upstairs window, blinking in the sun.

  ‘Jack? I thought it was you. Stay there, I’ll come and join you.’ By the time Bill came down, Jack, pipe drawing nicely, was deep in conversation with Molly Lewis.

  ‘This is a lovely place,’ said Rackham, once he’d answered her polite enquires as to how he had slept. He meant it. Stoke Horam House was the epitome of Edwardian domestic comfort, a rich man’s house, built of pale yellow sandstone, the glass of the windows silvered in the morning light.

  Molly looked at the house and shuddered involuntarily. ‘I used to love it. Dad did, too.’ She pointed to the room at the end. ‘That’s where we found him.’ She was quiet for a few moments. ‘The flat’s uninhabitable until the workmen have repaired the ceiling. We didn’t have much choice, but I didn’t want to come back here. Now I am back, I miss Dad more than ever.’ She walked the sundial and stood, her hand resting lightly on the grey stone. ‘I remember Hugo Ragnall and Steve standing here, the morning Gerry and Professor Carrington came.’ She gave a little shudder. ‘You couldn’t guess, could you, what was going to happen? Poor Dad. Poor Hugo. I miss him. So does Steve.’

  ‘Did your husband like Hugo Ragnall?’ asked Jack curiously. He couldn’t forget how Lewis had snapped at Ragnall for his unwanted sympathy about his uncle. The relationship, he thought, was a little more complicated than Mrs Lewis would have them believe.

  ‘Of course he liked him,’ she said warmly. Her mouth twisted in a rueful smile. ‘When Dad was alive, Steve saw Hugo as a bit of a kindred spirit. If it wasn’t for Steve, Hugo would have been sacked before he’d had time to unpack. I don’t think Hugo had taken on board what Dad was really like. You had to be careful with my father, you know. I suppose he was a bit of an old tyrant, but he always meant well. He had this absolute thing about drink and gambling but Steve and I enjoyed an odd cocktail and the occasional trip to the races. Steve loves the races. Why shouldn’t he? There was absolutely no harm in it, but Dad would have had a fit if he’d known. I knew Hugo Ragnall liked racing, too, and I’d warned him to keep quiet about it. Then, one day – it was last August and Hugo had only been here a week or so – this dreadful man turned up at the house. Fortunately Dad never got to hear about it. Hugo owed him some money for racing. It wasn’t very much and Steve paid him off. Poor Hugo would’ve been in the soup, otherwise.’ She stopped abruptly and, lighting a cigarette, pulled on it deeply. ‘Dad had such strict rules. They seem so pointless now.’ She smoked her cigarette for a little while in thoughtful silence. ‘Poor Dad.’ She shook herself briskly. ‘I suppose you want to see where it all happened last night.’

  She walked across the grass to where a stand of rhododendrons fringed the lawn with their polished green leaves and pointed to a path that ran along the bushes. ‘This leads to the rose garden. I heard a noise and stopped to listen.’ She went on a few paces. ‘I was about here.’

  The soft earth under the bushes was littered with freshly broken twigs and scuffed with footprints.

  ‘Carrington didn’t do all this,’ said Rackham. ‘This must have been Clough’s men last night.’

  They glanced up as Molly’s name was called from the house. ‘That’s Steve,’ said Molly. ‘Do excuse me. I won’t be long.’

  ‘Lewis would provide a pretty easy target, standing on the terrace,’ said Bill. ‘Especially outlined by the light from the windows.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Jack, ‘but it’s about a hundred yards, I’d say. That’s a long shot for a pistol. That’s probably why he missed. I wonder how far back these bushes go?’ He plunged in beneath the branches.

  ‘Watch you don’t step on any footprints,’ called Rackham. ‘It looks as if a herd of elephants has gone over it already without you making it worse.’

  ‘Trust me,’ called Jack from within the shrubbery, raising his voice to carry through the bushes. There was a loud rustling followed by a sharp cry. ‘Ouch! I didn’t see that twig. The damn thing got me in the ear. I’m glad these things don’t have thorns. Hello! I’ve found the shell case.’

  ‘I’ll join you,’ said Bill hastily.

  ‘All right. I’ve marked the spot where I picked it up. Don’t come through the bushes. I’m nearly out of them. Come round on the path and join me on the other side.’

 
; Rackham rounded the corner of the rhododendrons to find Jack sitting on a rustic bench, checking something in a little book. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘My diary,’ said Jack, replacing it in his breast pocket. ‘Bill, does anything strike you about the garden?’

  Rackham looked at the rose garden, basking in the sun. It was a fine display with massed banks of red, yellow and white roses, set off by neatly-trimmed hedges marking out a grassy path which wound its way through the roses, circling round the stand of glossy rhododendrons back to the main lawn. A light breeze wafted the scent of the flowers towards them. Blue butterflies alighted on the petals like tiny chips of sapphire and a bumblebee hummed on its industrious round. ‘Nothing much. What should strike me?’

  Jack rubbed his chin with his thumb, leaving a smear of earth. ‘I wondered why Gerard Carrington should sneak through the rhododendrons when there’s a perfectly good path he could have taken.’

  ‘He wanted to stay out of sight?’ offered Rackham.

  ‘But he could do that perfectly well by simply staying in the shadows beside the bushes. There’d be no need for him to sweat through the undergrowth. There’s a couple of other things as well, such as . . .’ He broke off as they heard Molly Lewis call to them. ‘Let me talk to her on my own for a few minutes,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve got an idea.’

  ‘All right.’ Rackham raised his voice. ‘We’re here, Mrs Lewis.’

  She came round the bushes into the rose garden. All the worry of the previous night had returned. ‘Steve’s in a horrible mood,’ she said. ‘I’d like to apologize in advance. He’s like a bear with a sore head this morning.’ She looked at the two men. ‘Have you found anything?’

  ‘We’ve found a shell case,’ said Jack.

  From the house the breakfast gong sounded. Rackham looked up in unfeigned interest. He was hungry. ‘I’ll get back to the house,’ he said.

  ‘And I want to talk to Mrs Lewis about rhododendrons,’ said Jack, taking her arm and walking across the lawn. ‘You’ve got a fine display, haven’t you? Now they’re in flower, I mean. I like the pink and purple against that rich green, but they can be a bit oppressive at other times of the year, don’t you think? Not that that would bother you here, because they’re far enough away from the house for you not to feel hemmed in, but they can seem a bit encroaching. They grow wild in Spain, you know, and a whole hillside covered in them is a magnificent sight. Your roses are wonderful, too. Are you troubled with greenfly? Beastly nuisance, so I’m told, but it’s quite good fun squirting them. I especially like those yellow ones you’ve got. You know, the ones which ramble over everything.’

  She looked at him as if she thought that yellow roses weren’t the only things in the garden which rambled. ‘Major Haldean, what are you talking about?’

  He bent his head towards her. ‘I’m trying to put enough distance between us and Inspector Rackham so I can talk to you without being overheard.’ He took her other arm and gently turned her to face him. ‘You see, Mrs Lewis, I want to know why you made up that cock-and-bull story about Gerard Carrington.’

  FIFTEEN

  He felt the shudder of defeat running through her body. ‘How did you guess?’

  Jack shrugged. ‘You said Carrington came out of the bushes beside you, but it’s not so easy to creep through those bushes without making a row. I know, I’ve just done it. You said you heard something that could have been a fox, but I must’ve sounded more like an elephant, and that was in daylight. Why should Carrington come through the bushes? The path would have done just as well. And then there’s the moon. We were late to bed last night, and when I looked out of my window, there was a brilliant moon, shining full on the house. We’re facing east, so the moon could only have risen a short time before. I nearly twigged it last night and, when I looked in my pocket diary and it gave the time of moonrise as ten to midnight, I knew what it was. You said you’d seen Carrington at ten o’clock in the moonlight. And that was impossible. But why did you do it?’

  She buried her face in her hands for a few moments. When she looked at him, her eyes were bright with unshed tears. ‘I was scared. You can’t guess how scared I’ve been. Ever since Dad died – before then even – I always seem to be on edge. I don’t know why. I feel as if I’m haunted.’

  ‘A ghost, you mean?’

  She shook her head impatiently. ‘No. You think I’m silly, don’t you? But I can’t rid myself of this dreadful feeling of foreboding. I’ve felt like this for the last couple of years. When Inspector Rackham telephoned me about that entry in the agony column, I was petrified. It said there was danger. Inspector Rackham thought I’d put it in, but I didn’t.’

  ‘Who did, then?

  ‘Gerry?’ she suggested helplessly. ‘He always read The Messenger. We used to tease him about it. I think he was warning me to stay out of the way. There’s danger, Major Haldean. I couldn’t get Steve to take it seriously, but there’s danger. I wanted him to get the police here tonight, but he wouldn’t. I wanted you to come, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Despite everything that’s happened, he couldn’t really believe Gerry means any harm and that’s stupid!’ Her lip trembled. ‘I liked Gerry. I liked him so much and . . . and . . .’

  ‘He’s in love with you, isn’t he?’ asked Jack softly.

  She stared at him speechlessly for a second, and then tears did come, in great sobs that shook her body. Jack held her to him, cradling her head to his shoulder until she was quiet once more. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose on the handkerchief he gave her. ‘Steve guessed,’ she said miserably. ‘Steve guessed how Gerry felt and he still wouldn’t take the danger seriously. He refused point blank to ask for help. It sounds cruel, because I knew he’d have an awful fright, but I needed a reason to get the police here. That’s why I did it. I screamed and fired the gun, and said I’d seen Gerry. I hid the gun in the bushes. No one found it and I picked it up this morning. It was in the basket of roses I was taking to the house when you saw me. I hoped the police would come but I didn’t realize how much fuss there’d be. I never dreamed I’d be found out.’

  ‘Does your husband know? What you did, I mean?’

  She looked at him in horror. ‘No, of course not. You won’t tell him?’

  Jack shook his head. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll have to tell Inspector Rackham, though.’ He took her hand. ‘There’s no need to be scared. He’s an understanding man and very discreet.’ And likely to be hopping mad, he added to himself. ‘I actually think it was very resourceful of you. It worked, didn’t it?’

  ‘Perhaps it’s worked too well,’ she said bitterly. ‘It’s hit Steve in a rush. He’s usually so strong and so capable. It’s as if all his confidence has gone. He’s in a beastly temper, too.’ She dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief. ‘I must look a sight,’ she said, with a watery smile. ‘I don’t want breakfast, but I’ll have to be there. All I really want is a cup of tea, a wash and some face powder.’

  ‘Let’s go back to the house,’ said Jack, offering her his arm. ‘I’m sure you can slip upstairs unnoticed. And don’t worry,’ he added, giving her arm a squeeze. ‘If Carrington does come today, we’ll be waiting for him.’

  The only person in the morning room, much to Molly’s relief, was Rackham, buried behind a newspaper and apparently uninterested in anything but the headlines and his eggs and bacon. With a muttered excuse she slipped out of the room and Jack, keeping his voice low, brought Bill up to date.

  ‘She did what?’ he said in disgust.

  ‘She was scared, Bill.’

  ‘I know, I know. You said.’ Despite himself, he grinned. ‘It’s quite funny really, especially when I think it was that pompous ass, Superintendent Clough and his merry men, who were playing hide-and-seek in the garden.’

  He broke off as Molly and Stephen Lewis came into the room. Molly was strung-up and nervy and it soon became obvious she hadn’t exaggerated her husband’s foul mood. She poured herself a cup of tea with shaky hands, clattering the cup o
n the saucer.

  ‘Do you have to make so much noise?’ snapped Lewis, standing beside the sideboard, plate in hand.

  ‘I’m sorry, Steve,’ she apologized. ‘I’m feeling all to pieces this morning.’ She turned to Jack. ‘Would you like to see over the factory later on?’

  Lewis stared at her. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Dad always showed visitors round the factory,’ said Molly with an overly bright smile. ‘He expected people to take an intelligent interest in what we did.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Molly, Rackham and Haldean aren’t here for the weekend! They’re not ordinary guests.’ Jack and Bill glanced at each other and tactfully concentrated on their bacon. ‘They’re here because I was nearly murdered last night.’ He held the butter knife like a weapon. ‘Murdered, do you hear?’

  ‘We’ll see you come to no harm, Mr Lewis,’ said Rackham with exaggerated ease. He looked at Molly with a smile. ‘I’d very much like to see the factory, but some other time, perhaps?’

  ‘Let’s keep up the pretence,’ muttered Lewis, sitting down with a plate of scrambled eggs and sausages.

  ‘I’ll look forward to it,’ said Molly, ignoring her husband.

  ‘I always think of Otterbourne’s as making wireless sets and gramophones,’ said Jack, stepping in before Lewis could speak again, ‘but you do more than that, don’t you?’

  ‘We did,’ said Molly. ‘Steve wants to concentrate on wireless and music, though, don’t you, Steve?’

  Lewis made a visible effort. ‘It’s where the money is.’ He picked at the food on his plate. ‘These sausages aren’t up to much, are they? You’ll have to speak to the cook, Molly. I don’t know why she can’t provide a decent breakfast.’

  The sausages were, in fact, excellent, and judging from Molly’s face, she was about to say as much. ‘I’ve always wondered how a record was actually made,’ said Jack, trying to prevent what looked like shaping up into a real row.

  With a glance at her husband, who had subsided into a very charged silence, Molly took up the conversational baton. ‘We start with the musicians, of course. The studio’s in London, and that’s where the master recording is made. It’s recorded on to a plaster disk, and that’s brought here, to the factory, where it’s electroplated.’