Off the Record

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘Fascinating,’ grunted Lewis morosely. ‘You should do a talk on the wireless.’

  ‘Once it’s electroplated,’ continued Molly with an edge to her voice, ‘we press it into wax, take a copper electro and nickel-plate it. That’s what we use to press the actual record. If it’s a brand new recording, we issue it as a single-sided record. We only do double-sided recordings of pieces that have already been issued. We’ve got lots to choose from. We’ve got a whole library of master recordings, going back years.’

  ‘It all sounds more complicated than I realized,’ said Rackham, picking up his toast.

  ‘It’s always been done like that,’ said Molly. ‘Steve’s an expert but he thinks the whole business needs shaking up, don’t you, Steve?’

  He drew a deep breath and tried hard. ‘You know I do.’

  ‘The sound is tinny,’ continued Molly, trying hard. ‘It didn’t matter before wireless, but the quality of sound on the wireless is so good, it makes conventional recordings sound outdated, which is where Gerry’s machine comes in . . .’ she stopped, biting off her words.

  Lewis put down his knife with a thump and buried his head in his hands. ‘Gerry! It all comes back to Gerry, doesn’t it!’

  ‘Please, Steve,’ pleaded Molly.

  Lewis abruptly stopped. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered.

  Molly, her cheeks flushed, picked up her tea, clattering the cup once more. She was so edgy that even Jack felt his nerves fray and, although he didn’t like the man’s temper, he wasn’t particularly surprised when Lewis turned on her. ‘For God’s sake, Molly, can’t you do anything right?’

  Molly’s head jerked back. There was an arctic silence as husband and wife faced each other. Molly put the cup down and stared at her husband, a furious gleam in her eyes.

  Jack and Bill squirmed in embarrassed silence. ‘Steve,’ said Molly in a voice as sharp as the cut of a whip. ‘Kindly control your temper.’

  His shoulders went back, and he then made an obvious effort. ‘I’m sorry.’ He dropped his gaze and ran a hand through his hair. ‘I really am sorry. I hardly slept last night.’ He pushed his plate away and reached for the toast rack. ‘Those sausages are foul.’ He buttered his toast absently and stretched out a hand for the marmalade and jam glasses in their silver holder. ‘It’s worse than the war, waiting to go over the top. At least in the war, everyone was in the same boat and you knew where the enemy was.’ He spooned some jam on to his toast and looked at it blankly. ‘What the devil’s this?’

  ‘Jam, Steve,’ said Molly thinly. ‘Raspberry jam.’

  Lewis looked at her blankly. ‘Jam? Jam? That’s the final straw.’ He pushed his plate away with loathing. ‘I can’t stand jam. You know that. I never eat fruit with pips in. Never. It makes me ill. You know that. I hate all these bits of berries. Why on earth did you tell the servants to put jam on the table?’

  Molly took a deep breath and glanced at her guests as if seeking moral support. ‘I had it put there in case anyone else wanted it.’ Her voice took on an artificially bright Mother-knows-best tone. ‘We have to think of others, Steve.’

  Although Jack disliked Lewis’s moodiness, he couldn’t help feeling a touch of sympathy for the man. If his nerves were in shreds and he’d had a lousy night, the last thing he’d want was to be addressed – especially in front of guests – as a sulky and recalcitrant three-year-old at a Sunday school treat. ‘I know you don’t like it,’ continued Molly in her ‘Now, children,’ voice, ‘but other people might. Just get yourself some more toast, Steve, and don’t make such a fuss.’

  ‘Fuss?’ It was all he said but his look spoke volumes.

  ‘Could I have some more coffee, please?’ asked Rackham, passing her his cup. He’d seen Lewis’s expression, too, thought Jack.

  Molly poured him another coffee, obviously glad of the distraction. ‘Steve?’ she asked. ‘Would you like some more?’

  ‘Yes, all right.’ He took the cup and frowned. ‘This coffee’s nearly cold. I can’t stand cold coffee.’ He pushed back his chair impatiently. ‘I’m going to the study.’ And I don’t blame you, thought Jack. ‘Molly, ask for some coffee to be sent in, will you? Hot coffee if you don’t mind,’ he added, obviously trying to grab back some authority.

  He left the room, much to everyone’s relief. Molly stood up. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I feel dreadful, especially as it’s my fault. I’d better go and see to his coffee right away. I really am sorry. I can’t apologize enough.’

  ‘Don’t mind us,’ said Jack, getting up and opening the door for her. ‘You acted for the best.’ He closed the door behind her.

  ‘Whew!’ said Bill, throwing down his napkin. ‘Have you ever seen anyone in a worse mood?’

  ‘I thought they just about drew on points,’ said Jack. ‘I must admit I had a sneaking sympathy for Lewis.’

  Bill looked at him in astonishment. ‘You must be joking! I’ve heard plenty about Carrington’s temper but it obviously runs in the family. It’s just as well he doesn’t know last night’s affair was a phoney. I felt blinkin’ sorry for Mrs Lewis.’

  ‘I know that,’ said Jack. ‘I was afraid you were going to stick your oar in at one point. It’s just as well you didn’t. I knew you were itching to leap to her defence.’

  ‘What if I was?’ muttered Bill. ‘I can’t stand hearing a woman being spoken to like that.’

  ‘You’re a chivalrous beggar.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Bill, colouring in embarrassment.

  ‘It’s not rubbish, it’s true,’ said Jack, reaching for the marmalade. ‘I mean, take this business. I’d say the one death that really got to you was Mrs Tierney’s.’

  ‘What d’you expect?’ said Rackham, slightly abashed. ‘That’s not chivalry, or anything fancy like that, it’s a normal human emotion. I’d defy anyone to look at that poor woman, lying all alone in that ghastly mortuary, without being moved. Colonel Willoughby’s death was probably unintentional and Andrew Dunbar and Hugo Ragnall were, perhaps, the result of hot blood, but Mrs Tierney? What excuse can there be? And to sit here and listen to poor Mrs Lewis being spoken to like that after all she’s been though, really did take the biscuit. I can’t say I wholeheartedly approve of what she did last night, but she was acting for the best, even if she hasn’t got any thanks for it. And, I have to say, it was very cleverly done. It never occurred to me that a lady like Mrs Lewis could be telling bouncers. She fooled me, all right.’

  Jack didn’t answer.

  ‘I didn’t take to Superintendent Clough, I must say,’ Bill continued, ‘but I’d be honestly glad to hear that he had managed to track down Carrington, even if I’d never hear the last of it.’ He broke off and looked at his friend. ‘Are you listening? You seem miles away.’

  Jack, piece of toast halfway to his mouth, knew Bill was speaking but he didn’t register the words. Like a searchlight in the fog, he had an idea, an idea so fantastic it seemed to knock the legs from under him. A big idea, perhaps the wrong idea, but an idea. And if he was right, it explained so much. But if he was right, then . . . ‘She would have known. She would have known!’ He didn’t know he had spoken out loud.

  ‘What the devil’s wrong?’ asked Bill.

  Jack put down the piece of toast with painful precision. He sat completely still for an appreciable time, then shook himself like a man climbing on to a rock from the water. He turned to his friend. ‘Bill, have you got Hector Ferguson’s fingerprints?’

  ‘Ferguson’s fingerprints?’ repeated Rackham, puzzled. He stared at Jack. ‘What the dickens do you want Ferguson’s prints for?’

  ‘Have you got them?’

  ‘They’re on file at the Yard.’

  ‘Can I get to see them?’ said Jack, standing up. ‘If I run up to London, I mean?’

  ‘Yes, of course you can, but you can’t leave now. What about Carrington?’

  ‘I’ll be back long before half past nine. Tell Mrs Lewis I had an urgent appointment in town but don’t mention F
erguson. Come out to the car with me and I’ll tell you what I’ve got in mind.’

  It was late afternoon before Jack arrived back in Stoke Horam. He was shown into the library where there was evidently a conference in progress. Molly and Stephen Lewis were sitting at the table with Superintendent Clough and Bill Rackham. Lewis looked up as the butler announced him and, getting to his feet, came forward with his hand outstretched and a rather hangdog expression.

  ‘Look, Haldean, I want to apologize. About this morning, I mean. I was in a foul mood but I know that’s no excuse.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Jack, returning the handshake. ‘Don’t mention it.’

  It’s good of you to take it so well,’ said Lewis with an embarrassed smile. ‘Molly pointed out to me exactly how unacceptable I was and, quite honestly, I felt like a heel when I realized how I’d behaved. I tried to find you to say as much, but was told you’d gone up to London.’

  ‘Yes, it was an appointment I couldn’t get out of,’ said Jack, smoothly. ‘It was a beastly nuisance but it couldn’t be helped.’

  ‘If Carrington keeps his appointment, we’ve got him,’ said Superintendent Clough, twisting the ends of his moustache. ‘Half nine in the summer house. By jingo, I hope he turns up. I’ve just been running through the disposition I’ve made of the men.’

  ‘It’s a simple enough plan, Jack,’ said Rackham. ‘The idea is that Mrs Lewis sits in the summer house from about half eight onwards and stays there, apparently alone. There will, of course, be policemen and the menservants lying in wait. If he comes, we’ll get him.’

  Jack nodded. ‘We’ll get him, all right. I don’t want to sound overly dramatic, but I think it’s a matter of life and death. We have to lay hands on Carrington. That’s urgent.’

  Rackham turned back to Superintendent Clough who was harrumphing quietly to himself. ‘Superintendent?’

  ‘I wanted,’ said the Superintendent with an unfriendly glare at Rackham, ‘to have two men in the summer house itself and I still think that’s the best plan, eh, what?’

  ‘And I think it would give the game away before we started,’ said Rackham firmly. ‘Carrington isn’t a fool.’

  The Superintendent snorted. ‘If you say so. What I cannot approve of is the notion that Mrs Lewis should calmly sit in the summer house, waiting for this feller to make an appearance. I really cannot countenance the thought of you putting yourself in harm’s way, dear lady.’

  ‘I won’t be in any danger,’ said Molly quietly. ‘Gerry wouldn’t harm me.’

  The Superintendent sighed. ‘Mr Lewis, I appeal to you, sir!’

  ‘The trouble is,’ said Lewis slowly, ‘is that I’m inclined to agree with Molly. I don’t know if Gerry would harm her or not, but if he can’t see her, he won’t come near the place. But one thing I don’t agree with is your idea that I should stay in the house while all this is happening in the garden.’

  ‘Now, Steve . . .’ began Molly.

  ‘No.’ He stuck his hands in his pockets and smiled ruefully at her. ‘I didn’t make such a good showing of myself last night, I know. What I should have done is collared him there and then, but I didn’t. I’m damned if I’m going to sit calmly in the house while everyone, including my wife, fights my battles on my behalf.’ Molly Lewis looked guilt-stricken. Fortunately, Lewis misinterpreted her expression. ‘Don’t be worried, Molly. You’ll be in no danger, as long as I’m there. Don’t you agree, Superintendent?’

  ‘I can certainly see your point of view, Mr Lewis. If I were in your position, I’d feel much the same myself. Inspector?’

  ‘It’s your house, Mr Lewis,’ said Rackham. ‘I can’t tell you what to do.’

  ‘Good,’ said Lewis briskly. He patted his arm and winced. ‘That’s the second pot shot he’s taken at me. I’ve got a score to settle with cousin Gerry.’

  Molly bit her lip and Jack knew she was trembling on the verge of telling the truth.

  ‘We can’t take any chances after last night,’ he said quickly. Molly still looked uncomfortable. ‘It’s not just for your sake, Lewis, but everyone will be better off once we get Carrington behind bars. Last night was unfortunate, but it’s perhaps worked out for the best. After all, if it wasn’t for that, we wouldn’t be here.’

  Molly heard the emphasis and gave him a glance of sheer gratitude. ‘Perhaps he won’t come,’ she said. ‘I’m going to my room.’

  She was back downstairs in a matter of minutes. ‘This was on my dressing-table,’ she said shakily, holding out an envelope. Frowning, Rackham stepped forward and took it from her hand. It contained a sheet of paper torn from a small notebook with a single line of writing. As Rackham read it, he swore involuntarily.

  I’ll be there. Gerry.

  The effect of that single sentence was to throw the house into uproar. The servants, said Lewis, had to be in league with Gerard Carrington. Half an hour later, Winnie and Ellen, the kitchen-maids, were in tears, Hamilton, the butler, and Eckersley, the chauffeur, were stiff with fury, the rest of the female staff were veering between outrage and hysteria and Mrs Bassingham, the cook, never, as she said, having been spoken to like that in all her born days, had given notice.

  Lewis, white with anger, threatened to sack every one of them, until Superintendent Clough and Bill Rackham, who were, for once, of the same mind, pointed out that tonight of all nights, Lewis needed the help of the servants. It took some heavy tact from Molly and the promise of a substantial rise in wages before things simmered down but, unsurprisingly, the dinner was sparse and badly served and it was a relief when it was over.

  One suspicion that Jack had nurtured he was able to lay to rest. Molly Lewis had not written the note. After a few minutes with her alone, he was convinced it really had come from Carrington but that, in the face of the servants’ denials, which he also believed, meant only one thing. Gerard Carrington had, somehow, got into the house. Rackham, together with Clough and his men, hunted through the house and grounds without success.

  As Jack took up his position in the garden at half eight that evening, he looked back at the house. It wouldn’t be difficult to enter. The garage stood clear of the house, separated by a narrow passageway from the laundry, carpenter’s shop and gardeners’ room which were attached to the main building and formed a single-storey block with a gently sloping roof.

  The passageway was a tradesman’s entrance, closed by a solid wooden door locked with a key, but it wouldn’t take much for an agile man to heave himself up on the door and climb up on the roof. Then, by means of the ornamental balcony that ran beneath the bedrooms, he could easily gain entrance through an open window. There was an open sash window at the end of the upstairs corridor that would do nicely but really, once a man was on the roof, he had plenty of choice. As for the ground floor – well, there were three sets of French windows at the back of the house and both they and the doors had been open, in this hot weather, all day. All it needed was nerve.

  He had prepared himself for a long wait but the time seemed endless. Half past nine came and went, dusk ripened into darkness, and only the firefly glow of Molly Lewis’s cigarette a hundred yards away showed any sign of life in the summer house.

  And then he heard it. Molly’s voice rang clear through the summer night. ‘You’re here!’

  Instantly, lights flared out. Jack hurled himself towards them as police lanterns bobbed and swung across the grass as Clough’s men ran forward. He had a brief sight of Carrington’s face, caught in the glare, then Lewis ran across the grass from the other side, wildly firing shot after shot from his automatic. Rackham shouted, Clough yelled, but by the time they got to the summer house, Carrington had gone.

  ‘He’s there!’ screamed Molly, pointing to the house. ‘Steve’s after him!’

  Jack, with Bill close behind, thudded across the lawn to the open French windows and into the house. There was plenty of noise in the garden but here, in the morning room, was silence. They went through to the hall and stood, listeni
ng. From outside came the shouts of the police, but surely there were sounds from up above? There was the creak of a floorboard, a series of thumps and then a yell of savage triumph.

  They ran up the stairs to see Lewis and Carrington grappling furiously on the landing. Lewis still had his gun but Carrington had tight hold of his arm, forcing it upwards. At the end of the landing was the open sash window. Carrington wrenched a hand free, slammed it against Lewis’s throat and made a sudden dash for the window. Lewis fell back, choking, his hand to his throat, cannoning into Bill. Jack pushed past him in time to see Carrington drop down to the sloping roofs of the outbuildings. He followed Carrington out of the window, his feet slipping on the slate of the roof. Behind him he could hear Rackham call. ‘Watch it, Jack, he’s got a gun!’

  Carrington, poised on the roof, turned to face him, gun in hand. ‘Come and get me.’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot,’ said Jack levelly. He started forward, balancing on the sloping roof. Carrington screwed up his eyes and fired. Jack threw himself to one side as the bullet zinged off the slates.

  Carrington, caught off-balance by the recoil of the gun, flailed at the air wildly and fell, clattering down the roof. Jack missed his footing and sprawled full length on the slates, scrabbling frantically with his hands. He half fell, half rolled down the roof, as three more shots, this time from the window, cracked out. He grabbed wildly for the gutter, his body lurching over the edge. He knew Bill was shouting but couldn’t make out the words. The wood of the gutter was slippery with moss and mud. He felt it crumble under his fingers, then it gave way and he fell.

  The drop must have been about twelve feet but the gutter had saved him from a headlong plunge. He staggered against the wall of the garage, the breath knocked out of his body. He was in the tradesman’s entrance, a well of darkness. Because of the angle of the roof, he couldn’t see the open window above but he could hear the furious argument between Rackham and Lewis. From the garden on the other side of the house came the shouts of Clough’s men, but here, in the passage, there was only the sound of breathing.