Off the Record

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ agreed Jack quietly.

  Her forehead creased in a frown. ‘It all seems like a bad dream. I know what happened, but I’m not sure why it happened.’

  ‘Or how you managed to get to the bottom of it all,’ put in Gerry Carrington.

  ‘It was a question of fruit,’ said Bill.

  ‘Fruit?’ asked Hector Ferguson, frowning at the slice of orange in his glass. ‘I don’t see how fruit comes into it.’

  ‘It was fruit,’ said Jack, settling himself into an armchair. ‘That, and something my editor said which stuck in my mind. He talked about writing a story around a set of illustrations. The meaning of pictures depended on the words around them and it struck me that was like evidence and interpretation. We’d been shown, in a manner of speaking, a very convincing series of pictures, or evidence, telling us you were guilty, Carrington. But if we changed the words around those pictures, the evidence could be interpreted a different way.’

  ‘And the answer was a lemon?’ asked Hector Ferguson.

  ‘Well, it was a raspberry, as a matter of fact,’ said Jack, with a laugh. ‘I suddenly saw what you might call the big story, the real story, the one thing that lay behind everything else. And the big story is where Hugo Ragnall fitted in.’ He glanced across to Carrington. ‘Carrington, do you remember when we went to see your Uncle Maurice? We met his housekeeper, Mrs Tierney, as well, didn’t we?’

  ‘So we did, poor woman. I was very sorry when I heard what happened to her.’

  ‘So was I. And,’ added Jack, gesturing to Rackham, ‘so was Bill. It was when we talked about Mrs Tierney that everything clicked into place. We were having breakfast at Stoke Horam, Mrs Lewis, the morning after Carrington had supposedly taken a pot-shot at your husband.’

  ‘Don’t,’ she said, in embarrassment. ‘I know it all worked out for the best, but even now, I feel guilty about it. Steve was in a foul mood, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, he was, and for a very good reason. Up till then, he’d more or less arranged everything that had happened, but Carrington had gone beyond his control.’

  ‘He wanted me to come to Stoke Horam, though, didn’t he?’ asked Carrington. ‘I mean, it was Steve who placed that entry in the agony column, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it was. But he wanted you to come to Stoke Horam when he was ready for you. He planned to shoot you, of course, but he didn’t want a houseful of witnesses and a garden full of policemen to see him do it.’

  ‘No wonder he was rattled,’ said Rackham with a laugh. ‘By jingo, at breakfast he was like a bear with a sore head. The final straw came when he picked up what he thought was marmalade and it turned out to be jam.’

  ‘Jam?’ questioned Ferguson.

  ‘Jam with lots of fruit in it,’ said Jack. ‘Raspberry jam with pips and he was really ratty about it. It was after both of you had left the room, Mrs Lewis, that Mrs Tierney’s name cropped up. Mrs Tierney had really liked Steve Lewis. She’d said as much when we met her, didn’t she, Carrington? She’d talked about how pleasant and obliging he was and how easy to look after, and, because she was the sort of woman who thought in meals, talked about how much young Mr Lewis had enjoyed his food, particularly a blackberry tart she’d made. Now, we’d just seen Lewis’s reaction when he inadvertently put raspberry jam instead of marmalade on his toast. It was more than mere dislike, it was absolute loathing. Fruit with pips in made him ill, he never ate jam, he couldn’t stand berries, etcetera, etcetera. He sounded like an entirely different person from the man Mrs Tierney had talked about. And the thought was so compelling it brought me up short. Because if he really was entirely different – another person altogether, in fact – then so much could be explained. Why, for instance, were we so sure that Lewis hadn’t murdered your stepfather, Ferguson?’

  ‘Because he was at his uncle’s that day.’

  ‘Exactly. And Lewis’s uncle, Colonel Willoughby, was an unimpeachable witness. But it wasn’t Steve who went to Colonel Willoughby’s.’

  ‘Hugo Ragnall?’ said Carrington softly.

  ‘Hugo Ragnall?’ repeated Molly in disbelief. ‘You mean it was Hugo Ragnall who went to see Colonel Willoughby after he’d been attacked?’

  ‘Exactly,’ agreed Jack.

  ‘But he can’t have done,’ she protested. ‘Steve and his Uncle Maurice knew each other. Hugo couldn’t simply turn up and say he was Steve. Unless he was in disguise, I suppose,’ she added doubtfully. ‘But I can’t see that working. Even if the Colonel had been too ill to know who had come to see him, Mrs Tierney would realize immediately that Hugo wasn’t Steve.’

  ‘Exactly,’ agreed Jack. ‘She would know.’ He lit a cigarette and blew out a cloud of smoke in triumph. ‘You’ve put your finger on it. She would know. And that’s when the penny dropped. Because when Colonel Willoughby died and there was every prospect of both you and Lewis attending the funeral, Mrs Tierney would realize that the Mr Lewis at the funeral wasn’t the Mr Lewis she’d come to know.’ He raised his eyebrows expressively. ‘So, I’m afraid, it was curtains for the poor woman. Look,’ he added, seeing Molly was still struggling with the idea, ‘how did Colonel Willoughby know Steve Lewis was his nephew?’

  ‘He just did,’ said Molly, puzzled. ‘He’d visited him a few times. When the Colonel came back from India, Steve went to see him.’ She coloured slightly. ‘I thought it was very good of Steve, as a matter of fact. The Colonel was ill and I thought it was kind of Steve to make the effort to see him.’

  Jack shook his head. ‘Lewis didn’t go and see him. It was always Hugo Ragnall, right from the beginning. Ragnall had good reason to be grateful to your husband, didn’t he?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes. I remember telling you so. A dreadful man came to the house, dunning Hugo for gambling debts. Steve paid him off and covered it up. Dad never got to hear about it.’

  Rackham leaned forward to fill his pipe from the tobacco jar. ‘Lewis told us himself that he wanted Hugo Ragnall as an ally. When I realized how long Lewis had been planning things, it fairly took my breath away.’

  ‘So Ragnall was in it as well? On the theft of the pension funds, I mean?’ asked Carrington.

  Jack shook his head. ‘No, he wasn’t. I think Ragnall was doing Lewis a favour.’

  ‘What on earth sort of reason could Lewis give?’ asked Carrington sceptically. ‘It’s a dickens of a lot to ask someone to pretend to be you.’

  ‘It depends how you ask,’ said Jack dryly. ‘All Lewis would have to say is that what he really should do was visit his tiresome old uncle, but both he and Ragnall were men of the world and he’d like a few days away with no questions asked, etcetera, etcetera.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Carrington thoughtfully. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact I can see that being fairly believable.’

  ‘And there we have it,’ said Bill. ‘Lewis is armed with an alibi, an alibi he’d set up nearly a year in advance. Secure in the knowledge of that alibi, he forged Mr Otterbourne’s signature on the cheques and proceeded to rifle the pension funds. When Hugo Ragnall discovered the theft, he talked it over with his friend, Lewis. Ragnall naturally assumed that Mr Otterbourne had taken the money.’

  Molly drew her breath in sharply. ‘This is the part I find really horrible. I know it’s true, because I heard Steve say so.’ Her voice broke and Carrington took her hand. ‘I really don’t think he was sane,’ she added after a little while. ‘Maybe that’s why I’ve felt so uneasy for the past couple of years. Steve seemed so in control, but he’d have odd bursts of really vicious temper. Then he’d get over it and sometimes he could be really good fun. He used to try and jolly me along, you know? He wanted me to be fun too, and I did try, but most of the time I think I was uneasy. That’s probably why,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘I wanted to live at Stoke Horam. It seemed safer, somehow.’

  Carrington said nothing but squeezed her hand. She looked at him gratefully, then turned her attention to Jack. ‘The day Hugo Ragnall discovered the theft from the funds, h
e and Steve had a long talk in the garden. Then Hugo vanished for the day and Steve went off to his Uncle Maurice’s. At least, that’s where I thought he went,’ she added. ‘I know Dad was cross about it, because you and your father were expected that morning, Gerry.’

  ‘Ragnall went off to Colonel Willoughby’s,’ said Jack, ‘and Lewis put his plan into operation. What he hadn’t planned was your arrival, Carrington. On the face of it, it shouldn’t have made much difference. Lewis’s plan was that Charles Otterbourne should apparently shoot himself. We heard what really happened on the recording. Lewis must have been hiding near the house, with an eye on the study. As soon as your father left the room and Otterbourne was alone, Lewis went into the study and shot him with a silenced gun, leaving another gun of the same type beside the body. Then, back in the safety of the garden, he fired the shot which brought the servants running.’

  ‘And poor old Dad walked back into the room,’ said Carrington softly. He put his hand to his mouth. ‘My God. D’you know, I was moved by Steve’s concern? I knew him, of course, and I respected his war record tremendously, but I’d seen him in some pretty flash company I didn’t care for and tended to avoid him. I was so grateful for his support, though, I warmed to him, the devil. But where did Dunbar come into this?’ He looked apologetically at Ferguson. ‘I thought if anyone was to blame, he was. His attitude was so peculiar.’

  ‘It was peculiar,’ said Ferguson. ‘It was so odd I made a point of meeting you, Carrington, to see what you thought of it all, and of asking Haldean if he knew the inside story of what happened at Stoke Horam. My stepfather was so unbearably smug, I knew he had to have gained something, but for the life of me, I couldn’t see what.’

  ‘What he’d gained, of course,’ said Bill, ‘was the recording we heard this afternoon.’ He indicated Jack with his pipe-stem. ‘Once Jack had tumbled to Hugo Ragnall’s part in the affair, we put our heads together and worked out exactly where Dunbar fitted into the picture.’

  ‘We were sure Lewis had murdered Otterbourne and why,’ said Jack. ‘It didn’t seem such a leap to assume he’d murdered Dunbar as well. Now why should he do that? On the face of it, Lewis wanted Dunbar alive, so it had to be a secret reason. Blackmail seemed obvious.’

  ‘And,’ said Bill, ‘as Dunbar’s change of mood was apparent about a fortnight after Mr Otterbourne died, it wasn’t hard to work out what Dunbar was blackmailing Lewis for.’ He looked at Jack with a grin. ‘You were jolly pleased with yourself when you worked out that, granted Professor Carrington had been there to demonstrate his new machine, there more or less had to be a recording of Mr Otterbourne’s murder, weren’t you?’

  ‘It all fitted,’ said Jack. ‘Dunbar didn’t know anything at the time, that was obvious, but Professor Carrington’s machine had been boxed up and sent to Falkirk. It must have taken Dunbar about two weeks to play the recording but, when he did, he must have rubbed his hands together and started to collect.’ He looked at Ferguson. ‘We found the recording in your stepfather’s safe-deposit box at the bank, didn’t we?’

  ‘We did,’ affirmed Ferguson. ‘And, although you were fairly confident it’d be there, I was flabbergasted when we found it.’

  ‘I hoped for the best,’ said Jack. ‘It’s the obvious place to keep something small and very valuable. Anyway, Carrington, this is where you come into the picture again. Lewis enjoyed being in command of Otterbourne’s. He really did work very hard those first couple of weeks, and then Dunbar decided to spoil the party. Lewis had patience, though. He wanted the recording, but he also wanted your father’s machine. He knew it would be a very valuable commodity and was perfectly happy for you to get it to the point where it could be sold. He’d decided to murder Dunbar, of course, but he’d also decided to murder you.’

  Molly squeezed Carrington’s hand. ‘Why?’ Her voice faltered. ‘I know what Steve said, but it can’t have been just jealousy, could it?’

  Carrington gave an unhappy wriggle of his shoulders. ‘It doesn’t seem enough, somehow.’

  ‘It wasn’t,’ agreed Jack. He looked at Ferguson. ‘Your mother is, I think, a kindly soul. With Dunbar dead, there was a good chance she’d have either given or sold the machine back to Carrington, including all the ribbons. If Carrington played the recording, Lewis would be back where he started. But if Carrington died too – well, that’s a happy ending. Very happy, in fact, because Lewis can then say that as your cousin and next-of-kin, he was the legal owner of various bits of the machine.’

  ‘He attacked Uncle Maurice the night before Dunbar died, didn’t he?’ asked Carrington.

  ‘Yes, he did,’ said Rackham. ‘That puzzled us, you know, because Colonel Willoughby had seen the man who attacked him. He stated it was a stranger. Of course, Lewis was a stranger to him. When the telegram arrived from Mrs Tierney to say the Colonel had been attacked, Hugo Ragnall was despatched to play the part of the concerned nephew.’

  ‘And,’ continued Jack, ‘In the meantime, Lewis had booked into the Marchmont. I’m sure I was right, Bill. I’m sure Lewis was Patrick Mullaney, and he changed his room to be near Dunbar.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ said Bill with a grin. ‘He certainly had to be somewhere close, so he could watch Carrington leave Dunbar’s room. He knew more or less what time you’d be going, Carrington, because Mrs Lewis had arranged to have tea with you. At first, it all went like a dream. The suicide was seen through right away, as Lewis intended. The ironic thing is, that it was the letter he wrote that got you off the hook.’

  Ferguson grinned apologetically. ‘I added to the fun, didn’t I? When I realized I’d walked off with the key, I nearly had a fit. My stepfather was a real swine, you know, and I’d never pretended to have any affection for him. My mother was certain I’d killed him and for a time I felt so guilty, I could almost believe I had. It’s ridiculous the tricks your mind can play on you. I was nearly sick with gratitude when Hugo Ragnall turned up with that story of his.’

  ‘But Ragnall couldn’t have been in the hotel,’ said Carrington. ‘He was pretending to be Steve at my uncle’s, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Of course he was,’ said Jack. ‘Lewis earned Mrs Dunbar’s gratitude by finding out the details of exactly what she and Ferguson had done at the hotel, then primed Ragnall with them so he could give a really convincing story to the police. The only place Ragnall slipped up was by allowing too short a time to get up and down the stairs to Dunbar’s room. Lewis didn’t want you convicted, Ferguson. If you had been, Gerry would have had the machine including, once your mother had looked in your stepfather’s safe-deposit box, the damning recording as well. If you were saved because of Ragnall’s actions, Mrs Dunbar would be so grateful she’d look very kindly on the idea of a merger once more and, with you cleared, Lewis could try once again to get Carrington convicted.’

  ‘I knew something wasn’t right,’ said Bill. ‘I never dreamed that Ragnall’s story was a fairy-tale from beginning to end.’

  ‘But why did Ragnall do it?’ demanded Ferguson. ‘I can see he didn’t mind stepping in for Lewis for a visit to his uncle’s, but he must have wondered why Lewis wanted him to put one over the police. That’s serious stuff.’

  ‘Because, I imagine, Lewis appealed to his better nature.’

  ‘Did Ragnall have one?’ demanded Carrington.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Jack. ‘Don’t be too hard on him, Carrington. Lewis had convinced him you were guilty. He did a good job of that. He convinced everyone – including Bill and me, I must say – that you had murdered Dunbar in a fit of rage. The more he said in your apparent defence, the guiltier you seemed. I imagine he told Ragnall that he knew you were guilty. You were his cousin and he could understand why you’d gone off the deep end, but it was wrong to let another man – Ferguson – suffer for it.’

  ‘I still don’t understand Ragnall’s part in all this,’ said Carrington. ‘You said he wasn’t as black as I’ve painted him. All I can say is that on the day we were all supposed t
o have dinner, the day Ragnall died, I received an appalling letter from him. It was nothing more or less than an attempt at blackmail. I honestly believed Ragnall had been at the hotel on the day Dunbar was killed, and he wanted, so he said, a substantial consideration to make it worth his while not to tell the police what he’d seen. I couldn’t understand what he’d possibly seen, but I believed he could tell some very damning lies. He finished by asking me to call at quarter to eight to discuss the matter. I wrote a reply – I can’t remember what the hell I wrote because I was blistering – and marched round at the appointed time with the idea of making him eat his ruddy letter and choke on the damn thing.’

  ‘Do you honestly believe Ragnall wrote that letter?’ asked Jack.

  Carrington’s jaw dropped. ‘Oh, my God,’ he said softly. ‘Of course he didn’t. It was Steve, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Of course it was. Colonel Willoughby had died and Ragnall had outlived his usefulness. What’s more, Ragnall knew far more than Steve Lewis was comfortable with him knowing. And, with Ragnall dead, Lewis could make up any old tale about what Ragnall had said about the time you’d left the hotel. He roped me in as a witness. I could testify that you’d come into the flat in a state of absolute fury. Then, minutes later, Ragnall was dead and you, apparently, had shot him. It was much the same trick as he pulled on your father.’

  ‘How exactly was it worked?’ asked Ferguson. He looked at Carrington in bewilderment. ‘I was there and, even though I know the truth, it was very convincing. We were playing records and chatting in the other room when we heard a shot. How did he pull it off ?’