Webb stood and Jackson with him, and allowed the solicitor to show them to the door. Jenny, standing by the desk in the foyer, widened her eyes at the sight of him. Before Allerdyce could speak, Webb said smoothly, ‘Mrs Hawthorn, I believe you’re here for the reading of your father’s will? I’m sure that in the circumstances you’d have no objection to my being present?’
Allerdyce gasped and started to protest, but Jenny said coldly, ‘It’s all right, Mr Allerdyce. I have no objection.’
Webb turned to Jackson. ‘Sergeant, would you go and make the phone call we were discussing earlier? I’ll see you back at the station.’
Allerdyce was saying stiffly, ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Hawthorn. Mr Webb gave me no inkling he was going to make that request.’
She shrugged. ‘I’m not expecting any dramatic revelations. If the Chief Inspector wants to listen, it makes no difference to me.’
She walked past Webb without looking at him and seated herself in the chair he’d just vacated. Webb sat down in Jackson’s place.
The main part of the will, read slowly in the usual contorted language, was as expected. The bulk of the estate, including the farm and buildings, was left to his wife during her lifetime and after her death to his daughter. Various bequests were made to friends, a couple of charities, and a substantial sum to St Gabriel’s church.
‘We now come to the codicil, dated six months ago,’ Allerdyce said, with a cool glance in Webb’s direction. ‘“I hereby write off the loan of £25,000 made to my employee Mr Jeremy Croft of Longacre Bungalow, Oxbury Road, Erlesborough, together with all interest accruing, and direct that any repayments made by him on said loan at the time of my death shall be repaid to him in full.”’
Allerdyce looked up, surveying the two surprised faces. ‘An extremely generous settlement, I’m sure you will agree,’ he said quietly.
That was an understatement. Despite his grouchiness and fault-finding, the old man had effectively paid in full the nursing-home fees required by Croft’s mother, while the reimbursement of repayments already made would be a further considerable bonus. Which, Webb reflected, bore out what Lang had said about his old friend. Billy might be short-tempered and outspoken, but he was always ready to help those in genuine trouble. His private reflection was echoed by Jenny.
‘That’s typical of my father,’ she said unsteadily. Then she turned to Webb, her eyes bright with unshed tears. ‘Are you satisfied, Chief Inspector? Because if so, I’d be grateful of a few words in private with my solicitor.’
‘Of course. Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs Hawthorn, Mr Allerdyce.’ And Webb, rather thankfully, took his leave.
As he crossed the road on the way to Silver Street, he imagined the overwhelming easing of tension in the Croft household once the terms of the will were made known. Provided, of course, Croft had not been the one who tipped his employer into the canal.
*
Jackson greeted Webb with the not altogether surprising news that Colin had not been at the Old Boys’ Dinner. ‘It took several phone-calls,’ he informed him. ‘The school itself didn’t know, and I had to get on to the secretary of the Old Boys’ Association, who was difficult to track down. Still, I got him eventually, and he was quite definite. Mr Fairchild had originally applied for a ticket, but rang up the week before to cancel it.’ Jackson wondered anxiously if this was the news the Governor wanted. His expression gave nothing away.
‘Right,’ Webb said evenly, ‘we’ll now turn to Dick Vernon. We’ve spoken to the family about the day he disappeared. Now we must start on friends, acquaintances, business colleagues and so on. Mr Harvey’s original list will be a starting point. First, though, I must arrange to see a lady who might be able to help — a Mrs Parker.’ Mavis, the erstwhile ‘girl next door’, who had come to the Webb house on that fatal night.
He dialled the number Sheila had supplied, giving his official title and hoping she would not make the connection. It seemed she didn’t. Sounding apprehensive but also quite excited, she agreed to see the detectives at three o’clock that afternoon.
The rest of the morning was spent in the tedious but necessary task of calling on people who had figured in the original investigation. There was one advantage; it appeared that in the same way as people the world over remembered what they were doing when President Kennedy was assassinated, so the inhabitants of Erlesborough recalled the day Dick Vernon vanished. Partly, no doubt, this was due to the interviews which had followed immediately afterward, but each had emblazoned on his or her memory the last time they’d seen the doomed man or the last words they’d exchanged.
Although it was now a murder case and Webb asked slightly different questions from his predecessor, most witnesses stuck pretty close to their original statements and only a few unimportant facts emerged. It was also necessary to make allowances for the tricks a self-dramatizing memory could play on the most genuine people. Webb could only hope those recollections, taken en masse, would prove a more valuable source of information than they had forty years ago.
The main obstacle was the seemingly total lack of motive, and he wondered despairingly if his father had been the only person to have one.
Yet as he continued diligently with these interviews, Webb’s thoughts turned more than once to Jenny Hawthorn, her rigid control during the reading of the will and her trembling voice at the end of it. He regretted the hostility which had developed between them, and wondered if there were some way he could dispel it. If she could be persuaded to have lunch with him, perhaps they could talk things through and reach a more amicable basis. After all, they were both anxious to find her father’s killer.
‘Could you make your own arrangements for lunch, Ken?’ he said therefore, just before one o’clock. ‘There’s someone I need to see. I’ll be at the station by two-thirty, in good time for our appointment with Mrs Parker.’
Another of the Governor’s walkabouts, Jackson thought resignedly.
The Sandon Arms was a smaller hotel than the Crown at the other end of the High Street, but Webb remembered it had had a good name in his youth. He thought briefly of the family it was named after, whom he had interviewed during the course of the nursery-rhyme case; then, as he entered the foyer, forgot them as he looked round for Jenny.
There was no sign of her. Another receptionist, bright and efficient, sat at the desk. ‘Yes, sir? Can I help you?’
‘I’m looking for Mrs Hawthorn,’ he said.
Her face sobered. ‘Are you a personal friend, sir?’
‘Yes,’ said Webb, without compunction.
‘Well, she’s gone home. She went to hear her father’s will read, and was rather upset when she got back so the manager gave her the rest of the day off.’
Webb cursed silently. ‘She’ll have gone back to the farm, then?’
The girl hesitated. ‘Since you’re a friend, I don’t suppose she’d mind me telling you. She’s at her flat. I think she needed to be alone.’
‘Her flat?’ Would his pose as a friend be blown?
‘That’s right,’ the receptionist said, innocently helping him out. ‘Number forty-three, just round the corner.’
‘Of course. Thanks, I’m most grateful.’
There was only one road ‘just round the corner’ from the Sandon, and that was Canal Street, which separated the hotel from La Brioche café. It ran parallel to Silver Street further up the High Street, but whereas the latter ended in a stone wall overlooking the canal, this road petered out into a footpath leading down to the water. Webb turned into it, located No. 43, checked the names on the bell-push and rang the appropriate bell. After a moment a clogged voice said, ‘Who is it?’
‘David Webb.’
There was a long silence. Then: ‘What do you want?’ She sounded as if she’d been crying.
‘To see you, Jenny. Please.’
Another pause, then a buzz sounded and the front door opened to his push. Her flat was on the first floor of the converted house. He entered the hallwa
y and walked up the broad staircase. The door at the top of the stairs opened as he reached it and Jenny stood there looking at him in silence, her eyes red and swollen, her hair tousled. He gently took her arm and led her back inside.
She said flatly, ‘I’m sorry it’s stuffy. I’ve opened all the windows, but I haven’t been here for a week.’
‘Have you had lunch?’ He doubted if she’d agree to go out for it, looking as she did.
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Any food in the flat?’
‘No, I emptied the fridge when I went to Mum’s.’
‘Then wait here and I’ll bring something back. You need to eat.’
She made no reply and he ran back down the stairs and up to the High Street, grateful now for the proliferation of eating places. Minutes later he was back with a selection of freshly made sandwiches and a bottle of wine, and she watched in silence as he set the food out on the table by the window.
‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked dully.
‘Because there seems to be no one else to look after you.’
She bit her lip, and said defensively, ‘I thought I was one of your suspects?’
‘No more than the rest of Erlesborough.’
She smiled unwillingly.
‘That’s better. Now come and sit down and let’s see what this wine’s like.’
Gradually, as she found she could after all eat, she began to relax and the mottled red faded from face and eyes. Webb kept up an inconsequential commentary, talking lightly of Dick Vernon rather than her father, since he’d no wish to precipitate more tears.
‘The Vernon wives were at the service this morning,’ he said. ‘I didn’t realize Tom had married the delectable Rona Seton.’
She nodded. ‘Do you remember when she and her family arrived here? She was much more sophisticated than the rest of us, wearing make-up and so on.’
‘I remember.’
‘I was afraid you might fall for her!’ she said.
He looked at her quickly, not sure where such reminiscences might lead. ‘All the boys did, briefly, though I don’t remember her looking in Tom Vernon’s direction. Mind you, he was small and spotty at the time.’
She smiled. ‘Have you spoken to her?’
‘No, I’m going round there this evening.’
‘She won’t be much help. Dick had long gone by the time she got here.’
‘But she was around when your father was killed.’
Jenny looked at him frowningly. ‘Which case are you working on, then?’
‘Both. I’m almost sure they’re connected.’
That startled her. ‘But how can they be?’ Then she stiffened. ‘You don’t think Dad—?’
He laid a quick hand over hers. ‘Steady now; don’t start getting all prickly again. Jenny, haven’t you wondered why your father phoned Sheila the night he died?’
‘Of course I have, endlessly.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Do you know?’
‘I think so.’ Briefly, he told her the story of the conversation in the café before her arrival, which no doubt accounted for her father’s absent-mindedness: and, when she still didn’t understand, the interpretation he’d put on Sheila’s ghost.
‘And Dad reached the same conclusion?’
‘I think so. Unfortunately he went and told the wrong person.’
After a moment she said, ‘Thank you for telling me. I hope you’re right; I’d rather he died for something he knew than because someone hated him. Illogical, but there it is. And thanks, too, for this.’ Her gesture took in the remains of the meal. ‘I do appreciate it. It’s not easy, sometimes, being alone.’
He could think of nothing to say and she added, ‘Didn’t I hear your marriage broke up?’
‘That’s right, some years ago.’
‘So did mine.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Is there anyone else on the scene?’
Webb thought gratefully of Hannah. ‘Yes, though we’ve no plans to marry.’
‘You’re happy, though?’
‘I suppose so, yes.’ He did not dare return the question. The atmosphere during the last few moments had changed, and was becoming dangerous. He glanced surreptitiously at his watch and, catching him doing so, she smiled wryly and pushed back her chair.
‘I mustn’t keep you any longer, I’ve interrupted your day quite enough. I’m glad, though, that we’re friends again.’
‘Me too,’ he said inanely. They moved towards the door, but as she reached to open it, he caught her hand on impulse and she turned inquiringly. Gently, unhurriedly, he took her in his arms and kissed her. It was the farewell they’d been denied all those years ago, a gentle letting-go of an adolescent dream, with no demands left on either side.
She was smiling as he released her, and he saw to his relief that she felt as he did. ‘Bless you, Jenny,’ he said softly.
‘You too.’
‘Take care.’
‘Yes. And good luck with the case.’
He nodded and, without looking back, ran down the stairs and out on to the sunny street.
*
Mavis Parker, now a widow, lived up Glebe Hill, not far from the sheltered housing which was the Harveys’ home. Driving past the entrance to it, Webb felt a twinge of guilt. He must get in touch with the old boy and put him in the picture as he’d promised.
The house they were now visiting was small and narrow, seemingly fitted in at a later date between two taller buildings. Mavis opened the door to them, a grey-haired woman in a floral dress, and ushered them ceremoniously into her front room. For the life of him, Webb could not connect her visually with the girl who had babysat for his parents.
‘Mrs Parker, you probably don’t remember me,’ he began diffidently when they were all seated, and Jackson braced himself for another trek down memory lane. ‘I’m Sheila’s brother — David Webb.’
For a moment she stared at him blankly. ‘Davy? You’re Davy?’
He smiled. ‘That’s right.’
‘Well, I’ll go to the foot of our stairs! Fancy that now!’
‘I’ve come, really, to test your memory of something that happened forty years ago.’
‘Fire away!’ she said confidently. ‘There’s not much I don’t remember.’
‘You’ll have heard by now that Dick Vernon’s been found?’
Her face clouded. ‘I have indeed. What a shocking business, and so soon after Mr Makepeace, too.’ She paused. ‘Bit odd, it falling to you to look into it. What with the feud, I mean.’
‘Yes, it’s not too easy. Mrs Parker—’
‘Oh, get away with you!’ she interrupted. ‘What’s happened to “Mavis”?’
Just as long, thought Jackson stoically, as she doesn’t keep calling the Governor “Davy”.
‘Very well, Mavis — thank you. I want you to think back to the day Mr Vernon disappeared.’
She nodded. ‘I remember it as if it were yesterday.’ And this, Webb thought with a tingle of excitement, would be an original statement. No one had apparently thought to question the girl at the time.
Without any prompting she launched into her story, but the detectives soon realized it would have to unfold at her own pace, interspersed with frequent reminiscences and comments.
‘It was Sheila’s birthday, her fifth. She was such a lovely little girl, wasn’t she? I used to feel so proud when I took her for walks; I’d pretend she was mine. Well, like I said, it was her birthday and they were to have a picnic tea in Piper’s Wood. I couldn’t go, of course, because I was working — had a job at the dairy at the time.’
‘The dairy?’ Webb interrupted. ‘Vernon’s Dairy?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Did my parents know?’
‘They must have, but we never mentioned it. Anyway, because I couldn’t go to the picnic, your mum said to pop round later and have a piece of cake and I could give Sheila her present then.’
‘Do you know where my father was that evening?�
��
‘He was there when I arrived — I made sure of that.’
Seeing Webb’s puzzlement, she smiled. ‘I’ve a confession to make, Chief Inspector. When I was sixteen, I was madly in love with your dad!’
Webb stared at her disbelievingly. ‘You were?’
‘Oh yes. Such a tall, strong, silent man — just like a film star.’ This was indeed a new vision of his father. ‘And how he loved that little girl! I used to watch them together from my bedroom window. I remember once, your dad had spent all afternoon planting out seedlings. Then Sheila trotted out and when he wasn’t looking, pulled up about a dozen of them. I held my breath, I can tell you, when he turned round and saw what she’d done. I heard her piping little voice say, “Pretty flowers for Mummy,” and after a moment he just laughed and picked her up and hugged her.’ She shook her head, lost in her memories, and Webb found himself powerless to steer her back to the point.
‘And the way he looked at your mum! Made my knees turn to water, I can tell you. Adored her, didn’t he? I used to dream of having a man who’d look at me like that.’
Webb’s thoughts whirled. Was it accurate, this entirely new picture of his father? Had jealousy and resentment blinded him to the true man? Perhaps he and Sheila had been wrong and John Webb really had fallen for Dick Vernon’s fiancée. Whatever the ethics of his taking her from him, it might after all have been done out of love. Even more bitter, then, would be his realization that she did not and never would love him.
‘Anyway,’ Mavis was continuing, ‘to get back to your question, yes, your dad was there when I arrived, but he went out soon after to his bowls. And when you two were in bed, your mum and me sat and chatted in the kitchen.’
‘She hadn’t asked you to sit for her?’
‘No, but that’s what I ended up doing, because she had a phone-call, didn’t she?’
He’d wondered how they’d arranged to meet. ‘Who was it, do you know?’
‘She never said, but I thought at the time it was your dad.’
David Webb 10 - Three, Three, the Rivals Page 15