Exhibit No. Thirteen

by Roderic Jeffries

  Kremayne sat down and slowly and carefully placed the three-parts empty bottle on the small circular glass mat. ‘I wasn’t head prefect or captain of the eleven, but, by God, I managed to get myself expelled. You didn’t manage that one, did you, Rusky?’

  Rusk played with the stem of the dark-glassed rummer in which his wine was. ‘What were you expelled for? I can’t remember.’

  Kremayne met Rusk’s gaze for a moment, then looked away. ‘Drinking.’

  It hadn’t been drinking.

  ‘Remember how big god quoted Kipling’s “If” and then gave me a public jawing that went on for so long I ceased to be afraid, only bored. Then he told the head porter — Polly, we called him, didn’t we? — to pull me up so that everyone could see me and realise to what depths an innocent lad could sink … High drama in the old school.’ Kremayne picked up his glass and finished the contents with a speed which suggested he could not have appreciated the wine.

  Abruptly, Rusk remembered. The reason for the Jerk’s expulsion had never been made quite clear and the headmaster had spoken in deliberately vague terms about the need for young men to guard their health. Rumour soon suggested women and within days the Jerk had been credited with phenomenal deeds, up to, and including, the headmaster’s wife.

  Kremayne belched softly. ‘When I got home, my old man promised to cut me off without a penny if I didn’t turn to and make something useful of my life. I said I wanted to farm and he put me through a farming college. Afterwards, I started out on my own account, but the bloody government didn’t give anyone a chance and cared least of all about the farmers. Land wouldn’t fetch twenty quid an acre, you couldn’t give corn away. I went bankrupt the day war was declared … What did you do in the war, Rusky?’

  ‘Joined the navy.’

  ‘What very high rank did you come out with?’

  ‘Lieutenant-commander.’

  ‘It’s a strange world, isn’t it? Now me. I’d’ve given you a captain at the very least … I envy you having been able to give a hand. I tried, but the old doc shook his head and wouldn’t have it.’ Kremayne looked to see what impression that statement had made.

  Anne Kremayne stood up. ‘I’ll bring the pudding in. I hope you like lemon meringue pie, Mr Rusk?’

  ‘I do.’ He watched her stand up. She wore a light summer frock that neither exploited nor hid what lay beneath. Her figure was nothing to make the wolves whistle, yet she had an inherent and unconscious grace that made her movements attractive and interesting.

  ‘We’d better use up the red vino. I’ve laid on something rather special to follow,’ said Kremayne, as his wife left the room. He winked heavily. ‘When was the last time you enjoyed a Chateau Yquem?’

  ‘A while ago,’ replied Rusk. It had been two weeks before Ruth left him, but that was between Ruth, himself, and the bottle.

  The remainder of the Pommard half filled both their glasses. Kremayne drank as though it were water. ‘I was telling you about my time in the war.’ He took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. I’m giving it to you straight when I say I felt that if I wasn’t to be allowed to fight I must do something to help the people. I took to trading, general trading. It was a case of making money whether I liked it or not, and it seemed to me I had to give a lot of it away. Spitfire funds and all that sort of thing. Five thousand quid for a Spitfire. I used to look up into the skies at the aerial battles and think that maybe I’d paid for the plane that was shooting up the bloody Hun.

  ‘After the war, I had a quick brush with the law because they couldn’t understand what I was doing, but everything was all right in the end. Still, made me decide to move to another field and I started up a club in the West End where the tired business men could come and relax. It was the day before the stripper became big business and I lost a real packet and had to retire to the countryside to lick my wounds. That’s where I met Anne.’ He paused, then continued, speaking with a voice that boomed more than ever. ‘She was a de Pamville. Big shots who’d lived for centuries near the village where my old man had retired to. They were one of the old county families; so they never met. But I married her. She’s a wonderful wife, Rusky.

  ‘I bought a small farm, twenty acres, and tried intensive chickens and pigs. This time I was clever. I knew things were always tricky when you were small so I placed the house and land in Anne’s name at the beginning. Went bust some time later, but when they came to sell up the place, they couldn’t: it was hers. Funny thing happened, then. People suddenly wanted to live in the area and the price of land shot up as if there were gold underneath it. Anne had some money and we lived on that until we were offered over twelve hundred pounds an acre. After that, we came down here and bought this place. Near as a spit to a thousand acres: two hundred in woods and the rest thundering good arable and pasture. I’d always known that if you could start big enough in farming you’d make money, and this was where we started big. Took a mortgage out and went to town on machinery and buildings: shook the government for every subsidy they’d ever thought of. D’you know, farmings’ so politically important these days they’ll pay you to clear woodland, drain fields, plough grassland, rear bullocks, or renew farm buildings. Makes me bloody well laugh, it does, when I remember things as they were pre-war.’

  Anne Kremayne, carrying a tray, returned to the room. Rusk half rose to take the tray from her, but she had placed it on the table before he could help her.

  ‘Still the perfect gentleman, I see,’ said Kremayne thickly. He turned his head. ‘I’ve been telling Rusky my life story, Anne.’

  ‘Have you?’ She placed the dish of lemon meringue pie on a free table-mat and then cleared away the empty dishes from the last course. Rusk collected up the dirty plates. Kremayne watched him.

  She carried the tray of used crockery over to the sideboard, returned to the table and began to serve the pie. ‘I hope it’s sweet enough for you, Mr Rusk, but we never add too much sugar in order not to cancel out the lemon.’

  ‘I’ll get the wine.’ Kremayne rose and half stumbled as he did so. He laughed loudly. ‘Two left feet, that’s what I’ve got.’

  ‘The bottle’s in the kitchen, Jonathan.’

  Kremayne walked slowly and very carefully over to the door and left the room.

  Anne Kremayne looked at Rusk. ‘I’m sorry …’ She stopped and her face became slightly flushed. ‘You haven’t met Jonathan since he left school, have you?’

  ‘I haven’t, no. He’s been very successful.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Kremayne came back into the room. He held up the bottle. ‘Nectar straight from the gods. The sweet rewards of success.’

  *

  Rusk looked at the mirror in his bedroom as he brushed his hair. He was beginning to show his age, but in many ways that suited him. He had craggy features, and the touch of grey in his hair and the lines on his forehead and about his mouth were in keeping. He saw himself as the strong silent hero of a Wild West Saga …

  When he’d been at school, they’d tipped him for big things in the outside world. He’d always tried to treat that knowledge with humility, as he’d once put it with revolting modesty; but when everyone was so certain you were going right to the top and would then start climbing, you didn’t honestly feel either humble or modest. You just agreed.

  In the strength of his achievements, he’d despised the Jerk. Drinking and smoking were the final abominations and they upset a chap’s wind and so spoilt him for games … the cads in the Magnet drank and smoked: were those old school stories partially responsible for the monumental priggishness from which he’d suffered?

  He’d missed Oxford because the family fortunes had vanished thanks to the supposedly inspired investments of his father. Even his old schoolmasters had openly expressed their disappointment that this should happen, and he’d enjoyed the pleasures of martyrdom. Then his father had died quite suddenly and there had just been enough money to allow him to read for the Bar. When he’d gained top secon
d-class honours and, in order of merit, come first of all the competitors, the future had once more seemed bright.

  War. He joined the navy at once. They’d soon be short of admirals. He’d gained his commission O.K, but then events didn’t move quite as might have been expected. Other chaps were promoted more quickly than he — but, of course, things became muddled in war-time.

  He’d married in ’45. She’d been a Wren officer, very smart, very snappy, very much wolf-whistled. He’d forgotten that a mutual area of sympathy and understanding might have been a more valuable asset than the right curves.

  He’d joined the police. Chief Constable in one of the Shires was not a job to be sneezed at. But something had gone wrong. Other men had gained promotion more quickly than he.

  He finished brushing his hair. Detective-Sergeant Rusk: Jonathan Edgar Royce Kremayne, Esquire. A nice contrast. Kremayne had clearly been dabbling in the black market during the war and had been on the fiddle most of the time since. Yet Rusk, with an inner honesty that wouldn’t be denied however much he tried, wondered how much of his contempt for Kremayne was occasioned by the latter’s obvious final success in life.

  Rusk went downstairs and fried himself an egg — and this time he over-cooked it. He opened The Times at the Law Reports.

  He left the house at eight o’clock and walked the three-quarters of a mile to the police station, went in by the main entrance, passed good mornings with the two P.Cs on duty there and continued up through the seldom used billiard room to the DI’s office.

  Carren sat in a chair on one side of his desk. Slumped in the chair of honour behind the desk was Ampforth, looking tired to the marrow, facing the twelve detective-constables and detective-sergeants assigned to the case.

  ‘Now that we’ve been honoured by the presence of Sergeant Rusk, we can begin,’ said the DI loudly.

  Ampforth turned and stared at Rusk without any particular expression on his face.

  The DI picked up a pencil and began to tap the top of the desk with it. ‘Have all the people on the lists been interviewed?’

  ‘No,’ said Rusk, ‘I’ve still the Brooms to do.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They were in London yesterday.’

  The DI quickened the rate of tapping of the pencil.

  Ampforth pulled himself into a more upright position. ‘All right, gentlemen, let’s have a run-down. With one more known sex-criminal to interview we’re left without any obvious suspect, although according to the psychiatrist’s report the murderer’s been queer for a long time and almost certainly has a record behind him. It’s beginning to look as though this record has never come to the police’s notice.

  ‘The clues found at the scene haven’t added up to very much. The murderer has been typed as a secretor, group B. That group represents about ten per cent of the population of this country, and of this ten per cent some seventy per cent are secretors. I ought to remind you, I suppose, that this grouping can never be more than confirmatory — it cannot identify.

  ‘The pattern of the knee marks found by the body and the two small strands of material held in the marks have been examined. The results of such examinations tell us that the trousers the man was wearing were made from a Harris tweed, reddish brown flecked with yellow in colour. We are unlikely to gain any more information here for the time being.

  ‘The print of the shoe was a bad one since the shoe was moving as it made it. The size of the shoe was ten or ten and a half, and medium in width. Rubber soles and heels were fitted, but neither offer us anything in the way of a distinctive pattern.

  ‘The girl’s clothing was treated and the dust extracted. This showed strong traces of dried clay and dung, probably cow. The experts aren’t prepared to be too definite on that point.’

  Several of the men smiled.

  ‘We’ve been on to the girl’s parents and friends, and it seems almost certain she wouldn’t have recently come into contact with dung of any nationality. It’s probable, therefore, that this dung came from the clothing of the murderer and he’s a man who deals with animals.

  ‘The area of search for the knife is being extended. If it isn’t found within the next twenty-four hours the army’ll be requested to give a hand and they’ll bring in mine-detectors.’

  ‘With any luck that’ll disturb the pheasants so much they’ll forget how to lay,’ said the DI.

  ‘The searchers will cause as little damage as possible,’ snapped Ampforth. ‘I’ve personally assured Sir Edgar Hothe on that point.’

  The DI grimaced angrily and pressed his heavy lips together.

  Ampforth continued speaking. ‘The questioning of women and girls in this division, and others, is continuing to see if we can obtain any pattern of a man pestering females. Up to date, results have been poor but there is one definite report from a girl who’s described as intelligent and above average perception. She stated that about a fortnight ago she was walking late at night along the lane from her cousin’s house to her mother’s and a car drew up alongside her and the man inside asked if she’d like to go for a ride. It was dark, with no moonlight, but she saw something of the man’s face in the reflected light from the instrument panel. He was middle-aged — she is sixteen and we may assume the man could have been anything over thirty — his appearance was neat, he was clean-shaven, and he spoke with an educated voice. She is quite certain the car was a Rover but has no idea what size or colour.

  ‘That, gentlemen, is the present state of …’ He stopped as the DI leaned over and whispered to him.

  ‘Of course. The palm print found on the handbag. It’s a bad print and not much hope can be held out that it’ll identify the murderer when a comparison print is taken. That’s the lot this time. We’ll continue the search for the knife and for a pattern of girls being accosted.’

  ‘And Rusk will, perhaps, find time to interrogate the gay young couple from London,’ murmured the DI.

  ‘Are there any questions or comments?’ asked Ampforth.

  Within five minutes the conference came to an end.

  Rusk went up to the DI who was talking to Ampforth.

  ‘Yes?’ snapped the DI.

  ‘I saw Kremayne yesterday, sir.’

  ‘You don’t say. My congratulations.’

  ‘I was at school with him.’

  ‘No!’ The DI tried to suggest acute astonishment. ‘Now isn’t that interesting. What would you like us to do? Declare him free of suspicion immediately? I’d simply hate any old school pal of yours to be inculcated.’

  ‘I thought it might be an idea to ask the local CID to find out why he was expelled from school. I’ve an idea it had something to do with women.’

  Ampforth smiled sarcastically. Rusk wondered whether it was because of the DI himself, or the old school tie.

  CHAPTER 6

  The main structure of the Brooms’ house was Georgian, and to this, in William the Fourth’s time, had been added a false front and a shallow wing on the north side. It stood in the centre of a large garden that at one time had been well cared for, but over the past few years the garden had been neglected until weeds choked everything and only an occasional straggly lupin or half-hidden unpruned rose suggested what had been.

  Rusk stepped out of the car and slammed the door. From inside the house came a volley of high-pitched yapping which turned into three snarling, snapping poodles, one of which was almost bare of coat through some skin complaint. Rusk crossed to the front door and rang the bell, and ignored the three poodles until the hairless one began to cock its leg against his: a gently applied boot changed the dog’s mind.

  Thirty seconds later, he rang the bell again.

  ‘For God’s sake come on in — the door’s wide open and this isn’t Buck House,’ shouted a woman.

  He entered the house. It smelled of ammonia.

  ‘Well — who are you and what d’you want?’

  The voice had come from the direction of the room on the right of the hall. He crossed, nearly
tripped over a large rent in the carpet, and stood in the doorway. Some light managed to filter through the two dirt-stained windows to show a table on which several objets d’art were intermingled with the remains of a meal, a beautifully carved court cupboard, an incredibly ugly mid-thirties sideboard that had been varnished a bilious shade of yellow, two leather arm-chairs, one of which had a large rent down the back through which the chair’s entrails could be seen, and a dog’s basket filled with bones and pieces of old newspapers.

  ‘Where the hell have you got to? If you’re the man about the telly, go through to the back and ask Fred to show you what’s wrong.’

  He now saw a door on the far side of the room and he went across. Beyond was a small bar. The walls were decorated with labels from beer bottles, the unsubtle type of seaside postcards, and five paper hats, each of which bore the request, ‘Kiss me quick.’ The bar itself was semi-circular, built out from the far wall. On this wall were two shelves which contained an assortment of empty bottles covered with dust, and on the top of the bar was a half bottle of gin, a bottle of whisky, a plate of potato crisps that was doing double duty as an ash-tray, and eight dirty glasses. Sitting on one of the two high stools was a woman. She was in slacks and blouse and wore, most unfortunately from an aesthetic point of view, no brassiere. Her hair was dyed mid-way between green and violet. She turned and stared at him.

  ‘Well, look at this! I was asking my fairy godmother for a handsome man and one comes along … Have a drink.’

  The three poodles came rocketing into the bar, saw him, and began to yap with vim and vigour.

  ‘Shut up, you bitches,’ she shouted, inaccurately. ‘Bloody things want their tongues cut out.’ She picked up the plate of potato crisps and cigarette stubs and turned it upside down so that the contents fell on to the floor. The dogs ate the crisps. ‘Keep their bellies full and they shut up.’ She looked him over for the second time. ‘Why aren’t you drinking?’