David Webb 7 - The April Rainers

by Anthea Fraser

  “She’s here for another week yet,” Mark told her, “and I know she’s intending to visit you. She said so.”

  The old lady’s face lit up. “That’ll be something to look forward to.”

  “Did you gather she was happy at home? As a child, I mean?”

  “Oh, I think so. Her mother and brother were both musical, but inevitably there was friction with her father. Sometimes I’d come into the music room to find her in tears.”

  “But she never thought of giving up?”

  “Never. She was a very strong-willed little girl — and despite her small stature, she could be quite fierce! I’ll never forget her charging to the rescue of that large, plain child — what was her name? Harriet something. Anyway, she was being bullied by some fifth-formers, and Felicity flew into the fray like a Yorkshire terrier nipping at the heels of elephants! Oh yes, she’d plenty of courage, and it stood her in good stead.”

  “And earned her the lifelong devotion of Hattie Matthews,” Mark said with a smile. “She’s now her secretary-companion. Did you ever suspect, in those early days, that Miss Harwood would become a world-famous composer and violinist?”

  The old lady smiled reminiscently. “It’s easy to be wise after the event, but you know, I rather think I did. As I told you, she came to me as quite a competent little pianist, but I had the thrill of giving her her first violin lesson, and I’ll never forget her face. It was — ecstatic. As you must know, Mr. Templeton, teaching music can be a soul-destroying occupation, but a pupil like Felicity Harwood makes up for a lifetime of uninterested, mediocre performers.”

  “Then I hope I’m lucky enough to find one!”

  “So do I, but they’re rare birds.” She looked across at him. “You say you’re not sure you’ll proceed with the biography?”

  “Not yet. I’m having a dry run, to see how I get on.”

  “The point is, I have some very precious mementoes — her early compositions and so on — which I’ve treasured all these years. Were you to go ahead, I’d be prepared to loan them to you. You seem a sensible young man, and I’m sure you’d take care of them. After my death, they’re destined for the British Library.”

  Mark leant forward. “Couldn’t I borrow them anyway? Please? I’ve always been a great admirer of Miss Harwood, and it would be fascinating to see them. And if I decide against the book, I promise faithfully to bring them straight back to you.”

  “Very well, then. Her first piece is among them, so you realize how priceless they are. It was interesting, you know — I saw her being interviewed on television a few months ago, and they happened to ask her the title of her first composition. She couldn’t remember; but I know, because I still have it. I must tell her when she comes.”

  She moved across to an old satinwood desk and unlocked the top drawer, taking out a bulky, dog-eared file stuffed with papers, which she put into his hands. “Guard them with your life. If anything happens to them while they’re in your care, I’ll come back and haunt you! But whether you go ahead or not, I hope you’ll come and see me again. I’ve enjoyed our chat.”

  *

  The early morning had been misty, but now the sun had broken through, lighting to flame the leaves which still clung tenaciously to the trees. Halted at the traffic-lights, Webb briefly felt the need to paint them. Then more urgent matters crushed the artist in him, and he ran through a mental checklist. The members of the commune had been collected in police cars and were now being interrogated. Redundant Broadshire Life staff were being traced and interviewed. Terence Denbigh’s son had made a statement, but appeared to be in the clear. As for the reports from the previous cases — He glanced at Jackson beside him.

  “Anything strike you about those reports, Ken?”

  “Can’t say it did. OK, so the letters and the MO are a link, plus the fact that none of the cases have been closed. But the victims were a mixed bag, weren’t they?”

  “Yes. I wish we could find a common denominator.”

  “You could reckon we’ve an advantage, in having two on our hands. At least we can compare them.”

  “And find they, too, have no common factor.”

  “Think it’s one of those crusade cases, guy, like the ‘Delilah’ killings a few years back?”

  “It’s possible. But most serial murderers have a bee in their bonnet — in the ‘Delilah’ case, unfaithful wives — and as you say, these victims are all different: men of varying ages, women, even a fairly young lad up in Leeds, and from completely different backgrounds. Yet if the notes our two received are typical — and we know the London one came into the same category — they’re all accused of something — ‘crimes against humanity’ and such high-faluting stuff. Granted, Baxter and Jessel had behaved badly in some respects, but they were hardly capital offences.”

  “They might be to someone with an outsize chip on his shoulder. Someone who’d been affected by their actions.”

  “But who, Ken? We keep coming back to that. Was there some connection we haven’t spotted between Baxter and Jessel, involving a third person? Someone who upped and gave them both the chop? For instance, could Jessel once have employed Baxter in some capacity? Go back to the post office, would you, and ask to see his records. They’ll have a note of previous employers. It’s a long shot, but we can’t afford to miss a trick on this one. I’ll drop you off here. Meet me at the Brown Bear in an hour’s time.”

  As Jackson set off up the road, Webb switched on the car radio to check the time. The last bleep of the twelve o’clock signal filled the car, followed immediately by the news headlines. He adjusted his watch and reached to switch off the news, having too many problems of his own to worry about international ones. But the announcer’s voice knifed through his inattention and he froze, his hand on the radio knob.

  “Concern is growing for the safety of the composer and violinist Felicity Harwood, who set off for Edinburgh early this morning in a private plane. She was due to receive the Freedom of the City in a ceremony at the Usher Hall, but her plane is now overdue and there has been no contact with it since the pilot reported foggy conditions as he flew over the Lake District. Miss Harwood gave a world premiere of her latest composition, a violin concerto, in her home town of Shillingham last Saturday. It was widely acclaimed as a masterpiece.”

  Webb switched off the radio and the car was quiet, insulated from the normal life outside, where shoppers hurried to complete their purchases before the lunch-time closedown.

  God, no! he thought convulsively. Only last night, he’d played the recording Hannah had made of Saturday’s concert and been overwhelmed by the mastery of it. If anything happened to her now, at the height of her powers, what a tragic waste it would be.

  He shook himself and started up the engine. It was too soon to mourn; the plane could have made a forced landing in an out-of-the-way spot, or simply flown off-course due to some faulty instrument. There were any number of possibilities, and one of them was bound to provide the answer.

  After a subdued lunch with Jackson at the Brown Bear, Webb was back at his desk when a tap at the door brought DC Jones into the room.

  “Sorry to bother you, guy, but I’ve got Pussy Barlow downstairs.”

  “Rather you than me, Alf.” The little cat-burglar was a regular informer of Jones’s, but in Webb’s view the importance of any news he might impart had to be balanced against the unpleasantness of coming into contact with him. He exuded a peculiarly nauseating aroma which was apt to get into one’s nostrils and linger for hours afterwards.

  “He wants a word with you. Says he has some information.”

  “What sort of information?”

  “To do with the night Baxter died.”

  Webb’s eyes narrowed. “He’s taken his time — that was thirteen days ago. All right, I’ll come down.”

  Pussy was leaning nonchalantly against the window-sill when Webb and Jones reached the interview room, and his personal scent came to meet them. Webb nodded to the constable o
n the door, who thankfully withdrew.

  “Now, Pussy, what’s all this about?”

  “Slow down a minute, Mr. Webb. We need to do a spot of bargaining, me and you.”

  “Bargaining? Look, if you’re wasting my time —”

  “No, no, governor, nothing like that. But I have to protect my interests, don’t I? That’s only right.”

  “And how,” Webb asked heavily, “do your interests conflict with what you have to tell me?”

  Pussy rubbed the side of his nose. “One or two other things happened that night, governor.”

  Jones said flatly, “That break-in, guy, in Rankin Road.” Webb’s pulses quickened, but he merely commented, “And there we were, thinking you’d retired!”

  “So I have, governor, in a manner of speaking. But every now and then, well — the urge comes over me.” Pussy shook his head sadly.

  “Well, I can make no promises, but we’ll see what we can do. Caution him, Constable.” Jones did so. “Now, what is it?”

  Pussy hesitated. “I’ll still get my fee?”

  “Give me strength!” Webb snapped. “Yes, if your information leads to identification, you’ll get your fee. Now for pity’s sake get on with it, man! I’m trying to conduct a murder inquiry!”

  “Yes, well, I saw two blokes, like, scarpering out of Rankin Close.”

  “What time was this?”

  “About half eleven, I reckon.”

  “Can you describe them?”

  Pussy shrugged. “One big, one small. Not more than a lad, by the look of him. See, I had my hand on the gate when I heard running footsteps, and ducked down smartish. I had a quick shifty through the bars, which was when I seen ‘em, but once they’d rounded the corner they was out of sight.”

  “You were in the garden opposite Rankin Close?”

  The little man hesitated, then nodded. “Thought I’d got some opposition, to tell the truth, though they wasn’t carrying nothing. Figured they might have been surprised on the job and run off empty-handed.”

  “What direction did they take?”

  “Got in a car further down the road and zoomed off towards the High Street.”

  “Did you see the car?” Pussy shook his head. “And you hadn’t noticed them going into the Close?” Another shake. “Or anyone else drive in?”

  “Nah. I’d been in the house, see.”

  “So you didn’t get a look at their faces?”

  “Have a heart, governor! I was scared of bein’ seen meself, crouching down there by the gate. I wasn’t going to cross the road and peer at ‘em, now was I?”

  “And the car drove off in the other direction, which means it presumably came in from the Marlton road end.”

  “Well?” Pussy demanded after a moment, as Webb continued to stare, frowning, down at the floor. “Is it any help, or isn’t it?”

  Webb sighed. “At least there weren’t eight of them!” he said.

  *

  For Mark, there was no softening of the blow. Having spent the day at St. Anne’s School, he’d heard nothing of the missing plane, and by the time he returned home that evening, its wreckage had been found. Neither Felicity Harwood nor her pilot had survived the crash.

  Numbed, he stood in the hallway, the evening paper with its ugly black headlines in his hand. The report of the crash was followed by a brief synopsis of last week’s concerts and then a full obituary, with the photograph which had appeared on the programme displayed alongside. Irrationally, he felt a surge of anger. Even while the paper had applauded Felicity’s return to Shillingham, that obituary had been on file, ready for just such an eventuality. Ghouls! he thought incoherently.

  He went through to the living-room, his thoughts stumbling to Camilla and the family. What must they be feeling? And Hattie Matthews, who, but for her injured ankle, would also have died? As, he thought with a sudden chill, would he himself, had his full day’s schedule not made the trip impossible.

  With a groan, he sank into a chair and put his head in his hands. No more music, ever, by Felicity Harwood, when with her last composition she had touched on genius. It was unbelievably cruel, impossible to accept. He raised his head, and his eyes fell on the pile of cassettes. The biography! What would happen now?

  The sound of the doorbell roused him from his misery. His five o’clock lesson! Hell! For a moment he considered cancelling it, but then, rising to his feet, he went to open the door. It would at least give him something else to think about, and at the moment there was nothing he could do.

  The long evening crawled by, and now Mark wished he had other lessons to fill the empty hours. A heap of crumpled paper bore evidence of his attempts at a letter of condolence, and the stacked cassettes still lay at his elbow. He had only to reach out and switch on the machine to hear Felicity’s voice. It was macabre, horrible.

  With sudden clarity, he knew that he now had no option but to go ahead with the biography, to carry out what could be regarded as her dying wish. And as the realization came, he also knew that he didn’t want to, had subconsciously decided to withdraw. He was a musician, not a writer; delighting in the structure and artistry of her music, he was uninterested in the life of its composer. Yet because that love of her work had brought him to her notice, he must give up a year of his life to research hers.

  He ran his hand through his hair, fighting a sensation of being trapped. He should have known all along he couldn’t do it, should have said so, firmly and at once. But he’d been flattered, and then there was Camilla. He accepted now that he’d delayed his refusal to allow himself more time with her. God, what a mess! What a tragic, tangled, inescapable mess!

  The doorbell shrilled through the house, making him jump. Startled, he looked at the clock on the mantel. Nearly half-past ten. Who could be calling at this hour?

  He went through to the hall, switched on the porch light, and opened the door. Camilla herself stood on the step. Mark stared at her blankly, unable to think of a word to say.

  “I had to get out of the house,” she said jerkily. “May I come in?”

  “Of course. I’m sorry. God, Camilla —”

  She brushed past him, not letting him finish his sentence, and went ahead of him into the living-room. “A large brandy wouldn’t go amiss,” she said.

  He poured her one and handed it to her, noting her pallor with an aching, helpless compassion. She gulped half of it down. Then she said tremulously, “That’s a bit better. Mother and Dad have flown up to Barrow. I stayed behind with Gran and Hattie.”

  “How — how are they?”

  “I don’t think Gran’s taken it in. She’s gone downhill very rapidly in the last week or so. But Hattie —” Camilla shuddered. “We had to send for a doctor to sedate her.” She put her glass down quickly, and moved towards him. “Hold me, Mark.”

  His arms closed convulsively round her. “I keep wondering what it must have been like,” she said into his shoulder. “Did she know they were going to crash, and if so, for how long?”

  “Hush, darling.” He could feel her trembling, and raised her head gently, meeting her troubled eyes. Then, with a murmur which he didn’t catch, she reached up, pulled his face down to hers, and started to kiss him.

  Minutes later, Mark switched off the lights and they went hand-in-hand up the stairs.

  12

  “THE ACCIDENT INVESTIGATION TEAM think there may have been an explosion on board,” Chief Superintendent Fleming was saying, “and at this stage, they haven’t ruled out sabotage. Know of anyone who might have had it in for Miss Harwood, Spider?”

  “It’s hard to imagine, sir. She —” Webb broke off, remembering her unaccountable collapse at the concert and Hannah’s voice telling him about it: “She’d a look of total shock, as though she’d seen someone or something she hadn’t expected to see.” God, was it possible —?

  “What is it, man? Has something occurred to you?” The Chief Super’s bird-like eyes were watching him intently.

  “It’s only a tho
ught, sir, but it’s just possible she received a note from the April Rainers.”

  “Merciful heavens, I hope not! We’re getting enough stick, with no one arrested yet for the other two, without having a world-famous victim on our hands. What gave you that idea?”

  Webb explained.

  “And you think a note may have been hidden in one of the bouquets?”

  Webb frowned. “That’s what occurred to me, but I’m not sure it would wash. She’d hardly have had time to read it, would she? Anyway, the deputy headmistress went through the bouquets afterwards and could find nothing suspicious.”

  “Why should she do that?”

  Too much time spent with me, Webb thought with grim humour. Aloud, he said, “She had the impression Miss Harwood received a shock when she glanced down at the flowers.”

  “Who handed up the bouquets?”

  “I’m not sure. I imagine one of the music staff, but I can find out.”

  “What I’m getting at is if there were a death threat in one of them, it must have been inserted at the last minute. You wouldn’t get a message like that via the local florist.”

  “Quite.” Webb stood up. “If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ll sort this out straight away and come back to you.”

  It was a long time since he’d called at the school. Webb drove up the winding drive east banks of evergreens and the deserted tennis courts and pulled up outside the front door. In the October sunshine, the Virginia creeper which clothed the front of the building glowed red and gold. Allowing himself no time to appreciate it, he rang the bell. Through the glass door he saw a woman who was crossing the hall hesitate, glance towards him, and then come to open it.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’d like a word with Miss James, please. Chief Inspector Webb, Shillingham CID.”

  The woman’s eyes widened. “If you’ll come inside, Chief Inspector, I’ll try to find her for you.”