As Maltravers rang off, he heard Tess opening the front door. She was singing ‘I’m Still Here’ from Follies.
“I take it that the career is still surviving,” he said as she appeared in the doorway. “You got it?”
“Yes, and it’s going to be a lulu.” She grinned with delight. “I want to go to Highgate Cemetery and put flowers on Mrs Henry Wood’s grave for luck.”
“You won’t need luck,” Maltravers assured her. “Come here, my clever girl.” They hugged each other and he kissed her on the forehead. “When do rehearsals begin?”
“Couple of weeks. We open the second week in September at the Aldwych. I could still be in work at Christmas.”
“And New Year I trust. Celebration dinner somewhere nice I think. How about Bibendum?”
“Marvellous, but it’s cheaper at lunchtime.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m always ready to spend your money.”
“So I’ve noticed,” she said drily. “You’re nearly as good at it as I am at spending yours … Anyway, how did you get on?”
“Oh, I hit pay dirt as well,” Maltravers said feelingly. “We were dead right.”
“Daphne was really left money? How much?”
“I’m trying to find that out, but I’m positive it wasn’t peanuts. Let’s make a cup of tea and I’ll tell you.”
Tess listened in fascination as he told her the story, quoting from the key passages of the wills.
“Good God,” she said. “I thought I’d had my share of the preposterous at Paddington. Why on earth did this Constance woman include a condition like that?”
“I don’t know, but perhaps David will turn up something on that as well as just how much is involved.” The phone rang in the front room. “And that could be him calling back.”
Tess was left frustrated for nearly ten minutes before Maltravers returned.
“Chapter and verse.” He tapped a sheet of paper he was holding. “David found he was talking to a solicitor he met at some Law Society dinner who actually drew up Constance’s will and remembers her very well. Her fiancé was killed in the First World War and she never married. Instead, she seems to have sublimated everything into making money and knew how to play the market. When she died, she was worth about two hundred thousand.”
“And she left all that to Daphne? Why?”
“Little Daphne seems to have been a shrewd cookie from an early age,” Maltravers replied. “Always nice to great-aunt Constance. Sent birthday cards, buttered her up on both sides. The guy in Macclesfield says that Constance lapped it up.”
“But why the marriage condition?” Tess asked.
“We can play psychiatrists over that if we want. Perhaps never having married was her great sorrow and she wanted to make sure Daphne didn’t miss out on the experience.”
“But she’d probably have married anyway without having to do so for money. Why should this Constance woman have tied it up like that?”
Maltravers shrugged. “Short of trying to make contact through a medium, I’ve only got guesses to offer. The fact is that she laid down the condition and it was absolute. Strange but true, children. Nowt as queer as folk, as they say in that part of the world.”
“Why she did it doesn’t matter, anyway, does it?” Tess observed. “The fact is that it’s one hell of a motive for Daphne killing Caroline. How much will she actually get?”
“This is only a rough calculation by the solicitor, but prepare yourself.” Maltravers could not resist a dramatic pause. “The original money was very intelligently invested in the boom of the early Eighties and they sold like crazy to beat the stock market crash in — when was it? — October 1987. We’re talking well in excess of a million. Even with what Ted Owen’s worth, that’s got to be enough to kill for.”
Tess gave a low whistle. “Ain’t that the truth? But there’s still a problem. I had lunch with Louella and she mentioned this. Will the police be able to prove anything?”
“That’s occurred to me as well,” he replied. “It’s bloody suspicious, but a good defence lawyer could punch holes in it. Daphne Gillie had opportunity and a motive she kept shtoom about. But the bottom line is that it’s only circumstantial.”
“Well, you’ll just have to give it to them and they can take it from there, I expect.”
“Yes, but there was a message from Alan Bedford at that inquiry agency when I got back,” Maltravers told her. “It’s obviously got something to do with the Jenni Hilton business.”
“But we’ve decided that’s nothing to do with Caroline.”
“I know, but I could offer him … ” he hesitated. “Let’s call it a trade off. I let him take this lot to the police and earn brownie points if he’ll tell me about who’s trying to find Jenni Hilton. If he wants to see me, perhaps he’s having second thoughts about his client and protecting their confidentiality. It’s worth a try.”
“And what will you do if he does tell you?”
“That depends on who it is. It might actually be perfectly innocent and we can all sleep easy in our beds.”
*
So she’s ex-directory. Should have expected that, she’s still trying to hide herself. Could have phoned to make sure she’s there. Just have to go and chance it. If she’s not in have to try again. The paper said she’s got a son of her own now — nothing about a husband of course, probably a bastard — but he’s somewhere miles away. Exeter is miles away, isn’t it? He won’t be there. There might be some man living with her, they’re always talking about these women having toy-boys. Disgusting at her age, but they’re all like bitches on heat. Can’t get enough of it. Will he be there? If he is, have to go away and wait. Watch the house until he goes out. Don’t go too early when he might still be around. Say first thing after dinner — Terry calls it lunch now. Bugger Terry, that’s finished. Barry was worth ten of him. Barry … Barry … it’s all right, love, Mum found the bayonet you left. Mum never forgot, Mum knew how much you loved her, she knew what that filth did to you. I’ll find her grave afterwards and spit on it. Do you remember Mrs Tomkins at number twenty-seven? She always did that when she passed the cemetery where they buried her old man. She made us laugh, didn’t she? Every time you came back, you asked her if she was still doing it. She thought you were wonderful. Always asking me about what you were doing, who you’d met now. Helped me a lot after … She’s dead now as well. They put her with her old man. God, love, you’d have laughed at that wouldn’t you? We were laughing all the time, weren’t we? Nobody had a son like you, Barry. That’s what they all used to tell me in Etruria Street. Maureen, you must be so proud of him they’d say. That big car, all those fancy friends and he still comes back to see you. They don’t know how proud. I’ve got the bayonet. It’s all right, love. You were listening when I swore on my knees that night, weren’t You? You know Mum never let you down. Not long now. Tomorrow.
*
“Don’t look round, but there’s a woman at the corner table who’s been trying not to stare at you ever since we walked in here. She’s been awfully polite about it.” Russell Hilton grinned at his mother. “That’ll teach you to get your picture in the papers.”
Jenni Hilton smiled ruefully and looked out of the window of the coffee shop towards the west front of Exeter Cathedral. As they had walked round it, she had noticed several people giving her second glances.
“Do you mind?” she asked. “You’re not used to having a famous mother.”
“Of course I don’t mind. It’s marvellous. Vanessa was incredibly impressed.”
“Yes, but I don’t want people referring to you as Jenni Hilton’s son, as though that’s all that was important about you. That’s one of the problems when someone’s famous. Their children feel as though they’re living in a shadow.”
“Well, I won’t,” he said firmly. “I’m going to be a doctor and that’s all there is to it. You can go off and be as famous as you want again. You’ve brought me up and I hereby give you your freedom back.”
She stuck her tongue out at him. “Don’t be so damned patronising. My freedom isn’t yours — or anybody else’s — to hand out. I’ve been thinking about what I might do with it ever since you were old enough to leave the house on your own.”
“Good. And what are you going to do with it? Start singing again? Go back on stage? Hey, will I be able to see you on TV with Terry Wogan?”
“No,” she said firmly. “There are going to be very strict limits. Somebody called me with a film offer just before I left on Saturday, but — ”
“A film offer?” he interrupted. “You never said. Something good?”
“Better than good but I’m not doing it.”
“Why not?”
“Because … it’s too long a story. I’ve been out of it all for too long. I can’t plunge back in the deep end again. For God’s sake, I’m … ”
“You’re making excuses.” He looked across the table at her closely. “I always know when you start doing that. Why? What’s the matter?”
“This is granting me my freedom is it? Third degree? Nothing’s the matter. I just want to do it my way … sorry, that just slipped out. What was our rule about it?”
“Buy any recording of the bloody song and burn it as a penance.” He reached across the table and took her hand. “Mum, if you want to be Jenni Hilton again then do it. I know how good you were. It’ll be different now. No screaming kids and the Press chasing you every five minutes. Others have done it. I can handle it … There’s nothing to handle from where I’m sitting. Don’t worry about me.”
“I don’t. I worry about me.”
Chapter Eighteen
I dreamt about Barry. We were living back in Etruria Street and he arrived. All my old neighbours were there and I was wearing that dress I wore when I went to the theatre. The car was shocking pink — just like the dress — and there were all sorts of people with him I didn’t know. It was never like that, he always came on his own. There was a party and a cake with hundreds and hundreds of candles. It began to get silly like dreams always do. I was flying over Wapping and could see them all like ants, then it was just Barry and me watching West Ham play and Jack Forrest, who was our air-raid warden in the Blitz, was centre forward. Stupid that, he got his leg blown off when they bombed the docks. Then Barry started turning into Terry and … Oh, I don’t know, it was all ridiculous. There was some bit when I was with our Miriam singing in the Dockers Arms and … No it’s gone. But Barry was in the dream. Rita Wetherby used to say they were always near us. Swore her Tony came back and talked to her after he was killed in that road smash. He was a lovely lad. Bit like Barry, same sort of build. She died in that home at Tower Hamlets. She was a good age. And her big friend was … What time is it? Only six o’clock? Thought it must be later. Never get back to sleep now. Not today. Too much to think about. Barry was in the dream. Same as he always was. Didn’t talk to me, but he was there. Just before I woke up. Rita Wetherby said that …
*
Alan Bedford held a blue plastic file between his hands and tapped it lightly on the desk before laying it down. From where he was sitting, Maltravers could see nothing written on the cover. Bedford sniffed slightly and leaned back in his chair.
“I am a little … concerned, Mr Maltravers.”
“Really? Why?”
“Following our conversation I questioned my client and I’m not altogether happy with his answers.”
“So your client is a man? You wouldn’t even tell me that before.”
Bedford gave a nod of appreciation. “Before we go any further, have you told me everything? Up to now, all I know is that someone called Barry Kershaw died in 1968, that he was a friend of Miss Hilton’s and she was anxious his name did not appear in the article you wrote. You’ve not told me anything particularly suspicious.”
“But someone’s asked you to find her address,” Maltravers added.
“And possibly for completely innocent reasons.”
“Possibly,” Maltravers echoed sceptically. “But after talking to me, you felt it necessary to ask whoever it is some questions and were so dissatisfied with what he said that you wanted to see me again. I think we should stop pussy-footing around here, Mr Bedford. Something’s worrying you.”
“Then you start,” Bedford invited. “What haven’t you told me?”
“I’ve told you everything I know. I haven’t given you any theories so far because I can’t prove anything.”
“I think you’re the sort of man whose theories would be interesting,” Bedford remarked. “I’d like to hear them.”
“I think that Jenni Hilton murdered Barry Kershaw.”
“Now that is an interesting theory. What’s your evidence?” Bedford’s face remained still as sculpture as Maltravers recounted the story of his visit to Jack Buxton in Porlock, what he had been told there and what he had been forced to conclude from it.
“But you have absolutely no evidence,” Bedford commented at the end.
“Nothing at all,” Maltravers admitted. “But yesterday I checked out another theory about something else and proved I was right. Perhaps I’m working well at the moment. Anyway, are you about to argue that what I’m suggesting is impossible?”
“No,” Bedford conceded. “Although there could be other explanations. For instance — ”
“Fuck other explanations!” Maltravers did not shout, but his voice had gone very hard. “Stop pissing me about, Mr Bedford. If I wanted to, I could dream up a dozen other explanations, but they won’t necessarily knock the first one down. If I’m right, then whoever’s asked you to find Jenni Hilton could be very dangerous. If anything happens to her, I will tell the police everything that’s gone on, including the fact that you refused to co-operate. I don’t know if you need a licence in this sort of business, but you’ve been bloody anxious to let me know how important your reputation is. Do you want to put that on the line?”
“Neither I nor this agency have done anything we know to have been illegal,” Bedford replied levelly. “If you want to ask me to trace anybody’s address here and now we’ll do it.”
“Even if I want to find them so I can kill them?” Maltravers snapped.
“I can’t be held responsible for you not telling me your reasons,” Bedford replied. “And it’s certainly not the sort of thing that would occur to me.”
Maltravers lit a cigarette. “All right, let’s do this calmly. You know something that’s made you want to talk to me again and I appreciate you’re in a slightly tricky situation. Let me tell you something — and there are no preconditions on this — which could be useful to you and then perhaps you’ll see your way to help me. A moment ago, I mentioned another theory I’d had. It’s something the police have to be told about and I’m prepared to let you do that. It could certainly help your reputation with them. The fact is I’m convinced there’s been another murder, tied up in a roundabout way with Jenni Hilton but really quite separate.”
Bedford’s face showed a flicker of interest. “No promises, but try me.”
Maltravers was vaguely surprised that Bedford took no notes as he listened, then worked out that everything was probably being recorded anyway. He left a couple of silences as he spoke, ears straining for the hum of a recorder and thought he heard something from Bedford’s side of the desk. It was academic; he was not bothered about it all being on tape. He sat back and waited for the reaction.
“You should open up in this business,” Bedford said admiringly. “This agency would use you for a start.”
“Praise from professionals is always welcome … Now do I get anything in return?”
Bedford revolved his chair and looked out of the window for a few moments. Suddenly he stood up. “Would you excuse me for just a couple of minutes? There’s something I have to speak to my receptionist about.”
“Of course.” Maltravers did not turn round as he heard the door close behind him. The file Bedford had been holding when he arrived remained in the centre of the
desk, next to the intercom on which he could have called the receptionist.
“Oh, the games people play,” he muttered, then carefully played his own part, opening the file without disturbing its position. There was a single piece of paper inside and he memorised what was written on it instantly. When Bedford returned, Maltravers was back in his chair.
“Quite simply, Mr Maltravers, I would greatly like to help you, but you’ll appreciate the problem,” he said. “I am very grateful for the information you’ve given me about Caroline Owen’s death and I’ll have a word with the right people about it. Now I rather imagine you want to get off.”
“Yes.” Maltravers stood up and held out his hand. “If I ever meet anyone who needs a private inquiry agency, I’ll recommend this one. I’ll … assure them that the boss isn’t a blabbermouth.”
“Can’t afford to be in this business. Goodbye.”
Maltravers ignored the lift and took the stairs three at a time, dashing out into the City Road and running between slightly disapproving pedestrians until he reached The Chronicle’s offices. He chafed with impatience at getting through the security system, then pounded up to the first floor and burst into the features department. Mike Fraser looked up in surprise as he entered; unseemly haste in newspaper offices is restricted to minutes before deadline, not just before lunch.
“What the hell’s the matter with you?” he demanded.
“I want to use a phone. Privately if possible.”
“My office.” Fraser indicated the second of a row of doors down one side of the room, then followed Maltravers through it. “Press five for an outside line.”
“Thanks.” Maltravers was muttering a number over and over to himself as he snatched up the phone. “Insignia Motors? Can I speak to Mr Kershaw, please? Pardon? When will he be back? About two o’clock? All right, I’ll call him later.”
He rang off and turned to Fraser. “Got a piece of paper? There’s never any about in new technology offices.”
“Here.” Fraser crossed the room and took a memo pad from beneath a copy of that morning’s edition. “Now what’s going on?”
Murder in Waiting (Augustus Maltravers Mystery Book 5) Page 18