When Anthony Rathe Investigates

by Matthew Booth

  “There’s a discreet wine bar just around the corner,” Lanyon declared. “I normally nip in for a glass after a strenuous day. Perhaps you’d care to join me.”

  It was not a question, nor was it phrased as one, so Rathe did not give a verbal reply. Instead, he followed the older man in walking through the throng of people moving towards them. Not for the first time, Rathe became aware of the sensation that everybody else in the city was going in the opposite direction to him, a tsunami of bodies heading towards him, moving in turn too quickly or too slowly for his own speed.

  The bar was secluded rather than discreet, so much so that Rathe was not surprised that he had never heard of it before. Unlike many of the bars he knew, with their chrome fittings and loud music, this was furnished after the Victorian period. Panelled walls of oak, at least two large fireplaces with portraits above them, with unknown faces glaring disapprovingly down at the revelry below, carpets of a paisley pattern throughout, and large bookcases with ancient but now untouched volumes on a disparate range of subjects placed in them for effect rather than purpose. The place was filled with professionals, suits of greys and blacks, each with the same notion as Lanyon had of softening the edges of a difficult day with a glass of two of what proved to be the most excellent choice of wines. Rathe joined Lanyon in a large glass of the deepest ruby Merlot and they managed to find themselves a place in a darkened corner towards the rear exit.

  “Perhaps you’d like to explain why you wanted to see me, Mr Rathe,” suggested Lanyon in a brisk, business-like tone.

  Rathe’s summary of the situation was likewise a brisk, concise, and professional account. Lanyon listened with a blend of professional and personal interest but also with, it seemed to Rathe, some element of concern.

  “And the police have arrested Barclay?” Lanyon asked. “I cannot say that I am altogether surprised.”

  “You sound convinced he’s guilty.”

  Lanyon had a sip of the wine, giving an involuntary murmur of appreciation as he did so. “I’ve seen first-hand the animosity between them, Mr Rathe.”

  Rathe thought back to what Caroline Barclay had said about a public argument. “At your dinner party the other night?”

  Lanyon smiled. “You’re well informed. Why are you asking questions about Barclay and Temple, Mr Rathe? What is it you’re after?”

  Kathy Marsden had asked him a similar question in different circumstances not so long ago. For the first time, the possibility that idle curiosity about the Temple murder might not be his sole motive occurred to him. He did not dare to believe that it was true, but equally he found that he could not dismiss the idea completely from his mind. Temple had talked to Healey about the absolution of personal sin and he had sought such a reprieve in the comfort of his conversion. Was Rathe seeking something similar by immersing himself in a violent death? The suggestion struck him at once as being perverse, but it had occurred to him with such clarity that he knew it deserved further consideration.

  “I just want to know the truth, Mr Lanyon.”

  Lanyon’s eyebrows raised and he contemplated his guest for a few seconds. “If I had known the truth, perhaps I wouldn’t have invited one or the other of them. I had no idea of this friction between them, not until that night. The two of them are only passing acquaintances of mine. I was not even aware they knew each other.”

  “Why did you invite them at all then?”

  “My wife is friendly with Caroline Barclay. She said that Caroline and her husband had been going through some sort of money trouble and they needed something to take their minds off it. Temple, I knew through a solicitor friend of mine who had given some advice to him once in a while. I’d no reason to assume any connection between the two of them. Truth to tell,” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper, “usually I’d say that if it had been up to me there wouldn’t have been any dinner at all. Not my idea of a good time. But Mrs Lanyon loves the whole hostess thing and I find it’s easier to avoid an argument.”

  Rathe smiled at this sudden intimate sharing of a guilty secret. He found himself warming to Lanyon, as though there was the suggestion of an affectionate and witty heart at the centre of the aloof exterior of professional marble. Rathe leaned back in his chair and enjoyed the wine. It was excellent, so much so that he found himself hoping that there would be time for a second.

  “But I had no cause to argue this time,” Lanyon was saying. “There was a reason for the whole thing, you see. It would have been my daughter’s birthday, her fortieth. We felt it right that we marked it somehow.”

  “I’m sorry… ”

  Lanyon nodded. “Adele killed herself twenty years ago, Mr Rathe. It’s not something I wish to dwell upon, as you can imagine.”

  “Of course not.”

  Lanyon was contemplating his wine. “If I’d known about those two men and their own private little war, I wouldn’t have invited either of them and the evening might not have been spoiled.”

  Rathe leaned forward in his chair. “Tell me about this altercation between them.”

  Lanyon sniffed, gently but contemptuously. “If you want an opinion, it was Barclay’s fault. Temple and I had been talking quietly in the corner of the living room. He had shown an interest in the collection of family photographs which we have set out there and I was showing him a photo of my daughter. Barclay came up and demanded to speak to him.”

  “That doesn’t sound like the Nicholas Barclay I know, I’m bound to say.”

  Lanyon raised his glass of wine, swirling its contents. “He’d had his fill of this stuff, that was obvious. Before he arrived, by the look of him. I told him he was being a rude little bastard but he was adamant.”

  “How did Temple react?”

  Lanyon frowned. “Oddly. When I’d met him in the past, I’d taken Temple to be a man willing to fight his ground, unafraid of the consequences or the challenges. You don’t get to his level of success on your own by being afraid of either. Perhaps we both know something about that, Mr Rathe. The way Barclay was speaking to him, demanding his attention and making a show of himself, I’d expected Temple to put him in his place.”

  “But he didn’t?”

  “Not at all. He stared blankly at the floor, as though he was thinking about something entirely different. It was as though he couldn’t hear what Barclay was saying to him.”

  “And when Barclay had finished ranting?”

  Lanyon nodded. “Then Temple did speak, but he didn’t retaliate. His voice was calm, quiet, almost inaudible. He said something about each man’s sin finding him out and that it was important for everyone to recognise that sin within themselves.”

  “What did you think he meant by that?”

  “I’ve no idea. Barclay hadn’t a clue either by the look of him. I can only assume Temple meant that this mess Barclay had created by botching a new contract for Temple was viewed by him as a sin.”

  “Doesn’t that sound rather tenuous?” asked Rathe.

  “Possibly. As I say, I can’t be sure of anything. But something had changed inside Temple, Mr Rathe. I’m sure of that.”

  The conversion, thought Rathe. That is what had changed; that was the fundamental alteration in Temple’s character. And yet, the distance between Barclay’s supposed sin of losing a large amount of Temple’s money and the murder in the church seemed so vast that Rathe could not give it credence, even when accounting for the conversion. Something about the whole scenario still jarred in Rathe’s mind. Until he could determine what that small point which did not sit right with him was, he felt there was nothing more he could learn about the night of the dinner. Not that he felt he had learned very much. He wondered for a moment whether he was any closer to discovering the truth of what happened that night in St Augustine’s than he had been when he first learned of the crime. Perhaps all this, whatever he was doing, was a waste of effort.

  Lanyon declined the invitation of a second glass of wine and, with a firm and commanding shake of the hand, he said
goodbye. As he left, he turned back to face Rathe.

  “Whatever it is you’re trying to achieve, Mr Rathe,” he said, “I suggest you think very carefully about it. Pandora’s Box comes in many forms.”

  Rathe thought about the advice as he watched Lanyon disappear out of the rear exit of the bar. It might be good advice but, in order to understand it completely, Rathe felt he needed, not to say deserved, at least another glass of wine.

  * * *

  The following morning brought the threat of rain. Rathe had slept badly and the thought of moving through London in a heavy shower did not appeal to him. He was not a man who craved the sunshine, but he did not welcome rain. He preferred the golden beauty and the crisp air of autumn, or the fresh bloom of a spring morning. Summer and winter could leave him alone, but the remaining two seasons he found reviving and fulfilling.

  A few simple enquiries had produced Hilary Preece’s name. Caroline Barclay had told him that Richard Temple’s only family, as far as she was aware, was a married sister living somewhere in the Oxford area. Several speculative phone calls, some embarrassing and some curt, had resulted in him tracing Hilary. Initially reluctant, she ultimately agreed to see Rathe for one hour only in a public place of her choosing, after which she wanted no further contact. Even if he had wanted to, Rathe would have been unable to refuse any of her conditions.

  Perhaps predictably, she chose a country pub on a fine stretch of road bordered on either side by woodland and, beyond the trees, extensive fields. The pub had been a practical choice, it seemed to Rathe: neutral ground was sensible but a coffee shop would have been too noisy, too crowded, with the possibility of eavesdropping too acute for comfort. The pub’s corner tables allowed privacy without the threat of seclusion. She arrived after him, which likewise struck him as an intelligent tactic, avoiding the vulnerability and embarrassment of a woman sitting alone in a pub, however well acquainted with it she might be.

  She was pretty, with sharp blue eyes and very fine blonde hair, both of which contrasted with the red of her lips, but there was a hardness about the expression which suggested that any attempt to take advantage of this attractive blonde would end in disaster. She was expensively but not ornately dressed and the ring on her wedding finger was large enough to sparkle but tasteful enough to avoid ostentation. When she saw Rathe, she allowed him a small smile, which he felt unable to resist returning. She accepted a glass of white wine, insisting she would only have the one, and Rathe switched from the mineral water he had ordered to a glass of red.

  “I think I ought to make it clear that I don’t normally meet unknown men in country pubs,” Hilary Preece stated.

  “I should hope not,” replied Rathe, smiling. “I can promise you that I’m not a pervert or anything.”

  Her smile broke into a small laugh. “I didn’t think for a minute you might be. Certainly not judging by your voice on the phone. If you had looked like one when I peered through the window just now, I might have walked away. But you don’t.”

  “I’m grateful for small mercies.”

  She gave him another smile and sipped some of the wine. “I suppose you think I should be in tears. About my brother.”

  “I don’t know you, so I can’t make that judgement”

  “A lot of people would. The truth is that I don’t feel sad at Richard’s death. I don’t feel anything other than surprise. I think that’s the word. It feels strange knowing that he’s gone, but I can’t put it any higher than that.”

  “I presume from what you say that you weren’t close.”

  She shook her head. “Not at all. We never were, really, but after my parents died things got worse.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Don’t be. It was the usual story.”

  “Money?”

  “More particularly, my parents’ money and how it should be split. I won’t bore you with the details but, by the end of five years’ worth of arguing and fighting, I ended up with a far lower share than I deserved.”

  It was difficult for Rathe to tell whether this was bitterness or truth. Her eyes had gone cold, but her voice betrayed the fact that the subject still caused her some degree of pain. “And that was because of your brother?”

  “All because of him. He was greedy, overpowering, and if he didn’t get his way then he’d become just plain nasty. People used to say he was ambitious and that he had to be ruthless to succeed. Well, a ruthless businessman is one thing; a cold, heartless human being is another.”

  Rathe shifted in his chair. “I’m sorry, but I can’t reconcile that with the man I’ve been hearing about.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Rathe contemplated her for a moment. “Was your family religious?”

  She spat out a laugh. “Hardly. Dad was an atheist and Mum wasn’t sure one way or the other so never gave it any thought. Why are you asking?”

  He kept his eyes fixed on hers. “Your brother seems to have had some sort of religious conversion.”

  Rathe did not know what reaction she might have to his words, but he could not have expected the gentle shaking of her shoulders and the broad grin across her face. For a few seconds, she chuckled silently to herself, before seeming to become aware of the inappropriate nature of her response. She composed herself and returned her attention to him.

  “Are you telling me Richard found God?” she sneered. As he nodded his head, she began to shake hers. “I can’t believe that for a minute. You didn’t know my brother, Mr Rathe, but I did, no matter how distant we were from each other. He was as far removed from God as you could get. Unless you’re talking about the Old Testament, when God was full of anger and wrath.”

  “He had befriended a vicar in a local parish, Mrs Preece,” argued Rathe. “He had been given his own key to the church.”

  She stared at him, dumbfounded. “I don’t believe what I’m hearing.”

  “There was still a trace of the man you describe in him,” confessed Rathe. “The man who is suspected of killing Richard had cost him a lot of money. Richard was in the process of suing him for professional negligence. It caused a serious rift between them.”

  She was nodding. “That does sound like Richard.”

  “But, I have to tell you,” said Rathe, cautiously, “that there was a public argument between the two men. Richard talked about sin, particularly about absolving himself of it. And I can’t reconcile that fact with the image you give of your brother.”

  She had fallen silent again, her eyes adopting a distant glaze, as though her mind had now travelled through time to a point in the past. Rathe sat in silence, watching her, knowing that it would be imprudent to press her to continue to speak before she was ready.

  “Richard knew all about sin,” she said at last. “Trust me, Mr Rathe, he was no saint.”

  “You might have to explain that,” he said, quietly.

  She took a moment to compose herself. “Richard had a difficult relationship with women. Maybe that’s why he and I were never close, I don’t know. He couldn’t relate to them. It’s hard to explain, but it was as though he was scared of them. Frightened, because he couldn’t understand them.”

  “Didn’t he have girlfriends?”

  “Oh, yes, quite a few. He desired women all the time, but he couldn’t cope with them. He had no idea how to handle them, not really. So, his answer to that problem, which was typical of Richard, was to try to control them. To make them into something which he could manage because they would be on his terms.”

  “I’ve known some men like that myself,” said Rathe.

  “There was one girl in particular,” Hilary continued. “None of the girls Richard tried to dominate stayed around once they had seen what he was like, but they all tended to make some effort to conform to his ideas before they ran for the hills. But not Jane. She wasn’t having any of it.”

  “And what happened?”

  “She stood up to him,” said Hilary, her voice flat, “and he knocked he
r down. Literally.”

  Rathe lowered his head. “He hit her?”

  “More than once. What I’d call a sustained attack. Jane was lucky it burned out quickly. She might have had more than three broken ribs and a face full of bruises if it hadn’t done.”

  Rathe sipped some wine in an effort to drown out the taste of filth which had formed at the back of his throat. “When was this?”

  Hilary did a swift calculation. “A while ago. Ten years, perhaps.”

  “This Jane, where is she now?”

  “I’ve no idea. As soon as she was out of hospital, she packed a bag and left. We never saw or heard from her again.”

  “But no charges were brought?”

  Hilary shook her head. “As soon as he’d done it, Richard was penitent. He begged Jane’s forgiveness, even volunteering to go to the police himself. He was really scared at what he’d done, really freaked out. So Jane thought Richard’s conscience would punish him more than the law. From what you’ve said about this shift in faith, maybe she was right.”

  “Perhaps,” murmured Rathe, his mind swiftly docketing this new insight into Richard Temple.

  But Hilary had more to say. “Jane wasn’t the only one. When Richard was at Lancaster University, something major happened. I think the memory of it was why he was so scared when he attacked Jane, because it brought it all back. I wasn’t supposed to know about it and I never found out the full details, but something really bad happened.”

  Rathe leaned towards her. “What was it?”