Borrowed Time

by Robert Goddard

  “Did you notice a change in him between fixing up the trip and setting off?”

  “I’ve never noticed a change in him. He seems the same to me now as he did then. Cool, calm and collected. Absolutely his own man.”

  “And you split up in Lyon?”

  “That’s right. Because he wanted to spend a week in the Alps and I was keen to press on to Italy before my money ran out. I didn’t have a lot of it then. I had no idea he meant to go to Biarritz. How could I have? Paul isn’t the sort to drop clues in your lap.”

  “But what would he have done if you’d agreed to divert to Chamonix?”

  “How the f—” Rossington calmed his irritation with a long draw on his cigarette. “How would I know? He’d have dreamt up some other excuse, I suppose. He was always good at thinking on his feet. I actually saw him off at the station in Lyon, you know. On the train to bloody Chamonix. My train left later, you see. Do you know what he did, the cunning bastard? Got off at the next stop down the line, waited till he could be sure I’d be on my way, then doubled back to Lyon and caught the next train to Paris. Simple, really.”

  “On what day did this happen?”

  “Can’t remember. Paul told me yesterday it was Wednesday the eleventh of July. Well, that sounds right to me. It was certainly towards the end of the week when I hit Rome.”

  “And the next time you saw Paul?”

  “Was back at Cambridge in October. I’d heard about the Kington murders by then. Knew Sarah Paxton’s mother was one of the victims. Well, everybody was talking about it. Even Paul. But he played it bloody cool, I can tell you. You’d never have guessed. Not in a million years. He even set up a sort of alibi for himself with me. Boasted about some Swedish sex-bomb he’d picked up in Chamonix. Made her sound so real he had me drooling with envy. But it was all a lie. He admitted as much yesterday. A lie to stop me thinking he might have been somewhere else. Like Biarritz, for instance. Or Kington.”

  Our meals arrived, leaving us to contemplate each other across the same succulent dishes neither of us had an appetite for. Rossington extinguished his cigarette and cocked his head, examining me critically.

  “You do realize, don’t you, Mr. Timariot? He did it. Trying to trip him up over dates and places isn’t going to work.”

  “You may be right. I just want to be sure.”

  “Who are you doing this for? Paul said you had only the most tenuous connection with the case. And with the family.”

  “Maybe I’m doing it for him.”

  “He doesn’t seem to think so.”

  “For myself, then.”

  “But you already believe he’s telling the truth. You told him so, apparently.”

  “I’m just double-checking, that’s all.”

  “And what’s your double-checking turned up so far? Any doubts or discrepancies?”

  I smiled in spite of myself. “Not one.”

  “There you are, then.” He picked up his knife and cut off a yielding slice of duckling. “Seems to me you’d do better following my example.”

  “And what is your example, Mr. Rossington?”

  “Look after number one.” A pink morsel of flesh slipped between his polished teeth. “And let Paul Bryant look after himself.”

  Rossington’s advice was sound but impractical. Paul knew I was up to something and the least I owed him now was a prompt if necessarily incomplete explanation. When I left the restaurant, I hopped into a taxi and went not to Waterloo but to Paddington. From there I caught the next train to Bristol. And by four o’clock I was standing outside the chic little town house on Bathurst Wharf that Rowena had been walking towards the last time I’d ever seen her.

  Paul answered the door quickly, as if he’d seen me approaching. He was looking smarter than when he’d come to Petersfield, but Sir Keith’s description of him—“like a man in a trance”—held good. His self-control had become so total, his sense of purpose so dominant, that a calmness amounting almost to blankness had descended on him. He gazed at me as a committed member of some closed religious order might gaze at a hapless stranger who’d knocked at their gate. With disdain and pity equally mingled. “Hello, Robin,” he said quietly. “Come on in.”

  I followed him along a short passage past a dining-room and kitchen, brushing against a coat hanging on a hook that had surely belonged to Rowena. I glanced into the kitchen and glimpsed other traces of her presence. A casserole dish moulded and painted to look like a broody hen. A calendar above the sink illustrated with Beatrix Potter characters. I couldn’t make out which month it was, but the word was too short to be September. It could easily have been June, though—the month of her death.

  The thought stayed with me as we climbed the stairs to the first-floor lounge. And there it was strengthened. The curtains and carpets, the upholstery of the sofa, the oval rug in the centre of the room, the bowl of pot-pourri, the vase of dried flowers: she’d chosen them all. And there was a scent in the air reminiscent of the delicate floral perfumes she’d worn. So reminiscent, in fact, that I was tempted to ask Paul if the pot-pourri had the same aroma. But a sudden fear that he might tell me I was imagining it got the better of me. I went to the window and looked down at the yachts moored along the wharf, at the swing-bridge across the harbour that I’d watched her cross that day in June. Craning forward, I could even make out the floating pub on the other side of St. Augustine’s Reach I’d watched her from. Everything was the same. Everything was exactly as I remembered. But no lone figure with flowing hair was approaching. Nor ever would be.

  “Looking for something?” asked Paul from the other side of the room.

  “No.” I turned round to meet his gaze. “Nothing.”

  “Like me, then. I stand there and stare out at nothing quite a lot. It helps me think.” He slowly rounded the sofa as he spoke. Then he stopped, propped himself against its back, folded his arms and frowned at me with mild curiosity. “What’s all this about, Robin? I take it you did have lunch with Peter Rossington today.”

  “Yes. I did.”

  “Is he the only person you’ve been questioning about me?”

  “Actually, no. I spoke to your family.”

  “Did you? They haven’t mentioned it.”

  “Perhaps they didn’t think there was any need to.”

  “Perhaps not. Mind explaining why you went to them?”

  “Not at all. It’s why I came. To explain.” I tried to smile, but only succeeded in producing a tight-lipped grimace. “I just wanted to confirm your story . . . to check some of the details . . . before the police became involved.”

  “Why? Don’t you think they’ll do a thorough job?”

  “It’s not that. I . . .”

  “You don’t doubt the truth of what I told you?”

  “No.” I said, happy to be able to answer honestly. “I don’t.”

  “Then what are you trying to accomplish?”

  I shrugged. “Absolute certainty, I suppose.”

  He pushed himself upright, walked to the window where I was standing and leant against the sill. He rested his head against the glass and looked at me thoughtfully. “Who put you up to this, Robin?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Sir Keith?”

  “I told you. Nobody.”

  “Sarah, then. If so, she’s disappointed me. I should have thought a lawyer would prefer to handle such things personally.”

  “Sarah has no idea what I’ve been doing.”

  “It must be Bella in that case.” He raised his head from the glass and clicked his tongue. “Yes. On reflection, it has to be Bella. She’d always ask whether something was deniable before she wondered whether it was true. What does she have on you that obliges you to act as her errand-boy?” Before I could reply, he’d moved back across the room and slumped down into an armchair, his arms still firmly crossed, his brow still quizzically furrowed. “Don’t bother to answer. It’s really none of my business. Besides, I don’t mind you questioning whoever you please.
I’ve nothing to hide. If you can persuade my mother to face the truth about me, or Sir Keith the truth about Louise, so much the better. They’ll have to do so eventually. As for Bella, she can do as she pleases as far as I’m concerned. So can you. The police will subject my statement to far closer and more critical scrutiny than you’ll be able to. But the result will be the same. In a few months from now, you’ll have what you claim to want. Absolute certainty.”

  “Perhaps I can have it now.”

  “Be my guest.”

  “Your mother thinks you sent her a postcard of Mont Blanc. From Chamonix.”

  “Mum remembers that, does she? Well, well, well. I did, as it happens. But not from Chamonix. I bought it in Chambéry, where I got off the train from Lyon. Posted it before getting the next train back. Thought it might help to cover my tracks. Said I was in Chamonix, of course. ‘A few lines as I sit in a cable-car being winched up Mont Blanc.’ That sort of thing. Dated it the following day. There was no chance of Mum making much sense of a blurred French postmark. I thought it might come in useful. Hasn’t she got it, then?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it doesn’t make much difference. It’s just another of those little details. The police will go through them all with a fine-tooth comb.”

  “It can’t do any harm for me to check a few of them myself, can it?”

  “None whatever.” He shook his head and looked at me intently. “But do me a favour, will you? Tell Bella it won’t work. I’ve set my course and nothing’s going to blow me off it. The sooner you and she and everyone else involved confronts what that means for them, the less painful it will be when the truth comes out. As I mean to make sure it does.”

  I’d intended to set off back to Petersfield as soon as I left Bathurst Wharf. But when it came to the point, a long and solitary rail journey, with an empty house waiting at the end of it, didn’t appeal. Whereas a walk out to Clifton and an impromptu visit to Sarah did. I badly needed to discuss my difficulties with somebody and she was about the only person I could rely on being at all sympathetic.

  There was another reason for seeing her, as I admitted to myself over a pint in a pub just round the corner from her flat, where I stopped off to give her time to get home from work. Sooner or later, she was going to find out what I’d been up to. Paul would probably tell her the next time they met, whenever that might be. It was even possible his parents might contact her, or she them. Either way, I couldn’t take the risk of her alerting Sir Keith to my activities on Bella’s behalf. It seemed altogether wiser to enlist her in our conspiracy of silence without delay.

  I waited until I was confident she’d be back before leaving the pub. In the event, I nearly waited too long, because, when I arrived, she was clearly preparing to go out for the evening. She was looking unusually glamorous, in a short black dress adorned with discreet jewellery. And her hair had a lustre to it that suggested it had been professionally styled that very day.

  “Robin! What brings you here?”

  “It’s a long story. Do you have time to hear it?”

  “I’m afraid not. Rodney’s picking me up in about twenty minutes.” The news that Rodney was still on the scene set my teeth on edge. “He’s taking me to a party. And since it’s being thrown in my honour, I can’t really arrive late, can I?”

  “In your honour? What’s the occasion?”

  I was momentarily afraid Rodney’s persistence might have lured Sarah into an engagement to marry him. So I was mightily relieved when she replied: “This is the last day of my articles. As of tomorrow, I shall be a fully fledged lawyer.”

  “Really? Well, congratulations.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Will you be staying on at Anstey’s?”

  “For the time being. Until something better turns up, anyway. If it turns up. To be honest, I can’t help wondering whether my connection with a miscarriage of justice, however remote it may be, will have some effect on my career prospects. Learning the truth from Paul was like grasping a cactus. You just can’t tell how deep some of the spines may sink.”

  I smiled consolingly. “You could say that’s why I’m here.”

  “I thought it probably was.” She glanced at her watch. “Look, twenty minutes is twenty minutes. Do you want a drink?”

  “Thanks. I think I do.”

  Perhaps the constraint on time made it easier. Obliged to be swift, I was also succinct, holding back none of the discreditable aspects of my dilemma. What would have been the point? Sarah knew Bella’s nature as well as I did. And she also knew how insoluble my problem was.

  “Well,” she said when I’d finished, “I certainly won’t say anything to Daddy. But I still don’t understand what Bella’s trying to achieve. She doesn’t seriously think Paul’s lying, does she?”

  “No. I don’t believe she does.”

  “Then what’s she hoping you’ll turn up?”

  “Grounds for legitimate doubt, I suppose.”

  “But so far you’ve drawn a blank?”

  “Yes. As complete as it was predictable.”

  “Which leaves you in a genuine quandary. How to let Bella down without provoking her into a breach of your agreement.”

  “Exactly.”

  “That’s tough.” She crossed to the window and looked down into the darkening street. But there was evidently no sign of Rodney. “As a lawyer, I ought to be able to give you some good advice. I’m not sure I can, though.” She turned round and shrugged. “I’m sorry you should have been dragged into this, Robin. You don’t deserve to have been.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “Maybe not. But I’m still sorry.”

  “Sounds as if you think I should just give up.”

  “I suppose I do. The police will take a microscope to every detail of Paul’s story. If there’s a flaw to be found, they’ll find it.”

  “But Bella’s not prepared to wait for them. Which would be her problem, except . . .”

  “It’s yours.” Sarah shook her head and sighed. She seemed about to speak when a car drew up outside and sounded its horn. She glanced out, smiled and waved. “That’s Rodney,” she said to me over her shoulder. “I must go.”

  “Of course. I’ll come out with you.”

  She crossed to where I was standing, grinned awkwardly and clutched my hand, willing me, it seemed, to accept what she was about to say. “Actually, why don’t you wait till I’ve gone, then let yourself out? Rodney doesn’t know anything about this. And I don’t want to have to . . . Well, you understand, I’m sure.”

  “Yes.” I looked at her and nodded in explicit agreement. “I understand.”

  Then she frowned, as if some point had just occurred to her. “If you feel you have to go on with this . . .”

  “I don’t have much choice, do I?”

  “Then there is one angle you could try approaching it from the police may ignore. They’ll try to find witnesses who saw Paul somewhere else when he claims to have been in Kington. You could look for a witness to Mummy’s whereabouts—or Naylor’s—at the time Paul says he was spying on them at Whistler’s Cot.”

  “But there aren’t any witnesses. If there were, they’d have come forward at the trial.”

  The car horn sounded again, an impatient triple beep. “What about Howard Marsden? If he knew Mummy as well as we think . . .”

  I frowned, then broke into a smile. “That’s inspired.”

  “No,” she said, kissing me briskly and hurrying towards the door. “That’s legal training.” She pulled the door open, then paused on the threshold and looked back at me. “I don’t suppose you’ll get anything of value out of him. But if you do . . . learn something about Mummy I mean . . . you will tell me, won’t you?”

  “Of course. It’s a promise.”

  But it was a promise too quickly given. Only after I’d heard Rodney’s car accelerate away along Caledonia Place did I realize how easily it could conflict with my obligations to Bella. In the circumstances
, it was to be hoped Sarah’s supposition about Howard Marsden proved to be correct. Otherwise, I might find myself trying to keep two promises—and breaking both.

  C H A P T E R

  SEVENTEEN

  Sophie Marsden had told me her husband was in the agricultural machinery business and I knew from their telephone number that they lived in or near Ludlow. That led me, without the need of much deduction, to Salop Agritechnics Ltd. of Weeping Cross Lane, Ludlow. And a telephone conversation on Friday morning with its managing director, Howard Marsden.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Timariot? We spoke at the time of that blasted Benefit of the Doubt programme, I remember, but—”

  “I’m hoping you’ll agree to meet me, Mr. Marsden. To discuss a matter of considerable urgency. It concerns your relationship with Louise Paxton.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m sorry to be so blunt, but I really have no alternative. And I’m sure you’d agree it’s a subject best discussed face to face.”

  “I don’t know what you mean. Louise Paxton was a friend of my wife. That’s the only basis on which I knew her.” But there was an undertone of defeatism in his voice. He must already have despaired of seeing me off with a blustering denial.

  “In that case, your display of grief last time we met was rather excessive, wasn’t it?” I waited for him to reply. But he said nothing. Several silent moments passed. Then I pressed on. “Butterbur Lane, Kington, Mr. Marsden. Twenty-seventh of July, nineteen ninety. You nearly drove into me.”

  There was a heavily pregnant pause. Eventually, he said: “What’s this about, Mr. Timariot?”

  “It’s about Louise.”

  “I can’t help you. You’d do better speaking to my wife. She—”

  “I’ve already spoken to your wife. Now I need to speak to you.”

  Another pause, perhaps the longest. Then he gritted out the words I wanted to hear. “Very well.”

  “I can come to Ludlow, if that suits you. I imagine you’re a busy man. I also imagine you’d prefer to leave it until after the weekend.” He didn’t query the remark. We both knew what I meant. A discreet slot in his working day didn’t require explaining to Sophie, whereas . . . “What about Monday?”