The Benefits of Death

by Roderic Jeffries

  “D’you expect me to believe that when you admit you think she lied?”

  “In her case, sir, the greater the lie, the greater the respect. Look, I’m not here to try to cause any sort of trouble. Back at the station, they don’t even know I’m here and there won’t be a single record of what goes on. Maybe you say it’s a hell of an impertinence on my part; to that I say I’ve done twenty years, or more, in the force and if I’ve learned anything, it’s how to be impertinent but not blush. I’ve a strange mind, Mr. Leithan, and that’s the God’s truth, and I never know whether to be proud or ashamed of it. It worries like hell over things that don’t fit, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I saw a new office building in London and the water tanks weren’t exactly in the middle of the top: it worried me for days and days. Take your trial. What’s the outcome? Untidiness. Is Mrs. Leithan alive or dead? If she’s dead, who killed her? If she’s alive, why was the dog killed? Can’t you see, I must know the answers for myself. The police have failed, but between you and me they’re pretty philosophical about such things. But in me, there’s an ache of untidiness. Did Mrs. Breslow see your wife in the courthouse? If Mrs. Breslow didn’t see her, is she dead? Did you kill her?”

  Leithan drew on the cigarette and mentally savoured the irony of a detective-inspector who approached the discharged murder suspect and begged for the truth. He scraped ash into the ceramic ash-tray by his side. “If I knew the answers, I wouldn’t pass them on.”

  The D.I. did not try to hide his disappointment.

  “It would be too easy a way of releasing a conscience. I’ve always thought that expiation of a sin should never be allowed to be by confession, because that gives relief too easily and so cheapens the sin. But I’ll tell you that we had seven dogs. Six of ’em I could have throttled with my bare hands. The seventh liked me more than anyone else in the world and there was only one living creature in this world I loved more.”

  “Was the seventh dog the one that died?”

  “Stymie.”

  “You didn’t shoot her?”

  Leithan shook his head.

  Chapter XVIII

  Jaeger parked his car in front of Hideaway House. He climbed out and went across to the front door. As he knocked, he shivered. The wind had knives to its edges.

  Pamela Breslow opened the door. Jaeger was shocked by the signs of strain on her face: she was looking far more worried, even, than at the trial. He wondered why she was not at Lower Brakebourne Farm. “Could I have a few words with you, Mrs. Breslow?”

  “Come in,” she answered dully. “The place is in a frightful mess, but I don’t expect you’ll worry.”

  He followed her into the sitting-room in the roundel. She had not exaggerated. The room looked as though it had not been tidied or cleaned in weeks.

  “Care for a drink?” she asked.

  “I’m afraid it’s a bit early for me.”

  “It isn’t for me. Change your mind?”

  “Could I have a beer, then?”

  “Guinness or light ale?”

  “A light ale, please.” It was pretty obvious there had been some sort of bust-up between them. He watched her cross the room and pour out a strong whisky for herself. He hated his job when he saw what it could do to people.

  “I suppose you’ve come to arrest me?” she demanded. She took a pewter mug from the corner cupboard, a bottle, and an opener. She returned and handed them to him and stared at him with a challenging hate in which was an appeal.

  “No.”

  “Why not? You think I committed perjury.”

  “Does it matter what I think?”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  He smiled. He put the mug down on the floor to the right of four stacked volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica, opened the bottle of beer, and poured it out. When he straightened up there was a twinge of pain from his back to remind him that old age was shouting from the sidelines. “Your health.”

  She lifted her glass slightly, returned to the second arm-chair. “The judge practically ordered the police to throw me into jail.”

  “Mr. Justice Cator is a man of decided opinions. But as far as the police are concerned, we can’t do anything until we know the truth. When we can be certain whether Mrs. Leithan is alive or dead, then we can know whether you committed perjury.” He hesitated, then said very quickly: “As far as I’m concerned, if it was perjury it was a wonderful perjury.”

  She drank quickly, looked at him and then away, picked up a letter which had been lying on the arm of the chair and fiddled with it. It was one of the letters she had received informing her that her work was no longer wanted. “How d’you like those dogs of Mr. Leithan’s?” he asked.

  “Dogs?”

  “I’m afraid I can never remember the name of the breed.”

  Impatiently, she forced herself to concentrate. Unless she wanted to be a fool, she must realise that no matter what he had said, this visit was probably a hostile one. “Cuencas.” She drank some of the whisky. “There are a hell of a lot of breeds I prefer.”

  “Mr. Leithan was saying he’d like to get rid of the remaining six.”

  “Wouldn’t you? She only kept them because they offered her a chance to come out on top. She wasn’t a doggy woman: just someone who used dogs to give herself something she’d never otherwise have found. If the breed had been established in the country ten years before it was, she’d never have bothered with it.”

  “Mr. Leithan must have got fed up with them?”

  “Ask him about the joys of cutting up paunch!” She finished the whisky and stared down at the glass.

  “I suppose he hated the lot of them?”

  “Not Stymie. Charles is one of those people who, underneath a rather calculated exterior, longs for, and needs, affection. Stymie gave that to him in bucketfuls. They were practically inseparable — and did that annoy the old bitch. Stymie wouldn’t have anything to do with her.” Pamela looked up. “I suppose you think it’s nonsense to say Charles needs affection?”

  “No, Mrs. Breslow.”

  “I doubt whether you really understand. Most married people get enough to see them through, even if their passion will never set the Thames on fire.”

  There was a short silence. “I hope everything works out all right for you,” he said finally.

  “What exactly do you mean by that?”

  “No more than it sounds like.”

  “Then it’s a strange thing for you to say.”

  “Can’t a policeman wish someone good luck?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve come not to know anything.” She stood up. “Have another beer?”

  “Not for me, thanks. I’ve too much work to do.” He finished his drink and then stood up. “If I don’t do some of it soon, I’ll be directly responsible for bursting my superior’s ulcer.”

  He walked to the door and she followed him. As she stood in the small hall and watched him leave the house, she tried to remember all that had been said because she was desperate to know what he had wanted from her.

  *

  The rain came tearing across the countryside, blown at a sharp angle by the wind. It lay everywhere because the land had become too waterlogged to soak up any more moisture. The Rover shuddered to the wind, especially when clearing cover and coming parallel with a hedgeless field. The wipers were unable to keep the screen clear and for brief moments parts of it became almost opaque. Leithan slowed down, telling himself that to do so was in the interests of safety. Yet, somewhere inside him, he knew that he desperately wanted to see and speak to Pamela but was afraid of the moment of meeting, so that he wished to put it off for as long as possible. Had too much been said between them: had they passed the point of no return? They had needed all the calm they could find, yet he had, with irrational stupidity, raised a storm.

  As soon as he decided he was slowing down because he was afraid of the meeting, he increased speed. Let the psychologists work that one out, he thought savagely. He turned a sharp
corner and the parcel on the seat rolled over against his thigh, then rolled back. Pamela had a passion for cashmere twin-sets which she wore when she went “posh.” He had bought the most expensive to be found in Ashford and although it was not one of her favourite colours, he hoped it would do as a peace offering.

  Hideaway House came into sight. Water was rolling down the cowl and the very steep roof of the roundel and was overflowing out of the guttering. He noticed that two tiles were missing. Behind the house, the bare and naked trees shivered to the wind: a tall and wildgrown yew tree, seemingly incongruous in its greenery, whipped backwards and forwards.

  He brought the car to a halt and then ran across to the front door which opened as he arrived at it. He suddenly remembered the twin-set and, despite Pamela’s attempts to prevent his returning, he went back to the car for it.

  The moment they were in the sitting-room, he kissed her and it was with a sense of utter relief that he realised she was returning his kiss with all her natural passion. “God, I’ve been terrified,” he murmured.

  She clasped her hands together behind his neck. “Of what?”

  “After last night…”

  “Let’s forget there was a last night.”

  “Can you?”

  “I did so before you came.”

  He kissed her again, then gave her the present. She unwrapped it, exclaimed delightedly over it, and insisted on putting it on. They both knew the colouring did not suit her, but neither cared.

  “I’ve nothing for lunch, Charles, except cold bangers and you always turn your nose up at such plebeian fare.”

  “Not this time. Cold bangers and mash. Wasn’t there a song about them?”

  “I expect so.”

  “What about wine?”

  “There’s a choice between Algerian or Spanish red. Add some soda and imagine it’s pink champagne.”

  He knew he had never before experienced such pure happiness. There was a wonderful joy in regaining something precious one thought one had lost. “I got tight last night,” he suddenly said. “Really stinking tight.”

  “So the man’s human!”

  “So human, that all day I’ve had a very human headache. Not helped, either, by the fact that Jaeger turned up.”

  She ceased to smile. “He…he hasn’t long been gone from here.”

  “What the devil did he come here for?”

  “I just don’t know. He paid me a heavy compliment, didn’t think there was much chance of a charge of perjury, asked about all your dogs, and then left.”

  “There must have been more to it than that. What did he say about perjury?”

  “Only that no one could do anything until the body of Evadne was found or she was discovered alive.”

  “Why won’t he leave us alone?” Leithan began to pace the floor. “Why did you do it, Pam?”

  “Do what?”

  “Lie about seeing Evadne?”

  “Who says I lied?”

  “Of course you did.”

  “Please, Charles, let’s forget it.”

  Some insanity forced him on, even when he knew it was sheer stupidity to continue. “You didn’t see her. Everyone knows you didn’t. D’you think I can’t appreciate all the questions in your mind every time you look at me? D’you think I don’t know you daren’t use the true words?”

  She made a sound that was close to a moan. “Charles, you must pull yourself together.”

  “Must I? What d’you think it’s like for me with all those unasked questions around?”

  “Can’t you understand?” she said desperately. “There aren’t any questions or accusations. You’re reading into me something that doesn’t exist.”

  They both knew it was no good.

  *

  Jaeger gave his name to the girl in the office of Podermare and Company. She said she would see if Mr. Stainer could spare a few minutes. As she left, Jaeger thought that if skirts became any shorter, there’d need to be a league for the protection and preservation of men. He looked out of the window and stared at the traffic in the wide main street of Tenterden.

  “Mr. Stainer’s free,” said the girl, as she returned. “Through the passage there, and first door on the right.”

  Jaeger went through to the indicated room.

  “Good afternoon, Inspector,” said Stainer. He was almost a refugee from Edwardian times. He had a neatly cut imperial beard that was grey, he used a monocle, wore a solid albert that looped across his very ample stomach, and he obviously enjoyed as many of the pleasures of life as he could.

  Jaeger sat down in the worn leather arm-chair and asked for, and was granted, permission to smoke his pipe. “Remember Mrs. Leithan, sir?”

  “There’s hardly been enough time to forget her.”

  “She asked you to engage the private detective, Smith?”

  “She did. And I might add that I had no idea she usually instructed solicitors in Ashford, else I should have tried to persuade her to return to them — not that she would have done, of course — but I would not wish it to appear that I had stolen a client.” He spoke with sufficient dignity to remove any trace of pomposity.

  “What did you think of her?”

  “My dear Inspector, do you really expect me to answer that in all honesty?” Stainer smiled and the expression made him look rather puckish. “If I were to admit to my private feelings regarding some of my clients, I should have a very heavy crop of slander suits on my hands.”

  Jaeger discovered his pipe had gone out and he lit a match. “Proper bitch, wasn’t she?”

  “I imagine one could allude to her in such terms.”

  “Did she want anything other than you putting a tail on her husband?”

  “I have answered all these questions before, you know.”

  “Yes, sir, but not to me.”

  Stainer sighed and pulled open a drawer from which he brought out a very ornate china snuff-box. He inhaled snuff into each nostril. “I never catch a cold, Inspector, and that is due solely to snuff. Now. What did Mrs. Leithan speak to me about? Before I answer you, have you realised that according to the verdict of the trial she may still be alive? If so, then I may be said to be her solicitor still, and between her and me there lies the privilege that always rests between solicitor and client.”

  “Are you claiming it, sir?”

  Stainer replaced the snuff-box in the drawer. He wedged his thumbs in the pocket of his waistcoat and leaned back in his chair. “Yes, I am. In the circumstances, I feel it my duty to do so.”

  Jaeger smiled. “You lawyers!”

  “It’s the principle that counts, Inspector.”

  “The privilege isn’t absolute, is it?”

  Stainer’s expression became guarded. “Isn’t it?”

  “You’ll know far more about it than I do, but aren’t I right in thinking that a privilege doesn’t exist in court if the solicitor were asked to advise on criminal or unlawful proceedings?”

  “Are you suggesting I advised Mrs. Leithan on such matters?”

  “I think she came to you with the object of effecting a public mischief and needed your advice to see if she could carry it out.”

  “She asked for no such advice.”

  “Did she not want to know the various ways in which she could gain a divorce?”

  Stainer looked bewildered.

  “Didn’t she demand to know what courses were open to her?”

  “Will you assure me, Inspector, that to the best of your belief, Mrs. Leithan was contemplating a public mischief?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well. Mrs. Leithan came to me regarding the possibility of a divorce. Right from the beginning I had to point out to her that in this country a divorce is still the consequence of certain acts, and not vice versa. The fact that evidence could not be arranged seemed to annoy her excessively, so much so that she threatened to leave this office and consult someone else. When I informed her that she was at perfect liberty to do so, she changed her mind
. We discussed the various grounds for a dissolution of marriage and it became clear that if she did have one such ground, it was adultery. Further inquiry, however, demonstrated that her husband had been far too clever to give her the proof she needed. Because of this, she demanded the services of a private detective. I asked her whether the detective was to keep watch all the time. She first said yes, then no. She consulted her diary and gave me the dates on which the man was to keep watch.”

  “Did she give you all the dates then and there?”

  “Ail but the last one which was, of course, the 18th of November. Frankly, she was a nuisance because after each date passed she telephoned me to discover what proof had been obtained. When I repeatedly had to reply none, she became more and more abusive, demanding to know why I wasn’t doing my job. I had to inform her of what my job comprised. Finally, she gave me the 18th of November.”

  “When did she do this?”

  “Perhaps a couple of days before.”

  “And that’s the full history?”

  “Apart from payment, that was all the contact I had with her. The last settlement I had was at the beginning of November, so that the final few accounts of Mr. Smith have not yet been met.” Stainer rested his elbows on the desk and joined the tips of his fingers together to form a triangle. “You can hardly be thinking of charging the husband again?”

  “No.”

  “Then may I inquire what you do intend to do?”

  “Perhaps it’s my turn to claim privilege — and this time it’s absolute,” said Jaeger with a smile.

  *

  Jaeger drove through Ashford and on to the Canterbury road. The houses began to thin out and soon he was in the countryside that to him, a townsman by choice, looked bleak to the point of ugliness.

  As he approached the Braychurch turning and Roman Woods, he wondered what Yelt, the keeper, would say: probably curse with all the freedom and eloquence of a Kentish yeoman who was certain he was in the right.

  Jaeger came to the turning and went down it. He drove through the village — one store and one pub — and stopped outside the keeper’s cottage. Mrs. Yelt said her husband was somewhere out on the estate, trying to track down whoever had fired a couple of shots an hour or so before. Jaeger thanked her and left a message. He went back to the A28 and parked his car on the grass verge where Frog Wood came down to the road. He put on wellingtons and after a quick look at the sky carried a rolled-up plastic mackintosh under his arm. He pushed his way into the woods.