‘I heard the name for the first time this morning. It could be the fellow Harold Weldon shared a flat with in New Cavendish Street. All right, Mrs Potter, ask him to come in.’
The man Mrs Potter showed into the room was tall, extremely well dressed, and completely self-assured. His voice when he spoke seemed unnaturally loud for the size of the room they were in.
‘My name is Victor Sanders,’ he boomed, fixing Mike Baxter with a piercing glare. ‘I’m sure your time is as valuable as mine, so I’ll come straight to the point.’
‘One moment,’ Mike put in quietly. ‘Before you go on, may I introduce my wife?’
Sanders turned slightly towards Linda, nodded curtly, and went on talking. All too plainly in his opinion women should be seen and not heard. His manner suggested a colonel on parade and his complexion was an appropriate red, though whether it resulted from too hearty bellowing or too heavy drinking was hard to tell.
‘Baxter, I understand you saw Inspector Rodgers about the Weldon case this morning?’
‘You are remarkably well informed, Mister Sanders,’ Mike replied, placing careful emphasis on the polite form of address which their visitor apparently scorned.
‘I make a point of being well informed about anything that could possibly have a bearing on the Weldon case.’
‘Really? You interest me.’
Sanders nodded arrogantly. ‘As you are doubtless aware, Weldon shared my flat until this unfortunate business occurred. I knew him pretty well. And I have a theory about the whole case which is going to make you sit up and take notice.’
‘I rather think Inspector Rodgers is the man you ought to take your theories to, Mr Sanders.’
Sanders made a curtly dismissive gesture with one hand. ‘I’ve already discussed it with him at great length. The man’s obtuse, can’t see beyond his own nose.’
Mike replied, ‘In all fairness I must tell you that was not at all my impression of the Inspector. He struck me as a very conscientious—’
Sanders cut in impatiently, ‘Hector Staines came to see you yesterday, didn’t he, Baxter?’
‘Were you behind the curtain?’ Mike retorted, faintly nettled despite his inner resolve to keep a tight curb on his tongue.
‘Staines told you about the entry in his daughter’s diary, I imagine?’
‘What do you know about her diary?’ put in Linda.
Sanders favoured her with a cold glare that scarcely checked his booming flow. ‘Staines’s daughter had an appointment with a man called Fairfax at eight-thirty on May 12th.’
‘We don’t know that for certain,’ Mike began.
‘Nonsense! It’s there in black and white in the diary.’
‘The words are there, certainly.’
‘Let’s not split hairs, Baxter. I told you my time is valuable.’
Linda could not control an exclamation, but Sanders swept on, ignoring her completely. ‘It is my theory that Lucy Staines was having an affair with this man Fairfax, and that he followed her to the theatre that night.’
‘That’s pure supposition, unless you have some proof,’ Mike said.
Sanders smiled complacently and pulling out his wallet he extracted a letter. ‘Here, read this!’ he snapped. ‘It came by the afternoon post. As you see, it’s postmarked Como, Italy, four days ago.’
Mike took the letter and glanced at the address. ‘It appears to be addressed to Harold Weldon, not to you, Mr Sanders.’
‘Quite. But our address is the same and Harold is in prison, so naturally I opened it.’
‘Naturally,’ Linda remarked.
Mike pulled out the sheet of airmail paper and studied the typewritten contents:
Dear Harold,
So now it is all over, and they have found you guilty. I wonder whether you really did murder Lucy Staines? I met you once, a long time ago – I expect you’ve forgotten. When I heard about the murder and read the reports and saw Lucy’s photograph in the newspapers, I said to myself, ‘There, but for the Grace of God …’ Dear Lucy, such a lovely creature – but not an easy person to get on with, was she? I wonder if you just happened to be the unlucky one they’ve picked on. I wonder! Was her shoe missing, Harold? Ask the police, it might be worth your while. Good luck to you, Harold … heaven knows, you need it.
L. Fairfax.
Mike handed the letter to Linda and regarded Sanders with a speculative glint in his eye. ‘Why did you bring this to me instead of showing it to Inspector Rodgers?’
‘The man’s obtuse, I told you. He’d either ignore it or accuse me of writing it myself.’
‘Did you write it, Mr Sanders?’
Sanders let out a huge sigh of impatience and frustration. Picking up his hat and suede gloves he said, ‘I’ll leave the letter with you, Baxter. If it’s important – and I think it is – you’ll know how to cope with the situation. I’m expecting action from you, not the useless sort of evasions and inactivity one gets from the police. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another appointment. You know my address, and the number’s in the phone book if you should need to contact me. Good afternoon.’
When he had gone Mike grinned at Linda, whose lips were compressed in annoyance. ‘Darling! Why on earth did you stand for it?’ she demanded.
‘Stand for what, darling?’
‘He treated us like a couple of greenhorn recruits on the barrack square. I swear that is the most arrogant man I have ever met in a whole lifetime. Why on earth didn’t you throw him out?’
‘The temptation was strong, I assure you. But I was intrigued to watch just how far his self-assurance stretched.’
‘Until the crack of doom, I should think,’ Linda said. ‘Do you realise he hardly let you finish one sentence?’
‘Yes, and I found that interesting. You see, he didn’t come here to listen to me. That wasn’t the point of the visit.’
‘Then what was?’
‘Sanders put me in mind of a sort of actor who has a nice little dramatic scene specially designed to give the play a lift. He even had a little piece of “stage business” to perform during his act – he had to deliver that letter. Have you had time to read it?’
‘Yes, but it baffles me. What’s this bit about a missing shoe?’
‘That’s a fact. There was a shoe missing when they found Lucy Staines’s body. John Goldway confirmed it this morning.’
‘It’s rather a strange coincidence that we couldn’t find one of Peggy Bedford’s shoes when they took her away just now.’
Mike nodded. ‘I’m curious to know just what Fairfax is getting at when he writes “I wonder whether you really did murder Lucy Staines?… I wonder if you just happened to be the unlucky one they’ve picked on.” Whom do you suppose he means by “they”?’
‘The police, or the Crown, surely?’
‘Possibly. Or someone else. A gang, a group of some sort. In other words, Fairfax might be hinting that Weldon was framed.’ Noting Linda’s look of incredulity he went on, ‘Stranger things than that have been known. Anyway, this letter appears to have put the lid on my interesting little theory about a Lord Fairfax hostelry. Mix some martinis, darling – not too heavy on the Noilly Prat.’
Linda nodded and said, ‘I’ll ask Mrs Potter for some ice.’ She was interrupted by the telephone ringing, and lifted the receiver, then beckoned to her husband. ‘It’s Inspector Rodgers from Scotland Yard.’
‘Hello, Inspector,’ Mike said. ‘I was just thinking about giving you a ring.’
‘I’m afraid there’s no news yet,’ came Rodgers’s matter-of-fact voice. ‘The hospital’s not very informative but I gather it’s touch and go with the Bedford girl. I’ll contact you the moment I hear something definite. That’s not why I rang: we’ve traced that pub of yours, the Lord Fairfax.’
Mike ignored the sarcastic note in his voice and politely asked for details.
‘It’s in a quiet little village about six miles from Farnham out along the Hog’s Back. Place called Westerdale.’
>
‘Westerdale. Thanks very much, Inspector.’
‘Will you be going down there?’
‘Yes, I rather think I will, if that’s all right by you?’
‘Certainly. Saves me a journey. I’d come myself but I’m up to my neck in this new case at the Elephant. Keep me in the picture, will you, if anything interesting crops up?’
‘Many thanks for calling, Inspector. Good night.’
Mike hung up and smiled at his wife. ‘Well, we’ve started to make some progress. Half an hour ago we didn’t have a single Fairfax, now we’ve got two: a man in Como and a pub near Farnham.’
‘Which is first on our visiting list?… As if I didn’t know!’ said Linda sarcastically, putting away the gin and vermouth bottles with a show of heavy resignation.
Mike coughed apologetically. ‘Yes … quite … I see what you mean … But Westerdale is a little more handy, don’t you think, darling? Ask Mrs Potter to fix us a cold meal first; then I’ll bring the car round.’
‘Why don’t we leave right away?’
‘No, preferably after the evening rush-hour is over. There are a couple of decent stretches of road where I can see what sort of a job the garage has done on the car. There’s nothing like a nice little spin in the country after a hard day’s work in Town.’
Linda made a rude face and went to find Mrs Potter.
Later that evening as they set off Mike puzzled his wife by first driving to New Cavendish Street instead of taking the direct south-westerly route towards Surrey.
As he pulled in at the kerb Linda asked, ‘Are we calling on that arrogant gent? If so, count me out.’
‘No need for you to come up, darling. Get yourself a paper and mind the car. I’ll only be a minute if Sanders is at home.’
Linda bought an evening paper and glanced at it with no great interest until she suddenly caught sight of a front-page story headline: FASHION MODEL ATTEMPTS SUICIDE. Beneath a photograph of Peggy Bedford was a brief account of how she had been found in a gas-filled room of a luxury flat near Baker Street that afternoon. Anxiously Linda scanned the short column for fear their names had been mentioned, but was relieved to find that Rodgers had kept his promise and protected them from unnecessary publicity. It was the surly porter who emerged as the hero of the day; by the time an imaginative journalist had finished with him he was a veritable giant who had broken into the locked door with one heave of his massive shoulders and had subsequently carried out heroic attempts at first aid.
Linda smiled and flicked idly through the remaining pages. The international crisis was still spluttering and she was just getting interested in the latest tit-bits concerning the TV star’s missing poodle when Mike came out of Sanders’s flat carrying a fairly large envelope.
‘Got it!’ he announced as he slid beside her and started up the throaty engine.
‘Got what?’
‘A good photograph of Lucy Staines. It was in a frame by Weldon’s bedside. Thought there might be something like that available. That pompous ass Sanders refused to let me have it with the frame, so I slipped it out of the frame when he wasn’t looking. It should help us if we’re going to track down the girl’s connection with the Lord Fairfax pub. Now then, let’s see what the car can do if we’re kind to her.’
Miraculously they reached Farnham without the clangour of a speed cop’s bell in their ears, and then began studying the map for the tiny village of Westerdale. Darkness had fallen on the warm summer’s evening as they completed the last part of their journey and now, in the dark, sparsely populated country lanes around the Hog’s Back district they experienced some difficulty in finding the village.
‘If it’s as hard as this to find Westerdale, heaven knows how elusive the pub will be,’ Mike observed.
The Lord Fairfax, when at last they ran it to earth, proved to be little more than a single room in which saloon and public bar were combined, an open fireplace festooned with horse-brasses, and a very large landlord. Two bright little eyes, like marbles swimming in oil, encased in rolls of unhealthy fat, flickered at them with unabashed curiosity as they entered, but the greeting was friendly enough.
‘Evening, madam. Evening, sir. What’ll you have?’
‘Good evening. Gin and tonic, please.’
‘With pleasure, sir. Two, will it be?’
‘Make it three, if you’ll join us?’
‘Pleasure, sir, great pleasure.’
Mike joined Linda at a table by the window.
As the landlord busied himself behind the bar with their drinks he called out to them, ‘Nice car you’ve got there, sir, if I may say so. Always did fancy a steel-blue Jag, if I ever came into the money. Come a long way, have you, sir? From London, perhaps?’
‘As a matter of fact you’re right, we have.’
‘Thought so. Happened to be out in the yard when you pulled up. Noticed the engine was hot and the tyres pretty warm too.’
Linda pretended to drop her lighter and bent to pick it up. ‘He doesn’t miss much, does he?’ she murmured.
‘Yes … The name’s Turner, by the way – Johnny Turner,’ the landlord said hopefully as he poured three careful measures of gin and began slicing a lemon. ‘In case you didn’t see it over the door.’
‘Nice to make your acquaintance, Mr Turner. I’m Mike Baxter. This is my wife, Linda.’
The two marbles gleamed with vivid interest. ‘Not the Mike Baxter, the chap who writes all those newspaper articles?’
‘Yes, I write for a living.’
‘And a very nice living too, I’ll bet. I’m a great fan of yours. I always read your articles. This is a pleasure, an honour indeed. Not often we get celebrities at a quiet place like this. I hope you’ll do me the honour of taking a drink on the house.’
He rolled towards them with an eager smile, three glasses and three small tonics balanced on a tray. Mutual greetings were exchanged as they raised their glasses.
Turner launched into a lengthy account of the last occasion when a famous author happened to visit the Lord Fairfax. With a sly leer he ended, ‘He said he was looking for a suitable background to one of his stories, a setting like this, quiet and off the beaten track.’
‘Well, we’re not looking for a setting, Mr Turner, but we would like to tax your memory for a moment, if you don’t mind,’ Mike replied, producing the envelope containing Lucy Staines’s photograph. ‘Tell me, have you ever seen this girl at the Fairfax?’
They watched him intently as his beady eyes examined the photograph. A gleam of recognition flickered for a moment, but there was genuine regret in his voice as he returned the photograph and said, ‘It’s Lucy Staines, isn’t it?’
‘You mean you know her?’ Linda cried out.
Turner shook his head gloomily. ‘Not personally. She’s never been here, I’ll stake my life on it.’
‘Then how—’
‘Her face was plastered all over the papers at the time of the murder trial. On the telly too. I’d know sure as eggs are eggs if she’d ever been here. They’re going to hang the bloke that done it any day now, aren’t they?’
Mike nodded grimly and drained his glass. It had been a long journey for nothing, and now they were going to have to sit for the sake of politeness through a second round of drinks which Turner, who was obviously starved of company, insisted on offering. The irony of it was, with a man of Turner’s all-consuming curiosity and talent for observation, had Lucy Staines ever been within a mile of the Lord Fairfax those two sharp marble eyes would undoubtedly have spotted her.
Despondency set in and they let Turner do all the talking, until they felt they could decently leave. The landlord was clearly reluctant to let them go, and accompanied them to the door with much hand-shaking and good wishes for their return journey.
In their car Mike switched on the ignition and listened to the engine purring, and was just about to let in the clutch when Linda nudged him, indicating the rear mirror. They saw Turner waddling towards them, waving a newsp
aper in his hand.
‘Tell him he can keep it,’ said Linda as Mike put his head out of the window
‘It’s all right, old chap – thanks all the same. We’ll get another back in Town,’ Mike called out.
Turner shook his head, struggling for breath, his great frame shaking like jelly. ‘That’s not … what I was … running after you for. It’s this picture here – look!’
He opened the newspaper and stabbed a fat finger at the story of Peggy Bedford’s alleged suicide attempt. ‘I’ve had that little number at the Fairfax all right,’ he informed them.
‘She was here? Are you quite sure?’ Linda asked excitedly.
‘No doubt about it at all. She was here at least three times this summer. I thought you might be interested, seeing as how it says she works at the same place as the murdered Staines girl. Look, it says here … “It is believed the two were close friends.” That’s why I ran after you before you drove off.’
‘You have a good memory, Mr Turner,’ said Mike. ‘Can you remember anything about her – what she was wearing, what she drank, who she was with, and so on?’
‘What she was wearing?’ repeated Turner in an effort to remember. ‘About as little as possible, I’d say. What she drank? Pink gins, like they was tap-water. I’ve seen some of ’em pour it down in my time, but she was way up on the list. Who was she with? Always the same bloke. Didn’t look her type at all. Poker-faced sort of gent, quiet dresser, grey-haired, old enough to be her Dad. Reckon that’s what he was too – her sugar-daddy. Walked with a bit of a limp, needed a stick he did. Not her type at all, I remember thinking.’
He winked at Linda and rubbed his hands. Mr Turner was obviously enjoying himself.
Chapter Four
Linda was the first to speak as they swung out on to the Hog’s Back and headed for Guildford.
‘As Mine Host with the elephantine memory so aptly put it, not her type at all. What on earth do you suppose old Staines was up to – living it up with someone scarcely old enough to be his daughter?’
‘But the whole thing’s impossible. He was the one who drew our attention in the first place to the Lord Fairfax. If he knew the significance of the entry in his daughter’s diary why send me on this wild-goose chase? It just doesn’t add up. Turner has probably got his wires crossed, though I must say those beady little eyes of his struck me as being phenomenally accurate. I swear he’ll remember what shade of lipstick you used today if we go back in a year’s time.’
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