‘What do you know about that?’
‘Letters relating to the death of Glenda Grace.’
‘Who’s been talking to you about this?’ he demanded, as though I’d probed a deadly secret.
‘People. And you were at that party, so I…’
‘How d’you know about that?’ The shock must have been strong, that he’d still be stalling.
‘You were there. You were the one who escorted Glenda Grace to that party.’
Then I waited. Ten seconds, then he had it under control.
‘If you know who sent it, then tell me. I’ll deal with him, so help me.’
The stick was now gripped like a club, but the effect was theatrical.
‘I don’t know who it was. What did yours say?’
His eyes flickered. He was suddenly abashed, even frightened. I had to tell myself I was talking to a very experienced actor. He licked his lips.
‘A threat,’ he said simply. ‘That I’d been seen…pushing her off that balcony. That I, Drew Pierson...’
‘Was there a demand?’
He stared at me owlishly. ‘You know this. A demand for money. Oh, I could afford it, but d’you think I’d pay for vicious scandal, with not a word of truth in it?’
‘Of course not. You tore it up, and forgot about it.’
‘Forgot!’ He lifted that magnificent voice to the mountains. ‘I shall never forget, nor forgive. Show me this villain, and I’ll take a horsewhip to him!’
I knew I’d lost him to his rhetoric. I climbed into the Stag and started the engine. ‘If I find him,’ I shouted, ‘I’ll hand him over to you.’
When I glanced in the rear-view mirror he was still at it, head back and declaiming his complaint to the rolling clouds.
This time I took the full length of the drive, so that I drove up to the front door. As I got out and considered the parked vehicles—four of them hatchbacks—I realised that one car was occupied.
A man sat quietly behind the wheel of a battered Citroen 2CV, a ginger-haired man I hadn’t seen before. He looked up, attracted by my interest.
‘Just a chauffeur,’ he said, grinning. He opened the door and stood with me on the gravel. ‘Giving my friend a lift.’
He wasn’t any more than five feet six inches, a square-shouldered, red-faced young man, less than thirty, clean-shaven and friendly.
‘I know who you are,’ I said. ‘It’s Frank…I snapped my fingers to promote memory. ‘Frank Leigh.’
‘I brought Duncan,’ he explained, delighted that I knew his name.
‘Oh Lord.’ I prodded his chest. ‘How long…’
‘You just missed him. He went off that way—round the house.’
I had felt I ought to be there when they met. Leaving as quickly as I could without being rude, I ran up to the front door, galloped down the hall, and with great care, so that my arrival would not create embarrassment, I quietly opened the door into the dining room.
13
He had entered from the terrace and stood just inside the door with indecision. Although now dressed a little more smartly, he had an air of tattered disarray. His eyes were roaming round the room, though they had fortunately passed my door. To him, the room would have changed. It seemed to disconcert him.
Rosemary entered from the far end, a door that could well have led to the kitchen area. She was wearing an apron, and she herself must have been under strain. Any other time she would have whipped off the apron. She was using it to wipe her hands.
‘Duncan…’
‘Hello, Rosie.’
So that was why she’d told me not to use the diminutive.
She was walking towards him. ‘You’re thinner. Oh, Duncan, what have they done to you?’ Standing in front of him now, twitching his lapels, her hands hovering about his hair but not touching.
‘Rosie,’ he said hoarsely, ‘you didn’t come.’
‘To Lichfield? That room? How could I? Let me look at you…’ She stood back. Hadn’t she looked enough? No, she had to keep her distance, in case his hands strayed, and the contact should be made.
But he’d barely moved, only his eyes. His discomfort might well have arisen from her detailed scrutiny.
‘You ought to know…’ He shuffled unhappily. ‘Rosie, you should know—this isn’t my idea.’
‘Not your idea to visit me? Now don’t say that. I’d have come…’ She bit her lip, and was silent.
‘That man came to see me,’ he explained. ‘There was something I didn’t know about.’
‘There’s so much you don’t know about,’ she cut in. ‘But there’s time. Not now, Duncan, I can’t discuss it now.’
‘That’s why I came,’ he said stubbornly. He had had to build himself up for this visit, and was afraid of being side-tracked. ‘To discuss it.’
‘Not to see me?’ she challenged, though this time in a light way, as though she was teasing. And yet his answer would mean so much to her.
His hesitation was too protracted. She couldn’t stand and face it. She raised her head and cried out: ‘Richard, look who’s come to see us.’
Us, you notice. Her nerve had failed her, if not her director’s vision, that wide-angled encompassment of a full stage. She’d known I was there, and had kept the knowledge in reserve.
As I came forward Duncan seemed to break from a trance. ‘That’s the man,’ he cried. No dissimulation from Duncan. His relief shone out fresh and bright.
‘I’m glad you could make it,’ I said. ‘How’re things going?’
Now that he could turn to me he was at no loss for words. ‘You walked out on me and left my mind racing round, wondering what was going on and where it left me. I’ve been worried stiff.’
‘It was you who ordered me out of the house,’ I reminded him.
‘You didn’t have to take any notice of me.’
‘Oh, but I did. Have you seen a solicitor?’
He stared at the floor and shook his head. ‘Heavens no. I’d look a right fool, taking all that to a solicitor.’
‘Then I’d suggest you shouldn’t be here, if that’s all you’ve come for.’ I intended it as a mild rebuke. I hadn’t missed Rosemary’s distress, and if he wouldn’t do anything about it, then I had to. Or try, anyway. She came in on cue. ‘But we can’t stand here talking. Come to my workroom. It’s at least comfortable.’
Duncan made a gesture of agreement, but it was reluctant. What the hell had he expected, that she’d fall into his arms and sob out some sort of admission?
She took us out into the hall. Heads disappeared into doorways. One remained in view. ‘Rosemary, when can we get going?’ It was Mildred.
‘A few minutes,’ she said absently. ‘I’ll be in.’
Then Mildred advanced into the hall, and along it. ‘But isn’t it…but of course, it’s Duncan. Oh my dear boy, I hardly recognised you. What have they done to you…?’
‘Mildred,’ said Rosemary firmly, though she had difficulty handling the waver in her voice, ‘do you think you could get them started? I’ll be in when I can.’
‘But of course, my dear.’ She was very quick at taking hints. ‘Now don’t you dare leave until we’ve had another word.’ She patted Duncan maternally on the arm and turned away, calling out names.
‘In here,’ said Rosemary.
She had called it her workroom. One end of it was equipped as a working office with a long surface the full width of the wall. On it was a chaos of paper, two phones, several dirty mugs, and a word processor. She would be able to print off her own script copies. The other half was a sitting room, with chairs, easy and otherwise, standing where they happened to have landed, low tables scattered in the spaces, a TV set wedged between the tumbled books on the wall shelves. It was a lived-in room, a contented room.
‘Sit where you like,’ she said.
Duncan did not do so at once. He said grumpily: ‘Does he have to be here?’ Not looking at me. He’d decided I wasn’t on his side.
She plumped hers
elf down in one of the chairs. There’d been a little time to accommodate herself to the mood Duncan had introduced, so she was able to speak lightly. ‘I think it would be best, don’t you? I mean, if we must discuss business…’
He conceded, as far as perching one cheek on the arm of another chair. I retired to the background.
‘I know what he’s here for,’ I said, plunging in before Duncan could say anything terrible. ‘I was foolish enough to give him a hint that there could be a pardon.’
‘Well, that would be…’
Duncan interrupted her. ‘It seems to have changed a bit. It was more than a hint.’
‘…splendid,’ she managed to finish.
‘But I’d have been more pleased if he’d given me time to take it further,’ I went on.
‘It was more than a hint,’ he repeated, clinging to it.
‘But—as you’ve just said yourself— things have changed a bit.’
I had been concentrating on Duncan, watching the hope and disillusionment fighting for possession of his features. I’d offered him a lifeline, but I hadn’t yet cut it to length.
But I was aware of Rosemary and her distress. To her, Duncan had changed. She’d reached for warmth, and he seemed to have no time for anyone but himself. This was a harder, more self-contained Duncan. She didn’t know what to do with him, what to offer.
He was looking from me to her, back again, as though he feared a trap. ‘You’re trying to scare me, aren’t you!’
Scare? Such a strange word. ‘I don’t want you to build up hopes. Duncan,’ I said, ‘we spoke of a possible pardon. For that, the proof has to be very tight. All I had—still have—is a photograph of not too high a quality, that seems to indicate the drinks and the rest were not bought from around here. Seems. On that evidence, I’m willing to say that your uncle didn’t drive away that night, and that he was killed before he could drive out of the garage. But it’s slim. We don’t know where all that booze came from.’
‘We know darned well…’ he said plaintively, allowing himself to slide over the arm of the chair and slump into its depths.
‘No!’ I said sharply, warningly.
‘It came from Burton…’ Now he was mumbling into his chin.
‘We know the beer crate originated from there. Don’t you see, if we only had somebody’s evidence that the beer in that crate…’ I stopped, caught by a thought. I turned to Rosemary. ‘What happened to that stuff on the back seat?’ I asked. ‘What happened to the car—your Dolomite, Rosemary?’
The abrupt change of direction seemed to catch her by surprise. ‘Well I…I…can’t say. Let me think.’
On this indecision Duncan pounced. ‘She knows. Really, she knows.’
She shot him a glance of pain, then turned back to me. ‘They took the car away, for checks or something. So I asked the garage to pick it up from the police yard, and…well, dispose of it for me. I didn’t see it again. Didn’t want to.’
Another chance melted away. I wondered whether the booze had still been there when the garage called to collect the car.
‘And your uncle’s car?’
Her eyes were blank. She didn’t want to talk, wanted to do nothing but be silent, and try to understand the misery caused by Duncan’s attitude to her.
Perhaps he realised this, realised too that he’d been ungracious. He leaned forward, hair obscuring his eyes but not enough to hide a shy smile, and said: ‘It doesn’t matter, Rosie. Don’t let it worry you.’
She stammered, flushing slightly. ‘With Richard…’ Her smile at me was radiant, but intended for Duncan. ‘With Richard, you’ll see…find…everything m-matters.’ She shook her head. ‘But I remember now. I asked the garage to dispose of that, too. It wouldn’t go, you see. I couldn’t get it to start.’
Not sufficient reason for disposing of it, surely. ‘They came for it? Did they say what was the matter with it?’
Duncan flicked a glance of disapproval at me. ‘As though it matters. Leave her alone.’
‘I’m not good at cars,’ she admitted. ‘An arm or something, they said. Going round. I’d associate the word with going round.’
‘Rotor arm?’
‘That was it,’ she said in triumph. ‘Fallen off or got lost.’
‘That would stop it running,’ I agreed solemnly. But a rotor arm lives under a distributor cap, and it can’t get out. Not on its own. I changed the subject quickly.
‘All right. So what we’re left with is a photograph, and none too clear. From it, it might be argued that your uncle could not have driven away to get the drinks, and from that we can make the assumption that the person who killed your uncle must have known the booze was available, and deliberately used it to create an alibi. But…’
I allowed a pause to build up there. Rosemary nodded. She appreciated the technique. I was deciding that it was time to deflate Duncan’s pretentions.
‘But…’ I said, ‘you knew it was there, Duncan. No, no!’ I held up my hand. ‘Let me finish. The murderer would not have used this trick unless he had an alibi laid on for the later time, when your uncle would be assumed to have returned.’
‘And Duncan didn’t,’ said Rosemary happily. ‘Doesn’t that prove he didn’t do it?’
‘Ah yes!’ I wagged my head like a wise old judge. ‘But we have to think of the effect of this on the legal mind. They’re not going to be convinced by inverted reasoning like that. With the law, it’s never a matter of what legal precept a particular question doesn’t fit, it’s what it does. The positive, you see. And if we look at it again, and consider alibis for the earlier time, when Edwin was believed to have driven away, well…I’m afraid you’re out of luck, Duncan.’
His head came up. His eyes were startled. ‘What’s this? You know I was on the terrace. Rosie walked up from the garages…’
He stopped. This he’d been keeping in reserve. He glanced at her, and licked his lips. And appealed to me with every fibre of his body.
I shook my head at him in sorrow. ‘The snag is, you see, that you haven’t got an alibi for that earlier time either.’
He half heaved himself to his feet. ‘But you told me…’
‘No,’ I said sharply. ‘You told me. You said you were talking to Mildred Niven when the sound of the engine died away.’
‘What’re you trying to do!’
‘And that is not so. She left you. You said yourself that the engine sound went on for a long while. Don’t you see, with that evidence, you don’t stand a chance.’
‘I don’t believe this. I just don’t believe it.’ He appealed to Rosemary, waving his arms wildly.
She smiled at him fondly, but it was to me she spoke. ‘Stop teasing him, Richard.’
Teasing! What the devil did she think was going on? ‘I am trying’, I said heavily, ‘to get across to him that he can’t expect a pardon until I can prove who did do it.’
‘All right,’ he said wildly. ‘Then do that.’
‘I’m working on it.’
Things were not happening as he’d planned. He pushed off from the chair arms and bounced to his feet. ‘Ten more minutes and he’ll have me back inside. Is the man insane?’
‘Listen to him, Duncan,’ she appealed.
‘He promised…damn it all, I was looking forward to something…He said damages, if I got the pardon. Don’t you think I lost enough? No need to worry, they’ll look after me at Lichfield. The Bishop was very kind—oh, very. The sheep that was lost. I don’t want handouts. The sinner that repenteth. I don’t repent anything. I didn’t do anything. I want what is mine—my rights.’
Rosemary was coming to her feet. In a second she’d have him in her arms, this sheep of hers that’d strayed. I could see it coming off. Duncan couldn’t. He could see nothing beyond the barrier raised by ten years of lost life. He was frantic that the new-found bud of promise was not to bloom.
‘Not a handout,’ he said, calming a little. ‘Damages, they call it. Every minute of those ten years weighed
and allocated. Not for me, thank you. Just what’s mine. What about…’
‘Heh!’ I said.
‘…my inheritance, Rosie—what about that?’
She was very still. One hand hovered. It had been reaching towards him. Then it paused, and slowly changed direction, up towards her face so that she could stare at it.
‘You wouldn’t have wanted that,’ she said tonelessly to her palm. ‘I’m entitled…’
‘Now just hold on,’ I interrupted, my voice rising.
And it was Rosemary who flared at me. ‘No, let him say it! Let’s hear what he’s really come for.’
‘I’m sure it’s not like that.’
‘Then let him tell me what it’s like,’ she said, and she turned her face to him, chin lifted, offering herself to whatever slap he might produce.
‘It’s no good telling me it was worth nothing,’ he said stubbornly, not looking directly at her. ‘It might’ve been worth a lot to me. I could’ve sold the house…’
‘Sold the house!’ Her voice rose, just short of hysterical amusement. ‘Who’d buy this old dump, stuck out here in the wilds? All it was good for was death duties. Don’t you dare try to stop me, Richard. No money, an old house, debts. You can have that with all my love, Duncan.’ She hadn’t meant to use the word ‘love’. Her voice became entangled in a sob. Then she raised her head again. ‘No. Not the house. I’d fight you for the house.’
‘Now, now,’ I put in. ‘Let’s have none of that. You’re not in court.’
She turned her back on him, not willing to have him witness her distress. It was all right for me to be shocked by the stress on her face, by the wet eyes and the hair that now managed to break free of the rubber band.
I groped frantically for my pipe. ‘It’s inconceivable,’ I said, ‘that even with a pardon you’d be given your inheritance back, Duncan. I told you—see a solicitor. You’d get an assessment to allow for its value. Possibly.’
This I said to Rosemary’s face. She was dumbly asking me something, but I couldn’t interpret it.
‘Oh, I see,’ he said, disgust in his voice. ‘It’s all changed since you came to Lichfield. You’ve got together, you two. Worked something out.’
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