Tess hesitated. ‘This woman you’ve been talking to told you that only a very few people have got a first edition of this Ralph the Talespinner character ... what was her name again?’
‘Sally Baker ... and it makes perverse logic. But putting aside the copy in Exeter Library, only Bernard Quex, the rector, and some recluse couple are known to have it.’
‘And you don’t think the rector’s squeaky clean ... incidentally, how long has he been in Medmelton?’
‘About twenty years ...’ Maltravers suddenly caught the tone of Tess’s question. ‘Are you now suggesting he could be Michelle’s father? A moment ago it was Gabriel, for God’s sake.’
‘Well, it’s obviously another option. You suspect he’s having an affair with a married woman.’ She chuckled. ‘Perhaps he considers screwing parishioners among his benefits of clergy.’
‘You’ve got a more jaundiced view of the church than I have.’
‘When you’ve been propositioned — in the nicest possible way — by a curate at the age of sixteen, it tends to colour your judgement,’ Tess replied sourly.
‘I never knew that.’
‘Well, I was ... and your Mr Quex has got the book as well, hasn’t he? Now there’s a thought.’
Maltravers looked towards the window again. Everything centred around St Leonard’s. The Lazarus Tree where Gabriel’s body had been found, and where Quex had later discovered the strange offerings. The churchyard where Michelle spent time alone ...
‘But ...’ he began uncertainly, ‘no, never mind the buts. You’re right. The Reverend Quex is definitely in the frame — and he’s a better bet than Gabriel. While I’m thinking about that, I want to start the village tom-toms beating again.’
‘What are you planning this time?’
‘Something that ought to produce results, although God knows what they’ll be. Still got time to talk? Good. It’s my turn to come up with mad ideas.’
*
Sally Baker arrived shortly after he finished the call. ‘I’m assuming you’re alone,’ she said as she stepped through the front door.
‘Everybody else is out,’ he confirmed. ‘I was about to come and see you in fact. But first of all, what’s brought you here?’
‘Do you realise they’re talking about nothing but you in this village?’
Maltravers grinned. ‘I rather gained that impression in the Raven last night. I’ve been stirring things up and am not Mr Popularity.’
‘You don’t know the half of it. Would you like the full list of the people you’re about to arrest?’
‘Arrest? Who the hell do they think I am?’
‘You’re ... I’ll try to remember them all ... from Scotland Yard, Special Branch, MI5 or MI6 — nobody’s quite sure which one deals with internal security — or Interpol. I don’t think you made the SAS, but I may have missed that.’
‘All that from dropping a hint to Mildred Thomson?’ Maltravers looked intrigued. ‘Feelings are tender round here. So whose collar am I about to start fingering?’
‘Most of them you’ve never heard of, but I was in the Raven after you and Stephen left and the word was that you’d showed a particular interest in Gilbert Flyte. Can you remember meeting him?’
‘Very clearly. He scuttled off almost as soon as we were introduced. His behaviour patterns were apparently all wrong, but I had no special interest. I’d never heard of him.’
‘Well, he was only one of the names.’ Sally Baker glanced at him. ‘Have you come up with anything or are you just whistling in the dark?’
‘And blind as a bat,’ Maltravers admitted, then hesitated. ‘Except for ... I’ll start with Bernard Quex. I think I’ve picked up something there and ... I’m not totally convinced about this, but would you drop dead with shock if I suggested he was having an affair?’
‘Really?’ Interest flickered in Medmelton eyes. ‘Who with?’
‘Veronica’s sister-in-law. I’ve not mentioned this to Stephen.’
‘Ursula? Well, well, well.’ Sally Baker nodded admiringly. ‘You’ve certainly dug up something there. I’ve never heard anybody even obliquely suggest that. How sure are you?’
‘Better than ninety-nine per cent. I don’t think it can have been going on very long though — deception isn’t their strong suit — but you don’t seem particularly surprised.’
‘Frankly, I’m not. Ewan Dean’s as cold as charity and that marriage has looked distinctly dodgy for a long time. As for Bernard ... well, the spirit is willing, et cetera.’
There was a matter-of-fact acceptance in the comment which Maltravers leapt on. ‘Are you suggesting she’s not the first?’ Sally Baker looked surprised at the sharpness of the question.
‘I don’t want to give you the idea he’s a rustic Casanova. I imagine his conscience punishes him for it. But ...’ She shrugged. ‘Bernard’s a widower in his early fifties and he’s a rector, not a monk. Clerical collars don’t have the same effect as bromide in the tea.’
‘And do you think he might ... how can I put this ... operate within a small circle? A small family circle?’ Maltravers asked blandly.
‘You mean ...’ She shook her head uncertainly. ‘Sorry, you’ll have to spell it out.’
‘I mean did he start with Veronica?’
‘And he’s Michelle’s ...?’ Now she followed him. ‘No, I can’t see that. Bernard’s wife died only about ten years ago. I can’t believe he fooled around before that ... or is it now my turn to be naïve?’
‘Not naïve,’ Maltravers corrected. ‘Just charitable. I haven’t a shred of proof, but while Michelle certainly gets her Medmelton eyes from her mother, that midnight hair might come from both parents. Bernard’s got black hair — and that could explain why Veronica’s always refused to identify him. Incidentally, who else could it have been? Any ideas?’
‘Only guesses. I wasn’t living here when Michelle was born, but it was still a sort of low-key village scandal when I came back. I’ve heard various names, but it might be none of them.’
‘What does Veronica’s mother think?’ Maltravers asked. ‘I’ve just been talking to Tess about this — she’s my partner who’s due here in a couple of days — and she insists the grandmother must have tried to work it out. Do you know her?’
‘I’ve known Kathleen for years — and she’s often talked to me about it,’ Sally confirmed. ‘It still troubles her. She’s classic Women’s Institute country, never says anything stronger than “Damn — pardon my swearing”. Veronica having an illegitimate child was bad enough without not producing the father so he could marry her.’
‘And who did she think he was?’
‘She’s convinced herself it was a boy called Derek Williams who moved away from here years ago. But he was just one of a group of youngsters who were friends of Veronica and Ewan. They’d all grown up together, Sunday school, church youth club, a couple of them went to the same university. Kathleen had no proof that Derek was any more than just another member of the clan as far as Veronica was concerned — but she settled on him.’
‘But why did it have to be somebody local?’ Maltravers asked. ‘Wasn’t Veronica away at college? It could have been someone she met there.’
‘Oh, Kathleen worked that out,’ Sally told him. ‘Michelle must have been conceived some time in August — and Veronica was home from university and living with her parents from the middle of July and all that month. It had to have happened while she was here.’
‘But she can’t have spent every moment in Medmelton,’ Maltravers argued. ‘She’d have gone to Exeter or Plymouth or ... somewhere. Did she never spend a night away from home? She could have had some boyfriend she kept quiet about — that would be typical of her.’
‘Kathleen insists she spent every night under their roof,’ Sally told him. ‘And, anyway, if she’d had a casual screw with a boyfriend — or even an affair with a married man — why not name him? Even if she didn’t want to marry him, at least she could have made him pay mainte
nance.’
Maltravers’s mouth twisted into a cynical moue. ‘Because it would have been acutely embarrassing? Not any married man, but the respected and respectable rector of this parish.’
Sally suddenly looked troubled. ‘All right, but what are you really hinting at, Gus? Because I don’t think I like it.’
‘The bottom line on this scenario is that Bernard is Michelle’s father, Patrick Gabriel screwed her when she was under age, Bernard found out and killed him,’ Maltravers replied levelly.
She was standing with her back to the window; now she turned and looked at the tower of St Leonard’s. ‘Bernard seducing a teenager — no, Veronica must have been nearly twenty-one at the time — and now a murderer? I need a few minutes to adjust to that.’
‘You may not have to,’ Maltravers said. ‘I can’t prove a word of it. And anyway, Tess came up with another suggestion which is even wilder, but that happens when there aren’t any facts to go on. Try this.’
Sally’s face went from intrigued to dismissive at the suggestion of an unknown affair between Veronica and Patrick Gabriel.
‘No way,’ she said firmly even before he had finished. ‘For God’s sake, you know what he was like. He was as unobtusive as a fox in the chicken house. There’s no way he could have been in Medmelton and nobody knew about it.’
‘Not Medmelton then,’ Maltravers suggested. ‘Exeter perhaps or somewhere else near enough for Veronica to have met him. And if you’re going to argue that there was no reason for her not to identify him, if they’d met casually in a pub or somewhere he could have called himself anything he wanted before a quick screw and leaving town.’
Sally shook her head. ‘Veronica was never the type to jump into bed with total strangers. I can go along with Bernard — -just about — but the Gabriel idea is out of sight.’
‘So are a lot of things,’ Maltravers commented. ‘When Stephen asked me down here, I never imagined I’d end with a mess like this. I have the horrible feeling there will be tears before bed unless I decide it’s none of my business and get the hell out.’
‘But you won’t. You told Stephen you’d help him, and if you quit now it won’t just go away. He’d have to tackle it himself.’ Sally smiled encouragingly. ‘It’s better that an outsider does it. It won’t hurt you — at least not as much.’
‘That’s cold comfort,’ he commented. ‘But I expect you’re right — and at the moment you’re the one ally I’ve got on site. Stephen’s too close to this to help.’
‘Fair enough,’ she agreed. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Lie.’ Maltravers smiled sourly. ‘Which shouldn’t be too difficult for someone whose husband was in the diplomatic service.’
She pulled a face at him. ‘Cynic — but accurate cynic. And there is someone else who might be able to help. Alexander Kerr. I met him through my husband — they belonged to the same club. He was a senior manager with the Post Office, but he’s retired now and lives just down the hill from me. He’s the sort who does abstruse crosswords and likes thinking up impossible puzzles — and he’s another outsider of course.’
‘How do you think he can help?’
‘I think if you bounce any ideas you have off him, he might come up with something useful.’
Maltravers shrugged. ‘If you think he’s worth trying.’
‘I’m sure he is. Look, he’ll be at home now. Why don’t we go there and talk it through?’
‘Fine. I assume he’s trustworthy.’
‘Absolutely.’
And, Gus Maltravers, I’ve just shown how smoothly I can lie and you’ll never know it, Sally Baker reflected to herself.
*
Standing by one of the clerks’ desks, Gilbert Flyte flinched as he heard the voice speaking to a counter assistant. It had taken an enormous effort to concentrate his mind on work that morning, but for nearly half an hour the frantic worries had been held at bay. Now a recognised Medmelton voice brought them all rushing back and he jumped as though he had been bitten.
‘Good morning, Gilbert.’ Waiting while his shop takings were checked and deposited, Ewan Dean nodded through the glass partition. It was a regular transaction, but Flyte immediately leapt to mad conclusions. Ewan Dean was Stephen Hart’s brother-in-law so this man ... what was his name? ... Mallory, Malcol, Malsomething ... was using him as a spy. My God, they were clever. What was he watching for? Be careful. He’s probably been provided with one of their miniature tape recorders.
‘Good morning.’
That was safe enough ... but should he say something else? What would they read into silence? What did he usually say? Something about the weather? Ask how business was? Don’t mention the family. That’s what they wanted, something a skilled interrogator could pick up on. ‘Why did you take such an interest in Mr Dean’s family, Mr Flyte? Any particular member of the family was it? His wife ... or his niece, perhaps? You do know his niece, don’t you, Mr Flyte? Michelle. How well do you know her? Bit strange, isn’t it, a man of your age knowing a teenage girl? I think there’s something you haven’t told us, isn’t there ...?’ As nightmares scampered through Flyte’s imagination, Dean’s impassive face began to blur behind the glass.
‘Are you all right, Mr Flyte?’
‘What!’ Startled by the assistant’s question, Flyte was aware that he had almost shouted.
‘You don’t look well. Do you want to sit down?’
‘No. Of course not. I’m perfectly all right.’ He agitatedly waved the statement he was holding. ‘I’ll handle this.’
The ten yards to the safety of his office was a passage through a fire of burning eyes and he was shaking as he leant back against the closed door. There was no escape. They were following him everywhere. How many of them were there? Hiding in vans taking photographs, sitting behind newspapers at the next table in the café where he invariably had lunch, relentless, professional, patient. If they’d hired Ewan Dean, how could he trust anyone he knew? What was happening in Medmelton while he was in Exeter? Had they got a warrant to search the cottage? Gilbert Flyte had to grab the handle of the filing cabinet, fingers painfully squeezing cold metal, to prevent himself from fainting. They were talking to Doreen ... and to Mother. They would betray him. Not deliberately, but because they would be frightened and confused.
It mustn’t happen here. Not at the bank. Not in front of the staff and Mr Hood. Not with customers watching. Would they let him put a blanket over his head as they led him to the car? It would make no difference. Everybody in Exeter would know. The Rotary Club, members of the Mayor’s charity committee, the bank pension fund. Better to face it away from here. That was it. Confess enough to satisfy them, feed them something. Then ask for their discretion in return. No publicity — oh, please no publicity — a quiet early retirement on health grounds, then a move somewhere else. Surely it didn’t have to be prison? A good barrister — he’d known Thomas Walters for years — would be able to argue mitigating circumstances. Dr Bennett would confirm the treatment he’d been receiving. There was his previous good character ... but first he had to confess. Voluntarily. Quickly. Now. Where could he find — the name suddenly came back — Maltravers? Was he still in Medmelton? Even if he wasn’t, Flyte wanted to get there before they arrived at his home. His mind began to clear as a decision was taken. Crossing to his desk, he flicked the intercom switch to his secretary.
‘Miss Wellington?’ Harpstring nerves tightened his voice. ‘Miss Wellington, I’m afraid I’m not very well. I’m going home.’
‘Oh, Mr Flyte. Is there anything I can do?’
‘No. It’s all right. I think it must have been something I ate. Will you let Mr Hood know? I’m leaving immediately.’
‘Yes, of course, but ...’
Flyte switched her off. He had to get out. Facing Mr Hood — or any of them — was impossible. It was highly irregular, but it didn’t matter. He would never be coming back. He snatched his coat from the hanger and within a minute was out of the back entran
ce into the bank’s private car park and had driven away. In his office, Miss Wellington looked in dismay at the papers uncleared from his desk. Poor Mr Flyte. It must be something very serious to make him leave like that.
*
At the bank counter, Ewan Dean smiled automatically as his deposit book was stamped and handed back to him; momentary interest in Flyte’s abrupt retreat to his office had vanished. He’d known Gilbert and his neuroses for years and did all he could to avoid him. He walked back to his shop, removed the sign saying ‘Back in ten minutes’ from the door, then went to make a cup of coffee. Depressed by the recession, business was dire with only schoolchildren buying cheap aeroplane kits while serious modelmakers saved their money. The shop, which had been an escape, was becoming a burden of slow-moving stock, rising costs and crippling loan repayments. He never discussed it with Ursula of course — in fact he never discussed it with anyone. Self-reliant since earliest childhood, he wrapped it all close to himself, inner discipline treating rising problems with complete detachment. The casual affair with Miriam, his assistant until he could no longer afford her, had been as meaningless as going with a whore, basic satisfaction of a physical need. Dissatisfied and bored with her own marriage, she had been ideal for such an arrangement; once she had calmly served her own husband in the shop five minutes after a brief, eager grunting in the back room.
Standing by the chipped porcelain sink within a few feet of where they had coupled on a pile of flattened cardboard packing cases, Dean flicked drops off his coffee spoon as he tried to analyse what he was feeling. It was an emotion, but he found it difficult to recognise. He began to think that he was simply unhappy, such a vague, unquantifiable condition that the concept annoyed him. To admit you were unhappy meant that at some time you had been happy. What a stupid word. At various periods in his life, he had felt contented, satisfied, angry — certainly angry — smug, remorseful, even guilty. He had been in what was called love — but that was a long time ago — and he knew he had the capacity to hate. But what was happy? A sentiment for clowns and children, a spurious promise for dreamers — and Ewan Dean did not dream. He had a dead marriage, a business in difficulties and memories. He could handle that, he could live with it.
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