After Clare

by Marjorie Eccles

  Born to all the conveniences of living in London, Novak found the lack of transport available in Netherley trying to his temper. No tube to carry you where you wanted to go. No buses to hop on. Shanks’s pony, round here, unless you hitched a ride on the carrier’s cart or borrowed PC Pickles’ bicycle.

  Today it was Willard who had the task of riding over to Kingsworth to see if he could pick up anything more about the bicycle found in the ditch. ‘Think of the exercise,’ Novak told him.

  Willard grinned amiably. ‘Get me ready for another of Mrs Gaunt’s pies, I suppose.’

  After he left, Novak walked over to Leysmorton once more with the hope of catching Poppy Drummond, having been told she was expected there that morning. He was lucky, arriving almost at the same moment as she did, accompanied by the obliging young man who seemed prepared to ferry her about wherever she wanted to go. Seizing the opportunity, he asked to speak to her and she agreed at once. The decorating job at Leysmorton now complete, she had, she said, only come down to cast an eagle eye over the decorators’ finished work – and presumably to present her final bill. ‘We can go into the library, I expect.’

  The young fellow, Archie Elphinstone, tactfully backed away. ‘Heard there’s good fishing in the river,’ he remarked, and took himself off to inspect, while Poppy led the way into the spruced-up library.

  Novak had expected a flat-out denial from her of that overheard conversation she’d had years ago, or at any rate a refusal to talk about it, and he approached the subject carefully, but in the event she seemed to have accepted the inevitable. Of course she would have been prepared. There were telephones installed here at Leysmorton as well as in her London shop, and her brother would undoubtedly have informed her of the conversation that had passed between himself, Rosie Markham and Novak. He thought it probable that Val would also have tried to smooth over Rosie’s part, because if Poppy had taken exception to her eavesdropping, she wasn’t showing any resentment.

  ‘You have to understand,’ she said rather defiantly when he began to question her about it, ‘I was pretty desperate for cash. I couldn’t do what my friends were doing, go anywhere they went. It costs money to keep up appearances, you know, the country weekends where you need such masses of clothes, the holidays in the South of France, and the rest. All the girls I knew had their own dress allowances for marvellous clothes and things, and I hadn’t a bean. If I could have found work, I would have done so, but I wasn’t trained for anything. None of us were, before the war.’

  ‘I understand. It was a temptation.’

  ‘Yes. And I’m afraid I – well, I gave in to it.’ She coloured slightly. ‘At least, I passed on to Peter one or two notes that Dirk had written to Mrs Markham. But when he gave me money for them, I felt sick at myself, and in the end, though you might not believe me, I gave it back to him. Truly. I mean, they’d been so nice to me, all the family. Even Stella – well, I suppose Stella was different, but she was David’s mother. I told Peter I couldn’t do his dirty work any more, not for anything.’

  ‘I don’t imagine he was very pleased at that.’

  ‘Furious at first! But then he just shrugged and said it didn’t make much difference in the long run, he had far bigger fish to fry.’

  ‘What do you think he meant by that?’

  ‘He wouldn’t tell me that, would he? I was only the girl he thought he could get to do whatever he wanted – even to marry him.’

  ‘Which you were not inclined to do.’

  ‘Not even vaguely. I thought him attractive when I first met him, and so he was in a way. Frightfully good-looking – and he could be quite charming. Perhaps I gave him the wrong idea, I don’t know. But later I felt he was becoming – well, creepy. He had a chip on his shoulder about what he called “rights” – by which he meant money, being born to privilege and all that. He believed Karl Marx had the right ideas.’

  ‘Is that why he believed he had a right to blackmail Stronglove – for ever?’ Novak asked drily. ‘To fund your future together?’

  ‘If he did believe that, it would have been awfully stupid of him, wouldn’t it? To have been so sure of me for one thing,’ she added with some spirit. ‘But he wasn’t stupid, you know, far from it. And he had something up his sleeve. He was planning to make a trip abroad.’

  ‘Where exactly abroad?’

  ‘He shut up like a clam when I asked him and wouldn’t say where.’

  ‘Could he have mentioned Grenoble at any time?’

  ‘Grenoble? Skiing and all that?’ She shook her head. ‘No, I think I might have remembered that – though after I had told him I wanted absolutely nothing more to do with him, I gave up listening. There were more important things going on by then, the war starting, for one . . .’ She was very still for a moment, then said, ‘Which meant, anyway, that I did get myself a job, after all.’

  ‘War work?’

  ‘You could call it that. If I’d been the sort who didn’t faint at the sight of blood, I’d have gone for a nurse – most of my friends did that. As it was, they gave me a job at the Ministry of Food, copying lists of provisions to be sent to the troops, filing, addressing envelopes, desperately important things like that.’ She grimaced. ‘Ah well, somebody had to do it, I suppose. And then, after the war . . . well, Lady Fitzallan’s husband had died and left Val a little bit in his will.’

  She saw his raised eyebrows and explained, ‘Our father had been a friend of her husband, Sir Patrick. It was hardly anything, really, but Val insisted I had it as capital for my business – I thought I might have a flair for interior decorating. And it did go well at first, but now . . . I’m thinking of selling my share, and Val will get every penny back, such as it is.’

  Novak looked around the library, now back in functioning mode. ‘I should think twice about that, Miss Drummond. You’ve made this room look . . . so much nicer than it was.’ It was the best he could do, though he knew it was inadequate to describe the difference – how welcoming it was now, its gloomy aspect dispersed and what must have been its original grace restored.

  She looked surprised that he should have noticed at all, and then smiled, evidently very pleased. ‘Well, perhaps I won’t give it up entirely. The thing is,’ she said, playing with a silver bangle on her wrist, ‘I’m probably going to get married. How brave of me, after all these years as an old spinster, don’t you think?’

  He said gravely, ‘I hope you’ll be very happy.’

  ‘Thank you. Archie – you met him outside – he’s top-hole, really. I’m frightfully fond of him.’ A sparkle came into those beautiful eyes and she laughed. ‘Actually, Leysmorton is nothing to the house I shall be living in – if I do get married. It’s an absolute mausoleum. Archie’s lived there alone, poor pet, with a heap of simply gruesome ancestral furniture ever since his parents died – so it will be a challenge, if nothing else.’

  It sounded, for all the ifs and buts, as though her proposed marriage was a fait accompli. He hoped that wasn’t the only reason she was going to marry that nice young chap.

  Willard was in front of a pint of bitter, thirsty after his cycle ride to Kingsworth police station and back. The bicycle had never been claimed. But he had also collected the information telegraphed down by Superintendent Brownlow, who had spared a couple of men to seek out and verify information Novak had already extracted from Stronglove. Although it had been three years ago, he could nevertheless give a good account of what he had been doing on that particular day. On the seventeenth of March, he had said smoothly, when asked, he had been present at an inaugural meeting of established writers – novelists, poets, journalists, who were intending to form an association to help and encourage younger writers and artists. Since he had signed a register of names, among them Mr George Bernard Shaw and other literary luminaries, his alibi seemed unassailable. The same evening, he had departed for a week’s visit to friends in Brighton. ‘And a certain lady confirms he stayed with her,’ Willard commented drily.

  ‘D
oes she now?’ After a minute or two, Novak said, ‘Supposing Peter Sholto was there at the house that night. Doesn’t necessarily mean he was killed then. He could have camped out there for days. The tinned food and such Mrs Dobson had been stocking up for them could have kept him going for the age of a duck.’

  ‘True enough. He seems to have known the place inside out, so he wouldn’t have had any difficulty gaining access somehow.’

  ‘All the same, you wouldn’t have thought he’d have let lights be seen. And what about that motor?’

  If Wilf Thready – although every bit as gormless as his mother-in-law made out – was to be believed, someone had been there on the night of the seventeenth. Someone careless about the lights – or confident enough to believe it didn’t matter if they were seen?

  ‘Well, what else do we have here on our friend Stronglove?’

  Brownlow’s report also stated that his ophthalmologist had refused, on ethical grounds, to divulge information on his patient – which he was quite within his rights to do, the superintendent hadn’t failed to point out. Nor had army records provided anything more than Stronglove himself had told them. When he had enlisted, his poor eyesight had prevented him from being accepted for a combatant role in the army, though it hadn’t stopped him from being directed, due to his excellent language skills, into intelligence work, mainly as a translator. He’d been able to continue in the same capacity right until the end of the war, so his sight couldn’t have been so bad.

  ‘By what he said, he was still making trips to the village for cigarettes, over those stepping stones. How much do you have to be able to see, to bash someone on the back of his head and bury him under a heap of rubble?’ Willard asked, then sighed. ‘More than he can now, I suppose, unless he’s faking it.’

  ‘I don’t think he is. I’d say his condition has deteriorated rapidly since then. He’d have been physically capable at that time, maybe – still is, I should think – but there’s a world of difference in being able to see with the aid of those damned glasses and being able to drive from London to commit murder – and conceal it. Won’t do. Even if he didn’t have an alibi.’

  Even if he did find Stronglove arrogant, even if he detested the way he was scornful and impatient of everyone he regarded as less intelligent than he was himself, even if he had every motivation for getting rid of young Sholto.

  ‘So that rules out our chief suspect,’ Willard said gloomily. ‘Our only suspect. There’s nobody else within striking distance, is there?’

  Novak said nothing for a while. ‘Maybe we’re on the wrong tack altogether, George. Time to try another one.’

  Twenty-One

  Edmund Sholto was working in his back garden, but the knock on his front door was clearly audible. Visitors were rare, especially ones who announced themselves with the loud, double rat-tat that sounded threatening even from where he stood, and he knew it would be the police again. It was with a feeling of dread that he made his way round the side of the cottage to the front door.

  Novak, his hand already raised to knock again, swung round when he appeared. ‘Mr Sholto. We’ve come to return your photographs – and Peter’s tools. They were still at Leysmorton.’

  ‘Thank you. Please come in.’ They followed him indoors and Willard held out an envelope with the photographs. Edmund looked down at his dirty hands, still holding the bunch of radishes he had just pulled. He swallowed, his mouth dry, and indicated a drawer, asking the big sergeant to drop the snapshots in. ‘Thank you. Er, my neighbour, Mrs Baxter, has made me some lemonade. Like some? It’s very good.’

  ‘That sounds like a perfect idea on a hot day.’

  In the kitchen he took his time over washing his hands and collecting glasses and the jug of lemonade from the cool cellar. After pouring some for himself, he swallowed one of his pills and washed it down with a long slug before returning to the parlour, feeling a little calmer. Novak was again taking an interest in the pictures on the wall. ‘Nice place, this, by the looks of it. Cornwall, you said?’

  ‘It’s a small fishing village near Penzance. You don’t have to look far to find paintings of it, amateur or professional – artists are around every corner there.’ He waved them to take a seat, set the glasses down and began pouring lemonade from the stoneware jug.

  ‘Your wife?’ asked the inspector, suddenly fixing his interest on the photograph of Morwenna on the mantelpiece. He sat down, took a sip of lemonade and said, ‘What really brought you here to Netherley, Mr Sholto?’

  Edmund’s pulses jumped. What was going on? Steady, he warned himself. ‘Nothing more than what I already told you. A need to get away, somewhere different, make a fresh start.’

  ‘The choice of St Albans couldn’t have had anything to do with its relative proximity to Leysmorton?’

  He could feel sweat breaking out on his brow but didn’t dare bring out his handkerchief to wipe it off. ‘Leysmorton? What could that have to do with it? I’d never heard of it until I moved to this village.’

  A bee, trapped in the window, buzzed angrily, trying to find escape. No one took any notice of it. Novak said, ‘You told me a lot about Peter, Mr Sholto, but you didn’t mention the young lady he was interested in.’

  Edmund blinked. ‘I didn’t know there was one! I suppose he knew several young women – the Markham girls, and their friends for the most part . . . but I never heard of anyone special.’ In fact, he thought, I might have been glad of something that would have diverted Peter’s attention from other things.

  ‘He never spoke of Poppy Drummond?’

  ‘Poppy Drummond?’ For a moment the name genuinely puzzled him, until he remembered who she was, that girl who had stayed at Steadings before the war. ‘The sister of that young fellow who’s working for Stronglove, you mean? No, he didn’t.’ He found the idea slightly bizarre.

  ‘We’ve been told he carried her photograph everywhere with him – and that he was hoping to marry her.’

  ‘Marry her?’ Edmund smiled. ‘You must be mistaken. Peter was in no position to marry anyone. And I can tell you there was no photograph with what the adjutant called his personal effects, when he returned his things to me.’ His smile froze as the thought came to him: but there wouldn’t have been, would there? If Peter had in fact been in the habit of carrying a photograph around with him, it must have suffered the same fate as everything else on his person after he was killed. Edmund’s gorge rose again at the sickening reminder of his son’s body slowly rotting under that pile of rubbish.

  It took a moment before he was able to speak. ‘I didn’t know anything about her and Peter, and I have to say I find it hard to believe. He would have said something.’ But would he? Edmund knew that it was all too likely Peter might have kept this quiet, too.

  ‘Miss Drummond herself has confirmed this.’

  There was a pause. ‘What are you driving at? What has all this to do with my boy being murdered?’

  ‘Maybe nothing. But I’m hoping we might find whether it had or not if we clear up one or two things first. Remember the sample of glue Willard brought you the other day?’

  Speaking for the first time, the taciturn sergeant reminded him: ‘Which you confirmed was what your son used for his woodworking.’

  ‘It appeared to be the same sort, yes. It’s common enough, what most cabinet-makers use – and anyone else for that matter. I couldn’t say any more than that. Why?’

  ‘It was used to attach something to the underside of a drawer. This letter, in fact,’ Novak said, producing it. ‘Have you seen it before?’

  ‘A letter? The underside of a drawer?’ His heart began a slow thud, so heavy he felt it must be visible under the thin cotton of his shirt. ‘And presumably you think it’s something that concerns me?’

  ‘You’re a schoolmaster, I suppose you might read French, Mr Sholto? Good, then perhaps you’d like to look at it and tell me whether it does or not.’

  He took another long pull of the cool lemonade. The sweat was so th
ick on his forehead that this time he was forced to wipe it away before fishing for his reading glasses and accepting the letter. As he read it through, he was aware of Novak’s deep-set regard, of the sergeant’s silent attention. ‘I’m afraid I can’t understand all of this,’ he said at last, as he came to the end.

  ‘Enough, I suspect, to know that it does concern you?’

  There had been no mention of his name, but somewhere, reading between the lines, they had presumably found some connection. He folded the paper and then leaned back. His hand was trembling. With an effort of will, he managed to steady it, wishing they would go away, wanting nothing more than to be left alone.

  Novak let the silence continue until at last Edmund was forced to ask, ‘Where did you find it?’

  ‘It was with some old drawings and sketches Lady Fitzallan’s sister did many years ago. Peter apparently hid it there.’

  ‘Peter did?’ Edmund attempted incredulity. ‘If I thought it meant more to him than it does to me I might be inclined to believe you. What’s it all about?’ He thrust the letter back at Novak. ‘Who is this Christian?’

  ‘He was an art student from Grenoble who tutored the young Vavasour girls at Leysmorton for a time – Emily and her sister Clare. His name was – or is, if he’s still alive – Gautier. Does that mean anything to you?’

  Edmund shook his head emphatically. ‘No.’

  ‘Well, even if you don’t know the sender, I think you certainly knew the woman this is addressed to, Mr Sholto.’ Edmund didn’t answer and Novak went on, ‘I think you know it was your mother. She was Clare Vavasour, wasn’t she?’ The silence was even longer this time, and Edmund actually felt the blood draining from his face. There was nothing you could do to control that sort of reaction.