Arthurs' Night (Detective Johnny Inch series Book 6)

by J F Straker

  ‘I know. But somehow I’m not. I feel flat.’

  ‘That’s understandable,’ she said. ‘Reaction. You’ve lived with this moment in mind for — how long is it?’

  ‘Six years. Getting on for seven.’

  ‘Well, now it’s happened and it leaves a void.’

  ‘There’s more to it than that,’ Connor said. ‘I wanted to get even with Brummit. I think I wanted it almost as much as I wanted my freedom. Now — well, I’ve failed. It’s only half a victory. That rankles.’

  ‘More than half, surely. Brummit can’t be that important.’

  ‘He is to me.’

  ‘I don’t see why. I can understand your feeling bitter, but why lay all the blame on Brummit? I’ve looked up the case in the Gazette, and on the evidence I don’t see how he could have done other than arrest you. You certainly can’t blame him for not finding the diary. Not if Mrs. Main had hidden it. Your Mr. Woolmer didn’t find it, did he? And I bet he questioned her.’

  ‘That’s different. Woolmer had no authority to search. Brummit had.’

  ‘Search for what? I don’t suppose it ever occurred to him that Becky might have kept a diary. It wouldn’t to me; few girls do nowadays. Did it occur to you?’

  ‘No. But —’

  ‘There you are, then. He searched her room, and I’ve no doubt he questioned her parents. What more could he do? Take the cottage apart? And even if he’d found it he might not have interpreted it correctly. Yes, I know you did. But you were lucky. You said so yourself.’

  Reluctant to admit the validity of her argument, he said stubbornly, ‘Even Brummit couldn’t have failed to realise that Becky was blackmailing someone. Granted he wouldn’t have used it; he had me skewered, and that was how he meant to keep me. But Woolmer would have used it.’

  ‘You think he would have found all the right answers?’

  ‘Perhaps not. But at least it would have raised a doubt.’

  She collected the plates and went into the kitchen, to return with a raspberry flan and a jug of cream. Helping him liberally to the flan, she said, ‘Your trouble, James, is that you’ve raised yourself a monster that doesn’t exist. Brummit may be incompetent — I wouldn’t know about that — and I agree he has an unattractive personality. Too sombre, too — too surly. But he’s not a monster, and the sooner you realise that the better.’

  ‘You’re biased,’ Connor said. ‘He’s your patient. To me he stinks, metaphorically as well as literally.’

  ‘Who said he’s my patient?’

  ‘He did. Or his wife is.’

  ‘His wife, yes. So are the daughters. But not him or his son-in-law.’ She grimaced. ‘Like most men they’re suspicious of women doctors. You won’t have met the daughters, I suppose.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Emma — the elder — she’s a remarkable woman. Absolutely selfless. Fifteen years ago her mother contracted polio, since when Emma has more or less devoted her life to looking after her. Yet I’ve never heard her complain — Emma, I mean. She’s always cheerful.’

  ‘How about the other one?’

  ‘Alice Vaisey?’ Alison frowned. ‘Oddly enough, I feel more sorry for her than I do for Emma. She has a nice house and two delightful children, but she is obviously far from contented. I fancy the marriage has gone a trifle sour. I know they bicker a lot.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ Connor said. ‘You’ve met him, of course.’

  ‘Vaisey? Only fleetingly. Have some more flan.’

  He had some more flan. Anne had always chided him on his fondness for pastries. ‘They go well together, don’t they?’ he said. ‘Him and Brummit. They must be about the ugliest pair of coppers in the business.’

  Alison smiled. ‘You say you think Becky saw Brummit as a hyena. How do you see Vaisey?’

  ‘Well, he could be a wart hog. I had that for Brummit at first, but Vaisey is equally suitable. He’s ugly enough. There’s that hairy excrescence on his cheek. And he’s got piggy eyes.’

  ‘According to his wife he also has piggy manners,’ Alison said. ‘I gather he’s a bit of a glutton.’

  ‘And lecherous,’ Connor said. ‘You should have seen him chatting up the barmaid at the George. Couldn’t take his eyes off her knockers — if you’ll pardon the expression.’ His face brightened. ‘Could he be H? I hadn’t thought of that. Too intent on Brummit, I suppose.’

  She shook her head in reproach. ‘You’re incorrigible, James. Enemy Number One escapes you, so you latch on to Number Two. Why Vaisey, for Heaven’s sake? The field can’t be as narrow as that. Brummit and Vaisey aren’t the only policemen in Felborough. Anyway, does it have to be a policeman? Couldn’t it be just any man?’

  ‘The wording of the entry suggests a copper. And it has to be someone close to Brummit.’

  ‘Why? No, wait. I’ll get the coffee.’

  When she returned he took the tray from her and put it down so sharply that the cups rattled in their saucers.

  ‘It was Vaisey,’ he said eagerly. ‘I’ve just remembered. On Brummit’s desk there’s a photograph of Vaisey and his wife standing beside a green Volkswagen. It was taken after their wedding. And a keeper at the Zoo told me that a man in a similar car met her there occasionally. How’s that for openers?’

  ‘It could be a coincidence,’ she said, pouring. ‘Volkswagens are not uncommon. Could the keeper describe the driver?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That doesn’t get you very far, then, does it? And even if you could establish that Vaisey was the man in the Volkswagen it doesn’t prove he was H. Why did you say it had to be someone close to Brummit?’

  ‘Because when I accused Brummit of being H it really shook him. No doubt about that; he was nervous as hell. I took that to mean he was guilty. Well, I was wrong. So if he wasn’t scared for himself he must have been scared for someone else. Someone close to him.’ He took the proffered cup. ‘His family, for instance. I reckon he knew what his precious son-in-law had been up to and was afraid I might get around to the truth. That makes sense, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Alison shook her head. ‘But be honest, James. You’re not really gunning for Vaisey, are you? You’re hoping that if he falls Brummit may fall with him.’

  And why not? Connor said. Brummit’s apparent failure to report his son-in-law’s guilt made him equally guilty. ‘Incidentally, I imagine it was Vaisey who told him to inquire at the Malt House when they found Becky’s body. Vaisey didn’t use the place himself, but he would know Becky’s habits.’

  ‘You could hardly expect a man to report his son-in-law,’ Alison protested.

  ‘Brummit’s a policeman,’ Connor said. ‘His first duty is to the law.’

  ‘Oh, come off it, James! Don’t be so smug.’ Connor grinned. ‘Do I detect a note of disapproval?’

  ‘You do.’

  ‘Really? On what grounds?’

  For a start, she said, his motive was wrong. He wasn’t interested in bringing a wrongdoer to justice; he was waging a personal vendetta. Convinced — wrongly, as she saw it — that Brummit was the sole architect of his misfortunes, he was prepared to throw mud at random in the hope that some of it would stick where he wanted it to stick. Well, perhaps some of it would. But innocent people — Mrs. Brummit and her daughters, the Vaisey children — would also suffer. Didn’t that bother him? There might be justification in denouncing Vaisey if he could produce real evidence of the man’s guilt; although she did not believe in justice delayed so long and the crime, though reprehensible in a policeman, was not a particularly heinous one. In fact, all he had, apart from inferences, was the green Volkswagen. ‘And that’s not enough,’ she said earnestly. ‘You know it isn’t. It’s enough to cause doubt and suspicion and much unpleasantness, but it’s not enough to convict him. It’s not even enough for you to be sure, though you may like to think it is.’ She leaned forward. ‘Forget it, James,’ she pleaded. ‘Let it go. Stop reviving the past. It’s depressing, and it could bring you more h
eartache than joy.’

  ‘It was reviving the past that enabled me to establish my innocence,’ he said. ‘I don’t find that depressing.’

  ‘That’s different. Though it would have been if you’d failed. However, you were lucky. Only don’t press your luck.’ She got up and went over to the window. A hand raised to draw the curtains, she said, ‘Come over here.’

  Obediently, he joined her. ‘What now?’

  ‘Look out there. That’s Felborough. It wrote a chapter in your life you would be wise to forget. So go away and forget it, eh? Forget Felborough, Brummit, Vaisey — the lot. Concentrate on the future. You’re young enough for it to mean something.’

  ‘Not the lot.’ He smiled at her. ‘Not you, for instance.’

  ‘All right,’ she agreed. ‘Not me. But the rest, yes. And drop this vendetta against the police.’

  He shrugged ‘It seems to be dropping me. As you say, it lacks conclusive evidence. And that bugs me. Vaisey’s guilty — he has to be — and in my book that makes Brummit guilty too. If only I had something more — something that —’ He paused, frowning. ‘Am I right in thinking Mrs. Vaisey tends to confide in you?’

  ‘To some extent — yes, she does.’

  ‘Has she ever complained — hinted, perhaps — that her husband’s performance in bed leaves something to be desired?’

  She shook her head. ‘Her confidences don’t go that far. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Something Becky wrote in her diary after she’d been with Vaisey. She —’

  ‘H’, she corrected him. ‘You don’t know it was Vaisey.’

  ‘I do,’ he said firmly. ‘However, we’ll let that pass. ‘Foul! Felt sorry for the louse’ — that’s what she wrote. Doesn’t it suggest he was a pretty poor performer?’

  ‘Or a sadist, perhaps.’

  ‘True. But it puzzles me. I mean, she had submitted to him only under duress, she was obviously disgusted with the whole business. So why feel sorry for him? And why ‘louse’? It’s completely out of character. She always used animal nicknames for her men.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t get it.’

  She had been gazing out of the window. Now she turned, and the look in her eyes puzzled him. It was as if something had startled her, caused her even a moment of fear. A sudden, unpleasant thought, perhaps — there could be nothing in the well-lit street to distress her — and on impulse he bent to kiss her cheek. It was intended as a friendly, protective gesture; but somehow their bodies merged and his arms went round her and his mouth found hers. She did not refuse him. He was seeking greater intimacy when sanity returned, and he broke away and let his hands fall.

  ‘I — I’m sorry,’ he said honestly. ‘I shouldn’t have done that. I don’t know what possessed me.’

  ‘You do,’ she said, her voice far from steady. ‘So do I. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s no excuse.’

  ‘It’s every excuse. Anyway, I took it as a compliment, so don’t spoil it by apologising.’ Adjusting her neckline, she smiled at him, her eyes bright. ‘And stop looking worried.’ She took his hand. ‘Come and finish your coffee. I’m sorry there’s no brandy.’

  ‘Just as well, perhaps,’ Connor said.

  He spoke lightly, but inwardly he was fuming at his lack of self-control. He liked and admired her as a person, but he did not find her sexually attractive. There had been nothing personal in the embrace; lust, not love, had prompted it. At that moment she had been just a woman — any woman — and but for the champagne and the long abstinence from sex it would never have happened. Relief at her apparently calm acceptance of his behaviour was intensified by the knowledge that her reaction could have been very different. She could have been angry — slapped his face — told him to go. Worse, she could have misconstrued the embrace as an indication that he was emotionally attracted to her. How would he have wriggled out of that?

  He did not stay long after finishing his coffee. There was a constraint between them, on his part if not on hers, and he found a worthwhile conversation difficult to maintain. He would keep in touch, he said, and if ever she came to London they must meet. And it might be necessary for him to visit Woolmer. If so he would let her know.

  ‘And thanks for a marvellous dinner,’ he said. ‘You weren’t joking when you said you could cook.’

  When he had gone she peered between the curtains to watch him drive away; he was returning the hired car in the morning. Then she sat down and tried to analyse her emotions. Why had she fought so hard to persuade him from accusing Vaisey? Were the reasons she had given the true reasons? Was she really concerned about the harm it might do to others? Wasn’t it more the harm it might do to him — the fear that to embark on a vendetta against the police, a vendetta that was certain to fail, could result in unpleasant repercussions as well as bitterness? Wasn’t that why the unexpected embrace had meant far more to her than she knew it had meant to him? It had made her realise that if she were not actually in love with the man she was heading in that direction. She had not shown it, she thought, but had he not broken from the embrace when he did she might have mistaken lust for love and have responded with fervour. She knew, too, that it was affection, a desire to protect him, that had stopped her from telling him what she knew. But had she the right to do that? Should he not be allowed to make his own decisions? He was a grown man, older than herself and more experienced. Could she be sure that her decision was the proper one?

  She hesitated by the telephone, then crossed to the desk and got out paper and pen.

  ‘Dear James,’ she wrote. ‘You were right about Vaisey being H. I realised that when you told me what Becky had written in her diary. I would have told you at the time, but your unexpected and forceful interruption dislocated my train of thought. Afterwards I’m afraid I forgot.’ That was not strictly true. Temporarily she had forgotten, but she had remembered later. ‘Anyway, it is no secret that Vaisey frequently refers to his wife as ‘the louse’, a rather sick pun on her name: ‘lice’ is plural, and as there is only one of her it should be ‘A-louse’, not ‘A-lice.’ So when Becky wrote ‘Felt sorry for the louse’ she wasn’t referring to Vaisey, as you thought, but to his wife. I imagine Vaisey must have told her the nickname; as I said, neither he nor Alice made a secret of it. Brummit probably knows it too.

  ‘How you use this information is up to you. I hope you will ignore it, but I thought it right that you should know.’

  She read the letter through twice before signing it. Not until she had sealed the envelope did she realise that, with no postal collection until the morning, he would have left Felborough long before the letter reached the hotel. And he was unlikely to leave a forwarding address, even if he had one. They knew him there as Mallorie, and anyway he would not be expecting letters. So either she must deliver the letter herself before he left, or hand it to his solicitors for forwarding later, or wait until she heard from him. Or — wasn’t there yet another alternative, one that coincided with her own inclination? She had written the letter reluctantly, from her sense of duty. But was it her duty? Was she perhaps replacing one extreme of interference with another? He had agreed that lack of evidence might force him to abandon his vendetta, but he had given no assurance that he would do so. If he were really determined to pursue the matter further — well, there were others who knew the nickname. Sooner or later someone would tell him. Did it have to be her?

  After only a momentary hesitation she tore up the letter and dropped the pieces in the wastebasket.

  If you enjoyed reading A Choice of Victims, you might be interested in Death on a Sunday Morning by J F Straker, also published by Endeavour Press.

  Extract from Death on a Sunday Morning by J F Straker

  1

  With her wrists bound behind her back and her ankles tied to the legs of the chair, Rose Landor sat at her husband’s desk and strained her ears in an attempt to make sense of the muffled sounds and voices that filtered through to her from beyond the closed doo
r of the office. She was more worried than frightened, for neither she nor Brian had been treated roughly and the men had curtly apologised for tying her up. She was also tired and physically distressed. Bound as she was, she could not relax her body against the chair or rest her head, and for what seemed like time interminable but was probably little more than half an hour she had been forced to sit upright. Her limbs ached, her eyes were hot and the lids heavy. Spasms of cramp attacked her soles and her thighs; and although her ankle bonds were sufficiently loose for her to dispel some of the pain by standing up, without the use of hands and arms the struggle to lift herself off the chair became increasingly hard.

  Her main fear was of the dark. Since childhood she had suffered from claustrophobia, and the longer she sat the more menacingly the darkness seemed to close in on her. To overcome her fear, as well as to ease the increasing stiffness in her neck, she kept turning her head from side to side in an attempt to locate familiar objects and so make the gloom seem less opaque. She knew the room well: modest in size, but high-ceilinged and with a noble cornice, with a good Wilton carpet on the floor and an attractive yet unobtrusive paper on the walls. The furniture was functional rather than decorative, although the tubular-framed chairs were comfortable and the large flat-topped desk was admirable for its purpose. Yet she could remember when the room had looked very different. Only a few years back Brian had constantly complained about its appearance. It gave a bad impression, Brian had said, for the manager to receive his customers in an office with rusting filing cabinets and stained wallpaper, with large cracks in the ceiling and worn carpet on the floor. But then in those days Westonbury had been something of a backwater, a small country town where the Tuesday market was the main feature of practically every week except Race Week. And even Race Week could be something of a non-event. The meeting was too insignificant to attract the big stables or the heavy punters. We’ll pretty you up in time, the Bank had told Brian. But right now our resources are fully stretched and Westonbury is low in priority.