‘No, my lady. Mr Miles is coming for them at ten.’
‘I hope the road conditions aren’t too bad. It seems madness to make unnecessary journeys in this weather, but when you’re young, such things don’t worry you.’
‘No, my lady,’ said Edith dutifully, closing the door behind her. Thoughtfully, Lady Peel reached for her bedside telephone.
Miles had hardly spoken since they set out and Jan, in the front seat beside him, wondered if he were regretting his invitation. Even the children sat in silence, watching the snowy landscape; but they’d been quiet ever since Lily’s death, and her repeated assurances had failed to comfort them. That much was apparent from Julie’s frightened question last night. She really must have a talk with them, and set their minds at rest. If only Roger were here, to advise her what to say.
Shying from thoughts of Roger, she concentrated on the present. At least the main road was clear, but on either side of it the snow, piled into high banks, dwarfed them with its whiteness, seeming to threaten an icy oblivion. She wondered what extremes of temperature Edward and Rowena would be facing.
And at the thought of Peru, her mind switched back to the book, with its story of Inca treasure and the pencilled exclamation mark. Who had drawn it? When, and why? Was it merely a reader’s impatience with what he saw as exaggerated claims – emeralds as large as quails’ eggs? Or had those marks some deeper meaning?
Miles spoke suddenly, making her jump. ‘Have you ever been to Ringmere?’
‘Once, as a child. But that was in summer.’
‘Then you wouldn’t have seen the Bewick’s swans.’
Jan turned to smile at him. ‘You sound very knowledgeable!’
‘I’ve always been interested in birds. It’s amazing what they’ve achieved at these places; by ringing the birds, they’ve discovered that the same ones return year after year, and there are special breeding facilities for threatened species.’
‘Will there be penguins?’ Ben asked from the back seat.
Miles laughed. ‘Afraid not. It might look like the North Pole out there, but we can’t rise to penguins.’ He added more seriously, ‘It’s not a zoo, Ben. These are mainly wild birds, who come here by choice from all over the world.’
‘From Australia?’
‘Yes, there are even black swans from Australia.’
‘Are we nearly there?’ Julie asked hopefully.
‘Ten more minutes.’ Miles turned off the road at a signpost. ‘You’d better wrap up warmly, it’ll be bitter out there.’
‘So why the hell was his name in the diary?’ The Detective-Superintendent’s bright eyes bored into Webb’s, and he shifted his weight on the narrow chair.
‘Because he met Sinclair, who Marriott was watching.
It was clear from the notebooks that he’d been monitoring Sinclair’s lunch engagements for some time. Half a dozen or so are listed, all at the Commodore, with the name of the other party noted and the duration of the meeting.’
‘And what do you think was behind it?’
‘Well, sir, since the notes were for Marriott’s own use, they aren’t too explicit.’
‘But reading between the lines?’ queried Fleming, his head on one side.
‘I’d say the lunches had a rather special line in “afters”.’
‘Ha! Go on.’
‘In each case, they were joined by the same young lady at the coffee stage. At least, that’s what the timing of her arrival seems to indicate.’
‘And how long did she stay?’
‘Between one and two hours.’
‘Very cosy. Then they all left separately?’
‘Oh yes. Sinclair usually emerged about two-thirty and the other two an hour or so later, with a ten-minute interval between them.’
‘Any names we might know?’
‘Mainly bankers and investment advisers.’
‘Sinclair might well have topped Marriott, if he discovered he was on to him. As to his other activities, no doubt they’ll be of interest to Wood Street. Right, Spider, look into him, will you. Managing all right without Bates?’
‘I wouldn’t refuse a replacement, sir.’
‘See what I can do.’
The family Rover had been sold during Sir Reginald’s last illness, and ever since, Lady Peel, who disliked driving, had hired a car whenever she required transport. She always used the same firm, and having expressed a preference for a particular driver, the firm ensured whenever possible that he was available. Fred Perkins jokingly described himself as ‘Her Ladyship’s chauffeur’. He had taken the trouble to note the old lady’s whims; the speed at which she liked to travel, that she required a rug over her knees, that she was not averse to small talk unless she indicated otherwise. Today, the old girl had something on her mind, and by the tone in which she returned his greeting, Fred knew this would be a silent ride. Going to see her solicitor, too.
He turned off Broad Street into Monks’ Walk. On their right, the Minster Green was green no longer, but lay like a frozen moonscape beneath the snow. With the imposing cathedral soaring behind, the scene resembled a Christmas card. Snow before Christmas was all very well, but once it was over, Fred couldn’t be doing with it. Furthermore, despite the fact that Twelfth Night had passed, tired-looking Christmas trees still protruded from wrought-iron balconies above the shop fronts, while on the pavement below hardy shoppers searched for bargains in the sales.
He turned left into George Street and drew up outside the offices of Bradshaw and Campbell. They were on the first floor, but he knew one of the clerks would be on the lookout for his charge to escort her up the linoleumed stairs.
‘Wait for me, Perkins,’ instructed Her Ladyship, with sublime disregard for the yellow lines on each side of the road. Fred touched his cap. He’d park in the yard of the cofTee-house opposite – Jack Lindsay was a pal of his. A seat at a window table would enable him to keep a lookout and at the same time warm himself with a cup of coffee. There were worse jobs on such a morning.
‘Good morning, Mr Bradshaw.’
Leonard Hargreaves, senior partner of the firm, bowed over the extended hand with old-fashioned courtesy. He had explained at their first meeting that both Mr Bradshaw and Mr Campbell were long since departed, but if his valued client wished to address him thus, he would not complain. A cup of fresh coffee was produced, and some shortbread fingers.
‘Now, Lady Peel, how can we be of service?’
The old lady hesitated. ‘I hope what I’m about to ask won’t infringe any professional ethics, Mr Bradshaw. What I wish to know is whether my late husband left any instructions to be carried out after his death.’
‘No, my lady.’
She fixed him with her pale blue eyes. ‘He didn’t, or you’re not free to answer my question?’
‘We held nothing for action after Sir Reginald’s death. Other than his Will, of course.’ Mr Hargreaves hesitated. ‘Now that I think of it, he did lodge a letter with us some years ago, but he later reclaimed it.’
‘Ah!’ The old lady’s back straightened. ‘When was it deposited?’
‘When Sir Reginald first engaged us to act for him, on his arrival in Broadminster.’
‘In nineteen fifty-six?’
‘It would be about then, yes.’
‘And what were his instructions?’
‘That it was to be delivered three calendar months after the death of the last survivor of himself, Mr Laurence Cody and Mr William Langley.’
Lady Peel gazed at him expectantly. ‘To be delivered to me?’
‘Er – no, my lady. To your daughter, Miss Rowena Peel as she then was.’
That had been a shock, he could see. Uncomfortably, Mr Hargreaves wondered, too late, if the information should have been withheld.
‘And you say he reclaimed it,’ she said after a moment. ‘When was that?’
‘After the death of Mr Langley, ten years ago.’
‘Did my husband infer he was going to destroy the letter
, or hand it to my daughter himself?’
‘He merely requested its return, my lady.’
She paused, then asked diffidently, ‘Did you by any chance also act for William Langley and Laurence Cody?’
‘No, my lady.’
And if he had, it would have been no help. Answering an innocuous question about her own husband was one thing; inquiries about other clients would have been respectfully fielded.
‘Very well, Mr Bradshaw, thank you. I shan’t take up any more of your time.’
As she accepted the arm of the clerk to assist her downstairs, Lady Peel found her curiosity whetted rather than satisfied by her visit. The date that Reggie had deposited the letter suggested it was the result of a joint decision. No doubt Laurence and William had written similar ones. Had they, too, later reclaimed them? If not, Edward, Janis and Miles were due to receive them any day – three calendar months after Reggie’s death.
But why, she asked herself, as Perkins helped her into the car and arranged the rug over her knees, had Reggie changed his mind? And had he destroyed the letter, or given it to Rowena? She felt certain that whether or not Rowena had received it, that letter would have held the answer to the unexplained mystery of that last shared expedition.
Tony Rollo’s breakfast deliberations also resulted in a phone call, though it was mid-morning before he’d the chance to make it. When his secretary finally left him, a sheaf of correspondence in her hands, he pulled the instrument towards him and requested an outside line.
‘Roy?’ he said urgently. ‘It’s Tony Rollo.’
‘My dear chap! How’s the world treating you?’
Not for the first time, the bluff friendliness struck Rollo as false. ‘Diabolically,’ he answered shortly. ‘The police have been here.’
‘Police?’ Sinclair’s voice sharpened. ‘What the hell for?’
‘Asking questions about this man that was murdered. Marriott. I presume you knew him?’
‘The journalist, you mean? I knew he was sniffing round, but he’d nothing to go on. How the hell did they connect him with you?’
‘God knows, but they thought it was him I’d lunched with in November.’
‘I sincerely hope you didn’t enlighten them?’ The silken tones were no longer friendly.
‘Be reasonable, Roy; I had to. They already knew I was there – the time we arrived, the time we left.’
‘Sweet mercy,’ said Sinclair softly. ‘And Camilla?’
‘She wasn’t mentioned, but I should think they know about her.’
‘And they got all this from that bloody journalist?’
‘Must have done.’
‘I’d give a lot to know what else they dug up.’
‘You’ll soon find out,’ Rollo said ironically. ‘They’ll be up to see you, you can bet. I’m just warning you, so you can cover your tracks. For all our sakes.’ He replaced the receiver and wiped a hand wearily over his face. Then, with a sigh, he returned to the morning’s business.
It was blissfully warm in the Research and Education Centre, but outside the plate-glass windows, sleet fell horizon tally over the bleak stretches of water. A group of visitors, muffled against the cold, were throwing crusts to a jostling crowd of birds, some of which had come out of the water and were waddling among their benefactors’ legs. A little girl, nervous of their proximity, began to cry, her voice a thin wail through the thick glass.
Jan left the children watching the scene outside, and went over to the wall maps showing the natural habitat of the birds. Instinctively, she paused at the one of South America.
‘Thinking of your dear brother?’ Miles inquired, handing her a plastic cup of coffee.
‘Just Peru generally. Sorry. I know it bores you.’
‘I’m surprised it doesn’t bore you, too. We’re in the same position, after all.’ He sipped his coffee, his eyes on the map.
‘Have you ever wondered,’ he said unexpectedly, ‘why neither of our fathers went back after ’fifty-five?’
Jan turned to him in surprise. ‘Yes, I have. What’s more, the police were asking, too.’
Miles frowned. ‘What the hell’s it got to do with them?’
‘I don’t know. Miles, can I tell you something rather odd? I was reading a book of Sir Reginald’s last night, and –’
‘Come on, Mum!’ Ben had appeared at her side and was tugging impatiently at her hand. ‘It’s stopped snowing – let’s go out and look at the geese.’
With a glance of smiling apology at Miles, Jan allowed herself to be led towards the door. After a moment, abandoning his coffee on a convenient shelf, Miles followed them.
‘The trouble is,’ Webb said heavily, as they reached the outskirts of Broadminster, ‘there are two possible motives for Marriott’s death. Either he was treading on someone’s toes, or he was killed to implicate Edward Langley. He might have died simply because he looked like Langley, though the killer must have known he wasn’t. If he was close enough to steal Langley’s wallet, he probably knows him personally.’
‘We don’t know it was the killer who stole the wallet,’ Jackson objected, negotiating a right-hand turn. ‘Marriott might have been on to something about Langley, and took his wallet to try to verify it. Langley could have caught him at it, and given chase.’
‘And killed him, you mean? Then why and by whom was Lily Carr murdered?’
‘Perhaps we’ll find out now,’ Jackson commented, drawing up outside a small chalet bungalow. No one had troubled to clear the path, and the detectives crunched over the snow to the front door. It was opened at their knock by a pale, red-eyed young woman who had a child clinging to her skirt.
Webb introduced himself, and she stepped to one side.
In the hall they were met by a strong smell of damp washing, the cause of which was apparent as they were shown into the back room. A clothes-horse stood in front of the fire, festooned with nappies. A baby of some six months lay kicking in a playpen and the floor was littered with toys. The woman pushed her lank hair off her face.
‘Sit down, if you can find a place.’
Jackson, the father, paused for a look at the kicking baby, and was rewarded by a toothless grin. Webb removed a legless teddy bear from a shabby wicker chair and seated himself.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you at such a time, Mrs Bennett, but I’m sure you’ll appreciate it’s necessary. You lived with your mother?’ he added somewhat unnecessarily.
The woman’s eyes filled. ‘That’s right. She took me and the kids in when Pete went off.’
‘And when was that?’
‘Soon after the baby was born. Said he was fed up with flipping kids. How did he think I felt?’
‘Did your husband ever knock you about?’
She looked at him in surprise. ‘Sometimes, when he’d been to the pub. He was always sorry after – and he never laid a finger on the kids. That I will say for him.’
‘Did he get on well with your mother?’
The direction of the questioning finally reached her, and she hurried to defend her erring husband. ‘He wouldn’t knock her over the head, if that’s what you’re getting at. If he had wanted to, he’d have done it here, wouldn’t he, not up at Rylands?’ She paused. ‘Anyway,’ she added defiantly, ‘he’d a lot of time for Mum, had Pete – the way she’d brought me up after Dad was killed, and all.’
‘Is there anyone you can think of who might have wished your mother harm?’
She moved impatiently. ‘Of course not. Why should they? Mum wouldn’t have hurt a fly.’ Her mouth trembled. ‘Look – it’s obvious, isn’t it? A burglar broke in expecting the house to be empty, and found Mum there. She wouldn’t have stood a chance.’ She began to weep softly.
She was probably right, at that, Jackson reflected, pen poised over his notebook. This was a necessary but unrewarding task and he’d be glad when it was over. Other people’s grief distressed him, made him feel like a voyeur. Same on the telly, nowadays. Every time you switched on, some
poor blighter was being asked how they felt on hearing that their husband or mother or son had been killed.
Methodically, he noted down the Governor’s questions and the woman’s replies. Could do with a cuppa, but it didn’t look likely. The interview ground on, with the soft gurgling of the baby in the background and the rhythmic squeak of a rocking-horse as the little girl rode endlessly backwards and forwards.
Hard on the kids to be deserted twice, even if the second time wasn’t deliberate. Lost their Dad and lost their Gran, poor little perishers, and it was anyone’s guess how long the mother’d be able to cope.
With a sense of relief he saw Webb getting to his feet. They were free to go.
‘Not much joy there,’ he offered, as they crunched their way back to the car.
‘In more ways than one,’ grunted Webb. ‘We’ll call in at Court Lane and see how the house-to-house is going. And,’ he added, with a sidelong glance at Jackson, ‘no doubt we’ll be offered a cup of tea.’
Going home through the snow-lit country dark, the children chatted softly in the back seat about the strange and beautiful creatures they’d seen. Jan, relaxed now in the warm car after the stimulating cold outside, was aware of their voices only as undulating waves of sound. It had been a happy day, a welcome respite from the worries and fears that awaited her return, and she was grateful to Miles for arranging it.
The visit to his mews house offered an extended moratorium, and while she moved, entranced, from one oil painting to another, read the spines of the volumes in the bookcase, and studied the marble bust on its plinth, the children ran up the stairs and hung over the balcony rail. They were equally enthralled by the hidden, pocket-sized kitchen and the carved animals on the low tables.
‘I hope you’re well insured!’ Jan commented. ‘All this must be worth a fortune.’
‘I buy only what I like,’ Miles replied, handing her a glass of wine. ‘A friend of mine, Richard Mowbray, owns an antique shop in Monks’ Walk, and lets me know when anything interesting comes in.’
‘Not Pennyfarthings?’
‘That’s the one. Have you been in?’
‘I bought Edward and Rowena’s Christmas presents there. They said something about a murder,’ she added with assumed nonchalance.
The Nine Bright Shiners Page 12