Shades of Murder

by Ann Granger

  'This seems to me very late," said Mr Green. 'How long did he remain?"

  'Half an hour, perhaps a bit longer," confessed Mrs Button.

  Mr Green smiled at her. something which appeared to fill her with

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  alarm. To discuss vegetables? A fascinating subject indeed to have taken you both so long. Did you discuss anything else?'

  Mrs Button was belatedly learning to be careful. 'I asked after Mrs Watchett. She has trouble with her legs. They swell up something dreadful, full of water, and the doctor was to draw it off.'

  'So you discussed Mrs Watchett's legs and vegetables. You also discussed the family which employed you both, perhaps?'

  Mrs Button rightly divining which way the wind was blowing, said promptly, 'No, sir. I don't gossip.'

  But she was in Mr Green's toils.

  'But if Watchett arrived at half-past nine, as you've told this court, and remained over half an hour, he was presumably there when you heard Mr Oakley go up to bed? Something which happened, you said, shortly before ten o'clock.'

  Mrs Button said she supposed so.

  'You suppose so?' Mr Green would let nothing escape him. 'But it must have been so. I find it strange, Mrs Button, that in the middle of this animated conversation about vegetables and Mrs Watchett's infirmity, you heard Mr Oakley go upstairs.'

  'Well, I did,' said Mrs Button sourly.

  'And remarked upon it to Watchett?'

  T may have done so, sir.'

  'And did you,' asked Mr Green, 'also remark that it was an early hour for your master to retire?'

  Mrs Button repeated that she may have done.

  Mr Green hovered, a small furry predator about to sink sharp teeth into its prey. 'Did you tell Watchett about Mrs Oakley's pain from her drawn tooth? That she, too, had retired early because of it?'

  'Yes, I believe I did,' said Mrs Button cautiously. But it was clear she knew her caution came too late. 'But only to say the poor lady was suffering greatly.'

  'And you still claim,' Mr Green asked silkily, 'that you did not discuss the family?'

  Distressed, Mrs Button protested, 'That is not fair, sir.'

  'We are not concerned with fairness but with fact,' she was told. 'Now then, while Watchett—'

  Taylor, the prosecution counsel, was also well aware that things weren't going his way. He uttered a dignified protest. 'My lord, the defence is seeking to confuse the witness and trail red herrings of the most blatant kind.'

  ANN GRANGER

  The judge had his own doubts. Ts all this business about the gardener relevant. Mr Green 0 '

  Tt is, indeed!' said Mr Green firmly. As I shall demonstrate."

  'Well, demonstrate it quickly." ordered the judge.

  Mr Green, suitably chastened, hurried to make his point. 'Mrs Button, we've established that you and the gardener were together in the kitchen for much of the evening, after you*d sent the skivvy home and the sick housemaid to bed. Did you offer your visitor any form of sustenance?"

  'He had a piece of my Madeira cake,' said Mrs Button with a slight air of pride.

  It came before the proverbial fall.

  'Very nice,' said Mr Green. "And perhaps a glass of Madeira wine to go with it?"

  'No, sir, it was sherry." Mrs Button was betrayed into saying.

  Mr Taylor had closed his eyes and appeared to be praying. He could see his case beginning to crumble as when the first incoming waves lap at a child's sandcastle on the shore.

  'Sherry?' cried Mr Green, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. 'Aha! You and Watchett were sampling your master's sherry while you were discussing vegetables and Mrs Watchett's legs!'

  Tt was the kitchen sherry.' argued Mrs Button. T keep it for the trifle."

  But Mr Green rolled merrily onward. 'So after some time gossiping with Watchett and drinking sherry, the gardener went home to his long-suffering wife and you went up to bed. I put it to you, Mrs Button, that your wits were sadly fuddled by then."

  Tf you mean I was drunk,' cried Mrs Button, 'you're wrong! I only had the one glass.'

  Stanley Huxtable wrote, Laughter in court. As order was being restored, he leaned towards the Reuter's man and whispered, That's it -you owe me a pint.'

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  'Right.' Markby set down his wine. 'And what did Juliet talk you into exactly?'

  Colour entered her pale cheeks. 'She persuaded me to ask Jan Oakley here to tea so that I could talk sweet reason to him. As if anyone could do that!' Meredith said wrathfully. 'I didn't tell you about it, Alan, because I had misgivings about the whole idea and I thought you'd say I was crazy - and you'd have been right. Although you did say yourself, in The Feathers, that perhaps Jan hadn't understood the situation. So I thought I'd just explain it to him.'

  'So what happened?' Markby asked patiently.

  She scowled. 'None of it went according to plan. I asked him about his claim on Fourways and he blithely dismissed it! Said he had no intention of pursuing it. So then I asked whether he still wanted a share in the sale price and again, he dismissed that. Said it would be nice if his cousins were generous but he quite understood their situation.'

  'It sounds,' Markby said, 'as if he was already very reasonable and you had nothing to do.'

  'He was crafty, not reasonable. He took the wind out of my sails and left me nothing to talk to him about.' Morosely she added, 'I can't really blame Juliet. I knew it was a bad idea from the start. I should've had the strength of my own convictions and refused point blank.' She fell silent.

  Markby eyed her thoughtfully. It was unlike her to let anger simmer on like this. He asked, as casually as he could, refilling her glass as he spoke, 'Anything else happen?'

  She gave a little jump and the wine splashed. 'No. What else could happen? I just felt a fool. I don't like that. No one does.'

  'True,' he agreed. T just wondered whether Oakley might have introduced some other subject.'

  'No, he didn't - because I threw him out!' There was manifest satisfaction in the way she expressed the last words.

  'Wasn't that a bit drastic? If he was being as co-operative as you say, agreeing to everything?'

  She flushed again. T meant, I showed him out. He didn't stay long. I realised he was too devious to have any sensible discussion with him, so I got rid of him.'

  She was a rotten liar, Markby reflected. He could make a pretty good guess at what had happened. Oakley had made a pass at her. If she didn't want to tell him about it, she wouldn't. He was angered, not by her failure to confide in him, but by the combination of elements which had led up to the present situation: Juliet's original request, Meredith's

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  agreement, and finally, Oakley's behaviour. When he next saw Oakley he'd have a few straight words to say to him. In the meantime . . .

  'For goodness sake,' he said, 'stay clear of Juliet Painter. She's got Jan Oakley on the brain."

  Meredith's look changed to one of some embarrassment. 'I did ring her - I had to. She was expecting me to report. I told her what he said. She thinks

  'Go on,' Markby sighed. 'What does Juliet think now?'

  'She thinks Jan's got some other plan up his sleeve. That's why he's no longer making an open claim on Fourways or the money from the sale. He's realised it's counter-productive. She doesn't think for one minute he's given up.'

  'Whatever Jan is up to, we'll find out about it in due course,' Markby told her. 'Now then, let's go out somewhere and enjoy the rest of the evening. Forget Oakley. He really isn't worth worrying about.'

  Sometimes our words come back to haunt us. It was certainly Markby's experience on the following Monday when he arrived in his office. He was a little later than usual. He'd stopped off to make a couple of out-of-office calls and it was almost eleven. Every officer he passed on his way to his office appeared to be holding a cup of coffee.

  'Anything of interest happen over the weekend?' he asked Inspector Pearce who'd appeared and was ho
vering in the doorway. A stain on his shirt indicated Pearce had already had his coffee.

  'Coroner's office rang,' said Dave Pearce diffidently. 'They reckon they might have a suspicious death. The chap died in the hospital on Saturday night, apparently of some form of poisoning. Dr Fuller conducted the postmortem at eight this morning. You know how he likes to make an early start.'

  Pearce spoke with the voice of one who'd been called out at this unreasonable hour more than once and required to stand by why Fuller made his dissection. 'Get 'em on the slab, get 'em opened up and get 'em out of the way!' was Fuller's motto. Markby, who'd also suffered from Fuller's addiction to crack-of-dawn autopsies in his time, nodded in sympathy.

  'Dr Fuller confirms poison though he's not sure yet what it is. He's told the coroner's office that though he wants confirmation, he thinks it's one for us. He's sent samples for analysis to Dr Painter.'

  'That'll keep Geoff Painter happy,' commented Markby. He hung up his Barbour and turned round. 'Poison makes a change. Funnily enough,

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  we were discussing the subject at Painter's house recently. We commented that poison has got rarer as a weapon. Do we have a name for the victim?'

  Pearce consulted a scrap of paper in his hand. 'Chap called Jan Oakley.'

  'WhatT

  At the tone of the superintendent's voice, Pearce looked up in alarm. 'Oakley, sir. He was a Polish national here on a visit, which may complicate things. He was staying with relatives near Bamford, at a house called Fourways.'

  'I know it,' Markby said bleakly. 'I also knew - I met this fellow Oakley.'

  'Oh, crikey,' said Pearce.

  'To put it mildly, Dave. What happened?'

  Pearce set the piece of paper down on the desk in a tentative way. 'We've only got the bare essentials, sir, as I said. It started with a 999 call late on Saturday night, asking for an ambulance to go to the house. The caller was a Miss Damaris Oakley, an elderly woman. She said a guest in the house had been taken ill. When the paramedics got there they saw the chap was in a bad state, but they didn't want to alarm the old girl. He was taken straight to hospital but pronounced dead ten minutes after arrival. Postmortem's routine in that case but the hospital thought it might be poison of some sort. Sorry, that's all I've got from the coroner's office at the moment. I don't suppose they know any more. We're all waiting on Fuller and Dr Painter.'

  Markby scowled at the scrap of paper bearing this meagre information. 'Has anyone been out to Fourways?'

  T believe the coroner's officer may have gone out there to let the people there - a couple of elderly sisters - know that the police have been called in. I was going to go myself some time today.'

  Markby got to his feet and retrieved the Barbour. Struggling into it, he said, 'I'd better go out there myself, Dave. I know the Oakley sisters. They're very old and likely to be very distressed. Get on to the Polish Embassy in London, will you, consular department. They ought to be informed that one of their nationals has died. Ask them if they can tell us anything about Oakley. His behaviour after arriving in the country wasn't all that could be desired and his background may be a little dodgy, too. We're going to have to check into it all and it isn't going to be easy.'

  'Right-o,' said Pearce. 'It's going to be a bit awkward for you too, sir, isn't it?'

  'Dave,' Markby informed him, 'you're proving a master of understatement this morning!'

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  The Oakleys had gone into a semblance of mourning when Markby found them. Damans wore a charcoal-grey skirt and a pale grey jumper. Florence had found a rusty black skirt and teamed it with a purple jumper. They sat side by side on a worn velvet sofa which had once been bright green but had faded now to a golden mossy colour. As a piece of furniture, Markby judged it nearly a hundred years old.

  But everything else in the room - apart from a television set which looked out of place - appeared in a time warp. The electric-light fittings seemed to date from the 1930s, to judge by the Bakelite wall switches shaped like plum puddings. There were even the gasmantles from an earlier form of lighting still protruding from the walls. The Oakleys had simply gone on living in the home their parents had bequeathed to them, dusting the same ornaments, taking the time from that same loudly-ticking ormulu clock on the mantelpiece, drawing the faded velvet curtains with tattered linings at night and opening them in the morning.

  All this struck Markby with a sharp pang of remembered discomfort. When, as a child, he'd been brought to Fourways, the visits had taken place in this room. He'd found it intimidating, not least because old Mr Oakley had still been alive and present. To the child Alan, the old fellow had appeared a veritable Methuselah. He must, adult Markby made a rapid calculation, have been at least the age his daughters were now, probably well into his eighties. He'd been an invalid and confined to a chair which was placed near the old-fashioned gasfire for warmth. That fire was lit now, but only glimmered at the lowest possible level. All the rooms, Markby knew, had similar gasfires. It was the only form of heating. The fires were lit when a room was occupied and switched off the moment it was left empty. This piecemeal heating did nothing to dispel the clammy atmosphere of the house. He remembered that so well, too.

  Old Mr Oakley, despite hogging the fire, always had a brightly-coloured crocheted blanket over his knees. His spine had been bowed so that the first glimpse one had of him was the pink bald top of his head. His hands rested immobile on the arms of the invalid chair, thin, speckled with brown spots, like bird's talons. As soon as anyone approached him, he would look up from beneath shaggy white brows and that was what Markby remembered most. He remembered, too, the fear that ancient, piercing stare had evoked. There had never been any vestige of warmth in it. No welcome, no humour, no kindliness for a child, only a sullen range at life's treachery. The personality of the old man had filled this room. Even as a child, Markby had realised that the old man's will ruled

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  this house. He fancied there was an oppressive trace of it about the place, even now.

  The two women received his condolences without apparent emotion. He went on to explain that at the moment he had taken charge of the inevitable enquiries. At this news, they did show some reaction. They visibly relaxed. Markby's heart sank. If they thought they were in for an easy time because of this, they were wrong.

  T should warn you,' he said, 'that I may not remain in charge. I, ah, I met your cousin and Meredith met him several times. It puts me in a rather difficult situation.'

  'Oh, I see,' said Damaris. 'We should naturally like you to be in charge, Alan. We would feel so much more at ease, wouldn't we, Florence?'

  'Oh, yes,' said Florence. T didn't see him, you know, before he went to hospital. Damaris told me about it. I'm rather glad I didn't see him in - in that state. But it meant my sister had to cope alone so, in another way, I wish she'd let me come downstairs.'

  'There was absolutely nothing you could have done, dear,' her sister comforted her.

  Markby cleared his throat. 'I'm afraid I need to ask you some questions. Other police officers will come and ask you the same ones and a lot more. I expect you think it's not the moment for me to bother you, but unfortunately policework takes no heed of people's feelings.'

  Damaris spoke, her voice firm. 'We quite understand. You have a job to do and it's our job to help you. Ask away, Alan.'

  'When did you first learn of the existence of Jan Oakley?'

  'About six months ago,' Damaris confessed. She glanced at her sister who nodded. 'We said nothing to anyone. That may seem odd to you but I can explain. You see, he was Grandfather William's descendant.'

  Florence joined the conversation unexpectedly. 'Our grandfather was a dreadful man, many believed him a murderer. He was charged with the murder of his wife but acquitted.' Her voice was high and nervous. She leaned forward to emphasise her words and then sat back abruptly, pink-faced, as if she'd been caught in some misdemeanour.

  Markby t
hought sympathetically that to her mind, she had indeed trespassed. She'd spoken to him, an outsider, of the family skeleton in the cupboard. Damaris confirmed this impression.

  'That's right,' the elder sister said calmly. 'It's hard for anyone nowadays to understand. Grandfather William was expunged from family memory. Nowadays it would be different. I believe the modern expression is to let it all hang out. These days, someone like our grandfather would

  ANN GRANGER

  sell his story to the tabloid press. Well, in our day it was called washing your dirty linen in public and you didn't do it. Our grandfather was never mentioned in this house. His portrait was hidden away in a box room. We wouldn't have dared ask about him.*

  'In that case,' Markby asked them curiously, "how did you know about him and his alleged crime?'

  "Other people, not our parents, told us,' said Damaris simply. 'Sooner or later someone will always tell you bad news.'

  That was true enough, thought Markby. Bad news always travels faster than good. 'Did Jan invite himself or did you invite him to come?'

  'We certainly didn't invite him!' they chimed in indignant unison.

  Damaris continued, 'He simply wrote and said he would come. We wrote back and explained we were both getting on in years. Our household wasn't arranged to accommodate a young man. We feared it would be inconvenient for all concerned. He took not a bit of notice. He had no manners at all, no consideration for anyone. He just wrote again and said not to worry, he wouldn't be in the way. Huh!'

  'There was a lot more,' said Florence, 'about his roots, whatever he thought they might be, and wanting to see the family home! It wasn't his family home. It was ours.'

  'So he came here,' Damaris continued. 'We had to put him up. We didn't wish to look prejudiced. Anyway, it was pretty obvious he'd have very little money and we couldn't afford to pay his hotel bill. It was bad enough having to pay Mrs Forbes for his evening meal. We crossed our fingers and hoped he'd turn out rather better than we feared. Needless to say, our hopes were vain. He turned out to be a thoroughly vulgar sort of person, quite ghastly. Always calling me his dear cousin and talking about seeing the old home. Then there was this business of the will he claimed our grandfather had made. I know Laura has told you about that. He wanted half any money we might get from the house. He had absolutely no right to anything!' Her eyes flashed with anger.