by Anne Morice
“She might have burnt the house down.”
“So she might, but perhaps she had other things on her mind. Still, I can see that my suggestion doesn’t find favour. You’d prefer murder any old day.”
“Not at all, and you could be right. It might account for that so-called dream she had. Perhaps she’d been toying with the idea of suicide for some time and wanted to find out at first hand how bearable it would be to do it in this way.”
“Or maybe she did have such a dream, which is what put the idea into her head when she touched rock bottom.”
“Though it still doesn’t explain how she got hold of the booze.”
“Which is something we’re unlikely ever to know, since a veil now appears to have been drawn over it. However, one can hardly blame Laycock for that. He made no secret of it to Louise, as he surely would have done, if he’d planted the bottle there himself, or handed his wife the keys of the drink cupboard.”
“Unless he invented it, because he thought it would sound more plausible that she should set fire to herself while under the influence?”
“At the risk of bringing suspicion on himself? Well, at the very least, accusations of fatuous irresponsibility. I can’t see it.”
“So the question remains: how did she get hold of it?”
“God knows and, if you take my advice, you’ll drop this one. The odds are stacked against you.”
“I am unable to drop it for the simple reason that I never picked it up and have no intention of doing so. I have more important matters to contend with. Such as whether that tiresome costume designer is going to push our assistant director in the Isis, or whether she’ll pick him up and throw him in first.”
“So you haven’t finished the Oxford scenes yet?”
“No, two more days. Sorry about that, but we’re badly over schedule, as usual.”
“Which days?”
“Tuesday and Wednesday. I’ve fixed it with Toby and I’ll be back some time on Thursday. From then on, we’ll be able to meet quite often, because the following week we move into the studio. Which reminds me of something, Robin. You know that friend of yours, Alan Ferguson?”
“Yes, I am proud to say that I know all my friends. What about him?”
“Have you seen him lately?”
“Not for a month or two. Why?”
“I just wondered if he was due to be invited for a drink some evening.”
“I think I must be dreaming. I could have sworn I heard you say that you had more important things to do than to get mixed up in the Laycock affair?”
“You did and I meant it.”
“And this sudden urge to see Alan has nothing to do with his job?”
“No, it would be all the same to me if he was a professional wrestler.”
“So what’s it all about?”
“I’m acting on Elsa’s behalf. You remember my telling you about her friend who walked out on her husband and hasn’t been heard of since? Well, she has a cousin who is married to someone called Alan Ferguson. We thought it would be fun to find out if he’s the same one as yours.”
“In which case, you expect him to be able to tell you where she is?”
“I have no idea what to expect, but when a coincidence like that lands in your lap, the least you can do is pick it up and examine it.”
“Well, I suppose you know what you’re doing, or think you do. If I get a chance, I’ll try and get hold of him some time tomorrow.”
The decision to keep James McGrath’s story to myself had not been arrived at without the sacrifice of a few fingernails. He had not sworn me to secrecy, probably being shrewd enough to realise that it would not have made a blind bit of difference, one way or the other, so I was under no moral obligation to respect his confidence. My instinct had been to pass it on verbatim to Robin at the first opportunity, but reflection had informed me that this could lead to trouble. In the unlikely event of his failing to insist that evidence as hot as this should immediately be passed over to the right quarter, there would still remain the obstacle of his personal reaction. Whether or not he were disposed to believe James’s version and to admit that his behaviour could be justified, one thing was certain. I should be nagged to death about taking no part in it myself and to have nothing more to do with the man or anyone connected with him. Promises would be extracted which I did not yet feel confident of being able to keep and it would cause less strain on both of us if I was not called upon to give them.
So I said nothing and was rewarded for this discretion the following evening, when Robin told me that he had spoken to Alan and, since it was not one of my working days, he would be bringing him back for a drink on Monday evening.
On Sunday Ellen and Jeremy came to lunch and afterwards, while the men were watching a cricket match on television, Ellen and I cleared away, scooped the battered remains of bread into two paper bags and sauntered forth to feed the ducks in St. James’s Park. “Have you heard the latest about Andrea and Marc?” she asked, as we cast our bread upon the waters.
“No, what’s up now?”
“I didn’t dare mention it at lunch because I was afraid Jeremy would throw up. He doesn’t like Andrea, you see, and he doesn’t believe a word she says.”
“Smart fellow! What’s the drama now?”
“She and Marc have parted for ever and this time I think there’s an element of truth in it.”
“Which is good news, surely? When did you hear?”
“Last night. They were both supposed to be coming for dinner and we’d planned to go on to a jazz club. We never got there, though, because when Andrea turned up, about an hour late, she was on her own and in floods of tears. That was the first thing to send Jeremy up the wall.”
“I’m not surprised. What was her trouble?”
“She kept saying how sorry she was and how she knew she ought not to have come, but she had to talk to someone. She and Marc had had a flaming row, it was all over between them and she hoped never to set eyes on him again. You know how dramatic she is?”
“It takes the wrong form, unfortunately. Did you gather what the quarrel was about?”
“Well, as you can imagine, she wasn’t going to let us have it in a few crisp sentences. She went on for about an hour, moaning and rocking about and saying her life was over. Of course, the dinner was ruined, but she told us not to worry about that because it would choke her to eat anything anyway.”
“What a relief for you! What had Marc done wrong?”
“Well, that’s where it began to get out of control. Naturally, after such a build-up, she had to find something fairly horrendous to follow it with, but she was in a fix. No black eyes or bruises and I suppose it would have destroyed her image to say that Marc had been unfaithful. She’s so colossally vain that she wouldn’t want anyone to think that he could even look at another woman. Finally, she fell back on some rather vague accusations of paranoic jealousy, which was pretty feeble and I think that’s where the fantasising began to creep in.”
“You know I’d be the last person to take her side, Ellen, but I have to admit that I don’t find it so very improbable. He’s a most passionate young man, they tell me, and when he goes overboard for some girl he’s apt to dive in deep. I can see him working himself into a jealous rage, given the right provocation.”
“Oh, I agree, but it was the circumstances which made it seem so out of character. When I tried to pin her down about what had brought on this fit, she said he’d accused her of deceiving him with another man and what had made it so doubly wicked and cruel was the moment he’d chosen for it.”
“Which moment was that?”
“When he was taking her home after the inquest, would you believe it? When she was already suffering from nervous strain and still in a state of shock about her stepmother’s death. Now, that doesn’t sound at all like Marc, do you think? No doubt, most of the shock and nervous strain was just an act, but he wouldn’t have realised that, would he? So why choose such a time t
o turn on her, specially when he’d already proved his devotion by giving up the whole day to support her through her terrible ordeal? After all, it’s not as though the inquest had changed anything, is it? There was nothing in it to set him off like that.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that, Ellen.”
“Why not?”
“I have a feeling that it just might have something to do with her movements on the night of the fire.”
“But listen, Tessa, she’d spent the whole evening with Marc. That at least must be true, or even she wouldn’t have been dotty enough to have said so, with him sitting there.”
“Unless she’d over-estimated his chivalry.”
“Meaning that she was with someone else that evening?”
“Not exactly. I am sure she and Marc were together for part of it, but I’d be interested to hear his version of this quarrel, if he could only be prevailed upon to give it. The trouble is that I’ve more or less given my solemn word to keep out of this affair.”
“Which affair?”
“The fire and Mrs. Laycock’s death.”
“Do you think there might be something fishy about it?”
“I’ve always suspected there was and now that we have this new complication I do feel a twinge of regret for having made that promise. Still, I don’t see why it should bar me from taking any further interest in the private lives of the Carrington family, do you? I think it might be worth while asking Elsa what she knows about this row between Marc and Andrea. There wouldn’t be any harm in that, would there?”
“No harm at all,” Ellen said in her usual agreeable way. “In fact, I’d call it unnatural if you didn’t.”
FOURTEEN
Alan Ferguson arrived on his own a little after six-thirty. He was much as I remembered him, a medium-sized, sand-coloured man, with bony features and a rather defensive manner.
“Good evening,” he said, as I opened the door. “Is Robin back yet?”
“I’m afraid not, but do come in. I don’t suppose he’ll be long.”
“I hope I’m not too early?” he asked, following me into the sitting-room.
“Not a bit. I was expecting you and I feel sure Robin must be on his way, otherwise he’d have let me know. What would you like to drink?”
“Whisky, if you have it, with a dash of water. No ice.”
“A true Scotsman,” I said, handing it to him and thinking how considerate Robin was to give me a clear field for a few minutes. Alan obligingly opened it still wider by asking whether I was working at present.
“I daresay that’s one of those taboo questions, but I ought to confess straight out that I’m no play-goer. My wife was always wild about the theatre, but it’s a year or more now since I set foot in one. Still, always interesting to hear about it from the inside.”
So that gave me the chance to tell him about the scenes we had been doing in Oxford, which in turn led to a description of life at Roakes Common.
“It’s in the hills between Dedley and Storhampton,” I explained. “Do you know that part of the country?”
“Yes, quite well, as it happens. I’ve done one or two jobs in that area and my wife had a cousin who lived not far off. Village called Sowerley. You probably know it. Have I said something wrong?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to gawp at you, but when you said your wife had a cousin who lived at Sowerley, did you mean that your wife no longer had a cousin, or that the cousin has moved somewhere else?”
“I beg your pardon, I phrased it badly. Grammar’s not my strong point. I suppose I should have said that she still has a cousin who still, to the best of my knowledge, lives at Sowerley, but I no longer have a wife. I haven’t made it any better, have I?”
“Not much,” I admitted, thinking that, since the odds on a tiny community like Sowerley containing more than one woman who was related to Alan Ferguson must be on the long side, he was squaring up to his recent bereavement with remarkable fortitude.
“My wife and I are separated.”
“Oh, I see! That never occurred to me. How stupid!”
“Well, you weren’t to know and there’s no need to feel embarrassed. It was a mutual arrangement and we parted a year or two ago when my younger daughter was of an age to take it in her stride. We still meet from time to time, though, usually when she has some financial problem which she can’t cope with on her own. She’s one of those women with no head for business.”
“Not a particularly rare species, but I sometimes suspect that we’re under-rated. Getting someone else to do the hard slog might indicate a very good business sense.”
“Is that what you do?”
“Yes, although I don’t lumber Robin with it. He hasn’t time, for one thing. But tell me about the cousin in Sowerley. I wonder if I’ve met her?”
“Shouldn’t think so. They haven’t been there long and Rosamund spends quite a lot of time away from home. Most of her friends are in Sussex, where they lived before. McGrath, she’s called.”
“No, I haven’t met her.”
“Didn’t think you would have. She’s a rather reserved sort of person, not a great mixer. They’ve no children, which doesn’t help, of course.”
“I should have expected that to provide her with more time for mixing, not less.”
“In a sense, but it does rather set her apart from her own generation. I think she feels that it does.”
“Perhaps they should have adopted some?”
“There was some talk of that at one time. She wanted to, but James, her husband, wasn’t in favour of the idea and it never came to anything.”
“Did you get on well with him?”
“Oh yes, he’s a companionable sort of chap, in his way. He and I always hit it off all right. Used to go away on fishing trips together occasionally, which happens to be something we both enjoyed. It was my wife who disapproved of him. In her defence, I suppose you could say that he’s a rather selfish, self-sufficient type and it doesn’t bother him that they don’t get invited out much by the locals. Probably considers himself a cut above them, anyway.”
“That does sound rather arrogant,” I said, holding out my hand for his empty glass, “but I suppose the Sowerley crowd must seem very tame compared to sophisticated Sussex society. Whereabouts did they live?”
“Horsham way. Marvellous place they had there too. Beats me why he ever wanted to leave.”
This was good news because I also had relatives in that part of Sussex and, one way and another, the conversation was moving along promising lines. So it was particularly annoying, while I was debating how to take it a stage further without appearing over-inquisitive, to be interrupted by the telephone.
Robin was the culprit and his words were: “Did Alan turn up?”
“Yes, ten minutes ago. Do you want to talk to him?”
“No, haven’t time. Something’s come up. Just pass on my apologies, will you, and say I’ll make it up to him some day? And listen, Tessa, I’ll be back in about half an hour, to pick up a suitcase. Be an angel and rake up something for me to eat.”
“Does that mean you’ll be away for the night?”
“At least. Maybe two or three. Can’t stop now, though. See you in half an hour.”
“No need to explain,” Alan said, with one of his rare, attractive smiles, when I had put the receiver back. “I think I caught the gist of it. Sorry to have inflicted myself on you.”
“You’ve done nothing of the kind, and please don’t feel you have to dash away. Tell me some more about these odd-man-out relations of yours.”
It was doomed, of course. The thread was broken and, muttering some excuse about having to make an early start in the morning, he swallowed his whisky and water in two gulps and I was left with twenty-five minutes in which to derive what nourishment I could from the few crumbs of information he had thrown my way.
“And how was Alan? Not put out, I trust?”
“No, he understood perfectly. I imagine it’s one of t
he hazards of his job too.”
“And were you able to glean anything about your missing lady?”
“Not a lot. There were just a couple of oddities which struck me. Have you time to hear?”
“Not now, I’m afraid. I must be off in five minutes.”
“Who are you taking with you?”
“Gilford. He has instructions to bring the car here at eight sharp, so it wouldn’t do to keep him waiting.”
“And that’s all you’re going to tell me?”
“Except for an emergency telephone number. It’s on the pad in the hall. I’ll call you tomorrow, if I have to be away for more than one night.”
“Ring me at Toby’s, then, and leave a message, if I’m not back. I’m working tomorrow.”
“So you are! I’d forgotten. Well, I shan’t be far away. Bye, darling. Take care! Oh, and by the way, don’t forget to watch the nine o’clock news. It’ll tell you as much about what I’m up to as I could myself.”
The third headline related to a story which had been running in the press and on television for several days. I could not understand why Robin should now have a part to play in it, but since it was the only one in the bulletin with criminal associations I paid particular attention as we were briefed on events once again.
On the previous Thursday afternoon in a remote Herefordshire village a seven-year-old boy, the son of a farm worker, had set off on his bicycle after school to ride home for tea, a distance of one and a half miles, and had never been seen again.
Having waited for half an hour past the usual time, the boy’s mother had gone out to look for him, taking the road which led between open fields towards the village and, half way along it, had seen the bicycle, undamaged and propped up against a tree. By the time she got home her husband had returned and, on the advice of the farmer he worked for, he had telephoned the police.
A search was organised, which continued throughout the remaining hours of daylight and was resumed soon after dawn on Friday, reinforced by extra men and police dogs. When darkness fell again there had still been no trace of the boy and house-to-house calls in the village and surrounding countryside had proved equally futile. The same pattern had been repeated on Saturday.