Troubled Waters

by Elizabeth Lemarchand

  ‘You’ve lived in Woodcombe for about five years haven’t you?’ Pollard asked. ‘So you must know the inhabitants quite well, at any rate by sight. And you must have had an excellent opportunity of studying Edward Tuke’s face, since you were talking together in here for an hour or so that Wednesday evening. Did any resemblance between him and any local resident occur to you?’

  To his surprise James Fordyce suddenly smiled. ‘I’m flattered to see that my mind’s been working on the same lines as a Yard Ace’s,’ he said. ‘The answer’s a categorical no. As you say, I had an excellent opportunity of studying him at close quarters, and no suggestion of any such a resemblance struck me at the time or since.’

  ‘Thanks very much,’ Pollard said, ‘and that really is all... I’m sorry about Bridge Cottage from your personal point of view. You were on the point of buying it, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I was. Fortunately the contracts hadn’t been exchanged. I must say that I was looking forward to a bigger study, but of course this bungalow has its points. It’s quite well built and easy to run, and handy for the bus stop at the road junction for my wife when I’m away with the car on a search. I’ve tried to teach her to drive but she’s hopeless with anything mechanical, so hasn’t a car of her own... Perhaps if you’ll extricate yourself first, Inspector?’

  Pollard squeezed his way out, followed by Toye and James Fordyce himself. Eileen emerged from the kitchen opposite, and the callers were escorted to the front door with formal politeness barely concealing relief.

  ‘Let’s go and have a snack in a Wynford pub,’ Pollard said as they drove off. ‘No point in going all the way back to Littlechester as we’re due at the Kenway-Potters’ at three.’

  ‘What was in your mind when you asked whether Tuke looked like anybody living in Woodcombe?’ Toye asked when they were out on the main road. ‘We know he can’t have been Mrs Kenway-Potter’s illegit?’

  ‘Nothing about Tuke at all, actually. I had to think up something to get us into Fordyce’s study. I wanted to see his filing cabinet and the general lie of the land. Did you notice that the kitchen and study doors were bang opposite? If Fordyce ever did go out leaving papers on his desk or the cabinet unlocked, Mrs F was pretty well bound to notice it — the papers anyway.’

  Toye agreed, admitting that he had missed out on that particular point.

  ‘She’s by no means the fluffy nitwit I expected,’ Pollard said. ‘It shows how misleading it is to form an impression of somebody on the strength of about ten seconds on the blower. Let’s find a large bar in Wynford where we shan’t be noticed, and compare notes in a quiet corner.’

  Half an hour later, comfortably settled and disposing of a satisfactory snack, they pooled their impressions of Eileen Fordyce, agreeing that the conversation they had overheard on arrival was illuminating. Behind the outward immaturity and emotionalism, both probably cultivated to some extent as a useful technique, there was toughness and possibly ruthlessness, the driving force being social ambition.

  ‘Her husband fits in O.K. with the nobs up at the Manor and she doesn’t,’ Toye summed up. ‘That’s the length and breadth of it, and why she’s tearing mad about that cottage going up in smoke.’

  ‘Yes,’ Pollard said thoughtfully. ‘Living on the Kenway-Potters’ doorstep in a classy little place like that would have been a status symbol. And she was very put out at not having known about the Surrey trip after parading her matey relationship with Mrs K-P... Hell hath no fury, etc. You know, I’m beginning to wonder…’

  ‘If she wrote the anonymous letters?’

  ‘Yeah. Let’s apply the time-honoured formula. Motive, to start with. We’ve seen what a driving force acute frustration can be in some of our other cases, haven’t we? She’s got enough intelligence to realise that she isn’t in the same street as her husband intellectually, and she’s been unfortunate enough to land up in a small place where it stands out a mile that she isn’t his equal socially, either. Added to this she’s a strong character with an apparently one-track mind... Are we together so far?’

  ‘Yes,’ Toye said slowly, ‘I’ll go along with all that.’

  ‘It seems to me,’ Pollard pursued, absently gathering crumbs together with a spare fork, ‘that in this particular situation means and opportunity have to be considered together. There would be no difficulty in actually producing the letters. Did you notice some embroidery and a workbox in that sitting room? I’ve seen Jane stencil a pattern on to material. Posting them would be the main problem. She would have to post them herself because the block capitals and bits stuck on the envelopes would attract attention if she asked someone else to do it.’

  Toye pointed out the convenient nearness of the bungalow to the bus stop.

  ‘Yes, I know, but there were eight letters altogether and she doesn’t drive a car. Fordyce doesn’t strike me as the sort of chap who’d be taking his wife into Littlechester for shopping several times a week. And he’d think it odd if she kept on going in on her own by bus. If he was away I’m sure other people would have noticed it, and a few judicious questions might be worthwhile. But none of this really gets to the root of the matter, does it? What sparked her off? If she wrote those letters she must have got on to something connected with Tuke which was a link with Mrs K-P. I simply can’t believe that Mrs K-P would have made her ineffective attempt at suicide unless she knew for sure that the writer had information which she simply couldn’t face coming out. That hypothetical baby by old Tuke seems to be getting more of a possibility, doesn’t it?’

  ‘So we’re back to Fordyce’s study and his filing cabinet, then?’ Toye asked.

  ‘This is it. And to papers left lying about on the desk when he dashed off in a hurry the night Tuke was killed.’ Pollard made an abrupt movement, pushing away fork and crumbs. ‘Look here, Kenway-Potter rang Fordyce at eight, didn’t he, to ask if Tuke was still with him? It’s in the statements that both the Fordyces made to Deeds. Mrs Fordyce answered the phone and her husband took over from her. This looks as though he was working in his study when the call came through, and he’d probably have gone back there to carry on. Kenway-Potter’s second call to say that he’d found Tuke’s body in the river was at about 8.40 p.m. He took it himself, and according to his wife rushed out of the house to go and see if he could do anything to help. This is confirmed by Mrs Rawlings who told us that she heard the bungalow door slam and Fordyce running down the road as she was washing up her supper things. She went on to say — and I think this could be important — that she thought it a bit odd when he didn’t come back as time went on, and went out of her cottage and round to the Fordyces’ back door. She called to ask Mrs Fordyce if she was all right, and she — Mrs F — came downstairs from looking out of the top window. Agreed so far?’

  ‘That’s what she said all right. What we don’t know is how much time had gone on since Mr Fordyce went off.’

  ‘Exactly. Would it have been enough for his wife to have a look at any papers he’d left on his desk? Or possibly to spot that he’d left the key of the filing cabinet in the lock and decide to investigate the Tuke folder? You know, it’s a bit difficult to imagine even the most meticulous bloke stopping to put everything away in a sudden crisis like Tuke’s death. And I think it’s reasonable to suggest that if he had been working when Kenway-Potter rang him the second time, that he’d have been thinking over the data Tuke had given him.’

  ‘Of course,’ Toye pointed out, ‘Fordyce was pretty strong about never leaving information about his clients lying about, and he definitely stated that he hadn’t started on the search Tuke wanted done.’

  ‘A bit over-strong, I thought, about professional ethics re confidential information. I remember making some remark about it when he’d gone. As to whether he’d already started on the search as the result of Tuke’s letters, well, I’m hoping that Hildebrand Robinson may be able to dig up something there.’

  They sat on in silence for several moments. Finally Toye, always cautio
us, admitted that they could be on the right track. ‘But what was the idea of his clamming up — if he did?’ he asked. ‘Had he tumbled to it that his wife had snooped and started up the anonymous letters on the strength of something she’d found out about Mrs Kenway-Potter, and he was trying to do a coverup?’

  ‘Who for?’

  ‘Why, for his wife.’

  ‘Do you know, I’m not a hundred per cent sure about that. Could it have been for Mrs K-P? Has one result of his unfortunate marriage been that he has fallen for her? Nourishes a profoundly secret passion for her, in fact, as he’s undoubtedly a buddy of her husbands.’

  Toye sat staring at him.

  ‘Come on,’ Pollard said, suddenly realising that the bar was almost empty. ‘We shall be chucked out in a minute. Anyway, we’re due at Woodcombe Manor in half an hour.’

  In the car Toye made no attempt to start up the engine.

  ‘There’s one point it would clear up. If Mr Fordyce is in love with Mrs Kenway-Potter, I mean. The Wednesday afternoon, when he took all that time to get along the river bank. They came back from their lunch with friends at half-past three, didn’t they? He might have waited in the trees just to get a glimpse of her.’

  ‘You just aren’t true, old man,’ Pollard told him. ‘Is that the sort of thing you got up to when you were courting Mrs Toye?’

  ‘I won’t say I didn’t make a detour past the house now and again,’ Toye admitted a little coyly as he inserted the ignition key.

  Chapter Eight

  Twenty-four hours after the fire at Bridge Cottage Woodcombe was still showing signs of disorganisation. As Pollard and Toye approached the turning from the direction of Wynford a police car emerged and drove off towards Littlechester. Groups of people were standing about in the village street, and the acrid stench of burning hung in the air. Some obvious newsmen and press photographers were gathered at the gate of the blackened ruin of the cottage, and inside the garden some firemen were conferring with a small group in plain clothes.

  ‘The forensic blokes?’ Pollard queries as they drove past. ‘Insurance people?’

  They were aware of curious eyes following the progress of the Rover as it went past and continued on up the hill towards Woodcombe Manor. As they drove up to the house the golden cocker ran out barking, and Rodney Kenway-Potter appeared at the front door, a hand raised in greeting ... curtain goes lip on Scene One, Pollard thought: landed proprietor greets expected visitors. He’s as buoyant as before, if not more so...

  ‘My wife’s all the better for the change of scene,’ Rodney Kenway-Potter was saying, escorting them across the hall. ‘She’s in here.’

  He led the way into what appeared to be the main reception room of the house, spacious and with fine windows and some good period furniture, but a lived-in room, not a period piece, Pollard thought. He stepped forward to take the hand extended by Amaryllis. He was at once struck by her undeniable good looks. Tall and elegant in build, her head was beautifully poised on her shoulders. While her features were not classical in the strict sense they were well-cut, and her hazel eyes full of vitality. It’s a face full of character, Pollard thought, and she’s gained rather than lost by maturity: time’s mellowed her. He saw that she had made no attempt to camouflage the touches of grey in her auburn hair which she wore short and piled high. She looked tired and rather pale, but at the same time seemed relaxed.

  ‘Do, please, sit down,’ she said to him and to Toye when her husband had introduced them.

  ‘Shall I stay?’ he asked.

  ‘No, darling,’ Amaryllis cut in decisively before Pollard could answer. ‘If three’s a crowd, four would be a public meeting, don’t you think? I’ll call you if I don’t know the answers to Superintendent Pollard’s questions.’

  ‘Right,’ he replied. ‘I’ll be in the study.’

  When the door had closed behind him Amaryllis looked at Pollard.

  ‘I’d like to start this conversation, Superintendent, by apologising for having given you a lot of unnecessary trouble,’ she said, dropping the note of light banter in her previous remarks and dispensing with any preamble. ‘I know that I’ve behaved very foolishly, to say the least of it.’

  He decided to respond with equal directness. ‘What made you decide to try to kill yourself, Mrs Kenway-Potter?’

  ‘I suppose,’ she replied, clasping her hands in her lap, and continuing to meet his gaze, ‘it was the build-up of the anonymous letters on top of the tragedy itself — poor young Edward Tuke’s death. It was so shattering that it happened on our property, and as a direct result of my husband’s invitation to him to come up here for supper that night. I know it was irrational to feel responsible for what happened, but the thought kept coming back that if only the invitation hadn’t been given the boy would still be alive. Do you know that there was a previous fatal accident in the woods six years ago, when a child fell out of a tree and broke his neck?’

  ‘Robin Westbridge? Yes, we know about him. It’s understandable that the second fatality brought back your feelings about the first. May we go on to the anonymous letters now? Had you ever received any before?’

  ‘Never,’ she replied spontaneously. ‘Until all this happened I thought of them — if at all — as the sort of thing that happened to other people.’

  ‘There were five altogether, weren’t there, Mrs Kenway-Potter? What was your reaction to the first one?’

  ‘For the first moment or two I took it for a practical joke in very bad taste, and wondered who would possibly have sent it to me. Then when I’d read it over several times I felt upset and rather frightened. As you know, I burnt all the letters, but I remember the wording perfectly well. It was “Easy for you to slip down and pull up that warning notice, wasn’t it?” It seemed so personally vindictive. And although I’d never before felt nervous about sleeping alone in this house when my husband was away I barricaded myself into my room that night. He had gone up to London for a few days. And I went on doing it until he came back. I’d had a second letter by then, saying that I needn’t hope for a coverup.’

  ‘What I simply can’t understand,’ Pollard said after a pause, ‘is why you didn’t tell your husband about these letters.’

  Amaryllis Kenway-Potter unclasped her hands and sat looking down at her fingers.

  ‘As I said, the first two came while he was away,’ she replied without raising her eyes, ‘so I had plenty of time to think. It stood out a mile that I could have gone down and pulled up the notice without being seen. Between half-past three and half-past four on the day Edward Tuke died, when my husband thought I was resting upstairs, and a bit later, for about three-quarters of an hour from half-past five when he had taken the dog for a walk. That was the time when the writer of the letters thought I did it. The fourth letter said that he — or she — had rung this number just after six and got no answer. It was quite true that somebody rang then. I’d gone out to the garden to get some parsley and heard the telephone ringing, but it had stopped by the time I got back to the house. I began to feel trapped... The fifth letter came on the day we heard that Scotland Yard had taken over the enquiry... I was with my husband in the Ring and Crozier that evening, and you were there... I’d been thinking all day that I was bound to be suspected. Whoever was writing the letters would contact you, and I’d be asked to “help the police with their enquiries” as it’s called. That sort of thing soon gets round, especially in a place like this, and the mud would stick. It would be so appalling for my husband and children. Much the simplest thing for them seemed to be for me to fade out. I suppose I had been coming round to this idea almost from the time the first letter came. That’s why I never told my husband about the letters. I felt I must think things out for myself,’ she concluded, raising her head and looking straight at Pollard.

  Long experience of interviewing persons in connection with serious crime had developed in him a sixth sense where truth and deception were concerned. He knew beyond doubt that the statement he had just b
een listening to incorporated both. What Amaryllis Kenway-Potter had said about her motive for attempting suicide rang true with him. On the other hand the reasoning behind it was not only unconvincing, but impossible to reconcile with her intelligence and the general experience of life of a woman in her position.

  ‘We’ll start with a straight question,’ he said. ‘Did you in fact go down to the footbridge and remove the notice?’

  ‘No,’ she replied this time meeting his eyes directly.

  ‘We’ll go on to the matter of opportunity to do so, then. After you and your husband came home from lunching with your friends, you were both alone for periods of time, and either of you could have removed the notice. Why has somebody picked on you rather than on him?’

  ‘I’ve absolutely no idea,’ Amaryllis replied.

  ‘Please try to think carefully, Mrs Kenway-Potter,’ he said. ‘It sounds melodramatic to ask if you have any enemy in Woodcombe but peaceful-looking villages can harbour the most surprising hostilities.’

  ‘I can only say that I know of nobody who dislikes me so much that they’d try to get me accused of murder. In fact, I don’t know of anybody who really dislikes me. I’ve never found it difficult to work in with people over village affairs, or felt that they thought I was patronising or anything like that if I tried to help anyone in trouble, for instance.’

  Pollard let a few moments pass and switched over to a different approach. ‘There wouldn’t have been much point in pulling up the notice unless you knew for sure that Edward Tuke would try to get back to the Green Man by way of the footbridge, would there? Don’t you think that the police could hardly have failed to realise this?’

  Her answer came so readily that he felt sure that she had foreseen that a need for it would arise. ‘There were plenty of witnesses to my having talked to Edward Tuke in the Green Man that morning. I knew Mrs Rawlings would tell him about the longstone and I could have advised him to go up and see it, and told him that there was a shortcut back to his car if he was pressed for time after seeing Mr Fordyce.’