Troubled Waters

by Elizabeth Lemarchand

  ‘I can see you’re right,’ Mrs Nelson said after a pause. She raised her head and looked directly at Pollard. ‘Only don’t let his memory be shamed. Not if you can help it, will you? And if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just fetch something you ought to see.’

  Toye got up quickly and opened the door for her. He stood by it, exchanging a long interrogative look with Pollard. There were footsteps overhead, and the sound of a cupboard opening. A pause followed. Finally footsteps came down the stairs and Mrs Nelson rejoined them. She handed Pollard an envelope without speaking. He took out a familiar dark blue British passport and opened it.

  ‘I see this passport was issued in 1938 to Henry Benchley,’ he said, making the statement sound interrogative.

  ‘That’s right,’ she replied. ‘When I got found to sorting out Johnny’s things after he’d gone, I found it with his birth certificate and other papers. But his own passport wasn’t there: only Harry Benchley’s.’

  ‘Your first husband had a civilian passport then?’ Pollard asked.

  ‘Yes, he did. I’d been on holiday to France before I met him, and he took one out so we could have a week’s honeymoon in Switzerland. In April 1939, that was. It was Mr and Mrs Tuke’s wedding present.’

  ‘I rather think,’ Pollard said gently, ‘that you are going to tell me that your first husband exchanged passports with Henry Benchley, for some reason?’

  She nodded without speaking.

  ‘Was this Henry Benchley in some trouble which made him anxious to get out of the country before the police caught up on him?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Bit by bit the story came out. John Frederick Tuke and Henry Benchley were first cousins, born within days of each other. Benchley had been wild from the start: always in trouble at school, and then over girls and betting. A good-looker with a way with him. He’d joined up when war broke out and deserted after a couple of years. The family gave out that he was missing. Then in the autumn of 1947 he’d suddenly turned up at the Thomas Tukes’ home, told them that he’d married a girl with money coming to her, but wanted to be able to fade out if the police ever tracked him down as a deserter. A passport in somebody else’s name would be just the ticket.

  ‘Johnny knew he was dying,’ Mrs Nelson said, staring past Pollard out of the window. ‘He’d always had a soft spot for Harry, and so they changed over passports. There was quite a likeness, you see. I didn’t know it was done until Johnny’d gone.’

  ‘I don’t think,’ Pollard reassured her, ‘that you need worry at all about this information coming out. It will have to go into my report, but that will be a confidential document. But I want you to let me have this passport of Henry Benchley for a time. Inspector Toye will give you a receipt for it, and it will be returned to you later on.’

  ‘I don’t want it back,’ she said vehemently. ‘It mustn’t ever come to the house. I’ve never told anybody about it up to now — not even Dick, dearly though I love him.’

  ‘All right, Mrs Nelson. Inspector Toye will make out a brief statement for you to sign... Did you ever hear any more of Henry Benchley?’

  ‘Never. I remember Johnny saying he thought he’d get over to America and just disappear. It’s a great big country, isn’t it? I often wonder what happened to the poor girl he married. If there was such a person, of course. I never believed half he said. But when I read that Edward Tuke was the son of a man who’d emigrated to America in 1948 and married an American girl, that passport business kept coming back to my mind.’

  On returning to the police headquarters at Marsden Pollard called his office at the Yard briefly but urgently. He then succeeded after some delay in contacting Hildebrand Robinson at St Catherine’s house.

  ‘Robinson,’ came the familiar dry voice. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘You can scrub the pursuit of another Tuke in the early nineteen-twenty birth registrations,’ Pollard told him. ‘I’ve beaten you to it. In fairness I’ll admit you put me on the right track by unearthing Paul George Tuke of Waldenhurst. Details when we meet.’

  ‘Do I transfer my efforts to Amaryllis Hartley and her alleged lapse from virtue?’

  ‘Never mind about that. Just try to find out if she married a Henry Benchley between — say, early 1946 and late 1947.’

  ‘There seems to have been a variety of options open to the lady. Any idea where they might have got spliced.’

  ‘No evidence at the moment. London seems the most probable venue, I think. A London registry office.’

  ‘Well, let me know if you beat me to this one, too. Where are you speaking from?’

  ‘Marsden. We shall be going down to Littlechester tomorrow. You can always get on to me through the Yard. Good hunting.’

  Hildebrand Robinson reciprocated and rang off.

  After a further exchange of courtesies and after expressing renewed thanks to his Marsden hosts, Pollard boarded another police car with Toye en route for the railway station. They arrived at the Yard soon after seven. Pollard’s secretary handed him a message. A call at the Faculty Office in Westminster had produced the information that on the previous Monday a Special Marriage Licence had been issued to Rodney Silvester Kenway-Potter, bachelor, of Woodcombe Manor, Woodcombe, Littlechester, and Amaryllis Eleanor Tuke, widow, of the same address. Further enquiries had established that the couple had been married at a central London registry office on the following day.

  ‘Bigamy,’ Toye said disapprovingly after reading this information. ‘I’ll admit I never thought of that one.’

  ‘Cheer up,’ Pollard replied. ‘I didn’t either. But at least we’ve managed to get the info before all these places close down for the weekend.’

  Chapter Ten

  Toye was still in a state of outraged astonishment as they drove down to Littlechester on the following morning.

  ‘I’d never have believed it of her,’ he said, referring to Amaryllis Kenway-Potter. ‘Not somebody of her sort.’

  ‘You’ve got to think back, old man,’ Pollard reminded him. ‘She’s fifty-one. Born in 1929. Eighteen years old in 1947, and a damn good-looking girl. Too young to have been in the women’s services and browned off by a dreary wartime adolescence, probably. I can remember a good deal of kicking over the traces by her age group, jobs and flats in London and whatever.’

  ‘It didn’t usually end in marriage,’ Toye observed.

  ‘True. But according to Mrs Nelson, Benchley was the attractive adventurer type and thought he was on to a good thing financially... I suppose you realise that we’re not much nearer to being able to charge either or both of the K-Ps?’

  ‘Bigamy’s a much stronger motive than a bastard kid.’

  ‘That’s beyond dispute. And so’s the fact that either of them could have chucked that ruddy notice into the river. But I doubt if we can ever produce satisfactory proof of their knowing that young Tuke would come down that way and try to cut across the footbridge.’

  After they had driven for some time in silent meditation Toye asked what the programme was.

  ‘We confront the K-Ps this afternoon and see if we can startle anything out of them. I doubt it. And there’s always the possibility that after all there’s nothing to startle. If we draw a blank we beaver away at finding someone who saw either of them acting suspiciously between 3.30 and 6.30 p.m. on April the twenty-third, or alternatively, can clear them. As a last resort we go back to the Fordyces, the Wonnacotts, Mrs Rawlings and Bolling, keeping a weather eye open for A.N. Other whom we’ve overlooked altogether. Take heart, though. We’ll fortify ourselves with a good lunch first.’

  Toye declined to rise to this proffered crumb of comfort. ‘You’re spot on about the chance of startling the K-Ps into giving themselves away,’ he said, ‘now that they’ve been sharp enough to get themselves legally married. They’ll know that nothing that either of ’em says can be used in evidence to incriminate the other. Nice work, but why didn’t they do it before, for heaven’s sake? Anything might have gone wrong,
having to rush it like that. It’s nearly two months since Edward Tuke’s death.’

  ‘I’ll hazard a guess that Mrs K-P came clean in the nursing home, in the emotive atmosphere of the failed suicide. One can see that they’re still in love, and he’s an astute cool-headed chap who knows the ropes, and he put his mind to getting things fixed quickly in case we got wise to the situation and started putting an oar in. After all, they had other reasons for wanting to legalise the situation: legitimising their children, for one. And there’s a lot of property to be disposed of ultimately.’

  ‘What’ll happen to her?’ Toye asked. ‘Over the bigamy, I mean?’

  ‘My guess is, nothing, unless she’s found guilty of murder or of being an accessory. It will be referred to the highest levels, of course, but Henry Benchley’s been dead for nearly thirty years and I can’t visualise her being prosecuted after all this time, other things being equal.’

  ‘You don’t believe they did the job, do you?’ Toye said suddenly some minutes later, his tone faintly accusatory.

  ‘I suppose I’d better admit to a hunch that they didn’t, damn your eyes,’ Pollard replied rather reluctantly. ‘But for God’s sake don’t ask me who did.’

  An hour later, when they arrived at Littlechester police station, they found that the investigation into the fire at Bridge Cottage and Leonard Bolling’s death seemed to be heading for stalemate. The forensic experts had confirmed their original theory of how the fire had been started and then spread with horrifying rapidity after the explosion of the cylinder of bottled gas. Every man, woman and child over eight years of age in Woodcombe had been questioned about his or her movements during the fire. The general confusion had been such, however, that people had little or no clear recollection of whom they had seen about or at what stage.

  ‘The one single bit of information we got that might lead to something came from one of our Littlechester firemen,’ Inspector Deeds said. ‘Our engine didn’t get to Woodcombe until about quarter of an hour after Wynford’s. As it came down the hill to Upper Bridge one of the chaps says he thought he got a glimpse of somebody crouching down behind the wall on the north side of the stream, just by the stile where you get on to the path along the bank. Couldn’t see if it was a man or a woman, only that it looked like a human being caught in the headlights for a split second. We went out there and it would have been perfectly possible to see over the wall: a fire engine’s crew are mounted quite high. We’ve been over the spot with a toothcomb but there wasn’t a single recognisable trace of anybody having hidden there. The paraffin used must’ve been brought in a container of sorts but it hasn’t turned up. We’ve alerted the refuse collectors and the water bailiffs downstream, but no luck so far.’

  ‘If the fireman actually did see somebody at the bridge the timing’s worth considering, don’t you feel?’ Pollard said. ‘Think yourself into the arsonist’s shoes. You get everything lined up and then stand clear to make sure it’s all going according to plan. Then quite suddenly there’s a noise like an atom bomb exploding and obviously the whole village will be around in minutes. What would be your best escape route?’

  ‘Close to the hedge on the Marycott road, and in at the Manor gates and sharp left into the woods. Keep under cover in the trees and head for the stile at Upper Bridge,’ Inspector Deeds replied without hesitation.

  ‘That’s what I’d have done,’ Pollard agreed, ‘with the long term aim of unobtrusively joining the crowd in the village street from behind, so to speak. But I’d know that the Wynford fire engine would be along, followed by the Littlechester one, and police cars and ambulances and whatever, so I’d go to ground as near the main road as I dared. All the same, I think I’d have made a dash for it sooner than X did. You can hear a car coming a long way off at that hour... Care to hear what we’ve been unearthing?’

  After an initially stunned reaction to Pollard’s narrative Superintendent Newman and Inspector Deeds became increasingly pessimistic. In their view the Kenway-Potters hasty marriage by special licence could only mean one thing: an attempt to make it more difficult for the police to make a convincing case against them of having engineered Edward Tuke’s death.

  ‘Not that it was ever plain sailing,’ Superintendent Newman observed. ‘You’d have to establish beyond reasonable doubt that they knew Tuke was going up to see the blasted stone when he did.’

  ‘Well,’ Pollard said, ‘under the circumstances one can’t rule out the possibility that they’re both completely innocent. All I can say is if you get any further with the fireman’s alleged human shape lurking at Upper Bridge on the night of the fire, you can’t let us in on it too quickly. Without any real evidence to go on I can’t help feeling convinced that there’s a link between the two deaths... Come on, Toye. We’d better head for Woodcombe Manor and confront the Kenway-Potters.’

  They drove through the village at half-past two getting a few curious stares from children enjoying their Saturday holiday, but otherwise the place was drowsing after the midday meal. Notices had been erected warning the public to keep out of the ruins of Bridge Cottage, and some demolition had been carried out in the interests of safety. Pollard wondered briefly if Rodney Kenway-Potter would succeed in buying back the little property and obliterating all traces of Leonard Bolling’s occupancy. The Rover turned in at the Manor gates and finally drew up at the front door. This was standing open, and a burst of barking came from inside the house. As Pollard and Toye reached the threshold Rodney Kenway-Potter came out of his study, shielding his eyes from the bright light at the door with his hand.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Scotland Yard. Come in... All right, Drogo boy. Down.’

  As on their first visit to the Manor the French windows of the study were wide open. An armchair was drawn up to them, and a copy of The Times had been thrown down on the floor. Once again Toye helped to bring two more chairs forward.

  ‘I haven’t seen you around just lately,’ Rodney Kenway-Potter remarked conversationally when they were all three seated.

  Pollard very seldom decided in advance on an opening gambit when about to interview a potential suspect. He seized the opportunity now offered to him.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘We’ve been making enquiries in various places up and down the country and in London... Mr Kenway-Potter, when did you first know that you and Mrs Kenway-Potter weren’t legally married?’

  ‘Last March. About a month before young Tuke turned up.’

  The reply was so unexpected that Pollard was taken aback and had to make a swift effort to retain control of the conversation.

  ‘How did you come to know about it?’

  ‘By becoming interested in my family history through my friendship with Mr Fordyce, who is, as you know, a professional genealogist. He told me about sources of information, and how to collect and record facts and so on. We were a Lancashire family originally, mill owners who did pretty well out of American cotton. My great-grandfather seems to have felt it was time to move up a bit in the social scale, sold out his interests and bought this estate, where we’ve been ever since. I’ve collected all the gen back to my great-great-grandfather who laid the foundations of the family fortunes, so to speak, and found that one of his daughters had married a man called Hartley, and taken off for the south and higher things a generation ahead of our branch. My wife’s maiden name was Hartley, so I thought I would work back and see if she was a distant cousin, which she turned out to be. The Hartleys seem to have been a prolific lot, and it was when I was searching in the marriage registrations of a London district I caught sight of my wife’s unusual Christian name.’ At this point Rodney Kenway-Potter paused in what had been a relaxed and measured statement.

  ‘Go on, please,’ Pollard told him.

  ‘The name led me to the registration of her marriage in December 1947 to John Frederick Tuke.’

  ‘I’m sorry to have to press you on this subject,’ Pollard said, ‘but what further steps did you take?’

  ‘I made a sea
rch in the records of divorces which had taken place between January 1948 and July 1950, the latter being the date of my own marriage with Amaryllis.’

  ‘And had a divorce taken place between her and George Thomas Tuke?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you then tell Mrs Kenway-Potter, as she now legally is, that you knew of her first marriage?’

  ‘Not then.’

  ‘But the subject must have been discussed between you both, since you were married by special licence on Tuesday of this week?’

  ‘Quite.’ Rodney Kenway-Potter folded his arms and looked Pollard straight in the face. ‘You see, she told me about it herself. In the nursing home last week, after she had tried to kill herself. And I then told her that I already knew about her first marriage... Look here, Chief Superintendent, you strike me as a human being as well as a C.I.D. ace. Surely you see that the only way we could weather the situation was by convincing each other of our mutual love and trust? After the trauma of Edward Tuke’s appearance and proposed investigation into his family history, and still more after his death, I felt certain from her state of tension that she was going to tell me about her first marriage. The mistake I made — if it was a mistake as things turned out — was letting things drift on to danger point.’

  ‘Yes, I do see,’ Pollard said after a few moments of silence, wondering at the same time if Toye would be utterly appalled at this somewhat unprofessional reaction. ‘But I also have my professional duty to consider.’

  ‘Of course you have. And we both realise that now my wife’s first marriage has come out we can be seen to have had a strong motive for getting rid of young Tuke. We —’ Rodney Kenway-Potter broke off at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. The door opened and Amaryllis came into the room.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ she said, as the three men rose formally to their feet. ‘I saw your car outside, Chief Superintendent, and felt I ought to be in on this meeting with my husband... Thank you,’ she added as Toye brought up another chair. As she sat down Pollard was aware that she was far more relaxed than when he had interviewed her before.