by Eric Brown
‘But who hated him so much they would have …?’ Nancy gestured feebly, unable to say murdered him.
Maria wondered when Xandra’s love for her husband had turned to apathy, and then to the cold dispassion that allowed her to be so analytical so soon after his death.
Was the woman aware that her husband had been having an affair with his ex-wife? That, Maria thought, might explain her behaviour.
‘Believe me,’ Xandra said, ‘people were lining up to have a pot-shot at Edwin. Many would have drawn the line at murder, of course, but it would have taken only one soul whom my husband had pushed so far that they snapped, and perhaps in anger sought their revenge.’
She finished her brandy and looked across the room to the bottle on the table beside the kettle.
‘You can go now,’ she said.
The girl stood. ‘Do you need anything?’
‘Not at the moment, thank you, but perhaps a little lunch at noon, as I missed breakfast. Toast will suffice.’
The girl stood and moved to the table in the corner, clearly intending to take the brandy bottle, but Xandra said, ‘You can leave that, thank you, Nancy. That will be all.’
The girl bit her lip, then moved to the door. Maria followed her from the room.
‘She’s not rational,’ Nancy said as she pulled the door shut. She stared at Maria. ‘I wonder … Do you think she found out about my uncle seeing Deirdre? Perhaps that’s why she hates him and is saying awful things about him.’
They moved along the landing to the stairs, the girl lost in thought. ‘I know my uncle was a difficult man to like,’ she murmured, ‘but he wasn’t all those things she said he was.’
They came to the foot of the stairs. Roy Vickers appeared, clutching a bottle of whisky and two glasses.
Nancy crossed the hall and held him. As Maria watched, she wondered at their sudden intimacy. Before Saturday evening, when they had dined at Yew Tree Cottage, they had apparently met only briefly.
Apparently, she thought, smiling to herself.
She noticed movement to her left and turned to see Randall Robertshaw leaning against the open door of the library. He pushed himself upright with an effort and staggered along the hall, disappearing from sight.
Alarmed, Vickers said, ‘Was that …?’
Nancy stroked his cheek. ‘Ignore him,’ she said.
Randall reappeared, weaving his way along the corridor. He stopped at the far end of the hallway, staring at them with an ugly expression on his lean face.
He was carrying a double-barrelled shotgun.
He took a step further into the hall and raised the gun at the couple.
Maria stepped forward, raising her hand. ‘Randall …’
‘Stop right where you are!’ he cried, swinging the gun so that it pointed directly at her chest.
She halted, her pulse pounding.
Randall nodded, smiling his satisfaction, and brought the weapon to bear on Vickers and Nancy.
‘Now get the hell out of here, Vickers, or you’ll end up as dead as my father!’
THIRTEEN
‘Let’s get this straight,’ Detective Inspector Montgomery said. ‘You say Professor Robertshaw here was knocking off his ex-wife?’
‘That’s one way of putting it, yes,’ Langham said.
‘You have this on good authority?’
‘My wife saw the professor and Deirdre dining together in the Midland Hotel on Monday, and Professor Robertshaw admitted it to me yesterday. According to Nancy, the professor’s niece, it’s been going on for a few months.’
‘I understand the professor was married?’
‘That’s right.’ He told Montgomery about Xandra’s illness. ‘She had tuberculosis a few years ago and was badly affected by the treatment. She’s largely bedridden and hardly gets out.’
Montgomery lit another cigarette and stared down at the corpse. ‘So the professor sought solace in the arms of his former wife,’ he grunted. ‘Do you know if this woman, this Deirdre, ever remarried?’
‘According to the professor, she left him for someone else twenty years ago—’
‘Open-and-shut case, then,’ Montgomery interrupted. ‘Jealous hubby doesn’t like his wife playing fast and loose with a previous husband, and bang.’
‘The only flaw in that argument,’ Langham said, ‘is that Deirdre’s second husband died a few years ago.’
‘Dammit,’ Montgomery said. ‘How about this, then – Xandra finds out about the professor and Deirdre, takes exception and shoots him?’
‘Or it might be any of another dozen people,’ Langham said. ‘The professor had a way of annoying people. He was a cantankerous old duffer who assumed he was always in the right.’
‘How well did you know him?’
‘Not that well at all. He called me in because he wanted my professional help.’
‘He was writing a book?’
‘No, he was being blackmailed.’
Montgomery stroked his straggling moustache. ‘Right. This is getting interesting.’
Langham explained about the first note, then the arrival of the second missive along with the leather valise. ‘I advised him to see you chaps, but he wasn’t having any of it.’
‘No, you’d be surprised how many people on the end of blackmail threats prefer to handle it themselves. Often with dire consequences. What happened?’
‘When he elected not to go to the police, I said he should follow the blackmailer’s instructions and I’d stake out the drop-off point.’
He went on to describe, not without misgivings, the events of the previous day in the park.
His fears that Montgomery would enjoy his failure were not without grounds. Wide-eyed, the little detective stared at him. ‘A dog?’ he said. ‘A bleeding dog snatched the valise and gave you the slip?’
‘That’s the long and short of it, yes.’
‘Oh, that’s ripe! That’s precious! I can just picture the scene. Dog with case in its jaw and desperate man in pursuit! You must have looked a rare sight, Langham! Were there witnesses?’
‘Not that I noticed. It was a raw day.’
‘So you say this mutt jumped into a car, a Ford Pop, and off it shot?’
‘I gave chase, but it was too late. They gave me the slip to the south of the town.’
‘And you returned home with your tail between your legs? Sorry. It’s just the image … Wait till I tell the boys back at the station!’
‘If you could omit my name from the story, Montgomery, I’d be grateful.’
‘That depends on how much I can rely on you in this case. It sounds as if it might be a bit more involved than I first thought.’
‘It certainly looks that way,’ Langham agreed. ‘I’ll give you any assistance I can, of course.’
‘Good man,’ Montgomery said. ‘Jesus, but it’s perishing.’ He moved around the stone so that they were in its lee, though the wind still managed to find them.
‘So someone knows the old prof is knocking off his ex and decides to extract the old spondulicks, starting high. A hundred nicker, eh? They meant business. Any ideas?’
Langham shook his head. ‘I was hoping the blackmailer would be in touch, so I could have another crack at him.’
‘Him and his dog?’
‘Touché.’ Langham smiled. ‘But the chances are they wouldn’t pull the trick with the dog twice.’
Montgomery drew on his cigarette and regarded its glowing tip. ‘So Robertshaw was being blackmailed, then he turns up dead. Bit of a coincidence if they aren’t connected, but I doubt the blackmailer would stiff his source of income.’
‘Agreed,’ Langham said.
‘Righty-ho,’ Montgomery said, ‘let’s go inside and get the questioning out of the way.’
Montgomery signalled to his detective sergeant, a portly man almost twice the inspector’s size, and Langham accompanied them around the side of the house. They crunched across the snow-covered gravel and mounted the steps to the front door. A
s they entered the manor, Montgomery stopped in his tracks and swore to himself, and Langham saw what had brought him up short.
Randall Robertshaw stood at the far end of the hallway, directing a double-barrelled shotgun at Roy Vickers; Nancy and Maria stood to one side, holding on to each other.
Roy Vickers spread his hands placatingly, smiling at Randall, and took a step forward.
‘I said get out or I’ll shoot!’ Randall exclaimed.
Langham expected Montgomery to show caution and attempt to cajole Randall into relinquishing his weapon, but the little detective had other ideas.
As Langham watched, Montgomery walked straight up to the young man, his hand outstretched. ‘Hand it over, sonny. There’s a good chap. We’ll have no more killings around here, thank you very much.’
Randall blinked, non-plussed by the policeman’s far from cowed demeanour. Montgomery gripped the shotgun by its barrel, directed it at the floor, then eased the weapon from Randall’s grip.
He turned to the open front door and called out, ‘Constable Grant. Here, if you please!’
The uniformed bobby rushed in, and Montgomery said, ‘Lock this away somewhere safe, would you? As for you,’ he went on, addressing the now contrite Randall, ‘a little word or two in your shell-like. Into the library, if you would, laddie.’
Randall slipped meekly into the library, and Langham crossed to Maria, Nancy and Roy Vickers. The trio looked shaken, and Langham advised them to make themselves a hot drink. ‘Montgomery will need a statement from you, Nancy, and he might even want to have a word with you, Roy. I’d hang about if I were you.’
‘I’ll take them to the kitchen,’ Maria said, leading Nancy and Vickers along the corridor.
Montgomery joined Langham. ‘Randall’s had a drink or two – best time to catch ’em out. I spoke to him earlier: now to see if his story tallies when he has a drink inside him.’
‘Mind if I sit in?’
‘Don’t see why I should mind, Langham; you’ve been helpful so far.’
Langham followed Montgomery and the detective sergeant into the library, and Montgomery closed the door behind them.
Randall Robertshaw was in the process of pouring himself another brandy with an unsteady hand; Montgomery didn’t stop him.
The detective pulled up three chairs, placed them before Randall, and they sat down. Montgomery’s detective sergeant took out his notebook and pencil, and Langham followed suit.
‘So you say you discovered the body around five?’ Montgomery began. ‘You were walking on the other side of the river, and you looked across and saw your father.’
‘Didn’t know it was Pater then,’ Randall said. He slumped in his seat, the brandy glass clutched in his right hand. ‘And it wasn’t five. Nearer six.’
‘I know this isn’t easy, sonny. But bear with me. We’re on your side. We want to clear this up as soon as possible.’
The young man blinked. ‘Clear it up?’
‘Work out exactly what happened out there,’ Montgomery went on.
‘What happened?’ Randall shook his head. ‘My father took his service revolver from his desk, went out to his beloved bloody standing stone and blew his brains out. That’s what happened.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Montgomery said, exhibiting a solicitude Langham had assumed was beyond the usually blunt detective. ‘I’m truly sorry, but I must inform you that your father didn’t take his own life. He was murdered.’
Randall blinked again, then said, ‘Murdered?’
Montgomery allowed time for Randall to process the fact, then went on, ‘Were you aware that your father was having an affair?’
Randall was silent for a time, staring down at his drink and blinking. At last, he said, ‘Yes. Yes, I was. I … I overheard him on the phone a while ago, arranging to meet someone.’
‘Do you know who the woman was?’
He shook his head. ‘No, and I didn’t want to know. It was sickening enough that I knew he was … he was doing this to Mother. I certainly wasn’t interested in learning the identity of the blasted woman.’
‘Was your father aware that you knew? Did you have it out with him?’
‘Good God, no.’ Randall gave a mirthless laugh at the very thought. ‘How could I begin to broach something like that with him? He wouldn’t have countenanced my interference.’ He shook his head and waved a vague hand. ‘We didn’t discuss emotions,’ he finished.
‘How would you describe your relationship with your father?’
‘Strained might be the best word to use. We didn’t see eye to eye on many things. And … and when my wife left me, and I came to stay here … he seemed to see that as my failure.’
Montgomery made a note of this, then asked, ‘Now, I understand your mother is seriously ill.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And did your father care for her?’
‘No, he left that to my cousin, Nancy. Pater didn’t lift a finger in that regard. Their … their marriage wasn’t successful, as you might have surmised. They led what amounted to separate lives.’
‘Just to set the record straight, and to allow me to get a picture of what happened here last night, can you account for your whereabouts and movements between the times of eight o’clock and midnight?’
Randall took a sip of brandy, pursed his lips as if considering, then nodded. ‘Yes, I can. As a matter of fact, I was up in Bury. I was with my uncle, Doctor Spencer Robertshaw, who, as it happens, is treating my mother.’
‘And his address?’
‘The Willows, London Road. He has a flat above his surgery.’
Langham made a note of the address for future reference.
‘How long did you spend with your uncle?’ Montgomery asked.
Randall considered the question. ‘I arrived around six. We had dinner, and for the rest of the evening we discussed business. It was close to half past twelve when I left, and almost one by the time I got back here.’
‘You discussed business?’
‘That’s right. My uncle asked if I’d care to run the financial side of things at the Willows. We were discussing what the post would entail.’
‘And did you accept the position?’
‘I said I’d give it my serious consideration. That’s why I couldn’t sleep last night – and why I got up early and went for a long walk, to think through the offer.’
‘I see,’ Montgomery said, making extensive notes. ‘And you’re absolutely certain of those times, are you? You were at the Willows from six until approximately half past twelve?’
‘Absolutely,’ Randall said, ‘and my uncle will be able to corroborate the fact, if you’d care to ask him.’
Montgomery said, ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Robertshaw. Now, would you kindly inform your mother that I’d like a word?’
The young man climbed to his feet, reached out and took the brandy bottle, then made for the door.
‘Oh, one more thing before you go,’ Montgomery called over his shoulder, smiling to himself, ‘don’t leave the area before informing me of your intention to do so, if you’d be so kind. And be very careful about waving firearms around in future. Because the next time I catch you at it, I’ll be far from lenient. Understood?’
‘Perfectly, Inspector,’ Randall said, and slammed the door behind him as he left the room.
Montgomery laughed. ‘Uppity little snob,’ he said. ‘What did you make of that, Langham?’
‘Well, his alibi seems watertight – if his uncle can confirm it, of course.’
‘So it seems,’ Montgomery said. He looked at Langham. ‘He mentioned that his wife left him. Do you happen to know why?’
Langham nodded. ‘Apparently, she walked out when she found out he’d been unfaithful.’
Montgomery grunted. ‘Like father, like son, eh?’
The door opened and Xandra Robertshaw entered the room, striking in a yellow silk trouser suit. She appeared stick-thin, pale and haggard. She had applied make-up, perhaps in
a bid to give her face some colour. All the eyeshadow and lipstick succeeded in achieving, however, was to highlight her gaunt cheekbones and sunken eyes.
She seated herself on the chair her son had recently vacated and crossed her legs. ‘I would appreciate it if you could confirm whether or not my husband was in fact murdered?’
Montgomery exchanged a glance with his detective sergeant, then said, ‘What makes you think—?’
‘As I’ve just told Nancy and your charming wife’ – Xandra glanced at Langham – ‘my husband was the last person in the world who’d take his own life. He was too much of an egotist for that.’
‘Is that your only reason to suspect he was murdered?’
‘Inspector, I knew the man intimately. He loved his life too much; he loved his hobbies and interests too much to relinquish them in such a way. He couldn’t give a tinker’s damn about anyone else – only himself. He was not the type to put so violent an end to his pleasures.’
Montgomery nodded, taking his time. ‘And were you aware that your husband was having an affair, Mrs Robertshaw?’
Her poise faltered briefly. ‘I … Yes, I suspected as much.’
‘But you didn’t confront him with your suspicions?’
‘No, I did not.’
‘And might I ask why not?’
She tipped her head slightly, considering. ‘Perhaps because I didn’t give a damn what he might have been up to, Inspector.’
‘I take it that your relationship with your late husband was far from satisfactory?’
She gave him a venomous smile. ‘You take it correctly, Inspector.’
Montgomery made a note of this.
‘Now … I appreciate that this is a delicate question … but I understand that you suffered from TB, and that the treatment, though successful, had unforeseen consequences?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘And the prognosis, if I might ask?’
‘Touch and go, I think the saying is. I might die in a matter of months, or I might hang on for ages. But I’ve been ill now for years; one learns to live with the impending sentence of death.’
‘And you’re under the care of your husband’s brother, Doctor Spencer Robertshaw?’