by TP Fielden
‘Looks like you’re going to have a garden party, Hector!’
‘Oh, hello. I’ve been experimenting with dandelion tea but I won’t offer you any, I don’t think I’ve got it right yet.’
‘Are you keeping up with what’s going on?’
‘I have my portable radio, but the signal here only gives me the Third Programme – lots of elegant Elgar and delicious Delibes, but not much news.’
Judy filled in the missing details. ‘So you see, if you keep your head down you’ll be in the clear in a couple of days. We just have one or two things to tie up first of all.’ Meaning, we still have to catch the murderer of Sir Freddy, but I know it wasn’t you.
‘Just one thing I want to ask you,’ she went on. ‘To set my mind at rest.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Before Christmas, you did some research in the public library and were helped out by the two ladies there – Miss Greenway and Miss Atherton.’
‘Yes.’
‘Miss Greenway died, you know.’
‘I did know. Very sad, a nice lady – though I must confess she was not so good with her reference books. Mislabelled, badly indexed, I had the devil of a time finding what I wanted.’
‘She fell off her ladder.’
‘Most unfortunate. I heard about it when I got back from France – I looked in at the library to try to retrieve a carrier bag I’d left but it was all a bit chaotic, they couldn’t find it.’
‘You were in France, then, when she died?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you can prove it?’
‘Of course. D’you want my passport? They stamped it, y’know.’
‘No, that’s all I need to know.’
‘Peculiar question,’ said Sirraway, but just then he caught sight of a mistle thrush skating across the lawn and his thoughts flew away with it.
‘Come on, Terry.’ Miss Dimont swung her bag over her shoulder. ‘Oh, I brought you some more biscuits, Hector. Ratafia this time.’
‘What’s wrong with good old digestives?’ said Terry witheringly as they got back in the Minor. ‘Ratafia, indeed!’
As they drove across the moor the photographer asked – as photographers often do, because nobody ever bothers to give them in-depth briefings – exactly what that was all about. ‘It’s a long drive there and back,’ he said, ‘with nothing to show for it.’
‘I’ll tell you why I had to do it,’ said Judy. ‘This whole saga was spiralling out of control. Two murders in Temple Regis, and beyond them, a death in Knightsbridge twenty-five years ago. Interpol coming after a man who killed someone, we don’t know the circumstances, and the unanswered question about Miss Greenway – did she fall or was she pushed? Is it all one thing? Or many different things?’
‘I’m just the driver. You tell me.’
‘We went to see Sirraway because I was uneasy about Miss Greenway’s death. Was it an accident, as Dr Rudkin decreed? When we saw Sirraway last, I came away convinced he was an innocent enough fellow but there’s something so strange about the man, so peculiar. I woke up this morning convinced that when he went back to collect that carrier bag, he did away with poor Miss Greenway.’
‘And now?’
‘If he says he was in France and can prove it, he’s off the hook. It leaves only one other suspect.’
‘David Renishaw,’ Terry nodded.
‘Was he trying to implicate Sirraway again? Trying to get him arrested, charged with murder – what has he got against the man?’
‘I’ve seen it twice,’ said Terry, ‘the violence. He needs to be found, and quickly.’
‘Well, let’s see what Betty’s come up with while we’ve been away.’ They were almost back in Temple Regis. ‘We’ve got to find him.’
Terry suddenly made a surprise right turn. ‘I just want to try one thing,’ he said. ‘It won’t take a minute.’
He drove the Minor into Yondertown Square, a little redbrick street backing onto Regis Junction Station, and into view came the red front door of Lovely Mary’s cottage.
‘Let’s go and have a quick look,’ said Terry. The way he slipped out of the car reminded her of the way boxers get into the ring – lithe, supple, ready for a fight.
‘He won’t be here,’ said Judy, right behind him, ‘he’ll be in London by now.’
‘I wonder.’
They were walking up to the front door when Terry suddenly swerved off. ‘Round the back,’ he ordered. They went through a side gate and found the back door open.
In the kitchen sat Lovely Mary and David Renishaw. Between them on the table lay a worn-looking pistol.
‘’E’s all right, Terry,’ said Mary, cautiously looking up. ‘’E’s all right. Just a bit upset.’
Terry looked from one to the other and then grinned. ‘David,’ he said, ‘we’re friends, right? I’m going to help you, mate. I’m going to take away that gun.’
Renishaw looked up at the photographer, his eyes full of tears.
‘But David, d’you hear? If you try to do anything to stop me, I’ll knock your block off.’
Renishaw made a movement, but only to reach for a handkerchief. ‘A bit upset,’ repeated Mary, ‘’e’s been telling me all about it, ’aven’t you, David?’
Terry leaned over the table, perhaps a little too menacingly, and Judy stepped forward to give him a nudge as if to say, back off. ‘I’m glad you’re safe, David. All over now.’
‘For you maybe,’ mumbled Renishaw. ‘Not for me. I thought it would make things better, but it hasn’t.’
‘That’s why ’e come back,’ said Lovely Mary. ‘’E was going off to Lunnun, but got to Exeter, turned round and come back. Said ’e didn’t know where to go to now, ’cept Temple Regis. I said ’e could have his old room back. I put some clean sheets on.’
Judy thought before the day was out, other less comfortable accommodation would probably be made available to the ex-reporter – rent-free and with breakfast thrown in – but said nothing. She nudged Terry again and he lifted the pistol nimbly from the table.
‘Will you make some tea, Lovely?’
‘Kettle’s just boiled, maid.’
Judy sat down, took off her glasses and polished them. ‘Terry, you sit too.’ Just as well to have him close to hand.
‘David, you’re very upset and I understand why – I think,’ she said gently. ‘I can see you don’t want to talk much, so I’m going to tell you what I think has happened, and I hope you’ll correct me if I go wrong.’
Renishaw wiped his eyes and looked up as Lovely Mary handed him a cup of tea. True to her name, she smiled and kissed the top of his head.
‘I talked to Interpol in Paris first thing this morning,’ Judy began. ‘They told me they’re on the lookout for a David Ouistreham – your height, age and description – they have a warrant for his arrest for the murder of his wife in Toronto, Canada.’
‘Isn’t me, wasn’t me,’ he said tiredly.
‘Let’s get this straight,’ said Judy. ‘It is you they’re after, and that is your name – your real name? It finally came to me yesterday when the News Chronicle reporter first mentioned it. It was the way he pronounced it which finally put things in place.
‘Then I remembered Bobbety Thurloe talking to me about Mrs Phipps’ friend Pansy. Nobody was sure where she came from, but she was a lady all right,’ she said. ‘She used to say when introduced, I’m Mrs Westerham when I’m in England, as if she had a foreign title she didn’t use here – Westerham sounds almost the same and is easier to spell. Her husband, your father, was Philippe Ouistreham. Am I right so far?’
‘Yes,’ said Renishaw.
‘And Renishaw was her maiden name.’
‘Yes.’
‘Your father was not a concierge at the Palace Hotel, but a racing driver.’
‘Yes.’
‘He relied on her for money to keep his cars going; he otherwise did no work.’
‘I don’t see why this is of interest, but yes.’
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‘Again, early this morning I talked to a friend in Paris who remembered Philippe. Very distinguished, she said, very well known, but not terribly successful in his chosen field.’
Renishaw was staring into his tea. Lovely Mary gave his shoulders a rub and sat down next to him.
‘Now I’m guessing,’ continued Judy, ‘but from the various pieces of information which have come my way it looks like the story goes like this. Your mother despaired of your father ever finding a job which would pay the bills, and when you were twelve she finally left the family home – left you and your father – never to return. She moved to London taking with her what remained of her fortune.
‘She had enough left to buy a small house and keep herself in style. Soon she gravitated to that circle which revolved round the Embassy Club in Mayfair, and because of her exceptional looks and her poise, she was soon taken up by… let’s say, a certain prince.’
‘Wrong. They met in Paris.’
‘Ah. So she knew him when she arrived in London. Very good. For a time everything went well, but the prince had other fish to fry – and that’s when Pansy fell under the spell of Freddy Hungerford. They had an affair and, as was Hungerford’s habit, he started sucking what money she had out of her bank accounts. Within two years she’d lost everything and was bankrupt.’
‘He used her and used her until there was nothing left to use,’ mumbled Renishaw. ‘Then he killed her.’
‘Do you know that?’
‘Yes. No. I don’t know – all the evidence points that way.’
‘David, I’d love to know what evidence you were able to dredge up on a death which took place twenty-five years ago. Because I’ve tried and failed to establish whether Hungerford murdered your mother or whether it was a case of…’ She would not use the word, for fear of it hurting him more.
‘He killed her. I killed him. That’s enough, isn’t it?’ He looked up and the tears had stopped.
‘Tell me, then, what happened after she left home.’
‘My father tried to find her, obviously. Came to London, went to see the police. Went to see my grandparents in Cambridge, but they disapproved of him and his lifestyle and refused to help. Maybe they knew where my mother was and agreed to keep it secret, I don’t know.
‘He is – was – French, and knew nobody in England. She’d changed her name and he couldn’t find her, so he came home and life went on without her. When the war broke out I was still at school, so he sent me off to Canada to live with some cousins. I started college but then went to work on a local newspaper. After the war I came to London and worked for a time, off and on, in Fleet Street.’
‘Then you went back to Canada?’
‘My grandparents both died and left me a little money and I thought I could do better with it over there, so I went to Toronto, met my wife and got married.’
‘Let’s talk about your wife in a moment.’ Terry had got up from the table and had taken a small pocket Leica from his coat and was aiming it at Renishaw. He didn’t seem to notice.
‘So your life went on. Then, suddenly, you decided to come back to England and go in pursuit of Freddy Hungerford – why? Why, after twenty-five years?’
‘You may find this extraordinary,’ said Renishaw, ‘but a couple of years ago I was sitting in the dentist’s waiting room and I picked up a copy of an old magazine – Tatler, I think it was. Years out of date, but that’s the war for you. I opened it up and there was a picture of my mother, all dressed up to the nines, at some society affair in London. The picture caption said her name was Pansy Westerham – no wonder my father couldn’t find her!’
‘What was her name, then, when she was married to him?’
‘Pamela Ouistreham; I have no idea where the Pansy comes from. It was a terrible shock – to see this face you knew so well, but with another name attached to it, in a country far from home, surrounded by people you’ve never heard of.
‘I sat and thought about it. Then I called friends I’d made in Fleet Street during my short time there, and over the next few months they delved into cuttings and picture libraries and put together a portfolio which, for the first time, told me something about my mother’s London life.’
‘That must have been painful, seeing her enjoying herself while you and your father…’
Renishaw wiped his eyes. ‘She was obviously never cut out for motherhood. A woman, it seems, can live her life without her child, but the child without his mother…’
‘What did you learn about her life?’
‘Not much, but one thing I gathered quite quickly – she featured in a lot of society columns and glossy magazines, but when I looked at the informal group shots, time and again somewhere near her was this figure, Freddy Hungerford. Handsome, moustachioed, wealthy-looking. They were careful not to be photographed as a couple, but when you saw that many photos from so many different events, it was obvious that they were an item.’
‘And?’ said Judy. She could see he was ready to unburden himself of the whole story – glad of it, in fact.
‘Again, with the help of my friends I looked into Hungerford. He was married, of course. There were lots of sniping little paragraphs in the gossip columns – he obviously wasn’t much liked even then, except by the ladies. And when you pieced all the cuttings and stories together, a pattern emerged which led me to believe something I was only able to confirm later, when I got my hands on that man Sirraway’s research notes.’
‘Which was?’
‘That Hungerford had made his fortune out of wooing – if that’s the word – rich women.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘By that stage I’d tired of journalism and I was running an outfit called Underdog. It was a very well-intentioned organisation with one simple aim – to help those who couldn’t help themselves. I had enough money from my inheritance to do that and still make ends meet. I just wanted to do something for these people.’
Lovely Mary poured him another cup. ‘You have a good heart, David,’ she said, ‘even if you’re a bit strange.’
‘Wouldn’t you be, Mary? If you lost your mother like that?’
‘I do see that, my dear, I do.’ She reached out and lightly touched his hand.
‘That was at the beginning of last year,’ he went on. ‘At about the same time my wife was killed – and that upset me, greatly. We hadn’t been getting on and the marriage was effectively over, but we still shared the same house. I was away doing my Underdogging in a town called Hamilton, and someone I’d been after on an earlier case came round and beat her up. Her injuries weren’t that bad but she had a weak heart, and that’s what killed her.’
‘Interpol say you killed her, David,’ said Judy quietly.
‘They know I didn’t. I was an hour’s drive away, even though I couldn’t prove it. They had me in for questioning and gave me a very hard time, and I took it badly. Very badly. What with that and discovering about my mother, I must have gone a bit crazy. I packed a bag and left.’
‘Leaving your daughter behind?’
‘Staying with her best friend – they are very good people, they take care of her. I just had to go, I didn’t care where.’
‘How did you get out of the country?’
‘Two passports. My French one is in the name of Ouistreham, the Canadian in the name of Renishaw. I left Canada as Ouistreham – they were looking for Renishaw.’
‘Didn’t take long for Interpol to catch up with you, though. They were practically knocking on your door at Christmas.’
‘Well,’ said Renishaw wryly, ‘it doesn’t exactly take a genius to work out that the “David Renishaw”, Devon journalist, is very similar to “David Renishaw”, ex-journalist, of Toronto. You might say I like living dangerously – I didn’t exactly go out of my way to disappear from view. For goodness’ sake, I had my name on the front page of the Riviera Express most weeks!’
Pushing my own byline out of the way, thought Judy, but now I’m obliged to forgiv
e you.
‘If I’m ever brought to trial for my wife’s death, the evidence will clearly point to who did it – not me. They just didn’t like me hopping it, and wanted to make an example of me.’
‘I think, though,’ replied Miss Dimont, ‘there’s another trial you are going to have to face first.’
‘Yes,’ said Renishaw, and his eyes disappeared into his teacup again. ‘Yes. I came to London and sat alone for a week in a boarding house, looking at the cuttings, looking at the pictures, and it was then I decided I had to see Hungerford. To judge for myself. It didn’t matter whether he murdered her or she committed suicide or it was just a terrible accident. He was responsible, and I had to face him with it.’
‘For once,’ said Judy, ‘you were the underdog.’
‘You could say that, but I didn’t see it that way. I thought I would stand a better chance of getting away with it – whatever it was, I hadn’t made up my mind – if I came down to Temple Regis, his constituency, and disappeared into the woodwork. So I applied to Rhys for a job and he took me on.’
‘Hah! You did all that research,’ said Judy, ‘but you failed to discover he barely ever visited the constituency!’
‘Correct. I got down here and only then found out what an absentee MP he was. But I’d got the job and was rather enjoying the change of scene. And I got the chance to get close to him when he came down for his farewell Christmas party.
‘I saw Sirraway shouting his head off in the crowd about Hungerford and that gave me an idea. One of the people near me said they’d seen him a couple of days in a row in the library, and so I dropped in, hoping to find out something more. That’s when Miss Greenway gave me the carrier bag with Sirraway’s notes.’
‘And you realised then,’ said Judy, ‘that you could pin the murder on him. The dossier he’d created was in itself almost enough to incriminate him – the fact that he’d amassed all those details, that he was so vocal in his opposition to Hungerford. That he was stalking him.’
Renishaw reached out for Mary’s hand. ‘I wasn’t thinking straight. By that time, I knew what had to be done – Hungerford had done nothing but harm in his life, he’d left a trail of destruction in his rise to the top, and it was time to put an end to it. Nothing mattered now except to find the best way to kill Hungerford, then get away. I had a daughter to go home to, you know.’