A Fête Worse Than Death (29 page)

‘Hey,' said Lawrence, seriously alarmed. ‘You can't do that.'

‘I'm sorry, sir,' said Ashley. ‘I just have.'

Haldean looked at the gun on Ashley's desk. ‘Can I touch it?' he asked.

‘Help yourself,' said Ashley, agreeably. He picked up the gun and passed it over to Haldean. ‘We've got all the photographs we need, and I've handled it already. There were six bullets left in the chamber so I unloaded it. The last thing we need is an accident. Neat, isn't it?'

Haldean took the gun thoughtfully in the palm of his hand. A Smith and Wesson seven-shot hand-ejector revolver – a few years old now, by the look of it. It could quite easily be carried in a man's pocket as it only measured six inches or so and didn't weigh much more than half a pound. ‘A .22?' he asked.

‘That's right. And although there's no way of actually proving that it's the same gun that was used on Boscombe and Morton, the bullets are the same type. We haven't had the post-mortem on Colonel Whitfield yet, but it has to be the gun that killed him.'

‘Absolutely,' said Haldean, putting the gun back on the desk. ‘And you're convinced, beyond the teeniest, most exiguous shadow of the scintilla of a doubt, that our Mr Lawrence is the man?'

Ashley sighed and leaned back in his chair, then got up and walked to the window, hitching himself comfortably on to the sill. ‘How certain do you want me to be?' he said after a pause. ‘The evidence is there all right. You can't get round that. The footprints in the barn were too scuffed and confused to make anything of, but Lawrence's fingerprints are on the gun and on the spade too, despite his statement that he hadn't touched them. To be honest, it's the very strength of the evidence which did make me think a bit. If he wanted us to believe Whitfield committed suicide, why on earth didn't he make a better fist of it?'

Haldean drummed a tattoo on the desk. ‘It's damned odd, isn't it? However, don't forget I wasn't meant to be there. It might have looked a jolly sight more convincing if I hadn't been on the spot.'

‘You mean Lawrence was expecting to have more time to fake the evidence?'

‘Yes.' Haldean frowned. ‘He can't have expected to be roughed up the way he was. Maybe he was having a breather before going back into the barn.'

Ashley rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘How about this for an idea? The two men meet, have words and take a swing at each other. Lawrence gets hold of the spade handle and thumps Whitfield with it. Both had obviously been in a fight, so that accounts for that. Lawrence or Whitfield pulls a gun . . . Wait a minute. It'd actually have to be Lawrence's gun, if it's the same one that was used on Boscombe, because we know Whitfield didn't kill Boscombe. Then Lawrence shoots him. Panic-stricken, and in a pretty bad way himself, he quickly makes it look like suicide and lights out to find you waiting for him. He could have been going to clean himself up or stage an accident, maybe a car crash, to account for his injuries. All he'd have to do then is deny ever having been there. But running into you scuppers that option. He wants to stop you finding the body so he invents that thin story about Whitfield making an unprovoked attack and scarpering in the hope you'll take his word for it that Whitfield's not there. Having told you as much, he's got to stick to it, even after you've found the body. He had to risk the fingerprints and it didn't come off. What d'you think of that?'

Haldean shrugged. ‘I don't know. If he'd had time to set up a car crash to make it appear that he'd had an accident on the way to the barn instead of on the way back, it might be quite convincing. At the moment his story's got as many holes in it as a Swiss cheese.'

‘Agreed. He'd have been better off, once he had seen you, to admit to plugging Whitfield and telling you they'd had a fight.'

‘Unless, of course, he was telling me the truth.'

Ashley favoured him with a very long, old-fashioned look. ‘Come off it. He's got his fingerprints on the gun and the spade, no one else was in or near the barn, he's very much the worse for wear and Whitfield's dead body is stuck behind the plough. The only alternative to murder, as he sees it, is suicide, so he makes it look as much like suicide as he can in the hope he'll get away with it.'

‘What does he say happened? Now you've arrested him, I mean.'

‘He says he was telling the unvarnished truth and that's all we're getting. What's eating you?'

‘Nothing, apart from the fact I like him. Having said that, he's a formidable type. I wouldn't like to cross him. By the way, it's a bit irrelevant now, but Marguerite Vayle's story adds up as far as I can tell. Her bike has a new patch on the front wheel which conceals a genuine hole. I know because I took it off. However, there's nothing to say when the patch was applied. “Recently” is a bit too vague in this sort of game.'

Ashley sucked in his cheeks. ‘So you're still on that tack, are you? To be honest, I think you can stop worrying. I can hardly see her cracking Lawrence over the head, shooting Whitfield, then vanishing into the background while you looked round the barn. That is . . . I take it you could see the barn while you were attending to Lawrence?'

‘Oh yes. I'd parked at the bottom of the lane, which, as you know, is out of sight of the barn, but when I heard the shot I ran as fast as I could up to where Lawrence had appeared. No one ran across the road or even out of the door and round the corner of the building. I'm certain of that. Besides, if they had, Lawrence himself would have noticed them. He'd have said if he'd seen anyone. Unless . . .'

‘Unless what?'

‘Unless, perhaps, that someone was Marguerite Vayle,' said Haldean.

Ashley looked at him. ‘What's brought this on? After all, when you thought Miss Vayle was involved you hated the idea. What's the problem?'

Haldean twitched irritably. ‘It's times. From the time of hearing the shot to Lawrence appearing was awfully quick. He'd have had to move like the dickens to put the gun in Whitfield's hand. I don't think he was up to moving that fast.'

‘That's probably why he made such a mess of it. So you think Lawrence could be protecting Miss Vayle?'

‘I don't know.' Haldean shook himself. ‘He cares an awful lot about her, that's obvious. This caper's rotten. You start looking at the ordinary, normal people and paw over their actions and their motives until you can't think straight any more. It's perfectly reasonable that Marguerite should want to hear what Lawrence and Whitfield were saying. It's all too believable that she should have a puncture and be late for their meeting. It's only too easy to say “Prove it.” She can't, of course. We can't prove most of what we say. We simply take it on trust because most people tell the truth, but who the devil knows what that is in a case like this?'

‘I think I've got the truth.' Ashley steepled his fingers, taking in Haldean's strained face. ‘This is getting to you, isn't it? When I spoke to Inspector Rackham about you, he said that if you had a fault, you got too involved. You can't afford to be involved, Haldean. You'd prefer it to be like one of your stories, wouldn't you?' Haldean nodded reluctantly. ‘But it isn't. The victim, the villain – they were figures on a chessboard. And now the figures have come to life and you want to walk away because you don't want to be responsible for hurting one of them.'

‘You're right, damn you.' Haldean got up and moved restlessly about the room. ‘It's a rum thing that I've thoroughly liked all the possible suspects and cordially detested all the victims. I went off Whitfield in a big way after he called me a tame dago. Trying to murder me didn't help, either. I suppose I should make an exception of Morton, but that's only because I didn't know him. He doesn't seem to have been an endearing sort of soul.'

‘And the little group of suspects that we've assembled contains one who can't be such an endearing sort either. Not if they're prepared to take three lives for their own purposes. But I will say this for Miss Vayle. It seems crazy to drag her in when we've got Lawrence on the spot with fingerprints to prove it.'

‘Maybe. Not that, as far as my lacerated feelings are concerned, I'm any happier pinning it on Lawrence. And what about the motive, Ashley? Admittedly he loathed Whitfield, but if he killed him then he must have killed Boscombe and Morton as well. It was the same gun, after all, or the same sort of bullets at least.'

‘Well, surely the motive's obvious. If he cares about Miss Vayle as much as you say he does, then he murdered them because they were blackmailing her.'

‘But he didn't know.'

‘He says he didn't know. He might have guessed what was going on.'

Haldean shook himself in frustration. ‘He might. Oh, to hell with it. Why the blazes didn't I pay more attention to Boscombe that day at the fête? He was full of himself, the little creep, bubbling over with “I know something you don't know” and horribly smug. I suppose that's why I got rid of him as fast as I could, that and him being offensively drunk. Back in the war, you know, he used to adore getting one up on someone. He'd nurse little snippets of scandal to himself and drip them out bit by bit and quite frankly, my heart used to sink when I saw him in that venomous mood. When I saw him at the fête, so damn pleased with himself as if he had something up his sleeve and so –' Haldean broke off and stared blankly at the opposite wall.

‘So what?' prompted Ashley, but Haldean didn't hear him.

‘So horribly smug,' Haldean repeated in a whisper. ‘Smug. That's it.' He looked at Ashley, his eyes bright and his face alert. ‘That's it!' he said in ringing tones. ‘He was so disgustingly smug. He was on to something
new
! D'you know what he said to me? He said
Give a man enough rope
. That's what he said.
That's
the motive. It makes sense. Everything makes sense.' He snatched up his hat. ‘I've got to go to London.'

‘London?' said Ashley, completely bewildered. ‘Whatever for?'

‘I've had an idea but it might take me some time to root it out. Don't bother about me. Just carry on as if nothing had happened.'

‘Oi!' shouted Ashley as Haldean opened the door and raced out of the room. ‘You'll have to tell me a bit more . . .' But Haldean had gone. Minutes later Ashley heard the roar of the Spyker's engine.
Give a man enough rope?
What the devil did that mean? He retreated disconsolately back to his desk.

‘Haldean?' Brigadier Romer-Stuart walked across the lobby of the Belvedere Club. ‘What the dickens are you doing here?'

Haldean smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry to barge in on you like this, Bingo, but it's urgent. It might be, anyway. I called at your rooms and your man told me where you'd be. Are you in the middle of anything?'

‘A fairly tedious dinner. Why?'

‘Good. That it's tedious, I mean. If it's that much of a frost perhaps you won't mind leaving. I need to check some records at the War Office.'

‘At this time of night!' The Brigadier's eyebrows shot up. ‘It's Saturday. You know, the weekend. That's the bit where you don't work, remember? The place is closed until Monday morning. Can't it wait until then?'

‘I'd rather it didn't, Bingo, old man. You see . . .' Haldean hesitated. ‘You see, there's a man in prison.'

Romer-Stuart sighed. ‘Well, I'm very sorry for him, but I don't see why I should skip dinner and watch you leafing through files on the strength of it.'

Haldean grinned. ‘Come on, Bingo. I mean, I know you're here in gilded splendour, quaffing and supping and what-have-youing, but just think how much fun it'll be watching me put in some really hard work.'

‘About as much fun as a wet weekend in Skegness.' The Brigadier looked at Haldean's dark, eager face and wavered. ‘Damned if I know why I'm doing this,' he grumbled. ‘I suppose, although you haven't mentioned it, I do owe you a favour for sorting out that mess bill business. All right. Give me a few minutes.' He disappeared back into the club to re-emerge shortly afterwards with a broad smile. ‘They've just got on to the speeches. I don't mind cutting those. I said that something urgent had come up and I had to get back to the War Office. I could see everyone itching to ask me what it was. The rumours were starting as I left the room. If you hear we've declared another war, ignore it. I hope this is worthwhile.'

‘Now that,' said Haldean, as Romer-Stuart got his coat and hat, ‘I can't honestly say.'

Sir Philip wandered in through the dressing room and sat down on his wife's bed. ‘Have you seen my reading glasses, Alice?'

‘They're round your neck, dear.'

‘What? Oh yes, so they are.' He looked at them absently but made no move to go.

She put down the book she was reading and, sitting up against the pillow, reached out for his hand. ‘Are you worried?'

‘Worried?' Sir Philip gave a snort. ‘I should think I am. I asked Jack outright before he went skittering up to London. “Is Lawrence guilty?” And all he said was, “Wait and see.” I tell you, I don't like it, Alice. How he can even think Hugh Lawrence might have killed Whitfield is more than I can imagine. Why the devil should he? The man's our guest. It's a ridiculous idea. Why . . . I like him, dash it. Why on earth we all just can't accept Whitfield shot himself – although that's bad enough for heaven's sake – I don't know.'

‘I rather think Jack was hoping to get at the truth.'

‘Truth? I know the truth and so should he. As for these other two characters who died, I'd be glad if someone could tell me what they're supposed to do with Lawrence. You mark my words, it'll turn out that they shot themselves as well. Arresting an innocent man! I don't know what the country's coming to.'