A Fête Worse Than Death (33 page)

‘Innocent of what?'

‘Well, everything. The spying, the murders – everything.'

‘It doesn't prove anything of the sort.' Haldean pulled deeply at his cigarette. ‘Ashley doesn't believe a word of this, by the way. He thinks I'm clutching at straws. He argues that if Whitfield's the traitor then presumably he put the incriminating documents in Tyburn's kit. Now when could Whitfield have got at Tyburn's things? As Ashley says, Whitfield might have gone into the mess-room of the farmhouse but he'd have been lucky to get into Tyburn's quarters undisturbed. It was their rest day, you see, when you'd expect the farmhouse to be full.'

He frowned. ‘Ashley – and I have the deepest respect for Ashley – thinks I'm making complications for the fun of it. He rightly points out that the simplest explanation is that Tyburn put the papers in his own kit because Tyburn was the traitor. Oddly enough, in a way it doesn't matter.'

‘How on earth do you work that out?'

‘Easy. Say Boscombe was blackmailing Whitfield. He comes down to the fête to screw some more money out of him, runs into Marguerite Vayle, and just to make his cup of happiness complete, spots Tyburn. So far so good?'

‘I suppose so, yes.'

‘Now Whitfield, who, by my reckoning, had every reason to murder him, didn't. Unfortunately that's a sheer physical impossibility, worse luck. But Tyburn, the resolute, determined Mr Tyburn, is waiting in the wings. He might not have been a traitor; I don't believe he was. That's not the point. Everyone believes him to have been a traitor and one word from Boscombe spelt ruin.'

She moved impatiently. ‘Don't tell me you believe all that, Jack. This is Mr Lawrence we're talking about. I haven't known him very long, I agree, but I like him and trust him.'

‘His name isn't Lawrence. Trust him in what way?'

‘The usual way, I suppose. You know, truthful, reliable, all that sort of thing.'

‘But can't you see, Belle, that's exactly what he isn't? He didn't tell us the truth. He came here pretending to be another man.'

‘He had a pretty good reason.'

‘I know that, old thing, but he was terribly convincing as Lawrence. He made us all believe him. He's a brilliant liar. Now I think Whitfield is much more likely to have been the traitor, because it fits in with everything that happened afterwards. But don't you see that
because
Whitfield was the traitor Tyburn had a compelling motive to murder him? When you think of what Whitfield had done to both him and his men, sheer revenge would make Whitfield's death seem more like a justifiable execution than a murder. And as for saying he didn't do it – well, I repeat, he's a brilliant liar.'

Isabelle finished her drink in silence. ‘I still trust him,' she said in a small voice.

‘I'm afraid that doesn't amount to a hill of beans.' Haldean picked his glass up and stared at his beer. ‘Why beans, I wonder? Jolly useful things in their way, legumes. Broad beans, butter beans, runner beans, french beans, kidney beans, haricot beans . . . Don't pay any attention, Belle, I'm rambling.'

‘You always do talk nonsense when you're worried.'

‘Do I? Windsor beans . . .'

‘They're the same as broad beans,' put in Isabelle, starting to smile.

‘Are they? Yes, I suppose they are.' He finished his drink and put the glass down firmly on the table. ‘But whether they're undisguised or operating under an alias, they amount to the same thing; nothing. And that, old scream, is what trust is in a case like this; nothing. Have you finished your Mother's Ruin, by the way? Fancy another? No? Let's go, then. I don't mind telling you,' he added, picking up his hat and giving her his arm, ‘that I wish I'd never started all this. I was so damned keen to get involved. I'll know better next time. Shall we walk along by the brook to the car? I think the path should bring us out in more or less the right place.'

‘I still like him,' said Isabelle obstinately.

‘So do I. Why d'you think I feel such a complete heel?'

Isabelle looked at him and squeezed his arm. ‘Jack,' she said slowly, stepping on to the narrow path and skirting round a clump of nettles, ‘couldn't you try and believe him? You know, take that as your starting point. Imagine everything he said was the truth. How would that affect things?'

‘It makes them just about impossible, I would have said . . .
Morton
!'

‘What?'

‘Morton!' He grasped her arms eagerly. ‘Don't you see? I've assumed Boscombe and Morton came here to dig more money out of their victim. Now Morton was really ticked off with Boscombe and followed him down afterwards. If I'm right, then Morton wouldn't have known anything about Tyburn. It was Whitfield he was after. Once Boscombe recognized Tyburn, he wouldn't have told Morton anything about it, even if he could have done. He must have thought it was like finding money in the street. So why did Tyburn murder Morton? How could he have known the man existed at all? Unless, damn it, Boscombe told Tyburn as a sort of insurance. “Don't try anything on me, I've got a pal who knows all about it.” Hell! I thought I had something there.'

‘But you have, Jack, haven't you?' asked Isabelle, looking up at his crestfallen expression. ‘Boscombe didn't know Morton had come here. He might have talked about his friend in London, but he didn't know his friend was on the spot.'

Haldean stopped and looked at her open-mouthed. ‘By God,' he whispered. ‘By God, you're right! Belle, I could kiss you. Damn it, I will kiss you.' He put his arm around her and suited actions to words. ‘From now on I sit humbly at your feet. Of course! Tyburn
couldn't
know Morton was at the Talbot Arms. What did you say, O Mentor? That I should start from believing everything he says is the truth? I'll try it. I don't know what the dickens I'm going to do about those fingerprints, but I'll try it.'

‘I'm glad to hear it,' said Isabelle, detaching herself with a giggle. ‘Stop, Jack.' She pushed him away. ‘For heaven's sake, don't grab me again. There's a row of cottages along the path and people will be looking.'

‘Let 'em. Mind you,' he added, sobering slightly and resuming their walk, ‘I still don't see what happened. I can't quite manage the mental gymnastics of the Red Queen and believe six impossible things before breakfast. It'll take until dinner-time, at least. But it's a start. Belle, a start. Believe he's telling the truth, eh?'

‘That's right. Just take what he says in good faith.'

Haldean clicked his tongue. ‘It's not faith so much as a brainwave I need. Faith without works is dead, as St James says . . . Faith? We need evidence. Proof. I haven't got the whole story yet and, by crikey, I want it.'

She squeezed his arm once more. ‘You'll get there.'

They had drawn level with the backs of the cottages and on the narrow strip of scrubby grass that separated the back walls of the houses from the path, a little girl sat playing with an old kettle and three mismatched cups, A doll was propped up beside her on a hummock of earth. She looked up as they approached then, with a squeak of joy, flung herself at Haldean.

‘It's you! It's you what gived me my dolly!'

‘It's Sally, isn't it?' said Haldean, bending down with a smile. ‘You remember Sally from the fête, don't you, Belle? Say hello to Miss Rivers, Sally.'

‘Hello, Miss Rivers,' said Sally politely. Haldean felt a hot little hand tug at his. ‘Come and see my dolly's tea party. I had to call her Mabel 'cos my other dolly was called Daisy but she's being a good girl and eating up all her tea. Come and see.'

With utmost gravity, Haldean allowed himself to be conducted, to where Sally had arranged a meal of elderberry flowers, daisies, buttercups and laburnum pods on plates of leaves.

‘You won't eat these, will you, sweetheart?' said Isabelle, stooping down and picking up the laburnum seeds. ‘They're poisonous, you know.'

‘I know that,' replied Sally witheringly. ‘I'm only ‘tending. Do you like my plates? I've got to have leaf plates 'cos I haven't got a proper dollies' tea-set.'

‘I'd rather have leaves,' said Haldean, sitting on the grass, and solemnly receiving a cup of muddy water from the old kettle. ‘Jolly good tea, this. Is Mabel having some?'

Sally put a cup to the doll's lips. ‘There,' she said with great satisfaction. ‘She's drunk it all up and now it's time for her nap.' She picked up the doll and put it carefully into the waiting cot, covering it up with the blanket. ‘I wish I still had Daisy,' she said wistfully. ‘Daisy's cot had roses on the blanket and the pillow. I liked the roses. Poor Daisy got all trodden on. I found her cot but it had got broken but I never did find Daisy's pillow. Still,' she said, brightening, ‘Mabel's a good dolly. She's fast asleep now.'

There was an inarticulate exclamation from Haldean and Isabellc laughed out loud.

‘You're not meant to
really
drink it,' said Sally, watching Haldean wipe the water from his lips. ‘It's not
really
tea. I told you. I'm just ‘tending.'

He froze for a few brief seconds, then relaxed. ‘Of course you are. I should have known better, shouldn't I? I say, Sally, about Daisy's pillow. Are you sure you looked everywhere for it?'

‘Everywhere,' she said with round eyes. ‘Mummy helped me too, because it had roses on it.'

There was a shout from the yard behind them and a young, apron-clad woman came to the gate. ‘Who're you talking to, Sally?' She stopped as she saw Isabelle and Haldean, looking at them enquiringly.

Haldean scrambled to his feet and raised his hat. ‘Mrs Mills? I'm Jack Haldean and this is my cousin, Miss Rivers. We met your little girl at the fête the other week.'

Mrs Mill's face cleared. ‘Oh, you're the gentleman who gave Sally her doll. That was very kind of you, sir. Wasn't it a shocking business what happened?'

‘Terrible,' agreed Haldean. ‘Look, Sally, Miss Rivers and I have to go now, but if Mummy says it's all right, here's something for your money box.' He took out his pocket-book and gave the awe-struck child a ten-shilling note. ‘It is all right, Mrs Mills, is it?'

‘Why, yes sir. And it's very kind of you, I'm sure. Say thank you, Sally. But you shouldn't have done that, sir. It's far too much.'

‘No, it's fine, really it is.' Isabelle caught the note of suppressed excitement in his voice. ‘She's just helped me to think of something that's been bothering me. I'm very grateful to her. And perhaps, Sally, if Mummy agrees, you could buy a dollies' tea-set with some of the money.' He tipped his hat once more. ‘It's nice to have met you, Mrs Mills.' He ruffled Sally's hair. ‘Enjoy your tea-set, won't you?'

‘What is it, Jack?' asked Isabelle urgently, as soon as they were out of earshot. ‘I know there's something biting you.'

He looked at her with a jubilant gleam in his black eyes. ‘I can't tell you.'

‘Jack!'

‘No, I really can't – don't hit me, woman! – because I don't know what it is yet. I might if you let me work it out. There's a ghost of an idea but it needs to be left in peace for a while. There's one thing I can tell you for certain though, Belle.'

‘What's that?'

‘You said I needed faith. I've never needed anything less. I've been a damn sight too trusting altogether. Cynicism is what I need,
real
cynicism. Trust? Forget it.' His lips set in a hard, straight line, ‘It's about time I started disbelieving everything I've been told.'

Anne-Marie Verrity sat up on the sofa of the morning room at Thackenhurst and looked at Haldean in undisguised astonishment. ‘Monsieur Haldean, are you serious? It is true, yes, that I own the Augier Ridge and what remains of the chateau.' She shrugged. ‘I have never thought about it, but I suppose that as the entrance to the tunnels is on my property, the tunnels are also mine. But why do you want to go down them? They have not been entered for years and I cannot see why you should want to do so now. They cannot have anything to do with Richard's death. If I thought you could help poor Richard by doing such a thing, then of course I would give you my permission. But how will such an action benefit anyone?' She got up and walked to the window, pointing across the grounds in the direction of the tithe barn. ‘That is where Richard was killed. That is where you should be looking for evidence to convict the horrible man who murdered him.' She turned and shook her head. ‘The tunnels and the war – they are yesterday. They cannot affect what happened to Richard.'

Haldean shifted forward in his chair and looked at her seriously. ‘It's precisely because of Richard Whitfield that I'm asking you to let me go. You see, everything that's happened here has its roots in the past. Martin Tyburn . . .' Mrs Verrity snorted at the name. ‘Martin Tyburn swears he's not the traitor.'

‘Who then does he accuse?' asked Mrs Verrity savagely. ‘Richard?'

He looked at her with great sympathy. ‘I'm afraid he does.'

She froze, then very slowly walked across the room and rested her hand on the table. Her tension was nearly tangible. ‘He says that? He says these things about
Richard
? No one will believe him, I tell you, no one. As soon as he says it, it will be dismissed like that.' She snapped her fingers together. ‘Richard was a hero. He had the VC for his bravery. He and he alone stopped the Boche in the tunnels. Tyburn – who cares what he says? He will be laughed at, you hear me, laughed at.'

‘He'll still have said it.' She tossed her head dismissively, then turned, compelled by Haldean's measured voice. ‘When Tyburn comes to trial he'll be allowed to make a statement. It's his right under the law and he proposes to base his defence on Colonel Whitfield's guilt. Of necessity it will be discussed, debated, argued over. And, even if it's ultimately rejected, you will always have a rump of people – influential people – who will think there's more to Colonel Whitfield's heroism than met the eye. Mr Tyburn's a likeable man, Mrs Verrity. He has the gift of persuading people that he's right.'