A New Lease of Death (19 page)

‘It’s only a theory, Charlie,’ said Kershaw, ‘but it fits the facts.’

‘I don’t know …’ Archery began.

‘Look, Father, don’t you want Tess’s father cleared?’

Not, thought Archery, if it means incriminating
her
husband. Not that. I may already have done her an injury, but I can’t do her that injury.

‘This motive you mentioned,’ he said dully.

Tess broke in excitedly, ‘It’s a marvellous motive, a
real
motive.’ He knew exactly what she meant. Ten thousand pounds was real, solid, a true temptation, while two hundred pounds … Her eyes shone, then saddened. Was she thinking that to hang a man wrongfully was as bad as killing an old woman for a bag of notes? And would that too remain with her all her life? No matter which way things fell out, could she ever escape?

‘Primero was working in a solicitor’s office,’ Charles was saying excitedly. ‘He would have known the law, he had all the facilities for checking. Mrs Primero might not have known about it, not if she didn’t read the papers. Who knows about all the various Acts of Parliament that are going to be passed anyway? Primero’s boss probably had a query about it from a client, sent him to look it up, and there you are. Primero would have known that if his grandmother died intestate before October 1950 all the money would come to him. But if she died after the Act his sisters would get two-thirds of it. I’ve been looking it all up. This is known as the Great Adoption Act, the law that gave adopted children almost equal rights with natural ones. Of
course
Primero knew.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I’ve been on to the police but Wexford can’t see me before two on Monday. He’s away for the weekend. I’ll bet the police never checked Primero’s movements. Knowing them, I’d say it’s likely that as soon as they got hold of Painter they didn’t trouble with anyone else.’ He looked at Tess and took her hand. ‘You can say what you like about this being a free country,’ he said hotly, ‘but you know as well as I do that everyone has a subconscious feeling that “working class” and “criminal class” are more or less synonymous. Why bother with the respectable, well-connected solicitor’s clerk when you’ve already got your hands on the chauffeur?’

Archery shrugged. From long experience he knew it was useless to argue with Charles when he was airing his quasi-communist ideals.

‘Thank you for your enthusiastic reception,’ Charles said sarcastically. ‘What is there to look so miserable about?’

Archery could not tell him. A load of sorrow seemed to have descended on him and in order to answer his son, he sorted out from conflicting pain something he could express to them all.

‘I was thinking of the children,’ he said, ‘the four little girls who have all suffered from this crime.’ He smiled at Tess. ‘Tess, of course,’ he went on, ‘those two sisters you saw – and Elizabeth Crilling.’

He did not add the name of the grown woman who would suffer more than any of them if Charles was right.

12

Is it not lawful for me to do what I will with mine own?

The Gospel for Septuagesima Sunday

THE MAN WHO
was shown into Wexford’s office at nine on Monday morning was small and slender. The bones of his hands were particularly fine and with narrow delicate joints like a woman’s. The dark grey suit the wore, very expensive looking and very sleek, made him look smaller than he actually was. He seemed to be surrounded, even so early in the morning and away from his own home, with a great many adjuncts of elegance. Wexford, who knew him well, was amused by the sapphire tie-pin, the two rings, the key chain with its heavy drop of chased-amber, was it? – the briefcase of some kind of reptile skin. How many years, he asked himself, was Roger Primero going to need to get used to wealth?

‘Lovely morning,’ said Wexford. ‘I’ve just had a couple of days at Worthing and the sea was like a millpond. What can I do for you?’

‘Catch a con man,’ said Primero, ‘a lousy little squirt posing as a journalist.’ He unclipped the briefcase and flicked a Sunday newspaper across Wexford’s desk. It slipped on the polished surface and fell to the floor. Raising his eyebrows, Wexford let it lie.

‘Hell,’ said Primero. ‘There’s nothing for you to see, anyway.’ His glazed eyes had a sore look in the handsome expressionless face. The man’s vanity had made him rebel against glasses at last, Wexford thought, blinking slightly behind his own heavy tortoiseshell frames. ‘Look here, Chief Inspector, I don’t mind telling you, I’m hopping mad. This is how it was. Mind if I smoke?’

‘Not at all.’

A gold cigarette case spilled out from his pocket, followed by a holder and a lighter in peculiar black and gold mosaic. Wexford watched this production of props, wondering when it was going to end. The man is furnished like a room, he thought.

‘This is how it was,’ he said again. ‘Character rang me up on Thursday, said he was on the
Planet
and wanted to do an article about me. My early life. You get the picture? I said he could come along on Friday and he did. I gave him a hell of a long interview, all the dope and the upshot of it was my wife asked him to lunch.’ He screwed up his mouth and nose like a man smelling something offensive. ‘Hell,’ he said, ‘I don’t suppose he’s ever seen a lunch like that in all his life …’

‘But no article appeared and when you rang the
Planet
this morning they’d never heard of him.’

‘How did you know?’

‘It happens,’ said Wexford dryly. ‘I’m surprised at you, sir, a man of your experience. The time to ring the
Planet
was
Friday
morning.’

‘It makes me feel such a frightful ass.’

Wexford said airily, ‘No money passed, I daresay?’

‘Hell, no!’

‘Just the lunch, then, and you told him a lot of things you’d rather have left unsaid.’

‘That’s the thing.’ His expression had been sulky, but suddenly he smiled and it was a likeable smile. Wexford had always rather liked him. ‘Oh, hell’s bells, Chief Inspector …’

‘Hell’s bells, as you say. Still, you were wise to come to us, though I don’t know that we can do anything unless he makes a move …’

‘A move? What d’you mean, a move?’

‘Well, let me give you an example. Nothing personal, you understand. Just supposing a wealthy man, a man who is some-what in the public eye, says something a shade indiscreet to a reputable journalist. Ten to one he can’t use it because he’s laying his paper open to libel action.’ Wexford paused and gave the other man a penetrating look. ‘But if he says those same indiscreet things to an impostor, a confidence trickster …’ Primero had grown very pale. ‘What’s to stop the impostor following a few leads and ferreting out something really damaging. Most people, Mr Primero, even
decent
law-abiding people, have something in their pasts they’d rather not have known. You have to ask yourself, if he’s not on the level, what’s he up to? The answer is either he’s after your money or else he’s crazy.’ He added more kindly, ‘In my experience nine out of ten of them are just crazy. Still, if it’ll help to set your mind at rest perhaps you could give us a description. I suppose he gave you his name?’

‘It wouldn’t be his real name.’

‘Naturally not.’

Primero leant confidingly towards him. During the course of his long career Wexford had found it valuable to make himself
au fait
with perfumes and he noticed that Primero smelt of Lentheric’s Onyx.

‘He seemed nice enough,’ Primero began. ‘My wife was quite taken with him.’ His eyes had begun to water and he put his fingers very cautiously up to them. Wexford was reminded of a weeping woman who dare not rub her eyes for fear of smudging mascara. ‘I haven’t told her about this, by the way. I passed it off. Wouldn’t want to upset her. He was well-spoken, Oxford accent and all that. A tall fair fellow, said his name was Bowman, Charles Bowman.’

‘A-ha!’ said Wexford but not aloud.

‘Chief Inspector?’

‘Mr Primero?’

‘I’ve just remembered something. He was – well, he was extraordinarily interested in my grandmother.’

Wexford almost laughed.

‘From what you’ve told me I think I can assure you there won’t be any serious repercussions.’

‘You think he’s a nut?’

‘Harmless, anyway.’

‘You’ve taken a load off my mind.’ Primero got up, retrieved his briefcase and picked up the newspaper. He did it rather awkwardly as if he was unused to performing even so simple a service for himself. ‘I’ll be more careful in future.’

‘An ounce of prevention, you know.’

‘Well, I won’t take up any more of your time.’ He pulled a long, but possibly sincerely sad face. The watering eyes added to his look of melancholy. ‘Off to a funeral, as a matter of fact. Poor old Alice.’

Wexford had noticed the black tie on which the sapphire glowed darkly. He showed Primero to the door. Throughout the interview he had kept a solemn face. Now he permitted himself the indulgence of gargantuan, though almost silent, laughter.

There was nothing to do until two o’clock except sight-seeing. Charles had been out early and bought a guide book. They sat in the lounge studying it.

‘It says here,’ said Tess, ‘that Forby is the fifth prettiest village in England.’

‘Poor Forby,’ said Charles. ‘Damned with faint praise.’

Kershaw began organizing them.

‘How about all piling into my car …’ He stuck his finger on the map ‘… and going down the Kingsbrook Road to Forby – keep clear of Forby Hall, eh, Charlie? – have a quick look at the church,
and
then on to Pomfret. Pomfret Grange is open every weekday in the summer – we might have a look over it – and back into Kingsmarkham along the main road.’

‘Lovely,’ said Tess.

Kershaw drove and Archery sat beside him. They followed the same route he had taken with Imogen Ide when she had come to put flowers on old Mrs Primero’s grave. As they came within sight of the Kingsbrook he remembered what she had said about the implacability of water and how, notwithstanding the efforts of man, it continues to spring from the earth and seek the sea.

Kershaw parked the car by the green with the duckpond. The village looked peaceful and serene. Summer was not as yet so far advanced as to dull the fresh green of the beech trees or hang the wild clematis with its frowsty greyish beard. Knots of cottages surrounded the green and on the church side was a row of Georgian houses with bow windows whose dark panes glistened, showing chintz and silver within. There were just three shops, a post office, a butcher’s with a canopy and white colonnade, and a place selling souvenirs for tourists. The cottagers’ Monday morning wash hung drying in the windless warm air.

They sat on the seat on the green and Tess fed the ducks from a packet of biscuits she had found on the shelf under the dashboard. Kershaw produced a camera and began taking photographs. Suddenly Archery knew he did not want to go any further with them. He almost shivered with distaste at the
thought
of trailing round the galleries of Pomfret Grange gasping with false pleasure at the china and pretending to admire family portraits.

‘Would you mind if I stayed here? I’d like to have another look at the church.’

Charles glared. ‘We’ll all go and look at the church.’

‘I can’t, darling,’ said Tess. ‘I can’t go into a church in jeans.’

‘Not in these trousers,’ Kershaw quipped. He put away his camera. ‘We’d better get moving if we’re going to see the stately home.’

‘I can easily go back on the bus,’ said Archery.

‘Well, for God’s sake, don’t be late, Father.’

If it was going to be any more than a sentimental journey, he too would need a guide. When the car had gone he made his way into the souvenir shop. A bell rang sweetly as he opened the door and a woman came out from a room at the back.

‘We don’t keep a guide to St Mary’s, but you’ll find them on sale inside the church door.’

Now he was here he ought to buy something. A postcard? A little brooch for Mary? That, he thought, would be the worst kind of infidelity, to commit adultery in your heart every time you saw your wife wearing a keepsake. He looked drearily at the horse brasses, the painted jugs, the trays of costume jewellery.

A small counter was devoted entirely to calendars, wooden plaques with words on them in pokerwork, framed verses. One of these, a little picture on a card, showing a haloed shepherd with a lamb, caught his
eye
because the words beneath the drawing were familiar.

‘Go, Shepherd, to your rest …’

The woman was standing behind him.

‘I see you’re admiring the efforts of our local bard,’ she said brightly. ‘He was just a boy when he died and he’s buried here.’

‘I’ve seen his grave,’ said Archery.

‘Of course a lot of people who come here are under the impression he was a shepherd, you know. I always have to explain that at one time shepherd and poet meant the same thing.’

‘Lycidas,’ said Archery.

She ignored the interruption. ‘Actually he was very well-educated. He’d been to High School and everyone said he should have gone to college. He was killed in a road accident. Would you like to see his photograph?’

She produced a stack of cheap framed photographs from a drawer beneath the counter. They were all identical and each bore the legend: John Grace, Bard of Forby. Those whom God loves, die young.

It was a fine ascetic face, sharp-featured and ultra-sensitive. It also, Archery considered, gave the impression that its owner suffered from pernicious anaemia. He had a curious feeling that he had seen it somewhere before.

‘Was any of his work published?’

‘One or two bits in magazines, that’s all. I don’t know the ins and outs of it because I’ve only been here ten years, but there was a publisher who had a week-end cottage here and he was very keen on
making
his poetry into a book when the poor boy died. Mrs Grace – his mother, you know – was all for it, but the thing was most of the stuff he’d written had disappeared. There were just these bits you see here. His mother said he’d written whole plays – they didn’t rhyme, if you know what I mean, but they were kind of like Shakespeare. Anyway, they couldn’t be found. Maybe he’d burnt them or given them away. It does seem a shame, though, doesn’t it?’