Borrowed Time (33 page)

“You don’t doubt the truth of what I told you?”

“No.” I said, happy to be able to answer honestly. “I don’t.”

“Then what are you trying to accomplish?”

I shrugged. “Absolute certainty, I suppose.”

He pushed himself upright, walked to the window where I was standing and leant against the sill. He rested his head against the glass and looked at me thoughtfully. “Who put you up to this, Robin?”

“Nobody.”

“Sir Keith?”

“I told you. Nobody.”

“Sarah, then. If so, she’s disappointed me. I should have thought a lawyer would prefer to handle such things personally.”

“Sarah has no idea what I’ve been doing.”

“It must be Bella in that case.” He raised his head from the glass and clicked his tongue. “Yes. On reflection, it has to be Bella. She’d always ask whether something was deniable before she wondered whether it was true. What does she have on you that obliges you to act as her errand-boy?” Before I could reply, he’d moved back across the room and slumped down into an armchair, his arms still firmly crossed, his brow still quizzically furrowed. “Don’t bother to answer. It’s really none of my business. Besides, I don’t mind you questioning whoever you please. I’ve nothing to hide. If you can persuade my mother to face the truth about me, or Sir Keith the truth about Louise, so much the better. They’ll have to do so eventually. As for Bella, she can do as she pleases as far as I’m concerned. So can you. The police will subject my statement to far closer and more critical scrutiny than you’ll be able to. But the result will be the same. In a few months from now, you’ll have what you claim to want. Absolute certainty.”

“Perhaps I can have it now.”

“Be my guest.”

“Your mother thinks you sent her a postcard of Mont Blanc. From Chamonix.”

“Mum remembers that, does she? Well, well, well. I did, as it happens. But not from Chamonix. I bought it in Chambéry, where I got off the train from Lyon. Posted it before getting the next train back. Thought it might help to cover my tracks.
Said
I was in Chamonix, of course. ‘A few lines as I sit in a cable-car being winched up Mont Blanc.’ That sort of thing. Dated it the following day. There was no chance of Mum making much sense of a blurred French postmark. I thought it might come in useful. Hasn’t she got it, then?”

“No.”

“Well, it doesn’t make much difference. It’s just another of those little details. The police will go through them all with a fine-tooth comb.”

“It can’t do any harm for me to check a few of them myself, can it?”

“None whatever.” He shook his head and looked at me intently. “But do me a favour, will you? Tell Bella it won’t work. I’ve set my course and nothing’s going to blow me off it. The sooner you and she and everyone else involved confronts what that means for them, the less painful it will be when the truth comes out. As I mean to make sure it does.”

I’d intended to set off back to Petersfield as soon as I left Bathurst Wharf. But when it came to the point, a long and solitary rail journey, with an empty house waiting at the end of it, didn’t appeal. Whereas a walk out to Clifton and an impromptu visit to Sarah did. I badly needed to discuss my difficulties with somebody and she was about the only person I could rely on being at all sympathetic.

There was another reason for seeing her, as I admitted to myself over a pint in a pub just round the corner from her flat, where I stopped off to give her time to get home from work. Sooner or later, she was going to find out what I’d been up to. Paul would probably tell her the next time they met, whenever that might be. It was even possible his parents might contact her, or she them. Either way, I couldn’t take the risk of her alerting Sir Keith to my activities on Bella’s behalf. It seemed altogether wiser to enlist her in our conspiracy of silence without delay.

I waited until I was confident she’d be back before leaving the pub. In the event, I nearly waited too long, because, when I arrived, she was clearly preparing to go out for the evening. She was looking unusually glamorous, in a short black dress adorned with discreet jewellery. And her hair had a lustre to it that suggested it had been professionally styled that very day.

“Robin! What brings you here?”

“It’s a long story. Do you have time to hear it?”

“I’m afraid not. Rodney’s picking me up in about twenty minutes.” The news that Rodney was still on the scene set my teeth on edge. “He’s taking me to a party. And since it’s being thrown in my honour, I can’t really arrive late, can I?”

“In your honour? What’s the occasion?”

I was momentarily afraid Rodney’s persistence might have lured Sarah into an engagement to marry him. So I was mightily relieved when she replied: “This is the last day of my articles. As of tomorrow, I shall be a fully fledged lawyer.”

“Really? Well, congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

“Will you be staying on at Anstey’s?”

“For the time being. Until something better turns up, anyway.
If
it turns up. To be honest, I can’t help wondering whether my connection with a miscarriage of justice, however remote it may be, will have some effect on my career prospects. Learning the truth from Paul was like grasping a cactus. You just can’t tell how deep some of the spines may sink.”

I smiled consolingly. “You could say that’s why I’m here.”

“I thought it probably was.” She glanced at her watch. “Look, twenty minutes
is
twenty minutes. Do you want a drink?”

“Thanks. I think I do.”

Perhaps the constraint on time made it easier. Obliged to be swift, I was also succinct, holding back none of the discreditable aspects of my dilemma. What would have been the point? Sarah knew Bella’s nature as well as I did. And she also knew how insoluble my problem was.

“Well,” she said when I’d finished, “I certainly won’t say anything to Daddy. But I still don’t understand what Bella’s trying to achieve. She doesn’t seriously think Paul’s lying, does she?”

“No. I don’t believe she does.”

“Then what’s she hoping you’ll turn up?”

“Grounds for legitimate doubt, I suppose.”

“But so far you’ve drawn a blank?”

“Yes. As complete as it was predictable.”

“Which leaves you in a genuine quandary. How to let Bella down without provoking her into a breach of your agreement.”

“Exactly.”

“That’s tough.” She crossed to the window and looked down into the darkening street. But there was evidently no sign of Rodney. “As a lawyer, I ought to be able to give you some good advice. I’m not sure I can, though.” She turned round and shrugged. “I’m sorry you should have been dragged into this, Robin. You don’t deserve to have been.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Maybe not. But I’m still sorry.”

“Sounds as if you think I should just give up.”

“I suppose I do. The police will take a microscope to every detail of Paul’s story. If there’s a flaw to be found, they’ll find it.”

“But Bella’s not prepared to wait for them. Which would be
her
problem, except . . .”

“It’s yours.” Sarah shook her head and sighed. She seemed about to speak when a car drew up outside and sounded its horn. She glanced out, smiled and waved. “That’s Rodney,” she said to me over her shoulder. “I must go.”

“Of course. I’ll come out with you.”

She crossed to where I was standing, grinned awkwardly and clutched my hand, willing me, it seemed, to accept what she was about to say. “Actually, why don’t you wait till I’ve gone, then let yourself out? Rodney doesn’t know anything about this. And I don’t want to have to . . . Well, you understand, I’m sure.”

“Yes.” I looked at her and nodded in explicit agreement. “I understand.”

Then she frowned, as if some point had just occurred to her. “If you feel you have to go on with this . . .”

“I don’t have much choice, do I?”

“Then there is one angle you could try approaching it from the police may ignore. They’ll try to find witnesses who saw Paul somewhere else when he claims to have been in Kington. You could look for a witness to
Mummy’s
whereabouts—or
Naylor’s
—at the time Paul says he was spying on them at Whistler’s Cot.”

“But there aren’t any witnesses. If there were, they’d have come forward at the trial.”

The car horn sounded again, an impatient triple beep. “What about Howard Marsden? If he knew Mummy as well as we think . . .”

I frowned, then broke into a smile. “That’s inspired.”

“No,” she said, kissing me briskly and hurrying towards the door. “That’s legal training.” She pulled the door open, then paused on the threshold and looked back at me. “I don’t suppose you’ll get anything of value out of him. But if you do . . . learn something about Mummy I mean . . . you will tell me, won’t you?”

“Of course. It’s a promise.”

But it was a promise too quickly given. Only after I’d heard Rodney’s car accelerate away along Caledonia Place did I realize how easily it could conflict with my obligations to Bella. In the circumstances, it was to be hoped Sarah’s supposition about Howard Marsden proved to be correct. Otherwise, I might find myself trying to keep two promises—and breaking both.

C  H  A  P  T  E  R
SEVENTEEN

S
ophie Marsden had told me her husband was in the agricultural machinery business and I knew from their telephone number that they lived in or near Ludlow. That led me, without the need of much deduction, to Salop Agritechnics Ltd. of Weeping Cross Lane, Ludlow. And a telephone conversation on Friday morning with its managing director, Howard Marsden.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Timariot? We spoke at the time of that blasted
Benefit of the Doubt
programme, I remember, but—”

“I’m hoping you’ll agree to meet me, Mr. Marsden. To discuss a matter of considerable urgency. It concerns your relationship with Louise Paxton.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m sorry to be so blunt, but I really have no alternative. And I’m sure you’d agree it’s a subject best discussed face to face.”

“I don’t know what you mean. Louise Paxton was a friend of my wife. That’s the only basis on which I knew her.” But there was an undertone of defeatism in his voice. He must already have despaired of seeing me off with a blustering denial.

“In that case, your display of grief last time we met was rather excessive, wasn’t it?” I waited for him to reply. But he said nothing. Several silent moments passed. Then I pressed on. “Butterbur Lane, Kington, Mr. Marsden. Twenty-seventh of July, nineteen ninety. You nearly drove into me.”

There was a heavily pregnant pause. Eventually, he said: “What’s this about, Mr. Timariot?”

“It’s about Louise.”

“I can’t help you. You’d do better speaking to my wife. She—”

“I’ve already spoken to your wife. Now I need to speak to you.”

Another pause, perhaps the longest. Then he gritted out the words I wanted to hear. “Very well.”

“I can come to Ludlow, if that suits you. I imagine you’re a busy man. I also imagine you’d prefer to leave it until after the weekend.” He didn’t query the remark. We both knew what I meant. A discreet slot in his working day didn’t require explaining to Sophie, whereas . . . “What about Monday?”

“Impossible.”

“Surely not. Name a time.”

“Well . . . it would have to be very early.”

“No problem. I’ll drive up the night before.”

“You’ll stay at the Feathers?”

“If you recommend it.”

“It’s the best you’ll find. All right, Mr. Timariot. I’ll call at the Feathers at eight o’clock on Monday morning. Not
too
early for you, I hope?”

“Not at all,” I replied, determined to give no ground. “See you then.”

Manoeuvring Howard Marsden into meeting me was one thing. Gaining something of value from such a meeting was, of course, a different matter. I spent most of the long drive up to Ludlow on Sunday turning over in my mind how best to approach the subject of his affair with Louise. That they’d had an affair I didn’t seriously doubt. The tears I’d seen streaming down his face in Butterbur Lane hadn’t been the tears of a platonic friend. And Sophie’s story about Louise’s “perfect stranger” made no sense in any other context. The real question was: had the affair still been going on in July 1990? If not, Howard wasn’t going to be much help to Bella. Fortunately, though, she hadn’t been in touch with me since my return from Bristol. So, if it turned out I was wasting my time, at least she needn’t know.

Not that it was destined to be a complete waste, whatever happened. These days away from the office, arranged at short notice and without explanation, were beginning to prey on Adrian’s mind. He clearly suspected I was playing a deep and devious game. And with his trip to Sydney looming on the horizon, it was no bad thing to let him go on doing so. I felt he richly deserved just as much anxiety as I could contrive to generate for him.

The deep silence of a windless Sunday night was settling on Ludlow when I arrived. I instantly warmed to its steepling streets and cobbled alleys, its timber-framed jumble of old houses and ancient inns. The Feathers was an ideally if not idyllically comfortable hotel of the kind I’d thought English market towns long since bereft. If I’d been looking for a rest cure in a soothing backwater, I’d have chanced on the perfect location. Unfortunately, that wasn’t why I was there.

To prove it, I was still munching a slice of toast and sipping coffee next morning after an early enough breakfast to have caught the kitchen on the hop when word came that a visitor was waiting for me in reception. Howard Marsden evidently hadn’t got wherever he was in the world of agricultural machinery by being late for an appointment.

He didn’t look anything like as forlorn as I remembered. He’d put on a bit of weight and gone magisterially white at the temples. He was on his home ground too, which always bolsters self-confidence. Altogether, in his pin-stripe suit, cashmere overcoat and battered racing felt, he looked about as easy to move to tears as one of the wooden faces carved beneath the gables at the front of the hotel. But what I’d seen I’d seen.

“Shall we take a stroll?” I asked, donning my coat. He nodded in agreement. Neither of us seriously thought we’d do any talking where we could be overheard.

We went out into the empty street and headed towards the centre of town. It was a chilly bright autumn morning, a sharp breeze blowing trails of leaves across the pavements in front of us, sunlight glinting and glaring at us between the rooftops. A butcher arranging sausages in his window looked up and touched his boater at the sight of my companion. “Good morning, Mr. Marsden,” he called, getting little more than a grunt in response.

“You’re well known hereabouts?”

“It’s a small town. And we’re a big employer.”

“Have you always lived here?”

“No. I was in the Navy for twenty years before—” He broke off and looked round at me. “You’re not interested in my autobiography, Mr. Timariot. Why don’t you come to the point?”

“All right. I will. You know quite a lot of people think Shaun Naylor didn’t murder Louise?”

He snorted. “People like Nick Seymour, you mean. Mountebanks, the lot of them.”

“Perhaps. But it seems they may be right. A man’s come forward and confessed.”

“What?”

“The real murderer’s owned up—three years late.”

“Good God.” He pulled up sharply and turned to stare at me. “Surely not.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Who is he?”

“It wouldn’t be fair to name him until the police have investigated his claim.”

“His
claim
? You mean there’s some doubt about it?”

“Not much. But we’d all like to disbelieve it, wouldn’t we? If we could.”

His frown of astonishment melted slowly into one of utter confusion. “You’re saying Naylor’s innocent? And this . . . other man . . . committed the murders?”

“Apparently so.”

“My God.” He plucked thoughtfully at his lower lip, then squinted at me suspiciously. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I think you may be holding back valuable information about Louise’s movements that day. Information the police have no cause to suspect you possess. They don’t know you were in love with her, you see. But I do.” He flinched and took half a pace back, as if I’d made to strike him. “You had an affair with Louise Paxton, didn’t you?”

“I most certainly did not.”

“Come on. You nearly drove into me that day because you were so upset. And your wife more or less admitted—”

“What? What did she admit?”

“That she knew something was going on between you and Louise. But the state of your marriage is none of my concern. I’m only—”

“Damn right it’s none of your concern!”

“Listen,” I said, holding up my hands to placate him. “I’m not here to judge or condemn anybody. I simply want to know whether you met Louise in Kington the day she died.”

His anger seemed to subside. His hostile glare crumpled into an exasperated scowl. “You think she went there to meet
me
?”

“She’d walked out on her husband. Who else would she have been meeting?”

“She’d left Keith?”

“It seems likely.”

“Oh, bloody hell.” He sighed and started walking again, more slowly than before. “If only you were right,” he muttered. “If only I’d known.”

“Didn’t you?”

He shook his head. “Of course not.”

“But—”

“There was nothing between us. Never had been. She wouldn’t let there be. Sophie’s well aware of that, damn her.”

We came to the market-place, where traders were already erecting their stalls and setting out their wares amidst a cacophony of clattering poles, flapping tarpaulins and good-humoured banter. Marsden trudged gloomily down one side of the square, oblivious to the bustling scene. And I tagged along.

“Since you seem to know so much, you might as well know it all. At least then you’ll get it right. I
was
in love with Louise. Still am, in a way. She never gave me any encouragement, though. Nothing
ever
happened. I wanted it to, God knows. I’d have walked out on Sophie without a backward glance if only—” He sighed. “She’d have preferred that, I sometimes think. Louise’s rejection of me was more of a blow to Sophie’s pride than an affair or even a divorce would have been. The knowledge that her best friend had turned her nose up at me—at
her
husband—and must have realized as a result what a sick joke our marriage was . . .” A weary shake of the head seemed to sum up more years of discontent and dissatisfaction than he cared to count. “I worshipped Louise. I would have done anything for her. But she didn’t want to know. I was an embarrassment to her. Sophie found that humiliating and unforgivable. Which I suppose it was.”

As one piece of the puzzle fell into place, another fell out. If Howard Marsden was telling the truth—as I felt sure he was—then he’d played no part whatever in Louise’s decision to leave Sir Keith. But somebody must have done. Not Oscar Bantock, as Paul had initially suspected. He seemed more likely to have been her pander than her lover. Nor Naylor, since she’d only met him when she had by chance. Who, then? There was no answer. But hovering at the margin of my thoughts was the “perfect stranger” Sophie had spoken of. I’d never quite convinced myself she’d invented him. And now my willingness to do Bella’s bidding revealed itself in my mind for what it truly was. Not an attempt to prove or disprove Paul’s confession. But a pursuit of the most elusive figure in Louise’s life. Who was straying more and more into mine.

“You know as much about Louise’s movements the day she died as I do, Mr. Timariot. Perhaps more. You met her, after all, I didn’t. I have no information—for you or the police.”

“No. I see that now.”

“I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

We’d reached the other side of the square and were standing at the top of a wide street that led down towards the river. Marsden surveyed the view for a moment, then turned to me and said: “The man who’s confessed. Is there
any
doubt of his guilt?”

“Not really.”

“Which means Naylor was telling the truth all along?”

“Yes.”

“About Louise? About how they met? And why?”

I didn’t need to answer. The look we exchanged said it all. Each of us wanted to cling to our own memory of Louise. But neither of us was going to be allowed to.

“This will destroy her reputation,” he murmured.

“Yes,” I said, unable to offer him the slightest comfort. “I’m very much afraid it will.”

I was careful to leave Howard Marsden with the impression that I’d be heading back to Petersfield straightaway. But I had no intention of quitting Ludlow without running Sophie to earth first. For reasons I certainly couldn’t explain to her husband.

I’d got their address from the telephone directory at the hotel. Frith’s End, Ashford Carbonell, turned out to be an impressively appointed black-and-white house in a well-to-do village a few miles south of Ludlow. The overall effect was one of prosperity neither flaunted nor hidden, but robustly declared. I arrived just after half past nine, reckoning Sophie would be up but not yet out by then. And so she was, though the pink silk bathrobe, casually sashed over not very much, suggested I could safely have delayed my visit by another hour at least.

She must have been surprised to see me, but only a momentary widening of her eyes revealed the fact. “Robin!” she said with a flashing smile. “Won’t you come in?”

I followed her into a large and elegantly furnished drawing-room, parts of which seemed familiar from her
Benefit of the Doubt
interview—or else from glossy interior design magazines leafed through over the years in dentists’ waiting-rooms. French windows gave onto a gently sloping lawn, recently mown and sparkling with dew. Beyond, trees turning to varying shades of gold lined a long curving reach of the river. While indoors everything was tastefully immaculate: a soothing mix of gleaming walnut and glittering brass; plump-cushioned sofas and thick-piled rugs; fat-bellied urns and slim-stemmed vases.

I watched Sophie as she crossed the room in front of me, the inviting lines and soft folds of the bathrobe drawing half-forgotten images to the surface of my thoughts. She knew I was watching her, of course. The knowledge pleased her. Her movements were probably designed for an audience even when she was alone. A newspaper, some letters and an empty breakfast cup stood on a low table by an armchair that faced the television, on which two figures mouthed silently to each other in a studio. Sophie must have zeroed the sound when she heard the doorbell. Now, stooping to tap a key on the remote control that lay ready on the arm of the chair, she switched off the picture as well—and turned to face me.

“I don’t like being pestered, Robin. But I don’t like to be neglected, either. I think you might have been in touch before now.”

“What happened in London—” I began, eager to erect a line of defence before it could be crossed.

“Was a mistake? A misunderstanding? An unfortunate and never to be repeated lapse?” Her eyes mocked me. “You can do better than that. You did at the time, as I recall.”

“It isn’t going to happen again.”

“You think I want it to?” She sat down in the chair and studied me with a puzzled frown. “You’re no different from most men, you know. Arrogant enough to believe that what you want is all-important. Pusillanimous enough to deny what it is you really want.”