Bring Forth Your Dead (5 page)

‘How very painful,’ said Bert. ‘Still, I do think a bit of police brutality is called for in cases like this.’ He made an elaborate mime out of his preparations to write as Arkwright came back with a thin cardboard file.

‘I have here details of all our correspondence with Edward Craven. The will, as a legal document, is kept in our strong-room: I had already extracted it in preparation for your visit. It was returned here by Mr Craven’s daughter after probate arrangements had been completed.’

‘Angela Harrison was named in the will as executor?’

‘Indeed, yes.’ There was no need to apologise to Arkwright for surprise at a female being thus entrusted: his tone announced that he found it most surprising and probably ill-advised. So much so that for once he did not need prompting to say, ‘The son is the elder child by several years; I pointed out to Craven that this would be the more usual person to name as executor, but he was adamant that Angela should be so named. It is unusual, but by no means unique in these times.’ His tone indicated that it was one more proof of decadence in the times in question.

‘Do you know of any reason why David Craven should be excluded from the duties of executor?’

‘None whatsoever. As I say, I commented to Craven at the time that it seemed unusual to exclude his only son, but he merely confirmed what he had already instructed me to do in writing. Perhaps we should not read too much into it: the will itself shows no bias against David. Rather the reverse, as things have turned out.’

‘Meaning?’ said Lambert. He was suddenly tired of observing the
forms Arkwright seemed to require of him.

The solicitor looked professional surprise over his gold-rimmed glasses. It was a gesture he often practised and rather enjoyed. Lambert thought suddenly that he could be only a few years younger than Dr Carroll; yet the solicitor
seemed at this moment unchanging and immortal, as though invested with such qualities by long service in a profession that deplored change. Arkwright said heavily, ‘I understand that young Mr Craven has obtained planning permission for the site of Tall Timbers. The old house is apparently to be demolished and a block of flats erected in its place. No doubt it is now being sold for a considerable amount.’

Lambert suspected that Arkwright knew exactly how much that considerable amount was, but he did not offer him the satisfaction of the series of questions which would be necessary to reveal it. The fact was enough for the moment: it provided room for considerable detective thought. He said after a pause, ‘We need the details of the will, Mr Arkwright.’

‘That is fairly straightforward, but I prefer not to rely on memory,’ he opened the will and adjusted his glasses. ‘Craven was a rich man, even by today’s standards. His estate was eventually valued for probate purposes at nine hundred and forty-two thousand pounds.’ He looked from Lambert to Sergeant Hook in search of a reaction. Lambert was proud of Bert’s determined inscrutability, which could not have come easily to a Barnardo’s boy. ‘The main beneficiaries, as you might expect, were David Craven and Angela Harrison. They received items to the value of approximately four hundred thousand pounds each, if we take the value agreed by the probate office. David received the house, plus an insurance policy realising just over a hundred thousand; Angela was left shares and bonds worth the full four hundred thousand.’

‘Was there a reason for dividing the inheritance in this way?’

‘Edmund Craven originally thought in terms of leaving the house jointly between his children, with the rest of his money after other bequests divided equally between the two. Angela was worried about the joint bequest of the house, and I had to advise that leaving a house jointly can cause difficulties where one partner wishes to sell and the other one to retain the property. Edmund Craven saw the point immediately. I think he hoped that his son would move into Tall Timbers after his death: he was fond of the house, I believe.’

‘David, however, chose not to implement his father’s wish in this. Was it a surprise when he did not do so?’

Lambert did not expect an answer to such a speculative sally. But it produced an unexpected effect. For a moment the gossip that lay somewhere deep within Alfred Arkwright’s polished legal shell struggled with the reticence his professional image demanded. His profession won, of course, as it always would within his chambers. He said, ‘You will no doubt be seeing David Craven in the course of your inquiries. You will form your own impression of his character and actions then, I am sure.’ But for a moment the corners of his mouth had crinkled with distaste. Plainly, like Dr Carroll, he did not like the surviving Mr Craven. In his present irritation, Lambert found it hard not to account that a mark in the young man’s favour.

‘All parties were happy with this arrangement, though, at the time when the will was made?’

‘Superintendent, you must understand that it is my duty to execute the wishes of my client, not to make sure that other parties are happy or otherwise with the details.’ Arkwright smiled at Lambert’s naïvety and adjusted the lapels of a suit that was impeccably cut in the fashion of a previous decade. ‘But I gathered from Edmund Craven at the time that the will seemed to accord with the wishes of the main beneficiaries.’

Lambert sighed: it took a long time to extract a yes. ‘Would you please list the other provisions of the will for us as succinctly as possible?’

Perhaps Arkwright noticed Lambert’s patience wearing thin; more likely even he was beginning to tire of the game of circumlocutions. He glanced at his watch and looked surprised, indicating that his next appointment was now pressing and the policemen were taking up far too much of his valuable time. ‘The only other bequest of any substance was to Mrs Margaret Lewis. She was left a cottage in Burnham-on-Sea, and ten thousand pounds. Mr Craven had owned the cottage for thirty-six years; in his younger days, I believe the family used it as a holiday home. Mrs Craven was alive then, of course.’

‘When did she die, Mr Arkwright?’

‘About fourteen years ago.’

‘So that means that Mrs Lewis was his housekeeper for about thirteen years.’

‘Yes. A little less, I think. I believe there were two previous incumbents who held the post for short periods without giving satisfaction.’ If Alfred Arkwright was aware that his phrasing was open to any but the most straightforward of interpretations, he gave no sign as his eyes studied the file in front of him, which Lambert was sure did not contain this information.

‘What was the probate value of the cottage?’

‘Exactly one hundred thousand pounds. It had been well maintained and modernised by Craven over the years, though it was leased on long lets in later times.’ So Margaret Lewis was right when she said that all those close to the dead man had motives. Bert Hook, recording the value of her bequest carefully, reflected that he had known several people who had killed for much less than this.

Arkwright must have been genuinely conscious of the passing minutes: he went on without further prompting. ‘There were bequests of ten thousand pounds to the local Anglican church, St Gabriel’s, and five thousand pounds to a nephew in Australia, whom I understand Mr Craven had not seen for thirty years. Finally, Mr Craven left a thousand pounds and his small collection of Second World War memorabilia to Walter John Miller, whom he calls “my old friend of many years with whom I have shared so much”.’ Arkwright closed the will with the air of finality that he had perfected over the years to remind his clients of their mortality.

It seemed straightforward enough. Lambert, looking in the document for clues about the actions of those it named, reminded himself that omissions could sometimes be as significant as bequests. ‘Were there any grandchildren?’

Not at the time this will was made. Angela now has two children, but David remains without issue.’ Arkwright
rolled off the legal phrase with the air of a man who has concluded a routine voyage with a safe berthing.

‘And when was this will made?’

Arkwright reopened the document reluctantly at the first page. ‘It was signed and attested exactly nine years and three months ago today.’ He stared across the desk expectantly.

Suddenly, Lambert knew exactly the question that was now required of him. And this time he offered it readily, trying not to reveal the first moment of real
excitement he had felt in the case. ‘Is there any possibility that Craven was planning to change the provisions?’

Arkwright had been fed his cue. He leaned slightly forward, so that he could steeple his spotless fingers with his elbows upon the desk. ‘We do not advise changes and codicils to wills: they can cause great confusion. It is far better to make a completely new will. That is what I advised and what Edmund Craven said he purposed to do. But after he had indicated this intention, he never came back to me, and it would have been unprofessional of me to press him upon it. I should point out, perhaps, that I had no idea that his condition was worsening: his death came as a shock to me.

Lambert said slowly, ‘This is very important, as I think you appreciate. Have you any idea at all of what kind of change in his arrangements Mr Craven was proposing to make.’

‘Regrettably, Superintendent, none whatsoever.’

‘Did he tell you whether other people knew about his proposed changes?’

‘No, Superintendent. It would be unusual, though, if he had not talked to the interested parties about them.’

Lambert sensed the answer to his last question even as he framed it. ‘When did Craven indicate to you that he proposed to make a new will?’

Arkwright looked him full in the eyes for the first time in their exchanges. ‘I have a note here of the date of our phone conversation. It took place four months before his death.’

5

David Craven watched the two dark shapes on the other side of the frosted glass as he spoke into the telephone. ‘Surely another month now would be in everyone’s interest? I can certainly now assure you that—’ His face hardened at the interruption from the other end of the line. ‘If we’re talking about credit ratings, you’re obviously not up to date. I suggest you make sure of your facts in that respect before we talk any further!’

Behind the glass, the shapes were following the smaller and lighter one of his secretary towards his door. He banged the phone roughly back into its cradle and pulled on the wide smile of greeting which felt daily more like a rubber
mask. As the door opened and the shapes became people, he rose and moved to the side of his desk.

‘Ah, Superintendent. Welcome to the humble centre of our activities. Do come and sit down. Tea, June, I think. And perhaps the odd custard cream.’

Lambert introduced Bert Hook and saw from the corner of his eye the Sergeant making his usual elaborate opening mime with his notebook. His main attention was on David Craven, who was working hard to seem at ease. There was nothing odd about that: almost everyone who is drawn into a murder inquiry feels a need to demonstrate his or her innocence. As they usually regard the adoption of a carefree manner as integral to this, and as very few of them are trained actors, the impression left is usually of ineffective artifice. That was certainly the case here.

David Craven was tall, as tall as Lambert, with a tanned face and iron grey hair. In his lightweight grey suit, white shirt and dark red tie, he was what romantic fiction would describe as ‘distinguished’. Lambert thought that from the photographs he had seen of the dead man he might have looked much like this thirty years or so ago; his preliminary researches told him that the son was now forty-six. Craven’s
smile spread into a general affability as the introductions were completed and he retired behind the modern desk with its panelled leather top and executive trimmings. Only the dark blue eyes failed to catch the smile: they were cool and wary, as though run by a different motor from the one which painted the smile and drove the movements of the hands.

Lambert wondered whether the wariness was for them alone, or whether it was habitual in the man. He said, ‘Sergeant Hook explained the reason for our visit when he made this appointment, so I won’t waste time with preliminaries.’

Craven said, ‘I knew about the exhumation, of course. The Coroner informed me, as next of kin. I must say I was shocked that it should be necessary.’

He had the air of a man who had prepared these comments and was determined to deliver them, despite the Superintendent’s attempt at directness. Lambert said, ‘In view of that, I should tell you at once that we are now engaged upon a full-scale murder inquiry. We have already contacted your father’s doctor and solicitor. That is routine practice in these cases.’ Lambert wondered wryly if Craven knew how little this was a routine case for him.

‘I suppose there can be no doubt that it was murder? It seems quite incredible to me.’

Again Lambert had the impression of a man determined to go over ground that he had prepared, presumably in the hope that this would be a preliminary step to controlling the path of the whole interview. It was reaction to that thought which made him say abruptly, ‘Your father was poisoned, Mr Craven. Murdered in a manner that was both systematic and cold-blooded, over a period of several weeks.’

Craven gasped, whether at the news itself or at the sharpness of its delivery it was impossible to tell. Both detectives studied him openly for a moment. He could be an affectionate only son distressed by the news that his father had been brutally despatched, or a murderer who knew all this and more and had to simulate his innocence. Eventually he said, ‘You saw Mrs Lewis too, I believe.’ It was a tiny attempt to retain the initiative, by reminding them that he knew about actions they had not so far revealed to him. Lambert liked nettling his witnesses; it caused them to reveal things they might otherwise have concealed. In this case, that Craven was in touch with Margaret Lewis, or some third party who knew them both. Collusion, always likely when death was contrived over a protracted period, seemed more than ever a possibility.

‘We did indeed. Even after so long a period, one likes to begin at the scene of the crime.’

‘And no doubt the splendid Margaret gave you her estimation of the possibilities of all the suspects.’ Perhaps he was rattled by Lambert’s cool resilience: he was giving away far more than he thought.

The Superintendent raised his eyebrows a little and decided to stonewall. ‘Mrs Lewis assisted us in compiling a list of those close to your father in his last months. As they were the people with the most obvious opportunities to administer poison, I wouldn’t dispute your description of them as suspects.’

Craven wanted to know what she had said about them, and presumably in particular about him. He would not know that she had neither offered nor been pressed for opinions about the people she had mentioned. Craven drummed his fingers on the desk and said, ‘Not a great admirer of yours truly, the admirable Mrs Lewis. I thought she had too much influence over Dad, and said so. Someone had to.’ So no one else had felt so strongly; it began to look as though the housekeeper had been rather charitable in her reticence about her employer’s son. Lambert remembered her faint air of satisfaction when she had been unable to give David Craven an alibi. While he deliberately refused to react to this comment about Mrs Lewis, the Superintendent considered a second interview with her with renewed interest.

He said, ‘I understand you inherited your father’s house.’

Craven laughed, bitterly and theatrically. ‘I expect she gave you the full benefit of her views on that. Well, all I’m doing is taking advantage of circumstances. Dad isn’t here anymore, unfortunately, and what he would have wanted is no more than sentimental supposition. We live in today’s world and no one pays you a single quid for sentiment. That site is worth far more for development than as a single house, and even toffee-nosed Margaret knows it.’

Lambert let him run on with the indignant clichés until they petered out. Then he said, ‘Actually, Mrs Lewis said nothing about this. Our sole source of information was your father’s solicitor. He gave us all the details of the will, as the law requires him to do. If you know Mr Arkwright, you will hardly need me to tell you that he made no comment on the ethics of the development of the site.’

Craven was left looking rather crestfallen. Foolishly, he tried to justify himself. ‘That’s just what it is: development. Progress. People in Oldford don’t understand that. Most of them think it’s a sin to make a profit.’

That seemed extremely unlikely in an area where the Conservative MP held a huge majority, but Lambert forbore to say so. It was Bert Hook, predictably irritated by Craven’s public school manner and capitalist blusterings, who said unexpectedly, ‘There is profit in the development then, sir?’

It was spoken with the air of peaceful naïvety which Hook managed very well, and it took Craven completely by surprise. He had been concentrating on Lambert; he looked now to the Superintendent for support in checking this impertinent underling. Lambert not only did not rebuke his Sergeant, but waited impassively for a reaction. Craven said roughly, ‘I don’t see that what I make on Tall Timbers is any business of yours.’

Hook spoke even more quietly this time. ‘No, sir. Except, you see, that a large financial gain provides an excellent motive for murder.’

Craven flushed so deeply that his tan suddenly looked artificial. He said, ‘This is ridiculous. I invite you here to be as helpful as I can in a situation I naturally find distressing, and within ten minutes I’m being accused of murdering my own father! I want a lawyer before this goes any further.’

Lambert’s voice cut through the air of the overheated room like cold steel. ‘First of all, Mr Craven, you did not invite us here. We made an appointment in pursuance of a
murder inquiry. Secondly, no one has accused you of anything, let alone murder. Sergeant Hook replied to a comment of yours about the irrelevance of wealth with the observation that it frequently provides a motive for murder. That is a fact that is manifest in crime statistics throughout Europe. If you wish to be questioned in the presence of a lawyer, that can be arranged. I should prefer that we conduct what I must stress are preliminary inquiries in a more informal atmosphere, if that is possible.’

Craven was saved from an impulsive reaction by the arrival of the tea. The young secretary deposited the tray and bustled out again as quickly as she could; perhaps she was used to her employer’s conferences coming to an abrupt halt when she entered. As the door shut behind her, Lambert said, ‘We are now familiar, as I indicated, with the full terms of the will. Have you any comment you would like to make on those terms?’

It was an irregular question, but he was already sure that Craven was not going to carry his threats through into any formal complaint. He looked up defiantly and said, ‘No. Why should I? I saw the potential of the site as you would expect me to do—’

‘Forgive me interrupting, Mr Craven, but people usually assume we know far more than we do, I find. Are you an architect?’

Lambert was back to his silkiest tone. Craven looked at him suspiciously before he said, ‘I am an architect by training, yes. I realised a few years ago that there was far more money in property development than in drawing plans.’ His attitude made Lambert wonder where he had argued thus before. With his father perhaps? Or his sister? And what had the reception been then? ‘Everyone was happy with the will when it was made. When Dad eventually died, I considered the possibilities of the site. I am a businessman, Superintendent, and I could see immediately that if we could get permission for flats, Tall Timbers would have to go.’

‘I see. I appreciate that this would imply no legal condition, and indeed that you may not wish to answer, but I
would remind you that anything which would throw light on the attitudes of others close to your father is bound to be of interest to us. Can you tell us if your actions have caused resentment among the other legatees?’

Craven did not explode into rage, but looked at him carefully before he answered. ‘None of them liked it, I’m sure. I think they all assumed as Dad did that I’d be making Tall Timbers my own home. That would not have been possible in any case.’ For a moment Lambert thought he was going to enlarge upon this, but he thought better of it and went on, ‘Once we got planning permission, there was no decision to make. Much as I had always liked Tall Timbers, there was no question of me moving in. The old place had to come down.’

‘I suppose Mrs Lewis had always expected to move out after your father’s death?’

Craven smiled at the thought. ‘I cannot think that Margaret would expect to stay on with the house in my ownership, whatever the circumstances. It must have been quite a windfall for her to be there this long—at her old wages, too.’

‘Presumably, though, you thought Mrs Lewis could offer you a useful service by being in residence.’

‘I wasn’t merely being charitable to Margaret, if that’s what you mean. I don’t suppose she’d have accepted the situation if she’d thought that. There is a lot of valuable stuff in Tall Timbers and it suited me to have the house occupied while we were applying for planning. Now that it’s being sold with planning permission for the flats, that’s less important, but I’m happy to have someone on the spot to make sure nothing disappears from the place. I can afford it; the asking price for the site is one million pounds.’

There was silence at this revelation. Craven looked quite pleased, as though this was the proper homage journeymen should pay to great wealth. Then Bert Hook said, ‘When did you first explore the possibility of building flats on the site, Mr Craven?’

Craven’s blue eyes flashed a look at the Sergeant which demanded to know whether the question was as innocent
as his tone. He discovered nothing, for Hook’s attention was determinedly on his notebook; the poised ball-pen left the murder victim’s son in no doubt that his replies would be recorded. Craven took his time, giving his attention to the manner rather than the substance of his reply. He stood and walked over to the bookcase on the other side of the room, fingering a heavy marble statue on top of it.

He contrived to sound unruffled as he said, ‘Oh, I couldn’t be precise, but these things certainly take time. The local authority’s Planning Officer has to report. If the application is turned down at the Planning Committee meeting, or even held in suspension until the whole Committee has a look at the site, one has to go back in the queue and wait for another meeting. Patience is not only a virtue but a requisite when dealing with planning applications.’ His delivery became smoother as he moved towards a well-worn theme and sentiments he had delivered many times before to clients. ‘Of course, it pays to know one’s way around and whom one is dealing with—’

‘Quite,’ said Lambert. ‘And when did the whole process begin in this case?’

‘Well, as I say, it takes a long time. I didn’t wait for probate to be granted before I began the process, I seem to remember.’ It sounded evasive, even in his own ears: he felt himself a victim of a pincer movement by these calm, experienced men.

Hook, without even looking up, said, ‘I think it was in fact much earlier than that, Mr Craven.’ The Sergeant found himself using the technique of slow revelation he found effective when he caught the young tearaways of the district in a lie. This time he positively enjoyed watching his forty-six-year-old victim squirm.