Deadly Petard (5 page)

West opened the front door of Queenswood Farm and stepped inside. ‘Hullo, Gertie.’

She was shocked by the change in his appearance. Gone was the arrogant, smooth, slick self-satisfaction: now, he looked neryous and uncertain.

She offered him coffee and they drank it in the dining-room, sitting at the small reproduction refectory table. Outside one of the windows a length of creeper, disturbed by the wind, kept tapping on the glass.

‘The police . . .’ He stopped.

‘What are the police doing?’

‘They’re convinced Babs didn’t commit suicide.’

‘How can they be when she left that note?’

‘They say it was forged.’

‘My God! . . . But why do they think that?’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘The experts say they’re pretty certain the letters were individually traced out of her diary and then put together to make up the message. They’re accusing me of having forged it.’

‘But why you?’

‘Because if it was forged, the forger either lived in the house or else knew a hell of a lot about it.’

‘It’s ridiculous to think you could have done such a thing.’

‘They don’t understand. They won’t understand. I loved her. When I realized that it was a plastic bag over her head . . . It was as if someone had stabbed me. When the doctor told me she was dead, part of me died.’

‘Oh, Keir!’

His voice rose. ‘Because I’m younger and wasn’t rich they’re saying I married her for her money. But I’d have married her if she hadn’t had a penny and lived in a council house. And how was I supposed to know she intended changing her will, leaving the estate to that snooty cousin of hers just because he’s a Hardy and the family solicitors had finally persuaded her that it ought to stay in the family. Those bloody solicitors have been against me from the day our engagement was announced. They tried to prevent her making the will in the first place . . . I didn’t begin to know she’d a draft copy of the new will among her papers—never went near her personal papers. I didn’t even know she’d been to see the solicitors.’

‘Keir.’

‘What?’

‘Why did she let the solicitors persuade her to change her mind?’

‘Christ, you sound like the police!’

‘I’m sorry. I was just wondering.’

He said bitterly: ‘It was that bitch Mavis again.’

‘You surely didn’t do anything to her?’

‘Like belt her one? I’m not that stupid, even if I was tempted every time she was rude to me. The old fool overheard something and told Babs, who didn’t understand.’

‘What kind of something?’

‘It’s just that a man sometimes needs a change of scene.

It’s the way he’s made. But it doesn’t mean anything really. I didn’t love Babs any the less.’

‘You were seeing another woman?’

‘A touch of variety, that’s all. Ships that pass in the night. And Babs wouldn’t have known a thing if Mavis hadn’t left her specs in the kitchen and come back to find ‘em. That’s how she heard me on the phone.’

‘Then she knew who you were talking to?’

‘Not by name. But it was obvious I wasn’t having a chat with the vicar.’

‘And the police know about this?’

‘D’you imagine Mavis would keep that sort of news to herself?’

God, what a mess! she thought. ‘Keir, I know I don’t really understand things, but surely if you weren’t in the house when Babs died you can’t have had anything to do with her death?’

‘Of course I bloody can’t.’

‘Then you must find someone who saw you that evening.’

‘I’ve told you a dozen times, I didn’t see anyone I knew. That’s why I had to get you to cover for me.’

‘But I don’t know that I can go on doing it. Things are different now, aren’t they? Before, it was just a case of helping you and making the police see that Mavis was hysterical. But if they really do believe Barbara was murdered . . . You’ve got to tell the truth.’

‘I daren’t,’ he said, his voice hoarse.

She studied him. ‘You were lying to me, weren’t you?’ she said bleakly.

He nodded.’

‘Why?’

‘Because . . . because I wasn’t paying any gambling debts, I was seeing a woman. And I was scared that if you knew that, you wouldn’t agree to help me if Babs rang to check where I was.’

‘All right. Then now you’ve got to go and tell the police you were out with this woman. When they’ve checked up, they’ll stop suspecting you of murder.’

‘You still don’t understand. They heard from Mavis about that phone call. If now they can prove I went on seeing another woman—a lot younger than Babs and showy—they’ll reckon my motive for murder was even stronger.’

‘But if you can prove that the two of you weren’t anywhere near Middle Manor at the time of Babs’s death?’

He spoke in almost a whisper. ‘But we were. Sandra lives in Exhurst. We had a meal at the Horse and Crown motel and then drove back to her place: we passed within a couple of miles of Middle Manor.’

‘Oh my God! . . . But if she swears you were together all the time, didn’t stop, didn’t go into the house . . .?’

‘And you think the police will believe her?’

‘You expected them to believe me when I told them you were here.’

‘There’s a hell of a difference. You’re obviously reliable, but Sandra . . .’ He tailed off into silence.

Is young and pretty, she thought bitterly.

Detective-Inspector Rifle was a tall, thin, austere-looking man in his early forties who never asked anyone to work harder than he was prepared to do himself: which was no consolation. He had a sense of humour, but this was so dry that many people thought he was without one. ‘Miss Dean, I wonder if you quite understand the seriousness of the situation?’

Gertrude looked across her sitting-room at the detective-inspector, who sat to the right of Cullon. ‘I’d have to be very stupid not to.’

‘Mrs West was almost certainly murdered.’

‘But you can’t be positive that she was?’

He considered the question. ‘Perhaps I can best answer by explaining that unless a policeman can go into a court of law and prove all the facts to the satisfaction of that court, he cannot claim to be certain in the legal sense . . . I have not the slightest doubt that Mrs West did not commit suicide, but was murdered, yet at this moment I cannot legally prove that . . . This is one of those cases where motive, opportunity, and the provable facts, all point in one, and only one, direction. Motive.’ He held up one finger. ‘Throughout our investigations, which have been very detailed, we have only uncovered one motive for Mrs West’s murder and that is money. She was a wealthy woman and her estate will be, by anyone’s standards, a very large one. So we have to ask ourselves who stands to benefit from her death? And having identified that person, we have to go on to ask whether there were intended any change of circumstances likely to produce a situation where the death of the victim becomes necessary now rather than later if the suspect is to continue to benefit.

‘Opportunity.’ He held up a second finger. ‘By far the greatest proportion of all murders are committed by persons well known to the victim—the motive more readily arises and the routine of the murdered person is known. So if in addition a careful and sophisticated attempt is made to conceal the murder, such as presenting the death as suicide, then one immediately looks at those persons who were closest to the victim.

‘The facts.’ He held up a third finger. ‘The facts, negative just as much as positive, all point to one person, and only one person, as having been the murderer.’ He paused. ‘I must amend that. All but a single fact point to one person.

‘Miss Dean, I am very well aware that there can be personal factors which severely strain a person’s judgement. But nothing should be allowed to obscure the fact that this murder was the deliberate taking of life, in cold blood, for gain.’

There was a long silence.

Rifle looked at Cullon. Cullon said: ‘Miss Dean, last time I saw you I asked you whether Mr West was with you at any time on Tuesday, the second of November. You told me that he was here from around six in the evening until roughly midnight. Remembering all that Mr Rifle has just said, would you like to alter your evidence?’

‘No,’ she replied, her voice harsh.

It had been a morning of low, dirt-washed clouds, icy wind, sleet, and occasional snow flurries: a day when the world had gone into mourning for a departed sun.

West phoned at nine-thirty in the morning. ‘Have they been again?’

‘No,’ Gertrude answered wearily.

‘You’re sure?’

‘For God’s sake, what sort of question is that? Of course I’m sure.’

‘The last time—you swore I’d been with you all evening?’

Her voice rose. ‘Yes. Yes. Yes.’

‘Why the hell won’t they realize the truth? Babs committed suicide. She left a note, didn’t she, saying that’s what she intended? The post mortem showed she’d had some sleeping pills. There was a whole load of plastic bags of the same size in the kitchen. If Mavis weren’t so bloody vindictive . . .’

He finally brought the call to an end. She replaced the receiver and returned upstairs. The sleet, driven hard by the gusting wind, was pounding on the window of the studio, rendering much of the glass opaque and grossly distorting the images of what was visible beyond: the electric fan heater was failing to keep the room comfortably warm, largely because there were so many draughts in the roof: her latest painting, on the easel, was wrong . . .

Goddamn Keir! she thought with painful bitterness. Why couldn’t he have learned from the past to understand and measure the depths of her loyalty?

Sandra? Was she very beautiful? Or just brassy? And he’d had the filthy nerve to come to Queenswood Farm and demand a false alibi because this whore wouldn’t or couldn’t give him one . . .

She suddenly picked up a palette knife and repeatedly slashed the painting on the easel. Then a measure of reason returned. She dropped the knife on to the floor, crossed to the sleet-covered window, and stared out at a world of suspicion, disloyalty, and bitter loneliness . . .

Into her mind there came the memory of a fortnight’s holiday in sun-drenched Mallorca. Cloudless skies: people who smiled: people whose warmth of spirit could never be mistaken . . .

Why not? she suddenly wondered. Why not escape from all the bitter, painful memories and find a new life out there?

West stood beyond the shade of the patio on Ca’n Absel and the hard sunshine enfolded him. According to the overseas programme on the radio, it was raining in most of the UK. Cause for ironic amusement to think that but for Gertie, so calvanistic in her attitudes, he’d be back there, shivering, instead of enjoying all the hedonistic pleasures of this island . . .

He lit a cigarette. A man had a right to feel good when he rented—at a rent which made people whistle—a luxuriously equipped house with a large swimming pool and mature garden, and he owned a Mercedes 280CE, a Seat 127, and a Hatteras 53-foot motor yacht: and when, held through a company set up in Jersey to escape taxes, he had over a million and a half in securities. None of the local expatriates could ever mistake him for a poor man.

He looked down at the garden. Because the mountains were only half a kilometre away, the land was terraced, with drystone walls. The first terrace was crescent-shaped and the swimming pool had been built at the part where the land was at its widest. The pool was in two halves, both circular, one shallow and one deep: by the latter was a diving board with two heights and a water chute. Beyond the pool was a lawn of gama-grass. Lawns were a complete luxury because they needed so much water. Ca’n Absel’s water came from a spring up in the mountains and was brought down along stone water channels, said to have existed since Roman times, which divided and divided again to serve all the farms in the area. The agent who’d rented him the house had told him that at one time the right to water had caused violent arguments and three men had been killed in less than fifty years—now, a general agreement had been reached over how many hours’ water each property was entitled to. Ca’n Absel’s share was from 9.00 p.m. Sunday night to 6.00 a.m. Monday morning. If ever the estanque into which the water fed looked too empty he’d tell the part-time gardener to divert the water whatever the day or hour. To hell with the peasants. He wasn’t going to suffer a brown lawn or wilting plants.

Below the first terrace was a second and much larger one and here there grew a large number of orange and lemon trees, together with fig, pomegranate, loquat, grapefruit, tangerine, and walnut trees. He was quite the farmer. The thought amused him.

A car turned the corner of the dirt track to come into view and he recognized Charlotte Payne’s Seat 600. Payne by name, pain by nature. But she was the widow of a colonial governor, which placed her among the local society so she was a useful person to know until such time as he could afford to ignore her.

She parked by the side of the garage and he hurried forward to open the driving door. She was a stickler for good manners. He was rewarded by a kiss on each cheek. ‘Good morning, Keir,’ she said, in her high-pitched, heavily cultivated voice. ‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything important?’

‘In fact, nothing at all. And even if you were, I’d still be delighted to see you.’

She had reached the age where honeyed words from a younger man were all the more precious for being rare. ‘I couldn’t ring you because I’m still not on the phone. It’s simply months now since I applied to be connected and paid thousands of pesetas. The bongoes really are incredibly dilatory and slack.’

‘You’ve surely heard about the Mallorquin student who wanted to become an efficiency engineer? No one knew what he was talking about.’

‘How absolutely true! . . . Keir, I’m giving a little party tomorrow night and wondered if you’d care to come along?’

It would be a boring evening, with no snappy little blondes to quicken the blood, but socially it would be an important party. ‘I’d love to—many thanks . . . And since you’re here now, let’s have a drink to get us into practice?’

‘Isn’t it rather early?’ she asked.