Death in Disguise (34 page)

‘That why you dyed your hair, sir?' Troy was now behind the desk, picking up the snap.

‘Hell—is it so obvious?' Nervously he smoothed the dark cap. ‘Yes. I thought it might lessen any resemblance. He brought me up—my uncle—after my parents were killed. He was tremendously kind. He couldn't afford to keep me on at Stowe but apart from that I wanted for nothing. I didn't notice of course how much he went without himself. Children never do.' He held out his hand for the photograph. ‘I was very fond of him.'

‘I'd like to make a copy of this, Mr Carter.'

Andrew hesitated. ‘It's the only one I have.'

‘It'll be returned before you leave.' Barnaby passed the picture to Troy who took himself off with it. ‘When did you last see him?'

‘Some time ago. Our relationship was close but we didn't meet all that often after I left home. I was eighteen. We had a row. I got involved with someone who was married and a lot older. It was the only time there was any real conflict between us. He said it was morally wrong. He was old-fashioned like that. He got really angry. His disappointment made me feel guilty and I stormed off. The rift didn't last five minutes nor, oddly enough, did the affair, but I never lived permanently at home again.

‘I was a bit of a drifter I'm afraid. I liked being on the move and picked up work wherever I happened to be, sometimes abroad. I did grape-picking in France and Italy, moved on to a ski lodge in the Alps. Worked in a circus in Spain—lion tamer of all things but they were poor toothless animals. Went to the States—couldn't get a work permit. Dodged immigration for a bit then had to come back. I even did a stint on the Golden Mile at Blackpool, working the amusement arcades. All very picturesque. Or sordid, according to your age and tolerance quotient.'

‘But you always kept in touch with your uncle?'

‘Of course. I wrote regularly. And I always went to see him between sorties. He'd feed me up a bit. And he never lectured although he must have been sad at the way I turned out. Just accepted me for the grey sheep that I am.'

These last few words were spoken so quietly that Barnaby had to strain to understand. But there was no mistaking Carter's expression. His eyes were burning with a heated mixture of anger and despair. The muscles in his jaw strained with the effort to stop his mouth from trembling. Troy came in with the photograph and some more coffee but Barnaby signalled sharply for him to wait.

‘So when did your uncle go to the Windhorse?'

Carter took a deep breath and long moments passed before he spoke again. He seemed to be bracing himself with great effort for the next step as if it would bring him to the very kernel of his unhappiness.

‘He wrote to me about joining when I was in the States. I must admit I wasn't altogether surprised. He'd never married. As a child of course, I was glad. It meant I didn't have to share him. And he'd always been a bit…well…reclusive. There were periods each day when he'd ask to be left alone to just sit quietly. In meditation, I suppose I'd call it now. Nearly all his books were religious or philosophical. Bhagavad-Gita, Tagore, Pascal. I remember them all throughout my childhood. They're mostly still in his room at the Manor House. It really broke me up when I found them…'

He paused again, this time pressing his knuckles against his mouth as if to dam some unseemly rush of emotion. When he removed his hand, his lips were white. Troy discreetly slid the photograph back on to the desk.

‘It was eighteen months before I got back to England. I moved into a bedsit in Earl's Court, then I wrote giving my address and phone number and told him I'd come down for a long weekend as soon as I'd got a job sorted. He wrote back saying how much he was looking forward to it. He hadn't been well—some sort of stomach upset. Then a few days after the letter this arrived.' He picked up the envelope again and drew out a sheet of lined writing paper which he passed to Barnaby. It read:
Andy, Something terrible has happened. Will call you at eight
P.M
. tomorrow (Thursday) from village. Can't use house phone. Make sure you're there. Love, Jim
. The last sentence was heavily underlined.

‘I never heard. On the Friday I hung around till lunch time, then I rang the Manor House. I simply couldn't believe it when they told me he had died. My whole family just…gone. I sat for hours trying to take it in. Then I went out and got good and drunk. Believe it or not it was well into the next day before the two things—the letter and his death—sort of connected up.'

‘Are you suggesting he was deliberately killed to keep him quiet?'

‘Of course I am.'

‘Isn't that a bit melodramatic, Mr Carter? The terrible news could have been all sorts of things. Of a medical nature perhaps?'

‘He was only in his late fifties. And his health, apart from this upset I just mentioned, was always good. They told me it had been an accident. “A tragic accident.”' He turned the phrase into a spit of disgust. ‘I found out when the inquest was and went along, sitting upstairs in the gallery. And that's when I discovered for certain I was right.'

Barnaby's coffee was by now stone-cold and even Troy had forgotten the half cup of scummy liquid hanging at a dangerous tilt from his finger and thumb.

‘Up until then although I was deeply worried and suspicious I had nothing definite to focus on. But when I heard the medical evidence
I knew
.' He leaned forward gripping the edge of Barnaby's desk. ‘The doctor said Jim had been drinking. That he smelled of whisky and some was spilt on his lapel. That was absolute nonsense. In his first letter he told me the doctor had given him some tablets for this intestinal infection and had warned him most specifically not to drink, as alcohol would have a very unpleasant perhaps even dangerous effect. An unnecessary warning as my uncle never drank anyway.'

Barnaby gave it a moment then said: ‘Is it your belief, then, that someone who knew this forced him to drink and it killed him?'

‘That would be a bit uncertain. I think it much more likely that they killed him then poured the stuff down his throat to make it look as if he'd had a drunken fall.'

‘Easier said than done, Mr Carter. Deglution—like most other bodily functions—ceases upon death. A corpse—forgive me for being blunt—cannot be made to swallow.'

‘It should have been brought out at the inquest, nevertheless. I was banking on that.' Carter became angry, raising his voice. ‘I thought that's what post mortems were for.'

‘Pathologists are busy men. He may have had other jobs waiting. A pm starts at the head…' Barnaby suddenly had a spectacularly vivid picture of just what this involved and felt momentarily queasy, ‘he got to the neck, saw that it was broken and stopped there.'

‘But…don't you analyse stomach contents? All that sort of thing?'

‘Only if there are suspicious circumstances. This obviously appeared to be straightforward. It's a pity,' he folded up the letter and placed it under a paperweight, ‘that you didn't pass all these doubts on to the police straight away.'

‘What could I prove? The cremation had taken place before the inquest—they made sure of that. All the evidence literally gone up in smoke. Also, I thought that if you did take me seriously and started questioning people they'd be on their guard, clam right up and I'd get nowhere.'

‘Have you had any luck?'

‘No.' His expression became dark and sombre. ‘Not a bloody whisper. I was very careful. I'd been there a month before I asked anyone anything. And then I was casual about it. Mentioned him only in passing. I thought this would be acceptable—even half expected. You know how curious people are after an unnatural death. I hoped it would be assumed my questions fell into that category. All I discovered was what he was like as a person, which I knew already.'

‘Did you find anyone reluctant to speak. Feel they were hiding something?'

‘No, damn it. I did wonder at one point if they were in it together.' He caught the quizzical look of a rough grey brow. ‘It has been known.'

‘I'm aware of that.' Barnaby, who had long since rested his pen, now put it and the pad aside. ‘Surely it's a bit unlikely no one at the Manor House knew of your uncle's medication and the possible side effects.'

‘I doubt it. The problem of alcohol wouldn't come up. The place is dry, you see.'

‘
Dry?
' The word, coloured red for horror, flew from the sergeant's lips. Troy looked sternly round as if a fourth party were present, concealed perhaps in the filing cabinet, infelicitously interrupting.

‘You didn't search his room by any chance?'

‘How did you know that?' He looked briefly impressed.

‘You were heard.'

‘Oh dear. That's bad.'

‘Were you looking for anything specific?'

Andrew flushed. He looked awkward and for the first time since the beginning of the interview, insincere. He blustered for a moment then shrugged, turning his hands palms-upward in a gesture of exculpation. ‘This is going to sound awfully mercenary so soon after he died but yes. I was looking for a Will. He'd sold his house when he moved to the Windhorse. Nothing grand. A three-bedroom terraced in what years ago was the non-posh bit of Islington. Now of course there's no such thing. He got a hundred and eighty for it.' Troy gave a low whistle. ‘I went to Barclays where he always banked, but they weren't holding a Will and they'd tell me nothing about his affairs.'

‘Perhaps he put it into the commune?' suggested Troy.

‘That's not how it works. You don't have to buy in. People just pay their way. And in any case it's not something he would have done. He didn't have to take me in and bring me up, but once he did our attachment to one another was total. I was his next of kin and I know he would have left the proceeds from the sale of the house to me. Certainly in preference to a bunch of strangers.' His voice rose again on the final words then he paused. Breathing slowly in an obvious attempt to calm down, he reached for a third cigarette.

‘Perhaps you'd let me have your address at Earl's Court, Mr Carter?'

Barnaby picked up his pen once more.

‘Twenty-eight Barkworth Gardens. Easy to remember because it's my age.'

‘You say the morning of your uncle's death you hung around waiting for a call till noon. Were you alone?'

‘Part of the time. Around half ten Noeleen—an Australian girl next door—asked if I'd like some coffee. We had it in her flat. The phone's on the landing and she left the door open. Why do you ask?'

Barnaby capped this question by another. ‘What are you going to do now your cover's blown?'

‘No reason why it should be.' He fielded two disbelieving looks. ‘There's no newspapers, radio or telly at the house you see.'

‘It's all over the tabloids, Mr Carter,' said Troy. ‘Maybe display boards, too. You don't have to buy a paper. Just be in the blasting area.'

‘I don't know about that. I was in the village this morning and I didn't notice anything. Anyway—it'll be a one-day splash won't it? All over by tomorrow. I think I'll keep my mouth shut and my fingers crossed.'

‘You're going to have the fourth estate crawling out of your Tudor woodwork any minute now,' said Barnaby, ‘what with the murder and Gamelin's death. No point in telling them your name's Christopher Wainwright.'

‘Hell. I suppose not. Then of course Trixie might have seen it. If she comes back —'

‘Comes back? What do you mean?'

‘She's run off.'

‘What!'

‘We discovered it just before lunch.'

‘Why on earth didn't you notify us?'

‘Oh there's nothing sinister. She went of her own free will. Taken all her things.'

‘It's not for you to decide what's sinister and what isn't!' shouted Barnaby. ‘You were all instructed not to go anywhere without informing the police.'

‘It's not as if she's involved—'

‘She's a witness in a murder inquiry, Mr Carter. And a possible suspect.'

‘
A suspect
…but isn't…I thought…'

‘The case is still open.' He watched that sink in. Saw the implications take root and his visitor's subsequent alarm.

‘I must get Suze away. I'll tell her the truth. She'll understand. Why I had to pretend, to lie. Won't she?' He sounded uncertain. ‘I'm not bothered what the others think.'

‘That's a foolish and careless attitude, Mr Carter,' said the chief inspector. ‘If your suspicions regarding the death of your uncle are correct—and I tell you frankly that I would not be at all surprised if they were—then someone at the Manor House has already killed two people. And they'll not hang about, I assure you, if they feel a need to make it three.'

‘But why should anyone want to kill me? I haven't discovered anything.'

‘Then it might be sensible to publicise the fact. And also,' concluded Barnaby, ‘to watch your back.'