Every Secret Thing (38 page)

I could tell from his tone that he hadn’t been pleased. I couldn’t imagine a sharp and powerful woman like Venetia Radburn being satisfied with anything less than the whole story, any more than I could imagine a man like the Colonel being anything but loathe to share the strings with a competing puppeteer.

‘Ironic, really, that I’d been using her for bait to get you down here for dinner, and in the end she took control of that event.’

Ah yes, I thought. The dinner. All those seemingly innocent questions about the accident I’d witnessed, and what the old man might have said. About my grandmother. Venetia Radburn, smiling as she’d poured my wine. And afterwards, when I’d gone up to bed, the sounds of everybody talking in the sitting room below.

‘I felt certain, at the time,’ the Colonel said, ‘that you knew nothing. If you had read Deacon’s report, you’d have known who I was, and you wouldn’t have been so relaxed. No one’s that good an actress. But Venetia wanted convincing, so I arranged one final test. Someone official, this time. Someone you might feel compelled to talk to.’

‘You mean Metcalf.’

‘Who?’

‘The man at my hotel,’ I said.

‘Was that the name he went by? I didn’t know. I told him to choose someone very official, a real Scotland Yard man, in case you should check the credentials. I’d hoped, you see, that even if he weren’t able to find out what you knew, he might be able to persuade you to let Deacon’s story drop, for fear of prosecution. But that didn’t work, of course.’ His mouth quirked. ‘I was told you didn’t take too well to his suggestions. And he also said he was quite sure he’d seen Cavender passing you something, that night in the bar. The very fact that you were
meeting
with Cavender, let alone accepting documents from him, seemed evidence enough that not only did you know of Deacon’s story, you were working on it, actively, and I’m afraid that rather sealed your fate, my dear. And Cavender’s.’ I’d never known a person speak so casually of murder. For although he hadn’t gone himself to Deacon’s house in Elderwel, to strike the coward’s blow that killed James Cavender, he’d sent the men who’d done it. It had been his plan. His murder. ‘I did think it better to be safe,’ he said, ‘than sorry.’

Better to be safe than sorry. So my grandmother had died. I forced back my anger enough to ask, ‘Why didn’t you just kill me when you had me here, in London?’

The Colonel said, ‘Because I’d complicated things, you see, by bringing Patrick into play, with you. Venetia wouldn’t hear of doing anything to you while you were in England, for fear it might somehow touch Patrick. You must understand, my dear, that Venetia’s had a grand design for both my boys since they were in their prams, and when young John died, well, it all fell onto Patrick. Number 10 Downing Street, that’s what she chose for him, steered him towards. Any scandal that might jeopardise his chances, well, she simply wouldn’t hear of it. As the man you’d been seeing, he might have been questioned had anything untoward happened to you. It was safer to wait, we decided, until you went home. Will you have another glass of port?’ He held up the decanter, as an offering. ‘No? Anyhow, we weren’t successful, were we? Killing you, I mean. And then you disappeared…
that
gave me a few bad moments, I can tell you.’

‘But you found me.’

‘Yes, that was a stroke of luck. Anne Wood had been in Amsterdam, and seen someone who looked like you. She mentioned to Venetia, when they talked, how much this woman looked like you. She’d thought it odd, too, that the woman would say that she wasn’t Canadian, when she was holding a passport from Canada. She’d read your name, and your plane ticket. So we found out you were headed for Portugal.’ He’d known that I’d be going there to speak to living witnesses, and so he had arranged to have Regina watched, and Roger. When I’d turned up at Regina’s house, they’d followed me from there. ‘You gave them quite a time, I’m told. Who was the young man, with you?’

When I didn’t answer him, he smiled. ‘No matter. Good for you, though. You were always too intelligent for Patrick.’

Coldly, I asked, ‘Where has Patrick been? I would have thought that you’d send
him
to Portugal, to tie up your loose ends for you.’

‘Good Lord, no. I could never trust Patrick with something like that. No, I brought the professionals in, for all that. I sent Patrick on holiday. Greece. Kept him out of the way for a while, and gave him a chance to calm down. He was too unpredictable. Still is. I can’t say he’ll be pleased to find out you’ve returned.’

‘I’ll be sure to watch my step, crossing the street.’

That amused him. ‘A wise policy.’ Setting down his glass, he searched for something in his pocket. ‘You’ll want to watch your step regardless, I’m afraid, my dear. Oh, you’ve nothing to fear, here, tonight,’ he said, seeing how my wary gaze had followed his movements. He pulled his hand free of his pocket to show me he held nothing more than a packet of matches. But he knew what I’d been thinking.

He said, ‘When I was out in Africa, some of the chaps used to set bait for lion, and hide there and wait till the beasts came in close enough to make a kill. No sport in that. I always liked to do my hunting in the open, where the lion had a decent chance.’

His eyes, on mine, were condescending, making very sure I got his meaning. He was letting me know I was safe, for the moment, because I had come to him here, but that once I went out of this house, went back into the open, the game would be on.

He took a cigar from a box on the table beside him, and lit it, and shook out the match. ‘I shall miss you, Miss Murray. I mean that. You’ve been a delightful opponent.’

I’d had all that I could stomach of his company. I’d gotten what I came for. ‘Oh, don’t worry, Colonel Cayton-Wood,’ I said, and stood. ‘I have every intention of being the last person standing. I’ll see myself out.’ And though I’d said I’d never turn my back on him, I held my fear in check and did it now, and walked – although I felt like running – out of the room to the echoing entry hall, where, from its shadowy corner, the dragon’s-head walking stick reared up to watch me with evil red eyes as I passed through the front door and slammed it behind me.

There were benches set along the Thames embankment, in the shadow of Westminster Bridge, but I stayed standing. I set my back to the river, so that I could see both the traffic that rushed past in an unceasing current of its own along the busy street beyond the footpath, and the people strolling past Westminster Pier, where I was standing. They were mostly people on their way to work, or tourists checking the times of the boats to the Tower of London, Kew Gardens, or Greenwich.

There were just enough people about so that I could feel safe, without feeling myself overwhelmed. And two benches downstream, Nick and Margot were sitting, pretending an interest in feeding the pigeons and reading the paper, respectively.

The autumn morning air was cool and damp, and rich with car exhaust, and diesel from the river boats, and the decaying scent of fallen leaves on pavement. The forecast called for rain, and I could smell that coming, too, and see the gathering of grey cloud further east, above the river.

Clear and ringing, loud above the noise of traffic, Big Ben chimed the quarter hour and left the last note hanging, pure, reverberating in the air. I heard the hard, approaching sound of footsteps, and I turned my head.

I recognised him right away. He seemed to have more difficulty spotting me. I’d given up on my disguise – I wasn’t wearing glasses any longer, and I’d chopped my hair last night, myself, with scissors, so the red roots would show through. If Colonel Cayton-Wood enjoyed the sport of hunting, I’d decided, he would get no joy from me. I’d stand and face him in the open; take his victory from him. I refused to be a fugitive for ever.

I’d given my description on the phone, to Sergeant Metcalf, but he sounded less than sure. ‘Miss Murray?’

I nodded, accepting the handshake. ‘Sergeant Metcalf. Thanks for coming.’

Cautious habit made me pull back, keep my distance. I was taking a risk, I knew, meeting him, even in public. Instinct told me he was what he said he was – an uninvolved policeman. And from what the Colonel had told me last night, the real Metcalf – this man standing next to me now – was an innocent victim of stolen identity. But I knew full well I couldn’t believe all the Colonel had told me last night. He was good at deception. And I didn’t know, for certain, Sergeant Metcalf wasn’t on the Colonel’s payroll.

If he was, then what I was about to do was meaningless.

Even if he wasn’t, it was very likely meaningless as well, although at least, then, whoever the Colonel had hired to follow me, watch me, would see what I did here this morning, and with whom. That might, if I was lucky, make the Colonel stay his hand.

At any rate, I had to meet with Metcalf, and accept the risk.

And Metcalf, to his credit, didn’t look the least bit threatening. He was a large man, broad-shouldered,
broad-faced
, with patient eyes, set deep, surrounded by creases. He looked like a big country farmer, plain-dealing,
good-humoured
, instead of a policeman. It was probably, I decided, an impression he’d have cultivated, making people feel at ease enough to open up to him. In interrogations, he’d have been the one who got to play the good cop.

He’d put his hands back in his pockets, respecting my withdrawal, and the glance he angled down at me showed genuine concern. ‘You’re not too cold out here? My office isn’t far.’

‘I’m fine, thanks.’

Nodding once to show he understood, he asked me, ‘Have you been in London long?’

‘Not really, no.’

‘I must say, I was quite surprised to hear from you. Not at all the way I’d thought to end my week.’ He smiled. ‘I’m glad to see you’re well. We’ve all been worried.’

‘“We?”’

‘The Toronto police, and myself. They’ve kept me informed, as a courtesy, because of my…well, my involvement, if you like. Although I’m still not certain how I got involved.’ His smile made deeper creases round his eyes. ‘I suppose it began with that message you left on my voicemail. Yours was the second message I’d received that day, from someone whom I’d never met, who talked as though we’d spoken. The first was from some chap who said he’d just remembered one more detail of the accident he’d witnessed, that I’d questioned him about. He didn’t leave his name – just said the driver of the car must have been tall, because the seat was quite far back. And that was that. I hadn’t a clue what he was on about. Then you called, apologising, and again, I knew we’d never talked. You left a name, at least, though. And a number. In Toronto, where I’d just arrived, myself; so I decided that I’d better try to find out what the hell was going on.’ He paused, and then concluded with, ‘Except I never got the chance to ask you.’

A boat chugged behind us, its bow turned upstream. Metcalf watched it for a moment, and then asked me, ‘I assume you’d met with someone else, who said that he was me?’

‘Yes.’

‘When was this?’

I told him, giving him the details I remembered

He took it in, frowning. ‘I see.’

‘So when you turned up at the hospital in Toronto,’ I finished, ‘and somebody mentioned your name, all I knew was that you weren’t the man I had talked to in London.’

‘And that’s why you ran. You thought I was the one who was playing a part.’

‘I didn’t know what to think. I was in shock, still. I just knew that something was wrong.’

With another nod, he said, ‘That was a queer chain of events, that night. I was having drinks with my Canadian counterpart, talking over my presentation, when I overheard the call come in and recognised the address. So I asked if I could see you. If I’d known that I would frighten you, I would have stayed away.’

‘No, it was good that you came to the hospital, really.’ If I hadn’t seen him and realised that something was rotten, I wouldn’t have gone into hiding, wouldn’t have changed my identity, wouldn’t have been on my guard. I’d have stayed where I was, in the open, a nice easy target for Cayton-Wood’s killers. ‘I’d be dead, if you hadn’t,’ I said to him bluntly, and tried to explain.

It took time.

When I’d finished, he looked past my shoulder to the looming outline of the Houses of Parliament, rising on the far side of Westminster Bridge. Thoughtfully, he chewed his lip. And then he said, ‘It won’t be easy, mind, to bring a charge against a woman like Venetia Radburn.’

‘No. I don’t imagine that it will be.’

‘But you’ve got it on tape, you say? This man’s confession?’

‘Yes.’ I closed my fingers round the hard case of the tape, and pulled it from my pocket. Held it out. ‘It’s just a copy. I’ve made others.’

He folded the tape into his large hand, and smiled. ‘You’re a very resourceful young woman, Miss Murray.’

‘I’ve had to be.’

‘Trust no one, is that it? Well, not to worry. You’ve had a hard few weeks, but it’s all over now. Just leave it in our hands, and we’ll take care of things.’

I didn’t share his confidence.

He said, ‘This chap who said that he was me, the one you met when you were here in London, can you tell me what he looked like?’

‘I don’t know…middle-aged, average height, sort of bland.’

‘Would you know him again?’

‘I doubt he’d look the same again.’ That would be my greatest problem, I imagined, in this game that Colonel Cayton-Wood was playing: I’d never know who he might send against me.

Metcalf, mindful of my wariness, said, ‘Well, perhaps when you’re back in Toronto, you might spend a bit of time working with one of the police sketch artists, to draw me a face. Give me something to go on.’ He added, ‘I shouldn’t imagine the Toronto police will give you any trouble now.’

‘No.’

There was nothing more to say. He wished me luck, then, and I shook the hand he offered me, and said goodbye, and watched him walk away. He vanished with the crowd into the dark mouth of the underpass that crossed beneath the busy street. I stood, my back still to the river, till Big Ben had chimed another quarter hour, before I turned and slowly walked towards the bench where Nick and Margot sat.

‘That’s done, then,’ Margot said, as she looked up at me. ‘Do you think he’ll do anything with what you’ve given him?’

‘No,’ I said honestly. Scotland Yard was, after all, a part of Whitehall, and even if Metcalf were on my side, I had no faith in his being able to take the case against Cayton-Wood any farther than it had been taken over half a century ago. Some things, I reasoned, didn’t change. The players might be different, but all governments were dinosaurs, resisting evolution.

It was a good thing, I thought, that Metcalf was not my only hope.

Nick stood, stretching. ‘So it’s back to Shepherd’s Bush, then, is it?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘There’s one more stop I have to make.’

The rectory at Elderwel stood silent, its shuttered windows watching as we parked in the shade of the steeple of St Stephen’s Church. Nick didn’t get out of the van, but he watched in his turn as I walked the short distance to let myself in through the lychgate.

There was no wren in the yew tree today; no sign of life within the quiet churchyard. I passed a freshly mounded grave, as yet unmarked, on which the flowered offerings had already begun to fade and wither, and I stood and looked at them a moment before wandering on through the wind-feathered grass to a lonelier spot in the churchyard’s north corner.

Andrew Deacon didn’t have a headstone either, yet. Maybe he’d never have one, now, I thought. His nephew, the last of his family, was no longer around to arrange things. I supposed that it didn’t much matter, in the greater scheme of things, whether you had a headstone or not – when you were dead, you were dead. But still, it didn’t seem quite right for someone to have lived a life and then to…well, just disappear, with nothing left to show where they had been.

I thought I was alone, until a man’s voice asked, behind me, ‘Can I help you?’

The vicar of St Stephen’s was in gardening gloves this afternoon, a San Francisco 49ers baseball cap pulled low to shade his eyes. He’d been pruning a shrub or a hedge, something spiny, and carried a bunch of the branches in one hand, the shears in the other. He looked at my face as I turned, and I saw his polite friendliness give way to recognition. ‘It’s Miss Murray, isn’t it? Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve been battling a hedge at the back of the church. Not my thing, really, gardening. I’ve a friend who’s an absolute wizard at it – born with green fingers, he was. I just dabble.’ He set down the branches and stripped off one glove, looking pleased. ‘Well, this is quite a lucky meeting. I had hoped you’d come back. I’ve been having a devil of a time trying to find your address, you know. Your newspaper said they weren’t sure where you were…’

‘I’ve been travelling,’ I said, and would have asked him why that mattered when he cheerfully cut in, ‘A good thing that I didn’t post that package to you, then. Can you wait here a minute? I’ll just run across and fetch it.’ And then, in case I thought him rude, ‘I’d ask you to the house for tea, only my wife’s having one of her meetings, and they can get rather fierce. I stay well clear of them, myself.’ He smiled, not looking the slightest bit clerical. ‘Won’t be a minute.’

He took a bit longer than that, but not much. ‘Here you are,’ he said, holding out an old-fashioned document storage box, its corners reinforced with yellowed tape. ‘I know I wasn’t any help to you in finding that report that you were after, or anything having to do with Ivan Reynolds, but after we spoke on the phone last I
did
find this. Most of Andrew’s things were sold at auction, you understand, but my wife had her eye on this rather nice night-table – mahogany…she’s partial to mahogany – and so she managed to persuade the auctioneer to let her have it, straight out of the house, for a price. It had three drawers, all full. This,’ he said, and handed me the box, ‘was in the bottom one.’

I held the box and frowned. ‘What’s in it?’

‘Newspaper cuttings, mostly. Some photographs. My wife and I, we thought that it should properly belong to you.’

‘To me?’

‘It’s yours by rights.’

I didn’t understand. I dropped my gaze to Deacon’s grave.‘I don’t have any claim, you know, to anything he owned. We only met the once.’

He was looking at me curiously, quiet. Then he said, ‘Sometimes the once is all it takes.’

I raised my head.

He smiled. ‘I believe there are no random meetings in our lives – that everyone we touch, who touches us, has been put in our path for a reason. The briefest encounter can open a door, or heal a wound, or close a circle that was started long before your birth…you never know.’ He gave a small shrug, bending to retrieve his armful of branches and the garden shears. ‘You’ll understand,’ he promised, ‘when you’ve had a chance to go through that.’

I looked where he had nodded, at the box held in my hands, but as tempted as I was to lift the lid, I knew that this was not the time or place. Not here, with Nick still sitting watching from the van, outside the churchyard. So I told the vicar, ‘Thank you. It was kind of you to keep this for me.’ Then I asked, ‘Did all his art collection sell at auction, too?’

‘Yes, I sent all the paintings up to Sotheby’s, you see, because I knew Andrew had dealt in art for years, and I have no idea, myself, of value. Couldn’t tell a Rembrandt from a reproduction, if my life depended on it. One of the paintings, I’m told, sold for quite an outrageous amount, to an American, bidding by telephone. Andrew,’ he concluded, ‘must have had an expert eye for art.’

Oh, well, I thought. So much for my idea of buying the windmill painting. It would have been nice to have owned it, a kind of connection with Deacon, and all that I’d learnt about what had gone on, but the painting was no longer here, to be bought.

Looking down, I asked, to change the subject, ‘Will he have a headstone?’

‘Andrew? Strange as it may sound, he didn’t want one. Left express instructions, in his will. He never was the sort to call attention to himself.’

And so in death, as in his life, I mused, the man remained invisible.