Wexford 6 - No More Dying Then (18 page)

   He had had a wonderful idea. He thought he had found the solution to the sorrows of both of them. She wanted a child and he a mother for his children. Why shouldn’t he marry her? He could give her another child, he thought, proud in his virility, in the potency that gave her so much pleasure. She might even be pregnant already, he had done nothing to avoid it. Had she? He was afraid to ask her, afraid to speak of any of this yet. But he turned to her, made strong and urgent by his dreams, anxious for quick possession. Even now they might be making a child, the two of them. He hoped for it, for then she would have to marry him . . .

The Fosters lived in Sparta Grove, a stone’s throw from the Piebald Pony, in a little house that was one of a row of twelve.

   “I didn’t tell a soul about that poor kid,” said Mrs. Foster to Wexford, “except my husband. He was sitting in a deckchair, resting his poor toe, and I rushed out to tell him the good news.”

   “The good news?”

   “Oh dear, what must you think of me? I don’t mean the poor little boy. I did mention that, but only in passing. No, I wanted to tell him what the doctor said. Poor man, he’d been going up the wall and so had I, for that matter. My husband, I mean not the doctor. We thought we was going to have another one you see, thought I’d fallen again and me with four already. But the doctor said it was the onset of the change. The relief! You’ve no idea. I give the kids their tea and then my husband took me up the Pony to celebrate. I did mention the poor little boy when we was in there. I mean, you like to have a bit of a natter, don’t you, especially when you’re on top of the world. But it was well gone seven before we got there, that I do know.”

   It had looked like a promising lead, had proved a dead end.

   It was still half-light and Sparta Grove full of children, playing on the pavements. No one seemed to be supervising them, no one peeping from behind a curtain to keep an eye on that angelic-looking boy with the golden curls or guarding the coffee-skinned, sloe-eyed girl on her tricycle. No doubt the mothers were there, though, observing while themselves remaining unobserved.

   The Pony was opening and, as sure as the sun rises, Monkey Matthews, supporting Charley Catch alias Mr. Casaubon, appeared from the direction of Chartens Road. Wexford hurried off before they spotted him.

Find the three strangers in the search party was next morning’s order of the day, made the more urgent by the printed letter which awaited Wexford among his mail. It was repetitious and Wexford hardly glanced at it, for awaiting him also was a report compiled and signed by an Inspector Daneforth of the Westmorland Constabulary.

   Strict orders having been given that he was not to be disturbed, Wexford read:

   “On August 5th, 1957, the body of a child, Bridget Melinda Scott, aged 11, was recovered from Fieldenwater lake, Westmorland. The child was found to have met her death by drowning and on August 9th an inquest was held by the Mid-Westmorland Coroner, Dr. Augustine Forbes.”

   An inquest. Of course! Why hadn’t he thought of that? Elsie would call an inquest a court and a coroner a judge. Vaguely disheartened, Wexford read on.

   “Evidence was given by:

   “1) Lilian Potts, chambermaid, employed at the Lakeside Hotel where Bridget Scott with her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Ralph Scott, was a guest. Miss Potts told the coroner that she had met Bridget in one of the first floor passages of the hotel at 8 a.m. on the morning of August 5th. Bridget had said she was going swimming in the lake and was wearing a bathing costume with a beach robe over it. She was alone. Miss Potts advised her not to go out of her depth. Bridget made no reply and Miss Potts saw her go down the stairs.

   “2) Ralph Edward Scott, plumbing engineer, of 28 Barrington Gardens, Colchester, Essex. Mr. Scott said he was the father of Bridget Scott. He and his wife and daughter had been spending a fortnight’s holiday at the Lakeside Hotel, Fieldenwater. By August 5th they had been there for ten days. Bridget was a keen swimmer and used to swim in the lake regularly before breakfast. On August 5th, before he and his wife were up, Bridget came into their bedroom to say she was going for a swim. He warned her to stay close to the shore. He never saw her alive again. 

   “3) Ada Margaret Fatten, widow, aged 72, of 4 Blenheim Cottages; Water Street, Fieldenwater Village. She said she had been exercising her dog, as was her habit, at 8:15 a.m. on the north shore of Fieldenwater, the opposite shore to that on which the hotel is situated. She heard a cry for help and noticed that there was a bather in difficulties. Herself unable to swim, Mrs. Patten observed two men bathing at the eastern end of the lake and another man fishing from a rowing boat a short distance from the bather who had called for help. Asked by the coroner to explain what she meant by a short distance, Mrs. Fatten said she would calculate the distance was about twenty yards. Mrs. Patten was carrying a walking stick which she waved in the direction of the boat. She also tried to attract the attention of the other two bathers. The men at the eastern end of the lake eventually heard her and began to swim northwards. Her shouts had no apparent effect on the fisherman in the boat. Finally, she saw the boat moving towards the distressed swimmer but before it reached that part of the lake the swimmer had disappeared. She did not understand how the boatman could have failed to hear her as sound carries over water. She had often been in boats on the lake herself and knew that sounds from the shore were clearly audible in its centre.

   “4) George Baleham, agricultural worker, of 7, Bulmer Way, New Estate, Fieldenwater Village. Mr. Baleham told the coroner that he and his brother had gone for a swim in Fieldenwater at 7:30 a.m. on August 5th. He saw a child enter the lake from the Lakeside Hotel towards 8:10. Five minutes later he heard cries from across the water and heard Mrs. Fatten shouting. Immediately he and his brother began swimming towards the child who was two hundred yards from them. There was a boat in the vicinity of the child and he saw a man fishing from it. He shouted to the man in the boat, “There’s a kid drowning. You are nearer than us,” but the boat did not move. Mr. Baleham said the boat did not begin to move until he was ten yards from it. By this time the child had disappeared. In his opinion, the man in the boat could easily have reached the child before she sank. From where he was he could not have failed to see the child or hear her cries.

   “5) Ivor Lionel Fairfax Swan . . .”

   Here it was then, what he had been waiting for. The name in cold type gave Wexford a strange little cold thrill. He felt like a man who for months has stalked a particular stag and now, groping through the brush and undergrowth of a bleak moor, sees his quarry standing aloof and unsuspecting, near him, oh, so near! on a crag. Stealthily and silently he reaches for his gun.

   “5) Ivor Lionel Fairfax Swan, student, aged 19, of Carien Hall, Carien Magna, Bedfordshire, and Christ’s College, Oxford. Mr. Swan said he was on holiday at the Lakeside Hotel with two friends. Bridget Scott had occasionally spoken to him in the hotel lounge and on the lake beach. Apart from that he did not know her and had never spoken to her parents. He enjoyed fishing and sometimes hired a boat to take out on to the lake in the early morning.

   “On August 5th he took the boat out at 7 a.m, He was alone on the lake. He noticed two men swimming from the eastern shore at about 7:40, then, soon after eight, Bridget Scott came down the steps from the hotel and entered the water. He did not know whether she was a strong swimmer or not. He knew very little about her.”

   “She called something out to him but he did not answer. He thought she would make a nuisance of herself and disturb the fish. Some minutes later he heard her call again and again he took no notice. Several times in the previous week she had done things to draw his attention to herself and he though it wiser not to encourage her. He heard Mrs. Patten shouting, but thought she was calling her dog.”

   “Very soon after that two swimmers attracted his attention and then he saw that Bridget was in genuine difficulty. At once he began to draw in his line and make towards where he had last seen her. By then she had disappeared.”

   “In answer to the coroner’s questions, Mr. Swan said he had not thought of diving overboard and swimming. His line was an expensive one and he did not wish to spoil it. He could not dive and was not a strong swimmer. Up until the moment Bridget sank he had never believed her to be in genuine distress. No, he would not say he disliked the child. He had hardly known her. It was true he had not liked her attempts to intrude on himself and his friends, He was sorry she was dead and wished now that he had made efforts to save her. He was, however, sure in his own mind, that under the circumstances, he had acted as would any other man in his position.”

   “6) Bernard Varney Frensham, aged 19, student, of 16 Paisley Court, London, S.W.7 and Christ’s College, Oxford. Mr. Frensham said he was a friend of Mr. Swan and had been on holiday with him and his (Mr. Frensham’s) fiancée at the Lake side Hotel. Bridget Scott had taken an immediate liking to Mr. Swan, a ‘crush’ he supposed it would be called, and had tended to pester him. He said he had never been in a boat on Fieldenwater. Fishing did not interest him. When asked by the coroner if Mr. Swan was a good swimmer, Mr. Frensham said, ‘Must I answer that?’ Dr. Forbes insisted and Mr. Frensham said he did not know anything about Mr. Swan’s style as a swimmer. He had never swum for his college. Pressed further, Mr. Frenshain said that he had once been shown a life-saving certificate with Mr. Swan’s name on it.”

   At this point there was a note explaining that medical and police evidence had been omitted. The report ended:

   “The coroner commended Mr. George Baleham and Mr. Arthur Baleham for their prompt action in attempting to save the child.”

   “He then reprimanded Mr. Swan. He said this was the worst case of callousness towards a child who was obviously drowning that he had ever come across. He took a serious view of what he could only call deliberate and cowardly lying on Mr. Swan’s part. Far from being an indifferent swimmer, he was an expert at life-saving, There was no doubt in his mind that Mr. Swan had refused to listen to the child because he believed, or said he believed, she was pestering him. If he had jumped overboard when he first heard her cry out, Bridget Scott would be alive today. He could not be excused on the ground of his youth as he was a man of intelligence, an Oxford under graduate and a man of privileged background. The coroner said he was only sorry the law permitted him to take no further steps. He then expressed sympathy for Mr. and Mrs. Scott.

   “A verdict was returned of death by misadventure.”

When giving Burden a resume of Swan’s life, Wexford had remarked on the series of disasters he had left in his wake. Here, then, was another instance of that catastrophe-causing faculty of his, that gift, or propensity, of leaving a trail of trouble and distress and disturbance. A true catalyst was Swan, Wexford reflected, a possessor of the power to hurt who yet did - nothing.

   It wasn’t difficult to picture that morning on the lake, Swan’s line cast, the sun shining on the flat brown water, and Swan off in one of his daydreams that nothing must be allowed to disturb. Had he even caught a fish? Did he ever actually do anything? Shoot a rabbit? Choose a dog? Buy a pony?

   And that was the crux of it. Clearly, Swan had let a child die. But the operative word there was “let.” Would he actively force death on a child? Had he the nerve, the impulse, the energy?

   Wexford would have liked to chew the whole thing over with Burden. They were illuminating and fruitful, those long discussions of theirs, examining motive, analysing character. But Burden was no longer fit to participate in such conversations. As soon expect percipience and intelligent speculation from Martin as from him. Each day he seemed to go a little more downhill, to grow more irritable and more distracted until Wexford began to wonder with dread how long it could go on. At present he daily covered up for Burden, did his work, smoothed his path. There was a limit to that, for soon the crack-up would come, the error that couldn’t be overlooked or the hysterical scene in public. And then what? The embarrassed request for Burden’s resignation before he was forced out?

   Wexford shook himself out of these miserable reflections to concentrate on the report. One mystery, at any rate, was cleared up. He need no longer wonder why Swan had baulked at attending an inquest, particularly an inquest on another dead little girl.

   The next step was to find Frensham, and this proved easy. Fourteen years had changed him from an undergraduate into a stock jobber, moved him from his parents’ flat but not from Kensington, and maintained him in his bachelor state. What had happened to that fiancée who had accompanied him on that Lake holiday?

   Hardly a question which need concern him, Wexford decided. He made the requisite polite phone call to the Metropolitan Police and then prepared to set off for London. In the foyer he met Burden.

   “Any lead on the missing men from the search party?”

   Burden lifted troubled eyes and muttered, “Martin’s got it in hand, hasn’t he?’

   Wexford went out into the rain, not looking back.

He alighted at Gloucester Road Tube station, got lost, and had to ask a policeman the way to Veronica Grove. At last he found it, a narrow little tree-lined lane which threaded its way from Stanhope Gardens down behind Queen’s Gate. Water dripped softly from the branches overhead, and except that the trees were planes and not oaks, he felt that he might have been at home in Kingsmarkham. The environs of the Piebald Pony were much more his idea of what London should be.

   Meditating on such anomalies, he came within a few minutes to Bernard Frensham’s house. It was tiny, a mews cottage, with neat but empty window boxes, and it looked very modest unless you happened to know that such properties were sold for twenty-five thousand pounds.

   A manservant, small, lithe and dark, admitted him and showed him into the single living room the house contained. It was, however, a large room on three different levels and the furnishing gave an impression of varying textures, satiny polish, smooth velvet, delicate filigree work and highlighted china, rather than of solid masses. Much money had been spent on it. The years Swan had wasted had been turned to good account by his friend.