by Roy Lewis
Her eyes were wide. ‘I don’t understand.’
He explained to her, telling her of Arkwright and Kenton, of Tiggy Williams and Jackie Parton’s enquiries in Byker and Scotswood, and as he explained he saw the anger grow in her eyes, her mouth tighten with contempt for the manner in which the dead man had been treated. ‘If this is true,’ she almost exploded, ‘you can’t let things rest there!’
‘I don’t see what else to do. There’s no mileage in dragging it all up out of the past now; I’d gain some satisfaction in making Starling and the rest squirm, but that’s all there would be to it. It could never be made public, because proof would be next to impossible, and I’d get sued for slander if I spoke out.’
‘But it’s so . . . so unfair!’ she cried.
‘I agree. That men should do these things to Egan . . . and that he should never really have defended himself, because he wanted to save his half-brother.’
‘And he is beyond contempt, if what you say is true!’ Her eyes were blazing now with suppressed anger. ‘This man Andrews . . . how he could possibly have allowed Egan to go to prison in his place is beyond my comprehension!’
‘Well, it’s what I guess happened, but I can’t be sure, of course.’
‘You’re not going to let it end here, Eric, surely!’
He smiled at her vehemence. ‘It’ll never come out, you know — but no, I’m still going to make a few more enquiries. Now Sarah Boden is dead it’s unlikely I’ll find the beneficiaries to Egan’s estate, so I’ll wind it up now. But I’ve asked Jackie Parton to do a couple of things for me, and I still want to find out exactly what drew Egan to Vixen Hill.’
‘Egan?’ She was puzzled. ‘I thought you said Andrews killed Colonel Denby.’
‘That’s right. But Egan went back to Vixen Hill himself several times, after he was released from prison.’ He explained about Fred Bridges to her, and she shivered.
‘It’s an odd feeling. I’ve known Vixen Hill all my life, and spent happy times there with Michael and his aunt but to feel the place is central to all this about Arthur Egan . . . it sort of changes things, the way you look at a place, doesn’t it?’
He nodded. He still hadn’t told her that it was likely Sarah Boden had been murdered, and he saw no reason to now. They sat silently for a little while, contemplatively, and then she stirred, as though about to go. Quickly he said, ‘We’re expecting counsel’s opinion on the Inland Revenue case today.’
‘Ah. Does that mean you’ll be coming out to Sedleigh Hall again soon?’
‘I expect so, unless your father wishes the meeting to be held here.’
She shook her head. ‘No, that won’t be possible. He’s . . . he’s not well. I told you the other day. But it seems to me he’s very down at the moment; quite weak, and not eating well. I’m . . . I’m quite worried about him.’ She frowned, looked up to him. ‘David . . . David Penrose and I had a long talk with him yesterday. It was about the Carlton Engineering thing, really. David and I, we’re both of the same mind, and we thought we’d better see how he felt. I think we’ve half persuaded him that when he comes to raise the money to pay the death duties it would be best for everyone concerned to retain the land, keep this open-cast thing out of the area, and sell some of the portfolio his uncle left him when he died.’
Eric nodded. ‘You’re probably right. The only problem is his financial advisers might well suggest he’d be taking a pretty heavy loss on the shares. They’re way down, and to unload such a large amount of stock at one time will depress the price even further.’
She shrugged unhappily. ‘Six of one isn’t it? Still, David’s been very helpful.’
He thought he detected a certain defensiveness in her tone, and watched her carefully. ‘I’m sure he’s got your best interests at heart — and those of your father.’
‘He’s also a very patient man.’
‘That’s usually a recommendation,’ Eric said, and then, as a certain tightness developed in his chest, he added, ‘I can think of some circumstances, however, where it would not be.’
She knew precisely what he meant, even though he only half understood what he was saying himself. Her eyes were still, her glance locked with his and a faint flush stained her cheek. They said nothing, and after a little while she rose, and he rose with her. In a small, puzzled voice, she said, ‘I expect I’ll see you when you come out to Sedleigh Hall.’
‘I expect so.’
After she had gone he sat behind his desk and tried to bring some order to the thoughts that swirled around in his head. He was being foolish, that he knew. She was just an attractive young woman who had happened to cross his path; that’s where it should end — that’s where it must end. And yet she had made a considerable impact on him — and, it seemed, she was not impervious to his existence, either. But he could remember almost every moment of the brief times they had spent together so far, could remember almost every word she had said to him.
It was she who had suggested he talk to Sarah Boden, and if he did not tell her now of the suspicious nature of the old woman’s death, that was merely to save her unhappiness and guilt. Because, after all, there was the possibility that Sarah Boden had died because . . . because Eric Ward was coming to speak to her.
And it was Anne Morcomb who had sent Ward to the old woman. But no . . . there was something else, another consideration he had not yet taken into account. When Anne Morcomb had given him Sarah’s name, suggesting that he go and talk to her at Warkworth, there had been someone else present to hear the suggestion. One other person; the man who farmed Vixen Hill.
Eric Ward picked up a pencil and doodled the names, thoughtfully, on the blotting pad lying on his desk.
Vixen Hill . . . Michael Denby.
* * *
Jackie Parton tried several times to make contact with Eric Ward the next day. Each time he received the same answer from the receptionist with the pert voice.
‘I’m sorry, but Mr Ward is in conference at the moment and cannot be disturbed. Can I take a message?’
Stuff taking messages. They had a habit of getting lost.
The report he had to make was incomplete anyway: he just wanted to tell Eric what he’d picked up at Warkworth, and explain that he should soon be able to trace the owner of the black Ford with the crumpled wing.
The owner of the Northumberland Arms had been most co-operative, in the event.
It always helped if they were racing fans, and in this case the licensee had not only been a committed follower of the flats, he had also been an admirer of Jackie Parton ever since he’d picked up twenty quid for a shilling bet on Circe, Parton’s fifth ride at Newcastle. So a couple of drinks and a bit of racing chat and there was no problem.
‘Black Ford? Don’t see many black cars around these days, do you? Black . . . with a crumpled wing, you say? Why aye, that’s it! Stays here from time to time, he does. Just the one night, usually. Chatted once or twice, we have. Says he likes the coast air and a walk down to the beach. Good walks along there, you know, Jackie, if you can take the wind in your face goin’, wind up your backside comin’! Aye, he’ll be the feller, ‘cos he complained a few weeks back about that thump he’ d caught in the wing. Happened here, when he was parked in the square, he reckoned. No time to fix it since, seems like.’
‘You know his name?’
‘He’ll be registered, like. Want a look? Polis already had a look, and they been checking — not sure why, but rumour reckons it’s to do with Sarah Boden’s falling and dying, but why they’d want to check hotel registers I just don’t know.’
Jackie had gone through the register, and the name was pointed out to him: J. A. French. Also included was the registered number of the car — not in the hotel register, but on a card French had filled in the last time he’d arrived and which had remained in the desk. Jackie had noted the number and then bought the landlord another beer at the lounge bar.
‘What’s he do here then, this feller French?’ Jackie
Parton asked.
‘Businessman, seems like. Doesn’t come up regular, he’s from Newcastle way, he reckons, and only stays a day or so — morning walk sometimes, and in the evening he meets some feller or other.’
‘He meets someone? Can you describe him?’
‘Naw, can’t say I could do that. I’ve seen them in the lounge — they don’t come in the bar, but go in the residents’ lounge. No one else ever uses that place since we moved the telly. So they two have a quiet chat there, I suppose, and get their drinks brought in.’
‘And according to the register, he was in recently.’
‘That’s right. The same night Miss Boden died. The polis already asked about that.’
‘Hmmm. And his friend . . . did he turn up that night, too?’
The landlord had considered the matter for a while. ‘Can’t be sure. Think so. But I don’t think they used the residents’ lounge that night. His friend — the bloke he meets — he didn’t stay long. We had some late bookings coming in, as I remember, and he left shortly after that.’ When Jackie Parton pressed him, he came out with a time. ‘Be about eight, maybe. We’d just started serving dinner. He’ll have left then. Mr French, I think he just went to his room. Didn’t take dinner, anyway.’
It was irritating not being able to contact Eric Ward. To start with, Jackie wanted to know if Ward knew the name J. A. French. And secondly, he wondered whether Eric Ward, who had stayed at the Northumberland Arms that night, had gone down to dinner.
At about eight in the evening.
* * *
The conference in which Eric Ward was involved proved to be exhausting. Joseph Francis had now decided to dispense with the services of his son Paul in the matter of Morcomb v Inland Revenue Commissioners. It did his temper no good, and it caused him to put more pressure on Eric Ward. In one sense Eric felt it to be unfair, for his position in the firm was still merely that of an articled clerk; at the same time, he realized that this was a golden opportunity for him to display his grasp of legal niceties in an important issue for the firm.
Joseph Francis had insisted that they went back, together, over the whole history of the estate duty litigation — and that meant rooting back to the period before Lord Morcomb had succeeded to his title, the estates and the shareholdings. The senior partner not only wanted his own memory refreshed; he wanted to be sure that when they were called upon to offer advice to Lord Morcomb it would be sound, practical, correct and agreed advice.
‘All right, Eric,’ he said at last, ‘let’s summarize. I’ve digested counsel’s opinion; you can take it away to bone up for Monday. Meanwhile, once again, the whole position.’
Eric went over it once again. He dealt with the abstracts of title, the commercial and mining transactions carried out on the estates, and referred in detail to the share certificates and transfers. Joseph Francis nodded. ‘Fine. We may well be called upon to advise about possible sales of shares. There’s one of them — Amalgamated Newfoundland Properties — they’re way down, but I heard a rumour recently that they could jump sharply. And there’s some holding company interested in them, too, for control purposes. Was it Western Consolidated? I don’t know . . . no matter . . . Go on.’
‘That brings us to title. The deeds are . . . here. The previous Lord Morcomb’s will, with the two codicils annexed. His death in 1970 . . . and the terms of his will, the entailed estate, the scheduled properties . . . to go to the present Lord Morcomb and the heirs of his body.’
‘Why they still use that phrase since the 1925 Act I don’t know,’ Francis grumbled. ‘Only serves to confuse the layman. Anyway . . .’
‘Included in the properties listed are those held by the previous Lord Morcomb in his own right, and now included with all held by Lord Morcomb.’
‘Very significant holdings too. Go on.’
‘It all came to Lord Morcomb in 1970, and the first Inland Revenue claim is dated . . .’ Eric paused. ‘One thing, sir.’
‘Yes?’
‘The present Lord Morcomb was married twice. His second wife, Anne’s mother, died, but—’
‘Yes, yes, what’s the problem?’
‘I’m not sure whether his first marriage might have led to any claims to the estate. Certainly, I’ve found no record—’
‘It’s all right. There were no children of the first marriage.’
Eric Ward glanced helplessly through the files prior to 1971. ‘But may not the first wife have some sort of claim that should be taken into account—’
Joseph Francis sighed impatiently. He smoothed back his hair, pinched with tired fingers at the bridge of his nose. ‘Come on, Eric, you should have picked that up earlier. There was no issue of the first marriage. The second marriage is all we need concern ourselves with if we are going to bother at all about succession — though at this stage it’s all a bit premature. But there was a settlement made in any case, on Lord Morcomb’s first wife, after the nullity decree was obtained in 1950 or whenever it was. So you can forget her. The estate is now clear and unencumbered — and we can get down to the matter of counsel’s opinion — if you really now do have the whole matter straight in your mind.’
Eric nodded. ‘I think so. I’m pretty sure.’
With that, Joseph Francis was satisfied. He rose, yawning. ‘All right. It’s been a long day, so we’ll leave it there. Now look, first thing on Monday you make your own way to Sedleigh Hall; be there by eleven for our conference with Lord Morcomb. Here’s counsel’s opinion for you to indulge in some weekend reading. I think you’ll find . . . well, read it for yourself and see what it says. And maybe consider just what kind of advice we ought to be giving Lord Morcomb on Monday.’ He handed the slim folder to Eric and waved him to the door. ‘So have a good weekend, and I’ll see you Monday morning.’
As Eric reached the door, Joseph Francis called after him. ‘By the way, you have got rid of the Egan administration, haven’t you?’
‘You said by Friday, sir.’
‘And that,’ Joseph Francis said positively, ‘is today.’
* * *
The Egan administration.
The words meant very little to Eric any more. At the beginning it had meant a simple matter of succession to be resolved and dealt with in a matter of a couple of days work. But as time had passed and he had become more involved, drawn down a slippery slope he now had little idea of, the administration issue itself had become more and more relegated to the back of his mind as his concentration had moved towards the man Egan, his character, his lonely life, and the manner in which he had lived it. He felt anger, as did Anne Morcomb, and in his own way Jackie Parton too, for the injustices that had been heaped upon Arthur Egan. Dead or not, he deserved to have his truths be known.
And yet, though Eric was more than half convinced by the account he and Parton had derived together, and though he knew that Anne Morcomb had been impressed by the story he told her about Arthur Egan and Tommy Andrews and the older man protecting his half-brother for the actions and events at Vixen Hill, there was still something hollow at the heart of it all. There were times Eric thought he knew and understood Arthur Egan; but there were times too when he felt he knew nothing about him at all. There was still something at the core of the whole affair which eluded him: and it was something that concerned Vixen Hill. He was certain of it, for the farm seemed to be central to it all.
Yet there was no connection he could see, if it had indeed been Tommy Andrews who killed Colonel Denby at Vixen Hill.
He rolled over in bed, switched on the lamp and looked at his watch. Two o’clock in the morning. He turned off the light again and lay back but sleep was impossible. He was overtired perhaps, as a result of the long session with Joseph Francis on the Morcomb case, but there was also the feeling that he was still missing something of importance in the Egan affair. He should not be bothering about it; he should now finish it, it was all long dead and gone, and the connection between Sarah Boden and Arthur Egan was fanciful. But he could not
let it rest.
Jackie Parton was checking on the man in the black Ford. What if that man turned out to be Tommy Andrews? They could not know the man was dead. Eric had seen him in the neighbourhood of Vixen Hill and Sedleigh Hall, and his car had been present at Warkworth on the night Sarah Boden had died. If it had been Andrews, what still drew him back to the Denby farm? And what had he been doing in Warkworth, on the night the old woman had been murdered?
Murdered.
Eric rose, padded downstairs in bare feet and made himself a hot drink before going into his study and picking up the Egan file yet again. He was vaguely alarmed by his obsession and yet could find no rest from the questions that plagued him. He opened the file and took out the contents: the envelope with the blond hair; the letter from Fred Bridges; the photographs.
The photographs. He stared at them until the images began to dance before his eyes. The young Arthur Egan; the younger Tommy Andrews. The baby. And the gravestone; the churchyard.
It was the one avenue he had not explored. He had tried everything else. Perhaps the answer lay there.
He finished his drink and then went back to bed. But it was almost dawn before he drifted back to sleep. And when he did, he dreamed, and his dreams were full of dark cypress trees, and the stark, gaunt shape of a Norman tower.
The telephone woke him at eight o’clock. He had no bedside extension so had to stumble, bleary-eyed, down the stairs to the hallway. Before he reached the phone it went dead and he cursed. Now he was up, tired or not, there was no point in going back to bed. He would not be able to sleep. He made himself a light breakfast and sat down to read the newspaper.
At nine-thirty the telephone rang again. It was Jackie Parton, grumbling at the difficulty he was having in contacting Ward.
‘What is it you want, Jackie?’ Ward asked shortly.
‘Nothin’ I want. Just reporting, that’s all. Traced that black Ford chap you was on about. Name’s French. Ring a bell?’
‘None.’
‘Maybe it’s not his real name, of course. Or he could have changed it some time,’ Parton said carefully.
