‘But Jane Davenham can’t have written the letter we found,’ said Bill. ‘I understand everything you’ve said about Mrs Rotherwell’s reactions on walking into the flat. I think you’re dead right there, but she can’t have written it. Your Miss Hollander’s just told us that both letters, the forged one from Caroline Trevelyan and the one we found in the flat, were written by the same person.’
‘And?’
‘Jane Davenham can’t have written the Caroline letter. She wasn’t around at the time.’
‘Are you sure? Is there any reason why she couldn’t have been around?’
Bill puffed on his pipe for a long moment. ‘As a matter of fact, there isn’t any reason,’ he admitted. ‘It’s just that she’s never been mentioned in connection with the Caroline Trevelyan case.’
He chewed thoughtfully on the stem of his pipe, then looked up in sudden apprehension. ‘Jack! Do you realise what this is? It’s a motive! It’s a copper-bottomed motive for Trevelyan murdering his wife!’
‘It is, isn’t it?’
‘Good grief.’ Bill leaned back in his chair. ‘Say Trevelyan and Jane Davenham were having an affair years ago. Trevelyan murders his wife and gets Jane Davenham to write a letter in an attempt to cover up what he’s done. Then he has to make a break for it and goes where? We don’t know. What we do know is that years later, they obviously met up with one another again and decided to take up where they left off.’
‘With another murder thrown in,’ added Jack in distaste. ‘Blimey, what a pair. If I’m right, Trevelyan’s not the only one with a twist in his character. They seem very well-suited.’
‘Too right,’ agreed Bill grimly. He gathered the papers together. ‘I’d better go and let Sir Douglas know about this right away. Do you want to come? After all, it’s your discovery.’
Jack glanced at his watch. ‘I’ll let you break the news, Bill. I can’t add anything to the bare facts Miss Hollander told us and Betty wanted me to be home sooner rather than later. Are you still all right for dinner?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Bill, standing up. ‘Seven o’clock this evening. And Jack – well done.’
FIFTEEN
Jack came out onto the Embankment and, leaning on the barrier by the side of the road, idly watched the traffic stream past. He had promised Betty he would call at the fishmongers and pick up some oysters for tonight, but first of all he wanted to give himself a few minutes to put his thoughts in order. That was the real reason why he had left it to Bill to tell Sir Douglas about the letters. He didn’t want to go through the facts again. He knew what those facts were, but he wanted some time to make sense of them.
Jane Davenham: not an innocent victim, but party to a murder; party to two murders, in fact. Where was she now?
The cars and lorries rumbled on down the Embankment in a constant stream, the sunlight flashing off the windscreens and polished metal in a rapid succession of brief, blinding glares.
Almost mesmerised, Jack watched them go past and then jerked his head up suddenly. He’d nearly had it! Somehow, somewhere, there was a connection, a link, between the traffic on the Strand and a monster seen from a tree.
He knew better than to try and cudgel the fleeting thought into coherent shape. It would come to him if he left it well alone. It was a bit like doing a jigsaw puzzle whilst wearing a blindfold. He couldn’t see the pieces but he knew they were there. He could feel them.
Somehow the traffic on the Strand was one piece and Jenny Langton’s monster was another. He could feel the pieces nudging closer together.
He threw the stub of his cigarette onto the road, the oysters and the dinner party completely forgotten. He had to go back to Saunder’s Green.
Mrs Offord opened the front door of Saunder’s Green. She looked at him inquiringly, then, as recognition dawned, her face creased in a welcoming smile. ‘Why, it’s Mr Haldean, isn’t it? How nice to see you again, sir.’
‘And it’s a pleasure to see you, Mrs Offord,’ said Jack, raising his hat.
‘Is Mrs Haldean with you, sir?’ she said looking down the drive as if Betty had decided to playfully hide in the shrubbery.
‘No, she’s not,’ said Jack, drawing nearer and lowering his voice confidentially. ‘But as a matter of fact, it’s because of my wife that I’m here. She wanted me to take another look at the house before we made a final decision.’
Mrs Offord’s face fell in disappointment. ‘I’m ever so sorry, Mr Haldean, but the house has been taken. That’s such a pity, but it’s gone. The agents wrote to me to say that there’s a new tenant all signed up and ready to move in tomorrow. You’re lucky to catch me. Mavis has already left and I’m off tomorrow morning.’
This was a complete pain. He’d hoped to get into the house on the pretext of taking a second look, but that idea had been kicked into touch.
‘I’m really sorry to hear that,’ he said, with complete sincerity.
She looked at him in honest distress. ‘It’s such a shame, sir. A Mr Raglan has taken it. He’s bringing his own servants with him. Not that I’m sorry to go, because I only stayed on to oblige, like, but I’m sorry you and your young lady won’t be living here. I’d like the house to go to someone who cared for it, I would indeed.’
Well, at least there was one good thing. As there was no danger of being harried by Wilson and Lee who wanted to saddle him with an inconveniently large Victorian house, he could be as complimentary as he liked. ‘It’s a real shame, Mrs Offord. Both my wife and I liked the house very much.’
It was the right thing to say. Mrs Offord beamed at him. ‘It’s good to hear you say so, sir. I’ve been here so long, I’d like it to go to someone who appreciates it. I just hope as how the new tenant does.’
Now this was all very nice and friendly, but he needed to get inside. ‘So do I, Mrs Offord,’ said Jack with a simulated sigh of disappointment. ‘Would you mind awfully if I did come in for a look round, though? The thing is, my wife gave me a silver cigarette case and I’ve lost it. Thinking back, I’m sure I must’ve mislaid it here. Poor Betty was terribly disappointed as she’d gone to some trouble to get it specially made. And,’ he added, playing for sympathy, ‘I’m what you might call in the doghouse, until I do find it.’
‘Come in and welcome, sir,’ said Mrs Offord, opening the door wide. ‘I must say, though, I haven’t seen any such thing.’
As his cigarette case (which was, indeed, a present from Betty) was in his pocket at that moment, that was hardly surprising.
‘Maybe,’ said Mrs Offord with a smile, ‘it slipped out of your pocket when you were climbing the tree. It cheered me up, that did, to see such high spirits and to hear you both talking about children. Mind you, if you had lost it then, I’d have expected the gardener to have found it.’
‘He might have overlooked it,’ said Jack, stepping into the hall. ‘That’s a very good idea of yours, Mrs Offord. Would you mind if I took a look in the garden?’
‘Feel free, sir. George Meredith, the gardener, isn’t here today, or I’m sure he’d have helped you.’
This was all to the good. The last thing he wanted was someone tracking his footsteps. ‘And please don’t bother yourself helping me to look for it, Mrs Offord,’ he said as she led him down the hall and out onto the veranda. ‘It’s my own silly fault for losing it.’
‘Now don’t you talk like that, sir. I’m sure as how it’s easily done. If none of us ever lost anything, it’d be an odd thing.’
She gazed at him indulgently as he walked down the stone steps into the garden, then turned away, back into the kitchen.
For form’s sake, he hunted round by the cedar tree for a few minutes, then set off along past the vegetable garden to where the path wound down between the beech trees.
He wanted to find the parameters. Where were the boundaries of the garden? He plunged down between the trees, past the little stone bridge and then, leaving the path, walked on in as straight a line as he could manage.
In ab
out twenty yards or so, he came to a stone wall. It was about ten feet high and overgrown with moss and ivy. Following the wall, he picked his way over boggy ground and through the nettles, cow parsley and brambles until he had made a complete circuit of the copse. No one, he thought, untangling a strand of rampant blackberry thorn from his trousers, had come along here for years.
What was on the other side of the wall? He sized up the ivy, then, grasping a thick stem, he scrambled up and looked over. More trees; at a guess they belonged to another garden backing onto this.
He dropped down, smacking his hands together to get rid of the dirt. So, there was no practical way out of the garden through the trees.
He went back through the wood and back onto the lawn. Here the garden wall was lower, but it was bordered by dense shrubs and flower beds.
He looked at the veranda. It was central to the house. On one side was the kitchen and on the other was the garage.
At one side of the veranda a short path led to a door at the back of the garage. At the other side, the path ran past the kitchens. Jack walked past the kitchens, round the side of the house, to where the way was barred by a high back gate.
The gate, a sturdy construction, was obviously as old as the house. He opened the gate, with its neatly lettered sign of Tradesmen affixed to the front, and saw how the path opened out onto the drive. The drive, he knew, was a big semi-circular sweep of gravel that fronted the entire front of the house.
Retracing his steps, he walked back along the path, down the stone steps and stood by the cedar tree, feeling the rough, ridged bark under his hand.
Caroline Trevelyan had sat under this tree while her daughter played in the tree house above. And under this tree, Caroline Trevelyan had died. Frozen with terror, the little girl had watched until the monster had gone.
When it was over, little Jenny had escaped, terrified, to the safety of the nursery. What she had seen was so horrific, she had buried the memory for years until chance led her back to this house, to this tree.
Jack pressed his hand into the bark of the cedar. Show me, he whispered to himself and let his imagination have free rein.
Jenny’s disappearance was accounted for; she had run away and no one had seen her go. But what had happened to Caroline Trevelyan?
He was certain Jennifer had seen her killed. Nothing else, he thought, would account for her reactions.
So what had happened to the body?
Could the poor woman’s body have been hidden in the woods? That was a possibility. If that was the case, presumably the body would be moved under cover of darkness, but …
Jack clicked his tongue in irritation. That meant either climbing the wall at the bottom of the garden or bringing the body out of the woods and back across the lawn.
It was possible, he supposed, that the killer could’ve moved the body after dark, but it was horribly risky. It would be a matter of sheer luck whether he was seen or not. And, of course, there was the question of where would he move it to?
Out of the back gate and where? And how? A car was out of the question; cars in 1907 were noisy, temperamental machines that invariably drew a crowd of onlookers. The sound of a car at night would certainly draw the attention of the neighbours. Stick a dead woman in the back seat and those neighbours would be certain to see something and talk about it.
That wasn’t a good idea for someone wanting to move a body. A handcart or a pony and trap was a possibility, but the body would have to be got out of the gate first. Saunder’s Green wasn’t some isolated mansion but a house in a suburban street. A cart or a pony and trap wouldn’t draw the same attention as a car, but there were still the neighbours who could easily be looking out of the windows. There might even be a passer-by. Sneaking the body out of the back gate wasn’t impossible but, Jack thought, it was improbable.
The wall could be climbed but that was unlikely, particularly if a man was burdened with a dead body. Even if the undergrowth and brambles hadn’t achieved such a vigorous growth twenty years ago as they had now – Jack ruefully picked a tiny blackberry thorn out of the heel of his hand – it would be a difficult climb. And really, it was hard to see the point of doing such a thing. The garden led onto more gardens so that didn’t so much as solve the problem but create more.
The other point against hiding the body in the woods was that the woods had been searched on the day of Caroline’s disappearance. The killer might have been lucky but he couldn’t count on being lucky.
No; leaving aside going back into the house, there were only two practical ways out of the garden, and that was through the back gate or through the garage.
It had been, thought Jack, an impulsive murder. After all, the tree, with the tea table beside it, had been in full view of the house. Even if the builders had knocked off for the afternoon, there were still the servants to deal with. That the only witness had been an unseen, terrified child was a matter of sheer luck.
So what would I do? he asked himself. I’ve just committed a murder. I’m scared. I might be seen. I need to hide the body. I need to work fast. Where can I hide it?
He looked round urgently. The garage!
Yes, the garage. Get out from the garden, get under cover and fast.
Pick up the body. It’s heavy but I’m strong and I’m a killer, yes? No one stops me. No one crosses me. I’ve got the power of death in my hands. I am invincible.
Carrying an imaginary body over his shoulder – Jack could almost feel the weight of it – he walked to the garage door and opened it.
There was a small landing, surrounded by a wooden rail with a brick-built staircase leading down to the concrete floor some twelve feet below.
Blinking his eyes to adjust to the dim light, he went down the stairs and stepped down onto the concrete floor. He placed his imaginary burden on the floor, panting with the effort.
What now? Hide the damn thing, of course. And he’d better move fast.
The garage was a large, high, dimly lit room with space for at least two cars.
There hadn’t been a car in here for years, but say there was, the two big wooden doors would be opened onto the drive.
No. Hang on. The garage was being built when Caroline – he could virtually see her body on the floor – was murdered. Were the doors in place on the 15th of July all those years ago? There was no possible way of knowing but he was going to guess they were. Because if the doors were there and closed, that would give him what he so desperately needed, a space away from prying eyes.
And the plan had worked. He had succeeded. So what had he done next?
He ran up the staircase. There was a rusty old bolt on the door that, with a grunt, he managed to ease into position. The last thing he wanted was Mrs Offord wandering into the garage. Fair enough, there wasn’t actually a body on the floor, but he didn’t want her to see what he was doing, all the same.
Back down the staircase to the imaginary corpse. It was strange how easy it was to imagine her there. The woman’s face was turned away from him but he could almost see details of her fair hair and blue dress. It was odd how certain he was that her dress was blue.
He shuddered. Although he was safe in here for the moment, he needed to get cracking before Caroline … No. Don’t think of her – it – as Caroline. It was a body and that body would start to stiffen soon. What to do next?
Building works. There were building works going on. There was bound to be sand and cement and bricks.
Slowly Jack put aside the mantle of the killer and consciously stepped back into his own personality. It was quite a relief.
So where was the body hidden? Could it be under the concrete floor? It could, he supposed. Damn! If, on that day in July, the floor hadn’t been laid but was still the bare earth, then it would be simple enough to dig a grave.
Hold on. Jack had seen men at work on building sites before now. Concrete wasn’t just poured onto bare earth. It was actually a fairly laborious process. First of all the earth was dug out, then
a thick layer of crushed stone was laid on top and levelled out. Sand went on top of that, compacted down, and only then the concrete was laid.
If the floor really had been bare earth, then a grave would be discovered as soon as the men started work. If the floor was a work in progress, would the killer really start digging into layers of crushed stone and sand?
That was some job he was taking on. To say nothing of the physical effort of digging, he’d have to make sure the floor, whatever stage it was at, looked completely undisturbed afterwards. Then he’d have to get rid of the surplus soil, spadefull by spadefull. That was a huge amount of work.
What if the concrete had actually been laid? Well, that would rule the floor out. So what other options were there?
Jack stepped out into the middle of the garage. Along one wall ran a wooden shelf with a litter of old tools. There was no hiding place there, but the staircase? That was another matter altogether. Bricks; it was built of bricks, the steps sideways onto the wall, with a wooden rail at the top and a wooden bannister. Was that staircase hollow?
Time to find out. He searched amongst the old tools on the bench and found a heavy chisel and a hammer. Picking up the chisel, and fervently hoping Mrs Offord was too far away to hear any noise, he set to work, chipping the mortar out from around a brick at the corner. The mortar came away in strips. Taking a long-bladed screwdriver, Jack wriggled it into the gap he had made and eased the brick away from its neighbours.
The rush of foul air told him he’d found what he was looking for. Hand to his mouth, he staggered back, leaning against the wall of the garage.
After a few minutes, he approached the shelf again. Kneeling down, he struck a match, holding it so the light shone into the cavity made by the missing brick. The first thing he saw was crumpled cloth. Blue crumpled cloth. He swallowed hard, remembered how clearly he had seen the imagined corpse, dressed in blue. The match went out and he struck another, this time seeing the gleam of white bone amongst the blue.
Forgotten Murder Page 23
