by L. C. Tyler
‘I thought I’d give you a call,’ I said.
‘Is there some news? About Robert’s death, I mean.’
‘In a sense,’ I said. ‘You see, Jane, I know all about you and Robert.’
‘Yes, I told Ethelred,’ came back the urgent whispered reply. I guessed that Gerald might be in the next room.
‘Yes, but I know all about you and Robert,’ I said. ‘Not just the bit you told Ethelred.’
Another silence. Somebody was trying to work out what to do.
‘What do you want?’ she hissed down the line.
‘Meet me tomorrow,’ I said.
‘Where?’
‘Crawley.’
‘Whereabouts exactly?’
‘Somewhere we can talk in private. Your place if Gerald won’t be around.’
‘Fine. My house. Around ten then.’
‘So that Gerald will be at work?’
‘That’s when Scott has his nap.’
I confirmed the time. She gave me directions. I’d clearly struck gold. Now all I had to do was work out what it was I might know about her that Ethelred didn’t.
The Smith place was a comfortable Georgian detached residence on the outskirts of town, with a large garden. A number of trees, already beginning to look a little autumnal, peered over the wall. In the eighteenth century, some Crawley merchant had announced that he had made it in this world by putting together a large brick collection and turning it into the ultimate statement of solidity and respectability: classical, double-fronted, perfectly symmetrical, glowing smugly in the September sunshine. Heavy curtains with rose silk linings arced across upper corners of each gleaming window. The brass door knocker shone.
Though Scott would scarcely be walking yet, a large and colourful climbing frame was already in place in an otherwise tranquil and tasteful setting. I caught a glimpse of a paddling pool away under the trees. It seemed very likely that the rose beds would in due course be replaced by a trampoline and the pergolas by goalposts. This already had the feel of a kingdom ruled by a small and demanding tyrant.
Jane Smith ushered me into the sitting room and offered me a drink, treating me with the sort of tight-lipped politeness you normally accord a potential blackmailer.
‘I’m not here to blackmail you,’ I said, wishing to clear that one up straight away. ‘I just want to know why Robert died.’
‘Well, I didn’t kill him,’ said Jane, doing her own bit of clearing up. ‘I’m not some sort of strangler or poisoner.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ I said, putting down my half-finished mug of hot chocolate. ‘But you did have a strong motive.’
‘I told Ethelred that I’d had an affair with Robert. It’s in the past. It’s not a secret. Gerald knows all about it.’
‘Not all about it,’ I said. I had no idea where this was all going, but blundering ahead with no clear plan often works quite well in my experience.
‘How much do you know?’ she asked.
‘Everything?’ I suggested.
Jane Smith made a noise that went: ‘Ha, ha [sharp intake of breath], waaaaah!’ Derisive laughter to uncontrollable tears in roughly four point two seconds. So, my technique was working then.
She applied copious snot to my proffered hanky and then added: ‘You are a complete moron and you are way off track, but I’ve got to tell somebody or I’ll go mad.’
I nodded. Neither of us wanted her to go mad.
‘It all started when I was Robert’s secretary. You get to see your boss a lot as a PA. You work late together. He said he saw more of me than he did his wife. You have lots of excuses to be together. Nobody thinks anything of it if you go off to conferences together.’
I raised my eyebrows momentarily. That last statement was taking naivety one stage further than usual, but I let it pass.
‘One thing led to another as they say. He took me out to dinner. We . . . slept together. I got pregnant.’
‘You didn’t take precautions?’
‘I must have forgotten . . . I can be so stupid . . . when I told Robert I thought he would be pleased.’
‘Pleased?’ My eyebrows wouldn’t go quite high enough to express my views about this one, so mere words had to suffice. Even then, I could only manage two. ‘Bloody hell,’ I said.
‘We loved each other. This was our child.’
‘And he was pleased?’
‘No.’ She pouted and continued: ‘He asked me who else I had told, then he arranged for me to go to a private clinic that afternoon.’
‘For an abortion?’
‘No, for a pizza and fries.’
‘That’s probably a joke?’
‘Yes, that’s a joke,’ she said. She turned and looked out of the window. We could just see the bright red upright of one corner of Scott’s future climbing frame. It really was an eyesore. ‘They said that they thought I could still have more babies but . . .’
‘They’d screwed up?’
‘Gerald and I tried to have children. He’d always wanted children. He really, really wanted children of his own. Maybe that was what attracted me to him after . . . Robert. We tried to have children for a long time. Then we adopted Scott.’
‘Does Gerald know about the abortion?’
‘I can’t tell him . . . I just can’t . . .’
‘Were you afraid that Robert would tell him?’
‘Gerald said that he had had a strange phone call from Robert a while back. He’d been asking about a girl he’d got pregnant and who’d had to have an abortion and who might sue him.’
‘And you thought he was asking advice about you?’
‘That would be weird, wouldn’t it? Asking Gerald for legal advice in case I sued him? No, I don’t think it was quite that. I think it was Robert trying to find out whether I had told Gerald anything. When Robert worked out I hadn’t he just let it drop. That was what Gerald couldn’t understand – why it was so important one minute and not at all important the next. But I knew what was going on as soon as Gerald told me.’
‘And that was that?’
‘Yes,’ she said. She returned my well-used hanky. ‘I don’t think I need that any more. Thank you.’
She gave me her strong-independent-woman look – the one I’ve seen so many of my friends give shortly before asking for the hanky back.
There was, however, still an unanswered question. It’s tricky accusing somebody of murder when you’ve got a pocket full of their snot, but I looked her in the eye and said: ‘Nevertheless you had a motive. You must have wanted that bastard dead?’
‘I loved him,’ she said.
‘That doesn’t rule out murder.’
‘But Scott does,’ she said. ‘Scott rules out murder. Do you think I would take that sort of risk when I have Scott? I loved Robert. I love Scott.’
‘You said “I” rather than “we”. About Scott, I mean, not Robert obviously.’
Jane Smith shrugged. ‘I didn’t kill Robert. Gerald and I were together the whole time that evening.’
‘That’s not true. You had the opportunity. You and Gerald were briefly separated when everyone was looking round the house. You were both alone for long enough that either of you could—’
She shook her head vehemently.
‘Hang on a bit!’ I said. ‘What you’re really worried about is that Gerald could have done it, aren’t you? You’re worried that he could have found out about the abortion and decided to get his revenge.’
‘No,’ she said. But her theory that married bosses and young attractive secretaries could go off to conferences together without arousing much comment was really far more convincing.
‘If it’s any comfort,’ I said, ‘I don’t think it was Gerald. Probably.’
She looked at me gratefully for a moment, then sniffed and said: ‘You don’t still have that hanky, do you?’
I checked it out and told her she could keep it.
It struck me that what I should do next was go to Gerald Smith’s office and
ask him one or two pertinent questions. I had taken the precaution of furnishing myself with the address before leaving London. I parked my car in the centre of town and walked the hundred yards or so from the nearest parking space to a glass-and-concrete edifice, part of which his firm occupied. I was standing in front of it, trying to decide whether to use the same successful tactics that I had with Jane Smith, when the front door opened and Ethelred staggered out with a goggle-eyed expression on his face. It wasn’t that much of a coincidence, in the sense that I knew he had plans to talk to Gerald Smith. Still, it was good timing and I thought he’d be pretty impressed by what I had managed to discover.
When I called him, however, he just looked uncomprehendingly at me, then he blinked a couple of times and said: ‘Elsie! Thank God you’re here. You won’t believe what I’ve just found out. I still don’t quite believe it myself
So we went off to a cafe and he told me.
Twenty-four
The train journey back from London gave me time to ponder things. Annabelle had, when you thought about it, no motive at all for killing Robert. Nor did I agree with Elsie that she had behaved oddly over the discovery of the passage. It seemed to me that Annabelle had been as surprised as I was when the panel had slid to one side – more surprised perhaps. Increasingly I felt that Elsie’s views on Annabelle were somewhat harsh and unfair. She was allowing her personal feelings to get in the way of more mature judgement.
The more I thought, too, the more I agreed with Clive Brent that it was John O’Brian who had the shakiest story. He had been around the whole evening, but had been working alone. He would have been able, from the garden, to see Robert enter the brightly lit library. He had an unrequited passion for Annabelle. And, if Clive was right about the payments to him, he seemed to have some strange hold over the family. After I had spoken to Annabelle I needed to speak to him.
I drove straight from Worthing station back to Muntham Court. The front door remained closed and unyielding as before, but this time my walk to the back of the house was not entirely in vain.
John O’Brian was busy putting tools away in the garden shed.
‘She’s gone off somewhere,’ he said, arranging some forks against the wall.
He did not seem entirely happy. I pointed this out.
‘I am no longer in Her Ladyship’s employment,’ he said. ‘As of this morning. She has reluctantly let me go. I came back this afternoon to pick up a few things and leave this place tidy for whoever replaces me. Once I’ve done that, which will be very soon indeed, I’m out of here for good.’
‘Fired?’ I asked.
‘I’d have said so,’ he replied. ‘I’ve been told to leave the premises forthwith and that any money owing to me will be sent on.’
‘Did she say why?’
‘I hoped you could tell me,’ he said. ‘I do, however, have a bottle of good Irish whiskey hidden away in that corner. I could take it with me, or we could drink it here. So, why don’t we have a chat and see whether we can work it all out?’
Apart from a comprehensive selection of clean and well-cared-for tools, a small tractor for cutting the grass, and a range of killers of animal and vegetable life (in liquid and solid form), the shed contained a couple of old garden chairs and a small wooden table. John O’Brian went to a cupboard marked ‘POISONS’ and took out a half-full bottle of Bushmills and two drinking vessels.
‘So,’ he said, as he swilled his whiskey thoughtfully in a Thomas the Tank Engine mug, ‘it would seem this is my farewell drinks party. Her Ladyship’s not here to make a speech, but she made a brief one this morning and I’ll have to make do with that. Between you, me and that mower over there, I’ve had enough of this place anyway, but I was just wondering whether you had even the faintest idea what I’m supposed to have done.’
‘Not what you’ve done nor what I’ve done,’ I said. ‘I too am apparently off the case, as far as the murder investigation is concerned.’
‘Women!’ he said, and raised Thomas the Tank Engine to his lips. I did the same with my Flopsy Bunnies tea cup (saucer missing).
‘People think you were sleeping with Annabelle,’ I said.
‘Well, that’s the truth anyway,’ he said.
‘Were you?’ I asked, surprised.
‘I suppose, thinking about it, sleeping was one of the few things we didn’t do – but we did have sex all the time. I can’t even say we went to bed together – to use another euphemism – this place was as good as any for her. Then there was this funny passageway that leads from the billiard room to the library . . .’
‘You knew about that?’
‘That’s where she really liked doing it. Preferably with himself in the library a few feet away from us and completely unaware, though he occasionally must have thought the mice were having a pretty good time behind the oak panelling.’
‘You weren’t . . . you weren’t in the passage the evening of the dinner party?’
‘I was nowhere near it. It’s funny though. That afternoon Annabelle suggested she might slip away from the party and join me for some fun in the secret passageway. She said I should wait for her there.’
‘But you didn’t?’
‘I thought she was joking. In any case, I wasn’t going to wait around for hours in the dark on the off chance. It wouldn’t have been the first time.’
‘But she might have thought you were there?’
‘You’ll have to ask her.’
It was of course very unlikely that Annabelle would have made any such arrangement. I shrugged and said: ‘Annabelle thinks that the murderer might have escaped that way.’
‘Does she? How would an intruder have known about the passage, then?’
‘Who did know?’
‘Well, Annabelle and me, as you will gather. Gill Maggs – Annabelle liked to have the passage clean, even if she was planning dirty work there.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘Annabelle preferred to keep it all on a need-to-know basis, for obvious reasons. Of course, I’ve no idea who needed to know. It might well have been half the male population of West Sussex.’
‘I think that’s a little unfair.’
‘Is it? Fine – then let’s say it was just Annabelle, me and Gill Maggs.’
‘That means you would have been one of a small number of people who would have known how to get out of the library, leaving it apparently locked,’ I said. ‘Your movements are also unaccounted for round about the time of the murder.’
‘So, are you saying I’m the killer, then?’ he asked, topping up my Flopsy Bunnies cup with a generous slug of golden spirit. ‘That’s a little harsh in view of my hospitality.’
‘Don’t you think you have an opportunity and a motive?’
‘What motive?’
‘You wanted Robert dead so that you could marry Annabelle.’
‘Hang on – who said anything about marriage? Look, I’ve worked in a few big houses over the years. This isn’t the first time the lady of the manor has taken a fancy to the rough son of the soil in her employ. It happened to me more often when I was younger, but neither then nor now did anyone mention making it a permanent position. Anyway, I’d seen how she treated Sir Robert – not a great inducement to form a permanent relationship. If he hadn’t died, I might have stayed around a bit longer – Her Ladyship was paying me better money than I’ve had anywhere else. But I’d nothing to gain from his death.’
‘Why did she pay you so much?’
He laughed. ‘I suppose she thought Sir Robert had stacks of money and she might as well throw it around.’
‘But he doesn’t have stacks of money?’
‘Lately I got the impression not. She didn’t really confide in me much. I was only staff – just like Gill.’
‘Gillian Maggs has vanished.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘Gone to Barbados.’
‘So they tell me.’
‘You don’t believe it?’
John O’Br
ian pulled a face. ‘It’s not cheap, that sort of thing. Sir Robert and Annabelle – they were always going there. I can’t see the Maggs family taking off for Barbados at short notice.’
‘What if they were threatened?’ I asked. ‘What if they needed to get away?’
‘It’s still not an obvious place to go, is it? And if I were running scared, I wouldn’t tell people where I was going – not the real place anyway.’
‘Could Clive Brent have known about the passage?’
‘Annabelle could have told him, I suppose,’ said John O’Brian. ‘He also had a motive.’
‘He was in love with Annabelle?’ I asked.
‘Love? We’re into euphemism territory here again, aren’t we? But he had a perfectly good motive apart from that. Sir Robert had stitched him up badly. He’d destroyed his career. That might be enough for some people to start thinking about murder.’
‘Of course, there’s also the stranger in the blue suit. You saw him.’
John O’Brian looked very uncomfortable. ‘You’d better talk to Clive Brent about that too,’ he said. ‘He’s the one who really saw him – so he says anyway.’
‘What do you mean “really saw him”?’
‘Look – Annabelle asked me to do it, right? She told me that Clive Brent had seen this guy hanging around that evening, but that the police wouldn’t take it seriously if Brent was the only witness. So she got me to agree I’d say I’d seen him too. I felt a real fool telling you about him, when I’d never seen a thing. But it seemed harmless enough to say I’d glimpsed the same guy – after all, if Clive Brent was that sure, what harm was there?’
‘So that was it – no real explanation – she just told you to do it?’
He smiled. ‘I’m used to it. You’d be amazed how good I am at taking orders. Now, could those Flopsy Bunnies of yours do with another slug of the hard stuff? I’m not planning to take the bottle away with me and I apparently won’t be coming back to this bar again.’
Twenty-five
I knew that Clive Brent now occupied a small cottage in the grounds of the boarding school of which he was bursar. It was within walking distance of Muntham Court, which bearing in mind the amount of whiskey I had drunk, was just as well.
