Put On By Cunning

by Ruth Rendell

  'Dinah, this is my father. Pop, I'd like you to meet Dinah Sternhold. She was engaged to Sir Manuel, you know.'

  It was immediately apparent to Wexford that she had not noticed him at the inquest. She held out her small hand and looked at him without a flicker of recognition. The dog had backed against her legs and now sat down heavily at her feet, glaring at Wexford in a sullen way.

  'Do forgive me for bringing Nancy.' She had a soft low unaffected voice. 'But I daren't leave her alone, she howls all the time. My neighbours complained when I had to leave her this morning.'

  'She was Sir Manuel's dog,' Sheila explained.

  A master-leaver and a fugitive, Wexford reflected, eyeing the alsatian who had abandoned Camargue to his fate. Or gone to fetch help? That, of course, was a possible explanation of the curious behaviour of the dog in the night.

  Dinah Sternhold said, 'It's Manuel she howls for, you see. I can only hope she won't take too long to--to forget him. I hope she'll get over it.'

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  IWas she speaking of the dog or of herself ? His swer could have applied to either. 'She will. ;'s young.'

  'He often said he wanted me to have her if�if iything happened to him. I think he was afraid :her going to someone who might not be kind her.'

  Presumably she meant the daughter. Wexfbrd ight about in his mind for some suitable >rds of condolence, and finding none that ided neither mawkish nor pompous, he kept iet. Sheila, anyway, could always be relied on imake conversation. While she was telling ic rather inapposite alsatian anecdote, he idied Dinah Sternhold. Her little round low face was pinched with a kind of Idered woe. One might almost believe she loved the old man and not merely been in it the money. But that was a little too much to low, distinguished and reputedly kind and ling as he had been. The facts were that he been seventy-eight and she was certainly years less than that.

  old-digger, however, she was not. She ;ared to have extorted little in the way of S-marital largesse out of Camargue. Her )wn tweed coat had seen better days, she wore jewellery but an engagement ring, in which ruby was small and the diamonds pinheads. |He wondered how long she intended to sit are, her hand grasping the dog's collar, her

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  head bowed as if she were struggling to conquer tears or at least conceal them. But suddenly she jumped up.

  'I must go.' Her voice became intense, ragged, charged with a sincerity that was almost fierce. 'It was so kind of you to come to me, Sheila. You don't know how grateful I am.'

  'No need,' Sheila said lightly. 'I wanted to come. It was kind of you to drive me home. I had a hire car, Pop, because I was scared to drive in the snow but Dinah wasn't a bit scared to bring me back in the snow and the dark.'

  They saw Dinah Sternhold out to her car. Ice was already forming on the windscreen. She pushed the dog on to the back seat and got to work competently on the windows with a deicing spray. Wexford was rather surprised that he felt no compunction about letting her drive away, but her confidence seemed absolute, you could trust her somehow to look after herself and perhaps others too. Was it this quality about her that Camargue had needed and had loved? He closed the gate, rubbed his hands. Sheila, shivering, ran back into the house.

  'Where's your mother?'

  'Round at Syl's. She ought to be back any minute. Isn't Dinah nice? I felt so sorry for her, I went straight over to Forby as soon as the inquest was over. We talked and talked. I think maybe I did her a bit of good.'

  'Hmm,' said Wexford.

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  ic phone started to ring. Andrew, punctual minute. 'Oh, darling,' Wexford heard jila say, 'do you remember my telling you it someone I know who was going to ..' He began picking alsatian hairs off upholstery.

  father and daughter is not the perfect itionship. According to Freud, that iction belongs to mother and son. But ford, looking back, could have said that he been happy with his daughters and they him, he had never actually quarrelled with ier of them, there had never been any sort of ich. And if Sheila was his favourite he hoped was so close a secret that no one but himself, even Dora, could know it. t&ny father of daughters, even today, must ahead when they are children and icipate an outlay of money on their wedding Orations. Wexford realized this and had saving for it out of his detective :tor's salary, but Sylvia had married so ig as almost to catch him napping. For he had been determined to be well red, then gradually, with wonder and a i of dismay, he had watched her rise out of : income bracket and society in which she grown up, graduate into a sparkling, lavish set whose members had wedding receptions jftountry mansions or else the Dorchester. 7or a long time it had looked as if she would

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  not marry at all. Then Andrew Thorverton had appeared, a young businessman, immensely wealthy, it seemed to Wexford, with a house in Hampstead, a cottage in the country somewhere that his future father-in-law suspected was a sizeable house, a boat and an amazing car of so esoteric a manufacture that Wexford had never before heard of it. Sheila, made old-fashioned and sentimental by love, announced she would be married from home and, almost in the same breath, that she and Andrew would be paying for the entertainment of two hundred people to luncheon in the banquet room of the Olive and Dove. Yes, she insisted, it must be so and Pop must lump it or else she'd go and get married in a register office and have lunch at the Pearl of Africa.

  He was slightly humiliated. Somehow he felt she ought to cut garment according to cloth, and his cloth would cover a buffet table for fifty. That was absurd, of course. Andrew wouldn't even notice the few thousand it would cost, and the bride's father would give her away, make a speech and hang on to his savings. He heard her telling Andrew she would be coming up to spend the weekend with him, and then Dora walked in.

  'She won't be supporting her friend at the cremation then?'

  Sheila had put the phone down. She was sometimes a little flushed and breathless when

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  ic had been talking to Andrew. But it was not of him that she spoke. 'Dinah's not going to How could she bear it? Two days after what >uld have been their wedding day?' 'At least it's not the day itself,' said Wexford. 'Frankly, I'm surprised Sir Manuel's lughter didn't fix it on the day itself. She's ipable of it. There's going to be a memorial �rvice at St Peter's on Tuesday and everyone be there. Solti is coming and probably lenuhin. Dinah says there are sure to be >wds, he was so much loved.' iWexford said, 'Does she know if he left her mch?'

  Sheila delivered her reply slowly and with an ress's perfect timing. 'He has not left her anything. He has not left a single penny.' She sank to the floor, close by the fire, and stretched out her long legs. ler engagement ring and that dog, that's all ie's got.'

  'How did that come about? Did you ask her?' 'Oh, Pop darling, of course I did. Wasn't I tith her for hours and hours? I got the whole igout of her.' 'You're as insatiably inquisitive as your ither!' cried Dora, revolted. 'I thought you tent to comfort the poor girl. I agree it's not ce losing a young fiance, but just the same...' 'Curiosity,' quoted Wexford, 'is one of the lent and certain characteristics of a 33

  not marry at all. Then Andrew Thorverton had appeared, a young businessman, immensely wealthy, it seemed to Wexford, with a house in Hampstead, a cottage in the country somewhere that his future father-in-law suspected was a sizeable house, a boat and an amazing car of so esoteric a manufacture that Wexford had never before heard of it. Sheila, made old-fashioned and sentimental by love, announced she would be married from home and, almost in the same breath, that she and Andrew would be paying for the entertainment of two hundred people to luncheon in the banquet room of the Olive and Dove. Yes, she insisted, it must be so and Pop must lump it or else she'd go and get married in a register office and have lunch at the Pearl of Africa.

  He was slightly humiliated. Somehow he felt she ought to cut garment according to cloth, and his cloth would cover a buffet table for fifty. That was absurd, of course. Andrew wouldn't even notice the few thousand it would cost, and the bride's father would give her away, make a spe
ech and hang on to his savings. He heard her telling Andrew she would be coming up to spend the weekend with him, and then Dora walked in.

  'She won't be supporting her friend at the cremation then?'

  Sheila had put the phone down. She was sometimes a little flushed and breathless when

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  ic had been talking to Andrew. But it was not fnow of him that she spoke. 'Dinah's not going to lit. How could she bear it? Two days after what fwould have been their wedding day?'

  'At least it's not the day itself,' said Wexford. 'Frankly, I'm surprised Sir Manuel's laughter didn't fix it on the day itself. She's ipable of it. There's going to be a memorial pervice at St Peter's on Tuesday and everyone /ill be there. Solti is coming and probably Lenuhin. Dinah says there are sure to be crowds, he was so much loved.' Wexford said, 'Does she know if he left her mch?'

  Sheila delivered her reply slowly and with an ictress's perfect timing.

  'He has not left her anything. He has not left ler a single penny.' She sank to the floor, close ip by the fire, and stretched out her long legs. |Her engagement ring and that dog, that's all fhe's got.'

  'How did that come about? Did you ask her?' 'Oh, Pop darling, of course I did. Wasn't I tith her for hours and hours? I got the whole igout of her.'

  'You're as insatiably inquisitive as your ither!' cried Dora, revolted. 'I thought you rent to comfort the poor girl. I agree it's not ce losing a young fiance, but just the same...' 'Curiosity,' quoted Wexford, 'is one of the ;rmanent and certain characteristics of a

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  vigorous intellect.' He chuckled. 'The daughter gets it all, does she?'

  'Sir Manuel saw his daughter a week before he died and that was the first time he'd seen her for nineteen years. There'd been a family quarrel. She was at the Royal Academy of Music but she left and went off with an American student. The first Camargue and his wife knew of it was a letter from San Francisco. Mrs Camargue�he wasn't a Sir then�got ill and died but the daughter didn't come back. She didn't come back at all till last November. Doesn't it seem frightfully unfair that she gets everything?'

  'Camargue should have made a new will.'

  'He was going to as soon as they were married. Marriage invalidates a will. Did you know that, Pop?'

  He nodded.

  'I can understand divorce would but I can't see why marriage.' She turned her legs, toasting them.

  'You'll get scorch marks,' said Dora. 'That won't look very nice on the beach in Bermuda.'

  Sheila took no notice. 'And what's more, he was going to cut the daughter out altogether. Apparently, that one sight of her was enough.'

  f)ora, won uneasily on to the side of the gossips, said, 'I wish you wouldn't keep calling her the daughter. Doesn't she have a name?'

  'Natalie Arno, Mrs Arno, she's a widow. The

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  SF '

  jinerican student died some time during those Ineteen years. Dinah was awfully reticent ijout her, but she did say Camargue intended to nake a new will, and since he said this just after H'd seen Natalie I put two and two together. pid there's another thing, Natalie only got in pich with her father after his engagement to ffaiah was announced. The engagement was in ike Telegraph on 10 December, and on the 12th |e got a letter from Natalie telling him she was j$ick and could she come and see him? She (panted a reconciliation. It was obvious she was pared stiff of the marriage and wanted to stop

  $''

  I 'And your reticent friend told you all this?'

  I 'She got it out of her, Dora. I can understand. pie's a chip off the old block, as you so indignantly pointed out.' He turned once more || Sheila. 'Did she try to stop it?' | 'Dinah wouldn't say. I think she hates pscussing Natalie. She talked much more about pamargue. She really loved him. In a funny sort |f daughterly, worshipping, protective sort of lay, but she did love him. She likes to talk fjxmt how wonderful he was and how they met fed all that. She's a teacher at the Kathleen pmargue School and he came over last |ounder's Day and they met and they just loved pen other, she said, from that moment.' I The somewhat cynical expressions on the two pkldle-aged faces made her give an embarrassed I 35

  laugh. She seemed to take her mother's warning to heart at last, for she got up and moved away from the fire to sit on the sofa where she scrutinized her smooth, pale golden legs. 'At any rate, Pop darling, it's an ill wind, as you might say, because now the house is bound to be sold. I'd love to get a look at it, wouldn't you? Why wasn't I at school with Natalie?'

  'You were born too late,' said her father. 'And there must be simpler ways of getting into Sterries.'

  There were.

  'You?' said Burden first thing the next morning. 'What do you want to go up there for? It's only a common-or-garden burglary, one of our everyday occurrences, I'm sorry to say. Martin can handle it.'

  Wexford hadn't taken his overcoat off. 'I want to see the place. Don't you feel any curiosity to see the home of our former most distinguished citizen?'

  Burden seemed more concerned with dignity and protocol. 'It's beneath you and me, I should think.' He sniffed. 'And when you hear the details you'll feel the same. The facts are that a Mrs Arno--she's the late Sir Manuel's daughter--phoned up about half an hour ago to say the house had been broken into during the

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  ight. There's a pane of glass been cut out of a idow downstairs and a bit of a mess made and >me silver taken. Cutlery, nothing special, and >me money from Mrs Arno's handbag. She cs she saw the car the burglar used and she's >t the registration number.' 'I like these open-and-shut cases,' said Oxford. 'I find them restful.' The fingerprint man (Detective Constable lorgan) had already left for Sterries. Wexford's only just managed to get up Ploughman's ic, which was glacier-like in spite of gritting. le had been a determined burglar, Burden irked, to get his car up and down there in le night.

  The top of the hill presented an alpine scene, ith dark-green and gold and grey conifers ig sturdily from the snow blanket. The mse itself, shaped like a number of cuboid )xes pushed irregularly together and with a rer in the midst of them, looked not so much |hite as dun-coloured beside the dazzling field snow. A sharp wind had set the treble-clef ithervane spinning like a top against a sky it was now a clear cerulean blue. Morgan's van was parked on the forecourt itside the front door which was on the side of house furthest from the lane. Some attempt id been made to keep this area free of snow. Fexford, getting out of the car, saw a solidly It man in jeans and anorak at work sweeping

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  M

  the path which seemed to lead to a much smaller house that stood in a dip in the grounds. He looked in the other direction, noting in a shallow tree-fringed basin the ornamental water newspapers had euphemistically called a lake. There Camargue had met his death. It was once more iced over and the ice laden with a fleecy coat of snow.

  The front door had been opened by a woman of about forty in trousers and bulky sweater whom Wexford took to be Muriel Hicks. He and Burden stepped into the warmth and on to thick soft carpet. The vestibule with its cloaks cupboard was rather small but it opened, through an arch, into a hall which had been used to some extent as a picture gallery. The paintings almost made him whistle. If these were originals...

  The dining-room was open, revealing pale wood panelling and dark red wood furnishing, and in the far corner Morgan could be seen at his task. A flight of stairs, with risers of mosaic tile and treads that seemed to be of oak, led upwards. However deferential and attentive Mrs Hicks may have been towards Sir Manuel� and according to Sheila he had been adored by his* servants�she had no courtesy to spare for policemen. That 'she' was upstairs somewhere was the only introduction they got. Wexford went upstairs while Burden joined Morgan in the dining room.

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  The house had been built on various different /els of land so that the drawing room where he nmd himself was really another ground floor, was a large, airy and gracious room, two sides which were made entirely of glass. At the icr end of it steps led down
into what must rely be the tower. Here the floor was covered a pale yellow Chinese carpet on which stood 70 groups of silk-covered settees and chairs, ic suite lemon, one very pale jade. There was >me fine famille jaune porcelain of that fellous yellow that is both tender and lercing, and suspended from the ceiling a idelier of startlingly modern design that ssembled a torrent of water poured from a Ited vase.

  But there was no sign of human occupation. Oxford stepped down under the arch where jghorn ferns grew in troughs at ground level id a Cissus antarctica climbed the columns, and itered a music room. It was larger than had jpeared from outside and it was dodecagonal. le floor was of very smooth, polished, pale sy slate on which lay three Kashmiri rugs. A iroadwood grand piano stood between him and le other arched entrance. On each of eight of ie twelve sides of the room was a picture or ist in an alcove, Mozart and Beethoven among ie latter, among the former Cocteau's cartoon Picasso and Stravinsky, Rothenstein's rawing of Parry, and a photograph of the

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  Georgian manor house in which the music school was housed at Wellridge. But on one of the remaining sides Camargue had placed on a glass shelf a cast of Chopin's hands and on the last hung in a glass case a wind instrument of the side-blown type which looked to Wexford to be made of solid gold. Under it was the inscription: 'Presented to Manuel Camargue by Aldo Cazzini, 1949'. Was it a flute and could it be of gold? He lifted the lid of a case which lay on a low table and saw inside a similar instrument but made of humbler metal, perhaps silver.

  He was resolving to go downstairs again and send Muriel Hicks to find Mrs Arno, when he was aware of a movement in the air behind him and of a presence that was not wholly welcoming. He turned round. Natalie Arno stood framed in the embrasure of the further arch, watching him with an unfathomable expression in her eyes.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Wexford was the first to speak.

  'Good morning, Mrs Arno.'

  She was absolutely still, one hand up to her cheek, the other resting against one of the columns which supported the arch. She was silent.