Wake the Dead

by Dorothy Simpson

  ‘She doesn’t look too happy. What did she have to say?’

  Thanet told him as they walked together up the stairs.

  ‘So that explains why Mrs Fairleigh apparently took so much trouble to introduce Pamela into her social circle. Talk about devious!’

  ‘Yes. My mother-in-law said that she was very manipulative, that she’d seen Mrs Fairleigh persuade people into doing things they didn’t want to do without their ever realising how she’d managed it. Sounds as though this is a classic case in point.’

  ‘Well at least we now know that we were right about Mr Fairleigh wanting a divorce. And it does sound as though we were right about the row, and the stroke, too. So I bet we’re also right about the will. And you must admit, sir, that half a million is one hell of a motive.’

  ‘True. Well, we’ll have to see. You’re looking pleased with yourself, Mike. What did you find out at the bank?’

  ‘Ah, well, listen to this. Those thousand pounds were drawn out in cash by Mrs Fairleigh herself, each month.’

  ‘In cash!’

  There was a knock at the door and Doctor Mallard came in. He glanced from Thanet to Lineham and said, ‘Do I detect a somewhat electric atmosphere in here?’

  Thanet grinned. ‘Not much escapes you, does it, Doc? We’ve just discovered that the old lady has been drawing out a thousand pounds a month in cash.’

  The little doctor’s mouth pursed in a silent whistle. ‘Not exactly chicken feed. What was it for, d’you know?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as ours. The obvious answer is blackmail, of course. The withdrawals go back for – how long, Mike?’

  ‘At least five years. Her bank statements only go back to then.’

  ‘But who? And why?’

  ‘Quite. There doesn’t seem to be a clue anywhere in her papers. Though it’s just occurred to me – you remember those phone calls Miss Ransome told us about, Mike?’ Thanet explained to Mallard.

  ‘Yes!’ said Lineham. ‘The timing is right, too, if they were from the blackmailer. He’d be wondering what had happened to his money.’

  ‘Or she, Mike.’

  ‘Didn’t Miss Ransome say if it was a man or a woman?’ said Mallard.

  Thanet shook his head. ‘She couldn’t tell. The voice was muffled.’

  ‘The B could still be an initial, of course,’ said Lineham.

  ‘You’ve lost me,’ said Doc Mallard. ‘What B?’

  Thanet explained. ‘It was obviously important to her. She’s entered it in her diary on the first day of the month right through the year.’

  ‘Does she know anyone whose name begins with the letter B?’

  ‘Not that we’ve discovered so far.’

  ‘Intriguing,’ said Mallard. He perched on the edge of Thanet’s desk and looked thoughtful. ‘What else could it stand for? What on earth could an old woman find to spend a thousand a month on?’

  ‘Clothes?’ said Thanet, remembering the wardrobe crammed with expensive coats, suits, dresses. ‘No, it’s just too much. And always a regular sum.’

  ‘Anyway, she always paid for clothes by cheque,’ said Lineham. ‘She used to note it down on the cheque stub – you know, hat, dress, skirt and so on.’

  ‘Perhaps she was a secret gambler,’ said Mallard, with a mischievous grin. ‘B for Betting.’

  Thanet and Lineham laughed.

  ‘You may laugh,’ said Mallard, ‘but she always was keen on the gee-gees, I believe. And a surprising number of these doughty old ladies do get hooked on form.’

  ‘Well, we’ll look into it,’ said Thanet. ‘Drawing the money out on the first day of the month could imply settling up some monthly account. But in cash?’

  Mallard shrugged. ‘If it was gambling, maybe she wouldn’t have wanted the bank to know, by paying by cheque.’

  ‘I can’t really see her trotting into Sturrenden Turf Accountants with a thousand pounds in her handbag every month, can you?’ said Lineham.

  ‘She could have got someone to do it for her,’ said Mallard.

  The same thought struck Thanet and Lineham at the same time.

  ‘Ernie!’ they chorused.

  ‘The Fairleighs’ gardener-cum-handyman,’ Thanet explained to Mallard.

  ‘No one would look twice at him going into a betting shop,’ said Lineham.

  ‘True.’ Thanet frowned. ‘But I still think it very unlikely. The sums are too regular. If she were paying off gambling debts I’ve have thought they’d vary wildly.’

  ‘Unless she was a very strong-minded type and allowed herself so much a month and no more,’ said Lineham.

  ‘Difficult, for a gambler, by the nature of the beast,’ said Mallard.

  ‘I still think blackmail’s the answer,’ said Thanet. ‘All the same, send Bentley along to the bookie’s, just to make sure. And we’ll have a word with Ernie when we go out to Thaxden later.’

  ‘Odd,’ said Mallard, ‘I feel an almost proprietorial interest in this case.’

  ‘If it hadn’t been for you there wouldn’t be a case!’ said Thanet. ‘Talking of which … I gather the PM report confirmed your diagnosis?’

  Mallard nodded. ‘Yes. No surprises at all, in fact. Evidence of stroke as expected, and yes, cause of death was asphyxiation.’

  Thanet had not doubted Mallard but he was relieved. He could just imagine the fuss that Fairleigh would have made if the old lady had died a natural death after all.

  ‘So,’ said Mallard. ‘Have there been any other developments?’

  ‘One or two. Though we still have to confirm a lot of the stuff we’ve learned.’ Thanet filled him in on Fairleigh’s intended divorce, the row, the stroke and what they suspected about the proposed change of will.

  ‘Well, well, well. Curiouser and curiouser.’ Mallard slid off the desk and straightened his jacket. ‘Just goes to confirm once again that skeletons lurk in the cupboards of even the best-ordered families. Keep me posted, won’t you, Luke. You’ll be getting a written report in due course. Must dash now.’

  With the loss of Mallard’s brisk presence the room settled back into normality.

  ‘So,’ said Lineham. ‘What next?’

  ‘About these cash withdrawals,’ said Thanet. ‘I’ve been thinking. We’ll keep an open mind, of course, but I think we ought to concentrate on the possibility of blackmail. Now, assuming that this was what the money was for, how would it have been paid?’

  ‘In person?’

  ‘Unlikely, don’t you think? A secret rendezvous every month. And if it was blackmail, I can’t see old Mrs Fairleigh agreeing to regular meetings. I think she’d have wanted to make it as impersonal as possible.’

  ‘By post, then. A parcel, to an accommodation address.’

  ‘A possibility, I agree, though it’s a great deal of money to risk sending by mail. And where would she send it from?’

  ‘Different post offices every month.’

  Thanet frowned. ‘If it were just one payment, or two, perhaps. But as it went on month after month for at least five years … Even assuming she used a different post office each time, that’s an awful lot of parcels. Village postmasters get to know everybody’s business, I shouldn’t have thought she’d want to risk it. We’ll put a couple of men on to it, just in case, but I would have thought she’d prefer a really anonymous method.’

  ‘But how? The blackmailer wouldn’t have wanted to risk having it paid into his – or her – account. Too traceable.’

  ‘I wonder if there is a method of bank payment which couldn’t be traced? Give the manager a ring, Mike, and ask.’

  It didn’t take Lineham long to find out that there was. Apparently, provided that Isobel Fairleigh had the sorting code and account number of the payee, money could be paid into that account at any branch of any bank. Her own anonymity could be preserved either by leaving the ‘paid in by’ space blank, or by filling in a false name. Provided money was being paid in and not withdrawn no bank was going to bother overmuch with the name of the d
epositor.

  ‘Neat,’ said Thanet. ‘I bet that’s what she did. Assuming, of course, that we’re right about the blackmail. We’ll have to do a bit of digging.’

  ‘We’re going out to Thaxden now, sir?’

  ‘Yes. And I think we’ll pay another visit to Pamela Raven this evening. I’m sure she knows a lot more than she’s telling us. Make another appointment, Mike, then we’ll grab a sandwich in the canteen before we leave.’

  FOURTEEN

  The close-cropped green lawns of Thaxden Hall were covered with black spots, as if they had developed melanoma overnight. Ernie, wheelbarrow beside him, was busy filling in with peat and sharp sand the various indentations made by stalls and sideshows at the fête on Saturday. He straightened up as Thanet and Lineham approached.

  ‘You’ve got quite a job on there,’ said Thanet.

  Ernie scowled. ‘Bloody fête. Same every year.’

  He must be in his seventies, Thanet thought, short, thin and wiry with face and stringy forearms tanned to the colour of old leather by constant exposure to the vagaries of the English climate. His sparse brown hair was peppered with grey and there was a large wart on the tip of his bulbous nose.

  ‘You’ve been with the family a long time, then.’

  ‘Nigh on fifty years.’

  ‘Stone the crows!’ said Lineham. ‘Fifty years!’

  Ernie grinned, revealing a row of blackened stumps which would have made any self-respecting dentist blench. ‘You won’t find many people as can say that these days.’

  ‘You certainly won’t!’ said Thanet. ‘You must have seen a lot of changes in that time.’

  ‘Some.’

  ‘And you must have known old Mrs Fairleigh pretty well.’

  Ernie looked wary. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Simply that you must have had a lot of dealings with her, over the years.’

  ‘Ar.’

  Thanet took this archetypally rural monosyllable for assent. ‘Fond of horses, was she?’

  ‘Damn good seat, she had. No one to compare, hereabouts.’

  ‘Used to hunt, I suppose?’ Thanet could imagine the old lady, back straight as a ramrod, leading the field.

  ‘That she did.’

  ‘And follow form, too, I suppose?’

  Ernie squinted up at Thanet suspiciously. ‘Form?’

  ‘Well, being fond of horses … I suppose she was interested in bloodlines and so on.’ If that was the right expression. He wasn’t too sure of racing terminology.

  ‘Not so far as I know.’

  ‘Liked a little flutter too occasionally, I expect.’

  Something subterranean happened to Ernie’s face. The skin rippled and bulged and then he suddenly erupted into a great roar of laughter. He doubled up with mirth, shoulders heaving. He shook his head from side to side and gasped, ‘“Flutter”!’

  Thanet and Lineham raised eyebrows at each other and waited for the paroxysm to pass.

  Finally, leaning on one hand on the wheelbarrow as if the spasm of mirth had depleted his strength, Ernie fished a red-spotted handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and wiped his streaming eyes. A glance at their faces almost set him off again, but he blew his nose instead.

  ‘The idea seems to amuse you,’ said Thanet mildly, deliberately understating the effect the suggestion had had upon this odd little gnome of a man.

  ‘If you’d knowed her … She were dead against gambling. It was her father, I heard tell. A great gambler, he was, by all accounts.’ Ernie shook his head, face splitting once more into a huge grin. ‘“Liked a little flutter”!’

  But there was something in that grin that Thanet couldn’t pin down, something unexpected and disconcerting. What was it?

  Ernie picked up his shovel decisively and plunged it into the peaty mixture. ‘Well, can’t stand here talking all day. Got a lot to do.’

  As they walked away they heard a chuckle escape him, like gas bubbling up from underwater. ‘“Flutter”,’ floated after them.

  They grinned at each other.

  ‘Looks as though we needn’t have bothered to send Bentley to make inquiries at the bookie’s,’ said Lineham.

  ‘I don’t know, Mike. Didn’t you think there was something a bit, well, excessive, about his reaction?’

  ‘Not really, no. What are you getting at?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not sure.’ Thanet shook his head. ‘Well, I don’t suppose it matters.’ But the idea niggled away at the back of his mind as they were admitted to the house by Sam.

  Hugo Fairleigh, it seemed, was out. ‘He’s gone to London,’ she said. This morning her dark hair was tied up in a ponytail with a red ribbon and she was wearing a crisp red and white striped blouse with her jeans. A wicker shopping basket stood on the hall table beside a tan leather shoulder bag and some car keys. ‘And I’m just going out too, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Never mind. We want a word with Miss Ransome, as well, and Mrs Fairleigh.’

  ‘Mrs Fairleigh’s not here either. Sorry. She should be back soon, though.’

  ‘Good. Has Mr Fairleigh gone to the House of Commons?’

  ‘I imagine so. I don’t know.’

  ‘Will he be back tonight?’

  ‘No. Tomorrow evening, he said.’

  Perhaps Fairleigh planned to see Pamela tonight, Thanet thought. It would probably be the first time they had met since Saturday. They would have a lot to discuss, he thought grimly.

  ‘If there’s nothing else …’ said Sam, slinging her bag over one shoulder and picking up the basket and keys.

  ‘Just one point. I understand that just before her stroke old Mrs Fairleigh had an argument with someone here in the house.’

  ‘Oh?’

  This was news to her, Thanet was sure of it. Her eyes were without guile as she frowned.

  ‘You don’t know anything about it?’

  She shook her head. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Were you here, that day?’

  ‘No. I was out, shopping. I heard about Mrs Fairleigh’s stroke when I got back.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I’m sorry, I really must go.’

  ‘Miss Ransome’s here, at any rate?’

  ‘So far as I know, yes.’

  ‘We’ll find our own way, then.’

  Thanet wanted a word with Mrs Kerk first, to test his theory that it was she who had written the anonymous letter. They found her in the kitchen of Isobel Fairleigh’s flat. She was frying pieces of stewing steak in a Le Creuset casserole dish, familiar to Thanet as Bridget’s favourite cookware. On the draining board was a small pile of prepared vegetables: onions, carrots, parsnips. She glanced up apprehensively as they came in but did not stop what she was doing.

  ‘Smells good,’ said Thanet with a smile.

  ‘Miss Ransome’s supper.’ She continued to turn over the pieces of meat with what Thanet considered to be excessive concentration. He decided to broach the matter directly.

  ‘We received an anonymous letter this morning.’

  Her hand jerked and fat splashed on to it. She released the wooden spatula and rubbed her hand against her apron. Then she picked the spatula up again.

  ‘If you would just turn off the gas for a moment …’ said Thanet.

  Reluctantly she complied and almost at once the sizzling diminished as the flame went out. She turned to face them but gave him only a fleeting, nervous glance before dropping her eyes. He became more certain than ever that it was she who had sent that letter.

  ‘It mentioned a row that Mrs Fairleigh had with someone and implied that this was why she had the stroke.’

  She said nothing, but folded her arms protectively across her chest.

  ‘Which means, of course, that it must have been written by someone present in the house at the time. Were there any visitors, that day?’

  She shook her head, reluctantly.

  ‘Which in turn means that it could have been written by only a very few people.’

  She was chewing the inside of her lip
, fingers nervously pleating the skirt of the old-fashioned crossover apron she was wearing.

  ‘Presumably,’ he went on, ‘the argument was with a member of her family, and as they are bound to feel a certain loyalty to each other, I think we can assume that none of them was responsible for sending the letter. Which leaves Sam, and you. And Sam was out at the time.’

  She was staring at him, as if mesmerised by his logic.

  He waited a moment or two for what he had just said to sink in and then said gently, ‘Why did you write it? Why didn’t you just tell us about it?’

  He knew why, of course. She had been hoping to avoid being questioned like this.

  ‘It was Cyril said I ought to send it,’ she said. ‘My husband. I didn’t know what to do.’ Her lips tightened and her chin lifted defiantly. ‘I know I didn’t like her, not many people did, but it upset me, to think … I mean, she was helpless, wasn’t she? Couldn’t put up any sort of fight or struggle … It doesn’t bear thinking about … No one deserves to die like that, whatever they’re like. So I talked it over with Cyril and he said look, if it’s worrying you, put it in a letter. Then they’ll know about it but you won’t be getting yourself involved.’

  ‘Yes, I understand,’ said Thanet. He smiled reassuringly at her. ‘Know what, exactly?’

  ‘I heard them arguing,’ she admitted. Then, quickly, ‘And don’t go thinking I’m the sort who listens behind doors all the time, because I’m not.’

  Pity, thought Thanet.

  ‘I was cleaning the stairs, see, and they were in the sitting room.’

  ‘Who?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m not sure. I could hear her, all right – Mrs Fairleigh. She had a very, well, penetrating sort of voice. And I could tell she was angry.’

  ‘What was she saying?’

  ‘I couldn’t make the words out. They were sort of blurred. This house is built solid, and it was more the way she was speaking than what she said. I thought, Lord, she’s going to be in a mood after this, all right. So as soon as I got to the bottom of the stairs I shut myself in the kitchen and turned the radio on. I don’t like rows,’ she added defensively. ‘They upset me.’

  Disappointing. Thanet had hoped for more. ‘So what happened after that?’