‘For instance, did you know that as many as 63 per cent of British Prime Ministers, up to the Second World War, suffered the loss of one or both parents in their youth? I was reading an article about it the other day and—'
'I'm sure that's all fascinating,' Rafferty broke in desperately. 'But never mind those old politicos, Dafyd. If it's human nature you're after, I'd have thought this lot would be far more instructive.' He persuaded Llewellyn over to the Philosophy and Psychology shelves. 'They've got the lot here.' He read a few of the easier names at random. 'Freud, Pavlov, even that German bloke whose name I can never pronounce.'
'Nietzsche. As I was say—'
'That's the one.' Determined not to allow Llewellyn to settle back in the lecturing saddle, Rafferty proceeded to loosen the girth. 'For myself, I reckon the best study of human nature is the study of human beings themselves. But I suppose for an intellectual like yourself, with neither nose nor instinct for the common and not-so common man, books are the only answer.' He took another book from the shelves and thrust it at Llewellyn with a half-pitying smile. 'I'm sure Charles Shore would let you borrow some if you asked him nicely.'
Llewellyn took the hint and the book, and replaced the latter on the shelf. 'I wouldn't dream of doing so,' he said, adding pointedly, as he turned away, 'And I might lack a nose, as you say, but there's nothing wrong with my memory. I don't forget that this is the home of a murder victim, not a lending library.'
‘Oh hoity-toity,’ Rafferty muttered, as the jibe went home. Since returning Shore's autobiography, he'd asked and been given permission to borrow more books. And in spite of Llewellyn's tart comment, Charles Shore had seemed more amused than offended by his request. It certainly had an advantage over the public library, in that he was unlikely to demand fines for their late return.
As Henry came back, Rafferty turned to him with relief. At least, he was unlikely to harp on about his shaky scruples or his low-level intellect. Of course, as he enquired if Henry was feeling better, Rafferty reminded himself that the man was hardly in a position to find fault with him on either matter.
Henry, his face now an interesting pea-green, nodded uncertainly and Rafferty decided he'd better be quick in case Henry performed another vanishing act. Especially as Llewellyn, in this mood, was quite capable of using the time to put the metaphorical boot in from some other totally unexpected side of the stirrup.
'Then, perhaps we can get started? Sergeant?' He watched, with a wicked gleam in his blue eyes, till Llewellyn had flipped past the neat notes recording Mrs Watson's volubility, nearly to the end of his notebook, before he continued. 'You told us you were at a business meeting at the time of your wife's murder, Mr Longman.' Fixing him with what he hoped was a steely gaze, he went on. 'That wasn't true, was it, sir?'
Henry looked owlishly at him. 'How...how did you find out? I thought Jeremy Ingatestone was away for another week.'
'He is. It's not the Chamber of Commerce buddy you stood up who told us. But that's not important. What matters is that we did find out. Perhaps you'd like to tell us about it?'
Henry's face took on a trapped look. He floundered, opening and closing his mouth like a landed fish, before he finally blurted out, 'I knew I should have told you. It looks so bad for me. I told her it would.'
'Told who?'
'Hilary.'
'And what has this to do with Mrs Shore?'
Henry glanced quickly at him and away again. 'N—nothing. That is, to say...' He broke off.
'Are you saying that Mrs Shore advised you to lie to us?'
'Yes –- no – all I mean is that she said I'd be a fool to tell you I'd come home early that day, she said it would create—unnecessary complications. I felt unwell.' His eyes took on a feverish light. 'Yes, that's right, that's why I came home.' He blinked owlishly, as the implications of Rafferty's question penetrated. 'You surely don't think...?' He swallowed hard and tried again. 'It—it was nothing to do with my wife. At least, not in the way you obviously mean. I loved Barbara. I would never have hurt her.'
That's what they all say, thought Rafferty cynically. Henry defended himself with a vigour that surprised him. But then, even a cornered fox often surprised his attackers; not that Henry struck him as particularly crafty. An air of unworldliness shone from the man, and Rafferty was almost convinced he was telling the truth—almost. But he was an experienced policeman, and he had learned the hard way that swallowing statements whole generally caused investigatory indigestion. He chewed over what Henry had said, while the man rambled on and wondered why it was he should have the increasing impression that Henry had been rehearsed in his story.
'I've been painting a portrait of my wife—I was an artist once. It was to have been a gift for our second wedding anniversary. I was painting it in secret. I didn't want any of the family knowing about it. It was for my wife's pleasure, nobody else's. I particularly didn't want Charles to know what I was doing till it was finished, especially as I painted during daylight hours whenever I managed to escape from the office. I thought once it was done, Barbara's delight would stop him saying much. He was—fond of Barbara.'
His face twisted with grief, misery, and something else that Rafferty couldn't quite fathom. 'I set up a basic studio in the loft of one of the outbuildings. Sometimes, when I don't feel well, I find painting a help, it relaxes me, so I thought I'd try it that afternoon. But it was no good, the turps made me feel sick, so I gave it up almost immediately, and went to bed. I tried to get into it again the next morning to take my mind off my anxiety about Barbara and what might have happened to her, but I was in such an anxious state that I couldn't control my brush strokes, so I gave up again and went to my room. I wanted it perfect, you see.' With a touching simplicity, he told them, 'A portrait was the one gift I could give her that all Charles's money couldn't buy. A portrait, painted with love. It's still in the loft where I left it.' His lip trembled visibly, as he added, 'Perhaps one day I'll have the heart to finish it.'
Henry's story was believable insofar as it explained the disreputable clothes he had worn on their first encounter. He had sought to bury his anxiety about his missing wife in his painting, perhaps as a way of feeling close to her. When Mrs Griffiths had roused him from his sickbed, he had simply put on the clothes he had discarded earlier.
'So, you see why I didn't want to tell you with Charles there that I wasn't where I was supposed to be. Shock made me forget that, with Barbara dead, it didn't really matter any more. Nothing mattered. Not Charles and his obsession with the great god profit, not my ex-wife and her put-downs.'
His next words showed him to have a practical streak amongst all the other-worldliness. 'Only, of course, they do matter, don't they? Somehow, I still have to live, and who's likely to employ me if Charles doesn't? We both know I'm not really cut out for earning a good living, but I've got a son to think of and I've acquired some expensive tastes.'
Suddenly, every pore seemed to ooze resentment, as though infuriated by his dependence on the Shores. 'You know what matters in this family, Inspector? Success—that's all. In the Shore philosophy, words like happiness and contentment are only for fools.
‘God knows how often Maximillian Shore drummed it into my head that I was a failure. When my ex-wife and her father were reconciled shortly after Maxie's birth, I was scared the old man would make my son's life a misery, too, if he failed to live up to the Shore standards. Admittedly, the old man doted on him—first grandchild, and all that, but the old man had always expected most where he loved most. I was relieved he died just a few months later, before he could twist my son's mind the way he had those of his own children.'
Rafferty got the impression that Henry had repressed such feelings for years. It had taken his wife's death to release the simmering angers, the belated realisation that, as he seemed to find his executive suit as restricting as a straitjacket, he might have been happier sticking with art and poverty.
Somewhere in the house, a door banged. The sudden noise m
ade Henry jump and his habitually anxious expression returned. He ran his hand over his face and blinked, as though startled by his own outburst. 'I—I'm sorry. What must you think? I don't usually...' He looked uneasily from Rafferty to Llewellyn and back again. 'I hope you won't feel it necessary to mention what I said to Charles. Hilary convinced me it's best he doesn't know anything. He'd be furious, I see that. It's too late for me to start again now and I need this job.'
Henry had a point. From what he'd seen of Charles Shore, he was his formidable father all over again. He wouldn't be likely to countenance slackness, especially not from Henry, who was probably only tolerated for the boy's sake. And especially not when the slacker had made a fool of him into the bargain. And when all was said and done, Shore was paying his salary—quite a generous one, apparently.
Rafferty didn't attempt to make any promises. He got the impression Henry hadn't really expected him to. There were just one or two things he wanted to get clear. 'When you came back from the studio the day your wife went missing, you said you went straight to bed?'
'That's right.'
'What time would that have been?'
'I don't know. I suppose it was about a quarter to three.'
'Did you see your wife?'
'No. I didn't see anyone.'
'Your wife would have had to come up to get changed for her rehearsal. Surely you saw her then?'
'No. We have separate bedrooms,' Henry explained. 'She'd have had no reason to come into my room.'
Rafferty wondered who had decided on the separate bedrooms, and got the impression it hadn't been Henry. It made his unlikely theory that the sainted Barbara had had a lover a bit more plausible.
'You didn't call out to her? Ask her to make you a hot drink, perhaps?'
'No. I—I didn't want to bother her. Besides, I knew she was going out to the rehearsal of the play and wouldn't have time.'
'Very considerate of you.' Rafferty was sure he was concealing something. Henry, more than most men, looked as if he would be a demanding patient, expecting his wife to trot up and down stairs like a ministering angel whenever he got a sniffle. Rafferty decided not to pursue it for the moment. Perhaps he'd had a row with the sainted Barbara before he left the house that morning, and didn't want her knowing that he'd come home with his sickly tail between his legs?
'Mr Shore said that your wife wasn't the sort of person to just vanish without a word to anyone,' Llewellyn commented softly. 'In view of that, I'm surprised you weren't sufficiently concerned to contact us yourself when she failed to return home, rather than wait for Mr Shore to do it. Perhaps you can explain why you waited?'
Henry's eyes had the hurt expression of a wrongly-chastised spaniel. 'I thought she might have—met someone, as Hilary suggested, and gone for a drink.' Twin spots of colour appeared in his cheeks as he suggested the possibility, causing Rafferty to consider his lover theory even more closely. Had Henry suspected such a thing and, out of injured pique, refused to become concerned about the fact she was missing?
Henry continued to defend himself. 'I suppose, as well, I just hoped for the best, as one does, and kept thinking she'd turn up. Anyway, I still wasn't feeling well.' He sniffed and his eyes filled with tears. He pulled out a paint-splattered handkerchief and blew his nose noisily. 'Anyway, what does it matter what I thought, or didn't think, did or didn't do? She's dead. Whatever happens, nothing can bring her back to me, now.' Henry's face screwed up and he broke down and wept.
Awkwardly, Rafferty tried to comfort him. 'Your wife was almost certainly dead by three-thirty that afternoon,' he told Henry, in between the sobs. She must have been, Rafferty reasoned. Even though Dally hadn't been able to place the time of death quite so accurately, it seemed probable – unless she had been meeting a lover, and they had had a later falling out – that she'd died soon after reaching the meadow; she'd certainly never left it.
'So even if you had been up to going to look for her...' Rafferty continued, stopping as he realised, just in time, that – if Henry was innocent – telling him that all he would have found would have been his wife's dead body, was hardly calculated to console him. Always supposing he hadn't killed her himself, of course, which was still a possibility.
His attempt at consoling Henry was no more successful than his attempt at consoling the boy had been, and he could only look on helplessly while Henry wept gut wrenching sobs that seemed torn from his very soul. All that Rafferty could think of doing was to pat him ineffectually on the shoulder. Surprisingly, it was Llewellyn who had the presence of mind to pour the distraught Henry a stiff drink. Luckily, it seemed to calm him.
Rafferty had hoped to have a word with Hilary Shore. He wanted to get further details of her statement, as well as advise her that encouraging Henry to tell lies to the police wasn't a good idea, but, she was a difficult woman to catch and, on asking Henry where she was, they learned she was still in London. Rafferty wondered why she felt it necessary to keep out of their way.
'He's hiding something,' Rafferty commented, as they headed for the car.
Llewellyn nodded. 'But, what he told us is believable enough—as far as it goes. Except for the saintly consideration for his wife. That doesn't ring true.'
Rafferty started the car engine and, glancing across at the passenger seat, asked dead-pan, 'Did your friend, Mrs Watson, have anything more interesting to say, by the way? Any juicy gossip, for instance?'
Llewellyn nodded. 'But few facts. She had already told us all she knew. The rest was character assassination on the grand scale.'
'On the lines that Charles's wife was an empty-headed, spiteful, social butterfly, I suppose, and that Charles liked to console himself elsewhere.' Llewellyn nodded. 'Nothing about friend Henry?'
'Plenty. Most of it actionable.' Llewellyn's thin lips curled faintly upwards, as if, now that Mrs Watson's testimony was over and done with, he could manage a wry humour. 'I don't know why, but I got the impression she doesn't like him. She implied Barbara could have done a lot better for herself. Whether that's true or not, is anyone's guess, as Mrs Watson's something of a romantic – you should see her bookshelves – full of kings and peasant girls and tycoons and typists. I think she had hoped to enjoy some vicarious grand romance, and Henry rather ruined the picture. She admitted she was disappointed when Barbara laughed and insisted, that whatever anyone else thought, she was a woman of simple tastes and was more than happy with Henry.'
'He's certainly simple enough. I know they say that virtue is its own reward, but there are limits.'
'A virtuous woman,' Llewellyn quoted softly. 'Her price is far above rubies.'
'If you say so. Anyway, if she was as virtuous as Mrs Watson claims, that would seem to let Henry out. Shame really, as I was quite warming to the idea of the saintly Barbara being a bit of a floozy on the quiet. If she wasn't carrying on a love affair, I can't imagine what other motive Henry could have for killing her. She didn't have any money for him to inherit. If anything, her death leaves him worse off, as she brought a small income from that part-time job at the Conservation Society.'
'It also increases his ex-wife's chances of getting custody of the boy if she reapplies to the courts,' Llewellyn observed. 'From what Anne Longman said, the fact that the court was aware that Henry intended to re-marry almost immediately after the divorce and to such an upright character as Barbara, swayed them strongly in his favour. Without her—'
'I wouldn't imagine that the custody of his son would count for much with Henry,' said Rafferty, as he recalled his earlier conversation with him. 'From what Anne Longman said, it was Shore's spite that pushed him. It's obvious that Henry's at a loss what to do with the boy, though I suppose he's happy enough to take the money he must get as the boy's legal guardian.'
'There's another aspect to his wife's death that lets him out, you know,' Llewellyn remarked.
'Oh?'
'If Henry lost custody of the boy, who, after all, is Charles Shore's nephew, would Shore continue to provide a c
omfortable home and job for him?'
Slowly, Rafferty shook his head. 'I don't think he would. Don't you remember? He said he had to provide a home for Henry, but he added under his breath, "for now, anyway", which indicates that he was planning on his removal. So, it looks like her death has made him a loser all round. Her price really has been far above rubies for Henry.'
'And the children. Did you know that Henry's son fell out of a tree earlier this year and fractured his skull?' Rafferty nodded. 'According to Mrs Griffiths, the hospital only let him out early because his stepmother was an ex-nurse. He knocked himself senseless, apparently.'
Rafferty grunted. 'Didn't do much for his brainpower, either. Not, from what we've learned so far, that he exactly had a towering intellect before the accident.' He allowed himself a sour grin as another theory bit the dust. 'Must take after his father.’
Chapter Eleven
WHILE LLEWELLYN PAID the delayed visited to Charles Shore's offices, Rafferty remained at the station and concentrated his mind on the other suspects, and what they claimed they had been doing on the afternoon of Barbara Longman's murder.
Hilary Shore had said she had been in London, spending her husband's money. According to the staff of Harvey Nichols, Hilary had certainly been there and at the aromatherapist's, though as the fashion show had ended at 1.30 p.m. and she'd been half an hour late for her 5.30 appointment with Mrs Armadi, there was an unexplained discrepancy. Rafferty was curious to know what she had been doing during the rest of the afternoon. Damn the woman, he thought. Why can't she return home, or at least telephone to let someone know where, exactly, in London, she might be found?
The housekeeper, with or without the help of the Italian au pair, claimed to have been stirring her raspberry jam and the gardener had been in the nearest pub, it being his half day. His alibi, at least, had checked out.
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