The Affacombe Affair

by Elizabeth Lemarchand

  ‘There’s no point in my trying to conceal the fact that I know all about it,’ she said. ‘You see, I was at Crossways on Sunday evening when Mrs Winship told her husband and Julian Wrey and myself the whole story.’

  Pollard decided that he could not properly assume that she knew Julian Wrey’s history, and turned to another topic.

  ‘May we go back now to your visit to the Priory last Saturday night?’ he asked. ‘I understand that Mrs Ainsworth rang you about eight o’clock, and asked if you could go up as a crisis had developed?’

  ‘Yes. When she was short-staffed as a result of the German girl going off and the Earwaker upset, I told her I would gladly help out in any difficult situation. I imagined that there had been some major domestic upheaval, like all the foreign girls walking out.’

  ‘You drove yourself up, I imagine?’

  ‘Yes. By that time it was pouring with rain.’

  ‘Just go ahead, Mrs Strode, and describe your arrival and what happened afterwards. The more detail the better: one doesn’t always realize the significance of things at the time.’ Olivia Strode shut her eyes, frowning in the effort of recollection.

  ‘I ran up the steps and opened the hall door. The light dazzled me for a moment after the awful night outside. Then I was astonished to see John Ainsworth and Mr Garnish sitting on the big settle that’s just inside, struggling out of wet muddy Wellington boots. Particularly Mr Garnish, of course.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Pollard.

  ‘Because the Garnishes keep very much to themselves, and seldom contact even the Ainsworths when they come down. They let it be known that they came to Affacombe to get a complete break from the rat race, and didn’t want to get involved in social contacts. I remember now that the sight of Mr Garnish gave me a shock: I realized that something serious must have happened. Mrs Ainsworth was carrying wet Macintoshes towards the downstairs cloakroom at the back of the hall. Both the men looked rather exhausted and worried. John thanked me for coming, in an automatic sort of way. Then we all started making for the drawing-room, on the tacit assumption that we couldn’t discuss things in the hall.’

  ‘Was anyone else about who might have heard?’

  ‘Not actually in the hall — at least I didn’t see anyone — but the boys were going to bed upstairs, and some of them sleep on the first floor. There was a good deal of running about on the landing, and doors slamming and so on. Supper would have been over and cleared away by then. I remember noticing a strong smell of baked beans on toast, mixed with damp clothes and Dettol.’

  Pollard was silent for so long that she opened her eyes and looked at him.

  ‘Dettol?’ he repeated, as casually as he could.

  ‘Yes. Potent, isn’t it? A nice clean smell, though.’

  ‘And then you all went into the drawing-room, I think you said?’

  ‘Yes. John Ainsworth produced drinks and cigarettes, and told me that Sister Roach seemed to have disappeared, and that he and Mr Garnish had been searching the grounds. After we’d discussed the pros and cons he finally decided to ring the police at Leeford.’

  ‘Did they seem worried about Sister Roach?’

  ‘Mrs Ainsworth certainly did. She’s a sensitive, rather highly-strung person. John Ainsworth was worried too, but thinking about the adverse effect publicity might have on the school as well. Mr Garnish agreed that it was sensible to contact the police, but seemed sure that Sister Roach would turn up with some perfectly good explanation. He was obviously a bit exasperated at having got involved.’

  ‘One can hardly blame him,’ said Pollard. ‘Searching the grounds on a night like that can’t have been exactly a picnic. Hence the Dettol, I expect. Did you notice it in the drawing-room?’

  Olivia gave him a sharp puzzled look.

  ‘Now you come to mention it, I did.’

  ‘I’d like to talk to you now about that conversation between the two boys which you overheard, Mrs Strode,’ Pollard resumed. ‘I gather that you thought it had an authentic ring.’

  ‘I’m quite sure that it was authentic as far as Richard Miles was concerned. I’m sure he was passing on a story which he’d had from Timothy Ferrars. I don’t know Timothy, so I can’t say if it was a leg-pull on his part, but as I told Inspector Dart, Richard isn’t the sort of boy who’s led up the garden path very easily.’

  ‘Yes, I see,’ said Pollard, turning the pages of his notebook. ‘I want to be quite sure about these dates. Ferrars was admitted to the sick bay on Monday, October 27th, wasn’t he? And discharged on Saturday, November 1st? The Garnishes’ car was seen by you arriving in the village on the 28th, and Mrs Garnish left by car accompanied by a male passenger on the morning after Ferrars’ alleged nocturnal outing?’

  ‘That’s quite correct. But I can’t tell you which morning that was, except that it couldn’t have been later than November 1st, when Ferrars was discharged. He probably wasn’t feeling too good when he first came in, so his Round-the-World — assuming he really did one — was more likely to have been at the end of the week, I think.’

  ‘I agree, having had a go of pink-eye myself. And it was on the evening of Tuesday, October 28th, that you rang Mr Garnish about going up to see him and he spoke to you, but put you off because he had a bad cold?’

  ‘Yes.’ For the first time Olivia sounded hesitant.

  ‘What’s in your mind, Mrs Strode?’ Pollard asked.

  ‘This is where I was slapped down by Inspector Dart, you know,’ she told him with a smile. ‘All the same, the more I think about it, the more I feel there’s been something odd about my contacts with the Garnishes. You know all about October 28th. Then there was my first telephone call on September 20th, when Mrs Garnish said her husband was having a bath. It was about nine in the evening. When I suggested ringing again at a more convenient time she wouldn’t hear of it, and insisted on taking a message and bringing back an answer.’

  ‘Do you know if they had just arrived?’

  ‘No, they hadn’t. Their car went up the drive towards the West Wing about four that afternoon. I was at a garden party which the Ainsworths were giving, and saw it.’

  ‘Did you see who was in the car?’

  ‘No. It shot up at a terrific speed — John Ainsworth was standing near me and remarked on it — and we weren’t very near the drive in any case.’

  Pollard considered for a few moments.

  ‘You had another contact, didn’t you? When you visited them to discuss some papers about the Priory?’

  ‘Yes. To my surprise Mr Garnish rang me from London a week later, and invited me up to the West Wing for drinks on the following Saturday — the fourth of October — to see the papers which he had found.’

  ‘Did anything strike you as odd on this occasion?’

  ‘No, not really,’ Olivia said doubtfully, ‘but there was a moment when I saw that he could be rather formidable. Everything went quite normally and pleasantly at first, and he seemed really interested in the Parish History I’m writing, and naively pleased that the Priory was going to feature quite prominently in it. On the strength of all this I decided to broach the question of an archaeological excavation of the ruins behind the present house. Of course, I suppose I may have imagined it, but he suddenly stamped on the idea — and talked about strangers digging up the place. And Mrs Garnish teamed up with him in a flash, saying that they really had to consider their tenants. I backed down at once, taking the line that local historians were apt to get carried away, and that I quite appreciated his point of view. Then we suddenly seemed to be back in square one, and he was perfectly pleasant again and admitting his lack of education, and swinging right round to the idea on snob grounds. But he made it quite clear that any excavation would be organized by him — in a big way.’

  Pollard was aware that for some reason Olivia’s narrative had disquieted him, but before he could analyse his reaction there was the sound of a car drawing up outside the cottage, followed by a series of toots on its horn.

&nbs
p; ‘Why, that’s my son!’ she exclaimed, starting to her feet. ‘Will you excuse me a moment? I wasn’t expecting him until later.’

  The two detectives rose politely as she hurried from the room, and stood looking at each other.

  ‘When we’ve passed the time of day with young Strode,’ Pollard said, ‘I think we’ll make for Highcastle. I feel an urge to do a bit of tabulating.’

  Sergeant Toye’s serious face lighted up in a broad grin.

  Chapter Fifteen

  After escorting Pollard and Toye to the front door David Strode came back to the sitting-room. Olivia realized with a pang that he was looking older. Almost middle-aged, she thought.

  ‘I told Julian I shouldn’t be down till later because I simply had to see you first,’ he said, slumping down into a chair. ‘I can’t tell you what hell it’s been not knowing the facts properly, and not being able to discuss it over the phone. I take it that Barbara hasn’t been charged?’

  ‘No,’ replied Olivia, sitting down on the opposite side of the hearth, ‘and I personally don’t think she will be as things stand at present. The woman was blackmailing her, of course, so there’s an obvious motive, but apart from that there’s only inconclusive circumstantial evidence against her.’

  ‘An absolutely bloody situation,’ David commented gloomily. ‘Unless they can establish beyond doubt that somebody else did it, suspicion will hang around her for the rest of her natural life. So jolly pleasant for Julian. What exactly is this circumstantial evidence?’

  ‘Sister Roach’s last-known appearance was in the school kitchen at 3.46 p.m. on Saturday, when she collected her tea-tray. The church clock was just striking quarter past four as I turned into Church Lane on the way to the Vicarage, and saw Barbara coming away from the Monk’s Path. She freely admits that she had been taking the dogs for a run there. Sister had apparently made herself a cup of tea with a strainer, using the cup from the tray, if you follow me. Then she’d got to get up to the Leap from the East Wing.’

  ‘Barely possible for Barbara to have murdered her,’ David said thoughtfully. ‘Not demonstrably impossible, though. What’s your honest opinion?’

  ‘I think it’s a psychological possibility,’ Olivia replied after a pause, ‘knowing as we do the full story of the substitution of Julian for Barbara’s own baby. Julian will tell you the details. It was a split-second decision in an ambulance. So Barbara’s obviously capable of sudden drastic decision and action, although I certainly shouldn’t have thought so before all this came out. But I don’t believe it’s a physical possibility for her to have committed the murder in the time.’

  ‘Rotten for you to have got involved, especially at a key moment like that. I’m frightfully sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me, my dear boy, or Julian either, for that matter. Something’s happened to her, you know. She’s riding the storm almost triumphantly. I think it’s a combination of her subconscious doubts about her parentage being resolved, and being head over heels in love.’

  A cloud lifted suddenly from David’s face.

  ‘Damn it, I can’t wait to see her! What the hell does it matter what Barbara’s done? It’s our lives.’

  He began to get up from his chair.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Olivia interposed hastily. ‘There’s something else I want to talk about. The Highcastle Inspector said I wasn’t to mention it to anybody, but after all you’re a lawyer, and I can talk to you in professional confidence, can’t I? You may be able to make sense of it. I got involved this time through overhearing a conversation between two of the Priory boys...’

  David subsided reluctantly, but was soon listening with the keenest interest to the complicated story of Tim Ferrars’ alleged Round-the-World, and Olivia’s various contacts with the west wing.

  ‘Something’s been going on below the surface, without any doubt,’ he said when she had finished, ‘though whether it’s got any connection with the murder’s another matter. There’s no proof that Roach extended her spying to the Garnishes, although I agree it’s highly probable.’

  He sat thinking for some moments.

  ‘Let’s assume for purposes of argument,’ he went on, ‘that Pamela Garnish had started bringing a boyfriend down and passing him off as her husband. Not difficult at this end: the whole set-up at the West Wing might have been designed for it. All the guff about not wanting to get socially involved with the village, for instance. If she had him there on September 20th, she obviously couldn’t let you speak to him when you rang up. That phone call of yours must have given them a nasty jolt. Hence the bath explanation, and the delaying tactics. I wonder now —’ He broke off.

  ‘Wonder what?’ asked Olivia.

  ‘Whether that car which wouldn’t pass me on the way down the night before could possibly have had anything to do with it? The boyfriend could have been dropped off by a pal where the village road comes out on the main road again. Suppose he’d come on ahead for some reason? She could have given him a key to the North Gate and the West Wing, where he could have gone to ground till she turned up the next day. A bit far-fetched, perhaps. Anyway, to keep to the point, you rang up on October 28th entirely off your own bat, didn’t you say?’

  ‘Entirely. Until I saw the car go past here I’d no idea they were coming down.’

  ‘Then it looks as though the cold and the hoarseness could have been thought out beforehand, in case you butted in on a boyfriend visit again, doesn’t it? And if young Ferrars really put out that yarn to his cousin and was speaking the truth, he actually saw and heard the B.F. in the West Wing kitchen, and saw a muffled chap drive off with Pamela the next morning. I suppose the man you met at the Priory on the night of the murder really was the genuine Roy Garnish?’

  Olivia hesitated.

  ‘Yes,’ she said at last, ‘I’m quite certain it was. A question like that is a bit unnerving. It makes you feel you can’t be sure who anyone is because of preconceived ideas and so on. But it’s no good being too theoretical about things. In the context of ordinary life I’m positive it was the same man I’d had drinks with in the West Wing.’

  ‘Right. Well, then, if Roy Garnish was in residence during the weekend of the murder, presumably the B.F. wasn’t. Pamela could have had a blackmailing letter from Roach arising out of the visit of the week before. It could have told her to turn up at the Leap at a specified time on the following Saturday afternoon with the lolly — or else. Suppose she handed it over to the B.F. who undertook to keep the appointment. He’d have to get there and get away again. I imagine the police have done the obvious thing and combed the neighbourhood for reports of strangers? You know what this place is like. You’ve hardly set foot in it before everybody knows you’re here.’

  ‘True enough,’ agreed Olivia, ‘but it was Saturday afternoon, of course, and there’d been the usual exodus. You don’t think,’ she continued doubtfully, ‘that the Garnishes could possibly have doubled back somehow, and done the murder and then gone off again?’

  ‘Because of the Polharbour alibi? The most convincing alibis sometimes turn out to be bustable, and I bet Pollard’ll have a good go at this one. But I don’t think the idea will wash on other grounds. You see, either Roy Garnish doesn’t mind his wife living with another man, and she can afford simply to snap her fingers at Roach, or he’s an old-fashioned type, and she daren’t let on. I can’t see them teaming up to murder Roach just to maintain the fiction that their marriage is a howling success. Blast the whole business, anyway,’ he concluded, suddenly leaping to his feet. ‘I’m off to Julian.’

  ‘You’ll be bound to see Barbara sooner or later,’ said Olivia anxiously. ‘It really is an appalling situation. What can you say to her?’

  ‘God knows, darling,’ David replied, apparently little concerned. ‘None of the etiquette manuals I’ve read seem to deal with this particular problem.’

  He waved to her from the door and vanished.

  Two minutes later he was roaring up the village street in his
mini. If he honked loudly enough as he turned into the drive perhaps Julian would hear and come out to meet him. He honked again with exaggerated caution as he rounded the curve and Crossways came in sight. Jamming on the brake he almost fell out of the car as Julian came running down a shaft of light from the open door of the house.

  ‘Nothing of all this mess-up matters to you and me in the slightest,’ he said a few minutes later, his voice muffled in her hair.

  ‘It’s funny,’ she told him. ‘In spite of everything I feel so safe — so absolutely secure. For the first time in my life.’

  ‘Not a bit funny.’

  It was cold in the drive, and presently he propelled her gently into the house. Hugh Winship emerged from his study.

  ‘Thought I heard your car, m’boy. Glad to see you.’

  ‘Glad I could get down, sir.’

  They shook hands self-consciously, aware of volumes unspoken.

  ‘M’wife’s in the drawing-room.’

  David was astonished to hear himself asking if he might go along. Without waiting for an answer he walked across the hall and went in, his mind still a complete blank.

  Barbara Winship was in her usual chair by the fire. As he came towards her she raised her head and met his eyes without speaking. He stood looking down at her, slowly becoming aware of a kind of detached understanding and compassion.

  ‘If it hadn’t happened all that time ago,’ he said, ‘Julian and I would never have met... Anyway, it’s old hat now. And not to worry about this case, either.’

  He held out a hand to her.

  In the small inner office at Leeford police station, distance telescoped as Pollard dialled his London flat and talked briefly with Jane.

  ‘Fairly heavy traffic on the roads down here,’ he told her, using their code for developments in a case he was working on. ‘Makes it a bit difficult to hit on the right turning when you aren’t sure of the way. I might be back tomorrow — too soon to say.’

  Cheered by the sound of her voice he put down the receiver, debated for a moment and looked up the Poldens number.