A New Lease of Death

by Ruth Rendell

  ‘I don’t think it was like that,’ Archery said stubbornly. ‘Tess says her mother is a very unemotional woman. She never talks about Painter, never discusses him at all. She just says quite calmly, “Your father never killed anybody” and beyond that she won’t say any more.’

  ‘Because she can’t say any more. Look, sir, I think you’re taking a rather romantic view of this. You’re visualizing the Painters as a devoted couple, kind of merry peasants, love in a cottage and all that. It wasn’t like that. Believe me, Painter was no loss to her. I’m certain in my own mind he was in the habit of striking her just when the fancy took him. As far as he was concerned, she was just his woman, someone to cook his meals, wash his clothes and – well,’ he added brutally, ‘someone to go to bed with.’

  Archery said stiffly, ‘I don’t see that any of that’s material.’

  ‘Don’t you? You’re picturing some sort of declaration of innocence plus incontrovertible proof made to the one person he loved and whom he knew would believe in him. Forgive me, but that’s a load of rubbish. Apart from the few minutes when he came back to the coach house to wash his hands – and incidentally hide the money – he was never alone with her. And he couldn’t have told her then. He wasn’t supposed to know about it. D’you understand me? He could have told her he had done it, he couldn’t have told her he had not.

  ‘Then we came. We found blood flecks in the sink and faint blood marks on the kitchen wall where he’d stripped off that pullover. As soon as he came back he took the bandage off his hand to show us the cut and he handed the bandage to his wife. But he didn’t speak to her, didn’t even appeal to her for support. He made just one reference to her …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We found the handbag with the money in it under the mattress in their double bed. Why hadn’t Painter told his wife if he’d been given that money in the morning? Here it is, find it in your transcript. “I knew the wife would want to get her hooks on it. She was always nagging me to buy things for the flat.” That’s all he said and he didn’t even look at her. We charged him and he said, “O.K., but you’re making a big mistake. It was a tramp done it.” He came straight down the stairs with us. He didn’t kiss his wife and he didn’t ask to go in and see his child.’

  ‘She must have seen him in prison?’

  ‘With a prison officer present. Look, sir, you appear to be satisfied and so do all the parties concerned. Surely that’s the main thing? You must forgive me if I can’t agree with you.’

  Silently Archery took a snapshot from his wallet and laid it on the desk. Wexford picked it up. Presumably it had been taken in the vicarage garden. There was a great magnolia tree in the background, a tree as tall as the house it partly concealed. It was covered with waxen cup flowers. Under its branches stood a boy and a girl, their arms round each other. The boy was tall and fair. He was smiling and he was plainly Archery’s son. Wexford wasn’t particularly interested in him.

  The girl’s face was in sad repose. She was looking into the camera with large steady eyes. Light-coloured hair fell over her forehead in a fringe and down to the shoulders of a typical undergraduate’s shirtwaister, faded, tightly belted and with a crumpled skirt. Her waist was tiny, her bust full. Wexford saw the mother again, only this girl was holding a boy’s hand instead of a bloody rag.

  ‘Very charming,’ he said dryly. ‘I hope she’ll make your son happy.’ He handed the photograph back. ‘No reason why she shouldn’t.’

  A mixture of emotions, anger, pain, resentment, flared in the clergyman’s eyes. Interestedly, Wexford watched him.

  ‘I do not know what or whom to believe,’ Archery said unhappily, ‘and while I’m in this state of uncertainty, Chief Inspector, I’m not in favour of the marriage. No, that’s putting it too cooly.’ He shook his head vehemently. ‘I’m bitterly, bitterly against it,’ he said.

  ‘And the girl, Painter’s daughter?’

  ‘She believed – perhaps accepts is the better word – in her father’s innocence, but she realizes others may not. When it comes to it, I don’t think she would marry my son while his mother and I feel as we do.’

  ‘What are you afraid of, Mr Archery?’

  ‘Heredity.’

  ‘A very chancy thing, heredity.’

  ‘Have you children, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘I’ve got two girls.’

  ‘Are they married?’

  ‘One is.’

  ‘And who is her father-in-law?’

  For the first time Wexford felt superior to this clergyman. A kind of schadenfreude possessed him. ‘He’s an architect, as a matter of fact, Tory councillor for the North Ward here.’

  ‘I see.’ Archery bowed his head. ‘And do your grandchildren already build palaces with wooden bricks, Mr Wexford?’ Wexford said nothing. The only sign of his first grandchild’s existence was so far evinced in its mother’s morning sickness. ‘I shall watch mine from their cradle, waiting to see them drawn towards objects with sharp edges.’

  ‘You said if you objected she wouldn’t marry him.’

  ‘They’re in love with each other. I can’t …’

  ‘Who’s going to know? Palm Kershaw off as her father.’

  ‘I shall know,’ said Archery. ‘Already I can see Painter when I look at her. Instead of her mouth and her eyes I can see his thick lips and his bloodlust. It’s the same blood, Chief Inspector, the blood that mingled with Mrs Primero’s, on the floor, on the clothes, down the water pipes. That blood will be in my grandchild.’ He seemed to realize that he had allowed himself to be carried away, for he stopped suddenly, blushed, and shut his eyes briefly as if wincing at the sight he had described.

  Wexford said gently, ‘I wish I could help you, Mr Archery, but the case is closed, over, finished. There is nothing more I can do.’

  Archery shrugged and quoted softly, almost as if he could not stop himself, ‘“He took water and washed his hands before the multitude, saying, I am innocent of the blood of this just person …”’ Then he jumped up, his expression suddenly contrite. ‘Forgive me, Chief Inspector. That was an appalling thing to say. May I tell you what I intend to do?’

  ‘Pontius Pilate, that’s me,’ said Wexford. ‘So see you show more respect in future.’

  Burden grinned. ‘What exactly did he want, sir?’

  ‘Firstly to tell him Painter may have been unjustly executed, which I can’t. Damn it all, it would be tantamount to saying I didn’t know my job. It was my first murder case, Mike, and it was fortunate for me it was so straightforward. Archery’s going to do a spot of enquiry on his own. Hopeless after sixteen years but it’s useless telling him. Secondly, he wanted my permission to go around hunting up all the witnesses Wanted my support if they come round here, complaining and foaming at the mouth.’

  ‘And all he’s got to go on,’ said Burden thoughtfully, ‘is Mrs Painter’s sentimental belief in her husband’s innocence?’

  ‘Aah, that’s nothing! That’s a load of hooey. If you got the chop, wouldn’t Jean tell John and Pat you were innocent? Wouldn’t my wife tell the girls? It’s natural. Painter didn’t make any last-minute confessions – you know what the prison authorities are like for watching out for things like that. No, she dreamed it up and convinced herself.’

  ‘Has Archery ever met her?’

  ‘Not yet, but he’s making a day of it. She and her second husband live in Purley and he’s got himself an invite for tea.’

  ‘You say the girl told him at Whitsun. Why has he waited so long? It must be a couple of months.’

  ‘I asked him that. He said that for the first couple of weeks he and his wife just let it ride. They thought the son might see reason. But he wouldn’t. He got his father to get hold of a transcript of the trial, nagged him into working on Griswold. Of course he’s an only child and as spoilt as they come. The upshot was that Archery promised to start poking his nose into it as soon as he got his fortnight’s holiday.’

  ‘So he’ll be back?’<
br />
  ‘That will depend on Mrs Painter,’ said Wexford.

  5

  … That they may see their children Christianly and virtuously brought up.

  The Solemnization of Matrimony

  THE KERSHAWS’ HOUSE was about a mile from the town centre, separated from shops, station, cinema and churches by thousands of other large suburban villas. For number 20 Craig Hill was large, halfheartedly Georgian and built of raspberry red brick. The garden was planted with annuals, the lawn was clover-free and the dead heads had been nipped off the standard rose bushes. On the concrete drive a boy of about twelve was washing down a large white Ford.

  Archery parked his car at the kerb. Unlike Wexford he had not yet seen the coach house at Victor’s Piece, but he had read about it and it seemed to him that Mrs Kershaw had climbed high. Sweat started on his forehead and his upper lip as he got out of the car. He told himself that it was unusually hot and that he had always been prone to feel the heat.

  ‘This is Mr Kershaw’s house, isn’t it?’ he asked the boy.

  ‘That’s right.’ He was very like Tess, but his hair was fairer and his nose was freckled. ‘The front door’s open. Shall I give him a shout?’

  ‘My name is Archery,’ said the clergyman and he held out his hand.

  The boy wiped his hands on his jeans. ‘Hallo,’ he said.

  By now a little wrinkled man had come down the porch steps. The bright hot air seemed to hang between them. Archery tried not to feel disappointment. What had he expected? Certainly not someone so small, so unfinished looking and so wizened as this scrawny creature in old flannels and tieless knitted shirt. Then Kershaw smiled and the years fell from him. His eyes were a bright sparkling blue and his uneven teeth white and clean.

  ‘How do you do?’

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Archery. I’m very happy to meet you. As a matter of fact I’ve been sitting in the window, looking out for you.’

  In this man’s presence it was impossible not to feel hope, cheerfulness almost. Archery detected at once a rare quality in him, a quality he had come upon perhaps only half a dozen times in his life. This was a man who was interested in all things. Energy and enthusiasm radiated from him. On a winter’s day he would warm the air. Today, in this heat, his vitality was overwhelming.

  ‘Come inside and meet my wife.’ His voice was a hot breeze, a cockney voice that suggested fish and chips, eels and mash, and East end pubs. Following him into the square panelled hall, Archery wondered how old he was. Perhaps no more than forty-five. Drive, the fire of life, lack of sleep, because sleep wasted time, could prematurely have burnt away his youth. ‘We’re in the lounge,’ he said, pushing open a reeded glass door. ‘That’s what I like about a day like this. When I get home from work I like to sit by the french windows for ten minutes and look at the garden. Makes you feel all that slogging in the winter was worthwhile.’

  ‘To sit in the shade and look upon verdure?’ After the words were out Archery was sorry he had spoken. He didn’t want to put this suburban engineer in a false position.

  Kershaw gave him a quick glance. Then he smiled and said easily, ‘Miss Austen knew what she was talking about, didn’t she?’ Archery was overcome. He went into the room and held out his hand to the woman who had got up from an armchair.

  ‘My wife. This is Mr Archery, Renee.’

  ‘How do you do?’

  Irene Kershaw said nothing, but holding out her hand, smiled a tight bright smile. Her face was Tess’s face as it would be when time had hardened it and finished it. In her youth she had been blonde. Now her hair, evidently set that day and perhaps in his honour, was dyed a dull leaf-brown and arranged in unreal feathery wisps about her forehead and ears.

  ‘Sit down, Mr Archery,’ said Kershaw. ‘We won’t keep you a minute for your tea. Kettle’s on, isn’t it, Renee?’

  Archery sat in an armchair by the window. Kershaw’s garden was full of experimental rose pergolas, eruptions of rockery and stone sporting geraniums. He gave the room a quick glance, noting at once its cleanliness and the enormous mass of things which had to be kept clean. Books abounded, Readers’ Digests, encyclopaedias, dictionaries, works on astronomy, deep sea fishing, European history. There was a tank of tropical fish on a corner table, several model aircraft on the mantelpiece; stacks of sheet music covered the grand piano, and on an easel was a half-finished, rather charming, portrait in oils of a young girl. It was a large room, conventionally furnished with Wilton carpet and chintz covers, but it expressed the personality of the master of the house.

  ‘We’ve had the pleasure of meeting your Charlie,’ said Kershaw. ‘A nice unassuming boy. I liked him.’ Charlie! Archery sat very still, trying not to feel affronted. Charles’s eligibility, after all, was not in question.

  Quite suddenly Renee Kershaw spoke. ‘We all like him,’ she said. Her accent was just the same as Wexford’s. ‘But I’m sure I don’t know how they plan to manage, what with everything being such an awful price – the cost of living, you know – and Charles not having a job in line …’ Archery felt amazement. Was she really concerned with this trivia? He began to wonder how he would broach the subject that had brought him to Purley. ‘I mean where will they live?’ Mrs Kershaw asked primly. ‘They’re just babies really. I mean, you’ve got to have a home of your own, haven’t you? You’ve got to get a mortgage and …’

  ‘I think I can hear the kettle, Renee,’ said her husband.

  She got up, holding her skirt modestly down to cover her knees. It was a very suburban skirt of some permanently pleated material banded in muted blue and heather pink and of dead sexless respectability. With it she wore a short-sleeved pink jumper and around her neck a single string of cultured pearls. If cultured meant tended and nurtured, Archery thought he had never seen such obviously cultured pearls. Each night, he was sure, they were wrapped in tissue and put away in the dark. Mrs Kershaw smelt of talcum powder, some of which lingered in the lines of her neck.

  ‘I don’t think we’ve got to the mortgage stage yet,’ said Kershaw when she had gone. Archery gave a wry smile. ‘Believe me, Mr Archery, I know you haven’t come here just for an in-laws’ get-together over the tea cups.’

  ‘I’m finding it more awkward than I thought possible.’

  Kershaw chuckled. ‘I daresay. I can’t tell you anything about Tess’s father that isn’t common knowledge, that wasn’t in the papers at the time. You know that?’

  ‘But her mother?’

  ‘You can try. At times like this women see things through a cloud of orange blossom. She’s never been very keen on Tess being an educated woman. She wants to see her married and she’ll do her best to see nothing stands in her way.’

  ‘And you, what do you want?’

  ‘Me? Oh, I want to see her happy. Happiness doesn’t necessarily begin at the altar.’ Suddenly he was brisk and forthright. ‘Frankly, Mr Archery, I’m not sure if she can be happy with a man who suspects her of homicidal tendencies before she’s even engaged to him.’

  ‘It isn’t like that!’ Archery hadn’t expected the other man to put him on the defensive. ‘Your stepdaughter is perfect in my son’s eyes. I’m making the inquiries, Mr Kershaw. My son knows that, he wants it for Tess’s sake, but he doesn’t even know I’m here. Put yourself in my position …’

  ‘But I was in your position. Tess was only six when I married her mother.’ He looked quickly at the door, then leaned closer to Archery. ‘D’you think I didn’t watch her, look out for the disturbance to show itself? When my own daughter was born Tess was very jealous. She resented the baby and one day I found her leaning over Jill’s pram striking her on the head with a celluloid toy. Luckily, it was a celluloid toy.’

  ‘But, good heavens …!’ Archery felt the pallor drawing at his face muscles.

  ‘What could I do? I had to go to work and leave the children. I had to trust my wife. Then we had a son – I think you bumped into him outside cleaning the car – and Jill resented him in just the same
way and with just the same violence. All children behave like this, that’s the point.’

  ‘You never saw any more – any more of these tendencies?’

  ‘Tendencies? A personality isn’t made by heredity, Mr Archery, but by environment. I wanted Tess to have the best sort of environment and I think I can say, with all due modesty, that she has.’

  The garden shimmered in the heat haze. Archery saw things he hadn’t noticed at first, chalk lines on the lawn, where, regardless of herbaceous borders, the grass had been marked out for a tennis court; a shambles of rabbit hutches attached to the garage wall; an ancient swing. Behind him on the mantelpiece he saw propped against ornaments two party invitations. A framed photograph above it showed three children in shirts and jeans sprawled on a haystack. Yes, this had been the best of all possible environments for the murderer’s orphan.

  The door was pushed open and the girl in the portrait came in pushing a tea trolley. Archery who was too hot and troubled to feel hungry, saw with dismay that it was laden with home-baked pastries, strawberries in glass dishes, fairy cakes in paper cases. The girl looked about fourteen. She was not so beautiful as Tess and she wore a bunchy school tunic, but her father’s vitality illuminated her face.

  ‘This is my daughter Jill.’

  Jill sprawled in a chair, showing a lot of long leg.

  ‘Now, sit nicely, dear,’ said Mrs Kershaw sharply. She gave the girl a repressive look and began to pour tea, holding the pot with curled fingers. ‘They don’t realize they’re young women at thirteen these days, Mr Archery.’ Archery was embarrassed but the girl didn’t seem to care. ‘You must have one of these cakes. Jill made them.’ Unwillingly he took a pastry. ‘That’s right. I’ve always said to both my girls, schooling is all very well in its way, but algebra won’t cook the Sunday dinner. Tess and Jill are both good plain cooks …’

  ‘Mummy! I’m not plain and Tess certainly isn’t.’