A New Lease of Death

by Ruth Rendell

  ‘Thank you for your enthusiastic reception,’ Charles said sarcastically. ‘What is there to look so miserable about?’

  Archery could not tell him. A load of sorrow seemed to have descended on him and in order to answer his son, he sorted out from conflicting pain something he could express to them all.

  ‘I was thinking of the children,’ he said, ‘the four little girls who have all suffered from this crime.’ He smiled at Tess. ‘Tess, of course,’ he went on, ‘those two sisters you saw – and Elizabeth Crilling.’

  He did not add the name of the grown woman who would suffer more than any of them if Charles was right.

  12

  Is it not lawful for me to do what I will with mine own?

  The Gospel for Septuagesima Sunday

  THE MAN WHO was shown into Wexford’s office at nine on Monday morning was small and slender. The bones of his hands were particularly fine and with narrow delicate joints like a woman’s. The dark grey suit the wore, very expensive looking and very sleek, made him look smaller than he actually was. He seemed to be surrounded, even so early in the morning and away from his own home, with a great many adjuncts of elegance. Wexford, who knew him well, was amused by the sapphire tie-pin, the two rings, the key chain with its heavy drop of chased-amber, was it? – the briefcase of some kind of reptile skin. How many years, he asked himself, was Roger Primero going to need to get used to wealth?

  ‘Lovely morning,’ said Wexford. ‘I’ve just had a couple of days at Worthing and the sea was like a millpond. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Catch a con man,’ said Primero, ‘a lousy little squirt posing as a journalist.’ He unclipped the briefcase and flicked a Sunday newspaper across Wexford’s desk. It slipped on the polished surface and fell to the floor. Raising his eyebrows, Wexford let it lie.

  ‘Hell,’ said Primero. ‘There’s nothing for you to see, anyway.’ His glazed eyes had a sore look in the handsome expressionless face. The man’s vanity had made him rebel against glasses at last, Wexford thought, blinking slightly behind his own heavy tortoiseshell frames. ‘Look here, Chief Inspector, I don’t mind telling you, I’m hopping mad. This is how it was. Mind if I smoke?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  A gold cigarette case spilled out from his pocket, followed by a holder and a lighter in peculiar black and gold mosaic. Wexford watched this production of props, wondering when it was going to end. The man is furnished like a room, he thought.

  ‘This is how it was,’ he said again. ‘Character rang me up on Thursday, said he was on the Planet and wanted to do an article about me. My early life. You get the picture? I said he could come along on Friday and he did. I gave him a hell of a long interview, all the dope and the upshot of it was my wife asked him to lunch.’ He screwed up his mouth and nose like a man smelling something offensive. ‘Hell,’ he said, ‘I don’t suppose he’s ever seen a lunch like that in all his life …’

  ‘But no article appeared and when you rang the Planet this morning they’d never heard of him.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘It happens,’ said Wexford dryly. ‘I’m surprised at you, sir, a man of your experience. The time to ring the Planet was Friday morning.’

  ‘It makes me feel such a frightful ass.’

  Wexford said airily, ‘No money passed, I daresay?’

  ‘Hell, no!’

  ‘Just the lunch, then, and you told him a lot of things you’d rather have left unsaid.’

  ‘That’s the thing.’ His expression had been sulky, but suddenly he smiled and it was a likeable smile. Wexford had always rather liked him. ‘Oh, hell’s bells, Chief Inspector …’

  ‘Hell’s bells, as you say. Still, you were wise to come to us, though I don’t know that we can do anything unless he makes a move …’

  ‘A move? What d’you mean, a move?’

  ‘Well, let me give you an example. Nothing personal, you understand. Just supposing a wealthy man, a man who is some-what in the public eye, says something a shade indiscreet to a reputable journalist. Ten to one he can’t use it because he’s laying his paper open to libel action.’ Wexford paused and gave the other man a penetrating look. ‘But if he says those same indiscreet things to an impostor, a confidence trickster …’ Primero had grown very pale. ‘What’s to stop the impostor following a few leads and ferreting out something really damaging. Most people, Mr Primero, even decent law-abiding people, have something in their pasts they’d rather not have known. You have to ask yourself, if he’s not on the level, what’s he up to? The answer is either he’s after your money or else he’s crazy.’ He added more kindly, ‘In my experience nine out of ten of them are just crazy. Still, if it’ll help to set your mind at rest perhaps you could give us a description. I suppose he gave you his name?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be his real name.’

  ‘Naturally not.’

  Primero leant confidingly towards him. During the course of his long career Wexford had found it valuable to make himself au fait with perfumes and he noticed that Primero smelt of Lentheric’s Onyx.

  ‘He seemed nice enough,’ Primero began. ‘My wife was quite taken with him.’ His eyes had begun to water and he put his fingers very cautiously up to them. Wexford was reminded of a weeping woman who dare not rub her eyes for fear of smudging mascara. ‘I haven’t told her about this, by the way. I passed it off. Wouldn’t want to upset her. He was well-spoken, Oxford accent and all that. A tall fair fellow, said his name was Bowman, Charles Bowman.’

  ‘A-ha!’ said Wexford but not aloud.

  ‘Chief Inspector?’

  ‘Mr Primero?’

  ‘I’ve just remembered something. He was – well, he was extraordinarily interested in my grandmother.’

  Wexford almost laughed.

  ‘From what you’ve told me I think I can assure you there won’t be any serious repercussions.’

  ‘You think he’s a nut?’

  ‘Harmless, anyway.’

  ‘You’ve taken a load off my mind.’ Primero got up, retrieved his briefcase and picked up the newspaper. He did it rather awkwardly as if he was unused to performing even so simple a service for himself. ‘I’ll be more careful in future.’

  ‘An ounce of prevention, you know.’

  ‘Well, I won’t take up any more of your time.’ He pulled a long, but possibly sincerely sad face. The watering eyes added to his look of melancholy. ‘Off to a funeral, as a matter of fact. Poor old Alice.’

  Wexford had noticed the black tie on which the sapphire glowed darkly. He showed Primero to the door. Throughout the interview he had kept a solemn face. Now he permitted himself the indulgence of gargantuan, though almost silent, laughter.

  There was nothing to do until two o’clock except sight-seeing. Charles had been out early and bought a guide book. They sat in the lounge studying it.

  ‘It says here,’ said Tess, ‘that Forby is the fifth prettiest village in England.’

  ‘Poor Forby,’ said Charles. ‘Damned with faint praise.’

  Kershaw began organizing them.

  ‘How about all piling into my car …’ He stuck his finger on the map ‘… and going down the Kingsbrook Road to Forby – keep clear of Forby Hall, eh, Charlie? – have a quick look at the church, and then on to Pomfret. Pomfret Grange is open every weekday in the summer – we might have a look over it – and back into Kingsmarkham along the main road.’

  ‘Lovely,’ said Tess.

  Kershaw drove and Archery sat beside him. They followed the same route he had taken with Imogen Ide when she had come to put flowers on old Mrs Primero’s grave. As they came within sight of the Kingsbrook he remembered what she had said about the implacability of water and how, notwithstanding the efforts of man, it continues to spring from the earth and seek the sea.

  Kershaw parked the car by the green with the duckpond. The village looked peaceful and serene. Summer was not as yet so far advanced as to dull the fresh green of the beech trees or hang the wil
d clematis with its frowsty greyish beard. Knots of cottages surrounded the green and on the church side was a row of Georgian houses with bow windows whose dark panes glistened, showing chintz and silver within. There were just three shops, a post office, a butcher’s with a canopy and white colonnade, and a place selling souvenirs for tourists. The cottagers’ Monday morning wash hung drying in the windless warm air.

  They sat on the seat on the green and Tess fed the ducks from a packet of biscuits she had found on the shelf under the dashboard. Kershaw produced a camera and began taking photographs. Suddenly Archery knew he did not want to go any further with them. He almost shivered with distaste at the thought of trailing round the galleries of Pomfret Grange gasping with false pleasure at the china and pretending to admire family portraits.

  ‘Would you mind if I stayed here? I’d like to have another look at the church.’

  Charles glared. ‘We’ll all go and look at the church.’

  ‘I can’t, darling,’ said Tess. ‘I can’t go into a church in jeans.’

  ‘Not in these trousers,’ Kershaw quipped. He put away his camera. ‘We’d better get moving if we’re going to see the stately home.’

  ‘I can easily go back on the bus,’ said Archery.

  ‘Well, for God’s sake, don’t be late, Father.’

  If it was going to be any more than a sentimental journey, he too would need a guide. When the car had gone he made his way into the souvenir shop. A bell rang sweetly as he opened the door and a woman came out from a room at the back.

  ‘We don’t keep a guide to St Mary’s, but you’ll find them on sale inside the church door.’

  Now he was here he ought to buy something. A postcard? A little brooch for Mary? That, he thought, would be the worst kind of infidelity, to commit adultery in your heart every time you saw your wife wearing a keepsake. He looked drearily at the horse brasses, the painted jugs, the trays of costume jewellery.

  A small counter was devoted entirely to calendars, wooden plaques with words on them in pokerwork, framed verses. One of these, a little picture on a card, showing a haloed shepherd with a lamb, caught his eye because the words beneath the drawing were familiar.

  ‘Go, Shepherd, to your rest …’

  The woman was standing behind him.

  ‘I see you’re admiring the efforts of our local bard,’ she said brightly. ‘He was just a boy when he died and he’s buried here.’

  ‘I’ve seen his grave,’ said Archery.

  ‘Of course a lot of people who come here are under the impression he was a shepherd, you know. I always have to explain that at one time shepherd and poet meant the same thing.’

  ‘Lycidas,’ said Archery.

  She ignored the interruption. ‘Actually he was very well-educated. He’d been to High School and everyone said he should have gone to college. He was killed in a road accident. Would you like to see his photograph?’

  She produced a stack of cheap framed photographs from a drawer beneath the counter. They were all identical and each bore the legend: John Grace, Bard of Forby. Those whom God loves, die young.

  It was a fine ascetic face, sharp-featured and ultra-sensitive. It also, Archery considered, gave the impression that its owner suffered from pernicious anaemia. He had a curious feeling that he had seen it somewhere before.

  ‘Was any of his work published?’

  ‘One or two bits in magazines, that’s all. I don’t know the ins and outs of it because I’ve only been here ten years, but there was a publisher who had a week-end cottage here and he was very keen on making his poetry into a book when the poor boy died. Mrs Grace – his mother, you know – was all for it, but the thing was most of the stuff he’d written had disappeared. There were just these bits you see here. His mother said he’d written whole plays – they didn’t rhyme, if you know what I mean, but they were kind of like Shakespeare. Anyway, they couldn’t be found. Maybe he’d burnt them or given them away. It does seem a shame, though, doesn’t it?’

  Archery glanced out of the window towards the little wooden church. ‘Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest …’ he murmured.

  ‘That’s right,’ said the woman. ‘You never know, they may turn up, like the Dead Sea Scrolls.’

  Archery paid five and sixpence for the picture of the shepherd and the lamb and strolled up towards the church. He opened the kissing gate and, walking in a clockwise direction, made for the door. What was it she had said? ‘You must never go widdershins around a church. It’s unlucky.’ He needed luck for Charles and for himself. The irony was that however things fell out, one of them would lose.

  There was no music coming from the church, but as the door opened he saw that some sort of service was in progress. For a moment he stood, looking at the people and listening to the words.

  ‘If after the manner of men I have fought with beasts at Ephesus, what advantageth it me, if the dead rise not?’

  It was a funeral. They were almost exactly half way through the service for the burial of the dead.

  ‘Let us eat and drink for tomorrow we die …’

  The door gave a slight whine as he closed it. Now, as he turned, he could see the funeral cars, three of them, outside the other gate. He went to look again at Grace’s grave, passed the newly dug trench where this latest coffin was to be laid, and finally sat down on a wooden seat in a shady corner. It was a quarter to twelve. Give it half an hour, he thought, and then he would have to go for his bus. Presently he dozed.

  The sound of gentle footfalls awakened him. He opened his eyes and saw that they were carrying the coffin out of the church. It was supported by four bearers, but it was a small coffin, a child’s perhaps or a short woman’s. On it were a few bunches of flowers and a huge wreath of Madonna lilies.

  The bearers were followed by a dozen people, the procession being headed by a man and a woman walking side by side. Their backs were towards Archery and besides that the woman, dressed in a black coat, wore a large black hat whose brim curved about her face. But he would have known her anywhere. He would have known her if he were blind and deaf, by her presence and her essence. They could not see him, had no idea they were watched, these mourners who had come to bury Alice Flower.

  The other followers were mostly old, friends of Alice’s perhaps, and one woman looked as if she must be the matron of the Infirmary. They gathered at the graveside and the vicar began to speak the words that would finally commit the old servant to the ground. Primero bent down and, taking rather fastidiously a handful of black earth, cast it on to the coffin. His shoulders shook and a little hand in a black glove reached out and rested on his arm. Archery felt a savage stab of jealousy that took away his breath.

  The vicar spoke the Collect and blessed them. Then Primero went a little way apart with him, they spoke together and shook hands. He took his wife’s arm and they walked slowly towards the gate where the cars were. It was all over.

  When they were out of sight Archery got up and approached the gradually filling grave. He could smell the lilies five yards off. A card was attached to them and on it someone had written simply: ‘From Mr and Mrs Roger, with love.’

  ‘Good day,’ he said to the sexton.

  ‘Good day, sir. Lovely day.’

  It was gone a quarter past twelve. Archery hurried towards the kissing gate, wondering how often the buses ran. As he came out from under the arch of trees, he stopped suddenly. Charles was striding towards him up the sandy lane.

  ‘Good thing you didn’t come,’ Charles called. ‘The place was shut for redecorating. Can you beat it? We thought we might as well drift back and pick you up.’

  ‘Where’s the car?’

  ‘Round the other side of the church.’

  They would be gone by now. Just the same Archery wished he were safely back at The Olive and Dove eating cold beef and salad. As they rounded the yew hedge a black car passed them. He forced himself to look towards the gate. The Primeros were still there, talking to the matron. His thr
oat grew suddenly dry.

  ‘Let’s cut across the green,’ he said urgently.

  ‘Mr Kershaw happens to be waiting on this side.’

  They were now only a few yards from the Primeros. The matron shook hands and stepped into a hired limousine. Primero turned and his eyes met those of Charles.

  He grew first white, then a curious vinegary purple. Charles went on walking towards him and then Primero too began to move. They were approaching each other menacingly, ridiculously, like two gunmen in a Western.

  ‘Mr Bowman, of the Sunday Planet, I believe?’

  Charles stopped and said coolly. ‘You can believe what you like.’

  She had been talking to the women in the car. Now she withdrew her head and the car began to move off. They were alone, the four of them, in the centre of the fifth prettiest village in England. She looked at Archery first with embarrassment, then with a warmth that conquered her awkwardness.

  ‘Why, hallo, I …’

  Primero snatched at her arm. ‘Recognize him? I shall need you for a witness, Imogen.’

  Charles glared. ‘You what?’

  ‘Charles!’ said Archery sharply.

  ‘Do you deny that you made your way into my home under false pretences?’

  ‘Roger, Roger …’ She was still smiling, but her smile had grown stiff. ‘Don’t you remember we met Mr Archery at the dance? This is his son. He’s a journalist, but he uses a pseudonym, that’s all. They’re here on holiday.’

  Charles said rigidly, ‘I’m afraid that isn’t quite true, Mrs Primero.’ She blinked, her lashes fluttering like wings, and her gaze came to rest softly on Archery’s face. ‘My father and I came here with the express purpose of collecting certain information. That we have done. In order to do it we had to make our way into your confidence. Perhaps we have been unscrupulous, but we thought the end justified the means.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’ Her eyes were still on Archery and he was unable to draw his own away. He knew that his face registered a tremendous plea for forgiveness, a disclaimer of Charles’s statement, and also registered the agony of love. There was, however, no reason why she should read there anything but guilt. ‘I don’t understand at all. What information?’