They shared their waiting time with Charles Shore's young son, Edward. Far more self-possessed than his cousin, he knelt on the floor sticking together a broken computer joystick and studiously ignored them.
After attempting several friendly overtures, all of which were rebuffed, Rafferty, made irritable by the anxious waiting, gave up, sat back and watched as the excess glue congealed on the ruinously expensive rug. Nose clenched against the overpowering stench, he sourly hoped that when Shore eventually deigned to turn up, he would deliver a painful punishment. All he needed to make the waiting time perfect, was for Llewellyn to start grumbling again about his sinuses. Being more concerned himself with suffering imminent brain damage, he got up and flung open a window.
To Rafferty's surprise, when Edward squirted yet another long sausage of glue from the tube, the Welshman not only made no complaint about the smell, but actually began to enthuse about the damned stuff to such an extent that Rafferty wondered if he ought to notify medical science of its curative powers?
'Marvellous, you know, this modern glue. It'll stick anything. I remember last year, I broke my mother's favourite fountain-pen. She didn't think it would ever work again and nor did I, but we were both wrong, it was as good as new. I was talking to a chemist friend of mine about it and he explained...'
Rafferty groaned and tried to tune out the drone of Llewellyn's voice. Even if he had solved the case, Rafferty wasn't sure he wouldn't prefer to hear about Llewellyn's sinus trouble rather than endure another of his lectures. Where the devil was Henry Longman and the rest? he wondered uneasily. He had primed himself up for this confrontation and the longer the delay, the more doubts began crowding in. They made him feel guilty as this had been Llewellyn's triumph. You're jealous, Rafferty, his Catholic conscience pricked, that's all that's the matter with you. You're trying to pull holes in Llewellyn's deductions just so you can feel superior. The trouble was, there was still one tiny point that Llewellyn's explanation didn't cover.
Denying his conscience's unfair conclusion, Rafferty took a deep, glue-coated breath and persuaded his mind to stop dwelling on his doubts about the case, by letting his eyes flicker from Edward and his growing river of glue, over to Maximillian Shore's portrait and the egotistical Latin quotation beneath. The arrogance of the wording still irritated him. Wasn't it typical of a man like Maximillian Shore to choose such a motto?
Rafferty had been staring intently into the painted eyes of old Maximillian's portrait for several minutes, still hoping to clear up the lingering doubts, when suddenly, he saw what should have been obvious to him virtually from the start. How could he have been so blind? Relieved that his doubts had some substance and were not, after all, based on jealousy, he glanced guiltily at Llewellyn. He just hoped Dafyd didn't take it too badly.
In more ways than one, the glue had given his brain a much-needed buzz, for now he realised just how much he had been affected by tunnel vision. Breathing shallowly, taking in a cautious top up of brain lubricant, he withdrew his eyes from those of the portrait and let them flicker once again over the boy and his joystick, before ranging along the room. So deeply was he sunk in his thoughts, that he jumped as the door was suddenly thrust open and Charles Shore appeared. He led a crocodile of family and staff behind him.
'I hope this won't take long, Inspector,' said Shore, as he glanced impatiently at his watch. 'I'm due at a meeting in forty minutes and...'
Rafferty held up his hand. 'I wouldn't worry too much about your meeting, sir,' he told him. 'You may find you wish to cancel it after you've heard what I have to say.'
'The devil I will,' Shore contradicted. 'Edward.' He addressed his young son. 'If you haven't removed that disgusting mess from my library in ten seconds, I can promise you'll be very sorry.'
Although his voice was quiet enough, it was evident that Edward knew his father didn't make idle threats. To Rafferty's quiet satisfaction, the boy hurriedly put the top back on the tube, picked up the glue and his damaged joystick and made himself scarce.
'Henry, open the rest of the windows,' Charles ordered, before he sat heavily in one of the leather chairs. 'I take it you've got some news for us at last, Inspector?'
Rafferty nodded distractedly, his mind still busily working out the why's and wherefores of his latest and - he hoped - his final theory.
'Perhaps you'd better get on with it, then,' Shore suggested sharply as Rafferty, deep in thought, continued to sit frowning at them all. 'If it turns out you're right and it is necessary for me to cancel this meeting, I'll need to do it before my fellow board members leave for the venue.'
Apparently, Shore had now got over the worst of his grief, and it was business first, as usual. Rafferty nodded again and leaned forward. He didn't take offence at Shore's peremptory tone. Why should he? he reasoned, as he took another quick glance at the portrait. He had reason to be grateful to Shore. He recognised that if the man had arrived on time, he would have made a grave mistake.
He studied the little tableau spread around the room before turning to the tall figure standing by the window. His voice was grave as he announced, 'Maximillian Shore, I hereby arrest you for the murder of Barbara Longman. You do not have to say anything unless you wish to do so, but what you say may be given in evidence.'
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
For about ten seconds, Rafferty's words shocked everyone into silence, but then a noisy clamour broke out. Charles Shore's authoritative bellow easily drowned the rest as he demanded, 'What the hell are you saying, man? Why should the boy kill Barbara? It doesn't make any kind of sense.'
'Oh, but it does,' Rafferty contradicted, raising his voice above the continuing hubbub. 'If makes the only kind of sense there is.' In the sudden resumption of silence after he had spoken, he was able to add softly, 'Doesn't it, Maxie?'
Maxie stared at him, with eyes that held more than a touch of his grandfather's arrogance, but none of the old man's strength of character. His mouth fell open as if he was about to defend himself, but his uncle told him to keep quiet.
Shore didn't believe Rafferty's assertion, that much was obvious. His eyes were alight with the inner fire that every boardroom battle probably produced. He seemed to have forgotten how much the dead woman had meant to him, and he immediately began to issue orders with all his natural pugnacity. 'Henry, get onto Hadcliffe.' He consulted his watch. 'He should be in his chambers. Tell him I want him here urgently.'
Rawley Hadcliffe, Rafferty guessed he meant - one of the smartest briefs in London. And - with good reason - the most expensive. He gave one despairing glance at Llewellyn, but the Welshman was staring at him, a dazed expression on his face, too shocked by Rafferty's accusation to share his anxiety.
Of course, Rafferty reminded himself uncomfortably, as far as Llewellyn was aware, they had come to accuse Maxie's father of the murder. And so they would have done, Rafferty conceded grimly - until about thirty seconds ago, when his growing doubts, the smell of the glue and the vision it conjured up as it flowed out of the tube had made everything jell in his mind. And now, if the boy kept quiet till Hadcliffe got here, as Charles Shore had sensibly advised, his case would probably be destroyed. Hadcliffe knew every legal trick in the book, he would take a matter of minutes to discover that Rafferty's proof was all circumstantial evidence and seat of pants guesswork.
But Rafferty was sure he was right. He knew it, was as certain of it as he was of his own name. It explained so much, including the marigold clutched in the dead woman's hand, and the other, rare meadow flowers scattered all around her. One glance at Maxie was enough to convince him his assumption was correct. The boy's defiance was beginning to crumble, the fear of retribution was there in his eyes. Hadn't he virtually told Rafferty that day, after he had poured out his grief to his grandfather's portrait, that, far from changing his life for the better as he had expected, his murder of his step-mother hadn't made any difference to his life at all?
Rafferty was surprised to see that Henry hadn't moved to obey Ch
arles's orders. Instead, he continued to stare from his son to Rafferty, until finally his bemused gaze settled on the inspector.
'You think Maxie murdered Barbara?' he asked faintly. 'But - but why? I could understand it if you were accusing him of murdering his real mother. God knows, her drunken outbursts have humiliated him in front of his friends almost as frequently as they have me. But he had no grudge against Barbara, he loved her, for God's sake. We all know he loved her.'
Rafferty nodded. 'I don't doubt it.' He glanced uneasily at the boy's ghastly pallor and suggested his father get him a chair. But Henry didn't seem to have heard him. He ignored him as he had ignored Charles, and it was Llewellyn who fetched the chair and pressed Maxie into it. Rafferty turned his attention back to the boy. 'That's what first made you think of killing her, wasn't it, Maxie?'
'Don't call me that.' The boy's voice was intense, his body jerky and nervous, like a horse ready to bolt. 'I told you, my name's Maximillian.'
'Very well - Maximillian. Isn't it true that it was your love for your step-mother that first made you think of killing her?' Rafferty repeated. The boy didn't answer, but his rapidly blinking eyelids provided answer enough.
'I don't understand,' said Henry. He ran his hand over his thinning brown hair distractedly. 'What is he talking about?' he asked his son. He shook off Llewellyn's restraining hand and pulled the boy out of the chair. 'You loved her as much as I did. I know that. Why should he think you killed her? Why?'
Llewellyn managed to loosen Henry's grip on his son and Maxie collapsed back in his seat, but still he remained silent.
Rafferty provided the answer. 'His grandfather's theories suggested it to him.' Briefly, he interrupted his explanation to give his sergeant a few orders. 'Llewellyn, get on the phone. We'll need a search warrant. And get Hanks and WPC Green out here. I think a woman's touch is called for.'
'A search warrant?' Charles protested. 'What the hell do you need a search warrant for?'
While Llewellyn got busy on the phone, Rafferty turned to Shore. 'I think if we search your nephew's room, we'll find your father's collection of theories.' He didn't tell him that Maxie had probably taken them from his mother's flat. 'It's my guess that your father hit upon the central idea behind his theory on success years ago, and his library backs up his ideas to the hilt, as young Maxie realised. His own autobiography, his youthful experiences and your own, Mr Shore, all say the same thing. If you want to be successful, first you must suffer a little. The suffering provides the necessary fuel, as it were.'
He walked around the room, allowing his fingers to run along the spines of the books. 'If you look at the books in this library, they're all about successful or famous people, people who suffered a particular tragedy when young. Adolf Hitler lost his father when he was fifteen, Abraham Lincoln lost his mother at nine, Henry Ford lost his mother at thirteen, Lloyd-George lost his father before he was two, Tolstoy, Twain, Bertrand Russell, you name them, they all suffered parental loss at a young age. This whole library is a testament to your father's favourite theory; that to suffer parental loss when young increases your chances of becoming successful.'
'But that's preposterous,' Shore protested. 'There must be any number of successful people who didn't suffer any such loss.'
'Oh, undoubtedly.' Dryly, Rafferty agreed with him. And any number of unsuccessful people who had, he added to himself. 'But, is it so preposterous? Especially to an impressionable teenager? Especially to one who not only felt he had unfairly lost his inheritance, but who had to suffer the humiliation of being a poor relation into the bargain, a poor relation that everyone seemed to despise. Think about it. Your father himself lost both his parents at fifteen, so did you and, as I understand it, you're even more successful than your father was. Maxie's fifteen too, in case you've forgotten. I think he probably felt that, for this family at least, fifteen was a significant age. That's why...'
'I know how old he is, ' Shore retorted sharply. 'And I still don't believe a word of it. He hasn't the brains, for one thing.'
'He didn't need brains - his grandfather supplied those in his writings.' Rafferty could see that, in spite of his arguments, Shore's vehemence was weakening. As his glance settled on his nephew, it held a curiously cold light and Rafferty quickly took advantage of it. It might be the only chance he got. 'But perhaps I'd better give you some more evidence? I'm pretty sure it convinced Maxie, maybe it'll do the same for you?'
Rafferty took a few paces forward, till he was in the centre of the room. He looked silently round at the sea of faces and went on. 'It was my sergeant here who made me realise how strangely the law of averages worked in favour of such a theory. Of course, I made no connection at the time,' he admitted, with an apologetic glance at Llewellyn. 'He told me, right here in this room, just how many British Prime Ministers had suffered a similar loss. What was it, Dafyd? Up to the Second World War, about 63% of our Prime Ministers had lost one or both parents while still children or teenagers. I seem to remember your telling me you'd read an article about it.' Pity he hadn't listened at the time, he thought. Another lesson for the future.
Slowly Llewellyn nodded. 'That's right, sir. It mentioned a book published several years ago, called "Parental Loss and Achievement". I believe I saw a copy on the shelves here. It suggested that bereaved children overcame their feelings of rage at being abandoned - as they saw it - by directing that anger in a purposeful way. It was a - now how did they put it? It was "a springboard of immense compensatory energy".'
'Exactly,' agreed Rafferty. 'Robert Maxwell had it, Lord Weinstock, Anita Roddick, Sir Phil Harris, and so on. And you'll find books about all these people on your shelves. Who bought them?' Although Maximillian Shore senior had undoubtedly bought the older books, he couldn't have bought the later ones, as he had died years before they were published.
His previous bellowing voice strangely subdued, Shore told him, 'Maxie. Maxie bought them.'
'That's right,' Henry whispered. 'And I gave him the money. He told me he thought learning of their early struggles would encourage him to persevere with his school-work. Now, you're saying that his real reason for wanting them was to increase his proof of his grandfather's success theory.' Shock had drained his face of colour as he turned and stared at his son. 'So he could bring himself to kill Barbara.'
It seemed he had succeeded in convincing Henry, at least, thought Rafferty, but instead of triumph, all it brought was a feeling of sadness.
'But these people suffered a natural loss of their parents,' Charles Shore protested, his desire to wait for Hadcliffe evidently forgotten. 'They didn't murder them. Why should Maxie think that by killing Barbara he could also become successful?'
'I'm afraid you'll have to ask your nephew that, but it's my guess that he craved success so desperately, he was willing to take the chance.' Because he had no proof, he didn't add that he now believed Maxie had attempted another murder - that of his friend Tom Shepherd, and that Barbara had suspected it. His friend had pushed him out of the tree at Easter, deliberately, Maxie believed. He had a grudge against him, maybe he even wanted to test himself, to see if he was capable of murder, before he tried the important one, the one that would, as he believed, guarantee his successful future.
Rafferty could imagine that a strongly-moral woman like Barbara would have confronted him over his wicked behaviour; she hadn't hesitated to take the powerful Charles Shore on. Suddenly, something else occurred to him. Barbara had been pregnant, Henry had said that no-one else in the family knew, but he couldn't be sure of that. According to Mrs Griffiths, Maxie had been at home the day Barbara had received the results of the test. What if he had overheard her ring Henry to tell him the news? What would Maxie's reaction have been? Would he have felt pushed out, rejected, angry at the news?
Mindful of his promise to Henry, Rafferty said nothing about this latest conjecture, but he was certain that Barbara's pregnancy, the uncertainty of what she intended to do about his murderous behaviour towards his fri
end, plus the humiliation of the failure of that violence would, together, provide the extra push he would need to put his grandfather's theories into practice. Even if she had decided to keep his wickedness quiet, she would have surely persuaded Henry to send Maxie away to school to learn some discipline - hadn't Henry said she had, in fact, suggested such a course on the morning before she had died? Maxie would have hated that. The teasing he endured from his cousins, would be as nothing compared to the cruelty he would suffer, as a boarder, from the other boys. In many ways, he was a natural victim, and he knew it.
Of course, Maxie had never been a bright youngster. It was possible that he had completely missed the whole point of his grandfather's theory; that it was the grief, the sense of bereavement that was the essential factor. Though it was possible the boy had reasoned that his grief would be no less real for being self-administered. Of course, the fractured skull he had suffered when he had fallen from the tree could have caused unsuspected damage to his brain. It was well known that head injuries could cause problems months, even years later.
'You know,' he went on. 'I didn't connect Maxie with Barbara's death until Charles's son, Edward, helped me to see how he could have killed her. After that, the why just fell into place.'
Charles Shore stared at him. 'Edward - Edward helped you? How?'
'I'm sure it was quite unintentional,' Rafferty observed dryly. 'But when he used that glue in here just now, it not only reminded me of the river as it came out of the tube, but it also came back to me where else I'd smelt such an odour before. It was in your shed. The small outhouse by the Tiffey.'
He turned to Maxie, who sat with unfocused, staring eyes. 'I thought then it was just from an old Airfix Spitfire that was abandoned there, but you used it to stick the broken paddle of the canoe, didn't you, Maximillian?'
Still the boy said nothing, he seemed to have retreated into some kind of catatonic state, and Rafferty continued. 'You repaired the paddle with the glue so you could use it to canoe up the river to reach the meadow ahead of your stepmother and kill her. You could have reached there easily in five minutes - half the time it would have taken her to get there by car. Then, when you had returned, you broke the paddle again in case anyone should suspect you. How could you use the canoe? you must have reasoned. The paddle was broken. You even reminded your father, in my presence, that he hadn't replaced it, so I would know how long it had been broken and that, in the unlikely event I would suspect you of her murder, you would have your alibi ready.
Down Among the Dead Men Page 19
