Bring Forth Your Dead

by Gregson, J. M.

  Behind the glass, the shapes were following the smaller and lighter one of his secretary towards his door. He banged the phone roughly back into its cradle and pulled on the wide smile of greeting which felt daily more like a rubber mask. As the door opened and the shapes became people, he rose and moved to the side of his desk.

  ‘Ah, Superintendent. Welcome to the humble centre of our activities. Do come and sit down. Tea, June, I think. And perhaps the odd custard cream.’

  Lambert introduced Bert Hook and saw from the corner of his eye the Sergeant making his usual elaborate opening mime with his notebook. His main attention was on David Craven, who was working hard to seem at ease. There was nothing odd about that: almost everyone who is drawn into a murder inquiry feels a need to demonstrate his or her innocence. As they usually regard the adoption of a carefree manner as integral to this, and as very few of them are trained actors, the impression left is usually of ineffective artifice. That was certainly the case here.

  David Craven was tall, as tall as Lambert, with a tanned face and iron grey hair. In his lightweight grey suit, white shirt and dark red tie, he was what romantic fiction would describe as ‘distinguished’. Lambert thought that from the photographs he had seen of the dead man he might have looked much like this thirty years or so ago; his preliminary researches told him that the son was now forty-six. Craven’s smile spread into a general affability as the introductions were completed and he retired behind the modern desk with its panelled leather top and executive trimmings. Only the dark blue eyes failed to catch the smile: they were cool and wary, as though run by a different motor from the one which painted the smile and drove the movements of the hands.

  Lambert wondered whether the wariness was for them alone, or whether it was habitual in the man. He said, ‘Sergeant Hook explained the reason for our visit when he made this appointment, so I won’t waste time with preliminaries.’

  Craven said, ‘I knew about the exhumation, of course. The Coroner informed me, as next of kin. I must say I was shocked that it should be necessary.’

  He had the air of a man who had prepared these comments and was determined to deliver them, despite the Superintendent’s attempt at directness. Lambert said, ‘In view of that, I should tell you at once that we are now engaged upon a full-scale murder inquiry. We have already contacted your father’s doctor and solicitor. That is routine practice in these cases.’ Lambert wondered wryly if Craven knew how little this was a routine case for him.

  ‘I suppose there can be no doubt that it was murder? It seems quite incredible to me.’

  Again Lambert had the impression of a man determined to go over ground that he had prepared, presumably in the hope that this would be a preliminary step to controlling the path of the whole interview. It was reaction to that thought which made him say abruptly, ‘Your father was poisoned, Mr Craven. Murdered in a manner that was both systematic and cold-blooded, over a period of several weeks.’

  Craven gasped, whether at the news itself or at the sharpness of its delivery it was impossible to tell. Both detectives studied him openly for a moment. He could be an affectionate only son distressed by the news that his father had been brutally despatched, or a murderer who knew all this and more and had to simulate his innocence. Eventually he said, ‘You saw Mrs Lewis too, I believe.’ It was a tiny attempt to retain the initiative, by reminding them that he knew about actions they had not so far revealed to him. Lambert liked nettling his witnesses; it caused them to reveal things they might otherwise have concealed. In this case, that Craven was in touch with Margaret Lewis, or some third party who knew them both. Collusion, always likely when death was contrived over a protracted period, seemed more than ever a possibility.

  ‘We did indeed. Even after so long a period, one likes to begin at the scene of the crime.’

  ‘And no doubt the splendid Margaret gave you her estimation of the possibilities of all the suspects.’ Perhaps he was rattled by Lambert’s cool resilience: he was giving away far more than he thought.

  The Superintendent raised his eyebrows a little and decided to stonewall. ‘Mrs Lewis assisted us in compiling a list of those close to your father in his last months. As they were the people with the most obvious opportunities to administer poison, I wouldn’t dispute your description of them as suspects.’

  Craven wanted to know what she had said about them, and presumably in particular about him. He would not know that she had neither offered nor been pressed for opinions about the people she had mentioned. Craven drummed his fingers on the desk and said, ‘Not a great admirer of yours truly, the admirable Mrs Lewis. I thought she had too much influence over Dad, and said so. Someone had to.’ So no one else had felt so strongly; it began to look as though the housekeeper had been rather charitable in her reticence about her employer’s son. Lambert remembered her faint air of satisfaction when she had been unable to give David Craven an alibi. While he deliberately refused to react to this comment about Mrs Lewis, the Superintendent considered a second interview with her with renewed interest.

  He said, ‘I understand you inherited your father’s house.’

  Craven laughed, bitterly and theatrically. ‘I expect she gave you the full benefit of her views on that. Well, all I’m doing is taking advantage of circumstances. Dad isn’t here anymore, unfortunately, and what he would have wanted is no more than sentimental supposition. We live in today’s world and no one pays you a single quid for sentiment. That site is worth far more for development than as a single house, and even toffee-nosed Margaret knows it.’

  Lambert let him run on with the indignant clichés until they petered out. Then he said, ‘Actually, Mrs Lewis said nothing about this. Our sole source of information was your father’s solicitor. He gave us all the details of the will, as the law requires him to do. If you know Mr Arkwright, you will hardly need me to tell you that he made no comment on the ethics of the development of the site.’

  Craven was left looking rather crestfallen. Foolishly, he tried to justify himself. ‘That’s just what it is: development. Progress. People in Oldford don’t understand that. Most of them think it’s a sin to make a profit.’

  That seemed extremely unlikely in an area where the Conservative MP held a huge majority, but Lambert forbore to say so. It was Bert Hook, predictably irritated by Craven’s public school manner and capitalist blusterings, who said unexpectedly, ‘There is profit in the development then, sir?’

  It was spoken with the air of peaceful naïvety which Hook managed very well, and it took Craven completely by surprise. He had been concentrating on Lambert; he looked now to the Superintendent for support in checking this impertinent underling. Lambert not only did not rebuke his Sergeant, but waited impassively for a reaction. Craven said roughly, ‘I don’t see that what I make on Tall Timbers is any business of yours.’

  Hook spoke even more quietly this time. ‘No, sir. Except, you see, that a large financial gain provides an excellent motive for murder.’

  Craven flushed so deeply that his tan suddenly looked artificial. He said, ‘This is ridiculous. I invite you here to be as helpful as I can in a situation I naturally find distressing, and within ten minutes I’m being accused of murdering my own father! I want a lawyer before this goes any further.’

  Lambert’s voice cut through the air of the overheated room like cold steel. ‘First of all, Mr Craven, you did not invite us here. We made an appointment in pursuance of a murder inquiry. Secondly, no one has accused you of anything, let alone murder. Sergeant Hook replied to a comment of yours about the irrelevance of wealth with the observation that it frequently provides a motive for murder. That is a fact that is manifest in crime statistics throughout Europe. If you wish to be questioned in the presence of a lawyer, that can be arranged. I should prefer that we conduct what I must stress are preliminary inquiries in a more informal atmosphere, if that is possible.’

  Craven was saved from an impulsive reaction by the arrival of the tea. The young secretar
y deposited the tray and bustled out again as quickly as she could; perhaps she was used to her employer’s conferences coming to an abrupt halt when she entered. As the door shut behind her, Lambert said, ‘We are now familiar, as I indicated, with the full terms of the will. Have you any comment you would like to make on those terms?’

  It was an irregular question, but he was already sure that Craven was not going to carry his threats through into any formal complaint. He looked up defiantly and said, ‘No. Why should I? I saw the potential of the site as you would expect me to do—’

  ‘Forgive me interrupting, Mr Craven, but people usually assume we know far more than we do, I find. Are you an architect?’

  Lambert was back to his silkiest tone. Craven looked at him suspiciously before he said, ‘I am an architect by training, yes. I realised a few years ago that there was far more money in property development than in drawing plans.’ His attitude made Lambert wonder where he had argued thus before. With his father perhaps? Or his sister? And what had the reception been then? ‘Everyone was happy with the will when it was made. When Dad eventually died, I considered the possibilities of the site. I am a businessman, Superintendent, and I could see immediately that if we could get permission for flats, Tall Timbers would have to go.’

  ‘I see. I appreciate that this would imply no legal condition, and indeed that you may not wish to answer, but I would remind you that anything which would throw light on the attitudes of others close to your father is bound to be of interest to us. Can you tell us if your actions have caused resentment among the other legatees?’

  Craven did not explode into rage, but looked at him carefully before he answered. ‘None of them liked it, I’m sure. I think they all assumed as Dad did that I’d be making Tall Timbers my own home. That would not have been possible in any case.’ For a moment Lambert thought he was going to enlarge upon this, but he thought better of it and went on, ‘Once we got planning permission, there was no decision to make. Much as I had always liked Tall Timbers, there was no question of me moving in. The old place had to come down.’

  ‘I suppose Mrs Lewis had always expected to move out after your father’s death?’

  Craven smiled at the thought. ‘I cannot think that Margaret would expect to stay on with the house in my ownership, whatever the circumstances. It must have been quite a windfall for her to be there this long—at her old wages, too.’

  ‘Presumably, though, you thought Mrs Lewis could offer you a useful service by being in residence.’

  ‘I wasn’t merely being charitable to Margaret, if that’s what you mean. I don’t suppose she’d have accepted the situation if she’d thought that. There is a lot of valuable stuff in Tall Timbers and it suited me to have the house occupied while we were applying for planning. Now that it’s being sold with planning permission for the flats, that’s less important, but I’m happy to have someone on the spot to make sure nothing disappears from the place. I can afford it; the asking price for the site is one million pounds.’

  There was silence at this revelation. Craven looked quite pleased, as though this was the proper homage journeymen should pay to great wealth. Then Bert Hook said, ‘When did you first explore the possibility of building flats on the site, Mr Craven?’

  Craven’s blue eyes flashed a look at the Sergeant which demanded to know whether the question was as innocent as his tone. He discovered nothing, for Hook’s attention was determinedly on his notebook; the poised ball-pen left the murder victim’s son in no doubt that his replies would be recorded. Craven took his time, giving his attention to the manner rather than the substance of his reply. He stood and walked over to the bookcase on the other side of the room, fingering a heavy marble statue on top of it.

  He contrived to sound unruffled as he said, ‘Oh, I couldn’t be precise, but these things certainly take time. The local authority’s Planning Officer has to report. If the application is turned down at the Planning Committee meeting, or even held in suspension until the whole Committee has a look at the site, one has to go back in the queue and wait for another meeting. Patience is not only a virtue but a requisite when dealing with planning applications.’ His delivery became smoother as he moved towards a well-worn theme and sentiments he had delivered many times before to clients. ‘Of course, it pays to know one’s way around and whom one is dealing with—’

  ‘Quite,’ said Lambert. ‘And when did the whole process begin in this case?’

  ‘Well, as I say, it takes a long time. I didn’t wait for probate to be granted before I began the process, I seem to remember.’ It sounded evasive, even in his own ears: he felt himself a victim of a pincer movement by these calm, experienced men.

  Hook, without even looking up, said, ‘I think it was in fact much earlier than that, Mr Craven.’ The Sergeant found himself using the technique of slow revelation he found effective when he caught the young tearaways of the district in a lie. This time he positively enjoyed watching his forty-six-year-old victim squirm.

  Craven said, ‘Perhaps it was. I could check my files if you think it’s important, but—’

  ‘It could be very important, Mr Craven.’ Lambert looked him boldly in the eye when he interrupted, studying his reactions without any attempt at concealment. ‘But you needn’t bother with your files. Our information is that the Planning Committee received your preliminary application for outline planning permission over eighteen months ago.’

  Beyond several walls, a phone rang, faint and unanswered, its note clearly audible here because the comfortable office was so unnaturally silent. Hook thought of the noisy ebullience of their reception, while they waited for a reaction from the man who had thought to deceive them. They had caught him out, in what might be no more than a rather shameful commercial contrivance, but they would behave as though it were crucial to their investigation, in case the man by his reaction proved it to be so. They had trapped him by one of the few facts they had been able to check before they came here, and he had closed the trap himself by his shoddy attempts at evasion.

  All this the three of them knew and weighed, while the silence hung unbroken for a long moment. When Craven eventually spoke, he stared fixedly at the top of his desk; he might have been one of those adolescents Bert Hook grilled in the tiny CID interview rooms, who stared at the scratched table which separated them from their tormentor as they lost all their surface arrogance and confessed their tawdry misdemeanours. ‘I needed the money. The property slump caught us rather overstretched. There seemed no harm in making preliminary inquiries…’ His words petered out and he made a small, hopeless gesture of the hands. For an instant as he turned them upwards, they seemed like those of a black man, so strong was the contrast between the deep brown of the backs and the pallor of the palms.

  The fish was landed now. Hook admired as he had done so many times before the skill with which Lambert gutted it. With an admission made, the Superintendent became understanding, almost conciliatory: the trick, he knew, was to keep the man talking, rather than recalcitrant or dumb with shame. As long as he communicated, they might learn more yet. ‘Obviously, Mr Craven, you understand the significance of the timing for us, just as we can appreciate the importance for you of checking out planning possibilities at that particular moment. The importance for us stems from the fact I have indicated, that it was about eighteen months ago or a little later that one or more persons began to implement plans to kill your father. What we have now to determine is whether those two events might be connected.’

  ‘I don’t think they are,’ Craven still did not look up. His words carried no certainty: they had the automatic, illogical defiance of an adolescent losing an argument.

  ‘They may not be. It is part of our business to seek connections between facts. The solutions to murder inquiries normally emerge when we find the connections which bear on the particular death. Working as we are in this case so long after the murder, it is more than usually difficult to unearth those facts which are likely to be sig
nificant.’ He spoke like a tutor taking an undergraduate through an intricate point of theory. ‘Who else in the group of people around your father knew that you were exploring the possibilities of the site of Tall Timbers?’

  Now at last Craven looked up. It was a quick, fearful glance into his questioner’s eyes, where he discovered nothing. He had no idea how much Lambert knew; having been caught out once, he opted for honesty. ‘I didn’t tell them, but they found out.’

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘Yes. Planning applications are published in the small print of the local rag. I don’t know who told whom, but someone spotted it and told the others.’

  ‘And it wasn’t popular?’

  Craven gave a smile in which there was no mirth. ‘That’s an understatement. When I came into the house for my weekly visit, all hell broke loose around me.’

  ‘What was your father’s reaction?’

  ‘Does that really matter? The old man’s dead; can’t we let him rest in peace?’ The ludicrousness of that conventional sentiment in the face of an exhumation struck him too late; he signified with a small, hopeless shrug of the shoulders that his rhetoric needed no answer. ‘Dad hated the idea that I wouldn’t take over Tall Timbers when he was gone, though I think he knew enough to suspect I never would. The thought that it might actually be demolished to make way for new building hadn’t even occurred to him. He took it badly.’

  In his misery, David Craven felt a need to explain, when he might have been better to say no more. ‘Dad came from humble origins. His father was a professional cricketer—like H. G. Wells’s father,’ he added inconsequentially. ‘I believe Granddad, who was dead before I was born, played with Jack Hobbs and Frank Woolley.’ For a moment, Bert Hook, a sterling club seamer himself for many a year, saw David Craven as a boy on the playing fields of some Greyfriars replica, pleading for a little vicarious glory among his peers, recounting this accident of antecedence which surfaced even now as he strove for sympathy. ‘He worked hard to educate Dad as a surveyor. Dad grew up in a terraced Victorian cottage in Bristol: his mother took in washing when times were hard during the winter. To him, Tall Timbers was a proof that he had made it in life, a guarantee of prosperity. He lived in the house long enough to grow to love it; he couldn’t understand that his son should not feel that way about it.’