Gilmour said, ‘He must’ve been putting the screws on him for something.’ It was unlikely that a complex and sometimes contradictory character like Pen Llewellyn had led a blameless life, they both knew that. Though it was questionable what misdemeanour, big enough to induce blackmail, could have reared its head at this stage.
‘Just Molly and me, and Baby makes three,’ sang the crooner from the rostrum, while a young woman at the next table hummed along and tapped her feet. ‘We’re happy in my blue Heaven!’
Good for them, thought Gilmour, finishing his own rarebit and pushing his plate away. And happy was more than he’d say for the boss, who sounded as preoccupied as he looked. He knew that look. Something was going through his mind, but it was no use asking what, he’d only mention it when he’d thought it through. It was as though he didn’t like what he was thinking, either, and didn’t want to believe it, but if he’d got to the point where he was arguing against himself, that was all to the good. Gilmour wasn’t without a few ideas himself, but they were refusing to come together as yet.
‘Did you get anything on Huwie, sir?’
‘Everything but his present address.’ After leaving Forster, Reardon had made his way to Scotland Yard, hopeful that a man he’d met at a conference some years ago and kept in touch with, a DI Patterson, might have some answers for him. Which he had, but unfortunately none of them were helpful. ‘You were right about him never being in the army, though. He missed conscription through convenient incarceration at His Majesty’s Pleasure.’
The Nippy who was serving their table appeared and asked if there was anything else they wanted. She was middle-aged, and her white cap, pulled well down over her brows, didn’t hide the lines of tiredness on her face. She looked as though her feet were aching. Reardon smiled at her. ‘Well, we might have one or two of those nice cakes,’ he said, following Gilmour’s straying glance towards the nearby display stand of pastries. There was an hour yet before their train and plenty of time to linger.
She smiled back. ‘I’ll bring you a nice selection. More tea?’
‘Yes, please.’ She left and Reardon resumed: ‘Huwie’s been a naughty boy, one way and another. He’s done time, as well as that two years in the Scrubs during the war for handling stolen goods, and since then he’s been in trouble on and off for small-time stuff, petty theft and so on. But he seems to have kept his nose clean for the last year or two. At any rate, Patterson wasn’t able to help with his present whereabouts.’ Depressingly, it seemed as though Cherry’s doubts about the necessity for their visit to the capital might have been justified.
The cakes arrived, more tea was poured. ‘So what had Miss Bannerman to say for herself, then?’ Reardon asked.
‘Miss Bannerman,’ Gilmour said, ‘is somewhere on the high seas, even as we speak, swanning around on board ship to the US, to take up work in New York.’
‘America?’
‘And guess who’s sending her there? The people she works for – Theo Llewellyn’s law firm. She was working for Pen on loan, as it were. Seems Theo recommended her when Pen needed a temporary secretary.’
‘Well,’ Reardon said, swallowing a suddenly indigestible piece of chocolate éclair. ‘Theo was up to something, if that was so. He does nothing without a reason.’
TWENTY-FOUR
While the two policemen were still in London, letters from Harper, Kingdom and Harper had been received by those who were to benefit from Pen’s will.
Theo had deliberately not told his brother and sister that drawing up the will had been taken out of his own hands, though he’d known for some time. ‘No hard feelings, old sport, and thank you for what you’ve done, but it makes more sense to have everything, personal and business, under one blanket so to speak.’ Incensed by Pen’s insensitivity, he had nevertheless kept his feelings in check and then, after much thought, he’d wangled that sharp young woman Sadie Bannerman in here where she could supply him with information – which she’d done admirably. His eyes had been opened, as far as Pen’s business assets were concerned, and his expectations had risen because, even in his darkest moments, he had known Pen would never forget his family – which in all fairness he had not. But …
So much inner rage smouldered in him that he felt as if he might burst into flames any moment. This confounded new will was insult added to injury – old, never forgotten injuries, such as when Pen had stolen Cora from under his very nose; and the wounded pride when he’d dipped a toe into the waters of speculation, nearly drowned and had to be rescued by Pen. Now, not only was that woman to share in the benefits, but Pen’s most valuable books were to be sold (a detailed list of them appended, so that none should accidentally go missing) and the proceeds added to the already considerable amount Pen had recently donated to the cottage hospital in Wyvering.
Anna Douglas. A hefty lump sum – and worse: Bryn Glas had actually been willed to her. Obscurely, though he would have had the house sold and pocketed the proceedings before the ink was dry on the contract if he’d had his way, this outraged Theo – more even than the money, or even the sale of those books, for God’s sake. Bryn Glas, the Llewellyn family home, which should have been his by rights.
All his scheming, watching, waiting, plotting, gone for nothing. Well, scarcely that, but nothing like he had hoped for, and depended on. Everything he’d done for Pen. All those years of bending the knee. If he had been anyone else other than Theo Llewellyn, he would have howled in sheer frustration.
‘She’s gone without her Sunflowers,’ Gilmour remarked, making conversation the morning after they’d returned from London. He sat with his legs stretched out, his hands shoved into his pockets, silently willing Reardon to open some discussion on where the previous day’s events had left them, and what they were to do next to get things moving. He was starting to worry, wondering if he was actually going to make it home before the baby arrived. ‘Sadie, I mean.’
A letter from Mr Harper, which had been waiting for Reardon this morning, had done nothing to lift his preoccupations of the previous day. But the name Sadie and the mention of the picture roused him to leave his brooding contemplation of the surprising contents of the letter, which had detailed the general terms of the will, and shift his gaze to the bright splash of colour on the wall. ‘So she has.’
‘She couldn’t have been all that bothered about it,’ Gilmour said. ‘Or maybe it wasn’t hers at all. Maybe she said it was because she’d just taken a fancy to it. It’s the sort of thing she would like.’
It suddenly occurred to Reardon how few pictures there were in the house at all, and yet somehow, even in such a large house, they weren’t missed. Well, linenfold panelling was its own embellishment after all. Yet Pen Llewellyn had allowed this painting to grace his office wall, incongruously modern, where he saw it every day. Simply because it was cheerful, as Sadie had said, sunflowers in a yellow vase, a reminder of hot summer days? He eyed it more closely, trying to admire it. He knew he stood accused of being a Philistine, but all these modern works of art looked to him as though some junior-school child had been let loose with his Christmas present paint box. This one was maybe better than some, but he still didn’t get it. And despite her claim to it, Sadie had evidently thought it wasn’t worth bothering about in her hurried departure.
Without stopping to think why, he went to lift it from the wall. Something was stuck to the back with adhesive tape that had the grubby look of having been lifted many times and came away easily. Underneath, a key. The safe key, it had to be. It would be interesting to see if the old will was there, though it wouldn’t be needed, after all, in view of this new one. Comparisons between the two might be enlightening, all the same. In the end, however, hiding the key seemed a rather pointless ritual for Pen to have gone through. The safe was disappointingly empty.
‘Half a mo’ though,’ Gilmour said, ‘there is something here.’ Almost hidden in the top right-hand corner, fixed to its roof, was a small separate drawer compartment. That was locked
, too and the safe key looked far too big. Exasperated, he tried it anyway, and hey-presto, the drawer opened, revealing a little cloth bag. Silence fell as he tipped out four greyish bits of the same sort of sea-washed glass which sat on the window sill of Verity’s bedroom. Except that these were dull and dark grey, with a pitted surface, about the size of a hazelnut.
‘Have you ever seen rough diamonds, Gilmour? Black diamonds?’ Reardon said at last.
Diamonds? ‘No – er – have you, sir?’
‘Never. But dirty bits of stone wouldn’t need to be kept in a safe.’
While they stared, a tap on the door preceded the appearance of Mrs Knightly. Reardon looked up. ‘Yes?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry if I’m interrupting,’ she murmured, uncertain at the unusual sharpness in Reardon’s voice. ‘I just wondered … if you could spare a minute or two, Mr Reardon? I’d like a private word with you. But it will do later if—’
‘That’s all right.’ He left Gilmour to put the stones back and followed her into her sitting room. A little embarrassed, she gave him a tissue-wrapped parcel. ‘It’s nothing much, but I … I just thought you might like these.’
The argyle socks she’d been knitting for her nephew were revealed in all their completed Scottish glory: lozenges of red, outlined in white on a dark green background. ‘Please take them. They won’t be needed, not now.’ She sat down and picked up some sewing, her face hidden.
‘That’s … very kind. Thank you.’ He folded the gift back into the paper. He hadn’t the heart to tell her that never under any circumstances did he wear socks of any colour other than plain brown, black or grey, with the very occasional concession to lovat green.
She nodded and went on sewing – a darn in some piece of white linen that needed careful, tiny stitches, fine thread and close attention. ‘There’s something else,’ she said, keeping her eyes on her work. ‘I can’t get it out of my mind … what’s happened to Adrian. You asked about why he’d come to Hinton. Well, you see, when my sister Pattie died – it was only about a year ago – he found something.’ She raised her head and their eyes met. Her face was puckered with distress. ‘I think you’ve worked out what I’m trying to say, haven’t you? But, please – it’s dangerous to jump to conclusions. Adrian … he couldn’t have killed Pen, if he’s been killed as well, could he?’
He looked at her, attempting to sort out the flawed logic while he waited for her to continue. But whatever else she had been going to say remained unsaid. She started and didn’t appear to notice the bright drop of blood that appeared on the linen; her gaze was fixed on what was outside the window, her mouth open. ‘Oh my goodness me, look what the wind’s blown in! I must let Verity know.’ Throwing down her sewing, she hurried from the room.
It wasn’t, however, the wind that had propelled Huwie Llewellyn down the drive of Bryn Glas, but Verity’s Baby Austin, the door of which he was just shutting.
‘I don’t see the problem, Ma,’ Jack was saying. He stood by the mantelpiece, resting his elbow negligently along it, but his fist was clenched. ‘It’s a matter of principle.’
Anna stared at him, uncomprehending.
‘I should go,’ Carey said hastily. She’d come across to Anna’s house on winged feet to share with her the wonderful news – amazed to have been remembered at all in Pen’s will, and with an amount far beyond her wildest dreams. Left with a generosity that would give her time, and space, to think about her future. The letter had come, almost making her forget, for the moment, that other letter from Huwie which Muriel had kept, the one that gave her such a plunging, gut-wrenching feeling whenever she thought about it. Should she show it to Anna? Or should she take it to the police? She knew the answer, really, but could barely contemplate what that might mean.
And now, arriving here, being called to enter in answer to her knock, she’d stepped into what looked very much like confrontation. Between Anna and Jack? She took a step back towards the door but Anna stopped her.
‘Just a moment, Carey, dear. I can guess why you’ve come, and I do want to hear about it, but first, Jack is just about to explain why he should refuse the very generous legacy Pen has left, and I think you should hear what he has to say.’
‘Yes, please. Please stay, Carey,’ Jack said. He was unusually pale, the skin looked stretched across his cheekbones. Carey hesitated. She did not want to be here. Family rows were no concern of those outside. But she saw no escape when they were both so intent on her staying.
Abandoning his post by the fireplace, Jack found a chair and assumed his usual pose, hands in pockets, legs outstretched. ‘You can’t, either, can you?’ he asked his mother gently. ‘Bryn Glas … the family …’
‘His family,’ Anna answered, with more than a hint of sharpness, ‘have been more than adequately paid what they were owed.’
‘But me? He owed me nothing. Did he?’ Jack said steadily.
Anna gave him a long, searching look, then sat down, very suddenly, on to the old sofa near the kitchen range, as if her legs had given way, reached out and pulled Carey down beside her. Jack sat up straighter and began to say something but she silenced him with a flutter of her hand. When she could speak she said, ‘Am I to understand you think Pen had some … some obligation towards you?’
‘No!’ He ran a hand through his already rumpled hair. After a moment he said, ‘Well, all right, at one time, yes, I did, but only for a while, when I fancied myself old enough to understand … thirteen years old and a man of the world. Uncle Pen who used to come and take me to the football match, or the zoo … Uncle Pen who paid my school fees. Who else, when you were always so hard-pressed for money?’
Carey thought that if a feather had floated on to the carpet, you would have heard it.
‘Your school fees, Jack, were paid for by a trust left by your grandfather, you know that,’ Anna said faintly at last.
‘That was something I learnt later, but by then it didn’t matter. I’d grown up a bit and I saw how stupid I’d been – the way you talked about my father … his photograph …’
‘Yes, you must have seen how very much like him you are.’
Carey, poised for flight, wondered if they’d forgotten she was here and would they notice if she crept out, but Anna’s hand was tight on hers. Jack’s glance fell on her and he seemed to guess what she was feeling. ‘Please stay, Carey.’
Anna’s face still registered shock. ‘There’s such a lot you don’t understand, Jack, so much you don’t know about Pen, about either of us, so please, just listen for a moment.’ Agitation was making her trip over her words, she who was always so calm. ‘Your father and I were so young when we married, he hadn’t yet qualified as a surveyor and we’d scarcely a penny between us, but we had just two years of perfect happiness. He died very suddenly, when you were only a year old. They said it was a brain tumour. He was just twenty-three – a very wonderful young man, charming, and so clever and so full of promise. I blame myself. I should have spoken to you, explained more, but I’ve always found it painful, very hard to speak of him.’ She rubbed her hands together as if they were very cold. ‘And you believed that I … that Pen and I … were lovers?’
‘It wasn’t up to me to judge.’
‘How little you know me! Pen was only, ever, the very best of friends. He’d been fond of Charles and he supported me so much through the bad times. He would have helped financially, too … he begged me, but I wouldn’t allow it. Later, after Cora died, he began to ask me to marry him, but … I’d loved once – and after someone like your father, how could I ever marry anyone again? Then, so many years later, coming back here to live, I gradually realized I did love Pen – though in a quite different way, and I saw I’d wasted all those years when I’d had no one. And now … I thought you’d be happy for me, though lately, I’ve sensed some – some reserve towards Pen.’ Fear leapt into her eyes. ‘But I never for one moment thought you hated him.’
‘Hate? Pen? God, I didn’t hate him, I liked him. I think I
loved him when I was a small boy. He was my hero.’
Their eyes met. ‘If that’s true you’ve no right to refuse his wishes now that he’s dead, any more than I have. He had no children of his own, but he loved you, too, and don’t you ever forget it.’ She released Carey’s hand at last and stood up. ‘Now I have things to do.’ She paused. ‘And as a matter of interest, I happen to agree with you about Bryn Glas. As for the money, we’ll see. But perhaps a graceful acceptance on your part would at least be an apology.’ She left the room.
He hesitated only a moment. ‘Don’t go, Carey, I have to sort this out but I must see you,’ he threw over his shoulder as he followed his mother and closed the door behind him.
There was no point in staying any longer. He had fences to mend which might take some time and she … Shaken by what had happened, Carey let herself quietly out of the back door. The letter she had brought with her stayed in her pocket.
‘You were out of order, leaving without letting us know, Mr Llewellyn,’ Reardon was saying. ‘Taking Miss Lancaster’s car, what’s more.’
‘Only borrowing it,’ Huwie replied with an irritatingly ingratiating smirk. ‘A change of clothes, you know, bit of business to attend to.’ He was wearing the same disreputable suit he’d worn previously, and looked seedier than ever.
‘So you always intended to come back?’
‘I had to return the car, didn’t I?’
Did that mean a touch of panic, a change of heart when he realized what light his departure, and the theft of the car, would put him in? No, it had to be something more imperative for Huwie Llewellyn to return and put himself voluntarily in the firing line of questioning.
‘Are you sure the real reason you disappeared hadn’t anything to do with Adrian Murfitt being killed?’ Gilmour asked.
‘Murfitt has been killed? That’s a shock.’
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