‘What would you advise?’ asked Pembury.
‘As there appears to be…’ Sir Gerald’s smile was like a razor cut across paper, ‘…forgive me, no question of your own death being in any way imminent, Lord Pembury, I would suggest that we wait. Hopefully Mr Hawkhurst will be exonerated—or found guilty, we must accept that I’m afraid—which will clarify the situation. If that happens fairly speedily, matters should resolve themselves without any undue complications.’
Pembury swivelled round in his study chair and looked out of the window at part of the formal gardens of Edenbridge House. His grief rigidly controlled, he was accepting his responsibilities of securing the future. He had been brought up from childhood with the insistence that the great house and all that it represented were his only in trust; the family was greater than any individual member of it. While he had never particularly liked his nephew—and now was reluctantly forced to consider the possibility that he might conceivably have murdered his son—he recognised the need to make certain arrangements as inescapable.
‘Very well,’ he agreed at last. ‘And what is the precise position at present with regard to the police and my nephew? When will he be released?’
‘Ah…’ Sir Gerald’s smooth, correct and professional manner was momentarily ruffled. ‘There appears to be a difficulty, temporary I am sure. Mr Hawkhurst told the police in my presence that he went to…visit another person in a house nearby after the party. Unfortunately, it transpires that the person concerned is adamant that he arrived at a time which would not have made it totally impossible for him to have committed the crime. It’s most unfortunate, but I’m sure matters will soon be clarified. I have, of course, made it quite clear that unless the police prefer charges and bring Mr Hawkhurst before a magistrate by the appropriate time, I shall insist on his release.’
Alister York, who was sitting on the other side of the desk, noticed that Lord Pembury’s eyes were hooded beneath the lids, a well-known indication that he was growing angry.
‘I see,’ he said after a long pause. ‘Thank you for your advice, Sir Gerald, and for your representation of my nephew.’
The solicitor recognised the note of conclusion and tapped a sheaf of papers together on the desk top before replacing them in his briefcase. ‘My impression is that the police have nothing substantive in the way of evidence,’ he added. ‘There is nothing more than a supposed and quite outrageous motive. However…’ he snapped the briefcase closed and looked at Lord Pembury blandly, ‘…it has occurred to me that the police do not appear to have had to make extensive inquiries to discover the extent of the financial difficulties with which Mr Hawkhurst is faced. In fact, they appear to have known about them almost from the beginning of their investigation, which…leads one to consider who might have informed them so quickly, don’t you think?’
Sir Gerald removed his half-moon glasses and slipped them into a soft leather case as he looked interrogatively at Lord Pembury—then turned his bland gaze on York who stared at him for a moment before looking back cautiously at his employer.
‘What are you suggesting, Sir Gerald?’ Pembury asked.
‘Merely that, if that is the case, it is something to which I might feel it necessary to draw the attention of the police once Mr Hawkhurst has been cleared of any involvement. It would be…interesting to know the motives of whoever afforded them the information.’
York detested the man with his hyper-polished manner, probing suggestions and oh-so-smooth delivery; he lacked the courage to deliver his implications directly but was using York’s presence in the room to wheedle something out like a rat worrying at a can on a trash heap. His insinuations made York decide to bring it into the open.
‘Lord Pembury, I told the police about Mr Hawkhurst.’
Sir Gerald’s smile became that of an Inquisition priest hearing the dragged-out confession of a heretic.
‘You told the police what about Mr Hawkhurst?’ Pembury’s hooded eyes were now almost closed.
‘About his financial problems, that he had been refused further help from yourself and that on Lord Dunford’s death he became your heir.’ York had no intention of giving Sir Gerald any further satisfaction by saying anything that could be construed as an apology for what he had done.
‘And why did you think that was necessary?’
York could almost feel Sir Gerald squirming with pleasure as Pembury put the next question. He turned and looked defiantly at the solicitor before replying.
‘Because they would eventually have found it out—and because it was clearly possible that Mr Hawkhurst could have committed the crime. He had every reason to—that very evening he had approached me about what help the Estate might still give him—and every opportunity. If I had not spoken, I could later have been accused of withholding relevant information. I’m sure Sir Gerald can appreciate the legal position that could have left me in.’
The lawyer turned his face away with the dismissive expression of a politician who does not choose to acknowledge a valid point made by the other side.
‘Why have you not told me this before?’ Pembury asked quietly.
‘I’ve not had the opportunity. I’m sorry, but…’ York cursed himself for using the word, but it was too late, ‘…I was in a position in which I had no alternative. Naturally I trust that Mr Hawkhurst is innocent.’
‘Oh, naturally.’ Sir Gerald’s whisper was so soft it was difficult to be sure that he had spoken.
‘Please be so good as to inform me in future of any further action you may feel…obliged to take in this matter. Thank you, Alister, that will be all for the moment.’
The study clock ticked ten times in the silence before York stood up and left the room. Back in his office he slammed the file he was carrying on to his desk and stood by the window, angry, heaving breath clouding the glass. He had been so certain that suspicion would fall on Hawkhurst, so convinced that what he had told the police would result in a murder charge. And it was still possible. From what the lawyer had said, Hawkhurst’s alibi had been found wanting and he was not yet in the clear. York’s mind wrestled with the problem of what further evidence he might be able to produce that would damn him—and wipe the sneering smile off Sir Gerald’s haughty face.
*
Maltravers and Tess went to the Batsman again for lunch, where the previously unknown relationship between Dunford and Luke Norman had given the bar-room regulars considerable material for discussion, revealing an interesting mixed reaction towards such behaviour. The prevailing view appeared to be that anyone who played a decent game of cricket could be forgiven certain private habits, although you should keep an eye on them in the shower room after the match. Luke Norman, on the other hand, was too damned pretty for a man, was not known to be a cricketer and had more or less admitted everything by going into hiding. Waiting to be served, Maltravers listened, half-amused, half-appalled.
‘The clever money seems to be on Luke now,’ he remarked as he re-joined Tess. ‘Although prejudice is running riot all over the place.’
‘I’m not too concerned about that at the moment,’ Tess replied. ‘I’m more worried about what’s the matter with Joanna York.’
‘It could, of course, be just that she’s upset at Simon’s murder, but…’ Maltravers thought back and shook his head in rejection. ‘No, it was more than that. Even if there had been something between them—which is quite possible from everything we now know about Simon—why should she look so terrified? Unless, of course…Alister York?’ Tess nodded as he looked across the table at her inquiringly.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘I’m ahead of you. He’s highly over-possessive and certainly the jealous type. It wouldn’t have taken much of a flirtation by Simon to make him angry—and I think he could be very angry indeed. Which means that he could have done it and now she’s terrified because he’s told her and she’s too scared to go to the police. Christ, it’s plausible Gus.’
‘Horribly plausible,’ agreed Maltravers.
‘You’re not ahead of me, you’ve just said what I’ve been thinking. But what the hell can we do?’
‘Go to the police.’
‘But the trouble is we don’t know anything,’ Maltravers objected. ‘We’ve come up with a theory after seeing Joanna York suffering from some sort of terminal panic, but that doesn’t mean we can start accusing her husband of murder. We’ve already pointed the police in Luke Norman’s direction. They’re going to start getting ideas about us if we come up with somebody else as well without some hard evidence.’
But Maltravers knew the theory was disturbingly persuasive. York had found Dunford’s body—or at least had said he had, which was a well-known smokescreen—and it was irresistibly possible that he could have killed him. Maltravers recalled that York had said he was looking for Dunford to say goodnight when he found him dead; the story suddenly sounded very thin. He took a pensive mouthful of bitter.
‘How can we find out anything more?’ he wondered.
‘I’ll go and see her and try and get her to talk,’ said Tess.
‘It’s worth a try. Do you want me to come too?’
‘No. I don’t think she’s very comfortable with men. No woman with a husband like that would be. And two of us would probably frighten her as well. It’ll be best if I go on my own.’
They finished their lunch hastily and walked back up Bellringer Street, where Tess stopped for a moment outside the York’s house until Maltravers had disappeared round the corner at the top of the hill before she rang the bell. There was no reply at first, but she was convinced Joanna York was still in the house and kept ringing until the curtains at the front window moved slightly, then the door was opened a couple of inches.
‘Yes? What is it?’
Only part of the girl’s face was visible, apprehensive and enquiring. Tess said nothing; had she asked to go in, she was sure of instant refusal and the slender opening she was being offered would close. She summoned up every feeling of sympathy she could find and put it across in her silent face; for several seconds the two women looked at each other, then the door opened just a fraction more.
‘I’m all right,’ Joanna said, but there was no conviction in her voice. ‘I wasn’t well this morning. I’m sorry if I…’
Softly, softly, thought Tess. ‘Don’t apologise. You’re looking much better now. We were just a bit concerned, that’s all.’
Joanna York was not looking better. Her make-up was fresh and her hair was combed—but what Tess and Maltravers had seen earlier remained in the eyes.
‘If you’re not feeling well, I’ll be happy to get your shopping for you,’ she added. ‘You obviously wanted something from the butcher.’
‘No, it’s all right…I’ll do it later.’ She was rapidly backing off.
‘Well, if you’re sure. It’s really no trouble.’ Tess tried the only opening she could think of. ‘Actually I’m getting to know your local shops. You’ve heard about Susan’s baby I suppose?’
Now she was just someone calling with a piece of village news, not an intruder. But the door did not open any further. ‘No. What’s happened?’
‘He arrived in the middle of the night. Great dramas.’
‘Oh. How nice. Give them my love. Thank you for telling me. Would you excuse me? I’ve got something on the stove.’
Wrong, lady, all bloody wrong, thought Tess as the words rattled meaninglessly out, the smile flashed automatically and the door swiftly shut. No woman—and not many men—would dismiss such an announcement so hastily. No questions, no interest, no surprise, just a big, fat nothing. Don’t try and tell me you’re all right. For a few moments she stared at the door in frustration then hurried back to the Penroses.
‘Well?’ Maltravers asked urgently as she walked into the kitchen. ‘Did you find out anything?’
‘Nothing and everything,’ she replied. ‘You can’t get through to her. I told her about Susan’s baby and it was as if I’d said there was something good on television tonight. We are on to something, darling.’
‘Yes, but what? It could be that…I don’t know…that she’s been told she’s got cancer or something. We’ve got to accept that there are other possibilities— perhaps more likely ones—than that her husband is a murderer.’ Maltravers sighed. ‘But it’s still possible…Perhaps we could talk to a friend of hers?’
‘From what Susan told us, she doesn’t appear to have all that many,’ said Tess. ‘Susan might know but…look, Simon was murdered when? The early hours of Sunday morning. Today we see Joanna York looking like a madwoman. All right, the two things may not be connected, but it’s one hell of a coincidence. Susan’s in hospital and we don’t know anyone else in Old Capley to talk to about Joanna York. We have a perfectly realistic theory that says her husband could have killed Simon. What do we do?’
Maltravers made a sound of frustration. ‘The best thing I can suggest is that you try again later, but…let me think a minute…you can’t just go back with the obvious intention of wanting to make her talk, we need some excuse for you to get into the house. Any ideas?’
‘I’ll find something,’ Tess promised him. ‘Believe me. Because the more I think about it, the more certain I am that we really have come up with someone else with a motive to kill Simon.’
‘I know we have,’ said Maltravers. ‘And I wish I could find some reason to stop thinking that we’re right. Because if we are, it also means that Joanna York is in danger.’
9
Dunford was dead and Alister York knew his career at Edenbridge House had finished, but he would conscientiously continue to carry out his duties until the end of his final day there. Having placed the death notice in The Times and discussed the funeral arrangements with the vicar of St Barbara’s and the local undertaker, he drafted out the wording of an invitation. While it was certain that the church would be packed for the burial of Lord Dunford, only certain selected people would be invited back to the house; the strictest conventions of etiquette walked with the Pemburys to the grave. He wrote the draft swiftly, his fountain pen—he abhorred ballpoint pens—sweeping in a strong, italic script over the paper; thirty years earlier his father had forged those classic pothooks by standing behind him, chillingly tapping a steel ruler against his hand as his son agonisingly practised and perfected them.
Lord Pembury looked up coldly as York knocked softly on the study door and walked in with the draft in his hand. He took it without a word, read it through in silence then handed it back.
‘Arrange for one hundred to be printed once the date has been confirmed,’ he said. ‘I shall let you have a list of those to whom they are to be sent.’
‘Yes, Lord Pembury.’ York opened a desk diary he had brought with him. ‘I was unable to discuss this while Sir Gerald was here. You have appointments on Wednesday and Thursday, one at Edenbridge, the other with the Liberal leader at the House of Lords. Do you wish me to cancel them?’
‘No. However, Lady Pembury will not be meeting engagements for the time being. The household staff are to wear mourning until after the funeral, but that does not apply to the tourists’ guides. If they wish to wear black ties or something similar, that is a matter for them. The flag will be flown at half-mast until Lord Dunford has been buried. His body will remain in the chapel of the house after its release by the coroner until it is taken to the church. Only family flowers will be accepted at the house, all others must be sent to the undertakers.
‘Once the date of the funeral has been settled, advertise that Edenbridge House and Park will be closed for the day. The police must also be advised of those attending for whom security precautions will be necessary. The family and principal mourners will walk to the church.’
York made rapid and neat notes as Lord Pembury dispassionately gave instructions regarding the burial of his son; personal tragedy dealt with by duty and tradition. Edenbridge House had seen many deaths and the machinery for dealing with them was unalterable.
‘These letters have arrived which
require your attention.’ York passed across a leather folder as Pembury finished speaking. ‘I assumed you would wish to deal with them. I will of course handle all household matters unless something urgent arises.’
Pembury placed the folder on his desk. ‘I’ll read them later and draft replies. Is there anything further?’
‘No, Lord Pembury.’
‘Thank you.’
Pembury returned his attention to a biography of Joseph Kennedy, another man who had buried sons. York hesitated as if to say something else, then turned and walked towards the door.
‘There was an advertisement in Horse and Hound last week for a personal secretary to the Duke of Bray,’ Pembury said without looking up. ‘I don’t know if you noticed it.’
York paused for half a step then walked on without responding. It was a very gentlemanly way of being fired.
Coincidentally, at around the same time, Miller and his murder team were bouncing ideas round in their incident room as statements from everybody at the party—confused, half-remembered and generally useless—were collated and fed into a computer.
‘Lateral thinking time,’ said Miller. ‘Chummy’s alibi from the lady doesn’t stand up but we’ve got nothing strong enough to hold him on and he’s being released with his lawyer’s assurance that he will be available if we want to talk to him again. There’s still no sign of the elusive Mr Norman. Question: could it have been somebody else? There were twenty-seven people in that house when we arrived, remember.’
‘What about this chap…what’s his name?…York?’ said one detective. ‘He couldn’t wait to point the finger at Hawkhurst, could he? Not the sort of thing you’d expect from a faithful private secretary. And he’s the one who found the body.’
Miller frowned all over his face. ‘Definite possibility. Frankly, my money’s still on Norman, but until we find him and see what he has to say for himself it’s a good point…just keep an eye on Mr York.’
Skeleton Key Page 12
