“What did he want?”
“His head office told him to pull in my overdraft.”
“But it’s only the other day he said — ”
“I know. But bankers are realists and one of their board read about Margaret and that got him to thinking there might be no marriage with Elizabeth and if there’s no marriage, no extinction of my overdraft. Bankers being very hard businessmen, the local manager was told to ask me to repay the money at my convenience, always provided my convenience didn’t stretch more than a few days ahead.”
Feeling physically sick, she stared at the fireplace. It was enormous, big enough to take trunks rather than logs, and in the summer they filled the metal fire basket with pine cones. Above the carved stone hung two sets of framed medals. The ones to their right had belonged to their grandfather and he had won them during the Boer War, while the ones on the left were their father’s from the First World War. Above the medals hung a cavalry sword that a Ventnor had used and which was reputed to have cut down a member of the French Imperial Guard at Waterloo. History closed in on one in Reton Park Hall.
“What did you say to the manager?” she asked dully.
“He told me even a couple of hundred might quiet head office, but I tried to explain that the only thing I had to offer would be more bills.”
“Can we find any money from anywhere?”
“If there is a source, I don’t know of it. There’s another amount due on one of the mortgages soon.”
“What’s to happen about the repairs to the house?”
“That’s one load of trouble I’d forgotten… To hell with everything and everybody, Pat. We’ll carry on. By the time the bills come in we’ll be able to pay.”
She turned until she could look straight at him. One of the minor tragedies about Patricia was that she had most beautiful hair that surrounded her head in a halo of natural gold. On any other woman it would have been magnificent. On her, it highlighted her imperfections. “If you’ve an ounce of sense you’ll tell the architect to hold things up.”
“The repairs must be done.”
“They’ve waited so many years they can wait a bit longer.”
He lit a cigarette after he’d offered her one and she’d refused. “Not betting much on my chances, are you?”
“For God’s sake, I’m only trying to point out that it’s a time to go carefully…” She spoke more slowly. “You’ve got to tell the police you met Margaret after March. Then they’ll know you’ve nothing to hide.”
“Shall I add that I tried to get hold of something for her?” Patricia groaned.
The painted Ventnors on the walls stared impassively into the room.
Chapter 8
Fisher was in the magistrates’ court when the uniformed constable whispered to him that Roger Ventnor was at the station and asking to speak to him. He moved as quietly as possible around the box which housed the court inspector and leaned over the desks to speak to the prosecuting solicitor. After a hurried conversation, Fisher returned to the uniformed constable. “I’m about to be called here. Tell one of my lads to take him up to my room and hold him there.”
“Very good, sir.”
Fisher leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. He studied the courtroom: the justices, determinedly looking grave and therefore supposedly learned, the solicitors — two smart, one seedy — in the front desks that were set parallel to the bench, the reporters in the press box, heads on outstretched arms, apparently asleep, the man in the dock on a charge of careless driving, the men and women waiting to be called in the following cases, the public, which included six schoolgirls who watched with bright interest and frequently giggled… What was Ventnor up to?
“Detective Inspector Fisher.”
He jerked himself away from the wall and crossed the four feet into the witness box that was at right angles to the bench and the dock. He took the oath without bothering to look at the card.
The wait would set Ventnor’s nerves jumping and that was always a good thing. Waiting could be just as effective as any third degree.
Fisher gave his evidence and contemptuously denied the defending solicitor’s suggestion that the accused driver — who’d had the misfortune to overtake Fisher at high speed just before going into a skid — was forced into error by a third car.
Fisher left the box and told the court inspector to give him a shout if he was suddenly wanted.
He left the courtroom and went down the passageway, which brought him to the stairs which he climbed. At the top of them was his room. He entered it. Ritter, smoking a cigarette, was sitting in the chair behind Fisher’s desk. If the cigarette came from the pack that was lying on the desk and which belonged to the detective inspector, Ritter would receive an earful. Ventnor sat in a hard-backed chair. Visitors were deliberately made uncomfortable.
“Morning, Mr. Ventnor.” Fisher walked behind his desk and took over the seat from Ritter. Ritter retired to another hard-backed chair. Junior detectives were also made uncomfortable.
There was a pause. Fisher made no effort to break it.
Eventually, Roger said, “There’s something I want to make clear. A change in evidence I suppose you’d call it, but you must understand that I didn’t give her those pills.”
“Very well.”
“I did see Margaret Stukeley after March.”
“When was this?”
“Three times altogether.”
“What was the date of the first meeting?”
“Sometime in May. It was entirely fortuitous because I’d just come out of Filter Jones and she — ”
“Why had you gone there?”
What in the hell, thought Roger, did that have to do with Margaret’s death? “I was looking at some equipment.”
“Did you spend much time with Miss Stukeley?”
“We had lunch together at the Chinese and parted when we left there.”
May, June, July, thought Fisher. Two months pregnant. “And the next meeting?”
“It was at the beginning of this month.”
“Can you give me the exact date?”
“It was a Sunday.”
Fisher looked across at the calendar on the wall which pictured an over-proportioned female coyly trying to keep a part of her naked bosom to herself. “Must have been the first. And the second meeting. Was that by chance?”
“She telephoned me and asked me to see her. I arranged to meet her outside The Kinema and we went for a short drive to the Devil’s Basin.”
“And the third occasion?”
“The sixth.”
“In other words, the day before the last one on which she was seen alive?”
“Yes.”
“Previously, Mr. Ventnor, you’ve always denied having seen Miss Stukeley after March, haven’t you?”
“Yes.” Roger lit a cigarette because he had to do something with his hands. “I… I didn’t want my fiancée to know that — I expect you can understand?”
“You thought she might interpret the facts as meaning you were carrying on an affair?”
“Yes.”
“And were you?”
“Of course not.”
“You’re quite certain?”
“Yes.”
“At which of the meetings did Margaret Stukeley tell you she was pregnant?”
“On the Sunday.” Having answered, Roger’s mind suddenly told him he’d just been a bloody fool to admit he’d known she was pregnant. He felt as though he’d set foot on a spiral staircase that wound down and down with precipitous pitch into blackness.
“Why did she tell you?”
“Why?”
“Was it to ask you to help her?”
“Yes.” No other answer would sound reasonable.
“What was your reply?”
“I told her I couldn’t help, and that in any case I wouldn’t.”
“Why did you refuse?”
“I just did.”
“Surely you could have gone
along to your friends? Eventually, you’d have found one who knew the ropes. You might even have an old school friend who’s become a doctor?”
Roger was certain sweat was beginning to form on his forehead and he longed to wipe it with a handkerchief, but he forced himself to remain passive because he’d once read that sweat was one of the signs of guilt. “I didn’t think of doing anything like that.”
“How did Miss Stukeley react to your refusal to help her?”
“She didn’t seem very surprised.”
“About the third meeting — the one that took place on the Friday before she died. At what time did you meet her outside The Kinema?”
“About seven-thirty.”
“In the evening, of course?”
“Yes.”
“Was this meeting to ask you again for help?”
“I… I thought so. But on the journey she told me she was all right.”
“And what did you think that meant?”
“That the father was either going to marry her or help her.”
“By father, you imagined the artist she told you about?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you find it a little odd she never told you his name? Not even his Christian name?”
“It didn’t seem odd at the time.”
“I see. Carry on, Mr. Ventnor.”
“That’s the full story. After we’d smoked a cigarette I drove her back to The Kinema and left her.”
“And you didn’t see her again?”
“No.”
“Is there anything more you think might help us or that we ought to know? With particular reference, of course, to the artist.”
“Nothing.”
Fisher smiled. “Well, Mr. Ventnor, I’m most grateful for you coming along and filling in one or two of the blanks. You know how it is, a little piece of information from here and a little from there begin to build up the picture. But I do wish you could have helped us more in our search for the artist — it’s being a real cow! By the way, just before you go, Detective Ritter will read over your statement and if you don’t agree with anything, say so. After that, we get you to sign. Out-and-out formality!”
Roger listened to his statement being read out, then he signed it.
“If you should remember anything more, Mr. Ventnor, let us know — we’re an ever open house here.”
Ritter escorted Roger down to the front door of the police station. When Ritter returned to the D.I.’s room, he found Fisher pacing the floor.
“Odd, isn’t it?” said Fisher. “Time gets ’em all. They start off by denying everything and then slowly they begin to let out little bits of the truth to try and convince us they’re completely honest. Maybe Ventnor thought we’d find out about the meetings by The Kinema and he ought to tell us first — ironic to know we’d probably never have got on to them without his help! Cover The Kinema. Find someone who saw them together. And if you want to know where my money’s going, it’s on betting that that last meeting was on the seventh and not the sixth. Once we’ve proved that, our case is more than halfway home.”
*
Elizabeth Wheeldon had a dress sense and more than enough money to make certain that that sense was always fully flattered. She knew her figure was not made for the extreme or the exotic, and she contented herself with the simple — the simplicity of the expensive. She was invariably smart.
As Roger walked across the field with her, arm-in-arm, he thought how wonderfully warm she was. It gave her a very special attraction of her own.
“A penny for them,” she said.
“I was thinking you looked warm and I loved you.”
“You may kiss me for that, sir.”
There was no public, only a herd of cows grazing the fifty-acre field that was down to a new ley, so he kissed her.
“It’s funny to think I once didn’t know you,” she said dreamily, as they resumed walking. “And if I hadn’t gone to that dreadful cocktail party, I’d never have met you. You really ought to be more polite to the Bayles when we meet them. It was their cocktail party.”
“Even that doesn’t make up for the fact they’re the Bayles.”
They came to a five-bar gate and leaned against it. He watched the fall and rise of her bosom. They hadn’t yet gone all the way in their lovemaking, not from any moral inhibitions but because they wanted to delay the pleasure to make it all the more piquant when they finally savoured it. Elizabeth was passionate with no two ways about it, and she was looking forward to marriage physically as much as he was.
“I went to Prestry and saw the police today,” he said. He stared across the land toward the woods in the far distance. They’d once belonged to the estate and had provided wonderful shooting.
“What about?” She turned around and leaned with her back against the gate so that she could study his face.
“I wanted them to know that I had met Margaret after March.”
“You — you what?”
“I met Margaret three times.”
She looked away from him and stared into the distance. When she spoke, there was a catch in her voice. “Having told them, you’ve decided you’ve got to tell me?”
He drew in a deep breath, almost as if bracing himself. “The first time was sheer accident. I was coming out of Filter Jones after having a look at — ”
“Damn Filter Jones.”
“She asked me to take her to lunch. I did so and we parted immediately afterward.”
She looked directly at him once more and her expression was a mixture of anger and hurt. “When was that?”
“May.”
“And you couldn’t tell me in May?”
“I didn’t particularly want you to know about her, or to start thinking there was anything between her and me.”
“And you couldn’t rely sufficiently on my trust to tell me and know I’d believe you?”
“It was all so trivial, Elizabeth. If I’d mentioned it, you’d have thought I did so because it had a meaning — and it was such an innocuous meeting there just wasn’t any point in raising any sort of query in your mind.”
“When was the next time?”
“She telephoned me on Sunday and said I had to see her.”
“What Sunday?”
“The one before she died.”
“Where was I?”
He found himself silently shouting for understanding. Her questions had more hostility about them than had had the inspector’s. “In the house,” he said miserably.
“Well?”
“She said I had to see her so I drove into Prestry and picked her up.”
Elizabeth’s voice was hard. “Was that when you told Pat and me you had to go off to town to see about buying some cows?”
“Yes.”
“Full marks for the story. It fooled me.”
“It wasn’t like that. Can’t you see?”
“What happened when you saw her?”
“On the drive she told me she was pregnant. She begged me to help her get rid of the kid.”
Unconscious of what she was doing, Elizabeth put her crooked forefinger between her teeth and bit down on it.
“I went up to London and saw a doctor. He warned me to forget what I was trying to do and he told me that any abortion was dangerous to the mother. I met Margaret on the next Friday and said I couldn’t do anything for her.”
She removed her forefinger from her mouth. “And you’ve told the police you’ve tried to help her?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Oh, my God!” she murmured. “Have the police been able to find the artist?”
“Not yet.”
“Suppose they don’t.”
“With all of them looking for him, they can’t miss.”
“But suppose they discover you saw the doctor and tried to do something? Even though nothing happened, they’re bound to think you kept on trying elsewhere until you succeeded.”
“They can’t find that out, darling.”
<
br /> “Can’t they? Are you scared of facing the truth? What have you done, Roger?”
“I swear there was absolutely nothing going on behind your back.”
“I’m getting cold, Roger. Let’s go back.”
Chapter 9
Due to the Government’s policy of credit restriction, we regretfully have to draw your attention to the sum of one thousand pounds owed to our company by you and secured by a mortgage on certain of your land. This was in the nature of a temporary loan — although made several years ago — and we shall be obliged, therefore, if you could see your way to repaying this loan in the immediate future.
Roger flicked the letter across the breakfast table and Patricia picked it up and read it. She looked up. “Is it coincidence?”
“That this should come immediately after the reports appeared in the local rag? I wouldn’t bet any of my shirts on it.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Tell them to join the queue. There’s no favouritism round here.”
“Roger… Roger, why won’t you treat the matter seriously? Every time I try and talk to you about it, you turn it into a joke.” Her voice was thin, and she stared at him with eyes that expressed bitter worry.
“Look, Pat, let’s get the whole thing into perspective. I know everyone’s been going round with faces a mile long because of all that could happen, but when I woke up this morning I was suddenly able to sit back and look at the facts as if they concerned someone else, and that’s when I realised that so far as I’m concerned, I must be in the clear.”
“The police — ”
“I didn’t give Margaret the pills so no detective can ever prove I did. As for Elizabeth, things got a bit ice-boxy when I first told her, but in the end she saw reason. After all, I wasn’t confessing adultery.”
“She doesn’t have to be a genius to guess what went on before March.”
“She knew before all this blew up that I wasn’t reared in a monastery.”
“Are you beginning to claim you’ve always been in the right?”
“I’m not claiming anything. You’re a hell of a one for arguing, Pat. How about a slice of sympathy for your brother, instead of this inquisitorial catechism? Damn it, he needs something.”
The Burden of Proof Page 7
