‘No, indeed, Inspector,’ said Mrs Dunbar. ‘We’ve already dined. You’ll excuse me not getting up,’ she added, patting the walking stick beside her. Jack raised his eyebrows involuntarily. It was difficult to see the fragile Evie Grace of Sir Douglas’s memories in this grey-haired, stout woman, dressed soberly and correctly in widow’s black, but as she spoke, he amended his first impression. Her voice had a husky richness which imparted Drama to the simplest sentence. Her eyes were a striking, guileless china-blue that implied helpless dependence on the Big Strong Man she was looking at. Jack didn’t quite believe in that dependence. Clever? Perhaps not; but shrewd certainly.
‘We met Captain Lewis this morning and I found even that excursion exhausting.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘Still, even though my wretched ankle stops me from getting about as I would like, I shouldn’t complain, should I? Everyone has been so very kind and when I think if it wasn’t for my accident I might have been the one to discover poor Andrew, I can only say that I feel guided.’ She clasped her hands together with a stricken expression. ‘It seems dreadful to even think of it now, but I was annoyed with Andrew for being late. If I had been able to manage the stairs, I would have gone to his room and then . . .’ She shuddered. ‘So often in my life I have felt guided. It is a great thing,’ she added, ‘to feel protected by a Higher Power.’
There was a weary sigh from Hector Ferguson.
‘It is only,’ continued Mrs Dunbar, ignoring her son, ‘when I have ignored the promptings of my inner nature and succumbed to the so-called wisdom of the world things have gone wrong.’
‘What on earth are you doing here, Haldean?’ demanded Hector Ferguson brusquely.
Mrs Dunbar winced at his tone. ‘Hector,’ she said faintly. ‘Don’t be so abrupt. You know it upsets me. But,’ she added, looking at Jack, ‘I understand that Hector spoke to you about my late husband.’ Her eyes circled. ‘I was terribly upset when I learned of the suspicions that Hector had allowed to fester. The idea that poor Andrew was concerned in any underhand activity was completely monstrous, as events have so sadly proved.’
Ferguson shifted uneasily in his chair. ‘We’ve been over all this before, Mother. You were as puzzled as I was, you know you were.’
‘That is beside the point, Hector,’ she said in a much more business-like voice. ‘It doesn’t matter. However inexplicable your stepfather’s moods may have been, I cannot think they were a proper subject to be discussed outside the family. To suggest, as you did, that he profited by the sad events at Stoke Horam is completely unacceptable.’
‘It was only what you thought yourself,’ said Ferguson defensively. ‘Yes, I know I was wrong, but you were worried, you know you were.’ He glanced at Mr Bryce. ‘We all were, weren’t we?’
Mr Bryce cleared his throat. ‘It was a concern I shared with your mother, Hector. I did not expect to be quoted on the matter.’
Rackham seized on the salient point. ‘So Mr Dunbar’s change of mood was noticeable, was it? And you noticed the change after his visit to Stoke Horam?’
Mr Bryce bit his lip. ‘Yes,’ he agreed reluctantly.
‘And you thought it odd, sir? Granted the circumstances, I mean.’
‘I thought it very odd, Inspector,’ said Mr Bryce cautiously, with a glance at Evelyn Dunbar. She nodded almost imperceptibly for him to continue. ‘You know Mr Dunbar had come to an arrangement with Professor Carrington? Mr Dunbar, quite justifiably, congratulated himself on the deal he had worked out. There was no two ways about it, he stood to make a great deal of money from Professor Carrington’s machine. And, to be fair to him, he had a sincere interest in sound and wireless and was always interested in any new advances for their own sake.’
‘Especially if he thought he could make a profit from them,’ interjected Ferguson.
Mr Bryce shook his head. ‘You mustn’t be too cynical. He really did understand the subject. That’s why he was so enthusiastic about Professor Carrington’s work.’
‘And why you, I and everyone else who knew him thought it was so peculiar when he acted like a dog with two tails after the Professor bought it.’
‘Not immediately,’ countered Mr Bryce. ‘That wasn’t his first reaction.’
‘All right, if you say so. But it wasn’t long before he picked himself up.’ Hector Ferguson looked defensively at his mother. ‘I know you don’t like me talking about it, but it was very odd. He loved money and was always looking to make a profit.’
‘That is the nature of business,’ put in Mr Bryce.
‘I don’t dispute that. What I did wonder was why, once the Professor had died, he should suddenly be so cheerful about things. It wasn’t natural.’
‘He must have been relieved when he realized that the machine was going to be developed after all,’ suggested Jack.
‘By Gerard Carrington, you mean?’ asked Mr Bryce. ‘No, that wasn’t it.’
Ferguson nodded agreement. ‘He cheered up before Gerard Carrington came on the scene.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘I still say it’s odd.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ sniffed his mother, looking close to tears. ‘I don’t want anyone to talk about it. You know things were difficult, Hector.’ She clasped her hands round her knees and swallowed deeply, looking at Jack and Rackham. ‘You must understand. Hector is a dear boy but he felt my wrongs very deeply.’ The dear boy, Jack noticed, rolled his eyes at this point. ‘He will always seek to make things better for me, by taking my side in any agreement, in any dispute,’ – Ferguson sighed once more – ‘and, of course, to blame Andrew for the slightest disruption comes easily to him.’ She shook her head wearily. ‘I should have never married again. In my heart of hearts I knew we were not suited, but I allowed myself to be swayed. I was very foolish. I blame myself entirely.’
Ferguson raised his eyebrows expressively and drew on his cigarette. ‘That wasn’t exactly what I was getting at, Mother.’ He glanced at Jack. ‘To get back to what I was saying, why are you here? I wouldn’t have thought there were any questions left to answer. After all, you’ve nabbed Gerard Carrington, haven’t you?’
‘Poor Mr Carrington,’ said Mrs Dunbar distantly. ‘I liked him. I cannot believe he planned such a wicked crime. Andrew must have upset him. If Andrew had a fault, it was that he could be a little abrasive at times. Poor Mr Carrington must have simply answered to the impulse of the moment. I’m sure it was all a misunderstanding. I do hope he’s treated kindly. I cannot bear to think of him languishing in prison.’
‘He isn’t,’ said Rackham.
‘What?’
‘It’s like this, ma’am,’ said Rackham, clearing his throat. ‘There have been a few further developments.’ Mrs Dunbar exchanged worried glances with Mr Bryce and sat forward expectantly. ‘Some new facts have come to our attention.’ He couldn’t help but pause for effect. ‘We now believe Gerard Carrington to be innocent.’
There was an abrupt, rigid silence.
Mrs Dunbar, who had been listening to Rackham with a gentle smile, froze. Her smile, fixed in place, became a rictus grin. Mr Bryce started and muttered an exclamation under his breath, staring at Rackham. Hector Ferguson, his eyes wide and his freckles suddenly vivid against his pale skin, swallowed a mouthful of smoke and choked on his cigarette.
‘No,’ whispered Mrs Dunbar, and then, in a stronger voice, ‘no! You have to be wrong, Inspector.’ She glared at Ferguson, who was still coughing. ‘For heaven’s sake, Hector, will you please stop making that dreadful noise. Go and get a drink of water.’ There was a definite command in her voice.
Ferguson recovered himself. ‘I’m all right.’ His eyes were fixed on Rackham.
‘Hector, go away!’
Rackham held up a placatory hand. ‘Perhaps it’s better if Mr Ferguson stays, ma’am. After all, this concerns him.’
Mrs Dunbar turned to him with frightened apprehension. She took a deep breath before she spoke. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that it concerns Mr Ferg
uson because it was his stepfather who was killed.’
Mrs Dunbar shut her eyes for a second. ‘Yes,’ she said, recovering herself. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘What are these new facts, Inspector?’ asked Mr Bryce. ‘I thought there was no doubt about Gerard Carrington’s guilt. After all, Mrs Dunbar herself saw Carrington leave the hotel and his manner impressed you very unfavourably, did it not, Mrs Dunbar?’
She nodded vigorously. ‘That’s so. As soon as I heard what had happened I felt instinctively he was guilty. He has to be guilty. There wasn’t enough time for anyone else to have done it.’
‘There was, as a matter of fact,’ said Rackham. ‘We have evidence that proves your husband was alive when Mr Carrington left the hotel.’
‘You can’t have!’ she wailed. ‘He was dead. I know he was dead.’
Rackham looked at her appraisingly. ‘How can you be so sure?’
Her mouth quivered ominously. ‘I just know it. I . . . I sensed it.’ She burst into tears. ‘Gerard Carrington must be the man,’ she said between sobs, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘I felt sorry for him, of course I did. Andrew could be very difficult.’ She swallowed noisily. ‘Or . . . Don’t you think Andrew must have killed himself ? After all, he wrote a note to say he killed himself. Can’t we all just say that’s what happened? It’d be so much better if we could simply accept Andrew killed himself.’
‘Unfortunately, we know that’s not the truth,’ said Rackham.
‘Excuse me, Mrs Dunbar, why does it upset you so much?’ asked Jack.
Mrs Dunbar couldn’t bring herself to answer.
‘Don’t you see, Haldean?’ said Hector Ferguson, his face still pale. ‘If Gerard Carrington is innocent, someone else must be guilty.’
Mrs Dunbar burst out into renewed sobs. ‘Hector, don’t! Don’t say another word!’ She looked up from her handkerchief. Her eyes were suddenly calculating. She took a deep breath, squashed the handkerchief in her hand, and sat up straight. There was a regal quality in her bearing which demanded respect. It was, thought Jack, startled by the change, as if another personality had overlaid the fussy, tearful, slightly silly woman of seconds before. When she spoke, her voice matched her bearing.
‘I know, Inspector, that I must be a suspect.’
For a moment no one spoke. Mrs Dunbar threw back her head, facing Rackham with dignity. Her expression showed an acceptance of the blows of fate. It was a gallant challenge to the man before her. Blimey, thought Jack, her voice could still a theatre. A theatre . . .
Rackham shifted unhappily in his chair. ‘I wouldn’t put it as bluntly as that, ma’am.’
Her hand flicked to one side. It was one of those gestures which, small in themselves, are magnified to huge emotional proportions. It would live in an audience’s memory forever. Her very weakness was so compelling that it forbade the use of strength. Only a complete monster could crush such a delicate creature.
Bloody hell, thought Jack, this is the dickens of a performance. He immediately felt ashamed of doubting her aching sincerity.
‘It’s no use,’ she said, with the ghost of a heart-rendingly brave smile. ‘I’m a woman of the world and I realize how damning the facts must seem.’ She took another deep breath. ‘Andrew and I separated, as you know. What you perhaps do not know is how much I gained by his death.’
‘Mother,’ said Ferguson in a slightly dazed voice. ‘What are you saying?’
She looked at him squarely. ‘I know exactly what I am doing, Hector. I would rather put all my cards on the table sooner than have my affairs discussed behind my back later. The police will make it their business to find out anyway.’ She turned to Mr Bryce. ‘I have never concerned myself overly much with money but you, I know, have a far better grasp of the details than I could ever hope to achieve. You will oblige me by spelling out the position to Inspector Rackham.’
Mr Bryce gave an agonized cough. ‘What, now?’
‘Yes, now.’
He shrugged unhappily. ‘If you say so. In a nutshell, Inspector, Mrs Dunbar inherits everything.’
‘So my income has gone from the allowance Andrew made me to what, Mr Bryce?’
Mr Bryce swallowed. ‘It is a little difficult to say exactly. The firm has not been doing at all well in recent years. Do you really want me to discuss the details now?’
‘Yes. Tell everything. Everything, I say! An accused woman must hold nothing back!’
Mr Bryce sighed unhappily. ‘Just as you like.’ He looked at Rackham over the top of his glasses. ‘Mrs Dunbar had a considerable amount of money of her own when she married which – and I cannot help but feel you were badly advised, Mrs Dunbar – because it was not protected by any form of trust, became the property of Mr Dunbar.’
‘It is not in my nature to hold back. My lawyers urged caution but I despise anything that smacks of meanness. I trusted Andrew. I gave him everything.’
Mr Bryce gave a little cough. ‘As you say, Mrs Dunbar. When you separated Mr Dunbar agreed to make you an allowance of . . .’ He hesitated once more. ‘Do you really want me to cite actual figures, Mrs Dunbar?’
‘Do it!’ she commanded, her face a tragic mask. ‘If you do not, I will. It was little enough in all conscience. He flung me a pittance, a trifling bagatelle, the crumbs from his table.’
Looking round the snug drawing room, Jack couldn’t help wonder at the size of some of the crumbs.
‘You have been in receipt of nine hundred pounds a year,’ said Mr Bryce with a touch of reproof in his voice. He clearly didn’t think nine hundred a year was too crummy either.
‘Nine hundred,’ she echoed. ‘A mere competence when I had never been accustomed to consider money.’ She allowed a few moments’ silence for contemplation of her plight, then her voice took on a firmer note. ‘But now, Mr Bryce, what is it now?’
‘I have already warned you that the firm is not doing as well as could be hoped. However, Mr Dunbar did have an income from various stock holdings and a sizable amount in the bank. You should be comfortably off, Mrs Dunbar.’
‘Exactly.’ She clasped her hands together and looked earnestly at Rackham. ‘You see, Inspector? Andrew – poor Andrew – could never have realized what his petty economies meant to me. I existed on a shoestring, scrimping and saving, eternally penny-pinching and making do. Now I shall be a rich woman.’ She opened her hands wide. ‘The world is mine once more.’
‘I wouldn’t put it like that exactly,’ said Mr Bryce. ‘You can not afford to be too extravagant, you understand.’
She looked at him coldly. ‘It isn’t a matter of mere money. There is a richness of spirit that cannot be entered in a clerk’s ledger. I have regained my freedom. It is not something that can be assessed in mere monetary terms, but to me it is a pearl of great price. I am my own woman once more; free from the shackles I so blindly placed upon my own wrists. I know what you are thinking, Inspector!’
This was so unlikely to be true Jack had to look away for a moment.
‘Even now, although you fight to conceal it, I can see the suspicion, the growing doubts, the stark accusation in your eyes.’
‘No you can’t,’ said Rackham, stung.
She ignored him. ‘J’accuse! That is what is in your heart. I know I had a lot to gain. I realize what interpretation could be put on it if I tried to hide the fact. My poor mother suffered at both the hands of the press and the bar of public opinion. I have learned that it is better to reveal everything!’ She cocked an eyebrow at Rackham. ‘You know who my mother was? She was,’ she said, not waiting for an answer, ‘Violet Cautley.’ She caught Rackham’s expression. ‘I see you know the name. Even now, her name is a byword. She was hounded, Inspector, positively hounded and her life made unbearable but she was innocent, as I am innocent of this monstrous accusation.’
‘I haven’t actually accused you of anything yet,’ said Rackham in desperate self-defence.
‘It is in your mind!’ She raised an arm as if to shield he
rself. ‘Can you understand my emotions? Would I – would any woman – want to endure what my mother endured, to be the subject of ill-nature gossip and speculation?’ With a wave of her hand she put this option to one side. ‘Find out what you will, Inspector, but you will find I am innocent. I know that as a gentleman, you would take my word but as a policeman, you are forced to be nothing more than a calculating machine, collecting crumbs of facts.’ She made the word facts sound slightly indecent. ‘It will tell you nothing but what you know in your heart to be true.’
Rackham reddened and ran a finger round the inside of his collar. ‘Unfortunately, Mrs Dunbar, that’s about the size of it. Collecting facts, I mean. Tell me, when did you last see your husband?’
She sat back with a wistful, reminiscent smile. ‘The last time? How sad that sounds. It is, perhaps, a mercy of Providence that sometimes the future is not ours to apprehend. Sometimes, I – foolish as women are, swayed by a desire to pierce this veil which clouds us – sometimes I have yearned to see beyond, to see further than the few steps which the Merciful All-Knowing illuminates for us.’
Hector Ferguson gave a short sigh. ‘The last time you saw my stepfather was the afternoon he returned from Stoke Horam. That’s what? Nine or ten weeks ago now. It was the day Charles Otterbourne and Professor Carrington died.’
‘So it was,’ she agreed distantly. ‘Poor Andrew was perturbed.’ She unleashed another wistful smile. ‘Although we could not live together, Andrew occasionally liked me to accompany him to public events. There was a dinner that evening he wanted me to attend. You might not know this, Inspector, but I was on the stage before my first marriage. The public were very kind to me. Andrew was well aware that, in my own small way, I am still held in regard.’
‘He would wheel you out if he thought it would influence a deal,’ said Ferguson.
Mrs Dunbar’s lips tightened momentarily. ‘There are still people for whom I evoke fond memories of their youth. And if I could help Andrew, why shouldn’t I? He was still my husband, after all. And – and it was nice to meet people and know that I am not entirely forgotten.’
Off the Record Page 12
