‘I’m sure you really do know and are just refusing to tell me. Is it about that terrible accident?’
‘I just don’t know, Mother.’
‘Fawcett mustn’t worry so. Everything’s going to be all right. I had a premonition and my premonitions are never wrong.’ Julian forbade to remind her of her last expressed premonition which had been on the same subject and totally unfavourable. He loved his mother, particularly for her apparent eccentricity. So many of her contemporaries believed it to be their duty to conform to the picture they ought to present to the world, but she didn’t give a damn for the world.
‘Have you heard any more?’ she asked. ‘About what?’
‘You know very well what I’m referring to.’
‘Your premonitions?’
‘Julian, you’re getting more and more obstructive. I want to know whether anything more has happened about that horrible man’s death? Has that pleasant policeman been asking you a lot of questions?’
‘Which pleasant policeman?’
‘The Irish one.’
‘I haven’t seen him.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Cut my throat and hope to die.’
The far door of the dining-room, leading into the butler’s pantry, opened and Danelli came in. He and his wife were the only servants in the house and from the way in which they seemed not to care how hard they worked it could easily have been mistakenly thought that they had been with the family for many, many years. ‘Anything more?’ asked Danelli, his voice thick with accent.
Lydia turned. ‘No more, thank you. Tell your wife we are having the joint for lunch.’
‘You are having cold meat.’
‘I told her quite specifically that we were having the joint today with roast potatoes and those frozen peas which don’t taste quite as awful as the others. It’s a nice big joint of beef…’
‘Yesterday.’
‘We had the beef yesterday? Did we? Yesterday was Monday and we had…’
Julian, having finished his breakfast, collected up his mail and left. He went through to the hall and the office beyond.
He lit a cigarette, crossed to the window, and looked at the wing. It consisted of a very large ballroom and some very small bedrooms above. His mother was going to spend a great deal of money on repairing the roof and when she died he was going to pull the wing down so that her money would be wasted. But he couldn’t tell her that. If she knew he was going to pull the wing down, she’d return after death to haunt him day in and day out. To her, every last brick was sacred, to be religiously preserved, no matter when it dated from.
He was presuming Hurstley Place would still belong to the family when she died. It was a dangerous presumption. Rafferty had threatened to hurt the Deckers as hard as he could, perhaps even mortally, and now the question must be whether he would reach from beyond the grave to carry out his threat. If it happened like that, the estate would be destroyed. Not even his, Julian’s, mother could prevent that.
He turned away from the window and looked up at the stags’ heads on the wall above the illuminated addresses. Most of them had been shot in Scotland by his grandfather. In his grandfather’s day both the Decker family and Hurstley Place were destined to go on forever.
Had Rafferty suffered an accident, as it always seemed he must because of the utterly careless way in which he handled his gun? Or had someone shot him by accident and was now too scared to speak up? Or had someone murdered him?
Julian left the office and went through the hall to the gun-room where he changed into wellingtons. In the glass-fronted cabinet on the wall were the Decker guns. A .475 double-barrel rifle, a 6.5 mm. magazine rifle, a couple of .22 rifles, a 3” chambers 12 bore, a best pair of Holland and Holland 16 bore, a pair of ancient but beautiful Holland and Holland hammer 12 bore, a hammerless non-ejector 28 bore, two double and one single .410c, and a garden gun. When a Decker learned to shoot, he started at the bottom with an empty garden gun and slowly worked his way up. He carried the garden gun for months before he was allowed to fire it: then he graduated to one of the .410s, changed to the 28 bore, and finally was granted the supreme honour of one of the 16 bore Holland and Holland. Two or three years ago, he and Fawcett had thought about changing the pair of 16s for a pair of 12s, but the cost had been too great and the advantage gained doubtful.
Julian slowly put on a coat of thornproof material. What evidence had Rafferty left lying about for the police to discover and uncover? How much did his tame fat shadow, Abbotts, know?
Julian stubbed out the cigarette. He was having lunch with Barbara. Her father was a merchant banker and the newspapers always referred to him as a millionaire and quoted the length of his cigars. He wasn’t in the Getty class, but he was wealthy and eventually his money would come to Barbara, who in any case had a small fortune in her own right, left to her by an aunt. Julian first met her at a birthday party, meant to launch the daughter of the house into the world of society: the daughter had been living with some sort of weirdie in outer Chelsea and hadn’t wanted to be launched anywhere. He had been about to leave, only half an hour after arrival, when he saw Barbara, dancing with a man with a beard. He had brashly claimed a previous acquaintance and then he had gone on to surplant the man with the beard. It was unshakably right that a Decker should marry a girl with money because Hurstley Place needed money as the earth needed rain to make it fruitful. He hadn’t proposed to her because she was wealthy, but her wealth had been no hindrance.
He picked up a hat and prepared to go into the lashing rain. Still, his mind kept asking questions. Suppose Rafferty had left behind enough proof for the police to discover the truth – how would, he Julian, be affected? He supposed he had committed some sort of a crime. Would they try him for it and perhaps imprison him? Could it possibly affect Barbara and him? He angrily told himself that that was a ridiculous question. Barbara was not the kind of person to retire at the first hint of trouble: on the contrary, she was more likely to roll up her sleeves and go out to meet trouble half-way.
*
Detective Superintendent Quincy, in charge of the county’s C.I.D, and Doherty understood each other’s faults, which made for a pleasant relationship. In many ways, they complemented each other: the superintendent was normally pessimistic but had a round, roly-poly face that suggested a happy disposition, whereas Doherty was normally optimistic but his face, when in repose, looked so gloomy that it seemed as if he must just have committed suicide.
Quincy sat on the edge of Doherty’s office desk and swung his right leg backwards and forwards. ‘Well, Sam?’
‘That just about sums everything up, sir.’
‘What’s to do?’
‘Not much, and that’s a fact. It’s like a play by Pirandello: five characters with motives in search of a murder.’ Doherty went round his desk and sat down. He opened the top right-hand drawer and brought out a small tin of whiffs. ‘D’you use these?’
‘With the price of tobacco what it is, I use anything that’s offered.’ He accepted one of the whiffs. ‘How d’you make five?’
Once his cigar was alight, Doherty leaned back in his chair. The two Deckers…’
‘Hell, man, you told me that one of em’s permanently in a wheel-chair.’
‘If you saw him manoeuvre the thing around you wouldn’t cross him off any list just because of that. The two Deckers were under some sort of pressure from Rafferty. Then there’s Cranleigh who may have mucked around with Rafferty’s wife a bit more heartily than he’s so far admitted, and Wade who was on the wrong end of Rafferty’s business dealings.’
‘All right, that’s four. Who’s number five?’
‘Mrs Decker.’
‘Who? For God’s sake, Sam, how can you say something like that? Have you been on the marijuana?’
‘She loves that house and estate like you and I love our wives. If it was really threatened, she’d do anything in the world to save it, and damn the consequences. I’ve checked. She
was supposed to be in the house at the time, but she could easily have been at King’s Beat.’
‘But Mrs Decker…’ Quincy got off the desk, crossed the floor, and looked at the map of the division which hung on the wall. He returned to the nearer chair in front of the desk. ‘I knew this case was going to stink. So you’ve some suspects. Suspects for what? An accident? A murder?’
‘I know, sir. That’s the question.’
‘You’re bad for my blood pressure, Sam. You realise that, don’t you? You turn up with a case and don’t even damn’ well know if it is a case. There must be some evidence somewhere. Is any more forensic evidence in, or something from the gun expert?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What size shot were they using?’
‘All were using five except Henry Decker and Wade.’
‘That doesn’t really tell you anything, does it?’
‘No, sir. If you were going to commit murder, you’d make certain you had one cartridge of the right sort with you.’
‘So help me, Sam, I could strangle you. What in the name of hell do I tell the A.C.C? One of my D.I’s, sir, is investigating a crime which may very well not be a crime, but he’s investigating really hard just the same.’
‘You could always say I’m suffering from a hunch.’
‘If you’re working on a hunch, lose it.’
‘Something along the line smells.’
‘And I could tell you what, only I’ve been brought up polite.’
‘I’ll swear it wasn’t a self-inflicted accident.’
‘You can swear all you like, but it could have been. That’s the evidence.’
Doherty sighed.
‘You Irish are all the same: always causing trouble. God knows why we hesitated so long to hand Ireland back to you.’ Quincy scratched the back of his round head. ‘What’s your next move?’
‘I’ll keep on digging, sir. I want to know what Rafferty was talking about when he said he’d force the Deckers to receive him and his wife. I want to know why Abbotts thought the death wasn’t an accident.’
‘Did he say he didn’t?’
‘No. But Detective Constable Pawley saw him and reports that reaction.’
‘Pawley. Pawley. Isn’t that the red-head who created trouble in Y division when he got on the wrong side of one of the town councillors?’
‘I believe something did happen.’
‘Well you make certain something doesn’t happen here with him.’ Quincy stood up and pushed back the chair. ‘It’s your case, Sam, and I’ll make no secret of the fact that I’m leaving you with it so that you can sweat all the blood.’ Ash fell from his cigar on to his coat and then on to his trousers. He brushed it off. ‘Don’t forget for one second you’re dealing with the Deckers. Get on the wrong side of them, Sam, and your remaining career with the police is past history: nothing more.’
Chapter Seven
Barbara and her father lived in a large, handsome Georgian house to the south of Ashford. He had no instinctive love of the country and thought of it merely as offering him a convenient way of living out of London, but she was different and it had been she who persuaded him to buy the farm next to their house when it came up for sale some years previously. Since he had bought the land at seventy-five pounds an acre and it was now worth around two hundred, he thought of the purchase as a reasonably successful one: she knew that this was farm land which would not be built over.
Barbara and Julian had lunch in the dining-room. In front of the larger radiator, Toby, the G.S.P, lay sound asleep but making short yapping noises as he chased after runners in his dreams.
Julian studied Barbara as he ate the grapefruit the housekeeper had served. One of his friends had said that if she put on a bargee’s outfit, she would still look like a Dior mannequin: he disliked mannequins, but thought the comparison reasonably apt. Even picking-up, when covered by floppy weatherproof and thornproof clothing, she remained reasonably shapely. She had a softly-featured, regular face with a nose that had a jocular hint of a turned-up tip. Her eyes were round and deep-blue and they contrasted vividly with her black, naturally wavy, hair.
‘What are you thinking, Julian?’
He smiled. ‘I was assessing your physical features.’
‘I thought you were looking averagely lecherous.’
‘I told you some time ago that I have a passionate nature.’
‘You did, my darling, and by then it was not news.’ She pressed the bell-punch under the table and the housekeeper came in, took away the dirty plates, and put on the table clean plates and the dishes of the main course. Toby had woken up and he went up to the housekeeper and smelled her fingers to see if she had any food for him.
‘You don’t get anything at meal times,’ said Barbara sharply.
Toby wagged his truncated tail. It was possible to suppose from his expression that he knew that when his mistress was not looking, he did get something during meal times. When the housekeeper left, he left with her, tail wagging more quickly than before.
Barbara helped herself to fried potatoes and peas. ‘Is it a bit cold in here, Julian?’
‘Cold. I’d have called it semi-tropical.’
‘I’m sure the thermostat’s been altered.’
‘Mother said the other day that she couldn’t think how you’d exist at Hurstley because of the cold. She recommended long woollen underwear. I said it didn’t sound like you.’
‘Maybe we can install central heating?’
‘Maybe,’ he replied, his voice suddenly flat.
‘Surely we could do it in some of the rooms. There’d be no need to do it in all.’
‘I suppose so.’
She looked at him. ‘What’s wrong, Julian?’
‘Wrong?’
‘You’ve been as miserable as anything for some of the time, staring into space and looking like death warmed up.’
He cut a kidney in half.
‘Is it this horrible accident that’s worrying you?’
He was going to deny that anything was worrying him, but realised the futility of this. ‘In a way it is.’
‘In what way?’
‘It’s pretty certain the police don’t reckon it was a straightforward accident.’
‘Do they think he was deliberately shot?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Murdered? Isn’t that absurd? He was a rather horrible little man, but no one would have deliberately shot him.’
He shrugged his shoulders.
‘Well, why should anyone?’ she persisted.
‘I don’t know.’ He lacked the courage to tell her what Rafferty had been threatening to do.
‘There you are, then. In the end it’ll turn out to have been just a nasty accident. Did I tell you a detective had been to see me this morning?’
‘No?’
‘He was a young man with flaming red hair. I thought he was a bit brash, but he was perfectly pleasant.’
‘What did he want?’
‘To ask me where I was during the drive at King’s Beat and if I’d seen anyone moving around. I told him I’d seen Wade, but no one else. Wade always makes me think of a stoat. I’m sure he’s dangerous.’
‘Dangerous?’
‘I mean, if you make an enemy of him. He’s the only one of the four with any manners, but I’m convinced that underneath them they’re all mockery.’
Julian cut a slice off the steak. ‘Did the detective ask any other questions?’
‘Not really, except he wanted to know how the people of the shoot mixed together. I just said that as far as I knew they all got on well together.’
‘That was quite a lie.’
‘I wasn’t going to tell him anything else.’
‘I suppose not.’
She put down her knife and fork. When she spoke, her voice expressed her worry. ‘Julian, you’re fencing with me.’
‘No I’m not.’
‘You’re terribly worried about something, but you’re tryin
g unsuccessfully to hide the fact. What are you afraid of?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Please tell me.’
‘There’s nothing to tell you.’
She was silent. Just how serious were things?
*
Doherty parked in the main car-park in Ashford. He walked down to Stanhay where he bought a replacement length of plastic feed-line for his motor-mower, looked at the record-players in Burnage and sighed because he could not afford even the cheapest, then returned to his car. He drove to Station Road, was temporarily held up by a flood of cyclists coming from the railway works, but thereafter had a clear run along Beaver Road.
As he drove, he wondered whether his coming interview with Abbotts was going to get him any further? And if it did, any further in which direction? Had there been an accident or a murder? Would it prove to be a perfect murder because no one was going to be able to prove it to be what it was? Statistics could never say how many perfect murders were committed each year because by their very definition they were deaths about which no one was a hundred per cent sure. The easiest, perhaps the only, way to commit a perfect murder was to mask it as an accident.
The car reached the countryside and once clear of the Tenterden road drove through the twisting lanes that owed nothing to the age of the internal combustion engine. Doherty always enjoyed a sense of contentment when in the country and he could now imagine how the Deckers felt when they stood outside the mansion and surveyed the acres around them and knew those acres were theirs. Land was something you could see, feel, and walk over, and no one could steal it from you – except, of course, the government. He had wanted to be a farmer, but his parents had dissuaded him. What about the potato famines, they had said, as if it had been they who had lived through them and not their ancestors.
If you had a deep love of the land, inherited from generations of land owners, and your land was threatened, you might kill to save it. Equally, if you’d spent your lifetime working up your business and that business was threatened, you might kill to save it. Equally, if you’d been mucking around with a man’s wife and he found out about it you might kill to save yourself and get the woman.
Death in the Coverts Page 7
