David Webb 10 - Three, Three, the Rivals

by Anthea Fraser

  ‘Worse. He took it up to the bedroom and locked himself in.’

  ‘What time of day was this?’

  ‘After supper.’

  ‘And when did he go out?’

  ‘As soon as he came down. I was quite relieved; I thought the walk might do him good. He’d been mooching round all day, in and out of the garden, never staying anywhere long, unable to keep still. I tried to keep things as normal as possible, serving meals at the usual times and so on, but he didn’t eat anything. Then he came downstairs with the photograph and told me he was going out for some cigarettes.’

  ‘What time was this, Mrs Vernon?’ Webb interrupted, mindful of Jackson’s flying pen.

  ‘Just after half past eight.’

  ‘And where would he have gone for them?’

  ‘Only to the Plough, at the end of the road. He quite often went there if he ran out, and stopped for a drink. I hoped he would that night — that it would take his mind off things for a while. But of course he never came home.’

  ‘Had he called at the Plough?’

  ‘No, no one had seen him. It’s a complete mystery where he went.’

  Not, Webb reflected wryly, to him. He knew to his cost that Vernon had gone to the old barn to meet his former sweetheart, and become embroiled in a fight with her husband. But what had happened next? That was the crucial point.

  ‘And someone killed him,’ Mrs Vernon ended flatly, as though answering his unspoken thought. ‘It’s — grotesque. Who would have wanted to do that?’

  Her question hung in the air, seeming to Webb’s guilty ears to hold a note of accusation as her eyes went past him to the framed photograph on the piano. As much to avoid answering her as from curiosity, he rose and went over to look at it. He saw a youngish, fair-haired man with regular features, smiling a little hesitantly, as though responding to a request from his unknown photographer. Impossible to think of him as a contemporary either of his father or of Billy Makepeace.

  Staring at the photograph, Webb realized that in fact he thought of all three men as of different generations. His father was crystallized in his memory as he’d last seen him, a man in his late forties with already-thinning hair and grooves running from nose to bitter mouth. In the newspaper photograph Makepeace had been some thirty years older, heavy-jowled, grey-haired, with grizzled cheeks. Yet when this picture was taken, the other two had been equally young. Had one of them had a hand in Dick’s death?

  He turned, meeting Mrs Vernon’s eyes and realizing that she was aware of at least some of what he’d been thinking.

  ‘Who’d want to hurt Dick?’ she challenged him, more directly this time.

  ‘I don’t know, Mrs Vernon,’ Webb said quietly, ‘but I intend to find out.’

  For a moment longer she held his eyes and he braced himself for a specific accusation; but then she gave a little shrug and looked away. With a feeling of relief he signalled to Jackson and moved towards the door.

  ‘We’ll probably need to speak to you again, ma’am, but do contact us if you remember anything in the meantime.’

  She accompanied them to the front door in silence and stood looking after them as they walked down the path. Webb hoped that the shock she’d received would jolt some hitherto dormant memory to the forefront of her mind.

  *

  Stanley Fox, treasurer of St Gabriel’s church, let himself into his house and closed the door as thankfully as if he’d attained sanctuary. Yet even as the thought struck him, he acknowledged it was an illusion; the walls of this house weren’t sacrosanct and there was nothing to stop either the vicar or the police from entering and asking questions.

  Why, he thought agonizingly, had he ever touched the blasted money? He’d only borrowed it, for heaven’s sake; in another month, when his policy matured, it would have been replaced, with no one any the wiser. At least, that had been the intention. But Makepeace was always an interfering old devil, with a nose for irregularities. Fox had no idea how he’d got on to him, and now he never would know, because Makepeace was dead. The fact struck him each time with a fresh sense of shock.

  ‘Stanley—’ His wife was coming downstairs, carrying their youngest grandchild. ‘Have you heard the news?’

  ‘How do I know until you tell me?’ he answered testily, making for the whisky bottle in the dining-room sideboard. She followed him, still holding the child, and watched from the doorway as he poured himself a tot. Aware of her presence, he turned, lifting the bottle inquiringly, and she shook her head. ‘Not at this time of day, and nor should you. I don’t know what’s got into you this last week.’

  He tossed back the whisky and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘So what’s your news then?’

  ‘They’ve found Dick Vernon.’

  ‘Dick Vernon?’ He gazed at her incredulously, momentarily diverted from his own worries. ‘Good grief! Don’t tell me he’s turned up after all these years?’

  Mrs Fox set the child down and gave it a gentle little push in the direction of the sitting-room. ‘In a manner of speaking,’ she said quietly. ‘At least, his body has — in his sister’s grave. He’d been murdered, Stanley. Isn’t it terrible, him as well as Mr Makepeace?’

  Fox fumbled again for the whisky bottle. ‘But the police were called in over Makepeace’s death; what made them start digging in the cemetery?’

  ‘I don’t know, I’m sure.’ She shuddered. ‘This has always been such a pleasant place to live, and now, all at once, two murders. I’ve told Marion to collect the children from school until they catch him. You never know what might happen.’

  ‘There may be two murders, Mary, but they’re forty years apart, remember. It can hardly be considered a crime-wave.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ she said doubtfully. ‘All the same, it won’t do any harm to be extra careful for a while. Now, put that bottle away and go and keep an eye on Daniel while I get the lunch.’

  *

  Webb said, ‘Yes, Dr Adams, that’s quite correct...No, there’s no doubt about his identity; fortunately we had his dental records, or we might have had a problem...Fractured skull. The ubiquitous blunt instrument, no doubt. Little chance of finding that after forty years!’

  Webb looked up at Jackson with a little grimace as the doctor’s voice continued over the wire. ‘I see. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize she was your patient...Yes, of course...Actually, she took it very well; she must have accepted he was dead years ago...Yes, I’m sure a visit would be appreciated.’

  ‘A short lesson in medical ethics,’ Webb said ruefully as he put down the phone. ‘The good doctor feels we should have contacted him before going to Mrs Vernon, so he could have been standing by. Mind you, she’s a pretty tough cookie, that one. Now, Ken, just two quick phone calls, then we’ll break for lunch.’

  *

  At The Old Farmhouse the phone rang just as the meal had been served, and Sheila went to answer it. She was gone for several minutes, and returned looking pale.

  ‘Who was it?’ Colin asked.

  ‘David, confirming that they’d found Dick Vernon. He promised to let me know.’

  ‘So that’s that. End of one mystery, start of another — who killed him?’ He looked up at her as she stood staring out of the window. ‘Well, sit down then, and get on with your meal.’

  Absent-mindedly she resumed her place, though she didn’t pick up her fork.

  ‘What is it, Sheila?’

  ‘Nothing really, I suppose. Just that the other evening David warned me not to mention what I’d seen in the cemetery, nor that Mr Makepeace had phoned.’

  ‘Why?’ Stephen was intrigued by his mother’s part in the investigation.

  ‘That’s just it; I didn’t ask then, so I did now. And he said that whoever killed Mr Makepeace might have done so because he repeated what I’d said.’

  There was a short silence. Then Colin said hesitantly, ‘Does that mean you’re in danger?’

  ‘He didn’t actually say so, but how can I be?
It’s not as if I could identify anyone. I thought I’d seen a ghost!’ Suddenly she put her head in her hands. ‘God, why did I ever mention it? If I hadn’t, Mr Makepeace might still be alive and Dick Vernon safely buried, where he was no danger to anyone.’

  Colin patted her arm automatically, but his eyes were troubled. It occurred to him that if Makepeace had indeed died because of what Sheila’d said, he would undoubtedly have passed on the source of his information.

  CHAPTER 10

  ‘It’ll mean retracing our steps, Ken,’ Webb said resignedly over lunch at the Narrow Boat. ‘We now need to check what people were doing when Dick Vernon disappeared, as well as the night Billy died. I’ve been through the original files, but I’d say it’s quite likely a number of those interviewed are no longer with us.’

  Including his parents, Webb reflected. He had noted grimly that neither John nor Lilian Webb had admitted seeing Dick Vernon the night he vanished.

  ‘For the rest,’ he continued, ‘it’ll be interesting to compare the earlier statements with what they say now. We can also interview the younger ones, who were kids at the time. They might remember something if we ask the right questions.’

  ‘You still think the deaths are connected. Guv?’ Jackson inquired, spearing a sausage.

  ‘It’s the hell of a coincidence if they’re not. Mind, that’s not to say the same person killed them both.’

  ‘Meaning Makepeace could still have murdered Vernon?’

  Webb said evenly, ‘Or my father could.’

  Jackson shot him a startled glance, decided he was joking, and smiled uncertainly.

  ‘As regards Makepeace,’ Webb continued, ‘suppose he actually did kill Dick, and the Vernon boys have just got wind of it?’

  ‘And avenged their father’s death after forty years?’ Jackson’s doubts were evident in his voice.

  ‘There’d have to be more to it than that,’ Webb agreed, ‘but it could be a starting point.’

  ‘So who do we see first?’

  ‘Sam Wainwright. One of my calls just now was to the vicar; we’ve fixed the reinterment for nine in the morning.’

  *

  It took several minutes for their knock to be answered, and Mrs Wainwright apologized for keeping them waiting.

  ‘We’re in the back garden,’ she explained, leading them through the house and out of the open french windows. Her husband, resplendent in Panama hat, was in a deckchair in the shade of a cherry tree. He looked up from his paper, watching suspiciously as they approached across the grass.

  Mrs Wainwright had paused on the terrace to collect two collapsible chairs, which she now set up alongside the others. Unfortunately they were outside the patch of shade.

  ‘You’ll no doubt have heard about your brother-in-law,’ Webb began as he seated himself.

  ‘Yes,’ the old man said gruffly. ‘I reckon I owe you an apology; you knew what you were doing after all. I’m damned if I know what put you on to it, though?’ His voice ended interrogatively, but Webb offered no explanation.

  ‘My main reason for calling is to tell you that your first wife will be reburied tomorrow morning. We thought it best to make it early, so the service can be as private as possible.’

  ‘Service?’

  ‘The vicar will be present, to say a few words.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ the second Mrs Wainwright said softly, and after a moment her husband nodded agreement.

  ‘I hope nine o’clock’s convenient. We can send a car for you, if you’d like?’

  ‘That’s all right, Chief Inspector.’ Again it was the woman who spoke. ‘I’ll drive us down, thanks all the same.’ She paused. ‘You said that was your main reason for coming; have you something else to tell us?’

  ‘It’s more a question of asking, Mrs Wainwright. I’m afraid we need to know what your husband remembers of the days leading up to Mr Vernon’s disappearance. I’m sorry if it brings back painful memories.’

  ‘I went through it all at the time,’ Sam said wearily.

  ‘I know, sir, but it’s a murder inquiry now.’

  ‘Well, as I said before, there’s little to tell. From the time Joan was taken ill, Dick spent most of his time with her, in the bedroom up there.’

  ‘She died of German measles, I believe?’ Webb prompted gently.

  ‘Yes, though there was some fancy name on the death certificate.’

  ‘Encephalitis,’ his wife supplied. ‘Inflammation of the brain. You sometimes get it with measles or German measles. There’s no treatment for it.’

  ‘And it came on very suddenly?’

  Wainwright nodded, staring down at the grass. ‘We’d been to a wedding the previous Saturday and she was right as rain.’

  Jackson looked up from his notebook. ‘Excuse me, sir—’ He glanced at Webb, who nodded to him to continue. ‘Mrs Vernon was saying the bride’s parents didn’t know of her death — they sent a photo which arrived after the funeral.’

  Wainwright frowned. ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, sir, I was wondering where the wedding took place? I mean, if it had been local, surely they’d have heard?’

  ‘But it wasn’t local, Sergeant, it was in Swansea. On Whit Saturday — when we still had Christian holidays in May, not ruddy Communist ones. We all went over for the weekend — Dick and Eileen and Joan and me. Stayed till the Monday, in fact, and it was when we got back that Joan complained of a headache. We thought it was all the travelling.’

  ‘And Mr Vernon visited her regularly while she was ill?’

  ‘Visited? He practically moved in! Apart from going home to sleep, he was here all the time — and I think if I’d let him, he’d have spent the nights here too.’

  ‘Since he and his sister were so close, I suppose you’d always seen quite a lot of him?’

  ‘A fair bit, but every now and then Eileen put her foot down, and I must say I agreed with her.’

  ‘So you’d have known if he had any enemies?’

  Wainwright looked up, his old eyes shrewd. ‘You’re asking me that, Davy Webb? He was engaged to your mother once. I bet you never knew that.’

  Webb was aware of Jackson’s surprise. ‘Not until last week. But apart from my father and Billy Makepeace, was there anyone else he didn’t get on with?’

  Wainwright shook his head decidedly. ‘He was the most easygoing of chaps, Dick. Everybody liked him.’ He looked challengingly at Webb but, remembering the diffidently smiling photograph, he made no attempt to dispute it.

  ‘Did you see him between your wife’s death and her funeral?’

  ‘No, nor did I expect to.’

  Mrs Wainwright, who had slipped away during the previous exchange, now reappeared with a tray bearing four glasses and a jug of homemade lemonade. ‘Can I offer you a cold drink, Chief Inspector?’

  Webb accepted gratefully. His jacket and tie were not ideal wear for sitting in the garden and, in the full glare of the sun, he was uncomfortably hot. As he sipped the drink, the ice clinking against the glass, he looked about him at the neat lawn, the colourful beds, shrubs and rockery. Sam Wainwright had lived here with his first wife. Perhaps it was she who had planted some of the trees which now bent gracefully over the garden. Poor Joan Wainwright who, with her twin brother, had died at the early age of thirty-eight.

  He drained his glass and stood up. ‘Thank you both for your help, specially since this is such a difficult time for you.’

  ‘And for you, lad,’ Wainwright acknowledged gruffly. ‘I’ll be glad when it’s all over, as I’m sure you will.’

  Indeed he would, Webb thought feelingly, unless he finished by proving his own father’s guilt.

  *

  By way of tackling the most difficult interviews first, Webb next phoned the Vernon brothers, but both were out of town at a meeting. He wondered if they’d heard their father’d been identified.

  By default, therefore, priority passed to a return call on Mrs Makepeace. Webb hoped Jenny’d not be there; he’d been clumsy
in his questioning of her, and he knew his abrupt departure while she was still upset had been due more to cold feet than professionalism.

  When they drew up at Longacre Farm, Dr Adams’s blue Cavalier was parked in the yard. Webb hesitated, wondering if it was a routine visit or if the old woman had been taken ill. But as he and Jackson got out of the car, the door of the house opened and Jenny showed the doctor out. Even across the yard, Webb saw her stiffen as she caught sight of him. He waited by the gate as the doctor came towards them looking cool and dapper in his light suit, a flower as always in his buttonhole. By contrast Webb felt even more crumpled — but then the doctor hadn’t spent half an hour in a sun-baked garden probing painful memories.

  ‘Good afternoon, Chief Inspector. How are your inquiries going?’

  ‘Slowly, doctor, as is usually the way.’ He paused. ‘Did you check on Mrs Vernon?’

  ‘Yes, she’s bearing up well. As you say, she probably resigned herself years ago. It’s a gruesome thought, though, the poor chap lying there just below the surface all these years.’

  ‘Did you know him and his sister?’

  ‘Only vaguely; they were Dr Nairn’s patients, and it all happened soon after I came here. I remember the hoo-ha when he disappeared, though.’

  From the corner of his eye Webb noticed that Jenny, after waiting for a moment, had retreated inside and the door was firmly closed again. He nodded in its direction. ‘Mrs Makepeace all right?’

  ‘Well, she’s very frail. Even before all this, she was fading pretty rapidly.’

  ‘Would a few more questions hurt her?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so, but keep them as short as you can. She tires very easily.’

  Webb nodded, and as the doctor got into his car, he and Jackson approached the farmhouse. Jenny let them wait several minutes before she answered their ring.

  ‘I’m sorry to trouble you again, Mrs Hawthorn, but as you’ve no doubt heard, another case has come up and we’ve a few more questions for your mother. And you too, perhaps.’

  She lifted an eyebrow. ‘Very well.’

  Mrs Makepeace was in exactly the same position as they’d last seen her. Jackson wondered if she’d been out of her chair at all in the interim. As before, Webb drew a chair up to her side.