She shook herself and sat up straighter, scrutinizing the screen for the subliminal messages she was sure were bombarding them. But if they existed, they were too swift for her consciousness to register. He was talking of mountains, of a shining new Jerusalem, of their survival when the rest of the earth perished. None of it made sense, yet all of it did. She just wanted him to go on talking, so that she needn’t think, or make decisions, or worry about anything at all.
Then it was over, the screen faded and the lights came on again. For a moment or two there was silence. Then Daniel, who this evening had been sitting in the front row with Lübekker and the other three leaders, got to his feet and turned to face them.
‘Now, I’d like you to divide yourselves into four groups. Sarah and I will take two into the front room and the other two will stay here with Adam and Mattie. We’ll come together later for a general discussion.’
He walked past them to the divider and opened a small door in it. Nina, still bemused, followed him towards the opening. When she stepped through it, she thought confusedly, what other threshold might she be crossing? She was about to find out.
Chapter 7
When Partridge made his report the next morning, Webb checked the phone number Kershaw had dialled from his hotel. Learning that it belonged to a firm of solicitors in Franklyn Road, he decided to walk round and inform them of the death of their client. In return, he hoped for some much-needed reciprocal information.
In this he was disappointed. Though the name on the plate read Culpepper, Soames and Soames, it transpired that Mr Culpepper had died ten years previously and the elder Mr Soames, with whom, according to his desk diary, Kershaw had had an appointment on Monday morning, had left the following day for a walking holiday in Scotland. Nor was his secretary available, being confined to bed with ‘flu.
Which left Webb little choice but to conduct his interview with Mr Soames junior, a raw young man in his mid-twenties, who was clearly shaken to learn that the man whose murder he’d read about was the son of a client and had, moreover, visited his father on the day of his death.
Under Webb’s prompting, he confirmed that Mrs Evelyn Kershaw of Calder’s Close had died three weeks ago and that they were administering her estate. However, to his embarrassment, he was unable to produce her will. It appeared Mr Soames senior kept his clients’ wills in a small safe in his office, to which his son did not have access.
‘I’m so sorry, Chief Inspector,’ he said, ‘but you see, I deal with a different side of the practice — legal aid and so on. I don’t even know where my father keeps the key.’
Yet another stalemate. Webb considered the position. This was the only lead they had locally; Soames had met Kershaw, who had been killed an hour or so later, and then promptly disappeared ‘on holiday’. Careful questioning, however, revealed that the break had been planned for some weeks and that Soames’s wife had accompanied him.
Could they have been the couple Mrs French saw with Kershaw? It seemed unlikely. Why, after an interview with him that morning, should Kershaw expect Soames at the hotel? Unless he’d invited him and his wife for lunch?
‘Did your father have a lunch appointment on Monday?’ Webb inquired. The young man didn’t know and the diary was no help.
Webb sighed. ‘Are there any other members of the Kershaw family?’ he asked, with a hint of desperation. ‘Brothers or sisters, uncles, aunts, cousins?’
‘No, Mrs Kershaw had no one but her son.’
‘And he lived in France.’ Poor, lonely old woman. ‘What’s happening to the family home?’
‘It’s just been put on the market. I believe that was one of the things they discussed.’
‘Is it empty at the moment?’
‘Yes, the housekeeper-companion moved out last week.’
‘Ah!’ He should have realized there’d be a housekeeper. ‘Do you know where she went?’
‘To her sister’s, I think Father said. He made a note of the address — it might be in the file.’
It was, affording Webb his only piece of luck so far that morning. He wrote down the name and address, slipped his notebook into his pocket and stood up. ‘Thanks for your help, Mr Soames. If you should hear from your father, please ask him to contact me. And I’d be glad to know when his secretary’s back at work — she might know where the key to the safe is.’
As Soames showed him to the door, he added as an afterthought, ‘Did your father make any comment after Mr Kershaw had left?’
‘Yes, he said, “Thank God I’m going on holiday tomorrow!” I asked what was wrong, but he just shook his head and went back into his office.’
Webb nodded and went thoughtfully down the steps to the street.
*
Rankin Close, where the housekeeper was staying, was the other side of town, and Webb returned to Carrington Street to collect Jackson and the car before making his way there. During the drive, he filled him in both with Partridge’s findings and what he’d learned himself that morning.
‘I’ve sent Trent to the station to check on taxis,’ he finished. ‘With luck, someone will remember picking Kershaw up and where he was dropped. No doubt it was either at his mother’s or the solicitors’, but we might as well be sure.
He stared out of the window. The trees in Central Gardens were resplendent with autumn foliage, their colours ranging from vermilion to palest gold. Normally, the artist in Webb delighted in them; today he barely noticed them.
‘What we’re faced with, Ken,’ he continued, ‘is that Kershaw was killed by someone who’d known not only that he was in Shillingham that day, but at which hotel. Since he hadn’t booked in advance, that could only be someone he spoke to after he arrived there. We must get on to the King’s Head and see if he made any calls from his room.’
‘His work-mates knew he was going to a hotel, according to Don.’
‘But not which one. They could have made an informed guess, I suppose, or even rung round till they located him — something else to check with the King’s Head. Anyway, they’ll be investigated as a matter of routine, though Don seems to have written them off.’
Jackson said thoughtfully, ‘Even though he hadn’t booked, he might have let it drop to the solicitor. Said something like, “If there’s anything else I’ll be at the King’s Head.” He was surprised to find they were busy, remember; it wouldn’t have occurred to him that he mightn’t get a room.’
‘Good point, Ken. Come to that, he could have said the same thing to anyone.’
‘On the other hand, someone could have followed him over from France,’ Jackson went on. ‘Someone he owed money, perhaps.’
‘And a gambling debt led to his death? It’s possible. Inquiries are under way at clubs both here and in France, so we’ll see what we come up with.’
They had turned into Rankin Close. ‘By the way, Guv, DI Petrie was looking for you,’ Jackson remembered, as they drew up outside the bungalow.
To report on the previous evening’s goings-on, no doubt. ‘I’ll see her when we get back,’ Webb said, pushing open the gate.
Their ring at the bell was answered by a small, neat woman in her forties who smiled at them inquiringly.
‘Good morning, ma’am. DCI Webb and Sergeant Jackson, Shillingham CID. Could we have a word with Miss Margaret Preston?’
An expression of slight alarm crossed her face. ‘I’m Margaret Preston. Is anything wrong?’
He’d have to break the news to her, too. Webb hoped another death wouldn’t be too much for her, coming so soon after her employer’s.
He made no reply, merely stepping into the hallway with Jackson at his heels. A woman appeared at the kitchen door and Miss Preston said quickly, ‘It’s all right, Nora, it’s for me.’
She led them into the small front room, pleasantly furnished with a flowered three-piece suite, and gestured to them to be seated. Then, seeming to brace herself, asked steadily, ‘Now, Chief Inspector, what’s happened?’
‘I believe
you were companion to the late Mrs Kershaw?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Her son, Mr Philip Kershaw, was over earlier this week. Did he contact you?’
‘No.’ The word was said quietly, without embellishment or any change in tone, but Webb sensed antagonism behind it. Which might possibly make his task easier.
‘Had you known he was coming?’
‘No,’ she said again. Then, the brevity of her response seeming to strike her, she added, ‘But there was no reason for him to get in touch.’
‘How long were you with Mrs Kershaw, Miss Preston?’
‘Almost six years.’
‘So you must have met her son frequently?’
This time she flushed. ‘Forgive me, Chief Inspector, but what’s the purpose of all these questions?’
‘You might have read in the paper of the man found dead at the King’s Head?’
‘Yes?’ Her eyes widened. ‘You’re surely not saying —?’
‘I’m afraid it was Mr Kershaw.’
She stared at him, one hand going to her throat. Then she said softly, ‘Thank God his mother was spared that.’ She moistened her lips. ‘But I got the impression from the reports that — that the death wasn’t natural?’
‘That’s right, Miss Preston. Mr Kershaw was poisoned. Which is why we’re trying to trace his movements on Monday morning.’
‘But that’s terrible! Who would want to murder him?’
‘That,’ Webb said drily, ‘is what we’re trying to find out.’ He paused. ‘Were Mrs Kershaw and her son close?’
Miss Preston was silent. Then she said, ‘Oh dear.’
‘They weren’t?’
‘No. There was some terrible quarrel years ago — I don’t know what it was about. But to the best of my knowledge, during the six years I was with her there was no contact between them at all.’
A right turn-up for the book, Jackson thought, steadily making his notes.
‘Did she speak of him?’
‘Never. When I first arrived, she informed me that she had a son who lived in France, but they were estranged and she didn’t wish to speak of him. Naturally, I abided by that.’
‘So you know nothing about him at all?’
‘Not even what he looked like. There were no photographs, at least on display.’
Nowt stranger than folk, Webb reflected, and how many sides there were to one person. According to Partridge, Kershaw’s business colleagues had considered him ‘affable’, and he was apparently devoted to his wife and child. Mrs French had been genuinely shocked by his death — he’d formed the impression that she found him attractive — and even the receptionist, Samantha, thought him pleasant in her brief contact with him. Yet he had not spoken to his mother for at least six years — possibly much longer. Who had been at fault, Kershaw himself or a possibly domineering and stubborn old woman?
Pursuing that line of thought, Webb asked abruptly, ‘What was she like, the old lady?’
‘Pleasant.’ Miss Preston smiled slightly and added, ‘As long as she had her own way. But then why shouldn’t she? She was comfortably off and had no one else to consider.’
‘Did you ever wonder about that quarrel with her son?’
‘I wouldn’t have been human if I hadn’t, Chief Inspector, but there was no one else to ask about it.’
‘Might she have been at least partially to blame?’
‘Oh, I don’t doubt it. And if he was as strong-willed as she was, neither of them would have made the first move.’ She paused. ‘You know, it always upsets me, hearing those SOS messages on the radio. Would Mr So-and-so, who hasn’t seen his father for twelve years, please get in touch because the old man is dangerously ill. I used to wonder how families could split and lose track of each other so completely, but since going to Mrs Kershaw’s, I’ve seen how it can happen. Though it doesn’t make it any less sad.’
‘He came over for her funeral, though?’
‘No. It was really that which I couldn’t forgive, whatever had gone before. He sent flowers, that was all. There were only half a dozen of us there, including Mr Soames, her solicitor.’
Webb shifted on his chair. ‘Do you know the terms of the will?’
‘Only that she left me very well provided for.’
‘She was a wealthy woman?’
‘Fairly, I should say.’
‘But you’ve no idea where the bulk of her estate went?’
She shook her head.
Interesting. Very interesting.
Webb nodded to Jackson. ‘Thank you for your time, Miss Preston. It has been most helpful.’
*
‘What do you make of that, Guv?’ Jackson asked, as they drove away.
‘For one thing, I intend to make every effort to track down Mr Soames in the Highlands or wherever he is. He’ll have been a confidant of the old biddy — that type always like to have their solicitors dancing attendance. He’ll be able to shed more light on her affairs, and particularly on her will. The big question is, did she or didn’t she leave it to her errant son? And if she did, who would inherit on his death?’
*
Dilys sat motionless at her desk, staring through the window at the walnut tree. It was forty-eight hours since the baby and his nanny had arrived at the house, and in that time she had written not one word.
Not that it was their fault. At any rate, not directly. As Susie had promised, the nanny kept to herself and Sebastian had cried only once. He was a good little thing, as babies went. Yet ever since their arrival she had felt on edge, distinctly ill at ease, and she couldn’t imagine why.
Impatiently, she pushed her chair back and walked to the French doors from where, at the bottom of the garden, she could see the pram rocking gently under the apple tree. Yet not a sound reached her. Almost she wished it would, to give her a concrete cause for her distraction.
Where was Miss Baines, she wondered. (She still could not think of her as Sarah.) She’d gone out last night — to her cousin’s, according to Peggy, who had volunteered to listen for the baby.
And that, thought Dilys irritably, was another thing. Peggy had defected. One glance at the smoothly rounded cheeks and guileless blue eyes had been enough to set her cooing, touching the little fists and trying to coax a smile. But Sebastian, like his nanny, Dilys suspected, smiled only when it suited him.
She sighed heavily and turned from the window, trying to draw comfort and inspiration from this room tailored so specifically to her needs. An entire wall was given over to bookshelves, of which her own offerings, in varying editions and a dozen different languages, accounted for several. Below them her carefully acquired reference books sat smugly, confident of their omniscience, while less worthy but no less loved editions of detective stories, travel books, French poetry and childhood favourites jostled together in happy equanimity. Today they failed to soothe her. Dilys eyed them sourly and turned away.
Aimlessly, she walked through the sitting-room into the hall and stood listening. She could hear Peggy, who was cleaning the silver, singing softly to herself in the kitchen. Obviously she was alone. Impelled by something stronger than curiosity, Dilys started softly up the stairs, and, half-ashamed of herself, came to a halt outside the guest-room door. Holding her breath she stood for a moment listening, but all she could hear was the occasional rustle of paper.
Making up her mind, and after only the briefest of knocks, she opened the door. Sarah Baines turned sharply towards her. She was seated at the dressing-table, which had been cleared of its usual trinkets and was covered with orderly piles of paper and open text books. There was a pen in her hand.
‘Oh, there you are,’ Dilys said pleasantly. ‘I’m just about to have coffee. Would you like some?’
It was, she knew, the flimsiest of excuses and she could see that the young woman also knew it. A fleeting look of anger had been replaced by her usual impassivity. ‘That’s kind of you, Miss Hayward, but I’ve already had some. Peggy brought me a cup.’
Dilys held on to her smile. ‘Fine.’ She paused. ‘You look very busy.’
‘Yes, I have a — treatise to write.’ Her tone made it clear further questions would be unwelcome. ‘Seb hasn’t been disturbing you, has he?’
‘No, but I think he’s awake. The pram’s rocking.’
‘He’s quite happy lying there. I’ll take him out as usual this afternoon.’
Dilys could think of no possible way of extending this awkward conversation. She had been snooping, and Sarah Baines knew it. All she could do was retire as gracefully as possible.
‘Well, I’ll leave you to your treatise, then,’ she said brightly, and closed the door behind her.
Not a good move, she reflected as she returned downstairs. She had betrayed her curiosity and not unnaturally it was resented. What was it about that young woman that unsettled her? Outwardly she was polite and unassuming, and Susie thought highly of her. There was no doubt she was devoted to the baby; that morning Dilys had come upon them as Sarah was carrying him to his pram, surprising on her face an expression of almost maternal love which quickly neutralized at Dilys’s approach. So why on earth should being in the same room with the girl raise the hairs on the back of her neck?
She resolved to harness her too-vivid imagination into more profitable channels and, regaining her study, sat down purposefully at her desk.
*
It was mid-afternoon before Webb had a chance to contact Nina, and considering it was she who’d requested a meeting, he was surprised by her air of diffidence as she entered his office.
He leant back in his chair, surveying her with interest. ‘Well, Nina, how did it go?’
She wasn’t quite meeting his eye. ‘Fine, sir. All very pleasant and innocuous. I only looked in this morning to say I don’t think it’s worth continuing the investigation.’
He frowned. ‘What about all those allegations of brainwashing and subliminal indoctrination?’
She gave a nervous laugh. ‘A result of heightened imagination, I’m afraid. I was looking for something suspicious and convinced myself I’d found it. But now I’ve had more time with them it’s clear I was over-reacting, as I should have realized when I played back the speeches. There was nothing dangerous or threatening in them. In fact, it’s a long time since I’ve met such a pleasant, friendly bunch of people.’
The Gospel Makers Page 9
