David Webb 7 - The April Rainers

by Anthea Fraser

  “Steady, Beth,” said Grogan automatically. Then, “How? Do you know?”

  “He appears to have been strangled.”

  There was a pause while both Grogans reflected on the uncomfortable proximity of this unnatural death. Then Grogan cleared his throat. “There’ll be plenty who’ll think he got his just deserts. I’m not sure I wouldn’t agree with them.”

  Which was just as Webb had feared. But wife-beater or not, in the law’s eyes Baxter had the same rights as anyone else.

  He stood up, putting his cup and saucer on the table. “Thank you both for your help. If it’s convenient, I’ll send someone round later this morning to take your statement. One last thing: was Baxter friendly with anyone in the Close?”

  “Not that we know of.”

  At least, Webb thought as he walked down the drive, the job of telling the relatives wouldn’t be as difficult as usual. They’d probably felt like topping him themselves. Come to think of it, they might even have done so.

  *

  It was mid afternoon before the SOCOs had finished with the house and Webb was able to get inside. As the men were packing away their equipment, he walked slowly from room to room, Jackson at his side. The house was identical in layout to its next-door neighbour, but there the resemblance ended. While the Grogans’ little nest had been neat and well cared for, this was shabby, with holes in the hall carpet and peeling paintwork. It smelt stale and, despite the dirty dishes piled in the sink, had an unlived-in air.

  There were three bedrooms, but the two smaller ones had been stripped, leaving only bare mattresses on the narrow beds. The children’s rooms, no doubt. In the bathroom, the single towel was dirty and a black rim lined the bath.

  Dick Hodges put his head round the door. “OK, Dave, it’s all yours.”

  “Thanks. Anything of interest in his pockets?”

  “Just the usual: house and car keys, wallet with about twenty quid, credit cards all intact. So unless Chummie was disturbed, robbery seems out.”

  “Not much to go on.”

  “No. What’s more, the ligature was removed, so we can’t even check the knot. Still, I have got something to show you. Take a look at this — it was in the waste-paper basket.” He handed Webb a plastic exhibit bag containing a note. It was written in a beautiful copperplate, in green ink.

  “You have been found guilty of crimes against humanity,” he read. “The death sentence will be carried out in eight days. Signed: THE APRIL RAINERS.”

  “Good God!” Webb said. “Have you got the envelope?”

  “Yep. Same writing, postmarked London W1, 27 September.”

  Webb whistled. “Which is now nine days ago.”

  Hodges grimaced. “Don’t pin your hopes on that — it’s one of dozens. The waste-basket was bulging with them. I’ve seen some hate-mail in my day, but these take the biscuit. What the hell had he done — chopped up his grandma and fed her to the dog?”

  “Driven his wife to suicide, it seems, which is enough to be going on with.”

  “Well, you’ll have no shortage of suspects, mate, if you can trace that lot. As I said, the basket was overflowing. Lucky for us he was an untidy bugger and hadn’t emptied it.”

  “Trouble is, Dick, anonymous letter-writers seldom put their threats into effect. Just writing all that stuff gets it off their chests.” He frowned, reading the note again. “This one’s hardly run-of-the-mill, though. Who the hell are the April Rainers?”

  “Search me.” Hodges held out his hand and Webb gave him back the packet. “I’ll have them all copied and on your desk by the morning.”

  “Think there’s anything in it, guv?” Jackson asked, when they were alone. “Bit of a coincidence, yesterday being eight days after it was written, and he did die, like it said.”

  “It’ll have to be looked into, along with everything else. Did you have any luck tracing the sister?”

  “Not so far. Don’s gone to the shop where Mrs. Baxter worked. She might have had a friend there who’d know.”

  “Talking of work colleagues, we’ll get on to Baxter’s. If he’d no friends socially, he might be pally with his workmates. Might even have spent last evening with them. It’s a long shot, but worth a try.”

  The try paid off. In the sorting office at the main post office, they found a man called Taylor who’d spent the previous evening in Baxter’s company.

  “Ill, is he?” he greeted them. “He’s not turned up for work today.”

  “Did he seem ill when he left you?”

  “Didn’t say so, but then he doesn’t volunteer much, old Ted.”

  “Had he got his car with him?”

  “Ah, so that’s it! Over the limit! Well, he can’t say we didn’t warn him, but you can never reason with Ted. If we try to get him to come with us, he just gets aggressive. Says he’s never had an accident yet and doesn’t intend to start now.” The smile faded from Taylor’s face. “He hasn’t had one, has he?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” said Webb. “Where did you spend the evening?”

  “At the Magpie, out at Chedbury. We play darts every Wednesday.”

  “What time did you leave?”

  “Soon after eleven, I suppose. We walked out to the carpark together.”

  “And what was the last you saw of him?”

  The man shifted uncomfortably. “Look, what is this? What are you getting at?”

  “Did you actually see him get into his car?”

  “Yes, he was parked next to me.”

  “So you drove home yourself, sir?” Webb inquired with a straight face.

  Taylor flushed. “I watch what I’m drinking. The wife’s drummed it into me often enough.”

  “To come back to Mr. Baxter: he got in his car and drove off?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “By himself?”

  Taylor frowned. “Yes.”

  “Did you see anyone hanging around? Anyone who might have followed him?”

  “No,” Taylor said deliberately, “I did not. Now will you for pity’s sake tell me what all this is about?”

  “I’m sorry to say Mr. Baxter was found dead this morning.”

  “What?” The man came to his feet. “But — but how? Did he crash the car?”

  “No, he appears to have been strangled. In his back garden.”

  Taylor sat down suddenly. “When did it happen?” he asked after a moment.

  “Most likely when he got home after leaving you.”

  “Poor sod. Poor bloody sod. He’d the devil’s own luck.” He looked up at Webb. “You heard about his wife?”

  “Yes, I heard.”

  “She was a constant worry to him, always threatening to do away with herself. He never thought she meant it, though.”

  “Perhaps she wouldn’t have, if he hadn’t knocked her about,” Webb said expressionlessly.

  “It didn’t mean nothing, it was just the way the drink took him. A lot of men are like that.”

  “More’s the pity. I believe there’s a sister. Any idea where she lives?”

  “In Ashmartin. She took the kids when Linda died. Ted’s been over several times, but they’d never let him see them alone.”

  “Do you happen to know her name?”

  “Yeah — hang on. It was the boy’s birthday last week, and Ted brought the card in. Care of — Sanderson, 97 Sheraton Road.” He gave a shaky smile. “It gets to be a habit in this job, memorizing names and addresses.”

  “One final question, Mr. Taylor. Can you think of anyone who might have had it in for him?”

  “Not to the extent of killing him, no.”

  “Well, thanks for your help. Sorry to have been the bearer of bad news.”

  “And now,” he said to Jackson, as they came out onto the street, “since I want to break the news to the sister myself, we’d better get over to Ashmartin.” He glanced at Jackson with a smile. “But before you start panicking, we’ll pop into the canteen for a cuppa first. OK?”

  �
��OK, guv. Now that you mention it, I am feeling a bit peckish.”

  “I thought you might be,” said Webb. Letting the sergeant take the wheel, he settled back in his seat with a sigh. The day had started early, and it looked like going on for a long time yet. He hoped that by the end of it, they’d have something definite to work on.

  2

  THAT EVENING, two headlines vied for prominence in the Broadshire Evening News. One read: MAN FOUND MURDERED IN RANKIN CLOSE, and the other: COMPOSER RETURNS TO SHILLINGHAM.

  Mark Templeton closed the front door behind him and stooped to pick up the paper, his eyes scanning the front page. Barely glancing at the murder report, his attention focused on the other lead story. So there it was, in black and white. No more disappointments, delays, frantic phone calls. She was here — Felicity Harwood in person — and in a couple of hours he might even be meeting her.

  He walked through to the living-room, his eyes skipping down the column: “World-famous composer and violinist … home of her brother, Sir Julian Harwood … Ashbourne School for Girls.”

  But his mind was racing ahead of the words, and with a gesture of impatience he dropped the paper on a chair. He’d read it later; at the moment he was too restless to concentrate, even on that.

  Walking to the window, he stood staring out at the lumpy, uneven ground that he euphemistically thought of as “the garden”. For as long as he could remember, Felicity Harwood’s music had enthralled him. As a boy, his interest had stemmed from the fact that she was born in Shillingham, but as his musical knowledge developed, he came to appreciate her true greatness. For not only was she one of a very small number of women classical composers, she was that rara avis, an equally accomplished performer.

  For the last three years, Mark had been music critic for a national newspaper, but his reviews of Miss Harwood’s concerts were invariably those which pleased him least. There was an element in her music that defied description, and better critics than himself had failed. Essentially she was a woman of her time, her music a unique blend of past and present, as though she were looking back at the old lyricism from the standpoint of the modern world. Consequently, one movement might be in the Romantic tradition, the next full of the excitement and challenge of the space age. While in less experienced hands the result could seem uneven, in hers it was uniquely effective, evoking conflicting sensations of reassurance and stimulation.

  He sighed, glancing at the record cabinets which held boxed collections of her works. Almost every recording she had made was there, as well as performances of her music recorded by other well-known soloists.

  It occurred to him that he must be one of the foremost authorities in the country on Felicity Harwood. For years, he’d read everything that was written about her, travelled whenever he could to her concerts, and written his inadequate critiques. It was through this close following of her schedule that he’d learned, in advance of most people, that she planned to give the world premiere of her new concerto in her home town, with her brother, resident conductor of the Shillingham Philharmonic, on the podium.

  It was then he had had his inspirational idea. Since she was to be in Shillingham, might she be persuaded to give a concert at the school — which, as a girl, she had attended, and which had recently launched an appeal to build a new music wing?

  Mark smiled reminiscently, remembering Gwen’s initial reaction. “But we couldn’t, Mark! Whatever would she think?”

  “There’s no harm in asking. She might like the thought of playing at her alma mater.”

  “But who’d accompany her? We couldn’t afford —”

  “The school orchestra,” he’d said promptly. “They’re jolly good, you know.”

  “But you couldn’t expect a world-famous —”

  “My dear aunt!” He only called her that when he was exasperated with her, and Gwen, recognizing that, had smiled. “If you don’t invite her, you’ll never know, will you? And after the initial approach, which would have to come from you as headmistress, I’d see to all the arrangements. If she turns us down, fair enough, but at least we’ll have tried.”

  Watching her face, he had seen she was being won over, and switched to a more oblique approach. “In the meantime, we’d better apply for our concert tickets. It’ll be heavily oversubscribed, which, of course, will mean a lot of disappointment. People would leap at another chance to hear her, and doubtless pay well for the privilege.”

  It hadn’t been easy, though, he reflected now, staring out at the little enclosed plot of land. Naively, he’d expected to deal with Miss Harwood herself, hoping to appeal to her affection for her old school. In fact, all his letters were answered by one H. C. Matthews. Secretary? Agent? Manager? No title followed the name. Mark had only discovered she was a woman a month ago, when, in desperation over another hitch, he’d resorted to the telephone. And pretty formidable she’d sounded, too: the dragon at the gate. No doubt she would also be at the reception this evening.

  Still, it had all been worth it. The school concert was scheduled for Wednesday, three days before the public one, and it too had a waiting-list for cancellations. The Music-Wing Appeal was well and truly launched.

  The clock on the mantelpiece chimed six, recalling him to his surroundings, and, abandoning his musings, he hurried upstairs to prepare for the evening ahead.

  *

  When Mark arrived at the Arts Centre, the reception room was already packed. He shook hands with the mayor and mayoress, the director and various other dignitaries and then, taking a glass of champagne from the tray offered him, moved off in search of someone he knew.

  Almost immediately he caught sight of his aunt with Hannah James, her deputy, and made his way over to join them.

  “Good evening, ladies,” he said easily. “You’re looking very glamorous this evening.” Gwen, tall, gauche, more like an overgrown schoolgirl than a headmistress, was indeed looking her best. She wore a dark red dress which complemented the flush on her cheeks and added depth to her diffident brown eyes. She’d made an effort, too, with her hair, but as usual, curling tendrils had escaped the severity of their French pleat, to lie softly against her neck. Yet, as Mark himself knew, her gentle appearance was deceptive. His aunt had an iron will, and one baulked her at one’s peril. Even his mother, ten years Gwen’s senior, had been known to quail before her.

  Hannah James, on the other hand, was more conventionally attractive, with her thick, honey-coloured hair, wide brow and clear grey eyes. It was surprising she’d never married, Mark thought; staff-room gossip hinted there was someone in her life, but though wild guesses were put forward, no hard facts had emerged.

  “Has Miss Harwood arrived?” he asked, scanning the dense crowd about him.

  “I haven’t seen her; perhaps she’s being shielded from the crush.”

  “But damn it, she’s the one we’ve all come to see!”

  “No doubt she’ll appear on the stage in due course and make a pretty speech.”

  Mark held down his irritation and turned to greet three members of the music staff and a couple of school governors, who had joined their group. This wasn’t at all what he’d expected. Still, he’d be meeting Miss Harwood at the school, so there was no point in letting his frustration spoil the evening. He emptied his glass and looked round for a waiter. “Anyone else like a refill?” he asked.

  *

  “Would anyone notice if I slipped my shoes off?” Cynthia Jessel murmured to her husband. “They’re not meant for standing around in.”

  “Surely that’s just what they are meant for.”

  “Move over to the wall with me, James. Then I won’t be so conspicuous.”

  “Dear heart, you’re never less than conspicuous.”

  She glanced up at him but his eyes were circling the room. As she’d suspected, the compliment had been perfunctory. Still, the ability to say the right thing at the right time had served him well, and materially at least she had no cause for complaint. Emotionally was a different m
atter. His continual egotism, his conviction that he was always one step ahead of the next man, could be very wearing.

  “Where is this bloody woman, anyway?” he added, too loudly for his wife’s comfort. “It’s seven-thirty, and there hasn’t been sight nor sound of her. I’ve better things to do with my time than hang around here all evening.”

  “For instance?” she challenged him, stepping out of her shoes.

  “What?” His eyes came back to her as she dropped several inches in height.

  “What better things have you to do? Prop up the bar in the golf club? You’re drinking here, and what’s more, it’s free.”

  “I’ve some reports to read before tomorrow, and I must phone Peabody about the Broadshire Life theatre feature.”

  Cynthia sighed. “I do wish you’d go more gently. It’s all causing a lot of resentment.”

  “My dear girl, if I’d worried about that, I’d never have got anywhere.”

  “But at least take back the editor. She built it up, got it on a firm footing again, and —”

  “Cynthia: do I interfere with your running of the house? Then kindly let me conduct my own affairs. Ah, there are the Conways. I thought they’d be here. Douglas! Hello there!” And, leaving her shoeless against the wall, he pushed his way through the throng to join his friends.

  *

  “Ladies and gentlemen!”

  About time! thought Mark.

  “Could I have your attention, please?” A perspiring little man had appeared on the platform and was speaking into a microphone. Gradually the roar of conversation abated, rustled into silence.

  “I know I speak for all of you when I say how privileged we are to have Miss Harwood with us this evening. May I take this opportunity of welcoming her back to Shillingham, and thanking her most sincerely for choosing to give the first performance of her new work in this very building. It is an honour Shillingham will never forget. Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Felicity Harwood.”

  A slight figure walked slowly onto the stage to the accompaniment of thunderous applause and stood for several moments, smiling and looking down into the hall. Mark, his irritation forgotten, clapped with a lifetime’s enthusiasm while he absorbed every detail of her appearance. As always, he was struck by how small she looked alone on the stage, and the deep blue gown accentuated the pallor of her skin and the silver-blond hair, giving an overall air of fragility. And yet again, he marvelled that from that small and delicate frame had come some of the most powerful music of the century.