David Webb 7 - The April Rainers

by Anthea Fraser

  “So I repeat, did she confide in you?”

  “Not really, no. She — played it all down. I offered to go and speak to her husband, formally, of course, as her employer, but she became quite hysterical at the idea.”

  “Did you ever meet Mr. Baxter?”

  “No. Just as well, as I’d have been hard put to be civil to him.”

  “So you never went to her home?”

  “Never.”

  “Not even to run her back after work?”

  He shook his head. “We really were on a work basis, Chief Inspector. Since you have apparently heard something, I admit I’d have liked our relationship to be deeper, but it was not to be.”

  Webb said casually, “Where were you on the evening of the fifth, sir?”

  “The fifth?”

  “A week last Wednesday.”

  “At home with Mother, I imagine. We spend most evenings together.”

  “And your mother can confirm that?”

  Chadwick raised an eyebrow. “I imagine so, if it’s necessary. Apart from — oh. A week last Wednesday, you said?”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “Then I’m mistaken. The first Wednesday in the month, Mother plays duplicate, at the bridge club.”

  “And what do you do?” Webb asked quietly.

  The man’s nervousness had returned, but Webb couldn’t be sure if the date held any significance for him. “Occasionally I go to the cinema, but I usually stay home and read or listen to the radio.”

  “And last week?”

  “I believe I stayed in.”

  “So you were at home when your mother returned?”

  “Oh, definitely. I always am. She likes to give me a detailed account of the evening’s play over her cocoa.”

  “What time does she get back?”

  “About quarter to eleven. They stop play at ten-thirty.”

  And at eleven o’clock, Ted Baxter was still at the Magpie.

  So it hadn’t been the chemist lurking in his garden. Another avenue of inquiry cut off, Webb thought wearily.

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Chadwick,” he said, and Jackson followed him dispiritedly out of the shop.

  “Where now, guy?” Jackson asked, as they paused on the pavement outside.

  “Back to the nick, I think. We’ll get this lot written up, then have a bite of lunch.”

  “You still reckon Baxter’s death is tied up with his wife’s?”

  “I wish I knew, Ken. Heaven knows, we’ve not much to go on.”

  Each wrapped in his own thoughts, they turned off Westgate into Franklyn Road. Ahead of them was the Arts Centre, of which Shillingham was justly proud. Completed ten years ago, it was a vast complex which included art gallery, library, concert hall-cum-theatre, a high-class restaurant, and two enormous rooms which were leased for exhibitions. Today, there were large placards outside blazoned with the name of Felicity Harwood, who would be performing the world premiere of her new work the following evening. Webb, glancing at them as he passed, hoped nothing would cause her to faint this time.

  They had barely walked a hundred yards past the Centre when a sudden commotion broke out behind them, and they spun round in time to see a youth running towards them with a handbag under his arm.

  “Not your lucky day, chummie,” Webb said under his breath, as Jackson caught the boy without difficulty. He was breathing fast and wriggling like an eel but Jackson held him fast.

  Webb looked back along the pavement. A small blond woman was hurrying towards him, relief on her face. “Oh, thank you!” she exclaimed as she came within speaking distance. “I thought I’d seen the last of it.”

  “You’re in luck, ma’am. He ran straight into the arms of the law.”

  The boy renewed his efforts to escape, but Jackson, for all his slightness more than his match, cautioned and arrested him. The woman’s eyes widened. “You’re police?”

  “Chief Inspector Webb and Sergeant Jackson. The station’s just round the corner; we won’t keep you long.”

  “Oh, but there’s no need for that, surely? I have my bag back, after all.” She reached out to take it, but Webb held on to it.

  “I’m afraid there’s a procedure to be followed, ma’am.”

  For a moment, he thought she was going to argue. Already a knot of interested bystanders had gathered. Perhaps aware of them, the woman said crisply, “Very well, if I’ve no choice.”

  With the two men on either side of the thief, holding firmly to his arms, the small procession turned the corner into Carrington Street.

  Having handed over their charge to be documented and searched, Webb turned to the woman. He’d intended to leave Jackson to deal with her, but something about her was needling his memory and on impulse he led her to an interview room himself.

  “I’ll need your name and address, ma’am, and an account of exactly what happened.”

  She sighed. “Very well. I’m Felicity Harwood, and I’m staying with my brother at Fauconberg House, Hampton Rise.”

  Webb put his pen down. “Miss Harwood — of course. I should have recognized you. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m only sorry it’s in such circumstances.”

  She smiled. “Thank you.”

  “I hope you’ve recovered from your — indisposition?”

  “At the school, you mean?” She made a dismissive gesture. “It was only the heat. I felt a fool, causing such a fuss.”

  Regretfully stifling his curiosity, Webb returned to the matter in hand. “Now, Miss Harwood — the bag-snatch. What exactly happened?”

  She shrugged. “I hardly know, it was all so fast. I’d been at the hall rehearsing for tomorrow, and was on my way home for lunch. As I came down the steps, this boy cannoned into me. I thought at first it was accidental, but then he made a grab for my bag and was off. And I’d only had time to give a shout when you caught him.”

  “Have you ever seen him before?”

  She looked at him blankly. “The thief? Of course not.”

  “You’re not, for instance, in possession of something he might want?”

  “Money, you mean? There’s about fifty pounds in there.”

  “If I may?” Without waiting for permission, Webb opened the lizard handbag and tipped its contents onto the desk. He heard her faint gasp, but she made no protest. As he’d supposed, there was nothing suspicious there, and he replaced the articles in the bag.

  “I trust you’re satisfied, Chief Inspector?” There was an edge to her voice. She reached again for her handbag and this time he let her take it.

  “Perfectly, madam, but you’ll appreciate we have to treat everyone the same, even illustrious ladies such as yourself. Now, once we have the man’s details —”

  She said quickly, “I told you — I don’t want to take it any further.”

  “May I ask why not?”

  “I’ve got my property back, after all.”

  Webb said heavily, “Not many people are so lucky. We’re plagued with bag-snatchers and shoplifters at the moment, and if their victims refuse to press charges when they get the chance, we’re not going to get anywhere.”

  “I’m sorry, I realize I’m not being public-spirited, but my only thought is to forget the whole business as soon as possible. Anything like this weighing on my mind would affect my playing, and I can’t risk that. In any case, when it came to court, I should probably be abroad.” When he didn’t speak, she added more placatingly, “Look on it as giving a young offender another chance. Perhaps it will be a lesson for him.”

  Webb sighed. “If I can’t change your mind, then I must ask you to sign a statement of withdrawal, and that’ll be the end of the matter.”

  She duly did so, then looked up at him, her lips twitching. “You’re disappointed in me, aren’t you, Chief Inspector?”

  “I’d have preferred you to press charges, yes.”

  “I’m sorry. I do appreciate your help, and I hope you understand my reasons.”

  “We have
different priorities, I suppose. Good luck with the concert, Miss Harwood. At least you’ll have nothing to distract you now.”

  *

  When Mark returned home that evening, he poured himself a drink and settled down to look through Felicity’s diaries. It was a task he’d been intending to perform all week, but what with the school concert, the evening lessons, and Camilla’s visit yesterday, there had been no opportunity. Now, however, it was Friday, and though Felicity would be unable to see him tomorrow, with the second concert in the evening, she would expect him on Sunday for another interview, and he should be as up-to-date as possible in his research.

  The earliest diary, its leather scuffed and pages bent, was inscribed on its first page: “Felicity Harwood, aged ten and a half, Fauconberg House, Hampton Rise, Shillingham, Broadshire, Great Britain, the World, the Universe.” The writing was in pencil, and difficult to decipher. Mark flicked through it quickly, finding nothing of interest in accounts of homework and hockey matches. The name “Hattie” appeared at regular intervals.

  He smiled ruefully, acknowledging a naive hope of indications of burgeoning genius on every page. How old was she before music became the centre of her life? It was well before her father’s death, which occurred when she was fifteen, she’d said. He selected what he guessed to be the relevant diary and began to go through it. The writing was neater and better formed, in ink now, and there were references to musical scores studied, lessons with Miss Grundy, one or two sulky comments about parental restraint. Then, on 14 April, instead of the usual closely written entries, only two lines appeared. “Spent the day with Hattie. When I got home, Mummy told me Daddy was dead.”

  It had happened during the Easter holidays, and family mourning appeared to have clamped down. Over the next week, only a couple of lines appeared for each day, one of which mentioned the funeral. Mark had reached the beginning of the summer term when the doorbell clarioned into his concentration.

  Camilla? he thought on an irrational upsurge of hope. He hurried to the door, to find Jackie on the step.

  “Oh — come in,” he said, trying to sound welcoming. “Not interrupting anything, am I?”

  “I was reading through Felicity’s diaries.” Thank God she hadn’t come yesterday; that would have taken some explaining. And hard on the relief came the uncomfortable awareness that Jackie deserved an explanation of his changed attitude.

  “How is she?” she was asking, as she settled on the sofa in her usual corner. “I presume tomorrow’s concert is still on?”

  “Yes, it seems it was just a dizzy spell, with no after-effects.”

  “Thank goodness for that. But since you dashed off to minister to her, we didn’t arrange what time you’d pick me up.”

  Mark, pouring the drinks, hesitated. If he said nothing, he’d again be in the position of trying to keep the girls apart — which, after last evening, would be even more difficult.

  “Are your parents coming?” Jackie continued, seemingly unaware of his silence. “I thought they were sweet — we got on really well.”

  Mark said gently, “Jackie, there’s something I have to say.” He handed her the glass, unwillingly meeting her wide, inquiring eyes. “I — think it would be better if we didn’t see quite as much of each other for a while.”

  “Why?” she asked flatly.

  “Because I’m no longer sure how I feel.”

  There was a silence. He seated himself on the edge of his chair, staring into his own glass. He was burning his boats without any real idea of Camilla’s feelings, but even if they were negative, his own precluded a continuing association with Jackie.

  “Is there someone else?” she asked in a small voice. He nodded, not meeting her eyes. “But she’s too old!” she burst out. “You said so yourself!”

  For a moment he stared at her in bewilderment. Then he said, “It’s not Felicity, Jackie.”

  “Then who? You’ve not had time to meet anyone else.”

  “It’s her niece. Look,” he went on quickly, before she could speak, “I’m not saying there’s anything between us, because there isn’t really. But —”

  “— you’d like there to be,” Jackie finished bleakly.

  “I’m sorry, love. It just — came up out of the blue.”

  “Does she feel the same?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Suppose she doesn’t?”

  “Even so,” Mark said awkwardly.

  “I see. So that’s it?”

  “Well — in a way. We can still —”

  “Don’t,” Jackie said rockily, “for God’s sake, don’t say we can still be friends.”

  “No. Sorry. But at least let’s go to the concert as we planned.” He felt he owed her that much.

  She shook her head quickly. “I suppose she was at the last one, the girl? What would you have done if we’d met?”

  He shrugged. “Jackie, I feel badly about this.”

  “Not as badly as I do. And just after meeting your parents, too. I really thought —” She drank hastily from her glass.

  “I’m sorry,” he said helplessly. She stumbled to her feet and set down the empty glass.

  “Well, no point in hanging round here. Goodbye, Mark. It’s been fun.”

  He guessed her control was running out, and followed her silently to the front door. “Goodbye, Jackie. Thanks for everything. And I really am sorry.”

  She gave a little, choked sound, and disappeared into the darkness. Mark closed the front door. “Hell!” he said vehemently. Why couldn’t people fall in and out of love at the same time? Morosely he went back to the living-room and the discarded diaries.

  *

  It was later than he intended when James Jessel left the golf club that evening. Not, God knew, that there was much to hurry home for. Cynthia was still being wary. He’d give her another week or so, then move back to their bedroom. The guest-room bed, though fine for overnight visitors, was not as comfortable as his own. As to her gigolo, James hoped he was having a thoroughly worrying time, wondering what action would be taken.

  He got into his car, aware that he shouldn’t have had that last glass of whisky. One of the penalties of living at Stonebridge was the proximity of County Police Headquarters just down the road. Better take it gently.

  It had started to rain, and headlights coming in the opposite direction glinted blindingly on the wet windscreen. James swore to himself. He’d have to leave the car out again, too, since he still hadn’t got round to shifting that manure. It would be even more unpleasant after the rain. Bloody hell — that, and the phone calls still coming in about the car, and those damn-fool letters. Cynthia was right, someone must have it in for him. Well, it was irritating, but he wasn’t going to lose any sleep over it.

  Here was the old stone bridge that gave the district its name. Easy now, and make sure nothing’s coming the other way. He tooted as he drove onto it. Some hundred yards farther on, Police Headquarters stood foursquare, its windows a blaze of lights in the wet darkness. As he passed it, he sketched a mock salute. And here, thank God, was his own turning.

  He took it rather faster than he’d intended, and immediately jammed on the brakes, feeling the wheels spin on the soft ground. Bloody hell, what was going on? Almost opposite his gateway a car was parked, facing up the lane. The bonnet was up, and in the glare of his own headlamps, he could see a figure peering inside.

  James was no Good Samaritan, least of all in rain and darkness. On the other hand, unless the car was shifted, he couldn’t get into his own drive. Turning up his collar, he reluctantly got out of the car and walked round the other one to the open bonnet.

  “What seems to be the trouble?” he asked. They were the last words he spoke. As he bent in his turn to look into the car’s maw, something hit him on the back of the head. He was already losing consciousness when the lethal stocking went round his neck.

  8

  ONCE AGAIN, it was a milkman who discovered the body, though fortunately not the
same one. By the time Webb and Jackson arrived, a plastic tent had been rigged over it — more to protect the investigators than the deceased, since rain had fallen relentlessly throughout the night.

  “Same MO, Dave,” Dick Hodges said over his shoulder. “Asphyxiation, and the ligature removed. Additional bump on the back of the head, though that might have occurred earlier.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Owner of the house up there.” Hodges jerked his head in the direction of the wrought-iron gates. “James Jessel. Been in the news recently, hasn’t he?”

  Webb grunted. “This his car?”

  “Right. Driver’s door on the latch, headlights and ignition switched on.”

  “So he was almost home when something caught his attention, and he got out to have a look.”

  “Just like the last one,” Hodges confirmed.

  “Who’s up at the house?”

  “The wife, and two lads in their teens. The milkman went there for assistance, so I didn’t see their initial reactions.”

  “OK, Dick, we’ll go and have a word.”

  “What’s the betting he got a letter, too?” Jackson said cheerily, as they set off on foot towards the house. After some eighty feet the drive forked, the right-hand branch leading to a garage a few yards away. Immediately in front of the fork, and therefore blocking access to both house and garage, was a considerable quantity of malodorous manure. The only way past it was by walking on the soaking wet grass, which drenched their shoes. “A nice way of saying ‘Welcome!’” Jackson grumbled.

  In front of the house, the drive widened to a large gravel sweep into which two old-fashioned street lamps had been set, one on either side. The house itself was handsome, though too ornate for Webb’s taste. The front door was resplendent with columns, a white iron balcony ran along the front at first-floor level, and a profusion of hanging baskets filled the porch. Ducking to avoid them, he rang the bell.

  The woman who opened it was striking-looking, her soft, pale grey hair framing a youthful face with large, deep-blue eyes that now regarded him fearfully.