David Webb 7 - The April Rainers

by Anthea Fraser

  “Mrs. Jessel?” She nodded. “Chief Inspector Webb and Sergeant Jackson.”

  “Please come in.” Her voice was low and husky, but that might have been due to the circumstances. The hall floor was highly polished, and scattered with oriental rugs. Against the wall opposite, an elegant Regency table held a bowl of rust and copper chrysanthemums, whose reflection in the mirror behind them doubled their glowing splendour.

  The woman led the way to the drawing-room. It was furnished in pale grey and lemon, with a high marble fireplace, its grate screened by another huge vase of flowers. Gracious living, no doubt, Jackson thought, but it could hardly be described as homey.

  “Mrs. Jessel,” Webb began, “I’m extremely sorry about your husband. I appreciate you’re still in shock, but unfortunately we can’t hold back on our questioning.”

  “I understand,” she said quietly. “Please sit down.” She seated herself in a brocade armchair, hands folded in her lap like a child.

  “How did you learn of your husband’s death?”

  “From Sam — the milkman. He rang the bell and hammered on the door till I woke up.”

  “What time would that have been?”

  She shrugged. “A quarter to seven?”

  It was now eight-thirty. “When did you last see your husband?”

  “After dinner last night. He went to the club as usual.”

  “What club is that?”

  “Larksworth Golf Club. But it’s social as well — they have a billiards table, and a bar, of course.”

  “Did he seem in good spirits?” Watching her closely, Webb saw her hesitate.

  “Much the same as usual.”

  “Weren’t you concerned when he didn’t return home?”

  She flushed hotly. “He was often late back. I never waited up.”

  Queer sort of marriage, thought Jackson.

  “You must have been alarmed, though, when you woke to all that knocking and found he still wasn’t with you.”

  Her flush deepened. “Actually, Chief Inspector, my husband had been using the spare room for the last few days. He’d a lot of business worries and wasn’t sleeping well. He didn’t want to disturb me.”

  Was that the true explanation? Webb wondered. If so, why the heightened colour? He changed tack. “Had your husband any enemies, would you say?”

  “Oh yes.” There was bitterness in her voice. “Any number. You can’t be as successful as he is without making enemies, or so he tells me.” She paused. “Told.”

  “Had he received threats of any kind?”

  “Yes, though he didn’t take any notice.”

  “In what form?”

  “Anonymous letters mostly.”

  Webb sat forward. “Did he keep them?”

  “No, but he left one crumpled on the breakfast table, and I read it.” She shivered. “It was signed ‘The April Rainers.’”

  Webb let out his breath in a long sigh. “When did he receive it?”

  “Last Friday.” She looked up suddenly, staring at him as her face paled. “My God.” she whispered, “it came true!”

  “Mrs. Jessel, this could be vital. What did the letter say? Can you remember?”

  “Yes, it was going round my head all day. The misquotation intrigued me, because I didn’t know if it was deliberate. It said, ‘You are found guilty of evil deeds which assault and hurt the soul. The death sentence will be carried out in eight days.’ I worked out that would be Friday. And it was!” She stared at him, horror-stricken.

  “What did you mean by misquotation?” Webb asked gently.

  “Part of it comes from the Prayer Book, but it should be evil thoughts, not deeds.”

  “And you thought that significant?”

  “Yes. Evil thoughts would assault your own soul, evil deeds someone else’s.”

  Webb digested that for a moment. Then he said, “Your husband never thought of going to the police?”

  “No, I told you. He said successful people always attract cranks, and the only thing to do with anonymous letters is ignore them.”

  “You say he’d received others?”

  “There’d been a couple earlier in the week, but I don’t know what they said. In fact, there’s been quite a harassment campaign going on — phone calls, hoax advertisements in the paper, that kind of thing.”

  “And your husband had no idea who was behind it?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Had you?” The suddenness of the question startled her, which might have been why she coloured. She shook her head in silence.

  “Did he have any dealings with Mr. Ted Baxter?”

  She frowned, trying to think where she’d heard the name.

  “Oh, the man who was murdered. Not that I know of. Why?”

  Webb hesitated, but it would be public knowledge as soon as the press got it. “Because he also received a note from the April Rainers.”

  She looked at him blankly. “You mean they’re a kind of — hit squad?”

  “All we know at the moment is that your husband seems to be the third person they’ve threatened who’s died on the day appointed. The first was in London a couple of years ago.”

  “And you’ve no idea who they are?”

  “Not as yet, I’m afraid.” He paused. “I suppose it’s no use asking if you heard anything last night?”

  She shook her head. “As you saw, it’s quite a long drive.”

  “Where does that lane lead to?”

  “Only up to the farm, but it’s not wide enough for tractors, so they don’t use it much. They’ve another entrance along the main road.”

  “So you’re virtually the only people who use the lane?”

  “Yes.”

  Then anyone lying in wait for Jessel would run little risk of waylaying the wrong person. But what, in heaven’s name, was the connection between Jessel the tycoon and Baxter the wife-beater, let alone Thomas Raymond in London?

  “Mrs. Jessel, did anyone have a particular grudge against your husband?”

  “As I said, he was always upsetting people. The most recent thing was the Broadshire Life takeover. He didn’t keep to the agreement and made people redundant. Obviously, there was a lot of resentment.”

  Jackson made an appropriate note in his pocketbook. “Forgive me, but I have to ask this: was your marriage happy?”

  She met his eyes defiantly. “I didn’t murder him, if that’s what you’re wondering.” Then the fight went out of her. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I know you’re only doing your job.”

  “So?”

  “What’s happy?” she asked enigmatically. “James was one of those men whose work is more important than his family. I knew that when I married him, so I’ve no cause for complaint.”

  “But you felt — neglected?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Did you build up interests of your own?”

  “I enjoy sport. I play squash and tennis all the year round.”

  “But not golf?”

  She smiled slightly. “No, we didn’t fraternize.”

  “You’re not aware of your husband having any women friends?”

  She shook her head. “No, that’s one thing I am sure of. You can rule out the possibility of jealous husbands.”

  She sounded very positive about it. Did it mean Jessel had little interest in sex, even with his wife? Was that, perhaps, the reason for the retreat to the spare room? And if so, had she looked elsewhere?

  Cynthia said in a low voice, “To a lot of people, Chief Inspector, my husband seemed inconsiderate, impatient, intent on pursuing his own interests without caring whom he hurt. But basically he was a decent man, extremely generous and, when he exerted himself, good company. I think that in his own way he was still fond of me. As I was of him.”

  Sudden tears overwhelmed her, and she reached helplessly for a tissue. It was true, she thought wretchedly, and she’d have given anything to be allowed to live the last week over again. If only James had
n’t found her with Robert! With hindsight, she knew there’d been hurt behind his rage, bewilderment at her betrayal.

  Aware that the policemen had risen to their feet, she tried to control herself. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

  “No, Mrs. Jessel, it’s we who are sorry, to intrude on your grief. Unfortunately it’s unavoidable. And now, perhaps we could have a word with your sons.”

  The elder boy, aged eighteen, was subdued and monosyllabic, with little to contribute. Though he was obviously shocked, he seemed the kind of boy who was wrapped in his own affairs and took little interest in the life of the family. Fortunately, however, the younger one, Lance, was either more observant or spent more time at home. He was quite willing to enlarge on what his mother had referred to as a ‘harassment campaign’ — the false advertisement in the News, the unwanted load of manure and a series of late-night phone calls.

  “We thought someone had it in for Dad,” he ended.

  “Any idea who it could have been?”

  The boy looked up suddenly, an expression of shock on his face, and Webb guessed that for the first time, he was making a connection between the hoaxes and the murder.

  “Well?” he prompted, but Lance shook his head violently and would not be drawn. Webb studied the downcast face. He knew something — something which perhaps loyalty to his father — or mother? — prevented him from disclosing.

  He said quietly, “You want us to find the killer, don’t you?”

  Lance nodded without raising his eyes.

  “Then if you know anything — anything at all, even if you don’t think it’s relevant — you must tell us. It could be vitally important.”

  The boy looked up at last, anguish in his eyes. For a long moment Webb held his gaze, willing him to give in. Then, with a whispered “I’m sorry,” Lance looked away.

  Webb stood up, motioning to Jackson. “All right, Lance. But think about it. And if you change your mind, you can either phone or call to see me at Carrington Street. I hope to hear from you soon.”

  Mrs. Jessel was hovering in the hall when they reached it. It was apparent she’d been weeping again. Webb said gently, “Is there anything we can get you before we go? Anyone you’d like us to contact?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll be all right.” She opened the door for them, and with a last look at the silent boy behind her, the policemen left them to their grief.

  It was still raining. When Webb and Jackson reached the gate, Hodges had some news for them.

  “Come and look at this, Dave,” he said, leading him to the far side of the lane. The ground sloped up fairly steeply, covered with a tangle of gorse and low-growing bushes. Protected by them from the worst of the rain, a set of tyre prints was scoured deep into the mud.

  “I’d assumed at first that he took the corner wide and went up on the bank. But when we got round to studying them, it’s clear the marks weren’t made by this car — the tread’s entirely different. What’s more, it looks as though another vehicle was parked just in front of Jessel’s — see that patch of oil? At some stage it drove up the lane to the farm gateway — those aren’t Jessel’s prints either — reversed into it, and came back down, going up on the bank here on the way out.”

  “And the only reason to do that,” Webb said slowly, “would be to get round Jessel’s car, which was blocking the lane.”

  “Exactly. Another thing — see those thorns? A couple of them had minute traces of blue paint on them. They’d only have made a faint scratch — the owner probably hasn’t even noticed it — but they should tell us the make and age of the car.”

  “Well done, Dick. Let me have the results as soon as you can. Oh, and by way of confirmation, Jessel received a note from the April Rainers.”

  Hodges nodded. “That figures. But they’re stepping things up, aren’t they? Two in ten days, for Pete’s sake!”

  “And both on our patch,” Webb said gloomily. “Why couldn’t they have stayed in London?”

  “Perhaps they cover the country. Contract killers — ‘Stocking for Hire.’”

  Mrs. Jessel had suggested something similar. “Well, the time has come to release it to the press. We need to know if, God forbid, there have been other cases.” A sudden breeze shook down a spray of water from the trees overhead. Webb grimaced and turned up his collar. “In the meantime, we’ll leave you to it. Come on, Ken, we’ll make a start with the Broadshire Life people.”

  *

  Felicity Harwood stood at the window, staring out at the sodden garden. The lawn and flower-beds which, last weekend, had still held an echo of summer, were now dank and bedraggled under a cloak of fallen leaves. Autumn was unmistakably here.

  She sighed. That card tucked into the bouquet had really thrown her. Stupid to let it get to her like that; she must put it out of her mind, forget it.

  Behind her on the bed, the muffled sobbing continued. Holding down her irritation, she turned back into the room.

  “Come on now, Hattie, that’s enough. Wash your face and you’ll feel better.” She stood looking down at the heaving shoulders, the straight, tousled hair. Weeping did nothing for Hattie’s already plain looks. “It’ll be all right, you know,” she added with a touch of impatience. “It always is.”

  Hattie eased herself up on the bed like a beached whale, gulping in a valiant attempt to stay her sobs. She reached for a handkerchief and blew her nose.

  “Sorry, Flick,” she said in a clogged voice. “You’re right, of course. It’s only —”

  “Yes, I know. I’m on edge, too, but we can’t give in to it. Now, splash some cold water on your eyes and we’ll go down for breakfast. And hurry — I’ve a final rehearsal at ten.”

  The other woman blundered to her feet, and Felicity gave her shoulder a pat as she passed en route to the bathroom. “It’ll be all right,” she repeated reassuringly. “I promise.” Hattie gave her a wan smile and did not reply.

  *

  “There were eight redundancies among senior staff,” Jackson said, reading from a list. “And a lot more lower down the scale. The diarist, Terence Denbigh, collapsed and died soon afterwards. I remember reading about it.”

  Webb took the list from him and ran his eye down it. Gaby Fenshawe, ex-editor. He knew the name; Hannah took Broadshire Life, and any time he’d picked it up, he’d made a point of reading the editorial. Good stuff, and what’s more, the girl had done a resuscitation job and saved the magazine from the brink of folding. It was poor reward to be handed her cards, and he bet it rankled. How deeply? Though whatever her resentment against Jessel, it was difficult to imagine a connection with Ted Baxter. Still, they had to make a start somewhere.

  “We’ll begin with Gaby Fenshawe,” he said.

  The Fenshawes lived in a small Victorian villa, which had been lovingly restored to make an attractive home full of character. Gaby opened the door to them, a diminutive figure in cords, an oversize sweater and bare feet. She apologized for the latter on learning their identity. “I thought it was the paperboy wanting to settle up,” she explained. “Do you mind coming into the kitchen? I’m timing a pie, and if I leave it, I’ll forget it. Anyway, it’s more comfortable in there.”

  She settled them at a large scrubbed table and set two steaming mugs of coffee before them. An open fire burned in the grate and a delicious smell of baking filled the air. After the bleak wet outdoors, the warmth and cheerfulness of the room were doubly welcome.

  Their hostess checked the oven, then turned to them with a smile. “Now,” she said, “what can I do for you?”

  Webb looked back at her assessingly. If she was bitter over her dismissal, she gave no sign of it. Her smile was friendly, with a hint of humour, and lit up her small, olive-skinned face. She wasn’t wearing make-up, and after her baking efforts, her nose had a slight shine. He said flatly, “You won’t have heard about Mr. Jessel?”

  She turned down her mouth in a comic gesture of gloom. “Oh, him! What’s he been up to now?”

  “He�
�s got himself murdered.”

  There was complete silence. A look of incredulity came over her face — genuine, Webb could have sworn. “Oh no! When? What happened?”

  He remained silent, and she went on, “But why come to me? I can’t help you; I haven’t seen him for weeks.”

  A man’s voice in the hall saved Webb from replying. “Gaby? Was that someone at the door?”

  A tall, dark man appeared in the doorway and surveyed them frowningly. He had a thin, clever face and he too was barefooted and in casual clothes — jeans and an open-neck shirt. It was Saturday morning, after all.

  His wife said in a strained voice, “Nat, these gentlemen are from the police. James Jessel’s been murdered.”

  Watching him closely, Webb could have sworn he caught a fleeting glimpse of panic in his eyes. Fenshawe swallowed nervously. “But that’s terrible. When did it happen?”

  “Sometime last night,” Webb said. Then, casually, “Where were you both, last night?”

  Gaby gasped and moved to her husband, presenting a united front. “Look, what is this?” she demanded, as he stood silent beside her. “What right have you to burst in and start questioning us as though we were criminals?”

  “We hardly ‘burst in,’ Mrs. Fenshawe,” Webb said mildly. “Nor are we treating you as criminals. You don’t have to answer, of course, but it’s a pretty simple question.”

  Fenshawe said quietly, “There’s no secret about it. We went to the cinema.” There was a nerve jumping in his cheek, and Webb continued to regard him, though he addressed his wife.

  “You must have been resentful about losing your post in the takeover.”

  “I was hopping mad, but that doesn’t mean I’d stick a knife in him. Anyway, I’ve got another job now; I heard yesterday. Does that dispose of my motive?”

  Fenshawe, aware of the continuing steady gaze, shifted his weight uneasily.

  Webb said, “There was a lead-up to the killing. Phone calls, poison-pen letters, unsolicited goods.” He leaned back in his chair and sipped the cooling coffee, his eyes not leaving the man’s face. Sweat had broken out on his hairline, and his teeth, fastening convulsively on his lip, drew a bead of blood. His all too obvious nervousness contrasted strangely with his wife’s indignant innocence.