He waited in the hall, feeling large and conspicuous as a group of small girls clattered down the staircase en route to another classroom, each glancing curiously at him as she passed.
Hannah’s voice said, “Chief Inspector Webb? I believe you wanted to see me.”
“I’d be grateful if you could spare me a couple of minutes. There are some questions I’d like to ask about the school concert.”
“Of course. The whole school is stunned by the accident.”
She led the way to her study. It was as pleasant as her sitting-room at home, though considerably smaller. In a chair by the window, basking in the sunshine, lay the small ginger kitten.
Hannah closed the door behind them and turned to face him. “What is it, David? What’s happened?”
“In view of what you told me about Miss Harwood’s collapse, I’m wondering if there’s any connection with the April Rainers.”
Hannah paled, staring at him. “But — but how? You surely don’t mean the plane crash wasn’t an accident?”
“It’s possible. There might have been an explosion when it was still in the air. Look, love, it’s only an idea and there are a lot of points against it. Such as, could she have had time to read a note before fainting? And if she did, what happened to it, since you didn’t find it? Then again, the concert was six, not eight, days before the crash. And finally, why should people with an MO involving nylon stockings suddenly switch to a bomb? If, in fact, there was a bomb.”
Hannah moistened her lips. “So how can I help you?”
“I’d like to know how the bouquets were dealt with. What time they started to arrive, where they were put until the end of the concert, who could have had access to them, and so on.”
“I’ll phone for the secretary.” Hannah sat down behind her desk, and the kitten jumped from its chair and up onto her knee. “Could you come in for a moment, Miss Hanson?”
They waited in silence, Hannah’s fingers absentmindedly caressing the kitten’s ears. There was a knock on the door, and the woman who had admitted Webb came into the room, an apprehensive look on her face.
“Yes, Miss James?”
“Miss Hanson, the Chief Inspector is anxious to know whether anyone might have had the opportunity to interfere with Miss Harwood’s bouquets during the concert. Were you in charge of them?”
“I took some of them in, yes.”
“What time did the first one arrive?” Webb asked.
“Early afternoon, I’d say. I know it was after lunch, because I put them in the pantry, where it was cool, and all the lunch things had been cleared away.”
“And each time a delivery was made, you carried them through?”
“Well, I took in several, but I left a message with the caretaker that all the flowers were to be taken to the pantry.”
“How is the pantry approached?”
Hannah rose, tipping the kitten to the floor. “Would you like to see it?”
The three of them walked along a checker-tiled corridor past large double doors leading to the dining-hall. At the end of the passage were the kitchens, and just short of them, on the right-hand side, the cool, stone-floored pantry. A large stone sink stood in one corner and Miss Hanson waved towards it with a flustered hand. “I put them there. Either standing in the sink or, when it was full, resting on the draining-board.”
“There were a lot of bouquets?”
“A couple of dozen, I’d say.”
“Would anyone normally come in here once school dinner was over?”
“Not until the boarders’ supper-time.”
“Is there any other access apart from the way we came?”
“Through the kitchen.” Hannah nodded at a communicating door.
“Would anyone have been in there?”
“Yes. We’d invited about a dozen guests, including the Harwoods, for cocktails before the concert. The canapés and so on were prepared during the afternoon.”
“One last question: who retrieved the flowers from here and took them into the hall?”
“A team of senior girls, led by Miss Maybury, head of Music.”
Webb sighed. He wasn’t much farther forward. “Well, thank you for your help, ladies. That’s all for the moment.”
Hannah walked back to the front door with him. “What’ll you do now?”
“Go and see the Harwoods, which won’t be easy. They live just up the road, don’t they, in Hampton Rise?”
“That’s right, Fauconberg House. Their garden actually backs onto ours.”
“Very convenient. However, since I’ll want a woman officer with me, I’ll have to go and collect her first.”
Hannah said in a low voice, “I couldn’t bear it if Miss Harwood came to harm through performing here. Will you call in when you get home, and tell me the latest?”
“I don’t know what time it’ll be.”
“Whenever. I shan’t sleep till I know.”
“All right. See you then.”
He got into the car and, without looking back, drove towards the gate, his mind already on the difficult interview ahead.
*
Sir Julian and Lady Harwood had just arrived back from Barrow when Webb and Nina called. They were still shaken and disorientated, and didn’t at first appreciate the significance of the police visit.
“But I don’t understand,” Sir Julian repeated patiently. “How can my sister’s death be of interest to you, Chief Inspector?”
“The cause of the crash hasn’t been identified yet, sir,” Webb said diplomatically. “In the meantime, we’re trying to go over the last week or so of Miss Harwood’s life, looking for any unusual occurrences.”
Lady Harwood frowned. “What sort of occurrences?”
“For instance, I believe she was taken ill at the Ashbourne School concert?”
Sir Julian made a dismissive gesture. “It was the heat and excitement, that’s all.”
Hannah had told him the first thing she’d said as she came round was “Hattie.” Perhaps she, whoever she was, would be in a position to help him. He began tentatively, “I understand Miss Harwood’s friend is staying here?”
“Miss Matthews, you mean? Yes; but for a broken ankle, she’d have been on the flight with my sister. She’s extremely distressed, as you can imagine.”
“Nevertheless,” Webb said gently, “it’s imperative that we should speak to her.”
“Out of the question!” said Sir Julian at once, but his wife lifted her hand.
“Just a moment, dear.” She turned to Webb. “It really is vital that you see her at once?”
“Yes, Lady Harwood, I’m afraid so. But if you’d prefer, Inspector Petrie here could interview her. That might be easier for her.”
“Thank you, yes, I think it would. I’ll take you up myself, Inspector.”
As they left the room, Webb turned back to Sir Julian. “I believe your sister had commissioned a biography?”
“Not exactly; she asked Mr. Templeton if he’d do it, but he hadn’t committed himself.”
“Wasn’t he rather a curious choice? He’s not a writer, after all.”
“He’s a critic, Chief Inspector, and a very erudite one. Felicity valued his reviews enormously. Also, he’s a devoted admirer. He’s attended all the concerts she’s given in this country over the last ten years or so. I can think of no one better qualified to evaluate her work.”
Not totally convinced, Webb felt it politic to change the subject. “Had your sister to your knowledge received any threatening letters?”
“Good heavens, no. Threatening what?”
“Death, Sir Julian.”
The man stared at him. “Are you serious?”
“Extremely.”
“So that’s what you meant about ‘unusual occurrences,’” he said slowly.
“I’m afraid so.”
Sir Julian stared at the floor with furrowed brow, then looked up again to meet Webb’s eyes. “Well, I’m sorry, Chief Inspector. My sister certa
inly never mentioned anything to me, so I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
Webb could only hope that Nina was having better luck.
*
“You must understand,” Lady Harwood had said as Nina accompanied her from the room, “that Felicity and Miss Matthews were lifelong friends. She is as shattered as we are by what has happened. I should also warn you that she’s been sedated, and her answers might not be as clear as you’d wish.”
Nina nodded. “I’ll go as gently as I can.”
They had come up the stairs and halted at one of the handsome oak doors on the landing. Lady Harwood tapped and went inside. “Hattie dear, the police would like a brief word with you. It won’t take long.” She nodded encouragingly at Nina and withdrew, closing the door behind her.
The curtains were half-drawn across the window, shielding the woman who sat there from the sunshine. She was a large and ungainly figure swathed in a blue woollen dressing-gown, and her heavily plastered foot was resting on a stool. As Nina’s eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she took in the short, untidy hair, the heavy face puffed and swollen with grief, the lack-lustre eyes. She advanced slowly towards her and perched on the end of the bed.
“I’m Inspector Petrie, Miss Matthews. I’m sorry to trouble you at such a time, but we do need your help.”
The woman gazed at her stolidly without replying.
“I believe Miss Harwood was taken ill at the end of her first concert here?”
Something flickered in the dull, stone-like eyes. At least she was getting through. “Something frightened her, didn’t it? As she came round, she asked for you.”
A spasm contorted the heavy face and the woman caught her lip savagely between her teeth. “You see,” Nina continued gently, “we don’t know yet what caused the plane crash, and we’re anxious to find out if Miss Harwood had received any kind of threats.”
A look of total incomprehension met her. She went on carefully, “What frightened her, Miss Matthews? Was it something in one of the bouquets that were handed up to her? Something that might have some bearing on her death?”
The silence was unremitting. Nina was just wondering whether the sedation had blotted out all understanding when the woman spoke for the first time.
“You’re asking if something in the flowers frightened Flick?”
Thank heaven, a response at last! “That’s right. You were among the first to reach her. Do you think it’s possible?”
There was another long silence. Then Miss Matthews said dully, “How did you guess?”
Nina felt a spurt of triumph. “There was? That was why she fainted?” A nod. She leant forward. “What was it, Miss Matthews? Did you see it yourself?”
The woman hesitated again, and Nina tried to curb her impatience. Then the words came slowly. “It was a card with a skull and crossbones on it. It was that which caught her attention. And it said, ‘The next flowers you receive will be on your grave.’”
Nina’s knuckles tightened on the edge of the bed. “Anything else you can remember?”
“It was written in green copperplate and signed ‘The April Rainers.’”
Nina drew a deep breath. There were variations from the usual form, but it sounded genuine. “What happened to it, Miss Matthews?”
“It had fallen out of the bouquet and was lying by her hand. No one else had noticed it, so I picked it up. After I’d read it, I destroyed it.”
“Had you any idea who might have sent it?”
She shrugged. “There are always bitter, envious people who want to destroy the successful.” She looked at Nina in bewilderment. “You’re not taking it seriously, are you?”
“Haven’t you heard of the April Rainers? There’s been a lot about them in the papers.” From the continuing blankness, apparently not. Unwilling to embark on a long explanation, she said instead, “Did you by any chance keep a note of the people who’d sent bouquets?”
“Yes.” Miss Matthews wrenched her mind back from its own preoccupations. “Felicity liked a record of the names.”
“Have you still got it?”
“It’ll be on my desk.”
“May I look?”
“If you like. It’s headed Ashbourne School and the date. It’ll be underneath the public concert list.”
Nina opened the file lying on the desk. Sure enough, the top sheet of paper listed the flowers received at last Saturday’s concert. Below it lay those sent to the school. “May I borrow this?”
“You can keep it, for all I care. Felicity won’t need it again.” And suddenly, appallingly, she began to weep, making no attempt to cover her face, sitting there with open, pain-filled mouth and streaming eyes.
Nina said, “I’m sorry to have upset you, Miss Matthews, but we’re most grateful for your help. I’ll go and get Lady Harwood.”
*
Back at his desk, Webb flicked through the names of the flower-senders. Though no longer relevant, since the card that concerned them had been destroyed, the list provided a comprehensive rollcall of Shillingham’s most distinguished citizens, from the mayor and mayoress, the Harwood family and several school governors — including, Webb noted sourly, Charles Frobisher — to big names in the commercial field, such as James Jessel.
He looked across at Nina. “What did you say the wording was, exactly?”
“‘The next flowers you receive will be on your grave.’ But they weren’t; she had another lot on Saturday. I saw the list.”
“Still, it was close enough for jazz. But if we accept this was a genuine April Rainers message, why was it so different from the rest?”
“So it could be read at a glance?”
“But to what purpose? They couldn’t have counted on her reading it on stage — it was a sheer fluke that she did.”
“The skull and crossbones caught her eye, apparently.”
“That could well be,” Webb conceded. “The wonder is that it didn’t catch anyone else’s — the music teacher, or the girls who’d carried it through to the hall. But we come back to the fact that it’s a completely different technique. No accusations either, you notice, and no time-limit.”
“Perhaps they weren’t sure they could get at the plane.”
“But damn it, if they were so set on killing her, why not the usual method? That’s what I don’t understand.” He tapped his pen on the desk. “You say this Hattie woman didn’t seem to have heard of the April Rainers?”
“It’s hard to tell. She didn’t react in any way, but then she was responding slowly to everything, because of the sedation. Also, don’t forget, when she read the note on Wednesday evening, there’d been no publicity, so the name wouldn’t have meant anything.”
“There’s been plenty since.”
“Yes, but she’s a visitor here and mightn’t read the local paper. And she’s been laid up with her broken ankle, so could have missed the TV coverage.”
“I asked Sir Julian if he knew of any threats to his sister, but he said no. She wouldn’t want to worry the family, but she must have discussed it with Miss Matthews.”
“They couldn’t have come up with anything; all she said was that famous people make enemies.”
“But some casual comment might have been made, which didn’t seem important — about someone who’d been offended, or behaved strangely or something.”
“Then we’ll have to wait for the shock and sedation to wear off. She’s not likely to have total recall at this stage.”
Webb swore softly. “And I doubt if there was anyone else close enough —” He slammed his hand on the desk. “Of course! We might be in luck; Miss Harwood had asked someone at the school to write her biography. One of the music staff — Temple, or something. It seems he’s had several sessions with her, asking questions into a tape-recorder. There’s just a chance he could have picked up something. Go to the school, would you, Nina — I’ve already been up there today. Take Harry Sage with you, and see what you can glean.”
*
&nbs
p; Once again, the Broadshire News had a spectacular headline. DID APRIL RAINERS DOWN COMPOSER’S PLANE? And, beneath it, in only slightly smaller letters: “Was Felicity Harwood the latest victim of Shillingham’s mafiosi? This is the question that is exercising the minds of police and accident investigation experts as speculation grows that the aircraft carrying the composer-violinist to Edinburgh was brought down deliberately. Meanwhile, it has been announced that a memorial service for Miss Harwood is to be held at Westminster Abbey in ten days’ time.”
The paper was lying on Hannah’s sofa when, at eleven o’clock that evening, Webb finally reached her flat.
“You can ignore ninety percent of that,” he commented, as he settled himself next to it and took the glass she handed him. “They’ve ruled out sabotage — the news has just come through. It was an engine fault that caused the crash.”
“Well, it doesn’t bring her back to life, but I’m glad it wasn’t deliberate,” Hannah said.
“As it happens, she might have died soon anyway.” He told her about the visit to Fauconberg House and the card with the skull and crossbones.
Hannah stared at him aghast. “You mean the murderer was there, in school, tampering with the bouquets?”
“It seems someone was. Unless he handed the flowers in at the door with the card already in place.”
“Which isn’t much better.”
“I’m not happy about that card, Hannah. There’s something odd about it, particularly since the plane crash was an accident after all. Why the change of routine? Why not a letter through the post, with specific accusations and a time-limit of eight days?”
“You think that’s significant?”
“Yes, but I can’t put my finger on why.”
Hannah gazed thoughtfully into her glass. “I hear you sent someone to speak to Mark?”
“The biographer? Yes; he loaned us his cassettes, but at first run-through there’s nothing startling. It was a long-shot anyway.”
“So you’re no nearer tracking down who these people are?”
“We’ve an eye-witness report, for what it’s worth. Two men were glimpsed running out of Rankin Close at the time of the murder, but other than that one was tall and one short, there’s no description. Dawson went back to the pub where Baxter’d spent the evening, to see if any of the clientele fitted that description, but all the landlord said was, ‘Everyone’s either tall or short, mate,’ which didn’t get us very far!”
David Webb 7 - The April Rainers Page 15
