Death Line

by Geraldine Evans

  Mr Spenny confirmed what Ginnie Campbell had told them; not only had Alan Carstairs left his money – quite a substantial sum – to a cousin, but that Sarah Astell's maternal inheritance had largely gone to pay off her commitments at Lloyds. There was very little money left and what there was came from the business.

  “Sorry, Daf,” Rafferty apologised as he put the phone down. “In all this excitement I didn't ask what you found out about Ellen Hadleigh.”

  “The refuse from her flats is collected on a Friday, so if she killed Moon, she could have got rid of any stained clothing the very next day.”

  “Handy. Have you set the squad to asking around to find out what she was wearing the Thursday night?” Llewellyn nodded. “Right. Perhaps we should see what Sarah Astell has to say for herself before we tackle Ellen Hadleigh again. Come on.”

  Their reappearance so soon after their previous visit seemed to make Sarah Astell edgy. Her thin hand clasped her chest as though to calm an erratic heartbeat. “What is it this time, Inspector? If you came to see my husband, he's upstairs.”

  “Actually,” Rafferty replied. “It was you we came to see.”

  “Me?” Her gaze flickered anxiously between them. Her attempted smile faltered and she stood back. “Perhaps you had better come in?”

  As he made to follow her through the hall, Rafferty paused as he recognised a profile amongst the gallery of photographs in the hall. “I didn't realise your father knew Nat Kingston, Mrs Astell.”

  “They were friends for years,” she told them briefly. “Of course, they were both artists, of a sort.”

  “We actually met Nat Kingston the other day,” Rafferty told her. “He's a sick man. Though Eckersley, his secretary, makes a good nurse. He's very protective of him.”

  She nodded. “Jocelyn Eckersley always cared far more about Kingston, his fame, his reputation, than Kingston himself. He couldn't have a more attentive nurse.” Fiddling with a pearl-like stone at her neck, she added softly, “Jocelyn always did keep the vultures at bay. I imagine he'll do that till the end.”

  She led them to her sitting room. From behind them came the sound of footsteps on the stairs and, wheezing a little as though still troubled by his bronchitis, Edwin Astell entered the room. He must have heard them at the door.

  The room was taken over by photograph albums. They were scattered on the floor, on Sarah Astell's chaise. One was open at a particularly large picture of her father as a very young man. On the opposite page was another picture of him. They had both been damaged and had jagged rips through their centres, from top to bottom, as if someone had torn them in a rage. Sellotape now held them together. The second picture showed him with his arm flung round a friend's shoulders and, as in so many of the photographs of Carstairs, he was staring straight into the camera. The friend was in profile, his large nose jutting towards Carstairs as if he intended to peck him to death. Their laughing faces exuded the unshakeable youthful conviction that immortality was theirs.

  A depression descended on Rafferty as he realised that not only were they both probably dead, but that, at nearly thirty-eight, over half his own expected three score years and ten had passed. And all he'd got to show for it was one failed marriage. His gaze caught the swirling leaves in the garden and his thoughts turned morbidly poetical. That's us, he reflected bleakly. Like leaves, we are cast up, then down, upon the whims of fate. No-one hears us, heeds us or delivers us. Such is life. He came back from his wretched musings to find Llewellyn and the Astells staring at him and he wondered if he had spoken aloud. But, as no-one was ringing for the men in white coats, he thought not. His gaze dropped back to the photograph of the youths, and he frowned as a fleeting sense of deja-vue came to him and as quickly vanished.

  After tidying away the albums, Mrs Astell invited them to sit down. “So what did you want to speak to me about, Inspector?” she asked, when they were all seated.

  “It's about a telephone call you made to Jasper Moon, Mrs Astell.” Rafferty had half expected her to deny ringing Moon. Indeed, he could see the words of denial hovering on her lips. But obviously she thought better of it. Perhaps, Rafferty mused, she had remembered that it had been Ginnie Campbell who had put her through when she rang that lunchtime? She would be aware she couldn't expect discretion from such a source. Or maybe she was hoping that Rafferty didn't know any details of the call and had merely checked with the telephone company? If so, he immediately dashed such hopes. “Perhaps I ought to tell you that your telephone conversation with Jasper Moon was overheard.”

  Edwin Astell, his gaze fixed anxiously on his wife, made a sound of dismay, but otherwise said nothing.

  “I see.” She clasped her hands in her lap, and gave them a faint smile. “So that's what Virginia Campbell wanted to speak to me about. She's rung several times, but I refused to talk to her. I don't like the woman, she's so dreadfully coarse. I suppose she thought I would be willing to pay her to keep quiet about it.”

  Rafferty made no comment. “Perhaps you would like to tell me your version of the conversation?” he suggested. “We like to be accurate.”

  She sat up straight. “I'm not ashamed of what I said to him. Someone needed to say it. I'm afraid that after Mrs Hadleigh left last Wednesday, I still felt so strongly, I knew I had to do something positive. At first, I didn't know what. Then I realised there was one thing I could do – I could tell Moon exactly what I thought of him. So I rang him. I felt I owed her that.”

  “So you never really intended making the court case public?”

  “How could I, without hurting Mrs Hadleigh and her son further? I took care not to let Jasper Moon know that, though. Edwin was unwell that day and in bed. When I told him what had happened, he tried to dissuade me from ringing Moon.” Understandably, she gave her husband a propitiating glance. “He didn't say so, but I realise now that he was worried Moon might take it out on him in some way, even break up the partnership, but at the time I didn't think of that aspect. I felt too strongly about it.”

  “I wasn't really worried that Jasper would end our partnership,” her husband broke in. “I was more concerned for you. You know how any upset affects you.”

  She gave him another tremulous, apologetic smile. “I wish now I'd listened to you. But at the time, I felt it was something I had to do. And your poor head was aching too much for you to have the strength to dissuade me.”

  She glanced at Llewellyn's expressionless countenance, as though she detected disapproval. It was a feeling with which Rafferty was familiar. Even with his features blank and his tongue silent, Llewellyn's thoughts somehow communicated themselves. They frequently caused an unwise retaliatory outburst from Rafferty. It seemed they had the same effect on Sarah Astell, for now she gave a defensive laugh, and told them, “Of course, I calmed down later and felt cross that I'd let Moon distress me so much.” Her lower lip trembled. For a moment, she seemed to hover between rage and tears, and a frown creased her brow as if she was confused by her own strongly contradictory emotions.

  “I'm surprised that after such a conversation, Jasper Moon should still send you a birthday present,” Llewellyn remarked. “He did still send it, I understand?”

  Sarah Astell blinked. “Yes. He gave it to Edwin before he left the office on Thursday evening. I put it straight in the bin. I didn't want his presents. Especially-” She broke off. “Edwin found it and made me take it back.” She glanced across at her husband. “I felt I owed it to him to do that much.”

  “I gather he'd sent you a video?” Llewellyn went on. “I-”

  She stared at him, eyes wide. “How do you know what he sent me?”

  “He'd left the wrapped parcel on his desk earlier in the week, Mrs Astell,” he explained. “Not difficult to guess what it was.”

  “I see.”

  “I hope it was to your taste?”

  “I've no idea, Sergeant. I didn't watch it.”

  “I see.” Llewellyn, who seemed to have the bit between his teeth, paused before he
changed tack. “During your conversation, I understand he mentioned something about you finding out more than you bargained for if you dug into the past. Have you any idea what he meant?”

  “None. I took it for granted he was merely trying to intimidate me with non-existent will o' the wisps. But as I had no intention of causing Mrs Hadleigh further upset, I didn't think any more about it.”

  Llewellyn seemed to find her answer a bit hard to swallow, but as he appeared to have run out of steam for the present, Rafferty called a halt and made for the door. “We may need to speak to you again,” he warned and caught the anxious glance the Astells exchanged. “Come along, Llewellyn.”

  “But-” Llewellyn strangled his protest for the time being, but when they reached the drive, he complained, “You were very easy on them, weren't you? Doesn't it strike you as odd that Moon should still send her a birthday present after that telephone call? Surely-”

  “Of course it's bloody odd,” Rafferty retorted. “But I can't see that badgering Sarah Astell about it is likely to explain the oddity. It's clear she didn't want Moon's gift. But being on the receiving end of unwanted presents is hardly a hanging offence, and as he's not about for me to ask why he sent it, there's not a lot I can do to find out. It's not as if she's even got any sort of motive that we've been able to discover; being repelled by homosexuals is scarcely reason enough for murder, or half the population would be at it.”

  “But even so-” Llewellyn began.

  Rafferty interrupted him to demand. “What did you expect me to do? Sit there for the rest of the day till she'd explained Moon's thick skin to your satisfaction?” He got in the car and turned on the engine. “I tell you what I am going to do,” he said. “I'm going to get a bite to eat. I'm starving.”

  The Astells' house was situated on the southern outskirts of Elmhurst. Rafferty had already noted that it was only a five minute run in the car to one of his favourite riverside pubs, The Black Swan, and now, with a frown, he nosed the car towards it. “I hope they've got fish on the menu. So far, this case seems to have twisted and turned like an eel with the runs. If we're to get a firm hold on it, I reckon we're going to need all the brain food we can get.”

  The sweeping branches of the weeping willow trees in the pub garden were only now losing their delicate, lance-shaped leaves. They still provided a pleasant shade from the suddenly fierce October sun. At one time, Autumn had been his favourite of all the seasons, Rafferty mused, as he sipped his bitter. The season of mellow fruitfulness, as some dead poet had it; the time of bright Indian summer skies when, as today, the sun, as if guided by some Old Master's hand, burnished the rusts, russets and ambers of the shedding leaves to glowing life. But, he had long ago realised that this appearance of vivid life was counterfeit. Like the photo of the young and long-dead Carstairs and his laughing friend, it served more as a reminder of one's own mortality. Because, once the fruit was harvested, the glow faded and even the most beautiful Autumn was merely the precursor to the death and decay of winter.

  Rafferty was a realist, and as his childhood belief in an afterlife, of heaven and hell and soaring angels had diminished to a vague hope of something to follow, he had transferred his allegiance to Spring. To a policeman who had to deal with yet another sudden and violent passing, Spring, with its vigorous renewal, was an infinitely more comforting season.

  Still, it was a glorious day, he acknowledged as he leant back against the bench; he was getting used to snatching relaxation when he could get it. The recent prolonged rain had filled the sluggish River Tiffey after the long drought-ridden summer and it sparkled with the lustre of a thousand love-bright solitaires in the sunshine. Running fast and sweet, it had shaken off any lingering summer odours.

  Llewellyn was just coming towards him across the grass with his second half of Elgood's and he sighed contentedly, silently congratulating Maureen for convincing Llewellyn of the superiority of pub lunches. He felt pleasantly full, having just got outside a particularly generous plateful of ploughman's – fish was off the menu today, unfortunately; he could still taste the crusty bread, the great wedge of mature cheddar served with a pickle with the bite of a Doberman. Apart from finding the solution to the case, he asked himself, what more could any man want?

  “We ought to make this the last, sir,” Llewellyn suggested, bringing, along with Rafferty's beer, the unwelcome reminder that in spite of an abundance of suspects, he had yet to solve the case.

  Rafferty wished, not for the first time, that his sergeant was less the dutiful Methodist, less into keeping both their noses firmly fixed to the grindstone and more into indulging in the occasional bout of hookey. It remained to be seen whether his introduction to Catholicism and possible entry into the Rafferty family would loosen him up a bit. If it ever came off, that was. Llewellyn's cautious streak seemed to come from the bone. If she wanted to marry his sergeant, Rafferty realised Maureen might have to do the proposing herself, and then kidnap her bridegroom as they used to do with well-dowered brides years ago.

  Llewellyn murmured, “I don't mean to rush you, sir,” as he watched Rafferty resignedly pick up his glass. “Only I've just realised something that could have an important bearing on the case.”

  “Oh yes? What's that then? The name of the murderer?” he suggested sardonically before draining his glass.

  “Maybe.”

  Llewellyn's answer nearly made him choke on his bitter. Slowly, he lowered his glass and stared at the Welshman.

  “I've just realised the identity of one of the boys in that old film that Moon had hidden in his wardrobe,” he explained. “If I'm right, I believe it gives one of our suspects a very good reason for wanting Moon dead.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Llewellyn was right. It was Carstairs in the old film of the homosexual lovers that they'd found hidden in Moon's wardrobe. Rafferty rewound the film and began to watch it through again. “Now I know why, every time I saw that veritable gallery of photographs Sarah Astell has of him, I had a feeling of familiarity. Of course, the film's very poor quality, and he's much younger.” Rafferty excused his own lack of observation. “So much for his lady-killer reputation – that and his marriage must have made a pretty effective smokescreen for his real preferences.” He froze the film and nodded at the screen. “And now I recognise the other young man, too. It's Nat Kingston. Mrs Astell told us he and her father had been close friends.”

  “Whether or not the other youth is Kingston is hardly significant,” said Llewellyn briskly, as if reluctant to accept that his hero had other human weakness, apart from the reluctance to visit a doctor that he had already admitted to. “But what is significant is my conviction that, after her cold-shoulder treatment, her abusive and threatening telephone call must have been the last straw for Moon. And he retaliated by issuing a threat of his own – to make this film public and turn her homosexual prejudices back on herself. He must have contemplated doing something of the sort even before she made that telephone call, otherwise why have four video copies made? Her phone call just provided that extra spur to a decision already more than half made.” Llewellyn paused for a moment, and then added, “And if, as I suspect, Carstairs had been the great love of Moon's life that young man in The Troubadour mentioned, it would explain his possession of this film. Carstairs was good-looking, sophisticated, experienced, travelled – and, as we now discover – homosexual. Moon would have been dazzled if Carstairs paid him attention. Moon was a good-looking young man himself, on the spot, living in Carstairs' house.” Llewellyn's sallow skin positively glowed as, with an unaccustomed vigour, he laid out his arguments.

  “If I'm right, it must have been Moon's first serious love affair; we can discount his half-hearted male-female romances. They were simply attempts at convincing himself he was other than homosexual. And then he discovered Carstairs had another lover; a relationship that had endured for years. Can't you just imagine how devastated Moon would feel, the acrimosity of the split when Moon found out that he h
ad been little more than a plaything to Carstairs?”

  Rafferty tried to break in, but Llewellyn hurried on. 'Don't you see, it would explain why Moon had this film. Carstairs seems the type who would have taunted him with it, thrown his love and the film in his face when Moon challenged him. Probably Moon took the film to torment himself, to remind him, should he ever forget, that great love often brought great pain and to keep clear of it in future. Moon was very young, sensitive about his own homosexuality, probably fearful about it becoming common knowledge. He must have felt a terrible sense of betrayal when he discovered that Carstairs had been cheating on him. And being so young, he was probably even more prone to melodrama then than he was when he reached middle aged. It would explain everything, including why he left Carstairs' employ.’

  Rafferty had listened to Llewellyn's impassioned theorising with growing astonishment. When he finally got a chance to get a word in, all he could find to say was, “My God, you're a bit of a drama queen yourself, aren't you? I never suspected.”

  Llewellyn flushed. “If you read the classics rather than those trashy novels, you'd have more understanding of deep love and its passions. It can change history, create war, death, destruction. You must have heard of Helen of Troy, Tristram and Isolde, Romeo and Juliet. Surely, even you can see that the homosexual world also have its great love stories?”

  It was Rafferty's turn to flush. He supposed he should be grateful that Llewellyn had stopped short of accusing him of being wilfully blinded by his own prejudices.

  “Could be one reason why Moon finally settled on Christian Farley rather than one of the gilded youth he could have chosen. You said yourself Moon's choice surprised you.”

  Rafferty frowned. He suspected he knew in which direction Llewellyn's mind was going. And, in spite of the Welshman's eloquence, he still thought Ellen Hadleigh the more likely suspect. But, this time he didn't attempt to interrupt.