Charity

by Lesley Pearse

  These two policeman were from the murder squad: two hard-faced plain-clothes men who looked like villains themselves. Scruffily dressed, they had cockney accents and pockmarked skin.

  ‘We’re sorry to intrude on you at such a time,’ the older man who introduced himself as Detective Inspector Rudge said. ‘But we need to know if either of you knew a Michael Bagshawe?’

  The second man took a seat by the window. Clearly he was there only as a witness.

  Charity shook her head and looked at Prue.

  ‘Was he in the army too?’ Prue asked. ‘I’ve never heard that name.’

  Rudge held out a black and white photograph. Charity felt a twinge of unease as she saw it was a picture taken by the police for their records. It showed a narrow-faced man with, dark hair.

  ‘I’ve never seen him,’ Prue said and Charity agreed. ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘He’s dead too,’ Rudge said bluntly. ‘He was found in Epping Forest, shot through the heart.’

  ‘Are you implying our brother did it?’ Prue’s voice wavered slightly, but her eyes stayed steadily on the policeman’s.

  ‘No. He was killed some time after your brother. But we’re sure the deaths are connected.’

  Rudge opened up a small black holdall and pulled out a statuette of a silver pheasant. It was about twelve inches long and although badly tarnished it had obviously been made by a craftsman.

  Prue gasped.

  ‘You recognise this?’ Rudge asked.

  Charity looked at her younger sister in surprise. Charity had never seen the pheasant before, but it seemed that Prue had.

  ‘Yes,’ Prue said. ‘It was our uncle’s.’

  ‘When did you last see it, and where?’ Rudge asked.

  ‘Oh I don’t know,’ Prue said, flustered. ‘It was in Uncle’s room. I cleaned it once for him. But that was ages ago and he had so much silver.’

  The police explained they had found the pheasant in Michael Bagshawe’s home. The dead man, who was known as Weasel, had a police record for burglary, Rudge said, but information received suggested he would do anything for a price, including murder. The pheasant, plus Toby Stratton’s army address and phone number found in Bagshawe’s home, led them to believe that Toby had paid him to kill the colonel.

  ‘No! Toby wouldn’t do that,’ Charity said, bursting into tears. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Look at this.’ Rudge took a piece of paper out of the bag. ‘Study it and tell me what it is, and whose writing it is.’

  Charity and Prue looked at it together. Even at a quick glance they knew what it was and who had drawn it. It was map of the interior of Studley Priory. Uncle Stephen’s room was coloured in red, with a dotted line leading from it to the front door. The writing was Toby’s.

  ‘Well?’ Inspector Rudge looked at the girls’ stricken faces. ‘It is your brother’s, isn’t it?’

  Charity felt faint. She knew what they said was true, there was no other explanation, but still she wanted to protect Toby.

  ‘But you said this man was a burglar,’ she said desperately. ‘Maybe Toby only plotted with him to burgle the house and –’

  ‘No,’ Rudge interrupted. ‘We have evidence of a financial arrangement between the two men. Had Bagshawe gone to the Priory to burgle it, he would have stripped the place. We think he only took the pheasant that night because old habits die hard. I’m afraid, Miss Stratton, you have to accept your brother paid this man to kill your uncle.’

  ‘I can’t accept that.’ Charity shook her head forcefully. Prue moved closer to her sister and put her arm round her comfortingly.

  ‘You accepted that your brother was a drug dealer,’ Rudge said, getting up from his seat to leave. ‘You knew that, yet you concealed it from us during your uncle’s murder inquiry. Had you told us the truth then, your brother might not be dead now, or Bagshawe. We might even have the entire drug ring in custody.’

  Prue had listened to all this silently. Although she was mortified to discover her suspicions about her brother were true, something snapped inside her at this policeman’s barbed comments.

  She sprang to her feet, eyes blazing.

  ‘Don’t you even think my sister is to blame!’ she shouted. ‘Charity’s loved all three of us like a mother and if she shielded Toby it was only because she was unable to see what a rotter he was. I’m more to blame than she is. I knew.’

  ‘Don’t, Prue,’ Charity said weakly.

  ‘Don’t try and stop me telling the truth now.’ Prue faltered only momentarily when she saw her sister’s stricken face. ‘Even as a kid Toby was a liar and a thief. Going to Sandhurst and joining the army was only to suck up to Uncle Stephen. I was just as bad, I loathed our uncle. I only tolerated him for what I could get out of him.’

  Prue paused, white-faced and shaking, looking hard at both the astonished policemen.

  ‘Don’t try to pillory Charity because she’s still got some shreds of loyalty to our worthless brother. She has loved and protected us all our lives and that’s to be admired, not scorned.’

  Detective Inspector Rudge was taken aback by this fiery outburst, but he recognised the truth in it.

  ‘OK,’ he said wearily, backing towards the door. ‘We’ve a great deal more to investigate still, but we hope to make an arrest within twenty-four hours. We’ll leave you alone now.’ He looked down at Charity slumped in her chair. ‘I am very sorry about your brother, Miss Stratton. I hope this will soon be over and your family can settle down again.’

  Once the door closed Charity got up and moved towards Prue.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Prue hung her head. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have said all that.’

  Charity’s heart melted. For Prue to admit her own shortcomings and guilt took real courage.

  ‘You spoke the truth.’ Charity took a step towards Prue and held out her arms. ‘They say it sets you free. But come here and give me a hug. I loved you for defending me.’

  ‘What do we do now?’ Prue buried her face in Charity’s neck and began to sob wildly. ‘All the disgrace … people talking about us. I can’t go back to work after this, not when my brother’s a murderer. And what about James? How’s he going to manage at school?’

  ‘We try and hold our heads up.’ Charity lifted Prue’s face in her two hands and kissed away her tears. ‘If necessary we’ll move away where no on one knows us. We stand together.’

  ‘Tim doesn’t like it.’ Prue’s voice shook. ‘Ever since Uncle died he’s been funny with me. I don’t think our marriage can stand any more.’

  Charity suspected that Tim had always been overpowered by Prue and that he might be using this as an excuse to get out. But she couldn’t tell her that.

  ‘Ring him,’ she said. ‘Tell him you love him and need him. I’ll bet you haven’t told him that often enough.’

  ‘You’re the only one of us that knows how to show love,’ Prue sniffed. ‘I wish I did.’

  ‘You showed it when you defended me. There’s nothing hard about it, Prue – you just say what your heart tells you, without holding anything back.’

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Charity heard the soft whirring noise even over the vicar’s voice. Her eyes moved from the vicar to the coffin as it slowly disappeared through a hatch in the wall. Soon Toby would be nothing more than ashes and just another painful memory.

  James squeezed Charity’s hand. He had been a great source of comfort to both sisters since Toby’s death. He seemed to have become a man overnight, his warmth, loyalty and strength of character uniting and sustaining them all.

  Rain drummed down on the roof of the crematorium chapel and the patches of sky visible through the high slit windows were dark grey.

  Lou and Geoff were just behind them; Margaret and Tom from Studley Priory, Rita and Rob. Charity had hoped some of Toby’s friends might have turned up, but it seemed they were all distancing themselves from any involvement. It was a pitifully small gathering, but better just a few staunch, ca
ring people than idly curious spectators who would sit in judgement rather than feel sorrow.

  To ask that Toby could be laid to rest in the parish church at Studley-cum-Norton with his grandparents and uncle was unthinkable. A cremation service at Golders Green removed the fear of gossip-mongering neighbours and absolved them all from the hypocrisy of a church service. The vicar who had never met Toby spoke gently of the sadness of a man taken before he reached full maturity and read a moving poem instead of attempting to glorify Toby.

  There had been few letters of condolence, yet each one had been a link with the past. Marjorie and Martin, Miss Mansell, Miss Hawkins from Bowes Court, and Carmel. Each one showed understanding of what Charity, Prue and James were going through and urged them to pick up their lives again, to hold close to one another and not blame themselves for what their brother had become.

  Dorothy had gone back to the States soon after Charity left the nursing home. When Charity phoned her with the news of Toby’s death she burst into uncharacteristic tears. Since then she had phoned several times offering all kinds of help, from the suggestion Charity join her for a holiday later, to the name of a brilliant plastic surgeon, yet she hadn’t felt able to come to the funeral.

  ‘I’ll be with you in spirit,’ she had said in a strangely detached manner. ‘But it would be hypocritical for me to come when I feel so angry about everything Toby put you through. But I’ll be back in England as soon as I’ve wound up things here. I’m going to marry George.’

  Charity appreciated Dorothy’s honesty. She didn’t want anyone at the funeral who couldn’t mourn Toby. At the same time she found it rather odd that Dorothy was planning to marry a man she had avoided introducing her friends to, and that she should announce it at such a sad time.

  But the message that had meant most to Charity was from John Marshall. He had moved with his wife Nina to the Seychelles and had learned what had happened to Toby from his agent in London.

  ‘My heart goes out to you. Charity,’ he wrote. ‘I have watched your success in business from a distance, many times wishing I dared write and say how proud I was of you. Now as I imagine your heart-break I cannot hold back the rush of emotions and I had to communicate with you. You are in my thoughts and prayers, just as you always have been all these years, and I have to believe that out of all this tragedy, something good will come to you.’

  John couldn’t have known that his letter would give her such comfort. In his few words he managed to convey hope for the future and give meaning to the past. The funeral was the last hurdle. She, Prue and James had mourned Toby in private, drained their tears together, shared treasured memories. Prayers and hymns gave the occasion an air of dignified finality, and maybe they would give them the strength to rise above the gossip.

  A clear thumb and forefinger print on Toby’s shoe had led the police to Alf Tooley at an old warehouse in Wapping. Samples of grit embedded in Toby’s clothes and shoes matched those found on the floor of the garage. Alf and his brother Jim were arrested.

  The two brothers had confessed to Toby’s murder, but as yet they remained stubbornly silent about the rest of the drug network and the man who organised it all. Charity didn’t care: as far as she was concerned, the police had Toby’s murderer and the mystery of her uncle’s death was solved. That was enough.

  Charity took Prue’s arm as they filed out of the chapel. Prue was trembling, biting her lip to stop herself crying. Her moods had swung like a pendulum during the last two weeks. One moment she was claiming Toby’s death was a relief and a blessing; almost lighthearted, she cleaned out cupboards for Charity and went shopping in the West End. The next she plunged into wild sobbing, saying her career as a teacher was finished, as was her marriage to Tim and that Toby had been led astray.

  Today Prue was drained of all colour, her pallor made worse by her severe black dress and hat. Tim’s continuing lack of support and his absence today seemed to confirm Prue’s claim that he didn’t care about her. Privately Charity thought her sister would be better off without such an insensitive man.

  James was the rock. He constantly spoke of Toby’s good points, refusing to bow down to the darker side of his brother’s character. He encouraged them to reminisce about their childhood, even events before he was born, drawing the three of them into a tight unit.

  Looking at James now in his neat dark suit and highly polished shoes was to see Toby again at the same age. But James had no chip on his shoulder, or hunger for wealth. In time, Charity knew, he’d give their family back a sense of pride.

  ‘What do we do now?’ Prue whispered as they walked slowly past the few wreaths lying in the porch.

  Rain coming down like stair rods reduced visibility to a few yards, and mourners for the next funeral were scurrying through the car park in a sea of black umbrellas.

  ‘We all go home to my flat, of course,’ Charity said, thinking for a moment that Prue was losing her grip. ‘We have tea and sandwiches, then it’s over.’

  ‘I didn’t mean this minute.’ Prue sighed deeply. ‘I meant, how do we cope?’

  ‘We take it one step at a time.’ Charity put her arm through her sister’s and smiled weakly at Lou and Geoff who were waiting to speak to her. ‘First the tea. Don’t try to look ahead just now, things can only get better.’

  Charity stood at her window watching the rain beating down. Her pansies and petunias in their tubs looked as battered as she felt. It was just after four and everyone had left. James had gone home with Lou and Geoff to pack for a holiday in Cornwall. Prue had offered to drive Margaret and Tom back to Studley where they were still looking after things. Then Prue was going home to see Tim to attempt to patch up her marriage. Rita had returned to the office.

  Rob hadn’t wanted to leave. He’d suggested that Charity go back for a break to his flat in Baker Street, but Charity had refused: she wanted some time alone.

  It was a great comfort that both Prue and James liked Rob. In the last two long weeks he’d taken James out swimming and to the squash club, lightening the long wait till the funeral. With Prue he’d sat and talked about her work, and listened to her fears that her career as a teacher was over. He’d even mentioned other fields she could move into if necessary.

  Charity was glad to be alone. Two weeks of being surrounded by people, the constant buzz of conversation, drained emotions and even cooking and clearing up for others, made solitude welcome.

  Grief was a strange thing, she decided: huge waves, almost drowning her, then long periods of calm and resignation. Now she felt empty. Maybe another wave would overwhelm her again soon, but for now there was peace.

  The clearing up was done; uneaten sandwiches had been thrown away, plates washed and the carpet hoovered. She had some serious thinking to do and despite the rain she wanted to do it outside in the fresh air.

  As she walked into her bedroom to collect her raincoat and a pair of stouter shoes, she was thinking about Rita.

  ‘This is no time to discuss business,’ Rita had said just before she left. ‘But if in a couple of weeks’ time you still can’t face the office, perhaps we should talk about me buying it from you.’

  There was Studley Priory to consider too. According to Uncle Stephen’s solicitors, the estate would pass on to Charity. Prue and James jointly. Then there was Rob.

  Their relationship had been put on hold. It hadn’t seemed right even to kiss him or hold him while Prue and James had been there. But Charity could feel the need in him, the unasked questions, and several times today she’d caught those anxious glances that meant Rob was unsure of how and when to attempt picking up the threads again.

  Should she take the initiative? Did she even want lovemaking so soon after such tragedy? One part of her said it would be the healer, but another voice was urging caution.

  Charity was glad Frank the porter wasn’t behind his desk when she got down to the foyer. He would probably have asked her solicitous questions about the funeral and though he meant well she’d had en
ough of people’s condolences. She pulled her hood over her head and slipped out into the rain, walking briskly down Finchley Road towards Swiss Cottage.

  Alec Stubbs dialled Charity’s number, drumming his fingers on the callbox glass while he waited to see if she was in. He left it ringing for five minutes and smiled in triumph.

  ‘At fuckin’ last.’ He sighed with relief.

  He had been checking the number daily since Stratton’s death, but every time there’d been someone there. Now the funeral was over Stratton’s sister had obviously gone away, and there couldn’t be a better time to check out her flat.

  Just a few weeks ago Alec Stubbs wouldn’t even have considered doing a job like this himself, but there was no one left he could trust now. Jim and Alf nicked, and all the others so nervous they wouldn’t put their noses outside the door.

  The moment Stubbs found out Toby was in league with Weasel he felt certain Toby had stashed the heroin somewhere. Once Weasel knew his life was on the line he’d had verbal dysentery, pouring out poison in an endless stream. Stubbs hadn’t been particularly interested in Stratton hiring Weasel to kill his uncle, but if he could go that far for money he certainly wouldn’t have any qualms about snatching thousands of pounds’ worth of heroin.

  Stashing it at his sister’s was so obvious Stratton probably thought no one would bother to check it out. It was a good thing Jim had brought the keys from the MG back after their night at Dungeness. An odd-shaped one turned out to open the outer door of the block of flats, so it stood to reason the other one belonged to her apartment. The girl probably had no idea her brother had hidden the stuff there.

  Alec Stubbs prided himself on being invincible. He’d got his big house down in Kent by using his brains and keeping the people who worked for him afraid. If he’d let Stratton get away with robbing him, it would soon get around. Shooting Weasel had had to be done; the man knew too much. But once Stubbs had retrieved the heroin he’d take a holiday and maybe plan a new line of business which gave him less headaches.