by Granger, Ann
‘Why was she afraid of him? You said he was a bully, I know.’ The old scandals were coming out of the woodwork. It was what Jess had hoped.
‘He was violent,’ Muriel told her abruptly.
‘She told you this?’
‘No, I saw the bruises with my own eyes. She always wore long sleeves, even in warm weather, and silk scarves round her neck. But she’d reach up to push back a spray of leaves drooping across the path from the hedgerow and the sleeve would ride up. She nearly always had bruises on her arms, like this …’ Muriel gripped one forearm with the fingers of her other hand. ‘Little round black bruises made by the pressure of his fingers. Or the scarf might slip. Once, when it did, I saw bruises round her neck. Ruddy maniac had tried to strangle her!’
There was a silence. Muriel stared past Jess, out of the window and back down the years. ‘Every time she went up to London, I’d wonder if she’d come back. One day she didn’t.’
‘What about the child?’
‘Oh, he was away at boarding school most of the time. They packed him off when he wasn’t much more than a tot. My own theory about that was that both parents wanted him out of the way – but for different reasons. Amanda wanted to keep him away from his father. Sebastian, well, perhaps he just didn’t like children or had no time for them. He couldn’t be bothered or was too busy to spend time with his son.’
Jess asked quietly, ‘Did you ever see bruises on the child, when he was home in the school holidays, for example?’
‘No!’ Muriel shook her head and spoke firmly. ‘No. If he’d started to do that, I really believe Amanda wouldn’t have stood for it. Maternal instinct, if you like. She wouldn’t have allowed him to touch the child. But, you see …’
Muriel gave a strange, mirthless smile and, for the first time in their conversation, held Jess’s gaze directly. ‘She knew Sebastian wasn’t interested in hitting the child, only in hitting her. Make what you like of that. I’m saying no more.’
Muriel heaved herself from her chair. ‘And now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got to feed the chickens. Come on, Hamlet!’
She stomped out of the room, Hamlet at her heels. Jess paused only to pour her elderflower cordial into the plant pot and followed her down the dark hallway and into the kitchen.
‘Thank you for your time, Miss Pickering. If I could ask you just one more question?’
‘Make it snappy!’ ordered Muriel, scooping bran mash from the tub into a much-chipped enamel basin.
‘How do you think Key House came to burn down?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine. Roger Trenton’s got a bee in his bonnet about yobbos using the place to enjoy their drugs and booze. Which they did – I saw them there myself several times over the years. Roger thinks they started the fire and probably killed the poor sod who died. Roger has all kinds of nutty theories about pretty well everything, but he might be right about that. Nobody’s wrong all the time, are they?’
On this philosophical note, Muriel gave Jess a nod and set off down the garden with her pan of mash, Hamlet rolling along behind. From the bushes and long grass, chickens began to emerge, cackling excitedly and flocking behind her like hatchlings after their mother.
Carter had arranged to visit Dr Layton, doing him the courtesy of phoning ahead because doctors have patients and are busy men. He hadn’t yet met Layton although he knew the doctor had been called to certify the death at the scene of the fire. He also knew from Jess that Layton had been well acquainted with Sebastian Crown and less well so with his son. Carter might have been content to leave it at that. But now Layton had popped up on the scene again, in Weston St Ambrose, sharing a drink and a gossip with Monica.
‘Time for me to drop in on him,’ he told Morton on his way out.
He knew Layton was in private practice and wasn’t surprised to find the doctor lived in a large, comfortable Georgian former rectory. His consulting room was in what had probably once been the rector’s study. An unsmiling, middle-aged woman, wearing a navy overall-style uniform with a nurse’s watch pinned to it, showed him in. Layton got up to greet him, holding out his hand and thanking Carter for taking the trouble to phone. That their chat would take place in here, and not in any other room in the private part of the house, indicated the doctor saw this as a business visit.
Carter admired the room’s elegant proportions and the original fireplace. Layton responded by pointing out that a tall bookcase fitting into a recess was also original to the room.
‘Probably built by a local carpenter to the rector’s specifications,’ he said. ‘It now has medical books in it, instead of theological ones.’
‘Not all medicine!’ remarked Carter, leaning forward to read the titles on the spines of a row of paperbacks. ‘Someone likes detective novels.’
‘Not mine!’ Layton said immediately. ‘My wife likes them and is a bit of a collector. Her collection has overflowed into here. Won’t you sit down, Superintendent?’
Carter took the seat normally occupied by a patient and Layton retreated to his chair on the other side of the desk. They were set up like a regular consultation appointment, thought Carter with humour. I wonder, is that just habit or because, Doctor, you feel more comfortable on that side of the desk? Layton was waiting. Carter realised that, having requested this interview, he was expected to explain his symptoms, or place his cards on the table.
Aloud, he began, ‘You have been here a little while yourself, Doctor, or so I understand. I’ve been speaking to Monica Farrell. She’s my former wife’s aunt. I thought I might like a quick word with you myself.’
‘Ah, Monica,’ said Layton sagely.
He crossed one leg over the other knee and actually put the tips of his fingers together, looking completely the part, thought Carter with amusement. So must the one-time rector have received parishioners who brought him their troubles. He could imagine Layton – or the bewigged black-clad rector – asking kindly, ‘So what seems to be the problem?’ Only the computer on Layton’s desk and the overlying smell of antiseptic signalled real change in the use of the room.
‘I understand you were Sebastian Crown’s doctor,’ Carter said. ‘I already knew this from Inspector Campbell, by the way. But Gervase Crown was not your patient. Is that right?’
‘He was not my patient once he grew older. As a young child he was.’
‘You see,’ Carter went on, ‘we are beginning to think the man who was killed in the fire at Key House was the victim of mistaken identity. The intended target could have been Gervase Crown.’
‘Really?’ returned Layton, frowning.
‘Monica tells me you have seen Crown since his return here from Portugal.’
‘I ran into him briefly outside The Royal Oak in Weston on the evening of the day following the fire.’ Layton’s facial muscles twitched in what might have been meant as a dry smile. ‘He had lost little time in returning.’
‘You recognised him? You couldn’t have seen him for years. I ask because of the possibility someone had mistaken the dead man – a Matthew Pietrangelo – for Crown. Crown had been abroad for some time. This might have been the cause of a mistake being made.’
‘No, I didn’t recognise him at first,’ Layton said frankly. ‘In fact, if he hadn’t hailed me I’d have ignored him. It was late evening. He was standing in the shadows, smoking. Even so, when he stepped out into the light beaming from the pub behind him, I still wouldn’t have known him if he hadn’t said his name. He’s older, of course, a mature male and not a youngster. He’s very sunburned. I hadn’t seen him since his father’s funeral. He was dishevelled, no doubt from his long journey, and in need of a shave. Altogether he looked rather louche, I think the word is. I admit, when he emerged out of a dark corner and stopped me, I was alarmed for a moment.’
‘But once he’d told you his identity, then you remembered him?’ asked Carter.
‘Oh, yes!’ Layton nodded. ‘I knew him then.’
‘I sense you don’t have a high opinion
of him.’ Carter smiled to take the edge off his comment.
Layton wasn’t fooled. ‘His father was my friend, not just my patient. I know what trouble Gervase caused the family as a boy. My opinion at the time of Sebastian’s sudden death was that stress had hastened it. But that was, as you remarked, some time ago and Gervase has been living abroad. I’ve had nothing to do with him, and have nothing against him other than my sympathy for his father.’
‘You can’t suggest why someone might want to kill him?’
‘No,’ said Layton coolly.
‘He was responsible for a car crash which left a young woman in a wheelchair.’
‘I am well aware of that. But I think you may be haring off down the wrong road, Superintendent Carter, if you think someone hereabouts harbours a grudge that might turn violent. Of course, young Crown was not popular at the time of the car crash you mention. I dare say no one here would be delighted to see him return to live among us …’
‘To the extent of burning down his house to keep him away? To make an attempt on his life when he does return?’
‘No one around here,’ Layton repeated. ‘If you think Gervase Crown has an enemy somewhere who wants him dead, I suggest you look elsewhere. He has had ample time over the last few years to make such an enemy, even if he has been mostly in Portugal, as I understand. But I have lived here for a very long time and, as a medical man, I am the recipient of all kind of confidences and gossip. I know of no one and nothing that could explain what happened at Key House. Believe me, Superintendent, this remains at heart a very old-fashioned, traditional community, for all the apparent changes you see around you. Newcomers have arrived bringing some new ideas, but we have a way of absorbing them. Of course, we have crime here. Of course, we have our share of problem families. But we are not murderers. Of that I can assure you.’
Carter refrained from pointing out that someone had killed Pietrangelo. ‘What about arsonists?’ he asked.
Layton looked uncomfortable for the first time. ‘It seems we do have at least one of those somewhere. Although I think it likely whoever started that fire came from outside the immediate locality. We have been plagued over recent years with some undesirable temporary visitors by way of tramps and hippies. We encourage them to move on.’
Layton smiled; unsteepled his hands and rested them on his desk. His fingers were long and the nails well kept. He made no attempt to add to his statement, just sat looking blandly at his visitor. Carter sensed that he was being told it was time he moved on.
Layton accompanied him to the front door. On the way, they passed a half-open door and Carter had a glimpse into a room that had been turned into an office. The middle-aged nurse-secretary was working there. Aware of his scrutiny, she looked up and returned him a stony stare.
‘Mrs Layton …’ murmured the doctor. ‘The superintendent is just leaving, Miranda.’
‘Goodbye, Superintendent,’ said Miranda, still unsmiling.
She didn’t add, ‘and don’t come back’, but the look said it all. Mrs Layton liked her detectives on the page and not in her home. Well, she wasn’t the only one, thought Carter ruefully.
‘Goodbye, Mrs Layton, nice to meet you,’ he said cheerfully.
‘All right, what do you think, Jess?’ Ian Carter asked, after they had exchanged details of the various conversations they had each had that day. ‘That Gervase Crown arranged for the fire? Dr Layton, like Roger Trenton, wants to blame tramps or dropouts.’
‘Why not Gervase? He must have hated the place,’ Jess replied. ‘If what Muriel Pickering told me is true, and I believe her, I’m not surprised he didn’t want to live in it. He didn’t want to sell it because he didn’t want any other family living in it, either. He wanted it wiped off the face of the earth! He’s been living abroad and he didn’t need the money from a sale, so he put off doing anything about it. But it’s always been on his mind and, in the end, he decided to get rid of it once and for all, and arranged a fire. I know it’s only a theory but after listening to Muriel Pickering, I can easily imagine it.’
‘If all Muriel had to say was true,’ Carter reminded her. ‘Layton was keen to stress Sebastian Crown was his friend. Muriel may have been imagining the cause of the bruises she says she saw on Amanda Crown. Wouldn’t Layton – Amanda’s doctor as well as Sebastian’s – have known of it, if Sebastian were in the habit of beating up his wife? I can’t believe he’d have condoned it.’
‘Because Muriel knew – and found out by accident – it doesn’t mean Layton knew,’ argued Jess. ‘He was their doctor, sure, but he also played golf with Sebastian. All the more reason for Sebastian to ensure Layton and others at the golf club never knew. I bet that when Sebastian Crown was in the bar of that club, he was the jolliest, most good-natured fellow there. Just like any other nasty little secret wife-beater. If anyone had suggested the contrary they would all have said it wasn’t possible, he was a decent chap, and all the rest of it.’
Phil Morton, who’d been listening in silence with increasing impatience, now said, ‘All that happened years ago, if it did. What about now? Where does Pietrangelo come into it? Was he just the wrong bloke in the wrong place at the wrong time? Mistaken identity, if you like, but I’m not satisfied why he was there in the first place. OK, his girlfriend says he was house-hunting, because that’s what he told her he was doing driving round the countryside. He wouldn’t have confessed to her that Crown had hired him for a spot of arson, would he?’
‘Crown didn’t crack Pietrangelo’s skull,’ Carter pointed out. ‘He didn’t arrive in the UK until nearly twenty-four hours later. Pietrangelo didn’t set the fire and then crack his own skull. We’re no nearer finding our murderer. And we’ve no evidence whatsoever that Crown arranged for the fire or that the unfortunate Pietrangelo was doing anything but checking out a property he’d taken a big fancy to. Muriel’s information goes a long way to explaining why Crown didn’t want to live there. It clears up one small mystery, if you like, and leaves us with the big one.’
‘No further forward, then,’ said Morton gloomily. ‘Perhaps something will turn up tomorrow.’
Chapter 13
As Morton had hoped, something new did turn up the following morning. He and Jess were in her office, drawing up a plan of action for the day, when DC Bennison appeared in the doorway.
‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘But Mr Crown has been on the phone. He reckons he’s been threatened.’
‘Was he harmed?’ asked Jess, startled.
‘No, but he won’t talk over the phone, just refused. He’s pretty cross.’
‘Cheeky blighter!’ growled Morton.
Bennison smiled at Jess. ‘He wants you to go out there and see him, ma’am, at The Royal Oak. He particularly asked for you.’
The road out to Weston St Ambrose was by now becoming very familiar to Jess. She turned her car into the wide entry beside The Royal Oak and parked it on the cobbles over which horse traffic had once clattered and the stagecoach had decanted its weary passengers. She got out and looked around. What had been stables had been turned into individual units for guests, mini-cottages. Large planters stood along the walls but now, in winter, were empty. A wooden sign indicated a rear entry to the main building and on the door was fixed a notice suggesting that customers might like to book now for the Christmas period.
Inside Jess took time to assess the general layout. The Royal Oak was a rambling old building. Over years alterations and additions had meant walls had been knocked down, new partitions erected, doorways blocked, others created, all turning it into a veritable rabbit warren of rooms, connecting passages and dead ends. The atmosphere was stuffy, warm, dark and smelled faintly of breakfast bacon. Presented with a choice of corridors, Jess was grateful for the arrow indicating Reception and Lounge.
She didn’t know the nature of the threat received, or claimed, by Gervase Crown. He had not named the person who’d made it or how it had been done, despite Bennison’s best efforts to obtain details. B
ut one thing was already clear. An intruder, who didn’t know The Royal Oak, could not slip in and out in a couple of minutes. You had to be familiar with its twists and turns or … or you had to be a resident. She set off, the ancient floorboards creaking beneath her foot. That was another thing. You’d find it hard to move about silently. She supposed the room plan upstairs to be similarly chaotic and the floors just as creaky. It would be well nigh impossible to carry out an amorous midnight tryst without alerting all the guests!
Gervase Crown was in the lounge, stretched out in a leather armchair. For someone who had been threatened and called the police about it, insisting on a senior officer’s personal attendance, he appeared singularly relaxed. His elbows were propped on the stout leather arms of the chair and his hands dangled loosely. A beam of pale sunlight had angled through a nearby window and fell on him. He looked, thought Jess, rather like a streetwise tomcat, resting from the regular patrols of his territory.
On seeing Jess in the doorway, Gervase abandoned his slouched attitude, rose to his feet and greeted her. ‘Glad to see you, Inspector Campbell. The coffee here isn’t brilliant, you might do better with the hot chocolate or tea. Which would you like?’
‘I really don’t need either, thank you,’ Jess told him. She’d been presented with the chippy Gervase at their last meeting, and now she was getting the charming one. Neither washes with me, Mr Crown!
‘I’ve been told that you rang and reported a threat to your person.’ She sat down and adopted a businesslike attitude. ‘Was this a serious threat, Mr Crown? Who made it? You were unwilling to tell DC Bennison over the phone and I do have other matters to attend to. It has taken time out of my day to drive out here.’
‘It was – is – serious enough,’ Gervase replied sharply, ‘to make me think I ought to tell the cops about it. In the circumstances, as you’re already investigating the destruction of my house, I preferred to talk to you. I thought you would probably want to talk to me.’ He retook his seat. ‘I don’t know who made it – wrote it. It came in the form of a note, pushed under my door.’ He took a piece of paper from his pocket. This he put on the low table between them.
