by Dawn Harris
I took one look at him and burst out laughing. 'You little devil.’
‘Debil,’ he repeated in delight, storing up the word for future use.
I was so eager to ring Inspector Nabber about the newspaper item that I marched Tim down to Connie to deal with. Connie, a shapely widow of thirty-eight, who had laughing brown eyes and a cheerful positive nature, looked after him when I was out, or busy.
On seeing her Tim announced cheerfully, ‘I been naughty, Connie. I’se a debil.’
I was still smiling a few minutes later when I collected the newspaper and telephoned Scotland Yard. I was fortunate enough to find Inspector Nabber in his office and told him, ‘Inspector I’ve just seen a newspaper report that I think might help with your inquiries.’ And I read it out to him.
‘Mr. George Crawleigh of 6 Compton Park Road, Westminster, died late Sunday evening when the car he was driving left the road and hit a tree. It is understood that Mr. Crawleigh, a 28 year old London solicitor, was returning home after spending the weekend with friends in Sussex.’
Before he could comment I reminded him that Peter had lived at number six Compton Park Row. ‘Don't you see, Inspector? Two men with similar addresses and a surname that sounds the same when spoken.’ A terrible co-incidence that I believed had cost Peter his life. ‘The killer, hired to shoot George Crawleigh, went to the wrong address. When Peter answered the door he agreed, rightly, that he was Mr. Crawley. Once the gunman realised he’d made a mistake, George still had to be silenced, and he was dead within twelve hours.’
‘Hmmm.’ There was a long pause while he considered what I’d said. 'Yes, but why would a man who’d murdered Peter Crawley in cold blood, take the trouble to make George Crawleigh’s death look like an accident?’
It was a perfectly reasonable question, one I’d already asked myself, and I told him the conclusion I had come to. 'Gunning down two men within twelve hours of each other – men whose names and addresses were almost identical -- would be like poking a big stick into a hornet’s nest. You, as the police officer in charge, would instantly realise something out of the ordinary was going on, and you’d set up the kind of huge manhunt no villain wants to find himself at the centre of, especially not a professional killer. That’s why, Inspector.’
‘Criminals are not usually that intelligent, Mrs. York. But I'll look into it.’
The scepticism was so clear in his voice, I wasn’t at all surprised when he called the following day and promptly demolished my theory. Informing me the post mortem had been completed, he sat on a sofa in my drawing room, pulling at his left ear. 'In the opinion of the pathologist, George Crawleigh died as a result of an accident in his car. And before you ask, there was nothing wrong with the brakes. Regrettably it seems his judgement was impaired by the considerable quantity of alcohol he’d consumed that evening.’
I shook my head at him. 'And I thought you were an intelligent man, Inspector.’
‘Mrs. York,’ he sighed, ‘as a policeman I have to deal with facts. Frankly, there are other lines of inquiry that are far more credible.’
‘Such as?’
‘I’m sorry, but I cannot divulge that kind of information.’
I cajoled, 'Oh come on, Inspector. Don’t be so stuffy.’
‘Madam, the Chief Constable strongly objects to his officers disclosing confidential information to members of the public, and there are enough people unemployed as it is without my adding to their number.’
'Oh, so I’m just a member of the public now am I? And I thought we understood each other. On Sunday you begged me to help you in any way I could.’
A faint smile crossed his lips. 'With information, Mrs. York. In that respect you have been most helpful.’
I looked him straight in the eye. 'So you don’t believe the murderer killed Peter by mistake?’
‘I always keep an open mind, but in my opinion there is no connection between the deaths of the two men.’
'Despite the similarity in their names and addresses?’
He inclined his head. ‘Despite that. The people George Crawleigh stayed with that weekend said he’d had several glasses of wine with his dinner, a couple of whiskies beforehand, and port afterwards. His hosts begged him to stay the night, but he said he had to get back. Everything points to him falling asleep at the wheel.’
I had to admit it was a perfectly plausible explanation. ‘No witnesses, I suppose?’
‘None we can find, but we’re continuing to make inquiries.’
‘I still think I’m right.’
‘Women usually do,’ he said cheerfully. 'My wife certainly does.’ I half smiled, remembering how my father used to tease me whenever I insisted I was right. But there was absolutely no doubt in my mind about this. As if he’d read my thoughts, he went on, ‘But I never discount anything until I get to the truth.’
Unwilling to give up on my theory, I went on, 'I suppose you believe the similarity in names and addresses is sheer coincidence?’
‘In my line of work, Mrs. York, coincidence is not uncommon. Besides, you're forgetting the stolen figurine. Why take that if.......’
'To make it look like a robbery, of course. They wanted.....’
'They?’ he cut in brusquely. ‘You said the gunman was alone.’
‘I only heard one man. But I’m convinced he wasn’t working on his own. In fact I think there’s something very odd about the whole thing.’
A suggestion of a smile hovered on his lips. ‘Would that be feminine intuition?’
I lifted my chin. 'No. It’s a hunch. Isn’t that what you men call it?’
‘I can’t afford hunches. I need evidence to convict criminals. When that villain sells the figurine, then we......’
'He might not sell it.’
'Oh, he will. They always do.’ And he went on casually, ‘Tell me, what do you know about Harold Taverner?’
‘Monica’s father?’ I repeated in disbelief. ‘Good God, are you suggesting he’s behind Peter’s murder?’
‘We have to consider every possibility.’
'Don't waste your time, Inspector. He didn’t approve of Peter, but Monica’s his only child and he always gives her what she wants -- eventually.’
‘Really?’ He raised his brows at me. 'That wasn’t the impression I got. In fact, Mr. Taverner informed me the marriage would never have worked, and he trusted she’d now marry someone of her own kind, not a man born in a slum.’ And he asked if I would call Monica’s father a law abiding man.
I was about to protest that of course he was, when I remembered him boasting, on more than one occasion, that there were ways to avoid paying too much tax. The Inspector was watching me keenly and observing my hesitation, he went on, 'If Mr. Taverner had Peter Crawley killed, then George Crawleigh’s death was a simple accident.’
‘You’re wrong about Mr. Taverner. And nothing you’ve said explains why the murderer was in such a hurry. I believe that’s the key to this whole business.’
'I'll bear that in mind,’ he said, tongue-in-cheek, and stood up to go.
I rang for Lang, my butler, to see him out and urged, 'Find that gunman, Inspector.’
‘I am doing my best, Mrs. York. But no-one saw him. Not even you.’
The Inspector called two or three times in the following days, his questions making it abundantly clear that he still had no idea why Peter was murdered, or why the gunman had apparently been in such a hurry. When I inquired if there was anything dubious about George Crawleigh, I was told, rather smugly, ‘Mr. Crawleigh was a highly respected solicitor, who often dined with the Chief Constable of Sussex.’
He did not say if Mr. Taverner remained a suspect, but as Monica’s father had been questioned several times, it seemed highly likely. I still believed the two deaths were connected, but I was not surprised when the jury at the inquest on George Crawleigh brought in a verdict of “Accidental Death.”
At the inquest on Peter I answered the questions put to me, police and medical ev
idence was given, then the proceedings were adjourned to enable Inspector Nabber to pursue his inquiries. Once Peter’s body was released the funeral took place, an ordeal Monica got through bravely.
Afterwards, people speculated on what would happen to the fashion house. Peter and Monica had been equal partners, and it was generally expected she would close the business, but a week later she called in to tell me she’d decided to keep it going. The devastating sadness filling her beautiful dark brown eyes made me catch my breath, as she went on, ‘In fact I’m going back to work on Monday.’
Surprise made me gasp, 'So soon?’
‘I have to, Liddy.’ Lighting a cigarette she told me, ‘The only way I’m going to get through this is by keeping busy.’
That I understood. It was what I’d done when my own world fell apart. But, in her case, it meant finding a new designer, and I asked who she had in mind, commenting, 'Oscar’s too young, surely?’ Peter’s chief assistant, an eager young man of twenty, had a thatch of fair hair, an open freckled face and looked about sixteen.
'Well, Peter said Oscar was so talented he’d soon want to start up on his own. So I’ve decided to give him his chance now, if he wants it. There’s the show to think of and.....’
'You're going ahead with that?’
'It's what Peter would want. This collection is the best he’s ever done, and I won’t let all his hard work go to waste,’ she said, flicking ash into the receptacle on the small table beside her.
I asked if she’d seen the newspaper reports lambasting the police for their lack of success in bringing Peter’s killer to justice, but she just shrugged. 'What does that matter?’
I couldn’t believe what she was saying. 'Don't you want the man caught?’
'Oh, I suppose so, but it won’t bring Peter back, will it.’ Tears filled her eyes. ‘That’s the only thing I want Liddy, and it’s the one thing I can’t have.’ Monica, a realist, drew deeply on her cigarette.
'What does your father say about you going back to work?’
‘I haven’t told him yet. He wants me to spend the summer with him at Hubberstone.’ Hubberstone Place was the Taverner’s country house in Kent. ‘I can’t go, Liddy. It would drive me mad. He’s shutting up our London house while he’s away, and I wondered if......’
'You want to stay here?’ I exclaimed, beaming at her in delight. ‘Of course, you can. Stay as long as you like. But won’t your father mind?’
‘Probably.’ And she stubbed out her cigarette, grinding it into the ash tray far more vigorously than was necessary. 'I've got to get away from him for a bit.’
‘Get away from him?’ I echoed in surprise, for she adored her father.
‘I must. He wouldn’t wish anyone any real harm, but the truth is he’s pleased Peter’s out of my life. He tries to hide it, but I can see it in his eyes.’ I’d seen that look and I wondered if Inspector Nabber had too. ‘He thinks I’ll get over Peter in time and marry someone he approves of, but I won’t. I’ll never marry now.’ A tear ran down her cheek and she brushed it away impatiently. 'Liddy, how did you cope when Archie died? You were so brave.’
'Oh, but that wasn’t....’ I stopped, and she stared at me, puzzled. I’d almost told her what I’d sworn never to reveal to a soul. Not even Monica. 'What I mean is, Tim was only a week old at the time, so I had to carry on.’ I put a hand on her arm. 'It will get easier,’ I said. 'The pain won’t always be there.’
‘Won’t it?’ she whispered, her voice breaking up.
‘You become accustomed.’
'Do you?’ Tears filled Monica’s eyes. ‘I thought Peter and I would marry, have children and be together for at least fifty years.’ As the teardrops fell, she sobbed, ‘I’ll never love anyone else.’
I didn’t say anything, but she was too vivacious, too beautiful, to be alone for very long. I was the one who would never marry again.
CHAPTER THREE
Drying her eyes Monica whispered, ‘Why did that man have to kill Peter? He had a gun – Peter couldn’t have stopped him taking the figurine. If only I’d answered the door. I would gladly have handed over the wretched thing, and everything else of value, in exchange for Peter’s life.’
She went on and on, and I didn’t try to stop her. It made me think of the things I’d wanted to say about Archie, but hadn’t because of Tim. Yet, what had been important then, seemed less so now. Time did heal, and I intended to enjoy the rest of my life.
By returning to work on Monday Monica was taking her first vital step in that direction, and thinking some sea air would do her good, I suggested we went down to Sussex for the weekend.
I’d recently bought an elegant, spacious house on the edge of a quiet village. Only a wide green sward and a bordering hedge stood between the back garden and the beach. There was a lovely long balcony for sunbathing, and a pretty garden with flower beds and shrubs. Monica, who hadn’t seen it yet, accepted my invitation, and when I suggested asking Jean and Arthur Carmichael to join us, she was happy with that too.
I rang Jean before Monica could change her mind, and she said eagerly, ‘I’d love to come. But Arthur’s at a conference in Brighton until Sunday lunchtime.’ Arthur was high up in the secret service. ‘He’ll come along in the afternoon.’
Monica, Jean, and I had been close friends since our first year at Oxford, where we had all read English, thrown parties, and often sat up far into the night talking and laughing, enjoying our first taste of real independence. Jean had the best brain of us all. She was quite short, barely reaching five feet, had a good figure and was always beautifully dressed. But, in looks, she couldn’t compete with Monica’s perfect oval face.
When she married Arthur Carmichael three years ago, she’d had six bridesmaids, including Monica and me. Arthur, who seemed to be related to half of Britain’s aristocracy, was forty-three at the time, and having, as he put it, finally met the right woman, he’d seen to it that his wedding was the biggest society event of the year. Even the King, then the Prince of Wales, had attended.
After Monica had gone home, I told the household she would be staying with me from Monday evening. Then I gave them all the weekend off. And explained to Connie I wouldn’t need her because Monica was joining me in Sussex. Connie, whose husband survived the war only to die of influenza in 1919, knew that Monica loved helping with Tim, and understood her need to keep occupied.
Connie was wonderful with Tim and he adored her. She lived in, and I paid her well, for Tim was everything to me. Her sons, twins of eighteen, were both in the Navy, as their father had been. ‘I told Lang you wouldn’t be coming with me,’ I said, watching her face.
A faint flush coloured her rosy cheeks, but she laughed. ‘We’re just friends, Mrs. York. He’s much too young for me.’
‘Nonsense. There’s only four years between you. That’s nothing. And his eyes lit up like beacons when I told him you’d be staying here.’ But she still shook her head.
I arranged to call in on Uncle Freddie on the way down to Sussex. 'Come for lunch,’ he insisted jovially when I rang him. ‘Old Barrington will be here, but you ladies won’t mind that.’
Sir Frederick York, eighty years old and a bachelor, lived at Easing House, near Midhurst and I was immensely fond of him. His younger brother, Archie’s father, had been heir to the title until he died three months before Tim was born. Archie, an only child, was next in line, but when his aeroplane smashed into the ground while he was practising aerobatics for an air show in Australia, Tim became heir.
Uncle Freddie had read about Peter in the newspapers, but said, ‘I didn’t realise you and Monica were there.’ He’d met Monica and Jean many times, and they loved the old boy as much as I did. ‘Tell her we won’t talk about it. I’d hate to upset her.’
He kept his word and gave us a lovely lunch as usual. Tim sat between Monica and me, on a chair piled with cushions to enable him to reach the table. When he’d finished, he climbed sleepily onto Uncle Freddie’s ample lap, while we discussed
the weather, Mr. Baldwin’s ability as prime minister, and how we wished the King would find a suitable bride instead of getting involved with married women. He was asleep when Colonel Barrington began to amuse us with tales of those who came up before him in the Magistrates’ court, assuring us, 'You can always tell the guilty ones.’
‘Is it really that obvious?’ I asked.
‘Oh yes. You only have to look at them. If they’re shifty looking or have eyes that are.....’
‘Too close together?’ I suggested, keeping a tight rein on my quivering lip. The Colonel was a perfectly respectable man, but he saw things in black and white.
‘Exactly. The signs are all there if you look. Dirty finger nails, greasy hair, scars, boils, tide marks on their necks, unpolished shoes.’
‘Unpolished shoes?’ I echoed. ‘You can’t condemn a man for that, surely?’
He gave a snort. ‘Would you turn up in court in scruffy shoes?’
‘Well, no, but.....’
‘That’s because you are a law abiding citizen. I rest my case.’
Monica quickly intervened, 'Do any of these villains get away with it?’
'Sometimes. Without proper evidence we can’t send them to prison, unfortunately. Some are just lucky, mind.’
‘Lucky?’ Jean echoed. 'How do you mean?’
'Well, we had such a case only the other day,’ the colonel said. 'A man charged with attempting to steal a gentleman’s wallet. Most indignant he was. Said he’d tripped over a paving stone, crashed into the gentleman by accident, which must have dislodged the wallet. Pack of lies, of course, but we had to let him go.’
‘Why?’ I asked.
'Because the man he’d tried to rob died in a car crash the day after the incident. Poor fellow went off the road and hit a tree. Without his testimony the case collapsed.’
‘Lucky indeed,’ agreed Uncle Freddie.
But I barely heard him. George Crawleigh’s car had gone off the road and hit a tree. I tried to be sensible. After all, that kind of road accident wasn’t uncommon. There was very little chance of it being the same man.
