After Clare

by Marjorie Eccles

  ‘At least we now know why he went missing,’ Novak said to Brownlow. ‘Something in that letter he got made it necessary for him to risk defying the authorities in order to make a quick visit to Netherley.’

  He wasn’t entirely happy with what he surmised must have happened: Sholto leaving camp on the supply lorry to the nearby town – a train to Luton, more accessible than Kingsworth Halt – and then what? Too far to walk to Netherley in the time available. All the same, he had got there by some means.

  Brownlow listened to everything, but with a thinly veiled impatience. He nodded, while his eyes slid to the big clock on the wall as it neared eleven – though Novak knew from past experience that he had not missed a thing, and would have facts and figures at his fingertips, ready to throw back at him, verbatim, if and when necessary. He straightened his tie. A meeting with the top brass, he’d said. The Assistant Commissioner, no doubt. His Majesty even, Novak shouldn’t wonder. Finally he pushed his chair back as a signal for dismissal. ‘Well, play your cards right with this one, and you’ll do yourself a bit of good. I’ve had my eye on you for some time, Adam, and I’ll be keeping it there. Best of luck then, but get a move on, there’s a good scout.’

  When Brownlow used Christian names it was time to be wary. ‘Thank you, sir. We’ll do our best.’

  So it had been Brownlow who’d got him into this, Novak thought, as he shut the door behind him. Had his eye on him, had he? He took this with a pinch of salt. It was what spurred you on, being told that, but promotion, my eye! In his experience, promotion came by stepping into dead men’s shoes.

  The trouble was, however, that Brownlow was right, in one sense. Progress still wasn’t quick enough.

  At the moment, it came down to who had sent Peter that last letter, the contents of which had apparently made it necessary for him to take the risk of absenting himself without permission. Who was it from? That girl in the photograph, causing Sholto to wake up to his responsibilities, as Hennessy had suggested? Unless he’d suddenly begun to worry over that cache of banknotes left in the box. But since it had been sitting there all the time he was in the army, that didn’t square with any sudden need to return home. And in any case, it was to Leysmorton he had gone, not to his old home where the money was hidden.

  Back in his office, Novak twirled a pencil between his fingers and leaned back until his chair was on its two back legs, a habit that drove even the unflappable Willard mad. It helped him to think, however. And now he found his mind going over and over the conversation he’d had with Edmund Sholto until finally, something clicked. He let the chair fall forward and reached for his notes, and yes, there it was, that mention of the notebooks Peter used to scribble in. It hadn’t seemed important at the time, and probably it wasn’t important now. Nothing but doodles, he’d told his father, sketches and notes of the old furniture at Leysmorton House he so admired, yet he’d been secretive about showing it. He couldn’t have blackmailed Stronglove – or Stella Markham – without some form of tangible proof . . . was it conceivable he’d kept something of the sort in one of those notebooks? If so, he would not have destroyed them as Edmund Sholto had surmised. Novak paused, pencil in mid-air – was it possible there had been something incriminating to himself in them? And that he’d hidden them, not at home but in one of the dozens of hidey-holes likely in a rabbit warren of a house like Leysmorton? He puffed out his lips. Possible, but a long shot. Maybe worth a try.

  The following day, back at Netherley, Novak tried out the short cut from the village to Leysmorton House, the route Sholto was likely to have taken in order to avoid coming across any of the villagers.

  The river wound lazily between poplars and willows, its banks edged with pink balsam and cow parsley, a pretty enough scene if he hadn’t been forced to watch where he put his feet so as not to fall from the stepping stones into the river, though he guessed it was hardly deep enough to do more than wet his feet. The greater danger was a broken ankle from slipping on the smooth and irregularly spaced stones. It would have been dark by the time Sholto arrived and this way would be a hazardous undertaking, however familiar you were with it. After negotiating it, crossing the meadow and stepping through that gap in the wall, had he then been intercepted and met his death before he could get to the house? In this clearing where Novak now stood?

  Even he, less susceptible than most, felt a shiver as he stood with his hands behind his back, surveying the scene. It was that great tree, he decided, its immense girth, its weird structure, composed as it was of numbers of trunks fused together, the fissures and hollows between, that made the place so eerie, the drooping branches and sombre foliage casting a brooding, churchyard shadow everywhere.

  He was so absorbed – or else she walked so lightly, making no noise – that he wasn’t aware of Lady Fitzallan until she emerged into the clearing, and for a moment, as he stood in the shadow of the tree, she didn’t see him, either.

  She stared around in wonder, as if this might have been the first time she had come here since the spot had been cleared of the years of accumulated debris. Novak’s men had meticulously obeyed instructions to sift through the pile of wood and rubble covering the skeleton so as not to miss any tiny bones or fragments, any tattered shreds of clothing or other pieces of evidence which might have lain concealed, and they’d made a thorough job of it. The bricks had been removed and stacked neatly by the gap in the outer wall from whence they had originally come. Later, someone, a gardener Novak supposed, had finished the job by burning the rotten wood and weeds and raking over the soil. There was still a circle of fire-blackened earth in the centre of the clearing, though around its edges new grass had already begun to grow. Around the immense old yew whose rough, scaly trunk he now leant against, the earth was bare except for a carpet of browning needles that had fallen since, and the huge gnarled roots protruding through it.

  ‘Inspector Novak!’ She stepped back as she saw him, but waved away his apologies for startling her. ‘I was miles away and didn’t see you.’

  ‘Looks a bit different now, hmm, this place?’

  ‘You have saved us a lot of trouble, clearing the bricks like this.’

  ‘And now it’s cleared . . .?’

  ‘Oh,’ she said vaguely, ‘have the wall bricked up again, perhaps? Return it to how it used to be when my sister and I used to come here as children. We had that little play house in the tree, a long time ago. Clare loved this spot before she . . . before we both . . . went away.’ She drew a steadying breath. ‘As you know, I’ve lived abroad for most of my life.’

  ‘And your sister, too?’

  ‘No. Clare died.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Emily looked away and then she gave an odd little sigh and said suddenly, turning towards him, ‘She went away without any explanation and they never found what had happened to her, neither the police nor the private detective my father hired. They assumed she was dead, but I knew she wasn’t, not then.’

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘She didn’t write, but she used to send me birthday cards – anonymously, but they could only have come from her, so yes, I knew . . .’ She held her arms tightly round herself, as if she were cold. ‘Well, it’s old history, interesting to nobody but me now.’

  He had heard the story of the sister’s disappearance from Nellie Dobson, but not this part of it, and he hadn’t thought any more of it, but now a thought, fleeting and elusive, came to him. Not a time to try and capture it, though. He prized himself away from the tree. ‘I’m afraid I shall have to leave you now, Lady Fitzallan. I’m supposed to see Miss Heeren shortly.’

  ‘Poor Marta. Don’t be too harsh. This business has been a shock to her. I believe she and this boy, Peter, were very close.’ She hesitated. ‘May I ask you a question first, before you go?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘After so much time, do you think there could be any possible chance of finding out what happened to my sister?’

  ‘Lady Fitzall
an, I’m trying to investigate a murder that happened three years ago, and the trail’s as cold as Christmas.’

  ‘Even though I think I may have found something that might throw some light on why she left?’

  He still shook his head, but she took a piece of folded paper from her pocket, as though it were something she carried about constantly, like a talisman. ‘This is a letter I’ve found. It’s written in French, but I can tell you what it contains.’

  ‘My mother was French.’

  ‘I’m sorry, that was clumsy . . . I myself wasn’t able to read it properly without help, but your French must obviously be better than mine. Would it be too much of an imposition to ask you to take it, and read it when you have time?’

  He smothered his irritation as he thought what to say. He couldn’t refuse to read a letter, though it was a distraction he could do without. ‘You do realize there is absolutely no possibility that we – the police – would be interested in opening this case?’

  ‘Of course. But you could give me your opinion on what I might do.’

  Reluctantly, he put the letter in his wallet. ‘I’ll let you know what I think, but don’t hold out hope.’

  When Novak presented himself at the back door of the house, Nellie Dobson had her coat on and was spearing her hard felt hat with a long hatpin. A little girl with copper-coloured curls was standing on a chair and having her coat buttoned up by Marta Heeren, to whom she gave a sloppy kiss as she was lifted down. ‘I liked doing the elberberries.’

  ‘Elderberries.’ A rare smile crossed Marta’s face as she passed a hand over the curls. ‘Thank you for helping, Violet. Run along now and I’ll see you next time.’

  Marta turned to Novak when the door closed behind them. ‘Well, Inspector?’ Her face had resumed its stolid, unreadable expression.

  ‘A few words please, Miss Heeren, if you can spare the time.’

  ‘Come into the little parlour.’

  ‘Oh, here will do very well.’ He liked the old-fashioned kitchen, so big it was still cool despite the heat of the day and the sizeable fire necessary to heat the range and the recently used flat irons, now upended and cooling on the hearth. The smell of freshly laundered linen mingled with a rich scent of baking pastry.

  ‘As you wish,’ Marta said. ‘Please sit down.’ She appeared measurably calmer than the first, and last, time he’d seen her, and quite in command of herself, and in fact didn’t wait for him to begin his questions, but took the initiative. ‘You no doubt want to talk to me about Peter. I was upset when you gave us the news, but that’s behind us. I’m not about to burst into tears again. You can go ahead.’

  He admired the self-control she displayed. He did not believe she had shaken off the grief he’d seen so easily.

  ‘At this point, I’m mainly trying to get hold of some idea of what Peter was like, what he did. One of his interests was woodworking, I’m told.’

  ‘His only one. He got ideas from some of the pieces in this house, sketching and measuring them. I let him wander round whenever he wanted. He was upset at how much some of it had been let go – in fact, he offered to do a few small repairs, and he made such a good job you’d never know they’d been mended.’

  ‘I’ve seen some of his own work. He used his grandfather’s tools, didn’t he?’

  ‘That’s right. Some are still here.’

  ‘I have an idea his father would like them.’

  She stared. ‘He should have asked. Wait, and I’ll get them.’

  She returned within a few minutes with a strong canvas tool bag, containing several chisels and other tools, their wooden handles polished with long use.

  ‘Thank you, I’ll see Mr Sholto gets these,’ he said, seeing she was not offering to return them herself. ‘One more thing, Miss Heeren. I believe you used to write to Peter regularly when he was away?’

  ‘Not so very regularly. Once a month, in fact. I always wrote on the first.’

  ‘That must have been a comfort to him; letters from home were much appreciated.’

  ‘I’m not much good at knitting scarves and socks,’ she said drily. ‘It was the least I could do, to put pen to paper now and then.’

  ‘No young ladies to write to him?’

  ‘He never told me if there were.’ A spot of colour appeared on both cheeks.

  ‘I’m told he kept a photograph of a girl with him always.’

  ‘Well, it was no one I knew anything about,’ she returned sharply.

  He was not sure whether he believed her, but felt he was in danger of losing her by pursuing that line. ‘He left camp on March the seventeenth, after he’d received a letter which caused him to take leave without permission. Could the letter have been from you?’

  ‘I told you, I always wrote at the beginning of the month.’ She fell silent and then said stiffly, ‘Edmund Sholto lied about his son being killed. Why, is quite beyond me.’

  ‘Mr Sholto thought his son had deserted, Miss Heeren.’

  The colour on her cheeks intensified, but she didn’t answer.

  ‘It would seem as though he came straight here after leaving camp. Why do you think he would do that?’

  She said colourlessly, ‘I’ve no idea. He knew the house was empty, and would be until after Easter. In my last letter I asked him to come and see us then, because my brother’s eyesight had worsened considerably, and I thought he might give Peter his old job again. And that’s all I can tell you.’

  There was the sense of shutters coming down. This was a woman who buttoned up her feelings, a childless woman who lavished her frustrated affections on other people’s children, such as little red-haired Violet, and he didn’t doubt Mrs Dobson had been right about her feeling the same affection for Peter.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Heeren, that’ll do for now.’

  He picked up the heavy tool bag and, sliding a hammer through its leather handles, slung it over his shoulder as workmen did, and headed towards the police house in the village, where he was to meet Willard. When he reached a convenient low wall, he balanced the bag and opened it. He moved the tools to one side and yes, there underneath were two notebooks: tattered and well used, an untidy mixture of scribbles and jottings mixed in amongst carefully executed drawings and detailed measurements of various pieces of furniture, with accompanying notes, pencil-written in a small, tight handwriting. Both were full and the leaves between the covers bulged with random scraps of paper on which quick, rough sketches had been made. But nowhere did he find anything that seemed remotely like a lever to blackmail anyone.

  He had agreed to keep Constable Pickles up to date with the investigation, as a matter of courtesy more than anything else, though he suspected Pickles would actually have preferred to remain in blissful ignorance, to pretend that a murder hadn’t occurred on his patch, where he’d been constable for most of his working life. He was on the verge of retirement and wanted nothing more than a quiet life in the place where he was more valued as a rich baritone in the church choir than as an enforcer of the law. A policeman’s duties were not exactly onerous in Netherley. Trouble of a criminal nature was rare, murder unknown. Until now.

  Tea was being served, with scones and Madeira cake made by Mrs Pickles, and Willard was already sitting back with an empty plate before him and his cup waiting to be replenished. ‘Tell the inspector what you’ve just told me, Albert.’

  Pickles, in his shirt sleeves and weskit, rubbed his hand over his face. ‘I never thought anything of it till now.’ He was a heavy man, grizzle-haired round the edges of his pate, bald as an egg otherwise, with a prominent Adam’s apple.

  ‘Thought anything of what? Good cup of tea, Mrs Pickles, just what’s needed when you have a lot to discuss,’ Novak said to the constable’s wife who, having brought in reinforcements by way of a fresh pot, and having poured a cup for Novak, was hovering with interest near the door.

  Pickles took the hint. ‘All right, Mary.’ He waited until she’d unwillingly closed the door behind her before he
began, ‘Well, there was this here bicycle, see.’

  The constable was a long-winded narrator, but it finally emerged that about three years ago a bicycle with a buckled front wheel had been found in a ditch on the Kingsworth Road. It was only now that Pickles knew they were looking for anyone who might have been seen in the village on a certain night that he had connected the two events. ‘Mystery how it got there, though not why it had been left. Nobody could have ridden that machine with the wheel as it was. That road’s cruel with flints and it was just on that sharp bend. I thought hello, somebody’s hit a tree and come a cropper.’

  ‘When was it found?’

  ‘Middle of April, thereabouts. Any rate, it was when old Jed Carter went along with his bill hook to finish laying Farmer Beale’s hedges. Should’ve been tackled afore then, on account of the new growth, but he’d been laid up with rheumatics. He came on it in the ditch. Might have been there some time, of course, though it hadn’t yet started to go rusty.’

  ‘Nobody saw anyone ride through the village?’

  ‘No. Nor saw anybody going away. Always thought whoever it was must have walked on to Kingsworth, myself, and taken Joe Offord’s taxi, though I never did hear tell of that from Joe.’

  ‘Not likely you would,’ Willard remarked. ‘It doesn’t look as though he walked anywhere, except across the stepping stones towards the big house.’

  ‘You reckon it was young Sholto then?’

  ‘It’s possible he got a train as far as Luton, so now it looks as though he most likely half-inched that cycle to ride on here. It would be dark by that time, that’s why nobody saw him.’

  ‘One mystery solved then,’ Pickles said with satisfaction.

  ‘What happened to the bicycle?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask Kingsworth. I reported it to them and they came and took it away. Might still have it. If it was young Sholto, it won’t have been claimed, will it?’

  ‘No, I don’t reckon it will, Albert,’ said Willard drily.