Shades of Murder

by Ann Granger

  In a sober voice Meredith said, 'How implacable you are. You never give up.'

  'No,' he agreed. T never give up.'

  ANN GRANGER

  'Geoff?' Pamela whispered loudly in the darkness.

  In the adjoining bed, her husband stirred and muttered, 'What?'

  'How do you think things went this evening?'

  She saw the humped shape move as he turned over. 'Everything was fine. What's the worry?"

  'I'm not worried about the party, for crying out loud! I meant Juliet -and James Holland.'

  The springs of the other bed creaked alarmingly as Geoff Painter sat up with a start. 'Good God, Pam, leave well alone. I know my sister. She'd hit the roof if she thought you were match-making.'

  'I'm not match-making!' she said indignantly. 'They've known each other for years. They're friends. They're both on their own

  'That's lousy logic. It's like saying kippers are nice. Meringue is nice. Kippers topped with meringue must therefore be delicious!' he growled.

  She flopped back onto her pillows with a sigh. T ought to have known better than to ask you.' After a moment she went on, 'What Juliet was saying about the Oakley sisters leaving that house, selling up, it'll be dreadfully stressful for them. They were both born in that house. Damaris must be eighty-two, Florence eighty, or so I'd estimate. What about the contents?'

  'House contents sale. Local auctioneers would run it for them.'

  'It's not as simple as that. What about family mementoes, things like that portrait of Wicked William Juliet told you about? Everything in that house must have memories for them. It'll be like selling off or giving away bits of themselves. Disposing of their lives.'

  T know what you mean,' he replied after a moment. 'You're probably right. But then, neither you nor I have yet reached that age. Perhaps they're ready to clear out the past. Perhaps they want to get rid of it all. It could be they see all that furniture and Victoriana not as memorabilia but a burden, a responsibility they want to get rid of. Have a word with Juliet, if you're worried. But she's probably thought about that side of it.'

  Geoff thumped his pillows into shape and settled down again. 'My sister is nothing if not efficient. I think she could throw up a challenge to you in that department, Pam - although even she wouldn't try and arrange someone's love life. You're playing with fire!'

  'Sometimes, Geoff," said his wife crossly, 'you do talk nonsense. Oh, and by the way, I saw you giving that box to Meredith."

  'So? She's interested,' he returned defiantly.

  'How,' she demanded, unconsciously echoing Alan Markby, 'can

  SHADES OF MURDER

  anyone be so obsessed as you are with something which happened so long ago and can't matter now?' Before he could present an argument for this, she snapped, 'Oh, go to sleep!'

  'I was asleep . . .' mumbled the voice from the other bed.

  Across town, Alan was already sleeping soundly. Meredith slipped out of bed and pulled on her dressing gown. Downstairs, she collected Geoff's box and took it to the kitchen. She felt like a child, raiding the fridge for a midnight feast. Settling herself at the table, she undid the string round the box with tingling anticipation. The lid removed, she found a jumble of papers inside: photocopied newspaper clippings and bundles of trial transcripts which someone had freely annotated in a flowing hand. At the bottom of the box, secured with an elastic band, lay a bundle of what looked like reporter's notebooks. The topmost one was inscribed in the same flowing copperplate script with the name Stanley Huxtable. 'What's this?' Meredith murmured. 'Geoff must have forgotten these were in here or he wouldn't have let them out of his grip.' More recent notes were in biro - in Geoff's handwriting. Meredith spread the whole lot out on the table before her and debated where to start.

  SHADES OF MURDER

  The door was opened by a maid in a starched cap with streamers and an apron so pristine and crisp it might've been made out of icing sugar.

  'Yes?' she asked pertly. A single glance at them had told her these were not gentlemen callers. Her expression suggested they should have gone round the back, to the tradesman's entrance.

  Wood, aware that Patterson looked embarrassed beside him, said loudly, 'Inspector Wood from Bamford Police Station, come to see your master. He's here, I take it?'

  The maid revised her attitude. For one thing, she was eaten up with curiosity now she knew the identity of the caller. 'He's here, sirs, but he's out at the stables. I believe his horse is lame. He's waiting for the veterinary surgeon.'

  'Well, while he's waiting he can talk to us,' said Wood. 'Go and fetch him, there's a good girl.'

  She tossed her streamered cap. 'Very well. Would you like to come in and wait?'

  They stepped over the threshold, Patterson looking about him for a mat on which to wipe his boots. Seeing only an expensive Turkey carpet, his visible unhappiness increased.

  'I'll take your hats, sirs,' said the maid.

  She received their bowlers as if they'd been contagious, set them on a hall table, and showed them into a small sitting room. Wood suspected there was a larger, plusher drawing room somewhere, but they weren't deemed worthy of it.

  Patterson was by now so overwhelmed he'd broken out in a sweat.

  Wood asked unkindly, 'Got your notebook, Sergeant? Then get ready to write it all down. And try to get the spelling right this time.'

  They waited eight minutes by the ormolu clock on the mantelshelf before Oakley appeared. He threw open the door and marched in, his manner aggressive, and stared at them. He was dressed to ride out, in breeches and topboots, but was in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat above that. He must have taken off his jacket when examining the horse. Wood was interested that Oakley had left the stables so quickly on hearing who was in his back parlour, he'd omitted to put it on again first.

  T can guess why you're here,' Oakley said pugnaciously. 'It's as a result of the slanderous gossip put about by that woman Button.'

  He was a good-looking fellow, thought Wood. Dark curly hair and a luxuriant moustache of the kind Wood had once tried to grow but

  ANN GRANGER

  abandoned in the face of his daughter's mirth. Oakley's complexion was at present flushed. He was well-built, muscular thighs stretching the material of the breeches, and tall. Oh, yes. The ladies would like Mr Oakley.

  'Perhaps you wouldn't mind if I asked a few questions, sir?' he said mildly.

  'Of course I damn well mind! But I suppose we'd better get it over with. Sit down, man. And you,' he added to Patterson, 'going to write down what I say, are you?'

  'Yes, sir,' gasped poor Patterson. 'If it's all right.'

  Wood glared at him.

  Oakley didn't bother to reply. He threw himself into a nearby chair and said, 'Go on, then. Fire away. I've nothing to hide.'

  'Perhaps we could begin with the day your wife died?' Wood put a hand to his mouth and cleared his throat. 'A painful subject and I'm sorry I have to bring it up.'

  'Are you?' Oakley gave a short laugh. 'You could have fooled me. What about it? And she died during the night, after eleven.'

  'Yes, sir. I realise that, sir. But I was referring to the afternoon. I believe you rode into Bamford and visited the pharmacy of Mr Baxter.'

  'So? All this was gone into at the inquest following my wife's death. She was in great pain from a drawn tooth. Dr Perkins had prescribed laudanum as a remedy and he testified to that at the inquest. I fetched it from Baxter's pharmacy.'

  Patterson was scribbling industriously and breathing heavily through his mouth at the same time as he always did when concentrating.

  'Were you and your wife on good terms, sir?'

  Wood saw the glitter in the man's eyes. 'That's a damn impudent question. As it happens, yes, we were on excellent terms, thank you.' Oakley paused, then shrugged. 'We had some little differences from time to time as married couples do, but they were trivial in nature.' He fixed Wood with a sudden direct stare. T had no reason to wish my wife dead. Apart from anyt
hing else, we had - have - a young son. Would I seek to deprive my son of his mother?'

  Wood didn't answer this. Instead he asked in his inoffensive voice, 'Your wife was a wealthy woman, as I understand it.'

  "She had some fortune, yes.'

  Wood pursed his mouth. 'As I heard it, she had considerable fortune. sir. Quite a bit of income deriving from interests in manufacturing

  SHADES OF MURDER

  companies, factories of one kind and another, some up North, woollen trade. Also, I believe, a London company - London Chemicals, I believe it's called.'

  Oakley said sarcastically, 'Don't play the fool, Inspector. You know perfectly well what the place is called. You've been there - they told me. You were asking questions about my last visit there.'

  'Which took place a month before your wife died,' Wood said. 'You administered your wife's business affairs.' It wasn't really a question, but Oakley answered it, even so.

  'Of course I did. My wife was a married lady with a household to supervise. You don't expect her to have run round factory floors asking questions about profit and loss? Besides, when we married she was only eighteen. For your information, I visited all the enterprises in which she had a financial interest on a regular basis. If no one keeps an eye on things, that's where problems start.'

  Too true, thought Wood, and I've got my eye on you. Aloud he said, 'You're well-known in gambling circles, Mr Oakley.'

  'I don't know who told you that.' Oakley paused as if he expected to be told who. When Wood remained silent, he added, 'So?'

  'You have debts?'

  There was a silence. Oakley said evenly, 'You are an impertinent fellow. However, I suppose you're doing your job. I have, Inspector, such debts as a gentleman normally has. I am scrupulous in settling them. You may ask around. Anyone will confirm that.' He leaned forward so suddenly that Patterson jumped and nearly dropped his pencil. T know what you're suggesting and I can tell you, I take a damn poor view of it. I've never misused my wife's money in any way.' He sat back again and added more calmly, 'Nor can you prove that I did.'

  No, I can't, thought Wood and felt a brief apprehension. The Home Office hadn't wanted this case reopened. Without Oakley's father-in-law's friends in high places, it wouldn't have been.

  Seeking surer ground, Wood went on, 'If we could return to your visit to the London Chemicals factory. You're quite right, I've been there. They make all kinds of products. I was impressed. Domestic, horticultural, agricultural. . . Rat poisons, too.'

  Oakley said drily, 'They're much in demand.'

  'Most of them arsenic-based,' Wood went on in a conversational tone. 'I've always bought the arsenic direct myself from Baxter's, signed the Poisons Book, and put the stuff down. Not that we've got rats in the house these days. Get the occasional mouse. I find a trap

  ANN GRANGER

  set with a bit of cheese works well for them."

  Oakley looked as if he*d like to kick Wood down the front steps. His hands, resting on the caned oak arm of his chair, twitched. Perhaps if d been a good idea to bring Patterson, after all. Oakley would think twice before tackling the sergeant's burly frame.

  'Are you aware, sir. that during the process which produces the arsenic in commercial form, a highly toxic vapour is also produced?*

  "So I believe. I am not a chemist.' Oakley was keeping a tight rein on his emotions, but his voice crackled with tension.

  "But you must have seen the process at work? During your visits to the factor)'?' Wood raised his eyebrows.

  "Possibly. I can't recall a precise occasion."

  'You'll know. then, that this vapour has a strong smell, very like garlic. Not a flavouring I'm fond of.' added Wood. Tm not one for foreign food."

  Oakley said in a dry voice. 'You're not suggesting that on my visits to the factor}- I was exposed to this toxic vapour? I have no idea what it smells like. Or I didn't until you told me.'

  'Really 0 ' asked Wood. 'To return to the night of your wife's death. Could you run through the sequence of events for me?"

  T can't think why you should need me to. All this came out at the original inquest. Well, let's see." Oakley frowned and steepled his fingers. T took the laudanum and a water jug to my wife's room. I offered to mix a dose but she indicated she would do it herself. A lamp was left burning by her bedside to give her light. I bade her goodnight. I dined alone downstairs. I smoked a cigar in the library and read the newspapers. Then I went up to bed myself/

  Wood asked curiously. 'Did you look in on Mrs Oakley, to see how she did?'

  Very quietly. Oakley said. 'No. Do you think I don't regret it? I presumed she'd be sleeping. I didn't wish to disturb her. I didn't have any idea anything was wrong until Button awoke me. some time between eleven-fifteen and midnight. Don't ask me to be more precise since I wasn't interested in looking at clocks at the time. Button was in a very distressed state and told me there'd been a dreadful accident. I ran to my wife's room at once. I found that she'd fallen while attempting to get out of bed and her nightgown had caught alight. She had suffered severe bums. I sent the groom at once for the doctor but he was unable to help her. She was dead by the time he got here.'

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  In the following silence, the ormolu clock ticked softly. Patterson rustled the pages of his notebook.

  Oakley said very slowly and clearly, 'I believe the tragedy occurred because my wife was drugged with laudanum and not able to control her movements. That was also the opinion of Dr Perkins and of the coroner. Those who have spread malicious rumours suggesting otherwise have much to answer for.'

  Wood replied, just as evenly, 'The housekeeper, Mrs Button, behaved with great courage and initiative on that night. She smothered the flames with a coverlet from the bed. Yet you dismissed her from your employ only two weeks later'

  'Yes.' Oakley's voice was cold. When he saw that Wood meant to wait for an explanation, he went on reluctantly, 'It upset me to see her about the place. It - reminded me. I felt I couldn't bear to have her continue under this roof. I gave her an excellent reference and a month's wages. She has repaid me with vile lies.'

  Oakley got to his feet. 'Now I'd be obliged if you'd leave my house. I'm expecting the veterinary at any moment. I don't intend to answer another one of your tomfool questions.'

  There was nothing more to be gained here today. Wood and Patterson left, the Sergeant clearly only too pleased to be out of the house.

  As they walked back down the drive they heard a child's laughter. A little boy, perhaps four years old, ran out from a small shrubbery towards them. Seeing strangers, he stopped.

  'Master Edward, just you come back here!'

  A girl burst out of the shrubbery. Her uniform proclaimed her a nursemaid. She was remarkably pretty, her cheeks flushed rosy red, lips parted to reveal perfect teeth. She stopped short, just as the child had done, on seeing Wood and Patterson, but like her charge, showed more curiosity than alarm. Despite this, Wood was sure she had no trouble identifying what business the gentlemen were on. He noted wrily that it didn't ruffle her composure beyond a momentary blink of her bright eyes. He thought to himself that here was a pert little madam and no two ways about it!

  'Good afternoon, gentlemen,' she said, favouring them with a pleasant smile. She walked to the child and picked him up. 'Excuse me, won't you? It's time for his tea.'

  She bore the boy away towards the house. Slipped the net before he could ask her a single question, Wood felt a mixture of annoyance and admiration.

  ANN GRANGER

  Patterson, who'd straightened up when bathed in that smile, now relaxed again and looked a trifle wistful.

  'Daisy Joss,' murmured Wood.

  'What, that nice little girl?' asked a shocked Patterson.

  'Yes, that nice little girl!" snapped Wood. 'It might've been a bit more clever of Mr William Oakley to have dismissed herV

  SHADES OF MURDER

  They stood singly and in small groups, polystyrene cups of hot drinks in their
hands, their eyes fixed on the departures board. At this time of the evening the trains filled quickly and if you didn't want to stand up for half your journey, then the moment the platform number flickered up there on the screen, you were off like a greyhound from the traps.

  What makes you pick out just one man in the crowd in those circumstances? Meredith never knew what made her do it. He was standing quite close, only a few feet away. Although his back was towards her, she guessed he was young. In build he was compact and muscular. He wore jeans and a tight grey T-shirt marked with darker patches of sweat at the armpits. A large rucksack lay at his feet, an airline's luggage receipt attached to it. She noticed that he kept his face turned up towards the departures board, as if he was not just unsure of the platform number, but uncertain about the very existence of the train. How far had he travelled, she wondered. Was this his outward or inward journey? As if aware of her scrutiny, as we can be when someone is staring at us, the man glanced back and she felt his gaze scan her before she could look quickly away and pretend to be concentrating on something else. She had the impression of features which were unusual but attractive, extraordinary large dark eyes and a small mouth with curving lips. She was filled with a sense of unease which she put down to guilt at being caught spying.

  Then the platform number had flashed up on the screen and the crowd moved like a herd of spooked cattle, stampeding for the gates. Meredith ran with the rest, clearing the way with a well-wielded briefcase and finally collapsing panting and triumphant into a window seat. The other passengers shoved and squeezed until all seats were taken and the losers stood resentfully at the end of the carriage, waiting for the first people to reach their destinations to vacate their places. It was only then that she realised that the young man was seated opposite her.