A Dangerous Deceit (21 page)

Frith saw fit to add, curtly, ‘They are here about the body found under the snow, Sir Julian. It seems they now know who he was.'

Reardon opened his mouth to say this wasn't at all certain, but was prevented when the young woman gave a little gasp and exclaimed dramatically, ‘Oh not that frightful business again! Binkie, darling, I feel – I think I may be going to faint.' She leaned on his arm. ‘If I could just sit down …'

Drooping decoratively, enveloping Reardon in a wave of expensive scent as they passed him, she was led to a seat by a seemingly unconcerned Binkie.

‘Here, Opal, drink this.' Lady Maude, equally unsympathetic, handed her the cup of tea she had just poured. To Reardon, she said, waving a hand, ‘My son, Sir Julian, and his wife.'

The young Lady Scroope was quite exquisite, in a china doll, porcelain skin, peaches-and-cream sort of way, notwithstanding the plucked eyebrows, sharply shingled golden hair, and a petulant mouth. Despite the faintness, her cheeks remained pink and her slim, delicate hands took the china cup and held it quite steady.

‘My wife,' said Sir Julian, ‘hasn't been well.'

‘So silly. I sprained my ankle,' explained Opal in tragic tones.

She was making a meal of it, Reardon thought, especially since the ankle in question was unbandaged and she was wearing a pair of fancy shoes with three-inch heels. Had she been genuinely shocked by the announcement, was it a diversionary tactic, or simply attention seeking? The latter, probably. She had every appearance of one of those spoilt women who thrived on being the centre of whatever was going on.

As for Sir Julian himself, this fellow with his butter-coloured hair and languid appearance, there was no resemblance whatsoever to his brother, the Reverend Symon Scroope, Margaret Rees-Talbot's fiancé, who had been with her yesterday when Reardon had picked up her father's manuscript. For that matter there was no resemblance to their mother by either of them. He settled down next to his wife as she sipped her tea, with every intention of staying, despite his mother's displeased stare. Cracks beneath the surface, in more ways than one.

Reardon would have preferred to have dealt with Lady Maude and her agent alone. He was as annoyed as Lady Maude by the untimely entrance of the pair and their refusal to take the hint and leave. There was, however, nothing he could do about it but follow her example. She seemed at last to have succumbed to the inevitable. Short of directly dismissing her son, he supposed she could do no other.

She turned to Reardon with a polite smile. ‘You must excuse me if I ask that this little talk should be short. We are expecting people in to look at the roof.'

That explained the tea, and who it had been meant for. The arrival of himself and Gilmour had been mistaken by some servant for an expected couple of architects, surveyors, or whoever would be doing the inspecting. ‘Not a serious matter, I hope?'

‘Serious enough,' she answered with a quickly suppressed sigh and a swift look towards her son, in which he caught a glimpse of a worried woman behind the controlled exterior, and sensed the weight of her anxiety. Nevertheless, he wasn't here to sympathize.

‘We won't keep you any longer than necessary.'

‘Very well, then … although there's nothing more Colonel Frith or I can tell you about that poor man than we could originally.'

‘Perhaps not, but new evidence has turned up. We now believe it's almost certain the murdered man was from South Africa. Does that ring any bells? Have you, or anyone you know, ever had any connections with South Africa? You, Colonel Frith, perhaps?' Presumably, because of the South African coin in the dead man's pocket, they had been asked this before by Micklejohn or one of his team, but he saw no harm in repeating it.

‘I served there for two years,' Frith said stiffly, ‘during the war with the Boers. But I left with my regiment shortly after it was all over, jolly glad to do so, and I have never had any “connections”, as you put it, with anyone there either then or since.'

Reardon thought about that manuscript of Osbert Rees-Talbot's he had been reading last night. The majority of British officers who had fought in that war had not directly been part of any decision made by the upper echelons of the army and those retributive actions Rees-Talbot had deplored, except that they had obeyed orders and kept their mouths shut. This was such a man, he thought, meeting the boiled gooseberry eyes, his choleric glance, this soldier with a stiff upper lip. Just obeying orders.

‘And you or your family, Lady Maude?'

‘As a matter of fact, I did spend some time in South Africa myself, at the time Colonel Frith is referring to, though it was only for a very short while. I sailed out with Lady Randolph Churchill on her hospital ship. Unfortunately, I was taken ill and didn't stay there long.'

‘Did you by any chance make friends there, that you might still correspond with?'

‘No one special. I came home soon after I recovered, and I married very shortly after that. South Africa was no longer a part of my life.'

‘Quite.' Changing tactics, he said suddenly, ‘I believe you are acquainted with the Rees-Talbot family, who live in Folbury.'

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Certainly. My younger son is engaged to be married to Margaret Rees-Talbot.'

‘So I understand. Her father served in the same war. Did either of you know him in South Africa?'

‘Rees-Talbot was not in my regiment,' Frith said. ‘We never met there, and he died before I could meet him here.'

Reardon asked the same question of Lady Maude. ‘Oh, only briefly,' she answered vaguely. ‘One met so many people … soldiers came and went.'

‘In any case,' put in Sir Julian, coming to life, ‘what has Margaret's father to do with that man found near the covert?'

Reardon didn't answer him directly. ‘He may have been living in the Folbury area for some time before he was killed. His name may have been Wim, or perhaps Willem Mauritz. Does that mean anything to any of you?'

The dowager shook her head.

‘And you, Colonel Frith?'

‘Never heard of the feller.'

Reardon turned to Sir Julian. ‘What about you, sir?'

‘Any reason why I should?'

His wife gave a tinkling laugh. ‘Goodness, he doesn't sound like the sort of person we would know, does he darling?'

‘I should say not,' agreed Binkie. ‘In any case, we actually live in London, don't you see, only visiting.'

Which didn't answer the question, but Reardon didn't press it further. Yet despite Julian's smooth, polished appearance, the suit with the fashionably wide lapels, the tie Reardon suspected might be an old school one, the deadpan countenance and the cool manner, he had nicotine stains on his fingers, his nails were bitten to the quick, and he was not a man one instinctively trusted.

There was something here, something going on between some, or even all of them, he was sure, but he didn't think he was going to get much further at the moment. Lady Maude kept her beady stare fixed on him, without blinking, her mind possibly on the coming meeting with her architect. Her son avoided looking at anyone. Giles Frith shrugged and spread his hands. In the silence that followed Lady Maude stood and smoothed down her skirts. ‘And now, if you'll forgive me, I must ask you to leave.'

When she was alone once more, the police gone and that disagreeable business with the architect and his assistant about replacing the lead flashings on the roof concluded, Lady Maude forced herself to face the unsettling implications of what had transpired during the police visit. Sitting rigidly upright, her hands folded tightly on her lap, she deliberately took her mind back to the last time she had seen Osbert Rees-Talbot.

It had been a meeting of future in-laws, designed to introduce Osbert to the Scroope family and to show him the ancestral home, though Julian and his wife had pleaded another engagement and Osbert himself had shown little interest. He had sat tight as a drum, creating a distinct feeling of things present but not being said, and making everyone uncomfortable. This was not the young officer Maude had known in Cape Town, spruce in a smart uniform, invested with glamour, sociable – though even then with something reticent about him, it had to be admitted. That day here at Maxstead, Osbert had been so obviously ill-at-ease that she had at last taken pity on him.

‘Margaret would like to see the garden, Symon. Show her the new topiary – and while you're there take a look at the goldfish pond if you will and break the ice if it's frozen over. It's cold enough, I'm sure.'

Winter had come early, the afternoon was cold as charity, and the bare November gardens were hardly at their best, the wind-whipped paths devoid of any shelter, but though Symon had met her commands with a speculative glance, he had taken Margaret out without comment.

The door had scarcely closed behind them before Osbert asked, leaning forward, ‘There is something I have to know, Maude, that you must tell me. I think you know what it is.'

She had guessed it was the presence of the others which had been inhibiting him, but she had not expected such directness, even though they were now alone. Giving herself time, she stared through the window across the garden. She watched the two young people walking together arm-in-arm, taking one of the ruler-straight paths that radiated from the winter-bare flower beds by the house towards the bank of elms, where crows sat huddled and shivering in the leafless branches. They paused for a moment, standing close together as Symon adjusted the small fur around Margaret's neck, and then suddenly she had begun to run, taking his hand and pulling him until his strides caught up and they were laughing together like children. Maude nodded approval. Symon had always been too much inclined to seriousness.

She continued to gaze across the smooth expanse of lawn, punctuated by specimen trees planted by some Victorian Scroope: a giant hundred-and-fifty-foot sequoia with dipping branches; a cedar, misshapen now after being struck three times by lightning; and a graceful, weeping ash. Beyond, the ground rose to the dense forest.

In the lush, tropical garden of the house where Maude had stayed in Cape Town the trees were tall palms whose branches waved in the hot southern breeze, casting black shadows across the blinding white paths. The grass was scorched by the heat and a fountain tinkled into a marble basin. A white-painted seat; a blaze of proteas and bird-of-paradise flowers. Intense blue skies and Table Mountain in the background …

‘What happened, Maude?' Osbert repeated urgently. ‘Tell me what happened.'

She had turned from the window. ‘Isn't it a trifle late to be asking that?' she said severely, and then was shocked into gentler tones by the pain in his eyes. ‘Did Hamer not tell you?'

He said nothing.

‘Then you'd better prepare yourself for a shock.'

It was still early, and there were not too many customers as yet in the Punch Bowl. Joe ordered his half-pint and looked around, and as he had hoped he might, saw Eileen Gerrity was there, the only woman in the place, sharing a table with a dark, stocky man with the physique of a heavyweight boxer. Neither of them looked pleased to see him when he crossed over to their table.

‘Not your usual stamping ground, this, Sergeant, is it?' Eileen greeted him.

‘Actually, I don't live far away. Felt like a drink on the way home. But I've been intending to see you, to have another chat about your employer. Do you mind if I join you for a minute or two?'

‘Ex-employer,' her companion said pugnaciously. ‘The bastard.' To Eileen, he said, ‘Who's this?'

‘Ron,' Eileen replied warningly. She touched his sleeve. ‘He's OK, he's from the police – but do you mind? Just for a minute or two?'

‘What?' Ron stared, and looked as though he might be going to refuse to move, but after a moment scraped his chair back ‘All right, but don't you go upsetting her, Ginge.'

‘What can I get you both?'

‘Mine's half a bitter, ta, and she'll have a port-and-lemon.' Ron drained his own glass.

‘Don't mind him,' Eileen said, after Joe had brought the drinks from the bar and the charmless Ron, looking bigger than ever, had taken his half to a table where he could keep an eye on them, still glowering. ‘He's my brother-in-law. My sister died about a year ago and he's lonely. We keep each other company. I know what he looks like but he wouldn't hurt a fly.'

‘It's not the flies I'm worried about.'

‘You look big enough to take care of yourself.' She frowned. ‘I haven't thought of anyone else who had it in for Arthur, if that's what you're after. Still thinking it might be Frank Greenwood?'

‘No, they're both off the hook, him and his partner.'

Not naturally aggressive, Frank Greenwood, as Eileen Gerrity had said, though nervously plucking at his tie, sweating at the thought of being involved with the police. But he and his more belligerent partner, Charlie Bell, had unshakeable alibis. Both had been attending a nine o'clock meeting in the Town Hall to put in their application to have their rates reduced because of the proposed erection of a new bus station, which would hinder the parking of their vans and lorries.

‘It's not them I want to talk about, it's Aston.'

‘What do you want to know that I haven't already told you?'

‘I want to know what sort of a man he was, really. And you knew him as well as anybody.'

She gazed down into the depths of her port-and-lemon as she swirled it around in the glass, saying nothing. After a moment she looked up and said, ‘Well, Ron's right in a way, he could be a … No, I'm too ladylike, but he wasn't always, and anyway, he was very good to me.'

‘But not to his wife.'

She gave him a look. ‘You get what you deserve, sometimes.'

‘I hear he treated her as a skivvy, didn't speak to her much, kept her short … Did she deserve that?'