Off the Record (27 page)

‘Yes, at half past ten that morning. You didn’t see the report in the newspapers?’ Jack shook his head. ‘It’s no great wonder. The papers have been so full of Gerard Carrington that the fact an unknown woman was knocked down and killed hardly scraped in. Compared to Carrington, I don’t suppose it’s very important,’ he said bitterly. ‘The conductor and the driver, both of whom were very shaken, said there was absolutely no chance of avoiding her. She staggered into the road and sprawled in front of the bus.’ He took a long drink. ‘Exactly, they say, as if she’d been pushed.’

Jack let his breath out in a sigh. ‘Did they see anyone with her?’

‘There was a crowd round the station entrance, but they didn’t see anyone in particular. We’ve asked for the public’s help, but so far, no one’s come forward. We might have more luck now we’ve got a definite person rather than an unidentified victim, but I doubt it.’

‘Didn’t she have any identification on her?’

‘Not a thing. I imagine she had a bag of some sort but my guess is that whoever pushed her – and I’m going to take it she w
as
pushed until it’s proved otherwise – took her bag and scarpered. But what’s getting to me is why would anyone want to kill her? By anyone, I mean Gerard Carrington, of course. It seems so pointless.’

Jack ran his finger round the top of his pint glass. ‘It could be security. You know I said Colonel Willoughby half-recognized him? Carrington explained that at the time by saying he took after his mother. The Colonel agreed that must be it. But what if Carrington, thinking it over, sees there’s a danger? What if, prompted by his visit, the Colonel realized that Carrington was the burglar? Who would he talk to?’

‘Mrs Tierney,’ said Rackham slowly. ‘Damn it, Jack, that makes sense. But look, if Colonel Willoughby knew, or thought he knew, that Carrington had attacked him, why didn’t he tell the police?’

‘Family loyalty?’ suggested Jack. ‘He was very ill, too, and might not have been strong enough to talk to the local police. We don’t know the Colonel
did
rumble him. That doesn’t matter. All it needs is for Carrington to work out Mrs Tierney is potentially dangerous to him.’

‘Dangerous,’ repeated Bill. ‘Carrington’s dangerous. Dangerous and clever. According to a Mrs Martha Giles, who’s a cook in one of the neighbouring houses and friendly with Mrs Tierney, Mrs Tierney was deeply moved when she received a letter, apparently from the Colonel’s solicitors. The letter said the Colonel had left her a substantial legacy. Mrs Giles saw the letter but can’t remember the name of the solicitors. The address, she thinks, was somewhere in Holborn.’

‘That’s a fat lot of good,’ put in Jack. ‘There’s hardly anything but solicitors in Holborn.’

‘Exactly. The letter said she would be met by a representative of the firm in the tearoom at Paddington Station. I think he met her, all right.

‘Who are the Colonel’s solicitors, as a matter of interest?’

‘I don’t know, but I’ll find out. The chances of this letter having come from them are non-existent, I’d say, but I’ll ask Stephen Lewis.’

‘When’s his uncle’s funeral?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘I hope he’s safe,’ said Jack, suddenly worried. ‘He was downright rattled the other day.’

‘I don’t blame him. It’s his own fault, though. He should have insisted Ragnall told us what he’d seen at the time, rather than covering it up. However, I think I might arrange for one of my men to be present at the funeral. Didn’t you tell me that Carrington had a hankering after Lewis’s wife?’

‘I thought so, certainly.’

‘That’s another motive,’ said Rackham heavily. ‘Yes, I’ll definitely make sure an officer’s there.’

Predictably enough, Colonel Willoughby’s solicitors, Grant, Thornton and Grant of Lincoln’s Inn, knew nothing of any letter sent to Mrs Tierney and she certainly didn’t have a large legacy; the Colonel had left her fifty pounds and four pieces of Benares brass. Stephen Lewis, too, did not profit to any large extent from his uncle’s death as most of the Colonel’s income was from a pension which had died with him. Less predictably, there was no incident of any sort at the funeral, a state of affairs about which Rackham had mixed feelings. It wasn’t that he wanted any harm to come to Stephen Lewis, but he had hoped that the funeral might draw Carrington out into the open. Lewis, visibly shaken by both Hugo Ragnall’s and Mrs Tierney’s deaths, moved back to Stoke Horam.

It was, said Rackham, incredible how completely Gerard Carrington had disappeared. They were able to find out something of what he’d had done after he’d escaped after Ragnall’s murder. Carrington gone back to his own rooms in Tavistock Square, changed his clothes, packed a small suitcase and vanished into thin air. And that, despite Carrington’s face staring out of every newspaper, was that.

It was Wednesday, two days after the funeral, that an entry in the agony column of
The Daily Messenger
caught Jack’s attention.
Gerry. S.H. on Thursday. Evening. Half nine, summer house. Danger. M.

‘I’ve seen it,’ said Bill Rackham when Jack appeared in his office with the newspaper. ‘I telephoned Mrs Lewis and spoke to her as soon as I saw it.’

‘And?’

‘And she knows nothing about it.’ Bill picked up a pencil from the desk and twirled it thoughtfully between his fingers. ‘Or so she says. I’ve been on to the newspaper office. They haven’t got a note of who handed in the entry, which is what I expected. People who correspond through the agony column as often as not don’t want any record kept.’ He raised his eyebrows at his friend. ‘You reckoned Gerard Carrington was stuck on Mrs Lewis. What’s the chances of his feelings being reciprocated?’

Jack pulled out a chair and sat down heavily. ‘I don’t know,’ he said after a few moments’ thought. ‘You might be right. She liked him, that was obvious, but everyone seemed to like him. I liked him, for Pete’s sake.’

Rackham nodded. ‘Yes, but it’s her feelings I need to know about.’ He tapped the paper. ‘If this comes from Mrs Lewis, that means she’s in league with Carrington. That opens up a whole range of possibilities.’

‘Yes . . . Could Stephen Lewis have placed it? He was frightened, Bill. He might be trying to winkle Carrington out of hiding.’

‘Then I wish he’d tell us!’ Rackham stood up and stretched his shoulders. ‘How much does it take to convince someone that a murderer is a dangerous man? Surely Lewis has learned his lesson by now?’ He braced his arms on the desk. ‘Tell me I’m right. That entry has to have been placed by either Molly Lewis, or Stephen Lewis using his wife’s name. It can’t be some plan of Carrington’s can it?’

‘I doubt it. If Carrington did want to silence Lewis, he’d hardly warn him beforehand. Even if it’s an attempt to misdirect him, to lull him into a false sense of security, Carrington would be far better off saying nothing at all.’

‘That’s what I thought. Well, I don’t know who’s playing games but there’s one thing for sure. I’m going down to Stoke Horam tomorrow and if Gerard Carrington comes to call, I’ll be waiting. D’you fancy coming along?’

‘Why not? I don’t like that entry in the agony column, Bill. I don’t like the way things are shaping up at all.’

‘There’s not much to like, is there?’ He looked at the clock. ‘I’ve got a meeting in couple of minutes. It’s a conference on the case, as a matter of fact. Why don’t you come round for a nightcap this evening? I can bring you up to date and we can plan out exactly what we’re going to do tomorrow.’

But the plans which Rackham made, had, he said in disgust later that evening, gone up in smoke. ‘Stephen Lewis is an idiot,’ he said, topping up Jack’s glass. ‘We – that’s the Chief and I – took it for granted that he’d welcome police protection. I telephoned him to say as much and he hummed and hawed and eventually refused. Apparently he’s convinced we’ll be spotted and it’ll put Carrington off.’

‘Doesn’t he want to put Carrington off ?’ asked Jack, taking one of Rackham’s excellent Turkish cigarettes from the box on the table.

‘No, he wants to bring things to a head. He’s scared, I think, but going it alone is stupid in these circumstances and I told him as much. Anyway, whether he likes it or not, I’m damn well going down to Stoke Horam tomorrow and I’m taking some officers with me. If we have to stay outside the grounds, fair enough. It’s Lewis’s house and we have to do what he says, but my hope is we’ll nab Carrington on the way in.’

‘Do you think he’ll show up?’

‘There’s a chance,’ said Rackham with a shrug. ‘After all . . .’ He broke off as the telephone on the sideboard rung. ‘Excuse me,’ he said briefly, picking up the earpiece. ‘It’s the Yard,’ he mouthed across the room, then Jack saw his face change. ‘He’s done
what?
Right, I see. I think I’d better get down there right away. The local men are there, you say? Good. No, with any luck I’ll be able to come by car.’ He clamped his hand over the phone. ‘Jack, can you drive me down to Stoke Horam? Now?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Jack, standing up.

‘Thanks.’ Rackham turned back to the telephone. ‘I’ll be there as soon as possible and I’ll be in touch as soon as I know anything definite. Tomorrow at the latest.’ He hung up the phone and turned to Jack. ‘That entry in the agony column could have been a blind after all. Gerard Carrington’s just tried to murder Stephen Lewis.’

It took them over two hours to get to Stoke Horam, the pace through the maze of the dark Hertfordshire country lanes frustratingly slow. The facts, as Rackham knew them, were simple. At ten o’clock, or as close to it as made no difference, Gerard Carrington had shot at Stephen Lewis in the garden of Stoke Horam house. Molly Lewis, who had telephoned Scotland Yard immediately afterwards, had actually seen Carrington. It was only a fleeting glimpse, but she was certain it was him. Although unharmed, both Stephen Lewis and his wife were badly shaken and the Hertfordshire police had been called in.

‘I doubt we’ll be able to do anything tonight, Jack,’ said Rackham, ‘but at least we’re on the spot to start a search tomorrow. The local men couldn’t find any sign of Carrington, but that’s only to be expected at this time of night. I only hope they haven’t destroyed all the evidence by blundering round the garden. Lewis is safe enough for the time being, as long as he stays indoors.’

A constable was on duty at the gates of Horam House. Jack stopped the car and Rackham beckoned the man over. ‘I’m Inspector Rackham of Scotland Yard. Have there been any further developments?’

‘No, sir, it’s all been quiet. Superintendent Clough’s here, with four of us men. There are servants in the house, too. I can’t see him coming back tonight.’

‘No, neither can I.’

The policeman saluted and they drove on.

‘I’m not sure about having the place so visibly guarded,’ said Rackham thoughtfully. ‘Tonight, yes, that makes sense, but we can’t keep the house in a state of siege. If we can’t lay hold of Carrington tomorrow, I think I’ll ask the Superintendent to draw his men off. I want them around, but I don’t want them to be seen. I’d like to have Carrington try his luck again.’

‘Will Lewis go for that?’ asked Jack as he braked the Spyker on the gravel in front of the house. ‘After all, you’re more or less asking him to act as the tethered kid to Carrington’s tiger.’

‘It’s not up to him to decide how I arrange the policing,’ said Rackham. ‘After all, he’s safe enough in the house and the object of the exercise is to put Carrington out of circulation, not scare him off to try another day. Hello, here’s Mrs Lewis.’

The door of the house cautiously opened and Molly Lewis beckoned them in. ‘I’ve been watching out for you.’ There was honest relief in her welcome. ‘I’m really glad you’re here. Steve was so horribly twitchy after it happened that I gave him a sleeping-draught and packed him off to bed.’

‘It’s probably the best place for him,’ said Rackham. ‘You actually saw Carrington?’

‘Oh yes.’ She took a little anxious breath. ‘I saw him quite clearly. I couldn’t be mistaken. I wanted a walk in the rose garden, as it was such a lovely evening, and Steve was having a cigar on the terrace. Then I thought I heard what must be a badger or a fox or something moving in the rhododendrons. I’d just decided that it really must be a fox, when the bushes parted and Gerry looked out with a gun in his hand. I saw both him and the gun in the moonlight. I screamed and the gun went off. Steve dived for the ground – I thought he’d been hit – then Gerry ran off. I could hear him crashing through the bushes. I got to Steve as quickly as I could. Perhaps we should have tried to chase Gerry, but Steve was far too upset and I . . .’ She broke off.

‘Don’t worry, Mrs Lewis,’ said Rackham comfortingly. ‘Speaking for myself, I’m glad you didn’t decide to go after an armed man in the dark. You did exactly the right thing. Is Superintendent Clough around?’

‘Yes, he’s in the library,’ she said leading the way. ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ she repeated. ‘I feel much safer now you’re here.’

Superintendent Clough, a stocky man with a military moustache and an abrasive manner, couldn’t add much to what Molly Lewis had told them. He and his men had searched the garden thoroughly without result. He was dubious of the wisdom of apparently leaving the way free for Carrington tomorrow but, as the Chief Constable had instructed him to offer every assistance to the Yard, he didn’t have much choice but to agree. Nothing, however, could make him like it, and he couldn’t refrain from giving the much younger Rackham some lessons, as he phrased it, in practical policing. He intended to spend the next day combing the area for Carrington. That, in his opinion, was how the man would be caught, not lying back supine and waiting for him to strike again. Local knowledge, he said, emphasizing his remarks with a strike of his fist on the table, was the key. The implication, which Rackham could hardly miss, was that although Scotland Yard had failed to find Carrington, he would.

It was two o’clock before Jack went to bed that night. Even though he was tired, a niggle of worry drew him to the bedroom window. Something – he didn’t know what – wasn’t right. The moonlight, chopped into fragments by the trees, bathed the house in shifting, shadowy, silver spears. And somewhere in those shadows was Carrington. Brilliant, rumpled, likable Carrington with a temper that flared like magnesium fired by a Bunsen burner. He frowned at the darkened garden once more and yawned. Something wasn’t right.