Shades of Murder (5 page)

A group of young people had spilled out of a pub and were milling about on the pavement. Alan slowed the car as he passed them. An argument was in process between three youths, and others were being drawn to the scene as iron filings to a magnet. Fortunately, at that moment, a marked police car arrived on the scene and parked conveniently for the occupants to watch. Markby pressed his foot on the accelerator and moved on again.

Meredith heaved a sigh of relief and he glanced at her.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s the policeman in me. Can’t leave a possible trouble scene until I’m sure everything is under control.’

‘I was afraid,’ she said with same asperity, ‘you were proposing to deal with it yourself.’

‘If necessary. A police officer is obliged to do something if he sees an offence being committed, whether he’s on duty or not.’

‘So call up help. You don’t have to rush in like Superman and take them all on single-handed.’

He was silent and she knew her criticism had angered him. But she was entitled to a viewpoint and, for goodness sake, as she was with him there had been a likelihood she might have been drawn in too. The yobs could have set about the car.

All the same, after the silence threatened to become the obstinate kind which neither wanted to break, she took the step of saying, ‘I was scared, that’s all. I don’t want to squabble over it.’

She sensed that he relaxed. ‘I wouldn’t have let you come to any harm.’

How would you have protected me? she wanted to ask. Against a drunken mob? She didn’t ask. Instead she thought, I’m used to looking after myself, that’s the trouble. If I’d been alone, I’d have assessed the situation and avoided it. Put my foot down, if I’d been driving, and raced straight past. But I’m not alone these days, not since I moved in with Alan. I can’t get used to it. We’re starting to squabble. We didn’t do that before. We argued, yes, but we didn’t snipe at one another. And he didn’t talk about protecting me, for crying out loud! What am I – a half-wit?

As a lateral extension of this thought, she heard herself saying, ‘Geoff and his sister squabble – have you noticed? He’s in his forties, like you. She’s in her thirties, like me. Put them together and they seem to regress to a pair of four-year-olds.’

‘So what? It’s not serious,’ he said aggravatingly. ‘Laura is my sister and we wrangle.’

They had reached the house as he spoke and the car rolled to a halt.

‘Yes, you do.’ Meredith conceded the point unwillingly. ‘But you and Laura aren’t competitive like the Painter siblings. I would have thought they’d have outgrown it by now, that’s all.’ Lest this turn into another disagreement, she added crisply, ‘But then, I was an only child – what would I know?’

They had progressed into the house on this last statement. Alan threw the switch which lit up the entrance hall. Chucking his car keys on the telephone table, he asked, ‘You do still really want to go ahead with looking for a new house together?’

He had that look in his blue eyes which always made her feel she’d been put on the spot. She was annoyed by it because she wasn’t a suspect in a case. She didn’t have to come up with excuses and alibis. He wanted the truth but she couldn’t give it because she didn’t know it. Yet she felt she had to answer.

‘What makes you think I don’t?’ she prevaricated, setting down the box of papers with unnecessary care and moving past him into the kitchen.

‘I didn’t say I doubted you. I did wonder why you asked Juliet to find you a tenant and not a buyer for your place.’

So that was it. ‘Oh, I see!’ She turned from the sink. ‘Look, I’m practical, OK? This house of yours, it isn’t suitable and if we’re to live together, we need somewhere else.’

‘I know that. I never thought I’d ever be sharing this place with someone. It was only ever bought as a place to keep my stuff and sleep.’

‘But suppose things don’t work out, Alan? I don’t like burning my boats. It’s a sort of comfort to me, I suppose, to think I have got my own place – if I should ever need it again. If I can rent it out, that will cover my mortgage. I can always sell later when we’ve seen how things go.’ She turned her back to him and twisted the cold tap. Water splashed down into the kettle. ‘It doesn’t mean I don’t love you. It’s more a doubt I’ve got about myself. I’ve tried to explain that to you before.’

He came up behind her, put his arms round her waist and kissed the back of her neck. ‘I do understand. But it took me so long to lure you in here, I can’t really believe my good luck.’

‘Don’t count your chickens! You might yet live to rue the day I crossed your threshold.’

‘I won’t do that,’ he said. ‘I’ll never do that.’

She twisted her head to smile up at him. Peace had been made. He didn’t want to squabble any more than she did.

Yet, when he’d taken away his arm, he asked, ‘You’re not really going to wade through that box of Geoff’s research material?’

Something about his voice sounded censorious to her ear. She bridled.

‘Of course I am. I’m interested in local history.’ The kettle had boiled. ‘Tea or instant coffee?’ she asked. ‘I could, I suppose, make cocoa.’

‘Spare me the cocoa,’ he grumbled. ‘I’m saving that for my dotage. And local history, my foot! It’s ghoulish curiosity.’

‘It is not! Why do you object?’ That was a way of saying, ‘What business is it of yours?’ Surely they weren’t going to fall out over the history of the Oakley family? ‘I’m interested in it as a human situation,’ she said carefully. ‘This was a man accused of murdering his wife, a woman he must once have loved.’

‘Must he?’ Alan asked drily. ‘Cora Oakley was very wealthy. William had nothing but an estate encumbered with debt.’

‘Then she at least must have loved
him.’

Markby was watching her as she spoke, her flushed face, the way she avoided his gaze. Something was worrying her. Something to do with them. Please God, he found himself asking, not again. Not like it was
with Rachel. Rachel and I were happy when we first married. We were young, of course, and naive. We should have known we could never make a go of it. Rachel hated the police work. She never wanted to be a copper’s wife. She always treated my job as something like a mild illness that I’d get over, in time. Then I’d go and find myself a job she liked better. Something with lots of corporate entertainment and travel attached to it. Dinner parties and dressing up.

His failure to answer had attracted Meredith’s attention as his remarks hadn’t. She looked up and fixed her large hazel eyes on him. He noticed her mascara had smudged. The observation triggered an upsurge of emotion in him so strong it caused pain. This is love, he thought. It’s such a powerful thing, no wonder people are afraid of it. She’s afraid of it. Am I the proverbial fool who rushes in where angels fear to tread?

More harshly than he intended, he asked, ‘Does love solve everything? I’ve known men and women who’ve killed for love. It doesn’t have to be for greed or hate.’

She looked startled at the emotion in his voice. There was another awkward silence.

Markby hunched his shoulders. ‘It takes more than motive to convict a murderer, in any case. I’ve met men with motive a-plenty and opportunity, sometimes with a track record of violence. There’s been no doubt in my mind they were killers. They’ve known I’ve known it. But they’ve looked me in the eye and told me they didn’t do it, and I couldn’t prove they did – and they were right. I haven’t been able to prove it, just as no one back then could prove William Oakley murdered his wife. He
could have
done it, yes. But you have to show he
did do
it. Quite a different kettle of fish.’

His gaze became that of a man looking back into the past. ‘All police officers,’ he said, ‘hate cases like that. Some become obsessed with them. They worry away at them for years hoping some new bit of evidence will turn up, or Chummy will get over-confident and betray himself. Sometimes it happens and we get him in the end, although not, of course, if he’s already stood trial and been acquitted. Then he’s laughing at you. But I’ve known officers who’ve still gone on searching because they’ve wanted to know that they were right, even if the villain is beyond the law.’

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

‘No,’ he agreed. ‘I never give up.’

* * *

‘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. ‘I 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.’

‘I 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
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.

It wasn’t to be expected that William Oakley would welcome the reopening of enquiries into his wife’s death. Inspector Jonathan Wood, walking slowly up the drive towards Fourways House, reflected that he would no doubt like being questioned about it even less.

Beside Wood walked Sergeant Patterson, stout of build and red of face. Wood knew, even without looking at him, that Patterson was impressed by Fourways. Personally, Wood didn’t care for the fashion for Gothic which had dominated his lifetime. He preferred the old Palladian style of his grandparents’ day. It appealed to his sense of lightness, of balance. Look at this place, he thought in disgust. Those pointed windows might be all right in a church, but not in a private house. As for that turret thing up there – what had the architect been thinking of?

‘Rapunzel, Rapunzel,’ he said aloud unwisely, ‘let down your golden hair.’

‘I beg your pardon, Mr Wood?’ asked Sergeant Patterson cautiously.

‘Don’t you remember your
Grimm’s Fairytales
, Sergeant?’

‘No, sir, can’t say I do.’ Patterson’s brow creased in effort. ‘Hansel and Gretel,’ he said uncertainly.

Well, you couldn’t have everything. Wood took pity on him and explained about the turret.

‘Oh, that, sir,’ said Patterson. ‘Very fancy. The whole place is very fancy. Very nice indeed.’

Wood was suddenly irritated. ‘Nice or not, we’re not here to tug forelocks and bow and scrape, understand? Oakley might be a gentleman but he’s a wrong’un, just the same.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Patterson, still doubtful.

It might, thought Wood, have been better not to have brought him. Constable Bishop could’ve taken notes. Bishop was inclined to nicely-judged insubordination and unlikely to be impressed by a big house and the swell gent living in it.

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.