Take My Life (11 page)

‘Why?'

‘Well, I
had
been fond of her, and I did leave her. And the interval of years had rather glossed over her fault and made me feel a heel about it.'

There was silence. Time was nearly up.

Philippa said: ‘Do you think she went with other men?'

‘I wasnt the first. But she was not the sort who would go off with anybody for the sake of a good time. She would have married me if it had got that far.'

‘Did she never speak to you of her friends?'

‘I dont think so.'

‘Or her plans?'

‘I can't remember that, she did. Anyway, it's surely so long ago that it can hardly have any bearing.'

‘You can never be sure, Nick. Think. Try to think. Anything. Your life may depend on it.'

‘Don't you think I'd help you if I possibly could?'

‘Tomorrow I'm going to Holland to see her only living aunt. She may have visited her there since the liberation. While I'm away think hard of everything you did together, any names she may have mentioned, anything which could help me.'

‘I'd far rather think of the time I've spent with you.'

‘I've also been trying to get an air passage to America,' she said. ‘They say they're all booked, but perhaps I can get some sort of priority. It seems almost certain now that the clue lies in New York.'

The prison officer sitting at the end of their table gave a discreet cough. It was borne in upon Nick that because of her going to Holland he would not see her for two or three days. The shadow of this knowledge crossed his eyes. Her visit was the only thing in the day.

‘Dont worry,' he said. ‘I like the looks of Tyler: I'm sure it will be all right.'

‘Between us we'll make it sure,' she said, and turned to go.

Philippa thought of her promise several times during the Easter week-end she spent at The Hague. Tyler, like herself, would do his best; but she hoped his efforts would be surer than hers. In a little scrupulously tidy kitchen she saw the old aunt, while a cat rubbed against her legs and fitful sun lit up the patterns of the faded rugs.

Through an interpreter it was almost impossible to get at the surviving Miss Rusman. She was worse than deaf, being inattentive with the mental deafness of old age. Once her mind had been edged into the right groove it went clicking over into the well-worn ridges of opinion formed twenty years ago. Even Philippa, who knew no word of the language, could pick out the repetitions. Elizabeth had always been a wilful child; no care for her parents. No, she had not seen her for many years. She was not the sort of girl to come visiting her old relatives. No, she had no photograph, except one at the age of five with her father, which the police had taken. What? Oh, yes, the police had been. She was not surprised, for Elizabeth had always been a wilful child, no care for her parents. Other relatives? Yes, there was one; Peter Schuyleman, who lived at Utrecht. A cousin. Age? About the same age as Elizabeth, who had always been a wilful child …

On Sunday Philippa went to Utrecht and found that Peter Schuyleman had died during the occupation. On the Monday she returned to England and the following morning early she called again on Inspector Archer and told him she had decided to go to America – could he furnish her with the necessary addresses.

Archer looked at her with a certain degree of discomfort. He noted the signs of fatigue on the girl's face.

‘It's less than ten days to the trial, Mrs Talbot,' he said. ‘You could do nothing in the time. All this side has been covered, I assure you.'

‘It's better than – just sitting waiting. I might find out something. I'd rather go.'

He said: ‘You've been tiring yourself out enough, Mrs Talbot.'

‘Oh, it isn't what I've been doing,' she said, ‘so much as knowing that my husband's innocent – it's the knowing that you're making a terrible mistake and not being able to do anything to stop it.'

He had been watching her very closely. He was not a mean judge of character.

She said: ‘Can you give me permission to see the room where the murder took place? They wouldn't let me in.'

‘We can do that. But the room has been cleared up and everything taken out.'

‘And Elizabeth Rusman's belongings?'

‘Some of them are exhibits at the trial.'

‘But not all. Not everything she wore and …'

‘I can show you some of the things. Isn't it rather a forlorn hope?'

‘It's almost a last hope. But sometimes a woman notices things …'

He picked up a telephone and spoke into it. After a few minutes a constable brought in a suitcase and a violin case. He put them on a table, unlocked them and then withdrew. Slowly Philippa rose and went over to the table. She lifted the lid of the suitcase and stared down at the clothes within, some of them charred and almost ready to crumble. As she touched them there rose to her nostrils a faint feminine scent. It was the only remaining trace of the personality of their owner. Philippa shivered.

Archer had come to stand beside her. She forced herself to go on lifting them out.

‘Is there nothing in these things to give you any clue at all?' she asked.

‘The suit is from Paris Modes, who have shops all over the country. The shoes are from multiple shops. The nightdress is Celanese. The evening dress was bought in Bournemouth five years ago.'

‘They've all been bought in England, then?'

‘The handbag is American. Otherwise she must have restocked herself when she returned.'

She frowned, half sensing some illogicality here. ‘Had she no personal papers?'

‘Your – the murderer destroyed them.'

‘But he didn't destroy Nick's two letters.'

‘They were hidden in the lining of the violin case.'

Philippa turned and opened the case, lifted out the violin and stared at the torn lining. It was a good violin though rather small, a Grancino, and probably worth a couple of hundred pounds.

‘Did she have any money on her? Had she no banking account?'

‘None under her own name at any rate.'

Philippa put the violin back and turned over the pieces of music at the bottom of the suitcase. Two or three Mozart and Beethoven sonatas. A series of exercises and the Bach Chaconne. After a moment her fingers stopped and she slipped out a single sheet of manuscript music.

‘Was this in with the others?'

‘Yes.'

It was a simple tune, scored in ink on home-ruled paper. Either Elizabeth had copied it somewhere or she had experimented in composing for herself.

Philippa hummed the tune under her breath. She did not know it.

‘Could I have this?' she asked.

‘I'm afraid not until after the trial.'

She half put the sheet back, then changed her mind and jotted down the first bars on the back of an envelope. It might be worth trying some music shop.

She felt that Archer was getting impatient, and in fact she knew she had taken up enough of his time. The last thing she wanted to do was to become a nuisance to him so that he would avoid seeing her.

‘Thank you,' she said. ‘You've been very kind. You'll try to help me about a visit to New York?'

‘I'll let you know tomorrow,' he promised.

‘This Elena Rusman,' said the Assistant Commissioner, frowning. ‘You're quite sure she is not now the same person? That's been confirmed?'

‘Yes, sir,' said Archer, flipping through the papers he had brought. ‘Final word came just before I phoned you. Elena Rusman left this country in 1942 with the Dutch children of M. van Ruysdael. She stayed in New York with them until last year, when she left them and they lost trace of her. It all seemed to fit in perfectly. But she's now been definitely identified as married and living in Montana. A photograph is being radioed and we should get it tomorrow.'

‘It's most confoundly awkward there should have been this slip up,' said the Director of Public Prosecutions. ‘It may give the impression that we have been over-precipitate in bringing this man to trial. I dont like that. I shall be seriously inclined to recommend a postponement of the trial for three weeks.'

The Assistant Commissioner said: ‘In fact, of course, it doesn't affect the evidence against him in the slightest.'

‘Not in the slightest,' agreed the Director. ‘But what it might do in the minds of a jury is create a psychological state in which it would seem to them that the police had not been sufficiently thorough. If that occurred we could have all the evidence possible and still fail to send him down.'

The Assistant Commissioner rose and stood warming his hands at the fire. ‘I think that's rather taking the gloomy view. What does this discovery amount to? There are about three recent years of Elizabeth Rusman's life unaccounted for, and it is probable she now spent them in England. Well, there's still time before the trial if we dont postpone it. You should be able to do something, Archer. An intensive search will probably produce the necessary results. As I see it, the thing fits together much better now. Quite clearly she found herself with child, perhaps by Talbot, and changed her name and went to live quietly somewhere out of London. That's why her identity card was not renewed in 1943. It's quite possible the child is still alive somewhere, and that she was going to threaten Talbot with a maintenance claim. The case fits together much better without this American red-herring.'

‘I'll talk it over with the Attorney-General,' said the Director. ‘In the meantime do your best, Archer. If you tie up this loose end you may feel pretty sure of a conviction. If it's left flapping the defence is sure to make a lot of it, for they've precious little to go on at present. That man Tyler is bound to try all his tricks.'

‘There's this question of Mrs Talbot wanting to go to America, sir,' said Archer. ‘Clearly we can't let her go on a fool's errand.'

The Assistant Commissioner grunted. ‘The facts will come out some time; you'd better give them to the press at once. It's only fair to Talbot, and we've nothing to hide. The more publicity they give it, the easier your work will be.'

‘I'll tell Mrs Talbot first thing in the morning,' said Archer.

‘See Superintendent Priestley before you go,' the Assistant Commissioner suggested. ‘If I were you I should check up on Talbot's army leaves again; I shouldn't be surprised to find that he'd been meeting Elizabeth Rusman more recently than 1942. The new situation may help our case, not Talbot's.'

Philippa's heart leapt at the news. The knowledge that Elizabeth might have been in England all the time seemed to open up great new possibilities. In an eager meeting with Nick she plagued him vehemently again for all he could tell her about the murdered girl; and though at the end there seemed nothing in all their talk she went away lighter of spirit than she had been for some time. Then after two days more of searching, a chance remark by a woman 'cellist in a ladies' orchestra in Bournemouth sent her hurriedly off eighty miles to a small country town and to a garage owned by a man named Shaw.

There she found to her chagrin that the police had forestalled her only by a matter of a few hours. Mr Shaw, a tough, sandy-complexioned young man with hairy wrists, having been thus officially questioned so recently, was cautious and faintly sly. He couldn't quite believe that Philippa had also come here specially to ask him about the girl he had had an affair with in July, 1942, and kept thrusting back her questions at her as if they were playing some not quite decent party game. Philippa felt hot and humiliated and angry, but persevered until she was sure he had nothing more to tell. He came out with her to the car and held the door open, eyeing her and talking to her about swing music for so long that she was relieved to hear another car hooting behind for petrol.

Though she did not know it until later, the police had quickly got one stage farther than this, having located the doctor and nurse who attended Elizabeth Rusman in 1943. From them they learned that a son had been born to her in April of that year, that the child had died, and no more. In May Elizabeth had left the district, and wartime England had swallowed her up. That she had changed her name was obvious, but the obliging person who had sold her a faked identity and ration card was not forthcoming.

They came to a void, a vacuum, in which no clue or track existed. If Elizabeth Rusman had lived in England during the last three years she had left no trace. It was quite possible, they knew well, that some simple explanation existed to account for no one coming forward, but both the press and themselves were doing all that was possible, and no more could be done.

Once, on the Thursday when they gave
Traviata
for the last time, Philippa sneaked in at the stage-door of Covent Garden and listened from the wings. Ravogli, being cheated of his Philippa, had had the bright idea of engaging another English girl, and Caroline Winthram was singing in her place. She had had good notices, and Philippa listened with terrible feelings of discomfort to the strong sweet voice of her deputy. Her feelings became so intense that she could not stay to the end; and she slipped out as secretly as she had come and called a taxi and went home to the flat. She'd been crazy, she knew now, to go near the place.

She lay on the bed and her mind tried to unthink the happenings of the last weeks, so that instead of being here solitary and bitter she was at Covent Garden on the stage tonight, and Nick in the box again, and all the lovely fruits of long years of struggle were back in her grasp and not rotting in the gutter where she had thrown them.

She lay on the bed with open eyes until the early hours of the morning.

So Thursday became Friday, and Friday ran into the week-end, and the week-end flowered and died and gave way to the dry seed-pod of Monday morning. It was the last week-end before the trial. Worn out, Philippa at last consented to spend it with the Newcombes at their home in Surrey; Nick spent his in Brixton reading
Middlemarch
and smoking interminable cigarettes; Mr Tyler,
KC
, golfed with Sir Boyd Dyson, for whom he had once devilled, and Inspector Archer took an hour off to sow another patch of grass. Mr Sidney Fleming read all the Sunday newspapers, in particular the sensational ones, which for once gave him the sort of reading he was looking for.