David Webb 7 - The April Rainers Page 3

  As the applause continued, she bowed deeply, first to the centre, then to left and right. Finally, she raised her hands, and only then did the clapping fade away.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you. I can’t tell you how much pleasure it gives me to be back in Shillingham. It holds a very special place in my heart. Thank you all so much for all your support and good wishes.”

  A small girl climbed carefully up the steps to the stage and presented her with a bouquet of roses and a well-rehearsed curtsey. Another crescendo of applause and the stage was empty.

  “I suppose that’s it, then,” Gwen said, rubbing her tingling palms.

  Mark, about to reply, became aware of a breath of heady scent, and turned as a girl brushed past him to touch Gwen’s arm. “Excuse me, you are Miss Rutherford? I’m Camilla Harwood. My aunt has asked if you and your party would care to join her in the anteroom.”

  “We’d be delighted. Thank you.”

  Mark’s spirits soared as, with the others, he followed the girl through one of the exits into a much smaller room. The reception party they’d met earlier were standing by a table laid with plates of canapés and vol-au-vents. Felicity Harwood detached herself from the group and came towards them.

  “Miss Rutherford — I’m delighted to meet you. May I introduce my brother and his wife? And my friend, Miss Matthews.”

  Gwen in turn, more hair escaping in her agitation, introduced her own party. “It was Mr. Templeton’s idea to write to you,” she added. “I felt it was presumptuous, but he insisted I at least try.”

  Miss Harwood turned to Mark, who said with a smile, “On the basis that faint heart never won fair lady!”

  “Charmingly put. I should have been most upset not to be asked, when it’s to benefit the school. It’s also a chance to thank you personally for your kind reception of my work. You are the Mark Templeton who writes those reviews?”

  “I am, yes.”

  “And very sensitively, too. If I may say so without sounding patronizing, you show great feeling for the music.”

  He murmured his thanks, and, sensing his embarrassment, she smiled and moved on to the school governors. Mark watched her, consciously trying to store up every detail of this evening for the years ahead. Close to, he noted, she looked more her age than she appeared on the concert platform. There were fine lines round eyes and mouth, and veins stood out in her hands. Her hair, too, which he’d thought of as blond, was more silver than fair.

  Suddenly conscious of being watched in his turn, Mark glanced to his left to meet the amused gaze of the girl who had brought them here, and experienced a jolt of belated awareness. Only the presence of Felicity Harwood could have blinded him to the attractions of her niece.

  He smiled. “Was I in moonstruck-calf mode? I’m sorry, but she’s been my idol for as long as I can remember.”

  “Oh, mine too. I’ve swanked about her all my life.”

  “Are you a musician?”

  She shook her head. “We’ve enough of them in the family. Mother and I are the practical ones.”

  “So what do you do?”

  “I work in television. You won’t have heard of me; it’s mostly afternoon programmes. Interesting, though. I love it.”

  “Here, or in London?”

  “Both. At the moment I’m working at the Shillingham studios, so I’m taking advantage of a bit of home comfort. What do you do, apart from review concerts?”

  “Oh, that’s only a fringe activity. For my bread and butter, I teach the violin.”

  “At Miss Rutherford’s school?”

  “Most of the time. I visit a couple of others too, and have some private pupils.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Templeton,” said a crisp voice at his elbow, and, cursing the interruption, Mark turned to face Miss Matthews. “It’s not often I meet someone as stubborn as I am.”

  Camilla laughed. “Coming from Hattie, that’s a compliment!”

  “Well, I did my best to discourage him; I felt — and I still do — that two concerts within a week is too much, but his persistence wore me down. And of course, when I mentioned it to Felicity, the battle was lost. She doesn’t appreciate how much a performance takes out of her.”

  “She thrives on it,” said Camilla stoutly, “just as Daddy does.”

  So this was the dragon custodian — a more accurate description than he’d guessed. Hattie Matthews was a plain woman; her nondescript hair was uncompromisingly clipped behind her ears, her skin was coarse, and her hips large. Definitely absent when the good looks were handed out. Mark wondered what could have persuaded anyone as ethereal and talented as Felicity Harwood to put herself and her career in this woman’s hands.

  “She’s not as young as she was,” she was saying firmly, “and there’s the American tour next month. This visit was supposed to be a rest, but it’s being whittled away all the time. Not only are there the two concerts, but the week after, she has to fly to Edinburgh to receive the Freedom of the City.”

  The director had approached, and was hovering beside them. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said as they turned to him, “but Miss Harwood’s ready to go into the hall now. Only for a few minutes,” he added quickly, as Miss Matthews drew breath to protest, “but she doesn’t want to disappoint the crowd.”

  Felicity Harwood was moving towards the door with her brother and sister-in-law, and Mark saw Sir Julian beckon his daughter to join them. He said quickly, “You’re coming to the school concert?”

  “Of course,” Camilla replied. “See you then, I hope.” He watched her go through the doorway to the hall, her slim, lithe figure in striking contrast to Hattie Matthews’s large and clumsy one. And he found himself hoping that her current TV project would keep her in Shillingham for some time.

  Gwen was beside him. “Isn’t she absolutely charming?”

  “Absolutely!”

  “And how gratifying that she reads your reviews!”

  Mark murmured a reply, but he was disconcerted. His automatic response had referred not to Felicity Harwood but to her niece, and the realization that, however temporarily, she had distracted him from the long-dreamed-of meeting with the composer kept him in thoughtful mood for the rest of the evening.

  *

  It was midnight by the time Webb got back to his flat. Wearily he hung his jacket on the hook and extracted from its pocket the evening paper he’d bought earlier. Then he went into the kitchen, dropping it on the table while he poured himself a drink. He’d had nothing to eat since the snatched sandwich in the canteen with Jackson. The insistence of Ken’s stomach on regular sustenance had doubtless saved them both from ulcers over the years. He knew it would be sensible to eat now, but he was past hunger and too tired to bother. Stifling a yawn, he pulled out the wooden chair and sat down, glass in hand, to review the day.

  The visit to Ashmartin had proved a trying one. Mrs. Sanderson, though shocked by the news of her brother-in-law’s death, had wasted no time on expressions of regret.

  “Well, he had it coming to him,” she said. “He deserved putting down, a brute like that.”

  “I realize it’s painful for you to speak about your sister, but we’d be grateful for some details of what happened.”

  Her eyes had filled at once. “I don’t see what this has to do with Linda. It’s just a pity he wasn’t killed sooner, then she needn’t have died.”

  “Was their marriage always unhappy?”

  “He always drank, if that’s what you mean, but I don’t think he was violent in the early days. She never said anything, but then we had to force it out of her, even at the end. I don’t think she’d ever have told us, if we hadn’t called round and found her covered in bruises. Too loyal by half, she was.” Mrs. Sanderson broke off to wipe her eyes with her handkerchief.

  “It was you and your husband who persuaded her to report him?”

  She nodded. “But once she had, she was so relieved. She thought it was all over, you see. ‘Oh Norma,’ she said, ‘it’ll be s
o wonderful, not to have to listen for him coming home every night, wondering what state he’ll be in. I don’t think I could have taken it much longer.’ And after all that, those — those flaming do-gooders let him go! ‘We’re sure you’ve learned your lesson, Mr. Baxter,’” she mimicked savagely. “They mightn’t have been so ready to turn the other cheek, if it was their cheek he was hitting.” And she’d buried her face in her handkerchief and sobbed bitterly.

  “What happened next?” Webb asked after a moment.

  Mrs. Sanderson sniffed and mopped at her eyes. “Well, we did our best to get her to come back with us, but she said she couldn’t, because of school — the new term was just about to start. But something must have happened later, because the next morning she rang up in a terrible state. ‘Norma,’ she said, ‘I want you to promise me something. If anything happens to me, will you and Jim take the children?’

  “Well, that really frightened me. I thought Ted was threatening to kill her or something, but I couldn’t get any sense out of her. All she kept saying was ‘Promise me! Promise!’ So of course I did, but when I tried to get her to tell me what was wrong, she hung up. So I rang Jim at the office. He came home to collect me and we drove straight over to Shillingham, but by the time we got there, it was too late. She must have taken the pills before she phoned me. There was a note saying she was sorry — she was sorry! — and that the children were at a friend’s house.”

  “How did her husband react to her death?”

  “Well, he was very shocked, I must admit. Broke down and cried like a child, but I’d no sympathy with him. I told him straight it was him that drove her to it. So we packed up the children’s things and brought them straight back here.”

  “How old are they?”

  “Seven and nine.”

  “Are they coping all right?”

  She shrugged. “It’s hard to say. But we’ve always been close to them — comes from not having any of our own.”

  “And their father’s been over to see them?”

  “A couple of times, yes, but Jim always stayed in the room with them. I wouldn’t see Ted — I went upstairs till he’d left the house.”

  As tactfully as he could, Webb had inquired how she and her husband had spent the previous evening, and was told they’d had friends in for whist.

  “It may seem heartless, Chief Inspector, but Jim insisted we keep up the regular foursome. Said it would take my mind off things.”

  “Very sensible. Mrs. Sanderson, has Mr. Baxter any other relatives apart from yourselves?”

  “Only a brother out in Australia. His parents died years ago.”

  “Then I’m afraid we must ask either you or your husband to identify him.”

  She blanched, clutching her throat. “Oh, Jim’ll have to. I couldn’t — it would turn my stomach.”

  Fortunately it was at this point that her husband returned from work, and the solemn little cortege had immediately set out for Shillingham. Back at his desk, Webb found a report awaiting him of a break-in the previous evening in Rankin Road. With a bit of luck, there might be a tie-in.

  So there it was, he thought, draining his glass. Though the Sandersons must have had as strong a motive as anyone for despatching Baxter, their alibi was confirmed, and the investigation advanced only by elimination.

  He pulled the evening paper towards him, grimacing at the headline. Bill Hardy had done his homework, he reflected, reading the report. It was all there — Baxter’s appearance in court, his subsequent return home and his wife’s suicide.

  “Crimes against humanity,” he thought suddenly. The April Rainers, whoever they were, had been right on that. Had they also, unlike most anonymous letter-writers, carried out their “death sentence”? Only time would tell.

  He stood up, stretching and running a hand through his hair, too tired to concentrate any more. He was turning from the table when his eyes fell on the other main headline — COMPOSER RETURNS TO SHILLINGHAM. This would be the woman Hannah’d been telling him about. Well, he hadn’t a cat in hell’s chance of getting to the concert now, with a murder on his hands.

  Switching off the light, he went to run himself a bath.

  3

  THERE WAS ANOTHER PARAGRAPH in that evening’s paper which, since it was the end of a long-running story, did not merit a place on the front page. It was, however, of immense significance to several people in the county, and to none more than the Fenshawes.

  BROADSHIRE LIFE IMAGE TO CHANGE, it read. And, underneath: “After his successful bid for Broadshire Life, Mr. James Jessel has lost no time in restructuring both the glossy magazine and its premises. It has been confirmed that former editor Gaby Fenshawe, who was credited with saving the prestigious publication from liquidation three years ago and trebling its circulation, has been replaced following the takeover.

  “‘We want a new image,’ Mr. Jessel told our reporter, ‘and I have every confidence that the appointment of Colin Campbell as editor is the first step towards achieving this.’”

  Nat Fenshawe was re-reading the report when his wife came into the kitchen the next morning.

  “Throw it out, Nat,” she said philosophically. “It’s yesterday’s paper and yesterday’s news. Today there’ll be something new to read about and I’ll be forgotten.”

  “I don’t know how you can be so calm about it,” he said bitterly, watching her toss the paper in the bin. “At least take the bastard to a tribunal. Everyone knows it was unfair dismissal and you’d get plenty of backing.”

  “No doubt, but I’ve too much pride to go whingeing to court. And I don’t want to stay on anyway. I can’t stand the man — wouldn’t be able to keep a civil tongue in my head.”

  “You’d at least get financial compensation.”

  She laughed. “Oh, Nat, I’m not on the scrapheap yet! I’ll find another job without too much difficulty. Probably a better one. I’ve made a name for myself now.”

  He put an arm round her and pulled her fiercely against him. “Gaby love, you needn’t pretend with me. When I think of the time and energy you put into that magazine, and the nights you sat up slaving over it, I could strangle the bastard. And the supreme irony, of course, is that if you hadn’t pulled it back from the brink, engaged the best writers and so on, Jessel wouldn’t have wanted to buy it anyway.”

  “You’re taking it harder than I am,” Gaby said with a smile. She reached up to give him a quick kiss, and moved away to fill the kettle. She knew Nat wasn’t deceived by her flippancy, but she was reluctant to let even him see the depth of her hurt. If only the old boys had had enough faith in her, she thought for the hundredth time; given her another six months. Then they’d have realized the crisis was over and the magazine would survive. But they were past it, bless them, Mr. Henry well into his seventies and Mr. Edward turned eighty, for heaven’s sake. The Stratton brothers, who were Broadshire Life.

  But Jessel Enterprises were big business, and they’d made a very tempting offer. The old men had dithered, and she knew how their minds must have worked. Suppose Gaby ran out of steam? Safer for all concerned if she had solid financial hacking. So, sadly, but feeling they were doing the best for their staff — most of whom regarded them as joint grandfathers — the two old men had stepped down, and now a stranger sat in their office. A stranger who had sidestepped their stipulations on redundancies, and was in the process of altering the entire nature of the magazine.

  “At least I’m still alive,” she said aloud. Terence Denbigh of the “Denbigh’s Diary” column had collapsed and died on learning of his dismissal.

  Nat slammed his hand on the table, and Gaby regretted her comment. He was inflamed enough against Jessel, without reminding him of the loss of a friend; the elderly widower had frequently joined them for supper, amusing them with his gently ironic view of the world.

  “There comes a point,” Nat said viciously, “when that man has to be stopped from trampling people underfoot, and it has now been reached. Enough is enough.”
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  Gaby said placatingly, “Look, love, forget it. There’s nothing you can do.”

  “On the contrary, there is. Mr. James Bloody Jessel is going to get his come-uppance, and I shall have great pleasure in administering it. In fact, it’s already under way.”

  *

  Cynthia Jessel looked up from her own mail at her husband’s exclamation. “What is it?”

  “Another of those stupid anonymous letters.”

  “I told you you’re making a lot of enemies.”

  “And I told you that if I were to let my life be ruled by sentiment, I might as well throw in the sponge. You don’t make money by being soft-hearted.”

  She eyed the screwed-up ball of paper. “What does it say?”

  “A lot of mumbo-jumbo, but the basic message is death and disaster. Signed, if you please, by ‘The April Rainers.’”

  “Who are they?”

  “Search me. A bunch of religious maniacs, most likely.”

  “You should hand it to the police.”

  He snorted. “And what can they do?” He glanced at the envelope. “It was posted in London — a needle in a haystack. Forget it; I intend to.” He pushed back his chair. “I must be going; I’ve a meeting with Campbell at nine.”

  “James, are you sure you weren’t over-hasty about the Fenshawe girl? With her flair she’d be an asset, and keeping her on would avoid some of the unpleasantness. You’re already blamed for the death of the diarist.”

  “Poppycock. You know I can’t work with women at that level — they’re too temperamental. In any case, I didn’t care for her — she seemed to think she owned the magazine. There’d have been a personality clash before long; better simply to forestall it.”