David Webb 7 - The April Rainers Read online

  It would take a saint not to clash with James, Cynthia thought. It wasn’t pleasant being married to someone as disliked as he was, but she’d learned to live with it. Broodingly, she looked across at him, at the thick, curly hair, the broad shoulders, the rather loose mouth. Well, if he wanted to make still more enemies, it was no skin off her nose.

  “So just drop it, will you. Surprisingly enough, I do know what I’m doing.” He left the room, and a moment later the front door closed behind him.

  Cynthia reached across, retrieved the ball of paper and smoothed it out on the table. Subconsciously, she associated anonymous letters with phrases cut from newspapers, or illiterate scrawl. This was neither; it was printed in copperplate letters in a striking green ink, which somehow lent importance to its contents. It read: “You are found guilty of evil deeds which assault and hurt the soul. The death sentence will be carried out in eight days. Signed: THE APRIL RAINERS.”

  Cynthia shivered involuntarily. James was right, it had a quasi-religious tone. Weren’t some of the words from the Prayer Book? At school, she’d been required to learn and recite each week’s collect, and they’d lain dormant in her brain for thirty years. Now, she dredged the appropriate phrases to the surface: “… that we might be defended from all adversities which may happen to the body, and from all evil” thoughts, surely, not deeds — “which may assault and hurt the soul.” Which, if it was a deliberate misquotation, was interesting. Evil thoughts might be considered to hurt one’s own soul; evil deeds, primarily someone else’s.

  She slewed the envelope round. The postmark was the previous day, which reduced the time-limit to a week. Well, if James wasn’t going to bother about it, she didn’t see why she should, though she still thought he ought to tell the police.

  Picking up both note and envelope, she crumpled them in her hand and dropped them into the waste-paper basket. Then, putting the episode out of her mind, she turned her attention to the day ahead.

  *

  Webb sat at his desk, tapping his pen as he reviewed the position. Six teams of detectives had left Carrington Street police station an hour earlier, and in his mind he went over the Actions they’d been assigned.

  1. Ask householders in Rankin Road if any unfamiliar cars had been parked there on Wednesday evening. (He was still hopeful of a link with the break-in.)

  2. Inquire whether any neighbours saw or heard Baxter return home. If so, check timing in case he stopped on the way, perhaps to pick up his killer.

  3. Interview the landlord of the Magpie at Chedbury, and see if any strangers were in the pub that night. If so, did they speak to Ted Baxter?

  4. Interview Baxter’s colleagues at the post office, including Ron Taylor. Names needed of group who played darts with Baxter.

  5. Follow up the latter and question them.

  6. Go through victim’s diary and address book and follow up entries.

  7. Revisit Mrs. Baxter’s place of work and interview any close colleagues.

  He sighed, glancing again at the post mortem report. It wasn’t much help; Stapleton wouldn’t commit himself on the missing ligature, merely stating it was “likely to have been something in the nature of a nylon stocking.”

  “Problems, Dave?”

  Webb looked across at Alan Crombie, now returned from his prolonged course at Bramshill. “You name ‘em, I’ve got ‘em.”

  “Including a surfeit of suspects?”

  “Yep, all anonymous, which doesn’t help a lot. Most of the letters are pretty run-of-the-mill, but there was one that stood out. For the hell of it, I’ve had it teleprinted and circulated, but with instructions not to divulge it to the press.”

  His phone rang and he reached for it.

  “DCI Webb? DI Francis, sir, Snow Hill. I’ve just seen your teleprint on the anonymous letter. A couple of years ago, a note signed ‘The April Rainers’ came to light here during a murder investigation.”

  Giving Crombie the “thumbs up,” Webb leant forward. “Yes, Inspector?”

  “Unfortunately we never traced it and the case is still open.”

  “Great.”

  “The note was printed in green copperplate, just like yours. Even more significantly, it, too, gave the victim eight days to live, and he was killed on the appointed day.”

  “Who was the victim?”

  “A nasty piece of work, sir, Thomas Raymond by name. He’d a fine racket going: sold franchises for health-food shops, and the agreements all stipulated — in small print — that the buyers could only get their supplies from named sources. Naturally, he owned all said sources himself, and sold to them at extortionate prices. Four or five couples were caught — put their savings into buying the franchise, then went bust and no recompense.”

  “Um. To come back to the note; do you remember the exact words?”

  “I’ve got it here, sir. I looked it out before phoning. It says, ‘In payment for the anguish and hardship you’ve caused, your life will be terminated in eight days.’ And it’s signed ‘The April Rainers.’”

  “What was the MO?”

  “Asphyxiation, but we’re not sure with what; the ligature had been removed.”

  “That,” said Webb slowly, “is very interesting. Very interesting indeed. And you’d no idea who was behind it?”

  “Oh, we had our suspicions — among them, an oddball group who were crusading to reintroduce moral values. They’d certainly been in touch with Raymond, but we weren’t able to tie them in with his murder.”

  “Were they based in your area?”

  “Yes, but they travel round the country on what they call ‘missions.’ They could be in your part of the world. I’ll check if you like.”

  “Please. Did the name ‘April Rainers’ appear in the press?”

  “No, sir. We held it back.”

  “Good. Well, I’ll send a couple of my men over to look into it. I’d be grateful for any assistance you can give them.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “One last thing. Where was your note posted?”

  “W1. One of the busiest areas, naturally — Oxford Street, and round there. No hope of tracing it back.”

  “I gather Chummie has struck before,” Crombie said, as Webb replaced the phone.

  “It looks like it. Snow Hill had a similar note two years ago — green ink, eight-day deadline, if you’ll pardon the pun. And it wasn’t publicized at the time, which rules out the copy-cat factor. Though if the notes are connected, it’s a long time between crimes.”

  “Unless there have been others which haven’t come to light.”

  “Thanks, Alan, that makes me feel a lot better. Get over to the Smoke, will you, and look into it? The usual routine — draw out the file, interrogate the officers who were in charge, etc. Take young Marshbanks with you and stay overnight if necessary, but dig deep. We need all the help we can get on this one.”

  *

  The school orchestra were rehearsing, as they had for months, the William Tell Overture they would perform at next week’s concert. Nerves were on edge, and Tim Ladbury had taken them through it three times already. To Mark, seated at the back of the Queen’s Hall, it sounded pretty good, all things considered.

  He was humming the theme under his breath when a fourth-former came and tapped him on the shoulder. “Excuse me, Mr. Templeton, Miss Hanson said to tell you you’re wanted on the phone.”

  Mark followed her out of the hall, the lovely music ringing in his ears, and made his way to the office. The school secretary looked up with a smile.

  “Lady Harwood, no less!” she said softly, nodding to the phone. “Let’s hope your soloist hasn’t changed her mind!”

  Mark lifted the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Templeton; this is Elizabeth Harwood. We met briefly at the reception.”

  She waited for his murmur of assent.

  “My sister-in-law tells me she had time for only a few words with you last night, and there are certain points that s
he’d like to discuss. We were wondering if it would be convenient for you to come and have lunch with us tomorrow?”

  “Yes — yes, of course. Thank you — I’d be delighted.”

  “About twelve-thirty, then? You know where we live? It’s not far from the school — Hampton Rise. Fauconberg House, on the right-hand side.”

  “I’ll find it. Thank you very much, Lady Harwood.”

  Camilla’d be there, too, he thought, his spirits rising. What a bit of luck, after all, that he hadn’t seen more of Felicity Harwood last evening.

  *

  It was after ten by the time Webb got home, and he’d only just taken off his mac when the doorbell rang. He opened the door to find Hannah there, holding a large bowl of mushrooms.

  “They were on special offer at the market,” she said. “I couldn’t resist them, but there are more than I want, and I thought you might like some.”

  “They look lovely — thanks.”

  He led the way into the kitchen, took last night’s paper from the table, and lined the top basket of the vegetable rack with it.

  “I presume this murder case is yours?” she commented, as she tipped the mushrooms over the black headlines.

  “‘Fraid so.”

  “And you’ve only just got in, haven’t you? I came up half an hour ago.”

  “At least it’s a couple of hours earlier than last night.”

  “Have you eaten?”

  “Nope.”

  “Like me to rustle up something?”

  He grinned. “What would I do without you?”

  “Mushroom omelette sound all right?”

  “Wonderful, if I’d any eggs, but I ate the last one on Wednesday.”

  “I’ve told you before I’d do your shopping when you’re on a case — you only have to ask. We can’t have police efficiency impaired by malnutrition! Let me know what you need, and I’ll get it tomorrow. In the meantime, since I’ve plenty of eggs, we’ll go downstairs.”

  Hannah’s flat, on the floor below, overlooked the back of the house. It was larger and more spacious than Webb’s, and as always he entered it with a feeling of pleasure. Something in the cool colours and attractive decor, the comfortable chairs and airy unclutteredness gave him an immediate sense of peace and relaxation.

  On a cushion in a corner of the hall lay a small ginger kitten, which looked up briefly at their entrance, then curled back into sleep. Webb nodded towards it.

  “You’re not finding that a tie?”

  Hannah’s recent stint of cat-minding, while involving her in a murder case, had also reawakened her love of cats.

  “Not at all, he’s as good as gold. I take him with me to school and he behaves perfectly.”

  “Like Mary’s lamb,” said Webb drily. He followed her into the kitchen, sniffing appreciatively at the faint aroma of herbs and spices, overlaid by the scent of the plants flourishing on the window-sill. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was,” he remarked, hitching himself on a corner of the table and watching her take smooth brown eggs from the fridge.

  “In that case, I’ll double the quantity.” She moved calmly about the kitchen, taking down pans and utensils without seeming to mar the orderliness of the room.

  “Have you any suspects yet?” she asked, whisking the eggs.

  “Four dozen or so, all anonymous.”

  She frowned. “Letter-writers? I read about the court case and the wife’s death.”

  “Letter-writers,” Webb confirmed. He added casually, “Know anything about the April Rainers?”

  “Only that there were eight of them. Why?”

  “That’s how one of the letters was signed. It’s from ‘Green Grow the Rushes-O,’ isn’t it? Any idea of the origin?”

  “I know it’s very old. While you have your supper, I’ll look it up and see what I can find.”

  The supper tray, consisting of the large, golden omelette, bread and butter and a cup of coffee, was carried through to the sitting-room and put on a low table by the window. The room was still arranged for summer, with the window rather than the fire as the focal point.

  “I put off moving things back as long as possible,” Hannah commented, as Webb seated himself in the apple-green chair. She laid her own coffee-cup on the table and moved to the bookcase, running her fingers along the spines and selecting a large reference-book which she brought back to her chair.

  “The song’s older than I realized,” she remarked a moment later. “It’s appeared in Hebrew, French and Spanish, and the first time it was written down in English was in 1625. There are several different versions even in this country, but it’s always assumed to have a theological basis.”

  “The Ten Commandments and the Twelve Apostles, yes. But April Rainers?”

  “It’ll be a corruption, of course, and actually this verse seems to have caused the most confusion. One version is ‘Bold Rainers,’ which is assumed to refer to angels, though why eight, I don’t know. Another gives ‘Bold Rangers’ and refers to the eight members of Noah’s family in the Ark.”

  “I can hardly rope them in!”

  “If that’s no help, you have a choice of ‘Eight Commanders’ or ‘Gabriel Riders.’” She looked up, pushing back her hair. “Doesn’t seem much help, does it?”

  “Not a lot,” said Webb with his mouth full. “It’s the number that worries me, though. Do we assume it’s a joint letter from eight different people? A gang of some sort?”

  “Goodness knows.” Hannah rose and replaced the book on the shelf. “Anyway, I hope you’ll clear it up quickly, and be free to come to the concerts.”

  “I don’t think I’ve a hope, love. Certainly not by Wednesday.”

  “Gwen and I went to the reception last evening, and were invited to the inner sanctum to meet Felicity Harwood. It was quite exciting.”

  “Just you and Gwen?”

  “No, of course not. There was the mayor and —”

  “Just you and Gwen from the school?”

  She met his eyes and answered steadily. “No, Mark was there, and Tim Ladbury and a couple of other members of staff and two of the governors.”

  “Charles Frobisher?”

  “Yes, David, Charles Frobisher was one of them.” She held his gaze challengingly. It was over a year now since she had rejected Charles’s proposal of marriage, but she knew David was still uneasy at their regular professional contact.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, laying down his empty plate. “It’s none of my business.”

  Hannah watched him as he finished his coffee. Theirs was an odd relationship; it purported to make no demands, but the facts were rather different. When David’s ex-wife had returned briefly, Hannah’d been startled by the depth of her hurt, as had he, later, when she’d turned to Charles. Tacitly, they accepted that, while for their own reasons they’d no wish to marry, there was a strong bond between them that neither wanted to break. Occasionally, depending on their different jobs, they might not see each other for weeks — apart, perhaps, from passing on the stairs. There were times when they met as friends, delighting in each other’s company but asking nothing more. And there were times when they came together as lovers, seeking and finding in each other a passionate tenderness that was essential to their wellbeing. Only once, when Charles had asked her to marry him, had David said that he loved her, and it had not been referred to again. Hannah was content that it should be so.

  He leant back in his chair and smiled across at her. “That should give me enough energy to get back up the stairs; which, regretfully, I must now do. It’ll be a heavy day again tomorrow.”

  He stood up and drew her gently into his arms, his cheek resting on her silky hair. She was his oasis, where he could rest and recharge himself for the ordeals that lay ahead. And if he didn’t release her, he thought ruefully, he mightn’t get that early night after all. Reluctantly he did so, and Hannah walked with him to the door. Again the kitten looked up sleepily, and Webb was reminded of that other cat that had w
atched from the garage in Rankin Close.

  Hannah paused to scoop up the orange scrap.

  “Do you put him out at night?”

  “Certainly not. An owl might mistake him for a mouse!” Webb touched the tiny head with one finger. “What is it you call him?”

  “Pekoe, like Orange Pekoe tea. Talking of which, what groceries do you need?”

  “If you’re sure it’s no trouble, I’ll drop a list through your door in the morning. Thanks, love. Sleep well.” He bent his head and kissed her.

  “You’ll call for your shopping tomorrow evening?”

  “If it’s not too late, yes.”

  As he ran back up the stairs to his flat, Webb’s thoughts had already slipped from Hannah to the interpretations of the old rhyme. Noah’s Ark, indeed! That was all he needed! he thought, and was grinning as he put his key in the lock.

  4

  HAMPTON RISE, unlike its near neighbour Hillcrest, where Webb lived, still boasted the large and gracious houses of a bygone age, the 1950s developers having mercifully run out of money before they could demolish them and set up soulless blocks of flats in their place.

  Since he had come from home and not the school, Mark arrived by car, to find the gates of Fauconberg House standing open. He turned in and drove down the immaculately gravelled drive to the front door. A uniformed maid admitted him and showed him to the drawing-room, where the family awaited him.

  Camilla came forward, dispelling his momentary awkwardness on entering a roomful of eminent and virtually unknown people. His first quick glance had taken in Sir Julian and Lady Harwood, Felicity, Hattie Matthews and an elderly lady who sat with a rug over her knees.

  “Come and meet my grandmother,” Camilla said, taking his arm.

  Mrs. Harwood looked old and frail; veins stood out on her temples and the flesh had fallen away from her cheekbones. But the faded eyes were alert, and she smiled her welcome. “I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Templeton. My daughter tells me you’re one of her most ardent admirers!”

  “Indeed I am,” Mark acknowledged. “I think I’ve attended all the concerts she’s given in the U.K. over the last ten years.”