David Webb 7 - The April Rainers Read online

  “You deserve a long-service medal!” said Felicity at his side. “I’m so glad you could come; there are a lot of things I want to speak to you about, but they’ll keep till after lunch.”

  The conversation became general, and under cover of it, Mark discreetly studied his hosts. “Fine-honed” was the best description of Sir Julian; he was tall and spare of frame, and his face looked curiously streamlined. Nose, brows and cheeks seemed to have little flesh to cover the underlying bone structure, and his skin was taut and polished. His eyes, like those of his mother and sister, were a keen, pale blue and his fine hair — either fair or grey, it was difficult to tell — thinly covered his scalp from a receding forehead. But despite his intellectual air, his smile had been pleasant and his handshake firm.

  His wife, Elizabeth, had what used to be called “breeding.” She was of middle height and with a tendency to plumpness; her voice was low and cultured, her brow untroubled, and her soft brown hair sprinkled with grey. She gave the appearance of a woman serenely content in the bosom of her family. After the strains and stresses of his profession, her husband must bless her air of quietude.

  Camilla took her colouring from her mother, though her hair was lighter and her eyes deepset like her father’s. She had also inherited his oval face and tall, slim figure. Watching her, Mark again found himself attracted by her casual air of independence and the bantering look in her eyes. Here was a girl who knew what she wanted and would, he felt, have little trouble getting it.

  At lunch, he was seated between his hostess and Felicity, with Camilla directly opposite. Almost at once, Felicity claimed his attention, and he perforce set himself to answering her virtually nonstop questions — about his family, his career, his ambitions, and his views on the various interpretations of her music.

  The rest of the party chatted among themselves, apparently unconcerned by the exclusive conversation in their midst.

  Mrs. Harwood was not with them; it seemed she was more comfortable eating in her room with her live-in nurse.

  “Is your grandmother not well?” Mark asked Camilla, when Felicity at last paused to give some attention to her plate. He was unsure whether the old lady’s frailty was due simply to her age.

  It was Felicity who replied. “The doctor gives her six weeks. She thinks I’m here to rest before the American tour, but it’s really to spend as much time with her as I can. She might not be here when I get back.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mark said inadequately, but Felicity had already resumed her interrogation. He glanced at Camilla and was disconcerted to note her amusement. She leant forward.

  “Dearest aunt, have mercy on our guest! He’s hardly eaten a mouthful between answering all your questions!”

  “No, really,” he protested, “it’s perfectly all right.”

  But Felicity was penitent. “I’m so sorry — I have been monopolizing you. I promise not to say another word till you’ve finished your meal.”

  Despite his disclaimer, Mark was glad to join in more general conversation for the rest of the meal. But when they’d finished their coffee and rose to leave the room, Felicity reclaimed him.

  “Now for our discussion. We’ll go to the music room. It shouldn’t take long.”

  The Harwoods’ music room was rather different from his own, but Mark barely had time to take in its decor or the magnificent instruments that filled it. As the door closed behind them, Felicity began without preamble. “You must be wondering why I asked you here.”

  “To finalize the concert?”

  “We covered that in correspondence. There’s something else I want to discuss.”

  She walked to the French windows and stood looking out at the garden. Following her gaze, Mark saw that most of the trees had changed colour. Autumn was here, and soon the grass would be thick with leaves.

  Felicity spoke without turning. “You’ve probably never given it much thought, but in my position, an occupational hazard is being approached by people wanting to write one’s biography.”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” Mark agreed uncertainly.

  “I’ve turned down three this year already.”

  He could think of nothing to add, so kept silent. She hadn’t invited him to sit, and he remained standing, looking at her silhouette against the window and, beyond her, the sunlit garden.

  She turned back into the room, and as her face was against the light, he couldn’t read her expression.

  “I was wondering if you’d like to do it,” she said.

  He stared at her, completely dumbfounded, incapable of any reply.

  “I might say the family thinks I’m mad,” she went on quickly. “Not out of any disrespect for you, but simply because, as far as we know, you’ve never done anything of the kind before. Have you?”

  Mark could only shake his head.

  “But you see, there’s an affinity between us. I’m sure I could relax with you, as I couldn’t with the others. Even more important, I think you understand my music better than they do, despite all the letters after their names. They’re writers, you see, and you’re a musician. Yet you write about music so beautifully and so — intuitively. And you were saying you never miss my concerts. You must know more about my work than anyone else in your field.”

  Vaguely, Mark remembered reaching the same conclusion, only two days ago.

  “I know it would take time, that’s why I was asking about your career. Would you be able to take a sabbatical, do you think? If you had, say, a year off, you could make a really good start and then proceed more slowly. For instance, a lot of my papers are here, scores and so on. You could go through those at your leisure later — that’s one of the advantages of your living in Shillingham. Another is that you know my background — you even teach at my old school. Don’t you see you’re the perfect choice?”

  She paused and, when he still did not speak, added, “You’d be able to accompany me on concert tours, and we could continue with interviews any time I’m in London.”

  She stopped speaking at last, and the silence between them was measured by the steady tick of the clock in the corner. Mark spread his hands helplessly. “I — don’t know what to say. It’s come so completely out of the blue.”

  “It would give your career a boost,” she remarked shrewdly. “And since I’d be commissioning you, I’d see that the financial arrangements were generous. You wouldn’t lose out on your year away from teaching.”

  He said slowly, “Miss Harwood —”

  “Felicity, please.”

  He made a little gesture with his hand. “Felicity — I can’t tell you how honoured I am, but I’m completely overwhelmed. I’ve never tackled anything remotely like a biography — I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  “At the beginning, perhaps?” she suggested smilingly. “With my childhood, here in this house and at Ashbourne. I kept diaries from the age of ten — they’d be useful.”

  “There’s also the practical side,” he went on. “You suggest a sabbatical, and I’d certainly need something of the sort, but it would take a lot of arranging. I visit other schools as well as Ashbourne, and there are my private pupils to consider. I’d have to make arrangements for them, and that can’t be done at the drop of a hat. Also, as you’ll realize, the school year has just begun.”

  She walked slowly towards him. “Are you turning me down, Mark?”

  “I’m — not sure. Oh, look,” he burst out, “of course I’d love to do it — be with you while you rehearse, perform — but I don’t see how I can. And even if we do find a way, it wouldn’t be for some time.”

  She smiled. “My trouble has always been that when I want something, I want it at once. I was even going to suggest we make a start this week, while I’m in Shillingham.”

  His programme for the week ahead flashed in front of him: playing Felicity’s part at rehearsals on Monday; Tuesday and Thursday visiting other schools, with private lessons in the evenings; and Wednesday the concert itself.

 
; She’d been watching his face. “At least it’s not a definite no?”

  He smiled ruefully. “Not quite definite.”

  “Then I’ve a suggestion. Suppose you make a provisional start? You could tape a few conversations with me, make some local inquiries about my childhood, and see how it goes. Then, if you become hooked, as I hope you will, we can work on more concrete plans. Of course I see, now that I’ve thought about it, that you can’t drop everything at my whim. I promise I won’t rush you. Just give it a try and see how it goes. How about that?”

  “All right. Sorry to put such a damper on it, but I’ve a pretty hectic schedule, with just about every working hour accounted for. It’s a pity it didn’t come up before the long school holidays.”

  “Indeed it is. Never mind, we should manage a couple of interviews while I’m here. I hope you’re free tomorrow?”

  Abandoning a proposed day with Jackie, Mark nodded. “I’ll bring a tape-recorder,” he said. “And it would save time if I left the machine with you afterwards. Then, any time you had a spare moment, you could talk about your early life or anything else that came into your head.”

  “That’s an excellent idea. But for the moment, I’ve taken up quite enough of your time. Let’s rejoin the others.”

  As they emerged into the hall, Camilla was coming out of the drawing-room. Her glance moved from her aunt’s face to Mark’s. Neither gave much away.

  “Ah, there you are. I wondered if you’d like a tour of the garden?”

  “Yes, I should. Thank you.”

  Felicity said, “Enjoy yourselves, children. I’m going up to sit with Mother for a while. See you at tea.”

  They walked out of the front door and round the side of the house to the lawns Mark had seen from the music room. Camilla glanced at his set face.

  “You look in need of some fresh air!”

  “You know what we were talking about?”

  “Oh yes. We’ve heard little else since Thursday evening. My aunt’s very impressed with you; she thinks you’d be a worthy chronicler.”

  “I hadn’t the slightest idea what was coming — I thought she wanted to discuss the concert.”

  “What do you think of the idea?”

  “I honestly don’t know. But I can’t just drop everything. Which is what she seems to want.”

  Camilla smiled. “That’s Felicity all over. She makes up her mind at lightning speed and tries to rush everyone else along with her. Where her music’s concerned, she’s completely single-minded and, it has to be said, totally self-centred. She told me once that she has to be, in order to force through the interpretations she wants.”

  Mark’s mind was on the proposed biography. “Even if I’d the time, I don’t know if I could do it.”

  “I think you could.”

  He smiled slightly. “I’m flattered, but you haven’t much to go on.”

  “Enough. You write well — I read your reviews, too. You already know a great deal about her music, and you admire her so much. That’s important. So many biographers nowadays seem more interested in writing exposés to make their books sell.”

  “Well, you can rest assured that if I do take on the job, her reputation will be safe!”

  Camilla laughed. “Good. Now, come and see the dahlia bed. It’s just at its best.”

  *

  “For God’s sake!” James Jessel was shouting, “I should know whether I’ve ordered any manure or not! Will you stop saying I must have!”

  “Well, someone did,” Cynthia retorted heatedly, “and I assure you it wasn’t me. The delivery note had our name and address, so naturally I thought it was for us.”

  “There must be two tons of the stuff here. Why the hell did you let them dump it in the drive? We can’t get to either the house or the garage without going over the grass.”

  “What would you expect them to do with it, for heaven’s sake? Look, it’s no use ranting and raving, James, it’s not my fault. Ring them up and complain if you want to, the phone number’s on the delivery note.”

  “If you signed for it, they’re not going to come along and meekly shovel it up again, are they? Anyway, they won’t want to know on Saturday afternoon. In the meantime I can’t get the car into the garage and the whole garden stinks like a farmyard.”

  “Dad!” The Jessels’ sixteen-year-old son put his head round the front door. “There’s someone on the phone asking to see the Merc.”

  Jessel turned. “What do you mean, asking to see it?”

  “He seems to think it’s for sale.”

  “Good God, I’ve only had it five minutes!”

  “That’s what I told him, but he says it’s advertised in the News.”

  “He must have the wrong number.”

  Jessel returned to glaring at the manure, but a moment later his son came out carrying the paper. “Look, Dad, he’s right. It is in. ‘Bargain price for a quick sale; phone Shillingham 59786.’”

  Jessel snatched the paper out of his hand. “Has everyone gone mad today?”

  Cynthia looked over his shoulder. “That’s what it says, all right.”

  “I suppose you’ll now tell me I must have put it in myself.”

  “No,” she said slowly. “It looks to me as though someone is out to harass you. A follow-on to that letter.”

  Through the open front door came the ringing of the phone, and Lance resignedly went to answer it. “Probably someone else about the car,” he said over his shoulder. “The phone’ll be going all weekend.”

  *

  Crombie’s report on the London case proved inconclusive. Raymond had been found lying beside his car in a London back street, and despite exhaustive investigations, the only clue to come to light was the enigmatic note. It did not bode well for their own case.

  Webb sighed and walked over to the wall-map. Rankin Road lay between two main thoroughfares, the High Street and the Marlton road.

  “Surely someone must have seen something,” he said disgustedly, “yet we’ve drawn a complete blank so far. No one noticed a strange car, either parked or driving into the Close. No one even heard the break-in. Granted, it was fairly late, but surely not all the local residents were in bed or dozing in front of the telly.”

  Crombie tipped back his chair, considering. “Let’s try motive, means and opportunity. Means, we have a pretty good idea of, so how about opportunity?”

  “Taylor says he left the pub alone, and at the moment there’s no reason to disbelieve him. Incidentally, we did get a snippet from the barman; there’s a woman who sometimes hangs around the darts players, and once or twice he’s seen her leave with Baxter. She wasn’t there on Wednesday, though.”

  “Suppose he’d given her the push? ‘Hell hath no fury,’ etc.”

  “It’s possible. Anyway, since it seems Baxter was killed immediately he got home, either his killer was waiting for him, or saw him arrive by chance and followed him into the drive on spec. But since he wasn’t robbed, I don’t really buy that.”

  “He could have picked up someone on the way home. Someone who, as soon as he got out of the car, turned on him. Baxter might have run round the back of the house, hoping to slam and bolt the side-gate on his attacker, but not had time.”

  “But again, was it a casual hitch-hiker or an acquaintance? That is, had he arranged to pick someone up?”

  “If he had, he’d probably have mentioned it to his pals. You know ‘Must be getting along, I promised old Geoff I’d pick him up on the corner at eleven-fifteen.’ That kind of thing.”

  “It’s worth asking them, certainly. As to motive, we’ve established it wasn’t robbery, but can we really give credence to the April Rainers’ crimes against humanity’? It’s a bit hard to swallow.”

  “But it has to tie in with the London case. Unpopular victim, the April Rainers, and, as far as we can establish, identical MO.”

  “I agree, but we’ve run it through the computer again, and nothing else has emerged. From what you say, Snow Hill went
all out that case, and came up with zilch. I thought we might have had a break there, but it’s muddied the issue still further. And even if it was the April Rainers, who are they? Baxter might have known them personally without realizing.”

  “On the other hand, it could have been straightforward burglary. Suppose he simply heard a noise and went to investigate?”

  “But whereas an interrupted burglar might well have coshed someone who surprised him — even, in these charming times, have stuck a knife in his ribs — a stocking just doesn’t ring true. He’d want something he could use quickly and then scarper.”

  “OK. Someone was lying in wait for Baxter, with the stocking at the ready. Who?”

  “I wish I knew. The Sandersons have a motive, but they were safely tucked up at their whist party twenty miles away.”

  “Had Mrs. Baxter any gentlemen friends? Anyone who might have set out to avenge her death?”

  “If she had, we should be on to them soon. Partridge and Manning are working on it. In the meantime, all we can do is continue with routine inquiries.”

  “Cheer up, Dave, it’s early days yet,” Crombie said, returning the front legs of his chair to the floor. “Something’s sure to turn up.”

  *

  “You took a risk,” Cynthia said, “phoning during the evening.”

  “Not really. If anyone else answered, I’d have said it was a wrong number.”

  “That’s wearing a bit thin, you know. But I meant your wife. Won’t she hear you?”

  “Ah, that’s the point. Anna’s taken the kids to see her mother and they’re staying overnight. I got out of it by pleading pressure of work. The old bat can’t stand me, anyway.” She heard the smile come into his voice. “I wonder if she’d be gratified to know her worst suspicions are correct? Anyway, here I am, and there you are, both on our own on a Saturday night. Any bright ideas?”

  Cynthia felt her pulses quicken. Her affair with Robert was still a novelty, and the hint of danger added an irresistible fillip. But caution made her hesitate. “I’m not sure what time they’ll be back.”

  “Then you come here. We’ll have the house to ourselves.”

  “Yes, that would be safer. Oh damn — I’ve just remembered — I can’t. There’s a load of manure in the drive and I can’t get my car out.”