A Fête Worse Than Death (19 page)

Haldean nodded. ‘Yes. I can't say she was any too happy, but I told her I had no choice. By that time she was so grateful to me for helping her out with what could have been a very nasty situation at home, what with Isabelle's pendant and Uncle Philip's cigarette case and everything, she more or less had to take it. And . . . And . . .' He took his pipe out of his mouth and inspected the glowing bowl with meticulous care, avoiding Ashley's eyes.

‘And what?'

‘And I told her that it would be all right.' He looked up, ill at ease. ‘She's not guilty, Ashley. Obviously you'll have to talk to her. I told her that you'd have to talk to her, but she's not guilty.'

‘Have you told her she's a murder suspect?' said Ashley in a dangerous voice.

‘Of course I haven't! Give me some credit. I didn't say a damn thing about it.'

Ashley relaxed. ‘Good for you. For a horrible moment I thought you'd warned her exactly what we had in mind.'

‘But I haven't got it in mind,' said Haldean plaintively. ‘Not now. She's innocent, Ashley. Look, last night was awful. I'd convinced myself that Tyburn's child was the one we were looking for and here was the child in question, popping up at me like the Demon King. She didn't exactly say, “Yoo-hoo, it's me,” but she might as well have done. And the more she talked the more obvious it became that she didn't have a clue about the murders. She really didn't, you know. Unless she's a brilliant actress, I'd say she was innocent.'

Ashley looked at him appraisingly. ‘Would you? Without any lingering doubts?'

Haldean remained silent. He had been battling this thought since last night. Yes, Marguerite was innocent. That's what he wanted to believe. However, there was a niggle of dissatisfaction that wouldn't go away. She was single-minded. She was obsessive, to put it bluntly. Boscombe and Morton had threatened to come between her and Richard Whitfield, and Boscombe and Morton were dead. She was also, God help him, a traitor's daughter. He was trying very hard not to let that count.

Ashley nodded. ‘Yes, I thought that was the size of it.' He drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘Marguerite Vayle, eh?'

‘She acted exactly as you'd expect an innocent person to act,' said Haldean doggedly, forcing down his doubts.

Ashley shrugged. ‘So she's a brilliant actress. Why shouldn't she be? Brilliant actresses do exist and they're not all on stage. By her own admission she was being blackmailed by Boscombe. We were looking for someone who was being blackmailed by Boscombe, remember? She's certainly a thief.'

‘She was a terrified girl. And she owned up.'

‘She
says
she was terrified. Brilliant actress, remember? And she didn't actually own up until you accused her, did she?'

‘No,' said Haldean unhappily.

‘What's more, it was you who floated the idea of it being Tyburn's child we were looking for.' He gave Haldean a long look. ‘I'll grant you that was before you knew who the child was. Does that really change things so much?'

Haldean pushed his chair back and walked round the room impatiently, eventually pausing with one arm on a filing cabinet. ‘No.' His voice was bitter. ‘No, as far as the evidence is concerned it doesn't change a thing. And, to be honest, I don't know why I'm so upset about it. I certainly haven't got any tender feelings for her or anything like that.' Marguerite was helpless. Hopeless, Isabelle would say. He felt she'd been trapped and he wanted to help. That was it. But an animal caught in a trap could bite . . . ‘Damn it, I don't know.' He clenched his fist, which was better than smacking it down on top of the cabinet. ‘It's just that . . . Well, I think she's had a rotten hard time of it, Ashley. Oh, I don't mean she's been ill treated or anything, but ever since the Vayles died she's been farmed out from one place to another. She doesn't belong anywhere and now, now that she's looking forward to marriage and so on, with a home of her own, she felt it was all being taken away.'

‘Chivalry,' said Ashley. ‘You're suffering from chivalry.'

‘Nonsense,' said Haldean shortly.

‘It's not nonsense,' insisted Ashley. ‘I've got it pegged now. That's how you feel. That and a strong dash of pity. It doesn't lead to an objective mind.'

And he was right. Honesty compelled him to meet Ashley's eyes. ‘I don't suppose it damn well does, no. Why the blazes shouldn't I feel sorry for her?'

‘Because it gets in the way.'

Haldean took a deep breath and linked his fingers together, staring at his palms. ‘Let's go back to Boscombe and Morton. We know they started putting the squeeze on in October. But Miss Vayle didn't hear from Boscombe until January.'

‘So she says.'

‘So she says, yes. And I don't know how much our precious pair were getting, but it's more than she could have possibly given them.'

‘Is it? She might have been taking things from other places than Hesperus, you know. She was obviously a fairly accomplished thief.'

‘But why should she kill Morton? It was Boscombe she felt threatened by.'

Ashley leaned back in his chair with a short laugh. ‘Your prejudices are showing. All Boscombe would have needed to say to Miss Vayle was that he wasn't the only person who knew the truth because his pal Morton was in on it as well. So she sees off Boscombe in a fit of desperation and kills Morton as well to make things nice and tidy. The diary's in his room, so she swipes that as well. Look, Haldean, if the evidence fits, then the evidence fits, no matter how sorry you feel for her. And don't you think there's at least the possibility she could have seen off both Boscombe and Morton? I don't know her well, but she seems a secretive type, the sort who bottles everything up. At a guess, that's exactly the sort of person who does strike out.'

Caught in a trap. Ashley had seen it too. Reluctantly, Haldean nodded in acknowledgement.

‘She was frightened and she was desperate,' said Ashley, pressing his point home. ‘I think she could have been pushed over the edge.'

Haldean looked up. ‘Don't forget Greg and I were standing outside the tent.' His voice was tired. ‘Neither of us saw her anywhere near the fortune teller's.'

‘If she was just about to murder Boscombe she wouldn't advertise the fact she was there, would she? How about Morton's murder on Saturday night? We've pinned that down to quarter past seven. D'you know what she was up to then?'

‘I didn't see her,' said Haldean, slowly. ‘Gregory, Belle and I had gone for a walk by the river so I wasn't actually in the house, but I don't think she was around.' Where on earth had Marguerite been? ‘Hang on. When we got back from the fête Marguerite was looking a bit white around the gills and said she still had a headache. She went up to her room to lie down before dinner. That's it. I remember, now. She looked washed out.'

‘So when did you or anyone else actually see her again?'

‘At dinner. We didn't bother to dress as it was very informal. It was more of a cold supper, actually That was about quarter past eight. Her maid would have woken her sooner, at eight o'clock or thereabouts. But she couldn't have walked all the way to Breedenbrook and back in that time and I know she doesn't drive.'

‘There are such things in this world as bicycles though, aren't there?'

‘Yes, there are, damn it. She's a fairly keen cyclist, too. Oh, hell. That would be possible.' It was beginning to be far too possible for comfort. Haldean made another throw. ‘Look, Ashley, I can see you putting it all together and to be honest it sounds horribly convincing.'

‘Principally because you pointed the way last night.'

‘I know, I know. But there was something else I said last night. Admittedly I didn't make much of it, but there is a chance that Tyburn himself may still be alive. After all, I told you what Boscombe said to Marguerite. What d'you think of that idea?'

‘What do you? Honestly.'

‘Damn!' Haldean stuck his hands in his pockets and leaned against the wall. ‘You weren't meant to say that, you know,' he said with the beginnings of a smile. All right. Let Ashley argue the case. Let's see where the dangers lie. ‘I was going to outline the case for Tyburn's existence with as much dazzling wit and relentless logic as I could summon to my aid and now you've punctured my balloon.'

Ashley grinned. ‘I didn't want to play. Go on, though. Say your piece.'

‘The trouble is that I can't think of much to say.' Haldean scratched his head. ‘Yes, Tyburn could be alive. Yes, Boscombe could have known that.'

‘Could he?'

‘Oh yes.' And that was true enough. ‘He could have come across him and, for all we actually know, Petrie's diary might have a clue to where Tyburn is now.'

‘The diary of a man who was taken prisoner in 1916 and spent the rest of his life in and out of sanatoriums for TB? How could he know anything about it?'

Haldean wrinkled his nose. ‘I don't suppose he could, unless Tyburn landed up in hospital with him. But if the diary did say that, I don't suppose Morton would have let Edith Sheldon anywhere near it.' That wasn't going anywhere. ‘No, scrub that idea. It won't wash. But if Boscombe ran into him that would be different. He would have known Tyburn because he served with him. As a matter of fact, he'd be one of the few people who knew him in the war who would recognize him. The battalion took an awful battering on the Somme and we'd be hard pressed to find anyone else who's alive and could identify him, especially if he's changed his appearance by growing a beard or something. Actually . . .' He stopped. ‘Sorry, Ashley. That doesn't make sense. We'd worked out that Boscombe and Morton had to pool their information to make anything of it. If Boscombe had merely seen Tyburn he wouldn't need Morton. He'd go into business on his own account.'

‘That's what you said last night,' agreed Ashley. ‘I think you're on the right lines there. But coming back to this identification business. Would Colonel Whitfield, for instance, recognize him?'

Haldean shrugged. ‘Blessed if I know. I suppose you could ask him. If nothing else it'd make the Chief Constable think you'd followed his advice and asked for Whitfield's help. Mr Lawrence would recognize him, but he's certain Tyburn's kicked the bucket because otherwise he's sure Tyburn would have asked him to help.'

Ashley thoughtfully tamped down the tobacco in the bowl of his pipe with his thumb. ‘So what it boils down to is this. That Boscombe, an acknowledged blackmailer, who was in the process of screwing more money out of Marguerite Vayle on the strength of who she was, frightened her silly by telling her that her father was still alive. Is that it?'

‘Yes,' said Haldean reluctantly. ‘It is.'

Ashley scratched his chin. ‘Convinced?'

‘No. Happy?'

Ashley shrugged. ‘I'm not happy or unhappy. I'm just making a point, that's all. And the point I would like to make is that whether you like it or not, she does have a motive for wanting Boscombe dead. And Morton.'

Haldean ruffled a hand through his hair, leaving it in a spiky quiff. ‘Oh, to hell with it. Yes, she has a motive. I presume she has the means and I suppose she had the opportunity. Yes, she could have done it. Why shouldn't she murder Boscombe? I'd have murdered him myself if I'd spent much longer with the little sweep. I fancy a drink.' He stood up and took his jacket from the peg. ‘Do you want to see Colonel Whitfield today? He said he was going to take Miss Vayle back home. We've got a bunfight at Mrs Verrity's tonight so she can't stay out all afternoon. Why don't we have some lunch at the pub and go on to Hesperus afterwards? All shop talk forbidden.'

‘Good idea,' said Ashley, rising to his feet. ‘Look, Haldean, I know you find it tough to imagine a young girl like Miss Vayle being involved, but I'll have to question her again. In light of what you've told me, I haven't any choice. But I do think your sympathy might be misplaced.'

Haldean shrugged his jacket on. ‘I can only hope it isn't. Come on.'

‘Hold on a minute. All that stuff about Tyburn was nothing but a smokescreen. Despite how she acted and despite what you said, you think she could be guilty, don't you? Why?'

Haldean didn't say anything for a few moments. He seemed to be concentrating on buttoning his jacket. Then he raised his head, meeting Ashley's gaze reluctantly but squarely. ‘All right. Marguerite's character's against her. She's intense. She's crackers about Whitfield and I believe would do nearly anything to marry him. She's passionate about things but keeps it all screwed down inside. You said so, and you're right. It's very hard to know what she's thinking. She fits a possibility I outlined last night. Yes, Ashley, I was flying a kite when I mentioned Tyburn, yes, Ashley, I believe she could have done it and yes, Ashley, I didn't want to say so. Does that make you feel any happier?'

‘Not really,' said Ashley, picking up his hat. ‘I've got feelings too.'

Lady Rivers looked round the brilliantly lit, noisy ballroom, sipped her champagne and sighed. It was a wonderful ball.
Who cares about money
, sang the vocalist with the dance band,
when love is free. I care about you, baby, it's enough for me
.

From the look of the ballroom
Who cares about money
seemed to be not so much an appropriate sentiment as an unnecessary one. The bright colours of the dresses spun and mingled on the dance floor, punctuated by the black-and-white of the men, with the occasional scarlet exclamation mark of a dress uniform. The light from the chandeliers refracted and shone from the polished wood floor – a properly sprung floor which was a pleasure to dance on – from the glasses of champagne hurried clinking past on silver trays by the waiters and most of all from the decorations of the men and the jewels of the women. It was wonderful, but . . . She was trying to put her finger on what it actually was that made the ballroom at Thackenhurst look so, well,
ravishing.
She sighed again. It was not a contented noise.