After Clare (29 page)

‘In my experience, morality has little to do with it when it comes to money,' Novak remarked.

‘Be that as it may, I forbade him to do any such thing. For the reasons I've given – and for another. I had no idea what sort of person Lady Fitzallan was. I still don't – I've never met her.'

‘It didn't occur to you to make yourself known to her – relieve her of the anxiety about her sister? It's preyed on her mind all these years, you know.'

‘How could I have known that?' Edmund knew he sounded stiff-necked, with the same sort of stubbornness his mother had shown all her life, though he had had a deeper reason for avoiding Emily Fitzallan: he was afraid of awakening memories and perhaps having to defend what Clare had done. He said, ‘She found that letter, you say. Does she – does she know who I am?'

‘After finding it, I'm sure she has accepted the reason for her sister's disappearance was because she was having a child by Christian Gautier. How much else she has deduced, I don't know. But I suspect you won't come as a great shock to her. Lady Fitzallan is a very astute woman. And I would think it very likely,' he ventured, albeit with the air of a man who feels himself on shaky ground, ‘that she would like to meet you.'

A variety of emotions chased each other through Edmund. At last, he sighed. ‘Well, it was Peter's wish we should meet, so for his sake I will see her, if only to let her know I am not seeking to claim anything from her.'

Driving home that evening, when they reached the junction where the road sign indicated North, Gerald Markham's chauffeur suddenly made an exclamation of annoyance and put on his brakes. Traffic and milling crowds blocked the road ahead, with no possible chance of getting through, while the automobiles, carts and vans already piling up behind them prevented any possibility of turning back to find another route. ‘Another demonstration, looks like,' he remarked, switching off the engine. ‘Nothing to do but wait, Mr Gerald.' He sat back, arms folded in resignation.

Gerald, not resigned at all, thought of the tiresome dinner party he and Stella were due to attend that evening. If he was late, Stella would not be pleased. ‘Where are the police? They should be keeping it under control.'

‘It's a women's demonstration – garment workers, by the look of the banners, Mr Gerald. The coppers are sympathizing, shouldn't wonder. Out on strike theirselves not so long since, weren't they?'

‘What's the world coming to, Deegan?' Strikes and lockouts, was there no end to it? There had even been trouble down at one of the printing works that employed only old, trusted craftsmen, last month.

‘It's the war. Stirred something up in everybody. Jack was as good as his master in the trenches, so why not out of it?'

‘Why not, indeed?' They both knew it was no more true now than it had been then, but it was reassuring to pretend. ‘But I wish they hadn't chosen to try and prove it just here.'

Normally, Gerald enjoyed these little exchanges with his father's old chauffeur, and thought Deegan did, too. ‘Chip off the old block you are, Mr Gerald. Just like your father,' the older man often said, an idea Gerald had liked, and quite agreed with. Until the bombshell the old man had exploded last night. Gerald couldn't imagine himself even contemplating what Hugh was proposing to do. Not even at his father's age, with nothing to lose, as Hugh put it. Up sticks and off to Madeira – with Emily Fitzallan! Both of them prepared to leave England on a permanent basis, though with the caveat that since the Peregrine Press had been Hugh's whole existence, he was not about to relinquish his interest entirely. He had promised he would come over at least once a year for board meetings. The surprise to Gerald was that Emily, with her evident passion for the old place, was prepared to leave Leysmorton again. He hoped they were not making a mistake, but his own cautious nature told him that they might be.

But then he grinned as pure pleasure shot through him, imagining what Stronglove's reaction would be to the other piece of news Emily had confided, that she was changing her will. Not that she was cutting Stronglove out entirely. She would, she announced, see he was well provided for, but she wanted to see continuity, to see Leysmorton House go to someone who would love it and its garden as she did. When Gerald, stunned, had at last taken in the astonishing fact that she proposed to leave Leysmorton, eventually, to Rosie –
to his daughter, Rosie
! – the idea had pleased as much as it had astonished him. He rejoiced for Rosie's sake, of course – but the thought of Stronglove out of his life filled him with unalloyed delight.

People thought Gerald a soft touch. They underestimated him, which was foolish, but that was how he liked it. He knew when to act, and wasn't afraid to do so when necessary, though in his own time and then not openly. He preferred to work behind the scenes. He had done what he had to do once before, in the case of Peter Sholto, and saw no reason to regret it.

But now, without the need for Gerald having to do anything about it himself, the Stronglove situation might be solved.

When at last they drove into Netherley, he checked his watch yet again. Still time for a quick one before dressing. Hopes of that vanished, however, when he reached Steadings and found that inspector chap who was investigating the Peter Sholto business sitting on a chair in the hall. Stella was nowhere to be seen.

‘I was hoping to see Miss Markham,' Novak said, ‘but I'm told she's out riding, expected back shortly, I understand, so I thought I'd wait.'

‘Oh, she'll be out giving young Drummond his lesson. She's teaching him to ride – which I suppose is safer than that motorcycle contraption of his!' her father said easily. ‘Hello, Alice, old girl!' He bent to pat the fat old spaniel who had appeared and now flopped down at his feet.

Novak had in fact known Rosie would not be at home and had timed his visit precisely to accommodate this. He hadn't been able to come up with a better way of meeting Gerald Markham without making an appointment, which he didn't wish to do, but the times of Mr Markham's regular departures from home for his office, and his return, were open knowledge to everyone in the village. As it was, he was uncharacteristically late, and Novak had had to hang around here, hoping Rosie would not return before her father did. ‘Just a small question to ask her,' he murmured, hoping he wouldn't have to say what it was.

‘Well, I'm sorry you've missed her.' Gerald hid his irritation with a smile. ‘I'm afraid we are dining out and I'm already behind time, so if you'll excuse me . . .' He had the look of a man who regularly wined and dined well. An affable, genial fellow, with a rubicund, outdoors sort of face, slightly incongruous somehow with his smart city clothes. ‘But I shouldn't advise waiting for Rosie. Time is expandable, when she's out riding.'

‘Well, I dare say I can see her tomorrow.'

Her father nodded, but the smile became less warm. ‘Inspector, I know you've your job to do, but I really don't appreciate this hounding of my daughter.'

Novak's brows rose. ‘I'm sorry you see it as hounding, sir. Miss Markham has been very willing to help us in our enquiries so far. Very helpful.'

‘What has she been saying?' Quick colour mounted, over and above his natural freshness. ‘What has she – in fact, to be blunt, what have any of us – to do with this business of yours?'

‘You all knew the victim, sir,' Novak pointed out mildly. ‘Your children in particular. He was a visitor to your house.'

‘The victim,' Markham repeated. Suddenly he looked sadder, and older. ‘Yes, Peter was David's friend . . . what an end, what a waste. At least my son died for his country.'

There was a moment of silence. ‘What would you say if I told you Peter Sholto probably died because he was blackmailing someone?'

‘Blackmail? Peter?' He stared at Novak, then he said abruptly, ‘Look here, I need a snifter. Been a long day. Would you like one?' Novak thanked him but waved the offer away. ‘Well, come in here while I have mine.' He entered a door to one side of the hall, leaving Novak to follow him into a masculine study with sporting prints and team photographs adorning the walls. The old spaniel padded behind them and collapsed in a heap on the hearth rug, her big, soulful eyes watching their every move. It was dim in the room but Markham made no attempt to switch on a lamp as he crossed to a side table and poured himself a substantial measure, lit a cigarette and stood in front of the fireless grate. He did not invite Novak to sit, the implication being that the talk should be brief.

‘Who, then, was he blackmailing?' he enquired at last.

‘I'm not at liberty to say, sir. But do I need to? Don't you already know?'

Markham's knuckles were white as he gripped the glass. He was white around his mouth, too, and there was a dangerous glint in his eye. Novak understood what Rosie had meant when she'd said she didn't want to be around when her father lost his temper. Gerald said, ‘I don't think I understand what you are saying.'

‘We have reason to believe Peter Sholto might have been blackmailing your wife, sir.'

‘That's an outrageous suggestion!'

Novak didn't rise to this. ‘Did you send a letter to Peter Sholto just before he disappeared?'

The reaction was not what he expected. Markham suddenly subsided into one of the leather chairs and waved Novak to the opposite one. ‘Perhaps you'd better sit down.' He gulped at his drink and said, tiredly, ‘All right, I don't know how you know, but yes, I did write to him. I'd heard he was due to be demobbed and I wrote and told him that I wanted to see him as soon as he arrived back in Netherley.'

‘Presumably you wanted to talk to him about the blackmail?'

‘About that, yes . . . you're quite right, he
had
been obtaining money from my wife, I'm afraid. He didn't answer my letter. Then weeks later, out of the blue, he telephoned me – calling from Leysmorton. I was astonished – stunned! I knew the place was locked up, though I'd no doubt he knew how to get in. He said we should have that talk I wanted right there and then, he would wait for me to go over. It was just before dinner, and after some hesitation, I agreed. He was waiting outside the door when I reached Leysmorton and we said what we had to say out there.'

‘Why outside?'

‘There were lights on in the house, but as he didn't make any move for us to go inside, I suspected he had someone else there with him. I was glad enough to keep our conversation to ourselves, however, without anyone else overhearing.'

‘Go on.'

‘I called his bluff and told him his sordid little game was over. That I knew what it was all about, that the affair was finished and he could say goodbye to any more money from Stella – or from Stronglove. He said if that was all I wanted to see him about I needn't have bothered, all that was an irrelevance now, he'd have all the money he wanted soon enough. I'd no idea what he was talking about. I could only assume he meant blackmail money from other poor fools.'

‘How long had you known about your wife and Stronglove?'

‘Oh,' he said tiredly, ‘I suspected before the war. I happen to love my wife, in spite of everything, and I care about my family, so I said nothing, hoping it would blow itself out, like Stronglove's other affairs. I had no idea that Stella was being blackmailed, though, until I discovered a valuable piece of jewellery I had given her had been sold, despite her very generous allowance. I said nothing to her, but I was able to work out what had happened for myself. I had never liked Peter Sholto, I thought him crafty, and something about the way Stella had always reacted to him made me put two and two together. But then the war put a stop to it. Both he and Stronglove went away and I thought that was the last of it. Until, when peace came, I heard Stronglove was planning to return to Leysmorton. Peter, of course, would be demobbed and would also be coming home, and I was afraid the whole business would start up again. That was why I wrote to him. When I saw him, I told him to his face that his nasty little scheme had gone flat and warned him to keep his nose out of my wife's affairs in future, or I'd let the police know what was happening.'

‘What did he say to that?'

‘He laughed.' Markham had grown taut with anger. ‘He said, “No, you won't do that, I think. Too much risk of all your fancy friends getting to know. A slur on your precious family name. Sniggers behind your back whenever you—”' He passed a hand across his face, as if to wipe away a distasteful memory. ‘Well, he was going on to say a lot more, but I didn't stay to hear . . . I turned my back on him and left him standing where he was.'

‘You're sure you didn't threaten him further?'

‘What would have been the use, with someone like that? I simply left him and came home.' With an effort he prised himself from his chair. ‘It's not a particularly elevating story – but now, if that's all . . .'

‘Before I go – this all happened on the seventeenth of March, did it not?'

He looked puzzled. ‘I don't remember the exact date.'

‘That was the day Peter Sholto absented himself from his unit.'

‘Then I suppose it might have been.'

‘Did you send him a second letter?'

‘No'

‘What did you think when you heard that he had apparently been killed at least six months earlier, just before the war ended? When you had actually seen and talked to him a few days previously?'

For a moment he said nothing. ‘I'll tell you what I thought. I knew it wasn't true, of course, but as far as I was concerned it couldn't have been better news. If he was supposed to be dead, he couldn't bother us any more. If he wasn't, the same thing applied. And now, Inspector, I'll leave you to find out which of his enemies dealt with him.'