Shades of Murder (19 page)

Markby scowled at the scrap of paper bearing this meagre information. ‘Has anyone been out to Fourways?’

‘I believe the coroner’s officer may have gone out there to let the people there – a couple of elderly sisters – know that the police have been called in. I was going to go myself some time today.’

Markby got to his feet and retrieved the Barbour. Struggling into it, he said, ‘I’d better go out there myself, Dave. I know the Oakley sisters. They’re very old and likely to be very distressed. Get on to the Polish Embassy in London, will you, consular department. They ought to be informed that one of their nationals has died. Ask them if they can tell us anything about Oakley. His behaviour after arriving in the country wasn’t all that could be desired and his background may be a little dodgy, too. We’re going to have to check into it all and it isn’t going to be easy.’

‘Right-o,’ said Pearce. ‘It’s going to be a bit awkward for you too, sir, isn’t it?’

‘Dave,’ Markby informed him, ‘you’re proving a master of understatement this morning!’

* * *

The Oakleys had gone into a semblance of mourning when Markby found them. Damaris wore a charcoal-grey skirt and a pale grey jumper. Florence had found a rusty black skirt and teamed it with a purple jumper. They sat side by side on a worn velvet sofa which had once been bright green but had faded now to a golden mossy colour. As a piece of furniture, Markby judged it nearly a hundred years old.

But everything else in the room – apart from a television set which looked out of place – appeared in a time warp. The electric-light fittings seemed to date from the 1930s, to judge by the Bakelite wall switches shaped like plum puddings. There were even the gasmantles from an earlier form of lighting still protruding from the walls. The Oakleys had simply gone on living in the home their parents had bequeathed to them, dusting the same ornaments, taking the time from that same loudly-ticking ormulu clock on the mantelpiece, drawing the faded velvet curtains with tattered linings at night and opening them in the morning.

All this struck Markby with a sharp pang of remembered discomfort. When, as a child, he’d been brought to Fourways, the visits had taken place in this room. He’d found it intimidating, not least because old Mr Oakley had still been alive and present. To the child Alan, the old fellow had appeared a veritable Methuselah. He must, adult Markby made a rapid calculation, have been at least the age his daughters were now, probably well into his eighties. He’d been an invalid and confined to a chair which was placed near the old-fashioned gasfire for warmth. That fire was lit now, but only glimmered at the lowest possible level. All the rooms, Markby knew, had similar gasfires. It was the only form of heating. The fires were lit when a room was occupied and switched off the moment it was left empty. This piecemeal heating did nothing to dispel the clammy atmosphere of the house. He remembered that so well, too.

Old Mr Oakley, despite hogging the fire, always had a brightly-coloured crocheted blanket over his knees. His spine had been bowed so that the first glimpse one had of him was the pink bald top of his head. His hands rested immobile on the arms of the invalid chair, thin, speckled with brown spots, like bird’s talons. As soon as anyone approached him, he would look up from beneath shaggy white brows and that was what Markby remembered most. He remembered, too, the fear that ancient, piercing stare had evoked. There had never been any vestige of warmth in it. No welcome, no humour, no kindliness for a child, only a sullen range at life’s treachery. The personality of the old man had filled this room. Even as a child, Markby had realised that the old man’s will ruled
this house. He fancied there was an oppressive trace of it about the place, even now.

The two women received his condolences without apparent emotion. He went on to explain that at the moment he had taken charge of the inevitable enquiries. At this news, they did show some reaction. They visibly relaxed. Markby’s heart sank. If they thought they were in for an easy time because of this, they were wrong.

‘I should warn you,’ he said, ‘that I may not remain in charge. I, ah, I met your cousin and Meredith met him several times. It puts me in a rather difficult situation.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Damaris. ‘We should naturally like you to be in charge, Alan. We would feel so much more at ease, wouldn’t we, Florence?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Florence. ‘I didn’t see him, you know, before he went to hospital. Damaris told me about it. I’m rather glad I didn’t see him in – in that state. But it meant my sister had to cope alone so, in another way, I wish she’d let me come downstairs.’

‘There was absolutely nothing you could have done, dear,’ her sister comforted her.

Markby cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid I need to ask you some questions. Other police officers will come and ask you the same ones and a lot more. I expect you think it’s not the moment for me to bother you, but unfortunately policework takes no heed of people’s feelings.’

Damaris spoke, her voice firm. ‘We quite understand. You have a job to do and it’s our job to help you. Ask away, Alan.’

‘When did you first learn of the existence of Jan Oakley?’

‘About six months ago,’ Damaris confessed. She glanced at her sister who nodded. ‘We said nothing to anyone. That may seem odd to you but I can explain. You see, he was Grandfather William’s descendant.’

Florence joined the conversation unexpectedly. ‘Our grandfather was a dreadful man, many believed him a murderer. He was charged with the murder of his wife but acquitted.’ Her voice was high and nervous. She leaned forward to emphasise her words and then sat back abruptly, pink-faced, as if she’d been caught in some misdemeanour.

Markby thought sympathetically that to her mind, she had indeed trespassed. She’d spoken to him, an outsider, of the family skeleton in the cupboard. Damaris confirmed this impression.

‘That’s right,’ the elder sister said calmly. ‘It’s hard for anyone nowadays to understand. Grandfather William was expunged from family memory. Nowadays it would be different. I believe the modern expression is to
let it all hang out
. These days, someone like our grandfather would
sell his story to the tabloid press. Well, in our day it was called washing your dirty linen in public and you didn’t do it. Our grandfather was never mentioned in this house. His portrait was hidden away in a box room. We wouldn’t have dared ask about him.’

‘In that case,’ Markby asked them curiously, ‘how did you know about him and his alleged crime?’

‘Other people, not our parents, told us,’ said Damaris simply. ‘Sooner or later someone will always tell you bad news.’

That was true enough, thought Markby. Bad news always travels faster than good. ‘Did Jan invite himself or did you invite him to come?’

‘We certainly didn’t invite him!’ they chimed in indignant unison.

Damaris continued, ‘He simply wrote and said he would come. We wrote back and explained we were both getting on in years. Our household wasn’t arranged to accommodate a young man. We feared it would be inconvenient for all concerned. He took not a bit of notice. He had no manners at all, no consideration for anyone. He just wrote again and said not to worry, he wouldn’t be in the way. Huh!’

‘There was a lot more,’ said Florence, ‘about his roots, whatever he thought they might be, and wanting to see the family home! It wasn’t his family home. It was ours.’

‘So he came here,’ Damaris continued. ‘We had to put him up. We didn’t wish to look prejudiced. Anyway, it was pretty obvious he’d have very little money and we couldn’t afford to pay his hotel bill. It was bad enough having to pay Mrs Forbes for his evening meal. We crossed our fingers and hoped he’d turn out rather better than we feared. Needless to say, our hopes were vain. He turned out to be a thoroughly vulgar sort of person, quite ghastly. Always calling me his dear cousin and talking about seeing the old home. Then there was this business of the will he claimed our grandfather had made. I know Laura has told you about that. He wanted half any money we might get from the house. He had absolutely no right to anything!’ Her eyes flashed with anger.

‘So you didn’t like him and he caused trouble,’ Markby said, heavyhearted. ‘He was a threat.’

‘We disliked him intensely and he was trouble from the moment we first heard about him. However,’ Damaris added with an unexpected note of humour in her voice, ‘we didn’t bump him off.’

Markby passed over this and said, ‘The cause of death appears to be poisoning. At the moment, no one is suggesting it was anything other than accidental. Still, we need to find the source of it. Probably we’ll have to search the house.’

Both his listeners looked stunned.

It was Florence who asked in a shaky voice, ‘What sort of poison, Alan?’

‘We don’t know yet. Dr Painter is still conducting tests. So we ask you not to broadcast the fact for now.’

‘We’re hardly likely to!’ riposted Damaris drily, rallying.

‘Would it be possible to see his room?’ Markby asked her.

‘Of course. I’ll take you up there. It’s the turret room.’

‘I’ll stay here,’ said Florence. ‘I don’t like that room. I never go in there. It’s where our grandmother, poor Cora, died, you know.’

Markby, who’d started to walk to the door, turned in surprise. ‘Cora Oakley? That was her room?’

‘Yes. Some say it’s haunted. It’s certainly always very cold in there. We’ve never seen anything, of course.’

‘Right . . .’ said Markby faintly.

He followed Damaris up the creaking old staircase, taking a good look around him as he did. Juliet Painter had made a shrewd judgement on the saleability of Fourways. It was in a dismal state. Apart from the electrical wiring which would want replacing, he was sure the roof must leak. He sniffed. There might be dry rot. Dust, dampness, decay. He wondered what Jan had thought when he first saw it.

‘Here!’ said Damaris baldly, throwing open a door.

Markby stepped inside. Florence had been right. It was cold in here despite the sunshine outside. A scattering of spent matches in the grate by the gasfire testified to Jan’s efforts to warm the place up. In the centre of the floor was a blue and red Turkey carpet. In the gap between carpet and walls the floor was covered with ancient cracked linoleum. There was a brass bedstead neatly made up, presumably, by Jan himself. There was a chest of drawers, an old-fashioned marble-topped washstand, but no jug or basin, a chair and a large wardrobe designed to house the voluminous garments of another age. A dressing table didn’t match the rest. It was kidney shaped with a cretonne frill in front of it and a 1940s’ Utility look to it. He suspected it had been brought in here from elsewhere in the house for Jan’s benefit. On it, some of the bottles lying on their sides, was a jumble of men’s toiletries. He picked one up and saw it was an expensive brand. Perhaps, after all, Jan had been into black-marketeering in Poland.

Markby turned round. Damaris was standing patiently in the doorway. He gave her an apologetic smile and went to the wardrobe. Inside hung a meagre collection of clothes. He searched briefly through pockets. He
found a Polish passport, an identity card, one of those cheaply printed little paper slips showing a luridly coloured picture of the Virgin and a few lines of prayer in Polish, some loose change and a wallet with English paper money, amounting in all to about sixty pounds. It seemed likely it was all Jan had.

‘Do you mind?’ he asked Damaris. ‘I need to take all this away. I’ll give you a receipt and in due course, you’ll get it back.’

‘We don’t want it. We don’t want any of it,’ she said stonily.

Markby tried the drawers of the chest. In the top left-hand one was Jan’s return air ticket to Poland. Jan had given himself a month to achieve his aims. He probably reckoned that was as long as the sisters would allow him to impose on them. In a stiffened envelope of the sort used to send photographs by mail, he found a sepia portrait of a handsome, moustached gentleman standing with his hand on the shoulder of a well-corseted female whose silk dress couldn’t disguise her peasant ancestry. Her features were coarse, her gaze sharp and bigoted. The man’s gaze both mocked and challenged the photographer. ‘I know what you are thinking,’ it said. ‘But I care nothing for you. I have what I want.’ His stance, hand on shoulder of the woman, held no affection only triumphant possession. Across the corner of the stiff card was stamped, in letters once gilded but now dull brown,
Photographien Hable, Krakau
. Otherwise the drawers held a few items of underclothing and socks. Jan had travelled light. Markby glanced round and located the rucksack described by Meredith, poking out above the carved wooden pediment of the wardrobe. He pulled it down, dislodging a good deal of dust. It was empty but for one of those sealed packets of scented wipes airlines hand out to passengers to clean themselves up.

All in all, these were the belongings of a poor man, yet a man vain enough to want luxury toiletries and spending more on them than he could afford. The whole confirmed what Markby already suspected. Jan hadn’t been any kind of mafioso. Jan had been a man seeking his fortune, a poor man persuaded that he might obtain riches. Or at least, enough money to enable him to return to Poland a good deal better off than when he left it.

Only one thing remained unexplored in the room. That was a curious item. It was a picture, hanging on the wall above the fireplace but covered with an embroidered strip of cloth.

Markby looked at Damaris. ‘May I?’

She nodded. He went to it and pulled the cloth away. The face in the oil painting leapt to view, larger, in full colour, but essentially the same
as the face in the photograph. A sardonic painted gaze met his, set in a handsome, untrustworthy face. The mouth and chin, he thought, were cruel. The sitter could only be one person.

‘Is this a portrait of William Oakley?’

‘That’s him,’ said Damaris. ‘I put it there for Jan. I thought they ought to be together.’ Again an unexpected flicker of amusement. ‘It was the one thing in the entire house which I might have given him. He could have had that, taken it back to Poland, with pleasure.’