The Graveyard Position (18 page)

“You said Caroline was sharper than she seems. I must say that comes as a bit of a surprise.”

She pursed her lips.

“I don't think I said that. But she knows a lot more than she gives on about, hoards of things—knowledge, little scraps of information. I meet her in the supermarket now and then, and we always have a good chat, and I always get a feeling of ‘You'd be surprised what I know.'”

Merlyn considered this.

“She's well disposed towards me, so I could give her another try. Or perhaps someone new would do the trick better. I must say I was a bit afraid she was sizing me up as husband material. She seems to have had a crush on me when we were at school, though at the time she kept it deadly quiet.”

“She keeps everything deadly quiet,” explained Renee. “She's good at hiding things, storing them up. I think it makes her feel powerful, important. And she's got no particular feeling for her mother, by the way. She won't hold things back on her account, I don't think. And the same goes for your friend Edward Fowldes—he was your friend at school, wasn't he?”

“He was my best friend among the Cantelos.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“No, I haven't. I don't quite know why. He was always a quiet, tactful, considerate boy. I suppose I thought Malachi a better bet…and I suppose I felt rather rotten about trying to squeeze things out of someone I once liked.”

“Worth trying, though.”

“Yes, I think you're right. We must have another chat, Renee. There's all sorts of people we haven't really talked about. Young Roderick Massey, for example.”

Those pursed lips came back.

“Never met him. Never heard Clarissa speak of him. Only heard about him from Caroline. I knew his…Paul Cantelo. Flibbertigibbet sort of chap. No backbone.”

“Seems he became some sort of writer, and a teacher in an American university…Now, when could you come and do a day's work in the old house?”

“Pretty much as soon as you like.” She obviously held her diary in her head. “Tomorrow I'd rather not, because Patsy and Sam have their silver wedding, and they're having a do at the Parkside Hotel. What about Thursday?”

“You won't have a hangover?”

“I will not. I wouldn't be so daft. So I'll see you on Thursday. Good-bye for now, Dolly.”

Dolly gave a moderately enthusiastic wag, and signaled that she was ready for another of Merlyn's marathon walks. When the two of them had got through the front door and out of the gate, they started back up Kirkstall View, and every step they took sent a little nerve in Merlyn's brain twitching with a reproach, over and over:

You bloody fool. You forgot. You bloody fool. You forgot.

But it was a long time ago. And when he was at Clarissa's he had had little to do with the other Cantelos. Whatever the reason, he kicked himself for forgetting that interesting little fact: that Caroline's elderly father was a doctor.

 

“I got more out of her than out of any of the family,” said Merlyn to Charlie and Oddie later that day. “Mr. Robinson said to me that I should go for outsiders, and he was right.”

He had taken a bus into town, feeling rather strange, and had gone along to Millgarth Police Headquarters, and was sitting in Oddie's office, with a view over the market and toward the expensive flats in the Calls, the old dockland quarter. How different Leeds was from the town he had known twenty-odd years ago, he thought.

“That may be right up to a point,” said Oddie. “The outsiders will talk more easily. But when it comes down to it, how much will they know? An outsider will have rumor, hearsay, gossip to retail. I heard a lot yesterday from one of Cantelo's fellow businessmen. But in the end you have to go to the heart of the matter in question. And that means getting a reliable, informed story from one of the people at the center.”

“That could only be one of the older Cantelos,” said Merlyn.

“Maybe,” put in Charlie. “We have no reliable evidence of a conspiracy aimed at old Merlyn by his children. Can you blame us that we're concentrating on the person who tampered with your car? That's a definite crime, whether or not it leads us to something else. Can you imagine us ever getting enough evidence to put six or seven Cantelo children or their wives and husbands into the dock charged with—what, parricide? That's pretty much what you're thinking, isn't it?”

“Yes, that's what I've had in mind,” admitted Merlyn.

“With this Marigold's husband as a lynchpin, obediently signing the death certificate?”

“Yes, maybe.”

Charlie's mouth was screwed wryly.

“I'm not saying it's nonsense. I'm just saying we haven't a hope in hell of putting together a case.”

“On the other hand,” said Oddie, “if that is behind the attempt on you, then of course we're interested.”

“You mean that whoever it was tampered with the car probably sees me as the main one who's going into all this, and sees getting rid of me as the main way of putting a stop to the investigation?”

“Yes, basically.”

Merlyn pondered a moment.

“Rosalind came to see you, didn't she? She would know that getting rid of me wouldn't stop you going into all this.”

“That wasn't what we talked about. She was much more interested in talking about you than about the family in general. She tried to convince us that your aunt was afraid of
you,
scared of your violence and what you might do.”

Merlyn looked at them for a moment, then burst out laughing.

“Nice try, Rosalind!”

“Though now I remember it,” Oddie went on, “when we were talking about who could confirm this new slant on things, she was insistent on asking us what we would be asking them.”

“Why do you think that was?”

“Well, conceivably she could prime them on your aunt's supposed fear of you, but she seemed to want to make sure that we were not going into other matters where perhaps she couldn't be so sure of them not giving away things she wanted to have kept hidden: things like the death of your grandfather, for example.”

Merlyn seized on the suggestion.

“If I'm right about that, and if Rosalind knows about it too, there's no reason why other members of her and my generation shouldn't know about it.”

“No reason why they shouldn't, and none why they should.”

“Point taken. But I think it's time to find out.”

“I agree,” said Charlie, who had been taking skeletal notes. “You've talked to Caroline, Rosalind, Roderick Massey, Malachi and Francis Cantelo—who else?”

“No one else of my generation, and Roderick only at a party—the sort of chat I've also had with one or two others: Marigold, Emily, Edward. Edward is one I think I should talk to again, and alone. He's one I'd like to do myself, at any rate first, before you get to him. He was a friend twenty years ago, and this may count for something. I think he is an honorable man, and he might tell me if he knows anything to the purpose.”

“If he's an honorable man and knows something, he should have told us as soon as he found out about it,” Charlie pointed out.

“Not necessarily. He may not
know,
and what he does know may not be criminal, or he may have found it out so long after the event that he thought the time was past when it could be followed up. And of course he may be completely in the dark. But I do think that if the Cantelo parents were getting together, their children ought to have noticed that something out of the ordinary was going on. And from what Renee Osborne told me, Caroline Chaunteley did. So should the rest of them.”

“Why do I get the impression,” asked Charlie, “that you want to talk to Edward because you'd like one of us to talk to Caroline?”

“Because I've already talked to her twice, because she had a crush on me when we were teenagers, and because I find her irritating and a bit embarrassing. But Renee says there's a lot more to her than people generally think. So it's just possible that a new broom might sweep her clean.”

“And a new broom of her generation would be most effective, wouldn't it?” said Oddie cunningly.

“Undoubtedly,” said Merlyn. Charlie sighed.

That evening Merlyn rang Brussels, and told Danielle that he thought things might be coming to a head. He found it enormously refreshing to talk to someone who was intelligent, uncomplicated, and an outsider. He was beginning to get irritated by the Cantelos, and to cast around in his head for the words that best summed them up. He thought what most of them suffered from was congenital inward-looking antagonism.

“I'm getting the impression of a little group of people who weren't united by anything except being of the same family, and otherwise just squabbled with each other, ran each other down, or kept their distance from each other. I suppose the thing it most resembles is a political party.”

“Well, you don't get anything more full of squabbles than a Belgian political party,” said Danielle. “As you know. But these are all people you knew already, aren't they?”

“Some of them. But even when I
knew
them I didn't
understand
them. I was only sixteen at the time, remember.”

“So you've been going around talking to them and finding out what really makes them tick, have you?”

“To some extent. My car was stolen by joyriders, so I'm not very mobile at the moment. But I've talked to the maid, for example—the woman who worked at Congreve Street while I was living there, and for years before and after. It was a view from outside, but very suggestive.”

“I see. Suggestive of what?”

“Well, of the Cantelo family ganging up in an unlikely way.”

“To do what?”

“To protect their interests.”

“I see…. So tell me about your car being stolen.”

It must have been something in his voice when he mentioned it. He had tried to be airy, perhaps tried too hard. He had known Danielle for two years, and she knew when he was lying, or when (more often) he was trying not to tell her something to avoid the need for lying. He took a deep breath.

“I'd better tell you,” he said.

So he told her about the car, the tampered-with brakes, the dead boy. When he had finished, Danielle said, with steel in her voice. “You're coming home. Now.”

They argued back and forth, Danielle threatening to come to Leeds to get him, and in the end Merlyn said:

“I'll get a flight tomorrow week.”

Charlie got out of his car and looked up at the house. Brick and stonedash, with the odd painted beam providing a timid nod to the distant past. The gate from the street was open, and he went through the little apron of front garden to the olive-green painted door. He was about to press the bell when he heard a voice from upstairs.

“If you aren't well enough to go to school, you certainly aren't well enough to go swimming or skating. You can stay in bed till lunchtime, and then we'll see if you're well enough to come with me to the shops.”

Charlie had had a vivid thumbnail sketch of Caroline Chaunteley from Merlyn, and the voice he heard didn't correspond with it. As he pressed the doorbell he heard a door shut inside, then steps coming rapidly down the stairs.

“Caroline Chaunteley?” he said to the face at the door.

“Yes. But I never buy—”

“And I never sell. You're very wise. It's always rubbish if it's sold at the door, and if it isn't it's something you don't want. But I'm not selling anything, as I say. I'm a police officer.”

“Oh! I don't see why you—”

“Do you think I could come in?” Charlie asked, smiling his most innocent and beguiling grin. “It's about your cousin Merlyn Docherty, and it's a little bit private.”

“Oh yes, then,” Caroline began, and then turned into the hall. “He's such a nice man, and I don't see why…”

“Don't see why what?” asked Charlie, following her through into the lounge.

“Everyone has been so beastly to him. Well, not…”

“Not everyone? Who, then, mainly?”

“Well, Rosalind. And Emily. They're one of my cousins and one of my aunts. And my mother hasn't been particularly nice. She
seems
nice, but—”

“Not nice, really?”

“Horrid, sometimes. Oh, I shouldn't—”

Charlie held up his hand, as if he were directing traffic.

“I hope you'll be quite open with me, and tell me honestly what you think or feel. Will you do that? This could be a case of murder.”

“Murder! Surely—”

“A young man died after he went joyriding in Mr. Docherty's car. It had been tampered with.”

“But wasn't it an old car? I mean, brakes on old cars—”

“Tampered with. Not worn down, but deliberately made a danger to the driver. No one could have known that the car would be taken by joyriders. So the question arises: Why would anyone want to kill your cousin Merlyn?”

“I can't think of anyone.”

“You just mentioned several people who had been beastly to him.”

Caroline's eyes widened.

“Yes, but I mean
beastly.
It's just words, isn't it? I mean, it's not—”

“Murder. No, beastly is not murder.” They were sitting down now, Charlie in a large comfortable chair beside the empty grate, Caroline on the farthest cushion of the sofa. Charlie bent forward.

“Mrs. Chaunteley, I heard you just now talking to your child—daughter, is it? I have a daughter, much younger—not yet at school. I heard you, and you can talk to your child in proper sentences, forcefully, sensibly. I think you could talk to me like that if you tried, and if you could it would give me a much better idea of what you know. I think you do know something, and something important too. Why don't you close your eyes and imagine that I'm a child—an intelligent child who wants answers to his questions, and thinks you have some of them. Could you try that?”

“I—I don't know. I could try.”

“So, close them…Now, tell me how this habit of not finishing sentences, leaving people to guess your meaning, came about. Did it start when you were a child?”

She swallowed, thought, and then gave a coherent, finished answer.

“Yes. It sort of grew, but I knew what I was doing. My parents loved each other, but didn't much care for me. I think I was an encumbrance, or if not that at least an irrelevance. Quite young I realized that they, and particularly my mother, had decided that I was stupid. And I found that, with that view of me, they often said things in front of me that they shouldn't—and
wouldn't
—have, if they'd thought me quick and bright.”

“So it suited you to confirm them in this impression?”

She left a pause, as if wondering whether to strip off one more garment, then said, “Yes.”

“Because you liked hearing things that they thought would pass completely over your head?”

“Yes.” She was keeping her eyes tightly closed, and sometimes screwing up her face. “And often they did. Pass over my head, I mean. But I would remember those puzzling remarks later on—sometimes years later—and then they would make sense, because by then I'd gained the knowledge of the world that could explain them.”

“What sort of things did you learn?”

“I learned that I was not a wanted child, at least as far as my mother was concerned. My father had insisted that I was not to be aborted. He was a widower, and his previous marriage was childless, and he didn't want another the same. But he was always extra-attentive to my mother, to show her she had not been replaced by me in his affections. To me he was loving, but only when we were alone.”

“That must have been hurtful.”

“Yes, it was.”

“I want to turn now to the time when your Grandfather Cantelo died. Do you remember?”

“Oh yes.”

“Why do you say that so confidently?”

There was quite a long silence. Since her eyes were still closed it was as if she were asleep.

“Because Grandfather's death was the most extraordinary thing that ever happened to me. I mean, really the most extraordinary thing I ever overheard.”

“You overheard a lot?”

A secretive smile spread over her face.

“I always enjoyed listening, though if it was just Mother and Father there wasn't much of interest, and they
never
talked about me. But this was different—for a start because there were so many people there.”

“A sort of party? Or a conference? Tell me about it.”

“I was told in advance that there were a lot of people coming to the house—that was a couple of hours before they arrived, though in fact it must have been organized days in advance. I think they didn't want to arouse my curiosity. I was told to go to bed early. I was twelve, well past the age of being sent to bed, or so I thought, but I didn't make a fuss. It was convenient that they thought I was a little mouse who always did as she was told. My room looked out over the front of the house, so I saw everyone arrive.”

“And who was that?”

“Aunt Emily and her husband, Uncle Hugh and Auntie Joan, Uncle Paul on his own, Auntie Edie, Malachi and Francis's mother, and Merlyn's father.”

“Merlyn's father? Jake Docherty?”

“Yes. He was the only one I didn't know at all.”

“How did you know it was him, then?”

“Because they called him Jake later. I'll tell you.”

“Go on, then.”

“Well, I left it a long time before I went down. I was sure Aunt Clarissa would be coming, and perhaps Uncle Gerald too, though I knew nobody in the family wanted to have much to do with him, and I thought Auntie Edie was there instead. But I felt sure Aunt Clarissa would come, because it seemed to be some kind of family council, some crisis meeting or peace conference. But she didn't come, so eventually I went down.”

“Where were they meeting?”

“In the dining room. Nice long table for them to sit around. There was a wardrobe in the hall just beside the door, but I couldn't hide in it because it was September, and a lot of people had coats on when they arrived, which were put in there. I didn't want to be found among the coats and scarves, so I just stood by the door into the dining room and hoped I'd be able to scuttle into the kitchen if any of them got up to go. The floor in the dining room was parquet, so if someone just got up to go to the toilet I would be able to hear quite well.”

“You'd got it all worked out, hadn't you?”

“Oh, I had. Father sometimes had ‘good, long talks' with his better-off patients in the dining room. I used to listen to those if mother was out of the way. That's where I first learned what venereal disease was.”

“You went in for self-education, I can see that.”

Caroline giggled. She was now very relaxed, and had opened her eyes.

“Anyway, when I got down to the hall and had taken up position, they were discussing Clarissa. ‘Clarissa is out of it,' I heard my father say. ‘That's beyond question.' There were one or two mutters of agreement, but then Uncle Hugh came in: ‘I don't see why. Her interests are threatened as much as any of our interests.' But Auntie Edie came in at that point: ‘She'd be the first to be suspected—inheriting the house, and having nursed and suffered all his rages and awfulness all this time.' Then Uncle Hugh came back: ‘But if we do go in for some kind of ballot, we could fix it so that it's not her. Then we could make sure she was somewhere she could be vouched for. That way she'd be inside the tent pissing out, not outside pissing in.' Aunt Emily said: ‘Don't be crude, Hugh.' And he just muttered: ‘We'd have less to fear—that's the main thing.'”

“So they talked of some kind of ballot, did they?” asked Charlie. “You're sure?”

“Quite sure. It's not something anyone would forget! It was bizarre. Anyway, my father asked: ‘When did you last talk to Clarissa, Hugh?' ‘Good Lord, I've no idea. I haven't
really
talked to her for years.' ‘Then I can assure you,' my father said, ‘that there is no way—
no way
—that she would go along with this. If we broached it to her she would go straight along to the police and spill the beans. End of plan. End of discussion. We have to set a time when she's fully occupied anyway, and get plenty of outside witnesses, not just family. That's the only way to make sure that she's out of it altogether.'”

“Interesting,” said Charlie.

“Then they started talking about how ‘it' was to be done. They never used any specific word for what it was. My father said the best way was probably a pillow covered with polythene. He said ‘it'—the method—was quite difficult to spot at the best of times, and the polythene made it still more so. ‘Not that the doctor will be looking all that closely,' he said, and there was a nervous little laugh from somebody. It made my blood run cold. No name had been mentioned, you see, for the victim. For a moment I thought they might be talking about me! It must have been a case of the unloved child, feeling everyone could have dispensed with their existence. I think I even started across the hall in terror. Then I remembered how they'd talked about Aunt Clarissa inheriting and having nursed him. There was only one person Aunt Clarissa could inherit from. So I crept back, knowing they were planning to kill Grandfather.”

“It must have been terrifying for you,” said Charlie.

“Relief more like!” Caroline said, giggling. “Well, I suppose it was terrifying as well, to know I had a family full of potential murderers. But when I knew it was Grandfather Cantelo, I don't think I felt shocked or anything. I didn't like Grandfather, I didn't like going to visit him, and I didn't like the way he talked to me, or touched me. I only went to Congreve Street when I knew Clarissa would be there as well. I think she thought I was stupid, as everyone else does, but she was always kind.”

“So you went back and listened at the door?”

“Yes, for a while. They were back on to Clarissa. They thought they couldn't just rely on her going to whatever she had on, on the night ‘it' was going to be done. Someone had to go with her. It was Aunt Edie who volunteered. I didn't really know the voice, because everyone avoided Gerald Cantelo, but hers was the only woman's voice I wasn't certain of. She said she would not have the strength or the courage to do it, but this way she could play her part. Clarissa knew she was interested in the spiritualist case, and she'd like to go along to one of her séances. That was agreed, and Edie said she'd drive her there. Clarissa always felt that driving herself to a session dissipated her spiritual energies just when she needed them most. What a lot of nonsense it all was! So Edie said she felt sure Clarissa would accept the offer of a lift, and once she was at the séance or meeting or whatever it was, she would phone my mother, who would ring round to all the others in the group. That was when I realized,” she added, looking straight at Charlie.

“What did you realize?”

“That no one was to know who had drawn the straw that marked them out as the murderer. My mother would have to ring round all of them to tell them that Clarissa was out of the way, and only that way could she be sure of speaking to the one who was going to do the job.”

Charlie thought hard.

“It makes sense. Then none of them—or only one of them—could break under questioning. No one would know who actually did it except the one who did.”