A Fête Worse Than Death (14 page)

Ashley was aghast. ‘You mean to tell me that a serving British officer betrayed his men?'

Haldean nodded. ‘Not only his men, but the whole army. He was a dangerous man.'

Ashley was quiet for a few moments. ‘I hope someone got hold of him. My God, he should have been hanged. To think that while our lads were being blown to bits someone was giving the Germans the information they needed to help them do it. I . . . I . . .' Ashley stopped, unable to find the words. ‘It's no use,' he said eventually. ‘An enemy soldier is just that; a soldier. You know where you are but this swine . . .' Ashley stopped once more. ‘Hold on. If he was ahead of Boscombe in the tunnels he must have been killed. It's a damn shame he was never brought to justice. He deserved it.'

‘He wasn't killed,' said Haldean quietly.

‘What?'

‘He wasn't killed. Not in the attack, at any rate. We had spies too, and got the news back that Tyburn had been lightly wounded and taken prisoner.'

‘I wish I'd been in the same camp,' said Ashley grimly. ‘Are you sure about that?'

‘It was confirmed by the Red Cross. He wasn't a prisoner for long, though. The records do say that but they don't say what happened to him.'

‘It doesn't take much to work it out, does it? The Germans must've looked after him.'

‘So I thought,' agreed Haldean. ‘Presumably it took the enemy a little while to confirm who he was and then I imagine they arranged for him to change his identity. As far as we know he simply vanishes from the records.'

Ashley looked at him thoughtfully. ‘So we've got a traitor, a traitor who got off scot-free while his men died in the tunnels, and could be still alive. Where's this going? Are you suggesting Tyburn was the man Boscombe was blackmailing?'

‘Not exactly.' Haldean paused. So far he had stuck to provable facts, but now he wanted to see what Ashley would think of his ideas built on those facts. ‘It's a possibility, but Tyburn came from Lower Woodbury and that's not too far away from Breedenbrook. Considering that he still faces the death penalty it'd be very risky to come to a place where he could be recognized.'

‘Hmm. If he's still with us I think he'd avoid England altogether and anywhere local like the plague.'

‘So do I,' agreed Haldean. ‘I actually had something else in mind.'

‘Then . . . Hold on a minute, Haldean. Where does Morton fit in? So far it fits if Boscombe's the blackmailer, but what about Morton?'

‘Spot on. It's interesting, isn't it? I wondered, as I'm sure you have, why, if Boscombe knew something dodgy and lucrative about our A. N. Other, he should wait until last October before putting the screws on.'

Ashley leaned back in his seat. ‘And the answer is? Because you've got one, I can tell.'

‘Is this.' Haldean took a quick glance at Ashley before looking back to the road. ‘I took notes of the service records of all the men who went into the Augier tunnels, and one of them was Robert Petrie, the author of the diary which Morton inherited. Robert Petrie was in the second party. He was captured, spent the rest of the war as a prisoner, contracted TB, and spent the rest of his life in and out of sanatoriums. According to the army pension records, Petrie died last April. Miss Sheldon told us that Boscombe got in touch with Morton at the end of August. Then, as far as our lovely pair are concerned, the party starts in October. Do you see what that implies? Boscombe had some information, Morton had some information, but each one, separately, doesn't add up to much.'

‘But put them together . . .' said Ashley slowly.

‘Put them together, and you've got, on my reckoning, a recipe for blackmail. The gap between the end of August and October is filled by them tracking down their victim and receiving the first payment. It also explains something of what happened at the weekend. You remember Miss Sheldon said Morton was blazing against Boscombe on Friday night? He said he was trying to double-cross him. I think Boscombe took off on his own to use his personal charm to get some more cash which he wasn't planning to share. Morton spent Friday night going pop, but come Saturday morning decided not to wait and followed Boscombe to Breedenbrook.'

Ashley scratched his chin, jolting as the Spyker ran over a bump in the road. ‘Hang on. How did Morton know where Boscombe had gone?'

‘Well, if Boscombe knew A.N. was going to be at the fête, there's an odds-on chance that Morton knew it as well and the Talbot Arms is the only place to stay in Breedenbrook. There's something else, too. We know Morton had Petrie's diary on Friday night, because Miss Sheldon told us so. However, it wasn't in the flat so therefore we can presume Morton took it with him.'

‘Yes. I'd got as far as that myself.'

‘And the diary certainly wasn't in the Talbot Arms.'

‘Good Lord.' Ashley drew his breath in and looked at Haldean. ‘No, it wasn't. But the room was pulled apart. That has to have been the murderer looking for this diary.'

‘And finding it, too.'

Ashley rubbed his hands together. ‘You're right. It all hangs together. By crikey, it does. So who do you think they
were
blackmailing? So far you've told me who they weren't, but that's not much help.'

Haldean wriggled his motoring coat further back on his shoulders and increased his speed, savouring the rush of air on his face. This was it. This was the crux of his theory. ‘That's where my trip to the War Office comes in again. It was noted in the records that Tyburn had a child. That child must be nearly twenty years old by now. I don't know if it was a son or a daughter. Now if they knew about their father's past, they wouldn't be keen on it getting to be public knowledge who they were. It's a nasty thing to have something like that in your lineage.'

‘I'll say,' grunted Ashley.

‘And the sins of the fathers, as it were, may cause some serious back-sliding in the sons. To have a traitor as your father could wreck a career, to say nothing of the social consequences.'

‘I say it could.' Ashley rested his chin on his hand. ‘Yes, it certainly could. They'd want that hushed up and no mistake.' He let his breath out in a whoosh. ‘Can you imagine having that hanging over you? It must be a living nightmare.'

‘A cause for blackmail?' suggested Haldean with a raised eyebrow.

‘Too right.' Ashley looked at Haldean with a new regard. ‘I think you're on to something. I like the idea of blackmail and it's hard, with that appalling business in the background, to think that Tyburn's treachery isn't connected in some way with what's happened in the here and now. At the moment it's all speculation, but if we can find out who this child of Tyburn's is, then we might find we've got the murderer and the motive all wrapped up. Tyburn's child . . . Whoever it is, they have to be found. I can't let a lead like this go begging.'

‘How are you going to go about doing that?' asked Haldean. Oddly enough, he didn't feel too pleased with himself. Yes, Ashley was prepared to consider his theory but in some ways it seemed to ask as many questions as it answered. The sheer slog of digging someone up last heard of twenty years ago as a tiny baby hadn't occurred to him until now and it was a daunting prospect.

Judging by his face, Ashley's thoughts were running on the same lines. ‘It's a problem, isn't it? They didn't have the same mania for form-filling twenty years ago that we're afflicted with nowadays. They'll be pretty difficult to trace, especially as they won't want to be found. They're bound to be using a different name.'

‘I know.' Haldean hit the steering-wheel in annoyance, increasing his speed in direct index to his frustration, ‘I've got a motive but no one to go with it. They could be someone living locally – they'd have to be in a way, if my theory's going to hold water – or they could be miles away, in which case I'm stumped. They could be dead, in which case I'm really stumped. Until we find them we haven't got a clue who killed Boscombe or Morton.'

‘We will have, don't you worry. You say Tyburn came from Lower Woodbury? I'll start there. Someone might know something. And if you must drive at fifty miles an hour, would you mind keeping your hands on the wheel?'

Haldean dropped Ashley in Lewes and drove on to Stanmore Parry. It was with a feeling of relief that, as dusk gave way to dark, he turned into the driveway of Hesperus, ran over the bridge and through the trees to the house. It had been a long day and his lame leg, a permanent souvenir of the war, was throbbing from the drive. He parked the car in the old stable block and, as he climbed out, saw an evening-clad figure detach itself from the shadows.

‘Ah, Jack m'boy.' It was Uncle Philip, cigar in hand. ‘I was just taking a final turn. Have you had a good day? We've finished dinner but I believe your aunt kept something for you in case you didn't get a chance to eat in Town.'

‘Oh, thanks, Uncle. That'll be very welcome.' He unbuttoned his motoring coat and stretched his shoulders with a sigh. ‘I'm not quite sure how the day went, actually. I know a lot more but whether it's germane or not, I can't tell yet.' Haldean looked at his uncle thoughtfully. ‘Did you ever hear of a man called Tyburn? According to his records he came from Lower Woodbury and that's not too far away. He would have been about five years younger than you. Apparently he was married and had a child. I wondered if you knew anything about him.'

Sir Philip stopped. ‘Is that the Tyburn who got into trouble during the war?' His face was in shadow but Haldean could hear the strain in his voice.

‘Yes, that's the one.' Haldean put his head on one side. ‘You do know him, don't you?'

‘No . . . At least I met him a couple of times, but that was over twenty years ago. You know his child, though.' He spoke very reluctantly. ‘I'm her trustee. It's Marguerite Vayle.'

In the deep shadows of the old stables, Haldean stopped dead. He felt sick. All he had said to Ashley twisted inside. He'd been so clever, so ridiculously, smugly clever. ‘Marguerite Vayle?' he repeated in a stunned voice. He raised his head and almost shouted. ‘Marguerite Vayle is Tyburn's
daughter
?'

Sir Philip stepped forward anxiously ‘Hush, Jack, not so loud.'

One way of escape – the only way of escape – from the logic of his reasoning offered itself. ‘Does she know?'

‘Of course she doesn't know!'

Haldean shut his eyes in relief. It wasn't her. Thank God, it wasn't her. If she didn't know she was Tyburn's child, all his arguments fell to the ground. He'd been wrong hut he didn't care. It wasn't her. His uncle was still talking and he forced himself to listen.

‘I . . . We . . . Your aunt . . . We were going to tell her when she was twenty-one. That's when this confounded trust comes to an end but until then . . . Well, it's not the easiest thing in the world to bring up and until now there's been no reason to say anything. Now there's this situation between her and Whitfield we'll have to tell her, I suppose.'

Whitfield! Haldean shook his head. Of all the bitter ironies that it should be Whitfield, one of the few men in England who needed no reminder of what Tyburn had done, who wanted to marry the girl. ‘You'll have to tell Colonel Whitfield too, and fairly quickly.'

‘I know!' Sir Philip's voice was thin with impatience. ‘Don't think I haven't considered it. Hugh Lawrence and I have talked about little else. It's a dreadful worry. Look, Jack, I think you'd better come and have a word with us both inside. You'll need to see Lawrence anyway. He's as much her trustee as I am and I'd like to hear what Alice has to say.'

Haldean paused. ‘I don't think I can do that, Uncle. This came up as part of the murder enquiry. I can't discuss it with Mr Lawrence.'

‘But in that case . . .' Sir Philip sighed in irritation. ‘Now I've let the cat out of the bag I'll have to tell Lawrence. Can't you simply say you got to know without giving too many details?' He saw the hesitation in Haldean's face and pressed his point home. ‘Lawrence is all right, Jack. He's been Marguerite's trustee for years, far longer than I have. He's completely trustworthy. His only concern is Marguerite's welfare. Don't think we haven't talked about telling the girl who her father was, but it's a fiendishly difficult situation for all of us. Come into the house.'

Lawrence was in the billiard room with a whisky and soda, practising solitary cannons. Sir Philip rang the bell and gave instructions for Lady Rivers to join them and then tried to pass the time by making conversation of such brittle awkwardness that Haldean greeted his aunt's arrival with honest relief. She came into the room with a puzzled smile.

‘What is it, Philip? Egerton said that you wanted to see me. Jack! I didn't know you'd arrived. Did you manage to eat in Town or would you like something now?'

‘Later, Alice, later,' said Sir Philip, quickly. ‘Something's cropped up.' Lawrence put down his cue and eyed Sir Philip speculatively. ‘It's Jack.' He coughed awkwardly. ‘He knows who Marguerite really is.'

Lawrence, who had been obviously and understandably perplexed by Sir Philip's manner, became very still. He looked at Haldean. ‘How did you find out?'

‘I told him,' said Sir Philip. ‘Yes, I know we'd agreed not to say anything yet, but Jack had got on to it and I thought it best to tell him the truth.'

‘I know half the story,' said Haldean. ‘It's to do with Boscombe and Morton's murder.'

Lawrence put his shoulders back slightly and the wariness in his eyes turned to hostility. ‘Are you saying that Miss Vayle is implicated in murder?'

Haldean met his gaze squarely. ‘No. No, sir, I'm not.' And, thank God, he could say that with a clear conscience. ‘But the question of her father's actions came up and it might be relevant.'