Faraday 01 The Gigabyte Detective (29 page)

“Don’t worry,” she said. “If it had been anyone who knew Stephen, I wouldn’t have let them past the gates.”

“So - who was it?”

Susannah considered what she should do. Really she had no option but to tell him. She decided that she wasn’t going to let deceit creep into their relationship right at the start. “It was the police,” she said, watching his reaction carefully.

“What on earth did they want?” As far as she could tell, he wasn’t in the least worried about anything to do with the police.

“Actually,” she said, “they wanted to talk to you.”

“To me?” He was either a very good actor or completely innocent. “Why on earth should they want to talk to me?”

Susannah sat down on her lounger. “I didn’t ask them that. I thought it was unwise to appear to be too interested in a person whose name I had just denied ever hearing before.”

“And why should you say that?” There was a broad grin on Richard’s face.

“You know very well why. Did you expect me to say - oh yes, he’s stretched out on my terrace? He’s been staying with me while my husband’s away for the weekend in Munich?” But she relaxed against the back of her lounger and laughed with him. She was sure her instincts about this gorgeous man had been right.

He shook his head and spoke half to himself. “I wonder why they should want to talk to me.”

“Well,” she said, “on Monday morning you can go along to the police station and ask to speak to this lady, and no doubt she’ll tell you.”

“A lady was it?”

“Yes.” Susannah raised her head and her sun-glasses glinted at him. “It was a very attractive lady too - a Detective Chief Superintendent lady. Her card is on the hall table by the front door.”

“Hmm,” he grinned. “It will be interesting to meet her on Monday.”

The next minute he had ducked under the water and was swimming with a slow, steady crawl towards the far end of the pool. Susannah lay with half-closed eyes and watched him. He did six easy lengths and pulled himself slowly out of the pool by the corner steps. He crossed to stand beside her lounger and dripped onto the paving stones.

“Have you warmed up enough to come in and join me now?” he asked. “It’s beautiful in there at the moment.”

“All right,” she agreed reluctantly and allowed herself to be helped to her feet. She pointed a finger at him. “But no horseplay, mind. I don’t want to get my hair wet if we’re going out tonight.”

“I shall treat you like a precious flower.”

He jumped in and turned to help her down the steps, easing her warm body into the startling chill of the water. She swam a couple of strokes towards him and he took her into his warm arms, backing slowly towards the deep end of the pool, but lifting her so that her feet floated free. She clung round his neck and he kissed her. She could taste the faint but sharp flavour of chlorine on his lips.

“You’re as light as thistledown,” he said. “One blow and you’ll float away.”

“Well, hang on to me,” Susannah chided. “I’m out of my depth already. None of this clever stuff about casting me loose to float away.”

“OK.” He hugged her tight. “Where shall we go tonight?”

She shook her head at him. “I don’t know where to go. I’m ashamed to say that you seem to know this area far better than I do.”

“I tell you what,” he said, “I know a nice little hotel just above Brixham harbour. The restaurant is famous for their fish dishes. How about going there?”

“That would be lovely. You know I enjoy eating fish - especially shell-fish.”

“When we get out of the pool, I’ll ring and book a table looking out across the bay.” His hands wandered up her back. “We can watch the fishing boats coming in as it gets dark.”

“That sounds romantic.”

“And afterwards,” he said casually, “I’ll take you up on Berry Head to see what it’s like in a storm. The wind is getting up from the south. It will be quite exposed up there. We’ll wrap up and walk along the headland and listen to the sea crashing against the cliffs below us, before we come back here to make love again.”

She laughed. “If we work our way through a fish menu you probably won’t want to make love to me. I shan’t be able to resist the moules mariniere and I’ll breathe garlic over you all night.”

“In that case,” his eyes took on a strange look, “I’d better take what advantage I can of you now.”

She felt the strap of her bikini top come undone. He pulled it away and let it float free in the water. He began to push her towards the edge of the pool.

“Richard,” she warned him, “you’re not to make a mess of my hair.”

“Bugger your hair.” he said gently. “I’ll wait while you wash and dry it, before we go out.”

His hands were inside the bottom of her bikini, pushing it down.

“Richard,” she protested, but then he was kissing her and her protests died. As he said, she could always wash her hair afterwards.

* * * * * * * *

Inspector Paulson turned the car into the driveway which led to one of the spacious Victorian houses which were common to this once select, but now slightly faded, Plymouth suburb. He didn’t know why he was surprised to find Giles Adams’ aunt living in such a superior residence. After all, the family were obviously quite rich. But for some reason he had expected her to have a comfortable but unpretentious terraced house.

He halted on the brick driveway at the foot of the ornate flight of steps which led to the front door. He got out and looked round. There was no other car in the enclosed gravel area. The massive clumps of laurel and rhododendron seemed to close about him and shut him off from the normally busy activities of Saturday-afternoon Plymouth. The recently beautiful flower heads on the rhododendrons were turning brown and decaying. The hazy sun beat heavily into the enclosure. There wasn’t a breath of fresh air. The whole place had an atmosphere of approaching death. It seemed as though anything might happen here without the outside world ever finding out.

He felt an involuntary shudder. Perhaps it was a good job that his wife had turned down his offer of a trip to Plymouth with a weary sigh, and had decided she preferred him to drop her off at their daughter’s place in Newton Abbot. He had promised to pick her up later in the evening.

Paulson turned away from his contemplation of the garden and mounted the steps to the large, dark-painted front door. He pressed the circular brass bell button in the right-hand stone column and waited for a minute. He could hear no responsive ringing from the back of the house. He looked up at the tall bay windows each side of the door. No sign of life came from behind their heavy net curtains. Perhaps Giles had taken his aunt out for a drive to look at the distant sea or up on to the misty moor.

The inspector lifted the large, black lion-head knocker in the centre of the door and rapped sharply three times. He heard the knocking echo hollowly back at him from inside the house, although out here the sound was soaked up by the dense shrubs. A lost bee, which had wandered from its normal territory into this dead world, buzzed distractedly past and sheered away round the corner of the house in search of a more profitable harvest. Paulson sighed. It appeared that his long journey had been wasted.

He raised his hand to make one final assault upon the silence and, as he did so, the door swung quietly inwards. Standing facing the slightly startled policeman was a bent old lady scarcely five feet tall. Her hair was a mass of iron-grey curls tightly moulded to her head. Her sharp, thin nose carried a pair of metal-rimmed glasses behind which were two black, gimlet eyes. She leaned her weight partly on a knotted old hawthorn stick and partly on the door. She watched him silently while he glanced at the small piece of paper in the palm of his hand.

“Are you Miss Agatha Beardsworth?” he asked. “I’m Detective Inspector Paulson.” He ferreted around in his pocket and pulled out his warrant card and handed it to her.

She inspected it carefully and returned it to him. Her sharp little eyes glittered as they watched. He gained the impression that, although she may be physically aged, her brain was still working very well. Then she moved back for him to enter.

“I have been expecting this,” she enunciated slowly in clear, perfect English.

“What exactly have you been expecting?” asked the surprised Paulson. He walked into the hall, which was lit dimly from somewhere up in the roof, and turned to face the old lady as she closed the door.

Miss Beardsworth appeared to ignore his question. “Please come this way,” she commanded and made for a door to one side of the hall which led, Paulson found, into a large but dismal sitting-room. She made her way to a small upright arm-chair, switched on a table light beside the chair, and seated herself. “Please have a seat,” she instructed.

Paulson looked round and chose one end of a massive settee with crocheted lace antimacassars along the back and on both arms. In this position he almost faced the old lady. He noticed the horse-hair cushions scarcely gave an inch as he sat down.

“I suppose you had hoped to find young Giles here?” she asked.

“Er - yes. His wife said he was coming to visit you.” He had the strange feeling that this bright old lady was one step ahead of him all the time.

The dark eyes glittered again. “Carol is not the consort I would have chosen for him.”

“Oh, really?” he said. “I thought she was a very pleasant young woman.”

”’
Very pleasant’ describes her perfectly.” The old lady raised her head a little. “However a young man like Giles needs someone who can organize him - direct him. With the right guidance, who can say what he might have achieved.”

“You speak as though it is too late for him now.”

Miss Beardsworth ignored his remark. “Until he was fifteen I was able to fashion his development.” She shook her tight curls fiercely. “Unfortunately his mother favoured a laissez-faire upbringing. Giles went downhill from the moment I handed him back to her.” She sighed. “For whatsoever a person soweth, that shall he also reap.”

“What do you mean?” Paulson was suddenly alert. “In what way has Giles gone downhill?”

But Agatha Beardsworth had her own agenda. “Giles was an exceptionally clever child - but, as is often the case, his cleverness was his own undoing.” She briefly let her wandering glance alight on the inspector. “When I took control of his education at the age of nearly eight, I found a young boy with a level of intelligence more commonly possessed by a child of about twelve. But at that time he had almost given up learning. He was dreadfully bored by the fact that he had no equal. His peers were so far behind him.” She permitted herself a brief, humourless smile. “More sinister was the fact that he had begun to use his mental energies to manipulate the other children. He would invent stories which led them into trouble and that often resulted in his own punishment. He was just starting to bend his mind to a system of influencing authority.” She glanced sharply at him again. “I am pleased to say that I managed to direct his energies into more productive channels.”

“What sort of channels?”

“Oh.” She put her head on one side. “I interested him in the history of his country and its empire. I also encouraged him into discovering ancient history, travel and the mysteries of the various religions. In the holidays I arranged courses of discovery and exploration for him. I was a teacher myself, so I was able to spare a lot of time to be with him, and I must say he proved to be a most apt pupil. During term time I would set him extra work to augment and develop his school studies. I would write to him every week and spend part of most weekends in his company. Fortunately I was friendly with one of the teachers at his school, with whom I used to stay.” She smirked. “I think I can justly claim to have advanced his studies greatly while he was under my influence. Furthermore I kept his potential for disruption under control. By the time his parents returned - when he was approaching fifteen - he was already prepared suitably to take up a place at university. He could have gone on to become one of the leading academics in the country.”

Paulson was interested, despite himself. “Did he go to university?”

“No.” The bloodless lips pursed tightly. “His mother was a pretty, empty-headed thing. I say that as her cousin, who observed her closely from when we were young children. She always smiled her beautiful smile at everyone and seemed so friendly that they all loved her - the men particularly - as she grew up.” She shook her head. “But there was almost no grey matter between her ears. Henry Adams didn’t discover that until it was too late - when they’d been married for nearly six months.” She sighed. “He was such a fine man - so he spent the rest of his life building his business empire, making money, working in London, doing anything - just as long as he didn’t have to spend it in her simpering company and listening to her vacuous conversation.” The eyes glittered now with something very akin to hate.

“I see,” said Paulson, and in truth he was beginning to understand some of the complex emotions at work behind this pale, wrinkled facade. “So, when Cynthia came back from abroad she wanted her son close to her.”

“Precisely.” The old lady nodded. “In her usual manner she changed immediately from virtually ignoring the young lad to smothering him with maternal love. She took Giles away from boarding school and sent him to a local day-school of very doubtful academic standing. She used to take him everywhere with her. Henry had of course disappeared up to London again. She used to have her arm round him all the time, hugging him to her, kissing him frequently.” She peered over the top of her spectacles at him. “You must realise that Giles was at a very impressionable age. He was clever but totally inexperienced with women. I had been almost the only female he had any experience of up to that time - and I always behaved towards him with the utmost propriety.” She took a breath. “Now he had this beautiful scented creature with an hour-glass figure and lovely soft clothes rubbing up against him all the time. I am convinced it did him a lot of harm. I think he was physically in love with her. In fact it would not be an exaggeration to suggest that he fantasised about their relationship.”