Mad About the Boy? (25 page)

Smith-Fennimore put his hands on the desk, leaning on his arms. ‘You see the problem? We had a gentlemen's agreement which would be considered a Joint Venture. If the railway failed, then we would not only be liable for the railway's debts, but lose the money lent, so to speak, to his other concerns. We'd invested so much I didn't want to pull out. That way we'd lose the whole amount. I've been thinking about this all week. It was when we were playing golf, Haldean, that the solution came to me. If it wasn't for everything else which has happened, with Tim and so on, I'd have worked it out before. If we put the railway into a Joint Stock Company, we'd limit our liabilities to that company alone. We'd hold fifty-one per cent of the shares, thereby turning the money Fauró borrowed, so to speak, into our shares. Fauró couldn't refuse. We knew too much and I was going to make sure one of our agents acted as the manager to keep tabs on him. That's what I had to discuss with Lord Lyvenden, I needed his signed consent before I could go ahead with getting a final agreement drawn up and it's that signed consent I've been looking for. It has to be kept secret, though. If it ever got out that such a major investment had been so badly mishandled, it would really put the cat amongst the pigeons.'

Haldean whistled. ‘I can see why you want it kept shtoom. But what happens now Lyvenden's dead?'

‘To be quite honest, I don't know. I don't want to seem callous, but I'm hoping that Lyvenden signed my proposal before he died, otherwise I'll have to go to old Wilson.' He shook his head. ‘He's about ninety and uses an ear-trumpet. He's only still on the board because my two nephews bought it in the war. I'm the only one of the younger generation left. That's why I needed Lyvenden in the first place. It'll take Wilson weeks to appreciate what I'm talking about and we haven't got the time.' He looked at Haldean. ‘The bank's going to be fine if we can keep it quiet, but there's going to be so much work involved if Lyvenden didn't sign that document.' He looked at Ashley. ‘You see why I need it, Superintendent.'

‘I do, sir. I don't want to harm your business interests. Shall we help you look?'

Smith-Fennimore stood up straight. ‘Thanks. It could be anywhere. Lyvenden was hopelessly disorganized.'

The three men hunted through the stack of files. ‘By the way, Fennimore,' said Haldean, ‘I don't suppose you've come across anything that could be these coded papers Tim talked about?'

Smith-Fennimore shook his head. ‘No, I haven't, but I'd like to know what it was all about, I must say. If they were that sensitive perhaps Lyvenden took them with him when he went up to London on Monday.'

Haldean clicked his tongue. ‘D'you know, I bet he did. Damn. I was hoping to find them. Any sign of your Argentine paper yet?'

‘No.' They searched for a few more minutes in silence, then Smith-Fennimore gave a sigh of relief. ‘I've found it. Thank goodness for that.'

Haldean looked at the single sheet of paper Smith-Fennimore was holding. It was covered with small, neat writing and at the bottom was written
Agreed
, with Lord Lyvenden's flamboyant signature followed by yesterday's date.

‘Thank God he's signed it,' said Smith-Fennimore. He sat down and lit another cigarette. ‘That's one problem out of the way, at all events. Haldean, have you talked to Isabelle?'

‘Not yet, but I intend to. I think she needs to get away from here. I did wonder if we ran down to Brighton or somewhere tonight – you, me, Isabelle and Bubble and Squeak – she might see sense. We can all go in my car.'

Smith-Fennimore thought for a moment. ‘If she'll agree, then it's a good idea. I'd like the drive, if nothing else.' He looked round the room and shuddered. ‘It's hard to believe it's only yesterday it all happened. Have you heard anything of Stanton?'

Haldean glanced towards Ashley and received an almost imperceptible nod in reply. ‘He's been seen twice. Once in Cranston and once between Melling Bridge and Caynor. It's not that far from where he used to live.'

‘Well, I hope you catch him soon.' He looked round the room once more, this time with a thoughtful frown. ‘Why do you want this room left alone? I mean, we all know what happened.'

‘It's just procedure, sir,' replied Ashley. ‘We have to make sure we're not overlooking any clues.'

Smith-Fennimore half smiled. ‘It looks a mess to me, with the windows boarded up. I suppose Sir Philip will be able to get those reglazed, will he?'

‘As soon as possible, sir. We don't want to cause any more disruption than necessary.'

Smith-Fennimore smiled again. ‘Yes, there's been enough disruption to keep us all going for quite some time. What clues can there be, though? In the stories I read the murderer always seems to leave a glove or a handkerchief which gives the whole show away. I've never really followed that. I mean, look at all the things in here. How could you possibly say if the murderer dropped anything?'

Haldean glanced at Ashley. ‘Was there anything here that shouldn't have been?'

Ashley shook his head. ‘I had Adamson, Lord Lyvenden's valet, go through the room. He didn't touch the papers, of course, but everything else belonged either to the house or to his master.' Ashley paused. ‘There was something missing, though. I was going to ask round about it. Adamson can't find Lord Lyvenden's cigarette case. It was a gold one, apparently, with jewels on it.'

‘His cigarette case?' repeated Smith-Fennimore. ‘I didn't know that was missing. It's pretty valuable, I would have thought.'

Haldean grinned. ‘It's pretty horrible, I would have thought. I wouldn't be seen dead in a ditch with it. No, you won't find that in here. Arthur ran off with it.'

‘Did he?' asked Smith-Fennimore in surprise. ‘Are you sure? I didn't see that.'

Haldean nodded. ‘It was when you were hovering over him with the gun. He walked backwards, stumbled, picked it up, waved it round a bit, then shoved it in his pocket.'

‘That's worth knowing,' said Ashley. ‘Thanks, Haldean.' He looked towards Smith-Fennimore. ‘I don't want to hurry you, sir, but I really must ask you to leave. And now,' he said, when Smith-Fennimore had gone, ‘let's have a look for that key to the french windows, shall we?'

They didn't find it.

It was later that morning when Haldean ran Isabelle to earth in the summerhouse.

She looked at him defensively. ‘Has my mother sent you?'

He sat down beside her. ‘In a manner of speaking, yes. She's worried about you. I'm worried about you, if you must know. You seemed to react so . . . well, so oddly.'

Isabelle sat upright, a spot of colour flaring in her cheeks. ‘I like that. This is Arthur we're talking about – Arthur! You're supposed to be his best friend. You must know he's innocent. All you have to do is get at the truth and everything'll be all right. You can do it, Jack, you know you can.'

Haldean took out his pipe and penknife and cleaned the bowl out thoughtfully. ‘Why've you suddenly decided to loathe Smith-Fennimore? You must have a reason.'

Isabelle drew her knees up on to the seat and clasped her arms round them. ‘He shot Arthur.' She stared straight ahead, avoiding his eyes.

It was as if she was closing herself off, thought Haldean. ‘Look at me, Isabelle,' he said gently, taking her hand. ‘Fennimore says he was trying to stop him.'

She shuddered. ‘He wasn't. I know he wasn't. I saw Malcolm's face, Jack. It frightened me. Really frightened me, I mean.' She paused. ‘Look, I know you think I'm being rotten to Malcolm, but I'd swear he was trying to kill Arthur. Once I'd seen that look on his face, I was scared to be near him.'

Haldean sat back with his arms folded. ‘Don't you think you might be mistaken?' he said eventually, taking out his tobacco pouch. ‘After all, we were all pretty wound up and Fennimore's hand must have been giving him hell. It's easy to mistake an expression, particularly when we were as tense as we were yesterday. Fennimore really does care for you, you know. We're going to run down to Brighton for the evening with Bubble and Squeak. If you come with us, you don't have to be alone with him but I think you could be civil and hear his side of it. He's wretched about all of this.'

She looked at him with worried eyes. ‘Let me think about it. Jack, I've been wrong about lots of things, but I'm not wrong about Arthur, I know I'm not. I mean, look how he was with Tim. You told me how he gave Tim all that money. He's a good man, Jack.'

Haldean didn't contradict her. He liked Arthur tremendously and had done for years. And Isabelle was right; Arthur was a good man. But . . . there was always a but. Granted that Arthur had knifed Lyvenden, it was because of what Lyvenden had done to his family. Was Arthur capable of nursing such resentment?
He resents you
, said a voice at the back of his mind.

For the first time ever, he faced the matter squarely. He knew perfectly well that Arthur blamed him for taking him back to hospital after that incident in the Euston Road. It had been then their paths had diverged. When they'd had their flare-up on Sunday afternoon he'd known it was lurking beneath the surface. But what else could he have done? A car had backfired, Arthur had crumpled and the poor devil had been ill for months afterwards.

They'd papered over the cracks but they'd never talked about it. It wasn't something that could be talked about, but it had been there for years, an unspoken barrier between them. And it was so damned unfair. He'd devoted a whole precious Short Leave to meeting Arthur. It wasn't his fault that it had all turned out so very badly.

He shook himself. Arthur associated him with one of the ghastliest times in his life. That was all there was to it. The poor devil couldn't help himself. Having said that, it still rankled.

And there was another thing. Although Isabelle hadn't doubted it, they only had Arthur's word for it that he had given Tim the money. That's rubbish, he told himself sternly. If Arthur said he'd shelled up, he had. You couldn't analyse what a friend said as if it was evidence in a court of law where nothing could be believed unless it was backed up by a witness. Good God, what a state of affairs that would be. Arthur told the truth. It was as simple as that. If he said he helped Tim, he helped Tim.
Tim
. . .

‘I wouldn't mind talking about Tim,' he said, putting a match to his pipe. ‘Ashley listened to me, but it's Lyvenden's murder he's concentrating on. I don't think he's convinced Tim was murdered, you know.'

‘Well, you can't blame Arthur for Tim's death,' said Isabelle.

‘No, although he did keep insisting that Tim committed suicide. He had the opportunity, I think, but he discovered the empty Goldflake packet.'

Isabelle wriggled. ‘I hate talking about people we know as if they're specimens in an experiment,' she said crossly.

Haldean grinned. ‘Play along, old thing. If we can't do it like they do it in detective stories, I wouldn't know where to start.'

‘If you were writing this, who would be guilty?'

‘That's easy,' said Haldean. He broke off impatiently. ‘Look, old prune, stop twitching. Why don't you stop wriggling, put your ankles on my knees and get comfortable?' Isabelle grinned and swung herself round. ‘That's better,' said Haldean. ‘If I was writing this I'd be the mysterious villain.'

Isabelle giggled. ‘Don't.' She reached out. ‘Give me a cigarette, Jack. Now – you'd just decided Arthur didn't kill Tim.' She leaned forward as he struck a match. ‘And, to be fair to him, Malcolm didn't either. He thought the world of Tim. He wasn't putting that on. Besides that, he was in the ballroom all the evening. If he wasn't talking to Dad he was with me.'

‘I can't see Bubble or Squeak in the role of First Murderer, either. As it happens, I'm not guilty, so that leaves, apart from Uncle Philip and Aunt Alice, whom I refuse to consider, your Uncle Alfred, Mrs Strachan and Lady Harriet.'

‘What about the Russian who was here on Sunday? He could have murdered Tim by mistake on Saturday night.'

Haldean raised an eyebrow at her. ‘How d'you mean?'

Isabelle frowned. ‘He sounded, from what I heard, a murderous sort. He clearly had something going on with Lord Lyvenden. What if his visit on Sunday wasn't his first? He could have sneaked in on Saturday night and up to Lyvenden's room. When Tim came in, he mistook him for Lyvenden and shot him.'

‘I think we're back to Arthur and his ideas about chaps popping down the chimney,' said Haldean drily. He held up placatory hands. ‘All right. I'll grant you it's just about within the bounds of possibility that the Russian saw Tim off on Saturday, but how would he have been able to get to Lord Lyvenden yesterday? He certainly didn't come through the front door and the side door's out as well. We were all milling around in the hall before lunch and someone would have seen him. I can't think that Lyvenden would have opened the french windows for him. He'd have been scared stiff.'

‘I don't know, Jack. The Russian may have threatened him with a gun through the window, or he could have broken in beforehand and lain in wait.'

‘True, O Moon of my Delight. And since Arthur's bust the window, we can't have a dekko to see if the lock's been tinkered with. I wish we could find the key to those ruddy windows.'

‘Let's say that the Russian had come back,' said Isabelle thoughtfully. ‘He'd be quarrelling with Lyvenden and Arthur walked in on them. The Russian snatches up the knife that Arthur's holding, stabs Lyvenden and then gets out of the window. Poor Arthur would be so horrified he couldn't do anything.'

‘Maybe,' said Haldean doubtfully. ‘I can't say I really believe it, but maybe. That Russian bothers me, though. There's no doubt Lyvenden was scared stiff of him. I've asked Ashley to check the local telephone exchange. If the Russian was part of a gang of the sort so beloved by the newspapers, then he might have rung up for instructions. I'm not sure he's our man, though. He struck me as the melodramatic type who'd want to write
Death To All Imperialists!
on the wall in blood after doing the deed. There was enough blood in that room to have written a novel.'