The Belting Inheritance (11 page)

“Embarrassing, hell. You’re not David.” Stephen made a noise that in another man could have been called a chuckle. “How could anyone ever think so?” she asked of the blue sky, and now Stephen did speak.

“I’ve always said he was an impostor.”

“What the hell, I mean, you’re about the same height as he was, but the way you walk is different and your face is different, it’s thinner altogether than David’s was and I don’t mean just the flesh, I mean the bone structure. David looked like a lamb and you look like a wolf and, well, I just don’t see how anybody with an eye for faces could be fooled.”

“If Mamma hadn’t been ill she would never have been deceived,” Stephen said in eager explanation, and to David: “You’d better go while you can.”

David ignored him. He went up to Betty and gripped her shoulder. “You silly bitch, don’t you understand what I’ve been through? I’ve been years in a Russian labour camp, do you expect me to look the same as when I slept with you?” His voice had been high and shrill, but now it dropped as he said, “Perhaps you’d like to test me out.”

What happened after that was sudden, and the effect was strange, as if a film taken in slow motion had become transformed into a Keystone Cops comedy. In two strides Max Miners was beside David, had turned him round and had swung a fist at his jaw. David put up a hand to protect himself but the blow still caught him, although not with much force. He slipped, and fell on the gravel. A car, a sober black Austin saloon, crossed over the cattle grid and into the courtyard. And Clarissa let loose her bull terriers. It may be that she was hoping that they would attack David and pursue him down the drive as he ran away for ever. It may be that she let the dogs loose by accident. I never found out. What happened in fact was that they dashed unhesitatingly at Max Miners. One of them worried his beautiful coffee-coloured trousers and the other made for his body.

Betty pulled open the door of the car, got in, and cried, as though some last straw had been dropped on her heavily-laden head, “Oh hell, Max, come on, let’s go.”

Max was at this moment struggling with the dogs, but he managed to obey her. There was a sound of tearing cloth, a look of anguish on Max’s face, and then he was in the driving seat, had started the engine, and the little red car was whirling away down the drive like, as the old phrase has it, a bat out of hell. (But why should bats in particular wish to wing their way out of hell?) The bull terriers trotted back to Clarissa and one of them deposited at her feet a patch of coffee-coloured cloth. David got to his feet. And a stiff tall bowler-hatted man got out of the Austin and looked at us as if we were all lunatics. I had seen him once before, and I recognised him. It was Humphries.

An Open Question

Humphries’ arrival brought everybody back to the realities of the situation. Betty Urquhart’s denunciation of the man who claimed to be David was a kind of triumph for Stephen, and somehow her subsequent abrupt departure was part of the triumph too, but such triumphs made no difference to Lady W’s intention to change her will. It must have been with the feeling of a commander who knows that although he may be winning individual battles he is extremely near to losing the war, that Stephen asked Humphries to have a word with him before going upstairs.

This word was had in the drawing-room. Stephen invited me to hear it, and the inspector too, since, as he said, we were all interested. David, who might also be said to be interested, was of course not invited to this informal conference, and had conveniently disappeared. One of the maids brought in tea and biscuits, and Humphries sat there eating and drinking while Stephen, with a good deal of collar-tugging, explained the situation. The man was an impostor, he was very likely a murderer too (here Stephen made a gesture towards the inspector, who remained impassive), and surely something could be done in all the circumstances about Mamma’s outrageous suggestion of changing her will.

You had only to look at Humphries to know that he was an extremely cautious man. He sipped his tea as though it might be poisoned, he nibbled at his biscuit in the manner of a mouse momentarily expecting the arrival of a large cat, he kept glancing from one to the other of us as if in hope that he might catch us in betraying some secret. When Stephen had finished he picked an invisible crumb from his lap and spoke in a solemn, plummy voice.

“I appreciate the force of what you say, Mr Wainwright, but you must understand that it would not be proper for me to give an opinion on it. My business here is solely with Lady Wainwright – ”

“To draw up her new will.” That was Clarissa.

Humphries hesitated, then said, “Yes, Mrs Wainwright, I understand that is why she has sent for me.”

“But the man’s a fraud.”

“My concern as a solicitor is first that Lady Wainwright is mentally fit to make her will. Would any of you maintain otherwise?”

“She’s under a delusion,” Stephen said sulkily. He could see that he was losing.

“So you believe. But in other respects she is mentally capable. You agree? Very well. There is nothing to stop Lady Wainwright from leaving her money to whomsoever she chooses, and it is not my function as her solicitor to advise her on this point, unless of course she asks me.” A twitch of amusement, I presumed at the thought of Lady W’s asking advice on such a matter, curled his long upper lip. “Should it happen that she leaves the bulk of her estate to her son David, and you are able to show that the man who now calls himself David Wainwright is an impostor, he would not inherit.”

“But that would mean a damned law suit,” Stephen cried in despair.

“That is a possibility. It might depend how conclusively you could prove your case.” This again seemed to give him some inner amusement.

Arbuthnot spoke for the first time. “Supposing this man is really who he claims to be, but killed Thorne. How would he stand then in relation to the inheritance?”

“A nice point,” Humphries said with interest. “As you know, a man may not profit legally by his crime. But if he were David Wainwright I cannot see that his right of inheritance would be affected by the fact of his committing murder, unless it could be shown that the murder was connected with the question of inheritance.”

Stephen wrung his hands as though this was more than
he could bear. The door opened, and Peterson’s grim face appeared. She spoke to Stephen. “Excuse me, sir. I thought I ought to tell you that
that man
is with her ladyship, and has been for half an hour.”

“Oh.” Stephen almost shrieked. He had been outmanoeuvred again, the enemy had turned his flank. Humphries was on his feet, and again appeared convulsed by some secret source of amusement.

“I think I should go up to Lady Wainwright now,” he said. He bowed his head ceremoniously and left us.

“That’s a canny man,” the inspector said. “You’ll not get much more than the time of day out of him.”

“If you ask me he’s an old fool.” That was Clarissa. She added with no change of tone, “Brian and Basil need a special liver mash. I must go and see to it.”

When she had gone, Stephen paced up and down. He said to Arbuthnot, “I should have thought you’d be better occupied looking for traces of Thorne’s murderer than sitting here making unhelpful remarks.”

The inspector took out his pipe, looked at Stephen, then deliberately filled and lighted it. “As to field work, sir, Hasty and a couple of other men are on to that, not that I think they’re going to find much. I’m up here, as I told you before, because I want to know whether or not this man is David Wainwright. Putting it simply, if he is who he claims to be, he’s got no obvious reason to kill Thorne.”

“I tell you he’s not my brother.”

“I know you say so, sir, but that doesn’t prove it.”

“You heard that woman.”

“Miss Urquhart? Yes, but I wouldn’t say she was altogether convincing, would you? Apart from anything else she’d had a good deal to drink. And how did he cotton on so quickly to who she was if he’s not David Wainwright, will you tell me that?”

I coughed. “She’d mentioned that Uncle Miles was once her husband. This man knows so much else that he could have put two and two together.”

“If that’s so he did it very quickly, you’ll agree.”

“You’d expect a man planning something like this to be quick-witted.”

“So you would. But then, where did he get all his information from?” That silenced me. He spoke to Stephen again. “There’s another possibility, d’you see, that interests me. Supposing Thorne knew something about what happened to Sullivan.”

“Sullivan.” Stephen spoke the name with distaste.

“Don’t say you’ve forgotten Sullivan. Don’t you remember how you and Lady Wainwright went into the witness box and said what a nice blameless evening everybody had spent up here? You know what I’m talking about, Mr Wainwright, don’t you?”

“Yes.” There was sweat on Stephen’s forehead.

“And lucky you were that old Greensword was in charge of it. If it had been me I’d have pushed it to the limit, understand me?”

“Hallo there.” It was David. “You don’t mind if I come in. That solicitor chap is with Mamma. I do hope I’m not interrupting anything. Is something the matter, Stephen?” Stephen tugged at his collar, looked as if he were about to explode, and went out of the room. “One day my brother is going to get a collar that fits him, and how will he show us he’s got the fidgets then? I feel quite done for.” David sat down in a chair and threw his head back against the antimacassar. He did look exhausted. The brightness had gone out of his eyes and he lay sprawled in the chair with his head back, showing his lined face, creased neck, and on his forehead the gathering and whitening of the skin that is a mark of age. I could easily see on him – or could easily think that I saw on him – the marks of the labour camp. “What were you talking about?”

“Murder,” Arbuthnot said in his unemphatic voice.

“But I explained where I was last night.”

“Put it this way.” Arbuthnot got up and stood over David. He looked powerful, even menacing, beside the slight figure in the chair. “If you’re not David Wainwright you may have had the best of reasons for killing Thorne. But if you are David then you’re in line for the killing of Ted Sullivan ten years ago. Either way, it’s not a nice position.”

I wondered what sort of game Arbuthnot was playing. Had he not told me a couple of hours ago that David was not involved in the Sullivan case. Or was that exactly what he had said? Whatever his game was, his words produced an effect.

“Sullivan?” said David in a dazed way.

“Come along now.” Arbuthnot spoke almost coaxingly. “Your memory’s not as short as that.”

“Ten years ago. Surely it’s all over.”

“For old Greensword it may have been, but for me it’s as fresh as the day it happened. Greensword was a respecter of family tradition and all that. I’m not. If I were in your shoes I’d be shaking.”

Arbuthnot was leaning over David, who positively shrank back in his chair. I don’t know what answer he would have made because my attention was distracted by the sound of another car drawing up outside. I began to say that that must be Doctor Foster, and then stopped before speaking the name, remembering that his arrival was supposed to be a surprise. We could hear people talking. David jerked his head up and looked from one to the other of us as though suspecting, quite rightly, that this was another trap for him. Then Stephen came in, accompanied by Foster.

Doctor Foster was dressed today for the country, in new-looking tweeds, and I found myself wondering whether he had changed from clerical grey after seeing his last morning patient. He nodded to me and to Arbuthnot, but spoke immediately to David, his manner that of doctor addressing patient as it had been with me.

“You say that you are David Wainwright.”

“I am.”

“As you know, some members of your family are doubtful about your claim. They have asked me to come down to verify it. I take it you have no objection to answering some questions.”

David jumped up and walked quickly about the room. He ended with his back to the carved mahogany chimney-piece. “Why the hell shouldn’t I object? I’ve been badgered and harried and smelt around ever since I came here as if I were a new specimen in a zoo. Object, indeed I should think I do object.”

“But you will answer my questions,” Foster repeated patiently, and I thought, if he is a fake he’s going to have a rough passage now, for – it struck me – Doctor Foster’s manner was really rather more like that of the Grand Inquisitor in
The Brothers Karamazov,
which I had recently been reading, than like that of a doctor. When David said that it depended what the questions were, he took this as assent, and began immediately. Perhaps I should set the scene. David stood throughout the interrogation warming himself at the non-existent fire like some Victorian squire, or like a Victorian warrior with his back to the wall, I suppose it might be said, shifting sometimes from one foot to another, or touching an ornament on the occasional table beside him. Foster also stood – feeling no doubt that by sitting down he would have lost a psychological advantage – his thick brown country shoes tapping the carpet at times to emphasise a point, his handsome head held erect so that he revealed to me, who sat in a chair facing sideways on to him, a profile
of classical elegance. His manner was extremely cool and impersonal, so that he resembled a handsome Truth Machine rather than a human being. I don’t know whether some mental specialists feel it right to remove themselves emotionally from their patients in this way, but the effect is forbidding. Stephen and Arbuthnot also sat, Stephen with his white face staring at the man who called himself his brother, Arbuthnot with hands folded on his stomach. So the questioning began.

“First of all, do you recognise me? Do you know who I am?”

David hesitated, then spoke. “I’ll be honest and say I don’t recognise you, but I’ll make a guess. From the way you order people around I guess you must be Vivian Foster, right? I see I am. How are you, Vivian?”

He held out his hand, which Foster touched with two fingers, then dropped. “Where did we first meet?”

“At Oxford.”

“Were we at the same college?”

“Yes, Christ Church.”

“On the same staircase?”

“No.”

“Who else was on your staircase?”

David paused, shook his head. “It’s no good, I can’t remember.”

“Did we belong to any societies?”

“Hugh and I were in the OUDS, and so was Miles later on. I don’t think you were. I joined the Labour Club for a year or two, but again I don’t think you were a member. And of course you weren’t there during the whole of my time at Oxford, you left when you decided to become a doctor. I’ll tell you something, though, we once took out two girls in a punt and then went on to dinner, and we hadn’t got enough to pay, remember, we had to borrow from them?” Foster was going on to another question and David interrupted, with his voice raised. “I said, do you remember? Did it happen or not? Just bloody well answer.”

“Yes, it happened. Do you remember when you were involved in a crash on my motor bicycle?”

David took his time over answering. “No. What’s more, I don’t believe you had one. Not your style. It’s a trick question.”

Foster’s handsome profile was impassive. “Did we meet much when we came down from Oxford?”

“Not much. You were a medical student, I was wasting time as usual.”

“We didn’t meet at all for two years.” Foster snapped it at him as though flashing a sword through a defensive gap. “I was in Vienna.”

“If you say so. I’d forgotten.”

“Queer, because you wrote me at least half a dozen letters during those two years. How did they begin?”

Silence, then David was shaking his head. This was a real test, it seemed to me. If he was genuine, surely he must remember writing letters that began “Dear Vof”? Foster prompted him. “I’ll help you. There was a particular way you used to begin letters to me, a particular phrase you used. You can’t have forgotten it.”

“I have.” There was a box of chessmen on a small ornamental table to the right of David. He had opened it and now he was taking one piece after another into his hands, holding it, putting it back.

“David Wainwright wouldn’t have forgotten. My second Christian name is Oswald, and you used to begin letters ‘Dear Vof’.”

“Did I?” He dropped a black queen on to the carpet, picked it up. While he was bending down Foster glanced at Stephen and Arbuthnot with eyebrows raised, asking without the use of words whether he should go on. Arbuthnot nodded. David straightened up.

“When did we meet next?”

“We met occasionally before the war. I can’t remember.” David did not look at him.

“Do you remember meeting me at a party at Nicholas Paget’s house? And coming to my flat for dinner a couple of nights later? My introducing you to a Viennese girl named Magda?” David was shaking his head. “Odd that you shouldn’t. I was married to Magda a few months later, and you met her several times.”