‘Look who got here before us,’ Terrence Ambler said as they motored up the drive.
Langham swung into the parking area beneath the elms and braked beside Haggerston’s Bentley. They climbed out and strolled towards the house.
The Bentley was not the only recent arrival. A black police van was drawn up beside the hall and half a dozen men in navy blue boiler suits moved back and forth between the van and Dennison’s caravan.
‘Forensic experts,’ Langham said. ‘Going over the murder scene with the proverbial toothcomb.’
Ambler stopped and peered through a mullioned window. ‘Hello … I wonder what’s going on in there?’
Langham peered into the library and made out three figures.
Detective Inspector MacTaggart was pacing back and forth, gesticulating from time to time. His deputy, Ferrars, was propped on one elbow against the mantelpiece. The third figure, seated in an armchair and facing the window with his head in his hands, was Desmond Haggerston.
‘Looks as if they’re giving him a right old third degree,’ Ambler said.
Langham led the way into the hall. ‘I’ll go and find Maria.’
He checked their room first, to no avail, and was coming down the stairs when he passed Evans the butler on the way up. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen Miss Dupré on your travels?’
‘As a matter of fact, sir, I have. She was out by the lake five minutes ago with Miss Cartier.’
‘Good man.’
He continued down the staircase and was passing through the hallway when Edward Marling wheeled himself from the drawing room. ‘Donald, cook has made a Sunday roast, serving at one.’
‘Excellent. Excuse me while I round up Maria, won’t you?’
He moved along the corridor towards the rear of the house. He found the postern door leading into a kitchen garden and, beyond, the rolling greensward dotted with oak and elm.
He made out two tiny figures in the distance, strolling towards the house. Seen from a hundred yards away, they might have been sisters – both of them tall and striking, with cowls of dark hair and Mediterranean good looks. Only when they drew closer did the differences become apparent, and Maria’s beauty pointed up the fact that the older woman was well past the first flush of youth; beside Maria, Varla Cartier appeared careworn and haggard.
‘Maria was telling me the story of how she landed such a dashing husband-to-be,’ Varla said.
Maria pulled an odd face, as if her recollection of their conversation bore no relation to Varla’s.
‘And there I was,’ Langham said, ‘thinking it was me who’d bagged the top prize. Hey-ho.’
‘Excuse me while I go in search of a drink,’ Varla said, and strode off.
‘I was taking a stroll,’ Maria told him, linking arms, ‘when Varla pounced and starting chatting.’
‘About?’ he asked as they strolled towards the house.
‘Various things, but I told her nothing about my “dashing hubby-to-be”.’
Langham laughed. ‘I think she was being ironic with that line. I get the impression she doesn’t like men that much.’
They entered the house and made their way through the labyrinthine corridors.
‘Well, she seems to think that Douglas Dennison shot Suzie,’ Maria said.
‘She does?’
‘And she also told me something very interesting about Cynthia Marling.’
‘Did she, indeed?’
Maria was about to continue when a door opened suddenly and three figures stepped from the library: MacTaggart and Ferrars escorted a shuffling Desmond Haggerston along the corridor. The latter avoided their eyes, even going so far as to avert his face. He looked like a man being led to the gallows.
At Langham’s enquiring glance, MacTaggart paused, and murmured, ‘We’re taking Mr Haggerston in for further questioning, but we’ll be back in the morning. Sergeant Briscoe will be on duty overnight.’
Langham watched the trio retreat along the passage.
‘We should tell them that they are wasting their time,’ Maria said. ‘Mr Haggerston has a snoring alibi. He kept me awake from three until six last night.’
‘You were telling me about what Varla said,’ Langham reminded her.
‘I’ll tell you later,’ Maria said as Terrence Ambler and Edward Marling appeared around a corner.
‘Joining us for a spot of lunch?’ Ambler said, and led the way to the dining hall, where Chuck Banning and Sir Humphrey were already seated at the table.
‘Cynthia won’t be dining,’ Edward said as he manoeuvred his wheelchair into position at the head of the table. ‘She has one of her “heads”. And Varla excused herself on account of having to watch her figure. We’ll be deprived of Douglas’s company, too – he rarely “does” lunch, as he says.’
Chuck Banning laughed. ‘Varla needs to eat more, not less.’
‘Never say no to a good square meal,’ Sir Humphrey declared. ‘Keeps body and soul together, what?’
Evans and the maid served a traditional Sunday lunch of roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, mashed potatoes and vegetables, followed by spotted dick – ‘But how can you call a dessert “spotted dick”!’ Maria laughed – washed down with a couple of bottles of red wine.
Later, as they were taking coffee, Edward leaned forward and arranged his place mat so that it was parallel with the edge of the table. It was another example of the man’s obsessive exactitude Langham had noticed at dinner last night.
‘Before the war,’ Edward said, ‘we’d take the car across to Reston and dine at the Swan. These days, however, we hardly get out. I take the train down to London once in a blue moon, but it’s all a bit of a palaver.’
‘It must be hard,’ Ambler said. ‘Does Cynthia drive?’
‘That’s just the point, she doesn’t. I’ve heard one can get specially adapted cars these days, but to be honest the expense would be prohibitive. The hall’s a wonderful place, but its upkeep drains the bally funds. It cost me an arm and a leg to get a lift installed just after the war, so I could get around the place.’
Sir Humphrey said, ‘Next time you’re down in the Smoke, Edward, we must meet up. Tell you what, why don’t I take you to Twickers? You’re a rugby man, aren’t you?’
Edward smiled. ‘I played rugger at Oxford, and kept it up before the war. Ran, too. Five thousand metres and the occasional marathon. Hell, I miss being active …’
He replaced his cup on the dead centre of the mat and smiled around the group. ‘You know, even after I underwent my fifth operation, back in ’forty-six, I thought that one day they might have me walking again.’
‘But that was ten years ago,’ Ambler said. ‘Haven’t you thought of getting a specialist to examine you again? They can perform wonders with new techniques these days, you know.’
‘Every year, Terrence, every year since the war I’ve had a consultant from Harley Street look me over. You see, the injury was so close to my spinal cord that they couldn’t remove the bullet for fear of doing even more damage. My lower vertebrae were done for, but a few strands of cord were still intact, so that I don’t embarrass myself in the bathroom. Every year they take a gander, shake their heads and say, “No can do, old boy. Grin and bear it.” Until last year, that is.’
Maria leaned forward. ‘Last year? What happened?’
‘My consultant knew a specialist chappie who’d pioneered a new operative technique. Upshot: he thought he could remove the bullet and possibly – he stressed, possibly – restore some mobility to my legs.’
Maria made a sympathetic face.
‘You can’t imagine the difference that made, even the slightest chance that I might be able to walk again. For a few months I was in seventh heaven. Cyn – ever the pessimist – warned me again and again not to get my hopes up, but did I listen? So I went into the operation full of hope and misplaced optimism.’
He paused, sipped his coffee, then reached into the pocket of his blazer and pulled something out.
He threw it up into the air and caught it in his palm; a small golden object glinting in the sunlight slanting through the window.
‘They succeeded in removing the bullet – I keep it as a memento – but they could do nothing to get me walking again. I must admit I hit rock bottom. I was bedridden in hospital for a month, and wondered how I’d end it all when I got back to the hall. Shoot myself or take a rope and … I know, I know, I was in no worse a situation than I’d been in before the operation. I really shouldn’t have banked on a successful outcome. Cyn was right, blast her. I endured a month or two of black moods …’
‘And then?’ Maria murmured.
‘And then,’ Edward said, ‘I came through the other side. I woke up one morning and the sun was shining and I heard the birdsong, and it came to me that I really had had one hell of an adventurous war, and if I couldn’t regain what I had, then perhaps I could relive those times by writing my memoirs. And for the past year that’s what I’ve been doing. And,’ he finished, ‘it’s certainly helped.’
‘I’ll drink to that!’ Sir Humphrey said, hoisting his glass.
Langham was helping himself to a second cup of coffee a few minutes later when the doors at the far end of the room burst open and Douglas Dennison stood on the threshold, staring at the diners with a face like thunder.
A silence descended over the gathering as everyone stared at the director. Edward, with his back to the door, manhandled his wheelchair around in order to face the door.
Dennison had something clutched in his right fist – a rectangular card, Langham, saw. His gaze raked everyone around the table and came to rest on Chuck Banning.
‘You low down little shit,’ Dennison growled.
Banning’s square jaw dropped and he coloured. ‘I’m sorry …?’ he stammered, nonplussed.
Dennison advanced into the room, heading for the young man. ‘How the hell could you?’ the director yelled. He waved the card. ‘What did Suzie ever do to you, hey?’
Banning pushed his chair from the table, as if preparing to run. ‘I – I don’t know what you’re talking about …’
‘This!’ Dennison said, holding up what Langham saw now was a postcard. ‘So Suzie tells you where to get off, and you get her back like this? And you didn’t even have the guts to sign it!’
Banning looked around the table, desperately, and then back at the director. ‘Like I said, Doug, I don’t know what the hell …’
Edward Marling said, ‘Just what is all this about, Douglas?’
Dennison swung towards Edward, his face red with rage. He waved the card again. ‘I was in Suzie’s room, going through her things. I found this, screwed up in the corner.’
Chuck Banning half rose from his seat. ‘But—’ he began.
As if triggered by the word, Dennison turned and launched himself at the young man. He swung his right fist, dropping the postcard and missing Banning’s jaw by an inch. Banning ducked back like a practised prizefighter and Dennison came at him again, this time aiming a roundhouse at the actor’s midriff. He connected and Banning went sprawling.
Langham leaped to his feet and rounded the table.
Dennison stood over Banning, breathing hard and staring at the young man in unabated rage. ‘Get up so I can hit you again, you little—’
Terrence Ambler jumped to his feet and called out, ‘It wasn’t Chuck!’
His words had the effect of stopping everyone in the act of moving: Langham came to a halt, staring at the scriptwriter; Banning lay on the floor, a protective hand raised before his face; Dennison looked up, scowling at Ambler. ‘What the hell did you say?’
Ambler faced the director, having picked up the offending postcard; he held it aloft. ‘I said it wasn’t Chuck who sent Suzie the card. It was me.’
‘Why, you little—!’
Before Langham could move to intervene, Dennison took two strides towards Ambler. The blow was lightning fast: Ambler’s head jerked back and he cried out, blood spurting from his nose. Dennison would have pressed his advantage, but Langham dived at the director, grabbed a handful of shirt front, and pushed Dennison away from the table and up against the panelling.
‘Calm it!’
‘I’ll beat the little shit halfway to—’ Dennison snarled.
‘I said calm it.’
The director struggled, his face empurpled. Langham fought to keep him pinned against the wall. He was reminded of an incident in his youth when a pit bull terrier had attacked a friend: he’d wrestled with the savage animal and pressed it to the ground until a couple of adults had intervened. Dennison had the same snarling, unreasoning desire to do violence as had the dog.
Langham pressed his forearm into the director’s neck. ‘Hitting Terry will do absolutely no good, Dennison. Do you really want to be hauled off to the cells for assault?’
‘Nothing’d gimme greater pleasure, Langham!’ Dennison snapped, but Langham felt the anger drain from the man, little by little.
Sir Humphrey had moved across to Ambler and was helping him up from the floor, pressing a napkin to the man’s bloody nose. As Langham watched, he led Ambler from the dining hall.
Dennison seemed to deflate, and Langham removed his forearm from the director’s throat.
Dennison looked across at Chuck Banning and nodded. ‘I guess I owe you an apology, Chuck. No hard feelings, huh?’
Before Banning had time to reply, the door at the far end of the dining hall opened; Cynthia hurried over to the table, wringing her hands. She looked from her husband to Langham and the others, her face ashen.
‘Just a little misunderstanding, Cynthia—’ Edward Marling began.
She interrupted the explanation. ‘Detective Inspector MacTaggart has just telephoned.’ She paused and swallowed, as if to steady her voice, then went on, ‘Desmond Haggerston has confessed to killing poor Suzie Reynard. His fingerprints were found on the murder weapon.’
A stunned silence greeted her words.
Langham looked across at Maria, who was shaking her head. ‘But surely that’s not possible?’ she said.
Dinner that evening was taken in almost total silence.
The cook had prepared a cold chicken salad, but Langham ate without enthusiasm or appetite. Cynthia had absented herself from the meal – taking a sandwich in her room, Edward reported – and Douglas Dennison was absent, too. Varla Cartier hardly touched her food but compensated by drinking almost a whole bottle of wine. Chuck Banning tried to initiate conversation once or twice; his attempts were greeted with silence and he grinned uneasily and applied himself to the meal.
Terrence Ambler crept into the dining hall five minutes after the meal had begun, took his place in abject silence and ate without a word.
Sir Humphrey, half-cut even before he sloshed a generous measure of red wine into his glass, seemed oblivious to the funereal atmosphere at the table.
‘Well, who would have thought it, eh? Old Haggers! Y’live and learn … But what gets me is why the hell shoot such a pretty young thing as Suzie?’
Varla Cartier stared at the old man. ‘You sound as if it’d be perfectly acceptable for him to have shot someone who was old and raddled?’
‘But Suzie, with all her life ahead of her …?’
Varla said, with an effective imitation of Sir Humphrey’s upper-class tone, ‘Put a sock in it, old man. There’s a good chap.’
No one said another word for the rest of the meal.
Edward, Langham and Maria retired to the library at eight; despite the heat of the day, the big room was chilly. Edward insisted that he get Evans to light the fire, and a little later they were joined by Ambler.
The scriptwriter regarded the others and mumbled, ‘I think I owe you an explanation.’
‘Well,’ Edward said, ‘I was wondering what you wrote on that postcard.’
Ambler coloured. ‘It was out of order and I should never have done it,’ he muttered. ‘It was a heat of the moment thing. I – I wasn’t thinking straight.’
Maria leaned forward, and murmured, ‘What happened, Terry?’
Ambler sighed. ‘It was a few days ago. Wednesday or Thursday. I’d just had a long day with Dennison, going over some changes in the script. Later, after dinner, Suzie buttonholed me in my room. She still wasn’t happy with her lines and demanded changes.’ He fell silent, his face twisted at the recollection.
‘And?’ Langham prompted.
‘And she threatened me.’
Edward stared at him. ‘Threatened?’
‘She said that if I didn’t agree to the changes she wanted, then she’d get “Dougy” to sack me. And I could see that she was serious. So … so I made the bloody changes.’
‘And then sent Suzie an abusive card,’ Langham said.
Ambler gave a long sigh. ‘I … I called her an “unconscionable little shit” and …’
‘Go on.’
‘And said,’ he went on, looking up and staring at each of them in turn, ‘that I hoped she died an unpleasant death. As I said, it was a heat of the moment thing, written without thinking. As soon as I’d slipped the thing beneath her door, I began to regret it.’
He rose to his feet with as much dignity as he was able to muster and said goodnight; as he was about to leave the room, he turned. ‘Of course, I’ll inform MacTaggart about the card at the first opportunity.’
He hurried from the room and closed the door behind him.
Edward broke the following silence. ‘Well, I applaud the fellow for coming clean, as it were. I wonder what the police will make of it?’
Maria said, ‘Probably very little, coming so soon after Mr Haggerston’s confession.’
Edward looked at her. ‘On which topic … I hope you don’t mind my asking, but at lunch, when Cynthia informed us about Desmond’s confession, you said something about it “not being possible”.’
Maria nodded. ‘The thing is, you see, Mr Haggerston’s snoring kept me awake from around three o’clock until six.’ She looked across at Langham. ‘And when was Suzie killed, Donald?’
‘At some point between three thirty when Dennison left the caravan, and six, when he got back and sat outside for forty minutes. If you take his statement as gospel,’ he added.
‘So you see,’ Maria said, ‘Mr Haggerston was snoring all the time between three and six. He was so loud that I had to get up and do a little work.’
Edward said, ‘But what if Haggerston woke just before six, went out and shot Miss Reynard before Douglas returned to the caravan? Are you sure he was snoring right up until six o’clock?’
Maria worried her lower lip. ‘Well … I cannot recall looking at my clock before six, and thinking, Oh, the snoring has stopped. I just recall that it was six when I went back to bed.’
‘I’m playing the Devil’s advocate here,’ Edward said, ‘but can you be one hundred per cent sure that you didn’t drop off for a little while between three thirty and six? I know from experience that when I think I’ve spent a bad night and not slept a wink, in fact I’ve dropped off from time to time. Even in separate rooms, Cynthia has heard my snoring.’
Maria shook her head. ‘I am certain. I did not sleep. Haggerston kept me awake all the time and I didn’t drop off, even for five minutes. Even before I got up and read the manuscript I was working on, I was wide awake.’
Edward looked across at Langham. ‘Did you hear Desmond’s snoring?’
Langham nodded. ‘He sounded like a chainsaw, though I must admit I was dead to the world and slept through most of it. I did get up around four, though, and spoke to Maria while she was reading.’
‘So,’ Maria said, ‘if Mr Haggerston did wake up just before six, he would have had to hurry downstairs very quickly if he were to reach the caravan, shoot Suzie, and get away before Mr Dennison got back from his walk. And have you seen how slowly Mr Haggerston walks? He is like a tortoise.’
‘Then how was it that his fingerprints were found on the murder weapon?’ Edward asked. ‘And why on earth would he confess to a crime he didn’t commit?’
‘That, I must admit,’ Langham said, ‘is one heck of a stumper.’
‘And on that note,’ Edward said, ‘I think I’ll turn in.’ He bade them good night and propelled himself from the room.
Alone in the room, Langham refilled his glass and told Maria why he thought that Dennison had been the killer’s target all along, and that Suzie Reynard’s death had been incidental.
Maria heard him out. ‘I see … But what if Suzie was the intended victim? What if Inspector MacTaggart is right, and the killer saw Dennison leave the caravan and took the opportunity to kill her?’
Langham frowned. ‘It’s possible, of course. But it just seems too convenient. I agree with you about Haggerston, though. I can’t see him killing Suzie, even though his prints were all over the revolver.’
He stared at his drink, lost in thought. ‘Oh. I’ve just remembered – you were going to tell me earlier something Varla told you about Cynthia.’
‘And so I was.’
‘Proceed.’
‘Well, Varla mentioned that years ago, back in the mid-thirties, Cynthia had an affair with Douglas Dennison.’
Langham whistled. ‘No kidding? That certainly puts an interesting complexion on things. Did she spill the sordid details?’
‘She told me that Cynthia met Dennison while he was in London – Cynthia was a nurse, back then.’
‘Just a tic. The mid-thirties? This was before she was married to Edward?’
Maria nodded. ‘When I was chatting with Cynthia the other day, she mentioned that she had met Edward in ’thirty-nine and married him a couple of years later.’
‘So Cynthia’s fling with Dennison happened a few years before she met Edward? And … was it a fling, or something more serious? Did Varla know?’
‘She said it was, in her own words, a “full-on, no-holds-barred, morning-noon-and-night affair”.’
‘I find that hard to believe of Cynthia … But obviously nothing came of it.’
‘After six months Dennison went back to his wife in the States, some starlet he’d wed quickly and lived to regret, Varla said.’
He looked at Maria, contemplating Varla Cartier’s gossip. ‘I wonder if this has anything to do with Suzie’s death? I can’t see how they might be linked, if the killer did intend to shoot Dennison.’
‘No? What if it was Cynthia, angry at what she saw as his betrayal, his desertion?’
He looked at her dubiously. ‘Twenty years after the event?’
She shrugged. ‘Stranger things have happened.’
He stretched and yawned. ‘By crikey, I’m bushed.’
‘Me too. But one thing is certain, tonight.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I will not be kept awake by Mr Haggerston’s terr-ible snoring.’