Langham woke early next morning and lay in bed until he heard stirrings from the adjacent room. He and Maria descended together and had tea and toast under the cherry tree at the far end of the lawn. It was another brilliant summer’s day and Langham was glad he was away from London; the capital would be stifling in the heat and humidity, its populace fractious and bad-tempered. Here, birdsong filled the air and a warm breeze soughed through the cherry blossom.
‘I had a dream in the night, Maria. An angel sat on my bed and mopped my brow.’
‘That is strange. I had a dream, too. I was an angel, and I was mopping the brow of a wounded soldier.’
‘And you don’t know how wonderful that felt.’
Maria hugged herself and shivered, despite the warmth. ‘This angel would like to leave Humble Barton and get back to London.’
‘I’ll have a word with Montgomery if I see him today. If you’d really like to get back, I’m sure we’ll be able to go if I give him our contact details.’
The French windows of Edward Endicott’s study swung open, glinting in the sunlight, and Endicott strode across the lawn. ‘There you are,’ he called out. ‘There’s a phone call for you, Maria. Caroline would like a quick word.’
Maria looked at Langham. ‘I wonder what she wants?’ she said as she stood and strode towards the house.
Endicott dropped into the seat beside Langham and sighed. ‘Ghastly business yesterday. Village is in shock. Fortunately I was still in the hall. Didn’t see …’
‘You were lucky. I saw the couple who were first on the scene and wondered what the heck was going on. I wish I hadn’t gone for a look-see.’ He paused, then said, ‘Like something from the war.’
Endicott glanced at him. ‘Where’d you serve?’
‘Madagascar, then India. Field security.’
‘See much action?’
‘A few skirmishes, mopping up the Vichy French in Madagascar. In India it was mainly routine security work, keeping an eye on the nationalists and praying the Japs wouldn’t push south. You?’
‘North Africa. Tanks. Hellish. Bit of a contrast to Hollywood.’
‘I can imagine.’ Langham stretched his legs in the sunlight and nursed a china cup of Earl Grey.
‘It’s poor Denbigh’s funeral next week. Never had much time for the fellow, to be honest. Too wishy-washy C of E for my liking, but he didn’t deserve that. Expert bods are calling it a freak accident.’ He grunted. ‘Some sick wag in the Three Horseshoes last night called it “the hand of God”.’
Langham glanced at Endicott. ‘Come again?’
‘Hoist by his own ecclesiastical petard,’ Endicott went on cryptic-ally. ‘You see, Denbigh had a secret.’
Langham sat up. ‘A secret?’
Endicott raised a hand. ‘I don’t sit in judgement, Donald. Saw plenty of it during the war – men cooped up together, without women.’
‘Ah …’ Langham said. ‘How did you find out?’
Endicott looked uncomfortable. ‘Overheard Denbigh and Alasdair in the library one evening. Denbigh was pouring his heart out, the poor sod. Thought it best to beat a rapid retreat.’ He glanced at Langham. ‘Anyway, word in the village is that it wasn’t an accident.’
‘It wasn’t …?’
The other man nodded. ‘All became a bit too much … keeping it secret, living a double life. Upshot, he topped himself.’ He shook his head. ‘Odd chap. He put on a good front, a show of joviality and bonhomie. But underneath he was a nervous wreck … Alasdair was rather chummy with him, despite their differences. Said the chap sustained himself on booze. No wonder the poor blighter did himself in.’
‘That’s speculation, of course.’
‘Of course.’ Endicott shrugged. ‘We’ll probably never know. Anyway, he was well enough liked in the village. Expect there’ll be a fair turnout next week.’
‘We should come up from London for it …’ Langham said. ‘Maria and I were talking about pushing off, probably tomorrow. It’s been awfully decent you putting us up like this.’
‘Don’t mention it, Donald. Been nice having you around. And your girl is easy on the eye. Plan to get hitched?’
‘Well, that’s the idea, Edward. When I screw up the courage to ask.’
Endicott laughed. ‘Ah, marriage … I remember it well. I was hitched for ten years, then Mary fell ill in Hollywood and passed away. Hell of a shock, despite the fact we were daggers drawn most of the ruddy time. Alasdair was still a nipper. Came back here and an aunt in Cheltenham helped out, took him in during the war.’ He slapped his thigh. ‘Anyway, no use crying over spilt milk. And here’s your girl, to save you a longer sob story.’ He smiled at Maria as she approached.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Almost forgot. How about dinner here tonight, seeing as how you’ll soon be skeddadling? Caroline’s coming over to cook something. She’s a genius in the kitchen.’
Maria shielded her eyes from the sunlight. ‘That will be lovely, thank you.’ She turned to Langham and said, ‘Caroline would like to see us. She said we could come over for morning tea at ten thirty.’
Langham consulted his watch. ‘It’s ten past now. We could set off and stroll through the village.’
Endicott stood up and called Rasputin, who came bounding from the study with his lead clutched in his slavering jaws. ‘Duty calls. I’ll see you tonight.’
Maria watched Endicott lead the setter across the lawn and then turned to Langham, her expression worried.
He stared at her. ‘Something’s wrong? Is Caroline …?’
‘She was very upset, Donald. She wanted to see us both. You don’t think she suspects that we …?’
‘What, that we told Montgomery about Denbigh seeing her?’ He shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t think so. I don’t think Montgomery would disclose his sources like that.’ He smiled up at her. ‘She was probably dragged in for a grilling last night and wants to talk about it with a friendly face. Mark my words.’
They left the Chase and strolled down the lane, passing into and out of the shadow of the elms that lined the way. ‘Oh, and I heard something about Denbigh from Endicott.’
He told her the story, and the speculation that his death had not been an accident.
Maria held a knuckle to her lips. ‘Oh, but that’s terrible, Donald! The poor man!’
‘If he did take his own life, Maria. My money’s still on a freak accident.’
They passed the village green. Montgomery’s unmarked car was parked up outside St Andrew’s and a uniformed bobby stood to attention at the gate of the vicarage.
‘You don’t think …?’ Maria began.
‘What?’
‘That it was neither an accident nor suicide? That it was Caroline who …’
He stared down at the patched macadam as they turned on to the lane where Caroline Dequincy lived. ‘I just can’t see her doing something like that.’
‘Is that just because she’s a woman?’
‘Of course not!’ he protested. ‘She strikes me as a decent person. I’m sure she wouldn’t …’
Maria nodded. ‘Yes, that’s how I think of her, too. I only hope we are right.’
They came to Rosebud Cottage and pushed through the white gate. Boardman was on hand to greet them with his dolorous stare; he climbed stiffly to his feet and led the way across the lawn.
Caroline waved at them. ‘Over here,’ she called.
She sat at a table in the shade of an apple tree, a glass of clear liquid before her. She wore a yellow dress with a matching chiffon bow in her hair, and appeared to have spent a lot of time on her make-up. Despite this, Langham could see that her mascara had run, and the evidence of a balled tissue in the grass at her feet suggested that she had been crying.
She was animated and gay – perhaps overly so – as she called for her maid to fetch the tea things. ‘Or perhaps you’d care for something a little stronger?’ she went on, indicating a jug. ‘Gin punch. I know it’s early, but I find it’s a wonderful pick-me-up.’
‘Tea for me, thanks, Caroline,’ Langham said, and Maria agreed.
‘I hope you didn’t mind my calling like that, Maria?’ Caroline said. ‘I just needed …’ She beamed at them. ‘Well, I just needed to talk to someone.’
The maid came out with a tray and poured two Earl Grey teas. Langham helped himself to a Rich Tea biscuit and repositioned his chair in the shade. He looked at Caroline Dequincy, her green eyes and handsome face. Despite the fact that she was clearly troubled by something, she maintained an enviable poise, even elegance.
Try as he might, he just could not envisage her taking a lawn-edger to Stafford’s head, nor pushing the Reverend Denbigh to his death.
She took a sip of gin punch, her hand hardly trembling. ‘I was visited by the constabulary last night,’ she said. ‘That strange little inspector, Montgomery, and his sidekick – I forget the man’s name. They questioned me for what seemed like hours and worked the old softening-up routine – Montgomery taking the role of the tough-guy and his sidekick coming on all smiles and sympathy when Montgomery was through.’
‘I didn’t like it when Inspector Montgomery questioned me,’ Maria said. ‘I thought him rather rude.’
Caroline smiled. ‘He was downright nasty, Maria. You see, they more or less accused me of killing first Vivian Stafford and then Marcus Denbigh.’
Langham said, ‘On what evidence?’
The actress took a longer drink this time, set the glass down with deliberation and smiled at them. ‘Well, you see,’ she said, a slight catch in her voice, ‘despite what I led you to believe, I actually discovered Stafford’s body on Sunday morning.’
Langham feigned surprise. ‘Sunday?’ he said, relieved at her admission.
Her smiled faltered. ‘You have every right to be annoyed at me for not telling you the truth,’ she said. ‘I’m not proud of pulling the wool over your eyes.’
Maria leaned forward. ‘What happened, Caroline?’
The actress sighed. ‘Quite simply, and honestly – though I doubt whether Montgomery believed me – I was taking Boardman for a walk on Sunday morning. I often go through the village, take the river path past the Chase and over the bridge to the grounds of Stafford Hall. We were passing the woods when Boardman tugged on the lead and dragged me along the path. He dived into the undergrowth, rooting for something, and when I took a closer look … Well, you know what was there. I recognized Stafford immediately, of course.’
Langham shook his head. ‘But why didn’t you simply report what you found?’
Caroline raised a hand. ‘I’ll get to that in a minute,’ she said. ‘Anyway, while I was staring at the body I saw someone on the path a couple of hundred yards further into the woods … I couldn’t be certain if they’d seen me or not, nor who the person was. I half-guessed it was Denbigh, but I couldn’t be sure.’ She shook her head. ‘I panicked, just fled and ran to the Chase. But of course, Edward wasn’t there …’ She raised her glass and gave an ironic smile. ‘And I’m afraid when I got home I hit the gin.’
She took another sip of her drink. ‘And then yesterday evening … Montgomery told me that someone had seen me in the woods on Sunday morning, where the body was later found. He said that killers often returned to the scene of their crimes. I protested my innocence, of course. I admitted being there, and finding the body … I said I panicked and fled, having seen someone watching me and not wanting to be suspected of having anything to do with the …’ She took a deep breath and went on: ‘Then Montgomery’s sidekick, who’d been as nice as pie until that point, dropped the bombshell and accused me of killing the Reverend Denbigh. He said that it was Denbigh who’d seen me in the woods near the corpse and he claimed that I must have recognized him …’ She looked from Langham to Maria, her poise beginning to fracture as she said, ‘And the damned thing was … yesterday, before the … before the accident, I was the last person seen with Denbigh. We were near that infernal contraption of Dent’s.’
‘You spoke with him?’ Maria asked.
Caroline nodded. ‘He came up to me, said he wanted a private word. I must say he seemed in a bit of a state.’
‘What did he want?’ Langham asked.
Caroline hesitated, then said, ‘He told me he’d seen me near the body on Sunday, said that he’d “made the information public” – those were his exact words. And then he apologized. He seemed truly sorry …’ She smiled. ‘The odd thing was, I felt sorry for the dilemma I’d caused him. Anyway, I admitted to Montgomery that I’d spoken to Denbigh, but told him what I’ve just told you. I said that the last time I saw Denbigh he was walking towards the orrery, lost in thought. I heard the announcement that the raffle was about to be drawn and hurried back to the lawn.’
Langham said, ‘And how did Denbigh seem when you left him?’
She shrugged. ‘He was upset.’
‘He didn’t appear … depressed, suicidal?’
She shook her head. ‘No … I wouldn’t say so. I’m sure he wouldn’t have taken his own life. He was too God-fearing for that.’
Langham asked, ‘What do you think happened?’
She held his gaze. ‘I think it was a terrible, terrible accident, Donald. I think he slipped or stumbled …’
He nodded, taking a sip of tea and glancing at Maria. She leaned forward, staring at the actress, and asked, ‘But Donald’s earlier question – why didn’t you report finding Stafford’s body in the woods?’
The actress’s smile faltered again; she took a breath and nodded. ‘I … I was telling the truth when I said that I panicked when I found the body, but the reason that I panicked was because, you see, I had a very good reason to want Stafford dead.’
Langham lowered his cup to its saucer with a surprised crash. ‘What?’
‘You see, I … I am pretty sure that Stafford was blackmailing me.’
Maria exclaimed under her breath and Langham said, ‘Blackmailing …?’
‘I received a letter shortly after we first met, over a month ago now. We’d been talking about my early career in Hollywood. He proved to be very knowledgeable on the subject of the movie industry. A few days later I received an anonymous, typewritten letter through the post: it stated simply that the writer was sure that I would like certain information regarding my past – and he went into detail – to be kept from public knowledge. To ensure this, the writer demanded that I send him fifty pounds in used notes.’
‘And you think that this person, this blackmailer, was Vivian Stafford?’ Maria asked.
‘I do.’
‘On what evidence?’ Langham asked.
Caroline hesitated. ‘During our conversation regarding my early career, he seemed … and I don’t know how exactly to describe this … but I received the distinct impression – from a certain archness of expression, the way he looked at me – that he knew something about me. Also, the address to which I had to send the money—’
‘Surely he didn’t give his own address?’ Langham said.
‘No, a PO Box number in Holborn. I happened to know, from what Edward had told me, that Stafford stayed in the area.’
Langham pursed his lips. ‘And from this you assumed that it was Stafford blackmailing you?’
‘There was another thing, the clincher. Edward showed me some correspondence he’d had from the man – I forget what the content was – and the font he’d used matched exactly that in the letter I’d received.’
Maria shook her head. ‘But many typewriters have the same font,’ she pointed out.
Caroline smiled. ‘And do many of them have a letter “d” with a broken upstroke?’ she asked. ‘That’s what convinced me, you see. When I first received the demand, I suspected Stafford but later, when I saw Edward’s letter – that’s when I knew for sure.’
‘And you paid up?’ Langham asked.
Caroline inclined her head with, in the circumstances, uncommon grace. ‘I did.’
‘And were there other demands after the first?’
‘I’ve received two further demands,’ she said.
‘And you paid the money both times?’ Maria asked.
Caroline held Maria’s gaze and said, ‘Yes, I did. You see, I didn’t want … I didn’t want what I did to become known. Moreover, I didn’t want Edward to find out. You might think me foolish to run after a man who clearly doesn’t love me, but I harbour the hope that one day that might change. And if he ever found out … if he discovered my secret, then …’ She took a breath. ‘I’m not proud of what I did back then – this was in the twenties, you see. I was young and naïve and foolish, and I wanted to get on in Hollywood. I was a little idiot … and my actions came back to haunt me.’
‘Do you have any idea how Stafford found out about what you did?’ Langham asked.
She gave a thin smile and took another drink of gin. ‘Oh, I know, but I doubt whether you, Donald, being of a rationalist persuasion, will be convinced.’
He smiled. ‘I think I can guess …’
She said, ‘Stafford, for all his veniality, his evilness, was a brilliant man. There were no secrets anyone could keep from him. Ask Edward if you don’t believe me. I don’t know how exactly he knew, but I believe that the occult must have been involved.’
Langham considered it neither the time nor place to mock her beliefs. He said, ‘I take it that Montgomery isn’t aware that Stafford was blackmailing you?’
‘I certainly hope not,’ she said. ‘But I live in fear that he’ll find out.’
She stopped there, her gaze dropping. She took a long breath, gathered herself and looked up with a bright smile. ‘Anyway, that’s why I asked to see you. You see, Alasdair mentioned that you had certain … contacts – a private investigator. If the police do discover that Stafford was blackmailing me then they won’t look any further for the killer.’
‘And you want me to get my contact on the case?’
She smiled. ‘I suddenly find myself fifty pounds a week better off,’ she said, ‘and I think the money might be better spent hiring the services of a private detective, don’t you?’
He smiled. ‘I think it might. His name’s Ralph Ryland and he’s good. I served with him during the war.’
‘He won’t be too busy with other cases?’
‘I’m sure he’ll make time for a friend,’ Langham said. ‘If I could use your phone, I’ll contact him right away.’
‘By all means.’ She looked relieved.
Langham left the table and moved into the cottage, the small hallway refreshingly cool after the heat of the sun. He picked up the phone, sat on the lowest step of the staircase and dialled the number of Ryland and Hope. Back in ’forty-six, after a few weeks at the agency without seeing Ryland’s business partner, he’d asked Ralph just who the mysterious Mr Hope might be. It turned out that Hope was fictitious; Ralph said that ‘Ryland and Hope’ sounded better than just plain Ryland – and anyway ‘Hope’ was an optimistic name to have in the business’s title.
‘’Ello? Ryland and Hope, private investigators.’
‘Ralph. Donald here.’
‘Don! Good to hear from you.’
‘How’s business, Ralph?’
‘What? You’re kidding, right?’ Ryland’s cockney tones sounded put out. ‘July, remember? Every beggar in London’s off enjoying hisself and here I am, kicking me bleedin’ heels.’
‘Excellent. Glad you’re quiet.’
‘Thanks a bunch, mate.’
‘Because I can put some work your way, if you’re interested.’
‘Now you’re talking, Cap’n. What’s the gen?’
‘Oh, just the usual … blackmail, murder.’
Ryland sounded disappointed. ‘I geddit! You want to pick me brain again for one of your bleedin’ novels, right?’
Langham laughed. ‘No, I’m serious. This isn’t fiction. Would you believe that I have a Hollywood actress here who’s been blackmailed, and that there’s been a murder?’
‘You’ve been reading too much Raymond Chandler, Don. This for real?’
‘Well, the actress thinks she knows who’s blackmailing her, but he’s just turned up dead and she’s the main suspect.’
‘Sounds interesting. Where are you?’
‘Humble Barton, Suffolk. If you’re doing nothing, could you drive up? I’ll fill you in on what’s been going on.’
‘Humble what? Never heard of it. Hold on a sec while I get the map-book. Right-o. Say again. Humble …?’
‘Barton,’ Langham said. He gave Ryland the directions and the details of where he could be contacted.
‘Got it,’ Ryland said. ‘Right, I’ll be with you in … say a bit over two hours. And tell the actress I’ll be charging a tenner a day.’ He laughed, then said, ‘Never met a real, live, livin’ and breathin’ Hollywood actress before, Don. This broad a looker?’
‘Knocking on, but way out of your league, Ralph.’
‘Catch you later,’ Ryland said, and rang off.
Langham returned to the table beneath the apple tree and smiled as Caroline looked up expectantly. ‘All set. Ralph will be here later this afternoon and his rates are ten pounds a day.’
Caroline smiled. ‘Reasonable, by LA standards,’ she said. ‘I was about to say that this calls for a celebratory drink, but I think I’ve had enough. Say, would you care to stay for lunch? I have some smoked salmon, and Molly has just baked one of her divine blackberry and apple pies.’