Down Among the Dead Men Read online

  CHAPTER NINE

  Rafferty's progress towards the house was made at a caterpillar's crawl as he digested Mrs Watson's evidence. It was a development he hadn't expected - although he had told Llewellyn he suspected one of the family had killed Barbara Longman, he found it difficult to seriously cast Henry in the role of murderer. Murderee - yes, he snorted. He had no problem imagining that at all.

  Even though he made allowances for the fact that Henry had just lost his wife, it was apparent that his personality had always been ineffectual. When he considered the frustration this would be likely to cause in a marriage, it was a wonder one of his two wives hadn't murdered him years ago.

  Perhaps they'd succumbed to other temptations instead? he mused. Had one or both of them taken a lover? Although it seemed unlikely that the saintly Barbara would do such a thing, it wasn't impossible. After all, was Henry likely to be any more stimulating a personality in bed than he apparently was out of it? And it would certainly provide Henry with a motive.

  But even with Mrs Watson's evidence, Rafferty found it difficult to get excited about the chances of an early arrest. Still, now that he'd been pushed into considering the possibility more seriously, he had to admit Henry had behaved oddly. For instance, why had he looked as if he had taken to sackcloth and ashes even before he had learned of his wife's death, never mind her murder? Surely, as an executive in the Shore empire, it would hardly be his normal attire? Charles Shore would be unlikely to tolerate such sloppiness, and would expect the house and its permanent residents to keep a certain standard. It wouldn't be the sort of place to lounge around in scruffy comfort. It would be more an extension to the office than a real home and Rafferty thought it unlikely there would be much opportunity for relaxation. There would be business lunches and dinners, where deals would be thrashed out, between the soup course and the cheese and biscuits. Even in Shore's absence, the show would be expected to go on. As the saying went, "time was money", and every hour, every minute, would be exploited in order to count towards the profit.

  He frowned speculatively at the capering figures decorating the roof-line of the house, as his slow pace drew him closer and he returned to pondering about Longman. Had Henry already known his wife was dead when they had first seen him? But how could he? he reasoned, unless he had killed her? And if he had murdered her, was he stupid enough to don his odd mourning gear, from a combination of guilt and remorse, without considering the effect this would have on the investigating policemen?

  But, if he had murdered his wife, it would certainly explain why he had preferred to wait for Charles Shore to come home and report her missing. He would have needed time to get himself under control, scared he might betray his guilt if they questioned him sooner. Had he also hoped the delay would make the calculation of the timing of his wife's death more difficult?

  As far as Rafferty could see, the only thing likely to stir Henry out of his lethargy, to induce in him a murderous rage, would be if Barbara had been having an affair. The trouble was, they had found nothing, so far, to indicate that this was a possibility. But that didn't mean there wasn't anything to find, he reminded himself.

  According to Mrs Watson, Henry had sneaked home the back way when he should have been working, on more than one occasion. On a previous truant exercise, could he have overheard something not meant for his ears? Something that made him suspect his perfect wife was cheating on him? Did the supposed lovers use a code for messages so simple that even Henry could crack it? Had he done so last Thursday, and heard and understood the message that Mrs Griffiths had taken and guessed it was another lovers' tryst? It gave a time - immediately and a place - Tiffey Meadow.

  Rafferty doubted that the passion of any affair could be great enough to transform the uncomfortable dry grass and weeds into a cushioned mattress. But then he realised that no such transformation would have been necessary, as there had already been a mattress there. Stained, it was true, but comfortable enough if covered with a car rug.

  He reminded himself that it was unlikely Henry had ever had reason to hold his head up - till he had married Barbara. He didn't seem too bright; in business he was propped up by nepotism; and as a parent he had fathered one son, a son moreover, who was by all accounts, as lacking in intelligent application as himself. All in all, he had not had a lot going for him. Yet in Barbara he had hit the jackpot. Everyone they had spoken to had said what a fine woman she had been. That quality would have reflected back onto Henry and provided him with a reason for the pride that had eluded him most of his life.

  What would his reaction have been if he had discovered this paragon had been cheating on him? Would he have erupted in a jealous rage, followed her and killed her? Was he even capable of such passion? He scowled as he realised he had neglected to check with Mrs Watson whether Henry's car had remained parked in front of her house all afternoon, or if it had vanished during the crucial time from 3.00 p.m. to 3.30 p.m. If it had remained where he had parked it, and he had been unable to borrow one of the other household vehicles, he might have the motive to kill his wife, but he would lack the opportunity. For without a vehicle, Henry would have been unable to get to the meadow easily. The nearest bus service was a good fifteen minute walk away, and then only ran once every hour. If, as the housekeeper had said, the call for Barbara had come just before 3.00 p.m., he'd have had to wait till the next bus at 4.00 p.m. to follow her. By the time he could have reached the rendezvous, his wife and her possible lover would both have been long gone.

  In turn, Rafferty considered the likelihood of Henry using a taxi or a push-bike. He didn't think Henry was cool enough to hire a taxi to take him to kill his wife, and as for the push-bike, he tried, and failed, to imagine Henry on a bike, his long, gangly legs pumping furiously towards the lovers' trysting spot. The image was just too comic. But both possibilities would still need to be checked out.

  He stopped dead in his tracks in the middle of the drive, as another theory occurred to him. But if Henry had been the one to leave the message, disguising his voice, in order to deceive Mrs Griffiths, time wouldn't necessarily be a factor. Hadn't Charles Shore complained that his mobile phone had gone missing the day before the murder? Henry would have had as much opportunity to take it as anyone. He could have already been at the meadow when he'd phoned the house to lure his wife to his chosen killing field. Mrs Watson had said she had seen Henry at 2.30 p m and that gave him time to get to the meadow. As long as he left his car parked at the house, he'd have a good chance of sneaking out and back undetected.

  And if that was what he had done, the murder had been pre-meditated rather than committed during a jealous rage. But again, Rafferty doubted that Henry was capable of such calm planning. He'd have made a botch of it.

  Rafferty glanced again at the grinning faces of the scampering satyrs on the roof and wished he didn't get the feeling they were laughing at him, silently mocking his groping deductions. Quickening his step, he reached the front door, glad to get out of their line of vision.

  The front door was slightly ajar and he stuck his head round the jamb, but there was no-one in sight. Tentatively, he pushed the door wide and walked into the hall; this time no delicate roses wafted their perfume towards him. The gloom of the hall, unrelieved by what could only have been Barbara Longman's floral displays, unnerved him and he considered retracing his steps and knocking. But then, he heard a voice coming from the direction of the library, and, as he walked towards the open door, he told himself that he could always say he'd knocked if he was challenged.

  He was surprised to see the teenage boy he had encountered on his first visit to the house. He was standing in front of the portrait of Maximillian Shore. He hadn't noticed Rafferty and appeared to be in earnest conversation with the portrait.

  'I miss her so much, Grandfather. It's awful here without her. Edward's even more hateful now than he ever was.' He sniffed, sounding thoroughly wretched. 'I wish I understood it.'

  Poor kid, thought Rafferty. He was
obviously desperate for understanding from someone. It was sad, that in a house that contained father, uncle and cousins, the person he should seek comfort from should be his long dead and rather terrifying grandfather. Especially as he could have been no more than a baby when the old man had been murdered. As he glanced over the boy's shoulder at the formidable face in the portrait, Rafferty reflected that it was probably just as well that the lad's grandfather was dead, as from what he'd so far discovered about old Maximillian, he would have had scant patience with the tears of a sensitive teenager. But then, self-delusion was a privilege of youth. Rafferty sighed as he reflected that age brought other problems.

  The boy spun round as he heard the soft expulsion of breath behind him. He wiped his eyes quickly on his sleeve before staring accusingly at Rafferty. 'Who are you?' he demanded. 'What are you doing in here, spying on me?'

  Caught eavesdropping for the second time in just a few days, Rafferty felt his colour rising, and his embarrassment increased when he saw the boy's grief-stricken face. Rafferty didn't blame him for reacting angrily. He'd have probably done the same himself in similar circumstances. Apologetically, he explained. 'I'm a policeman. I came to see Mr Longman, if he's around.' He gave the boy what he hoped was a compassionate smile. 'You're Maxie Longman, I think?'

  The boy drew himself up. 'My name's Maximillian, not Maxie. And I'm a Shore.

  Rafferty didn't bother to argue with him. Instead, he said simply, 'Your Grandfather's name?'

  Maxie nodded. He half turned away and surreptitiously wiped the rest of the tears from his face, before remarking, 'My Uncle told me you're in-investigating Barbara's d-death.'

  'That's right.' Rafferty took a pace towards the boy and held out a cautious hand. 'I'm sorry to have come plodding in here in my size twelves, when I'm sure you'd much rather be alone. Your Uncle told me you were very fond of your stepmother.'

  Maxie nodded, blinking rapidly as though to ward off more incipient tears. The earlier ones had been bitter enough to judge by the boy's swollen eyes and Rafferty guessed Maxie's aggression was a protective measure, a reaction to having his emotional outburst witnessed by a stranger. It seemed to Rafferty a great pity that, having lost one mother to divorce, a murderer should cost him a second, especially as, as far as Rafferty had seen, she had been the only member of the family who seemed to have had any time for the children.

  'There's nothing to be ashamed of in a few tears, you know, lad,' Rafferty gruffly remarked. 'I've been told your stepmother was a kind lady. I hope someone thinks enough of me to shed a few tears when I go.'

  Maxie said nothing, but turned abruptly away and stared out of the window. He looked miserable, and his profile suggested that Rafferty could keep his words of comfort, but as he gazed out at the dark yew hedging, he became unexpectedly confiding.

  'I wish she wasn't dead. Everyone else makes me feel I'm stupid, because I'm not as quick as my cousins, but she always made me think I could be a success like grandfather. She used to tell me there were more roads to success than my uncle imagined and it was just a matter of finding the one that was right for me. And I believed her. I worked so hard, reading and studying book after book. I thought I had found the road.' He sniffed and, in a voice that was little more than a whisper, he added, 'but I was wrong. I know now I'll never amount to anything. It was all for nothing.'

  Before Rafferty could reply, Maxie seemed to remember who he was and why he was there, for he turned suddenly and demanded with another show of aggression, 'Why do you want to see my father, again? Mrs Griffiths told me you've already seen him twice.'

  Sorry his attempt at befriending the boy had failed miserably, Rafferty tried to remember himself at the same age and failed again. It wasn't surprising, of course. He had surely been nothing like this intense boy, whom everyone but his step-mother seemed to neglect. Selecting his words carefully, Rafferty said, 'Usually, it helps to learn something about the victim. How she lived, her friends, her family, her loves and hates. That's why I wanted to speak to your father again,' he lied. With unconscious irony, he added, 'There might be something he's forgotten to tell us.'

  Maxie spun round wildly, his hands bunched into fists at his sides, and an anxious expression on his face. Biting his lip, he asked, in a stilted voice, 'You don't...you don't suspect my father, do you?'

  Rafferty tried to reassure him, but it wasn't easy. How could he tell him, that after what Mrs Watson had divulged, they had to suspect him, question him again? Guardedly, he said, 'There are one or two points I need to clear up, that's all.' With a heartiness that didn't quite come off, he added, 'Nothing for you to worry about.' From Maxie's face, with its shocked pallor and wary, red-rimmed eyes, he could see the boy didn't believe him and his next words confirmed it.

  'My cousin said you'd think my father did it.' His voice rose in the beginnings of hysteria. 'He didn't do it. I know he didn't. You can't ...'

  'All right, lad, calm down.' Stupidly, Rafferty found himself wishing that Llewellyn was there to add a bit of moral support. But, of course, he'd be no use at all, he assured himself. Dafyd Llewellyn was an only child and far less accustomed to dealing with over wrought teenagers than Rafferty himself, with his ever increasing brood of nephews and nieces.

  Maxie ignored him. He seemed to be working himself into a terrible state. 'I'm not a child,' he screamed at Rafferty. 'I won't have you treating me like one.' He wiped his eyes on his sleeve as the tears slid through the bravado. 'If you try to arrest my father, you'll regret it. My uncle's a rich man. He'll get the best lawyers. You'll see.'

  Rafferty wasn't quite sure how best to respond to this, but he decided to try the stern policeman role. 'The law doesn't weaken before rich men, Maximillian. Don't you know that?'

  Between bouts of hysterical laughter, the boy told him something that sounded suspiciously like a parrot-fashion repetition of his uncle's beliefs, 'I know they say British justice is blind, but it still has good ears to hear a first-class defence lawyer and that's what my father will get. If he needs it.'

  As Maxie stared at Rafferty, his eyes dark pits of misery in a face even whiter than before, Rafferty reflected that Charles Shore was the sort of wealthy man who would hold such sentiments. And with good reason. Hadn't his expensive lawyers successfully defended him, in several cases that had set the financial world reeling, over the last few years? Scandals that less wealthy men would never have survived.

  Rafferty was at a loss and found himself praying that the housekeeper would come and take the lad off his hands. Instead, to Rafferty's relief, Henry Longman stuck his head round the door. He looked as if he'd made a bit more of an effort today, Rafferty noticed. The shirt and trousers he wore appeared to have recently encountered an iron, and the faraway expression, though still evident, had lessened.

  'I didn't know you were here, Inspector.' Worriedly, he glanced from Rafferty to his son. 'What's going on? I heard you shouting from upstairs, Maxie. I know your mother never used to think there was anything wrong in screaming at people, but I won't have you behaving that way. You're growing up now. It's about time you learned some self-control.'

  Maxie glared at him and Henry ignored this and tried to jolly his son along. 'I thought you'd be out on the river with your cousins,' he told him. 'It's a shame to waste the nice weather.'

  Maxie muttered, 'How can I when the paddle broke two weeks ago? You said you'd replace it, but you never did.'

  'I did ask you to remind me, if you remember. Why didn't you?'

  Maxie shrugged. 'It doesn't matter now, anyway. Even if it wasn't broken, I wouldn't want to do it any more. Not with them, and Barbara said... Barbara said I didn't have to. They spend all their time ganging up on me, laughing at me, calling me names.'

  Henry looked at a loss. 'They're only children, Maxie,' he protested weakly. 'You should make allowances.'

  From the boy's sulky expression, Rafferty guessed that was the last thing he was willing to do. Presumably, they were talking about Charles's two ch
ildren, and judging from the spiteful way they had been teasing him on Rafferty's first visit, he couldn't blame the lad. Still, he thought, what example did they have? Henry was weak and ineffectual; Charles Shore, with his business empire to run, would be unlikely to have much time for them. And from the one occasion he had met the mistress of the house, she had struck him as having far more interest in herself than in the children.

  Barbara Longman appeared to have been the only person who had been fond enough of any of them to attempt to turn the efficiently run, and ugly old Shore house, into a home. No wonder the boy looked so wretched at her loss.

  Rafferty wondered what would become of them all now that her influence had been removed? He supposed they'd acquire a nanny - a succession of nannies. But they weren't his problem, he reminded himself. His problem was solving Barbara Longman's murder. He didn't seem to be getting very far with it.

  Henry had obviously been searching desperately for some way to occupy his son that didn't involve him personally. Now, he suggested. 'If you can't get on with your cousins, why don't you go over to Tom Shepherd's house? I thought you two were friends.'

  'That was before he pushed me out of the tree in the Easter holidays,' Maxie retorted. 'Anyway, I can't. He's convalescing.'

  This seemed to be news to his father. But then, Rafferty imagined most things would be. 'Convalescing?' Henry frowned. 'Why? What was the matter with him?'

  Maxie shrugged with typical teenage unconcern. 'Had to have his stomach pumped out, according to Mrs Griffiths.' He pulled a face. 'You know what a terrible cook his mother is.'

  'Well, I don't know,' said Henry with a sigh. 'Surely you can find something to do. A great lad like you?' He certainly didn't want to be bothered, his manner implied. Maxie took the hint and slouched disconsolately out of the library.

  There was more than a suggestion of a whine in Henry's voice as he told Rafferty, 'I don't know what to do with that boy. I think even Barbara must have been beginning to find the usual teenage tantrums a little trying, as she suggested, only last Wednesday morning, that it might be a good idea to send him to boarding school.' He dropped heavily into one of the armchairs and ran his hand through his hair. 'Maybe she was right and I ought to send him away to school, like Charles's two.' Henry looked hopefully at Rafferty, as if he expected him to make his decision for him. 'What do you think, Inspector?'