Death Line Page 7
“It's Louis Quinze,” Llewellyn whispered in his ear, in tones of admiration as he sat beside him.
Louis was welcome to it, thought Rafferty, as he shifted his buttocks on the inadequately stuffed cushions. Style was all very well, he thought, but did it have to be so bloody uncomfortable?
“My husband told me what happened, Inspector. Most reluctantly, I need hardly add. He's always trying to shield me from unpleasantness.” She directed an anxious smile at them, as though doubtful that they would be as considerate of her feelings as her husband. “I'm sure Mrs Hadleigh thinks I'm very spoilt. Of course, he was worried it would upset me.”
If she was upset by Jasper Moon's murder, she hid it well, thought Rafferty. After all, Moon had been her husband's partner for two years and Astell had worked for him for three before that; she must surely have known him quite well. “Perhaps you'd like to tell me what you knew of Jasper Moon,” he invited. “In a murder investigation, it always helps to get as many views and opinions as possible.”
She sighed. “Speaking ill of the dead is not something I would normally do, Inspector.” She paused, glanced briefly at him and then went on, “But I can see that I must put aside such scruples.” Her brown eyes shadowed, and she admitted, “I never felt comfortable with him. His homosexuality – repelled me.”
Rafferty was glad to learn that he wasn't alone in his political incorrectness. He noticed her voice had now become firm, the invalid's quaver vanished or forgotten as she put aside the rest of her scruples and warmed to her theme.
“But aside from his – homosexuality' – once again, she snapped the word out as if she wanted it said as quickly as possible, as if the very word offended her, 'I always felt he took unfair advantage of Edwin; the times he left him holding the fort while he jetted off round the world seeing his star clients. And thoughtless – in the years he and Edwin worked together, he never managed to send his birthday card on the correct day. It was always late. I don't know why he bothered at all if he couldn't take the trouble to get it right.”
She sat back, with an exasperated smile. “Edwin insisted he didn't mind, and of course, as I made a point of avoiding Moon, I hardly had an opportunity to point it out to him. Not that I would have done, anyway. Edwin warned me it would only embarrass both of them if I did so, so, for Edwin's sake, I put up with the annual irritation it caused me.” Her expression self-deprecating, she added, “Like my dear father, I've always believed a wife's role to be a secondary, supportive one, Inspector. I'm sure you agree.”
After a wry glance at Llewellyn, whose girlfriend inclined more to the feminist persuasion, Rafferty nodded politely. Personally, he agreed with Llewellyn, that women who always put themselves second were fools. No-one respected a doormat. But Sarah Astell seemed proud of her boot-wiping quality.
Rafferty remembered now that Astell had told them he put a lot of his wife's trouble squarely at her father's door. “Sarah adored him,” he had told them. “But he was seldom at home and even when he was, he paid her scant attention. She became anorexic in her teens, but that's been under control for years and her weight's steady, though she doesn't seem to improve at all. Still,” he had added on a bright note, as if that were all he could hope for, “the doctors are pleased with her.”
Looking at her now, Rafferty concluded that Mrs Astell's doctors must be easily pleased. She couldn't weigh any more than eight stone, low for someone whose long limbs looked as if, standing, she'd be about 5′8″. She must still eat like a sparrow.
“No,” Sarah Astell continued. “I didn't like him. I made a point of meeting him as little as possible, that's why I never went to my husband's business premises. Even when Edwin first started to work for him, there was something about him that made me uneasy. Oh, he was pleasant enough to me then, went out of his way to be attentive, even insisted on drawing up a natal chart for me. But lately, he had begun to make disparaging remarks about my father. I think he was jealous of him, of his reputation. I don't suppose he thought they'd get back to me, but they did. He might have brought in a lot of business, but money has never been that important to Edwin or me.” She smiled her taut smile. “We live simply. Neither of us is extravagant. We have each other, our daughter and our lovely home. What more could anyone want?”
“It's certainly a beautiful house,” Rafferty agreed.
He had evidently hit the right note, for she smiled warmly at him. “Yes, we're lucky. This house has been in my mother's family for generations. Of course, the grounds used to be more extensive, but land had to be sold to pay death duties. My mother's now married to a well-set up man and lives in Scotland. She gave this place to me when she remarried, and, of course, as I was an only child – my parents waited ten years for me – I had no brothers or sisters to demand their share.” With an unconscious arrogance, she added, “Perhaps you know that my father was Sir Alan Carstairs?” She nodded at a framed coloured photograph which held pride of place on one wall. Under flopping dark hair, Alan Carstairs stared back at them from clear blue eyes. He had been a handsome man and his expression implied that he had been well aware of it. “He was a very successful society photographer in the fifties and sixties,” she told them. “I'm sure you've heard of him.”
They nodded in unison, and while Llewellyn proceeded to draw her out, talking knowledgeably of photography in that reserved manner that women seemed to find so endearing, Rafferty let his mind and his eyes roam. Astell had told him she had adored her father even though he had neglected her. Rafferty could see why. The photograph was of a man in his prime, self-assured, good-looking, vigorous. A man who turned heads and attracted admirers with no effort at all. A man who was perhaps a little spoilt, a little selfish, but understandably so. A fast-living extrovert, Carstairs, when he wasn't racing round the world snapping the famous of the day, had been the subject of other photographers' lenses. Newspaper snaps of him had invariably featured him in some exotic part of the world, beautiful women draped around him. The man had seemed to trail an ever-changing harem, and Rafferty wondered what his wife had thought of her husband's lifestyle.
Carstairs might have paid his daughter scant attention, but at least he appeared to have left her well supplied with filthy lucre. And, he noticed, for a woman who didn't like visitors, she seemed to have blossomed under Llewellyn's attentions. The invalid's rug had been completely discarded and she sat forward, her face animated, hands expressive as they discussed her father's genius. Rafferty returned from his wool-gathering just as Llewellyn's social skills gave out.
Now he asked, “I understand you and your husband were at home on the night Mr Moon died?”
“That's right. I imagine Edwin's told you it was the anniversary of my dear father's death? I kept the gathering small this year, just my husband, myself, Mrs Moreno whom my husband employs and Clara Davies, an old friend of my father. She was a very talented designer and often went on location with him. But even though the gathering was small, I still insisted on black tie. I like to mark the occasion with a proper respect. I even managed to persuade Edwin to buy a new suit this year while we were in Elmhurst, though, of course, he kept putting it off and left it too late to get his usual made-to measure.” Unexpectedly, she glanced at Rafferty in his tired suit and gave him an arch smile. “You men and your comfortable old clothes, how you do cling onto them.”
Ruefully, Rafferty looked down at his best brown suit. Perhaps it was past its prime, he thought, as he stretched his legs out and studied the worn, shiny hillocks that stood away from his knees.
Edwin Astell appeared in the doorway. “Hello. Mrs Hadleigh said you were here.” He glanced at his wife. “Are you all right, dear? You look rather flushed. My wife tires easily, Inspector, as I told you. I hope you've not been wearing her out.”
“Don't fuss, Edwin,” she chided, though Rafferty noticed she looked pleased at his concern. “We've been having a nice little chat about my father.” She drew her lips back. 'And that business with Moon, of course.
Astell studied his wife's flushed features with a frown before he told them, “Sorry, no. I've always known him as Jasper Moon. I've no idea what he might have been called before.”
Rafferty was surprised. “He never mentioned it?”
Astell shook his head. “I did ask him once, but it was clear he wasn't interested in discussing it. I never brought it up again. It was none of my business.”
“We found a letter addressed to a Peter Hedges amongst his personal effects,” Rafferty remarked. “We wondered if that might be it?” Neither of the Astells had any comment to make on that and Rafferty went on. “Never mind, we'll no doubt soon find out his real name.”
Sarah Astell's brief spurt of energy hadn't lasted long. The flush in her cheeks had now vanished, leaving her paler than before. Rafferty, feeling a little guilty that their visit should have such a tiring effect on her, remarked pleasantly, “Rather unfortunate that Mr Moon should have been murdered on the anniversary of your father's death, Mrs Astell.”
She gave a brief, strained smile. “Yes. It was my birthday also, you know. I always felt that gave me a special bond with my father.” Her smile faded. “But as you say, now I'll have other memories.”
“I hope it won't mar the occasion too much for you in the future?”
No longer chatty, Sarah Astell merely bobbed her head in acknowledgement.
Rafferty turned back to Astell. “I just want to go through one or two points, sir. I hope you'll bear with me. I gather you and your guests were all together for most of the evening?”
“That's right,” Astell told him. “As I told you, our guests left around 8.00 p m or just after. Mrs Hadleigh left a little before then as she was feeling unwell and obviously unfit to do any work. She sounded quite dreadful when I rang her later to see if she was all right. She lives alone,” he explained, “and I was concerned for her. But she wouldn't hear of me calling the doctor.” He shrugged. “People of that age are very independent. Anyway, once our guests had gone, I made a start on clearing the dishes to give my wife a little time alone with her memories of her father. She always likes some quiet time on anniversary evenings.”
“But Edwin came in several times to see I was all right, didn't you, dear?”
Astell stared at her for a few seconds, as though his thoughts were miles away. “Sorry. Yes, of course. I didn't think you'd noticed. I popped in at about 8.10 p m just after Mrs Moreno returned for her gloves and then again, about 8.25 p m. As I told you, Inspector, we chatted in the kitchen for about forty minutes and she left about 8.50 p m.”
“Really Edwin, you might have told me she had come back,” Sarah Astell put in. “I needn't have-” She stopped and glanced at the two policeman. “I'm sorry. How rude of me.” She told her husband more quietly, “You shouldn't have entertained her in the kitchen; what must she have thought of us? You should have brought her in to me or made her comfortable in the drawing room. I hope you at least made her some coffee.”
Edwin Astell smiled. “Calm yourself, my dear. My reputation as a host isn't quite ruined. I made her coffee. I even offered to ring for another taxi, but she told me not to bother. Said she enjoys walking in a storm.” He turned back to Rafferty. “When she left, I joined my wife in here, before suggesting she had an early night. It's such an emotion-charged day for her, you see, and that, and the unaccustomed entertaining can leave her exhausted.” He lowered his voice and murmured, “She's not feeling too well today, actually, so, if you don't mind?” Without protest, and after making his goodbyes to Mrs Astell, Rafferty let himself be ushered out of the room.
“I'm sorry,” Astell apologised, as he opened the front door. Rafferty sucked in the cool air gratefully as Astell continued, “I'm afraid my wife won't always admit how easily she tires, and I know that this business with Jasper has upset her. She was quite fond of him. In many ways they were surprisingly alike.”
“Really?” Rafferty wouldn't have thought the flamboyant Moon and the sickly Sarah Astell had anything in common. He was astonished to discover that Astell should be unaware of his wife's true opinion of Jasper Moon. Most wives wouldn't hesitate to shout their opinion of their husband's colleagues and friends from the rooftops. It was interesting that she hadn't done so. But, perhaps it was just another symptom of the dutiful Stepford wife syndrome? thought Rafferty cynically. “I got the distinct impression that your wife didn't like Mr Moon, sir. In fact, I'd say she detested him.”
Astell looked taken-aback. But he recovered quickly. “You mustn't take everything my wife says at face value, Inspector. You must understand she's not well. It makes her behave irrationally at times. Admittedly, Jasper could sometimes be a little insensitive, a little pushy, but, for all that, they got on well enough.”
Rafferty wondered why Astell felt it necessary to pretend? His wife had seemed to know her own mind very well. Rafferty paused. “Was Mr Moon aware that Mrs Hadleigh would be working yesterday evening rather than in the morning, as usual?”
“I did mention it to him, but Jasper had a habit of nodding at you as if he was listening when he was actually wool-gathering, so I can't be sure.”
Rafferty realised he had nearly left without asking the main question. He hoped Llewellyn didn't realise it. “Did Mrs Hadleigh tell you that Mr Moon had a client with him when she left yesterday evening?”
“A client?” Astell's voice was sharply interrogative, his body stiff, as though determined not to voice resentment that Rafferty should continue to suspect the partnership's clientele. “No,” he said. “She didn't tell me. But I've seen very little of her since it happened. I've been shut in the study answering calls from Jasper's clients. As you can imagine, most of them are very shocked at the news. Did Mrs Hadleigh tell you this client's name?”
“She said his name was Henderson,” Rafferty told him, but it was apparent it meant nothing to Astell. “I've got an officer checking through Mr Moon's files now. Hopefully, he'll be quickly traced and exonerated.” He gave Astell Mrs Hadleigh's description of Henderson, but he didn't recognise him. “I understood Mr Moon rarely saw clients on Thursday evenings – could he be a special new client for whom Mr Moon made an exception?”
“No. Jasper was famous enough to do business on his own terms. He would only ever make an exception for long-established clients and this Henderson is certainly not in that category. Have you questioned the staff about him?”
“Not yet. I've still to speak to Mrs Campbell, and Mrs Moreno had left by the time we found out about him. One last thing. I know you told us you knew nothing about any Will that Mr Moon might have made, but I wondered if you'd had any thoughts on it? It seems likely a man as wealthy as Mr Moon would make one, yet, from our investigations so far, it appears that none of the local solicitors acted for him in the matter.”
Astell massaged his jaw thoughtfully. “The consultancy used to be based in London – Soho. Maybe he used a solicitor in that area?”
Rafferty nodded. It gave them another avenue to explore and Rafferty thanked him for the information.
“What about his bank? Have you tried them?” Rafferty nodded again. Astell paused, then asked curiously. “What happens if there is no Will?”
Rafferty wasn't entirely sure and glanced at Llewellyn. As expected, the Welshman was his usual fount of information. “The laws on Intestacy come into operation,” he told them. “If there is no family, I understand the estate goes to the Crown.” Llewellyn paused and asked quietly, “What about the business, sir? Presumably Mr Moon's half would go to his estate. That must be a worry for you.”
Astell's creased forehead confirmed it. “As far as the income is concerned, yes. With Jasper gone, most of the income goes too, as he invariably brought in three-quarters or more of the profits. And, of course, his estate will retain rights in Jasper's part of profits already earned.” He forced
a smile, but it was a little ragged. “Though, at least I have full rights to the leases of the business premises, though what good that will do me with Jasper gone...” His voice faltered for a moment, then he explained, “When Jasper offered me a partnership, we agreed that, in the event of one of us dying, the business would become the sole property of the remaining partner.”
“You had a proper partnership agreement drawn up?”
“Yes. By the same solicitors who acted for us over the leases of the store and the offices above.”
“How was the profit divided?” Rafferty put in sharply.
Too sharply, it seemed for Astell, as his answer was stiff. “The agreement specified a fifty-fifty share of the profit, but it was drawn up before Jasper achieved any international fame and was hardly fair now. A few months ago, I insisted he take his rightful share. In return, he paid the bulk of the business outgoings.”
“And his other income, sir? From his books, TV appearances and magazine work?”
Astell frowned, as if he was just beginning to appreciate the purpose of these questions. His voice became even more stilted. “His income from that goes straight to his agent. It's never gone into the partnership account. Naturally, I'll be forwarding his share of the partnership income to the accountant as it comes in.”
“We'll need the name and address of this accountant, Mr Astell,” said Rafferty. “And that of the agent. I meant to ask you before, but it slipped my mind.”
Astell flushed. “I assure you I've never taken a penny from the business that wasn't rightfully mine. I resent your-”
Llewellyn broke in. “I'm sure the inspector didn't mean to imply that you had, Mr Astell,” he began.