Against the Light Page 15

  ‘Forgive the liberty, Mrs Latimer. I was only wondering where I’d seen this man before. A fine-looking man. Funny, isn’t it, but I have a feeling I might know him.’

  Alice sat down and smiled. ‘I don’t think so. That’s my father. He died some years ago and he never moved far from Herefordshire, where he lived most of his life, so it’s unlikely you ever met. Do sit down, Sergeant.’

  Inskip replaced the photograph and took his seat as she asked. But he was sure now. This man looked out of the frame with the same humorous regard as when he’d been captured standing at the edge of that other picture, smiling and watching those being snapped. He tried, without much success, not to let his excitement get the better of him and shrugged as if it was of no account. ‘Maybe I was wrong then. But … do you by any chance know a young man by the name of Leonard Croxton?’

  Surprised, Gaines frowned and shot him a warning glance but Inskip was fired up and couldn’t have stopped now even if he had seen it, which he didn’t. Seeing this, Gaines allowed him to carry on.

  ‘It’s not a name I recognize. Why do you ask?’ Alice smoothed down her skirt. There was a vase of lilies on the window ledge. The warmth of the sun had brought out their perfume, heavy and cloying. ‘Do you mind if I just move these? The scent’s overpowering sometimes.’ She moved the vase to a far corner of the room.

  ‘You don’t remember your Nurse Peg talking about him when you were attending to my face?’ Inskip asked when she came back.

  She said carefully, after thinking for a moment, ‘Are you speaking of that poor man who was murdered?’

  ‘Lennie Croxton, yes. And I have an idea, more than an idea I should say, that I have seen this man here – your father, you say he is – in another picture that was in Croxton’s possession, taken when he was a child – himself, his mother and his sister in a garden. Can you explain that?’

  She had gone pale. ‘Well, I do have a photograph that sounds similar to that. It’s in an album somewhere.’ She waved a hand towards a built-in cupboard in one of the fireplace alcoves, but made no immediate move towards it.

  ‘Perhaps we should see it.’

  She hesitated, then went to the cupboard and brought back a velvet-covered photograph album. After turning the pages slowly, she at last came to the one she wanted. ‘This is the one I’m thinking of, but there must be some mistake; it can’t possibly be the same one as you say this man Lennie Croxton had. That’s my father, there.’

  ‘And who is the boy?’

  ‘He’s my cousin, Dudley Nichol.’

  A minute elapsed, allowing Gaines to interpret Inskip’s nod that this photograph was identical with the one Lennie Croxton had left behind. Somewhere in the house, the telephone gave a dozen rings, then was silent. Alice looked from one to the other.

  Gaines said, ‘It seems we’d better have a word with your cousin, then, if you can tell us where we can find him.’

  ‘I would if I knew where he is. He was staying with us for a while until he left – quite suddenly, actually. He didn’t leave a note explaining why and I suppose we probably should have reported it before, but he’d taken all his things. There was no reason to think—’ Her voice betrayed her. She stood up abruptly and walked to the window, looking out until she gained control of herself.

  Inskip again exchanged looks with Gaines and with an effort of will restrained himself from punching the air. Both of them recognized that this might very well be what they had been waiting for, another one of the pieces in the two enquiries that were all presently scattered around like bits of broken china. With a bit of luck, and more investigation, it could turn out to be the one key piece that enabled the others to fit together.

  Alice at last turned away from the window and came to sit down again. ‘I’m sorry. It’s no use pretending, is it?’ she said shakily. ‘I think I’ve known ever since … since Nurse Peg mentioned the glasses he wore, and you said you’d found them. They were really awful, held together with sticky tape. I don’t know where this man Croxton comes into it, but it’s Dudley who is dead, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s flimsy evidence yet to draw firm conclusions on,’ Gaines said, though he had no doubt she was right. ‘To begin with, it would seem as though he might have been living in the district where you work, as Leonard Croxton. Either that, or Lennie Croxton was pretending to be your cousin.’

  ‘No, that can’t be so. He was my cousin Dudley, without any doubt. Even though I hadn’t seen him for so long, I’m certain it was him. He had the Nichol nose, for one thing,’ she said sadly. ‘And he knew all about the family. I should have spoken to you before, but I kept telling myself it couldn’t be true. Then today, you being here … well, that’s why I brought this.’ She waved towards the little parcel which was still on the small table where she’d put it, but she sat with her head bent, making no move to pick it up. Tears did not seem far away.

  Inskip glanced at the photograph again. If they had needed further confirmation, the Nichol nose, now that she’d mentioned it, was evident in the profile of her father that was turned to the camera, the same rather beaky nose which had been the only distinctive feature on Croxton’s otherwise unremarkable face.

  ‘Mrs Latimer, could you give us a little more to go on?’ Gaines said. ‘You could start by telling us more about your cousin.’

  ‘There isn’t a lot I can tell you. I didn’t know him well, in fact I hadn’t seen him since we were children. That photograph … it was taken at a family wedding and I believe that must have been the last time I saw him, until he came here unannounced several weeks ago. He stayed with us and then he packed up and left us, quite suddenly, without a word, for no apparent reason.’ At last she reached out to the table for the parcel and unwrapped the brown paper to reveal a red leather prayer book, which she passed to Gaines. ‘This is his missal, which he left behind when he went away. I kept thinking he would come back for it because his mother had given it to him and I know she meant a great deal to him. But he never did.’

  Gaines opened the prayer book and read the inscription inside. ‘First communion. Was he by any chance Irish?’

  ‘No. His father was my father’s cousin. The Nichols are country folk from Herefordshire, farmers mostly, and solidly Protestant, all of them.’

  ‘But with a Roman Catholic prayer book?’

  ‘Well then, perhaps he was a Catholic. Maybe his mother was Irish. She may have been, I don’t remember much about her. I was a child when I last saw her or my uncle, in fact I only ever met them or either of my cousins on family get-togethers such as that wedding where the photograph was taken. As I said, I don’t think I ever saw Dudley again after that until he turned up here, nor Phoebe – his sister. She died young, of diphtheria, and their father had died before that.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Latimer, but I’m afraid we may need to ask you to identify him as your cousin. It may be very upsetting for you.’

  ‘You forget, I’m a doctor.’

  ‘This is different. Someone close.’

  ‘I’ve told you, we weren’t close. It is upsetting, naturally, that he has died, especially so horribly. I suppose I’d grown fond of him in a way while he was with us, but I never really knew him.’ She stopped, looking troubled. ‘But I did blame myself when he left so suddenly. I thought I’d hurt him by showing my feelings all too clearly. You know what I mean – it’s one thing to have a guest staying, but when it seems as though they’re beginning to regard themselves as a fixture … I’m sorry I wasn’t kinder.’

  ‘Guests who outstay their welcome, I know … What brought him here in the first place?’

  ‘To be truthful, I have no idea about that, either. I gathered that since his mother died, he’d been all over the place, trying various jobs – he wasn’t qualified for anything, so he’d just taken what he could get – a bit of clerking here and there, and I think he’d once worked in a circus, though as what I can’t imagine. He was actually quite intelligent, but full of wild ideas about what
he might do – some day. I – we – were sorry for him. You couldn’t help being, because he obviously hadn’t two pennies to rub together and he was … without a rudder, as you might say. He was still a boy, I think, in many ways. He had no idea how to run his life. I had the impression his mother had been an extremely controlling person and he’d relied on her to tell him what to do next. But he worshipped her.’

  ‘What was his mother’s name?

  ‘Her name?’ The question surprised her. ‘Oh, it was Mary. My Aunt Mary. I don’t know what her maiden name was.’

  ‘Did he ever mention a friend called O’Rourke? Daniel O’Rourke?’ Inskip asked.

  ‘No. If he had any friends at all he never spoke of them.’

  ‘Or a man named Tooley?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve never heard either name. Why do you ask?’

  Gaines avoided a direct answer to that. ‘It seems your cousin had been living as Leonard Croxton in the same area where you work, until he came to stay with you. We haven’t discovered why he should have come here, but afterwards, he went back. Not much was known about him in the district although he attended the Catholic church – which is how your Nurse Peg knew him, but otherwise he seems to have kept to himself.’

  He stood up ready to leave and held out the prayer book, but she hastily drew back. ‘No, I don’t want it. You must keep it.’ He had let go of the book too soon and it fell to the floor between them.

  Apologizing for his clumsiness, he bent to retrieve it, and picked up the now disintegrating pressed leaves which had fallen from between its pages. ‘Looks like a four-leaved clover, or did once. Pity it didn’t bring him luck.’

  ‘No, I think they are probably shamrock leaves.’

  Thirteen

  It was barely eleven o’clock and yet the day had already been filled with so many happenings, Alice was left with a turmoil of emotions she could scarcely identify: joy mixed with perplexity at Lucy’s return, the shocking news about Dudley, but most of all, incredulity on both counts. It was almost as though she had to reassure herself that the miracle which had brought Lucy back really had occurred and had not been a dream, she thought, finding herself telephoning the Dorcas, and afterwards feeling the same compulsion to call David Moresby. She told herself David would be as delighted as Sam Weston and the rest of the staff at the clinic had been to hear the good news, but she knew the real reason for her call was that it might act as a reminder that he hadn’t yet given any indication of how his enquiries about the woman Mona Reagan were progressing. Having heard nothing from him, she had told herself briskly, several times, that her worries over Edmund had been exaggerated, her usual common sense had been overridden, that she was guilty of letting a very small molehill assume the proportions of a mountain. Edmund, after all, was more than capable of coping with the sort of problems that faced every man in his position from time to time. More so than most, in fact. Now that Lucy was safely home again, she ought to be able to stand back and see things in better perspective.

  Which might have been possible, had it not been for what she’d learned about Dudley, now that what she had at first felt to be a minor anxiety about her missing cousin had turned into something so appalling she hadn’t yet fully taken it in, even though she had been almost certain since that time at the clinic when Nurse Peg had spoken of him. Dudley, murdered! How truly awful. And she had an unaccountable, sinking premonition that worse was to come.

  David heard what she had to say about Lucy and was predictably pleased. Then he said, ‘I was about to send you a note. We should meet again, Alice.’

  He sounded strange. The line, as so often, was not particularly good, but could that have been urgency she detected in his voice? ‘You’ve found something.’

  ‘I’ve seen something. Or someone rather, who might or might not be important … important to what we were talking about, I mean. I don’t want to worry you, but I think we should talk. Not over the telephone, though. Are you free by any chance? If so, I could take a taxi and be with you within an hour … if that’s agreeable to you?’

  ‘I was on my way to the Dorcas but they’re not expecting me after what’s happened here so, yes, I’m free. But don’t come to the house.’

  ‘Of course.’ His suggestion had been tentative and he didn’t need her to explain what she meant, that his coming to see her might arouse unnecessary comment. ‘Shall we meet in the same place as before?’

  They arranged a time, and it was she who took the taxi there. The day had turned grey and sunless with a sharp breeze blowing from the river, and he immediately suggested walking further along. ‘It’s too cold to sit here for long. Let’s find somewhere out of this wind. We can talk as we go.’

  She agreed but he didn’t seem anxious to start a conversation as they walked further along the Embankment. They met several well-dressed strangers on the way and she was conscious of not having changed from the clothes she had dressed in for a day at the clinic, a cream blouse under a plain dark blue barathea coat and skirt, decidedly not new, and hastily made apologies for it. ‘This is my working garb.’

  ‘No need for apologies,’ he said with a smile. ‘It suits you.’

  She didn’t think he was paying what she had previously, regrettably, called facile compliments. She knew instinctively that she looked better, and felt more at ease in the plainly cut costume, rather shabby as it was, than in the frivolous and expensive clothes demanded by the overdressed occasions where they usually met. At least her felt hat, though unadorned, was softened by a curving brim that she couldn’t help knowing was becoming.

  ‘I expected to see you full of smiles, Alice. What is it? Nothing about Lucy, I hope? Nothing gone wrong?’ What he could see of her profile was pale and his heart misgave him at what he had to say to her.

  ‘No, thank goodness. Nor likely to, with Ferdie watching over her like a guard dog. I doubt he’ll be persuaded to let her out of his sight from now on.’ She hesitated, then said quickly, ‘I haven’t yet told anyone else about this, not even Edmund, I haven’t had the chance – but something else has happened – something quite dreadful. To my cousin, Dudley Nichol. You never met him. The police were there, at the house, because of Lucy, and I’ve just come from them.… David, he’s been murdered.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s true, I’m afraid.’ She was trying to speak calmly, but it was impossible to hide her agitation. They had walked rapidly and had reached a point where the curve of the Embankment shielded them a little more from the wind. It wasn’t really a feasible proposition to talk properly while walking side by side and despite what he had said earlier about it being too cold to sit, he led her to a seat. There was a coffee and tea stall not far off. ‘Wait here.’ He left her sitting while he brought back two cups of tea. ‘Brandy would have been better, but at least this is hot. It’ll make you feel warmer.’ It was scalding, and had sugar in it, which she never took, but she drank it gratefully, nonetheless.

  ‘That better?’ he asked presently.

  ‘Thank you, yes.’ What had happened in the last few hours had been more of a shock than she had admitted. As the hot, sweet tea began to do its work, she felt a return of energy and a grateful warmth in her hands where they had wrapped around the cup. Even the wind seemed less chilly. After he had returned the cups to the stall, she was able to tell him calmly enough what the police had told her about Dudley. He was a practised listener and let her go on without interruption until she’d finished.

  ‘Good God,’ he said quietly, ‘it’s worse than I thought.’

  Alarm flashed across her face. ‘Worse – whatever can you mean?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. That’s dreadful news for you, about your cousin. But you say this policeman asked about a man named Tooley?’

  ‘Yes, and someone named O’Rourke.’

  ‘I don’t know about any O’Rourke, but Tooley—’ He fell silent for a while, as if bracing himself for what he had to sa
y. ‘It’s either a very great coincidence or— Well, here goes. Last night, there was a meeting at the house where Tooley lives. That’s what I wanted to tell you. I was there – not at the meeting, but I watched people arriving.’

  ‘What? Where was this? You mean this Tooley is that “someone” you said might be important?’

  ‘No, that was … another man.’

  ‘Another? You’re being terribly mysterious.’

  He knew he was mysterious and without doubt annoying. ‘Alice, please listen. I can’t tell you who this man was for very good reasons. For your own sake, and for his, we must not, I think, probe too deeply into Edmund’s affairs.’

  She grew very still. ‘I think that requires some explanation.’

  ‘Oh Lord, yes, it does. But I believe, when you’ve heard what I have to say, you’ll agree with me.’

  For there was no other way, after all, than to tell her, right from the beginning, how and why he had found himself in Prosser Street. It was a lame story, no one knew that better than he, and the cloak and dagger methods he’d used seemed rather more ridiculous now than they had even then – and even dangerous in view of what he now knew. He had to make her believe how serious this was and that, on reflection, made him change his mind about not telling her who it was he’d seen going into the house. She was incredulous.

  ‘But I know him, at least I’ve met him. I would hardly have associated him with people of that sort. He’s rich, and clever and … What was he doing there?’

  ‘Alice, Erskine Childers makes no secret of where his sympathies lie. He’s a decent and mild-mannered individual, but it would be naïve to rely on that. There are those who even believe him to be dangerous – simply because he’s capable of stirring up the same strong feelings he has himself. He isn’t troubling to hide the fact that his opinions are becoming more radical. He’s been addressing meetings all over the place, trying to drum up support, though with varying degrees of success. And I suppose a house like Tooley’s is no better or worse than a draughty meeting hall with half a dozen in the audience.’