The Property of Lies Page 23

  ‘You haven’t told me yet where Isabelle Blanchard came into this. Did Liptrott recruit her, as well?’

  ‘Isabelle? Yes, I suppose he did,’ she said, and went very quiet. He waited. ‘But she was a very different proposition. I don’t believe she was working for Liptrott, though he thought she was. She used to say he was imbécile. She had her own agenda, isn’t that what they say? They used to argue a lot. That’s why I became frightened when she died. I should have left, there and then. Or rather, I should never have gone there.’ She looked at him as a thought came to her. ‘You think Nol killed her, don’t you?’

  ‘I can’t say that.’ But if what she had been saying about the man was right, he was both resentful and dangerous. And that was quite a combination.

  She shook her head. ‘He wouldn’t. He’s a nasty customer, and he didn’t like her, but he’s sharp enough not to risk killing her.’

  ‘What about Josie Pemberton? Could he have done that to her?’

  ‘The same thing applies.’

  ‘Did you know he was living in Folbury?’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t know where.’ She frowned. ‘I think Isabelle must have gone to stay with him there. After she left Maxstead, I mean.’ She wasn’t saying anything about Isabelle’s pregnancy, or her relationship with Deegan. She hadn’t known, he thought.

  ‘A place called Melia Street, but he isn’t there now. He’s done a disappearing act.’

  She thought for a minute or two. ‘Do you know, I think I can tell you where he might be – or possibly, I wouldn’t bank on it. There’s a hotel where he used to stay before he came to Folbury. He promised me money when his ship came in, but I doubt I shall see any now,’ she said bitterly, not having lost sight of her main objective in putting herself in Liptrott’s clutches. She gave him the hotel name, then stood up and turned towards the ward entrance.

  ‘You’ve been very helpful, Miss Keith. Thank you for what you’ve told me.’

  ‘Was it what’s called “making a statement”?’

  He smiled. ‘Not officially, though we may need that later.’ He held out his hand.

  ‘You think I’ve been very naïve, don’t you?’

  He thought other adjectives might apply, but that too. He said, ‘What I do think is, you’ve had a rotten experience and you should go back into that bed and try to get some rest.’

  ‘Well,’ Jocasta said. ‘Thanks, anyway. Talking to you has made me feel better.’

  It wasn’t the usual reaction from witnesses he’d questioned.

  The evening had brought no cooling breeze and it was really too hot for a walk. Had it not been for Tolly needing to be exercised, scampering ahead regardless of the heat, exploring, wriggling his whole body under hedges to see what he could find, happily scuffing about in the dust left in dried-up puddles, they wouldn’t have bothered.

  Ellen laughed as she watched him enjoying himself, as she and Reardon followed on behind him, arms linked, fingers interlaced. Comfortable, easy.

  The thoughts Reardon had had earlier about her employment at Maxstead suddenly seemed groundless. Though not the sort of woman to swear she loved all children regardless, Ellen liked most of them, and loved certain others – one of them, her little goddaughter, Ellie, with passion. After that last miscarriage, they had both accepted the sadness that they never would have any themselves. They had mourned and adjusted, or perhaps she was still in the process. Meanwhile, she found satisfaction in teaching, and was certainly happy to be working with the girls at Maxstead.

  ‘Tell me about Jocasta,’ she said, as they skirted the perimeter of the castle ruins and turned back up the lane that led homewards.

  ‘It’ll wait until we’ve had supper.’

  ‘What’s wrong with now? It’s nice out here.’

  Because it was falling down, the wall along the edges of the lane was low enough to offer a seat, or at least a perch, and a lovely view across the town. If they climbed over the wall, which they mostly did, they would be in their own garden. It was long overdue for repair and they would miss the short cut if it was ever mended.

  Ellen found a flat stone, still warmed by the day’s sun, that wasn’t too uncomfortable to sit on, and he found another. Through the wall, contributing to its decay, a seedling ash had pushed and grown into a majestic tree. It wasn’t much cooler sitting underneath it, but it offered shade against the setting sun, which was making spectacular but blinding efforts. Later, when it had gone down and it became dark, you’d be able to see the panorama of streetlights and a distant, rosy glow that was the night sky of Birmingham.

  She paid grave attention as he gave her the gist of his conversations with Daphne Cash and Jocasta.

  ‘How’s Miss Draper?’ he asked her when he’d finished.

  ‘Back on form after getting her feet up for a while. I took her back to her room and stayed with her for about half an hour.’

  ‘Should she be working at all in that state of health?’

  She laughed. ‘I wouldn’t like to suggest it to her. She swears it was nothing, only her dickey heart, which she’s quite used to, and she’s absolutely devoted to the school, and to Miss Hillyard – it’s her life.’ She picked up a fallen leaf and began shredding it. After a moment she said, ‘Did you know Catherine Leyland is her niece?’

  ‘Miss Hillyard’s?’

  ‘No, Eve Draper’s. Her mother was Eve’s sister.’

  He was surprised, though not as much as he would have been had he not witnessed that little scene when Josie went missing. He told her about it. ‘Miss Draper saw that I’d seen and she explained that Josie was one of Catherine’s friends, that was why she’d been so upset.’

  ‘Yes, they are chums.’ She fell silent. ‘I don’t think it’s generally known they’re related, Eve and Catherine, I mean. In fact, I think it just slipped out. She keeps some brandy in her room for when she’s “a bit down” as she put it, though I’m not sure she should. She drank some and it made her very flushed and loosened her tongue. Afterwards, she looked a bit sorry she’d mentioned it.’

  ‘I can see why. Wouldn’t do to let it be known that the girl had only managed to be there because of her connections. Isn’t that called nepotism?’

  ‘Oh ye of little faith! If you’re doubting that’s how Catherine got to Maxstead, you’re wrong. She would have sailed through the exams and won the scholarship anyway. Ask any of the staff. That girl’s a joy to teach. She’s brilliant at most things, French included, and she was a great favourite of Mam’selle. It seems to have been mutual; in fact Catherine seemed to have developed a bit of a schoolgirl crush.’ She fell silent again, watching Tolly, nosing about in the hedge, looking for something interesting.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Eve has a photo of herself and Catherine on her mantelpiece. Catherine was wearing a little brooch, exactly like that one you told me about. I remarked how pretty it was and she said she’d given it to Catherine for her birthday, but she’d lost it. She didn’t say so, but she looked rather hurt that she hadn’t taken more care of it.’ The leaves had shredded to a pulp and she let them fall to the ground, rubbed her fingers together. ‘Do you think Catherine could have given it to Mam’selle?’

  ‘I suppose so, if she was one of her favourites, though it wouldn’t seem very tactful. Brilliant, you say? The girl’s beginning to sound like a paragon of virtue. Prime candidate for the other girls not to like her?’

  ‘No, she seems popular enough, I suppose. Although, to tell you the truth, from what I’ve seen of her, I do find her rather odd. Oh, I don’t know. She seems a bit – well, too old for her years, I suppose. Maybe too determined to get what she wants. It must be a difficult situation, for both of them, Eve as well as her.’

  Tolly began a volley of barks, then came trotting briskly towards them, triumphantly bearing a trophy. ‘What’s that you’ve got? Ugh, it’s a dead bird, you disgusting animal! Drop it, drop it. Now!’

  After a chaotic few minutes, with order somewhat resto
red, they climbed the wall and went to the house to complete cleaning-up operations.

  SEVENTEEN

  Gilmour professed himself chuffed at what Reardon had learnt from Jocasta Keith. ‘Looks like Liptrott’s our man, then.’

  He’d had Deegan in his sights as chief suspect almost from the word ‘go’, and didn’t really want to let him off the hook. Policemen weren’t supposed to have likes or dislikes, at least not to let them interfere with their judgement, but they were only human. But, disliking the man as he did (and for no justifiable reason, if he was honest, other than he just didn’t), he had to admit Liptrott was probably a better bet at this stage. ‘Mind you,’ he added doubtfully, ‘if he is, he chose a feeble way of going about getting what he wanted, didn’t he? What did he hope to get from just snooping around? Folks don’t leave their private lives open to anyone who wants to do a bit of random nosey-parkering. Not people like Miss Hillyard, anyway.’

  ‘Jocasta as good as said she thought he was a fool and, for what it’s worth, even Phoebe Catherall did, and she doesn’t always have all her chairs at home herself, seems to me. But think about what he was doing it for. Money. And since when has there been a stronger motive to override common sense?’

  Reardon was saying this as much to convince himself as Gilmour. Liptrott as their killer was by no means in the bag. Causing trouble for Edith Hillyard as a means of getting hold of her money was one thing, but murder was another. Not to mention the difficulties of him staging a murder, plus everything else, at Maxstead. Everything about the recent events implied a knowledge of the school, its surroundings, and what went on there, and that bothered him about Liptrott. ‘Would he have the know-how for all that, Joe?’ He shook his head. ‘Jubous, as me old Grandpa used to say. Very jubous.’

  ‘As far as Isabelle Blanchard’s concerned, he could have either followed her taxi to the school that night, or was waiting for her, having got her here under some pretext.’

  ‘Leaving aside why he should choose there of all places for a meeting … And what about Josie?’ That child’s ordeal was never far from Reardon’s mind, and he wasn’t yet ready to abandon the gut feeling that it was connected to everything else that had been going on.

  ‘All right, I’ll admit you have me there.’

  ‘And trying to kill Jocasta Keith? Think about it. Liptrott couldn’t have known she would have been there by the lake so, if he did push her in, it must have been done on impulse. But why would he have been there at all? First thing of a morning? What justification could he have had for hanging around the school grounds at that hour? Why should he have wanted to kill her, anyway, as well as Isabelle?’

  ‘Both women knew what he was up to, didn’t they? Maybe he thought Miss Keith was about to split on him. Instead she decides to kill herself, so he could have saved himself the bother.’

  Reardon shook his head. ‘She was on the brink of doing so – literally – but she’s half admitted she was actually pushed in.’ He fell silent.

  ‘What’s up?’ Gilmour asked after a moment.

  Reardon didn’t know, himself. A deeply disturbing possibility had begun worming its way into his mind since yesterday, an embryo idea too unformed as yet to be grasped, but hovering there, waiting. Something Jocasta, or even Ellen, had said, triggering a notion that had been lodged in his subconscious all along? ‘I don’t know, Joe. But never mind. Let’s get this show on the road before the man scarpers again.’

  Which was where they were now, on the road to Birmingham, where they hoped to find Liptrott at the city centre hotel Jocasta had named. And, contrary to what they’d half expected, they did indeed find he was registered there. Satisfaction diminished when they heard he had checked out.

  ‘But he asked to leave his luggage for a while, so he’ll be back to pick it up,’ the young woman receptionist told them brightly. ‘No more than half an hour, he said.’

  ‘We’ll wait,’ Gilmour told her.

  ‘Take a seat.’ She waved to a few chairs and tables in a small bay to one side. ‘Can I get you anything while you wait? Coffee, tea?’

  Reardon declined with thanks. He didn’t want to be caught taking tea and biscuits when Liptrott arrived.

  The hotel was used mainly by visiting businessmen and, since it was mid-morning, few people passed through the foyer. Gilmour riffled through yesterday’s Evening Mail, left on the table, and Reardon occupied himself with trying, and failing, to grasp the thought that was still eluding him.

  Twenty minutes later, their quarry arrived, with no prizes for guessing who he was as soon as he stepped through the swing doors. A tall man, his hair glossy with Brylcreem, combed back in regular waves, a toothy smile. Double-breasted, navy and chalk-stripe suit and white shirt. Brown shoes that shone like polished conkers. He was too good looking; he walked with a swagger and had a smirk that said anyone other than Newman Liptrott, God’s gift to women, was of little account. He was everything any policeman worthy of his salt would detest in a man, and Reardon loathed him on sight.

  Unaware they were waiting for him, Liptrott asked for his luggage, making a joke that caused the receptionist to laugh. Then he swung round, still smiling, as she added something and indicated where they were sitting.

  ‘We’d like a word with you, Mr Liptrott.’

  The practised smile faded ever so slightly. Reardon knew that both he and Gilmour had policeman written all over them, and that Liptrott saw it immediately, as people did. It was an uncomfortable fact of life which could be useful or not, depending on the occasion. The receptionist had probably picked it up, too, from the interested way she was looking at the three of them. But Liptrott recovered quickly and extended a manicured hand, small for a big man like him, white and soft, with half-moons and white nail tips. Could you imagine those hands resting on a woman’s back, pushing her into a lake with a hard shove, or grabbing a young girl and leaving her shut up in a darkened room? Or tossing a woman out of a high doorway like so much rubbish? Well, none of these required any considerable strength, after all. No more than a combination of the victim being taken by surprise and the will to do it.

  At any rate, he showed no more concern now than a shrug when Reardon showed his warrant card and told him they wanted a few words with him. Gilmour crossed to the reception desk and requested somewhere more private than this where they could speak to Mr Liptrott. This time, the woman didn’t hesitate, no doubt anxious for them to remove themselves from the foyer. ‘We don’t really have anywhere else – but there is the dining room, if you like.’ She indicated a pair of wide double doors.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Liptrott, making no protest, went with them. The tables had been set for lunch, but it was too early yet for customers. The room was large, dim, maroon-carpeted and maroon-walled. Doubtless the required warm ambience for evening dining, when the lamps in the alcoves glowed and candles were lit on the tables, but unwelcoming at half past ten in the morning. It faced north and didn’t get the benefit of the bright morning sun, lights hadn’t been switched on, and the only illumination came from outside. Reardon crossed the room and selected a table underneath one of the windows, and sat with his back to it, Gilmour by his side. As Liptrott seated himself opposite, Reardon told him they would like to speak to him about the murder of Isabelle Blanchard.

  ‘Who?’ The question tried to be convincing but his face had already given him away. He had known immediately why they’d sought him out. He summoned up a puzzled frown for a moment, ‘Oh, I have it! The Frenchwoman who had the nasty accident at some boarding school or other? Well, sorry, I can’t help you there. I didn’t know her, only read about it in the papers.’

  Reardon made no attempt to dispute the lie he’d been prepared for. ‘That boarding school was Maxstead Court, where Miss Edith Hillyard is the principal.’

  ‘Hillyard? The name’s familiar.’

  ‘It should be.’ Gilmour, who would have been a bit of a natty dresser, given the chance and the money to do it with, coul
dn’t look at the man sitting opposite without wincing. He took his eyes from Liptrott’s blue and yellow polka-dot tie and tried not to let it influence him. ‘Come on, Mr Liptrott, you know who she is,’ he went on, fixing him with his eye. ‘You went to see her at the school. You were seen arguing with her.’

  After a while, he spread his hands. ‘That headmistress? Oh, well, yes, I did visit her. I had some business with her, but I didn’t know her before then. I’m a journalist, you know, and I went along to get a story from her. Such a courageous attempt, to start up a new school, these days. I put it to her that the article could stimulate some welcome publicity, but she wasn’t interested.’ His face registered incredulity.

  ‘Your stepfather was Mr Thomas Pryde,’ Reardon said.

  Something in the back of his eyes flickered. ‘Yes, he was. What of it?’

  ‘He left the bulk of his estate to Miss Hillyard’s mother.’

  He didn’t answer. Then he seemed to see further prevarication was useless, shrugged and abandoned pretence. ‘Which is how Miss Hillyard was able to put money into the school, after her mother died. In fact, leaving the money to Mrs Hillyard was how I came to know of their existence.’

  ‘Your stepfather didn’t leave anything to you. How did you feel about that?’

  Liptrott slid his hand into his pocket and pulled out a cheap Bakelite cigarette case. ‘Look, do you mind if I smoke?’ The flat case was a novelty. The cigarettes inside were on springs and, when he slid back the narrow top strip just far enough, one popped up. ‘No, he didn’t leave me anything, the old skinflint,’ he said after he’d lit up. ‘I suppose he didn’t see me as a suitable candidate. I didn’t bend the knee at chapel, for one thing, or have what he considered the right sort of job. I was disappointed, of course, but it was his prerogative to leave his money where he wanted.’

  ‘You didn’t get on.’