A Dangerous Deceit Read online

More than possible, she thought. Something definitely didn’t add up here.

  Three

  The trail became steeper as Felix and Vinnie climbed the last incline to the Beacon, Felix lagging, while Vinnie forged ahead with undiminished enthusiasm. She had never made this pilgrimage before and that made achieving her object all the more desirable – she was an earnest person, Felix knew by now, who always seemed to feel it necessary to go that bit further, travel the extra mile … in everything.

  Was that why he was hesitating at this last moment? What an irony, when there were no longer difficulties and objections to their being together.

  ‘Buck up, Slowcoach!’

  Absorbed in his thoughts, he had not realized just how far back he had fallen and that Vinnie, demonstrating her ability to outwalk any man, even Felix with his long legs, was fifty yards ahead of him. ‘There’s no race to get to the top,’ he called back, not increasing his pace.

  Vinnie laughed over her shoulder and strode on, thrusting forward like a ship’s figurehead, her hair blown back by the light wind. She was the sort of girl he had always admired – strong, independent, unflappable in a crisis – but for once he didn’t dwell on her attractions. He walked on, hands in pockets, unseeing of the lovely day all around him: the grass springy and tussocky beneath his feet, the red sandstone outcroppings growing more frequent towards the bare, rounded top of the hill, the freshening breeze, the smell of the earth and the sound of a lark ascending, the sun finding clumps of gorse glinting like prospector’s gold.

  He’d been pulled awake that morning with a tremendous jerk, hot and sweaty, still in the toils of one of those recurrent dreams about his father. Specifically, last night, the memory of that last quarrel when he had told Osbert he was intending to ask Vinnie to marry him, all mixed up with that other appalling, unbelievable happening not two weeks later – the sight of his body in the bath. It was a double nightmare that came back with sickening regularity to haunt his waking thoughts and night-time dreams …

  He had hardly expected his father to jump for joy at the prospect of him wanting to marry Vinnie, but neither had he anticipated the long, cold silence after his announcement, eventually broken by an equally cold, ‘And how do you propose to support a wife?’

  ‘I know I don’t have much in the way of prospects, not just at present, but I’m determined—’

  ‘Have I not heard this somewhere before?’

  Felix was taken aback by the unaccustomed sarcasm. He had not anticipated that, either. Osbert was not given to intimidation, verbal or otherwise. He had never been easy to approach, not a father to show his affection openly, but he had always been just.

  ‘I will not permit such a thing, Felix. Are you out of your mind? Someone like that!’

  Felix had felt a red mist coming over his eyes. ‘Permit? Well, I suppose I might have known! She’s not good enough, of course. She doesn’t have any money, or position.’

  In his heart he had known the accusation wasn’t justified. Osbert had never been overly concerned with materialistic matters, but at the same time it had always been his contention that his children should marry what he called ‘decently’, and Vinnie’s family, on her own admission, possessed neither wealth nor position, but even so … He should not have said those things.

  Felix’s nails bit into his palms as he tried to control himself. ‘I think that’s my business and, well, I’m sorry, but I’m of age, so there’s not a thing you can do to stop it, Father. But I would have appreciated your blessing,’ he finished bitterly.

  ‘That’s something I am not prepared to give.’ Osbert’s face was rigid.

  ‘I suppose I should have picked someone like Margaret has chosen, someone with—’

  ‘That will do. Margaret has nothing to do with this.’ They faced each other, neither willing to give in until, after a moment, the rigidity left Osbert’s face and he said in a tone more like that of the father Felix had respected and looked up to in his boyhood, ‘It won’t do, Felix, my boy. You can do better than that.’ He surveyed his son in silence. ‘She is an attractive young woman – but as a wife? You must not even contemplate this.’

  ‘Must not? Of course I must!’ Felix answered, further infuriated. ‘And I’m afraid that whether you like it or not, there’s nothing you can do about it.’ Though he knew there was. Osbert could withhold funds, and without money … Felix had never been extravagant, he was like his father in that money was not an overriding priority with him – all right, he might have overspent his allowance occasionally, and written cheques towards what Kay and Margaret were pleased to call the revolution – but to be without altogether … ‘You won’t stop me. I love her,’ he countered defiantly.

  ‘And she?’

  ‘Well, of course.’

  Felix was not unaware that women had always been attracted by his rather louche good looks, his lanky height, those vivid blue eyes and the boyish flop of dark hair over his forehead, and he would not admit, much less to his father, his aggrieved astonishment that Vinnie hadn’t exactly fallen at his feet – but that was only a matter of time.

  ‘No,’ Osbert repeated, white to the lips now, ‘you’ve sprung this on me, but I’m warning you, it must not go ahead. You’ve disappointed me before, but this you will not do. I shall move heaven and earth to prevent it.’

  And however extreme and outrageous that was, however totally unfair, Felix had believed him.

  The contretemps had taken place in the garden, where he had happened to come across his father and had blurted out his intentions without having planned what to say. Perhaps, he reflected bitterly, he ought to have submitted a written request to talk to him in his study. Yet oddly, as Osbert rose abruptly from the garden bench and left, typically turning his back and putting an end to something he would rather not continue with, leaning heavily on the cane he had recently come to need, Felix had watched him go back into the house with a feeling of unutterable guilt.

  And now, paradoxically, the opposition to his marrying Vinnie having gone, the whole thing no longer seemed so very urgent – or even, maybe, desirable. What if Osbert had been right – that he and Vinnie did not yet know enough about each other to commit themselves to a lifetime together? Had her reluctance only served to egg him on? He didn’t think she was the sort to play hard to get, but you never knew.

  And then, as it was inclined to do only too often, the image of Judy Cash popped into his mind. Judy, a small sprite with dancing grey eyes and a straight blonde bob, whom everyone else thought so smart and brittle, yet who followed him around like a stray kitten that wanted to be loved, despite his giving her little encouragement. Well, except for … He ground his teeth and pushed aside those insane moments under the great chestnut by the lake in the park the other night. The devil of it was, he was not sure whether he even liked her, but she excited and intrigued him. Perhaps because, despite her willingness, she was a bit of an enigma. There were even times when he had a feeling of danger around her. Unlike Vinnie, who was an open book and lived in the present, seemingly enjoying every minute.

  As a boy, Felix had hero-worshipped his father. The hand on his shoulder that was like an accolade, Osbert’s rare smiles, had been prizes to strive for. Right up until later adolescence, he had revered him as a man of integrity who had fought for his country and found honour in battle, losing his right arm in the process, along with the life of a soldier which up to then had been his whole raison d’être. Felix had pitied him from the bottom of his heart, though he had learnt not to show it. Osbert had never admitted to disappointment, or even to feeling pain, would swat away any questions about the state of his health with an impatient flap of the hand. No one was allowed to feel sympathy for him. No doubt sobered by his experiences in South Africa, on his forced return to civilian life he had become a devout churchman and had served many years as churchwarden of the parish church of Holy Trinity; he had been a trustee for a charitable foundation for widows and orphans, a governor of the King’s School,
and served as a JP. His life had been ruled by Christian purpose. It was a hard act for anyone to follow, and Felix knew he had ultimately deeply disappointed his father.

  By the time he reached late adolescence it had become increasingly apparent that their views were diametrically opposed. The arrival of a new master at his school who was a member of the Fabian Society and an ardent pacifist had hugely influenced Felix, always susceptible to new ideas. Roger Curtis became the hero to be copied – but pacifism was not admissible in a patriotic country in the midst of a war with Germany. As the conflict dragged on, it became a question for Felix of whether, when he was old enough, he would have the courage to tell his father he must refuse to fight. His fears were resolved when the Armistice was signed before he became eighteen and liable for conscription.

  He went up to Cambridge to read law, which failed to live up to his expectations. He was contemplating chucking the whole thing when in his second year he was sought out by another undergraduate and drawn into a set with like-minded ideas. Those people who, like his father, thought pacifists namby-pamby, should have been present at those heated, passionate evening debates that often went on through the night and into the next morning, fuelled by beer, cigarettes and their own rhetoric. They fired Felix with enthusiasm but did not help him find the impetus towards buckling down and taking his studies seriously. Instead of the good degree which had been expected of him, he left Cambridge with a mediocre one and his head stuffed with nothing but socialist principles, according to his father.

  He had shrugged off Osbert’s displeasure and looked around for something else to occupy his time now that Cambridge and his friends were left behind, but nothing satisfactory presented itself and he had let himself be caught up in the oddly assorted group of left-wingers who met in various places in Folbury, and occasionally in Alma House now that Osbert was no longer there.

  He began to walk very fast, and reached the top of the hill only a stride or two behind Vinnie. She had flung herself to the ground and sat with her hands cupped around her knees, hardly out of breath. Felix lowered himself to sit beside her, and with backs to the distant Black Country smoke stacks that were now even further beyond, they faced the bird’s eye view over rural pastures, farmlands and distant villages. They didn’t speak until Vinnie said at last, ‘Penny for them?’

  Felix shook his head as if to clear it and endeavoured to be more sociable, pointing out the various landmarks and their associations.

  ‘So that’s where that man’s body was found, in the snow?’ She was looking towards the wild woodland beyond the big house below.

  ‘Lord, yes, I’d forgotten that. I suppose it must have been somewhere down there.’

  Vinnie followed the sweep of his hand, which encompassed Maxstead Court in the foreground, its outbuildings, extensive gardens and the acres of forest that adjoined it, its Home Farm, the lane leading to the village, the church and the Scroope Arms … all owned or under the patronage of Scroopes past and present, he informed her.

  ‘My!’ she said.

  As well she might. She and the Comrades. How they would spit on all that! Felix bit off Kay’s scornful ‘Comrades’ epithet even as he thought it. Damn it, the nickname was catching – and it was not even very appropriate. They were neither comrades nor friends. They were separate individuals who had struck up an acquaintance during the General Strike, when a Council of Action had been organized by local trade unionists, aided by the Communist Party. After the dismal failure of the strike they had formed themselves into what they called the Workers’ Support Group, for reasons, Felix was beginning to suspect, that were more like a class vendetta than the wish to alleviate suffering. Much of what went on in the group was no more than head-in the-clouds agitating; nothing was ever achieved. They’re a hundred miles away, he thought, from what we envisioned at Cambridge: international socialism, the League of Nations …

  ‘Did they ever find out who he was?’

  ‘What? Oh, no, I don’t think so. It was Judy Cash who reported the murder. Ask her, she would know.’

  Vinnie shrugged, plucked a stem of grass and began chewing it. ‘It’s not important, just something that occurred to me.’

  She didn’t seem to have a high opinion of Judy, although she hadn’t even met her, just heard of her. She was not alone. The women in the group, three of whom were ex-suffragettes, were convinced she had no moral fibre, that for all her usefulness as a journalist, the articles she sent out to the nationals, she was only in it for what she could get.

  ‘Not full of the joys of spring today, are we?’

  ‘Sorry, Vinnie. Truth is, I’ve had a bit of a spat with my sister – well, actually, more of a row.’

  ‘With Margaret? Good heavens!’

  ‘Afraid so.’ If any argument with Margaret could ever be classed as such. Normally, encounters with her were almost as frustrating, in a different way, as those he’d had with his father, for she infuriatingly refused to rise to the bait. Last night had been different, though.

  She had known straight away, eyeing his disreputable flannel bags, his old check shirt, both in a more deplorable state than usual, that he hadn’t got the bruise on his chin by walking into a door, and he hadn’t even bothered to drum up an excuse. He knew what he had done was indefensible after their previous conversation, their promises to each other. He stood nearly a foot higher than she did, he was a year older, but she still had the power to reduce him to a sulky schoolboy. ‘It’s nothing. Don’t fuss, Sis.’

  ‘How much have you had to drink?’

  ‘Not much, but he was bigger than me,’ he answered, summoning up a rueful grin. He never got anywhere with Margaret by sulking.

  She wasn’t amused this time. She took hold of his wrist, hurting him, surprising him with the strength of her slender fingers. One glance at her face – not beautiful, Margaret, except maybe for her eyes – and he’d seen that she’d guessed everything. Her usual amiability had deserted her. ‘I’m ashamed of you,’ she had said, before letting go of his wrist, giving him a withering glance and leaving.

  ‘Not as much as I am of myself,’ he’d replied to the door she closed behind her, meaning every word.

  He was suddenly aware Vinnie had said something he hadn’t answered. ‘What?’

  ‘I said you’re not much company today. Come on, we might as well get back.’

  He apologized and stood up to offer his hand but she was already on her feet. In a moment, she was going down the hill, five strides ahead of him.

  Four

  In the red-brick Victorian police station at the corner of Town Hall Square and Market Street, Sergeant Joe Gilmour faced the detective inspector sitting opposite with a cautious respect. Not that he, with his six-foot frame and a sturdy independence, was easily overawed by anyone, and certainly he had no need to feel in awe of Herbert Reardon. Principally because they went back some way, from the time when Joe had worked under Reardon on a tough case out at Broughton Underhill, involving a girl who had drowned. At that time Reardon had been a mere acting inspector, and he himself a young constable in uniform, but unlike many more senior officers, Reardon had had time for a bright chap like Joe, showing him the ropes and encouraging him to use his initiative. Joe had always put his early promotion to sergeant down to the advice and support Reardon had given him in the raw days of his youth.

  Soon after that case Joe had moved back to his home town of Folbury in order to keep an eye on his elderly mother, and since then had done his stint as an ordinary, small-town bobby: intervening in domestics, stopping fights after closing time, catching lads scrumping apples and generally keeping the peace. But new avenues were opening up – most of the larger towns and cities now had dedicated detective departments and Joe wanted to be part of it. He was raring to go, ready for more demanding work, and if God had given him any brains, the chance to use them. When his mother had died six months ago he had applied for a transfer to the regional detective department. It hadn’t come through yet but
he was still hopeful. Crime generally was increasing, and the nature of it changing. Wars were costly: the last one had nearly bankrupted Britain – and most of Europe – of its money as well as its youth, and in the economic slump that had followed even petty criminals were putting their minds to more sophisticated ways of getting money to feed, clothe and house hungry families. There was nothing like necessity for sharpening the wits.

  ‘Right, Sergeant, let’s have the latest,’ Reardon was saying, getting down to brass tacks.

  In the absence of the senior station officer, Inspector Waterhouse, who had taken a week’s leave to attend his daughter’s wedding up in Newcastle, to be followed by a holiday in Whitley Bay, an officer from the detective department in Dudley had been dispatched to oversee enquiries into the sudden and unexpected death of Arthur Aston, and Joe had been more than happy to find it was Reardon. He was a decent bloke, tending to the unorthodox, and maybe that was why he hadn’t gone further up the ladder than detective inspector. Or maybe he favoured his independence more. He was still riding his motorbike; Joe had seen it that morning in the station yard.

  He’d remembered Joe. People did – it was the hair. Joe cursed it, the dark red hair that went with brown eyes, but still red enough to be memorable. Perhaps he should dye it if he wanted to become a detective. On the other hand, he might possibly grow bald before that became necessary, considering the time it was taking for his transfer to come through.

  ‘What have we got, then?’ Reardon said, flipping the pages of the post-mortem report on the dead man, which he hadn’t had time to do more than scan quickly. ‘Quick work. Like the mills of God, the path lab usually grinds slowly,’ he murmured.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ It appeared that time hadn’t reduced Reardon’s tendency to come out with these sorts of statements. ‘Well, as you can see, the cause of death was asphyxiation, as Dr Dysart initially suspected from the marks round his mouth, and his eyes. It was assumed at first he’d probably tripped or come over dizzy and fallen into the sand, but there were no signs of a struggle and …’