A Fête Worse Than Death (25 page)

‘Why not?' He threw his match away and gave Ashley a quizzical stare. ‘He's a remarkably good-looking man, a hero – don't forget the VC – and he's known her for years. She, one would think, could have her pick, but is that really so? She's older than he is and that might have made the difference. It's not fair, is it? No one thinks twice about a woman marrying a man ten years older than herself but the other way round is odd. I know it happens but it's always thought to be odd.'

‘Well, it is odd,' said Ashley, dismissing this social conundrum. ‘Besides, a woman like that? Come off it. I went to see Whitfield last night, you know, but I couldn't get much sense out of him. He was so half-seas over that I had a job to make him realize who I was. I did wonder if he was suffering from concussion and had ignored Dr Wilcott's advice to lay off the booze, but I think that's a charitable assessment. He certainly sank enough while I was there.'

‘Did you get anything out of him?'

‘Not a thing, apart from the fact that brute of a horse has a nasty temper and his arm hurts. The mention of Lawrence sent him off pop. He's really got a grudge against him.'

‘You don't say. I can't blame him for that, because there's no getting away from the fact that it's Mr Lawrence who's scuppered his plans to do the wedding march. Mr Lawrence says it's simply because he doesn't like the man and for all I know that could be the top and bottom of it, but I can't help . . .'

There was a noise of the french windows opening and they turned to see Mr Lawrence himself come out on to the terrace. He smiled as he walked towards them.

‘Just the men I wanted. I did wonder if you'd gone to your room, Major, but Lady Rivers told me you were out here. You look a bit peaky to me.'

‘Oh, I'm not too bad, you know. I'll probably have a rest later but I've spent so much time in bed lately that it's nice to be up and about again.'

‘Just so long as you don't go overdoing it. Your aunt and uncle were worried about you yesterday when the news came through of your accident. Yes, sir, very worried indeed.' He leaned his elbow against the balustrade and looked at Haldean thoughtfully. ‘I've got a question for you that you might think kind of strange.' He paused, drumming his fingers. ‘It's just this – and I've got a reason for asking. Was it an accident, Major?'

Haldean and Ashley exchanged looks. ‘It certainly appeared so,' said Haldean, feeling his way. ‘Why do you want to know?'

Lawrence half-laughed. ‘Because I'm as fond of my neck as most men.' He took a letter out of his pocket and held it out towards them. ‘That came by the afternoon post. I'm inclined to go but it did strike me I might be running into trouble.'

Haldean took the letter out of the envelope and held it so Ashley could read it as well.

Dear Mr Lawrence: In an attempt to resolve the differences between us I think it would be mutually beneficial if we could meet to discuss the situation, which I am frankly beginning to find intolerable. I have no quarrel with you, apart from your opposition to my marriage to Miss Vayle, and would be interested to hear the reasons for your stance. It may be that you do not wish to come to my house and, under the circumstances, I do not feel able to come to Hesperus. I would therefore suggest we meet at the old tithe barn on the junction of Rickett's Lane and Gallows Hill at eleven o'clock on Saturday morning. Although technically on my land the barn is unused and we should be free of any interruption. I await your reply, Yours etc., R. T. Whitfield.

Haldean put the letter back in the envelope and returned it to Lawrence.

‘Are you going?'

‘I don't know,' said Lawrence. ‘Was it an accident yesterday? Because it occurred to me that the quickest way out of R. T. Whitfield's problem might be to remove me from the scene altogether. And yet . . . if I saw him face to face I may be able to settle his hash once and for all. He's making Marguerite unhappy. Even after what he said she's still got a hankering for him and I'd like to quash it properly.'

‘Do you think you can do that, sir?' asked Haldean.

‘Oh yes, I reckon I can. Money, as they say, talks. So, gentlemen, what about it? Was it an accident?'

Ashley took a deep breath. ‘It was a very suspicious sort of accident. But that, Mr Lawrence, is strictly between the three of us.'

‘I see. Well, forewarned is forearmed. And if the guy's looking for a fight, he can have one.'

Haldean looked uneasy. ‘Are you really going alone?'

‘I certainly am. Marguerite saw the writing on the envelope and managed to wriggle the truth out of me. She's on fire to come along, but that's out of the question, of course.' He rested his chin in his hand, thinking, then shook his head. ‘I'm probably making a mountain out of a molehill. If he intended any funny business I don't suppose he'd write so openly to me. He must've known I'd show it to someone.'

‘Yes . . . Well, it's up to you, Mr Lawrence. But if you do want a companion, all you have to do is say so.'

‘No. It may be I'll want to express myself in a way I couldn't with someone else listening. If I am going to tell Colonel Whitfield a few home truths about himself, I don't want to have to put a guard on my tongue.' He gave a quick smile. ‘In fact, the more I think about it, the more I'm looking forward to it.'

‘I wish you'd let me come with you, sir,' said Haldean, seriously. ‘I can't help thinking that there might be another – well, shall we say “accident”?'

‘He'd be a fool to try anything. No. I guess I'll be safe enough tomorrow.' He looked at Haldean's worried expression and grinned. ‘But if he meets me on horseback, I'll be careful.'

Haldean drew the Spyker into the side of the road beside the empty Hillman tourer. Five to eleven. He looked up the winding, deserted lane. It was little more than a track which led to Gallows Hill. It was a road of great contrasts. On one side of the lane ran the high, brick and well-maintained walls of Thackenhurst, glowing a mellow red in the morning sun. On the other side, lying in deep shadow, ran a broken fence enclosing a verge of docks, nettles and scrubby trees. The dark bulk of the barn was just visible through the branches.

He got out of the car and, walking to the Hillman, touched the bonnet. It was still warm. Lawrence had insisted on driving himself, despite the offer of a lift. He ruefully acknowledged a slight sense of relief that he didn't have to explain his presence. Lawrence had been very certain that he wanted to be alone with Whitfield and he wouldn't take kindly to having his footsteps dogged like this. And yet . . .

Haldean leaned against the maroon car and, idly taking a cigarette from his case, gave himself up to a proper examination of his motives for coming. He wished he could have talked things over with Greg, but Greg was in London.

He didn't trust Whitfield. Not now. Not after having seen the way the horse had been forced to act. It was forced, he was sure of it. He struck a match and lit his cigarette, the scrape of the match against the box sounding loud in the silence. It was abnormally quiet and, although the sun was warm, he shivered. Eerie . . . Which was nonsense, he told himself sternly, but there was something creepy about the silent, rutted lane that no amount of brisk common sense could dispel. He wished he could see the barn properly and thought of walking further up the lane, but didn't want to run the risk of being seen by Mr Lawrence. He had a healthy respect for the man's temper. He wouldn't take kindly to being followed and Haldean could hardly blame him.

So why did Whitfield want to see Mr Lawrence? To change his mind? Fat chance. Mr Lawrence was a very stubborn man. Did Whitfield realize that? Probably not. He wasn't the most perceptive of characters and might think all he had to do was talk to Mr Lawrence. He couldn't – could he? – be intending to harm the man.

Haldean sucked deeply on his cigarette. That was, of course, what he was afraid of. It would be incredibly clumsy but Whitfield wasn't a very subtle bloke. What on earth
was
going on? He was certain Whitfield was innocent of Boscombe's death, so why, in God's name, had the talk of blackmail rattled him enough to drive him to that hamfisted attempt at murder? Come to think of it, was it so ham-fisted? After all, another fraction of an inch and it would have succeeded, and all anyone would have been able to say was that it had been a tragic accident caused by a notoriously bad-tempered horse. Even now he couldn't put his hand on his heart and swear it was anything else. He just thought it was, and his thoughts weren't evidence. If it had come off, it would have been a damn good murder. An impulsive murder, taking advantage of circumstances with Superintendent Ashley standing by as an unimpeachable witness.

He threw away his cigarette in irritation, glancing through the scrubby trees at the barn. For all the use he was, he might as well have stayed at home. Lawrence would be all right, wouldn't he? He certainly hadn't wanted any company while he swapped home truths with Whitfield. But
what
home truths, for heaven's sake?
You're only after Marguerite's money
. . . That wouldn't come as a surprise to anyone. Lawrence had been saying it loud and long ever since he had arrived. Maybe – and Lawrence had hinted as much – he was going to buy off the Colonel and didn't want anyone to know the size of the deal. He certainly expected the meeting to be forthright. Haldean glanced at his watch again. Eleven o'clock. If anything was going to happen, it should be happening now.

Did Lawrence know anything discreditable about Whitfield? Because if he –

A sharp crack rang out. Haldean stiffened. That was a shot. It came from the lane, surely? A second later he was racing up the track, appalled by what he saw.

Half-walking, half-staggering, Lawrence came round the bend in the road. He dropped to his knees and, as Haldean reached him, was trying to stand up. There was a gash on his forehead and a livid mark on his cheek. His hair was grimy with dirt, straw and cobwebs, and his jacket and shirt were streaked with dust. He tried to speak, but no words came. Haldean stooped down and put an arm under his shoulders.

‘Steady now, steady . . . Just get to the side of the road . . . That's better. What on earth happened?'

‘Whitfield . . . Must have been Whitfield. Hit me.'

‘Who fired that shot?'

‘Shot?' Lawrence looked at him with blurred eyes. ‘There wasn't a shot.' He sank down on the grass verge, bowed his head on to crooked knees, then, drawing a ragged breath, fumbled in his pocket for a hip flask. He vainly tried to undo it before Haldean took it from him and twisted the top off. Lawrence took a brief drink, coughing as the whisky hurt his throat. ‘That's better.'

‘Here.' Haldean knelt down, took the flask, tipped some of the spirit on to his handkerchief and held it to the gash on Lawrence's forehead.

Lawrence's eye's widened. ‘Thanks – I guess. Gee, that stings.' He looked at Haldean sharply. ‘What the
hell
are you doing here? I thought I told you I didn't want company.'

‘I thought you might need it all the same. I wasn't going to interfere but I decided to come in case . . . Well, in case something like this happened.'

‘I suppose I should say thank you,' said Lawrence ruefully. ‘Though when I say I want to be alone I'd like to be alone. That guy certainly packed a punch.'

‘What happened?'

Lawrence shrugged, then winced. ‘You tell me. All I know is that I stood outside the barn like a good boy and blamed fool, waiting for eleven o'clock to show on my watch. I couldn't hear anything and was beginning to think he hadn't come. I walked through the wicket door and – wham! Something hit me like a pile-driver. I went down and must've been out cold for a couple of minutes. When I came to I looked around, but there was no sign of Whitfield anywhere. So I got out and ran straight into you. When I get my hands on that guy . . .'

‘Are you sure it was Whitfield?'

‘Who the hell else could it've been? He asked me to come here. I guess he meant to kill me. He certainly hit me hard enough. He didn't stay around to find out though.'

Haldean stood up. ‘I'd better have a look at the barn. Will you be all right for a few minutes?'

‘I guess so, Major. But there's nothing there.'

Haldean left him sitting by the road and walked up the lane. As he approached the barn, he stopped to listen. Nothing. Senses alert, he walked quietly forward.

The barn stood to one side of the road, a solid, oak-built structure bearing the signs of many winters of dereliction. A short, deeply rutted and overgrown track led to huge double doors. Years ago they had swung open to admit farm carts, but now their hinges had long rusted into place. A wicket door cut into the wood stood open. He glanced round for a weapon and, picking up a fallen branch, walked down the grassy track. He saw, with a tightening of his lips, where blood had splashed on a clump of cow parsley. It was deathly quiet.

Using the branch he thrust back the wicket door so it slammed against the inside wall. The creak and bang of the wood reverberated into silence. If anyone had been standing behind the door they certainly weren't there now. Very carefully, and hefting the branch like a club, he stepped over the rotting sill and into the barn. Nothing moved. He stood motionless, letting his eyes become accustomed to the dark, empty space. A rusting plough with a piled heap of sacks protruding beyond it lay at the far end. Scraps of junk – a broken bucket, odd pieces of metal, an old sink, a coil of chain and lengths of earthenware pipe – lay discarded against the wall. He stooped down, gazing at the dusty floor. His face hardened. A heavy old spade handle, its rusted iron rivets still attached, lay on the ground. The rivets were stained and there was a scrape of skin on the heads. There were definite marks of a disturbance by the door and tracks leading across the floor to the old plough. His eyes came to rest on the sacks and he gazed at them thoughtfully, eyebrows lifting.