Corridors of the Night (33 page)

Could it really be coincidence, so hard on the heels of so much else?

He wanted to go and talk with Ardal Juster, and see what he thought of it, and if there were reasonable suspects from the case. Exactly what had happened? Was there at last a viable prosecution in this miserable affair?

First he would talk it over with Beata York. Her judgement was sound, and any reason to see her pleased him.

He considered whether he would go home and shave again and change his clothes before calling, or if that would be too obviously contrived. Yet if he went straight from his chambers at Lincoln’s Inn he would look tired, since it was the end of the day, and as if he had not cared sufficiently to go home and prepare. He decided to go directly.

The door opened and the now familiar butler welcomed him in. He did not even ask why Rathbone had come.

‘Good evening, Sir Oliver. How pleasant to see you. I hope you are well, sir?’

‘Very, thank you,’ Rathbone replied. ‘I apologise for calling without asking if it is convenient, but I’m afraid there has been a tragic development in the Rand case; at least I think it is connected. I would deeply appreciate Lady York’s opinion as to whether it may be, or not. It concerns a woman whom she knows at least as well as I do.’ He was talking too much, and he was aware of it. The butler did not care why he was here, and he certainly did not need an explanation.

‘Yes, sir. If you care to wait in the morning room I will see if Lady York is available.’ He appeared about to add something more, then changed his mind, and left Rathbone to find his own way through the open door of the morning room to wait there.

It was only a few minutes later that Beata herself came to the door. She was dressed in a pale, neutral colour that would not have been flattering on anyone else, but it complemented the warmth of her beauty perfectly, reminding him of sunlight in a quiet corner of a garden.

‘I heard about Adrienne Radnor’s death,’ she said sadly. ‘Do you think it is part of this larger matter? From the very little I read in the newspapers . . . and don’t raise your eyebrows like that, Oliver. I do read the newspapers, and now that I am alone in the house, I read whichever ones I please.’ There was amusement and very slight defiance in her eyes, just for a moment.

It gave him an extraordinary feeling of warmth, as if she were letting him know that no matter how close they became, there were certain privileges she would keep, regardless.

He smiled back at her. ‘Good. That means I will not have to explain to you what we know or what I am concerned about. Possibly not even why I feel so oddly grieved for a woman I did my best to prosecute as complicit in the kidnap of Hester and the three children.’

‘Do you?’ she asked, but the lift in her voice seemed as much hope as surprise. ‘Do you feel grieved?’

He did not know how to answer easily. ‘Yes . . . I do.’

She regarded him carefully, perhaps seeing his weariness at the end of the day, the fact that he had not been home to change. Now he was conscious of it. It was a mistake, a discourtesy.

‘Would you care to stay for supper?’ she asked.

‘I would like to very much,’ he accepted.

‘I shall inform Cook.’ She turned away and pulled the bell by the fireplace.

A moment later the butler appeared again.

‘Madam?’

‘Would you please tell Cook that Sir Oliver is staying for dinner? Will she do whatever is necessary?’

‘Of course, madam.’ He smiled as if it pleased him. As he bowed and left, Beata led the way across the hall to the sitting room. The windows facing the garden were open and the perfume of the last roses drifted in, with the rustle of wind in the leaves of the birch trees.

‘Before we plunge into the tragic death of Adrienne Radnor – and I do find myself thinking it is tragic – how are you?’ he asked.

She gave a little laugh, which was self-deprecating and yet completely honest. ‘You mean how is Ingram? One week he seems to be sinking, the next he rallies again – at least in physical health. He was always a strong man. He seldom ever caught a cold.’

Rathbone was not sure what to say. She had never told him whether she went to the hospital to see York or not. He did not like to ask. He wanted to give her a kind of comfort, even that of being able to speak frankly to someone, not pretending that she wished that Ingram were better. The newspapers reported it as a kind of seizure and no one was tactless enough to suggest otherwise.

Rathbone was the only person, apart from Beata, who had been present when York had a temper tantrum so serious he attacked Rathbone, striking at him with his walking cane. It had been a blow that, if it had struck his head as intended, could have injured him very seriously. As it was, York had fallen to the floor in some kind of fit, foaming at the mouth, eyes sunken back into his head, body convulsed and kicking, lashing out where he could.

No one else needed to know that. Certainly Rathbone had told no one exactly how it had been, how pathetic and repulsive, or how dangerous. Rathbone did not believe that York had gone to a place in his brain from which it was possible to return. But that was not something one said, even to Beata, who probably already knew it.

Beata was watching him, waiting for his response.

Rathbone chose his words with care.

‘Perhaps it would be most merciful for him if he were to have a seizure which, at the least, ended his awareness of his situation.’

‘I have often thought that,’ she agreed. ‘Thank you for giving me leave to share it. There were times when I did not like Ingram very much, but I would not wish this on anyone.’ She looked away. ‘I don’t go to visit him any more. He doesn’t know I am there. Is that cowardly of me? I hate the smell of the place, the voices, the—’

‘No,’ he said quickly, reaching out his hand to touch her arm lightly with his fingers. ‘I imagine he would prefer that you did not see him in such a state. Whether he deserves it or not, it is a last gift you can give him: to keep a memory of him at his best.’

She met his eyes. ‘You are kinder to him than he deserves. He would have ruined you, you know, if he could.’

‘Yes, I know,’ he agreed. ‘It doesn’t matter now.’ He was surprised that he would say that and mean it. Ingram York was important only in that he existed, and as long as he was alive Rathbone could not ask Beata to marry him. There was no question in his mind that as soon as she was free, he would. Perhaps it was better that it was not quite so soon . . . and yet he ached for it!

He must put it out of his mind now. It was an ugly thing to wish for someone’s death, and he did not want her to see it in his eyes, or hear it in his tone of voice.

‘There is no question that Adrienne Radnor was murdered,’ he said. ‘It appears she was robbed, but her lady’s maid said she carried nothing in her reticule but a handkerchief and a little perfume or ointment – nothing whatever worth taking at all, let alone killing for. And she was not . . .’ He stopped, not wanting to be coarse, although how else could one describe what he wished to say?

‘Raped,’ she replied for him. ‘Does anyone believe she was killed for a handkerchief and a little perfume? Really, Oliver . . .’

‘I think Rand may have killed her in case she betrayed him in some way. She must know a great deal about what went on in that cottage.’

‘He cannot be tried again for kidnapping Mrs Monk or the children,’ she reminded him. ‘What else is there that Miss Radnor might have known about him?’

‘I can’t think of anything,’ he admitted. ‘Perhaps far more about his medical experiment than he would wish made public yet? People can be very jealous in guarding their scientific discoveries.’

‘Then he will have to kill Hester too,’ Beata observed. ‘She would understand what he was doing in much greater detail.’

‘Are you saying that because you think Hester is in danger, or because you disagree?’ he asked. It was an ugly thought that had not occurred to him before. Had Monk realised the possibility?

‘You are getting to know me too well,’ she said ruefully. ‘It is because I do not agree with you. He will be only too happy to tell everyone, as soon as he has the formula perfected. He will no doubt wish it to be named “the Rand procedure”, or some such.’

‘Maybe she knew something that could still betray him, if not something for which he could be tried again, at least that could damage his reputation,’ Rathbone suggested.

‘Possibly. But why are you so certain her killer is Rand?’

‘Who else? Don’t tell me it was some passing vagabond killed her. According to the first police reports, she did not fight him. She was muddy and her hair tangled, but there was no sign of a woman fighting for her life.’

‘So, someone she knew,’ Beata said very softly. ‘Someone she was not afraid of, at least not physically. What about her father?’

Rathbone was startled, not so much by the idea itself, but that Beata, who had not met Radnor, should come to it so quickly.

‘She looked after him all through his illness,’ he replied. ‘In fact, she has been his companion since her mother died. No one could have been more loyal. Now that he is in almost full health again, and, I gather, keen to resume his travels abroad, she has regained the freedom to have her own life. To marry, if she wishes.’

‘You mean if she ever found someone suitable, of whom her father approved, and who was willing to accept a slightly older bride,’ she said. ‘And, of course, whom she found agreeable.’

He looked at her, uncertain of the quality of pain he heard in her voice. Was it sympathy for a young woman she had never met? Looking at her, he believed it was something far more personal, something she knew rather than was guessing at.

He waited for her to make light of it, dismiss the remark as only an idea, but she did not.

‘Do you think he really would?’ he asked. ‘Why? She had been devoted to him. Hester said she sat up with him night after night, without once asking for relief for herself.’ He shook his head. ‘He would hardly kill her rather than let her go!’

‘From the way you describe it, he is intending to travel without her,’ she said, biting her lip a little, her eyes not moving from his face.

Was she thinking of Ingram? Had he been possessive, domineering, demanding attention from her all the time? Surely that was only his courtroom manner in latter years, and then only when he was challenged, or perhaps felt proceedings slipping out of his control. Had his mind been failing slowly, a hair’s breadth at a time, for years? That would terrify anyone. When people were deeply afraid they lashed out sometimes, did anything but acknowledge the truth they feared the most deeply.

Ingram York was an arrogant and selfish man, but for a moment Rathbone felt a whisper of pity for him. He had had so much, and the love of such a woman! The loss of it all would be beyond most men to bear with any attempt at grace.

But all this was an assumption. He couldn’t know for certain.

Beata leaned forward a little. ‘Oliver, you said Hester described him as a man of huge appetite for life, one who wanted every taste, every smell, and every touch of beauty he could grasp.’

Rathbone winced as he recalled Hester’s exact words.

‘Yes.’

‘Would such a man wish to take his daughter with him into the new journeys he plans? She has done so much for him, been his constant companion through his hardest times. He owes her his companionship now, don’t you think?’

‘Most certainly,’ he agreed.

‘And do you think he is a man who pays his debts willingly?’ Her fine brows arched and her eyes were shadowed, unfathomable beneath them.

Now he saw a picture far uglier, and he was afraid of how she knew such things. There was pain inside her. He could feel it because it was only just beyond his reach. Maybe he would never touch it. Maybe he shouldn’t, but she had allowed him to know it was there. He must, above everything else in the world, be gentle, leave everything unsaid. He had to allow her to tell him, or not tell him, but let him understand without ever saying so.

‘You think he could have killed her to free himself of every obligation to her?’ he said carefully. ‘Cancel the debt, now that he doesn’t need her? That’s monstrous!’

‘Don’t you believe in monsters, Oliver?’ she asked. Now there was a shadow in her eyes that he knew perfectly well was doubt, and the memory of sadness, perhaps even disillusion.’

‘Yes, I do,’ he answered quickly. ‘But I wish I didn’t. I suppose especially this one, because I let him go.’ That was more honest than he had intended to be.

She smiled, and then moved a little away again, only inches. ‘You won’t make a very good St George if you don’t believe in dragons,’ she said, something of a certain lightness coming back into her voice.

‘I don’t know how to get this one. And I have a strong feeling the police don’t either.’

‘I don’t suppose it is Monk’s case, is it?’ she said doubtfully.

‘No. But that doesn’t mean I can’t talk to him about it.’

‘Good. I think dinner is nearly ready. Shall we go to the dining room?’

He rose and offered his arm, feeling a little self-conscious. There was no one else present, and it was her home. But it was a very nice feeling when she laid her hand on his sleeve, so lightly he saw it rather than felt it.

He visited Monk the following evening, convinced that Monk would by now know as much as the local police investigating the matter. He found him pacing the floor and Hester sitting in her usual chair. Her face was pale and he could even see, in the strange accents created by the lamplight, the marks of tears on her cheeks.

‘Have you heard anything?’ Monk asked as soon as Rathbone was inside the room. ‘Are they going to prosecute Rand for this?’

Rathbone walked over to the fireplace and stood looking from one to the other of them. ‘Do you think Rand killed her? Why?’

‘No, I don’t,’ Monk answered sharply. ‘But Runcorn tells me the local police do. The evidence seems to suggest she put up no fight, which doesn’t sound like a robber. She trusted whoever it was.’

‘Doesn’t mean it was Rand,’ Hester argued.

‘Are you working for him again?’ Rathbone said incredulously. How could she, after what he had done to her?