Shades of Murder (8 page)

‘Why do you call him that – Wicked William? Was he a bad man?’

Even that softly-phrased question set alarm bells going in Meredith’s head. How much should she explain? Should she tell him that she was even now working her way through Geoff’s research material? No. She didn’t want to cause another upsurge of that anger. ‘He left home under a cloud,’ she said. In case he didn’t know this expression, she added, ‘There was an unfortunate incident.’

Jan was shaking his head. ‘I know what you’re talking about. He was accused unjustly of having murdered his wife. He didn’t do it. She was addicted to laudanum and while under the influence of the drug, suffered a tragic accident. He told my great-grandmother, his second wife, all about it before they married. She told their son, my grandfather, he told my father and my father told me. You see, I know all about it. My grandfather told me when I was a child that his mother had been a woman of great good sense. She would never have married a murderer. She knew her husband was an English gentleman. He wouldn’t have lied to her.’

Somehow Meredith found the strength to say, though she knew her voice trembled, ‘He stood trial.’

‘He was accused by a servant who had some grudge against him, but a jury – a
British
jury –’ Did she only imagine something mocking in his tone? ‘– found him Innocent. So, he was.’ He spoke the last words as simple fact, a matter of logic, which couldn’t be gainsaid.

Alan would have something to say about the difference between being found Innocent and being innocent. But Meredith was momentarily shaken. Unconsciously, she’d accepted Geoff Painter’s claim that Oakley had been ‘lucky to get off’ and assumed Oakley’s guilt. At least she ought to finish working her way through Geoff’s notes before coming to a conclusion. In any case, she knew she’d be unwise to trespass further on a forbidden subject.

She found herself saying weakly, ‘Well, this is quite a moment for you, then. I do understand that.’

Privately, she was thinking, Perhaps
he
feels that way about it. I wonder how Damaris and Florence feel about
him?

‘Well, said Alan Markby, ‘that’s what you might term a turn-up for the books!’

‘Not half. I still can’t take it in.’

He poured them both another glass of wine. ‘No wonder you came in declaring that I’d never guess whom you’d met and where you’d been. I certainly
couldn’t
have guessed. He’s genuine, I suppose?’

‘That’s what’s worrying me,’ Meredith confessed. ‘No one has ever mentioned any Polish Oakleys before. I admit I don’t know Damaris and Florence all that well, but I’ve always understood they were the last of the line. On Saturday evening at the Painters’ we were talking about them, about the family, for goodness sake! Geoff said then that the sisters would be the last Oakleys at Fourways, and Juliet, who has been seeing them recently, didn’t suddenly say, “Hang on, Geoff, there’s a Polish horse doctor and he’s hotfooting his way over here, about to land on the doorstep.” Yet this Jan told me he’d been in correspondence with them. He definitely reckons he’s expected. I just don’t see how it’s possible.’

‘Well, I’ve known them all my life and I’ve never heard of a Polish branch of the family,’ Alan agreed. ‘But that doesn’t mean the Oakley sisters have been unaware of it.’

‘And never said a word to
anyone?
’ Meredith sat back in her chair and pushed a hank of dark brown hair out of her eyes. ‘In all these years?’

‘Think about it from their point of view,’ Alan said. ‘Their father was Wicked William’s and Cora’s son. As they grew up, William’s name would never have been mentioned; it would’ve been the family skeleton-in-the-cupboard, a dreadful blot on their honour. Anything they later found out about him would have been veiled in the same secrecy. It was a scandal. Don’t underestimate the fear of scandal, especially in someone of that generation.’

Meredith was mulling it over. ‘I suppose so,’ she said unwillingly. ‘This Jan’s an odd sort of chap. One minute he appears harmless and the next – oh, I don’t know! He was so excited when he saw the house, his face lit up, really shone. I found it unnerving. I kept thinking of those paintings of saints with their eyes fixed on glory. And then I thought how Lucifer means “light-bearer”, and I didn’t know whether I had a saint or a devil with me in the car.’ She looked embarrassed. ‘Sorry if I sound way over the top. He was just – different. We like to pigeon-hole new acquaintances, I suppose. But I couldn’t slot him under any heading.’

Alan was looking thoughtful. ‘I think you might be right to feel some concern. The Oakleys are planning to sell up, move to a retirement flat, spend the rest of their days in peace and comfort. It’s such a big undertaking for them it must fill their minds every minute of the day. All the planning, even with Juliet’s help, must be a nightmare. I doubt they can really be doing with long-lost relatives at this time, even if he is completely harmless despite your fears. In fact, it’s the last thing they need. On the other hand, I don’t see what we can do about it. It’s a family matter, isn’t it?’

‘What about Interpol?’

He twitched his eyebrows, startled. ‘Isn’t that making a big jump in reasoning? We’ve no reason to believe he’s a crook. The Polish authorities could confirm whether or not he’s for real or a fake, but there again, we’ve no excuse for contacting them. Presumably his travel documents are in order or he wouldn’t have got through immigration at Heathrow.’

‘There is one thing I can do,’ Meredith told him. ‘I can phone Juliet Painter and warn her. She’s got an excuse to visit Fourways and check things out. I’ll do it tonight.’

She paused. ‘I was going to phone her anyway. I’ve changed my mind, about my house.’

She saw the alarm flood into his eyes. ‘You’ve moving out? Going back to your place?’

‘No. I have decided to sell my place.’ She waited.

He said quietly, ‘I don’t want you to do this just to please me.’

‘That’s not why I’m doing it. I’m doing it because I want to show you I care. That I’m not half-hearted about us looking for a new home together. That I want – that I want this new stage in our relationship to work and I’m prepared to do my bit towards it.’

Later, she moved her head on his shoulder and said, ‘Today, for the first time, I told someone you were my partner.’

‘That’s nice.’ He smoothed her hair. ‘Whom did you tell?’

‘How grammatical you are. I told Jan Oakley.’

‘Ah? In self-defence?’ He was smiling, but the smile didn’t reach his blue eyes.

‘Perhaps it was, but it won’t be in future.’ She said softly, ‘I mean it, Alan.’

He reached out and took her hand. ‘I do know what a big step this is for you.’

She squeezed his fingers. ‘Funnily enough, it’s not as difficult to make as I thought it would be. Dithering never helps, does it? It’s always best to make up one’s mind.’

‘For better or worse?’ he asked quietly.

‘Getting married is a bigger step.’ Meredith drew a deep breath. ‘I’m making progress, Alan, but I need to do it in my own time.’

So they left it at that, for the time being.

Damaris Oakley toiled slowly up the winding staircase, steadying herself with a hand on the banister. The oak was worn as smooth as silk by the touch of countless other hands. Behind her came their visitor, his clumsy
backpack bumping against the treads. She could hear his breath, was conscious of the scratching of the rucksack against the woodwork and the rustle of his clothing, the heat of his body and the smell of male sweat. It was as if some large wild beast crept up the staircase behind her. She had to fight back terror, an old, old terror which had resurfaced.

When she and Florence had been small, a nursemaid had frightened them with stories of the bogeyman who lived in dark corners and jumped out at passing children. As a result, she and Florence and even Arthur, although he was a boy and knew he ought to be brave, would only go up and down the stairs together. Hands gripped for mutual reassurance, they’d peer fearfully into each shadowy corner, uttering squeals of dismay at each creak of the woodwork. At last their father had found out how terrified his children were and had conducted an elaborate ceremony, involving raiding the dressing-up box, to banish the fiend.

And now he was back. Perhaps, thought Damaris, he’d never really gone away at all. He hadn’t been fooled by Papa in an Oriental dressing gown and a turban. He’d just been biding his time and here he was. No longer a shadow, but flesh and blood. Our flesh, she thought, and our blood. At the other end of a long life, she had to deal with him again. The bogeyman had become reality. He was there now, following her up the staircase as he’d followed two scared little girls nearly eighty years ago.

They’d reached the corridor. She led him along it and opened the door. ‘I’ve put you in the turret room. I hope you’ll be comfortable. There is a bathroom just along there. The hot water is a little erratic. If you want to take a bath, let me know and I’ll light the geyser for you. I wouldn’t like to let anyone do it who wasn’t used to it. It’s got a mind of its own.’

‘I expect I’ll be able to manage it, dear cousin, if you’ll just show me once how it’s done.’

The large dark eyes were fixed on her with a kind of gentle mockery. But Damaris was less affronted by that than by being hailed as his dear cousin. She didn’t care if he blew himself sky-high with the geyser. But she wasn’t his ‘dear’. She could hardly bring herself to believe she was any sort of cousin.

She knew he’d seen her wince and that it amused him. He wouldn’t laugh aloud, he was too clever for that. She knew she was in the presence of someone who was very clever. She was aghast at the helplessness which swept over her at the realisation. How well equipped was she for the battle of minds which lay ahead? Although her own mental powers
were in good shape, she knew that the brain of a woman of eighty-two must soon lag behind in a race with that of a man of whatever he was – twenty-nine, thirty? To her it seemed incredibly young. Yet there was about this young man something which was old. She couldn’t quite be clear about what it was until she thought, Young in years and old in sin, and the expression seemed to explain it all.

Am I being unfair? she asked herself with a pang of conscience. Am I blaming this person about whom I know nothing for something which happened a hundred years ago and which ought, in reality, to have been relegated to history long since. But how can you relegate something to the ‘dustbin of history’ when here it is, large as life, smiling at you from those luminous dark eyes?

Clinging to everyday detail as if to a lifebelt, she said carefully, ‘I ought to explain about meals. You’ll take breakfast with us, of course, and perhaps lunch if you are here. But my sister and I don’t eat an evening meal as such. We find we don’t need it. We make ourselves something light, often just toast or a sandwich. So I’ve arranged for you to dine at The Feathers. It’s a pub, two minutes’ walk down the road. They know all about you. Just go in and tell the landlady, Mrs Forbes, who you are.’

There was no way, she and Florence had decided immediately they knew he was coming, that they could cook for a man. Not with the old gas cooker playing up the way it did and the work and shopping involved. Mrs Forbes had been very understanding and helpful. She was a businesswoman, of course, and some hard bargaining had followed. Damaris’s intuition told her that the cost of feeding Jan would fall on his hostesses. The same thinking had prevented her from booking Jan into The Feathers on a full bed and board basis. He was going to cost them money, but Damaris was determined it would be as little as possible. Jan would be provided with the cheapest thing on the bar menu for the evening (usually sausage and mash or a burger and chips). Damaris would be billed by Mrs Forbes when Jan left. If he wanted anything more elaborate, it would be made clear to him by Mrs Forbes there was an extra cost, to be paid from his own pocket, on the spot.

‘Dear Cousin Damaris—’

He’s doing it on purpose! thought Damaris. He’s doing it because he knows I don’t like it.

‘You’ll find I won’t be the slightest trouble to you. In fact, while I’m here, I can help you. Anything you need done, I’ll be very happy to do it. I’m quite a handyman.’

‘We’ve got one,’ said Damaris unkindly. ‘We’ve got Ron Gladstone.’
Jan was leaning towards her, his face now expressing only anxiety to please. She had an impulse, subdued with difficulty, physically to push him away.

If Jan had heard her words, he gave no sign. He’d walked into the room. There was a gasp. He’d stopped in his tracks, struck by the sight before him. Damaris smiled slightly to herself, a dry, bitter little smile.

‘The portrait!’ The young man turned to her, eyes shining. ‘I recognise him. I have an old photograph. It’s—’

‘William Oakley,’ said Damaris. She looked across the room at it. The sun had set almost completely and just a last ray of light touched the gilt frame with a pink finger. The frock-coated sitter stared out at them, handsome, unreliable, his dark gaze mocking, his red lips upturned in a half-smile without warmth. One hand was tucked inside his breast lapel in Napoleonic style, the other rested on a book.

‘My grandfather, but your great-grandfather. I remembered that portrait was stored somewhere about the house. I looked it out and dusted it off and put it in your room. I thought,’ Damaris added, ‘it seemed apt.’

She left him to unpack and made her way downstairs to the kitchen. Florence was there, cutting thin slices of bread in preparation for their supper that evening which was to be Marmite sandwiches.

‘Everything all right?’ Florence asked, setting down the breadknife which was so old and much-used that its blade had worn to something resembling a rapier.

‘All right’ wasn’t the phrase, thought Damaris. Everything was all wrong. The Oakley bad luck working its baneful effects to the last.

‘I’ve told him he’s got to go to The Feathers if he wants any dinner.’ Damaris picked up the butterknife and prepared to set to work on the bread slices.

‘Perhaps he’ll get fed up and leave soon,’ said Florence optimistically. ‘He’ll be very bored. The food at The Feathers can’t be good for the digestion, it all seems to be fried. As for the turret room, it’s very cold even in the middle of summer.’