Stephanie by Winston Graham
‘His business partner – the fellow I met before – Angelo Smith.’
‘I presume – if what you say is true about them – I presume they must have attacked you? Eh? Isn’t that true? You’ll have been acting in self-defence?’
‘A good lawyer might say so. It didn’t feel that way.’
‘Look – how far am I from this Partridge Manor place?’
‘About ten minutes, I suppose. Might be a bit more. You take the Princes Risborough road from your place and turn left just before you get in there. Upper Kimble is only a few miles on, and you take the second or third turning – anyway it’s by a telephone box. Big stone posts, and the gates seem to be left permanently open.’
‘I’ll come at once. And listen, James –’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t touch anything. I mean don’t touch anything more. Sit in a chair and wait for me. You say the front door is open?’
‘Yes. I am on the first floor.’
‘There are no servants? Mrs Colton is out?’
‘Yes. I believe – I think she has gone to the theatre in Stratford.’ ‘Well, then, I’ll come right away. And James.’ ‘Yes?’ ‘Don’t ring the police until I come.’
II
Gaveston took his wife’s Mini. It was less conspicuous than the old Alvis, and as it was double locked away in a separate garage there was less chance of its being booby-trapped.
He found the house at the second attempt and saw James’s estate car parked outside the front door. There was no moon, and a cloudy sky made the evening dark. Only one light in the house, shining brightly through two windows over the front door. Henry drew on a pair of surgical gloves and went in. Whatever help he was able to offer James, it was instinct to avoid implicating himself.
Upstairs James was sitting awkwardly in an easy chair, an empty brandy glass on the floor beside him. His face was flushed and new lines showed on it.
He said: ‘Well, there we are.’
Errol Colton lay on his face among the wreck of the work table. Suitably, photographs were strewn all over him. Henry’s knees cracked as he stooped beside the body. He dragged off one of his gloves to feel for a pulse, to lift an eyelid, to put a finger on the skin, which was already cooling.
He drew on his glove again and stood up.
‘Certainly. There we are. What possessed you? … Where is the other man?’
‘Downstairs in the hall, I presume. He went over the banisters.’
Henry found a chair. ‘I think I need some brandy too.’
‘It’s not very good,’ said James. ‘ But it helps.’
‘For God’s sake.’ Henry took a gulp. ‘I told you I was worried about you, old friend. I warned you – only yesterday was it? – saying you shouldn’t allow your suspicions to get – to get out of hand. But this … Merciful Christ! How did it happen?’
In brief jerky sentences James told him. Henry kept shaking his head in disbelief. When he had done James looked at his watch.
‘I don’t know what time Mrs Colton will be back, but I wouldn’t want her to find us sitting here like this. It would be better to ring the police right away.’
‘This Smith man – downstairs … are you sure he’s … I should take a look before we do anything else … He might only have been knocked out …’
As he put his glass down Gaveston looked at the small revolver lying on the floor half-covered by a photograph of a pretty dark girl of about fourteen – who might now be fatherless.
‘Don’t move.’
He left the room and switched on the landing light and the lights in the hall. James heard him going downstairs. The tension had now drained out of him, so that all he wanted to do was lie down and sleep. The acute pain in his ankles was curiously dulled, as if there were other claims on his mind’s attention. It would be a new experience to sleep in a cell. Before then, he supposed, there would have to be the official warning and then the signed statement: I, James Locke, of sound mind and body, hereby state that tonight the something of May I did feloniously kill one, Errol Colton, and also … He’d had nothing to do with lawyers since Janet left him – except for the brief employment of Alan Webster to represent him at the inquest. But Webster wasn’t a criminal lawyer. Henry would know someone more suitable. What would it be, manslaughter or murder? Diminished responsibility? Some hopes. He had felt no diminished responsibility at all. Regret? Remorse? It hadn’t happened yet. An eye for an eye? New Testament feelings might settle in later. God, he was exhausted.
Gaveston came back into the room, mopped his forehead. In answer to James’s look he said: ‘Oh, he’s dead all right. Whether it was the fall …’
James felt his bruised hand. ‘Look, the telephone is over there. Or shall I just dial nine-nine-nine again?’
‘James,’ Gaveston said, and breathed out deeply. ‘ That man downstairs. I know him. I knew him thirty years ago. He’s fatter but there’s no mistaking that split eyebrow. I knew him in Cyprus. He was a leading member of EOKA, and quite the nastiest. His real name is Angelo Apostoleris.’
‘Oh? …’
‘He was much wanted by the British. He was more ruthless than Dighenis – you know, Grivas – and much more brutal. I would have loved to have caught him.’
‘Now you have.’
‘Now I have. Or you have. It puts things in a different light. Coming up the stairs I’ve been thinking. I can’t explain more but I think we should get out.’
‘Get out?’
‘Yes. In fifteen minutes we ought to be gone.’
‘What about the police?’
‘It’s their problem. Let them puzzle it out. Listen, James, can you stir yourself?’
James stared at his friend. ‘ Oh yes. But –’
‘You know, I thought your conspiracy theory about Stephanie’s death was so much moonshine. But if a chap like Apostoleris is involved I can believe anything. Tell me, what did you handle in this room?’
III
They were outside in seven minutes. Gaveston, all his bones creaking, had moved with the speed of a young man. Everything James had touched or was likely to have touched was wiped down with a damp cloth. The photographs and the folder had been gathered up and put into a pillowcase Henry had found in a neighbouring bedroom. ‘We can’t risk one of those – they’re perfect for prints – they’ve got to go with us.’ Glasses wiped, door handles wiped, banisters, chair arms, the work table, bottles, even the wall on the landing. James’s legs would just get him downstairs. When he reached the bottom he listened to Henry’s movements upstairs; he sounded as if he was dragging Errol across the room to the door.
He came down gasping for breath. ‘We shall never deceive the police – for long but if it could be – made to look like a quarrel between them – it will help to confuse things. Now into your car and drive home. Got that?’
‘Yes, I suppose so. But …’
The sticks went into the car first and James was shoved in after. ‘I can’t see that there is going to –’
‘Drive carefully – and think it over on the way. Apostoleris – is no loss to the community, and I doubt if Colton is. Can you trust – your Mrs Aldershot?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘She will swear that you had not been out tonight?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Fred Barnes I can trust – in the same way. Fortunately Evelyn isn’t – home. She is never – good under cross-examination. If there – has to be any. Now go.’
James started the car. ‘My car –’
‘I know. It’s a risk but it’s worth taking. When you get home burn – everything – those photographs – all your clothes, down to your shoes, socks, walking sticks. Everything. Strip yourself –’
‘If I do that –’
‘You have an incinerator to heat your greenhouses?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it lit?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then use it. Goodbye.’
‘Henry,’ James sa
‘I had no intention of – being so involved. But it has happened. I’ll telephone you early tomorrow. Now go.’
IV
At 8.30 the telephone rang in James’s bedroom. He lifted it off and Henry said: ‘How are you?’
‘Christ, I don’t know. Very sore.’
‘Is remorse breaking in?’
‘Well, I couldn’t abide the thought of Mrs Colton coming home and finding … what she would find.’
‘I appreciate that. It would have been better if a police car had been winking outside. But only marginally better. She still had the shock to be faced. Did you do what I told you?’
‘Mary Aldershot was still up, so she has become an accessory after the fact.’
‘Your sticks?’
‘Very reluctantly. I have a spare couple, but they are not as light.’
‘Old friend, I have been giving this matter some thought in the night.’
‘So have I!’
‘My feeling is that my attempt to fool our friends the police will not be successful for long. But the chances of your being traced are fairly low. Of course your car might have been seen turning in to Partridge Manor, but it’s unlikely. The fields on the other side of the lane are all pastureland. Only one house is in sight, and that is on the hill.’
‘How do you know? It was dark when you came.’
‘I drove over this morning as soon as it was light. To continue, if no one saw you turn in, it is unlikely anyone saw your car parked there, as the shrubbery hides the drive from the lane. When I came over it was very dark, so I think it unlikely anyone saw me. So …’
‘So?’
‘I have a feeling you may yet be in the clear. I presume that is what you wish to be?’
‘Well …’
‘The urge to confess was strong in you last night.’
‘It was not so much an urge to confess as a feeling that there was nothing else I could do!’
‘But it seems there may be.’
James shifted his elbow and took the telephone in his other hand. The side of his right hand was painful but no bruise showed. ‘Listen, Henry, you’re in a position of some authority, Bursar of an Oxford college, still with many contacts in the Ministry of Defence and some with the police. If Mary has become an accessory in this affair, how much more you! It would go very badly for you if this came out. You have Evelyn to think of and a still fairly young son.’
‘I considered all that in the night. But by then most of the boats were burned, weren’t they. And unless you decide to split on me, there’s still nothing to connect me with this affair. Fred will swear in any court in the kingdom that I did not stir from the house last night. I spent the whole evening writing in the study. Fred came in twice to bring me drinks.’
‘So I am now a – well, whatever you want to call me, and three more people are accessories. It is a big price to pay for a fit of temper.’
‘Is that what it was?’
‘Not quite.’
Henry said: ‘For me, of course, everything was changed by my recognition of Angelo Apostoleris. It seems likely that your suspicions – which I didn’t believe – were in some way correct. However Stephanie died, Colton was a member of a criminal organisation – by association and almost certainly in fact. We must sit this one out.’
‘I haven’t thanked you at all. Whatever I say seems inadequate, but – you must know what I feel.’
‘I think so. Let’s say it’s a partnership. Have you seen the morning papers?’
‘Only The Times. But it’s surely too early.’
‘Yes. I bought them all. I shall be off to Oxford in a minute or two – business as usual. Are you up yet?’
‘Just.’
‘Keep a low profile for a day or two. Tend your garden. You know I don’t think anyone could believe what you did last night – being as lame as you are.’
James said: ‘These last few years I’ve had to make a lot of use of my arms.’
‘Well, your appearance is an added insurance. Let’s keep our fingers crossed.’
‘Indeed,’ said James.
‘Indeed,’ said James.
As he hung up he saw the police car arriving at the front door.
Chapter Nine
I
James’s father, Sir Charles Locke, KCMG, after being Counsellor in Paris, had completed his diplomatic career as British Ambassador to Chile and then to the Netherlands. He had looked on his only son as destined for Eton and the Guards, but Margaret Locke said she didn’t much care for Old Etonians – except the one she married – so James went to Charterhouse. Then when higher education beckoned he took a fancy to the stage, and when war broke out he was a vividly handsome young man playing in the touring company of French Without Tears.
Rather to the astonishment of his father who had come to look on him as a lost cause, he left the company and by pulling various strings not unassociated with his father’s distinguished position, managed to get himself into the army as a humble Fusilier. After Dunkirk, which he missed, he volunteered for the Parachute Regiment but was turned down on medical grounds and instead was gazetted as a second lieutenant in the Royal Fusiliers.
However, assessing eyes had been turned on him and his application, and he was one day invited to leave Aldershot, take train and bus at the country’s expense and visit a building near Trafalgar Square, where he was interviewed by a French colonel and his knowledge of the French language intensively tested. Then he was asked whether he would be willing to be parachuted into France. Having said yes he was escorted out of the back entrance and reported to an aerodrome on the Hampshire–Sussex borders on the following Monday for extra training. Three weeks later he disappeared into the unknown terrain of occupied France.
From there he reappeared at irregular intervals throughout the war, once recuperating from injuries to his legs. But he was soon off again, this time to North Africa where he trained other parachutists and lectured them in French.
At the end of the war he was in the Far East, preparing to lead a suicidal drop behind the Japanese lines in Borneo. Hiroshima whatever its carnage, saved many thousands of Allied lives, and incidentally James’s. Then the war was suddenly over and he was back in England contemplating the resumption of a career that now seemed to belong to another man.
Although he took one or two more parts on the stage he could not find enough interest in picking up the threads of the world he had left four years ago. An aunt had died, leaving him money and the property in Hampshire; he took two extensive semi-diplomatic jobs, then married and settled to become a country gentleman. Janet, herself the daughter of a worthy but unworldly archdeacon, had found the life where – between babies – she could paint at leisure entirely agreeable, until Frederick Agassia came along.
James’s interest in plants had been lifelong. When his father bought a house in Sussex to spend his leaves and settle in after his retirement, it was he, though then only eleven years old, who had planned the garden. By the time Sir Charles did come to retire, the fruits of this planning were to be seen and appreciated, and when James settled in the house in Hampshire he began all over again, reckoning that he might have forty years to watch it mature.
Well, he had had half that so far. Today green life was bursting all around him, cherries dropped their blossom, his exotic rhododendrons had escaped a threatened late frost and camellias were everywhere.
It seemed improbable that he would spend the next twenty years in such agreeable surroundings. Inspector Foulsham wanted to ask him a few questions.
A small, sharp, bright-eyed man with prematurely white hair. His card said he was a Detective Inspector from the Thames Valley Police.
‘Mr James Locke? How d’you do, sir. I came over early as I thought you might be going out.’
‘Not today,’ said James. ‘ Thank you, Mary; will you take coffee, Inspector?’
‘Um? Thank yo
‘Yes, it’s doing very well this year.’
‘I remember now seeing you on TV. Talking on flowering shrubs.’
‘Once you’re on television you’re a marked man.’
It was not the best choice of phrase. Foulsham’s bright eyes met his for a moment. ‘ You do, I suppose, get about quite a bit, in spite of your … handicap?’
‘As much as I can. This electric chair is very useful for moving around the garden, but it’s not a great deal of use in towns.’
‘D’you drive yourself? In a car, I mean.’
‘Oh yes. Automatic. I don’t feel myself to be an extra hazard on the road.’
Foulsham said: ‘I sometimes think a handicapped person is one of the safest of people in a car. For one thing, he drives more slowly, and I’m certain that fifty per cent of all motor accidents are simply caused by speed and impatience.’
James looked out at the cloudy morning. ‘How can I help you, Inspector?’
‘Oh …’ Foulsham made a dismissive gesture. ‘It’s just a few routine questions. You certainly got about quite a bit yesterday, didn’t you, Mr Locke?’
‘I went to Oxford.’
‘And later?’
‘I came home.’
‘What time would that be?’
‘Soon after I had made a statement to your sergeant in Oxford.’
‘That was after this man, Naresh Prasad, had been removed to hospital?’
‘Yes.’
‘Had you met Naresh Prasad before yesterday?’
‘No.’
‘But you know Dr Arun Jiva?’
James eased his ankles. ‘Can hardly say I know him. He was a friend – or a college acquaintance – of my daughter’s. When my daughter died Jiva gave evidence at the inquest. I didn’t meet him then but I did go to see him a week later. That’s the only time we’ve met.’
‘Was there any special reason why you went to see him?’
‘D’you mean yesterday?’