Stephanie by Winston Graham
‘There’s no such thing as a reliable woman where a man is concerned.’
‘You may be right … D’you want me to bring him in?’
‘On what grounds? Lord, no. It’s worth printing him, of course. But unless there’s something more to go on … Imagine him in the box – if we ever got him there. Earl’s cousin. Elderly and badly crippled. War hero. Unshakable alibi. And of course a bereaved father … But give me a print or some other solid fact, and it’ll be a different story.’
‘I wonder if he could have gone to the lengths of hiring a gunman? That’s more feasible to me.’
‘What’s troubling me about the whole thing,’ said the superintendent restlessly, ‘is that if it were a gang killing the two men would have been shot. If Locke had hired a gunman, ditto. Have you come up with no other suspects – lovers of the girl Locke at Oxford or anything of that sort?’
‘By all accounts she had had one or two affairs, but there seems to have been nothing serious before Colton.’
‘You see, Foulsham, I look on this as likely to have been a killing done almost on impulse. Neither of these men had been struck by a stick or a stone or any blunt instrument. They’d been killed by someone trained in unarmed combat. A policeman, perhaps, or a soldier, or a karate expert. In other words …’
‘James Locke?’
‘Of course it doesn’t follow. But could we find a record of his activities during the war? After all, many men as brave as he was only used guns. The vast majority, in fact.’
‘Seeing him as crippled as he is, it’s hard to believe …’
‘I suppose it could have been a friend of his. Who are his particular friends? Find out. Does he keep in touch with his wartime colleagues?’
‘Will do.’
The superintendent grunted. ‘I’d like to be able to settle for a gang killing.’
III
That Sunday evening a man called Crane, a dropout, making his way by devious routes to Aylesbury, was picked up for stealing eggs and a chicken from the back of a public house called the Old Dray near Wendover, and in the course of interrogation early on the Monday morning it transpired that on Tuesday the 22nd he had ‘happened to be passing by’ Partridge Manor about nine-thirty in the evening, had seen a light burning in one of the upstairs rooms and a car standing in the drive. He could not, he swore, possibly be sure of the colour in that light but he thought it was grey or pale blue. There was nobody in it and nobody about and he had not ventured more than a few yards inside the gate. The only thing he could be certain of was that it was a shooting brake.
IV
As was his custom on Monday Henry Gaveston arrived at St Martin’s just after eight, and before breakfast walked around chatting to a few of the scouts to see if anything untoward had occurred during the weekend. Nothing had; but after breakfast he was told that at dinner in college last night there had been a little fracas in which a student called Martin (naturally known as St Martin) had broken a chair, so Henry rang the Dean and suggested to him that they should impose a fine. Almost immediately after, the Clerk of Works, a notoriously lugubrious character, tapped at Henry’s door to tell him that the boiler heating the library and situated under the library staircase was smoking and overheating. They went to the library to look at the trouble, the Clerk stout and middle-aged, the Bursar tall and sharp-angled and stooping, one foot turning in, his voice high-pitched and aristocratic, his thick grey hair, still showing signs of its original fairness, flopping from time to time over his brow. The Clerk of Works had always thought the Bursar an amiable character despite his reputation as a soldier, but these last weeks he had been short-tempered and uninterested in matters of importance, such as a faulty boiler. If he was still upset by Stephanie Locke’s suicide – as they all had been – it was time he snapped out of it. Was something else fretting him?
On his way back from the library Henry was accosted by one of the younger Fellows, who taught Modern History, with a request to book a room for a party he wanted to give on Friday. Henry replied impatiently that he wasn’t carrying his diary with him and would he ring him later in the day?
Back in his room Henry banged the door, picked up the telephone and dialled James’s number. Then, after it had rung twice, he put the phone down. At this stage what had one to say?
Part of the rest of the morning, adding to his restlessness and irritability, was taken up by the chef, an Italian called Corsini, who arrived to say that one of the assistant chefs was ill, and, as they were short-staffed anyway, preparation of college meals was getting beyond him. Henry pacified him by saying he would persuade some of the other staff to work overtime, and meanwhile would the chef help him to prepare an advertisement for an assistant chef to be placed in the Oxford Times?
Then there was the question of half a dozen students who had not settled their battels, and three were badly in debt. Two of them were reading science, and he knew it wasn’t much use calling them in, because science men always had lectures on a Monday morning. The third, Wayford, a second year PPE student, had reported sick.
Henry sat for twenty minutes filling his pipe but not lighting it, wondering how best he might approach the superintendent of police, whom he played golf with and with whom he had had various minor dealings over the students in his care. It was an unwritten agreement between the Oxford police and the colleges that minor offences occurring within a college were dealt with by the college authorities (in practice the Dean or the Bursar) and only in serious cases was police help invoked. So Henry and Superintendent Willis knew each other’s territory well. But that hardly covered the sort of inquiry he now wished to make. ‘The murders at Partridge Manor; what sort of progress is being made? Are you any nearer an arrest?’ Willis wouldn’t reply: ‘What business is it of yours, Colonel?’ but he might well think it. The only way in which it could affect the college would be if Stephanie’s death were involved, and that was precisely what Henry did not wish to suggest.
Henry had other and more secret friends at Scotland Yard and in the security services, but the circumstances of last Tuesday night made him wary of doing anything to draw attention to himself.
He remembered with annoyance that he should have rung his son, Charles, who had been giving a concert last night in Manchester; he had promised to ring early this morning to see how it had gone. By now Charles would be on his way back to York. He’d have to remember to ring about five when Charles would be likely to be in.
Just before he went to lunch the telephone went again. It was Professor Jenkins.
‘Oh, Henry, can you tell me what on earth has happened to Arun Jiva? I have tried the Senior Tutor, but he didn’t know, and I thought you might.’
Henry frowned at the phone. ‘Jiva? I’ve seen nothing of him for about ten days. Isn’t he out of the country?’
‘That’s what I’d like to know.’ Jenkins was Arun Jiva’s supervisor at the School of Pathology. ‘I had a brief note dated – dated the twenty-second of May – saying he had been urgently called away. Nothing more than that. It’s a bit thick to work the way he has been working and then mess everything up at the last moment.’
‘He didn’t bother to tell me at all, but the Principal got the same sort of note. Has he finished his D.Phil.?’
‘He’s submitted it but the problem is his viva is due a week on Wednesday. If he misses that he’ll be in the soup.’
‘I suppose it’s been advertised.’
‘Oh yes, and we can’t change that now. The external examiner is flying in from Dublin especially for this case.’
‘Ah,’ said Henry.
‘Funny character altogether, Jiva. Don’t you find him so? Monumental chip on his shoulder. But no one could accuse him of not taking life seriously. That’s what makes this so strange. And he’s extremely good. Shouldn’t have any difficulty with his viva.’
‘If he’s here to take it.’
‘Quite. I sent round to his house but the woman next door said no one had been near
‘I hope not,’ Henry replied enigmatically.
‘Well, I suppose we shall have to wait and see. But the examiners will be mad if he’s not there … Mrs Gaveston home yet?’
‘Week after next. I gather it’s been pretty exhausting.’
‘America always is. Bye.’
Henry remembered to ring Charles at five and found him in. The concert, it seemed, had been a success and Henry apologised for his delay in inquiring. Charles, being in a euphoric mood, waved this defection away, and they discussed plans for his academic and musical future. Before they rang off Charles said something that pleased his father greatly: ‘ Thank you for being such an understanding chap.’
That evening and the following day Henry still did not speak to James. On the Wednesday morning James rang him.
‘Ah, Henry, we haven’t been in touch.’
‘My fault. But I’m delighted to hear from you … I felt I should have come over again, but it’s difficult in the circumstances to …’
‘To know what to say?’
‘Well, what there was to say was said on Sunday. There isn’t much mileage left.’
‘There’s some – of a sort. Incidentally, I’m in a call box in the village, so you must get used to the clatter of coins.’
‘Good man. I hope you haven’t felt that my not ringing you has shown any lack of sympathy for your position.’ In fact, by private arrangement, Mary Aldershot had telephoned him every night. Henry had been afraid that the gun he had lent James might have been used to follow Stephanie’s example.
‘The way things look at the moment I would not blame you,’ James said. ‘ By the way, the police came again this morning. They asked if they might look at my car. They also asked if I would mind having my fingerprints taken.’
‘My God. Well, I suppose it isn’t surprising. Citizen’s duty to assist the police, et cetera.’
‘They said, of course, it was for purposes of elimination. I didn’t go out to the garage with them, but Mary went. She said they were chiefly interested in the tyres and the undercarriage. They put a sheet under the car and asked permission to start it up. Looking perhaps for an oil leak, she thought. If so, no luck for them. Has your car got an oil leak?’
‘The Mini? I don’t think so. That reminds me, it’s due for a service and I said I’d have it seen to while Evelyn was away. I’d forgotten.’
‘Get it done.’ James put more money in the slot.
‘And the fingerprinting?’
‘They went away with a fine set. Henry, I’ve decided to go to Corfu this weekend.’
‘Good God … whatever for? … You mean those photographs?’
‘Yes. The fastigiate cypress trees almost certainly identify the place as Corfu. It isn’t a very large island and there can’t be many houses like that one. I particularly want to find out while I’m free, since my movements might become restricted any time.’
‘I hope not. But look – this move, this visit is being taken on in spite of – of Stephanie’s note?’
‘Yes.’
‘I think I should come with you.’
‘No.’
‘Will you take Mary?’
‘I think not. There are wheelchairs at airports, and plenty of taxis.’
‘Shall you try to see Errol’s first wife?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I think you have to keep it firmly in mind that Colton still bears the moral responsibility for what happened. If not the physical.’
‘If not the physical … I think my present intention is simply to identify the house.’
Henry hesitated. There was something about James’s voice that made him uneasy. Often since he was handed the suicide note he had wondered how he would have felt if he had killed somebody in revenge for what that person hadn’t done. If he was in James’s position would he still be pursuing the idea of finding Errol’s master – ‘the Boss’? He felt not. He would be too badly shaken by the enormity of his mistake.
More coins went into the box. James said: ‘Are you still there?’
‘I am indeed. It seems to me, James, that if you are still intent on identifying the house, why not ask around here? Many people go to Corfu these days. Why not ask Peter Brune? It might save a long and tedious journey.’
‘I have a feeling I want to look for myself.’
‘Incidentally I saw Brune last Friday – before, of course, we knew what we know now. I asked him how he had met Colton, and he said at the house of a man called Mr Erasmus. Ever heard of him?’
‘No.’
‘Apparently Peter only met him once but judged him an unsavoury character. He’s very rich and has a house on Corfu, somewhere in the south of the island. He might be worth looking up.’
‘I’ll do that.’
‘But James, take heed of what I have to say. However one may judge or assess or regret what happened last Tuesday it’s still likely that you are stirring up a dangerous group of people. Nothing of that has changed. Maybe over Errol and Smith they will be content to let sleeping dogs – dead dogs – lie. But if you still go on pressing and probing there’ll be a reaction. Indeed, the more I think of it, the more important it is that I should come with you to Corfu.’
‘No. You have to stay out of this – for your own sake, for your career’s sake, but mainly for Evelyn’s sake. Stay away from me, lovey.’
There was a pause.
‘I’m on my last two coins,’ James said.
‘All right, by God, if that’s how you see it. So go to Corfu. Ask questions. Look at houses. But don’t go any further. Otherwise I have a feeling you might not come back.’
‘Does it matter?’ James said.
‘Yes, it matters all round.’
Chapter Twelve
I
Mary Aldershot drove him to Heathrow on Saturday 2 June and he flew alone by Olympic Airways, arriving in Corfu, with an adjustment of time, at 16.50. He took a taxi and stayed at the Swiss-owned Corfu Palace Hotel overlooking the harbour and the sea. He had a word with the manager and made arrangements for a private car to pick him up the following morning. The driver, Pericles Anemoyannis, spoke good English, it was said, and would be available for the two days he proposed to stay on the island. Since it is a small island where so many people know other people’s business and whereabouts, James asked the manager if he knew a Madame Errol Colton, first name Elena, though he did not remember her maiden name. The manager said he would ask around.
That night James slept badly, as usual. When he did finally fall into a troubled sleep it was to dream of his earlier days in a war almost forgotten except by a few veterans such as himself. That last year of the war he had been sent to Darwin, to train parachutists to be dropped behind the Japanese lines in North Borneo. The special group he was selected to train was a company of Chinese: Canadian Chinese from Vancouver – chosen presumably because their Asiatic faces would blend easily with the inhabitants in the districts where they were to be dropped. James had the help of a splendid Australian sergeant major called Blake, but the group had been very inefficiently trained in the technique of guerrilla warfare and all it involved, and James feared greatly for them if they fell into the hands of the dreaded Japanese Kempe-Tai.
Much was done in a short time before orders came through that they were to proceed to Morotai Island in the Moluccas, from which advanced position they were to be flown to Sandakan in North Borneo and dropped behind the Japanese lines to organise local resistance and sabotage communications. Morotai itself, which was just one degree north of the Equator, had been a Japanese military base until the previous year, when it had been captured by the Allies and turned into a strategic air base.
At these instructions there were mutterings among the Chinese Canadians, which came to a head with their adamant refusal to obey orders unless they were led into action by Major Locke and Sergeant Major Blake. Muc
Not anxious to be short of Dutch courage for this suicide mission, James packed six bottles of gin in his case, but, in the unpressurised plane, flying over the mountains was too much for the corks, and when they landed his socks and shirt and other belongings were soaked in gin.
The following day Japan sued for peace; so instead of being dropped into unknown jungle they had a hugely noisy party at which they danced round the row of improvised lavatories (made out of palm roots) and set them on fire and got happily drunk.
There was laughter in James’s mind when he woke. Young as he had been then, the end of the war was like opening the gates of a new and lovely world. The tensions and strains of the last years vanished overnight. As it turned out, the tensions and strains had left their mark on him – not only on his injured feet – but he was not to know that then. What he remembered most was the flight back – in the same Dakota and lying in the same discomfort (but nobody minded now) – and the immense feast that followed, in which they had had steak and chips and eggs and bacon and good Australian wine, and the world was preparing to live happily ever after.
But what was there to be happy about or to smile about lying in this clinical bedroom looking out over the bay in which lights were still winking though dawn was soaking up the night? He had brought Stephanie’s suicide note with him. Of course he knew it was a fake – within a few hours he had decided it was a forgery.
This is the end. I can’t go on. There’s nothing for me now, now he has gone. I’m deeply, deeply sorry to deliberately bring all this trouble and grief to the people I love and trust …