Murder Being Once Done

'Tatiana Alexandrovna Kratov.'

For the second time that day he had been surprised while reading an inscription. Who was it now? Another churlish priest, bent on correcting him and reproving his ignorance? This time he turned round slowly to meet the eyes of a big man in a sheepskin jacket who stood, smiling cheerfully at him, his hands in his pockets.

'Do you know who she was?' Wexford asked, 'and how she came to be buried here?'

The man nodded. 'There's not much I don't know about this cemetery,' he said, 'or Kenbourne itself, for that matter.' A kind of boyish enthusiasm took the arrogance from his next words. 'I'm an expert OQ Kenbourne Vale, a walking mine of information.' He tapped the side of his head. 'There are unwritten history and geography books in here.'

'Then you must be . . .' What was the name Howard had given him? 'You're Notbourne Properties,' he said absurdly.

'The chairman.' Wexford's hand was taken in a strong grip. 'Stephen Dearborn. How do you do?'

7

He thinketh himself so wise that he will not allow another man's counsel.

THEY had emerged into a windswept clearing, and now that he examined him more closely, Wexford saw that his new acquaintance was a man of substance. Dearborn's suit had come from a price range to which Wexford could never aspire, his shoes looked hand-made, and the strap of his watch was a broad band of gold links.'

'You're a stranger here, are you?' Dearborn asked hirn.

'I'm on holiday.'

'And you thought you'd like to visit the scene of a recent crime?'

Dearborn's voice was still friendly and pleasant, but Wexford thought he detected in it that note of distaste that was sometimes present in his own when he spoke to ghoulish sightseers. 'I know about the murder, of course,' he said, 'but the cemetery is fascinating enough in itself.'

'You wouldn't agree with those people who are in favour of Reconsecrating the place and using it for building land?'

'I didn't know there was any such move on foot.' Wexford saw that now the other man was frowning. 'You're opposed to building?' he asked. 'To renovating the place?'

'Not at all,' Dearborn said energetically. 'I've been largely responsible for improving Kenbourne Vale. I don't know how much of the district you've seen, but the conversions in Copeland Square, for instance, they're my work. And the old Montfort house. My company's aim is to retrieve as much as possible of the Georgian and early Victorian from the wanton demolition that goes on. What I don't want to see is every place of interest like this cemetery levelled to make . . .' He spread out his arms and went on more hotly, '. . . characterless concrete jungles!'

'You live in Kenbourne Vale?' Wexford asked as together they followed the path to St Peter's and the main gates.

'I was born here. I love every inch of the place, but I live in Chelsea. Laysbrook Place. Kenbourne Vale wouldn't suit my wife. It will one day when I've done with it. I want to make this the new Hampstead, the successor to fashionable Chelsea. And I can, I can!' Again Dearborn swept out an arm, striking an flex branch and sending dust-filled raindrops flying. 'I want to show people what's really here, hidden under the muck of a century, the beautiful facades, the grand squares. I'd show you over the cemetery now, only I don't suppose you've got the time and well, it rather . . . I don't feel . . .'

'The murder,' said Wexford intuitively, 'has temporarily spoiled it for you?'

'In a way, yes. Yes, it has.' He gave Wexford a look of approval. 'Clever of you to guess that. You see, the odd thing is that that very girl came to me for a job. I interviewed her myself. Putting her body in that tomb seers a sort of desecration to me.' He shrugged. 'Let's not talk about it. What d'you think of this building, now?' he went on, pointing towards the sandstone dome. 'Eighteen-fifty-five and not a trace of the Gothic, but by then they had lost the art of emulating the Classical and were experimenting with Byzantine. Look at the length of those columns . . .' Laying a large hand on Wexford's arin, he plunged into a lecture on architectural styles, laced with obscure terms and words which to Wexford were almost meaningless. His listener's faint bewilderment communicated itself to him and he stopped suddenly, saying, 'I'm boring you.'

'No, you're not. It's just that I'm afraid I'm rather ignorant. I find the district fascinating.'

'Do you?' The chairman of Notbourne Properties was evidently unused to an appreciative audience. 'I'll tell you what,' he said eagerly. 'Why don't you drop round and see us one night? Laysbrook House. I could show you maps of this place as it was a hundred and fifty years ago. I've got deeds of some of these old houses that would really interest you. What do you think?'

'I'd like that very much.'

'Let's see. It's Thursday now. Why not Saturday night? Come about half-past eight and we'll have a drink and go over the maps together. Now, can I give you a lift anywhere?'

But Wexford refused this invitation. The man had been kind and expansive to him. To confess now that he was a policeman, bound for Kenbourne Vale police station, might make Dearborn see him in the guise of a spy.

Instead of returning to the station, however, he turned eastwards along Lammas Grove in search of Sytansound. The police car parked outside told him where it was before he could read the shop sign. Sergeant Clements was at the wheel. He welcomed the chief inspector with a cheery, 'Had your lunch yet, sir?'

'I thought I might try your canteen,' Wexford said, getting in beside him. 'Would you recommend it?'

'I usually pop home if I can. I only live round the corner. I like to see the boy when I get the chance. He's in bed by the time I get home at night.'

'Your son?'

Clement's didn't reply at once. He was watching a boy unload something from a Sytansound van, but it seemed to Wexford that this was a simulated preoccupation, and he repeated his question. The sergeant turned back to face him. The strong colour in his cheeks had deepened to crimson and he cleared his throat.

'As a matter of fact,' he said, 'we're adopting him. We've got him on three months probation, but the mother's signed the consent and we're due to get the order next week, a week tomorrow.' He slid his hands slowly around the wheel. 'If the mother changed her mind now I reckon it'd about kill my wife.'

Embarrassment and uncertainty had been transferred from one to the other, but there was nothing that Wexford could do about it now. 'Surely, if she's consented . . . ?'

'Well, sir, yes. That's what I keep telling my wife. We're ninety-nine per cent there. It's all been done through the proper channels, but natural mothers have been known to change their minds at the last minute and the court will always go with the mother even if she's given her consent in writing.'

'Do you know the mother?'

'No, sir. And she doesn't know us. We're just a serial number to her. It's done through what's called a guardian ad [item, she's a probation officer really. When the time comes the wife and I will go along to the court and the wife'll sit there with the boy on her lap nice touch that, isn't it? and the ordertll be made and then then he'll be ours for ever. Just as if he was our own.' Clements' voice grew thick and his lips trembled. 'But you can't help having just that one per cent chance in mind that something may go wrong.'

Wexford was beginning to feel sorry that he had ever opened the subject. The steering wheel which Clements' hands had gripped was wet with sweat and he could see a pulse drumming in his left temple. When he had spoken those last words he had looked near to actual l-ears.