'We'll come to that in a minute. Gregson met her in Queen's Lane at half past five and they went to a secluded spot in the cemetery. She became frightened, screamed perhaps, and he strangled her to silence her.'
Why hadn't they gone to her room? Wexford asked himself. Why not to her room in that house where no questions were asked? And why had she taken the afternoon off if she didn't intend to meet Gregson until after work? These were questions he might ask Howard when they were alone together but not now. He saw that Baker was a man whose idea of a dis- cussion was that he should be invited to state his views while the other so-called participants admired, agreed and encour. aged him. Having given his own limited reconstruction of the case, he had turned to Howard once more and was attempting to discuss with him in an almost inaudible tone the findings of the medical report.
But Howard was determined not to exclude his uncle. Aware that Wexford had a small reputation as an investigator into quirks of character, he pressed Wexford to tell them about his morning's work.
'She was a very innocent girl,' Wexford began. He felt he was on safe ground here, for Baker could hardly claim to be as conversant with the personality of the dead girl as he was with the geography of Kenbourne Vale. 'She was very shy,' he said, 'afraid to go to parties, and very likely she'd only once in her life been into a public house.' He was pleased to see a smile of what might have been approval on Baker's face. It encouraged him to be bolder, to ask a question which might seem to reflect on the inspector's theory. 'Would a girl like that lead a man on, go alone with a comparative stranger into a lonely place? She'd be too frightened.'
Baker went on smiling tightly.
'There was another point that struck me . . .'
'Let's have it, Reg. It may be helpful.'
'Tuesday was February the 29th. I've been wondering if he put her in the Montfort vault because he knew it was only visited on the last Tuesday of the month and that Tuesday, he thought, had already gone by.'
Baker looked incredulous, but Howard's eyes narrowed. 'You mean he forgot that this year, Leap Year, there was an extra Tuesday in the month?'
'It's a possibility, isn't it? I don't think a boy like Gregson would know about the vault and the trust. I was thinking that the man who killed her did know and that he might have put her in there because Loveday knew something he didn't want revealed before a few weeks had passed by.'
'Interesting,' said Howard. 'How does that strike you, Michael?'
The man who was not Burden, who shared with Burden only a Christian name and a certain sharp-featured fairness, raised his eyebrows and drawled, 'To your er, uncle's other point, sir?' It was clever the hesitation he managed before saying 'uncle's', just sufficiently emphasising the nepotism. But he had gone a little too far. His remark brought a frown to Howard's usually gentle face and set him tapping his fingers against his wineglass. And Baker understood that he was admonished. He shrugged, smiled and spoke with cool courtesy.
'You called Morgan innocent and shy, Mr Wexford, but I'm sure you know how deceptive appearances can be. Post- mortem findings, on the other hand, aren't deceptive. Would it surprise you to hear that, according to the medical report, she gave birth to a child during the past year?'
8
Away they trudge, I say, out of their known and accustomed houses, finding rho place to rest in.
AFTER Howard's kindness and the cheerful. matter-of-fact ~ welcome he had received from other members of Howard's force, Wexford felt Baker's antagonism almost painfully. He was curiously disheartened. His first day here his first day anywhere, come to that as a private investigator had begun so promisingly. Baker's intervention had been like a dark cloud putting out the sun.
He knew that if he had been fit and quite well, if his confidence hadn't been shaken by his tough old body suddenly betraying him, he would have taken this small reverse in his stride. He wasn't, after all, a child to be put off playing his favourite game because another stronger and healthier child had come along and tried to show him how the bricks ought to be stacked. But now within himself he felt almost childlike, his bold adult identity once more disturbed. And when he looked back on his morning's work, it seemed amateurish. The appalling thought that Howard had sent him off on a little hunt of his own simply to occupy him and keep him happy couldn't be resisted.
Nor was he much comforted by the private office which Howard had set aside for his use and to which Detective Constable Dinehart had just conducted him. Like all the rooms Wexford had seen in this police station, it was dark, gloomy and with an enormously high ceiling. This one had a bit of greyish carpet, chairs covered in slippery brown leather, and the view from the window was a full frontal one of Kenbourne gasworks. He couldn't help thinking nostalgically of his own office in Kingsmarkham which was bright and modern, and, looking at the pitch pine, pitted monstrosity in front of him, of his beloved rosewood desk, damson-red and always laden with his own particular clutter.
Sitting down, he asked himself sharply what was the matter with him. Howard's house was too grand for him, this place too shabby. What did he expect? That London would be a Utopian Kingsmarkham and that all these London coppers were going to roll out the red carpet for him?
He stared at the gasometer, wondering how he was going to pass the afternoon. 'Poke about all you like,' Howard had said, but where was he to poke about and how much authority had he got? He was considering whether it would be pushing or against protocol for him to seek Howard out when his nephew tapped on the door and came in.
Howard looked tired. His was a face which easily showed wear and tear. The grey eyes had lost their brightness and the skin under them was puffy.
'How d'you like your office?'
'It's fine, thanks.'
'Horrible outlook, I'm afraid, but it's either that or the brewery or the bus station. I want to apologise for Baker.'
'Come off it, Howard,' said Wexford.
'No. His treatment of you was rude but not indefensible. One has to make allowances for Baker. He's been under a good deal of strain lately. He married a girl half his age. She became pregnant, which made him very happy until she told him the child was another man's and she was leaving him for that other man. Since then he's lost his confidence, distrusts people and is chronically afraid of not being up to the job.'
'I see. It's a nasty story.'
They were both silent for a moment. Wexford found himself hoping desperately that Howard wouldn't go away again, leaving him alone with the gasworlcs and his depressing thoughts. To keep him there a little longer, he said, 'About this child of Loveday Morgan's. . .'
'That's really why I came to talk to you,' Howard said. 'I don't know what to think. I don't even know if it's significant in this case, and I need to talk it aver with someone. With you.'
Wexford felt himself relax with relief. His nephew sounded sincere. Perhaps. after all . . . 'The child may be with his or her grandparents,' he said, and as he spoke he felt the case beginning to drive self-pitying thoughts from his mind. 'You've still heard nothing of them?'
'We're doing everything possible to trace them. For one thing, they'll have to be found before she can be buried, but I'm beginning to think they must be dead. Oh, I know that these days girls are always having differences with their parents and leaving home, but often that only makes the parents more anxious about them. What sort of people who have a missing, or at least absent, blonde twenty-year-old daughter, could read all the newspaper stories there have been these past few days and not get in touch with us?'
'Very simple unimaginative people, perhaps, Howard. Or people who just don't connect their daughter with Loveday Morgan because that isn't her real name and they don't know that their daughter was living in Kenbourne Vale.'