At this point there was a note explaining that medical and police evidence had been omitted. The report ended:
“The coroner commended Mr. George Baleham and Mr. Arthur Baleham for their prompt action in attempting to save the child.”
“He then reprimanded Mr. Swan. He said this was the worst case of callousness towards a child who was obviously drowning that he had ever come across. He took a serious view of what he could only call deliberate and cowardly lying on Mr. Swan’s part. Far from being an indifferent swimmer, he was an expert at life-saving, There was no doubt in his mind that Mr. Swan had refused to listen to the child because he believed, or said he believed, she was pestering him. If he had jumped overboard when he first heard her cry out, Bridget Scott would be alive today. He could not be excused on the ground of his youth as he was a man of intelligence, an Oxford under graduate and a man of privileged background. The coroner said he was only sorry the law permitted him to take no further steps. He then expressed sympathy for Mr. and Mrs. Scott.
“A verdict was returned of death by misadventure.”
Chapter 16
When giving Burden a resume of Swan’s life, Wexford had remarked on the series of disasters he had left in his wake. Here, then, was another instance of that catastrophe-causing faculty of his, that gift, or propensity, of leaving a trail of trouble and distress and disturbance. A true catalyst was Swan, Wexford reflected, a possessor of the power to hurt who yet did - nothing.
It wasn’t difficult to picture that morning on the lake, Swan’s line cast, the sun shining on the flat brown water, and Swan off in one of his daydreams that nothing must be allowed to disturb. Had he even caught a fish? Did he ever actually do anything? Shoot a rabbit? Choose a dog? Buy a pony?
And that was the crux of it. Clearly, Swan had let a child die. But the operative word there was “let.” Would he actively force death on a child? Had he the nerve, the impulse, the energy?
Wexford would have liked to chew the whole thing over with Burden. They were illuminating and fruitful, those long discussions of theirs, examining motive, analysing character. But Burden was no longer fit to participate in such conversations. As soon expect percipience and intelligent speculation from Martin as from him. Each day he seemed to go a little more downhill, to grow more irritable and more distracted until Wexford began to wonder with dread how long it could go on. At present he daily covered up for Burden, did his work, smoothed his path. There was a limit to that, for soon the crack-up would come, the error that couldn’t be overlooked or the hysterical scene in public. And then what? The embarrassed request for Burden’s resignation before he was forced out?
Wexford shook himself out of these miserable reflections to concentrate on the report. One mystery, at any rate, was cleared up. He need no longer wonder why Swan had baulked at attending an inquest, particularly an inquest on another dead little girl.
The next step was to find Frensham, and this proved easy. Fourteen years had changed him from an undergraduate into a stock jobber, moved him from his parents’ flat but not from Kensington, and maintained him in his bachelor state. What had happened to that fiancée who had accompanied him on that Lake holiday?
Hardly a question which need concern him, Wexford decided. He made the requisite polite phone call to the Metropolitan Police and then prepared to set off for London. In the foyer he met Burden.
“Any lead on the missing men from the search party?”
Burden lifted troubled eyes and muttered, “Martin’s got it in hand, hasn’t he?’
Wexford went out into the rain, not looking back.
He alighted at Gloucester Road Tube station, got lost, and had to ask a policeman the way to Veronica Grove. At last he found it, a narrow little tree-lined lane which threaded its way from Stanhope Gardens down behind Queen’s Gate. Water dripped softly from the branches overhead, and except that the trees were planes and not oaks, he felt that he might have been at home in Kingsmarkham. The environs of the Piebald Pony were much more his idea of what London should be.
Meditating on such anomalies, he came within a few minutes to Bernard Frensham’s house. It was tiny, a mews cottage, with neat but empty window boxes, and it looked very modest unless you happened to know that such properties were sold for twenty-five thousand pounds.
A manservant, small, lithe and dark, admitted him and showed him into the single living room the house contained. It was, however, a large room on three different levels and the furnishing gave an impression of varying textures, satiny polish, smooth velvet, delicate filigree work and highlighted china, rather than of solid masses. Much money had been spent on it. The years Swan had wasted had been turned to good account by his friend.
Frensham, who had risen from his chair at the far end of the room when Wexford entered it, had received prior warning of his coming. And “warning” rather than “notice” seemed the appropriate word, for it was very apparent that he had been drinking. Because the coming interview caused him disquiet? Wexford was forced to suppose so. A stock jobber could hardly be so successful as Frensham surely was if seven o’clock always saw him as drunk as he was tonight.
Not that he didn’t hold it well. It was only the brandy smell and the strangeness of Frensham’s eyes that told Wexford of his condition.
He was thirty-three and he looked forty, the black hair already thinning and the face marked with dark patches. On the other hand, Swan, his contemporary, looked twenty-seven. Slothfulness and placidity preserve youth; hard work and anxiety accelerate its passing.
Frensham wore a beautiful suit of charcoal grey with a coppery sheen to it, a black-and-copper tie, and, on the little finger of his left hand, an opal ring. What an impression of civilised distinction the man would have made, Wexford thought, but for the brandy on his breath which struck you full-blast in the face.
“Let me give you a drink, Chief Inspector.”
Wexford would have refused, was on the point of refusing, but there was so much subdued urgency in Frensham’s added, “Please do,” that he felt bound to consent.
Frensham opened the door and called a name that sounded like “Haysus.” Brandy was brought and various other bottles and decanters. When the manservant had gone, Frensham said, “Odd, aren’t they, the Spanish? Calling a boy Jesus.” He gave a short disconcerting giggle. “Most inappropriate, I can tell you. His parents are Maria and Joseph or so he says.”
Taking a gulp of his drink, he pursued this theme, but Wexford decided he wouldn’t be sidetracked by Iberian nomenclature. It was impossible not to feel that Frensham was trying to postpone their discussion for as long as possible.
“May we talk about Mr. Ivor Swan, sir?”
Frensham left the subject of Spanish names abruptly and said in a clipped voice, “I haven’t seen Ivor for years, not since we both came down from Oxford.”
“That doesn’t matter. I have. Perhaps you can’t remember much about him?”
“I remember all right,” said Frensham. “I shall never forget.” He got up and walked across the room. At first Wexford thought he had gone to fetch a photograph or some document and then he realised that Frensham was in the grip of a powerful emotion. His back was towards the chief inspector and for some minutes he didn’t move. Wexford sat watching him in silence. He wasn’t easily embarrassed, but he wasn’t prepared for Frensham’s next words either. Wheeling round suddenly, staring oddly at Wexford, he said, “Has he vine leaves in his hair?”