The Superintendent thanked William, and said that he would have Maynard’s note sent to him as soon as it could be released. Hudson had a habit of appearing to dismiss a subject, then hopping back to it. ‘You recognized the writing on the note as Maynard’s, is that correct?’
William nodded.
‘It was very blurred from the water, but you still believe it to be Maynard’s own handwriting?’
William’s nerves were ragged. ‘Yes, I do. Is there any reason for me not to? He had very distinct, looped writing.’
‘Yes, we are aware of that. But the letter was submerged in water so it’s quite difficult to ascertain for sure... That said, the forensic experts believe it to be Maynard’s.’
The policeman assured him that foul play was not suspected and offered William his condolences. When he was ushering them from the room, Joan Fromton asked if William would please contact them should any of Andrew Maynard’s associates approach him; they would still like to make enquiries about the drugs discovered at Maynard’s home. Then she threw William. ‘Does the name Justin Chalmers mean anything to you, Sir William?’
William knew that he had flushed but he shook his head. ‘I can’t say that it does, may I ask why?’
‘He is the main beneficiary in Andrew Maynard’s will. He had no family, but no doubt Mr Maynard’s lawyers will be able to assist us. Thank you very much for your time.’
William gave a long, weary sigh. Chalmers worried him greatly but, as the police had said, there were no criminal charges under review. But yet again, just as he went to shake the Superintendent’s hand, he felt the carpet tugged from beneath him.
‘Sir, if this case had proved to be other than suicide, and you had removed items from the deceased’s premises, it would be a criminal offence. I am sure you are aware of that. I take your word for it that you did not remove any such items such as diaries, private letters...’
There was cold appraisal in the balding Hudson’s hazel eyes. He knew William must have taken a diary, perhaps even letters, and he also understood why. These society types were all the same; their sole priority was saving their own backsides, and it infuriated him that he had been ordered to clear up the investigation as quickly and with as little scandal as possible. He knew that William was somehow caught up in this and given half a chance, Hudson would come down on him like the proverbial ton of bricks.
‘Thank you for your time, sir,’ the Superintendent said as he left, ushering his inspector ahead of him. He kept his head down as he walked out into the street beyond the high barred gates. The vultures hovering there with their cameras and microphones, screamed for him to stop and say a few words.
‘No comment. No comment.’
A uniformed officer stood by the plain patrol car, the door open. Joan settled in the back seat, Hudson in the front with the uniformed driver.
‘What did you think of him?’ she asked, checking over her notes.
‘Not a lot. Lying through his teeth about the “no items removed from victim’s premises”. He certainly had time enough to clean the place up. He’s probably scared his own sexual peccadilloes will get out — every politician’s hiding something or other.’
‘He’s not a politician, though. He was Maynard’s benefactor. He’s rich as Croesus.’ She paused. ‘Didn’t you think he reacted strangely to Justin Chalmers’s name? I wonder why.’
‘Justin Chalmers...’ the Superintendent mused. ‘You ran a check on him, right?’
‘Yes, sir, clean as a whistle. Neighbours say he keeps himself to himself — not at home much, apparently. He has a sister who visits regularly. She has some sort of psychiatric complaint. I think he looks after her pretty well. Oh, and he’s openly gay, which explains Maynard’s generous will. Probably partners.’
‘Oh, well, there you have it. That probably explains Sir William’s reaction then. Maybe he had a scene with him too and doesn’t want it to come out. Half of the society set are in the closet, not that it concerns me.’
Joan smiled. She’d liked Sir William, and felt sorry for him, but she said nothing more as they drove past the flashing photographers. She often wondered what they did with all the photographs they took, and laughed to herself.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Oh, I just wondered if they’d caught my best side.’
He grinned. ‘Don’t let it concern you. They’re not interested in us — we’re not rich or famous enough. Now, if it had been a murder, we might have made the front page departing from Sir William Benedict’s mansion!’
Chapter four
On that evening’s news programmes William did not come across well. Blustering, he denied any knowledge of Maynard’s sexual predilections, and refused to be drawn into any discussions on weird sexual practices. He said he was saddened by the death of a friend, and hoped people would remember Andrew Maynard as a young, highly intelligent, well-meaning man. When asked whether he had removed any items from Maynard’s home, he remained silent.
The press had a field day. They printed exclusive interviews with Maynard’s cleaner, Mrs Skipper, and his secretary, Sara Vickers. Both women spoke of Maynard’s private life in a way that was easy to embroider. William’s next few days were beyond his worst nightmare. The affair mushroomed and dragged in people from under every stone of his own past. A photograph of William with his arm around Maynard appeared on the front page, an innocent photograph, with four other people cut from it to make it appear over-affectionate, if not loving. Headlines screamed, ‘GAY MP’S SUICIDE’, and further details of Maynard’s life appeared, more photographs of him taken in seedy nightclubs, and on beaches. Where they came from was a mystery, but they kept appearing, and William constantly featured in one doctored picture or another. The trouble the press took to make it appear that William was the lover over whom Maynard had slashed his wrists was beyond belief. His first wife, Lady Margaret Pettigrew, gave an exclusive interview for one of the Sunday colour supplements headlined ‘My Husband — The Adulterer’. She had waited twenty years for her revenge and she took it with relish.
William’s humiliation did not end with her revelations. His second wife, Katherine, the mother of his two children, jumped on the bandwagon with equal enthusiasm. It was as if the two women had got together to destroy him. In a double-page spread in one of the tabloids, Katherine painted him as a mean, vicious, brutal man who spent his days trawling the streets for nubile flesh, neglecting his two children in favour of prostitutes.
Every day brought another outrageous defamatory onslaught, another person creeping out of the woodwork to tell their story. Maynard’s suicide was beginning to take second place to the hounding of William, as if his death had simply acted as a catalyst. William could do nothing but look on with stunned helplessness. None of the sexual slanders was true, but the fact that he had indeed used a few girls made it impossible to sue.
In any case his lawyer, Brian Sutherland, appeared frightened for his own reputation. William felt as if he was hitting his head against a brick wall. ‘For God’s sake, yes! Yes, I’ve hired a few call-girls over the years, but who hasn’t? It doesn’t make me some insatiable sex addict! If I’m not a homosexual, I’m a lusting pervert. Something has to be done to stop them printing these lies about me.’