Peter Lovesey - Swing, Swing Together

“How very unfair!” said Harriet.

Fernandez took her hand in his again. “The deuce of it was that by coincidence I had been out of Oxford on the nights he mentioned. On two of the occasions I had been with a lady.”

“Melanie?” The champagne must have sharpened Harriet’s intuition. She was certain he was talking about Melanie. Or had cold logic told her that something like this must have happened for Melanie to hold Fernandez in such contempt?

“Why keep it from you? — yes. Naturally, I did not at first reveal her name to the police. I fabricated a story instead. One of the nights I had passed at my club, I told them, and the other with an uncle of mine, a man whose position in the world ought to have impressed a policeman. That was a miscalculation. I thought the mention of his name would be enough, and that they would not presume to approach him on the matter. Unfortunately, it seems they did, and he denied having seen me. They were back within a few days and I was compelled to admit the truth-that I had spent both nights in the company of Melanie Bonner-Hill. It was ungallant, I know, and she has not forgiven me, but, Harriet, my predicament was extreme. They actually suspected I was that monster who murdered all those women in the East End last autumn.”

Harriet felt her hands jerk in his, but he seemed not to notice.

“Of course,” he went on, “I could not be sure that Melanie would be willing to confirm my story. To her lasting credit, she did, and the suspicion was lifted from my shoulders. Harriet, I cannot convey the relief I felt when I learned she had told them the truth. The mental torment I had been through, wondering if she would shrink from the shame of it! Now do you understand my feelings when the police came to my rooms again on Saturday inquiring into Bonner-Hill’s death? They were not the same policemen, but I was terrified that they would link the tragedy in some way with the matters they had tried to connect me with before. That was why I said nothing about the letter that sent Bonner-Hill to his death. I could not face the ordeal of having my private life investigated again by the police, as it must be if they discover I was the intended victim.”

“But if you have done nothing to be ashamed of-”

“That is not the point, my dear. One’s reputation becomes tarnished. Things are said about one. It was dreadful enough having to walk about Merton with people knowing the police had visited me twice. Imagine the investigations that would be set in train if it became known that someone had wanted to murder me. All my friends, acquaintances, people who scarcely know me even, would be interrogated, invited to speculate on anything I had done which might have given offence to my supposed murderer. Too horrible! I’ll tell you what I shall do, Harriet-I shall destroy the letter.”

Harriet sat up. “I don’t think you should do that.”

He had already taken it from his pocket again and was preparing to tear the envelope and its contents in two. Impulsively, Harriet tried to snatch it from him, but he jerked it clear of her grasp. As her fingers came ineffectually together, she found to her dismay that she toppled clumsily against his chest. There seemed to be something amiss with her sense of balance, for willow leaves started drifting across her vision like bits of glass in a kaleidoscope. Or was he tearing the letter into confetti and scattering it over her? Impossible to tell.

The only certain thing was that she was lying with her back against his chest, unable to sit up. Close to her ear she heard Fernandez say, “So you like playing games, Miss Harriet Shaw. I thought you might.”

The cab journey was shorter than Cribb or Thackeray expected. Instead of heading south along the Abingdon Road, the driver turned right at the police station and took them up Queen Street, New Road and Parkend Street, to halt outside the railway station.

“What’s the game?” Cribb called up to the cabman. “Clifton Lock, I said, not Oxford bloody Station!”

“Aye, chum, and you said you wanted to get there quick. It’ll take me an hour on them roads, whippin’ my horse into a lather. If you get out now, you’ve got two minutes to buy your tickets for the two forty-five, and that’ll get you to Culham inside fifteen minutes. From there you can walk to Clifton quicker than I can drive you, easy.”

A cabman so selfless as to sacrifice a good fare to the Great Western Railway had to be believed. Cribb gave Thackeray a prod, planted a shilling in the cabman’s proffered palm and led the way across the station yard to the booking office.

Just as promised, they handed in their tickets at Culham as the clock at Clifton faintly chimed the hour. The ticket collector who doubled as headwaiter was on duty.

“Can we get a cab from here to Clifton Hampden?” Cribb asked.

“It’s only a mile.”

“I know that. We want to ride.”

“No cabs here, sir.” The ticket collector paused, letting the bad news sink in. “I might be able to arrange something if you could wait ten minutes. They serve a nice cup of tea in the Railway Hotel across the road.”

So that was it. “There’s a shilling in it for you if you can get a cab here in the next five minutes,” Cribb recklessly promised. Eyebrows would be raised at Scotland Yard when his statement of expenses went in, but somewhere below Culham Cut was a steamer with two murderers aboard. If it reached Clifton Lock before he did, there was no chance of boarding it before Day’s, three miles downriver.

The ticket collector squinted at the station clock and came to a decision. “Might be able to fit it in before the three thirty-five,” he said. “Wait here a moment.” He closed the ticket barrier and moved at a trot out of sight behind the station building. In three minutes he reappeared on the box of an open cart hauled by an ancient white horse. “I’ll take you myself on the station wagon for half a crown,” he called.

“At least somebody’s got a head for business in these parts,” Cribb commented as he arranged a sack to furnish some sort of upholstery at the back of the cart. They turned out of the station approach and bowled quite briskly along the Clifton Road.

Near Clifton Hampden the courses of road and river approach each other. Cribb stood up in the cart hoping to be reassured by the sight of a funnel across the quarter of a mile or so of flat fields.

“Some of them paddlers go at no end of a lick,” Thackeray cheerlessly remarked. “Can you see anything, Sarge?”

Cribb waited at least two minutes before replying. “There she is. We’ve done it!”

At that the ticket collector pulled on the reins. The wagon stopped. “That’ll be half a crown as estimated, sir.”

“This isn’t Clifton Hampden. We’re not there yet,” protested Cribb.

“Clifton Lock, you said. Lock’s across the fields. If you want to catch that steamer, you’d best be footing it over the plough. I could take you on to Clifton if you like, but you’d still have to walk back to the lock from there. I can’t drive my wagon along the towing path.”

So for the second time that afternoon Cribb was forced to concede to local knowledge. Poorer by half a crown and muttering unspeakable things about cabmen professional and amateur, he clambered over a gate and his boots sank to the laces in freshly ploughed earth.

“You’ll always be welcome at the Railway Hotel, gentlemen,” called the ticket collector as he turned the cart.

After three minutes of hard footwork and blasphemy, Thackeray, too, sighted the steamer’s funnel. It was within fifty yards of what had to be the lockkeeper’s house, because it was the only building in view. “Sarge, we’re not going to get there in time,” he breathlessly told Cribb’s obdurate back.