The Cruel Peak Page 19

At the foot of the stairs he met a red-eyed Beryl. “Where’s Tia, Beryl?”

  She marched past, her white face puckered. “Don’t speak to me!” she said, and hurried on.

  He was alarmed at her remark and would have called her back, but a man he recognised came toward him down the hallway. It was a cop he’d known as a young constable.

  “Tom Stavely. Haven’t seen you for years. Terrible things, Tom, terrible things.” He shook his head hopelessly.

  The corpulent Fred Bostock was now a sergeant and probably in charge at Springvale.

  “Glad to know you’re here, Bossy. I want to talk to Mrs Ashton. Where is she?”

  “She’s in there, poor lass.” He pointed to the study and Bostock made to follow him.

  “I’d like to see her alone… You understand?” Tom went in and closed the door on a surprised face before Bostock could work out whether this was right or not.

  Tia, her cheeks swollen and red, was sitting straight- backed, open-eyed, frozen on a chair. He rested his hand on her shoulder. She responded by placing her hand over his but remained silent, staring. He didn’t have any words to offer. Condolence wasn’t enough and this was not the time to try to explain what he knew. After perhaps a minute of silence, he whispered that he would come back and he left the room. He found Sergeant Bostock in the hall using the phone. The constable who had come into his room was standing nearby.

  Bostock finished his call and said, “This is Ian Mackie, by the way.”

  “We’ve met.” He nodded minimally at the expressionless Mackie.

  “Ian and I will be holding the fort quietly while a homicide team come up from Timaru. Should be here in about…” Bostock looked at his watch. “Aw, maybe an hour or so… I couldn’t believe it when I got a call from old Beryl this morning. Just couldn’t believe it. Sir Ernest’s gone to the hospital, but I must say he looks bad. And Stuart… it is Stuart, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve known Stuart since he was a boy, as long as I’ve known you…”

  A key scratched in the lock of the front door and Robyn came in. Her hair was wild and her complexion yellow. But she smiled.

  “Bossy,” she said. “What’s the problem? Stock on the road? And Tom. You look as bad as I feel. I stayed over at the Currans’-”

  She was halted by their staring eyes and immobile faces.

  “You better explain, Tom,” Sergeant Bostock said.

  Bostock was a likeable man, but he was also a cop with cop instincts. Friendly or not, Bostock would register every word. Robyn was looking at him expectantly, and he could see could see the tiny pulses and tensions massing in her face, her realisation growing that something was badly wrong.

  “It’s not Dad and Stu is it, Tom?” she whispered.

  There was no way he could soften this. “Yes. There’s been an accident, Robyn. Stu’s been killed, and Ernest is in a bad way.”

  ‘Accident’ came out quite naturally from the turmoil of light and shadow, and the clash of bodies, and the deafening noise.

  She uttered a little cry, and put her hand against the mahogany panelling for support. “Tell me.”

  “Why don’t we go and sit down?” Bostock said.

  They went into the library and Robyn collapsed in a chair, head in hands. Bostock and Mackie were looking at Tom, waiting. He didn’t know what to say. His thoughts were stumbling. If he said he knew what happened… On the other hand, could he deny that he was there?

  He tried to gain more time. “Look, Bossy, I think it would be best if I spoke to Robyn on her own at this stage. It’s a very, very…”

  “Oh, it’s all right, Tom, just tell me,” Robyn said, dabbing her wet face with a handkerchief.

  The woman didn’t see that he wanted to work out his story with her first. He was constrained to go on, or deny that he knew anything. “I think it was a terrible accident… What little I know points to that,” he said in a rush.

  “Accident?” Robyn echoed, as though it was a strange word in this context.

  His mind was focussed on the stark event which actually happened, but in spite of that, the word ‘accident’ came out again, as he suffered the numbing pain and grief of what had happened to Stuart at the hands of his father. Something inadmissible had happened, something which his dulled mind could hardly grasp, let alone reveal and attempt to explain. Father kills son.

  Robyn was waiting, agonized, and the two cops were watching intently, the way that cops do, anxious to get a sight of their prey. He could keep quiet now, claim ignorance, or perhaps there was an opportunity here…

  “Stuart and Ernest were evidently talking about Ernest’s gun. You know, the one with the inlaid stock. In Ernest’s bedroom. They had both had a few too many. The gun must have gone off.”

  Talking about a gun. Thus the fantasy about the gun was born. He thought he’d taken a protective step for his dead friend, harmless but helpful, the only thing he could think of under the urgent eyes of the watchers.

  Robyn’s expression showed suspicion, and then as she eyed the two cops, became calculating. “Stu and Dad, talking about the gun…?”

  Here they were, talking in front of two cops. If only Robyn had had the sense to see he wanted to talk to her first! “You know how keen on the gun Ernest is. The Purdey,” Tom urged, embroidering frantically.

  Robyn had her eyes fixed on him mesmerically, trying to work this out. The idea that Ernest and Stuart would be discussing a gun was unlikely and probably ludicrous to her. But she moved her head to assent cautiously. “Sure, very keen…” she whispered, sensing that she ought to be following Tom’s lead.

  “Father and son,” Bostock said matter of factly. “Of course.”

  “But did they get on together?” Mackie asked.

  Robyn looked at Tom.

  “Sure,” he echoed, as though it would be foolish to suggest anything else. He had to bolster up what he had already said.

  “Well enough,” Robyn eked out the words.

  Mackie now took a step forward. “Mrs Stavely, you asked when you came in whether it was ‘Dad and Stu’, sort of indicating there was an issue.”

  Robyn got the point now. “If anything’s wrong, why not mention the two men who are dearest to me in all the world?”

  Mackie twisted his head to one side. “That isn’t what Mrs Dilsey says. She says -”

  “Oh, come on, old Beryl…” Tom said, raising an arm to fend the words away. “Lay off the Sherlock Holmes act, will you?”

  “Beryl’s dotty,” Robyn said, her voice shaking and her cheeks puce. “I’d be glad if you’d leave me alone for a while,” she said to the police. “I must see Tia. How is she taking this, Tom?”

  A police forensics team from Timaru arrived by 2:30pm. He watched from the windows of the drawing room as they extricated themselves and their luggage from their two cars. He could see immediately who was in charge. A man, compact, short, in a tight blue suit, stood away from the others with a briefcase in his hand, watching them, and also scanning the house, appraising it. For a second, his eyes rested on Tom in the window. Then he strode ahead of his team with a duck-like swagger toward the front entrance.

  Tom went through to the hall. Bostock had opened the door. “This is Inspector Christopher Stelios, Tom Stavely,” he said.

  Stelios, was about thirty-five, cheerful, with an olive skin, short black hair and big brown eyes with black eyebrows that met at the bridge of his nose. They shook hands. Tom felt like the proprietor.

  Stelios had a low-voiced discussion with Bostock and Mackie and they accompanied him with other officers on a tour of the house. Tom followed the crowd, not party to the conversations, but concerned to get a feel for how the investigation would go. The forensic team were given their orders, mainly for work in Ernest’s Room: photographs, scrapings, fingerprints.

  Stelios noticed Tom listening and broke off his instructions to approach him. He drew himself up to meet the difference in height of four or five inches. “
You needn’t bother to be with us, Mr Stavely. When we want you, we’ll come and get you.”

  He emphasised the ‘we’ll come and get you’ with a display of teeth.

  “Just in case you wanted any help…”

  “We’ll let you know. Why don’t you wait downstairs?”

  Stelios interviewed the housekeeper and staff, the remaining guests, and Tia and Robyn before coming to Tom. Tom took a walk and read in his room while the two or three long hours elapsed before his turn. He couldn’t talk or even be in the same room with Robyn or Tia. The events had shocked each of them into a paralysed silence and they stayed apart.

  His head was still drumming and he thought it best to say as little as possible when Mackie summoned him to the study to meet a buoyant Stelios.

  “Come and sit down, Mr Stavely. It’s not often that I have the pleasure of doing my work in such elegant surroundings.” Stelios spoke very much like a New Zealander born and bred. When he had finished contemplating the oil paintings on the walls, he arranged a recorder on the coffee table between them.

  “I want to help all I can, Inspector, but I have to get back to London. I have plane tickets from Christchurch for the day after tomorrow.”

  “You can’t go, Mr Stavely. You’re a material witness in a homicide case.” Stelios leaned his head over to one side, pleased to reveal an amusing aspect.

  He had expected this. “How long is it going to take?”

  “I can’t tell you.” Stelios waved his hands at the impossibility, “a week, a month, who knows?”

  “That’s not very helpful, can’t you - ?”

  “It’s the nature of the beast, Mr Stavely. You must let me have your passport and stay either here or in the area at a known address.” Another wide grin. His soft brown fingers beat out a rhythm on the coffee table.

  “Oh, come on, Inspector…”

  “Do you want me to arrest you?” Stelios drew back in mock horror at the unthinkable.

  “Hell, I just want to go home after my daughter’s wedding.”

  “You’ll be free to leave in several days, or you’ll be under arrest, accused of a crime,” Stelios said with enjoyment.

  Tom was stifled, his dry throat contracted

  “We need your fingerprints.”

  “But surely, Inspector…”

  “Routine.”

  It was not until the evening that he was able to speak to Alison in London. The news that Stuart was dead shocked her, however much he tried to soften it. He gave her a sketchy account of the previous night to spare her, omitting his action with Ernest’s pill. “The truth was that although I knew I had to tell Tia and ring the police, I fell asleep on the bed.”

  “You must have been very drunk to pass out after…”

  “I was in a funk too, not about what I had to do, but what was going to happen.”

  Alison was silent on the line for a few moments while she absorbed the impact of his words. “What did you tell the police?”

  “That it was an accident.”

  “But you were there.”

  “I didn’t tell them that.”

  “Oh, Tom. You’ve always said to me that the only safe way with the law is to tell the truth.”

  “I know, but…”

  “Why do you want to protect them - the Ashtons - Tom? That evil old man.”

  “I feel protective about Stuart, killed by his own father. What a way to go. He deserved better. He may have been diminished in future by the old man’s fraud, but he didn’t deserve to be murdered by him.”

  “But a fact is a fact, for God’s sake, Tom. You can’t rewrite history because you want to. It’s all over now. Stuart doesn’t need a reputation.”

  “He needs a memory.”

  “You need the memory, and Robyn and Tia. You’re not thinking straight… I know Stuart means a lot to you. Did you think he was going to kill Ernest?”

  “No, but I thought the old man, so fragile, could be harmed in the encounter. I didn’t care if he was. I didn’t want Stuart to get himself into trouble, that’s all. I don’t know precisely what Stuart was going to do. I don’t think he did either. He wanted a showdown, a reckoning. Which was completely impossible when he was sober in daylight, let alone drunk at 3am…”

  “Couldn’t you stop it?”

  “No way. I tried. I grabbed them both. I didn’t realise in the dark that they had a gun. I’d had too many drinks. I left the old man semi-conscious and went back to my room. When I woke up, the housekeeper had already found Stuart’s body and called the police, but if you can believe it, that old shit was still alive. His miserable, diseased heart was still beating. They called an ambulance and took him away.”

  “What will Ernest say to the police?”

  “I have no idea. He’s a vicious old bastard and I think the Mt Vogel affair has deranged him. If he lives, he may blame Stuart - or he may even blame me.”

  “But blaming you is ridiculous, Tom.”

  “I was there, and I had what could be seen in court as a motive to kill Ernest in revenge for my father. I didn’t have any motive to kill Stuart, but I suppose one could be found. Perhaps the fact that he gave my daughter away at her wedding.”

  “I’m glad you haven’t lost your sense of humour.”

  “It’s not funny here, believe me, Ally. If you were here…”

  “I wish I was too, now, to see you through this. Tom, listen to my advice. You’ve told the police you weren’t there. Don’t you see that you’re involving yourself in murder? I understand why you want your friend to have a sort of clean death. Being murdered after Ernest has been revealed as the rat he is, is awful. But you can’t have it the way you want it, Tom. You can’t get involved in a misbegotten crusade that could cost you your liberty… and everything else. Don’t do it. The Ashtons aren’t worth it.”

  “Stuart’s worth… a lot.”

  There was a long silence on the line. He could hear Alison’s uneven breathing. “All right,” he said, “what do you say, my dearest?”

  “Go to the police, Tom, and tell them the absolute truth, and tell them why you’ve told lies. You’ll do it, won’t you, Tom?”

  “I’ll… think about it…”

  “What’s the, you know, the tone of the enquiry. I mean, is it…?”

  “The guy conducting it - Inspector Stelios - is a bumptious little rooster who seems to think it’s fun, so it’s not really threatening.”

  He couldn’t be candid with her that he thought that Stelios’ joviality was a cover for a hard, aggressive core.

  “Good. You’ll do as I say, won’t you?”

  “I’ll…”

  He heard her sobs as they said goodbye.

  He would rather have been at home in London, but had it not been for the threat of a criminal prosecution, he could have enjoyed the days at Tamaki Downs. He spent them walking and reading and thinking about Stuart. Tia had returned to her family in the Banks Peninsula. Robyn had disappeared to Christchurch for her play production. At times, he imagined what it would be like to be the master of Tamaki Downs. The surly Mrs Dilsey served him in the dining room, where he sat alone amid the silver and crystal and mahogany. Mark Curran had arranged for a temporary manager who lived and dined in the guest wing. Apart from the housekeeper and her staff, he had the Downs to himself. He had to repel newspaper and television reporters who called continually on the telephone, and occasionally doorstepped him. That was easy but irritating.

  He telephoned Stelios in Timaru and Christchurch every other day after the meeting, but his calls were not taken personally by Stelios or returned, save for an answer from an officer that the investigation was proceeding. He also talked to Alison every day on the phone.

  To stop her mounting anxiety, he lied - yet another lie - that he had told the police the whole story and that they seemed to accept it. In truth, he was now agonised by the thought that it was too late to retreat as Alison had suggested. The shock of events had skewed his judgment, as she said,
but if he told the truth, he feared he would lose credibility and increase the risk of being implicated. Every day that passed without a decision hardened the plaster around his lies, and made it more difficult for him to own up.

  It was four days before Stelios came back to the Downs. He was brusque but good-humoured. His self-confidence unnerved Tom. They went to the study and made themselves comfortable with the recorder between them.

  “Lovely house this, Mr Stavely. Must be one of the best in South Canterbury,” Stelios said, looking round, appreciating again the furniture and the view of the lawns. “Superb. You’re very comfortable here for your enforced stay, aren’t you? Let me ask you about your relationship with Stuart Ashton.”

  “We were close friends.”

  Stelios turned his shoulders this way and that, enjoying his work. “That’s what I hear, very good friends.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean, Mr Stavely.” His head was on one side with a simpleton’s grin, waiting for the answer.

  Where had Stelios got this remnant of prejudice? Ah, there were plenty of rats around, waiting to squeak, knowing little and adding a lot of smelly droppings. Robyn herself at the time of their separation had hinted at his friendship with Stuart as a cause, and doubtless had not been secretive with her views. It was Robyn’s second self-justification. The first, of course, was a predatory Alison. Even Tia, on the day he first arrived at the Downs, seemed to suggest his relationship with Stuart was unhealthy.

  He had told Alison a long time ago, ‘Robyn always approached my friendship with Stuart on the basis that he was taking me away from her, and that went way back into the woods when we were kids. The wives or girlfriends of other friends of mine seemed to have the same feeling. These are all women that would go off without their men to a hen party or a weekend’s golf without the slightest guilt.’

  Alison accepted this calmly. ‘Woman are selfish with their man’s time. It’s as simple as that.’

  He said to Stelios: “Ask straightforward questions and I’ll do my best to answer. If you want to proceed by innuendo, don’t expect me to help.”

  “There’s no need to be offended. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” A big grin and wide open eyes accompanied this.