The Impossible Dead

22



Francis Vernal’s widow lived in a detached Victorian mansion house in the Grange district of the city. The narrow streets were devoid of traffic and pedestrians. Almost no homes were visible. They remained hidden, like their owners and those owners’ wealth, behind high stone walls and solid wooden gates. Charles Mangold had been adamant that Fox could only visit if Mangold accompanied him. Fox had been just as adamant that this was a non-starter. Nevertheless, Mangold was waiting in an idling black taxi as Fox approached the driveway. As Fox got out of the car to announce his arrival at the intercom, Mangold emerged from the back of the cab.

‘I have to insist,’ the lawyer was saying.

‘Insist all you like.’

‘What if Imogen wants me there?’

‘She can tell me that to my face. But you stay this side of the gates until she does.’

Mangold looked furious but said nothing. He spluttered his way back to the taxi, slamming the door after him. Fox told the intercom he had an appointment. The gates swung back on themselves with a motorised hum, and he returned to his car. It was a long, winding driveway, with thick shrubbery to either side. Fox emerged into a gravelled parking area in front of the two-storey gabled house. It was dusk, birds roosting in the well-established trees. He locked his car from habit only. The front door to the house was open, a woman in her thirties standing there. She introduced herself as Eileen Carpenter.

‘I look after Mrs Vernal.’

‘Her nurse, you mean?’

‘And other things besides.’

The hall smelled musty, but had been dusted. Carpenter asked him if he wanted some tea.

‘Please,’ he answered, following her into the drawing room. It boasted a huge bay window. Imogen Vernal’s chair had been placed so that it faced the garden to the side of the property.

‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t get up,’ she said. Fox introduced himself and shook her hand. Her ash-blonde hair was thin and wispy, and there were lesions on her cheeks and forehead. Her skin was almost transparent, the veins showing. Fox reckoned she couldn’t weigh more than seven and a half stone. But her eyes, though tired, were lively enough, the pupils dilated by recent medication.

There was a dining-room chair to one side of her, and Fox seated himself. A book was open on the floor – a hardback copy of a Charles Dickens novel. Fox presumed one of Eileen Carpenter’s tasks was to read to her employer.

‘Quite a house,’ Fox said.

‘Yes.’

‘Did you live here with your husband?’

‘My parents bought it for us – a wedding gift.’

‘Great parents.’

‘Rich parents,’ she corrected him with a smile.

There were framed photographs of her husband on the mantelpiece. One looked familiar: the orator in full flow, fist clenched as he addressed his audience.

‘I wish I’d heard him speak,’ Fox said truthfully.

‘I think I have some recordings.’ She paused and raised a finger. ‘No,’ she corrected herself, ‘I donated them to the National Library – along with his books and papers. People have done their PhDs on him, you know. When he died, an American senator wrote an obituary for the Washington Post.’ She nodded at the memory.

‘He was quite a character,’ Fox agreed. ‘In public.’

Her eyes narrowed a little. ‘Charles told me about you, Inspector. Such a pity about the other man, the one who passed away …’ She paused. ‘Is Charles outside the gates?’

‘Yes.’

‘He’s very protective.’

‘Was he one of your lovers?’

She took her time answering, as if wondering how to respond. ‘You make me sound like a Jezebel.’ Her voice was becoming more noticeably Scottish.

‘It’s just that he seems to have a great deal of affection for you.’

‘He does,’ she agreed.

‘And there were always the rumours that your marriage had been stormy.’

‘Stormy?’ She considered the word. ‘Not a bad description.’

‘How did the two of you meet?’

‘Manning the barricades.’

‘Not literally?’

‘Almost – a sit-in at the university. I think we were protesting against Vietnam.’ She seemed to be thinking back. ‘Although it could have been apartheid, or Rhodesia. He was already a lawyer; I was a student. We hit it off …’

‘Despite the age gap?’

‘My parents didn’t approve at first,’ she conceded.

‘Was Mr Vernal a nationalist back then?’

‘He was a communist in his youth. Then it was the Labour Party. Nationalism came later.’

‘You shared his politics?’

She studied him. ‘I’m not sure what it is you want from me, Inspector.’

‘I just felt we should meet.’

She was still mulling this over when Eileen Carpenter arrived with a tray. The teapot was small, and there was just the one bone-china cup and saucer. It was loose-leaf tea, accompanied by a silver strainer. Fox thanked her. She asked her employer if anything else was needed.

‘We’re fine, I think,’ Imogen Vernal replied. ‘You might want to let Charles know.’ Then, for Fox’s benefit: ‘He’ll be waiting for her to send him a message.’

A little colour was rising to Carpenter’s cheeks as she left the room.

‘She’s not a spy, exactly,’ Imogen Vernal told Fox. ‘But Charles will keep fussing …’

Fox poured tea for himself. ‘You know why he hired Alan Carter?’ he asked.

‘To clear up my husband’s murder.’

‘You’re sure in your own mind that it was murder?’

‘Pretty sure.’

‘Did you say as much at the time? I don’t recall the newspapers mentioning it.’

‘To be quite honest with you, I was a little bit afraid.’

Fox accepted this. ‘But all you have are suspicions – no actual evidence?’

‘No more than you’ll have gleaned,’ she conceded, placing her hands on her lap.

‘And suicide …?’

‘Not an option: Francis was too much of a coward. It’s something I’ve been thinking about recently. I told them I was coming off the chemo and everything else – it was too, too much. There’s morphine for the pain, but you can still feel it, just beyond the cotton wool. Suicide had to be considered, but that particular course of action takes a certain bravery. I’m not brave, and neither was Francis.’

‘He wasn’t ill, was he?’

‘Strong as an ox.’

‘Despite the cigarettes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Had there been a falling-out?’

‘No more so than usual.’

‘That stormy relationship again?’

‘Stormy rather than rocky. Has anyone used the word “firebrand” in connection with him?’ She watched as Fox nodded his reply. ‘I’d be disappointed had they not – that was Francis, you see: in his life, his work, his politics. He didn’t care if you were for him or against him, so long as you had fire in your belly.’

‘There’s a cairn near where he died …’

‘Charles had it placed there.’

‘And the yearly bouquet?’

‘From me.’

Fox leaned forward a little. ‘Who do you think killed him, Mrs Vernal?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘The period leading up to his death … had he been worried about anything?’

‘No.’

‘He thought he was being watched.’

‘That pleased him: it meant he was “getting to them”.’

‘Who?’

‘The establishment, I suppose.’

‘And how was he getting to them?’

‘His speeches. His power to change people’s minds.’

‘The polls suggest he wasn’t changing too many minds.’

She dismissed this with a toss of her head. ‘Everyone he met … he had an effect on them.’

She paused and watched Fox bring out the photograph of her husband with Chris Fox.

‘Do you know this man?’ he asked her.

‘No.’

‘His name’s Chris Fox. He died in a motorbike crash, a few years before your husband. It happened near Burntisland.’

She considered this. ‘Not so far from where they killed Francis. You think there’s a connection?’

‘Not really.’

‘He shares your surname.’

‘He was my father’s cousin.’

She looked at him. ‘Did he know Francis well?’

‘I’ve no idea.’ Fox studied the picture again before returning it to his pocket. He took another sip of tea. ‘I’ve heard break-ins mentioned …’

‘Yes – here and at the office. Two in as many weeks.’

‘Reported to the police?’

She nodded. ‘No one was ever caught.’

‘Was much taken?’

‘Money and jewellery.’

‘None of your husband’s papers?’

‘No.’

‘Did Francis ever discuss breaking the law himself?’

‘How do you mean?’ She seemed to be focusing on the view from the window, even though it was now dark and the garden was invisible.

‘He was said to be close to certain groups …’

‘He never spoke about it.’

‘But it’s not exactly news to you?’

‘He knew a lot of people, Inspector – I dare say one or two wanted to take the struggle that bit further than the law of the time would allow.’

‘And he would have supported that view?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Do any names come to mind?’

She shook her head. ‘You’re thinking,’ she said, ‘that political friends sometimes turn into foes. But if Francis had enemies – real enemies, I mean – he kept them to himself.’

‘But you know he supported paramilitary groups? Mr Mangold seems to think you’d no inkling.’

‘Charles doesn’t know everything.’

Fox took another sip of tea and placed the cup and saucer back on the tray. The room was silent for the best part of a minute. He got the feeling that when she was left alone, this was how she sat – calm and still and waiting for death, staring at her reflection in the window, the rest of the world lost somewhere beyond. He was reminded of his father: I don’t sleep … I just lie here …

Eventually, he cleared his throat. ‘What do you think he was doing on that particular road?’ he asked.

‘Politically, you mean?’

He smiled at the error. ‘No, the road between Anstruther and St Andrews.’

‘It was the weekend,’ she said, her voice fading a little. ‘He often spent weekends in Fife.’

‘On his own?’

‘Not with me.’

He knew from her tone what she meant. ‘Other women?’ he suggested. She gave the slightest of nods. ‘Many?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘He used the weekend house?’

‘I suppose so.’ She looked down at her lap and brushed something from it, something Fox couldn’t see.

‘And Anstruther …?’ he prompted, waiting her out. Eventually she gave a sigh and took a deep breath.

‘That’s where she lived.’ She fixed him with a stare. ‘I was quite a catch when Francis met me, but maybe you know what it’s like.’

‘A little,’ he offered, since she had waited for his response.

‘She was a student too. Alice Watts – that was the name.’

‘He told you?’

She shook her head. ‘Letters from her. Hidden in his office desk. It was months before I came across them – there was so much to be gone through.’

‘She lived in Anstruther?’

Imogen Vernal was staring at the window again. ‘She was studying politics and philosophy at St Andrews. He gave a talk to the students and she met him afterwards. I suppose you’d call her a groupie.’ Her voice dropped almost to a whisper. ‘I’ve not told anyone about her.’

‘Charles Mangold?’

She shook her head.

‘So Alan Carter wouldn’t have known either?’

‘I suppose Charles might have known,’ she said. ‘He was Francis’s friend, after all. Men sometimes talk to one another, don’t they? When they’re out drinking.’

Fox conceded that they did. The temperature in the room had dropped a few degrees – the thick floor-length curtains should be closed and the gas fire turned on.

‘I want to thank you for seeing me and for being so open,’ Fox said. ‘Maybe we can talk again?’

But Vernal’s widow wasn’t finished with him. ‘I went looking for her, you know. I felt I needed to see her – not talk to her, just see her. I had her address from the letters. But when I went there, she’d packed up and left. The university told me she’d quit her course.’ She paused. ‘So I suppose it’s just possible she may have loved him.’

‘Do you still have those letters, Mrs Vernal?’

She nodded. ‘I wondered whether you would ask.’ She reached down the side of her chair and produced them, still in their envelopes. They bore neither addresses nor stamps. Hand-delivered, then.

Fox turned them over in his hands without opening them. ‘You were prepared,’ he stated. ‘Why am I the first person you’ve told?’

She smiled at him. ‘You insisted on coming here alone,’ she explained. ‘You stood up to Charles. That speaks to me of a certain something … a quality.’

‘You know some of the rumours of the time?’ he felt able to ask. ‘The papers hinted that you’d had a string of lovers, and maybe one of them had …’

‘You don’t believe that,’ she stated. ‘Francis was the only man I loved – and I still do. Goodbye, Inspector. Thank you for coming.’ She broke off, and thought of something else. ‘You asked me earlier who killed him. In a sense, I think we all did. But if I were to place a wager, I’d say the odds favoured your own kind.’

‘Meaning the police?’

‘Police, Secret Service – you’ll know better than I do. But take heed, Inspector: the man Charles employed ended up dead. You’d best be careful.’

‘Why do you think Mangold hired him in the first place?’

‘I thought I’d already answered that. Why do you think he did?’

‘To solve the mystery while you’re both still alive to hear it.’

She considered this, then shook her head slowly. ‘Perhaps.’

‘What other reason?’

‘Charles wants me to think less of Francis, so I’ll think more of him.’

‘He wants to prove that your husband consorted with bombers as well as women?’

She gave a thin smile. ‘Leading to my deathbed conversion. I recant and clasp Charles to my bosom – metaphorically speaking or otherwise.’

‘That sounds unlikely to me.’

‘Please don’t misunderstand: Charles has been a good friend, loving and loyal.’

‘But not as reciprocal as he would like?’

‘No.’

‘And adding your maiden name to his law firm …?’

‘Part of the wooing,’ she agreed. ‘Should I feel flattered, do you think?’

Fox had no answer to that. As he left the vast and underfurnished drawing room, he could see her reflection in the window, just as she could see his.

Fox lay in bed that night thinking of Imogen Vernal. She had given up on the chemo, but hadn’t given up on life. She still loved her husband. She was loved, in turn, by Charles Mangold. He wondered whether the widow was rich – an inheritance from her parents; money left by her husband – or whether Mangold was paying for Eileen Carpenter and everything else. He thought of his own father, fighting hard against dementia, regular visits from son and daughter, trips to the seafront at Portobello, ice cream on his chin until a handkerchief could be produced …

The letters from Alice Watts to Francis Vernal were more like essays – lengthy, discursive, political. There were moments of emotion too, but no purple prose, no drawings of hearts pierced by arrows – and no rows of kisses at the end. Fox couldn’t tell if Vernal had ever written her letters of his own. It was obvious he was a regular visitor to Anstruther, but the letters were not dated. Judging by the few contemporary events she mentioned, they had to be from 1984 and ’85.

His phone was charging on the bedside cabinet. When it rang, he had to unplug it before answering. It was Evelyn Mills, calling him at eleven p.m.

‘Evelyn?’

‘Did I wake you?’

‘What’s up?’

There was silence on the line for a moment. ‘Funny, isn’t it?’ she eventually answered, her voice slightly nasal. ‘You coming into my life again. Coming into my life right now, I mean.’ Fox realised she had been drinking.

‘Things are a bit shaky at home?’

‘No … not really.’ She seemed to recall the lateness of the hour. ‘I should have waited till morning.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘Freddie’s a lovely man, you know.’

‘I’m sure he is.’

‘If you met him, the two of you would hit it off. Everybody likes Freddie.’

‘That’s good.’

There was more silence on the line. ‘I’ve forgotten why I was calling you,’ she admitted.

‘Maybe just for a chat.’

‘No, hang on, I remember now. Paul Carter’s been talking to Scholes.’

‘Oh?’

‘He seems scared, and not sure who to trust. He as good as asked Scholes if he’d had something to do with the uncle’s death.’

‘What did Scholes say?’

‘Told him he was off his head.’

‘They seemed to be talking freely?’

‘Nothing to suggest they think there might be a tap.’

‘Have you told this to Kaye and Naysmith?’

‘Not yet. Should I be giving them the recording?’

‘They’re the ones on the ground.’ He paused. ‘Any news from the Alan Carter inquiry?’

‘The wheels are turning.’

‘How close are they to charging the nephew?’

‘Nobody knows if we’re even calling it a murder.’

‘“The death is being treated as suspicious”?’ Fox said, quoting the exact words the media would have been given.

‘Advice is being taken from the Procurator Fiscal,’ Mills commented. ‘Everything all right at your end?’

‘Feet up, relaxing.’

‘Lucky you.’

‘Lucky me,’ Fox echoed.

‘I should go.’

‘Any time you want a chat, Evelyn …’

‘Thanks, Malcolm.’ She paused again. ‘As you know from bitter experience, a few glasses of wine and my defences begin to crumble.’

‘I blame myself.’

‘For what?’

‘I was the sober one that night.’

‘It’s not like you took advantage of me.’

‘But all the same …’

She started to sing a slurred snatch of Edith Piaf, then broke into a tired laugh.

‘Maybe a glass or two of water before bed,’ Fox advised.

‘That’s what Freddie always says.’ The sigh she gave translated into a crackling on the line.

‘Good night, Evelyn.’

‘Night-night, Malcolm.’

He plugged the phone back into its charger and lay down again, head against the pillow, eyes closed. The bedside lamp was on, but he liked it that way. When he got up in the morning, he would switch it off before opening the curtains. He placed his hands behind his head and opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling. He would drift off to sleep eventually.

He always did.

But first, he had some more thinking to do.