Death of an Innocent (Richard and Amelia Patton)

  Death of an Innocent

  Roger Ormerod

  © Roger Ormerod 1989

  Roger Ormerod has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1989 by Constable and Company

  This edition published in 2014 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

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  Extract from Face Value by Roger Ormerod

  1

  Amelia had always made little of having been up at Oxford. It was only a middling degree, as she put it, in nineteenth century literature. Nothing to boast about. What brought the subject up was a phone call from her college friend, Olivia Dean, whom she had never mentioned.

  ‘Richard,’ she said, after she’d returned to her chair the other side of the fire, ‘I’m sure I spoke about her. We were great friends at that time, though we’ve rather lost touch.’

  ‘Hmm!’ I said. ‘So how come she’s managed to trace you?’

  ‘Well of course! She’s got her researchers. Must have.’

  ‘Researchers? What’s she studying now?’

  ‘Haven’t you heard of Christobel Barnes? And Lovella Treat? I grab every one of their books as soon as they come out.’

  I tried to remember. She certainly did a lot of reading. ‘So?’

  ‘Olivia’s both of them. She writes romantic fiction. Christobel Barnes is the Regency stuff, and Lovella Treat the modern.’

  ‘Lovella Treat. I rather like that. I suppose they’re packed with sex, and that sort of thing.’

  ‘Well...’ She looked past my shoulder. ‘Shall we say Georgette Heyer would’ve blushed — and Jane Austen fainted right away.’

  ‘I think in Jane’s days they swooned.’ I was filling my pipe, keeping my eyes down. ‘And why did she set her researchers to hunt you up, my dear?’

  When she didn’t reply at once, I looked up. Amelia was frowning, though making even that appear attractive. She knew how I hated becoming involved with other people’s affairs, and was deciding how to put it. In the end she nodded to herself decisively.

  ‘I wrote and told her at the time about my new husband. We were really very close in the old days, Richard.’ That in a slightly defensive tone. ‘So she knows you were a Detective Inspector, and she might well have seen bits in the papers...’

  ‘It’s unlikely. But she’s got her researchers, as you say. She’s probably assembled a complete file on you. Maybe you’re the heroine of several of her books.’

  ‘I’ll assume you mean to be flattering, Richard, but I’d prefer you to be serious.’

  ‘Serious, is it? You told her I’m no longer in the police, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes. Now you’re making assumptions. She knew, anyway.’

  I was being cynical. Out of the blue, there we were with an old friend suddenly needing some sort of assistance. That was how I’d guessed it to be. The snag was that whenever I became involved with this sort of thing, it spelt trouble. And Amelia knew it. She even discouraged me at times. Still...this Olivia Dean sounded interesting. Lovella Treat, indeed! Whoever could invent such a pseudonym was worth attention. Nevertheless, I grimaced, not to seem too eager.

  ‘I’m assuming there’s some difficulty with which she wants your assistance and encouragement.’ I was choosing my words carefully. ‘And I’m assuming she expects me to go along with you.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Did she say what the trouble was?’ I asked vaguely, not too encouragingly.

  ‘She’s had a burglary.’

  ‘Ah!’ I raised one eyebrow at her. ‘And the police — what do they say?’

  She flicked an invisible bit of dust from her skirt. ‘I gathered she hasn’t reported it.’

  ‘Umm!’ I commented.

  It was November. I was safely married, had retired a little early, and was rapidly becoming domesticated. There was a lot of terraced garden to look after, which kept me reasonably fit, though it hardly exercised the mind to any degree. Nevertheless, I was quietly contented, and had relaxed into the routine.

  And I was bored to hell. The garden at this time of the year no longer required my full attention, and the two cars were tuned to perfection. I was due to go screaming up the wall very shortly. I considered Amelia blandly.

  ‘What did she ask you to do?’

  ‘Go and visit.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘She suggested tomorrow.’

  Lovella Treat, I thought, savouring it. ‘We’d better pack a couple of cases,’ I suggested. And, because the weather wasn’t being too kind, I added: ‘We’ll use the Granada. Where is this place, anyway?’

  ‘She’s got a house overlooking one of the waterways on the Broads in Norfolk. I wrote down the address.’

  I nodded. It was settled. I was feeling better already.

  From Boreton-Upon-Severn to Norfolk was going to be a decent run of about 180 miles. Across country. That meant it would mainly be on ordinary roads, with not much motorway driving involved. At that time I anticipated the visit would entail no more than an amicable chat and the necessary unofficial advice, so the expectation was that we would be back the next day. Amelia said she’d gathered that we were expected to stay at Mansfield Park, as her friend coyly called her house, so I explained our absence to Mary in those terms, and we got away early.

  Mary Pinson is not really our housekeeper, as she has a legal right to residence, but she looks after us, and is always anxious about our welfare. She said: ‘Now watch out for yourselves,’ and waved us away.

  I was driving. We normally shared, but it was misty as we descended to river level to cross the Severn, and the weather forecast was for rain. Amelia hates driving in the rain. We settled down to do it in one long, unbroken journey.

  We got the rain. It pelted down. We also got a puncture in the rear nearside tyre. Punctures are rare these days, and this was a slow one, but due to the wet surface I detected a change in the roadholding and had to stop. I changed the wheel, getting thoroughly soaked, and was naturally not vastly pleased when I at last got back inside.

  But I was not actively annoyed, though Amelia assumed I was. I could always tell when she makes such assumptions; she taps her fingers on her knee, impatient with herself for being unable to do anything about my distress. She has never understood. As a serving officer in the CID I had gradually developed a mental skin, protecting myself from misery. Countless hours of waiting, cold, wet and unable to detect an end to it, had gradually inured me to discomfort. It’s a question of philosophy. I was prepared to sit, damp and steaming, behind the wheel, and drive on.

  ‘We’ll look for an hotel,’ she said, ‘and have lunch. You can change in the men’s room.’

  ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘We can hardly arrive at Olivia’s with you smelling of wet tweed.’

  ‘True,’ I agreed, equably enough I thought. ‘We mustn’t have that.’

  She was silent as we drove on. Silent for quite a while. Then she said abruptly: ‘You didn’t want to come, did you?’

  ‘If I hadn’t, you’d have had to change the wheel yourself.’

  ‘You’re not giving me an answer, Richard.’

  I turned my head and grinned at her. ‘I can’t wait to meet somebody who writ
es under the name of Lovella Treat.’

  ‘That’s not an answer, either.’

  If you ask me, it was she who was in a bad mood. I guessed at the reason. It was because she feared this was going to be a paltry and futile visit, which could in some way denigrate her friend in my eyes. But how could it be paltry, when Olivia had taken considerable trouble to contact her — and me — yet hadn’t even reported the burglary to the police?

  We found an hotel. We had lunch, after I’d changed. A very pleasant lunch. Amelia was able to assume I was now more pleased with life. She became her usual relaxed self.

  ‘She must be earning a fortune,’ she said over coffee.

  ‘Sure to be.’

  ‘I mean...dozens of bestsellers.’

  ‘So she turned her degree to good use,’ I commented. ‘I suppose she did get her degree?’

  ‘A double first.’ She nodded, indicating a reflected pride.

  ‘Oho! A clever woman. In your subject?’

  ‘Yes. We shared the same tutor.’ She was speaking with her cup poised in front of her face. ‘Shared most things, really. Clothes, books, notes. Even boyfriends.’

  ‘Ah yes. All those available young undergrads. I’d have thought there’d be plenty of choice.’ I cocked an eyebrow at her. ‘Unless you also shared the same taste in men.’

  ‘I suppose we did.’

  ‘Then perhaps I shouldn’t have come. She might take a liking for me. I’m not sure I can keep two women happy.’

  ‘You’re making an assumption there,’ she said, but she was smiling. Yet that could have been because of her memories, because she went on: ‘We were both wild about Philip, I remember. Tall, slim and handsome. Doing economics, I think.’ She rested her chin on her hand, her eyes going out of focus. ‘Dear Philip.’

  ‘And neither of you got him?’ I asked, to keep things moving.

  ‘Oh, she did. In the end. They were married...oh, three or four years after we graduated. She’d sold a book or two by then, and he was doing her research, I believe. It was probably more convenient...’ She allowed it to tail off, musingly.

  ‘It’s he who traced you, then?’

  ‘Probably. Clever Philip. You’ll like him, Richard.’

  This was perhaps doubtful, when I had to consider that she might well be more interested in meeting Philip Dean again, than in a reunion with her dear friend Olivia.

  We went out to the car. It had stopped raining. She suggested that she should drive the rest of the way. ‘You’re so much better at reading the map, Richard.’

  But that wasn’t the reason. There is a certain psychological satisfaction in driving towards a past lover, best savoured from behind the wheel.

  ‘You’re driving a little too fast,’ I suggested a few minutes later.

  ‘Nonsense, Richard.’

  She had the seat hitched well forward, and mine was well back. I was able to grin to myself without giving offence. I concentrated on the map, and located what seemed to be the nearest village to our destination, about fifteen miles north of Norwich. We were on the A11, and I told her to keep going until we hit the outer ring road of Norwich, and I’d tell her which turn-off to take.

  It was a gloomy afternoon, not certain whether to settle down to a quiet period of mist or to venture into a spell of drizzle. We were running on dipped headlights, but Amelia made no suggestion that I should take over the wheel. Merely, her speed was reduced. The poor visibility made me uncertain of direction signs almost until it was too late to act on them.

  We located the turn from the Norwich outer ring road. Twice I missed the proper turnings, but eventually we ran into the village I’d been looking for. I got out and enquired. The street was quiet, the shop windows ghostly in the misty half-light. Shoppers were rare. I could hear the engine clicking after she’d switched off.

  I was told at a newsagent’s that we had driven past the turn-off for Mansfield Park. We were to go back about half a mile and take a turn to the right, where, as far as I could recall, there had been nothing but water and reeds on either side of the road. We went slowly back. The turn-off was there, over what could have been a dyke or bridge, and along a narrow causeway, which was not designated on the map. Now it was nearly dark. Amelia had the main heads on, and they just managed to pick out the sign fastened to a post: Mansfield Park.

  This time it was certainly a bridge we crossed, because the car juddered and I heard the thump of woodwork beneath the tyres. The drive became gravel. There was a fall-off on both sides. Amelia concentrated.

  The lights ahead were spread in the mist, and gradually the house took shape. It was wide, but seemed not to be deep, and the whole front and the sweep of the parking drive were floodlit. We drew up on cobbles and Amelia switched off the engine. For a moment we sat, and she breathed out with a sigh. Somewhere a dog bayed, the deep bell of a Great Dane. Holmes would have been in his element.

  Then a door opened in the centre of the sprawl of stone wall, light spilled out, accompanied by a bounding dog, and revealed the figure of a tall, gangling man, who called half-heartedly after the dog into the darkness but made no move to follow it. So our welcome was a wet nose against my side window and a slobbering sound. Before it jumped up and started to remove our paintwork, I said quickly, ‘Me first,’ and thrust the door open against the weight.

  I have a way with dogs. You have to be firm. ‘Down, boy.’ As I could see he was. But he upped, with his great paws on my shoulders, nearly having me on my back, the initiative his but his temperament fortunately amiable.

  ‘He wants to make friends,’ called out the man, waving vaguely as though to disperse the mist. ‘It’s Amelia, isn’t it? And Richard. Come along in. It’s cold out there.’

  This was perhaps his apology for not coming out and holding doors open and the like. The dog, at the sound of his voice, went galloping past him into the house, presumably to tell the rest of the household we’d arrived. Philip called out: ‘Leave your bags, I’ll get ‘em later.’ There was something defensive in his attitude.

  I thought Amelia slammed her door a little too hard. In the floodlight her face was shadowed heavily, but it gradually assumed a smile as I stood back to let her lead the way.

  ‘Philip,’ she said, ‘how nice to see you again.’

  She held out her hand. He reached forward so that he took both, then he held her away from him theatrically and observed her with pleasure, his head to one side. ‘You look wonderful, my dear. Not changed a bit.’

  ‘Idiot,’ she said. ‘It’s been over twenty years.’

  ‘So it has, so it has.’ His eyebrows bobbed up and down. Then he released her and turned to me. ‘And this is your husband. Richard, isn’t it? I’m Philip Dean.’

  ‘Richard Patton,’ I said, and we shook hands, smiling at each other, he with a manic delight, as though my presence signalled the end to all his concerns.

  He was naturally about ten years younger than me, being Amelia’s contemporary, but he looked more than his age. He was as tall as me, but couldn’t have been much more than half my weight. At that time, he was was wearing only a shirt and trousers, but they managed to hang on his frame loosely, the belt drawn tight to take up the slack at his waist. It was clear that the shirt collar, if fastened, would be too loose, and now it revealed hollows in the skin of his neck. His face was heavy, the bone structure strong, with a wide mouth, the forced smile lifting folds of skin that normally fell towards his chin. His eyes were blue and bright. Intelligence burned from them. And something else. Stress? Even fear?

  He backed into the hall, which I could see was no more than a passage, and said: ‘Olivia will be free very shortly. Come through, and we’ll have a pot of tea. I’m sure you’ll be exhausted. This weather! But it’s November, after all...’ And so on, useless words, promoted by nerves.

  He explained that where we had parked the car was, in practice, the rear of the house, as this had originally been the frontage of a row of five attached cottages. But they’d r
un them all into one residence, and the main hall, into which he now led us, was the full width of what had been the central cottage. Here there was a transformation, the hall being square and spacious, panelled in pine and with a few pictures to break up the surface areas.

  ‘You’ll want to wash up and freshen yourselves,’ he announced, flinging open a door into a living-room, which, possibly in honour of Christobel Barnes, was pure Regency. I’m no expert, but the furniture seemed genuine. Books lined one wall, not one of them with a bright, modern dust cover. The fireplace was stone, wide, a fire burning in it, with the Great Dane and two Spaniels sprawled on the hearth. They lifted their heads, but were too relaxed to do more than beat their tails on the rug. The window overlooking what he called the front of the house was uncurtained, and though it was unmistakably an opening french window and double-glazed, it was nevertheless in a Regency style.

  ‘Do make yourselves at home,’ he said. ‘I’ll get Doris to rustle up some tea. Then I’ll fetch your stuff in, if you left the boot unlocked. And I’ll...’ He backed out of the room, not a perfect host by any standards. Perhaps he didn’t get much practice.

  Amelia had walked over to the wall of books. ‘Richard,’ she said, ‘these must surely be first editions. All of them. Regency and Victorian romance. Just think.’

  I’d gone to make myself known to the dogs, always a useful insurance against future misunderstandings. ‘I’m thinking.’

  ‘And all this stuff...’ I looked round, and she meant the ornaments, the objets d’art, the exquisite porcelain displayed on low tables and in a china cabinet against one wall.

  ‘I noticed.’

  ‘It’s all genuine.’

  ‘I’m sure it is.’

  ‘You’re not looking.’

  ‘I did so as we came in. It’s a burglar’s delight. And don’t forget, this is what’s left. I wonder what was taken.’

  I straightened up. Amelia looked beautiful in that setting, a little mist caught in her hair, her eyes bright, and the whole picture set perfectly against the array of splendid antiques.