CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Rafferty had just got back from Harcombe police station when Llewellyn gave him the latest news: Anthony Melville-Briggs was dead.

It took him a few minutes’ to take it in. Apparently, the doctor had wrapped his car around a tree at Wivenhoe, taking with him any faint remaining chances of charging him with murder.

Llewellyn had been right when he'd quoted that old bod's words. How had it gone? Something about every guilty person being his own hangman? Well, Rafferty concluded sombrely, it certainly looked as if Sir Anthony had been his own executioner, whether or not his sins had included murder.

He supposed it fell to him to break the news to Lady Evelyn—he checked with Llewellyn that uniformed hadn’t already done so—they hadn’t, and he told Llewellyn to give them a bell and let them know he’d take on the task.

To Llewellyn's undisguised relief, Rafferty told him to remain at the office. Rafferty picked up WPC Green on his way out. They drove to the Hall. The butler let them in and after briefly stating they were there on official business, they followed his broad, black-clad figure into the winter parlour.

'Inspector.' Lady Evelyn seemed pleased to see him and he stared guiltily at her. 'What can I do for you? Have you come to see over the house? I'm sure I've got time, if you have.'

Rafferty shuffled his feet. 'No, Ma'am. Er—that is—' He broke off awkwardly. To fill in the gap while he remembered his carefully rehearsed words, he introduced his companion. Then, taking a deep breath, he said, 'I'm afraid I have some bad news for you, Ma'am.'

Lady Evelyn frowned. 'Bad news? What do you mean?'

'It's—your husband, Lady Evelyn. I'm sorry to have to tell you this. He's had an accident—it seems his car went out of control.'

'How—how bad?'

Rafferty shuffled his feet again.

'Please. Just—tell me.' Her voice was faint as she asked, 'Is he— is he dead, Inspector?'

'I'm afraid so, Ma'am.'

Lady Evelyn sank down slowly on to one of the chairs. Bleakly, her eyes rested on the array of family photographs on her desk and her lips tightened.

'It—it would have been very quick,' he told her in a desperate attempt at comfort. 'He wouldn't have suffered.'

'I see.' She shuddered slightly and then sat up straight in her chair. 'Thank you for coming to tell me. I understand how difficult it is to break such news.'

She seemed dazed, but apart from a faint white line around her tightened lips, she had taken the news with remarkable composure, much to Rafferty's relief. He had a quiet word with the butler who alerted the staff. The housekeeper took charge and she and one of the older female servants were soon plying their mistress with hot sweet tea. After quietly offering his condolences and having them as quietly accepted, Rafferty left the WPC behind with instructions that he'd send a car for her in a couple of hours and let himself out into the gathering dusk.

Strangely, Melville-Briggs's death seemed to act as a starter's pistol and, all at once, things began to move more swiftly.

When Rafferty got back to the station, it was to find that Staff Nurse Estoce had finally decided to tell them the truth about Charge Nurse Allward's habits on night duty—he had been the one who had rung Linda that night, as they had suspected.

When Linda had told him about the row with her parents, he'd promised her a bed for the night in exchange for a freebie. Staff Nurse Estoce had heard him on the phone arranging it. Yet, she was adamant that the girl hadn't turned up and had assumed that she had changed her mind. She had thought no more about it till the next morning when Melanie Wilks’s body had been found.

But Rafferty didn't have time to dwell on this news because hard on the heels of the Staff Nurse's revelation came another breakthrough.

They had found Miranda, or rather, she had found them. She turned up at the station just after Nurse Estoce left and demanded to see Rafferty. She'd been hiding out in a cheap hotel in Wandsworth, apparently, and only now felt safe enough to leave it.

As she sat down on the visitor's chair in front of Rafferty's desk, the light from the window shone full on her. Her eyes were dilated, a fine sheen of perspiration marred the pale skin and as she fiddled with the collar of her blouse, Rafferty noticed that her fingers were trembling.

'It—it began a year ago.' Haltingly, she began her story.

'What did?' Rafferty asked. Although he suspected he already knew, he was, determined to get everything laid out nice and clearly.

'The—affair between Tony Melville-Briggs and myself.'

So—she had been yet another mistress. Rafferty mightn't have admired the man, but he certainly had to applaud Melville-Briggs’s energy. 'I don't quite understand,' he rapped out sternly. 'What has that got to do with Linda Wilks's death? You said it was connected.'

Her eyes widened in surprise. 'Of course it's connected. It must be. Why else would he—?' She broke off, clearly not yet ready to reveal all of her story. She paused and began again. 'I was there the night the girl was murdered. It was meant to be me, don't you see?'

'Perhaps you could be a little more explicit, Miss Raglan,' Llewellyn suggested quietly.

She nodded. 'I'd learned a lot of things about his practice when I was with him—I wasn't the only woman to whom he was giving powerful drugs.' Her voice had a vicious bite to it as she went on. 'He turned us into junkies for his own profit. Before I met him, I was only into drugs in a small way, parties and so on, but that soon changed. He made sure of it. Mostly, as my habit increased, I was just grateful for a reliable source, but later, when I realised just what he'd done to me, I wanted revenge. And I knew the perfect way to get it.

'What would be more just than to make him pay for the habit he had created?' she asked them. 'I needed more drugs and I expected – demanded, that he supply them for nothing – or else. He just laughed at me, was convinced that I'd be so desperate to get the drugs he supplied that I'd be as cowed as the rest, only too glad to do what he said.

‘But I'd already begun to try to kick the habit. I'd voluntarily reduced my intake; he didn't know that, of course. I still needed them.' She looked bleakly at them out of over-bright eyes. 'Perhaps I always will. Anyway, I was soon able to convince him that I meant what I said.'

She shuffled restlessly on her chair, opened her handbag and started to light a cigarette before changing her mind and crushing it out in the nearest handy receptacle, which happened to be Rafferty’s mostly empty mug of tea. Which was just as well; with the No Smoking policy, she’d likely have set off the smoke alarm.

'He soon realised he'd badly misjudged me when I put my demands more plainly. I knew he couldn't refuse.' An expression of malicious spite hovered for a second on her vapid features. 'I threatened to go to the papers. I could have ruined him, you see. That's when the meeting at the hospital was arranged.'

Rafferty remembered Nathanial Whittaker's description of the character of drug addicts; the weak, the stupid, the gullible, and in spite of Miranda Raglan's outwardly tough stance, Rafferty detected the rather foolish, insecure young woman concealed beneath the bravado.

Llewellyn broke into his thoughts. 'But he can't have killed her. He had an alibi. We've checked it out very thoroughly.'

'But it couldn't have been anyone else,' Miranda insisted, with a trace of hysteria. 'He was the only person who knew I was meant to be there; I'd arranged it with him myself.'

Whatever she thought, it was evident to Rafferty that someone had known. He fixed her with a grim stare. 'You were blackmailing him, you say. How did you—?'

Miranda turned up her dainty nose. 'Do you have to use that sordid word, Inspector?'

'A sordid word for a sordid deed, Miss Raglan,' Llewellyn told her reprovingly. 'Did you never think of going to the police instead of taking matters into your own hands?'

'The police?' she repeated scornfully. 'And what would they—you—have done? Arrested me, not him, most probably. I knew he had powerful friends, you see. He threatened me with them once.'

Rafferty felt the sympathy of a fellow-sufferer stirring and quickly stifled it. 'How did you meet him originally?'

'I'd heard on the grape-vine that he'd supply drugs that other doctors wouldn't, so I contacted him. He was happy to oblige. I used to see him at his London consulting rooms twice a week, after hours, when the staff had gone home.

‘Gradually he began to supply me with stronger and stronger drugs. I didn't realise at first, because he was careful to make sure that to a layman's eye the tablets looked similar. It was only when my cravings began to get out of control that I began to suspect. By then I was a helpless addict. It was costing me a fortune. So you can imagine how grateful I was when he suggested I sleep with him to reduce the price.' She gave a bitter smile. 'I gather I was one of a select little band.'

Mrs. Devine had described Miranda as having "glittering" eyes—a typical description of a drug-addict's eyes. Why hadn't he made the connection before? But, of course, the fact that the doctor openly specialised in drug-related problems had put him off the scent. Didn't the old crime writers say that if you wanted to hide a letter, put it in the letter-rack with the rest of the mail?

Suddenly, he was glad he hadn't dismissed Mrs. Devine as a senile old woman whose information was useless. 'So you made an appointment to meet Dr. Melville-Briggs in his flat the night Linda Wilks was murdered?'

Miranda Raglan nodded.

'That was a risky thing to do,' Llewellyn commented. 'Didn't it occur to you that you might be in great danger?'

'Not then, only after. I was getting desperate.' She pulled a face. 'It's difficult to think straight when you're on drugs, Sergeant. You should try it sometime.'

Ignoring this piece of advice, he asked, 'How did you arrange the meeting?'

'After phoning him to let him know just what I expected, I told him to contact me with the details. He wrote me a note. Just the time and place.' She smiled, but her eyes were empty of humour. 'He knew he didn't have any choice. But, once it was arranged, I became nervous, so I arrived early and waylaid one of the nurses as she arrived for duty and asked her to deliver a note to him. It said I'd changed my mind and I'd meet him in the pub up the road sometime before 11.30 p.m. But he never came. Obviously, that stupid nurse forgot all about the note and never gave it to him. And then I heard about that girl’s murder. It was too much of a coincidence not to be connected with me. I went to ground while I thought through what to do.'

'What time did you get to the pub?'

She shrugged. 'About ten. I'd come down a few weeks before, just to look around, when the idea of making him pay first occurred to me and I'd gone in the pub for lunch. I discovered then that, as long as they had paying customers, they didn't bother to close.

‘On the night of the murder, I waited there for an hour and a half, being pestered by some appalling little man, but Tony didn't turn up. I learned why the next morning.' Her face took on an expression of distaste. 'That's when I booked into that scruffy hotel. God knows what the girl was doing wandering around the hospital at that time of night, but whatever she was doing there, I'm convinced Tony killed her, mistaking her for me in the darkness. From the pictures in the papers, we are superficially alike.'

'When did you make the appointment with Melville-Briggs?'

'The week before the girl died.'

Rafferty frowned. Couldn't she even be bothered to remember Linda Wilks's name? After all, the poor bitch had died for her.

But he wasn't here to make judgements, he reminded himself grimly. In some ways, Miranda Raglan, too, had been a victim. 'But he must have known when he arranged to see you that he'd be at a medical dinner at The George all night. Such important events are arranged weeks in advance. It seems likely he would check his diary before agreeing to meet you. It looks very much as though he made the appointment knowing he wouldn't be able to keep it.'

'Are you saying that he arranged for someone else to murder me? Some hired assassin?'

It was a possibility that Llewellyn had suggested. But somehow, with him, it struck a false note. Would Melville-Briggs be likely to place himself in jeopardy from another blackmailer? Even if a hired killer didn't blackmail him, how could he be sure that such a criminal wouldn't cop a plea in the future if arrested for another killing?

No, he was still convinced this was an inside job. But who thought enough of Sir Anthony to kill his troublesome mistress for him? His wife, who had long accepted his faithlessness and lived her own life? Simon Smythe who feared him? The Galvins, both of whom had reason to feel a bitter hatred towards him? There was no-one connected with the case that Melville-Briggs could persuade to do his dirty work. Even the obliging Gilbert, who wasn't beyond indulging in a little attempted blackmail himself if he thought he could get away with it, would shy away from murder. Besides, he had stayed in the pub till he had been chucked out at one in the morning, not that Melville-Briggs would be likely to trust his sly porter with the task, anyway.

Rafferty’s phone rang. He snatched it up, said, ‘Rafferty. What?’ He listened for a while, growing increasingly incredulous.

His telephone conversation was interrupted when Timothy Smales popped his head around the door. 'I've got Mr Allward in interview room. 1, Sir. You said you wanted to speak to him. Shall I bring him up?'

Rafferty slammed the phone receiver back on its rest and shook his head. 'I haven’t got time for him now. Let him stew for a bit.’ Smales’ head began to withdraw and Rafferty said, ‘Hang on a minute, Tim.’

Rafferty turned to Miranda Raglan, asked her to wait in reception.

She pouted a bit, but left, escorted by Tim Smales.

‘As I said, Allward will have to wait. Him and Sidney Wilks both. That was Simon Smythe on the phone,’ he told Llewellyn. ‘Lady Evelyn must have got him temporarily reinstated. It was all a bit garbled, but it seems someone's attacked Gilbert, the lodge-porter.'

'Who?' Llewellyn asked.

Rafferty shrugged. 'God knows. Smythe hung up before I got an answer to that one.' With a worried frown, he asked, 'You don't think Gilbert saw something on the night of the murder, do you, and tried another spot of blackmail?'

'What could he have seen?' Llewellyn asked reasonably. 'He was in the pub when the murder happened. I hardly think the murderer would hang around after killing the girl.'

Neither did Rafferty.

'I imagine the answer's simple enough. Personally, I've been expecting something like this for several days.'

'Oh?' Rafferty’s gaze narrowed. This was the first he'd heard of Llewellyn's suspicions. 'Being wise after the event are we?'

Llewellyn shook his head. 'Not at all. I imagine one of the patients attacked Mr Gilbert. Murder unsettles the mind,' he explained. 'And it unsettles the troubled mind even more.'

'I bet it unsettled Gilbert's,' Rafferty remarked grimly. 'He's all right, though. At least, Smythe didn't seem too bothered about him. Of course, that's not altogether surprising and knowing Gilbert, he's probably got all the pretty nurses giving him tea and sympathy right now.'

He picked up his emerald-green jacket and headed for the car park, Llewellyn on his heels. Llewellyn was probably right. Again. One of the patient's had probably taken a dislike to Gilbert's face. Understandable really.

The hospital was in uproar when they arrived. They'd barely got through the gates before the car was surrounded by a throng of shouting, gesticulating staff, Simon Smythe at its centre. Smythe was trying to establish order, without any noticeable success. He emerged from the scrum surrounding him and a look of relief appeared on his face when he saw Rafferty. 'Thank God you've come, Inspector. It's one of the patients, Brian. He—'

'Where is he?'

'In the lodge. He's locked himself in and refuses to come out.'

'I take it you've got a hefty injection of sedative handy?'

Smythe nodded.

That was something. 'Come along then, Doctor.' Rafferty headed purposefully for the lodge, feeling like the Pied Piper of Hamelin as Llewellyn, Smythe and most of the still-depleted hospital staff, fell in behind.

At least Constable Hanks, left on duty at the gate, had shown some presence of mind. Armed with a dustbin lid, he'd stationed himself outside the lodge, while, from inside came the sound of crashes and bangs. It seemed the patient was intent on demolishing everything within reach.

'Has he tried to come out?' he asked Hanks.

'Not so far, Sir. More interested in wrecking the place.'

'Damn near wrecked me 'ead,' complained Gilbert.

Up till now, Gilbert had kept quiet and Rafferty hadn't noticed him in the crowd. But as the shock began to wear off he became increasingly voluble. 'Gave me the fright of me life when I saw that religious nut, Brian, with that great lump of wood in 'is 'ands. Murder 'e 'ad in 'is eyes. Murder!'

'I was just about to try to establish what steps Gilbert took, Inspector,' Smythe interjected, in an obvious attempt to justify his less than professional panic.

'I'll tell you what steps I took,' exclaimed Gilbert vociferously. 'Bloody great big ones, of course. What do you expect me to have done?' he demanded. 'Reasoned wiv him? Ain’t my job to reason wiv em, mate. I just let the buggers in and out. Reasoning's your job.’

Gilbert shot a worried look at Rafferty. 'You reckon 'e's the one as done fer the girl?' He went quite pale and ran his hand over his face as though to make sure he still had all the bits that belonged there.

For a moment, Gilbert's suspicions revived Rafferty's own earlier one that the misogynistic religious nut, Brian had somehow escaped the vigilance of Staff Nurse Estoce and committed the murder after all. Then common sense reasserted itself. He'd already checked and discarded that possibility. Besides, since when had such an easy and obvious solution fallen into his lap?

'No.' Gilbert answered his own question. 'It must 'ave been old smarmy-pants. Why else would 'e top 'imself?'

'Is that what everyone's saying?' Rafferty asked curiously.

'Stands to reason, dunnit? He certainly looked as sick as a parrot when I last saw 'im, just before 'e made a concertina out of 'imself in the Carlton. Looked, I dunno—glazed, I s'pose. Almost as though 'e was drugged or something.'

Sir Anthony had prescribed himself some tranquillisers; the officer called to the scene had found them in his pocket when he'd looked for some identification. But the label said they were mild, only 2 mm, certainly not enough to bring a glazed look to his eyes, not unless he'd taken a handful of them.

Yet, according to Sam Dally, who’d performed the post mortem, he must have done. Perhaps, afraid that his many sins were soon to be revealed to a censorious world, he'd dosed himself up to deaden the pain of the impact when his car wrapped itself around the tree. 'Didn't you try to stop him?' he asked Gilbert.

'Me? And remind 'im that 'e 'adn't sacked me yet? Not bloody likely!'

'So he just got in his car and drove away?'

Gilbert nodded. 'Pretty fast too, considering the patients were milling about the place.'

'Powerful car a Carlton,' commented Llewellyn, the car buff.

'Still, it was rather out of character,' commented Rafferty. 'I understand he was usually very careful of his patients.'

'Not one to risk endangering 'is investments,' agreed Gilbert. 'Not Sir Anthony.'

By now, the sound of destruction from inside the lodge had slowly petered out.

'Sounds like Brian’s exhausted himself,' said Rafferty. 'Right, Gilbert. I'm sure you've got another key for that door. Let me have it please.'

Gilbert released a key-ring from his belt. He selected one and handed it over to Rafferty, with the comment, 'Mind you let me 'ave it back, now. I'm responsible fer it.'

Given his less than zealous guardianship of the other keys under his protection, Rafferty was sorely tempted to make a sharp retort. Instead, he wordlessly took the proffered key, crept up to the broken window of the gate lodge, and peered in.

Brian was taking a well-earned rest and was calmly sipping a piping hot brew from Gilbert's personal mug, which had somehow escaped the ravages suffered by the rest of the equipment. To Rafferty's relief, the patient's destructive storm seemed to have blown itself out.

He unlocked the door and stepped inside the lodge. Brian continued to sip his tea and Rafferty remarked quietly, 'I like the mug.'

Brian raised his eyes suspiciously. 'It's mine.'

'Oh? I wouldn't have thought the wording on it would appeal to you.'

'Why? Work is a four-letter word. The Lord's work. Why was that blasphemer Gilbert using it?'

As Rafferty shrugged noncommittally, Brian finished his tea and, with the help of a couple of the nurses, Smythe managed to sedate him. He went off between them as quietly as a lamb, still clutching Gilbert's mug, much to the porter's loudly-voiced indignation, and Rafferty and Llewellyn were left alone to survey the ruins of Gilbert's little castle.

Brian, with the surprising strength of the deranged, had made a thorough job of wrecking the place. The table was overturned, lists and rosters were torn to shreds, even the key-cabinet had been wrenched off the wall, the keys scattered all over the floor, some of them large and rather cumbersome.

They reminded Rafferty of something, and as he struggled to remember, suddenly, into his head popped a conversation he'd had some time ago and all at once he knew who the killer was; a double murderer, for he was now convinced that Sir Anthony's death hadn't been suicide. He knew who and how—he even knew why. The means, motive and opportunity were all there. All that remained was to carry out the arrest.