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After studying them for a few seconds, Llewellyn commented, “These were taken by someone who knew what they were doing. Shooting through glass is not something a weekend amateur is likely to have mastered. The reflections would have ruined most such attempts.”

  Rafferty had forgotten that Llewellyn was something of a camera buff. It certainly moved Albert Smith further into the frame…or did it? He'd told Alistair Plumley that an aggrieved member of staff was probably responsible for the photos. But who, amongst the staff was likely to have known of the way Barstaple spent his leisure hours? And Smith wasn't even on the staff. Rafferty certainly couldn't see a man like Clive Barstaple exchanging such chitchat with a lowly security guard. Barstaple would have kept his little hobby quiet. It was hardly the sort of thing he'd want bruited about. Having others in his power was what he enjoyed; he would have taken care that none of his victims got the chance to reverse roles.

  No, Rafferty thought, whoever had taken the photos surely knew Barstaple longer than the three months he'd worked at Aimhursts, and more intimately than a mere underling at work. With what people are you most yourself? he silently questioned. Who did you let your guard down with? Back came the answer—with your family, that was who. He frowned as he remembered their investigations had revealed that not only had Barstaple never married, he had no brothers or sisters either, and both his parents were dead.

  He shared his thoughts with Llewellyn and was just about to order a deeper dig into Barstaple's family background when the phone rang and saved him the trouble.

  The voice on the other end of the phone was old, quavery, but still retained an authority that sounded innate. After Rafferty had identified himself, the caller continued.

  “My name's Alexander Smith. I am, or rather was, a Great Uncle to Clive Barstaple.”

  Intrigued, Rafferty gestured to Llewellyn to pick up the other phone.

  The line crackled and the voice said loudly, “Hello? Hello? Are you still there? Damn this infernal machine!”

  “Yes, sir. I'm still here,” Rafferty reassured him. “How can I help you?”

  The elderly gent gave a dry cough. “It's more a case of how I can help you, I think, Inspector.” He paused. “Look, this is a bit delicate. I don't want to discuss it over the telephone. Could you pop down here for a chat, do you think?”

  “Pop where, exactly, sir?”

  “Oh, didn't I tell you? I'm sorry. I live in Devon. Just past Exeter.” He added the address, said, “Come for tea,” and put the phone down.

  Bemused, Rafferty replaced the receiver. Clive Barstaple's great-uncle had invited him for tea. He smiled grimly. It would involve a drive of four hours or more. He glanced out of the window. And it was raining again.

  He sighed. Still, he did want to know more about Barstaple's background and if that was the only way to get it…

  “God knows what time I'll be back,” he told Llewellyn as he shrugged into his jacket. “I'll leave you to hold the fort. Just promise me that if anything useful comes in you'll use your initiative and not sit on it till my return?”

  To Rafferty's surprise, instead of protesting at the implied slur, Llewellyn agreed, his manner uncharacteristically meek.

  However, Rafferty had neither the time nor the inclination to wonder what the Welshman was plotting. His mind was already taken up with the long journey ahead of him and what, if anything, he might find at its end.

  The drive down to Exeter to see Clive Barstaple's great-uncle was every bit as unpleasant as Rafferty had suspected. Rain lashed the windscreen, lorries threw spray across it, blinding him and, to add to the pleasures, which included several multi-mile tailbacks, he got a puncture halfway there.

  Altogether, his four hour journey turned out to be nearer five. It was almost 5.00 pm, the beginning of the rush hour, when he finally arrived at Alexander Smith's home. He was tired, wet through and far from in the right frame of mind to listen to the ramblings of an old man who liked to sound mysterious.

  Rafferty's frustrations only increased when he met Alexander Smith. For the old man refused to tell him what his phone call had been about until he had had a wash and brush up and had sat down to his meal. This was all laid out on the table in front of the fire in the dark and old-fashioned sitting room when he returned downstairs.

  Alexander Smith—or someone—had obviously taken a lot of trouble. There were three different kinds of sandwiches, scones with jam and cream and a large chocolate cake to finish. It was a real old-fashioned high tea, the sort Rafferty hadn't sampled in years. And as he settled by the fire and accepted the delicate bone china cup, he began to feel better.

  Alexander Smith seemed as old-fashioned as his home and his high tea. Even though Rafferty guessed he must be around eighty years of age, he was a very upright man and more than a little formidable. His bearing as he sat in his hard leather armchair was a parade-ground shout, the creases in his trousers so razor-sharp they could be construed offensive weapons. Rafferty, more than a little bedraggled and with his flu and his clothes both steaming nicely, wouldn't have been surprised to find himself put on a charge. But even if he looked like the lowliest squaddie on the square, the General, as he was beginning to think of him, treated him with an impeccable politeness.

  It was only after he had made sure his visitor was comfortable and had everything he wanted, that the old man began to tell him what had made him telephone.

  It soon became clear that it wasn't only Smith's bearing that had a military stamp. From what he now told Rafferty, it was clear that the discipline of a military life had also affected other areas. He intended ‘doing his duty’, no matter how painful it might be.

  Presumably, to save himself the embarrassment of unnecessary explanations, the General now pulled a set of photographs out and spread them on the table by Rafferty's knees. They were a matching set to those that Plumley had received.

  “I received these—obscene photographs—about a month ago, Inspector,” he revealed. “I guessed then who had sent them to me, and I was going to deal with it myself.” He hesitated. “But then, when Clive was murdered, I knew I had no choice but to contact you and it must all come out. I'm sorry I delayed it so long. I found it very—difficult to do.”

  His upright body, even his trim military moustache, seemed to wilt a little. But although obviously upset, it was clear he wasn't going to let his distress get in the way of his duty. Gripping the curved handle of his cane more firmly, he said, “I'm a rich man. I have no children or grandchildren of my own to inherit, so naturally, I was going to leave it to my brother's and sister's heirs, their grandsons, Clive, the grandson of my sister, Lily, and Bertie, the grandson of my brother, John.”

  Some memory fleetingly stirred in Rafferty's tired brain, but the warmth of the fire and the sluggishness induced by a full stomach made the memory too drowsy to rise to the surface. It faded away as the General continued.

  “But then Bertie tried to do his cousin out of his share by accusing him of-” A spasm of pain passed over the old man's face and his knuckles whitened on the cane. It was several seconds before he continued. “He accused Clive of going in for unnatural practises. He told me he had caught him masturbating, wearing-” He winced, then forced himself on again. “Wearing women's undergarments, and a scarf belonging to my late sister. Naturally, I didn't believe him. I was so disgusted with him I told him I was cutting him out of my will.”

  The General passed a mottled hand over his lined forehead as he glanced again at the display of photographs. “It seems he was right all along.”

  “Excuse me, sir, but how long ago did all this happen?”

  “How long? Twelve years ago. When Clive was sixteen and Bertie twenty.”

  “Why did you refuse to believe your great-nephew, Bertie, when he told you?”

  “Would you want to believe it of one of your family, Inspector?”

  Slowly, Rafferty shook his head. “I suppose not.” It was hard to imagine any of his family going in for such practises; ev
en the women preferred their undergarments warm and comfortable. “Certainly, I wouldn't unless I had proof.” And even then…

  “Exactly what I demanded.” Alexander Smith gestured at the photographs. “It seems Bertie took me at my word. It took him a long time, but he finally managed to produce some.”

  The General gazed into the fire, his expression bleak. “Bertie's wicked behaviour won't benefit him. He's shown himself unworthy to be my heir. As for Clive-” Another spasm crossed his face and was as quickly gone. “I admit I was fond of the boy. I had, in the past, made excuses for him. His father was an unpleasant man. He treated the boy dreadfully when he was young, punishing him severely for the slightest misdemeanour or even for nothing at all. It turned the boy in on himself. Made him hate. I suppose it made him want to inflict pain back, to punish as he had himself been punished as a child, cruelly and for no reason.”

  The General straightened his back. “But I've made an end to excuses. There are some things I find myself unable to excuse and such perversions are amongst them.” He paused. “In many ways it's a pity the gal's not a boy. She was always the best of the bunch, mentally far tougher than either of the boys. But there, you can't leave your money to a girl.”

  Rafferty was about to say that was a very old-fashioned attitude, then he thought better of it. What other attitude could a man of Alexander Smith's age be expected to exhibit?

  But it seemed the old gentleman had guessed Rafferty's thoughts, for his faded eyes twinkled briefly. “Yes, I'm old-fashioned about such matters. I make no apology for it. Girls are so much at risk from fortune hunters. At least I knew that Clive and Albert would have been hard-headed enough to hang on to the money once they'd got it. My great-niece has always been prone to listen to hard-luck tales. She gets it from my sister. It makes her vulnerable, for all that she's a sensible enough lass. And, of course, now she's a widow, it makes her doubly vulnerable.

  “I firmly believe that it was Albert, my other great-nephew, who sent me these pictures, Inspector, presumably hoping to get himself reinstated in my will. Until Clive started work there they would have had no contact. Hardly surprisingly, they hated one another.”

  “Albert?” Rafferty repeated slowly. “Albert Smith, you mean? The Albert Smith who works as a security guard at the firm where Clive was killed?”

  This time the General's mannered demeanour was less than impeccable. The look he gave Rafferty was surely the one he reserved for inferiors who refused to go over the top in battle. “Yes, of course.” The bite of the parade-ground entered his voice. “Good God man, who did you think I meant?”

  Rafferty excused his slowness. “It's been a long day.”

  ”Perhaps I should mention that my great-niece, Marian, Marian Steadman also works there. She's Albert's sister,” he explained.

  Rafferty decided his head cold must have penetrated as far as his brain. He really had been incredibly stupid not to have cottoned on to the fact of ‘Bertie's’ identity before. Now he knew about the relationship, the family likeness was apparent. Both Marian Steadman and Albert Smith had dark hair and dark eyes. Both had very similar looks; even their gestures were the same, he realized as he recalled the disagreement he had observed between them through the glass of Aimhurst's reception area. They were really extraordinarily alike; that was if you discounted Albert's balding scalp, small, greying moustache, and horn-rimmed spectacles.

  “Surely, Clive must have recognised his cousin and insisted he was replaced with someone else?”

  “Doubt he would recognise him,” the General told him. “Albert's changed a lot in the intervening years. He's aged considerably. Last time I saw him, he had lost most of his hair, started wearing heavy spectacles, and grown a little military moustache—probably in a failed attempt to ingratiate himself with me. To my knowledge they haven't set eyes on one another for years, not since Clive was a boy. Besides, I imagine, to protect her brother's job, Marian would soon head him off if he showed the slightest sign of recognising him. It would have helped, too, that Smith's such a common name.”

  “You didn't mention the matter to Clive?”

  “No. Marian asked me not to. Said it was better that way as Clive obviously didn't recognise his cousin.”

  The double blow of one great-nephew's murder and revealed perversity and the other's vindictiveness had obviously taken its toll of Alexander Smith. Not unnaturally, such events would be shocking enough to a younger man, but in a person of Smith's age and rigid code, their combined weight could be enough kill him. However, as Rafferty was about to learn, the General's train of thought had again leapt ahead of his and his next words revealed he had concerns of an even greater magnitude on his mind.

  “And now it's come to this.” His voice faltered. “Maybe it would have been better if I had mentioned it. At least Clive would still be alive and Albert—Albert wouldn't have had the temptation to kill put in his path.”

  As the full horror of the General's concerns were made clear, Rafferty felt he had to offer a tentative comfort. “You can't be sure your other nephew killed Clive, sir.”

  “Can't I, Inspector.” Alexander Smith grasped his cane firmly with both hands. As though its solidity strengthened his resolve, his back straightened again. Now he was facing facts squarely and Rafferty could gauge something of the hard officer he must once have been. Hard but fair, he guessed, but nonetheless, certainly not someone to offend in the way Albert Smith had offended him.

  The fire drew the General's gaze again and he stared into its heart. “Who else had the strong motive my elder great-nephew possessed? I gather from the newspapers that Clive was killed in his office, in premises that were secure. Obviously, he was poisoned by someone who knew his routine, someone who had good reason to want to do him harm. He'd only been with that firm for three months. I hardly think that's long enough for him to have made an enemy amongst his colleagues. Certainly not an enemy who could wish him dead. No, Inspector. I think we can safely say it was a long-standing grievance that brought about Clive's death and no one but Albert could have had such a motive or the means to get close enough to poison him.”

  Rafferty didn't feel able to tell the General that his favourite great-nephew had grown into as unpleasant a man as his father; had, in fact, been a man more than capable of attracting killing enemies in three weeks, never mind three months.

  Instead, he too, gazed into the flames. And as he did so, he saw not only the flames, not only that Smith had had the opportunity to steal both the lap-top and the rationalization report—either for a piece of added mischief or to delay any sackings for his sister's sake. But he also saw that it was probable the General was right after all. For Albert Smith, whom he had largely discounted from the investigation for want of a motive, stood revealed as having the very best of reasons for murder, the oldest in the world. An unholy triumvirate of reasons; greed, jealousy and revenge.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Thankfully, the rush hour had nearly finished by the time Rafferty started the return journey and he made it in less than half the time.

  Back at the station, he hurried along to his office, confident that Llewellyn would still be there; probably compiling more lists from his collection of gazetteers. To his surprise, the office was empty, the lights were off and the room had that lonely, desolate air that hangs around places when the inhabitants have long gone.

  Puzzled, Rafferty walked along the corridor to the CID room and thrust open the door. “Anyone seen Sergeant Llewellyn?” he asked of the room at large.

  Only Lilley, still working on his own lists, and Hanks, who was helping him, were in occupation. They both shook their heads. More puzzled than ever and starting to get irritated at this latest disappearing act in the case, Rafferty withdrew and made for the canteen.

  WPC Green was there. She looked up guiltily as Rafferty appeared in the doorway and abruptly demanded, “Seen Sergeant Llewellyn?”

  Lizzie Green leapt to her feet. “No sir. Not for hours.” />
  “Well, if you do, tell him I want to see him.”

  The shutters were down on the serving counter and he had to be content with a cup of weak machine tea. Being unable to immediately share his discoveries in the case with his second-in-command brought a return of his previous irritation. He might have found the answer to one puzzle, but now he had another, lesser one to replace it; where was the bloody man when you wanted him? He surely couldn't have gone home when he'd been left to hold the fort.

  He strode back to his office, switching the hot plastic cup from hand to hand and slopping tea as he went. He tried Llewellyn's home number and got no answer. He toyed with the idea of ringing Maureen's mother in case he was there fighting the good fight over the wedding guest list and decided against it.

  At least, he reminded himself, they seemed to be getting to the bottom of the case. And not only that- The phone rang ten seconds after he had replaced the receiver, breaking his train of thought.

  Llewellyn, he thought, at last, as he snatched up the receiver. He was just about to launch into a tirade when a voice that was definitely not Llewellyn's began to speak.

  It was an American voice, and as strongly New Yoik as Hal Gallagher's. Rafferty sat up straight as the voice in his ear introduced himself, then checked he was speaking to the ‘main man’ as he described Rafferty.

  Rafferty blinked at the description, but let it ride. He even managed to agree that he was the main man. When he did so, the detective on the other end said something even more astonishing; that Hal Gallagher had been a suspect in a murder case in the States.

  The hairs on the back of Rafferty's neck rose even further as Detective, First-class Swaney's voice twanged in his ear with further information.

  “It was a poisoning case. The killer used some plant poison I'd never heard of, but the lab said it came from the rhododendron plant of all things. We never caught the killer.”

  Rafferty recovered sufficiently from the sudden flurry of surprises to ask, “And Gallagher was a strong suspect?”