Will Power Page 16

  Barton stared at one of the majolica plates, as if it might guide him.

  ‘Dr Barton? What caused her to leave?’

  He shrugged. ‘I suspect that the man with whom my mother found her in bed – actually in flagrante – was Max Cornfield. The blue-eyed boy. An alternative could have been my father. And believe me I don’t discount that. My father was the most evil, disgusting-—’ He pulled himself awkwardly from his chair and made for the window. Kate could see his shoulders move as he took a deep breath. God knew, she could do with a deep breath herself: what a family! Barton faced the window as he spoke. ‘My father bullied and buggered me; he bullied and fucked my sisters; he bullied and fucked my mother. Forgive me if I use such crude verbs. Another would do, cleaner but no less explicit. Rape. He raped all of us from time to time. Maybe even Max. It doesn’t take a great psychiatrist to work out why I prefer a bachelor existence, Maeve married a total nonentity whom she bullied unmercifully and Edna – and this is pure supposition – embarked on a search for a loving and gentle man.’ He turned, going to stand by the court cupboard.

  ‘And your mother?’ Imagine what that woman had been through. No wonder she was on the weird side of eccentric.

  ‘Found a focus for her affection in Max. What else developed between them who knows.’ At last he looked at her. ‘Has he told you yet? No, I thought not. I tell you again, ladies, that Max Cornfield should have every last dime. And I’ll tell you something else: if he has done anything wrong and the inheritance reverts to me – and to Edna, if she’s still alive – then I’ll give him my share. I hold you to witness. Yes, Constable, write it down.’ His voice cracking, he pointed a quivering finger. ‘Go on: I insist. Write it down: Michael Barton promises to give anything he inherits from his mother to Max Cornfield. There. And I’ll sign it and you can both witness it.’

  Kate made herself say quietly, ‘Now, sir, let’s just get back to business—’

  ‘Not until we’ve all signed. I insist. I demand – give me that damned notebook!’

  Jane flashed a desperate glance at Kate, who nodded. Surely it wouldn’t do any harm to humour the man? Three solemn signatures were recorded, plus the time and date. Barton fumbled in the cupboard for whisky. He sank half a tumbler neat, only as he set down the glass turning to the women with the bottle raised in invitation.

  If only she could have a double!

  But Kate shook her head for both of them. Pitching her voice as low and calm as she could, she said, ‘Now, Dr Barton, we were talking about the date of Edna’s departure. Month and year. Even the year would be a starting point.’

  As if his outburst had drained him, he said, ‘Maeve used to keep the family records. Yes, you should run some photos to earth. When they no longer include Edna—’

  ‘They’re not dated, Dr Barton, or we could have used them as a starting point.’

  ‘Oh, surely you women can get a good idea from the clothes.’

  ‘Come on. You must have more accurate touchstones. How old would you have been, for instance?’

  ‘Oh,’ he said pettishly, ‘I suppose it might have been while I was away at medical school. I’d have been in my early twenties. And I’d already left the bosom of the family. There’d be nothing to link it to, not in my memory.’

  ‘A sister disappears and you’ve nothing to link it to in your memory! Don’t give me that, Dr Barton. When was it in relation, say, to your father’s death?’

  ‘I can’t even remember which year he died.’

  ‘Your amnesia seems a little unusual, Dr Barton.’

  ‘Oh, I can remember the season. Winter. I was shivering in my digs in Nottingham when the news came through. Snow on the ground. The campus lake had frozen over. So it was that hard winter, in those days when we had hard winters. Early sixties. Anyway,’ he demanded, ‘I’m sure you’d be able to find his death certificate on some computer file if you really wanted to know.’

  So Max Cornfield knew the year of Barr’s death, but his own son couldn’t – or wouldn’t – be precise.

  Kate confined herself to a noncommital nod, but kept her eyes on him. ‘And your sister left at this time? Before or after your father’s death?’ There was a flicker of anxiety there, she would swear it. ‘Dr Barton?’

  ‘I’ve really no idea. I was away, remember. And I told you we were never close.’

  ‘But you know enough about the circumstances to tell me precisely why your mother threw her out. Did your mother know about your father’s assaults on you all, by the way?’

  ‘I can’t believe she didn’t. I truly can’t. But she never – I can’t remember her ever …’ He gathered himself up to his full height. ‘Officer, I can’t believe this is of any relevance in an enquiry into a trivial irregularity in an old woman’s will. I have answered your questions with considerable patience and would now like you to leave.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ she said easily. ‘I’m sorry we’ve had to ask questions which have dragged up unpleasant memories. Just one last question. Thinking back now, where would you think your sister might have gone? Did she ever – you know how young people do – threaten to run away to a particular place to be with a special person?’

  He seemed to be making a genuine effort. ‘One of them was in love with Cliff Richard, the other with Adam Faith. I can’t remember which, off hand.’ He managed a rueful smile. ‘So I can’t even tell you she might have run away to be with Elvis Presley, can I?’

  ‘No flesh and blood special men—’

  ‘I’ve told you, Edna thought every man was special enough to take into her bed the first time she met him. Why not let her go, Sergeant?’ He snorted. ‘If what you say about the will is correct, I should imagine there’ll be more than a modicum of publicity. That might produce precisely the information you want.’

  Max Cornfield said more or less the same thing when Kate and Jane picked him up at seven that evening. He’d clearly been eating when they’d rung the doorbell, and Kate saw no reason why he shouldn’t be allowed to finish his meal. It was the sort familiar to all solo-eaters, if an up-market version: salad, with so many different types of leaves it almost certainly came from a bag, a baked potato, steak and a glass of red wine. Edward lay by the stove, apparently too well-mannered to purloin the steak he was eyeing. Jane was on her knees in a flash, cooing with delight.

  ‘I wish I could invite you to join me,’ Cornfield began.

  ‘Not at all. Enjoy your meal,’ Kate smiled. She wished she didn’t have to add, it may be the last you enjoy for some time under her breath. ‘Did you have a good day in Cheltenham?’

  ‘The usual. I took the opportunity of a quiet train journey to check her share portfolio against current prices. I think you’ll agree her broker did her proud.’

  ‘Broker? I’d have thought she’d want to do it herself.’

  ‘She lost sharply one year. That was when I suggested a little expertise might not come amiss.’ He addressed himself to the rest of his meal, mopping the juices from the meat – he preferred his steak on the rare side – with a chunk of baguette. ‘I was going to have the rest of this with some cheese,’ he said. ‘But it can wait. I don’t want to keep you waiting any longer.’ He got up to put his plate and glass in the sink. ‘There. Now, ladies, how may I help you?’

  ‘There are a number of things we need to talk to you about, Mr Cornfield,’ Kate told him, feeling like Judas. ‘So we’d like you to come along with us to the police station.’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t understand.’

  She kept her face blank.

  ‘I may be gone some time?’ he quoted with a vestige of a smile. ‘Well, I’d better make sure Edward has the quickest of visits to the garden. At his age his bladder … If you’re in a hurry, perhaps you’d be kind enough to open that tin for him. This is his bowl. And he can have those scraps from my plate.’

  He was so relaxed, wasn’t he? Innocence personified. As if he hadn’t a care in the world. Was that how he’d survive
d, an island of sanity in that bizarre family? By being innocent? Unless, and Kate reminded herself fiercely of the evidence mounting against him, apart from being a manservant to put the admirable Crichton to shame, he was a consummate actor as well.

  As for herself, she’d be glad to take a back seat in the forthcoming interview: it would be nice to see what other, less partial officers made of him.

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘You’re probably much better at interviewing than I am these days, Kate,’ Dave Allen said, binning a crisp packet and the cling-film from a baguette, ‘because people in my position don’t get as much practice as those of you further down the pecking order. But if you think a change of bowler would be useful, then of course I’ll sit in. Tell you what, send young Jane off home. And the others. Neville wants overtime down and morale up. So long as I get my leave, I’m not arguing. Here – while you’re doing that, get me a KitKat or something, will you?’

  Dave was still swallowing the last crumb when they went into the interview room where Max Cornfield was waiting. If he was surprised when Max stood up and offered a hand, he showed no signs of it, shaking hands and smiling cordially as he introduced himself. He even explained the tape recording system as if it were some tedious routine, rather than a vital means of preserving tamper-proof evidence.

  When they were all seated, he began, ‘Well, Max – it is all right to call you Max, is it? We’re in the middle of a murder inquiry at the moment, as you know, and one lead we have to pursue is that of the missing Barr sister, Edna. Now, her brother – Michael, is it – seems delightfully vague about when and why she left Birmingham and has no idea, he says, where she might be now. Kate here reckons you know more about the family than he does, which is why we want you to look at a couple of photos and then tell us what you know. First of all (DCI Allen is showing Mr Cornfield a photograph from an album found at Mrs Duncton’s house), could you confirm who these people are?’

  A smile of recognition and then a frown. ‘Oh, it’s the Barr children: Michael, Edna and Mavis-Maeve. That’s Mrs Barr. But look, someone’s cut off this edge.’ He showed them. ‘I should imagine it is Mr Barr who has been removed.’

  ‘You don’t sound surprised,’ Dave observed. He told the recorder, ‘Mr Cornfield is shaking his head.’

  ‘I’ve told Kate – Sergeant Power – that none of the family got on well with Mr Barr. He made a great deal of money but created enormous unhappiness with his bullying and overbearing ways.’

  ‘How did he get on with you, personally?’ Kate asked.

  ‘I kept largely out of his way. It wasn’t difficult. My work in the garden was done during the day. I retired to my quarters as soon as the evening meal was over if we ate without him. If by chance he was home, I kept out of the way till it was time for me to wash up. I’d reheat the leftovers then.’

  ‘Left-overs?’ Kate wrinkled her nose.

  ‘Oh, it was understood by the family that they would leave a portion for me. And we weren’t so fussy about food being fresh from the microwave as we are now,’ he added with an ironic smile. ‘You’d put everything on a plate, cover it with another plate, and put it in the oven or over a saucepan of boiling water.’

  Dave clearly wanted to cut short the little history of domestic economy. ‘OK. Bullying and overbearing. Anything else?’

  ‘Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘In what way did he bully? Verbally? Physically?’

  ‘Mostly verbally, Chief Inspector. Though I did end up on more than one occasion at the old Accident Hospital.’

  Kate asked, ‘What about the others? Did they end up in Casualty?’

  ‘I’m sure the hospital records would show that Mrs Barr fell downstairs on more than one occasion. And that she and doors supposedly had a magnetic attraction for each other. Michael had tried to intervene on more than one occasion, I gather. That was why he went away to school – to be out of the way.’

  ‘And Maeve and Edna?’ she prompted.

  For the first time he lowered his eyes. Then, breathing deeply, he straightened. ‘If either were alive, I would tell you to ask them. But since Maeve is no more, and I truly think Edna must be dead by now, I will tell you that I believe he – abused them.’

  ‘Sexually?’ Dave asked quietly. ‘Mr Cornfield is nodding,’ he added.

  Aware she was heading towards difficult territory, Kate asked, ‘Did – did their mother know?’

  ‘There were some subjects upon which we never touched. Ever.’ He sliced his hands in a gesture of complete finality.

  ‘You lived there for nigh-on fifty years and you never discussed it?’ Dave demanded, but not unkindly. It seemed as if he too were falling under Cornfield’s gentle spell. But then he leaned forward, full of latent aggression. Kate was glad she’d turned to him. ‘Tell me, Max – you eat scraps from her table, you sleep in a garage, you don’t get any pay: why the hell did you stay? What was your relationship with the family? And especially, what was your relationship with Mrs Barr?’

  Whatever reaction either of them might have expected, it wouldn’t have been the one they got. Cornfield leaned back in his chair, tipping it on to its back legs, and smiling, though his eyes were filmed with tears. ‘Is either of you a musician? Chief Inspector? Kate?’ He pulled the chair upright. ‘Kate, you have pianist’s hands. Have you ever played Brahms? And Schumann?’

  She was about to nod when she remembered the tape recorder. ‘I’ve played both. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Did you study them, as well as play?’

  ‘Not in depth,’ she admitted cautiously.

  ‘Would you mind telling me what Sergeant Power’s musical habits have got to do with Mrs Barr?’ Dave asked, no longer sounding patient.

  ‘Brahms went to live as a young man in the Schumann household, when Schumann was still sane. He and Clara, who was nine years older than he, became lifelong friends. They influenced each other enormously. Schumann died insane, and Clara mourned him for ever. She and Brahms, despite many rumours that they were lovers, never married. Brahms loved other women: that’s well documented. But when Clara died, he lost his will to live, and survived her by only six months.’

  ‘Are you saying that you and Mrs Barr were the Brahms and Clara Schumann of Edgbaston?’

  ‘In some ways. Our relationship was deep and complex and enduring, Chief Inspector. Just like theirs. But like theirs, it will never be more than a matter of gossip and speculation. Were we employer and employee? Were we lovers? Were we purely friends? You won’t find out from me. I promised her that. I am a man who keeps his promises.’

  Kate was moved and exasperated in equal measures. She heard Dave swallowing hard.

  One of them had to break the silence. ‘What other promises did you make?’ she asked, her voice over-loud, almost harsh. ‘About the children and their father, for instance?’

  He flinched. ‘What sort of promises?’

  ‘You tell me.’ She didn’t know what she was on to, but she was on to something.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Promises not to tell anyone anything about Edna’s sudden departure. Round about the time her father died.’

  ‘I wish I knew what you were talking about. Edna was – a very difficult young woman. She had certain – needs – which distressed her family.’

  Dave frowned. ‘What sort of needs?’ He sounded genuinely curious.

  ‘Does it matter now? This is all in the past. She may be a respectable married woman, may be a grandmother living in Bognor.’

  ‘Do nymphomaniacs become respectable grandmothers living in Bognor?’ Kate asked.

  His head jerked up. ‘Nymphomaniac?’

  ‘According to her brother,’ she said levelly. ‘He believes her mother found her in flagrante delicto with someone. Was that someone you?’

  He stood up, eyes blazing. ‘How dare you? How dare you?’

  ‘Calm down, Max,’ Dave said. ‘It was a simple enough question, and you can choose wheth
er or not to answer it. No? Shall I ask you another question: was the man in question her father? (Mr Cornfield is nodding.) So was that why she left home in such a hurry?’

  Max took so long to reply she thought he might be preparing a lie. ‘Yes. It was clearly necessary to separate the two. She went abroad. I had friends, contacts. We pulled in some favours.’

  ‘Why did no one simply inform the police? Men aren’t allowed to abuse their daughters.’

  ‘Chief Inspector, you’re old enough to remember the mores of the time. There was Mr Barr, a respected member of the community, handing over dollops of his considerable wealth to all the best charities. And there was his far from respectable daughter. Who would accept her word over his? No, it was better as it was.’

  ‘But he died, Max. Why didn’t she come back then?’

  ‘Who can say? I can give you the address I took her to. I have nothing more recent.’

  ‘Address you took her to?’ Kate repeated.

  ‘Of course. Who else could Mrs Barr rely on to escort her, see her settled?’

  ‘Where did you escort her to?’

  ‘Berlin,’ he said. ‘I took her to Berlin.’

  ‘To your friend Steiner?’

  ‘No, no. And before you ask, he has tried to find her. Berlin, Kate, when it was occupied. How many soldiers would be able to resist a pretty girl? She may not be in Bognor, but in Nice or Miami. I hope she is.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Dave sounded as if he were reflecting on the frailty of mankind. Then lightly, casually, almost as if he were offering a cup of tea, he asked, ‘Why did you forge Mrs Barr’s will, Max?’

  If Kate had seen it on TV, in a movie, she’d have gasped aloud in admiration. As it was, her eyes were glued on Max.

  ‘Forge it? I told your sergeant the circumstances. I wrote it down to Mrs Barr’s dictation. She insisted. Hasn’t Dr Steiner told you that? He told me you’d phoned him.’

  ‘Tell me the circumstances,’ Dave suggested. ‘Exactly what happened?’

  ‘Almost word for word what he told me, and very much what Steiner said. But no direct mention of Horowitz,’ Kate said, as she and Allen left the interview room to give Cornfield a breather. They sent a constable in with coffee, while they retired to the canteen.