'Ashe never went?'
'Too busy typing. We used to wheel them round to the post office in those shopping bags on wheels.'
'And the cheques… I suppose Jenny herself paid them in?'
'That's right.'
'How long did all this go on?' I said.
'A couple of months, once the letters were printed and the wax had arrived.'
'How much wax?'
'Oh we had stacks of it, all over the place. It came in those big brown boxes… sixty tins in each, ready packed. They practically filled the flat. Actually in the end Jenny wanted to order some more, as we were running very low, but Nicky said no, we'd finish what we had and take a breather before starting again.'
'He meant to stop anyway,' I said.
Reluctantly, she said, 'Yes.'
'How much money,' I said, 'did Jenny bank?'
She looked at me sombrely. 'In the region of ten thousand pounds. Maybe a bit more. Some people sent much more than a fiver. One or two sent a hundred, and didn't want the wax.'
'It's incredible.'
'The money just came pouring in. It still does, every day. But it goes direct to the police from the post office. They'll have a hell of a job sending it all back.'
'What about that box of letters in Ashe's room, saying 'cheques enclosed'?' 'Those,' she said, 'are people whose money was banked, and who've been sent the wax.'
'Didn't the police want those letters?'
She shrugged. 'They didn't take them, anyway.'
'Do you mind if I do?'
'Help yourself…'
After I'd fetched them and dumped them in their box by the front door, I went back into the sitting room to ask her another question. Deep in the book again, she looked up without enthusiasm.
'How did Ashe get the money out of the bank?' 'He took a typewritten letter signed by Jenny saying she wanted to withdraw the balance so as to be able to give it to the charity in cash at its annual gala dinner, and also a cheque signed by Jenny for every penny.'
'But she didn't…'
'No. He did. But I've seen the letter and the cheque. The bank gave them to the police. You can't tell it isn't Jenny's writing. Even Jenny can't tell the difference.'
She got gracefully to her feet, leaving the book on the floor. 'Are you going?' she said hopefully. 'I've got so much to do. I'm way behind, because of Nicky.' She went past me into the hall, but when I followed her she delivered another chunk of dismay.
'The bank clerks can't remember Nicky. They pay out cash in thousands for wages every day, because there's so much industry in Oxford. They were used to Jenny in connection with that account, and it was ten days or more before the police asked questions. No one can remember Nicky there at all.'
'He's professional,' I said flatly.
'Every pointer to it, I'm afraid.' She opened the door while I bent down and awkwardly picked up the brown cardboard box, balancing the small white one on top.
'Thank you,' I said, 'for your help.' 'Let me carry that box downstairs.'
'I can do it,' I said. She looked briefly into my eyes. 'I'm sure you can. You're too damned proud.' She took the box straight out of my arms and walked purposefully away. I followed her, feeling a fool, down the stairs and out onto the tarmac.
'Car?' she said. 'Round the back, but…' As well talk to the tide. I went with her, weakly gestured to the Scimitar, and opened the boot. She dumped the boxes inside, and I shut them in.
'Thank you,' I said again. 'For everything.' The faintest of smiles came back into her eyes. 'If you think of anything that could help Jenny,' I said, 'will you please let me know?'
'If you give me your address.' I forked a card out of an inner pocket and gave it to her. 'It's on there.'
'All right.' She stood still for a moment with an expression I couldn't read. 'I'll tell you one thing,' she said. 'From what Jenny's said… you're not a bit what I expected.'
CHAPTER FIVE
From Oxford I drove west to Gloucestershire and arrived at Garvey's stud farm at the respectable visiting hour of eleven-thirty, Sunday morning.
Tom Garvey, standing in his stable yard talking to his stud groom, came striding across as I braked to a halt.
'Sid Halley!' he said. 'What a surprise. What do you want?'
I grimaced through the open car window. 'Does everyone think I want something, when they see me?'
'Of course, lad. Best snooper in the business now, so they say. We hear things, you know, even us dim country bumpkins, we hear things.'
Smiling, I climbed out of the car and shook hands with a sixty-year-old near-rogue who was about as far from a dim country bumpkin as Cape Horn from Alaska. A big strong bull of a man, with unshakable confidence, a loud domineering voice, and the wily mind of a gypsy. His hand in mine was as hard as his business methods and as dry as his manner. Tough with men, gentle with horses. Year after year he prospered, and if I would have had every foal on the place exhaustively blood-typed before I believed its alleged breeding, I was probably in the minority.
'What are you after, then, Sid?' he said.
'I came to see a mare, Tom, One that you've got here. Just general interest.'
'Oh yes? Which one?'
' Bethesda.'
There was an abrupt change in his expression from half-amusement to no amusement at all. He narrowed his eyes and said brusquely, 'What about her?'
'Well… has she foaled, for instance?'
'She's dead.'
'Dead?'
'You heard, lad. She's dead. You'd better come in the house.'
He turned and scrunched away, and I followed. His house was old and dark and full of stale air. All the life of the place was outside, in fields and foaling boxes and the breeding shed. Inside, a heavy clock ticked loudly into silence, and there was no aroma of Sunday roast.
'In here.'
It was a cross between a dining room and an office: heavy old table and chairs at one end, filing cabinets and sagging armchairs at the other. No attempts at cosmetic decor to please the customers. Sales went on outside, on the hoof.
Tom perched against his desk and I on the arm of one of the chairs: not the sort of conversation for relaxing in comfort.
'Now then,' he said. 'Why are you asking about Bethesda?'
'I just wondered what had become of her.' 'Don't fence with me, lad. You don't drive all the way here out of general interest. What do you want to know for?'
'A client wants to know,' I said.
'What client?'
'If I were working for you,' I said, 'and you'd told me to keep quiet about it, would you expect me to tell?'
He considered me with sour concentration.
'No lad. Guess I wouldn't. And I don't suppose there's much secret about Bethesda. She died foaling. The foal died with her. A colt, it would have been. Small, though.'
