Murder Being Once Done by Ruth Rendell Page B

described as patient but in fact is a scarcely disguised exasperation, ‘That the cemetery closes at six doesn’t mean that no one can get in or out. There are breaches in the walls, quite a bad one at the end of Lammas Road, and vandals are always making them worse. The whole damned place ought to be ploughed up and built on.’ Having given vent to his statement, utterly in opposition to Stephen Dearborn’s views, he sipped his gin and gave a little cough. ‘But that’s by the way. You must admit, Mr Wexford, that you don’t know this district like we do, and a morning’s sightseeing isn’t going to teach it to you.’
    ‘Come, Michael,’ Howard said uneasily. ‘Mr Wexford’s anxious to learn. That’s why he asked.’
    Wexford was distressed to hear that his new acquaintance – his antagonist rather – shared Burden’s Christian name. It reminded him bitterly how different his own inspector’s response would have been. But he said nothing. Baker hardly seemed to have noticed Howard’s mild reproof beyond giving a faint shrug. ‘Gregson could have got in and out of the cemetery,’ he said, ‘as easily as you can swallow whatever that stuff is in your glass there.’
    Wexford took a sip of the ‘stuff’ and tried again, determined not to let Howard see him show signs of offence. ‘Have you a medical report yet?’
    ‘We’ll come to that in a minute. Gregson met her in Queen’s Lane at half past five and they went to a secluded spot in the cemetery. She became frightened, screamed perhaps, and he strangled her to silence her.’
    Why hadn’t they gone to her room? Wexford asked himself. Why not to her room in that house where no questions were asked? And way had she taken the afternoon off if she didn’t intend to meet Gregson until after work? These were questions he might ask Howard when they were alone together but not now. He saw that Baker was a man whose idea of a discussion was that he should be invited to state his views while the other so-called participants admired, agreed and encouraged him. Having given his own limited reconstruction of the case, he had turned to Howard once more and was attempting to discuss with him in an almost inaudible tone the findings of the medical report.
    But Howard was determined not to exclude his uncle. Aware that Wexford had a small reputation as an investigator into quirks of character, he pressed Wexford to tell them about his morning’s work.
    ‘She was a very innocent girl,’ Wexford began. He felt he was on safe ground here, for Baker could hardly claim to be as conversant with the personality of the dead girl as he was with the geography of Kenbourne Vale. ‘She was very shy,’ he said, ‘afraid to go to parties, and very likely she’d only once in her life been into a public house.’ He was pleased to see a smile of what might have been approval on Baker’s face. It encouraged him to be bolder, to ask a question which might seem to reflect on the inspector’s theory. ‘Would a girl like that lead a man on, go alone with a comparative stranger into a lonely place? She’d be too frightened.’
    Baker went on smiling tightly.
    ‘There was another point that struck me . . .’
    ‘Let’s have it, Reg. It may be helpful.’
    ‘Tuesday was February the 29th. I’ve been wondering if he put her in the Montfort vault because he knew it was only visited on the last Tuesday of the month and that Tuesday, he thought, had already gone by.’
    Baker looked incredulous, but Howard’s eyes narrowed. ‘You mean he forgot that this year, Leap Year, there was an extra Tuesday in the month?’
    ‘It’s a possibility, isn’t it? I don’t think a boy like Gregson would know about the vault and the trust. I was thinking that the man who killed her did know and that he might have put her in there because Loveday knew something he didn’t want revealed before a few weeks had passed by.’
    ‘Interesting,’ said Howard. ‘How does that strike you,