Read Online Wexford 6 - No More Dying Then by Ruth Rendell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ruth Rendell
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more likely Rosalind, decided the place wasn’t big enough and they came out here to Hall Farm.”
“Where did he get the money to buy a farm?”
“Well, in the first place it isn’t a farm any more but a chichi tarted-up farmhouse with all the land let off. Secondly, he didn’t buy it. It was part of the property held under a family trust. Swan put out feelers to his uncle and he let him have Hall Farm at a nominal rent.”
“Life’s very easy for some people, isn’t it?” said Burden, thinking of mortgages and hire purchase and grudgingly granted bank loans. “No money worries, no housing problems.”
“They came here last October, a year ago; Stella was sent to the convent at Sewingbury - uncle paid the fees - and Swan let her have these riding lessons. He rides himself and hunts a bit. Nothing in a big way, but then he doesn’t do anything in a big way.”
“As to Rivers, he’d been having it off on the quiet with some air hostess and he also has married again. Swan, Rosalind and Stella plus an au pair girl settled down quite comfortably at Hall Farm, and then, bang in the middle of all this bliss, Stella disappears. Beyond a doubt, Stella is dead, murdered.”
“It seems clear,” said Burden, “that Swan can have had nothing to do with it.”
Wexford said obstinately, “He had no alibi. And there was something else, something less tangible, something in the personality of the man himself.”
“He sounds too lazy ever to commit an aggressive act.”
“I know, I know.” Wexford almost groaned the words. “And he had led, in the eyes of the law, a blameless life. No history of violence, mental disturbance or even bad temper. He hadn’t even the reputation of a philanderer, Casual girl friends, yes, but until he met Rosalind he had never been married or engaged to be married or even lived with a woman. But he had a history of a sort, a history of disaster. There’s a line in rather a sinister sonnet – ‘They that have power to hurt and yet do none.’ I don’t think that means they don’t do any hurt but that they do nothing. That’s Swan. If he didn’t do this killing it happened because of him or through him or because he is what he is. D’you think that’s all airy-fairy moonshine?’
“Yes,” said Burden firmly.
St. Luke’s Little Summer maintained its glory, at least by day. The hedges were a delicate green-gold and frost had not yet bitten into blackness the chrysanthemums and michaelmas daisies in cottage gardens. The year was growing old gracefully.
The farm was approached by a narrow lane scattered with fallen leaves and overhung by hedges of Old Man’s Beard, the vapourish, thistledown seed heads of the wild clematis, and here and there, behind the fluffy masses, rose Scotch pines, their trunks a rich coral pink where the sun caught them. A long low building of stone and slate stood at the end of this lane, but most of its stonework was obscured by the flame and scarlet virginia creeper which covered it.
“Du coté de chez Swan,” said Wexford softly.
Proustian references were lost on Burden. He was looking at the man who had come round from the back of the house, leading a big chestnut gelding.
Wexford left the car and went up to him. “We’re a little early, Mr. Swan. I hope we’re not putting you out?”
“No,” said Swan. “We got back sooner than we expected. I was going to exercise Sherry but that can wait.
“This is Inspector Burden.”
“How do you do?” said Swan, extending a hand. “Very pleasant, all this sunshine, isn’t it? D’you mind coming round the back way?”
He was certainly an extremely handsome man. Burden decided this without being able to say in what his handsomeness lay, for Ivor Swan was neither tall nor short, dark nor fair, and his eyes were of that indeterminate colour men call grey for want of more accurate term. His features
“Where did he get the money to buy a farm?”
“Well, in the first place it isn’t a farm any more but a chichi tarted-up farmhouse with all the land let off. Secondly, he didn’t buy it. It was part of the property held under a family trust. Swan put out feelers to his uncle and he let him have Hall Farm at a nominal rent.”
“Life’s very easy for some people, isn’t it?” said Burden, thinking of mortgages and hire purchase and grudgingly granted bank loans. “No money worries, no housing problems.”
“They came here last October, a year ago; Stella was sent to the convent at Sewingbury - uncle paid the fees - and Swan let her have these riding lessons. He rides himself and hunts a bit. Nothing in a big way, but then he doesn’t do anything in a big way.”
“As to Rivers, he’d been having it off on the quiet with some air hostess and he also has married again. Swan, Rosalind and Stella plus an au pair girl settled down quite comfortably at Hall Farm, and then, bang in the middle of all this bliss, Stella disappears. Beyond a doubt, Stella is dead, murdered.”
“It seems clear,” said Burden, “that Swan can have had nothing to do with it.”
Wexford said obstinately, “He had no alibi. And there was something else, something less tangible, something in the personality of the man himself.”
“He sounds too lazy ever to commit an aggressive act.”
“I know, I know.” Wexford almost groaned the words. “And he had led, in the eyes of the law, a blameless life. No history of violence, mental disturbance or even bad temper. He hadn’t even the reputation of a philanderer, Casual girl friends, yes, but until he met Rosalind he had never been married or engaged to be married or even lived with a woman. But he had a history of a sort, a history of disaster. There’s a line in rather a sinister sonnet – ‘They that have power to hurt and yet do none.’ I don’t think that means they don’t do any hurt but that they do nothing. That’s Swan. If he didn’t do this killing it happened because of him or through him or because he is what he is. D’you think that’s all airy-fairy moonshine?’
“Yes,” said Burden firmly.
St. Luke’s Little Summer maintained its glory, at least by day. The hedges were a delicate green-gold and frost had not yet bitten into blackness the chrysanthemums and michaelmas daisies in cottage gardens. The year was growing old gracefully.
The farm was approached by a narrow lane scattered with fallen leaves and overhung by hedges of Old Man’s Beard, the vapourish, thistledown seed heads of the wild clematis, and here and there, behind the fluffy masses, rose Scotch pines, their trunks a rich coral pink where the sun caught them. A long low building of stone and slate stood at the end of this lane, but most of its stonework was obscured by the flame and scarlet virginia creeper which covered it.
“Du coté de chez Swan,” said Wexford softly.
Proustian references were lost on Burden. He was looking at the man who had come round from the back of the house, leading a big chestnut gelding.
Wexford left the car and went up to him. “We’re a little early, Mr. Swan. I hope we’re not putting you out?”
“No,” said Swan. “We got back sooner than we expected. I was going to exercise Sherry but that can wait.
“This is Inspector Burden.”
“How do you do?” said Swan, extending a hand. “Very pleasant, all this sunshine, isn’t it? D’you mind coming round the back way?”
He was certainly an extremely handsome man. Burden decided this without being able to say in what his handsomeness lay, for Ivor Swan was neither tall nor short, dark nor fair, and his eyes were of that indeterminate colour men call grey for want of more accurate term. His features
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