Playing With Fire

It was a very evasive answer, Banks thought. But maybe his question was too difficult, or too painful, for the Redferns to answer. “Did she confide in you about things?”

“She was a quiet child. A dreamer. I don’t know that she ever confided in anyone.”

“What about when she got older? Did you remain close?”

“Do you have any children of your own, Mr. Banks?” Julia Redfern asked.

“Two,” Banks said. “A boy and a girl.”

“Grandchildren?”

“Not yet.”

“Of course not,” she said. “You’re far too young. But you’ll know what I mean when I tell you how relationships change when children become teenagers.”

“You didn’t see as much of her?”

“Exactly. The last thing a teenage girl wants to do is come and visit old grandma and grandad.”

“Boys, too,” said Banks. “I was the same, myself.” Banks’s grandparents had all lived in London, so he hadn’t seen them that often, but he remembered endless rainy train rides with his parents and his brother Roy, remembered the old Hornby clockwork train set his grandad Banks kept for him to play with in the spare room, the old war souvenirs in the attic – a tin hat, a shell casing and a gas mask – and the rabbit hutches in the big back garden of his grandad Peyton’s house, facing the railway tracks, the long trains rumbling by in the night, through his sleep. All four grandparents were dead by the time he was seventeen, and he was sorry he hadn’t had a chance to know them better. Both his grandfathers had fought in the First World War, and he wished he’d asked them about their experiences. But back when he was a kid, he hadn’t cared so much. Now the subject interested him. He hoped that if Brian or Tracy had kids it wouldn’t be so far in the future that he was a useless old man. “But you did see her on occasion, didn’t you?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” Maurice Redfern answered. “But she was un-communicative.”

“Did you ever suspect there was anything wrong?”

The muscles on Maurice’s face seemed to tighten. “Wrong? In what way?”

“Did you suspect drug use, for example? It’s not uncommon among teenagers.”

“I never saw any evidence of it.”

“Was she happy?”

“What an odd question,” Maurice said. “I suppose so. I mean she never said, either way. She was very much in her own world. I assumed it was a benign place. Now it appears that perhaps I was wrong.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“You’d hardly be here asking all these questions otherwise, would you?”

“Dr. Redfern, I’m sorry if I appear to be prying into private family history, but this is a murder investigation. If you know anything at all about your granddaughter’s state of mind prior to her death, then you should realize it might be important information.”

“We don’t know anything,” said Julia. “We were just a normal family.”

“Let’s go back a bit,” said Banks. “How old was Christine’s mother when she got pregnant?”

“Sixteen,” said Maurice.

“Was she a wild child?”

He thought for a moment, fingertip touching his lips, then said, “No, I wouldn’t say that, would you, dear?”

“Not at all,” Julia agreed. “Just foolish. And ignorant. It only takes once, you know.”

“And the father was an American student?”

“Apparently so,” said Dr. Redfern. “He soon disappeared from the scene, whoever he was.”

“What kind of a mother was Frances?”

“She did her best,” said Julia. “It was difficult, her being so young and all, but she tried. She did love little Christine.”

“Was Dr. Aspern on the scene then?”

“I’ve known Patrick Aspern for nearly thirty years,” said Dr. Redfern. “He was my junior at the infirmary, and we even practiced together in Alwoodley for a period.”

“So you were his mentor?”

“In a way. His friend, too, I hope.”

“How did you feel about Dr. Aspern’s interest in your daughter?”

“We were pleased for both of them.”

“How early did you notice it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I assume Patrick Aspern was around the house a lot. Did he seem interested in Frances before she had Christine?”

“Don’t be absurd,” said Maurice. “She would have been under sixteen then. He knew her, of course, had done almost since the day she was born. But Frances was twenty-one when they got married, well above the age of consent. There was nothing untoward or unhealthy about it at all. Besides, an older man can bring a bit more stability and experience to raising a family. Frances needed that.”

“So your daughter was grateful for Patrick Aspern’s interest in her?”

“I wouldn’t say ‘grateful’ is the right word to use,” Maurice argued.

“But his interest was reciprocated?”

“Of course. What do you think it was, an arranged marriage? Do you think we forced Frances into it?”

“What are you getting at, Mr. Banks?” asked Julia. “What’s this got to do with Christine’s death?”

“How long were they courting?” Banks asked her. “These things don’t happen overnight.”

“You have to remember,” Julia explained, “that there was Christine to think about. Always. It was hard for Frances to lead a normal life, make friends and go out with boys like other girls her age. She didn’t get out very often, so she had no chance to meet boys. Patrick took her out a few times, while we looked after Christine. Just to the pictures, that sort of thing. More as a favor, really, to get her out of the house for a while. Sometimes he’d take the two of them to the country for a day out. Whitby, or Malham. Somewhere like that.”

“Weren’t you worried?”

“About what?”

“That they might be up to something.”

“Why should we be?” said Maurice. “Patrick was my closest and dearest friend. I trusted him implicitly.”

“But didn’t it bother you, him being so much older than Frances? Weren’t you concerned that he might take advantage of her?”

An edge of irritation entered Maurice Redfern’s tone. “Not at all,” he said. “Why would we be concerned? Frances was twenty and Patrick was in his thirties when they first started ‘stepping out’ together. She was a very attractive young woman, and he was a dashing, handsome, talented doctor with a great future. What could be wrong with that? Why should we object or feel concern? We’d almost despaired of Frances finding anyone, and then… this happened. It was perfect. A miracle. An occasion for joy. Two of the people I loved most in the world finding one another. I couldn’t have wished for a better match.”

So that was it, Banks realized. The reason for all the edginess and embarrassment he had sensed. The Redferns had wanted to get Frances married off, and baby Christine had been an impediment to that. They were the ones who were grateful for Patrick’s interest in their daughter. After all, not many young men are willing to take on a young woman and a baby, especially if that baby isn’t his own. When the good Dr. Aspern took both Frances and the child as well, it would have been easy for the Redferns to turn a blind eye to any number of things. Perhaps they had even encouraged him, left the two alone together, offered to baby-sit? But to what, exactly, had they turned a blind eye?

“What was their relationship like?” Banks asked.

“Perfectly aboveboard,” said Julia Redfern. “There was no hanky-panky. Not in this house. And, take my word for it, we’d have known.”

“Were they affectionate? Demonstrative?”

“They weren’t always touching and feeling each other like some of the kids today,” said Julia. “It’s disgusting, if you ask me. You should keep that sort of thing for private.”

“And they didn’t get much privacy?”

“I suppose not,” she said. “It was difficult.”

“We were just happy that Patrick took an interest in her,” Maurice added. “He brought her out of her shell. It had been a difficult few years. Christine wasn’t always the easiest child to deal with, and Frances was becoming withdrawn, old before her time.”