‘You mean, she had a lover?’
He winced, as if her bluntness hurt. ‘It wasn’t like her to be secretive. She was usually so open with me.’
‘She was a grown woman,’ Melissa reminded him gently. ‘It’s natural for grown women to have affairs and they don’t necessarily want to tell everyone about them.’
‘I know, I know, you’re trying to tell me that it was no business of mine what she did. But she had no one else to look after her or to turn to if she was in trouble.’
‘Is that what she told you?’
‘Didn’t you know? Her parents are dead and her only relatives are in Italy. Poor little soul, she was so alone. I became like a father to her. She used to call me Poppa Barney when we were on our own.’
‘I see,’ said Melissa thoughtfully. It could be true, of course; people’s circumstances do change. Aloud, she said, ‘So you went round on Sunday to have it out with her?’
Barney gnawed his lower lip. ‘I said I was worried about her. I pointed out how she seemed to have changed. She just laughed and said I was imagining things. She was offhand, teasing. I felt sure she was keeping something from me. I began to get angry. She said . . . ’ He broke off suddenly and turned to look at Melissa. ‘Has she ever mentioned a chap called Eddie to you?’
‘Eddie? Yes, I believe she did mention him once.’ Melissa trawled her memory. ‘I remember! She said he didn’t charge her much rent, so I assumed he was her landlord.’
‘She’d mentioned him several times lately. It was Eddie this and Eddie that and Eddie says . . . but when I questioned her about him she’d become evasive. I was trying to warn her about . . . possible consequences . . . if she . . . and all of a sudden . . . ’ Barney’s voice had become thick with embarrassment. ‘She gave another silly, sly little laugh and said, “You’re afraid I’m pregnant, I suppose? Well, so what if I am?”’
Melissa raised her eyebrows. ‘Are you saying that Angy was having this man Eddie’s baby?’
‘That’s what it sounded like. I couldn’t believe it. I never dreamed it had gone that far . . . and all she could do was laugh.’ His face was grey, his fists clenched. ‘I lost my temper and hit her twice across the face . . . and then I walked out.’
‘And that was on Sunday?’ said Melissa. He nodded. ‘When was the next time you saw her?’
‘I went into the office on Monday morning. I was going to apologise but Rodney Shergold was there. He was looking at the bruise on her cheek. My signet ring must have caught it; the skin was broken.’ For a moment, remorse seemed to make speech difficult. ‘I was appalled to think I’d done that to her,’ he finished in a whisper.
‘Go on,’ Melissa prompted.
‘She was telling Shergold she’d walked into an open door. There was a look on his face I’d never seen before, could never have imagined him capable of. It was almost tender, and she . . . she was smiling, playing up to him. I walked out. I don’t believe either of them even saw me.’
‘Did you see her again after that?’
‘On Tuesday afternoon, on her way to her class, chatting to a student as if she hadn’t a care in the world. I didn’t have a chance to speak to her. I wasn’t feeling well. My stomach was upset – nerves, I suppose. I tried to phone her in the evening, to say I was sorry, but her line was engaged. When she didn’t show up at college on Wednesday I got anxious and called her number several times but there was no reply, so this morning I went round there . . . and found her.’
He got up and walked over to the window. It was as if an actor had just spoken the epilogue to a tragedy and stepped back to allow the curtain to fall . . . but the play was far from over.
The door was suddenly flung open and a stout woman with a broom in one hand, a duster in the other and a plastic sack tucked under one arm marched in, glaring at finding the room occupied.
‘Haven’t you got homes to go to?’ she demanded.
‘I’m sorry, we were talking and forgot the time.’ Melissa gathered up her things and took Barney gently by the arm. ‘Come on, we’re in the way.’ Mechanically, he picked up a briefcase and a portfolio while the cleaner, grumbling to herself, began emptying the waste bins. Melissa led him downstairs and out of the building. He looked round him as if lost, blinking in the sunshine like one emerging from the dark; at the bottom of the steps he stumbled and almost fell.
‘You aren’t fit to drive,’ said Melissa as they crossed the almost empty car park. ‘Where do you live?’
‘Edgebury. I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of it. It’s in the middle of nowhere.’
‘As it happens, it’s not far from my village. Let me run you home.’
‘You’re very kind.’ He sounded tired and apathetic.
‘What about food? What have you got in the house?’
‘Not much. I usually go to the supermarket on a Thursday.’
‘I’ve got a chicken casserole ready to be warmed up. There’s enough for two – how about sharing it with me?’
‘You’re very kind,’ he repeated.
‘Not at all.’ At least, he was responding to practical suggestions and he’d be a lot better with a meal inside him. ‘We can come back for your car later.’
‘There’s no need for that. If you don’t mind running me home, I can get a lift in the morning from someone in the village. I accept your invitation to supper, if you’re sure it isn’t putting you to any trouble.’ He recited the formal phrases like a schoolboy remembering his manners.
‘No trouble at all,’ Melissa said briskly, opening the car door.
You’re mad, she told herself as she buckled her seat belt and switched on the ignition. This man is under suspicion of murder. He seems quiet and rational enough at the moment but he could be unbalanced. Anything could set him off; you’re simply asking for trouble. Yet she was not afraid. She drove slowly towards the exit, easing the car over the humps installed by the college to discourage speeding by the Grand Prix driver manqué. Beside her, Barney sat with closed eyes, his hands resting on his thighs. His long fingers lay apart, no longer shaking but relaxed and still. She visualised them holding pencil or brush, creating images on blank paper or canvas. It was hard to imagine such hands in an act of murder.
His eyes remained closed until she pulled up outside Hawthorn Cottage and switched off the engine. He lifted his head and stared around him like someone awakened from a long sleep.
‘This is where I live,’ she said. Without a word, he got out of the car and followed her indoors. Iris, hoeing her vegetable plot, looked across and waved. When she’d given Barney something to eat and driven him home she’d go and tell Iris what had happened. She’d probably learn about it from the television or the local paper later on and be bursting with curiosity.
Barney ate the food and drank the wine Melissa put in front of him and thanked her politely when the meal was over. She made coffee and carried the tray into the sitting-room; he commented on the lovely view and said he would like to paint it some time. He scanned her bookshelves and asked her what she was writing just now. They began talking about books and pictures and as the evening passed, something of the torment faded from his eyes. The tragedy had not been mentioned since they left the college.
At nine o’clock Barney said that it was time he went home. It was only a short drive to Edgebury and they met no other cars in the quiet lanes. His cottage, surrounded by trees, was even more isolated than Melissa’s and in the fading light the shadows had an alien, almost menacing quality. Barney opened the car door and a chilly breeze blew in. Melissa shivered.
‘Will you come in for a few minutes and have a drink?’ She hesitated. ‘Please,’ he said urgently.
Better not, warned a voice inside her head. Just say goodnight and leave. He’ll be all right now, he’s over the worst.
‘Why not?’ she said and went indoors with him.
The furniture in his sitting-room was old, the armchairs were shabby but comfortable-looking and everything appeared clean if a little untidy.
There were bright curtains, a standard lamp with a design of roses on the shade, a fireplace with loaded bookshelves on either side and pictures on the whitewashed walls. On the table, among a scattering of newspapers and an empty wineglass, stood a china jug of fresh tulips. It was a welcoming room, the room of a sane and sensitive human being.
‘What will you drink?’ he said. She asked for a small brandy and while he got out a decanter and glasses from an antique corner cupboard she began inspecting one of the pictures, a water-colour of a Cotswold village.
‘Yours?’ she asked, and he nodded. ‘I like it.’
‘Thank you.’ She took a sip from the glass he handed her and together they moved round the room, examining pictures. They were mostly landscapes but there was one portrait of a young woman with dark, glossy hair that seemed to Melissa to have been executed with a particular, loving skill. It crossed her mind that there was a resemblance to Angy in the large eyes and delicate features. She studied it for a moment or two, aware that Barney’s eyes were on her.
‘You like that?’ he asked.
‘It’s a lovely portrait.’
‘My wife,’ he said quietly.
‘Your wife?’ Melissa glanced around, seeking some sign of a woman’s presence that she might have missed. In the porch she had noticed a single pair of rubber boots and there had been only a man’s tweed hat and raincoat on the hall stand. ‘I didn’t know . . . ’ she began in some embarrassment.
‘She died many years ago. In childbirth.’
‘How sad. I’m so sorry.’
‘The baby lived for two days . . . a little girl. They let me hold her.’ Subconsciously, it seemed, he made a cradle of his arms and looked down at them. ‘She would have been the same age as Angy.’
‘Oh Barney!’ Now she was beginning to understand. She took a step towards him.
‘I didn’t kill her,’ he went on quietly. Love, sorrow and, above all, sincerity were in his face. ‘I only wanted to protect her.’
Yes, I know, that’s what I told Detective Sergeant Waters, she thought. I’m not sure if he believed it, not sure I believed it myself then, but I do now.
‘I never told the police what she’d said about the baby,’ he went on. ‘I didn’t want them to know she was that sort of girl.’
Despite the tragedy of the situation, Melissa could not repress a smile at his naivete. ‘Oh Barney, how do you suppose that could be kept secret? The post mortem . . . ’
His shoulders sagged and he bowed his head. ‘Yes, of course, the post mortem. I didn’t think. You must take me for an utter fool.’
‘You were shocked and confused.’ Melissa put down her half-finished drink and moved closer to him. ‘Look, it’s getting late and you need rest. I’d better be going.’
He looked at her and there was nothing in his eyes but emptiness. ‘No, please,’ he begged, ‘don’t leave me alone . . . not tonight.’
He held out his arms and she went to him as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
Nine
A light knock on the bedroom door aroused Melissa next morning. There was no sense of disorientation as she opened her eyes, no groping through the mists of sleep for a landmark in an unfamiliar world. Memories of last night floated on the surface of her mind; the sheer glory of it, the peace and well-being that came after to carry her away into dreamless sleep, were still there when she awoke, obliterating all recollection of the tragedy that had brought her to Barney’s house.
‘Come in!’ she called and he entered, dressed as usual in a sweat-shirt and jeans and carrying a glass of orange juice.
‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘I thought you might like this.’
‘Oh, lovely!’ She sat up and smiled at him. His hair and beard were damp and she caught a whiff of some lightly scented soap as he handed her the glass. He picked up a saffron-yellow robe from a chair by the bed and wrapped it round her bare shoulders with slightly hesitant, awkward movements, as if half expecting some resistance, uncertain whether his solicitude would be welcome. She leaned towards him so that her cheek brushed his in reassurance.
‘How did you sleep?’ he asked gravely.
‘Like a baby. How about you?’
‘Not very well. I’ve been awake since four, thinking about yesterday.’
Yesterday! How could she have forgotten? The shock of that awful remembrance made her choke and splutter over the drink. Barney patted her back and she hid her face on his shoulder, overcome by remorse at the untroubled slumber that had left him to face long hours of grieving alone.
‘Oh, Barney, I’m so sorry! You must think me utterly callous . . . and now I’ve spilt juice all over the place.’ Tears of self-disgust filled her eyes as she made futile dabs at the sleeve of the robe.
‘Callous? No, not you.’ He kissed her gently on the brow, then got up and went over to the window. The low ceiling made his spare frame appear taller than usual, even though his head was bent. ‘I forgot as well and I did sleep for a little while. Then I woke up and I remembered. You were lying there beside me, breathing so quietly, and I thought of her and how she looked when she . . . when I . . . ’ His voice shook and trailed away. ‘I felt so guilty,’ he went on when he had regained control. ‘All I could think of was that I’d struck her, marked her. I loved her so much and yet I did that to her!’
He turned from the window with one arm raised and stared down at the floor, his face contorted with emotion. For one sickening moment, Angy’s blood-soaked corpse with the raw, red wound in the throat and bewildered, open eyes seemed to materialise at his feet. That’s how the murderer might have stood after striking the fatal blow, thought Melissa with a shudder.
‘So guilty!’ he repeated sombrely, looking across the room at her. ‘Can you understand that?’
‘Yes, of course I understand.’ She managed to keep her voice steady but her heart was thudding in her chest. The seedling doubt that last night seemed to have withered away was not dead after all. She shivered as she put down the empty glass and pulled the robe more closely around her shoulders.
‘When I woke up in the night, I felt I’d betrayed her by forgetting,’ he said and the words crumbled in his throat. ‘And yet,’ he went on after a moment, ‘it wasn’t being unfaithful, was it? My relationship with her wasn’t like that.’ He came and sat beside Melissa and took her hand. He had the same air of sad loneliness as on the previous evening when he spoke of the loss of his wife while cradling in his arms the ghost of his dead child. The sense of trust and sympathy that she had experienced then, the conviction that he was no murderer, began to revive.
‘I believe you,’ she said.
‘Thank you.’ Some of the despair faded from his eyes and the tautness round his jaw seemed to ease. He took her face between his hands and murmured, ‘Thank you for last night. It was beautiful.’ He appeared suddenly shy; there was nothing of the sophisticated, worldly lover about this man.
She leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth. ‘It was beautiful for me too.’
After a moment, he stood up. ‘I hate saying this,’ he said, ‘but it’s gone half-past seven and I have a class at nine.’
‘A class? Are you sure you can face it?’
‘I have to face it.’ There was a determined note in his voice that she had not heard before. ‘There’s hot water if you’d like a bath or shower. I’ll go and make some coffee.’ He picked up the glass and went out, closing the door quietly behind him.
Melissa took a quick bath, dried herself on a large fluffy towel that Barney had put out for her and helped herself from a tin of own-brand talcum powder that, with a plastic container of supermarket shampoo, appeared to comprise the entire range of toiletries in the bathroom. She squeezed some toothpaste on to one finger, rubbed it round her teeth and rinsed out her mouth, then hummed a tune as she dried her face and hands.
‘Rule number one, never go anywhere without your toothbrush!’ she said to herself as she wiped the steam from the mirror. Her image em
erged from it like a photograph coming slowly into focus. There was a gloss on her skin and a sparkle in her brown eyes that was new and exciting . . . and dangerous.
‘Watch it, girl!’ she chided herself as she ran a comb through her thick dark hair. ‘Don’t go over the top on the strength of one night. You’re no spring chicken, you know!’
The image did its best to persuade her that after last night she looked a good ten years younger. Anyway, it seemed to say, Barney’s no teenager, is he?
‘You don’t know anything about him!’ This time she actually spoke the words aloud. ‘There’s a little thing called a murder investigation going on, remember?’
‘But he didn’t do it!’ pleaded the mirror.
‘Prove it!’ she retorted, but the only response was a radiant smile. She gave herself a jaunty salute with the comb, put on the saffron robe and went downstairs, following the scent of coffee into the kitchen.
The morning sun made a chequered pattern on the white tablecloth and a percolator bubbled on the Aga. Barney, a pottery mug in either hand, looked up as she entered and surveyed her with eyebrows raised and his head tilted in appraisal.
‘You should wear that colour often. It gives a golden tinge to your eyes,’ he commented.
‘Thank you.’ Other people, Joe included, had complimented her on her colouring but from Barney it gave her an especial pleasure.
‘What would you like to eat?’ He waved at an assortment of packets on a pine dresser. ‘I usually have a cereal but there’s an egg if you fancy one.’
‘A cereal will be fine.’
‘Help yourself. I’ve put out bowls and spoons. Here’s the milk.’ He took a blue jug from the refrigerator.
‘Thanks.’ She shook muesli into a stoneware bowl, poured milk over it and sat down. He brought two mugs of coffee to the table and took the chair facing her. His eyes had lost their haunted look and were openly studying her features.
‘I haven’t done a lot of portraiture,’ he said, ‘but I’d like to paint you one day, just as you are.’
Murder in the Morning Page 7
