House of Lies

by Terry Lynn Thomas

  Unable to stop herself, Cat stood up, set the knife on the counter and opened the door.

  The woman wore a coat that had clearly once been a rich green. Now it was covered in a patina of grime and gave off a musty smell. The stitching around the lapels was frayed, the elbows worn thin. Her forehead was scratched, as though she had run through brambles, and her cheeks were ruddy with cold. Her right arm lay bent up next to her chest, held fast in a sling made out of a very fine blue velvet scarf. ‘I’m sorry to come to your back door, but there was a policeman at the front and I didn’t know—’ She stopped speaking, waiting for the inevitable invitation to come into the house. ‘Are you Mrs Carlisle? This is Saint Monica’s? I heard you might be able to help me.’

  Unable to avoid social decorum, Cat stepped aside. The woman entered the kitchen, careful with her injured arm as she passed through the door.

  ‘Have a seat.’ Cat pointed to the chair closest to the stove.

  The woman shivered. ‘I’ve been waiting for a decent hour to come knocking. Why have you got a policeman here?’

  ‘A body was found in the woods by my house. A young girl who was staying with me was murdered.’ Cat set a steaming mug of tea down before the woman. The woman didn’t flinch at Cat’s blunt statement.

  ‘Thank you.’ The woman picked up the teacup and sipped. ‘Did the woman’s husband kill her?’

  ‘The police don’t know. It just happened yesterday. How can I help you?’

  The woman closed her eyes. ‘My husband held me against my will. Told me if I left, he’d kill me. When he went out for food, I grabbed my coat and ran.’

  ‘Are you saying you’ve been living rough since you left your husband?’

  The woman nodded as she wrapped her hands around the teacup.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Cat sat at the table.

  ‘Margaret.’

  ‘And your surname?’

  The woman’s eyes darted to the door. Cat could sense she was gauging how quickly she could run if she needed to. ‘Smith. Margaret Smith.’

  ‘That’s not your real last name, Margaret,’ Cat said. ‘We won’t worry about that right now. How did you come to be in Rivenby?’

  The woman had eyes as grey as the winter sea. The paleness of her skin accentuated the dark circles under them. They shimmered with tears now. But Cat, in light of what she had discovered about Lucy Bardwell, wasn’t so easily taken in. Not this time. She bit back the expected desire to help, which had become her rote response to situations like this, and forced herself to wait for the woman to speak.

  ‘I’m so ashamed,’ Margaret said. She winced as she reached into her coat pocket for a handkerchief. ‘He beats me – he beat me. I’m not going back to him. You’ve probably heard all this before.’

  ‘I’m assuming he’s beaten you or threatened you, somehow frightened you to such an extreme you were willing to run away. But I need to know the details, especially if I’m to help you. I can offer you a safe place to stay, assistance with training for a job and starting over someplace else if need be. But I need to know what I’m dealing with.’

  Margaret finished her tea. ‘I understand.’

  Cat sliced four pieces of bread and put them under the grill just as the sun crept up. She had planned on spending the day outdoors. The beds needed to be mulched and the vegetables that were starting in the greenhouse needed thinning. Once those chores were complete, there were apples to preserve. Gardening wasn’t a hobby anymore. The war and its accompanying rationing of food was real. Cat thought of Bede Turner and the way she would react when she came downstairs to discover Cat had taken in yet another wayward soul in need of her assistance.

  ‘Have some toast. After you’ve eaten you can take a bath and rest. I’ve got some clothes you can borrow. When you’re feeling better, we can discuss your future.’

  Margaret breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Is that what you do here? Help women who are having difficulty?’

  ‘I’ve helped a few.’ Cat hesitated, not quite sure how to express herself to this woman without frightening her. ‘I need to make something clear to you, Margaret. I will help you. But when we discuss your circumstances and how you came to be at my doorstep, I expect you to be honest with me. And I will need your real name. If I discover you’re lying, you’ll have to leave. Immediately. Do you understand?’

  Margaret met her gaze directly before she looked away. ‘Of course. Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll help you get away, if that’s what you want.’ Cat didn’t mention she would verify Margaret’s story before she helped her. If Margaret Smith were lying, Cat would find out.

  Half an hour later, Cat found Margaret sound asleep in the room Cat had given her. She put fresh clothes on the chair near the bed and headed back downstairs, Margaret’s filthy clothes over her arm. She found Bede waiting for her in the kitchen, an angry look on her face.

  ‘You’ve got us another one of those women, haven’t you? As if yesterday’s events weren’t bad enough.’

  ‘I couldn’t turn her away, Bede. You should see her.’

  ‘You’re gullible, Mrs Carlisle. Gullible.’ Bede turned her back on Cat, mumbling as she washed the teacups and plates.

  ‘Maybe I am,’ Cat said. ‘But she’s been sleeping rough and it was my duty to offer her a rest. Bede, stop what you’re doing and sit down, please. Let’s talk this out.’

  Bede’s attitude became more surly by the second. She sat at the table, a scowl on her face.

  ‘How about this,’ Cat said. ‘We’ll mend her clothes, feed her, let her rest for a day or two and see what happens. She’ll tell me – tell us – her circumstances, and we’ll make a plan. Meanwhile, I’ll get Thomas to help me verify what she says is true.’ At the mention of Thomas’s name, Bede uncrossed her arms and leaned back in her chair.

  ‘I’m assuming Thomas can check the woman’s background without letting her husband know where she is. If he finds anything the least bit untrue, if he discovers this Margaret Smith is lying, I’ll give her some money and send her on her way.’

  ‘If word gets out you feed, clothe and give money to anyone who knocks on your door, it will never end. You’ll have a stream of women – especially those from London, who are bored of country life – begging for a handout,’ Bede warned.

  ‘I’m not going to continue, Bede. My reckless generosity may have caused Lucy Bardwell’s murder. It’s time to turn my attention back to my photography and look forward to my wedding.’

  Bede nodded her head. ‘You’re making the right decision, miss. You can’t save everyone. You can’t save the world.’

  ‘When Margaret wakes up, we’ll sit down and talk to her together, okay? We’ll plan for her future together. She’s older and might not want to train for a job. We’ll just have to see.’

  ‘And after she leaves, we’re finished?’

  Cat hesitated for just a moment. ‘After she leaves, we’re finished.’

  ‘You’ve got that look in your eye, Mrs Carlisle. You say you’re finished, but I don’t think you are. A body knows these things.’

  Cat ignored Bede’s cynicism. ‘You wouldn’t have any interest in travelling to Hendleigh with me, would you? I’d like to pay a visit to Lucy’s brother.’

  ‘Mr Charles won’t be happy with our meddling. But I suppose we’ve got an obligation to that poor girl.’

  ‘I went through Lucy’s room and found a letter from her brother. It seems, Bede, darling, you were correct all along. Lucy’s brother wasn’t abusive. In fact, at least based on the tone of his letters, it seems he couldn’t have been kinder.’

  Triumph blazed in Bede’s eyes.

  ‘Please don’t say “I told you so”, Bede. I see the error of my ways, honestly.’

  ‘And a good thing you do, miss,’ Bede said. ‘You’re a good woman, who has a soft spot for those who aren’t as fortunate. That’s understandable, really, given how your husband treated you. But you can’t fix everything, miss, not on your own.’
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  ‘Come with me to visit Lucy’s brother. I need you to keep me out of trouble.’

  ‘When you put it like that, how could I say no? Now, if you’ll let me attend to those dirty clothes, I’ll get on with my chores.’

  ‘Very well. I’ll be out in the garden.’

  Taking a hot mug of tea to the greenhouse, Cat settled into the routine of moving down the row of small containers that held seedings and thinning them. Soon they would be transplanted into bigger pots. By springtime they’d be ready to go outside into the world. Enjoying the routine of the mindless physical labour, Cat thought about Margaret Smith, picturing her on the doorstep, her arm wrapped in that beautiful scarf. Something about the woman struck Cat, some characteristic niggled at the back of her mind. What was it? Had she met Margaret Smith before? She didn’t even know where the woman had come from and wondered if they had met in London at one of the many parties Cat had attended with Benton. Cat sensed an inauthentic quality in Margaret Smith, as though the woman were acting a part in a play.

  Soon she and Bede would speak to Margaret about her husband and the circumstances that had caused her to flee. They wouldn’t make any definitive plans until Thomas verified Margaret’s story. For her part, Cat vowed to be relentless in her questioning. She vowed to replace the usual empathy and compassion she felt for the unfortunate women who came to her for help with a fair measure of scepticism and ruthlessness.

  Cat had learned her lesson with Lucy Bardwell. She wouldn’t be fooled again.

  Chapter 11

  Thomas hurried home, ready for dinner on a tray, a glass of blood-red claret, and a book before the fire. The lads had been working non-stop on Lucy Bardwell’s murder. In response to their exhaustion, DCI Kent had reorganised the shifts and sent half the men home for a good night’s sleep. George Hinks had gone missing at one point, only to be found at the pub. Thomas let himself into the house and found Beck pacing in the drawing room, his shotgun slung over his shoulder.

  He gave Thomas a wild-eyed look. ‘A woman came creeping around here. Looking in the window, she was. I chased her away. Fired my gun in the air.’

  Thomas felt what promised to be a banging headache threaten. Had the wrong person found out about the chalice? So what if they have?

  ‘He’s making a fool of himself, if you ask me,’ the missus said, as she pushed the door open with her hip. As if reading Thomas’s thoughts, she carried a soda siphon, two glasses, and a bottle of whisky. ‘Pardon me for speaking truthfully, but you’d both best share a spirit and discuss this. Maybe you can knock some sense into him. He’s running around here acting like a teenager. I didn’t see no woman. He’s just conjuring up excitement where there is none.’ The missus placed the tray on Thomas’s desk.

  ‘Now don’t you go saying that I made that up,’ Beck snapped.

  The missus stepped near him, hands on her hips and a look in her eye that Thomas knew was the portent to trouble.

  ‘Both of you, stop,’ he snapped. ‘Please. The chalice is safely tucked away. We’ve done everything we can to ensure its safety.’

  ‘Tell that to Beck. He won’t let me do my weekly shop tomorrow because he’s going to be away.’

  ‘You can have them deliver what you need,’ Beck insisted.

  ‘I like to pick my own vegetables, thank you very much,’ the missus said.

  Beck put his shotgun down and poured drinks for both Thomas and himself. ‘I was just being careful.’

  ‘Thank you for that, Beck.’ Thomas took his drink and sipped, enjoying the warmth as it ran down the back of his throat. ‘Listen. Let’s just carry on as usual, all right?’

  ‘I tell you there was someone there,’ Beck snapped.

  ‘You’ve been seeing shadows all day,’ the missus snapped back.

  She walked up to her husband and placed her hand on his arm. ‘Been married to you for forty years, Beck. I’ve never seen you so worked up. Go and see your brother tomorrow. I know you’ve been missing him.’ She turned to Thomas. ‘Are you expecting us to treat this house like a museum until the war is over?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Thomas said. ‘But I do believe there has been someone creeping about the property. So when you are here alone, I expect you keep the doors locked. More importantly, I expect you to be on your guard. If you sense anything suspicious, or if you see anyone approaching the house, no matter how innocent they may seem, I expect you to call for the police. Do not open the door for anyone. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘I understand,’ the missus said.

  ‘Beck, go and see your brother tomorrow. I’ll see if I can get a constable to patrol every hour or so.’

  Beck grunted his acknowledgement, not bothering to hide his disapproval.

  If someone had actually tried to break into the house, the only thing left to do was console himself with the knowledge his safe was well hidden and impenetrable. Even if someone actually entered the house, they wouldn’t be able to open the safe. Of that, Thomas was certain.

  ***

  Rivenby was coming to life when Hugh stepped off the bus. Shop owners swept the pavement, while the horse-drawn milk cart made its way through the streets with its deliveries. Hugh meandered through the village, his rucksack on his back, looking like just another day-walker heading out to the moors. Reaching the end of the high street, he turned away from the path the walkers took and headed in the opposite direction back to the woods. Following the trail from yesterday, he wound up once again at the house in the clearing and took his time looking for a quiet place to spread out the small rug on the ground. After he found a vantage point that allowed him to see the house clearly, he arranged himself comfortably on the ground, ready for a long wait. Margaret would show up. The question was when. Pulling out a well-read, tattered copy of The Sittaford Mystery by Agatha Christie, Hugh settled down to read, enjoying the susurration of the trees in the breeze and the sound of the birds chirping overhead.

  When the front door of the house opened, Hugh set his book down and looked through his binoculars at the old man who had fired a warning shot at Margaret yesterday. He strode out of the house, surprisingly nimble and spry for someone with grey hair and stooped shoulders, coming to a stop in the middle of the lawn. He scanned the woods, as if searching for an intruder. Hugh tensed when the old man studied the shrubs where Hugh was hidden. His gaze lingered, as if he sensed Hugh’s presence. Through the binoculars, Hugh had a clear view of the man’s shrewd, intelligent face. With the shotgun over his shoulder, the man circled the house twice before he went back inside. Fifteen minutes later, the old man, accompanied by a younger gentleman – tall, athletically built and dressed in a bespoke suit – left the house together, taking great pains to lock the front door. The younger man also surveyed the area surrounding the house. He spoke to the old man, who nodded in response, before they set off at a brisk pace down the drive. Was the house now left unattended? For a brief moment, Hugh thought about going to the front door and knocking. If someone answered he could claim he’d got lost and ask for directions to the moors. Alas, his better judgement prevailed. What if he was knocking on the door and Margaret appeared? Best to wait, patience being a virtue and all that rubbish.

  It didn’t take long for Hugh to get lost in his book. An hour passed quickly. He ate two slices of his bread and drank almost all the tea he had packed for himself. When his bum became sore and his legs numb from sitting on the ground, he stood and stretched, walking around until the circulation started flowing again. When he sensed movement in the bushes directly across the clearing, he tossed his book down. Grabbing his binoculars, he scanned the shrubs, half expecting to see a squirrel or a stray dog. Instead he saw Margaret, dressed in tight fitting trousers and a sleek, no-frills top. She had a scarf over her hair, but he recognised the slope of her back and the curve of her hips as she bent over an army-style satchel. Hugh didn’t have the best vantage point. But when Margaret crouched down in the bushes, he felt a touch of pride that he was able to spy on
her without her knowing.

  Soon a car pulled into the drive. Hugh watched as it came to a stop before the house, and a man – Hugh recognised Margaret’s lover – strode up to the front door and knocked. No answer. He knocked again. No answer. The man looked in Margaret’s direction and waved. She ran across the lawn and into the man’s arms. A long and passionate kiss answered any questions about the nature of their relationship. Margaret stood by while her lover took a small leather case out of his pocket. He unzipped it and turned his attention to the front door. While the man bent over the lock, Margaret kept watch. Soon the door opened and the man slipped inside. Margaret waited by the car. Unable to stay still, she paced and checked her watch over and over. Minutes ticked by. Soon the man came back, carrying something under his arm, which he handed to Margaret. They kissed. The man jumped in the car and drove away, while Margaret scurried back to the woods, carrying whatever it was he had stolen.

  Knowing Margaret was too focused on the task at hand to notice him tracking her, Hugh grabbed his binoculars and moved deeper into the shrubs. He knelt on dead leaves, ignoring the shooting pain from a long-ago war injury on his left knee. What the devil is she up to?

  A shovel leaned against the thick trunk of an ash. Margaret picked it up and started to dig a hole. As far as Hugh knew, Margaret hadn’t done a day’s worth of physical labour in her life, yet she worked the shovel with surprising industry. Once finished, she buried the parcel, hid the shovel in the shrubs and hurried out of the woods. Hugh waited a good half an hour before he walked the circumference of the lawn, staying well hidden in the shrubs, just in case Margaret decided to come back.

  Retrieving the shovel from its hiding place, Hugh dug the hole back up and removed a black holdall about the size of a hatbox. Not wanting to linger, he tucked it in his rucksack and hurried towards the bus stop. When he was on the bus, the mysterious parcel tucked safely under his seat, Hugh thought things may well be turning in his favour. Margaret had stolen something. If Hugh played his cards right, he could use this evidence of Margaret’s misdeeds to retrieve Martin Shoreham’s money and return it to Hermione. As long as he got some vengeance for his friend, he didn’t care what happened to Margaret.