DCI Kent nodded. ‘I’ll just observe. Don’t trust myself to speak to that idiot.’
It was 8 p.m. by the time George Hinks had been fetched from his local pub in Much Killham and returned to the Rivenby Constabulary. When the constables arrived at his pub to retrieve him for questioning in connection with Lucy Bardwell’s murder, Hinks thought he was being sought after for his expertise. When he was placed in an interrogation room, he became indignant. When DCI Kent and Thomas entered the room, he started to speak, but quickly closed his mouth, his eyes darting back and forth between the two men.
‘What’s going on here? Why have you brought me to an interrogation room? I demand to know what’s happening.’
When Thomas sat down across from him, George Hinks turned in his chair and spoke to DCI Kent. ‘What’s this about? I am not talking to him.’
‘You will speak to him, Mr Hinks. And you will answer questions truthfully. Because if you lie – and believe me, I’ll find out if you do – I will personally throttle you. Do I make myself clear?’
George Hinks realised the gravity of his situation. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, as he slunk down in his chair. ‘All right, then. Let’s have it.’ He nodded at the folder on the table in front of Thomas. ‘What’ve you got there?’
‘Never mind that for the moment,’ Thomas said. ‘Where were you on the morning of October 7th?’
‘I was here,’ George Hinks said. ‘And you bloody well know it.’
‘Not sure, Hinks,’ DCI Kent said. ‘I looked for you in the file room, but you had left the job. I’d like to know where you went.’
At least George Hinks had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘I might have taken a quick walk to the pub to find out what they were to serve for lunch. But there’s no harm in that, is there?’
‘Yes, there is,’ Thomas said. ‘You don’t just arbitrarily walk away from the job without telling anyone.’
‘You can just—’
‘Tell me about your relationship with Lucy Bardwell,’ Thomas interrupted.
‘The murdered girl?’ Confident now, George Hinks gave Thomas a smirk. ‘Is this why you had me removed from my pub and forcefully brought here? If I knew anything about her, don’t you think I’d have said when she turned up dead?’ He turned around to face DCI Kent. ‘You believe me, don’t you?’
‘I do not,’ DCI Kent said.
When George Hinks turned around to face Thomas, his expression became unsure.
‘You were seen, Hinks,’ Thomas said. ‘We have an extremely reliable witness who saw you in the woods behind Saint Monica’s kissing Lucy Bardwell. Did you kill her?’
‘Kill her?’ George jumped up, angry red splotches on his cheeks.
‘Sit down,’ Thomas said.
For a moment, Thomas thought George was going to argue with him, but the man thought better of it and sat back down. A sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead. He wiped it with his forearm and gave Thomas a pleading looking.
‘Look here, we was seeing each other a bit. Nothing serious, mind you. But Lucy was a good-time girl. She knew where things stood between us. But I didn’t kill her. I swear.’
‘When was the last time you saw her?’
‘The day before she was killed. She said she needed to talk to me about something. We set up a meeting at the folly near the church. Lucy never showed. I didn’t wait around because I didn’t want to be late for work.’
‘Maybe she wanted to tell you she was pregnant,’ Thomas said.
The colour drained from George Hinks’s face. ‘Pregnant? Lucy? Are you sure?’ Any bravado left in George Hinks seeped out, as he slumped in his chair.
‘Very sure.’ Thomas opened the folder and took out the two photos. Slowly he set them on the table and watched as George Hinks took one look at his lover’s corpse and fell to the floor, unconscious.
***
Following DCI Kent’s orders, they left George Hinks in jail overnight. Although Thomas felt certain that Hinks didn’t have the type of anger needed to bludgeon Lucy, DCI Kent wasn’t comfortable letting Hinks go until he discussed matters with his superior. They had left him snivelling in his cell, protesting his innocence all the while. Hinks may not have murdered Lucy Bardwell but withholding evidence in a police inquiry was another matter. Thomas didn’t concern himself with that. They had a killer to catch. DCI Kent and Thomas both knew that Michael Grenville was their likely suspect. He had seen Lucy sneaking around Saint Monica’s, mistaken her for his wife, and beaten her to death. All they had to do was find him.
Pleased to see the newspaper reporters had retired to the pub for the night, Thomas walked through the dark to Cat’s doorstep. Without speaking, she took his hand and led him upstairs, where she quietly removed his clothes and took him to bed. Their lovemaking was intense and deeply satisfying. They lay tangled in the sheets, the flickering flames of the bedroom fire making shadows dance along the wall. Safely tucked away in the cocoon of Cat’s bedroom, Thomas felt as though he could sleep for weeks.
‘You’re finally relaxed,’ Cat said. She kissed his shoulder and got out of bed. Thomas watched, admiring her naked body and her lack of inhibition as she wrapped her wool dressing gown around her waist. My wife. The sentiment, surprising as it was, came to him unbidden. They hadn’t had the ceremony yet, but as he watched Cat in her nakedness, he thought of her thirty years from now, with stooped shoulders, greying hair and arthritic knees. There was no question their love would withstand the test of time. His challenge – and he must never forget it – was to allow Cat her freedom. He would always feel protective of her. His drive to keep her safe from harm would always be there. It was up to him to make sure Cat never felt smothered with it. Smiling over her shoulder at him, she reached into the back of her wardrobe and pulled out a navy-blue paisley dressing gown, which she tossed to him.
‘Why do you have a man’s dressing gown in your wardrobe?’ Thomas wrapped himself in its warmth, enjoying the feel of the soft fabric against his naked skin. He wished he could stay here, away from the stress of Lucy Bardwell’s murder investigation, away from the anguish of his utter failure as guardian of the chalice. ‘If you’re sharing your bed with another lover, I’d rather not know about it.’
‘Don’t be an idiot. I bought it for you. Forgive me for being forward, but I knew at some point you would wind up in my bed, darling.’ Sitting next to him, she furrowed her brow in the expression Thomas had come to recognise. She gave him a worried look. ‘Have you found out anything about Michael Grenville?’
‘Only that he’s looking for his wife and he may well have murdered Lucy Bardwell.’
‘What a horrible coincidence, but there’s no denying the resemblance. Lucy and Alice really do resemble each other, especially from a distance. Never fear. Alice is well hidden,’ Cat said. ‘He won’t find her.’
My worry, love, is that he’ll find you. Thomas didn’t say these words out loud.
‘I have a favour to ask,’ Cat said.
Thomas took Cat’s hand and kissed her palm. Laughing, she pulled it away.
‘Don’t try to distract me. I want you to help me vet this woman who arrived on my doorstep. If she’s going to stay at Saint Monica’s, I feel as though she should be thoroughly investigated.’
Serious now, Thomas sat up. ‘Why?’
Cat pursed her lips and met his eyes. ‘As you well know, Bede’s been harping on at me for being reckless since I started this venture. I hate to admit it, but she has a point. This woman is going to be a test for me. With proper vetting and a cohesive plan, I should be able to help her in a more …’ She paused, searching for the proper word. ‘A more professional way. So will you teach me how to investigate someone’s past? Look into their background? If she’s got a criminal husband, for instance, she’ll have to go.’
Thomas sighed with relief as he pulled Cat into his arms. ‘Of course. We’ll start on it as soon as possible. Let me know a good time to meet her. I’ll start with asking her
some questions and we’ll go from there.’ He nuzzled Cat’s neck. ‘Marry me.’
‘I already said I would, darling,’ Cat said.
‘No. Marry me now. Why don’t we get married and then have a second, more proper ceremony when Lydia and Annie arrive.’
‘I can’t, Thomas. Lydia would be disappointed and Annie would never forgive me.’ She gave him a sheepish smile. ‘After all the things happening lately, I’m craving a quiet life.’
‘Would you sign something to that effect?’
Cat picked up a pillow and hit Thomas with it.
‘In all seriousness,’ Thomas continued, ‘next year will be a quiet one for us. I’m going to cut back on my work for DCI Kent and we will take a proper honeymoon.’ He sat up and walked over to the fire. ‘How do you feel about going to America? After the war, of course. I wouldn’t risk taking a boat now. We could go for a visit and see if we like it. I was thinking I’d like to see Los Angeles or San Francisco.’
‘America?’ Cat’s voice sounded dreamy and full of promise.
Thomas smiled. ‘We’ll just think about it, shall we?’
***
Thomas awakened slowly, moving his body into one of the dappled sunbeams that warmed the bed. The prior evening had been the perfect finish to an otherwise horrid couple of days. Cat. He yawned and realised, as he slowly came awake, she was next to him, her legs pressed against his. Noises in the kitchen and the smell of bacon – he couldn’t help but wonder how in god’s name Bede Turner managed to get bacon – caused his eyes to spring wide open.
‘Cat,’ he whispered.
She woke up and smiled at him, until she realised their predicament. ‘Oh no.’ She jumped up, crept to her bedroom door and peeked out into the hallway. ‘You’re going to have to sneak out, Thomas. The reporters may come back.’
DCI Kent had given a detailed interview to the press yesterday, so Thomas felt certain they would be occupied this morning. But one could never be sure, so Thomas jumped out of bed and dressed in a flash. Pulling Cat into his arms, he kissed her. ‘I’ll see you tonight?’
‘Yes. I’ll come late.’
‘No. I’ll walk you over. I don’t want you out by yourself. Not now.’ Not with Michael Grenville on the loose.
Cat kissed him. ‘Very well.’
Surprised Cat had acquiesced so readily, Thomas slipped out the front door. Once he was certain the reporters hadn’t returned early, he took off at a run across Saint Monica’s sweeping lawn. When he reached the lane, he turned right and cast a glance back at the house, just in time to see a curtain flutter on the second floor.
‘Damn,’ he cursed out loud. Someone had seen him, in all likelihood the new boarder.
Thomas hurried down the lane and up the high street. The shopkeepers hadn’t opened yet, but soon they would be putting their vegetables out, sweeping their pavements and getting ready for the day. Luckily he didn’t pass anyone. If anyone had seen him scarpering home, eyebrows would raise and within minutes the entire village would know that Thomas and Cat spent their nights together. He didn’t mind what others thought of him, but Cat’s reputation had to be protected at all costs. He smiled at the thought of their lovemaking the previous night and spent the rest of his walk in the chill autumn morning pleasantly distracted by the memories of it. When he got close to home, he saw a lone walker carrying a rucksack and a walking stick pass the lane that led to his drive. Suspicious, his senses fired. Why was this man near his home? He looked like an ordinary walker, one of the hundreds of people who sought the trails to the moors and through the forest. But the only trailhead here was directly from Thomas’s property.
The man walked towards him, at a leisurely pace. Alert to the potential of danger, Thomas exhaled and slowed, his muscles taut. He had known his fair share of danger, and although he had taken a few punches, had somehow always managed to come out the victor. When they reached each other, the man met Thomas’s eyes, smiled, bade him good morning and carried on walking. After they had passed each other on the lane, Thomas waited a few seconds before turning around. The man continued his insouciant pace. Something wasn’t right. Breaking into a run, he turned down the long drive that led to his home. When he reached the steps to the front door, he bent over, clutching at the hellish cramp in his side, trying to catch his breath. He almost missed the blue velvet bundle tucked behind a large ceramic pot filled with ferns.
When he reached down and picked it up, the fabric fell away, revealing the chalice, the stones encrusted around the lip glittering in the morning light.
Chapter 16
Cat threw on a pair of old trousers accompanied by a thick fisherman’s sweater. Before she headed down for breakfast, she peeked through her window, glad to see the reporters had yet to arrive. Her stomach rumbled when she smelled the bacon on the cooker, knowing full well how dear those slices were. Bede would serve them their share and save the fat to season the vegetables she would cook later. What a perfect start to a chilly autumn morning. She thought of Alice Grenville and hoped she was settling into her new life of freedom. Hoping the reporters would stay near the front of house, so she could be outside without their prying eyes, Cat looked forward to a day of physical labour. So wrapped up was she in these thoughts, she didn’t notice the sly smile on Margaret’s face when she walked into the kitchen.
‘Good morning,’ Cat said.
‘Morning, Miss,’ Bede said, placing a plate of bacon, eggs and toast at Cat’s place at the table. She turned to Margaret. ‘Are you finished then?’
Margaret, who wore a midnight-blue skirt, a crisp white blouse and a very fine jumper, leaned back in her chair. She crossed her silk stockinged legs and stared at Cat. ‘Yes, thank you.’
Bede took Margaret’s plate away and set in the sink. ‘I’ve the linens to deal with. I’ll be upstairs if you need me.’ She hung her apron on its hook and left Margaret and Cat alone in the kitchen.
‘You had a guest last night,’ Margaret said, her voice sultry and knowing. ‘I saw him slinking out of here at the crack of dawn.’
Cat ignored Margaret as she poured out her tea, adding a generous dollop of milk and sugar.
‘You’re lucky you can eat like that and remain so slim,’ Margaret said.
‘I’m blessed with good genes,’ Cat said. She sipped her tea and met Margaret’s eyes. ‘This is my house, Margaret. I’ll thank you not to question me and meddle in my business. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Forgive me, Mrs Carlisle. I’ve always been a little outspoken. My husband certainly never liked this unfortunate characteristic.’
‘Where were you yesterday evening?’ Cat gauged Margaret’s response, looking for the tell-tale signs of a lie. ‘There were reporters everywhere when we got home. I came to your room to check on you. You weren’t there. Where did you go?’
‘I met a friend, who managed to get into my house and retrieve some of my clothes.’ Margaret smoothed the sleeve of her jumper. ‘Thank goodness.’
‘That’s good news at least,’ Cat said. She picked up the teapot. ‘Were you able to avoid the reporters when you got back?’
Margaret had the grace to blush. ‘As it turns out, I didn’t return home until very late. I’m sorry. I should have left a note, or at least told you where I was going.’
‘In the future you’ll have to be more forthright, Margaret. I’ll need to know where you are for your own safety.’
‘You said we needed to speak. Are you going to allow me to stay here?’
‘We’ll need to ask you some questions about your circumstances, your husband, any potential danger we may be exposed to, things of that nature. I can’t make that decision alone. We need to assess the risk of danger,’ Cat said.
‘Who is we, if you don’t mind my asking? I don’t want to put anyone in jeopardy. Perhaps I should go—’ Margaret started to stand up.
‘No. Wait. Let me clarify.’ Once Margaret was again seated, Cat continued. ‘I’m not saying I won’t help you. We just nee
d to sit down and discuss how best to proceed.’
Cat noticed a very fine calfskin handbag hanging on the back of Margaret’s chair. Margaret reached into it and withdrew a silver cigarette case. ‘I quit smoking five years ago when my husband threw this cigarette case at me and cut my eye rather badly. Luckily, the scar is under my eyebrow, so you can’t really see it. I thought he was going to kill me. I never smoked again, but I kept the cigarette case to remind me of what he was capable of.’ With a forlorn look, Margaret gazed out the window, her focus far away. She shook her head. ‘The state of women is a sad one, isn’t it? Society doesn’t seem to trust us to do anything on our own. Seems rather ridiculous, doesn’t it?’
‘It makes me angry,’ Cat said. ‘That’s why I started Saint Monica’s.’
‘How come I’m the only one here? Forgive me for being forward, but this house is so big, it seems there should be other people here. Surely I’m not the only woman in need of protection in Rivenby.’
‘There were others, but they’ve moved on to start a new life. But we were discussing you. How did you come to find me?’
‘Find you? What do you mean?’
‘I don’t exactly advertise my services, Mrs Smith. How did you come to be knocking on my back door?’
Margaret furrowed her brows and cocked her head. ‘I must have heard about you from somewhere. That secretarial school, maybe? Or at the church? I went to the church for a while and spoke to the vicar.’ Margaret put the cigarette case back in her purse. ‘Is it important? I can’t remember at the moment.’
‘Probably not,’ Cat said. ‘What exactly do you need from me?’
‘It’s a bit complicated. I am waiting on an inheritance. Once I get it, I can move far enough away to set up house on my own. I simply require a safe place to stay for another week, maybe two. After I receive the money I’m due, I’m happy to pay you for my room and board.’
‘I can agree to that, but there’s a condition attached. I’ll need to check your story to make sure it’s true. If you could write down your full name and address, I can get started.’
House of Lies Page 15
