The Temptation

by Vera Morris

  If she bumped into Clara she’d got her lie ready: she was looking for a Mr Froggatt, and must have got the wrong address. She sighed and wriggled, trying to find a comfortable position. She’d have to get used to doing stake-outs; she hoped they weren’t a regular feature of her work.

  There was short, sharp shower of rain. When it was over she opened the door, and walked past the house. There was a female silhouette at one of the upstairs windows, and a Golf VW in the driveway. Clara’s car. She walked back and got in her car again. Perhaps this was a waste of time and Clara wasn’t going out today. She looked at her watch: ten to three. Time was moving as slowly as a limpet.

  The distinctive noise of a VW engine cut through the air and the car’s bonnet edged out into the road. Laurel peeped from behind the hastily raised newspaper. It was Clara, alone, wearing bright green with her hair done up in an enormous bouffant. She drove away. Where to? Hopefully it wasn’t a short journey.

  Laurel waited a few minutes in case she’d forgotten something and returned. She checked her handbag: notebook, pen, camera. She wished she hadn’t worn high heels along with the suit; they weren’t ideal for sleuthing.

  The house was elegant, three stories high, with a flat castellated roof; long, wide windows lightening the grey stone walls. Three shallow steps led up to a dark blue front door, and lead pots on either side contained topiary box. Should she press the brass bell? Or circle the house first, looking in through the windows?

  Nancy told her Clara had dismissed the cleaner and gardener several weeks ago, so there should only be Samuel Harrop in the house. She hoped she could make contact with him for Nancy’s sake. Supposing he wasn’t here? Would Nancy be justified in calling in the police? They’d talked about the possibility, but it was something Nancy didn’t want to do. She wanted to protect Sam’s reputation.

  There was no one in the front downstairs rooms. Nancy had said Sam was ill; he might be in bed. She’d have to ring the bell if she couldn’t see him at the back of the house and hope he could get downstairs.

  Laurel walked down the left side of the house; there was a narrow grass path and her high heels sank into the turf. She hoped Clara would think they were aeration holes made by the gardener on his last visit. The lawn at the back of the house sloped gently up to a flat plateau; primroses studded the bank. The first room she came to was the kitchen; there was no one there, and the door leading into it was locked. She looked through the keyhole, no key on the other side. She moved on. French windows, their curtains drawn back, showed a large room, its furniture stylishly black, very 1920s. She moved closer, pressing her nose against the glass so she could see into the corners of the room.

  She nearly missed him. He was a stooped figure near a music centre, his cream-coloured dressing gown matching the flocked wallpaper. His right hand was raised towards a shelf stacked with music cassettes. She gently tapped on the window.

  He slowly turned round. His eyes, the whites yellow, were full of fear. Laurel hardly recognised him from the photos Nancy had shown her. He was a frail, ill, old man; his hair no longer thick, was hanging in greasy locks round his face; his skin yellow, and so fine and tight over the bones of his skull she thought if she could reach through the glass and touch it, it would disintegrate like antique silk. He staggered towards the window, hope in the dull eyes. He must have a liver disease: cirrhosis? cancer? Poor man, he looked wretched.

  She smiled at him and waved her hand as you would to a small child you didn’t want to panic. He reached the window and pressed a hand to it, as though to support himself, or perhaps wanting to make human contact. He mouthed something. She couldn’t hear his words. She nodded and smiled again, then took out the notebook and biro from her handbag.

  She quickly wrote in capitals and held the pad so he could see the words.

  NANCY SENT ME

  He nodded his head and said something, it might have been ‘Good,’ or ‘Thank God.’ She mimed to him, pointing at him and pretended to write on the pad, hoping he’d latch on. He looked puzzled, his eyes vague, his mouth open; he shook his head.

  She wrote CAN YOU WRITE? on a fresh sheet and held it up to the window. Understanding dawned in his eyes, he nodded and slowly turned away and shuffled towards a dark wooden sideboard on which a clock read twenty-five past three. Time had changed pace: now it was rushing forward like an incoming rip tide. Clara might be back at any moment.

  Sam rummaged in a drawer, his movements slow and juddery. He seemed to have found what he wanted, turned back, then doubled up, his face creased with pain. He leant against the sideboard, panting and looked at her. She thought he said. ‘Don’t go.’ She smiled and nodded. What she felt like doing was finding a shovel, breaking the window, putting him in her car and taking him to Nancy. Hold on, girl, she told herself. Look what happened the last time you let impetuosity get the better of you, stupidly continuing to read the log book when you should have left the cottage and contacted Frank. That nearly got you killed. This is an investigation, not a rescue mission. We need to find out more about the situation and I mustn’t move without consulting Nancy.

  He started to straighten up, as though the pain had lessened. He shuffled to the window.

  Laurel printed on her pad:

  CAN YOU GET OUT?

  He shook his head, the piece of paper dangled from his fingers as though he’d forgotten about it.

  I WILL GET NANCY AND BRING HER HERE, she wrote.

  He stared at the words, then slowly wrote on his piece of paper, and held it up for her to see. The writing was shaky, uneven and the line veered lop-sided down the page.

  No need She is coming. Clara fetching her.

  She stared at him. He nodded and a ghost of a smile touched his lips. So Clara had changed her mind. Was that where she was driving to? To fetch Nancy? They might be back at any time. If they saw her it would embarrass Nancy and probably infuriate Clara. She wrote another message:

  I’LL GO NOW. NANCY WILL BE SO PLEASED TO SEE YOU.

  His eyes swam with unshed tears. He wrote on his paper.

  Who are you?

  She scribbled quickly, wanting to be gone:

  LAUREL BOWMAN – NANCY’S FRIEND

  She didn’t think letting him know she was a detective would calm him down. Suddenly his face changed, and his head started to shake. Was his pain increasing? The paper in his hand shook as though it had a life of its own. He turned his head and looked towards the music console and pointed, his arm vibrating like the marionette conductor of an invisible orchestra.

  The sound of a car turning into the drive made Laurel gasp; she tapped on the window and waved goodbye. He stared at her, his mouth open and closing, as he tried to tell her something.

  She moved to the side of the house and waited. There was the sound of two car doors closing, one after the other. Then a turning key, the front door opening and closing. She waited a few seconds, then bending low she scuttled to the front of the house, and peeped round the wall. All clear. Clara’s car was once more on the drive. She and Nancy must be inside and hopefully with Sam. She ran down the drive and breathed a sigh of relief once safely inside Dorothy’s Morris. She took a deep breath. That was close.

  She imagined Nancy’s face as she saw Sam, how the pleasure of seeing him would be tempered by how ill he looked. He was dying. No doubt about that, but now Nancy would be able to help care for him, if Clara let her. What should she do now? No point in waiting for Nancy to come out, Clara would drive her home. She would ring Nancy later and ask her how the meeting had gone. Would she still think Clara wanted to kill Sam? Surely, she would see this was a genuine illness and perhaps Sam hadn’t wanted her to see how ill he was. Clara was merely obeying his wishes. Perhaps her dislike of Clara had coloured her judgement. She frowned – Nancy was a balanced person. This case looked as though it’d come to a swift conclusion; a pity as she didn’t want to be involved looking for the missing boy; anything to do with a school brought back too many memories of dead chil
dren.

  Chapter 8

  Stuart Elderkin parked his Humber Hawk near The Moot House on Aldeburgh’s sea front. This was where he’d arranged to meet Ann Fenner, the Pemberton’s housekeeper, after phoning her that morning. Luckily Wednesday afternoon was her half-day off, and as she was free for the rest of the day, she’d agreed to meet him. She was adamant she didn’t want to talk to him in Aldeburgh, so Elderkin suggested a drive to some other place.

  ‘Looks like she doesn’t want the Pembertons to know we’re meeting,’ he told Frank after supper the night before.

  ‘Interesting!’ Frank said.

  ‘Thought I’d take her to Southwold.’

  ‘Really? It’s a bit far, but if you can find anything that will help us, it’ll be worth it.’

  ‘Leave it to me, I know how to charm the ladies,’ he said.

  Frank raised an eyebrow. I did once, he thought.

  Stuart glanced at the car clock, two twenty, he was ten minutes early. Sudden rain lashed in from the North Sea, cold and flinty; the noise on the windscreen made him think it would turn to hail. He’d offered to pick her up outside the Pemberton’s house, but received a firm refusal. Had she told the Pembertons she was meeting him? Why didn’t she want anyone in Aldeburgh to see them together? All this secrecy suggested she must have something important to tell him. He hoped his deductions were right; the case needed something concrete; David’s drawings were suggestive of undercurrents of tensions and fear, but they weren’t evidence, and could be the imaginings of a gifted but over-active imagination.

  There was a tap on his window. Ann Fenner, eyes squinting against the driving rain, umbrella flapping in the wind, stood beside the car. Stuart smiled and signalled towards the other side of the car. He leant over and opened the passenger door. No point in him getting drenched as well.

  She stayed outside the car. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Elderkin, I’m going to make everything wet.’

  He took the umbrella from her, shook it, and put it on the floor in the back. ‘No problem, Miss Fenner, drop of water won’t harm my old war horse.’ He hoped the leather seats wouldn’t stain; he’d have to give them a good polish.

  He pointed to her plastic raincoat which was dripping water. ‘Would you like to take that off?’

  She nodded. Elderkin placed it on the back floor with the umbrella, and as she slid into the passenger seat he noted she was wearing a black-and-tan checked coat, low-heeled black shoes and gloves. Smart but sensible. He’d chosen his clothes carefully: clean white shirt, maroon tie, grey suit and he’d brought his Dannimac and a trilby. Clothes to reassure and nothing that would frighten the birds. Not like Frank’s.

  ‘How about driving to Southwold? Or is that too far? There are some nice tea shops there. What do you think, or have you got another appointment?’

  She turned to him with a broad smile. ‘Really? I’d love that. I like Southwold but I haven’t been there for ages.’

  His chest expanded. It was good sitting next to a woman who wasn’t glaring at him, or disagreeing with his opinions. ‘Then off we go!’

  Soon they were on the A12, heading north.

  ‘Do you drive, Miss Fenner?’

  ‘I’ve a licence, but no car, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Do you ever drive the Pemberton’s car?’

  ‘No. I’ve offered to do shopping, or to take David out before he disappeared, but Mr Pemberton prefers me not to drive their car.’

  He left it there; he didn’t want to talk about David until he could see Ann Fenner’s face as she answered his questions. It was enjoyable driving with a placid woman by his side. Doreen, his late wife, had been a peaceful, sensible woman; always made him feel as though he was in charge, the head of the household, even if it wasn’t true. Doreen was a quiet manipulator, but her diplomacy meant she never challenged his ego, such as it was. Dear Doreen. Now Mabel was a different kettle of fish. More like an angry lobster at times. He felt a twinge of guilt. Should he be enjoying another woman’s company when he was engaged to Mabel?

  He’d known Mabel for years, before she married and he’d always admired her. My, she’d been a good looker. A bit flighty, quick-tongued and with such definite opinions. He hadn’t been confident enough to ask her out, and before he knew it she was married to a local fisherman with his own boat. When her husband drowned at sea, a few years after Doreen died, he’d sent a card of condolence and attended the funeral. Some months later she’d stopped him in Aldeburgh’s High Street to thank him, and he’s taken her for a coffee.

  When Susan Nicholson was murdered and Blackfriars School became the hub of the investigation he became closer to Mabel. She was still a handsome woman and an excellent school cook. He was tired of catering for himself and thought Mabel would fit the bill for Mrs Elderkin Mark 2. It wasn’t until she was attacked by Nicholson and nearly died he realised he loved her. He didn’t think, at his age, he would feel love again, but he had. When she’d accepted his proposal, and they’d joined Frank, Laurel and Dorothy in forming the detective agency, he felt his life had started again.

  Why had Mabel changed? She’d started avoiding him, and sometimes said hurtful things. He knew Frank, Laurel and Dorothy were embarrassed by her behaviour. She was contrary, sometimes saying something nice, building up his hopes, then dashing them down again with a brusque reply. What could he do? If he had it out with her she might break off the engagement. Could he ask Frank to help him? But he wasn’t too hot on personal matters, afraid some woman would tie him down, make him buy a three-piece suit and cut off his long hair. What about Laurel? She was good at dealing with people. Perhaps if she could find out what was wrong with Mabel he’d try and put it right. It would be embarrassing: a fifty-five-year-old man asking a much younger woman to help him sort out his love life. He’d been sure Mabel loved him, but now? As Frank would say: Women.

  The rain eased as they turned on to the A1095 for Southwold, the sky streaked with blue.

  ‘I think we’re going to be lucky, Mr Elderkin.’ Ann Fenner smiled at him and pointed out of the window.

  Stuart decided he needed to abandon ruminations of his domestic troubles and concentrate on the case. Perhaps a bit of buttering up might help Ann Fenner open up about what went on in the Pemberton household.

  ‘Indeed, we are,’ he replied. ‘I’ll park near the lighthouse. Would you fancy a walk along the prom before we find somewhere to have tea?’

  ‘Could we? That’s really kind of you, Mr Elderkin. I do like Southwold: the pier, the beach huts and the lovely little shops. This is a real treat for me.’

  Her words were heartfelt; he felt sorry for her, she mustn’t have much of a social life, he hoped she was well paid. He wondered if she’d ever been married and perhaps gone back to her maiden name after the marriage ended, by death, divorce or desertion. It wasn’t relevant to the case, was it? Mustn’t think like that, everything was relevant. Could a past husband or lover have kidnapped David, and Ann Fenner was involved? But there hadn’t been any ransom note. Supposing the boy had died accidentally after the kidnapping? Bit far-fetched but he mustn’t let a woman’s flattering words seduce him into sloppiness. It was Mabel’s fault: if she hadn’t been so shirty lately he wouldn’t be so easily swayed by the soft words of another woman.

  They walked through the small Edwardian seaside town. Although the holiday season wouldn’t start until Easter, which was four or five weeks away, the streets were busy, with small queues at the bread shop and fishmongers.

  He sniffed the air. ‘Ah, Adnams brewery is in business.’

  Ann Fenner laughed. ‘You like your ale, do you, Mr Elderkin?’

  She seemed to have shed ten years, her face relaxed and smiling.

  ‘I do like a pint or two, but not on duty, you understand. Lovely smell, malting hops, although some folk don’t like it.’

  ‘Mixes well with the sea air, adds a touch of gaiety to the place.’

  As they walked down the narrow streets, stopping to look in several of
the many antique shops, he realised people must take them for a couple, perhaps a married couple. He didn’t find the idea unattractive: she was a well-set up woman, easy to talk to, and she seemed to have an even temper. A reliable source of information? He hoped so. After a stroll up and down the front he found a quiet tea shop and ordered tea and buttered scones. He wondered if Ann Fenner was a good cook.

  He let her drink the first cup of tea and eat a scone, then he took out his notepad and biro. ‘Would you mind if I made notes, Ann? Can I call you Ann? My name’s Stuart. Can’t trust my memory anymore.’ It wasn’t true, but he didn’t mind playing the old codger if he got the right result.

  ‘No, of course not, and I’d like you to call me Ann, but will you tell Mr and Mrs Pemberton what I say?’

  Stuart poured hot water into the tea pot and gave it a stir. ‘No reason for that unless this case gets referred back to the police, and someone is accused of a crime.’

  She sat back, her fingers holding tight to the edge of the table cloth. ‘What do you mean, a crime? David ran away. How can anything I say be relevant to a crime?’

  Whoops. Not a good beginning. ‘Sorry, Ann. We’re not expecting to find a crime’s been committed, I was just theorising in answer to your question, putting the worse slant on the case. No need to worry about what you say being passed back to your employers.’ Had that smoothed the way?

  She took a sip of tea, frowning and didn’t reply.

  Oh heck. He was silent, then buttered a second scone. They weren’t as good as Mabel’s, bit dry.

  Ann took a deep breath. ‘I want to talk to someone about David. I did talk to the police and the private detectives who took on the case, but …’ She looked at him, biting her lip.

  ‘You could have told them more?’

  She nodded. ‘I’m not sure if what I’ve got to say is relevant. Also, Mrs Pemberton always insisted on being there when I was asked questions, and the police and the private detectives didn’t seem to think I’d have anything important to tell them.’