‘You are punctual,’ George said, accusingly. ‘You never were, before.’
‘I’m quite a lot of things now that I never was before,’ said Angela calmly. ‘Go on, George.’
‘Yes, well, all right.’ George had wanted to suggest they might as well arrive together, but gave up the idea. This new Angela might argue. He made an awkward gesture and moved away, wondering, as he walked up the road, if she knew where to go. But she need only follow.
Angela took a turn round the market square. She gazed in some shop windows and wished that the Treasure Box, which had some intriguing objects on display, was open. Eventually she entered the Sorrento, and by then George, who had been pretending with difficulty not to know she was expected, particularly when confronted with a table set for four, was getting anxious. He’d been there nearly ten minutes himself; what could she be doing?
She arrived in a little flurry. Mario glided forward to take her coat and hand it to a minion who was his nephew. Daniel sprang to greet her, bending to kiss her, something he rarely did; her cheek was cold from the night air. He moved in behind her as she followed Mario to the table, to cut off her retreat in case she tried to flee when she saw her husband.
But she did no such thing.
‘Well, George! What a surprise,’ she said, as he stood up. She spoke calmly, not touching him, no kiss or handshake. ‘Vivian, dear, how nice!’ She kissed the girl, who had risen awkwardly and now blushed. The enormity of their plot, her idea, suddenly overwhelmed her; the quarrel between Daniel’s parents was not her business.
Mario was pouring wine into all the glasses.
‘Happy birthday, Mum,’ said Daniel, raising his.
‘How sweet of you to give me a party,’ Angela said.
She was so poised. She looked different, somehow. Her hair was done in a new way and it made her seem younger. It dawned on George that she’d had a rinse. She wore a dress he didn’t remember, black and slinky, and a cameo brooch that had been her mother’s. Now she took charge of the evening, determined not to permit the young people to feel any sense of humiliation by allowing it to become a social failure. She steered the conversation to subjects they could discuss, asking about their studies, seeming informed as to detail. She turned to George now and then.
‘You look well, George,’ she said. ‘Still playing golf?’ and between remarks to Daniel or Vivian inquired about the Parish Council and the Liberal Association, and expressed pleasure that he had found someone to come in daily and act as housekeeper. She knew Mrs Pearson; a pleasant, reliable woman.
‘Yes, she’s very dependable,’ said George shortly. He did not like this new Angela; she was tough, confident, even aggressive, like those libbers people were always mentioning – like women he met through his work.
He bent to his veal.
‘Dad’s taken up jogging,’ said Daniel.
‘No!’ Angela laid down her fork and stared across the table at George. He would not meet her eye, concentrating on his plate, mopping up the rich sauce with rice. ‘Have you really, George?’
‘Yes. It’s wise. Promotes good health,’ said George brusquely.
‘When do you do it?’ Angela asked. ‘Up in the morning early? Pounding round the houses with the dawn?’
‘No. In the evening, after I get home.’ He made an effort to defend himself. ‘It refreshes me after the stress of the office. I haven’t had a cold all winter.’
‘How splendid, George,’ said Angela. She was trying not to laugh. ‘What do you wear? Little shorts?’
‘Of course not, in winter,’ snapped George testily. ‘I have a proper tracksuit, and when it’s very cold I wear a sweater as well. And a singlet, naturally.’
‘Oh, naturally.’ Angela’s mouth was twitching. She carefully cut a slice of chicken.
George’s control suddenly snapped.
‘It’s all very well for you to find it humorous,’ he burst out. ‘Going off and leaving me alone like that! You won’t be so amused if I drop down dead and you’re left a widow, though you’re well provided for by my pension.’
‘George, how dare you,’ said Angela coldly. ‘I haven’t taken a penny from you since I left you.’
‘Daniel still depends on me. He isn’t self-supporting yet, nor will be for some time,’ said George. ‘I should have thought it only prudent to keep myself fit.’
‘Well, I think it’s very funny, you running around at your age puffing and blowing,’ Angela said. ‘As if you didn’t get plenty of exercise playing golf.’
‘I don’t play every day,’ said George. ‘Only at weekends. And not always then.’ Suddenly he could carry on the charade no longer. He stood up, fumbling for his wallet. ‘I appreciate what you’ve been trying to do, Dan,’ he said. ‘But you can see the frame of mind your mother’s in. It’s a waste of time.’
He flung a little scatter of five-pound notes down on the table and marched off, demanding his coat. None of the others moved to stop him as a waiter helped him on with the heavy lined raincoat he wore in winter. As he left the restaurant, George thought he could hear them laughing. Angela noticed that George had finished his main course. The plate was quite clean. He would never make a gesture involving waste.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘I’m enjoying myself, anyway, Daniel. It was a touching idea of yours, getting us together, but you’ll do better to see us separately. At least you can feel you’ve tried.’ She smiled at the two of them. ‘You’ll get used to it, and so will George,’ she said.
Daniel was staring down at the money on the table, his distress evident.
‘I didn’t mean him to pay,’ he growled.
‘He knows that, Dan. But accept it, darling,’ Angela advised. ‘Or he’ll be even more hurt.’ For a moment she met Vivian’s gaze.
‘He minds dreadfully,’ Vivian said, in anguish.
‘Yes, but it isn’t his heart,’ said Angela coolly. ‘It’s his pride.’
‘He’s alone – lonely,’ Vivian persisted.
‘And so was I, while we lived together,’ said Angela. ‘You can be very lonely within a marriage, Vivian. Don’t you know that? I’m only forty-four. Do you think I should spend the rest of my life – maybe another thirty or forty years – finding little jobs to do to keep me occupied, running coffee mornings for charity and keeping meals hot when George comes home late? I’m a person, too.’
Vivian was unable to answer. She stared at her plate.
‘I’ll post him the money,’ said Daniel, gathering it up.
‘No, don’t do that,’ said Angela. ‘Write and thank him for it, or ring up, and use it to take Vivian somewhere nice quite soon. Now, let’s enjoy ourselves, shall we? I’ll tell you about my job.’
And she set herself to sparkle for them.
George walked down the road in a blind rage. How dare she mock at him like that? How dare she look so youthful and elegant? Why was she not wearing the pendant he had sent her?
He saw her car, the brown mini he had bought for her, parked a short way from his own Rover. She talked about not taking his money, but she’d kept that. He kicked at one of its tyres. A silk scarf lay inside on the seat. He tried the door. Of course she hadn’t locked it. She’d taken the keys, but he had the duplicate set in his pocket on his own ring. He could drive it away. That would teach her to be so uppity.
As he thought this, a policeman came up to him and asked him what he was doing.
‘It’s my wife’s car,’ said George.
‘I see, sir. And your name is?’
‘Oh – drat it.’ Why wasn’t the fellow out catching burglars? George supplied his name and address.
‘Could I see your driving licence, please, sir?’ said the constable courteously.
‘Oh, God! Is this necessary?’ George found it and handed it over. The policeman made notes in his book and handed it back. George had one endorsement for speeding.
‘Leaving now, are you, sir?’ the policeman inquired. This certainly did not look like your us
ual car thief but you couldn’t be sure.
George was going to be breathalysed. He could feel it coming. But he’d had only a couple of glasses of that rather ordinary wine. Would that be enough to do it? He kept his head.
‘No,’ he said. ‘My wife’s at a restaurant up the road, with my son. She’s driving. I didn’t feel well – I came out for some air. I was just checking up on the tyres.’
The policeman bent down to look at them. Luckily they were in good order; it would be too much to bear if they were worn and the policeman held George responsible.
‘I see, sir. Feeling better now, are you?’ asked the constable. This apparently respectable citizen in his good raincoat didn’t seem drunk, though he showed signs of distress.
‘Yes, thank you,’ said George. ‘Much better.’
‘Don’t forget to lock the car, will you, sir?’ the policeman reminded him. ‘Before you go back to your family in the restaurant.’
‘Oh – no. I’ll see to it, officer,’ said George.
The policeman watched as he did so, and stood there while George walked away, back towards the Ristorante Sorrento. He peered in at the window. He could see Angela and the others at their table; they were laughing at some good joke, not caring at all that he had gone off alone.
He couldn’t go back to the Rover while that policeman was about. He walked on, and into the grounds of the abbey, stumbling about among the tombs, for the doors were locked. After some time he decided it would be safe to return to his own car. The mini was still there, but there was no sign of the policeman.
George got into his Rover and drove off.
Felicity Cartwright never met her lover, Hugo Morton, on a Wednesday. Tuesday, when a friend came to play picquet with his invalid wife, was their regular evening together, although sometimes they missed even that when the friend failed.
He could spare little time for the Treasure Box, in which he was a partner with Felicity. His wife approved of his investment in the business; it would be an interest when he retired in a few years’ time. Felicity had given up her London job for several reasons; one was because they were able to meet so little. She had played for some time with the idea of a business of her own, nearer to Hugo, but had too little capital to buy a house and to stake a year’s rent on a shop. Hugo was delighted to have found a real way to help her by investing in the shop.
Every evening, before leaving the office, he telephoned her when he did not see her, but that Wednesday he made his call later than usual. When there was no reply, he did not worry. She had said nothing, the night before, about going out, but could have made some subsequent arrangement. He was not her keeper; he was pleased to think she might be making new friends in the area. By the time his wife was asleep, freeing him to telephone unobserved from his own house, it was midnight, and too late. He did not want to wake her.
In the morning, when he’d done the post with his secretary, he rang her at the Treasure Box but again there was no reply, nor was there one from the house.
That was odd. If she’d had to go out, and had no one to look after the shop, she’d have put the Ansaphone on.
He asked the operator to check both telephones and, when no fault could be detected, he made some excuse to his secretary and went round to the Treasure Box. The shop was locked and bolted, the mail thrust through the letter box lying on the floor inside.
Hugo drove straight to Felicity’s house. He had his own key, and he found her there, lying half naked on the bed, with her hands still tied to the bedstead.
13
The police arrived very quickly.
A uniformed constable in a panda car was the first, in answer to the 999 call which Hugo made on Felicity’s telephone. After the immediate unbelieving, appalling shock, no other course occurred to him. His first impulse was to free her poor arms, tied up above her head, but, when he touched her, she was cold, and he realised he must disturb nothing.
He waited in Felicity’s elegant little sitting room, numb with horror and grief, until the constable arrived. Hugo told him briefly what had happened, then took the officer upstairs and waited outside Felicity’s bedroom door. He had spent much of the war in a prisoner-of-war camp; he had seen men killed in battle, but nothing he had seen before had shocked him so much.
The constable came out of the bedroom in a very few seconds.
‘Please go downstairs, sir, and wait,’ he said. ‘I’ll need to radio in. Who is the dead woman?’
Hugo told him.
‘Are you a relative? Her husband?’
‘No, a friend. She has an antique shop in the town and she wasn’t there today. I could get no reply on the telephone so I came round.’
‘The front door was open? Unlocked?’
‘No. I have a key.’
‘I see, sir. Please go and sit down,’ said the constable. ‘I’ll be with you shortly.’
Hugo returned to the sitting room. Soon the constable returned and said that help was on its way. Then he took out his notebook and asked Hugo some more questions. They were quite straightforward – about the time he had telephoned, and when he had arrived, and when he last saw the dead woman. And his name and address.
The scenes-of-crime officer and Detective Inspector Maude arrived while this was going on. Hugo was allowed to telephone his office to say he would be delayed indefinitely, and then he went to Fletcham police station to make a statement.
He was glad to leave the house. More dreadful things must happen to Felicity’s poor body now if the police were to find whoever had committed this monstrous crime.
How had she, in fact, died? He had seen some blood on the quilt, but very little. The policemen told him there was a small wound but they could not say what had caused death. By the time the police doctor arrived to certify that life was extinct, Hugo was already at Fletcham police station making his statement.
Real evidence as to the cause of death must wait until the post-mortem, but the police doctor thought it was probably due to internal bleeding; the liver might have been punctured. If she had received prompt attention, the victim might have recovered. It was obvious she had been raped and routine swabs from her body should yield evidence about the attacker. Traces of her might be found upon him, if a suspect could be found.
The body lay there, waiting for the forensic pathologist to arrive. Establishing the time of attack would be important, and might be difficult. She could have lain there, wounded and alone, a long time before she died. Maude looked at her hands, small, with varnished nails. She might have scratched her assailant, trapping skin particles under her fingernails. He had the hands bagged and started the meticulous work which would tell him about Felicity Cartwright’s life, and who might have ended it.
He began with Hugo Morton.
Detective Sergeant Dunn and a detective constable went to see Hugo Morton’s wife while her husband was being questioned.
A thin, faded, once pretty woman, Rosemary Morton spent most of her time in a wheelchair. She could move around a little without it, using crutches, but her condition was deteriorating and the time would come when she would have to be wheeled or carried everywhere.
She confirmed that her husband had spent the previous evening at home, arriving from the office at about six fifteen as usual. Their daily housekeeper had left the meal prepared, and he had cooked the vegetables, dishing up the pigeon casserole. He was fond of pigeon, said his wife. After that she had watched television, while Hugo had attended to papers in his study.
‘You knew Mrs Cartwright?’
‘Naturally,’ said Rosemary Morton. ‘She was a friend of my sister-in-law. We’ve known her for years.’
Dunn went stolidly on.
‘You were aware of the relationship between your husband and Mrs Cartwright?’
‘They were business partners,’ said Rosemary.
‘He had the key of her house in his possession, madam,’ said Dunn.
‘I know,’ said Rosemary steadily. ‘Felicity lived a
lone and my husband would occasionally do little things about the place to help her. He needed to get into the house sometimes when she was out.’
‘What sort of things, Mrs Morton?’
‘Er—change tap washers. That sort of thing,’ said Rosemary.
She was holding a handkerchief in her knotted, swollen fingers, twisting it round as she spoke. Marital loyalty was a remarkable quality, Dunn reflected.
‘Is there anyone else who can confirm that your husband was at home all the evening?’ he asked.
There was not. Hugo’s car, which according to his statement was in the garage all the evening, would therefore not have been seen by passers-by; anyway, he could have walked to Felicity Cartwright’s house in fifteen minutes. His wife, watching television and almost immobile herself, imagining him to be in his study, might have been unaware of his absence if he had left the house for an hour.
When the police had finished talking to his wife and her statement had been taken and signed, Hugo was allowed to leave Fletcham police station. He went back to the office to clear a few things that were urgent, and then hurried home, for Rosemary must be told the news before she heard about it from someone else, or the newspapers.
It had not occurred to him that the police would talk to her. He had been questioned in detail at the station himself, but had thought that inevitable if the police were to discover how Felicity’s last hours of life were spent; he had explained clearly that he had touched her hands, wanting to free her, had moved about her room. He put his faith in British justice and the efficiency of the police force; they would find clues which would lead them to the killer. Meanwhile, he must somehow submerge his own grief and shock until there was time to examine them, and prevent hurt to his wife, if he could.
She told him about Detective Sergeant Dunn’s visit.
Of course the police must confirm his movements; stupid of him not realise that, Hugo thought, bitterly.
Rosemary gripped her poor twisted hands together. There must be frankness between them now, or they were lost.
Hand of Death Page 11
