A grim time lay ahead, and Susan would need all the support she could get. Leo resolved not to be found wanting, but Daniel’s plight was serious too.
A prudent action he might take occurred to Leo.
‘Have you got hold of a solicitor for your father, Daniel?’ he asked. ‘It might be a good thing to do.’
‘Yes,’ he said. Bill Kyle had heard about Dorothea’s death earlier in the day when Mark Wyatt had telephoned him before driving down from Yorkshire, asking him to see to things. He was Dorothea’s solicitor too. If Bill hadn’t managed to get his father released within twenty-four hours, Daniel would tell his mother what had happened. He found it hard to hold back tears; the grown-up games had gone beyond his league.
The police cars on their errands back and forth between the newly set-up murder room at Tellingford police station and the Manor House did not pass Primrose Cottage, and Valerie, back from her shopping trip in the village, knew nothing about what was going on. She had a lot to do because she was taking the children to see their grandparents that afternoon; they were having an early lunch and catching the one-fifteen bus from the High Street. Valerie intended to tell her parents that she was going to move to Middletown. She knew that she could never be happy again at Primrose Cottage, after what had happened to her there; the isolation that had been its charm now frightened her. If she found a flat in Middletown, she could take a proper job; her parents would look after the children for the time between school and the end of her working day. She would lose much of her once-prized independence, but independence now seemed a lot less important than plain safety.
She wouldn’t be sorry to exchange stripping furniture for some sort of office job. Ronald Trimm was very hard to please. When he had come round on Wednesday, he’d collected a chest that, on his instructions, she’d rubbed down with methylated spirit and steel wool and he hadn’t liked what she’d done. He’d never shown her how to do the work, just told her what to use; she’d taken books from the library from which she’d done her best to teach herself. He’d stood in the garage in his raincoat, handing her notes from his wallet, not troubling to take off his gloves as he thumbed them from a wad.
The thought reminded her that she hadn’t yet told Cooley about that stubby-fingered hand. She had rung his digs twice, and each time he was out. If she telephoned the police station, some other officer would be sure to answer. She couldn’t tell anyone else, for they hadn’t believed her before and they would think she was making it up. She’d hoped that he would come round again; perhaps he would soon.
There was a lot of activity in the village when she and the children went to catch the bus. A police motorcyclist was standing in the road where it branched for Middletown, and there were many more cars parked in the High Street than was usual, even though Saturday was always busy. Perhaps there was a wedding on. Valerie had no time to find out what was happening, as the bus was already coming. She hustled the children on to it.
Later, when the police officer who was making door-to-door inquiries in Ship Lane knocked on the door of Primrose Cottage, he found no one there.
In Nanron Antiques they heard the police cars go past, sirens sounding and lights flashing. Lynn wanted to find out what it was all about, but Uncle Ron said, quite huffily for him, that such curiosity was vulgar.
Later they heard that the police were at the Manor House, but no one knew what had happened. Robbery, it was supposed, but there was a rumour that Mrs Wyatt had been hurt.
A uniformed officer called in the afternoon. Lynn watched while Uncle Ron went smoothly forward to see what he wanted.
He asked if Ronald knew Mrs Dorothea Wyatt and, being told that she was an occasional customer, asked when he had last seen her.
‘Now let me see,’ said Ronald. ‘I sold her a little jug – Wedgwood. She collects jugs.’ He was pleased with himself for remembering to use the present tense. ‘That was on Thursday – yes.’ He’d have to go on, speak frankly; he must hide nothing that others might reveal. ‘But I saw her yesterday, too,’ he added.
‘And when was that?’ asked the officer.
‘In the evening, at the Plough. I was working late, I always do on Fridays, doing the books,’ said Ronald. ‘There was a discrepancy which took me some time to sort out, so I popped into the Plough for a drink and some sandwiches. Mrs Wyatt was there, in the saloon bar.’
‘What time was this?’ asked the constable.
‘Oh – about seven. Earlier, perhaps. Around then.’
‘Was she alone?’
‘I really couldn’t say,’ said Ronald. ‘I didn’t talk to her.’
‘Was she with anyone, Mr Trimm?’ persisted the officer.
Ronald told him that she had been talking to the manager of the National Westminster Bank.
‘Did you see Mrs Wyatt leave the Plough?’
‘No. I didn’t stay long and she was still there when I left,’ said Ronald. ‘What’s this all about? Is she missing?’ Some curiosity would be natural.
‘No. There’s been an accident,’ said the policeman. ‘Thank you, Mr Trimm.’
When he had gone, Ronald felt an instant’s panic. Was she not dead? If she recovered, she could name him. But he calmed himself. No one could survive, with injuries like that; he’d seen bone, and brains.
Lynn had listened to the conversation and when the shop was empty again she asked Ronald what could have happened.
‘I couldn’t say,’ said Ronald coolly. ‘We’ll know soon enough.’
Lynn was sorry if it was anything serious, but she would not let distractions deflect her from what she meant to do later, which was tell Uncle Ronald she was giving up the job after today. Oddly enough, that morning he’d done none of the things she’d been finding so annoying lately. He had seen her into the van without brushing against her or leaning over her, and he hadn’t hovered around her in the shop. The relief of it made her light-hearted, and she was merry, humming under her breath as she tidied round and dusted, giving him his coffee with a wide smile. It made her feel bad about her decision to leave, but she wasn’t going to change her mind about that.
Ronald watched her whisk about, skirt swinging round her gently swelling hips, legs in white knee socks over her tights, shining hair bouncing on her shoulders. Young as she was, she wasn’t innocent any longer; she was asking for it, like those others. He longed to put his hands, ungloved, on her soft young body. He held them before him – short, square hands with stubby fingers and pale ginger hairs on their backs, strong hands; the hands of death.
He went out after the policeman had called, not telling Lynn where he was going, and was gone some time.
She slipped down to the cellar while he was gone. She’d just look at those magazines again and see what date was on them. If they were very old, maybe she’d think it over. They could have been bought by someone else and put in the drawer long ago.
She must be quick, and listen hard for the shop bell, which you could hear all right from down there for it rang at the top of the stairs.
She tipped out the pencils and pens and found the small brass key. She undid the drawer.
A black sweater, crumpled anyhow, lay on top of the newspapers. Frowning, Lynn pulled it out. There was a woollen hood, too; it was the one Uncle Ronald sometimes wore in the garden, when Auntie Nancy got after him to wrap up well. She and her parents laughed about it; Nancy coddling him, her parents said it was, and remarked, when they thought Lynn wasn’t listening, that she was like a mother to him. Lynn didn’t really understand what they were getting at; she thought it rather sweet that Uncle Ron and Auntie Nancy were so wrapped up in one another.
Under the sweater and the hood there was penknife. Or at least it was a knife; it was large and the blade was folded into the big bone handle. How peculiar. Lynn lifted out the old newspapers and came to the magazines. They were recent, two a month old and one a little older. She didn’t look at any others, and she did not find the newspapers reporting on Felicity Cartwright�
�s death that were hidden under them. She put everything back and locked the drawer again. She had just hidden the key and replaced the pens and pencils in the mug when a customer called. Lynn sold her a stripped-pine chair.
After that, she made herself some tea. Throwing the teabag into the dustbin later, she noticed a square package in it, in a paper bag. It was a round of ham sandwiches, gone rather dry. Weird.
She did not tell him until they reached Sycamore Road that evening, when she had her hand on the door catch, opening it before the van had stopped. She was out, in the road, as Ronald put on the handbrake.
She leaned in through the open door.
‘Uncle Ron, I won’t be coming to the shop any more,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry if you think I’m letting you down, but you’ll easily get someone else. It’s a lovely job. I need wider experience and I’m arranging a change of employment.’ The stilted phrases had come into her head during the day.
She banged the door of the van shut before he could speak. He’d looked as though she’d struck him; his whole face had crumpled. Lynn hurried down the drive to her own home before guilt could make her change her mind and turn back.
Blood pounded in Ronald’s head as he watched her go. How could she, after all he’d done for her? Taking her to school each day because her parents were afraid for her; giving her a job before she knew a thing about it; giving her treats and playing with her when she was a little kiddie. His little Lynn! What had come over her?
It was that boy, of course – Peter. He’d put her up to this for some reason. Well, he’d see what her parents had to say about it when they heard. He was certain they knew nothing about it. Why, only the other day Keith had mentioned how grateful they were for the fact that she had such a pleasant Saturday post. A change of employment, indeed! What sort of change? As a barmaid? That would be the next thing.
He crashed the gears, moving off, and still felt quite shaken when he went into the bungalow, so much so that Nancy noticed and asked him what was the matter.
Ronald told her, wrathfully.
‘What an ungrateful girl,’ said Nancy. ‘Still, she’s young and has no sense of obligation, I suppose. That’s what’s wrong with the world today. Hilda will be most upset, I’m sure. But I don’t expect she’ll be able to make her change her mind. Parents nowadays have no control over their children. Lynn will soon find she’s made a bad mistake. Working elsewhere will be much harder, that’s certain. Don’t worry, dear. I’ll come in on Saturdays, as I used to, until you find someone else.’
‘Thank you, my dear.’ He had to have help on Saturdays, when he bought and sold the clocks which brought in so much of their income and never featured in the shop.
‘You know you can rely on me, dear,’ said Nancy. ‘Dinner will be ready when you’ve washed. Perhaps we might have a glass of sherry this evening, as it’s Saturday?’
Nancy knew nothing about the police activity in Crowbury and Ronald did not tell her. She’d find out, soon enough. It was sure to be in the papers.
He’d transferred, that morning, the trousers he had worn the night before from the airing cupboard to the van. On Monday he’d take them to the cleaner’s for express processing. They’d be restored to the wardrobe before Nancy noticed they were missing.
21
The interview room at Tellingford police station was shabbier than the one at Fletcham, which had been built some fifteen years ago and was clinical in design. George had plenty of time to make comparisons, sitting at another small table on another hard chair. He repeated his account of finding Dorothea, pointing out that his car must still have been warm when the police took it from outside the Manor House to be examined. He’d been shopping that morning; people would have seen him in the village. There was the pleasant girl with her children, for instance, for whom he’d bought the bananas.
No one could believe that he had stayed all night beside Dorothea’s body.
But the police had an answer to this. He could have visited her on foot the night before, approaching unobserved.
‘You had a quarrel. You struck her. Then you went home and changed. You returned in the morning,’ Detective Sergeant Gower thundered at him.
‘No,’ said George, for the umpteenth time.
‘Tell me again how you spent Friday evening,’ Gower invited.
George had returned from London on his usual train. He had not gone jogging, his usual practice at that time, he explained, and he gave an invented headache as an excuse. He’d showered and changed into leisure clothes, eaten boil-in-the-bag braised kidneys, with frozen peas, followed by cheese and biscuits, drunk one whisky and soda and watched television. Then he’d gone to bed. He told them all this.
There was no proof of the truth of what he said.
‘I put it to you that you went to see Mrs Wyatt. You made certain suggestions to her which she turned down. You were angry, picked up the lamp and struck her,’ said Gower.
‘No, no, no,’ said George.
It continued late into the night. He was taken to a cell for a few hours’ rest – how could he sleep? – and then it began all over again on Sunday morning, with the detective chief inspector asking the questions.
Both the glasses found in the room with the dead woman – the wine glass and the tumbler – revealed her fingerprints, and traces of lipstick; no one else’s prints were there. Whoever had killed her may have been cool enough to wash and put away a glass he had used himself. George would know where such things were kept in a friend’s house.
‘No,’ George repeated, when this was propounded.
It went on and on. His head reeled until he began to wonder if he had, after all, done as the inspector suggested and then blacked out to forget it. But he had no wish to go to bed with Dorothea; if he had, on her past form she would have needed no persuading.
He could not say so. He could not blacken the reputation of the dead woman. Everyone had low moments, and Dorothea, when she made her crude approach, was a bit down. He must hold firm. In the end, innocence would prevail.
Cooley called on Valerie early on Sunday morning. When he discovered that she had been missed in the house-to-house inquiry, as she was out, he was determined to talk to her himself. This incident, happening in the village, would be bound to upset her, even if she did not know the victim.
She was having breakfast with the children when he arrived. Timmy heard the car draw up, looked out of the window and recognised him, and was already undoing some of the bolts and chains on the door before Cooley rang; he could not reach them all.
Valerie looked surprised to see him, but quite pleased, and Melissa made a space for him at the table beside her. He saw a brown teapot, boiled eggs in blue and white cups, a home-made loaf. He grinned.
‘I’m just in time,’ he said. ‘I like an egg myself. Most people don’t seem to bother these days – it’s all toast and cornflakes.’
‘Haven’t you had any breakfast?’ Valerie asked.
‘Well . . . a bit. I could manage some more,’ said Cooley.
‘Two eggs?’ said Valerie. ‘How many minutes?’
‘Four and a half, please,’ he said promptly.
Valerie poured him some tea. He felt absurdly pleased when she put sugar in without asking if he took it.
‘You were out yesterday,’ he said.
‘Yes. We went to see my parents in Middletown,’ said Valerie. ‘We were quite late back. Dad ran us home.’
That would be another thing, after they moved; she’d have the occasional use of her parents’ car. They’d been overjoyed at her plan and had asked no questions about why she wanted to leave Crowbury.
Cooley asked about her parents, and she told him while he ate the two large brown eggs she boiled for him. Her father had been a minor civil servant in the administrative area of the post office until forced to retire early after his illness. He learned about her mother’s operation, but she said nothing about her own marriage. Cooley, in turn, revealed that he came from Devon
, where his father had a small dairy farm.
‘I’m glad you called,’ she said. ‘I was going to ring you.’
‘Oh?’ She might not know about Mrs Wyatt’s death, he realised. She had been out the day before, and had probably seen no Sunday paper.
‘I’ve remembered something,’ she said. ‘It’s probably not important, but you’d better hear it.’
‘I want to ask you something, too,’ he said, and glanced at the children.
‘Oh – you weren’t just passing by,’ she said, feeling oddly deflated.
‘Well – not exactly. It’s a bit early for a social call, Valerie,’ said Cooley. ‘But maybe you’ll ask me to breakfast another time. Although in my job it’s difficult to know when you’ll be free. Things crop up, especially when you’re CID.’
‘Something has cropped up?’
‘Yes.’
Valerie stood up.
‘Timmy, would you like to sail your boats in the bath?’ she suggested. ‘And Melissa, how about making some models?’
Melissa usually mixed her plaster of Paris in the kitchen, but Valerie sent her up to use the bathroom as a studio this morning, thus getting both children out of the way and in one room. The mess would be awful, but you couldn’t win all the time.
Timmy beamed. Boat-sailing in the bath was a rare treat, since tidal waves from hurricanes were inevitable, and often overflowed on to the floor.
Valerie tied Timmy into a plastic apron with a picture of Paddington Bear on it, and went upstairs to control the depth and temperature of the potential ocean. Cooley sat back, waiting for her. She was a nice girl, with a lot on her plate without all that trouble. He wondered about her husband. Fancy leaving a girl like her.
He asked her why it had happened, when she came back.
‘People always think it’s that way round,’ said Valerie. ‘But I left him. I couldn’t carry on any longer pretending to be something that I’m not – a smart executive wife. He’s got one like that now. He’d been carrying on a bit with her before, but I don’t think it had gone all that far; she’d have been too careful. Hedging her bets, you know. He’s much happier now.’ And so had she been, until a few short weeks ago. ‘I sometimes wonder about the children. If it’s too hard on them,’ she said.
Hand of Death Page 19
