‘There was certainly plenty of choice — the Plough, as you say, the Great Bear, King Charles’s Wain, the Waggon — they’re all names for the same constellation. We had some American visitors last summer, and they referred to it as the Big Dipper, which sounds more like a fairground to me.’
Helen had started to speak when a loud banging sounded on the front door, together with the simultaneous and continuous ringing of the bell.
‘What the devil —?’
Gordon Cain went hurrying to answer it as his wife and another woman came quickly into the hall, exclaiming at the commotion. From where she stood, Helen couldn’t see the door but she caught the urgent exchange of voices and a moment later Cain came quickly back, followed by a pale and breathless young man.
Mrs Cain started forward. ‘Gordon, whatever —?’
‘There’s been an accident along the road,’ he answered tersely, striding into the office. ‘I’m ringing for an ambulance.’
The young man hovered between the office door and the powerful magnet of the fire. He had started to shiver, doubtless from shock as much as the cold outside.
‘She was lying at the side of the road,’ he said jerkily. ‘My girlfriend spotted her; she was peering out of the window to see how near the edge we were — it’s really thick out there. She thought it was a heap of clothes at first, but we decided to stop and make sure. Thank God we did.’
‘Which way were you going?’ Stella Cain asked.
‘Towards Marlton, but since we’d only just passed you, it seemed quickest to come back here to phone.’
Stella glanced towards the door. ‘Wouldn’t your friend like to come in?’
‘She stayed with the girl. We didn’t dare move her so we rigged up a torch as a warning light.’
‘Is she badly hurt?’ Helen asked.
He shrugged. ‘She’s unconscious; it’s hard to tell.’
Gordon Cain emerged from the office. ‘They’re on their way.’
‘Cheers. I’d better get back to Lesley. I didn’t like leaving her.’
‘Shall I come with you?’ Cain offered.
‘Thanks, but it’s OK. There’s really nothing you can do, and the ambulance shouldn’t be long.’ With a nod that included them all, he turned and hurried back outside.
*
Detective Chief Inspector Webb swore under his breath. It was getting thicker than ever, dammit. At this rate he’d be late for his meeting with the Ledbetters.
It had seemed a good idea at the time; the Gallery of Modern Art at SB was showing some Russian paintings, and, knowing his interest, Chris had suggested Webb met him and his wife there and went back with them for supper afterwards. Since he’d nothing urgent at the moment, he’d accepted and left the station at six, which in all conscience should have allowed comfortable time for the journey. But the mist which had been barely noticeable in Shillingham had progressively thickened, and after Marlton became almost impenetrable. What’s more, he thought gloomily, there was the return journey to bear in mind.
It was as he cautiously rounded a bend that he noticed a faint light on the far side of the road. He slowed down still further, peering through the opaque darkness in an attempt to identify it. Then a figure took shape behind the light, which he recognised as a torch. He pulled up and wound down the window.
‘Are you in trouble?’ he called.
‘Yes, someone’s been knocked down.’ It was a young female voice, trembling with tension. ‘My boyfriend’s gone to phone for an ambulance.’
Webb inched his car up on to the verge and got out. ‘Did you see what happened?’
‘No. We were creeping along in the fog and I was watching the nearside verge and — and saw her lying there.’
Webb peered down at the prostrate form on the ground, and his heart sank. He’d seen enough dead bodies to recognise at once that this was another. Nevertheless, he bent to feel the carotid artery. No sign of a pulse. He looked up at the slim figure above him.
‘I’m afraid an ambulance will be no use to her,’ he said gently.
‘You mean she’s dead? But I’ve been talking to her! I thought it might somehow get through. Oh, God!’ She sounded on the brink of tears.
Webb straightened. ‘I’ll get on to the police,’ he said. ‘I’m Chief Inspector Webb. And you’re — ?’
‘Lesley Brown, and my boyfriend’s Martin Skinner.’ She looked up at him, her mouth trembling. ‘Is there anything we should have done? The kiss of life —?’
‘I’m sure there wasn’t,’ he assured her. ‘She probably died instantly. It was madness, walking along here in these conditions — she must have known no one could see her.’
He got his mobile phone from the car and called Control at Force HQ. ‘And I’d like to request a diversion,’ he ended. ‘The less traffic we have along here, the better.’
He had just finished speaking when the sound of a slowly approaching car reached them and a moment later twin headlights bloomed through the fog. Lesley Brown flashed her torch, the car drew to a halt and the driver climbed out. She ran towards him, flinging herself into his arms.
‘Martin, there’s a policeman here, and he says she’s dead!’ Webb moved forward. ‘You got through to the ambulance service, sir?’
Skinner nodded, swallowing nervously. ‘You are sure? That she’s dead?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘But — surely whoever it was must have known they’d hit her?’
‘Almost definitely.’
‘And they just left her lying there? It’s unbelievable! If they’d acted straight away, they might have saved her.’ He started to move towards the body, but Webb gently stopped him.
‘We need to preserve the scene, sir; there might be traces of the vehicle that hit her.’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’
‘I suggest you and the young lady wait in your car.’
They nodded and, with barely concealed relief, complied while Webb, pulling up his coat collar against the freezing night air, settled down to await reinforcements.
*
As their visitor hurried away, Cain closed and bolted the door behind him.
‘Well!’ Stella said with a nervous little laugh, ‘after all that, dinner’s ready. Mrs Campbell, this is my sister, Kate Warren.’
Helen had gathered so, though there was no overt similarity between the women other than their height. Unlike her sister’s red hair, Mrs Warren’s was dark, as were her eyes, and she struck Helen as the more reserved of the two.
However, she smiled and nodded pleasantly as they moved across the hall to the dining-room. It was furnished in period, with gleaming dark wood, ladder-back chairs and a grandfather clock whose dial showed the phases of the moon. On the opposite wall, full-length curtains in heavy green velvet hid the windows, and a spotlight had been positioned to lighten their otherwise sombre richness. In the centre of the room, to Helen’s surprise, stood one long table laid for seven.
‘I hope you don’t mind,’ Stella Cain said quickly. ‘When there are so few of us, we eat together in the evenings.’
As Helen pulled out a chair, the two men she’d seen earlier came in and Stella introduced them. Michael Saxton, who had seated himself opposite Helen, had an interesting if rather severe face, with character lines between his eyebrows and at the corners of his mouth. She imagined he could drive a hard bargain. He looked about fifty, and his plentiful, lightish brown hair was liberally sprinkled with grey.
Terry Pike, who had taken the chair on her right, was taller and thinner, in his early forties at a guess. His hair, dull and dark, was cut jaggedly in a style which struck Helen as just a little too youthful. He had a broad nose set in a long face and a slight north-country accent.
‘We were watching Channel 4 News,’ Michael Saxton said. ‘There’s been another of those Stately Home burglaries, though they’re not sure when it took place. The owners have just discovered something missing.’
‘The servants probably n
icked it,’ Kate Warren said dismissively. ‘You missed our own little drama; didn’t you hear all the commotion?’
The two men looked surprised. ‘No, what happened?’
As she finished telling them, the door leading to the kitchen opened and Gordon Cain appeared, holding it wide for a tall, grey-haired man who emerged balancing a tray of soup bowls.
‘Can you manage, darling?’ Kate Warren started to push back her chair.
‘Stay where you are — everything’s under control.’ Helped by his brother-in-law, Warren began to unload the steaming bowls and a plate of hot rolls.
‘Just the fare for a night like this. Did anyone hear the forecast?’
‘The fog will last all night and clear slowly in the morning,’ Terry Pike quoted.
Warren glanced at Helen. ‘Mrs Campbell, I presume. I’m Nicholas Warren, this evening’s chef.’
‘Correction!’ his wife interposed. ‘He made the soup — it’s one of his specialities — but his contribution to the rest of the meal was minimal.’
Helen said diplomatically, ‘It smells delicious.’
Nicholas Warren was a good-looking man, with regular features, deep-set grey eyes and a firm mouth, and Helen didn’t doubt he was used to getting exactly what he wanted.
An interesting quartet, she reflected, and not at all as one imagined landlords and ladies. But then she’d read an article recently on a new breed of B & B proprietors, who might be anything from retired ambassadors and their wives, who were used to entertaining and enjoyed having guests, to couples whose families had left home and who appreciated the ever-changing company as well as the income it brought.
‘Have you been open long?’ she asked Stella across the table.
‘This is our third year. I wanted something to do when our daughter left home, and Nicholas and Kate had just come back after years abroad and were looking for somewhere to live. So we decided to pool our resources and buy this place. Generally speaking, the men deal with the business side and Kate and I see to the day-to-day running of it. It works very well.’
Helen was gratified that her assessment of the situation had been so accurate. The meal was excellent, the soup being followed by a rich casserole, an interesting selection of cheeses and a frothy lemon soufflé. Conversation was relaxed and general, and she noted that the two ‘residents’ were on first-name terms with their hosts, making their careful use of her own surname sound stilted. Still, in this group she was merely the ship that passed in the night.
Exhaustion had claimed her by the time coffee was served, and shortly afterwards she went up to her room. Before getting into bed, she again looked out of the window, hoping that the fog might have thinned. But it was wrapped tightly round the building, its thick dampness pressing against the windowpanes and obscuring even the courtyard below.
Shivering, Helen slipped off the towelling robe and, of necessity, slipped naked between the sheets.
2
During the last couple of hours the familiar procedure had gradually established itself. The ambulance crew were the first to arrive, and, finding their services not required, went away again. Then two uniformed police constables from Marlton appeared, one of whom startled Webb by recognising the victim.
‘Why, that’s Jack Flint’s girl!’ he’d exclaimed, shock ringing in his voice. ‘They live just across from us!’ Which identification remained their only piece of luck on this bleak, bone-freezing night. Not that the luck extended to the PC, who would later have to inform his neighbours of the tragedy.
The next to arrive were DI Ledbetter and DS Hopkins from Steeple Bayliss. ‘Not quite the evening we’d planned, Dave,’ Ledbetter commented after Webb had outlined the position. ‘Still, we might be able to salvage something out of it when we’ve got this lot sorted.’
The road had been closed for several hundred yards in both directions and diversion signs set up at Marlton to the east and just short of Steeple Bayliss to the west.
Those attending the scene were directed to park several metres down the road on the opposite side to the accident. Which, Webb reflected glumly, had a touch of the stable door about it, since there was no knowing how much traffic had passed between the time of death and the arrival of the couple who reported it.
Slowly the evening wore on. The local police surgeon attended, certified death and departed again as swiftly as decency allowed. Webb didn’t blame him. Then, with the
arrival of the SOCOs and the Coroner’s Officer, the tempo of the investigation at last accelerated. Arc lights were rigged up, a tent was erected to protect the scene, and the exhaustive videoing and photographing began.
Finally, just as the SOCOs were finishing, the pathologist appeared, his diminutive body emerging from the foggy darkness muffled in scarves and with his hat pulled well down on his head.
Ledbetter and Webb, skirting the scene, moved to join him.
Stapleton peered irritably into their faces. ‘That you, Chief Inspector? Bit off course, aren’t you?’
‘Believe it or not, Doctor, it’s my evening off.’
The little man grunted dismissively and turned his attention to the body, his pale eyes behind their rimless glasses missing no detail of the pathetic huddle on the ground. It was several minutes before he straightened again, fastidiously brushing traces of dirt from his trousers.
‘Well, apart from confirming death there’s little I can do here. We’ll have to wait till we get her to the mortuary.’
‘Any chance she was dead before she was hit?’ Ledbetter asked. ‘Thrown out of a car, then run over to make it look accidental?’
‘Judging by the amount of blood, that seems unlikely. Do I take it no one witnessed the accident?’
‘No one’s come forward. A young couple found her lying there. They’ve been taken to Marlton for interviewing, but I doubt if they can tell us more than they already have.’ Ledbetter turned to Webb. ‘Provided, that is, we take their word for what happened. I suppose there’s an outside chance it was their car that hit her?’
Webb shrugged. ‘We’ll have to wait for the examination, but they seem genuine enough. How does the timing fit? I got here about seven, some fifteen minutes after they claim to have found her. How long do you reckon she’s been dead, Doctor?’
Stapleton smiled thinly. ‘The eternal question. At a rough guess, about three hours. No rigor mortis yet, though admittedly it would be delayed in this temperature.’
Ledbetter angled his wrist so that the light shone on his watch. ‘It’s now twenty-one-fifteen, which puts the probable time of death at around eighteen hundred, i.e. an hour or so before she was found. That would put the young folk in the clear.’
‘It could be an hour either way,’ Stapleton said repressively. ‘I’ll be able to tell you more after a thorough examination. In the meantime, gentlemen, I’ll leave you to your deliberations.’ And he disappeared into the enfolding fog.
Ledbetter turned to the men awaiting instructions. ‘Right, you can bag her up and remove her now. Who’s accompanying her to the mortuary?’
Webb intervened. ‘As you know, Chris, I found the body, but I’ve deputed PC Rendle to escort it from the scene.’ He indicated one of the Marlton men. The other had been dispatched some time ago to break the news to the relatives.
Ledbetter nodded and supervised the grim business of bagging the body and carrying it to the waiting hearse, after which he detailed the men who would remain overnight to guard the scene. Finally he turned back to Webb.
‘OK, that’s about it, Dave; nothing more to be done till first light. Too bad about the exhibition, but I bet you’re ready for that hot meal. I’ll let Janet know we’re on our way.’
Webb hesitated. ‘Look, Chris, perhaps I should take a rain check. God knows how long it’ll take me to get home as it is. I’ll have to work my way round the lanes, which will be tricky in this weather.’
‘Nonsense, you’re spending the night with us. No problem at all,’ he continued over Webb�
�s perfunctory protest. ‘Wouldn’t hear of you setting off again in this. Anyway, Janet’s cooking a special meal and I’ve a wine I’d like you to try; we brought it back from France last summer and have been saving it for a suitable occasion. It’s been warming up nicely all day. Which,’ he added, clapping frozen hands together, ‘is more than I have! This your car? See you back at the house, then.’
Getting into the relative warmth of his car, Webb allowed himself a sigh of relief. Some pleasant company and a good meal would do a lot to dispel the depression and discomfort of the last few hours, especially since he’d be spared the worry of the drive home. Something would after all be salvaged from his disastrous ‘free evening’.
Feeling more cheerful by the minute, he turned the ignition key and, keeping well in to the verge, moved off slowly in the direction of Steeple Bayliss.
*
When Helen woke the next morning, the pale patch that was the window was in the wrong position, and, disorientated, it took her a moment or two to realise where she was. Then she remembered: the fog, and the Seven Stars rising, Brigadoon-like, out of it. Remembered, too, the dramatic arrival of the young man and his story, and hoped the accident victim was recovering from her ordeal.
She switched on the bedside light and looked at her watch. It was seven-thirty. Sitting up, she reached for the robe, shrugged into it, and, padding to the window, lifted the curtain. It was barely light, but the fog seemed to be lifting. By the time she was ready to leave, it should be almost clear.
Breakfast, she discovered half an hour later, was served in the garden room she had seen from the courtyard. Terry Pike, whom she met in the hall, directed her to it through the television lounge.
Despite being of glass on three sides, the room was warm and welcoming, since radiators encircled it beneath the windows. The effect was pleasantly spring-like, with the sandy-coloured tiled floor, round, glass-topped tables and cream lattice-back chairs with green cushions.
Michael Saxton, reading his newspaper at one of the tables, looked up briefly to bid her good morning.
The Seven Stars Page 2
