‘Well, things should start moving now. Is it too early for a celebratory beer?’
‘I’d give my soul for a cuppa.’
‘You’re on.’
Ledbetter leant against the counter while Webb filled the kettle. ‘It was stolen,’ he continued, ‘which is par for the course. Reported missing the day of the accident, from outside a house in SB.’
Webb put a couple of mugs on the table. ‘Is it damaged?’
‘Nearside headlight gone for a burton. SOCO have been working on it all afternoon.’
‘Fingerprints?’
‘Plastered all over it; let’s hope some of them are on file.’
‘I suppose we can be glad they didn’t sit on it any longer; it could have stayed in a lock-up pretty well indefinitely.’
‘I reckon they wanted shot of it. Thought if they dumped it somewhere, it couldn’t be traced back to them — or him, if it was a solo job — or even her, come to that.’
‘Since the car was stolen, my bet’s on a young lad,’ Webb commented. ‘And he must have known he’d hit her — he’d have seen her at the last minute if not before. A theory was put forward that he might have stopped, seen she was dead and panicked.’ Hannah’s idea.
‘But she wasn’t obviously dead, was she? The young couple who found her phoned for an ambulance.’
‘True.’ Webb carried the two mugs through to the living-room, Ledbetter at his heels. ‘Think there’s a chance it wasn’t an accident?’
‘Always possible, but anything deliberate would be tricky in that fog. Like, how did the prospective killer know where she was, or which side of the road she’d be on? Personally, I can’t see anyone crawling along in that weather on the off chance of finding someone to run over.’
‘Perhaps they’d had a row, she stormed off and he went after her?’
Ledbetter was unconvinced. ‘Anyway, it’s a start, and about bloody time.’ He picked up a mug and walked over to the easel, surveying the picture propped up on it. ‘This the latest masterpiece? You’re a clever devil, aren’t you? I couldn’t paint to save my life.’
‘I’m glad my life’s not dependent on that,’ Webb retorted. ‘There’s still a lot of work to be done on it.’
They chatted for several minutes while they drank their tea, then Ledbetter put down his mug. ‘I’d better get back for what remains of this day of rest. Good to see you, Dave; I’ll keep you informed of any developments.’
As Webb closed the door behind him, he realised that he still did not know how Hannah’s evening with Charles Frobisher had gone. Which, he reflected morosely, might be the way she wanted it.
*
When Helen came down for dinner just before seven, it was to find a crowd of people gathered round the bar. In addition to her four hosts and Michael Saxton, there were two she hadn’t seen before, a small girl in her twenties with a tangle of blonde, highlighted curls, and a tall, loose-limbed man. He had dark, curly hair and deep-set grey eyes, which regarded her with open curiosity as she approached.
Gordon Cain was behind the bar, and smiled as he caught sight of her. ‘Ah, Mrs Campbell — welcome back! Can I offer you a drink on the house? We have friends in for dinner this evening. Let me introduce Caroline Budd and Dominic Hardy.’
They nodded to her and she smiled in response, then turned to Gordon. ‘That’s kind of you. I’d like a sherry, please.’
The blonde girl pushed her own glass across the bar top. ‘And fill mine up too, sweetie, while you’re at it.’
‘I hear you’re taking a course at Melbray, Mrs Campbell?’ Kate Warren commented in her husky voice.
‘Yes, that’s right. On antiques.’
Dominic Hardy raised an eyebrow. ‘Are they a hobby of yours?’
Resenting his patronising manner, Helen answered levelly, ‘Rather more than that; I worked in a London auction house before I was married, and then at a local antique shop till the recession caught up with it. Now both my children have left home, I’m hoping to take it up again.’
‘Good for you,’ he said lazily, looking her up and down. Again she felt herself bridle, but almost immediately he smiled, and any hint of superciliousness was lost in undoubted charm. He raised his glass to her, his eyes holding hers. ‘Here’s to success. May you and your antiques flourish!’
‘Thank you,’ she stammered, and was grateful when someone made a comment and she was no longer the focus of attention.
‘I didn’t expect to see you again,’ said a voice behind her, and she turned to find Michael Saxton.
‘Nor I you,’ she replied. ‘I saw the course advertised when I was here last week, but I hadn’t seriously considered taking it.’ She glanced round. ‘Is Mr Pike not joining us?’
‘No, he goes home to Blackpool at weekends.’
‘A long way to commute, isn’t it? Why doesn’t he move down here?’
‘Not worth it; he’s only on a short-term project, then he’ll be off north again.’
‘And you don’t go home at weekends?’
‘No home to go to,’ Saxton replied, and smiled at her embarrassment. ‘Oh, it’s not as bad as it sounds. I’ve bought a small watermill not far from here and am having it converted into a house. In the meantime, this is my base.’
‘How long have you been here?’
‘Three months now. I’ll miss the standard of cooking when I have to do for myself. Perhaps I should also take a course, on how to vary my diet of baked beans and fry-ups.’
‘It sounds a bit limited.’
‘It is. My daughter keeps plying me with Cooking-for-One type recipes, but frankly I’m not interested enough to bother.’
‘Have you just the one daughter?’ Helen asked.
‘Yes, and one son. And in case you’re wondering, my wife and I split up last year.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said awkwardly.
‘Don’t be; we should have done it years ago.’
She was silent, wondering uncomfortably if this was a glimpse of how Andrew might be, if and when they separated: lost, adrift, living out of tins. Probably so, she thought; the last time she was away, he’d existed on toast and cornflakes.
She realised Michael Saxton had said something, and looked up hastily. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘I said, what about you? What family have you?’
‘Also a son and daughter. Penelope’s at Broadshire University.’
‘Hence your appearance last week?’
She nodded, but before she could elaborate the call came to go through for dinner.
This time, the long table was laid with crystal and silver, and tall green candles burned in the holders. Helen found herself placed between Gordon Cain, at the foot of the table, and Michael Saxton. Conversation was animated and general, the food excellent and the wine plentiful. More than once, she caught Dominic Hardy’s eyes on her across the table and felt a flicker of gratified amusement.
Suddenly he leant towards her. ‘How long are you here for? Sorry, I don’t know your name?’
‘Mrs Campbell,’ Stella said automatically.
‘My dear girl, I’m not going to call her “Mrs Campbell” all evening!’
‘It’s Helen,’ she supplied quickly. ‘Do please use it, all of you.’ She’d been conscious, last time, of being the outsider, with the others on first-name terms.
‘Fine — Helen, then. How long are you staying?’
‘Till a week on Saturday — it’s a two-week course.’
‘By which time you’ll know all there is to know about antiques?’
She said steadily, ‘Obviously it’ll be superficial, but at least it should get me back into the swim.’ She met his eye squarely. ‘What do you do, Dominic?’
He sipped his wine, surveying her over the rim of the glass. ‘As the phrase has it, I’m something in the City.’
‘You don’t live round here, then?’
‘God, no! I’d die of boredom!’
‘Dominic likes to be in the thick of things,’
Kate said drily. ‘He lives in one of those luxury apartments near St Katharine’s Dock. The reason we’re graced with his presence is because he drives Caro up to see her father, who’s not well.’
‘And while I’m here, I take the chance of dropping in to keep these dear folk au fait with what’s going on in the wide world.’
‘We were at school together,’ Nicholas said, by way of explanation, ‘though Dom was a contemporary of my younger brother.’
‘How is Ben?’ Caroline asked. ‘We haven’t seen him for ages.’
Helen sat back, letting the conversation wash over her. She felt tired and pleasantly relaxed, anticipating with pleasure both the antiques course which lay ahead and evenings such as this, spent over good food in interesting company. How lucky she’d stumbled on this place.
Thinking back to her last visit, she said into a sudden lull, ‘Did you ever hear any more about the girl who was knocked down?’
The silence that greeted her question made her look up, in time to catch hastily averted eyes.
‘God, yes,’ Gordon said under his breath. ‘That was the night you were here, wasn’t it?’
‘Well?’ Helen pressed, idle curiosity submerged in a sudden need to know. ‘Did you hear anything?’
‘We did indeed,’ Nicholas Warren said soberly. ‘She turned out to be a girl who worked here, on her way home.’
Helen stared at him aghast. ‘Not Molly?’ she exclaimed involuntarily.
Everyone looked at her in surprise. ‘How did you know her name?’ Gordon demanded.
In her mind’s eye, Helen saw again the running girl and the large, pursuing figure of the man who called after her. In the circumstances it seemed wiser not to explain, and she made herself say lightly, ‘One of you mentioned her last time. But how awful. Is she getting on all right?’
Stella said on a high note, ‘No, she isn’t. She was dead by the time the ambulance arrived.’
Helen went cold. So when she’d seen Molly, she thought sickly, the girl had been running to her death. She gave an instinctive shudder, then realised they were still watching her.
‘How — how dreadful for you,’ she stammered. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Yes, it was the hell of a shock,’ said Gordon after a pause. ‘The devil of it was that she was normally here in the mornings, but she had a dental appointment so she’d switched to the afternoon.’
There was a brief silence, broken by Kate’s calm voice. ‘Well, if everyone’s finished, shall we leave the table?’
With an undercurrent of relief, chairs were pushed back and everyone got to their feet. Michael said something to Gordon, and through the open doorway Helen saw them walk across the hall to the bar. By the time she herself reached the hall, the others had disappeared and Michael stood waiting for her, holding two glasses of brandy.
‘You look in need of this,’ he said. ‘Come and sit by the fire.’
Obediently Helen lowered herself into the deep, winged armchair. He handed her a glass and seated himself opposite her, his eyes on her face.
‘That girl’s death gave you a shock, didn’t it?’ he said quietly. ‘Why, when you didn’t even know her?’
She was silent for a moment, staring into the balloon glass in her hand. She wasn’t sure why she’d not mentioned seeing Molly — it had been purely instinctive. But, having not done so, she felt she couldn’t now.
‘It’s just that I was caught up in the drama,’ she hedged, ‘when that man came to call an ambulance. I felt — involved.’
He didn’t comment, suspecting, perhaps, that she was hiding something. Changing the subject, she said, ‘Where did everyone go?’
‘To their private sitting-room. It leads off the office,’ he added, seeing her look blankly round for an appropriate door.
‘That explains it. Are their bedrooms through there, too? There don’t seem to be enough doors upstairs.’
‘No, those wings at the front each contain a bedroom and bathroom — left side Cains, right side Warrens.’
‘How convenient.’ Helen paused. ‘I suppose you’ve met Dominic and Caroline before?’
‘Oh yes, several times. Her father’s dying of cancer, so they come up quite regularly. In fact, as a long-term resident, I’ve met various friends of the family — and family too, of course. The Cains have a daughter living in Erlesborough and the Warrens two sons in London. They all drop in from time to time.’
‘I gather the Warrens were abroad for some years?’
‘That’s right, in South Africa. I often wonder if they regret coming back. Nicholas fills in his time as a business consultant, which involves a fair amount of travelling, but Kate seems pretty restless. It’s hardly surprising; she has a degree in modern languages and is a pretty high-powered lady. All she’s doing at the moment is some occasional translating and faffing around here. It must drive her potty.’
‘What about the Cains?’
‘Quite a different story; neither of them has ever lived more than twenty miles from here. Stella freely admits Kate has the brains in the family, but she’s an excellent cook and manages this place beautifully. She once told me she and Gordon were childhood sweethearts.’
‘And Kate and Nicholas weren’t?’
‘No, they met at university, and according to Dominic, she was considered to have done well for herself, the Warrens being one of the best-known families in the county. However, that could just be Dominic being Dominic.’
‘What a mine of information you are!’ Helen said lightly. ‘And what does Gordon do, when he’s not behind the bar?’
‘When he’s neither behind the bar nor poring over his charts, he’s a feature writer for Broadshire Life.’
‘His charts?’ Helen queried.
‘He’s a would-be astrologer, but at the moment he has to content himself with writing horoscopes for the local rag.’
‘Really? He told me he was interested in it, but I never made the connection. I even read my horoscope last time I was here, but I didn’t recognise him from the photograph.’
‘I’m not surprised: it was taken years ago. How was the forecast?’
She laughed. ‘Way out.’
‘That figures. But the serious stuff is something different, or so I’m led to believe. Based on the time and place of birth, the position of the planets, and so on. And that’s what poor old Gordon would give his eyeteeth to get into.’
‘He could make a start with mine. I could use a bit of guidance at the moment.’
‘Then ask him. You could be the first of an illustrious line of clients.’
‘I might just do that.’ She finished her brandy. ‘Thanks for that; you were right, I did need it. Now, if you’ll excuse me I think I’ll go upstairs. It’s been a long day, and I want to be fresh for the morning.’
He stood with her. ‘Of course. Sleep well.’
*
It was as she was on the point of sleep that a snippet of conversation came back to her, which, subconsciously, might be why she’d not mentioned witnessing Molly’s headlong departure.
Well, dammit, I thought she’d gone. God knows how much she heard.
Helen shivered, pulled the bedclothes over her head and determinedly went to sleep.
5
Gordon Cain walked across the courtyard to his study in the mews block. Overhead, the weak January sun was pushing aside the clouds and spilling a watery light on to the damp ground. He took out his key and let himself in, welcoming the warm blast of air from the central heating.
When they had bought the Seven Stars four years ago, this building had been virtually derelict, a mouldering store with broken windows, full of discarded furniture and cardboard boxes. Even then, he had seen its possibilities.
The block was divided into three, originally stables below and coachmen’s quarters above. Nicholas had suggested knocking it into one building, to provide extra accommodation for family visits, but Gordon insisted that the end block nearest the garden should remain separate
for his own use. Having never had space nor privacy while working from home, he did not intend to lose this opportunity and Nicholas, with no strong feelings on the matter, had shrugged and allowed him his way.
This downstairs space was a kitchen, with a hob where quick snacks could be warmed up without having to return to the house. It was furnished with a small fridge, table, chair and sink, and a cupboard for crockery and assorted tinned food.
An open staircase led to the room above, where almost the entire roof had been replaced by skylights offering a panoramic view of sky. Gordon loved to stand here at night, gazing up at the thousands of lights framed in the windows. Though modern charts meant there was no need actually to study the stars, he felt a great affinity with those other worlds spinning out there, worlds which, for him, no amount of space exploration could make any less mysterious.
His one great desire was to make his name as a serious astrologer, to have cabinet ministers and minor royalty consulting him before taking decisions. But gaining recognition was a long, slow process, and in the meantime the only outlet he had was turning out horoscopes for the Evening News while earning his living by supplying more earth-bound articles to the glossy Broadshire Life. He supposed there were worse compromises.
Today, though, he must prepare next month’s batch of horoscopes, which were already overdue. He’d been putting off working on them because the portents were not promising; there was a whole cluster of planets in Capricorn, which could only mean trouble, and it depressed him having repeatedly to warn against negative influences in the daily columns.
Sighing, he switched on the computer and reached for his books of tables.
*
At Melbray, Helen, happily settled into her first class, was busy making notes. This morning was devoted to silver, and she was gratified to find, as the lecture progressed, how much she remembered from her time at Lamprey’s. Several times, when the speaker invited them to date objects shown on the screen, she had been able to do so, and her fellow students were starting to look at her with respect.
There were about twenty-five in the class, mostly elderly or middle-aged women, though three married couples were among them and two younger women, who sat together on the far end of a row. There were also a couple of unattached men, one quiet and grey-haired, the other with overlong hair, flamboyantly dressed and obviously of some importance in his own eyes. He had not taken kindly to Helen’s accurate dating, and she resolved to hold back for a while and not antagonise him further.
The Seven Stars Page 6
