He seemed as startled as she was, and it was Penelope who found her voice first. ‘Daddy! What on earth are you doing here?’
Andrew bent to kiss her cheek and, after a moment, Helen’s. ‘Business, what else?’
‘On a Sunday? Why didn’t you let us know you were coming?’
‘Because it really is business, Pen, and I didn’t think there’d be time to see you.’
‘You could have phoned Mummy, on the off chance.’
‘I haven’t got her number.’
‘You didn’t mention coming when I spoke to you on Wednesday,’ Helen reminded him.
‘It hadn’t been fixed then.’
She wasn’t sure she believed him. Perhaps that was why he’d inquired if she’d be home for the weekend — because he himself wouldn’t be.
Andrew’s eyes had gone questioningly to Michael, silent at their side.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Helen apologised. ‘Andrew, this is Michael Saxton, my fellow lodger. My husband, Michael.’
The two men shook hands in silence, and as they moved apart Andrew’s eyes went from Michael’s face to a point beyond his shoulder. Helen saw him stiffen and give a minute shake of his head. She turned swiftly. A woman who had been hurrying towards them halted abruptly, hesitated, then crossed the road and walked quickly round the opposite corner.
Andrew met and held Helen’s gaze, and when she made no comment, said, ‘I thought the course extended over the weekend?’
‘It does, but today’s schedule was optional, so I’m spending it with Pen.’
There was a brief, uncomfortable silence. Then Penelope said, ‘Well, can you join us now? We’re going to look round the cathedral.’
‘I can’t, love, honestly. I’m meeting a colleague; we have an appointment at three o’clock. I really am sorry about this, but I’ll be up again soon, I promise, and we’ll have a slap-up meal. Am I forgiven?’
‘I suppose so.’
Andrew turned to Helen. ‘See you on Saturday, then.’ She nodded, and with a quick smile which embraced them all, he hurried away. Helen did not look after him, knowing beyond doubt that he would turn down the road the woman had taken. Was she a colleague, or something more? That Andrew might have someone else had never occurred to her, but before she could examine the possibility, Michael said rallyingly, ‘Well, are we still going to the cathedral?’
She pulled herself together, pushing the oddly disconcerting little episode out of her mind.
‘Most certainly,’ she said.
*
But the meeting with Andrew left a shadow over the day, and the spontaneity had gone out of it. They walked dutifully round the vast building, looking at tombs of martyrs and saints, at marble effigies and gilded eagles, at cherubs and satyrs and vivid, medieval stained glass. But there was a constraint between them which the occasional laboured comment did nothing to dispel, and Helen wasn’t surprised, when they emerged at last into the grey afternoon, that Penelope suggested they drop her off to prepare for the next day’s lectures.
She made no effort to dissuade her, wondering whether Pen too had seen the woman who so abruptly changed course, or whether the change in Helen’s own mood had affected her. Whatever the reason, the afternoon was past saving.
They returned to the car park near the viaduct where they’d begun their walk and drove the short distance to the university. Helen kissed her daughter.
‘If you’ve an evening free this week, perhaps we could have dinner?’ It was a veiled apology and Penelope gave her a quick smile. ‘That’d be great, Mum. Goodbye, Michael. Thanks for lunch.’ She climbed out of the car, turned to wave, and disappeared — thankfully, Helen didn’t doubt — into the halls of residence.
‘I think a cup of tea is indicated, with perhaps a toasted teacake?’
She forced a smile. ‘Good idea, if anywhere is open on a Sunday.’
‘The hotels will be.’
They drove back over the viaduct to the White Swan where, Helen remembered, Sir Clifford Rudge stayed on his visits to Melbray. It was an old-fashioned hotel with a hushed, Sunday-afternoon feel about it, and they went into the lounge and took a window seat overlooking the river. Afternoon tea was in progress and there was the comforting smell of buttered toast and the clink of china.
Helen declined the offer of sandwiches or pastries, reiterating Michael’s suggestion of toasted teacakes. When the waiter had moved away, he said quietly, ‘That was unfortunate.’
‘What was?’
‘Meeting your husband like that.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Come on, Helen, you know quite well what I mean.’ He paused. ‘Didn’t he know you were up here? He seemed surprised to see you.’
‘I’d told him we were working over the weekend. He wouldn’t have expected me to be in town.’
But that wasn’t the point; the meeting had patently not been that of a happily married couple. The fact hadn’t escaped Michael, and might also account for Penelope’s subdued spirits.
‘But if he hadn’t your phone number —’
‘I didn’t give it to him,’ she admitted after a moment, ‘because I — needed a bit of space.’
‘Yet you rang him.’
‘Yes. That evening I was —’ But how could she explain the unease which, increasing all week, had been accentuated by the phone-call during dinner and Terry Pike’s interrogation afterwards? For Michael was himself part of that scenario, and had compounded her anxiety with his comment that the hit-and-run might not be an accident.
‘You were what?’ he prompted, when she didn’t continue. Unable to explain, she simply shook her head. He laid a hand over hers.
‘Helen, I don’t want to pry, but if it would help to talk, I’ve been there myself.’
She gave in suddenly, needing to talk about it.
‘Did you see that woman?’
‘Yes.’
‘She was with him.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why didn’t he want us to meet her?’ For us, read me, she thought bitterly.
‘There could be a number of reasons. If she’s his colleague —’
‘If?’
‘— she might be trying to keep a low profile.’
‘But he’s not in MI5, for God’s sake! I’ve met his colleagues before.’
‘Women?’
She thought back. ‘Not that I remember, but there are plenty in the firm.’
There was a silence while they both thought of one in particular. She’d been quite young — mid-thirties, probably — and her brisk stride had given an impression of determination. She’d worn a loose tweed coat with the collar turned up and her hair was short, curly, and chestnut-brown. Remembering, Helen was surprised she had taken in so much in that fleeting glimpse.
The waiter returned and began to unload his tray. The teacakes were crisp and golden, glistening with butter. Michael waited till he moved away. Then, as Helen poured the tea, he said quietly, ‘You’re wondering if there’s something between them?’
Her eyes flew to his face and he said quickly, ‘I’m sorry, I’d no right—’
She gave a little shake of her head. ‘From the way he behaved, it’s a possibility.’
‘But only a possibility. He might be having the same doubts about us.’
Remembering Penelope’s comments, Helen’s cheeks burned; but she said lightly, ‘In less than a week?’
‘It has been known.’ He paused, then added gently, ‘But the mere fact that you’re wondering shows there’s something wrong. Was that why you came on the course?’
‘Partly, but also because I genuinely want to get back to working with antiques.’ She reached for a teacake, not looking at him. ‘You’re right, though; things have been strained for a while.’ It seemed disloyal to talk about it, but her emotions were now so mixed up it was a relief to voice at least some of them. She almost hoped Michael would probe further, but instead he said, ‘If he’s working on the Stately Home break-ins, he
must have a lead in this area.’
‘Not necessarily; he’s on several other cases, too.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘And whether or not that woman is his mistress, it would have been a genuine business meeting. This is the last place he’d choose for an illicit weekend, with both Pen and me in the vicinity.’
She looked at Michael’s reflective face and, since they were discussing personal matters, asked curiously, ‘What went wrong with your marriage?’
He shrugged. ‘Incompatibility. Sounds like legal jargon, but it’s the best way I can describe it. We got to the stage when everything we did either hurt or irritated the other. God knows how we stuck it so long, but as soon as the children were self-reliant we parted, with much relief on both sides.’
‘Our children are self-reliant, too.’
‘It’s not an obligatory time to separate,’ Michael said with a smile. ‘Look, you’re having a brief spell apart to take stock, right?’
She nodded.
‘Then the meeting was no bad thing. His suspicions, if any, are unfounded. Yours might be, too, but at least it’s jolted you both, forced you to consider how you feel.’
Outside the window a soft, steady rain had started to fall, drawing a gauze curtain over the river below. Undeterred, a line of swans swam majestically downstream and Helen watched their progress, her thoughts still chaotic. Even if the woman were no more than a colleague, the pretence of normality she’d maintained over Christmas had been exposed as a sham. Her next meeting with her daughter would not be easy.
Quite suddenly, she needed to be alone, to come to terms with such facts as had presented themselves. She said abruptly, ‘Can we go now?’
If Michael was surprised by her mood swing, he made no comment, simply called for the bill and led her out of the over-stuffy room into the rain-chilled afternoon. They hurried to the car, waited till the windscreen wipers had cleared a space to see through, and drove up on to the main road.
After several minutes, Michael said wryly, ‘I hope you’re not regretting having invited me to join you.’
‘Of course not, we were glad of your company.’ She was careful to include Penelope in that gladness. ‘And your comments added a lot to the sightseeing — about the old window tax, for instance, which I’d forgotten.’
They swung off the road at the Seven Stars and had to negotiate a car parked in front of the house.
‘It’s Dominic’s,’ Michael said resignedly. ‘He always parks there — too bone idle to go round the back like everyone else.’
Helen hoped she wouldn’t be challenged to another sparring match. At the moment she felt incapable of holding her own, but perhaps after some time to herself, she’d be better company.
‘Thanks for lunch,’ she said as they hurried inside out of the rain. ‘See you later.’ And she went up the stairs to her room.
*
Webb sat in his favourite armchair, a mug of tea cooling rapidly at his side. Dammit, there must be something they could do. Over a million’s worth of art and antiques nicked, a peer of the realm murdered, and still, though large portions of the country’s police forces were working flat out, barely a clue with which to start hunting the perpetrators.
So what had they got? Ten country house burglaries over two years, the last couple, Plaistead and Buckhurst, only two weeks apart. And there was the foiled attempt at Beckworth, which would have made three in as many weeks.
That was on the debit side. On the plus, all they had were a few microscopic hairs, and tyre marks of a vehicle allegedly parked near the scene. Big deal. Not unnaturally, the vague description offered by the couple who’d seen the car had been little help.
Since there’d not been so much as a sniff of the stolen goods, it seemed likely that the jewellery at least had been broken up and reset, possibly on the continent. But what of the other, equally identifiable, items — miniatures, porcelain, clocks, silver — all of which had disappeared without trace? Had the transactions taken place immediately, before the authorities could be put on their guard?
The other possibility, that the thieves were stealing to order for specific buyers, was even more worrying, since such a set-up was almost impossible to penetrate.
He leant back and stared at the ceiling, mentally running through the articles stolen and experiencing the usual stab of frustration at the inconsistency in their value. When the pride of the collection was taken, that was at least understandable. It was the other times, when the theft was of little more than a trinket, that really irked him.
What game were the thieves playing, and for what stakes? Why lay themselves open to such risks for items of little consequence? True, in themselves they were charming enough — Lady Cleverley’s statuette, a Victorian mourning ring, a couple of snuff-boxes. It was the fact that they were surrounded by priceless pieces, which the thieves ignored, that was incomprehensible. Why, in God’s name, take the incalculable risk of neutralising alarms and forcing entry, then not ensure that such a gamble was worthwhile?
Grimly, Webb hoped that when they finally did catch up with them, it would be on one such frivolous errand.
Then there was the Randall Tovey theft, which Hannah had mentioned again the other evening. Another case of searching for needles in haystacks, and pretty sensitive needles, at that. The threatened arrest of the Chief Constable’s wife still sent shivers down his back, though John Baker had been within his rights. Yet again he went through the possible suspects: Lady Soames, the duchess and her daughter, and some five dozen of the wealthiest and most influential women in the country.
It had been hard to explain to Hannah, understandably concerned for her friend’s reputation, that they couldn’t afford the manpower necessary to fingerprint such a large number for a ten-thousand-pound ring. Which consideration, he’d been careful to stress, would have applied equally had the people concerned been considerably less illustrious than in fact they were.
All the police could do was hope local jewellers would keep their eyes open for any ring reported to have been ‘found by my little girl in the street’.
He sighed deeply. The year had not started well. He could only hope it would improve.
11
When Helen came down for dinner, Dominic was propped, as before, in front of the bar talking to Gordon, but there was no sign of Caroline. Since it seemed impolite to go and sit by the fire, as she’d have preferred, she tentatively approached them, conscious that they immediately broke off their conversation.
‘Good evening, Helen,’ Gordon said with false heartiness. ‘And what can I get you?’
‘A sherry, please.’
Dominic glanced at her with a silent nod. His previous lightheartedness seemed to have deserted him and his face looked drawn.
Gordon slid her glass across to her. ‘Had a good day?’
‘Yes, thanks. We were exploring Steeple Bayliss. I’d no idea it was so old.’ She paused, then turned to Dominic. ‘Is Caroline with you?’
‘No, she stayed with her father. He’s not expected to last the night.’
No wonder he was looking concerned. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said awkwardly. ‘What a difficult time for you all.’
‘Will she stay on when you go back to London?’ Gordon asked.
‘I imagine so. Even if Roderick’s still with us in the morning, he hasn’t long to go, and she’d only have to turn round and come straight back.’ He finished his drink. ‘Intimations of mortality are not my scene, I’m afraid. My instinct is to cut and run at the first sign of approaching demise.’
Stella had joined them in time to hear his last comments. ‘How’s Caro bearing up?’ she inquired.
‘Not well. She’s very jittery and liable to burst into tears at any moment.’
‘Poor girl,’ Helen said softly. ‘I remember how I felt when my father died.’
It seemed the cheerful evening which she’d hoped would dispel her own problems was not forthcoming. Michael and Nicholas joined them, and after another drink all ro
und — which Helen felt in need of — they went in to dinner.
The atmosphere continued sombre, despite the excellent fare that Kate had prepared, and it was left to Michael to keep the conversational ball rolling, with Helen making sporadic attempts to help him.
It was as the main course was being served that, glancing at Dominic opposite her, she noticed the gold buttons on his blazer. In the subdued light and at a distance of three feet it was difficult to make out the design, but they were certainly embossed and she was almost sure it was with an old-fashioned sailing boat.
She said casually, ‘Those are very splendid buttons, Dominic. Is that a ship on them?’
He nodded.
‘What does CYC stand for?’
‘Talk about 20/20 vision!’ Nicholas exclaimed with a laugh. ‘I couldn’t have made that out across the table.’
Helen kept her eyes inquiringly on Dominic.
‘Chardsey Yacht Club,’ he replied.
‘Where’s that?’
‘In Surrey, where my parents live.’
She took the plate that was handed to her and helped herself to vegetables, her mind racing. As far as she could see, none of his buttons was missing, though he could have replaced it. Should she say she’d found an identical one? Something held her back and she decided to wait awhile and approach the subject from a different angle.
The meal continued, with Michael regaling them about the day in Steeple Bayliss and lunch at the Barley Mow. He did not, to Helen’s relief, mention having met Andrew. The others nodded and smiled in appropriate places, making little contribution.
During the dessert, Helen, helping Michael out but also putting her plan into effect, said brightly, ‘And yesterday I went to Beckworth House. Have you been there, Dominic?’
He looked surprised at again being singled out. ‘No, I can’t say I have.’
‘It’s well worth seeing. I’m sure you’d enjoy it.’
The Seven Stars Page 13
