How much of the stuff had he had?
‘It depends, Christian.’
‘I don’t think it depends at all. Talking is just ... Cool arithmetic.’
Typical of the sort of roundabout interview one had with a suspect who was high, just when you thought you were getting somewhere sensible they tailed off into dolphin land.
‘Did Nan have her dinner as soon as she came back from church?’
His eyes flipped open. ‘Hey ... You called her Nan. You knew her?’
Joanna was getting bored with this, bored and frustrated. ‘Her dinner, Christian?’
‘Any old time, Inspector. Hunger –’
‘One other thing, Christian. Did you ever go into her bedroom?’
‘Inspector,’ there was a lazy smile, ‘what are you suggesting?’
‘Did you?’
Christian closed his eyes and carried on rasping his fingers. ‘Like the music?’
Mike was steaming all the way down the stairs. ‘Well, that was a bloody waste of time. We didn’t even get the point across to him that we found some booty round at the “cool witch’s” lair. You should have charged them both with possession and hauled them in.’
‘Did you see anything lying around, Mike?’
‘No, but it was obvious the pair of them were –’
‘Did you smell pot?’
Korpanski stared at her. ‘They must have been high.’
‘Or play-acting.’
‘Ne-v-er,’ he said.
They crunched back over the gravel. Barra’s squad car had joined theirs and was neatly parked in front of Spite Hall. The door was wide open. It was a good opportunity to check on the results of his fingerprint search.
The hall looked even dingier than Joanna remembered, dark and airless, with all the doors closed and taped across except the first one on the left, leading to
Nan’s small bedroom. Barra was in there, so absorbed in his work he didn’t even look up until Joanna spoke. ‘A bit more interesting than I’d thought. There are three distinct sets of prints. The dead woman’s, of course, all over the place. Some others that I guess are probably the home help’s. And another set,’ Barra scratched his square chin, ‘on the drawer of the dressing table as well as a few on the wardrobe door. Nowhere else, interestingly.’
‘We’ll have them marked out on a diagram and get the home help and the nephew in to check.’ To Mike she said, ‘At last. I think we might be beginning to get somewhere. I feel that familiar tingling in my toes.’
‘It’s that bloody bike of yours,’ he said.
Chapter Twenty-two
And suddenly it was eight o’clock. The day had flown past but Joanna was reluctant to go home. Home? It didn’t seem it anymore, at least not the comfortable, peaceful haven the cottage used to be but an uneasy place where she dreaded the evenings.
She glanced across at Korpanski. ‘How’s your mother-in-law?’
Mike grinned with sudden optimism. ‘Gone awful quiet over the last day. She’s brewing something up, another spell, maybe. How’s –’
She held her hand up as though to ward off evil. ‘Don’t even mention her name without brandishing the holy book, a clove of garlic and a cross.’
Mike’s face softened. ‘That bad?’
She nodded.
‘You have my sympathy, and for once –’ he gave another jaunty grin ‘– my complete understanding.’ The compulsion to avoid returning home was overwhelming. She stopped even trying to resist it. ‘Look, um, Mike ... Drop me off, will you?’
‘Where?’
‘At Quills.’
‘You want me to come?’
‘No.’ She didn’t want to explain anything. ‘Thanks, but no.’
The thought of an evening spent with Lydia Patterson and her animals heartened her.
Inside the wooden shack lamps were switched on. The animals grouped curiously around the gate as Mike’s headlights picked them out, eyes staring, reflecting red: the sheep, a mangy looking black-and-white border collie who slunk away as Joanna pushed the gate open and two ducks waddling as fast as they could behind her towards the door steps. Mike accelerated away, leaving silence as she waded through the mud towards the door. Suddenly the bulky figure of Lydia Patterson loomed up, blocking out the light behind her. In silhouette she looked even more enormous than usual, enormous and threatening. It was with a shock that Joanna realized Nan Lawrence’s sister was levelling a double-barrelled shotgun at her with the steady hand and intense concentration of someone who would use it. She was about to call out when Lydia Patterson lowered the gun. ‘How nice,’ she said calmly. ‘I thought I heard a car, Inspector, come on in, have a slab of cake. I tried my hand at baking this afternoon. Must have been expecting a guest.’ Her eyes searched through the gloom. ‘Your bulky friend gone home?’ She answered her own question. ‘Back to the station, I’d imagine.’
‘We don’t work nine to five – particularly during a murder investigation.’
‘Families must dislike that intensely,’ Lydia observed. Tricky things, aren’t they, Inspector, families?’
Silently Joanna agreed and followed her into the sitting room while Lydia continued talking.
‘Went for animals myself, although they can be tricky too, temperamental beasts, loyal though. Not allergic to feathers are you?’ And without waiting for Joanna to reply she closed the door behind them. In the corner, in a basket, Sam ‘n’ Ella clucked softly.
‘Little buggers,’ Lydia said affectionately, throwing a glance towards the two hens and locking the gun back in its cabinet. ‘But they did present me with a couple of brown eggs this morning, so I really shouldn’t complain about them. It was that that gave me the idea to bake. Fortuitous really, didn’t know you were coming. Must have had a premonition though that someone would come, and I always felt you’d be back.’ Her eyes penetrated Joanna’s with piercing understanding. ‘Had to, didn’t you? No chance of discovering the truth without learning about the past. Hang on a mo, I’ll get the tea tray.’ Halfway to the kitchen she turned around. ‘You have come to talk, haven’t you? About Nan.’
‘Not just about Nan,’ Joanna said. ‘This isn’t just about Nan, is it? It’s about all of you.’
Without answering Lydia walked into the kitchen. But Joanna had gained the impression she was pleased at her statement although it was hard to judge. Lydia’s thought processes were jerky and disconnected; she made statements then leaped to other topics without leaving a clue as to what the intermediate thoughts were. One could only guess. Joanna settled back on the sofa and half closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of animals which seemed to fade the longer you were in the room. She felt relaxed.
But the illusion of a safe haven was sharply blasted away by the irate tone of her mobile phone. And as she answered she couldn’t quite keep the resentment out of her voice, even though it was Matthew. ‘I wondered if you fancied a lift home,’ he said tentatively. ‘We’ve just got back.’
‘I’m with um …’ Lydia would hear from the kitchen. ‘I’m interviewing a relative of Nan Lawrence’s. Why don’t you pick me up from here in an hour? Bring Eloise with you, it’s the lady who wrote the entertaining book. Maybe she’d like to meet her.’
‘Little madam’s in a sulk,’ Matthew said softly, he didn’t want to be overheard either, ‘to be honest ...’
She didn’t want him to have to admit it – that his daughter was difficult – even with him, her adored father. She wanted to spare him the self-abasement so she didn’t let him finish. ‘It’s OK, Matt. We women can all be difficult.’
‘Yeah.’
She gave him swift directions to Quills and finished the call, switching the phone off. Its presence could be intrusive, her awareness of it an obstacle to concentration. She was just putting the phone back in her bag when Lydia returned carrying a tray heavy with a teapot, milk jug, sugar basin, two mugs and a plate of home-made cake. A farmhouse fruit cake. It opened a keyhole of memory, transporting Joan
na straight back to six years old, the house of her aunt and the wonderful taste of home-made cake mixed with tea, very milky in deference to both her youth and the current trend when milk had been thought to be universally, nutritionally good.
Lydia hacked off a crumbly slab and dropped it on to a tea plate. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘you look as though you could do with this.’ Then she poured the tea.
‘Now then.’ A fringe of crumbs had already planted themselves round her mouth, she’d been snacking in the kitchen. She dusted the crumbs off and settled back in the shabby armchair, ignoring the two hens who were clawing at the straw in their box. ‘I think I know what you want to learn,’ she said wisely, fixing Joanna with her strange amber eyes. ‘You’re interested in our family, aren’t you? You’re curious as to how it all came about.’
Joanna nodded.
‘And knowing a little of our history – and our various inheritances – you don’t think Nan’s death was by chance, do you? This burglary thing was a red herring, a wild-goose chase, a distraction. Call it what you will, Inspector, it isn’t the answer, is it?’
Joanna shook her head almost mesmerized by the voice which had softened and was lullingly gentle. ‘I want you to help me,’ she said evenly. ‘Just point me in the right direction. You have a duty not to obstruct the police, others might be in danger.’
‘You think I haven’t thought of that?’ Lydia regarded her steadily for a few moments. ‘Look at these photographs, Inspector, before you ask me anything more or even try to make judgements. If you’re unable to read evidence I don’t see why I should enlighten you.’
‘You must,’ Joanna said.
‘Well ... I believe you are an intelligent young woman, Miss Joanna Piercy. Not a hack and slash sort of policewoman at all. I think in the end you will understand. You see, understanding is more important than simply knowing. It is the key after all. The why. Without that you might have a physical arrest but not a full comprehension of the case. It is complex, even I can’t tell you everything and I have been close to its centre for fifty years.’
She reached behind her for an ornate, antimony box and set it on the sofa beside Joanna. ‘Go on,’ she prompted, ‘open it. Take your time. It’s all there if you’ve the wisdom to read it. And if I’ve judged you correctly you will only be content with the whole story.’ She smiled, scratched at a reddened area on her elbow and smiled again.
Joanna glanced downwards. This, then, was the symbol of Pandora’s box. What evils would be exposed when she lifted the lid? She was at once afraid yet unable to contain her curiosity. She raised the lid. It was full of photographs, black and white, or rather sepia and cream, all were old.
‘Tip them out,’ Lydia directed. ‘Study them. The years are written on the back, start from the beginning, Inspector, like a good story.’ She was leaning forward, eagerly, hands on huge knees, mouth very slightly open, her breathing heavy.
Joanna did as she was told, tipped the photographs out on the sofa and began to sort them through. It was easy to find the earliest, they had been at the bottom. Photographs of children, one, then two. And using the dates on the backs, by 1930 there were three. Pictures of Arnold came first, born 1920, a baby lying on a lace shawl who grew into a sturdy toddler then a small boy.
And by the time he was five years old, Arnold had a sister, Nan. No hint yet of what was to come.
First pictures of Nan showed a contented, happy little baby, jealously guarded by an older brother. If the camera was not lying Arnold had doted on his baby sister, his expression was clearly the fierce mixture of pride and protectiveness frequently seen in the attitude of an older brother to his tiny sister. As Nan grew, the bond between brother and sister appeared to remain close, the photographs still portraying them frequently hand in hand, sharing toys, a hoop and whip, a wooden horse, a toy train. And then in 1930 along had come Lydia, always a fat child, plump-legged, bursting out of her dainty dresses.
Joanna looked up through seventy years to see her reading her mind, chins wobbling as she laughed. ‘I was a right little fatty, wasn’t I?’ And Joanna joined her laughing before she bent back over the photographs, curious to learn more from them.
The children grew with the years, games changed, school uniforms appeared, solemn, studied shots with hockey sticks, a cricket bat, a rugby ball. The vision swam before Joanna’s eyes of Arnold Patterson today, bent almost double over his stick. Not always a cripple, he sat in the centre of the school fifteen. By the time Arnold was a leggy nineteen years old in 1939 he had swapped his Oxford bags and polo shirts for an army uniform. His sisters now clung to him as though every moment spent with their brother was precious. It must have felt like that. ‘Arnie’, the back of the photo called him now. Fourteen-year-old Nan and nine-year-old Lydia had still, quite obviously, adored this handsome, jaunty young soldier. Joanna peered closer and began to read emotion behind the sepia.
Arnie’s eyes peered out of the photograph with desperation. Joanna could read the terror that lay behind the bold, plucky grin. Frightened? He must have hated it but been just as afraid to let his sisters know that the boldness was all a front, that behind every hero is a coward. Joanna put the photograph back in the box, on top of the other photographs, wondering just how much Arnie’s two younger sisters had really understood.
She picked up more prints of the two girls clinging together, missing their brother, a bemused puzzlement now lying behind their stares into the lens. There were only a few pictures left.
Joanna stretched out her hand and picked up a couple of prints dated 1944, when Arnie must have been home on leave, fear now etching deep lines across his face. But the three had still been inseparable, Arnie had an arm around each sister, and there was no mistaking the adoration mirrored in the girls’ faces as they gazed up at their older brother. Behind them, probably imagining the shot would miss him, glowered an older man, Joanna peered at a thin, hard face. Even though it was fuzzy and slightly out of focus she could still read resentment, meanness, spite. He must be the father who had died and left such a legacy. There was the vaguest resemblance to Arnie, Arnie without the brave grin. But Joanna could see no resemblance to either of his daughters.
There was only one photograph left. 1944: Nan Patterson marrying David Lawrence, neatly ascribed on the back. Joanna stared at Nan Lawrence, looking determinedly in control, staring into the camera lens, dressed in a surprisingly lavish wedding dress, her hand linked with David Lawrence, in uniform, but still looking like a farmhand, doltish, clumsy and uncomfortable. It was the last photograph. There were no more. Not one that dated beyond the end of the war. Yet they had, all three, survived. Joanna felt cheated. Something should have been here; Lydia had promised her. But whatever clue there was it had eluded her.
She looked up to see Lydia Patterson watching her with a veiled expression in her eyes, some disappointment that Joanna had not been as perceptive as she should, but there was triumph too.
‘Now what do you want to know, Inspector?’ Her voice was soft – kind – but Joanna knew she would answer the questions she was asked, and she didn’t know what to ask.
‘Why did you fall out?’
Lydia seemed to stop breathing. ‘I thought you’d ask that,’ she said, but it isn’t my tale to tell.’
‘Then whose is it?’
‘It was Nan’s,’ she said, even more softly.
‘Nan can’t tell it,’ Joanna said brutally. ‘She’s dead. You must tell it for her.’
Lydia opened her mouth to speak than shook her head gravely. ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘I can’t.’
‘It wasn’t only the will, was it?’
Lydia shook her head.
‘Was your sister happily married?’
‘That was something between her and David.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I only know a part,’ Lydia said, ‘some was never told me. I was too young – only fourteen when the war ended. And girls of fourteen were considered young then. Now, well.’<
br />
‘Do the events of so long ago have any bearing on your sister’s death?’
‘They had huge bearing on her life,’ Lydia said quietly. ‘As to her death,’ she stared straight at Joanna then shrugged her huge shoulders, ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Then you must tell me all’, Joanna said, ‘and let me be the judge.’
Lydia’s face seemed to crumple. ‘Nan’s story is not unique,’ she began, ‘it happened to lots of women in those times – war times. Their menfolk were away, they strayed. Nan strayed, and Arnie never could forgive, neither could I. Arnie because he knew what men went through over there. He knew that for all their bravado they were terrified. The “girls they left behind them” sustained them through terrible times. And I – I couldn’t forgive Nan because I loved David Lawrence, I worshipped the very ground he walked on. With my fourteen-year-old’s clear-cut passions I couldn’t see how she could have betrayed him.’
‘Who with?’
‘She didn’t tell me, her kid sister, who adored ...’ Lydia frowned. ‘No, idolized her. She didn’t tell me.’ Even now, fifty years later, Lydia Patterson still managed to look hurt, something of the adolescent resentment was visible. Her sister might have been murdered but Lydia was still cross with her over a secret never shared. Suddenly Joanna was gaining insight, seeing how lives, as one grew older, condensed so the emotions of fifty years ago were yesterday’s hurts. And revenge? Hatred? Was that as hot today as then? As hot eight days ago as fifty years? Surely no one would wait for revenge for so long.
‘Does anyone know who your sister’s clandestine lover was?’
A car drew up outside. The gate clicked open. She had not thought it possible Lydia Patterson’s plump face could shrink in fright. Like a pricked balloon the fat seemed to deflate, her eyes flicked across to the gun cupboard. She was on her feet in a millisecond, her eyes wide and frightened, tea upset down her flowery dress.
Footsteps outside, Matthew calling to Eloise: ‘Mind where you step, darling. It’s muddy.’ They must have made up their quarrel; his voice was warm. A soft screech from Eloise. Transparent relief on Lydia’s face. Matthew’s hard knock on the door. The look of alarm on Lydia’s face for a fleeting moment.
Embroidering Shrouds Page 19
