The Final Curtain

by Priscilla Masters

  As she waited the woman was busily studying her. Joanna met her gaze. And had another shock. The clothes might be 1930s; Timony Weeks aged sixty. But the face that looked at her was unlined and almost expressionless, the eyes thickly made-up with heavy black kohl, false eyelashes firmly and defiantly stuck on beneath tattooed eyebrows, while her mouth was plumped up, too big and dominant for the tiny face. Joanna blinked. The final feeling of a doll’s mask was completed by very thick strawberry-blonde hair cut to the actress’s shoulders and a thick fringe which covered the top half of her face. Only her eyes were untouched by the cosmetic surgeon’s attentions. Nothing they could do about the colour except, perhaps, coloured contact lenses. At the moment they were faded blue and regarding her curiously.

  Again, Joanna had an odd sense of confusion. The physiognomy had thrown her. She was not sure of anything about this woman, whether she was sane or mad, old or young. Her body was as small as a child’s but her eyes were old and shrewd. Joanna studied her further for clues that would help her fix a label on Timony. Her arms were thin, the sleeves pushed up to the elbows in the stuffy atmosphere. The hands were liver-spotted, sporting large, gaudy rings. Her neck was quite creased. Joanna raised her eyes to the pale pink lipstick thickly applied to her mouth, which didn’t quite move in time to her question: ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Joanna Piercy, Leek Police.’

  ‘They haven’t sent you before.’ The voice was undoubtedly old, cracked, harsh and hostile.

  ‘No. I’ve been away. I’ve been on my honeymoon,’ she added, still with a sense of unreality at that last spoken word.

  ‘Honeymoon?’ The woman cackled. ‘I should be the expert on those.’ Another cackle. ‘I’ve had enough of them, haven’t I?’ The question was rhetorical but the dogsbody smiled politely and nodded in agreement.

  ‘Really?’ Joanna was dismissive. She didn’t want to hear some long, drawn-out life story. She didn’t have the time and she wasn’t interested. She simply wanted to put a stop to these frequent calls to the station so they could all get on with their real jobs. Policing, catching criminals and upholding the law. ‘I’ve come in response to your repeated reports to the station about intruders on your property and requests for a police presence,’ Joanna said briskly, trying to assert her authority. ‘In particular, your telephone call today when you claimed you could smell cigarette smoke.’ The woman’s eyes narrowed with reflected hostility. She’d picked up on Joanna’s implied criticism of people who wasted police time. The two stared each other out.

  Then Joanna drew out her notebook. ‘Would you like to tell me about this latest episode?’ She could so easily have inserted the word ‘delusional’.

  The woman stared at her with chilly dislike. Then she gave a humph. ‘You’d better sit down, Inspector.’ As Joanna looked around for a spare chair she barked, ‘Not in here. This is my study. Sacrosanct. The sitting room, Inspector, if you please.’

  So Joanna followed Mrs Weeks back into the sitting room and sat on the chintz-covered sofa, notebook in hand. Timony Weeks sat opposite her, crossing her legs, high-heeled mules dangling on the end of her feet with orange painted toenails. The secretary had melted away – wise woman – and Timony was still regarding her with undisguised hostility, which was reflected by the cat. They had disturbed its hideaway on a cushion on the sofa and she had responded with arched back and a glare. Timony Weeks reached out and stroked the animal as it extended its neck and narrowed its sly blue eyes.

  ‘Tuptim,’ Timony murmured, then addressed Joanna. ‘I’d expected them to send Sergeant Korpanski,’ she complained.

  Joanna would have liked to have retorted that Sergeant Mike Korpanski had had just about enough of being called out here, but instead she simply smiled and said, ‘It was my turn.’

  Timony Weeks narrowed her eyes, similar to her cat, and moved her head. She wasn’t quite sure how to take this statement. After a brief stare she bowed her head and began to talk, her voice softly modulated and expressive so Joanna could glimpse the actress beneath. ‘It was five o’clock this morning,’ she said precisely, the words carefully enunciated. ‘I was in the kitchen, rinsing out some cups, standing at the sink.’ She gave a sour glance towards the door. ‘Diana,’ her voice was sharp with accusation, ‘had left the kettle on the Aga late last night, which had made the room very steamy. The top window had been left open overnight to let the steam out but the glass had some condensation on it, so my vision to the outside was blurred. It was dark but I could see that the floodlights had come on. Obviously I couldn’t recognize anyone.’

  Joanna listened carefully to every word. So far Timony Weeks was a perfect witness. Logical, clear, precise and concise, giving all the detail that would be asked of her. Even as she was speaking in her soft, coherent voice, Joanna was realizing just how wrong she’d been in her original assumption. This was not a confused and intimidated old woman but someone with a very clear and sequential way of describing events. She was in full possession of her senses. Not histrionic but lucid. Was she to be believed?

  Joanna took careful notice of her choice of words, as Timony continued in a husky voice, ‘Through the open window I distinctly smelt cigarette smoke.’ She leant forward a little, in mute appeal, hands clasped together. ‘Someone, Inspector, was smoking just outside my kitchen window at five o’clock this morning.’

  Joanna’s thoughts had been tumbling around in her head but this statement was unequivocal, unmistakable. She couldn’t ignore it. And yet …

  ‘You’ve called us out for that?’ Joanna couldn’t quite keep the exasperation out of her voice.

  Timony Weeks licked her lips, suggesting the first sign of nervousness or vulnerability since Joanna had arrived.

  Perhaps she was beginning to realize that she might not be believed. ‘I know you probably think I’m imagining all this but …’ She seemed to be struggling to find the right words to convince Joanna of the veracity of her statement. ‘Inspector Piercy,’ she said, leaning forward even further. ‘My second husband, Sol Brannigan, used to smoke. I never have liked the smell of tobacco so I made him smoke outside.’ She smiled, remembering. ‘Sol being Sol, a man who did not like being told what to do, resented that one small rule and, as a minor rebellion, he sometimes used to puff away just outside an open window, knowing full well that the smoke would waft in.’ Her eyes looked distant for a moment before fixing back on Joanna, the pupils small and earnest as though she was asking her to please believe this. ‘So, Inspector, I know exactly what it smells like when someone, just outside an open window, is smoking.’

  Joanna was silent. Again, this clear and concise account was hardly the paranoid ranting of an elderly lady. ‘Who did you think it was?’

  Timony appeared to freeze at the question. She did not have an answer off pat – or if she did she wasn’t prepared to share it.

  Joanna pursued her goal. ‘Did you think it might be your second husband? Is he still alive?’

  Timony licked dry lips. ‘I don’t know,’ she said dismissively. Joanna tucked the comment away for future consideration.

  ‘Did you actually see anyone?’

  ‘No,’ Timony said patiently. ‘As I have just explained, it wouldn’t have been possible. And if I had seen someone I would have given you a description.’ Now the blue eyes were fixed on hers with a penetrating sharpness that was disconcerting. ‘I have a very sensitive nose,’ she continued. ‘I can recognize most perfumes at twenty paces.’ There was humour in her expression as the stiff face smiled. ‘I am surprised that you go for something as traditional as Chanel No. 5 rather than a more contemporary scent.’

  Joanna felt like bowing to her theatrical show off. But it was impressive. This was indeed a sensitive nose. Mrs Weeks was sitting on the other side of the room and Joanna was not in the habit of splashing perfume around. She too smiled. ‘My husband likes it,’ she said. ‘His tastes in perfume are … traditional.’

  Timony’s eyes scrutinized he
r and Joanna felt uncomfortable, as though she was about to make some other observation, but instead she continued, ‘I have an eye for detail too, Inspector. You understand? I remember where things are and where they should remain, considering that I live alone. My attention to detail can be compared with the continuity girl in the film industry. I am very observant and I have a very retentive memory.’

  The statements were made in a matter-of-fact manner. Joanna got the picture. This woman was explaining to her that her words should be remembered and relied upon. She sat up a little straighter and began her questions. ‘It was dark outside?’

  ‘It was five o’clock this morning.’ Timony gave Joanna a haughty look. ‘I waited until six before ringing. I had to report it but I imagined the call wouldn’t be welcome in the middle of the night.’

  Joanna nodded. ‘Who’s resident on this property?’

  ‘Myself.’

  ‘Doesn’t Ms Tong live here?’

  ‘Not bloody likely.’ This came from the doorway. ‘I have a life, you know. I live in Ashbourne. I come in four days a week. That’s enough. And it’s Mrs Tong, please.’

  Joanna turned her attention to her. ‘You live with your family?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  This provoked a derisive snort from Timony Weeks, which both Diana and Joanna ignored as Joanna continued her questioning of the dogsbody.

  ‘And your duties include?’

  ‘More or less everything. Typing, cleaning, shopping, whatever she wants.’

  ‘And the grounds? Who manages those?’

  Her eyebrows lifted. ‘Now there I do draw the line. We have a gardener who looks after the land and his wife does cleaning, ironing, et cetera. They come once a week. Usually Tuesdays, which is one of my days off.’

  ‘Their names?’

  ‘Frank and Millie Rossington. They live in the town.’

  ‘And they come one day a week?’

  ‘Just a morning in the winter and all day through the summer.’

  Joanna looked hard at Diana Tong, wondering what her ‘take’ was on these police call-outs. ‘Have you ever seen any evidence of an intruder?’

  Slowly, and with an apologetic glance at her employer, Diana Tong shook her head. ‘Nothing convincing,’ she said, looking away.

  Which put Joanna two steps back. Was this a charade? Should she even be here? Had she been misled by Timony Weeks’ apparent lucidity and saneness? She was struggling now. There was just one woman’s word and the intruder lights. ‘Do either of you smoke?’

  Mrs Weeks shook her head while Diana chortled. ‘Ah, I see what you’re getting at, Inspector. You’re trying to … No, of course I don’t smoke. And even if I did, I’d hardly be standing outside the kitchen window at five o’clock in the morning having a sly one, would I? Particularly on a Sunday night when I’m not even here on a Sunday, it being another one of my days off.’

  ‘I simply wondered whether you might have dropped a butt outside the window at some other time and Mrs Weeks caught a waft.’ She thought again for a moment before addressing both women. ‘If someone was outside here, smoking, then I need to ascertain why he or she was here, and whether their motive was malicious. If …’ She glanced apologetically at Timony Weeks then looked away. She found it disconcerting to talk to a woman who was sixty but had the undeveloped body of a child and the unlined face of a woman in her forties. ‘If … if no one was here then I can return to more pressing police duties.’

  Diana gave a soft huff from the doorway while Timony simply pressed her lips together in fury and possibly some exasperation.

  Joanna felt she must appear to be still searching for an explanation. ‘You say,’ she said lamely, ‘that at five o’clock this morning you were to all intents and purposes alone in the house and you weren’t aware that anyone was or could be in the outbuildings?’

  ‘Yes.’ Timony was showing signs of impatience at having to repeat her statement.

  ‘This is an isolated house.’ Joanna tried to speak conversationally.

  Again, an irritated, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Excuse me, but you’re not—’

  Timony’s eyes narrowed, challenging Joanna to say not young.

  Instead Joanna burst out, ‘Why live out here all on your own when it’s patently making you paranoid, twitchy and nervous?’

  ‘Paranoid?’ The word came out like a whipcrack and Joanna immediately regretted her choice. She flapped her hands apologetically. Oh, no, had she really just accused Mrs Weeks of being mentally unstable?

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean …’ she said quickly, which provoked a sharp retort from the actress.

  ‘I can live where I please, Inspector,’ she said haughtily. There was something both brave and dignified in her response, and also an element of poignancy. ‘I will not be frightened into abandoning Butterfield.’

  Joanna collected her feelings. ‘Mrs Weeks,’ she tried, ‘who would drive all the way out here merely to make you feel uneasy with simple, silly tricks? Just to blow cigarette smoke in through a window?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said angrily through gritted teeth. ‘That’s for you to find out, Inspector Piercy.’

  Joanna bit back her retort. At the back of her mind lay something uncomfortable. Something queasy like the smell of drains in a hot country, or oily black canal water in a sleazy area of a city. Something wasn’t right.

  She tried again. ‘Mrs Weeks,’ she said, frowning, recalling the list of trivia her colleagues had been summoned to investigate, ‘we can’t keep coming out here every time you think you see or hear something out of the ordinary. We’ve logged more than sixteen calls from you in the last couple of weeks, all of them over very trivial matters.’ She tried to rescue the dismissal by making a light comment and smiling. ‘You practically need a full-time security guard.’

  Timony Weeks’ face assumed a mean, challenging look. ‘Are you doubting my statements, Inspector?’ Her voice was soft as chamois and it fooled neither of the listeners.

  ‘No-o.’ Joanna was remembering Korpanski’s words about Chief Superintendent Gabriel Rush. It sent an icicle sliding down her spine.

  Timony sat up a little straighter. ‘But you are refusing to respond to my plea for help.’

  Joanna felt like throwing up her hands and saying, What do you expect me to do? Instead she looked down at her notebook and took a risk. ‘You know the story of the boy who cried wolf?’

  Timony Weeks didn’t deign to answer, simply pursed her plumped-up lips.

  Joanna read from her notes. ‘You called us out because the lavatory seat was left up.’

  Timony Weeks didn’t even blink. ‘Two women live here, Inspector.’

  ‘What about the gardener?’

  ‘He uses the outside toilet. Always. I don’t allow him in the house.’

  Swallowing a snort, Joanna tried again. ‘Well, perhaps his wife, the cleaner …’ she suggested. She left stupid but bound to add, ‘You have to lift the seat to clean a toilet properly.’

  Oh, if Korpanski could hear her. She could imagine his swallowed guffaw and smothered grin.

  Timony’s response was oddly dignified. ‘It was not a day that Millie was here.’

  Joanna went through the list of trivial detail followed by trivial detail. ‘Music playing, your nightdress unfolded, a feeling that someone was watching the house, a dead mouse in the bread bin. Furniture moved.’ She looked up. ‘We’ve never found anything concrete.’

  Timony Weeks’ face changed. Suddenly she looked vulnerable, a frightened little girl lost. ‘I don’t know how I can make you believe me,’ she said quietly. ‘Somebody is making repeated sorties out here. I sense their presence and their malevolence. They are doing it deliberately to frighten me and to persuade me to leave here.’

  ‘Is that what you think the agenda is?’

  Her hands gripped the arm of the sofa. ‘I will not be bamboozled into abandoning my Shangri-La.’ She looked around her. ‘Butterfield is my home. My perfect
home.’ The crack in her voice gave the words a desperate pathos. ‘What has to happen for you to take me seriously, Inspector? Do I have to have a knife sticking out of my back?’ Her voice rose hysterically.

  Joanna shifted uncomfortably, not only at the melodrama of the demand but also of the graphic image it evoked. It was shocking.

  Timony Weeks continued, ‘All I’m asking you to do, Inspector, is find out who is playing these silly tricks on me and why they want me to leave here.’

  ‘You really believe that is the motive?’

  Timony Weeks stared her out, not answering. Then muttered, as though this was something she been reluctant to admit, ‘Possibly not.’

  Joanna felt she must press her. ‘What other motives can there be?’

  But the walls were up now. ‘I don’t want to go into that right now.’

  Patience, Joanna, patience.

  But she needed to put a stop to this waste of police time. ‘Mrs Weeks,’ she said. ‘You can’t keep summoning us here unless you give us the full facts. Have you any idea who might “have it in” for you, as it were?’

  She looked down sentimentally at the cat who lay blissfully unaware of any drama, snoring softly, her thin flanks rising and falling. ‘Too many people.’

  Again, Joanna was frustrated and practically shouted her questions. ‘Who? Why? Why would anyone do this? Surely you can see what nonsense all this is. If somebody really wanted you out they wouldn’t keep playing such subtle tricks. They’d do something far more dramatic.’

  That pinned the blue eyes to Joanna’s face and her hands gripped the arms of the sofa even harder. ‘That, Inspector,’ she said, ‘is what I’m afraid of.’

  ‘Are you talking about neighbours who might want your land or the farm – or someone from your past?’

  ‘I don’t know. That’s for you to find out.’

  Joanna felt that she wanted to escape now. ‘You have a burglar alarm?’