Not so far away, in London, by the Thames, Dolly Barstow had enjoyed a very satisfying quarrel and then a reconciliation with her former lover, a high-ranking police officer and much married man. All this had been gratifying to Dolly since she had scored a great number of points in her quarrel speech (it had been a speech, carefully prepared by her and delivered in a formal manner while standing erect) after which the reconciliation had been on her terms which meant she had control.
She was offered, and refused, a plan for marrying. ‘Not likely,’ she had said. ‘How many divorces would that make for you? And me next on the list?’
Not kind of her, but she was not trying to be kind, or even, it must be admitted, honest. She was acting, but it was time, she thought, for a woman to stand up for herself.
She had then got her hair cut, bought some new shoes of a style not to be found in Merrywick and joined a few friends for a drink in a carefully chosen bar.
The conversation had been interesting.
She was staying with an old college friend, Amanda Deacon. A lawyer. Amanda had a flat in a converted warehouse where she lived a hardworking even austere life: no lovers, no drugs, not much drink. She swam every morning and jogged every Sunday. Her intention, as she had stated more than once, was to retire in her early forties and sail around the world in her small boat.
Dolly, who knew that Amanda could confuse Salisbury and Bath, wondered how she would get round the world.
‘I can get maps and charts,’ said Amanda. ‘And I shall take sailing lessons before I go.’ She poured them some more wine. Dolly had brought a bottle of Sancerre with her together with a salad and a chicken dish from the deli round the corner from Royal Street where Amanda lived.
‘Thank you for having me,’ said Dolly.
‘You’re only here for twenty-four hours.’ Amanda was eating placidly. ‘You’re welcome to stay longer.’
‘I wanted to get away. Think things out.’
‘And did you?’ The legal mind was operating.
‘Did what I wanted.’
‘And how much actual thinking came into it?’ Dolly protested that you could think in all sorts of ways. ‘And positions?’ Dolly poured out some more wine. ‘Never you mind.’ She added,
‘I did some good work too.’
In the bar where she had gone for that drink, she had talked to
a group of CID men.
‘Picked up something that will interest my boss … I think I will
have to tell her.’
Charmian was considering packing her briefcase, preparatory to departing for home, when her telephone rang. She considered ignoring it: it had been a long day and she was tired. But the call was on her private, reserved line, a number known only to a few. Among whom, of course, were the white witches.
‘Charmian, it’s Birdie.’ She sounded agitated. ‘Could you call on your way home?’
‘Something wrong?
‘Yes, I fear so.’
Behind Birdie, Charmian could hear Winifred saying, ‘Tell her now, why wait, tell her now.’
‘No,’ Charmian heard Birdie say. ‘I want to tell her face to face. Without seeing me, she may not realize how seriously I take this.’
Charmian didn’t wait for any more. With those two, it was better to get things over. ‘I’m on my way home now, I’ll call in as I pass.’
It was never easy to escape from Birdie and Winifred, they were tenacious in everything they did, social contacts included.
Dr Harrie’s mongrel dog was sitting at the door when she arrived.
‘Hello, boy.’ She patted his head and went through into the hall. ‘Birdie, Winifred, I’m here.’
Their house smelt of cooking: vanilla cake, buttery shortbread, something savoury. No doubt a party for fellow witches and warlocks was being prepared. They entertained a lot in a modest way because Winifred held a high position in the Berks and Bucks Coven. Coven was the word used although a more respectable group of ladies could not be imagined. There was one warlock admitted as an honorary member whom Charmian on first meeting had thought, sexually speaking, could as well have been witch as warlock, until Birdie confided in her that he had impregnated two junior witches. The witches approved rather than otherwise, viewing this as almost a function of a warlock. Puritans they were not. In fact, Birdie had even hinted delicately that she and Winifred ‘were not totally without experience’, although she gave no details. After all, she had added, ‘We both served in the Fire Service in the War.’
Charmian went into the kitchen where the ladies of experience sat her down and offered her tea or coffee. ‘ Or a glass?’
Charmian refused all refreshment. ‘Tell me, what is it?’
Winifred said, ‘It’s Dr Harrie. He’s gone.’ She pushed a note across to Charmian. ‘ He left this for us.’
Charmian read:
DEAR FRIENDS,
THIS IS ALL MORE THAN I CAN BEAR. I
GRIEVE FOR ME.
PLEASE LOOK AFTER THE DOG.
BE OFF. DO NOT
H …
The letter was in staggered printed capitals as if the writer was drunk. There was more to the signature but it could not be deciphered easily, although, a capital H at the beginning was clear.
‘I’m afraid he wasn’t himself when he wrote it,’ ventured Birdie nervously.
‘No. Not by the look of it.’ Drunk perhaps. ‘Where was this left?’ Charmian asked.
‘Pushed through the letter box. No envelope, just folded.’
Charmian nodded. She could see the creases in the paper. ‘And the dog?’
‘Sitting outside on the mat, waiting … We took him in, of course, but he seems to prefer to sit outside. Waiting for his master,’ said Birdie sadly.
‘Yes, I saw him.’
At that moment, the dog trotted in, disposing himself comfortably in front of the big solid-fuel cooker where the heat was greatest. He was a ragged-coated, rangy beast, with a sharp nose and strong teeth. But he looked good humoured.
Charmian nodded at him and he almost but not quite nodded back.
‘It looks as though you’ve got him for life.’
Winifred said sharply that they would have to think about it.
‘I am afraid the poor man may have done away with himself,’ said Birdie.
‘I don’t know about that.’ Winifred was still sharp. ‘He didn’t say so in the note.’
‘I fear it was what he meant.’ Birdie shook her head. ‘I fear he was not himself even when we spoke to him.’
Charmian sat down at the kitchen table to consider the problem. ‘I’m not inclined to worry too much. He was roaming round, trying to find out about his granddaughter’s death.’
‘Murder,’ put in Winifred. ‘It was murder.’
‘Murder,’ agreed Charmian. ‘I don’t think he found anything, I guess he gave up the struggle and has gone home. He must have had a home somewhere, and he is probably there, sitting comfortably in his own house.’
‘If only we knew where that was,’ said Winifred.
‘Shouldn’t be too hard to find.’
Even to herself, it sounded unconvincing.
‘I think he is in the river,’ said Birdie. She passed her hand over her face. Winifred reached out and took her hand. ‘Come on, old thing.’
Birdie raised her face. ‘I’m not crying for him, Win. It’s just that somehow it is all so strange and odd.’
‘Don’t be frightened.’ Her friend put a comforting arm round her shoulders.
‘No, but there is a bad feeling … I sense it.’
The witches did not lay claim to any extra sensory perception but it was true that Birdie was more sensitive to the oddities of human behaviour than Winifred.
‘I feel something black.’
Winifred patted her friend on the shoulder. ‘I’ll get you a cup of strong tea, that will buck you up. I am sure the old chap is all right. Whatever you felt about him, I felt he could look after himself.’
�
��Well, that is true,’ said Birdie, slowly as if considering. ‘I will have that tea. What about you, Charmian?’
‘No, I will go home. Do you want me to report Dr Harrie as missing?’
‘I think he will turn up,’ said Winifred.
Birdie shook her head. ‘ You might be right, Win, but I believe it would be best if Charmian did report him missing. I just feel it would be the right thing to do.’
Winifred met Charmian’s eyes, she gave a small shrug but said nothing.
‘I’ll do it. Do you mind if your names come into it?’
‘Have to put up with it,’ said Winifred gruffly, ‘we do come into it. He was staying here.’
‘They will want to talk to you, I expect.’
‘I wonder if we will see that nice young detective we saw when we had that little trouble in our bookshop.’ Birdie was reviving.
Little trouble, Charmian thought, several bodies in their own garden, one at least the work of a mightily unpleasant killer.
‘I can’t say who will be interviewing you, not my sphere.’ Charmian slung her coat over her shoulders. ‘Humphrey will be wondering where I am.’ Not that she was ever back home at any regular time. ‘I’ll let you know what I have done and of course anything I learn will come your way too.’
‘But they will tell you first,’ said the worldly wise Winifred.
The dog followed her to the door, wagging his tail, as if prepared to follow her. Like most dogs he knew how to make a play for sympathy.
‘Don’t worry, boy,’ she said, patting his head. ‘ You’re safe. They won’t get rid of you.’
She drove the few yards which separated her house from where Birdie and Winifred lived. She had lived in this early Victorian cottage before she married, and had hesitated before asking her husband to move in with her. It was small, whereas he was used to large rooms in a large house; for a time when they were first married they had shuttled between his various homes. Charmian had even herself bought a country home. But it was no good, she was a town dweller. Fortunately she had never sold her cottage, not even rented it out, so they had moved back in together. To her pleasure and surprise, they were happy there.
Various animals had come and gone in their lives, each creature dying of contented old age, but at the moment Charmian and Humphrey were on their own. A vacancy usually summoned up a replacement, Charmian could not remember ever going out and choosing a cat or a dog, they seemed to choose her.
Her husband appeared down the stairs, spectacles in his hand. He kissed her on the cheek.
‘You look thoughtful.’
‘How would you like a large mongrel who seems to have been left on the witches’ doorstep by your old school mate, Dr Harrie?’
‘He wasn’t my mate, not ever, I just knew him, and I didn’t recognize him this time round except by name.’
‘Perhaps you made a mistake.’
‘Perhaps I did. I recall the dog.’ He was doubtful. ‘I don’t know, I like a dog with a breed.’
‘Oh, he’s got a breed, the trouble is he’s got too many, all mixed up. I think he’s got character … He’d be a good companion for you when you go for one of your long walks.’
Humphrey had what he called his ‘thinking walks’ when he paced along, considering problems. He was immersed in drama at the moment, writing a short play for the class he attended at the local university. The student body was large, some students living in university residences but most renting flats or travelling daily from their own home. A far call from the groves of academe of the older universities.
Humphrey loved it, though, and said that for someone of his age, it was just right.
He was not so sure about the dog. ‘He looks the sort that would chase the pheasants in the Great Park. Eat them, too, I daresay.’
Charmian had to agree. She put down her bag and advanced to the kitchen. The dog looked a cheerful scoundrel if ever she had seen one. ‘We’ve got cold pheasant and salad to eat tonight. I cooked it before I went out this morning.’ She was better at cold chicken or ham or pheasant, something you prepared in advance and left to eat later, hot foods, that had to be ready and eaten at a set time or they spoiled, confused her.
‘What’s happened to old Harrie then?’
‘Went off, leaving the dog behind with a request for the witches to look after him. They think Harrie is bent on suicide. The river is their guess.’
‘I doubt it, he didn’t look that sort.’
‘You can’t tell,’ said Charmian. ‘People don’t come labelled.’
‘I ran across the lad Pip Dingham today … Dr Dingham, I should say, he’s going to be a lecturer in the university, soon to be Professor Dingham, no doubt. Clever boy. Wonder how he copes with his mother?’
‘By ignoring the relationship as much as he can from what I saw. His aunt brought him up so he probably counts her as his mother. But he behaves well, he’s polite and kind to Joan. He may even be sorry for her.’
‘Think so?’
‘I don’t know. I must make a call. Lay the table, we can eat in the kitchen.’
She went up to her workroom at the top of the house. ‘ I’ll call John Tincker,’ she said to herself. He was uniform, not CID, an Inspector on an accelerated promotion track. He had worked on the periphery of the Pinckney Heath killing.
Briefly she told him about Dr Harrie and his disappearance. ‘He may have killed himself. Late middle age, lots of hair still, weirdly dressed. If such turns up, it will be Harrie. But let me know of any unclaimed bodies within that age range.’
‘Right,’ said Tincker. ‘Didn’t know there was a grandpa. Only met the mother. She’s gone to live in Canada.’
‘It might be an idea to check on his home address; he may be there, comfortably drinking a glass of beer.’ Charmian suggested.
‘Do you know it?’
‘I am sure you can find out,’ said Charmian sweetly. ‘I’ll owe you.’
‘Oh, I’ll call in the debt some time.’
He probably would do, he was punctilious himself, and expected the same back. He had a clever wife who was a neuro-surgeon and a daughter who was certainly intelligent, but at one year old it was a bit early to tell.
‘I’ll feed it into the system and let you know what comes out.’
Back in the kitchen, she said so little and was so distracted that finally her husband said ‘Want to shoot me tonight?’
‘Lovely,’ she said absently.
‘Oh, I’m glad you look forward to it. I want you to enjoy it.’
‘Always do.’ Then she looked at him. ‘ Sorry, I didn’t hear what you said. I was thinking.’
‘I noticed,’ he said soberly.
‘About those killings that Joan Dingham went down for … I did a lot of reading this afternoon – Rhos’s diary, various reports. I started to wonder.’ She paused. ‘Could there have been another person involved as well as Rhos and Joan?’
‘You’re not asking me?’
‘No,’ she shook her head. ‘ I just feel … another presence.’
‘Not like you.’
‘No, I wouldn’t say I had a lot of imagination.’
‘Oh, you have, but it operates in a very down-to-earth, realistic kind of way,’ he smiled at her with admiration. ‘That is why you are good at what you do.’ He never used the word detection about her work because he thought she was above and beyond that; establishing the truth, he preferred to call it.
Charmian smiled. ‘Grateful for your praise.’ She reached out her hand to him. At that moment, her mobile phone rang in her handbag on the kitchen floor.
She bent down to pull it out of the bag. ‘Dolly, good to hear from you.’
‘Just something I picked up in London. Thought it would interest you. Might mean nothing, of course.’
‘Come on, spill it out.’
‘I was talking to a CID man who was working on the Dingham killings, London did some looking into Rhos as well as Joan. He was very junior then, just become
CID, but heard all the gossip, and there always is what you might call drinking gossip. You know that. Well, there was talk of a third person involved. Someone who kept out of the spotlight. I pass it on to you, for what it is worth.’
‘Thank you, Dolly. It interests me. Let’s talk it over.’ She did not say more, except, ‘Why was the idea not followed up?’
‘Don’t know. I guess it was just an idea passed around which came to nothing. And, of course, they already had Joan and there was a lot of feeling against her, so I’ve heard.’
‘That’s true.’
‘I will be back tomorrow. Early. Back to work.’
Humphrey had refilled her glass. ‘Well, I heard that. Dolly’s voice would a carry a few streets.’
‘Has done,’ admitted Charmian with a smile. ‘ During a crisis.’
Not only Dolly’s voice could carry; from outside there came a bark. A polite bark, but one demanding an answer.
Husband and wife looked at each other.
‘Do you hear what I hear?’ asked Humphrey.
For answer, Charmian left the kitchen to open the front door.
‘Oh, it’s you.’
The rough-coated mongrel bowed his head politely and moved his tail. Better not to utter, he had obviously decided, but keep quiet and mind your manners.
She said accusingly to him, ‘You followed me round here.’
There was no answer, but if there had been, then it would have been on the lines of: I didn’t have to follow, I have known for some time where you live. I always do my homework and I have a good nose. And I know you are a sucker for a fine-looking fellow with a rough coat … And talking of smells, that has to be pheasant.
Charmian sighed. ‘Come on in. I’m not saying you can stay.’
The dog followed her in, his tail gently wagging. He knew that once in, you were in for good. This was the home for him.
Chapter Eight
When the telephone rang, Charmian was drinking a restorative glass of red wine, and the dog was eating a bowl of carefully boned pheasant.
She knew at once who was calling. ‘It’s all right, Birdie … he’s here with us.’
‘Oh, I’m so glad he found his way.’
Dead Again Page 13
