And she, Webb reflected, had planted the word ‘Murder’ in the flowerbed. It was that which first kindled his interest in the family.
‘Will you be living here when you’re married?’
‘God forbid! It’d drive me mad. I want Robin away from here as soon as possible.’
Webb looked at her curiously. The small pointed face with its winged eyebrows and sharp little chin was alight with determination. Who would win the battle over Robin, she or the family? He reckoned it was even money.
‘Well, Mrs Darby, thank you for being so frank; it’s been most illuminating. Perhaps you’d tell the Neville Walkers they’re free to return home; our people have finished at the house.’
‘What did you think of her?’ Webb asked Jackson as they drove away.
‘She doesn’t miss much, does she? She’s got them well and truly sussed out.’
‘It’s only her opinion, though, and she admits she’s prejudiced. Pity we missed young Gavin. I think I’ll call back later with a photo of that shoe-print. He was wearing trainers last time I saw him.’
‘Reckon him for the killer, Guy?’
‘Could be. He certainly knows more than he’s saying.’
***
‘Hannah?’ Webb sat down on the bed and pulled the phone towards him.
‘Hello, David. How’s it going?’
‘At a snail’s pace. The progress, that is, not yours truly. I’ve been rushing round all day, and I’ve not finished yet. Which is why I’m phoning; sorry, but I haven’t a hope of getting round this evening. I’m back at the pub for a quick snack, then I’ve more interviews lined up.’
‘Any nearer to finding the killer?’
‘Not that you’d notice. We’ve finished at the house, and the family are moving back. How about you? Beginning to unwind a bit?’
‘I’m working at it. I explored the village this morning. If all this hadn’t blown up, I’d really have enjoyed pottering round.’
‘Ah, now that’s serious; if it’s interfering with your holiday, I’ll step up the investigation!’
She laughed. ‘Good luck, anyway.’
If David wasn’t coming, she’d wash her hair. She went into the bathroom and filled the basin, while Arthur wound himself ingratiatingly round her legs. That morning, when she’d returned from the market, she’d written a short note of condolence. Now the family was back, she’d drop it in tomorrow.
Reaching for the shampoo, Hannah reflected it was as well it hadn’t been Lydia who’d found the body, or she’d surely never be able to use her drawing-room again.
For the second time that day, Webb’s car turned into the drive and pulled up outside the sugar-loaf house called Dormers. The sun was just setting, and long fingers of shadow lay across the smooth lawn. This time, he was alone. He pressed his finger on the bell, thinking of the last visit and Eleanor Darby in her grey and white striped blouse. She’d seemed so calm and controlled—but was she? By now, she’d be back at the Old Rectory with the others.
Ashley opened the door, her eyes widening as she recognised him. ‘You again? I hear you called this afternoon.’
‘Is your son home, Mrs Walker?’
She stiffened. ‘What do you want him for? You’ve already interviewed him.’
‘I need to see him again.’ He moved forward, and as she hesitated, wanting to refuse him admittance, they were for a disconcerting moment only inches apart. Then Ashley moved convulsively backwards and Webb went past her into the hall. Without speaking, she opened the study door and as he walked inside, closed it behind him. The room was dim in the evening light, the last rays of the sun catching the corner of the desk so that the wood glowed warm and red.
Several minutes passed. Webb walked to the window and stood looking across the lawn to the shrubbery and low trees that lay beyond. Some starlings were refreshing themselves in a stone bird-bath, sending a spray of water over the side. In the distance was the drone of a late lawnmower.
‘Chief Inspector?’
Webb turned. Howard Walker stood in the doorway, nervously fingering his tie. ‘I understand you wish to see my son. If you’ve no objection, my wife and I would like to be present.’
‘No objection at all, Mr Walker,’ Webb said easily. ‘Then if you’d come to the sitting-room—?’
Ashley and Gavin were waiting for them. There was a taut, expectant air, and three pairs of eyes regarded him warily. The boy, he noted, was again wearing his trainers.
‘May I see your right shoe, please?’ he said, reaching in his pocket for the photograph.
‘His shoe?’ Ashley echoed, but her son was quicker. Panic flashed in his eyes, and he turned to his father, who gave him a brief nod. Balancing on one foot, Gavin took off the shoe and silently handed it over. The pattern of its sole matched the photograph exactly. Webb felt a stab of regret, and impatiently shrugged it aside. Damn it all, wasn’t this what he’d come for?
He looked up at the three tense faces. ‘You might not realise,’ he began conversationally, ‘that after fingerprints, shoe-prints are the most positive form of identification.’ He held out the photograph and the incriminating sole. The Walkers barely glanced at them.
‘Oh God!’ Gavin said under his breath.
‘In view of which,’ Webb continued, ‘perhaps you’d like to alter the statement you made to me earlier?’
Ashley moved forward quickly, laying a hand on Webb’s arm. ‘He didn’t do it,’ she said urgently. ‘You must believe me—he was there, but he didn’t do it.’ Webb ignored her, keeping his eyes on the boy.
‘You mentioned receiving a car for your birthday. Was it by any chance a red Peugeot 205?’
Gavin stared back at him and slowly nodded. It fitted; it was new, so Clive Tenby wouldn’t have recognised it. ‘Then perhaps you’ll tell me the truth this time. Where were you on Wednesday afternoon?’
Howard Walker said with an effort, ‘I advised him not to complicate matters, Chief Inspector. It was my fault.’
‘No,’ Ashley interrupted impatiently, ‘it was mine. Howard wanted him to tell you. I didn’t.’
‘Perhaps we could sit down?’ Webb suggested. ‘It’s been a long day.’
‘I’m sorry—of course.’
The four of them seated themselves; Webb in the chair he’d sat in that afternoon, Gavin opposite him, his parents on the sofa. Jerkily, the story at last came out. Gavin’s arrival at the Old Rectory, finding the door on the latch and going through to the drawing-room. The unmitigated horror of the scene that met him, the blundering flight.
‘I wasn’t even going to tell Mum and Dad,’ he mumbled, ‘but I let it slip. And we all knew you’d heard about Saturday. To say I was there seemed like putting my head in a noose.’
‘What time did you arrive?’
‘About ten to four—I was a bit early.’
That tied in with young Tenby’s statement, and narrowed the margin for the time of death. What had happened in those twenty minutes between the taxi-driver’s departure and Gavin’s arrival?
Webb got wearily to his feet. Their only concrete piece of evidence, the shoe-print, had been discounted, but he couldn’t find it in his heart to regret it. ‘I hope you realise that between you, you’ve wasted a lot of police time.’
Howard nodded. ‘I’m very sorry, Chief Inspector.’
Webb looked at Gavin. ‘You’ll be expected at the church hail first thing tomorrow to change your statement.’
The boy nodded, avoiding his eyes.
‘I’ll see you out.’ Ashley preceded him out of the room. As she opened the front door she said unexpectedly, ‘You look tired.’
‘I am.’
Again, briefly, she laid a hand on his arm. ‘Thank you,’ she said softly, ‘For not being too hard on him.’
He didn’t reply, but he was aware of her still standing in the open doorway as he drove down the darkening drive and turned the car towards Honeyford.
CHAPTER 10
The sun still shone
as Hannah walked up to the Old Rectory, the trees made the same patterns of shade on the pavement, seemingly even the same birds twittered overhead, as when she’d come this way on Wednesday. It must seem strange to those struck down by tragedy, finding the outside world unchanged—literal proof that life goes on.
At the gateway she hesitated, looking up at the house, but there was no sign of life. She walked quickly up the drive, slid her note through the letterbox, and was turning away when the door opened and Lydia appeared, the envelope in her hand.
Hannah said, ‘I’m sorry—I didn’t want to disturb you.’
‘I was on the point of phoning you. Have you time for a coffee?’
‘If you’re sure I’m not intruding.’
Lydia stood aside and she stepped into the hall, past the table at which she’d given her statement to Sergeant Sage. Lydia said over her shoulder, ‘We’re in the conservatory,’ and Hannah drew a breath of relief. She wasn’t ready to face the drawing-room, purged though it must be by the attentions of the forensic team.
A couple were seated at the table, and the man rose as Hannah came in.
‘I don’t believe you’ve met my brother-in-law, Robin. And his fiancée, Eleanor Darby. Hannah James, Fay’s headmistress.’
Hannah nodded and smiled. She hadn’t realised Eleanor Darby was connected with the Walkers. This youngest brother was undeniably attractive, and Hannah was amused to find herself not impervious to his smile. Doubtless there’d be several broken hearts after his wedding.
She turned back to Lydia. ‘I’m most dreadfully sorry about what happened.’
‘Yes. Thank you. I don’t think we quite believe it yet.’
‘If there’s anything at all I can do—’
‘Actually there is—that’s why I wanted to talk to you. I’m worried about Fay; she seems to be bottling up her grief, and I don’t think it’s good for her.’
‘I hear she fainted when she heard the news?’
‘Yes, but since that first evening she’s refused to accept what’s happened. If anyone mentions my mother-in-law, she gets up and walks out of the room.’
Robin said, ‘Surely it’s natural enough? She’s hoping if she doesn’t think about it, it’ll go away. I feel a bit like that myself.’
‘Have you tried speaking to her?’ Hannah asked Lydia.
‘Yes, but she won’t listen. She just gets that faraway look in her eyes, and I know her mind’s elsewhere.’ She smiled slightly. ‘That’s always been her defence against unpleasantness, even as a small child. It’s most frustrating at times.’
‘She’ll probably adjust in her own time, but if you think it will help, of course I’ll speak to her.’
‘I would be grateful. It’d be one less thing to worry about.’
Looking ,at her more closely, Hannah saw signs of stress in Lydia’s face that she hadn’t at first noticed. A death in the family was bad enough, but murder must be almost unbearable. She laid her cup and saucer down. ‘Is she home now?’
‘Yes, up in her roam,. I think. It’s on the right at the top of the stairs.’
‘I’ll see what I can do, then.’
The beautiful woodwork that she’d noticed before was evident on the banisters, which ended in an elaborately carved lion’s head with open mouth. Hannah went up the long, shallow staircase and turned right at the top. She was about to tap on the door when the sound of singing reached her, and she paused. The song was Golden Slumbers, and the voice so high and pure that it had an unearthly quality which sent a shiver down Hannah’s spine. Dismissing such fantasies, she knocked on the door. There was no reply, and the singing continued.
Hannah knocked again, calling, ‘Fay?’
Still no response. She opened the door and stopped in surprise. Fay was sitting with her back to her, rocking rhythmically as she sang, her head bent over something she held in her arms. Hannah moved into the room, catching sight of a long white shawl.
‘Whose baby is that?’ she asked involuntarily, walking round to face the girl.
Fay looked up at her, and there was something in her glance that sent another frisson over Hannah’s skin. ‘Mine,’ she said.
For a moment Hannah stared at her, then her eyes fell to the bundle in her arms and she saw with a queer jerk of the heart that it was a doll. The limpid eyes stared sightlessly, one dimpled plastic hand stretched up to the tender face again bent over it. Unaccountably, Hannah went cold.
She held her voice steady. ‘Aren’t you rather old to play with dolls?’
Fay raised her head again, and her eyes came into focus. ‘Hello, Miss James,’ she said in her normal voice, and, laying the doll on the floor, prepared to stand. Hannah forestalled her.
‘No, don’t get up. I’ll sit on the bed, if I may. Fay, dear, your mother asked me to speak to you. She’s worried about you.’ And with reason, Hannah thought privately.
‘I’m all right.’
‘I know your grandmother’s death came as a great shock, but it was to the whole family. If you share in each other’s grief, it will make it easier.’
Fay said with seeming inconsequence, ‘Do you believe in self-fulfilling prophecies, Miss James? Macbeth Prophecies, they’re called.’
A sound at the door made them both turn, and Hannah was in time to see someone moving swiftly out of sight. She was almost sure it was Melanie. Rising, she went to the door and looked up and down the corridor, but no one was in sight. She returned to the bed and sat down again, considering Fay’s question.
‘I think you can be conditioned to expect things, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Someone tells you something will happen, so you just let it?’
‘Yes.’
‘But can it work if the person concerned doesn’t know about it?’
Disturbing thoughts of black magic crossed Hannah’s mind, at variance with the sun-filled room.
‘I don’t know, Fay. Some people believe so.’
The girl shuddered. ‘I think I do,’ she said.
‘Would you like to tell me why?’
‘Melanie made her flowers spell “Murder”, and now Grandma’s dead.’
Hannah knelt quickly beside her, taking the girl’s cold hands between hers as relief and compassion fought for supremacy. ‘Oh no, dear. I don’t believe for a moment that has any connection.’
Fay was hunched in her chair, her long pale hair falling forward and almost obscuring her long pale face. That something was troubling her deeply, Hannah didn’t doubt. The Macbeth Prophecy might be part of it, as might her grandmother’s death, but there was something else as well. She said quietly, ‘Fay, why did Melanie plant those flowers?’
The effect of her question was startling. Fay snatched her hands away and sprang to her feet. ‘It was her college homework,’ she said, and waited tensely, fists clenched, for the next question.
Hannah said gently, ‘You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. It’s just that it can help, sometimes, to talk things over.’
The girl relaxed slightly. ‘I’m all right,’ she said again, but Hannah risked no more questions.
She duly reported the exchange to Lydia. ‘I’m afraid I wasn’t much help,’ she apologized. And then, tentatively, ‘Does she often play with dolls? It seems odd in a girl her age.’
Lydia flushed. ‘I know she’s clever academically, but emotionally she’s still a child. She won’t let me give away any of her toys.’
Hannah was turning this over in her mind as she came out of the gate, and her heart somersaulted as a figure detached itself from the shadow of the wall and moved towards her.
‘I’m sorry,’ Melanie said contritely. ‘I didn’t want them to know I was waiting for you. You are Fay’s headmistress, aren’t you?’
‘One of them, yes. Hannah James.’
‘Would you mind telling me why you were in her room?’
‘Your mother asked me to speak to her.’
‘Why?’
‘Perhaps you
should ask her yourself.’
‘I know she’s worried about Fay, but I meant, why you?’ She flushed. ‘Sorry, that sounded rude.’
‘It’s a perfectly legitimate question. Presumably because Fay might feel freer talking to someone outside the family.’
‘And did she?’
Hannah started to move away. ‘You ask a lot of questions, young lady.’ Melanie fell into step beside her.
‘Did she by any chance mention self-fulfilling prophecies?’
‘I thought you heard that bit. Do you believe in them?’
‘No!’ The answer came too quickly.
‘Specially not relating to your floral message?’
Melanie darted a glance at her. ‘Fay told you about it?’
‘Yes, but I saw it myself. From the church tower.’
‘And told my father?’
‘My companion did. He was intrigued.’ She paused. ‘Why did you plant it, Melanie? No—’ as the girl started to speak ‘don’t give me that nonsense about a college exercise.’
Melanie was silent, her eyes on the sunlit pavement, and Hannah added, ‘It was an unfortunate coincidence, to say the least.’
‘If I tell you, will you swear not to tell anyone?’
‘It depends. Mr Webb may need to know.’
‘The policeman, you mean? But it’s nothing to do with Grandma! At least—’ She broke off.
‘So there was some connection?’ Hannah’s curiosity was roused, but they’d arrived at Wychwood. Arthur, stretched out on the sunny path, rose with his usual grace and came to greet them. Hannah said, ‘You’d better come in.’
Minutes later, they were seated on the patio with a jug of lemonade. Hannah studied the girl’s face. It was altogether stronger than Fay’s, with thick straight brows and a determined mouth. Melanie came to a decision and looked up, meeting her eyes defiantly.
‘Fay was pregnant and Grandma insisted on abortion. That’s what I meant by murder.’
Hannah stared at her, stupefied. ‘Pregnant? When?’
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