Pretty Maids All In A Row

by Anthea Fraser

  So there it was. A weird one, all right, but to Webb's mind the whiff of beer was the most significant factor. In all probability it was a one-off occurrence, a combination of drink and suddenly aroused desire. Say someone from the pub had wandered out for some fresh air and suddenly needed to relieve himself. The road was well lit at that point, and perhaps the dark gardens of The Willows offered the necessary privacy. Then, if he'd seen a woman walking towards him—Webb shrugged. If he was right, the offender was most likely a stranger to the area; a villager would have known where to go if caught short. Anyway, Jackson was at the pub at the moment, obtaining the names of last night's clients, in so far as the landlord could supply them. The list could be checked against that supplied by Frank Chitty. And the visiting darts team—from Oxbury—would have to be seen, but they'd little to go on.

  Sally Pierce came up, red hair glinting in the sunshine. 'Right, sir. I've spoken to all the residents whose rooms are at the back. Without exception, they were watching TV at the crucial time.'

  'I expected nothing more. None of the neighbours noticed anything, either. People usually draw the curtains once it gets dark. Right, Sally, I want another word with PC Frost. He'll know of any likely villains in the area.'

  The search of the grounds was in full swing when, at eight o'clock, Matthew drew back the bedroom curtains. 'What the hell's going on up there?' he exclaimed. 'Must have been a break-in or something—the place is swarming with cops.'

  Jessica struggled into a sitting position. 'What are they doing?'

  'Crawling about on their hands and knees, from what I can see, but that clump of trees blocks the view.'

  'Help me out of bed, darling—I want to look.'

  He drew a chair up to the window for her and they watched for some moments before Matthew turned away. 'No doubt it'll be all round the village, whatever it is, so we'll hear in due course. In the meantime I'll get our breakfast.'

  By the time he returned with the tray, Jessica too had lost interest. 'Carrie'll tell us, when she comes to cook supper,' she said, and her thoughts moved to more personal matters. 'What shall I wear for dinner tomorrow? I haven't dined with an earl before.'

  'Whatever you're comfortable in. It won't be formal.'

  'Will they all be there?'

  Matthew smiled. 'Gauging the size of the audience? I'm not sure about the boys, but Dom said Leo and Lady-Alice would be joining us. Leo wasn't around last night— composing a poem somewhere, no doubt. He's given to long, rambling verse which no one understands.'

  'Has he published any of it?'

  'He hasn't even tried. Insists it's for his own satisfaction. He's a bit of an oddity, but quite harmless. There's a weak strain in the family which pops up every so often, though it sometimes skips a generation.'

  'Darling, how intriguing! What sort of weakness?'

  'Oh, several of them have died young. One in the last century drowned himself. A bit unbalanced, that's all-nothing to worry about. And from all accounts, even the dotty ones are utterly charming.'

  'If my family history was full of weirdos, I shouldn't want to broadcast the fact.'

  'Darling, they're proud of it. Proves their blue blood, and all that. Did I tell you they have the same Christian names in every generation? Tradition decrees the first son should be christened Dominic, the second Leo and the third Jocelyn. No doubt provisions are also made further down the scale.'

  'And you say there are three sons. Isn't it confusing, with a Dominic and Leo already in the house?'

  'They get round it by calling young Dominic Nick and young Leo by his second name, Patrick. Jocelyn refuses to answer to anything but Joss, and who can blame him?'

  'True, though I like it for a girl. I take my hat off to Madame la Comtesse. It must take nerve, marrying into a family like that.'

  'Quite the contrary. I mentioned the Sandon charm, and Dom has more than his fair share. Believe me, they were queuing for the honour. And he's not the first this century to choose a French wife. His grandmother was a Mademoiselle Yvette de Chauvigny. It was her diaries Dom handed over last night.'

  Jessica smiled. 'How's your French?'

  'Just about up to it, except for the abbreviations. I need a code-breaker for those.'

  'Will Madame Giselle help you?'

  'She offered, but I don't want to impose too much. We'll see how it goes.'

  Jessica folded her napkin. 'I'm looking forward to meeting your Sandons,' she said.

  Lois looked at the younger woman with concern. For a moment, she'd thought she was going to faint. 'It's all right, Carrie,' she said gently, 'don't worry about it.' Just as well she'd broken the news herself, rather than let her hear a lurid version in the kitchens. Carrie was a sensitive girl. 'They—haven't caught him?'

  'No, but I'm sure they will,' Lois said firmly. 'It's not likely to happen again. All the same, don't walk home alone from your baby-sitting for a while. I'm sure someone would always run you back, in the circumstances. Right,' she ended briskly, 'off you go, then. Oh, and Carrie—' the girl turned back, her hand on the doorknob—'go and pacify Mrs Southern, would you? She's been asking for you. Dust on her dresser, no less!'

  Carrie's tension dissolved in a smile. 'I'll start with her room, then.'

  It was two doors down from Matron's, on the first floor and, like hers, overlooking the back garden. The old lady was, as usual, seated in her chair at the window, a rug over her knees. She turned as the door opened.

  'Ah, Carrie. Good morning. You know what's going on down there?' She nodded towards the garden—the only movement, Carrie realized with sympathy, that she could make unaided.

  'Someone was—waylaid last night, Mrs Southern.' She didn't want to cause alarm.

  'Waylaid? How do you mean?'

  'Attacked,' Carrie elaborated unwillingly, moving the ornaments off the dresser. 'Murdered, you mean?'

  'Oh no, just—attacked. She wasn't—badly hurt.'

  'Who was it, do you know?' Carrie shook her head. 'I can't think what the place is coming to, a respectable village like this. The man was drunk, I suppose, or on drugs. From what I read, everyone seems to be, these days.'

  Carrie said deliberately, 'I'm going to polish all your furniture this morning, make it shine till I can see my face in it. It's so lovely when it's all gleaming.'

  The old face softened, the lines of displeasure fading. 'You're a good girl, Carrie. The only one here who knows how to care for nice things. That Ivy's useless. All she does is move the dust about a bit. Now, what other news have you for me?'

  'Let's see. Mrs Cowley's gone off on holiday and a lady and gentleman are at Hinckley's while she's away. The gentleman's a writer. He's doing a story about the Sandons up at the Hall.'

  'That's interesting. What's his name?'

  'Mr Selby. His wife's a lovely lady, but her leg's in plaster at the moment. She fell while they were away on holiday.' She chatted on for a while, breathing in the fragrant smell of the polish as she rubbed it over the wood, but she was no longer holding her audience. A frown between her eyes, Mrs Southern was staring down at the useless hands on her lap.

  Carrie broke off and moved towards her. 'Is something wrong, Mrs Southern? Anything I can get you?'

  The sharp old eyes came up to hers, but their expression was uncertain. 'You'll tell me the truth, won't you, Carrie? Is it, or is it not, Christmas?'

  Carrie, trying to keep the surprise off her face, answered levelly, 'No, Mrs Southern. Today's the twelfth of September.'

  For a moment the grey eyes held hers, before dropping away. 'Then why are people dressing as Santa Claus?' the old lady demanded querulously. And to that, Carrie could find no reply.

  Frances had insisted on carrying on with her duties. She was seated in the little office off the hall, reading the mail as she did every morning. Now and again, however, her hand would tremble and she'd have to wait for the spasm to pass. And her mind kept wandering.

  So that was Dave Webb. She'd never expected to meet hi
m, things being as they were, and least of all in these circumstances. He'd been gentle with her, though. Not like some detectives she'd heard of.

  Heavy footsteps sounded on the marble floor outside and Frank Chitty hesitated on the threshold with an anxious smile, before coming into the office bearing a cup and saucer. 'Cook thought you'd like some coffee, Sister.' Frances had never heard him use his wife's name. 'Feeling all right, are you?'

  'Perfectly, thank you, Chitty.' Damn him, she thought with impotent rage, he knows I was the one. They all do. She forced herself to add, 'Thank you, it's very welcome.'

  He nodded and ambled off. Frances lifted the cup and stopped suddenly with it halfway to her mouth: Could it have been Chitty? She tried to cloak him with such characteristics as she'd gleaned of her attacker—the soft whisper, the beery breath, the unspeakable hands. She shuddered uncontrollably, and the coffee spilt on her papers. Carefully she set the cup down and mopped up the droplets with her handkerchief. Was this how it was going to be from now on? Would she instinctively cast every man she saw in the role of prospective rapist? And almost harder to bear was the solicitous pity of her colleagues, from Lois all the way down to Cook. Everyone she'd seen this morning had, in the first instance, looked quickly away, not meeting her eyes. Did they privately wonder if it was her own fault, if she'd encouraged him? Did they ask themselves if quiet, reserved Sister had made an assignation in the dark garden, and simply got more than she bargained for?

  A sob rose in her throat and she turned it into a cough. Then, with great deliberation, she drank the hot coffee sip by sip, letting it scald her tongue. He went by the south and burnt his mouth—

  Blindly, she reached for the next letter, slamming her mind shut to everything else.

  Delia Speight took her white overall out of the carrier-bag and shrugged it on. 'I hear there's been some excitement up here this morning.'

  'You could call it that,' Nurse Ellis said shortly. Though unable to explain why, she didn't care for Delia.

  'A rape, they're saying in the village.'

  Obstinately the nurse refused to be drawn. It was natural for Delia to be curious, but a bit of tact wouldn't have gone amiss. Damn it, she, Jane, might have been the victim.

  Carrie came into the staff-room with a pile of magazines. 'Mrs Pemberton's finished with these. She says we can have them.' She glanced at Delia, hesitated, then added, 'Mrs Hathaway's ready, when you are.'

  'I was asking Jane about the rape, but she's playing dumb.'

  Carrie said in a low voice, 'We don't want to talk about it, Delia. Not here.'

  Jane Ellis looked from one to the other. The resemblance between them was only superficial, and of the two, Delia was the more attractive. She was taller than Carrie, and though her hair was the same colour, it was curly and her eyes were blue. But she hadn't Carrie's gentle willingness, and Jane much preferred her sister.

  'All right, keep your secrets,' Delia said briskly. 'Mrs

  Hathaway, here I come! What will it be today, I wonder— highlighting? Perm? Afro cut?' Mrs Hathaway, at ninety, had hardly any hair at all. With a laugh at her sally, Delia went out of the room.

  Jane said awkwardly, 'There's no reason why she shouldn't know, of course. Everyone will, soon enough.' She hesitated, looking at Carrie's averted head as she flicked through the magazines. 'She was just rather bright and breezy, for the way I feel at the moment.'

  Carrie nodded without turning, and after a moment, with a shrug, Jane Ellis followed Delia out of the room.

  Jessica said, 'You've been at The Willows today? We were wondering what all the fuss was about.'

  Carrie said quietly, 'One of the nurses was raped last night.' It was the first time she'd stated the fact plainly, either out loud or to herself, and doing so instantly established it. No further euphemisms would be possible.

  Jessica was staring at her in horror. 'Oh God, no! Where?'

  'In the garden.'

  'Just across the road there? But that's monstrous! We could almost have seen it!'

  Matthew said drily, 'Hardly, darling, in the dark, over a wall and from a distance of a good hundred feet.'

  Jessica barely spared him a glance. 'When did it happen?'

  'About eight o'clock, I think.'

  'And is she all right?'

  'She seems to be. She was on duty today, as usual.'

  'I suppose they haven't caught him?' Carrie shook her head. 'My God, and I thought it was so peaceful in the country!'

  Carrie said carefully, 'I've brought you some eggs. We keep chickens—I can bring you as many as you like.'

  'Thank you,' Jessica said with an effort. She waited till the kitchen door had closed behind Carrie, then turned to Matthew. 'What do you think of that? Just across the road!

  If there's a rapist in the village, I could scarcely be more of a sitting duck!'

  Matthew took her hand and shook it gently. 'Now don't start thinking like that. It was probably a silly girl who led a man on and then got frightened. There's no question of any danger to you. And you've a knight in shining armour, don't forget, prepared to defend your honour!'

  'Not last night, I hadn't,' Jessica said shortly. 'You weren't in, were you? Suppose he'd come down here, afterwards?'

  Matthew dropped her hand. 'The whole reason for coming here was to give me unlimited access to the Hall. If I'm made to feel guilty each time I leave you, I'll get no work done at all.'

  Jessica stared at him, a sick feeling in her stomach. They were on the edge of their first quarrel and she wondered, panic-stricken, how to draw back from it. Matthew, too, seemed to sense the widening gulf, for he went on, 'Look, a rapist is by nature an opportunist. If he sees a woman alone he strikes. But he seldom breaks into houses to achieve his ends. You'd be perfectly safe here, with the doors locked.'

  He waited for her to speak, and when she didn't, said abruptly, 'We both need a drink.'

  She watched him pour them, her hands tightly clenched. She made herself say, 'Yes, of course. I'm sure you're right' and saw some of the tension go out of his shoulders. He came back with her glass and dropped a kiss on top of her head.

  'I didn't mean to snap, darling, I'm sorry. I just didn't want you to dramatize things.' 'I can't help it—it's in my blood.'

  He gave a short laugh. 'Of course it is! I was forgetting.' He raised his glass. 'To us—and damnation to all rapists!'

  'I'll drink to that!' And as they smiled at each other, harmony was restored again.

  CHAPTER 4

  Webb's phone was ringing as he returned from lunch, and Inspector Crombie had just lifted it. 'The Lab for you.'

  'Thanks, Alan.' He slid behind the desk, reaching automatically for pen and paper. 'Webb here.'

  'Bad news, I'm afraid, Dave. Your lad's not a secretor. Blood tests won't help.'

  Webb swore under his breath. 'Wouldn't you know it? One of the bloody fourteen per cent! Anything else you can give us?'

  'You didn't exactly give us much,' the scientist returned drily. 'Thank God the local GP knew his stuff. Laundered clothes aren't the most informative of clues.'

  'So short of examining the wardrobe of half Westridge and Oxbury, we've nothing to go on?'

  'Sweet FA. Sorry. You got the report on the burnt-out car?'

  'Yes, thanks. We traced the owner, but she's away on holiday. Quite a coincidence—she's from Westridge, too.'

  'Hope she's enjoying herself without her suitcase. It was in the car.'

  Webb frowned. 'We can only suppose it wasn't hers. No doubt the car was nicked from the drive. We heard it was never in the garage.'

  'I read the report on your desk,' Crombie said, as Webb replaced the phone. 'Nursery rhymes, forsooth! What do you make of that?'

  Webb grinned. 'Oedipus complex? God knows. Just a warped sense of humour, I'd say. Adds fuel to the drunk theory.'

  'You reckon it was someone from the pub?' 'Oh, I think so. Access was almost certainly from the front, through one of the side gates. There's a high wall
on both sides dividing the garden from those next door, and no evidence of either being scaled. The wall at the far end beyond the annexe is quite low, but because of the angle and the way the ground slopes away at that point, it would be difficult to climb from the other side. By way of shutting the stable door, I've advised Matron to lock the gates after dark, and let nurses returning from their nights out go through the house.'

  His phone rang again. 'Front office here, sir. There's a lady to see you. Says it's urgent. A Mrs Susan Farrow.'

  Crombie looked up at Webb's indrawn breath, saw his hands tighten on the receiver.

  'Could I have that name again, Sergeant?'

  'Farrow, sir. Mrs Susan Farrow.'

  Several seconds elapsed before Webb said flatly, 'Very well, Sergeant. Get someone to show her up, would you?'

  His eyes met Crombie's, and the Inspector was puzzled by the expression in them. Something had knocked old Spiderman for six. 'Want me to make myself scarce?'

  'I'd be grateful, Alan. Thanks.'

  Crombie passed the Governor's visitor in the outer office, and glanced at her curiously. Tall and slim, casually but well dressed, she seemed as much on edge as the old man. Curiouser and curiouser. He'd suss it out, though. No point being a detective if he couldn't manage that.

  PC Dacre knocked on Webb's door and, opening it, stood to one side. Webb said, 'Thank you, Constable.' And, as the door closed behind him, 'Hello, Susan.'

  'Dave, I'm sorry to burst in on you like this, but I'vejust heard about the rape. Have you found out who did it?'

  He stared at her blankly. 'The rape?'

  'I can't believe it. Fran, of all people. It's so—'

  'Fran. Frances Daly—of course. You trained together.'