If only she'd someone to talk to—anyone! But there was no one else she could ring. Certainly not Giselle Sandon; Leo might answer the phone.
Jessica swung restlessly to the window. At the top of its long, sloping garden, the rear windows of The Willows blinked inscrutably back at her. Lucky Carrie, with every minute of her day occupied! Jessica pictured her moving from room to room with her dusters and can of polish, busy, useful—and safe. And suddenly she remembered Lois Winter, whom she'd met at the Markhams' party.
Almost stumbling in her eagerness, she turned back to the phone. The calm, pleasant voice answered at once. 'The Willows Residential Home. Matron speaking.'
'Mrs Winter—it's Jessica Selby.'
Warmth dissipated the professionalism. 'Hello, Mrs Selby. How are you?'
'I'm phoning to offer myself for Good Works. No, don't thank me, this is pure selfishness. I'm going out of my mind, all by myself and thinking of the murder. God knows what I could do without the use of my legs, but there must be something. At very least I could sit with someone, if that's any help. Read to them, or write their letters.'
'But of course we'd be delighted to have you. The staff are run off their feet, and despite all the facilities available, some residents are alone too much.'
Only as Jessica released her breath did she realize how tensely she'd awaited Matron's reply. 'Then that's fine,' she said. 'I'm free now, if someone could collect me.'
Webb stood on the steps of the police station and watched the subdued figure of Bruce Cowley walk to his car. Then, with a shrug, he turned and went back inside.
'No joy, Guv?' asked the desk sergeant.
'He's in the clear, Andy. He was at a convention on the fifth—roughly five hundred witnesses. Seemed pretty shattered, too. He reckoned he was still fond of her, though he's not been in touch since he did the bunk. "Always meant to go back one day," he said. Well, hard luck, mate. You left it too late.'
In the general office upstairs, a group of DCs were clustered, laughing, round young Marshbank's desk. Catching sight of Webb, the boy flushed and slid a piece of paper under some files. Webb paused by his desk. 'Well, Simon, can't I share the joke?'
Marshbank's flush deepened. 'It's nothing much, Guv.'
'Go on, Simon,' urged one of the others. 'Let the Governor see it. He could do with a laugh.'
Reluctantly the young man retrieved the paper and handed it over. Written in his cramped hand were several lines of doggerel.
Sing a song of murder,
a pocketful of rhyme,
Four and twenty coppers try to solve a crime.
When the corpse was spotted, the wires began to buzz.
Wasn’t that a dainty dish to set before the Fuzz?
'Um.' Webb handed it back to him. 'Very neat. Pity the post of Laureate's been filled. Right, that's enough larking about. If you lads have nothing to do, I can soon find you something.'
But he repeated the verse to Crombie with a wry smile in the privacy of his office.
'That nursery rhyme angle's going to be a bind,' the Inspector said gloomily. 'We've already had some comedian on the phone asking to speak to Boy Blue.' He grinned suddenly. 'How about "There came a big Spider," eh, Dave?'
'Honestly, Alan, you're as bad as the rest of them.' His phone rang, and he lifted it. 'Webb.'
'About that drink—' said a voice in his ear.
A wave of heat washed over him, as unexpected as it was unwelcome. 'Hello, Susan,' he said flatly.
Behind him, he heard Crombie's chair scrape and the door quietly open and close. He was not sure whether to be grateful or indignant for such obvious tact.
'Are you free tonight?'
Webb hesitated. All his instincts told him it was wiser not to see her, to keep putting her off till she finally gave up bothering. But he heard himself say, 'I could be, though only for an hour or so.'
'Fair enough. What time?'
'Seven?'
'I'll be on the corner.'
She didn't have to specify which one. During their years together, she'd waited many a time for him to pick her up on the corner of Carrington Street, just along from the station. She rang off without awaiting his acknowledgement, and he stood helplessly for a moment, the receiver still to his ear, fighting the nightmare sensation that they were still together, that the five-year gap had never been, that there was no Hannah. Then he dropped the phone, walked round the corner of his desk and sat down heavily in his chair. Well, he'd done it now. He should have stuck to his guns, refused to meet her. But beneath the familiar churning of his stomach was a rising tide of excitement.
Jessica was taken in the lift to the first floor and Matron's room. Lois Winter came to meet her. 'How nice to see you again! Come and have a coffee while we discuss what you should do.'
Jessica's spirits soared. If all went well, she need never spend a day alone at Hinckley's. Any time Matthew was out—even if he remained incommunicado in his study— she could escape to the busding, friendly atmosphere of The Willows. She gave a sigh of sheer pleasure as, removing her crutches, Lois settled her in a chair with professional efficiency.
Jessica looked about her, admiring the high ceiling and long windows looking down the garden, the pastel walls and the watercolours that hung there. 'What a lovely room.'
'It's my sanctuary. It restores me when I'm in much need of restoration.'
A tap on the door heralded Carrie Speight with the coffee. She looked surprised to see Jessica.
'Mrs Selby's kindly offered us her time,' Lois explained.
As the girl went out, Jessica said, 'She's a quiet little thing, isn't she? Friendly and willing, but so pale.'
Lois nodded. 'She's taken Mrs Cowley's death very badly. I'm a little concerned about her.'
'I hope it doesn't make things worse, coming to Hinckley's to look after us.'
Lois made no reply, leaving Jessica with the impression that she felt it did. But how could they manage without Carrie?
'Now,' Lois was saying, handing her a cup of coffee, 'let me fill you in briefly on the running of the Home. First, you'll have noticed I'm known as Matron. We're old-fashioned in that—none of your modern Nursing Officers here! It reassures the residents—they know where they are with "Matron". We have ten at the moment, a married couple among them. Apart from old Mr Denny, the rest are all ladies. They're in varying states of health, some extremely fit, others less so. Miss Sampson is senile, but perfectly happy. And Mrs Southern is paralysed but as sharp as a pin mentally.' Lois paused. 'Ninety per cent of the time, anyway, though I hear she's started to ramble.
'Each of them has a bedsitting-room furnished with their own possessions, and there's a pleasant lounge with a sun-room attached, when they want to be sociable. We have three trained nurses beside myself, who live in the annexe at the bottom of the garden. Cook and her husband have a flat in the basement, and the cleaners are village women who come in daily. Dr Prentiss calls every Friday, and, of course, on demand at any time. As you probably know, Carrie comes to us at the weekends and spends each Wednesday here, and on alternate weeks her sister comes to do the ladies' hair. I think that's all you need to know, but if you think of anything else, please ask.
'Now to your contribution. Though you can't serve meals, you might perhaps help with feeding Mrs Southern.'
Seeing Jessica's look of alarm, she added, 'That's not as distressing as it sounds. She has a healthy appetite, enjoys her food, and eats impeccably. In fact, I think Mrs Southern would benefit the most from your company. I should start with her. She's highly intelligent and gets bored with television, which the others tend to leave on all day. She has her radio, but she can't read as much as she'd like, because of difficulty in turning the pages. We've rigged up something for her, but it has its limitations.'
'I'd be glad to help,'Jessica said.
Lois smiled. 'And that beautiful, trained voice of yours will make listening to you an added pleasure. I hope your husband won't mind our borrowing you like thi
s, but when we're offered help of any kind, we seize it with both hands.'
'Matthew's out quite a lot doing his research, and when he's in, he's busy writing. I'm delighted to have something useful to do.' She paused. 'I suppose you knew Mrs Cowley?'
'Only by sight. She was friendly with Kathy Markham, I believe.'
'I keep thinking about her,' Jessica said in a low voice, 'wondering exactly what happened, and where.' She shuddered. 'I woke up in the night, and I suddenly thought— suppose she was killed in this bed). It's quite likely, in the circumstances.'
Lois said gently, 'It's upsetting for you, I know. I also know it's useless telling you not to think about it.'
'Do you think he'll—attack again?'
'Mrs Selby, I'm not the police.'
'But medically speaking, you must have some idea.' And as Lois hesitated, she added, 'It's quite likely, isn't it?' 'He could be miles away by now.'
'If so, he'll come back. He must have some connection with the village.'
'We're safe enough as long as we're sensible. And with the village so full of police, any murderer would think twice about coming here. Now, if you've finished your coffee I'll introduce you to Mrs Southern. Her room's just along the corridor.'
Mrs Southern was in her usual place at the window, and as Jessica joined her, she saw Hinckley's Cottage in full view across the lower road. The old lady listened to Matron's explanation, and inclined her head.
'I'll leave you to get to know each other,' Lois finished brightly. 'If you want anything, Mrs Selby, just ring the bell.'
Jessica turned back to find sharp grey eyes examining her. 'You're very beautiful,' Mrs Southern pronounced. She smiled. 'Thank you.'
'You must be used to being told so. I was, in my young days.' It was said without conceit, a statement of fact, and judging by the bone structure under the velvety old skin, Jessica had no reason to doubt it.
'Have you any children, Mrs Selby?'
'Not of my own. Have you?'
'Two sons and a daughter. They visit me quite regularly —to keep an eye on their money.' 'Oh, I'm sure it isn't that!'
'No,' Mrs Southern agreed, 'I don't suppose it is. They've been good to me.' 'Do they live near?'
'My sons both work in London, but my daughter's in Ashmartin.' 'Where's that?'
The keen old eyes raked her face. 'I'd forgotten you're a stranger here. It's the other side of Shillingham, on the Oxfordshire border. An hour and a half’s drive from here.'
'Would you like me to write to them for you?'
'Not just now. Thank you,' she added after a pause. 'Tell me about your life on the stage. It must be fascinating.'
'I love it, yes.' Jessica dipped into her store of theatrical anecdotes, deliberately choosing the more amusing to make the old lady smile, and Mrs Southern listened keenly, occasionally breaking in with pertinent and observant questions.
Both of them were sorry when they were interrupted by a knock on the door. One of the cleaners came in, followed by an elderly man in overalls, bearing a pair of steps.
'Now, Mrs Southern,' the woman began loudly, and Jessica saw the old lady wince. There was nothing wrong with her hearing. 'Mr Chitty here is going to change your light-bulb for you. It wasn't working last night, remember?'
'Of course I remember,' Mrs Southern replied waspishly. 'I reported it myself.'
'Got some company today, I see.' The woman smiled at Jessica and then, with a conspiratorial wink which Mrs Southern couldn't have failed to intercept, turned back to the old lady. 'Seen Santa again, have you?'
Jessica looked in puzzlement from one to the other. An expression of doubt crossed the old face and she remained silent.
'Mrs Southern here thinks it's Christmas,' the woman went on, and Chitty, fiddling with the light-bulb, chuckled appreciatively. Jessica longed to slap them both. 'Thinks we're not letting on, and keeping all her presents for ourselves! Did he have his reindeer with him, then?'
Mrs Southern's head jerked up. 'Don't treat me like an idiot, Dolly,' she said tartly. 'I may be approaching second childhood, but I've not yet reverted to believing in Father Christmas.'
Dolly flushed. 'But you told me—'
'People still dress up as Santa Claus, don't they, at Christmas time? That's what I saw—a man in a hooded cloak with a sack on his back. Down there.' And she nodded in the direction of Hinckley's Cottage.
The man up the ladder spoke for the first time. 'But it's only September, love. "Christmas comes but once a year," thank heaven.'
'Then tell him, whoever he was, not me,' Mrs Southern retorted with asperity.
Chitty ponderously descended his ladder and pressed the light switch. The bulb lit up, dim in the sunlit room.
'There you are. All fixed.' And he and Dolly left the room.
Jessica said quickly, 'Where were we? Oh yes, touring with Twelfth Night. There was one theatre—'
But her mind wasn't on her words. When had Mrs Southern seen 'Santa' coming out of Hinckley's with a sack? Mrs Winter must be told. She'd know how much importance to attach to it. For her part, Jessica'd an uneasy suspicion that Mrs Southern wasn't rambling at all.
Webb saw her as soon as he turned out of the gate, her dress a splash of colour in the evening sunshine. He drew up beside her and as she climbed in, he was aware again of her scent.
'Where shall we go?' He didn't look at her. 'The Nutmeg?'
Damn! He shouldn't have asked. Seems she was bent on a nostalgia trip. The Nutmeg, a couple of miles' drive out of town, was the pub where they'd done their courting and which they'd patronized in the early days of their marriage.
Susan glanced at him, acccurately interpreting his silence. 'It's only a suggestion. If you'd rather not, it's all right by me.'
But if he chose otherwise, she'd read all sorts of reasons into it. Angrily he realized he was already back on the treadmill. If I say or do this, will she think I mean that? It had been one of the more wearing aspects of their life together.
Grimly and in silence he drove to The Nutmeg. Though he'd passed it countless times in the last five years, he'd never been inside. When they'd known it, it had had a shabby, rustic charm. Now, under new management, it had been extended and refurbished, and any lingering ghosts of their former selves well and truly despatched.
In the amber-tinted mirror behind the bar, he watched Susan seat herself at a table. If he were seeing her for the first time, would he fancy her? Or was it the remembrance of happier times that made his body jerk like an exposed nerve?
Two men came into the bar, throwing her an admiring glance as they passed. Webb sighed, paid for the drinks, and carried them across to join her. She had already lit a cigarette and the familiar irritation pricked at him as she flicked it in the vague direction of the ashtray and ash fell on the table. A non-smoker himself, her chain-smoking was a longstanding cause of friction and he was grateful, in the ambivalent present, to be reminded of it. On her little finger the amethyst ring glowed softly. It was the only one she wore. Sourly, he wondered what she'd done with her wedding rings.
'Do you know where I went today?' she asked, breaking the silence between them. 'Twenty-three, Priory Gardens.' He made no comment.
'It was the oddest feeling. The number of times I've walked up that path! They've built on a carport, did you know? And the woodwork's green now. I preferred it blue.'
'Houses change, as people do.'
'I suppose so. I should have known it never pays to go back.'
'Yet you came back to Shillingham.'
'Yes.' She looked at him under lowered lids. 'You've not forgiven me for that, have you? Why? Do you feel threatened by my being here?'
'No, merely curious.' It wasn't true. He felt a positive turmoil of emotions, but he wasn't going to tell her. Anyway, he hadn't identified them all himself.
'I've had a nomadic life, remember. I lived in Shillingham longer than anywhere else, and I needed familiar surroundings.'
'Do you propose to stay?' 'It depe
nds.' 'On what?'
Her eyes held his over the rim of her glass. 'On whether your attitude drives me away.'
'My dear Susan, my "attitude", as you call it, needn't concern you at all. If you hadn't sought me out, I wouldn't even have known you were back.' He paused. 'But you wanted me to know, didn't you?'
'I suppose I must have.'
'If the rape hadn't happened, you'd have found some other reason to come and see me.' 'Probably.' 'Why?'
'Curiosity,' she answered in her turn, and if, like him, she was less than truthful, he couldn't accuse her of it. 'And is it now satisfied?'
'Partly. I wanted to see if you'd changed. You haven't— not really. And I wondered if, now things have died down a bit, we could be friends. Lots of divorced couples are.'
He didn't speak.
'Now, I'm not so sure. Either that we could be friends, or that things have died down.' She gave a small laugh into his continuing silence. 'I must say, you're not very communicative.'
'What do you want me to say?'
'Whether you'd like me to stay.'
'In Shillingham? It's entirely up to you. As you pointed out, I don't own the bloody town.'
'But you'd like me to keep out of your way.'
'I think it would be best. We seem unable to help hurting each other.'
She sighed and finished her drink. 'You're probably right.' 'Another?'
'No. You said you couldn't spare long, and there doesn't
seem much else to say.'
A bone-weary sadness seeped over him. 'Susie—'
Her hand clenched on the table, then relaxed. 'It's a long
time since anyone called me that.' She stood up abruptly.
'Let's go.'
Dusk was deepening as they drove back along the country road to the lights of Shillingham. 'Where are you staying?'
'Drop me in Gloucester Circus—that's near enough.' 'No, I'll take you to your door. Where is it?' 'Park Road. Number nineteen.'
There were houses on only one side of Park Road, small semi-detacheds for the most part. Opposite them, darkness was already among the trees of the park.
Pretty Maids All In A Row Page 10
