'This woman already has. It didn't work, so why should they risk it again?'
'David's a complex character. He can be gentle as well as ruthless, and naive as well as astute. Because he once loved her, she still has a hold on him. A lot will depend on whether she wants him back. And why come to Broadshire unless she does?'
'How would you feel if they remarried?'
'Wretched,' Hannah said frankly. 'I want things to go on as they were, which is childish, I know. Nothing lasts for ever.'
She had thought, as she spoke, that seeing him again would give some clue to his feelings. It hadn't. He'd been embarrassed to see her, and that had hurt. If she hadn't genuinely wanted to hear about Angie, she'd have gone straight back downstairs. Yet it was less than a fortnight since they'd made love.
Closing her mind to the memory, Hannah seated herself at the bureau and opened her briefcase. Tomorrow, she'd go to see Angie. The girl would be better at school than moping under her mother's anxious eyes, and with O-levels looming, she couldn't afford to miss lessons. As for David Webb, she thought with a flash of rebellion, he could sort out his own problems. She had better things to do.
Uncapping her pen, she drew a sheaf of papers towards her.
On the floor above, Webb's reflections were no more comfortable. He knew the rape had been only part of the reason for Hannah's visit as, two weeks before, the earlier one had been for Susan's. He loathed rape, was shamed by it on behalf of his sex, and felt inhibited when discussing it with women, not least those whose own bodies he had known.
And he was surrounded by women, he thought irritably, running a hand through his hair. Not only Hannah and Susan, but Angie and Frances Daly and Carrie Speight. Not to mention Freda Cowley. All of them, even poor, dead Freda, seemed to be mutely appealing to him to avenge them. And he didn't know what to do next.
Tired and dispirited, he considered taking out his sketchpad and, by filling it with caricatures of the protagonists, see if, as so often in the past, they would point him to the murderer.
But he wasn't in the mood. Instead, he refilled his glass, switched on the television, and went to see what was in the larder.
Nor was PC Frost any happier. He sat glumly at his supper table, the heavy body of the dog across his feet, and even the smell of Margie's suet dumplings failed to cheer him. He watched as she poured hot syrup over them and slid the plate towards him. Across the table, his son Benjie munched appreciatively, his full mouth not inhibiting him from retailing the day's news.
'The old man had to get the vet in to old Daisy. She was taking her time calving, and no wonder, since it was a breech.'
'Not at the table, love,' admonished his mother automatically.
'Bob was up with her all night,' Benjie continued, as though she hadn't spoken. 'He looked fair shattered, though whether it was lack of sleep or fretting over his young lady, I couldn't say.'
'Delia Speight, that'll be,' Margie remarked, and in subconscious association patted her hair.
'Aye. In a fair tither that the rapist will get her, like he got her sister.'
'Watch your tongue, lad,' Ted said sharply. 'No names in rape cases. You know that.'
'Oh come on, Dad, the whole village knows. Bob keeps asking if you're near to getting your hands on him.'
Ted chewed solidly, glad of the excuse not to reply. What had come over the place? Only a few weeks back, things were the same as always. Now, every newspaper had Westridge splashed over its front page and he was deeply mortified.
'And now the Markham kid,' Benjie continued, his father's depression affecting him, too. 'Young girl like that. He wants flogging, if you ask me.' He glanced shrewdly at Ted. 'Any ideas, Dad? Off the record, like?'
'Father's doing what he can,' Margie said comfortably before he could reply. 'And with Mr Webb helping him, they'll sort it out soon enough. Eat up, now. More dumplings, anyone?'
'You have an admirer, darling!' Matthew said lightly when he brought in Jessica's breakfast. 'An offering was left on the doorstep with the milk.' 'What is it?'
'I've no idea, but there's a heart on the box. I hadn't room on the tray, or I'd have brought it up.' 'How intriguing. Do get it, darling.'
He returned with a white confectioner's box tied with red ribbon. On the top, a heart had been drawn with a red felt pen.
Jessica pulled off the ribbon and lifted the lid. 'How very odd,' she said after a moment.
'What is it?' Coffee-pot in hand, Matthew moved round the bed. Inside the box, in two neat rows, nestled a dozen jam tarts. 'Good God! Is there a card with them?'
'Not unless it's underneath.' Carefully, Jessica lifted each tart in turn, but the box contained nothing else.
'Valentine's Day in September. I'd plumped for Leo as the most likely donor, but jam tarts are hardly his line.'
'Well,' Jessica said, closing the lid, 'it makes a change from chocolates. They look good. too. We'll have them for tea.'
'Oh, Miss James! How kind! Do come in.'
Side-stepping the bucket of water in the porch, Hannah went into the hall. Kathy threw it a distracted glance. 'That must be my son's. He brought some tadpoles home from school.' She showed Hannah into the sitting-room. Just one moment, I'll ask Carrie to bring coffee.'
'How's Angie, Mrs Markham?'
'She seems all right.' She hesitated. 'We were wondering about school. What do you think?'
'I feel it would be good for her to come back.'
'That's what my husband said, but you know how cruel children can be.'
'I think we can forestall that. Either Miss Rutherford or I will speak to the girls.'
A pale young woman came in with a tray of coffee, put it on the table, and left the room.
'Where's Angie now?' Hannah asked.
'In her room, playing records.'
'May she join us?'
'Of course. I'll bring another cup.'
To Hannah's relief, Angie looked no different from at Tuesday's drama class. Though initially embarrassed, Hannah's natural manner and the general conversation reassured her, and she relaxed.
'I hope you've not forgotten the hockey match,' Hannah said casually. 'We'll need you, against St Anne's.'
The girl flashed a quick look at her mother, and Hannah saw Mrs Markham give an encouraging nod. 'I—I'll be back tomorrow.' 'That's fine.'
Angie paused, then leant forward excitedly. 'Miss James, did you know Jessica Randal's staying in the village? I went round there last Saturday, and we read through a scene of her new play.'
'How exciting! Was she impressed?'
'Yes. She promised to send us tickets, and she told Mummy if I keep on with my acting, I can look her up in London, and she'll try to help.'
'Then you're a very lucky girl. No matter how much talent you have, a friend at court is invaluable.'
The doorbell rang, and the woman who'd brought the coffee went to open it. A minute later, Hannah looked up to see David and another man standing in the doorway. She rose to her feet as Mrs Markham went to greet him.
'Chief Inspector, this is Miss James, Deputy Head of Angie's school, who's kindly come to see her. Chief Inspector Webb, Miss James, and—?'
'Sergeant Jackson,' David said. His eyes held Hannah's. 'Good morning, Miss James.'
'Good morning.' She turned to Angie, whose apprehension had returned with the arrival of the police. 'I'll tell Miss Bates you'll be back for the match. Thanks for the coffee, Mrs Markham.'
Kathy went with her to the door. 'I'm so sorry—I suppose the police—'
'Don't worry, I've accomplished what I came for.' Avoiding the bucket again, Hannah walked down the path.
On their way back to the station, Jackson said suddenly, 'I may be imagining things, but I'd like to ring round and see if anyone else found something odd when they woke up this morning.'
'What do you mean, odd?'
'Like that pail of water at the Markhams'.'
'But it was the boy's. Mrs Markham explained as we left.'
'So what? Some kid had probably balanced it on the wall. What are you getting at, Ken?'
'Humpty Dumpty had a great fall? And Jack and Jill's pail of water? Perhaps this thing's getting to me, but—'
Webb whistled softly. 'You could be on to something. I didn't see the significance, but you're more geared to nursery rhymes. Right; ring round by all means. I don't know where it'll get us, but it'll be interesting to see what turns up.'
Webb reported on Jackson's findings later that afternoon when, at Chief Superintendent Fleming's request, he called in at Headquarters.
'And the upshot was that the Selbys had received some jam tarts with a heart on the box; the Palmers, who have an ornamental well in the garden, found a toy cat floating in it; Carrie Speight reported a wreath of roses on the step with a handkerchief tied to it, and at Sandon Hall a walnut tree was decorated with a pear and nutmeg covered in foil.'
Fleming frowned, tapping his pen on his thumbnail. 'I don't like it, Spider. We're getting enough stick from the public, with two weeks gone and no arrest imminent, without the murderer himself playing silly buggers with us.'
'If he was doing, sir.'
Fleming's frown deepened. 'Explain.'
'Well, sir, firstly we don't know it was the murderer, though I admit it seems likely.'
'Who the hell else? Willie Winkie on his run through the town?'
Webb allowed himself a politic smile. 'But if it was Chum-mie, then I don't think he was playing games. Or only of the cat and mouse variety.'
'You mean these objects were meant as a warning?'
'I'd say so. He's already tangled with most of the recipients.' He paused. 'There's something else bothering me, sir. As far as we can establish, our man has raped before—the woman in Ashmartin, if no one else. But why the three-year gap? Then for some reason he kills his victim, after which he reverts to rape again. It's not consistent.'
'Go on.' .
'Once a man's killed for sex, rape alone doesn't satisfy him.'
'You're not suggesting at this stage that we've two villains at large?'
'No, there aren't likely to be two nursery-rhyme freaks.' 'Unless one copied the other.'
'But there'd been no publicity about the rhymes till the body was found, and Mrs Cowley was killed between the attacks on the Ashmartin woman and Mrs Daly. Yet both of them were forced to recite rhymes, and the deceased had one in her pocket. What I'm getting at is this: we've no evidence that Mrs Cowley was raped.'
'Only because of advanced decomposition.'
'But suppose she hadn't been, that she was killed for an entirely different reason.'
'Like what?'
Webb shrugged. 'One of the standard motives: fear, gain, blackmail.'
'But if he hadn't raped her, why draw attention to himself by putting the rhyme in her pocket?'
'That's a hard one. Perhaps as a challenge, or perhaps because he gets such a kick out of them that he couldn't help himself. He had to leave his trademark.'
Fleming considered that. Then he said, 'So what do you propose?'
'We'll go through the statements from a different angle. See if anyone had anything to gain by her death, or a secret she might have stumbled on.'
'There were quite a few cheating on their wives and open to blackmail.'
'It would have to be more than that.'
'Suppose one had a rich wife and didn't want to lose out through divorce?'
'I doubt if there's that kind of money in Westridge, apart from the Sandons.'
'Then what about them? The goofy one, who wanders the woods spouting poetry? Or the three sons sowing their wild oats?'
Webb said slowly, 'The Honourable Leo's a non-secretor. It's possible. There's been scandal a-plenty over the years, we might be due for some more.' He stretched, easing his aching back. 'In the meantime we'll do the best we can with the latest exhibits. I doubt if we'll get much from the toy cat. It's old, only one eye and an ear missing, though we can check with the manufacturers who stocked it and when. Davis and Trent are covering the florists, but the tarts looked homemade, Mrs Selby said, and she's eaten them.'
Fleming sighed. 'OK, Spider, keep me posted. And for God's sake nab him soon.'
'I'll do my best, sir,' Webb replied.
In his basement sitting-room at The Willows, Frank Chitty sat in his rocking-chair whittling wood and humming softly to himself. Under his skilled fingers, the wafer-thin shavings fluttered to the ground like curly cream snowflakes as the wood took shape. A busby, a round head and square shoulders, legs standing to attention. There were five companions awaiting this toy soldier, ready painted and varnished and lined up neatly in the box under his bed. Six was enough, he reckoned. He'd go back to dolls next. Dolls was his favourite, Dutch dolls, they called 'em, with their painted black hair and the red circles on their cheeks.
He'd best tidy up before Cook finished in the kitchen. Even in his mind, he no longer used his wife's name. She'd been Cook to him as to everyone else for the last thirty years. Well, he couldn't call her 'Mother', more's the pity, since they'd never had kids. The wooden trains and wagons he'd fashioned so lovingly over the years had no eager recipients in view. Every now and then, when they were taking up too much room, Cook collected them and took them to the kids' hospital. Fair enough. In the early days she'd suggested selling them, but that had upset him. He loved his little wooden figures, and to part with them for money would be like selling children.
Children. He ached for them sometimes. And grandchildren he could dandle on his knee and tell fairy stories. And nursery rhymes.
A quiver ran through him and the knife slipped, leaving a bright blood-bead on his finger. Who killed Cock Robin? Only it wasn't Cock Robin, but Mrs Cowley down at Hinckley's, her with her long legs which she displayed all anyhow getting in and out of her car, and not minding who saw them, either. She'd seen him watching her once, outside the post office, and laughed at him with her red mouth and bold eyes. He'd dreamt of her once or twice after that, waking trembling and hot with excited shame. Still, a man was a man, and it was a long time since Cook had condoned any hanky-panky, as she called it.
There'd been other things he'd done, too, that he didn't like to think about afterwards.
He wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, and, as the shaking lessened, picked up the knife again and went on whittling.
Jessica lay in the dark, listening to Matthew's quiet breathing beside her. Her mind was a churning pool in which thoughts darted among the shadows, elusive as fish. Those jam tarts. She'd been appalled, this evening, to learn of their origin. The knowledge that she'd so trustingly eaten them made her stomach heave. Suppose they'd been poisoned? In this menacing world she inhabited, they could easily have been.
Other people had received things, too, the sergeant said on the phone, though he hadn't mentioned who or what.
The Knave of Hearts he stole those tarts and took them clean away. Her hands clenched under the bedclothes. Stop it! But God, she was supposed to have police protection, wasn't she, after Sunday's phone-call? Where'd he been, she'd like to know, when the potential murderer crept up to her door? And what was the meaning of these sinister offerings?
She had met Freda Cowley's killer. The thought, hidden in her subconscious since the weekend, emerged clearly for the first time, and she gasped. He had phoned her, personally, and had stood on the step below this very window as she and Matthew lay sleeping. Suppose he'd climbed up the ivy and into the window, as he'd tried to enter Mrs Southern's?
Rigid with fear, Jessica remembered that the window was open now. Suppose he came back tonight? Under the thin cotton nightdress her body was bathed in sweat. She couldn't get out of bed without disturbing Matthew, but she wouldn't close her eyes as long as that window remained open. Tentatively she t
ouched his arm.
'Matthew—'
He sighed, stirred, and settled back again. 'Darling.' She gave his arm a little shake. 'Um? What is it?'
'I know I'm being silly, but would you close the window, please?'
He reached for the light switch and in the sudden brilliance stared down at her. 'You woke me to ask me that?' Then, seeing the hair clinging wetly to her face, he realized her fear.
'All right.' He swung his legs out of bed. 'But remember to shut it on Saturday, because I shan't be here to do it for you.'
In five minutes he was asleep again, but for Jessica, with the spectre of Saturday added to her fears, it was a full hour before she slid uneasily into oblivion.
CHAPTER 13
Before she went to The Willows the next morning, Jessica sought out Carrie in the kitchen.
'I've a favour to ask you,' she said with a smile. 'My husband has to go to London tomorrow, and he'll be away overnight. Could you possibly come and sleep here? At the moment I don't want to be alone.'
Carrie turned from the sink. 'Oh Mrs Selby, I'm so sorry. I'd have been glad to, but I promised to babysit for Mrs Plunkett. They're going to a dance in Shillingham and won't be back till late, so she asked me to stay the night.'
It hadn't occurred to Jessica that her request might be declined. She was tempted to plead, but Carrie was unlikely to go back on her word, and a second refusal would be belittling. She could only accept her repeated apology and leave the room.
She reported the outcome to Matthew in the car. 'It was rather a blow. I was counting on her.'
'It can't be helped, and you'll be just as safe without her. She'd have been company, but she's not an armed guard. Anyway, it's only for one night and you'll have spent the afternoon at the Fair. You'll probably be glad to relax and have an early night.'
Jessica was unconvinced. She could book into The Orange Tree, but the landlord was already curious about Matthew, and moving out of her own home would draw attention to her fear. If Matthew were going anywhere but to his own family, she'd have gone with him.
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