On questioning by Rewley, he had said that, yes, it was a regular trip to Windsor, once a week, out in the morning, back in the early evening. His coach load was usually made up of tourists, Londoners out for the day, or people like Alicia, visiting a friend.
Another grin at this point, one inviting Rewley to ask whom was she visiting and for what purpose. Now Charmian could hear Rewley’s voice telling her: Doby knew what she was, or had been, and he was letting me know. When he was shown a picture of Alicia Ellendale he recognized her at once. Said he had seen her before. And yes, he thought she had been a passenger on his coach.
And then he said: she’s been down to Windsor on my coach a couple of times before. Visiting a pal, she said. And she named the man. Felix, she said. But don’t think of a cat. Well, I’d come across Frank Felyx, so I reckoned I knew who she meant: Right, I said. Look out for me, she said, I’m a lady on a mission. Right, I said to her, making a joke of it, will do. My passengers do sometimes leave me odd little jobs to do, post a letter, look after a bit of luggage if they don’t want to carry it around. It’s part of my job to be a friendly chap.
Rewley had said to Charmian: I made him repeat those words about visiting someone called Felix. Rewley had gone on to say that he hadn’t liked Doby but he had believed him. The WPC, an experienced officer, had agreed. The words had the ring of truth.
And what had happened when she hadn’t returned? Rewley had asked.
Art Doby, showing yellow teeth in a smile, had said that he had waited, but had not been able to wait too long because the other passengers got restless and wanted to be on their way. ‘Left to myself,’ he had said, ‘I would have gone on waiting a bit longer but they were a testy lot, my coach load that day, and I had to move. Anyway, the coach station itself was crowded and I needed to get out.’
And did you report her missing?
‘No, because she was a grown-up lady who knew her own business. Again that grin,’ Rewley said. ‘I was getting to kind of hate that grin.’
Rewley had questioned Doby on when he had learned that a search was being made for Alicia.
Didn’t know, Doby had answered, ‘ but the word began to get around, I was making jokes, they were only jokes then, about Frank Felyx, but then a copper came to the coach station asking questions … Her shoe had been found with a foot, her foot, in it. I remembered what she’d said about visiting Felix. Frank Felyx, I thought, and I thought, I bet he did it.’
‘We were sitting in that stinking room,’ Rewley had said, ‘ and I found myself disliking the man intensely. And afterwards the WPC said he gave her the creeps. But we both agreed that he was telling us what had happened. He was a liar, I’d say a born liar, but even liars tell the truth.’ He had looked down at his hands. ‘ I felt like washing myself when we left. Not just imagination, that, either; the smell of the place hung on my clothes … You’ll probably smell it on the report I wrote afterwards.’
Charmian thought she got a snatch of it now, but the smell of Waxy House was overpowering. But you didn’t know about the shoe in the bin in the washroom, then, she said silently to Rewley. I’d like to know what Art Doby could make of that.
And he was a man with a collection of coins. Had he been the source of the sovereign left on the table? That would tie him to whatever was going on in Waxy House. She found she was keen that he should be tied in, and the two affairs linked. It would make for symmetry.
She drank her coffee.
‘All right up there, Fanny?’ she called.
‘Doing fine,’ Fanny called back.
‘All quiet so far.’
‘You wait. It’ll get going.’ The whisky-cheerful voice carried on: ‘I’m not a fool, you know. I heard what I heard.’
‘Didn’t see, though.’
‘No, praise be. I had my holy water, didn’t I? Sprinkled it around me in a ring, so I could hear but couldn’t see.’
‘And anyway you had your eyes closed,’ called Charmian up the staircase. Silence, which showed her she had scored.
When nothing happened within the next hour, she became irritated with herself for coming to Waxy House at all. Nothing was going to happen, nothing had happened, nothing could happen. Fanny had imagined it all.
Not like Fanny, though; there was a hard core of realism inside her.
Up the stairs came the soft faint sound of a ladylike snore.
Her own eyes closed.
Just as she was dropping off to sleep, she realized that the smell of the house had changed. A new smell was creeping into her nostrils, waking her as surely as a cold touch on the face.
She sat up straight, moving quietly. The house was dark; Fanny must have put out the candle. After a moment she realized that the quality of the darkness itself had changed. The darkness had never been absolute because light from the street lamps filtered through the windows.
She sat there taking in the breath of chill air. She turned her head to the front door, but it remained closed. The coldness was on her other cheek and the smell was growing stronger.
It was the smell of the tomb, she told herself with a shudder: damp, earthy and stony.
She stood up, turning towards the stairs. The change in the light, the smell, seemed to be coming from there. Slowly, carefully, she mounted the stairs, and as she did so she saw the darkness was greyer and the smell stronger with every step. Was there yet another element in that smell?
The light, if it was light, seemed to move. Distantly, she heard the sound of movements. A dry rustle.
She stopped; she felt as if she had received a blow to her chest. Then, steadying herself, she started to walk up the stairs, stepping very carefully.
There was a rustle again on the stair above her, out of sight round the curve of the staircase. The air moved, she could feel it on her cheek.
Then Fanny screamed. A piercing scream. ‘Someone’s here!’
‘I’m coming, Fanny.’ Charmian rushed up the staircase, struggling to see in the gloom.
Fanny wailed: ‘Something touched me!’
When Charmian got there, Fanny was lighting a candle. ‘Blood!’ she cried. ‘ Someone, something left blood behind.’
Bright red, new blood. Not dried old blood.
Charmian said, ‘ It’s your own.’ There was a long cut down Fanny’s cheek. She looked around her. On the floor was a broken glass. ‘You cut yourself, you must have broken the glass when you threshed around screaming … and then cut yourself.’
‘I didn’t break the glass.’
‘Well, you had a nightmare, did it then, Fanny dear.’
‘Someone touched me,’ said Fanny doggedly.
Charmian helped the other woman to her feet. ‘Come on, we’ll sit together downstairs.’
Fanny collected her possessions carefully and let herself be led away. They made themselves comfortable on the assembled rugs and cushions and Charmian poured out what was left of her coffee. ‘Still warm,’ she said.
Neither of them mentioned what had happened. Although both thought a presence had been in Waxy House, they would not have agreed on the nature of it.
Not a ghost, nothing spooky, but man-made, somehow, Charmian thought.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said as she drove Fanny home in the early morning, both of them feeling exhausted. ‘ Forget Waxy House and whatever is going on there. It won’t hurt you. Just stay away till things clear up.’
‘What things?’
‘I don’t know, but I’ll find out. If I have to tear the place to pieces.’
Fanny looked shocked at this threat to her inheritance. ‘You’d have to ask my permission first.’
‘No, I wouldn’t … It would depend.’
‘On what?’
‘On what I might be looking for,’ said Charmian, stopping the car. ‘Here you are, Fanny. Home. Have a hot bath and a good breakfast. It’s what I’m going to do.’
‘And then the day off?’
‘No, you know better than that. I have plenty to do. You a
ren’t my only problem.’
Although Fanny and Charmian had left early in the morning, their presence had not gone unnoticed. The two one-man firms, C. and C. Architects and Computer Wizard, both started work very early for personal reasons. It suited both Christopher Fenwick (especially while his wife was away), and Harry Aden, aka Daddy Christmas.
‘There’s a zombie in there,’ said Chris Fenwick, nodding towards Waxy House.
‘Oh, come on.’ Harry was locking his car. ‘ What’s a zombie?’
‘I don’t know for sure. The undead, they say. Sound and movement, I say, and not form.’
Harry looked at his neighbour, wondering if he was joking. You could never be sure with Chris Fenwick.
‘Or it might be Frank Felyx,’ said Chris with a grin.
‘You don’t like him?’
‘Not a lot. He’s always taken an interest in the house. Wanted to buy it.’ Chris laughed. “Asked my advice … Don’t know what he planned to do with it. A little hotel for undead, perhaps.’
‘But he didn’t buy it?’
‘No, I don’t know why. May not have been on the market. Or perhaps he hadn’t got the money.’
Charmian had a bath, fed the cat and drank some coffee. Any more nights like last night and she would have caffeine poisoning. She had seen Fanny to her door before going home herself. Fanny looked quite chirpy. She felt she had been vindicated: Charmian now knew that ‘things’ did happen in Waxy House. No more jokes and sceptical looks, please.
Charmian’s next problem was how to see the boy Angus Cairns, with or without his father. She had learned that there was no mother, not in residence, at least.
Well, Dr Cairns had a practice, in Merrywick as she believed, so he could be contacted. She left a message for her secretary to arrange an early appointment for her to see him and the boy before she went to London. She wanted to talk to Angus about what he had found before she saw Art Doby.
By the time she was out of the bath and dressed, an appointment had been arranged. ‘As soon as you can this morning, as the boy ought to get to school. And Dr Cairns wants to meet you.’
Charmian was surprised; she knew that she was not always welcome when she was engaged in an investigation. She had a formidable reputation. It was to be hoped she did not disappoint Dr Cairns.
She went to her office first, to check on messages, faxes, and post – she had learnt early in her career to keep abreast of information, queries and complaints – then she drove herself to Merrywick.
The Cairns lived in a bungalow in a quiet surburban road, lined with well polished motorcars. The car parked in the drive of Cairn House was a green Mercedes.
Doing all right, Charmian deduced.
A boy’s bike, by no means as well polished, was propped against a rose bush. A man stood in the large front window, then he was joined by a boy.
‘Ah, my victim,’ she said, wondering why she had chosen that word.
When the front door was opened, by the boy, she was ready with her hand outstretched and friendly smile. ‘Ah, Angus … It is Angus?’
‘Yes.’ He did not smile back; instead he looked serious.
Dr Cairns appeared behind his son. ‘ Come in, come in.’ He was a tall, stalwart, broad-shouldered man with a military air. Perhaps he had been a soldier once, but at all events he was now in general practice and was a police surgeon.
‘I thought you would want to see Angus. Once I knew you were handling the case.’
‘You knew?’
‘Oh, we all know, ma’am.’ Yes, he had been a soldier once, no doubt of it. ‘And delighted to hear it’ He turned to the boy. ‘ Bring the tray in, lad. I’ve made some coffee and was just about to drink it. Will you join me?’
The tray was neatly arranged with a coffee pot, a jug of milk and two cups. There was a mug for the boy. He drank milk. ‘He can have coffee one day but not yet,’ said his father.
‘You make good coffee …’ It was hot and strong.
‘Had to learn. I’m on my own these days and anyway my former wife never could make decent coffee.’
The boy sat on a low chair, sipping his mug of milk without much appearance of pleasure. Charmian hoped he would be admitted to the senior ranks of coffee drinkers soon.
‘I’ve been longing to meet you since I attended a lecture you gave here a couple of years ago: “ Murder in the Community”, you called it,’ continued Cairns senior.
‘I remember.’ In fact, the title had been chosen by the organizer of the lecture series, of which her talk had been only one and which she had thought was a bit glib. ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it.’
‘You’re such a good speaker, and you made some good points.’
‘Thank you.’ She wanted to bring this part of the conversation to an end. Dr Cairns was overdoing it.
‘Dad,’ said the boy.
His father took no notice. ‘Of course, I was not a police surgeon then, although I had leanings that way. Didn’t take it up until I lost my wife … Didn’t seem the sort of thing to do with a wife and family. You’re called out at odd times. Well, you know all about that.’
Charmian nodded.
Dr Cairns finally brought the conversation round to the matter in hand. ‘It’s the first time that I’ve discovered a murder exhibit myself,’ he said.
‘It was me that found it,’ Angus piped up.
His father ignored him. ‘ Of course, we haven’t got the rest of the body yet … I’m assuming there is one. You can lose a foot and survive.’
‘Perhaps not in this case.’
‘No, I agree. It was a butcher’s job, you know. Worse, really; a competent butcher would have been neater. This foot was hacked off.’
Charmian bent towards the boy whom she thought was being ignored by his father. ‘ Your discovery was very important. I expect your father has explained it to you. Don’t let it alarm you. Tell me how you happened to see the shoe.’
Angus stood up. ‘I was writing a poem; we did Tennyson at school, and I enjoy doing it, and it was about the river. So I was watching as on one of my walks … And I just saw the shoe.’ He paused. ‘I could see it was a bit more than a shoe, I mean it didn’t look empty.’ He paused again. ‘Well, I could see the ankle and a bit of stocking … a bit bloody.’
‘I believe the foot came from a corpse,’ said Dr Cairns. ‘ So there wouldn’t be much blood.’
‘I didn’t mind it, you know, I was just interested. Only …’ Angus paused once again.
‘Yes?’ said Charmian.
‘Only afterwards, when you think about things …’
‘I know. When you think about a find like that, in bed, at night, perhaps, you do get darker thoughts,’ said Charmian with sympathy, ignoring several huffs and puffs from the good doctor, a parent who clearly expected his child to conform to certain rules. Not a sensitive man, and the son might be. ‘I’d like to see your poem.’
‘I haven’t finished it yet, I’m writing a new one.’
‘Perhaps I could see that one, then?’
Angus produced a notebook, which he handed over. ‘I’ve only just begun it, I can’t move forward.’
‘Poems are like that. I don’t know much about writing poetry, but I do know that much. I expect it’ll come.’
‘Yeah.’ He cast his eyes down and looked thoughtful. ‘Don’t ask what it’s about, though, will you?’
‘No, I know better than to do that: She opened the book and read to herself.’
‘Boys and girls come to play.
If we may, but who will pay.
So run away.’
‘I haven’t got any further. Perhaps I never will. You can’t tell with poems, sometimes they die.’ He looked at Charmian with big, solemn brown eyes. She thought this poem meant something important to him.
‘If you ever finish it, perhaps you’ll let me read it,’ she said, handing the book back.
At the bottom of the page the word BLACK was scrawled, then crossed through. She didn’t make mu
ch of that, so she passed it over.
Angus was nodding slowly, almost to himself; he avoided looking at his father, who was frowning.
‘Do you go to walk by the river often?’
‘As often as I can.’
‘I suppose people do drop this and that into the river.’
‘From boats, mostly,’ he said.
His father put in, half grudgingly, half proudly, ‘ The boy knows his river.’
‘You’ve seen people throwing rubbish into the river?’
He shrugged. ‘Sometimes. I mean I don’t watch. It wouldn’t interest me …’ Then he added: ‘I don’t think the shoe can have been there for very long.’
‘I agree.’
She met Dr Cairns’ eyes; he gave a little nod. His judgement also.
‘Because the rats would have started to chew it.’
‘Yes,’ Charmian accepted this judgement. As his father had said: the lad knew his river. ‘I think so too. You’ve seen the rats, I suppose?’
Angus nodded slowly. ‘I don’t mind rats: The river is their home.’
Dr Cairns took up his theme once again of how much he admired Charmian’s work, how he had read about her cases. How he had actually seen her before, years ago, when she first started police work in Deerham Hills. He had been a medical student himself, doing a term’s ward work in the hospital there. They had had a murder. Well, more than one.
So they had, and Charmian decided not to think how long ago that had been. She let him talk himself out, while she finished her coffee, and then said goodbye.
She smiled at Angus, who gave her a very cautious smile back, suggesting that he was not as keen on Charmian Daniels as his father was, and thought perhaps she should be handled with care.
Charmian was satisfied as she got in the car and started it up: the boy had not seen the person who had left the shoe with the foot in it, he had come upon it by chance. It was what she had always thought. Tough father, though.
The Woman Who Was Not There Page 10
