‘Of course, since it’s your first day. After that, Auntie Madge will wait for us at the corner and take you on with Tim, so I can get back for nine o’clock.’
‘Does Daddy know I start tomorrow?’
‘Of course he does,’ Kate said steadily.
‘I can tell him all about it on Saturday.’
Oh God, could he? Would Michael be here on Saturday, and if so, what mood would he be in? It seemed far longer than four days since she’d seen him.
***
As they set off for St Benedict’s the next morning, Kate’s nervousness exceeded her son’s. He looked so small in the new uniform, so trustingly confident of holding his own in his new environment, that she felt a lump in her throat. It was with relief that she saw Madge and Tim just ahead of them. Josh shouted, and they waited for them to catch up. The two boys ran on ahead and Madge said quietly, ‘Don’t worry, Kate, he’ll be all right. Paul will keep an eye on him the first few days.’
‘But with all this upheaval he mightn’t cope as well as he should.’
‘He’ll be fine, it’s you I’m worried about! Look, it’s half-day closing isn’t it? Come round for the afternoon and I’ll invite a few others to meet you.’
‘Bless you, Madge,’ Kate said gratefully.
But that afternoon, for the first time, she felt an outsider in Madge’s house. The other three present were schoolmasters’ wives but that was all they had in common. Anne Thompson was young and blushed when spoken to. Her baby, a red-faced nine-month-old, was sleeping in the porch, and Kate had to negotiate his pram in order to get in. Brenda Peters was roughly the same age as herself, a plain but pleasant girl with horn-rimmed spectacles from behind which her large brown eyes looked out in anxious friendliness.
The third member, Sylvia Dane, was older than the others, over forty, Kate hazarded, but her manner was young and she was glossily attractive.
‘I believe you work at Pennyfarthings?’ she said, as Madge introduced Kate. ‘I’ll be sending some of my paintings to your exhibition.’
‘Sylvia’s an artist,’ Madge explained unnecessarily. ‘She does wonderful portraits.’
‘I’ll look forward to seeing them,’ Kate murmured.
Madge brought in the tea trolley and for a while the talk was of school matters — new staff, the extended library, a proposed change of uniform. Kate’s attention wandered. St Benedict’s was so different from the homeliness of Highfield Primary. For the first time she regretted the generosity of Michael’s parents, whose educational policy had brought the school within their reach. Suppose Josh were unhappy there? Suppose he wasn’t as emotionally secure as she’d assumed? If so, the fault would be hers, for dislodging him at such a crucial time. Suppose—
Her mind skidded back to the present with an uncomfortable jolt as it registered the word ‘murder.’
‘Sex murderers are all psychopaths,’ Sylvia was saying firmly, stirring her tea with a decisive swirling of liquid. ‘The lust to kill tied up with the sex urge.’
‘There’s been no mention of sex,’ Brenda objected. ‘The women were stabbed, nothing else.’
‘Probably impotent, then. But the lipstick’s significant, don’t you think? Perhaps he’s a fetishist of some kind.’
‘You’re gilding the lily, Sylvia,’ Madge admonished, ‘and it’s bad enough already.’
‘Indeed it is. Until they catch him, none of us are safe.’ She turned unexpectedly to Kate. ‘Especially you, my dear. You’re living alone, aren’t you, except for your little boy? You mustn’t worry, though. We’re only just down the road. If you phoned us, Henry could be there in two minutes.’
‘Thank you,’ said Kate faintly.
Madge changed the conversation and gradually Kate relaxed. It was foolish to identify so strongly with the victims. Despite Sylvia’s tactlessness, she was no more at risk than the others.
Paul had been detailed to bring Josh and Tim home, and when they heard his key in the door Kate tensed expectantly. But he came in alone.
‘I turned the boys loose in the garden,’ he told them. ‘They’re full of high spirits after being cooped up all day, so I thought they’d better let off some steam.’
‘As long as they don’t start climbing trees in their new uniform,’ Madge said drily.
A thin wail came from the porch as the baby, roused from slumber by the schoolboys, voiced his protest. His mother hurried out to soothe him and the other women also rose to go. Since Paul was home, their own husbands would be on their way.
Kate went to the French windows to call Josh.
‘What did you think of Sylvia?’ Madge asked, stacking cups and saucers and putting them on the trolley.
‘She seemed quite pleasant.’
‘But?’
‘Perhaps a little overanxious to be one of the girls.’
Madge gave a short laugh. ‘In that respect she’s ahead of us. Believe it or not, she’s the local femme fatale. At the moment she’s carrying on with someone from school. Everyone knows it, but no one’s sure who. The odds-on favourite is Robin Peters.’
‘Brenda’s husband?’
‘Exactly. I was hoping to give her pangs of conscience.’
‘But surely he’s younger than she is?’
‘Of course, a good ten years. It probably restores her morale, because her husband’s quite a bit older. She’s always stressing the fact.’
Josh appeared reluctantly at the window, rosy and dishevelled from his chase round the garden, and Kate concluded with gratitude that her concern had been misplaced.
He chattered incessantly all the way home, but though she half-listened, Kate was remembering the talk of murder and, when they reached it, the glass-paned door didn’t seem to offer much protection. There was a bolt at the bottom, but it had rusted solid and she was unable to move it. She resolved to have a word with Martin about it in the morning.
The smell of the casserole she’d left in the oven reached them as they went upstairs, and illogically Kate felt better. Somehow, murder and steak and kidney were not of the same world.
Josh ate ravenously. School dinner, she was informed, was ‘yuk’ — a standard complaint. She didn’t doubt he had done it full justice. Meanwhile he bombarded her with a string of surnames, something quite different from his infant days at Highfield. Even Tim had mysteriously metamorphosed into ‘Netherby’ when spoken of in the context of school.
They watched the statutory hour of television, but by the end of it Josh’s eyes were heavy and he didn’t make even a token protest at the suggestion of bed. Kate almost wished he had. She would have welcomed his company for a little longer that evening.
Deprived of it, she tidied away the supper things, drew the curtains, and switched on
all the lamps. It was an extravagance: she needed only the one by the sofa to read by, but she was not in the mood for shadows. She stood for a moment looking round at the heavy old furniture, the deep chairs, the paintings on the wall. It was a lovely setting but, sadly, it was not home. ‘Like living in a museum,’ Madge had said, that first day. Completely furnished as it was, there was no scope for personal touches. Apart from her library book on the sofa, the room looked exactly as it had when they arrived. And, she thought suddenly, as it would when they’d gone, completely untouched by their occupancy.
Kate sat down and opened her book, but although she read for some time, she was continually aware of the dark stairwell and the unlit area behind the counter. Eventually, ashamed of herself, she went to put on still more lights.
‘Positively no bogeyman!’ she said aloud. But her tenuous interest in the book had been broken and, putting it aside, she switched on the television. The newsreader was looking directly at her.
‘...and despite intensive searches at the scenes of both crimes, the murder weapon has still not come to light. Anyone—’
Savagely Kate switched channels. It was a very long evening.
Even when, taking her book with her, she went to b
ed, sleep eluded her. The wind had risen and she lay listening to the rustling of the trees on the Green and the creaking of the old building. Her mind was turning over the events of the day; an invoice she’d mislaid, an indecisive customer, the tea party at Madge’s.
‘Sex murderers are all psychopaths,’ said Sylvia’s voice, over and over. Behind her closed lids, Kate saw again details she’d not been aware of at the time: the glistening lipstick (spelling out DELILAH? No—) framing the words above the incongruously poised teacup — psychopath, sex, murder — as though she relished the taste of them.
Unfair! Kate chided herself, opening her eyes. Sylvia had said them only once; it was the obsessive repetition of her own brain that made them obscene. Involuntarily she pictured the stricken women facing their killer, saw the shadowy shape of the murderer, arm raised to plunge the knife home. Psychopath — sex — murder. Had he smacked his lips over the deed as Sylvia so nearly had at the thought of it?
Kate’s body was drenched in sweat. She flung the covers off the bed, turned her pillow to the cool side and plumped it into shape. In the next room Josh murmured in his sleep. Kate slid out of bed and padded through to look at him. He too had flung the covers off. One small hand hung over the edge of the bed. Gently she replaced it under the sheet. As she stood looking down at him, the Minster clock chimed four slow quarters, followed by a solitary note. One o’clock. Would she never get to sleep?
Childhood remedies came to mind. A mug of hot milk and a couple of aspirins? It was worth a try. Anything to break the morbid treadmill her brain had embarked on.
She was halfway down the stairs when some slight, indistinct sound brought her to a halt, heart pounding. Control yourself! she thought furiously. Much more of this and she’d really become neurotic. But after another step the sound came again, louder and this time indisputable. Her palms tingled and the couplet flashed through her head: ‘By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes.’
Water in the pipes. A mouse. All the explanations Michael had sleepily put forward over the years when, fearful in the dark, she had nudged him to go and investigate. Oh, Michael! God, I wish you were here!
She reached the foot of the stairs and stood stock-still, ears straining. Across the room a chink in the curtains pointed a shaft of moonlight towards her, bleaching the carpet in its path. To the left the flight of stairs led down to the darkness of the passage. Then, as she stood there, with the suddenness of an explosion, light blossomed down below. Someone had switched on the passage light!
Scarcely knowing what she did, Kate moved slowly forward until she stood in the middle of the room facing the stairs. No use rushing back to bed. She couldn’t hide there not knowing what was below, and there wasn’t a lock on Josh’s door. It would mean waking him and bundling him into her room, and there wasn’t time. All these thoughts cascaded through her mind in a split second, unformed but recognized and accepted. And now there were definite footsteps down there, footsteps that made no attempt to be stealthy, coming closer and closer. If only she’d grabbed something with which to defend herself — the carving knife? No, she thought shudderingly, not the carving knife. No point in making it easy for him. And as the thought crystallized, a man’s head and shoulders appeared in the stairwell. Kate froze, waited motionless.
He didn’t see her till he reached the top step. Then he stiffened. ‘God in heaven!’ The words were jolted out of him and at the same moment his hand reached for the switch and the room flooded with harsh light. Kate’s eyes hadn’t left his face. It changed from a silvery blur to reveal shape and colour, with an expression which must have matched her own. Though she was too terrified to anticipate his words, what he said surprised her.
‘Who the bloody hell are you? What are you doing here?’
Kate moistened her lips. ‘I think,’ she said sharply, ‘it is I who should ask you that.’ ‘Easily answered. This is my flat.’
‘Your—’ Realization hit her, bringing with it an enervating wave of relief. ‘Mr Mowbray?’ she whispered incredulously.
‘The same.’
‘Oh, thank God! I thought you were the murderer!’
‘You’re too kind.’ His voice was brisk, impatient, but as she backed to a chair and lowered herself into it, he said curiously, ‘You meant that, didn’t you? Why the hell should I be a murderer? And you still haven’t said what you’re doing here.’
She struggled to collect herself. ‘I’m Kate Romilly. I work at the shop.’
‘Good God! And Martin let you have the flat? He might have mentioned it, for Pete’s sake. He knows I sometimes use it.’ He hesitated. ‘Look, I’m sorry. It appears neither of us is at fault, and I can see you’ve had a fright.’ She heard amusement creep into his voice. ‘Mind you, I’m not denying you frightened the hell out of me, too, standing there white and motionless in the dark like an avenging angel! Are you all right now?’
‘I think so.’
He came forward and helped her to her feet and for a moment they stood looking at each other. He was broad-shouldered and rather stocky. His thick straight hair was platinum-blond and the eyes, engaged on their own assessment, a clear hazel, edged with stubby lashes. His mouth quirked suddenly.
‘An unconventional meeting, Miss Romilly!’
Belatedly she remembered her thin nightdress and felt the colour come to her face. ‘I was going to make a hot drink. I couldn’t sleep.’
‘I don’t know about a hot one, but I could use the other kind. Have you anything in the house?’
‘Only sherry, I’m afraid.’
‘Better than nothing. I suggest then that you point me in its direction while you find yourself a dressing gown, and when we’ve both recovered our nerve I’ll leave you in peace.’
She showed him the cupboard where she’d put the sherry and hurried back upstairs. A quick glance in the mirror confirmed her worst fears. The thin cotton clung to her body like a second skin and her hair was tousled and untidy. Swiftly she brushed it, caught up her dressing gown, thrust her feet into slippers. What a way to meet your new boss! Tomorrow, with Madge, she’d be able to laugh about it.
When she reached the kitchen suitably sheathed, he had two glasses ready.
‘Sit down,’ he invited. ‘You still look shaken. I really am sorry about this.’
‘I’m not usually so craven, but everyone’s talking about the murders and I couldn’t get them out of my head. So naturally, when I heard you coming in...’ Her voice trailed helplessly away.
‘There was nothing craven in the way you faced me. No hint of turning and running.’
‘I couldn’t, because of my son.’
His eyes went swiftly to her hand. ‘So it’s Mrs Romilly. I beg your pardon. And you have a child with you?’
‘Didn’t Martin tell you anything about me?’
‘Only that he’d found someone at a moment’s notice to replace Molly. But admittedly I cut him short. I’d a lot of business to discuss and didn’t give it another thought.’ He finished his drink and reached out to refill his glass. ‘I often bed down here if I’m in the neighbourhood. I’ve an appointment in the morning, so there was no point in driving all the way to Chipping Claydon.’
‘What will you do now? You can’t go to an hotel this time of night.’
He smiled slightly. ‘It would serve Martin right if I knocked him up. No, I’ll sleep in the car. I’ve done it before.’
Kate took a steadying sip of sherry. ‘If you’d be more comfortable on the sofa, you’re welcome to stay.’ She made an embarrassed little gesture. ‘It’s your flat, after all.’
‘The best offer I’ve had all week. Sure you wouldn’t mind?’
She smiled. ‘Not at all. If the murderer does come creeping up, at least he’d find you first!’
‘What is all this about a murderer? You’re not really expecting one, surely?’
Kate eyed him incredulously. ‘Mr Mowbray, I don’t know where you’ve been for the past two weeks, but unless
it was Outer Mongolia I can’t believe you’ve not heard of the Delilah murders.’
‘Ah! The writing on the mirror? That does ring a bell. Of course, they were in this area, weren’t they?’ He stood up and stretched. ‘If we don’t get some sleep, neither of us will be fit for much tomorrow. I’ve had a long drive and I’m just about dead beat. You go back to bed. I’ve my night things with me’ — he nodded to a valise on the floor — ‘so I’ll just use the bathroom, if I may.’
‘I’ll say good night, then.’
He raised his glass in a salute and drank from it. But as she reached the stairs his voice stopped her.
‘Mrs Romilly?’
‘Yes?’
‘Might one ask where Mr Romilly is?’
‘In Shillingham.’
‘Ah!’
She waited, but he made no further comment and after a moment she continued up
the stairs.
CHAPTER 6
The alarm rang for some time before Kate reached out sleepily to silence it. Then, suddenly wide awake, she sat up. Richard Mowbray was here!
Hastily she pulled on her dressing gown and opened the door. There was no sound of movement from below, and she went quickly into Josh’s room. He lay spread-eagled on the bed, warm and tousled like a small animal. Kate gently shook him awake and hurried to the bathroom. The mirror was misted up, the soap wet. Mr Mowbray was ahead of her.
She bathed quickly, supervised the intricacies of Josh’s school tie and explained the presence of the visitor downstairs. By the time they went down, Richard Mowbray was draining a mug of coffee.
‘I helped myself. Hope you don’t mind.’ Kate noticed that the hours of sleep had done nothing to lessen his pallor. He shook hands with Josh and put his mug on the table. ‘I’ll get out of your way, then. Thanks for the accommodation.’
‘Won’t you have some breakfast?’
‘No, thanks, the coffee was fine.’ And he was gone, taking his valise with him. Feeling distinctly underslept, Kate set about laying the table.
A Shroud for Delilah (DCI Webb Mystery Book 1) Page 4
