‘It’s only a headache.’
Lana was still protesting her fitness the next morning, by which time it was clear she was really ill. But as Kate’s anxious inquiries were cut short, she had to accept there was nothing she could do.
Thoughts of Lana were banished from her head that lunchtime by an unexpected meeting with Michael. He came hurrying down the steps of the bank as she was passing.
‘Hello,’ Kate said, feeling foolish.
‘On your way to lunch? I’ll join you.’
Her eyes widened and he added softly, ‘Civilized behaviour, remember. Nothing compromising about lunch.’ He took her by the arm and led her down the High Street to the nearest pub. It was very crowded but they managed to find a corner table.
‘You’re still on the murder?’ Kate asked. ‘Isn’t Bill getting restive?’
Bill Hardy was the reporter into whose hands murder cases usually fell.
‘He came down with me, but he knows every so often I get my teeth into a story and like to see it through. Also, the Big White Chief wants me to do what he calls an investigative feature on the murders instead of my Saturday column, which gives me a bit more leeway. There was some excitement yesterday when the police thought they’d found the murder weapon, but now they’re not so sure.’
‘Where was it?’
‘On waste ground behind the market. It had stains which could have been blood, but there’s some doubt that the blade was the right shape to have inflicted the wounds.’ He paused. ‘There are several letters for you at home. I’ll bring them when I collect Josh.’
Kate’s mind was still on the weapon. ‘Was the same knife used in both cases?’
‘It left the same type of wound.’
‘Then if he did throw it away, perhaps he doesn’t intend to commit any more murders.’
‘I doubt if we’ve seen the end of them yet.’
‘Why?’
‘Because by now he’ll be enjoying the publicity. He deliberately draws attention to himself with his Delilah trademark, and Webb reckons his ego’s building up all the time. If he enjoys reading about himself, he won’t want the interest to die down, and one way to keep it going is to commit another murder.’
‘Just to stay in the headlines?’ Kate stared at him in horror.
‘Oh, I daresay he’s got some complex about women, which was what started him off in the first place. But if he’s led an uninteresting life and no one’s ever taken much notice of him, you can understand how he’d become hooked on the notoriety.’
‘A psychopath?’ Kate asked fearfully, remembering Sylvia.
‘Almost certainly.’ Michael unconcernedly continued with his lunch, but Kate’s appetite was gone.
‘Do the police think there’ll be another murder?’ she persisted.
‘If they don’t catch him first.’ He glanced across at her. ‘You’re not usually so interested in murder cases.’
It was true. But as she’d already discovered, the Delilah murders held a morbid fascination for her, a sense of personal involvement, even personal threat, which no amount of logic could dispel.
‘No point in worrying,’ he added when she didn’t speak. ‘Murders have been with us since Cain and Abel and will be as long again.’
Kate said with an effort, ‘Do they think he knew both women?’
‘Must have done. The last one was highly respectable and not given to taking strange men into her home.’
‘So if they can find a common link—’
‘Quite,’ said Michael drily. ‘Simple, isn’t it?’
It was no surprise the following morning when Lana phoned to say she wouldn’t be in.
‘About time!’ Kate said severely. ‘Don’t worry about anything, I can cope. Phone the doctor and go back to bed.’
‘But what about Father?’
‘Surely one of the neighbours could—’
‘I feel faint,’ Lana interrupted urgently, ‘I’ll have to hang up. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
Kate worried about Lana all morning and at lunchtime, reaching a decision, she phoned Madge.
‘Could you be an angel and keep Josh this afternoon till I collect him? Lana Truscott’s not well and apparently there’s no one to look after either her or her father. I thought I’d go over for a couple of hours and make myself useful, since it’s half-day closing.’
‘No problem. Stay for supper if you like; you won’t have time to prepare anything.’
‘Thanks, Madge.’
Having checked Lana’s address from the filing cabinet, Kate bought a few provisions and collected her car from Lady Ann Square. She hadn’t used it during the ten days she’d been in Broadminster and the engine was slow to start.
It was a pleasant day for a drive. The morning mist had given way to thick sunshine, which lay like a benediction on the autumn fields. Overhead against the blue arch of the sky a hawk hung like a chainless pendant before dropping silently on its prey.
Kate turned off the main road at the Littlemarsh sign, hoping apprehensively that her visit would not be taken as interference. She hadn’t realized how small the village was. There seemed to be only the one road, with a few cottages on either side. Behind them, fields stretched to the skyline, some full of crops, some grazing land for cattle. The only address she had was The White Cottage, and Kate slowed down, eyes scanning both sides of the road. She passed several farms, a church, and a general store, and was beginning to think she must have missed the Truscotts’ house when, almost at the end of the village, she came to it.
With a sigh of relief she parked the car, collected her purchases and walked up the path. The small garden was tidy and colourful in a regimented fashion, as though each flower knew better than to bloom out of place. The white step gleamed, the paint-work was clean and new. Kate raised the brass knocker and let it fall. Hardly surprisingly, no one came to answer it. Experimentally she turned the handle and the door swung open. The little hallway was deserted and there was a lingering smell of furniture polish. An old-fashioned coat-stand stood on the right; Kate recognized Lana’s jacket among the others. From a window on the landing the sunshine streamed down the blue-carpeted stairs as though inviting her to climb them.
‘Lana?’ she called softly. ‘It’s Kate. Can I come up?’
There was no reply. A quick glance through the open doors beside her showed the rooms to be empty. Kate went up the stairs, calling as she went. ‘It’s Kate, Lana. Are you there?’
Still no answer, and now the silence took on an eerie quality. Kate ran up the last few steps and pushed open the first door she came to. Lana was lying on her back, her face as white as the pillow and her dark hair spread loose about her. So still was she that for a heart-stopping moment Kate doubted if she were alive. Then her eyes opened, she gave a gasp and struggled into a sitting position.
Kate said contritely, ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. I knocked, but the door was on the latch.’
‘I left it for the doctor.’ Lana was staring at her with an incomprehension left from sleep. ‘What are you doing here? Is something wrong?’
‘No, no, I thought you might need help. You said there wasn’t anyone else.’
Lana flushed. ‘That’s very kind. The neighbours would come if I asked them, but I prefer to keep to myself. Ralph always said I was too independent for my own good.’
‘Well, now I’m here I’m going to cook lunch. I bought some fish — it doesn’t take much eating.’
‘Oh, Mrs Romilly!’ For a startled moment Kate thought she was about to weep.
‘I do wish you’d call me Kate,’ she said.
‘Thank you, yes. I — it’s just that I’m not used to being looked after. I’ll come down and show you where everything is.’
‘Indeed you won’t. I’m quite capable of finding what I need.’
Cutting off further protests, Kate returned downstairs. The kitchen was at the back of the hall and its window looked out onto a small garden. The lawn was squar
e and neatly cut, edged with flower beds as geometrically trimmed as at the front. The shed was freshly creosoted and a little gate in the back fence gave access to a wood behind. It was all immaculate but at the same time anonymous, with no hint of love having gone into the planning of it. Rent-a-Garden, Kate thought facetiously.
And she realized that the house itself bore the same lack of personality. All was tidy but there were no spontaneous touches to give a clue to the personality of those who lived here, no scrawled shopping list or rescued daisies in a jar, no gardening shoes behind the door. There was a disquieting sensation of having stepped back in time to the nineteen-thirties and Kate saw that the kitchen was much as it must have been then. There was no fridge or washing machine and the gas cooker was a model long discontinued. A box of Swan Vesta matches stood beside it.
In her search for milk and butter she located the larder, complete with stone slab and ancient meat safe. A row of old-fashioned sweet jars were ranged along the floor, containing, according to their labels, an assortment of pickles and chutneys. Kate, guiltily thinking of her trips to the supermarket, felt increasingly inadequate.
The other necessities were readily to hand, though her search for trays took several minutes, involving the fruitless opening of several cupboards. She even looked under the stairs, but all that was revealed was a carpet sweeper, some cleaning equipment, and a crash helmet, evidently belonging to Lana’s dead brother. Kate was on the point of calling upstairs when she discovered the trays neatly slotted in a space behind the door.
She laid them as attractively as possible and cast a critical eye over the plates: crisp fish, creamed potatoes, parsley sauce. It was the best she could do with the ingredients to hand.
By the time she returned upstairs Lana had woken her father and propped him up in bed. He greeted Kate with a smile. ‘Lana tells me how kind you’re being. We’re most grateful. Without Lana here our little world grinds to a halt, Mrs Romilly. Not,’ he added with a rueful smile, ‘that mine revolves all that quickly at the best of times. You know, I resolved when I took permanently to my bed that I’d take the chance to enrich my mind: read all the classics I’d never had time for, and so on. But to my chagrin all I seem to do is sleep — a quite unbelievable amount. I’m ashamed sometimes, when Lana wakes me for a meal and I find how many hours have been wasted.’
The three of them lunched together in Mr Truscott’s room, Kate on a bedroom chair, Lana on a stool. Most of the talk was of Josh, who had made an impression on the old man. ‘Such a bright boy,’ he said more than once. ‘He reminds me of my son at the same age.’
Kate was relieved that both invalids finished their meal, Lana eating daintily in a succession of small, quick forkfuls like one of the birds at her seed tray, her father more slowly as though the effort tired him, the knife and fork heavy in his hands.
After the meal, brushing away their protests, she washed up and cleared away, freshened both bedrooms, and gave the rooms downstairs a quick dust. Before she left, she inquired if there were any provisions they needed. ‘I can easily call at the village shop and slip back with something.’
‘No, no, I’ll be better tomorrow,’ Lana assured her.
‘Don’t come to work till Monday, will you, or you’ll make yourself ill again.’
‘We’ll see, but in the meantime we won’t starve.’ She flushed. ‘That sounds ungracious. It’s very, very kind of you to put yourself out like this, Mrs — Kate. We do appreciate it and Father so enjoyed meeting you. He doesn’t see many people.’
Kate nearly pointed out that if his daughter weren’t so set against visitors he would see more, but she wisely kept silent. Lana was obviously devoted to the old man and did her best for him according to her lights. Her reserve was by now so much a part of her, she was no doubt incapable of overcoming it.
***
That evening, relaxed in front of a log fire, for it had turned cool, Kate related her thoughts to Paul and Madge. ‘She misses so much, that’s the tragedy, and so does her father. If only she could relax and be more forthcoming, people would meet her halfway, but they think she’s standoffish. It’s a shame, because really she’s just painfully shy.’
‘Molly didn’t put it so kindly,’ Madge remembered with a smile. ‘She referred to her as a repressed spinster!’
‘Well, she’s certainly carrying a torch for Richard. It’s touching, really. She blushes like a schoolgirl every time he appears.’
‘All dream stuff,’ Paul said with male scepticism. ‘In the unlikely event of his making a pass at her, she’d probably have hysterics. A knight errant is only acceptable as long as he stays safely on his charger.’
***
Whether because of Kate’s advice or her own weakness, Lana did not appear again that week and Kate was extremely busy. There were last-minute arrangements about the exhibition, correspondence to deal with, and the shop itself to be attended. Fortunately both partners were in evidence and Martin helped out with the customers while Richard instructed Kate in the mysteries of the filing cabinet.
On the Saturday morning, Josh came downstairs to await collection by his father, sitting contentedly drawing at the other side of the desk.
‘Have you the list of paintings handy?’ Richard asked Kate. ‘I want to check how many Daniel Plumb’s submitting this year. He’s always a big draw.’
‘I think it’s here.’ Kate leafed through the papers on Lana’s desk.
‘That’s it. Good.’ He bent over her, his finger running down the sheet of paper, and she watched its progress. It was stubby and covered with pale hair, the nail short and rounded. She was aware of the singularly antiseptic smell of him, composed of carbolic soap with a faint underlying hint of tobacco. Kate guessed there would be no after-shave in his bathroom cabinet. It occurred to her quite suddenly that it was unlikely he had been celibate during the two years since his divorce, and with a slight sense of shock discovered that she found him attractive. It was the first time she had stood outside the confines of her allegiance to Michael, and the sensation was not comfortable.
‘Good morning.’
All three of them looked up to see Michael himself standing in the doorway. Richard straightened slowly and for a moment the two men’s gaze held. Then Josh slid off his chair.
‘Look what I’ve drawn, Daddy.’
‘That’s very good,’ Michael said, but his eyes were on Kate. Almost, she wondered, as if he’d read her mind in that moment before she was aware of his presence. ‘I’ll bring him back at six,’ he added abruptly, and it was only when he and Josh had gone that Kate realized she hadn’t spoken a word to him. She looked up at Richard, to find his eyes consideringly on her.
‘Should I have been tactful and left you alone? It happened so quickly.’
‘The time for tact has passed,’ she replied.
‘Oh?’
‘We’ve decided on a trial separation, to see how things go.’
‘I see.’ Apparently losing interest, he glanced down again at the list of paintings. ‘By the way, it occurred to me that Wednesday evening might be disturbing for Josh. Would it be an idea for him to spend the night with your friend?’
‘Perhaps it would, yes. He could go to school with Tim the next morning. Thank you for thinking of it.’
Kate wondered uneasily if Michael would again expect a meal when he returned Josh that evening. Did this, like the pub lunch, come within the confines of civilized behaviour? She hoped not but allowed enough food to cover the eventuality. However, when at six o’clock the doorbell rang and she went downstairs, it was to see Josh’s face peering through the glass. He was alone. As Kate opened the door a car engine started up and Michael, who had waited till she admitted the child, drove away with a briefly raised hand.
‘I wondered if Daddy would be staying for supper,’ she said as they went back upstairs.
‘He’s going out with friends.’
Plural? Kate wondered, or was that for Josh’s benefit? But Michael ha
d warned her that for the moment they were free agents.
CHAPTER 9
On the Monday, Lana was back at her desk, her habitual pallor giving no indication of the extent of her recovery. But she assured everyone she was completely well again, apologized for her absence, and promptly buried herself in the pile of work which Kate had not had time to go through.
During Tuesday, the paintings for the exhibition began to arrive. The storeroom had been tidied to receive them and Kate, Richard, and Lana worked continuously, numbering the frames, stacking them against the wall, and checking them on the list. Kate was interested to see Sylvia Dane’s exhibits, and to her surprise found they were brilliant. She had the true artist’s ability to look beyond the planes of the face, the veiled wariness of the eyes, to a deeper understanding of the personality beneath, ignoring, sometimes ruthlessly, the inept façade the sitter had erected to preserve his privacy. If these were not portraits to appeal to the vain and self-satisfied, nor were they uncompromisingly ‘warts and all.’ For combined with their truthfulness an abrasive kindliness showed through as though, having stripped away the surface pretence, the artist was saying, ‘There’s no need to hide. You can face yourself now.’
Kate walked along the row of pictures studying each one: a young man, sensitive, touchingly unsure of himself; a child, laughing out of the frame; an old man, lined and weathered with the toll of the years; a dreaming girl. She felt embarrassed to meet the painted eyes while their inner beings were thus exposed to view.
‘Fantastic, aren’t they?’ Richard commented. ‘You feel you know the sitter personally. She’s one of the country’s leading portrait painters but the society crowd daren’t go near her!’
Kate understood what he meant.
That afternoon, Constable Timms put in another appearance. ‘We’d be grateful, sir, if you’d keep an eye open while this exhibition’s on. There have been antique knockers in the area from time to time, and this could tie in with our inquiries.’
‘We’ll keep our eyes peeled,’ Martin promised, ‘but we expect a crowd and it won’t be easy to spot strangers.’
A Shroud for Delilah (DCI Webb Mystery Book 1) Page 7
