CHAPTER 10
Josh seemed relieved the next morning to be leaving Broadminster, and Kate couldn’t blame him. The incident with the youths had not been mentioned again and she hoped it wouldn’t linger in his mind.
‘It’ll be fun being home,’ he prattled. ‘I wonder if my plum stone’s sprouting yet.’
‘You’ll soon see, won’t you?’
‘Are you coming to the museum with us?’
‘No, dear. You and Daddy will enjoy it more than I would, and I’ve some things to do.’
He didn’t press the point and when they turned into the familiar road and drew up at the gate, Kate found her eyes pricking. How many times had she walked up that path, in hope, excitement, happiness, and sadness. It seemed a parade of former selves passed before her eyes as she sat with her hands on the steering wheel. Josh meanwhile had scrambled from the car.
“Bye, Mum. See you later.’
At least she was ‘Mum’ again, after the frightened ‘Mummy’ of Friday evening. Michael opened the front door, and Kate thought she saw a shadowy figure behind him but could not be sure. Her mother-in-law, perhaps. She turned the car and drove slowly away. The church bells were ringing as the last late worshippers hurried up the path. The mist had gone this first Sunday in October and mellow sunlight lay richly on bronze and yellow leaf. All at once Kate was very grateful for Richard’s offer of company. She would have been lost in this familiar place on such a strange occasion.
He was waiting for her in the coffee lounge and stood as she approached.
‘You didn’t change your mind, then. Good. Would you like a coffee?’
‘Please.’
She sat on the plush-covered settee, her hands moving restlessly over its smoothness. Richard watched her for a moment.
‘What time are you picking Josh up?’
‘About five-thirty.’
‘Then I suggest that instead of hanging around Sunday Shillingham, we drive out to Chipping Claydon. I’m a dab hand as a cook and can give you as good a meal as we’d get here.’
Twenty minutes later, as Richard manoeuvred his way out of town, Kate reflected how much of her past was bound up in Shillingham. She had come as a young bride, borne her son in the local hospital. This was the cinema to which they’d gone once a week until Josh was born, this the restaurant, albeit under new management, where in the early days they’d held hands under the table. She clenched her own hands and felt Richard glance at her.
‘Memories, memories!’ she said with forced lightness.
‘The bane of our lives. I know.’
‘I’m sorry. I was forgetting you’ve been through all this.’
He shrugged. ‘It’s behind me now. Never look back, they say, and it’s good advice if you can take it. So let’s try some forward thinking. I hope you’ll like my home. I’m
particularly fond of it, as heaven knows I must be, to stay there when I work thirty miles away!’
‘Did you—?’ Kate began, and stopped.
‘Buy it when we married? No, fortunately, or I might have been persuaded to include my wife’s name on the deeds. As it is, it’s solely mine. I was driving through the village soon after leaving university, and I just looked up and saw it.’
‘Looked up?’
‘You’ll see what I mean in a few minutes. I went straight to the nearest estate agent and told him that whenever that house came on the market, I wanted to buy it.’
‘Without even looking over it?’
‘I didn’t need to.’
‘And how long did you have to wait for it?’
‘A couple of years, but I was quite content in lodgings, dreaming of when I could move in.’
‘And when your marriage ended you weren’t tempted to move away?’
‘Positively not. I’d known the house longer than Christine.’
The rolling countryside was at its best in the wash of autumn colour. Woods, a tapestry of different shades, huddled in the hollows, chequered fields draped themselves over shallow hills. Five miles beyond Shillingham the road crossed over the motorway and shortly afterwards a sign to the right indicated that Chipping Claydon lay five miles ahead.
A few farm buildings lined the road. Pretty Charollais cows grazed in the fields, roofs were newly thatched, five-barred gates freshly painted. There was a complacent air of well-being about the area, very different from the apologetic ambiance of Littlemarsh. They were already running into the village, and the glowing biscuit-coloured stonework proclaimed the nearness, in this northwest tip of Broadshire, to the Cotswold hills. They followed the road down a dip and into the village proper, postcard-pretty with its green and duck pond, its cluster of honey-coloured houses.
‘Now,’ said Richard with quiet satisfaction, ‘look up.’
Obediently Kate raised her eyes and gave an involuntary exclamation. Just beyond the sweep of the village a bluff of land rose sharply on the left, fronted by a wall of sheer rock as though in some glacial age a piece had been sliced off it. And at the top of this bluff, some two hundred feet above the village, Kate could see the roof of a house.
‘You live up there?’
‘I do. It’s known as The Look-out, for obvious reasons.’ He branched to the left, following a narrow lane up the hill. There were a couple of cottages at the bottom, another halfway up. The lane, a cul-de-sac, ended at a white gateway.
‘I’ll open it for you.’ Kate slipped out of the car. The breeze was fresh up here and lifted her hair. She closed the gate after Richard and he drove the few remaining yards to the circular sweep of gravel in front of the house. Kate looked about her. The garden had been left largely to its own devices — again a contrast to that in Littlemarsh — but a maritime flavour was evident in the bordering of seashells round the path, the coarse grass growing up the bank, and more particularly in the flagpole she could see behind the house.
Richard had got out of the car. ‘Come and see the view.’
They walked round the side of the house. The garden at the back was not large and, in its open position, exposed to every wind. It was completely encircled by a stone wall at shoulder height, in front of which a telescope had been mounted. Kate leant on the warm stone, silent for a moment. Below her, the village of Chipping Claydon went about its Sunday business. Over the next rise she could see the farms they had passed, dwarfed to children’s toys by height and distance, and beyond them the ribbon of the Shillingham road.
‘It’s — fabulous!’ She turned smilingly and was disconcerted to find Richard closer than she’d expected. For a moment she met the clear, strangely expressionless eyes. Then he smiled and said, ‘Let’s go inside.’
She followed him to the front of the house and he unlocked the door. There was a minute hallway with steep narrow stairs and then they were in the long, low sitting room. The light inside was yellow, like artificial sunlight, and Kate saw that it came from bottle glass in the windows. Those on either side of the fireplace were small and round like portholes.
‘As you might guess, it was built by a retired naval captain.’
‘It’s most unusual.’ Kate looked about her and was immediately struck by a large, full-length portrait on one wall. She walked over and studied it. It was of a young woman, attractive but not beautiful, auburn-haired, and with a quizzical tilt to her head. It was so lifelike that, as with Sylvia’s portraits, Kate felt embarrassed to be staring at it.
‘My ex-wife,’ said Richard behind her.
‘It doesn’t upset you, having it here?’
‘Art is art, my dear. That happens to be a Bardin and worth a mint of money. There’s no point in selling it out of sentiment, but when the time’s right no doubt it will go under the hammer.’
‘With no regrets?’
‘With no regrets. They’re a waste of time and energy.’
Yet according to Martin, Richard had been devastated by his wife’s departure. At what cost had he achieved this apparent lack of emotion?
‘Let me ge
t you a drink. What’ll it be?’
As he poured it, Kate continued her inspection of the room. There were some fine antiques — Chippendale tables, button-back chairs, small pieces of silver and ivory. On the wall by the fireplace hung an impressive display of edged weapons, and Kate remembered Martin telling her about them.
‘Who does the dusting?’ she asked with a smile.
‘I have what is known as a treasure, Mrs Davies by name, who lives at the foot of the lane. She came when I first moved in and, since housework never appealed to my wife, continued during the five years of my marriage and beyond. Two mornings a week, year in, year out, and never a breakage yet.’
‘A treasure indeed.’ Kate took the glass he offered and his fingers brushed briefly against hers.
‘Relax, Kate. You’re still on edge.’
‘I’m sorry.’ She was impelled to add, in defence, ‘It was coming back to Shillingham.’
‘Love is the very devil,’ Richard said lightly. ‘Arranged marriages are much more sensible. Friendship, respect, affection; fine. One can remain in control. But once you allow yourself to love, even a goldfish, and you become a hostage to fate.’
The lunch he served was delicious and Kate told him so. He accepted her compliments impassively. ‘I enjoy cooking, it’s therapeutic. I’m a great believer in therapy.’ Again his eyes held hers, bland and uninformative, and as usual she hadn’t the slightest idea what he was thinking.
‘Josh will be envious when I tell him about this.’ She was aware of speaking too quickly. ‘Chicken is his favourite meal.’
‘Josh,’ Richard repeated consideringly. ‘How did you come up with that name?’
‘It was — just a private joke, and it stuck.’
‘Concerning the walls of Jericho?’
She looked at him quickly and away again. ‘Something like that.’
Oh God, what was she doing here with this enigmatic man? She felt he knew more about her than she might wish, but that was just being fanciful.
Over coffee the conversation moved from the personal to Pennyfarthings and the exhibition.
‘I saw you talking to Sylvia Dane,’ Richard remarked, lighting a cigar and leaning back in his chair. ‘Is she a friend of yours?’
‘I met her at Madge Netherby’s.’
‘Ah yes, the St Benedict sorority. Both their husbands teach there, I believe. She’s an excellent artist, anyway.’
‘Anyway?’
Richard laughed. ‘Meaning that’s all that concerns me.’
‘Which in turn means—?’
‘If she’s a friend of yours I must watch my step, but I’ve heard she’s rather free with her favours.’
‘Really?’ Not for anything would Kate have admitted prior knowledge.
‘Tea and sympathy for gentlemen whose wives don’t understand them.’
‘I’m surprised you listen to gossip, Richard.’
‘The spice of life, my dear, even if traditionally a feminine pursuit.’ He paused. ‘You know the origin of the word, of course?’
‘Close woman friend,’ Kate recited. ‘Hence the gossip chair, with its wide seat to accommodate skirts.’ She looked at him challengingly. ‘Ten out of ten?’
‘My dear Kate, you never disappoint me.’
‘It’s early days yet.’
The afternoon passed more comfortably with the help of the Sunday papers. But even those weren’t wholly innocuous, commenting as they did on the continuing stalemate in the murder investigation. At five o’clock Richard drove Kate back to the King’s Head where she’d left her car, and she dutifully thanked him for a pleasant day.
Her private estimation of it was more cautious. An interesting day, certainly, but
in parts an uncomfortable one. She did not know what to make of Richard Mowbray, and the admission was beginning to needle her.
She turned into Lethbridge Drive as the church clock struck the half hour. As she drew up at the gate, the front door opened and Josh came running down the path followed by Michael.
‘We’ve had a super time, Mum! The model cars were fantastic!’
Seeing Michael follow him out of the gate, Kate wound down her window and waited. He bent, dark eyes a little wary. ‘All well, Kate?’
‘Fine, thank you.’
‘You managed to fill in this time? I should have—’
‘Yes, indeed. I’ve been over at Richard Mowbray’s. He has a fascinating house at Chipping Claydon.’
Michael’s eyes flickered and he straightened. ‘That’s all right, then. No doubt I’ll see you next Saturday.’
‘No doubt.’
‘Good-bye, Josh. Don’t forget to give Mummy her letters, and take care of her.’
Kate started the car and drove slowly away, hoping she was not going to burst into tears. Beside her, Josh chatted incessantly of his day. It wasn’t until they were some way down the Broadminster road that his words penetrated and her hands tightened on the wheel.
‘Who did you say was with you?’
‘Auntie Jill, Mum, I’ve been telling you. She let me help her make a cake.’
‘At home?’ Kate’s voice cracked. ‘She baked a cake at our house?’
‘Yes, of course.’ He paused and added by way of explanation, ‘She’s a friend of Daddy’s. I told you.’
‘So you did.’ At least, Kate thought bleakly, Michael now knew that she too had been behaving like a free agent.
‘Damn!’ she said under her breath, and as her foot went down on the accelerator, the car sped towards Broadminster.
CHAPTER 11
The next morning incorporated all the worst aspects of a Monday. It was an effort to get out of bed. Josh couldn’t find his maths book, the breakfast eggs cracked in the pan. It was ten to nine by the time they hurried out of the door, and Josh’s insistence on stopping to feel in the letter box was an added irritation.
‘See!’ he exclaimed triumphantly, running after her down the road. ‘There was something after all!’ And he handed her a small packet. Kate slipped it in her pocket.
‘You run on, Josh. Auntie Madge is waiting and I must get back.’ She paused only long enough to see him join the others and, having already forgotten the packet, hurried back to the shop. It was only at lunchtime, back in the flat, that, feeling for a handkerchief, her fingers encountered something hard and she drew out the cardboard box.
Kate regarded it with surprise. Had that been in the letter box? It bore neither name, address, nor postmark. She lifted the lid and stared blankly at the contents. Filling the space inside was a large death’s-head moth, the yellow skull clearly defined on the brown thorax. Wings, legs, and feelers had been detached from the body and each grisly piece anchored in place with sticky-tape. With a conscious effort of will, Kate replaced the lid and dropped the box in the bin.
Let it have been dead before it was dismembered, she thought fervently. But who could have left it, and why? Was it intended for Josh, a joke by some of his schoolmates? Yet this was no schoolboy prank. The gloating arrangement of the pathetic hair-like legs showed a cruelty that made her shudder. Though she hadn’t touched the contents of the box, Kate washed her hands at the sink. She felt slightly sick, unable to imagine who—
She paused suddenly, towel in hand. The boys who’d pestered her on Friday? Surely their spite would have evaporated long since. She shrugged, resolving to forget the matter, but the outline of the skull remained in her mind for the rest of the day.
The art exhibition was continuing, and from time to time the artists called in to check their sales. Nella also came one morning, this time braving Lana’s disapproval to stay for coffee.
‘Who’s sold the most so far?’ she asked Kate, who was snatching a cup before going back outside.
‘Daniel Plumb. All his were earmarked by the end of last week. And Sylvia’s are going well too.’
‘At least she has a ready supply of subjects,’ Nella remarked. ‘She should do a series, with the group title “These I have
loved.”’
Kate laughed protestingly. ‘Oh come, now, she’s not that bad.’
‘How do you know? I shouldn’t be surprised if she ran extramural classes for the senior boys! Poor old Henry, the husband’s always the last to know.’
‘Whose name are you blackening now, my love?’ Martin came into the office and dropped a kiss on her golden head. ‘Kate, that couple by the window are tempted by the Hawkins. See if you can swing the balance, will you?’
Richard had not put in an appearance that week, and despite herself Kate’s mind kept returning to the hours they’d spent together on Sunday. Which, she told herself sharply as she prepared supper, was a singularly fruitless exercise.
Josh had been watching children’s television and the signature tune of the early evening news broke into Kate’s thoughts and, with the opening announcement, riveted them.
‘There has been a fresh development in the so-called “Delilah killings” with the discovery this afternoon of the body of thirty-year-old Jane Forbes at her home in Larksworth. Mrs Forbes, whose divorce was widely reported two weeks ago, was stabbed to death in her kitchen, apparently while making bread. The word “Delilah” was again written in lipstick on the mirror. Broadshire police are appealing for information about any strangers seen in the vicinity, but their inquiries are hampered by the fact that Wednesday is market day in Larksworth and this draws people to the village from a wide area. Over now to Jack Stacey in Larksworth.’
Kate stood at the counter staring across at the policemen and dogs, the shocked neighbours in their doorways, till the fiercely hissing fat in the pan behind her recalled her to her surroundings and she returned to continue with the meal.
In her own kitchen, making bread. Planning, perhaps, to make some phone calls while it was rising, what to have for supper. Then suddenly, in that familiar setting, death. Kate shuddered. All three women had been killed in their homes, surrounded by friends and neighbours, and no one had noticed anything. It was more than surprising, it was terrifying.
A Shroud for Delilah (DCI Webb Mystery Book 1) Page 9
