A Shroud for Delilah (DCI Webb Mystery Book 1)

by Anthea Fraser

  Her parents-in-law had been gentle and considerate. With surprising forbearance, they’d asked no questions either about the murder or the state of her marriage. Possibly they knew both answers from their son.

  When Josh was in bed, Michael came and tapped on her door. ‘Hello, Kate. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Exhausted. And frightened.’

  He came into the room and closed the door. ‘About what? You surely don’t think you’re in danger?’ She shrugged, too weary to explain, but he persisted. ‘Tell me.’

  Kate sat on the bed staring at clasped hands. After a moment, as Michael stood waiting, she said unwillingly, ‘It’s getting more and more personal, this Delilah business. Remember how you said at the beginning I was taking more interest in it than usual? Even then, though I couldn’t define it, I felt threatened.’

  ‘Threatened?’ Michael’s voice sharpened. ‘Why should you?’

  She shrugged again, shoulders moving under the silk of her blouse. ‘For one thing, I’ve had some kind of link with three of the victims. You knew the first one, Martin the third, all of us the fifth. It seems to be — closing in.’

  ‘How well did Martin know the third victim?’

  ‘He’d been to see her on business the week she was killed. In fact he’d gone back on the actual day, but changed his mind.’

  ‘Or so he says.’

  ‘I think I believe him. And, oh Michael, I’m so worried about Paul!’

  He stared at her. ‘Why on earth?’

  ‘Because I — I think he was having an affair with Sylvia. The police are bound to find out, and perhaps Madge will.’

  ‘Paul? Having an affair? I don’t believe it.’

  ‘He called round twice when she was alone.’

  Under Michael’s questioning, Kate related the occasions and Paul’s behaviour on the night of the dinner party.

  ‘You didn’t tell the police?’

  ‘How could I? I don’t think he killed her, for heaven’s sake.’ She looked up quickly. ‘You won’t say anything, will you? To Chief Inspector Webb?’

  Michael looked at her strangely. ‘I know you’ve a poor opinion of me, Kate, but I don’t shop my friends.’

  She bit her lip and he stared down at her, the drooping dark head above the creamy silk of her blouse.

  ‘We’d better go down,’ he said brusquely. ‘I came to tell you there’s sherry waiting.’ Mrs Romilly was a slim and elegant sixty, well dressed, well coiffured, well content with her role in life. She liked things to run on predictable lines in an orderly fashion and did her best to make them conform. She played bridge and golf, delivered meals on wheels, and was on the committee of the Women’s Conservative Club. She would have preferred her son to go into law like her barrister husband, but she was proud enough of his achievements, fond of her daughter-in-law, and devoted to her grandson. Exactly what this nonsense was about Michael and Kate living apart she was not sure, but it was time they pulled themselves together, for their own sakes as well as Josh’s. All three of them looked pale and unhappy.

  The talk during dinner was superficial, a rule of the house. Mrs Romilly believed weighty topics overshadowed her cuisine and led to indigestion. But round the drawing room fire with coffee, as Kate well knew, the subjects close to her heart and her curiosity were sure to be raised.

  ‘You’re not looking well, Kate,’ she began purposefully, refilling her cup. ‘It’s really most unfortunate that you’re in the thick of these murders.’

  ‘They’re pretty spread out, Mother,’ Michael said politically. ‘The first was in Shillingham, remember.’

  ‘I’m surprised, dear, that your policeman friend hasn’t found the killer before this. I thought he was a good man.’

  ‘He is, but he’s only human. They’re turning the country upside down, but if they’ve come up with anything concrete, they’re playing it close to their chests.’

  ‘It took five years to catch the Yorkshire Ripper,’ Bruce Romilly commented.

  ‘Those murders were at longer intervals,’ his wife pointed out. ‘There have been five in Broadshire in only two months, the last three in three weeks, for heaven’s sake!’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ Michael said stoutly, ‘I’ve a high opinion of Webb. He’s a complex character and not easy to get to know, but he’s first-class at his job.’

  ‘How complex?’

  ‘For a start he’s a brilliant cartoonist. He could have made a career of it, but he regards it as a hobby.’

  ‘A satirical policeman?’ Mrs Romilly said lightly. ‘Well, well!’

  ‘You need the same approach for both jobs, a discerning eye and the knack of probing beneath the surface. What’s more surprising is that he also has a flair for watercolours.’

  ‘Does he sell them commercially?’ Mr Romilly asked.

  ‘The paintings? He’s never tried. I have to twist his arm to get the cartoons.’

  ‘You publish them, Michael?’

  ‘All I can lay my hands on. There’ll be nothing for months, but when I badger him a bulky envelope arrives with a dozen or more.’

  ‘I must look out for them. How does he sign himself?’

  ‘An S in a circle, meaning a spider in a “Webb”.’ Michael finished his coffee. ‘He told me once he used them to solve his cases.’

  ‘A form of relaxation, I suppose, to clear the mind.’

  ‘I think it’s more that the caricatures are so recognizable they could pinpoint a trait he’d only noticed subconsciously.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound very scientific,’ Mrs Romilly objected.

  ‘Nor are hunches, but they’re often right. Of course that’s only the starting point, but the initial spark can come from anywhere.’

  Kate leaned back and closed her eyes. The firelight was warm on her face, flickering redly against her closed lids. If only it were over, she thought tiredly, not just the murders but their own personal problems. What was Jill doing while Michael was away? She felt the nearness of tears and bent to put down her cup.

  ‘Would you mind if I go to bed? I’m very tired.’

  She had started up the stairs when the drawing-room door opened and closed again and she turned to see Michael looking up at her.

  ‘I presume you’re not expecting me to join you?’ She stared at him numbly and after a moment he went on, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll sleep in my old room.’

  Without a word she turned and went on up the stairs.

  ***

  The pathologist’s report had been waiting for Webb when he returned to Headquarters on the Friday evening. It contained no surprises. He glanced through it, extracting the points that interested him. Thorax entered traumatically by instrument 1.8 centimetres wide through third and fourth intercostal space... Downward tract of incision consistent with thrust from assailant standing opposite seated victim. Death timed at shortly after 20.00, which, Webb reflected, made verification of Mowbray’s movements of paramount importance.

  Contents of the stomach revealed partially digested meal of curried beef and rice eaten some two hours before death. No mystery about that; the leftovers were in the fridge in Monks’ Walk. For the rest, there was an appendix scar but no other distinguishing marks. And no defence wounds, indicating that Sylvia Dane, like her predecessors, had been taken by surprise.

  Webb put the report on one side and pulled towards him a sheaf of statements resulting from the ever-widening inquiries. The top ones related to the Larksworth case and his interest quickened as he saw the word ‘moped’ underlined. A stallholder remembered seeing one in the vicinity — and there’d been a similar report after the Shillingham murder.

  Webb made reference to this at the briefing half an hour later and detailed Standing and Ridley to check known owners of such vehicles. Afterwards, when the others had dispersed, Fleming approached him.

  ‘I’d like to see some of these people myself now, Dave, put faces to names. I suggest we go and root them out on Sunday — they should be home then and you
prefer to see them on their own ground, don’t you?’

  ‘I do, sir, but if you’d rather—’

  ‘No, no, I’m happy to go along with that. Be glad to get out of this damned room. And people are less careful what they say at home. We’ll start with the staff at the shop. They’re always cropping up, what with Bailey’s visit to Otterford and the others finding the body. And have we checked on antique knockers? The hint of a fortune in the attic will overcome any woman’s caution.’

  ‘We put out feelers, yes sir, but there’s no report of knockers in the area lately.’

  ‘Bear it in mind, anyway. Now, where do all these people live? Spread round the bloody county, I suppose.’

  ‘Pretty well, yes. Bailey down in Broadminster, and Mrs Romilly, though she’s away for a few days. Miss Truscott, if you’re including her, is at Littlemarsh, and Mowbray’s up in Chipping Claydon.’

  ‘Ye gods! We’d better make an early start, then.’

  Since he was not to be his own agent over the weekend, Webb had a quick word with Jackson. ‘I’ve told Standing and Ridley to get onto you if they’ve any luck with mopeds. In the meantime, go through Mowbray’s statement with a fine-tooth comb. His movements and the time of Mrs Dane’s death are crucial. Oh, and Ken’ —Jackson, on his way to the door, turned back — ‘I want a note of every bloody pine tree in the country!’

  In fact, nothing spectacular emerged over the weekend. Bailey and his girlfriend had gone to London for two days, so that interview, like Kate Romilly’s, had to be postponed. Nor was the one with Lana Truscott too successful. She was unwilling even to let them in the house.

  ‘I seem to have caught another cold,’ she told them nasally. ‘I don’t want to pass it on, and there’s nothing I can tell you anyway.’

  ‘Don’t worry about the cold, Miss Truscott.’ Fleming said firmly, and stood his ground until, sneezing protestingly, she admitted them. Sitting on the chintzy sofa, they put their questions to her one by one. No, she’d not seen strangers in the neigh-bourhood. Yes, she was sure no weapons had been sold lately. Her only spark of animation came when Fleming said smoothly, ‘You know, of course, that Mrs Romilly met Mr Mowbray when she ran for help. Were you aware that he was in the neighbourhood that evening?’

  Surprisingly, her face flamed and she rubbed agitatedly at her arm. ‘Mr Mowbray works irregular hours,’ she said stiffly. ‘I keep a note of some of his appointments, but often one leads directly to another.’

  ‘But did you know where he was that evening?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘All of you at the shop knew Mrs Dane, I believe?’ Webb tactfully veered off at a tangent.

  ‘Slightly, yes. She was one of our main exhibitors.’

  ‘Had you ever met her socially?’

  ‘Never.’ Lana set her lips tightly.

  ‘Not even at the private view?’

  ‘I wasn’t at the view, Chief Inspector, but if I had been, it would have been a business engagement, not a social one.’

  ‘I see. Of course.’

  ‘So if there’s nothing else I can tell you—’

  She rose to her feet and the two men perforce rose with her.

  ‘One final request,’ Webb said unexpectedly. ‘Would it be possible to see your father?’

  ‘My father?’ She stared at him blankly.

  ‘Just a courtesy call, as I’m in the house.’

  ‘He’s probably asleep. I don’t think—’

  ‘We wouldn’t stay long.’ He’d been impressed by the old man during their association over the son’s death and didn’t want to leave without passing the time of day. Smiling pleasantly, he waited until Lana Truscott reluctantly showed them upstairs. The two policemen stood looking out of the window while the invalid was propped up and his pillows arranged.

  ‘He’s ready now,’ Lana said shortly. ‘I’ll go and make some tea.’

  Webb turned and smiled at the old man. He had gone downhill in the six months since he’d seen him. The flesh of his face had fallen away so that nose and eyebrows jutted forward, giving him, with his feathery white hair, the appearance of an old eagle.

  ‘I hope you’ll forgive us disturbing you, Mr Truscott.’

  ‘Delighted to see you, Chief Inspector. I don’t have many visitors. I suppose you’re here about the unpleasant business in Broadminster. Lana will help you all she can, but for myself I only know what she tells me. I’m ashamed to say, I spend most of my time asleep these days.’

  ‘The days must drag when your daughter’s at work,’ Fleming said sympathetically. ‘You should have a pet to keep you company.’

  The old man sighed. ‘Lana says dogs are messy creatures and she’s enough to do without cleaning up after them. And she’s allergic to cats, so they’re out too. I might just be allowed a budgie, provided,’ he added with a mischievous smile, ‘it didn’t spill its seed!’ He shook his head in gentle reproof. ‘I shouldn’t speak like that. Lana’s the most devoted daughter. She does all she can to make my life bearable.’

  Lana herself came in at that point with the tea tray, and the Chief Superintendent gallantly stood to help her. Webb watched him sardonically, seeing the woman’s pale face soften into a slight smile. A way with the ladies, had old Fleming, smooth and polished, but it had produced no results here. In fact, Webb thought resignedly, the only new fact to emerge from their visit was her reaction to Richard Mowbray’s name, and that was hardly relevant to their inquiries.

  Later, at Chipping Claydon, Webb wondered what women saw in Mowbray. He wasn’t good-looking by conventional standards and his pallor struck the countryman in Webb as distinctly unhealthy. Added to which something about his eyes, flat and watchful like a snake’s, made the hair rise on the Chief Inspector’s neck. Still, you couldn’t work on the assumption that everyone you disliked was a murderer.

  ‘Interesting collection of weapons you have here, sir,’ he said blandly, nodding to a display on the left of the fireplace.

  ‘One of my hobbies. Those are sixteenth-century rapiers, with companion daggers. An interesting fact is that the daggers are left-handed.’ He met Webb’s eyes coolly, and the Chief Inspector felt he was being dared to comment further.

  ‘Fascinating, fascinating,’ Fleming murmured, seating himself in a wing chair and feeling for his pipe. ‘Have you any objection if I smoke?’

  Mowbray turned to him, his momentary tension easing, and Webb seated himself on the sofa. He was aware that his dislike was mutual and felt it would be politic to leave the talking to his superior. Meanwhile he looked about him with grudging approval. Lovely house it was, perched above the village like an eyrie. And that was presumably the ex-wife looking broodingly down on them. An excellent painting, but Webb was glad he’d no likeness of Susan on his own walls. Even her snapshots had been thrown out when she left, not from any sense of drama but because they were no

  longer relevant.

  From his wife, he thought briefly of Hannah, aware of the need building up to see her again. Though Mowbray couldn’t know it, he was in a similar position to Webb himself. Was he hoping Mrs Romilly would be his Hannah? Webb couldn’t see it happening. The girl was a different mould, softer, more dependent. A ‘no strings’ arrangement would leave her hopelessly adrift — Mowbray was a fool if he couldn’t see it.

  ***

  Michael left his parents’ home on the Sunday evening and as he went up his own path he heard the telephone ringing. Swearing under his breath, he hurried to get the key in and the door open before it stopped.

  ‘Hello? Romilly speaking.’

  ‘Hi, Michael. Dave Webb here.’

  ‘Oh, hello.’ Michael pushed the door shut with his foot. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’d be glad of a little press help, if you could arrange it.’

  ‘Sure. Spell it out.’

  ‘I reckon the killer must be pretty pleased with himself, watching the police running round in circles. Probably fancies himself no end. We might be able to us
e that against him.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By pretending we think it’s someone else. A murderer’s ego is often his Achilles heel.’

  ‘So what can we do?’

  ‘I’d like you to run a story along the lines that the police are closing in. Throw in, without specific quotes, that we’re anxious to trace a red-haired man of about forty-two, height six foot, broad build, with a Bristol accent.’

  Michael, jotting down the particulars, grinned in the darkness. ‘Does that mean all tall, red-haired Bristolians are in the clear?’

  He heard Webb laugh. ‘Pretty well. The description’s off the top of my head. It’s worth a try — let’s see what it brings forth. Sorry to phone so late, by the way. I tried earlier but there was no reply.’

  ‘I’ve been at my parents’ for the weekend.’

  ‘Ah. See your wife there?’

  ‘It must be bloody marvellous to be a detective.’

  ‘OK, OK, I only asked! Night then, Michael.’

  ‘Good night.’

  Michael stood for a moment frowning down at the phone. Then, with a gesture of dismissal, he snapped on the lights and set about preparing for bed.

  At the other side of town Webb was conscious of having missed something, something which he knew instinctively was important. For a while he tried to flail his

  tired mind into recalling it. Then, climbing into bed, he abandoned it. Perhaps it would come back to him in the morning.

  ***

  The following Tuesday Mrs Romilly drove Kate and Josh back to Monks’ Walk —‘Against my will,’ she told Kate as, after a cup of tea, she went on her way. ‘I’d be much happier if you stayed with us till everything’s cleared up.’

  There was a note from Madge in the letter box. ‘Subdued celebrations this year, but could you and Josh come to supper on the third?’

  That was tomorrow — Madge’s birthday. Kate hoped Paul had come to terms with Sylvia’s death and not aroused his wife’s suspicions.

  ‘Enjoy your break?’ Martin greeted her on her appearance in the shop. ‘We’ve been grilled by the fuzz in your absence! No doubt your turn will come.’