But no suitable place presented itself and the oncoming traffic was continuous, an unending succession of lights that half blinded her. Behind her temples the first, ominous hints of a headache stirred, a reminder that she was both physically and emotionally exhausted. The prospect of struggling through foggy country lanes to the motorway, only to face a further long drive, was suddenly insupportable.
She should have booked a room for the night, rather than attempt the double journey — plus helping Pen to settle in — in one day.
Another signpost was looming and she narrowed tired eyes to read it. Marlton 5, Shillingham 18. A wave of relief washed over her; there’d be somewhere in Marlton where she could spend the night.
In fact, she’d covered only two of those miles when an outline materialised ahead, a building with lights in its windows and an illuminated sign on which, as she drew nearer, she made out the welcome words: The Seven Stars Guesthouse. Bed and Breakfast.
Sending up a little prayer of gratitude, Helen turned off the road and, following the car-park sign, drove down the side of the house to where the narrow lane opened up into a large, gravelled space in front of a huddle of outbuildings. A couple of cars were parked at the far end and she drew in beside them.
Switching off her lights, she picked up her handbag and was about to leave the car when a noise from the house made her pause. A door had been flung open and a figure came running out, skirted what looked like a conservatory, and disappeared round the corner she had just negotiated.
A man’s voice shouted urgently, ‘Molly! Come back! Molly!’ and was followed almost immediately by the man himself in hot pursuit. At the corner of the house, however, he hesitated. Then, perhaps because the girl was already out of sight, he turned back towards the house and, without glancing at the darkened cars, went in and slammed the door.
Helen got out and looked about her, shivering in the dank evening. The house was long and sprawling, with a steep gable at each end and the octagonal sun-room or conservatory halfway along. She glanced at the small door through which the figures had emerged. Lights shone behind its glass panes, but she decided against approaching it. Better to use the conventional front entrance.
Diffused light from the house guided her to the corner, from where she could see the blurred aura of a streetlamp on the main road. Picking her way over the uneven ground, she walked back up the lane to the front of the house.
It was an attractive-looking building in the local stone with the same steep gables as at the rear, and these were repeated in miniature above single-storey wings that protruded on either side. Helen walked between them to the arched front door and rang the bell.
Several minutes passed, and she was about to ring again when the door opened and a tall, red-haired woman of about her own age stood looking at her. Helen said, ‘Could I possibly have a room for the night? The fog’s thickening and I don’t fancy the drive home. You are open, aren’t you?’ The woman smiled. ‘To benighted travellers, always. Come in.’
Helen stepped into the welcoming warmth and gave an exclamation of pleasure.
The hall was large and inviting. Old beams crisscrossed the ceiling, a huge fire blazed in an open hearth, and in the far corner a couple of men stood drinking at a small bar. They turned curiously to glance at her.
Helen followed her hostess to a small office on the right of the hall. ‘I’ve no luggage, I’m afraid. I wasn’t intending to be away overnight.’
‘I’m sure we can rustle up something. I’m one of the proprietors, Stella Cain; my sister and I run this place, helped sporadically by our husbands.’
‘Helen Campbell.’
Mrs Cain lifted a large registrations book on to the desk, opened it at the current page and turned it to face Helen. ‘If you’d like to fill in your name, address and car number, I’ll sort some things out for you.’ She bent to open a cupboard. ‘I keep a stock of toothbrushes, razors and so on; you’d be surprised how often people forget to bring them.’
‘Are you open all year?’ Helen asked, looking up from the register.
‘Not officially, but at the moment we have two residents, whom you saw just now. Mr Pike works in Steeple Bayliss and stays with us Mondays to Thursdays, and Mr Saxton is living here while his house is being converted. Which takes care of our single rooms, but we have a twin and a double free. Actually, you’re better off in the twin; it has a proper bathroom en suite, while the singles have only shower rooms.’
‘A long, hot bath would be bliss,’ Helen admitted.
‘Fine. And I presume you’ll want an evening meal?’
‘You do provide it, then?’ The sign had said bed and breakfast and she’d been wondering if she could beg a sandwich.
‘Normally, only if it’s ordered at breakfast, but one more won’t make any difference. We eat at seven.’
An hour and a half to relax, Helen thought gratefully. ‘Is there a pay phone? I must let my husband know where I am.’
‘Yes, it’s under the stairs.’ Mrs Cain handed her a plastic-wrapped toothbrush and a carton of toothpaste. ‘I’ve a comb if you need it.’
‘No thanks, I have one in my bag, and some basic make-up. I’ll manage.’
They crossed the hall, from which the men had now disappeared, and started up the shallow staircase. ‘How old is the house?’ Helen asked.
‘Late seventeenth century. It was a coaching inn for many years, then evolved into a pub.’
Helen glanced back at the gracious hall. ‘It certainly doesn’t look like one now!’
‘No, we’ve restored the original layout. It wasn’t too difficult; a ramshackle division had been put in to separate the public bar and saloon, with the bar itself in the middle. We just pulled the lot out and put a small bar-unit discreetly in the corner, as you saw.’
They had reached the top of the stairs. The landing had a decided slope, and the thick blue carpet failed to muffle the creaking boards beneath it. There was a curtained window at each end, beneath which stood small rosewood tables bearing identical arrangements of dried flowers. Mrs Cain turned to the left and, walking the length of the corridor, opened the door at the far end.
‘This is at the back of the house,’ she said, drawing the curtains. ‘It’ll be nice and quiet for you. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.’
Left alone, Helen looked interestedly about her. The room was charming, its cream walls adorned with old prints, its curtains and matching bedspreads spattered with poppies on a cream background. The plain red carpet was the same luxurious thickness as that on the landing, the furniture attractive in pale wood. A kettle and other tea-making equipment stood invitingly on a shelf.
She pulled the curtain aside and looked out of the window. Beneath her, indistinct in the foggy darkness, lay the gravel courtyard and the blurred humps of the cars. The door through which the girl had run must be directly below her. Idly, Helen wondered what had prompted her flight.
She let the curtain fall and stood uncertainly for a moment. It felt strange having no luggage to unpack, nothing to make the room more personal. Still, a bath would restore her.
She went to the bathroom and turned on the taps, grateful to find a towelling robe on the back of the door. After her bath, she’d wrap herself in it and lie down for a while. Andrew wasn’t expecting her for an hour or more yet; time enough to phone him when she went down for dinner. Undressing quickly, she stepped into the bath and sank under the steaming water.
*
When, shortly before seven, Helen came downstairs, the hall was deserted. Bracing herself, she turned into the short passage which housed the pay phone and her heart began its familiar pounding as she dialled her home number.
‘Yes?’ Andrew’s voice, typically curt and impatient.
‘It’s me,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid I shan’t be able to get home this evening. It’s foggy up here, so I’m staying overnight.’
‘Oh, really, Helen! Couldn’t you have left earlier?’
&nb
sp; ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise the time. There’s some cold chicken in the fridge, and—’
‘When will you be home?’ he interrupted, as though she were being deliberately difficult.
‘About lunch-time, I should think.’ She paused. ‘Is it foggy there?’
‘No, clear as a bell.’
It would be. ‘Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then.’ She paused and when he made no comment, added, ‘Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye,’ he said, and put down the phone. Slowly Helen did the same, waiting for her heartbeat to return to normal. She emerged from the passage and paused, wondering where to go. Suddenly, a voice spoke near at hand, making her jump. It came from behind a half-open door just beside her, in apparent reply to some comment.
‘Well, dammit, I thought she’d gone. God knows how much she heard.’
Hastily, in case she too should be thought to be eavesdropping, Helen walked over to the fireplace, her mind returning to her problems.
Something would have to be done, she thought wearily, gazing into the heart of the flames; they couldn’t go on like this. Despite her valiant efforts over Christmas, the children had not been deceived. Several times, for no reason, Penelope had caught and squeezed her hand, and once Thomas said diffidently, ‘Is everything all right, Mum?’
She reminded herself that they weren’t really children anymore; perhaps she should be more frank with them. But that would be disloyal to Andrew. She must speak to him first, and her heart quailed at the prospect.
There was a newspaper lying on the chair and, picking it up, Helen seated herself by the fire and began to leaf through it. It was local — the Broadshire Evening News — and, like most local papers, carried pages of advertisements. One, prominently displayed in a box, caught her eye.
Melbray Court, Steeple Bayliss.
Registrations are now being accepted for the following courses:
Art Appreciation — w/e 21st-23rd January
Introducing Antiques — (2 weeks) — 24th January-6th February
Medieval English — w/e 11th-13th February.
The list continued, but Helen’s eyes returned to the two-week course. Until recently, she’d worked part time in an antique shop, becoming increasingly aware of the gaps in her knowledge. It would be fascinating to attempt to fill in some of them.
On impulse, she fished her diary out of her handbag and jotted down the phone number. Then, since nobody had yet appeared, she continued flicking through the paper, pausing again at a horoscope column. A blurred photograph of the forecaster, aptly named Stargazer, graced the top corner.
Mocking herself, Helen read her own sign, noting with wry amusement a warning against rash decisions. When had she ever been rash? Over-caution was her failing.
A separate, boxed entry gave the forecast for ‘Tomorrow’s Birthday’ and since the twelfth of January had been her father’s anniversary, she glanced at that, too. Someone is waiting to hear from you, it ended. They’d have a long wait, she thought, and in a wave of sadness felt tears come to her eyes. If only he’d been here, she could have talked things over with him as she had so many times.
‘Ah, Mrs Campbell!’
Helen started and looked up, blinking back her tears. A man in his late forties, casually smart in blazer and cords, was coming towards her with his hand outstretched.
‘Gordon Cain. My wife told me you’d arrived. Can I get you a drink?’
Helen smiled and took his hand, declining the drink. He was of medium height, slightly overweight, and had dark hair and rather high colouring.
‘I hear you were caught in the fog. Have you come far?’
‘No, only from Steeple Bayliss. I brought my daughter back to university and was late starting home again. But we live in Hampshire, and it seemed too far to go in these conditions.’
He looked surprised. ‘You don’t use the motorway?’
She smiled ruefully. ‘Normally, yes, but I took a wrong turning and decided to join it at Shillingham. But it was farther away than I thought and the fog was getting worse, and then I saw your sign. It just about saved my sanity.’
‘I’m glad; you made a wise decision. Much safer to relax here, have a meal and a good night’s sleep, and start off again in the morning.’
‘Your wife said this used to be a coaching inn?’
‘That’s right; then it was a pub for donkey’s years. Now we’ve reverted to the original concept — bed and board for the wayfarer, even if we no longer supply a change of horses! The old sign’s behind the bar — come and look.’
Helen followed him over and, leaning on the polished surface, studied the ancient, faded board hanging in pride of place on the wall behind. Above spidery letters spelling out its name was a stylised drawing of the constellation of Ursa Major.
Cain said, ‘I must confess that although we fell for the place, it was the name that clinched it for me. I’ve always been interested in astrology. In fact, my wife’s been known to say the only reason I married her is because her name’s Stella!’
Helen smiled. ‘It’s a wonder it wasn’t called the Plough, like so many pubs.’
‘There was certainly plenty of choice — the Plough, as you say, the Great Bear, King Charles’s Wain, the Waggon — they’re all names for the same constellation. We had some American visitors last summer, and they referred to it as the Big Dipper, which sounds more like a fairground to me.’
Helen had started to speak when a loud banging sounded on the front door, together with the simultaneous and continuous ringing of the bell.
‘What the devil —?’
Gordon Cain went hurrying to answer it as his wife and another woman came quickly into the hall, exclaiming at the commotion. From where she stood, Helen couldn’t see the door but she caught the urgent exchange of voices and a moment later Cain came quickly back, followed by a pale and breathless young man.
Mrs Cain started forward. ‘Gordon, whatever —?’
‘There’s been an accident along the road,’ he answered tersely, striding into the office. ‘I’m ringing for an ambulance.’
The young man hovered between the office door and the powerful magnet of the fire. He had started to shiver, doubtless from shock as much as the cold outside.
‘She was lying at the side of the road,’ he said jerkily. ‘My girlfriend spotted her; she was peering out of the window to see how near the edge we were — it’s really thick out there. She thought it was a heap of clothes at first, but we decided to stop and make sure. Thank God we did.’
‘Which way were you going?’ Stella Cain asked.
‘Towards Marlton, but since we’d only just passed you, it seemed quickest to come back here to phone.’
Stella glanced towards the door. ‘Wouldn’t your friend like to come in?’
‘She stayed with the girl. We didn’t dare move her so we rigged up a torch as a warning light.’
‘Is she badly hurt?’ Helen asked.
He shrugged. ‘She’s unconscious; it’s hard to tell.’
Gordon Cain emerged from the office. ‘They’re on their way.’
‘Cheers. I’d better get back to Lesley. I didn’t like leaving her.’
‘Shall I come with you?’ Cain offered.
‘Thanks, but it’s OK. There’s really nothing you can do, and the ambulance shouldn’t be long.’ With a nod that included them all, he turned and hurried back outside.
*
Detective Chief Inspector Webb swore under his breath. It was getting thicker than ever, dammit. At this rate he’d be late for his meeting with the Ledbetters.
It had seemed a good idea at the time; the Gallery of Modern Art at SB was showing some Russian paintings, and, knowing his interest, Chris had suggested Webb met him and his wife there and went back with them for supper afterwards. Since he’d nothing urgent at the moment, he’d accepted and left the station at six, which in all conscience should have allowed comfortable time for the journey. But the mist which had been barely noticeab
le in Shillingham had progressively thickened, and after Marlton became almost impenetrable. What’s more, he thought gloomily, there was the return journey to bear in mind.
It was as he cautiously rounded a bend that he noticed a faint light on the far side of the road. He slowed down still further, peering through the opaque darkness in an attempt to identify it. Then a figure took shape behind the light, which he recognised as a torch. He pulled up and wound down the window.
‘Are you in trouble?’ he called.
‘Yes, someone’s been knocked down.’ It was a young female voice, trembling with tension. ‘My boyfriend’s gone to phone for an ambulance.’
Webb inched his car up on to the verge and got out. ‘Did you see what happened?’
‘No. We were creeping along in the fog and I was watching the nearside verge and — and saw her lying there.’
Webb peered down at the prostrate form on the ground, and his heart sank. He’d seen enough dead bodies to recognise at once that this was another. Nevertheless, he bent to feel the carotid artery. No sign of a pulse. He looked up at the slim figure above him.
‘I’m afraid an ambulance will be no use to her,’ he said gently.
‘You mean she’s dead? But I’ve been talking to her! I thought it might somehow get through. Oh, God!’ She sounded on the brink of tears.
Webb straightened. ‘I’ll get on to the police,’ he said. ‘I’m Chief Inspector Webb. And you’re — ?’
‘Lesley Brown, and my boyfriend’s Martin Skinner.’ She looked up at him, her mouth trembling. ‘Is there anything we should have done? The kiss of life —?’
‘I’m sure there wasn’t,’ he assured her. ‘She probably died instantly. It was madness, walking along here in these conditions — she must have known no one could see her.’
He got his mobile phone from the car and called Control at Force HQ. ‘And I’d like to request a diversion,’ he ended. ‘The less traffic we have along here, the better.’
He had just finished speaking when the sound of a slowly approaching car reached them and a moment later twin headlights bloomed through the fog. Lesley Brown flashed her torch, the car drew to a halt and the driver climbed out. She ran towards him, flinging herself into his arms.
David Webb 13 - One Is One and All Alone Page 20
