‘Martin, there’s a policeman here, and he says she’s dead!’ Webb moved forward. ‘You got through to the ambulance service, sir?’
Skinner nodded, swallowing nervously. ‘You are sure? That she’s dead?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘But — surely whoever it was must have known they’d hit her?’
‘Almost definitely.’
‘And they just left her lying there? It’s unbelievable! If they’d acted straight away, they might have saved her.’ He started to move towards the body, but Webb gently stopped him.
‘We need to preserve the scene, sir; there might be traces of the vehicle that hit her.’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’
‘I suggest you and the young lady wait in your car.’
They nodded and, with barely concealed relief, complied while Webb, pulling up his coat collar against the freezing night air, settled down to await reinforcements.
*
As their visitor hurried away, Cain closed and bolted the door behind him.
‘Well!’ Stella said with a nervous little laugh, ‘after all that, dinner’s ready. Mrs Campbell, this is my sister, Kate Warren.’
Helen had gathered so, though there was no overt similarity between the women other than their height. Unlike her sister’s red hair, Mrs Warren’s was dark, as were her eyes, and she struck Helen as the more reserved of the two.
However, she smiled and nodded pleasantly as they moved across the hall to the dining-room. It was furnished in period, with gleaming dark wood, ladder-back chairs and a grandfather clock whose dial showed the phases of the moon. On the opposite wall, full-length curtains in heavy green velvet hid the windows, and a spotlight had been positioned to lighten their otherwise sombre richness. In the centre of the room, to Helen’s surprise, stood one long table laid for seven.
‘I hope you don’t mind,’ Stella Cain said quickly. ‘When there are so few of us, we eat together in the evenings.’
As Helen pulled out a chair, the two men she’d seen earlier came in and Stella introduced them. Michael Saxton, who had seated himself opposite Helen, had an interesting if rather severe face, with character lines between his eyebrows and at the corners of his mouth. She imagined he could drive a hard bargain. He looked about fifty, and his plentiful, lightish brown hair was liberally sprinkled with grey.
Terry Pike, who had taken the chair on her right, was taller and thinner, in his early forties at a guess. His hair, dull and dark, was cut jaggedly in a style which struck Helen as just a little too youthful. He had a broad nose set in a long face and a slight north-country accent.
‘We were watching Channel 4 News,’ Michael Saxton said. ‘There’s been another of those Stately Home burglaries, though they’re not sure when it took place. The owners have just discovered something missing.’
‘The servants probably nicked it,’ Kate Warren said dismissively. ‘You missed our own little drama; didn’t you hear all the commotion?’
The two men looked surprised. ‘No, what happened?’
As she finished telling them, the door leading to the kitchen opened and Gordon Cain appeared, holding it wide for a tall, grey-haired man who emerged balancing a tray of soup bowls.
‘Can you manage, darling?’ Kate Warren started to push back her chair.
‘Stay where you are — everything’s under control.’ Helped by his brother-in-law, Warren began to unload the steaming bowls and a plate of hot rolls.
‘Just the fare for a night like this. Did anyone hear the forecast?’
‘The fog will last all night and clear slowly in the morning,’ Terry Pike quoted.
Warren glanced at Helen. ‘Mrs Campbell, I presume. I’m Nicholas Warren, this evening’s chef.’
‘Correction!’ his wife interposed. ‘He made the soup — it’s one of his specialities — but his contribution to the rest of the meal was minimal.’
Helen said diplomatically, ‘It smells delicious.’
Nicholas Warren was a good-looking man, with regular features, deep-set grey eyes and a firm mouth, and Helen didn’t doubt he was used to getting exactly what he wanted.
An interesting quartet, she reflected, and not at all as one imagined landlords and ladies. But then she’d read an article recently on a new breed of B & B proprietors, who might be anything from retired ambassadors and their wives, who were used to entertaining and enjoyed having guests, to couples whose families had left home and who appreciated the ever-changing company as well as the income it brought.
‘Have you been open long?’ she asked Stella across the table.
‘This is our third year. I wanted something to do when our daughter left home, and Nicholas and Kate had just come back after years abroad and were looking for somewhere to live. So we decided to pool our resources and buy this place. Generally speaking, the men deal with the business side and Kate and I see to the day-to-day running of it. It works very well.’
Helen was gratified that her assessment of the situation had been so accurate. The meal was excellent, the soup being followed by a rich casserole, an interesting selection of cheeses and a frothy lemon soufflé. Conversation was relaxed and general, and she noted that the two ‘residents’ were on first-name terms with their hosts, making their careful use of her own surname sound stilted. Still, in this group she was merely the ship that passed in the night.
Exhaustion had claimed her by the time coffee was served, and shortly afterwards she went up to her room. Before getting into bed, she again looked out of the window, hoping that the fog might have thinned. But it was wrapped tightly round the building, its thick dampness pressing against the windowpanes and obscuring even the courtyard below.
Shivering, Helen slipped off the towelling robe and, of necessity, slipped naked between the sheets.
2
During the last couple of hours the familiar procedure had gradually established itself. The ambulance crew were the first to arrive, and, finding their services not required, went away again. Then two uniformed police constables from Marlton appeared, one of whom startled Webb by recognising the victim.
‘Why, that’s Jack Flint’s girl!’ he’d exclaimed, shock ringing in his voice. ‘They live just across from us!’ Which identification remained their only piece of luck on this bleak, bone-freezing night. Not that the luck extended to the PC, who would later have to inform his neighbours of the tragedy.
The next to arrive were DI Ledbetter and DS Hopkins from Steeple Bayliss. ‘Not quite the evening we’d planned, Dave,’ Ledbetter commented after Webb had outlined the position. ‘Still, we might be able to salvage something out of it when we’ve got this lot sorted.’
The road had been closed for several hundred yards in both directions and diversion signs set up at Marlton to the east and just short of Steeple Bayliss to the west.
Those attending the scene were directed to park several metres down the road on the opposite side to the accident. Which, Webb reflected glumly, had a touch of the stable door about it, since there was no knowing how much traffic had passed between the time of death and the arrival of the couple who reported it.
Slowly the evening wore on. The local police surgeon attended, certified death and departed again as swiftly as decency allowed. Webb didn’t blame him. Then, with the
arrival of the SOCOs and the Coroner’s Officer, the tempo of the investigation at last accelerated. Arc lights were rigged up, a tent was erected to protect the scene, and the exhaustive videoing and photographing began.
Finally, just as the SOCOs were finishing, the pathologist appeared, his diminutive body emerging from the foggy darkness muffled in scarves and with his hat pulled well down on his head.
Ledbetter and Webb, skirting the scene, moved to join him.
Stapleton peered irritably into their faces. ‘That you, Chief Inspector? Bit off course, aren’t you?’
‘Believe it or not, Doctor, it’s my evening off.’
The little man grunted dismi
ssively and turned his attention to the body, his pale eyes behind their rimless glasses missing no detail of the pathetic huddle on the ground. It was several minutes before he straightened again, fastidiously brushing traces of dirt from his trousers.
‘Well, apart from confirming death there’s little I can do here. We’ll have to wait till we get her to the mortuary.’
‘Any chance she was dead before she was hit?’ Ledbetter asked. ‘Thrown out of a car, then run over to make it look accidental?’
‘Judging by the amount of blood, that seems unlikely. Do I take it no one witnessed the accident?’
‘No one’s come forward. A young couple found her lying there. They’ve been taken to Marlton for interviewing, but I doubt if they can tell us more than they already have.’ Ledbetter turned to Webb. ‘Provided, that is, we take their word for what happened. I suppose there’s an outside chance it was their car that hit her?’
Webb shrugged. ‘We’ll have to wait for the examination, but they seem genuine enough. How does the timing fit? I got here about seven, some fifteen minutes after they claim to have found her. How long do you reckon she’s been dead, Doctor?’
Stapleton smiled thinly. ‘The eternal question. At a rough guess, about three hours. No rigor mortis yet, though admittedly it would be delayed in this temperature.’
Ledbetter angled his wrist so that the light shone on his watch. ‘It’s now twenty-one-fifteen, which puts the probable time of death at around eighteen hundred, i.e. an hour or so before she was found. That would put the young folk in the clear.’
‘It could be an hour either way,’ Stapleton said repressively. ‘I’ll be able to tell you more after a thorough examination. In the meantime, gentlemen, I’ll leave you to your deliberations.’ And he disappeared into the enfolding fog.
Ledbetter turned to the men awaiting instructions. ‘Right, you can bag her up and remove her now. Who’s accompanying her to the mortuary?’
Webb intervened. ‘As you know, Chris, I found the body, but I’ve deputed PC Rendle to escort it from the scene.’ He indicated one of the Marlton men. The other had been dispatched some time ago to break the news to the relatives.
Ledbetter nodded and supervised the grim business of bagging the body and carrying it to the waiting hearse, after which he detailed the men who would remain overnight to guard the scene. Finally he turned back to Webb.
‘OK, that’s about it, Dave; nothing more to be done till first light. Too bad about the exhibition, but I bet you’re ready for that hot meal. I’ll let Janet know we’re on our way.’
Webb hesitated. ‘Look, Chris, perhaps I should take a rain check. God knows how long it’ll take me to get home as it is. I’ll have to work my way round the lanes, which will be tricky in this weather.’
‘Nonsense, you’re spending the night with us. No problem at all,’ he continued over Webb’s perfunctory protest. ‘Wouldn’t hear of you setting off again in this. Anyway, Janet’s cooking a special meal and I’ve a wine I’d like you to try; we brought it back from France last summer and have been saving it for a suitable occasion. It’s been warming up nicely all day. Which,’ he added, clapping frozen hands together, ‘is more than I have! This your car? See you back at the house, then.’
Getting into the relative warmth of his car, Webb allowed himself a sigh of relief. Some pleasant company and a good meal would do a lot to dispel the depression and discomfort of the last few hours, especially since he’d be spared the worry of the drive home. Something would after all be salvaged from his disastrous ‘free evening’.
Feeling more cheerful by the minute, he turned the ignition key and, keeping well in to the verge, moved off slowly in the direction of Steeple Bayliss.
*
When Helen woke the next morning, the pale patch that was the window was in the wrong position, and, disorientated, it took her a moment or two to realise where she was. Then she remembered: the fog, and the Seven Stars rising, Brigadoon-like, out of it. Remembered, too, the dramatic arrival of the young man and his story, and hoped the accident victim was recovering from her ordeal.
She switched on the bedside light and looked at her watch. It was seven-thirty. Sitting up, she reached for the robe, shrugged into it, and, padding to the window, lifted the curtain. It was barely light, but the fog seemed to be lifting. By the time she was ready to leave, it should be almost clear.
Breakfast, she discovered half an hour later, was served in the garden room she had seen from the courtyard. Terry Pike, whom she met in the hall, directed her to it through the television lounge.
Despite being of glass on three sides, the room was warm and welcoming, since radiators encircled it beneath the windows. The effect was pleasantly spring-like, with the sandy-coloured tiled floor, round, glass-topped tables and cream lattice-back chairs with green cushions.
Michael Saxton, reading his newspaper at one of the tables, looked up briefly to bid her good morning.
In the centre of the room was a table bearing a selection of fruit, yoghurts, cereals and juices. Helen poured a glass of orange juice and seated herself in what would have been the bay window, had the rest of the walls had not also been of glass.
Stella Cain appeared, teapot in one hand, coffeepot in the other. ‘Good morning, Mrs Campbell. Would you like a full English breakfast or the continental?’
Helen opted for the continental, and indicated the coffee-pot. As Mrs Cain moved away, she looked interestedly out of the window for her first daylight view of her surroundings.
To her left was a patio area surrounded by a two-foot stone wall and covered by a pergola, which in summer would no doubt be entwined with flowers. Alongside it was the door through which the man and girl had come running last night.
Immediately opposite, across the gravelled courtyard, lay the group of outbuildings. They were of the same stone as the house, with small-paned windows and steeply pitched tile roof — probably the original mews, Helen thought, coachmen’s quarters above, stables below, but they’d been extensively renovated. Perhaps that was where her hosts slept; there weren’t enough doors along the landing to accommodate them, nor had she noticed a staircase to an upper floor.
The figure of Terry Pike crossed her line of vision, and she watched as he unlocked the car next to her own and drove out of the area.
Her attention was brought back to the table by the arrival of hot croissants. ‘And I thought you might like a paper,’ Stella said, laying a copy of the Daily Telegraph beside her plate.
Helen thanked her and glanced at the front page. The main story was the latest in what the press had dubbed the ‘Stately Home Burglaries’, though Andrew, who worked for a firm of loss adjusters, referred to them more accurately as country houses, since not all of them warranted the grander title.
The robberies had been taking place at irregular intervals for a couple of years now and were spread over a wide area. Every few months a manor house somewhere in the country was robbed, and in each case only one specific item was taken: a priceless miniature, a ruby necklace, a set of vinaigrettes.
Such exploits had already cost the insurance companies over a million pounds, but an intriguing sidelight was that occasionally the stolen object, though unusual or attractive, was worth less than a hundred pounds and of only sentimental value. But none of the items had been recovered, nor did the police seem any nearer to identifying the culprits.
The latest theft was at Plaistead Manor in Gloucestershire, but as the loss had only just been noticed and there was no sign of a break-in, the police wouldn’t confirm it was the same operator. The stolen object was a signed miniature of Queen Victoria in a silver frame studded with tiny diamonds. It had been presented to a previous Lady Plaistead, a favourite lady-in-waiting.
Intent on the story, Helen had not heard Terry Pike return, and jumped as his voice said from the doorway, ‘The blasted road’s closed. I thought you’d like to know.’
Michael Saxton exclaimed with annoyance. ‘Closed whe
re?’
‘A few hundred yards along, towards Marlton. Presumably traffic between there and SB has been diverted. God knows how far I’ll have to backtrack before I can weave round again, and I’ve an appointment at nine-thirty.’
‘Thanks for letting us know.’
Helen said anxiously, ‘Does that mean I can’t get through to Shillingham? I was going to join the M4 there.’
‘You’ll be able to loop round, no doubt,’ Saxton replied, as the other man hurried out. ‘Though your best bet, since you’ll have to double back towards Steeple Bayliss anyway, would be to join it there.’
As, Helen reflected ruefully, she should have done in the first place.
Twenty minutes later she had paid her modest bill and was on her way. The fog still lingered in the distance and moisture drenched the hedgerows and hung from the branches of trees, but at least she could see where she was going.
She came to the diversion sign a few miles short of Steeple Bayliss and, having driven past, stopped to look back at it. It directed traffic down a narrow country lane surprisingly signposted: Melbray Court 2, M4 16. So she needn’t go into Steeple Bayliss after all. If she’d spotted that signpost last night, she reflected, she would doubtless have turned off there.
It seemed an unlikely route to the motorway, this narrow, high-hedged lane; probably it was used mainly by local people wanting to bypass Steeple Bayliss. After a couple of miles a right-hand fork led to Melbray Court. Helen frowned, wondering why the name seemed familiar, then remembered the advertisement she’d cut out. It was a wonder anyone found the place, she thought.
After a few miles she emerged from the tunnel-like lane to join what she recognised as the main road from Steeple Bayliss to the motorway, and, turning thankfully on to it, she settled down for the long drive home.
*
Having checked that there was nothing urgent in Shillingham to claim his attention, Webb decided to stay on in SB for the post-mortem, scheduled for ten o’clock that morning. As he enjoyed a leisurely breakfast with his hosts, he was struck again by their seeming mismatch.
David Webb 13 - One Is One and All Alone Page 21
