David Webb 8 - Symbols at Your Door

by Anthea Fraser

  For a moment or two Alison listened intently, in case one of the others should call. Silence. She was about to get up and go to meet them when a bird, swooping to land on a nearby lily-pad, took off again with a frightened squawk.

  Curious to see what had startled it, Alison rose and walked to the edge of the pond, staring down into the dark water. For a blank, uncomprehending moment she thought it was her own reflection that shone back at her. But it was another face that floated there, glowing obscenely between the lily leaves, a white face with puckered skin and closed eyes and a weed trailing across one cheek.

  Alison felt herself sway and stepped hastily back lest she too plunge to a watery grave. She stumbled back to the seat and sank gratefully on to it, gripping the wooden slats for support and fighting down a wave of nausea. She should call the others, she thought distractedly, but there was no hurry. Mrs. Dexter was past saving.

  She had still not summoned the strength to stand when, some minutes later, Hazel’s voice reached her, close at hand.

  “Mrs. Carey? There’s no sign of her. Shall we—?” Having rounded the corner with Gina Cummings, Hazel broke off abruptly.

  Alison raised an ashen face. “In the pond,” she said un-steadily. “Don’t look—there’s nothing we can do.”

  But Hazel, with a cry of concern, had started forward and was gazing with horror at the body floating below the lily-pads.

  “But that’s the young lady I saw on Saturday!” she ex-claimed. “With Mr. Carey!”

  Alison stared at her. “With Neil?”

  “That’s right. I was in the garden when they drove past. I thought how pretty she looked. And now—” Hazel choked to a halt.

  Gina, who, though as white as the others, had wisely refrained from looking in the pond, took Alison’s arm. “We’d better get to a phone,” she said.

  ***

  It was an hour later and the machinery for dealing with a major incident was rolling smoothly into place. The after-noon opening of House and gardens had been cancelled and a large notice to that effect was pinned on the gates. The drive was filled with an assortment of official cars, together with a hearse which, when the pathologist and Scenes of Crime officers had finished, would bear the body away. Meanwhile, an incident room was being set up in the village hall.

  “No doubt it’ll turn out to be a simple drowning,” Sage told Sally, “but until the PM we won’t know for sure, so we treat it as a suspicious death until we know different.”

  Sally nodded, resenting standard procedure being portrayed as his own decision. She said, “It’s dreadful that there’s no way of contacting the husband.”

  Sage snorted. “I told you about the ‘I’m all right, Jack’ mentality here. In the old days, everybody in the village would have known exactly where everyone else worked. Now, all anyone can come up with is ‘London’. So the poor bugger has to come home to all this, with no cushioning of the blow. At least the kids are out of the way; Dexter told Cummings it was while he was taking them to his sister’s that she disappeared.”

  Sally said soberly, “He thought we’d come to look for her last night.”

  “Well, we hadn’t. It would have been too late by then, anyway. She must have been in the water since Monday. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  ***

  The three women, having been separately interviewed by Sally and Sage, had come together again at the Lodge, somehow needing each other’s company.

  “I wonder how it happened?” Hazel said for the third time. “It’s odd no one heard her fall: she must have called for help, surely?”

  “It was nearly closing time,” Alison reminded her. “Most people would already have left, and the pond is quite isolated. As to what happened, we’ll never know, will we? She might have bent forward to look at something and toppled over. Or she could have felt faint and simply fallen in.”

  “Or,” suggested Gina, hands round the warming mug of coffee, “a sudden noise might have startled her, making her jump and lose her balance. Is the water deep at the edge?”

  “It shelves pretty steeply and the roots of the plants are thick below the surface. She could have become entangled with them. That’s why there are notices all round the pond warning parents to keep hold of their children.”

  “Poor soul,” Gina said, shuddering. “I was going to invite her for coffee this week; we’ve never been here long enough before.”

  Stewart Dexter, however, appeared to have no doubts about his wife’s death. Arriving home to find the police car at his gate, he startled Sage with his wild cry: “She’s killed herself, hasn’t she? Where is she?”

  Sage took his arm and, solemn-faced, accompanied him into the house, jerking his head towards the kitchen, which Sally took as an order to make tea.

  In the sitting-room Stewart stood rigid, shaking off the detective’s attempt to help him to a chair. “What happened, for God’s sake?”

  “She was found in the pond up at the House. I’m extremely sorry, sir.”

  Stewart looked at him blankly. “House? What house?” “The Stately Home up the road.”

  “What was she doing there?”

  “It was open to the public on Monday afternoon.”

  “What a strange place to choose,” Stewart said, half under his breath.

  Sage cleared his throat. “Why should you think she took her own life, sir?”

  “Because she was frightened and unhappy and I didn’t understand.” The man’s face was like marble and there was desperation in his eyes. “I should have had more sense than to leave her alone all day.”

  Sage, knowing from his previous visit that she’d been alone all day for the best part of six months, forbore to comment.

  “The children going away must have been the last straw. I realized that on the way home; I intended to make it up to her. Now, I’ll never have the chance.” His voice broke and he turned away.

  Where the hell was Sally with that tea? Though what the poor devil really needed was a stiff drink. “You say your wife was frightened, Mr. Dexter. Why was that?”

  “She hated this place.” Dexter stood at the window, hands rammed into his pockets, staring unseeingly across the sunlit patio. “She hated the loneliness, the unfriendliness. And she felt threatened by the village louts who whispered as she passed and drew graffiti on our door and fought on the pavement outside. And when she appealed to me, all I did was tell her to pull herself together and go off with the children, when I knew perfectly well that if I asked her again, she’d have come with us. And if she had, she’d still be alive.”

  There was no disputing that, at least. Sally arrived with a tea-tray and, at Sage’s impatient nod, quickly poured out three cups. Dexter took one automatically, though he made no attempt to drink.

  Sage said, “I’m afraid we’ll have to ask you to come to Shillingham to identify her.”

  The man quivered, and some tea sloshed into his saucer. Sally said gently, “She looks very peaceful, sir.”

  Stewart turned and put the untouched cup of tea on the table beside him. “Then let’s go,” he said brusquely, “and get it over.”

  ***

  Alison said, “I’m afraid I’ve some bad news for you.” Neil, dropping his briefcase en route to the drinks cabinet, halted at the tone in her voice. “What is it?”

  “A friend of yours was found dead today. In fact, I found her.”

  Neil stared at her, a sudden pulse jumping at his temple. “Is this some kind of joke?”

  “I certainly didn’t think so. She was drowned in the lily-pond.”

  “For God’s sake, Alison! Who was drowned in the lily-pond?”

  “Mrs. Dexter. Carol, wasn’t it? Whom you took for a joy-ride on Saturday.”

  Neil moistened his lips. “You’re saying Carol Dexter is dead?”

  “I am.”

  “But God, that’s terrible. What happened”?

  “I told you. She drowned.” She surveyed him critically. His face was livi
d and there was a shuttered look behind his eyes.

  “But—when? And how did you come to find her?”

  “Gina Cummings from Mews Grange called. She said Mrs. Dexter’d been missing since Monday, but she’d seen her here that afternoon. So we set out to look for her.”

  “And found her,” Neil said softly.

  “And found her.” Alison paused, then added accusingly, “I didn’t know you knew her.”

  “I hardly did.”

  “But you were together on Saturday afternoon. Hazel saw you.”

  “The good old grapevine.” He was recovering his composure. “Her car battery was flat, and since she needed to get to Lethbridge, I gave her a lift.”

  “And stayed with her and brought her home again, no doubt.”

  “Well, a one-way trip wouldn’t have been of much help, would it?”

  “She was very pretty.” Alison was banking on Hazel’s comment, being unable to judge from the quick, horrified glance she’d had of Carol’s dead face. But then, she thought caustically, Neil wouldn’t have offered a lift to a plain woman.

  “For pity’s sake, Alison, I only did her a good turn! You’re making it sound like a criminal offence.”

  “I’m just surprised you never mentioned it, if it was all so innocent.”

  “Because I wanted to avoid a scene like we’re having now.” He turned abruptly to the cabinet, sloshed whisky into two glasses and handed one to her.

  “You must need this more than I do. What a dreadful experience. I suppose the police have been here?”

  “Most of the day.”

  “I passed a Panda on the bottom road, and wondered briefly if there’d been another burglary. Poor girl,” he added reflectively, staring into his glass. “She hated this place. Said nobody spoke to her from one week to the next.”

  “Gina Cummings was going to invite her for coffee.”

  “Too little, too late,” said Neil bitterly, and Alison, the anger going out of her and a weary sadness taking its place, let the matter drop.

  ***

  His comment, disconcertingly apt, was still in her mind when, a few hours later, she went up to bed, and she wished uselessly that poor Carol had at least known of the intended invitation before she met her death. Instead, she’d died in the cold water as lonely and unhappy as she’d apparently been living among them.

  Switching off the light, she went to open the window. Immediately below was the outer wall of the estate and, across the road, the still-lit windows of the Green Man.

  A car came swiftly up Tinker’s Lane, its headlamps briefly lighting the dark corner of the car-park below her to reveal the shape of a car parked close against the wall. Then the moving car was past, and the other slipped back into obscurity.

  Alison frowned. Odd: the car-park belonged to Beckworth House. The clientele of the Green Man, being mainly local, seldom arrived by car, but when they did, they parked in the pub forecourt. Curiously she pushed the sash wider and leaned out, craning her neck to see the shadowed vehicle more clearly. But from that angle all that was visible was the dark surface of its roof and bonnet.

  A cool breeze rippled over her, and, abandoning her interest, she withdrew and let the curtain fall back into place.

  CHAPTER 6

  The following morning, the post-mortem report disproved both Alison’s and Stewart’s hypotheses and the police had a case of murder on their hands.

  “Bruise on the side of her face and a whacking great crack on the back of the head,” Webb said, freely paraphrasing the medical report. “Stapleton says neither could have been caused by knocking against the edge of the pond. She was almost certainly unconscious when she hit the water.”

  “But not dead?” Crombie queried.

  “No, diatoms in the bloodstream prove that.”

  “So she was knocked out by a blow to the head, whereupon her attacker picked her up and threw her in the pond.”

  “It seems so.”

  “Nice guy.”

  “He might have thought she was dead already.”

  “That makes a difference?”

  Webb shrugged. “Not so that you’d notice.” He stood up. “Well, Alan, the burglaries are all yours but this gem’s been passed to me. Wish me luck with it.”

  ***

  Stewart Dexter, it appeared, had taken a few days’ compassionate leave and driven up to break the news to his family. At Sage’s request, he had left the name and address of a farm in the Cotswolds where the camping party was staying, and Webb arrived there with Sergeant Jackson in the middle of the afternoon.

  The site was idyllic; a gently sloping meadow with a stream and a small wood at the foot and the cluster of white-washed farm buildings at the top. Four caravans in all were dotted round the field, each with its tents grouped about it. The farmer’s wife advised them that the Davis family had the lower site on the left.

  Leaving their car in the farmyard, the two detectives set off down the field, the wind in their hair and the burden of their news at variance with the relaxed holiday atmosphere.

  That Dexter’s own news had already taken its toll was evidenced by the strained face and red eyes of the woman who answered their knock on the caravan door.

  “Mrs. Davis? Is Mr. Dexter there, please?”

  A voice from behind her answered, “Yes, what is it?” and a tall, youngish man with fair curly hair and a white face appeared over her shoulder.

  “Chief Inspector Webb and Sergeant Jackson, sir, Shillingham CID.”

  “My God, you don’t give me much peace, do you? What is it now?”

  “I’m afraid we have some news for you, sir.” Webb hesitated. “Are your children in there?”

  The woman answered. “No, my husband’s taken all four of them out for the afternoon, to take their minds off things. You’d better come in.”

  The caravan was large and airy, with gaily patterned curtains at the open windows. On a table were a couple of mugs half full of tea. Mrs. Davis moved to the sink and refilled the kettle.

  “Well, what is it?” Stewart Dexter demanded. “You can come straight out with it; nothing you say will make much difference now.”

  “I’m sorry to tell you, Mr. Dexter, that your wife’s death wasn’t an accident.”

  Pain crossed his face. “I’d guessed as much. She killed herself, didn’t she?”

  “No,” Webb said steadily, “somebody else killed her.” Behind him the kettle clattered on the stove and he heard Mrs. Davis gasp.

  Dexter hadn’t moved. “Say that again?”

  “Your wife was murdered, Mr. Dexter. I’m sorry.”

  Dexter felt behind him for a chair and lowered himself slowly into it. “How do you know?”

  “Because she had injuries consistent with being attacked before going in the water.”

  “What kind of injuries?” His tone of voice betrayed what he feared. Webb could at least reassure him on that.

  “Nothing sexual. A blow to the face and severe bruising and lacerations to the back of her head.”

  “You mean,” he said incredulously, “someone simply walked up to her and killed her? But in God’s name, why?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out. It was probably a mugging; her bag was recovered from the pond this morning and the purse had been emptied. Any idea how much would have been in it?”

  He shook his head dazedly. Mrs. Davis set cups and saucers in front of them and poured tea. Her hand, Webb noticed, was shaking.

  “Her wrist-watch was missing too.” Webb paused. “What time did you get home on Monday evening, sir?”

  Dexter hesitated. “Around nine, I suppose.”

  Webb noted the sister’s jerk of surprise, but she made no comment. “Which, since it’s roughly an hour and a half’s journey, means you left here at seven-thirty?” He was well in the clear, then; the estate gates were closed and locked soon after half past five.

  “I drove back from Woodstock, not here,” Dexter said. “They didn’t come
up till the next morning.”

  Webb had the impression it was an unwilling admission, made only because of his sister’s presence. “Which would knock it down to—what?—an hour?”

  “It depends on the traffic,” the man said evasively. “You left about eight, then?” Webb persisted, surprised by his reticence.

  Dexter looked up, squaring his shoulders. “Actually it was before that. I’d intended to stay longer but my son was tearful, and I thought the sooner I left the better. I—stopped for a meal on the way home.”

  Webb raised an eyebrow. “Your wife wasn’t expecting you for dinner?”

  “I’d said I might be late. We usually stay for a meal with Rachel and Tom.”

  “So what time did you leave Woodstock, Mr. Dexter?”

  “I really don’t know. Five-ish, I suppose.”

  Webb stared at him, rapidly reassessing the situation. “Five-ish” was a fairly broad spectrum. If, for instance, he’d left at a quarter to and had a clear run, it was just possible he could have been back in Beckworth before the gates closed.

  Webb glanced at the woman. “Mrs. Davis? Can you tie it down more closely?”

  Flushing, she shook her head.

  “So an hour’s journey took you four hours, sir?”

  “I told you I stopped for a meal. I didn’t hurry over it.”

  “Obviously not.” The man could stand more detailed questioning, Webb thought, but not here. And if he had reached Beckworth in time, would he have known where his wife had gone?

  “Did your wife mention visiting Beckworth House?”

  “No; she said she was going to prepare for a dinner-party we’d planned for the next evening.”

  “Had she ever shown any interest in it?”

  “Not really. But she met the chap who lives at the Lodge on Saturday. He gave her a lift into Lethbridge when her car wouldn’t start.”

  Webb digested that in silence. Then he asked mildly, “Where were you at the time?”

  “Out with the children.”

  They didn’t seem a very close family, Webb thought. Perhaps Dexter’s obvious distress was due to a guilty conscience. But how guilty?