But Mr Fenwick’s – and here Ellie checked her list – was a bedraggled,
run-down house with dirty grey curtains hanging askew at the windows, a broken gate, peeling paintwork and an air of neglect. She shrugged. Obviously, she had the wrong address. She would ask at the house for the right number. She rang the bell and noticed there was an entryphone. And two locks on the door. Odd.
A querulous male voice. ‘Who is it?’
‘My name is Mrs Quicke, but you won’t know me. I’m looking for a Mr Fenwick, who might be able to help me about some stamps.’ Quiet breathing. ‘How did you get my address?’
Was this Mr Fenwick himself? ‘Through the stamp fair people.’ Keys turned in locks. Proper mortice locks, not Yale. A bolt was
withdrawn. The door opened a couple of inches on a chain. ‘What’s it about?’
‘I was told you were a serious collector and I need some advice.’ The chain was taken off, and the door opened. The hall inside was
bare but clean, lit by a low-wattage bulb. Mr Fenwick was a neat-looking little man with hardly any hair, wearing a beige cardigan over grey slacks. And half-moon glasses. An old-fashioned little man.
Mr Fenwick re-locked the door, put the chain back on and led the way past two closed doors to a room fitted out as an all-purpose living room. The furniture was dark oak and probably dated back to the thirties, but there was a large television and a computer set up on a modern desk. A computer? Ellie suppressed a shudder, remembering what Kate had had to say about child pornography on the Internet. She wondered uneasily if she had been wise to come here, to a strange house. No one knew she was there. Yes, she was definitely uneasy.
He sat on an upright chair, and pulled another one out for her. ‘Now, what do you want to know? Have you something to sell me? You collect yourself, perhaps?’
‘No, no. I’m afraid not …’
‘Your husband …?’
‘He died last year.’
‘And left you a collection, and you don’t know how to dispose of it?
Well, I’m sure I can help you there.’
‘No, it’s not that.’ She plunged into her story about starting up a stamp
club in a local school. He was shaking his head before she’d finished. ‘I don’t have time for all that trivial nonsense, grubby little boys with
half a set here and half a set there, and nothing much to spend. I’m afraid
you’ve been misinformed, Mrs … Quicke, did you say? Any relation of
Frank Quicke? I used to go to school with a man of that name. Lived in a
big house the other end of the shops, lived with an aunt, what an old
dragon she was …’
‘That would have been my husband, but he died last year.’ ‘Sorry to hear it. Not that he was interested in stamps, either. But it
makes all the difference, knowing who you are. I have to be careful, you
know. People come to the door with all sorts of excuses, wasting my time,
wanting to pick my brains. I tell them, read my articles and they’ll learn
something, but they don’t want to pay out the price of the magazine, do
they?’
‘Magazine? Ah, you write some of those really good articles for the
stamp magazines, do you? I thought I recognized the name.’ She hadn’t,
but saying this pleased him.
He rubbed his hands. ‘All the top stamp magazines come to me for
articles, of course they do, and what’s more I review the new stamps as
they come out. Would you like to see some of my treasures? Stay here
and I’ll fetch some for you to look at.’
Without waiting for her to reply, he went out, shutting the door behind
him. With her ears on the stretch, Ellie fancied he’d gone into a room at
the back of the house, perhaps a kitchen? Did he have a safe there? He came back with a large cardboard box, labelled Christmas cards.
Donning latex gloves, Mr Fenwick took off the lid to reveal a veritable
treasure trove. Delving into the box, he selected various pages of stamps
for her to look at, giving her a running commentary as he did so. Ellie’s brain went into orbit as he detailed how he had acquired this,
and what it cost then, and what he could sell it for now … and this one
here was … and this page was … figures rolled through her head and
out again …
He was quite animated now. Ellie suddenly realized that he was a
modern miser, gloating over treasures which only he had access to. Eventually he tidied everything away and put the lid back on his box.
As he took off his latex gloves, his face resumed its normal dull expression. Ellie said, ‘I’m amazed. I’d never have thought you would keep so
many valuable stamps in an ordinary house. Oughtn’t they to be in a
bank vault? Aren’t you afraid of being burgled?’
‘They look at the house and think there can’t be anything worth stealing
here. I’ve never had any trouble. In any case, I’ve taken the precaution of
having the doors and windows alarmed and the alarm is connected to
the police station. If anyone tried to force their way in, the police would
know straight away. I’m much safer here than living in an expensivelooking place. There’s safety in anonymity, you know.’
Ellie’s head was still whirling with all the figures he’d given her. The
man was worth more than she was! It took some thinking about. ‘Thank you for showing me,’ she said. ‘An amazing experience.’ He grinned, displaying a stained set of dentures. And showed her out;
chain, two locks, bolt.
Once in the street again, Ellie looked up at the house with renewed
interest. She presumed he never even bothered to draw back the curtains
in that front room. The house looked as if it were derelict, almost. A good
disguise.
But, strike Fenwick off her list. He wasn’t interested in children, he had
a computer only for professional articles, and his eyes didn’t light up for
any stamp worth less than five hundred pounds. She was getting nowhere
and the danger to Tod was still there.
When she got home she looked at the phone for a long time before picking it up. This could be a difficult conversation.
‘Hello, is the Reverend Gilbert Adams there by any chance? I need to speak to him rather urgently on a church matter.’ The man hated dirt and dust, but he couldn ‘t allow his cleaner up into the nursery, which he always kept locked. So he had to clean it himself. He donned an apron and rubber gloves. He seemed to remember his mother saying something about dried breadcrumbs to clean stains off wallpaper. He didn ‘t know if they would work on bloodstains.
Really, the boy had been too tiresome. He needn’t have got hurt, if he’d only been sensible. The next time he came, things would be different. It wouldn ‘t be long now. He smiled.
Friday morning. A bright and cheerful sky, possibly a little too bright too early? But a good start to the day. The tiler was only half an hour late and said he’d finish within the day, if all went well.
Ellie tidied, swept and dusted, cleaned the bathroom. From the back bedroom window she watched Tod plodding off to school. He still hadn’t had his hair cut and he didn’t look up. Or look happy. She tried to pray for him, found herself crying. Told herself not to be silly. Mopped up. Attacked the stairs with a brush.Wondered how Rose had got on. Shoved Armand’s notes in the waste-paper basket.
The phone went. It was a policeman – no one she knew. They’d found a silver christening cup and a silver vase in a down-at-heel jeweller’s shop in West Ealing – would she like to confirm that they were hers?
‘None of my jewellery? My jewel box?’ No, none of that, but they had a line on the thief, they thought. Keep in touch. W
ould she like to drop in to see if she could identify her pieces? Yes, she would.
The phone went again. This time it was Timid Timothy, now sounding not timid at all. He proposed to set up a meeting with her and the architects. Would that afternoon about four o’clock be convenient?
She replied firmly that no, she did not wish to see the architects but she would like to see him and Archie by themselves, at three p.m.
He said that he didn’t know if Archie would be free to come at that time, but the architects could probably make it. No, she said. Just him and Archie. No architects. She added that he should not, repeat not, take any donation from her for granted.
‘What do you mean? It’s all cut and dried, isn’t it?’
She put the phone down with a clonk, terminating the conversation. She felt guilty that she hadn’t been straight with him but she was not feeling brave enough yet to tell him the truth. He rang back, so she took the phone off the hook and left it on her desk till he’d finished quacking.
She filled in one insurance form and requested another, tried to sort out the mess in the front garden, decided it was going to need a large man and a skip to do it, and sat down for a cuppa.
The tiler was cheerful. Noisy. Too noisy. She needed peace and quiet if she were going to sort out exactly what she needed to say to Timothy and Archie … and what she could do about the stamps. Only, of course she wasn’t going to do anything more about the stamps, was she? There were only two more to visit on her list and she would lay a bet on it – not that she was a betting woman – that neither of them would be able to help her.
She decided to go out. She would look in on Aunt Drusilla and see how Rose was getting on, perhaps get them started on new wiring and plumbing. On the way she would call on just one more person on Armand’s list.
She was beginning to think that there was really nothing in her fanciful notion that stamps were in some way connected to what had happened to Tod. It was just that she hadn’t anything better to do. Well, she did have lots of things to do, but didn’t particularly fancy doing them.
Jacket, umbrella, shopping basket. At the last minute she rescued Armand’s notes from the waste-paper basket.
Just as she was about to leave, the phone rang and it was Diana. ‘Mother, I’ve been thinking, perhaps we were at cross-purposes yesterday. Miss Wickham had been so highly recommended to me that I thought … but then when we got there, I saw that Great-Aunt was getting on much better than I’d thought, and in a way I can quite understand her not wanting to have a carer as yet. Though, of course, how long that will last is anybody’s guess.’
‘I agree, dear.’
‘So although Miss Wickham was extremely, well, disconcerted at her reception, we did agree eventually that the time was not yet ripe for her to move in.’
‘Graciously put, dear.’
‘So I assume all that about Rose Whatsit moving in was just a joke, wasn’t it? After all, we really don’t want someone taking care of Aunt Drusilla who might, well, have a bad effect on her.’
‘You mean, influence her to leave her some money in her will? Oh, I don’t think Rose would do that although I’d be very pleased for her if it did happen. She’s had a rotten life to date, you know.’
Diana let out a restrained yelp. ‘You’ve got to stop her!’
‘I couldn’t, dear. Besides, she already has moved in. I think they’ll be very good for one another, especially since Rose’s daughter is going to have her wedding reception there.’
A strangled cough at the other end. Ellie smiled, enjoying the moment. ‘Well, if that’s all, dear, I have to …’
‘Wait, mother. You know Stewart gets home today. I want your firm promise that you won’t try to deal with the church about money until we’ve had a chance to talk it over. There’s more at stake here than just having the family name on the church hall …’
‘I quite agree, dear, and I’ve taken professional advice on the matter. Now if that’s all …?’ Ellie rang off, smiling to herself.
Out she sallied into the blustery but fine morning sun. The front door was nearly as good as ever and the grey undercoat had covered the graffiti on the front wall. On to Aunt Drusilla’s, with a tiny diversion on the way. The man would probably be out. Or turn out to be in hospital, or dead.
Fronting on to the park at the end of her road was another church and in the vicarage next to it lived the Reverend Howard Greenway, who was not an Anglican minister but a Methodist. Ellie seemed to remember having gone to a meeting once which the Reverend Greenway had chaired and he’d been extremely approachable and had made everyone laugh. He wouldn’t remember her, of course.
After having been metaphorically bruised by Mr Pearsall, the Reverend Greenway might provide an antidote.
The vicarage – or did they call them ‘manses’? – was in an ordinary though spacious semi. The garden was that of a typical rented house; the lawn had been cut and the bushes trimmed, but there were hardly any flowers. There were two children’s bicycles in the front porch and a child’s plastic windmill had been tied with string to the gatepost – which also boasted three limp deflated balloons. Some child’s birthday party in the not too distant past?
The doorbell was answered by the man himself. Beard, dog-collar, blue sweater, jeans, brogues.
‘You’ve just caught me … Mrs …?’
‘Ellie Quicke. You won’t remember me, but …’
‘Have I heard about you! My parishioners are all dead envious of your church – doing great things for them, aren’t you? Come on in. What can I do for you?’
‘You were just going out?’ She stepped inside the tiny hall to be confronted with a child’s scooter, a skateboard and a dog of indeterminate ancestry enquiring what scent it was on her clothes.
‘Only to fetch some groceries. It can wait. Come on in. The place is a mess, but with both me and my wife working … take that chair, it’s the most comfortable. Do you fancy a coffee? Only instant, I’m afraid.’
His study was cluttered but there were businesslike computers and filing cabinets amid the jumble.
‘Thank you, no. Please, let me explain …’
She knew this man by reputation and from having watched him while he gave a talk. If she were any judge of character – and she had to believe she was – then this man was no child abuser. So she told him the truth, not fudging the issue with her story about wanting to start up a stamp club. He was the sort of man you did tell the truth to. He propped his head on one hand, elbow on desk and listened with all his attention. She could imagine him drawing secrets out of the most reclusive of parishioners.
He was also a compulsive fidgeter with pencils or pens. And a doodler. His notepad was covered with doodles, as were the covers of various files. Everything within reach.
When she’d finished he thought for a while, leaning back in his chair, stroking his beard. ‘How is the boy doing? He’s in my elder son’s class. Jojo told us Tod was back at school. Jojo hasn’t had much to do with Tod, although they’re in the same class. Jojo’s not academic, you see. He’s into sports.’
‘I don’t really know.’ She explained Mrs Coppola’s ban.
He shook his head and she felt comforted. He said, ‘Looking at it from her point of view … but hard on you, very. The police …?’
‘Are chasing after Gus, but I can’t believe he did it. Tod won’t talk and I’m worried that if this isn’t cleared up, or even if it is, he might never get over it. Also, someone sent him a book of stamps the other day, and I’m scared it’s a message to Tod. Suppose this man tries again? He’s damaged the boy so much already, but suppose … oh, it’s too awful to think about. And yet, I can’t help thinking about it. I’ve got this sense of impending danger. Don’t laugh, I really have.’
‘I’m not laughing, Mrs Quicke. You’re very close to the boy, and you’re probably picking up what he’s thinking and feeling. You’ve tried to tell the police what you think?’
‘They’re not lis
tening. They’re fixated about Gus and I’m absolutely sure it’s not him. The stamps are the only clue I’ve got. Armand, who lives next door to me, and the organizer of the stamp fair locally, have given me the names of all the people they can think of in the neighbourhood who collect stamps, and I’ve been chasing around trying to talk to them. But either I’m not asking the right questions or they’re all in the clear.’
‘Right. Well, first things first. I’ll ask Jojo to look out for Tod. It might help. Jojo’s well grown for his age and he’s a kindly lad.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Now let’s have a look at this list of yours.’
She handed her notes over with a feeling of relief.This man was actually going to help her. Fantastic.
‘Let me see …’ He studied her notes for a minute. ‘I’ve only been here two years. I know of these people of course, though not intimately. I take a stand at all the local fairs, though I’m more of a postcard man, myself. I pick them up at jumble sales, car boot sales and the like. It’s surprising what price a rare postcard can fetch. Now … your list seems complete except for …’ He scribbled a name down, drew a box around it, and then crossed it out. ‘No, he died, didn’t he, sometime last autumn?’
He tapped his pencil on the paper, scribbled down another name and crossed that out, too. ‘No, you’re not looking for a woman. Forget her.’
He tapped with his pencil on the paper, drawing a box round the first name on her list. ‘Pearsall. I see him at all the fairs, but …’
‘Above suspicion. I visited him. He wasn’t at all helpful, either. What about the others?’
He drew a box around another name, and then drew a butterfly next to it. ‘Logan.’ He looked up at her and smiled.
She smiled back. ‘I visited Mrs Logan. He wouldn’t have the opportunity to meet Tod, or the time, or the energy. Besides, he’s babysitting for his brood on Tuesday nights, which was when Tod was attacked.’
‘You’re right. It couldn’t possibly be him.’ He crossed out Logan’s name.
‘Fenwick.’ He drew a box round that name. ‘Have you been to see him?’
Ellie laughed, shaking her head. ‘I don’t think it’s him, do you? I visited him yesterday and was shown some of his treasures as a special treat. I got the impression that he’s not interested in people, only in stamps.’
Murder of Innocence Page 23
