‘It’s very generous of you,’ he began stumblingly. ‘I’d have enjoyed it very much, but I’m afraid it wouldn’t appeal to my wife. Art galleries aren’t really her scene.’
There was a pause. Catherine said, ‘So you never go, either?’
No use saying it’s no fun by yourself; Catherine had flown to Paris expressly for that purpose, and presumably she’d gone alone. The sudden doubt alarmed him.
As he sought for a reply, she asked, ‘Would you like to?’
‘Well, yes; of course. But—’
‘Then why not come as my guest? I’d intended going myself later, but if your wife doesn’t want the ticket, it’s a shame to waste it. Do you think she’d have any objection?’
‘I’m sure she wouldn’t,’ he lied.
‘It’s short notice, that’s the trouble: the day after tomorrow. Would that be a problem?’
‘No, I think I can rearrange my diary.’ He’d make damn sure he did.
‘I’ll look forward to it, then. I usually catch the ten forty; that gives time for a light lunch first. Shall we meet at the station?’
‘I’ll be there,’ Tom said.
She rang off, but it was some time before he returned to his balance sheet.
Catherine stood stock-still, suddenly appalled by what she had done. What must he think of her, calmly suggesting they spend the day together? Certainly she’d had no intention of doing so; it was his assumption that since his wife wasn’t interested in art, he must also miss out that had goaded her to action.
Yet, if she were truthful, she knew she’d welcome a day in Tom Parish’s company. He’d been in her thoughts frequently, a solid, comforting presence behind the family traumas. It was, she told herself, because he’d been there when she was at her most vulnerable; no more and no less than that.
And she liked him; why pretend otherwise? His slow smile, his steady brown eyes and his innate kindness appealed to something deep within her and made her want to know him better. This was, she recognized, a new experience for her; since Neil had died, fourteen long years ago, her associations with men had been minimal, the few who’d shown interest having been gently but firmly pushed away. Tom, though, was in a totally different category, and there was no reason that she could see why she shouldn’t enjoy his company. When all was said and done, everything was entirely above board.
Having satisfied herself on that point, she dismissed him from her mind and went out to do some gardening.
Rona spent the afternoon being shown round the town hall and having an interview with the mayor. He was a fussy little man, very conscious of the fact that his term of office would spill over into Jubilee Year. However, his knowledge of the history of the town was extensive, and she acquired some welcome new material.
She had arranged to have supper with Dave, and since she might be recognized at the King’s Head and his cover blown, they’d agreed to meet in the White Horse off Market Square. There were, however, a couple of hours in hand, and, confident he would be shadowing her, Rona decided to continue her exploration of the town.
Once or twice during the day she had glanced over her shoulder, trying to spot him in the crowds, but had never managed to. That was a great thing in his favour, she reflected; though pleasant enough to look at, he was completely unmemorable. Of medium height, he had mid-brown hair and the kind of face that didn’t attract notice. If he dressed in a different style, wore glasses, or parted his hair on the opposite side, to the casual observer he’d be totally unrecognizable.
Rona took out her map and studied it. Miss Rosebury’s mention of Witch’s Pond had stuck in her mind, and she felt it would be worth a look. Behind the almshouses, she had said. But where were the almshouses? In the end, Rona had to ask directions, and eventually located both the houses – a terrace of quaint, thatched cottages – and the pond behind them.
Edna had said children fed ducks there, but that afternoon there were neither children nor ducks, and since the day had clouded over, an almost sinister air hung over the dark water. Rona approached it and stood staring down at her wavering reflection, imagining the terror of the women subjected to the ducking and the gloating cruelty of the onlookers. If they drowned, they were innocent; if they floated, they were guilty and were hauled out to be burned at the stake.
At one end of the pond were ancient wooden stocks, another indication of suffering in this area. She walked round to have a look at them. A plaque gave the date 1690. An age of cruelty: but was ours any better?
Suddenly she’d had enough of the foreboding atmosphere, and wished Dave would manifest himself. However, since they’d agreed early on that he would only do so in an emergency, she walked quickly away from the deserted area, only realizing she’d been holding her breath when she rounded the corner alongside the almshouses.
He was at the White Horse ahead of her, and raised a hand to attract her attention as she hesitated in the doorway. Today, he looked like himself. He half rose in his chair and pulled one out for her.
‘Were you watching me just now?’ she challenged him as she sat down.
‘By the pond? Of course.’
‘I didn’t see you.’
‘I thought that was the idea. What can I get you?’
‘I’ll have a shandy, thanks.’
‘So?’ she asked as he returned and set down her glass. ‘Anything to report?’
‘No; I enjoyed the tour of the town hall, even if I wasn’t privy to the Mayor’s Parlour!’
‘And there was no one following me?’
‘I’m willing to bet on it.’
She smiled, sipping her shandy. ‘Perhaps I’m just being paranoid and you’re here on a wild-goose chase.’
‘Better safe than sorry. What’s on the agenda for tomorrow?’
‘Coffee at the vicarage at eleven.’
‘You should be safe enough there!’
‘I’m meeting the widow of the victim.’
‘Oh-ho.’
‘And that’s not all; on Wednesday afternoon, I’ve an interview with Alan Spencer.’
‘In prison? Good God!’
‘What worries me is that his wife seems to be spreading the news. She certainly told the vicar’s wife, and as it was in the supermarket, God only knows how many others heard. And some might be less than happy about it.’
‘Especially if they’d thought they’d got away with it themselves. Frankly, Mrs Allerdyce, I can’t help hoping this man is guilty. At least we know he’s behind bars.’
‘Do call me Rona,’ she said. ‘Every time you say “Mrs Allerdyce”, I look round for Max’s mother.’
Dave grinned. ‘OK, Rona, but it doesn’t alter what I said.’
‘I know. Don’t think that hasn’t occurred to me.’
‘Any more news on the old lady?’
‘Natural causes, thank goodness.’
‘Well, that’s one less thing to worry about.’
Except, as Max had said, they didn’t know what precipitated the attack.
‘And that reminds me,’ Rona added, ‘there’s been a change of plan: I’ll be staying over Wednesday night this week, to attend the funeral on Thursday.’
‘Want me to stay, too?’
‘If you wouldn’t mind.’
‘No problem. So – the vicarage tomorrow morning. What else?’
‘This is the week I’d earmarked for civic matters, hence the town hall. I’d like to see the old Counting House, and possibly the courts, if I have time.’
‘And the police station?’
‘No,’ she answered shortly. ‘I saw the lobby last week, and that was enough. I’ve no firm plans as yet – I’ll let you know as I go along – but I tend to go to the library in the afternoons and transcribe what I’ve done that day. It’s a pain, really, having to be out of the house between nine and five, but at least it means I get most of my work finished, leaving the evenings free.’
‘And what do you do with your free evenings?’
Rona sm
iled ruefully. ‘Nothing wildly exciting, to be honest. I went to the cinema once, had dinner at the vicarage, which was good, spent two reading in my room, and this one with you. So – what’s the bar menu like?’
The evening passed pleasantly and by unspoken agreement they kept off the topic of the business between them. Rona learned that Dave came from the West Country, but after being at university in Buckfordshire, had decided he’d like to stay on there.
‘Though if I don’t come up with a job soon, I might have to look farther afield,’ he said gloomily.
At ten o’clock they prepared to leave.
‘I’ll follow at a discreet distance,’ Dave told her. ‘Will you be going anywhere before the vicarage in the morning?’
‘Probably the library again. It’s quiet there, which is conducive to thought, and I need to work out exactly what to ask this woman.’ She bent to retrieve her handbag. ‘To be honest, though, I’m finding there’s a lot of time to fill in. On reflection, it would have been better to have left a gap between visits; I need to write up the info I have, before I can tell what else I need. Still, I booked four weeks’ worth, and that’s what I’m stuck with.’
‘It must have been hard to judge,’ he agreed. ‘Never mind, only one more to go. Come on, I’ll see you home, and that’ll be another day you can cross off.’
The out-of-town supermarket was on Lindsey’s way home, and as usual she stopped there to replenish her supplies. She’d invite the parents to supper, she decided. It was a week or two since she’d seen them, and it might cheer Mum up. Come to that, she could do with cheering herself; life seemed to be pretty static these days. She’d give them a ring when she got home, see if she could fix one evening this week.
She pushed her trolley down one aisle and up another, dropping in items from her list and vaguely looking for ideas for the proposed dinner. In her abstraction, she didn’t at first pay attention to the figure at the end of the aisle, and it took several seconds for her to realize it was Hugh. She stopped suddenly, causing the woman behind to bump into her, and stared at him unbelievingly. He looked so right standing there, so familiar. On his weekend visits they had often called in, scouring the aisles together in search of the evening’s meal, and for an instant’s time-freeze it almost seemed this was such an occasion. But why was he here now? How could he be, when he hadn’t contacted her? Had he, perhaps, been hoping they’d meet?
She started down the aisle towards him, and at the same moment he turned and caught sight of her. She saw him stiffen and glance briefly over his shoulder, as though seeking escape. The tumult he always aroused in her rose in a wave, threatening to suffocate her, and she was glad of the trolley for support. His expression didn’t change as she reached him; he simply stood waiting.
She stopped, a tentative smile on her lips. ‘Hugh! What are you doing here?’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Much the same as you, I imagine,’ he said coldly.
‘I mean, why are you in Marsborough?’
‘I work here,’ he said. ‘I told you I was coming back at the end of the month. This is the end of the month.’
‘But – where are you living?’ she stammered.
‘Forgive me, Lindsey, but I don’t think that’s any of your business.’
She opened her mouth to protest, but a young woman had come quickly round the corner, bearing a packet of asparagus tips.
‘I found them!’ she said triumphantly. ‘They’d been moved from their usual place.’ She stopped, looking from Hugh’s still figure to Lindsey’s stricken face. ‘I’m sorry, is—?’
Hugh took her arm and turned her back in the direction from which she’d come. ‘Well done. Now all we need is the Parmesan.’
As they rounded the corner, Lindsey heard the girl say something in a low voice, and Hugh’s reply reached her clearly: ‘No, it was nothing – just someone I used to know.’
With a supreme effort, Lindsey, the rest of her list forgotten, propelled her leaden feet towards the checkout, blindly handed over her credit card and signed where indicated. Then, scooping her purchases into her carrier bag, she fled to the car, threw the bag inside, and, climbing in after it, burst into tears.
Tom frowned at the telephone. ‘Are you getting a cold, love?’
At the other end of the line, Lindsey surveyed her swollen eyes in the hall mirror. ‘No,’ she said thickly, ‘it’s just a touch of hay fever.’
‘I didn’t know you were prone to that.’
‘I must be, mustn’t I? Anyway, which evening would be best, do you think? It makes no difference as far as I’m concerned.’ Her voice shook a little, and she coughed to cover it.
‘Sounds more like a cold to me,’ her father said.
‘Stop fussing, Pops! Thursday or Friday, perhaps?’
‘Friday would suit me better, I think, but I’ll see what your mother says.’
Avril, run to earth in the kitchen, had no preference. ‘Conscience getting the better of her,’ she sniffed. ‘I can’t remember when we were last over there.’
Tom turned away. ‘Friday would be fine, darling,’ he said. ‘Thanks for the invitation.’
‘She must be at a loose end,’ Avril said, as he put down the phone. ‘That’s the only time she thinks of us.’
‘For God’s sake!’ he burst out angrily. ‘Do you have to be so ungracious all the time? Why not accept the invitation in the spirit it’s offered? No wonder we don’t get many!’
Avril stared at him in surprise. Her mild-mannered husband wasn’t given to such outbursts. ‘Who rattled your cage?’ she asked sourly, turning back to the potatoes, and Tom, already ashamed of his temper, returned to the sitting room.
In her Fairhaven flat, Lindsey felt the tears welling again. She longed above all to speak to Rona, to analyse every word with her, see what she made of it. But she knew the minute she started to speak of the encounter she’d begin crying again, and little would be achieved. Better to wait till tomorrow, when she’d absorbed the first shock. She couldn’t, in any case, explain why she’d been so upset; it was she who’d sent Hugh away, she who’d wanted rid of him. He had arranged his transfer to be with her, but, having accepted she didn’t want him, he appeared to have found someone who did. She had no reason for complaint.
Having reached that conclusion, Lindsey ran into the bedroom and threw herself across the bed in a renewed storm of tears.
Twelve
Sally Bryson had a fringe of jet black hair and was slightly overweight. She remained solidly seated when Rona was introduced, her black eyes wary. It was clear she’d agreed to come only because Lois had arranged it.
Rona said pleasantly, ‘It’s good of you to see me, Mrs Bryson. I do appreciate it.’
‘A waste of time, in my opinion,’ Sally replied, a Welsh intonation in her voice. ‘God knows, the police went over everything with a fine-tooth comb.’
‘I’m sure, but I’m trying to look at it from a different angle.’
‘To get Spencer off the hook, you mean. Going to see him, aren’t you?’
‘At the request of his wife, yes.’
‘Much good it’ll do you. He did it all right. Stands to reason, with the kid’s death eating away at him, all the time Barry was inside. Barry’s blood was on him, and the knife found at his home. Seems cut and dried to me.’
‘Perhaps a little too cut and dried?’ Rona suggested. ‘As you point out, he was the obvious suspect; the police set their sights on him from the word go, he was charged within days, and I doubt if they bothered even looking for anyone else.’
‘With the murder weapon in their hands,’ Sally retorted, ‘who was there to look for?’
‘I don’t know,’ Rona confessed, ‘but I’ve been asking myself if anyone else could have had a motive for killing your husband.’ She paused. ‘For instance, did his firm keep his job open for him while he was in prison?’
Sally Bryson’s eyebrows shot up, disappearing under the fringe. ‘To the best of my knowledge,’ sh
e said after a minute, ‘but I wasn’t around by then. What possible bearing could that have?’
‘I wondered if it might have caused resentment; someone perhaps who’d been filling in for him, and felt he shouldn’t have to step aside when your husband came back?’
‘He wasn’t my husband by then; call him Barry, for pity’s sake. And it would have to be a damn sight more than “resentment” for someone to stick a knife in him.’
Rona admitted she had a point. She tried another tack. ‘Had he any women friends, do you know?’
‘I do know, and he hadn’t. I was the one who kicked over the traces.’ She held Rona’s eye defiantly. ‘I went through a bad time too, you know. Got a lot of hate mail after the accident; people saying if I hadn’t run out on my husband, he’d never have got drunk and killed the kid.’
‘That must have been hard,’ Rona said quietly.
Sally shot her a glance, perhaps surprised by her sympathy, and when she spoke her voice was less belligerent. ‘I knew how cut up he’d be,’ she said. ‘He loved kids, and we never had any of our own. I wanted to go and see him in prison, but Kevin wouldn’t let me. I did write, but he never replied.’
Rona took a biscuit from the plate Lois silently offered. She had almost forgotten she was there. ‘Did anyone ever have a grudge against him?’ she asked.
Sally shook her head. ‘I’m sure not. Always popular, was Barry. Got on with everyone. That’s what stood him in such good stead at his trial.’
‘How long after his release was he killed?’
‘Ten days.’ Her eyes brimmed with tears, which she impatiently brushed away. ‘A mere taste of freedom, then it was snatched away again – for good, this time.’
Rona said gently, ‘Did you have any contact with him during those ten days?’
‘No; I saw in the local paper that he was out, and sent a card wishing him luck. If I’m honest, I was already regretting leaving him. I hoped he might get in touch, but he didn’t.’
There was a silence while everyone reflected on what had been said. Rona wasn’t sure what she’d hoped to achieve from this interview, but it seemed to have been, as Sally had predicted, a waste of time. She could, she supposed, find out who Barry’s employers were and go and see them, though what more they could add, she’d no idea. She was beginning to suspect Spencer was guilty after all, in which case her visit tomorrow would also be a waste of time – except, of course, that it was grist for the mill of her article. She needed to remind herself that that was, after all, the object of the exercise.
Jigsaw Page 18
