by Emma Page
Kevin turned his head and glanced back at her. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I can’t hang about much longer, I have another appointment to keep.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said urgently, ‘but I want to make another phone call. I must, it won’t take long. Do let’s go back inside.’
He sighed and looked at his watch. ‘All right, I suppose I can spare a little longer.’ Once again he drew out the keys. ‘Who is it this time? I’m going to have a job explaining about these phone calls.’
‘I’ll pay for them,’ she said at once. ‘I’ve got quite a lot of money left over from my holiday. I want to ring up and find out if Arnold actually is going on that cruise. I can’t think why it didn’t occur to me before. All I have to do is phone the shipping company or the travel agents, the name was stamped on the brochure, the number is sure to be there too. I’ll ask if the tickets are ready for Mr Pierson or if they’ve been collected. If they know nothing about it then it was just a pipe-dream, as you said, and Arnold has simply gone off for a short holiday and he’ll turn up again in a week or two and that will be that.’
‘Oh, very well,’ Kevin said. ‘Sounds sensible enough. I’ll put through the call myself, I’ll keep it pretty short.’ Jane stood a few inches away from him as he picked up the receiver.
‘Pierson?’ said a faint voice a few minutes later at the other end of a crackly line. ‘Hold on, I’ll just check.’ There was a brief pause and then the voice said, ‘Yes, tickets already picked up. The Kyrenia, sails tonight, midnight, from Southampton, stateroom number twenty-four.’
‘He’s scarpered all right,’ Kevin said as he rang off. ‘Your Uncle Owen’s going to be disappointed if he thinks Pierson’s coming back in time for the audit.’ He seemed to have forgotten the urgency of his next appointment, a lively interest entered his tone. ‘What do we do next?’
‘Ring the hotel in Bournemouth,’ Jane said instantly before he had time to protest at the extra delay. ‘Wait now till I remember the name–Scar–the Scarsdale Arms, that was it. You’ll have to get the number from directory enquiries.’ Kevin picked up the phone again.
‘And precisely why are we phoning the hotel?’ he asked as he waited for the girl to supply the number.
‘To see if Sarah has turned up there.’
‘Why–where else would she be?’
Jane clasped her hands together. ‘That’s what I’m wondering,’ she said in a low voice. ‘If Arnold has been up to something—’ A kaleidoscope flashed through her brain, the glass under the bed at The Sycamores, the prostrate cat, Emily talking animatedly to Sarah . . . and Arnold standing a yard or two away . . . Aunt Zena was dead, Emily Bond was dead . . . ‘I just want to make sure she’s all right, that she got to the hotel, that nothing’s happened to her.’ A frightful thought struck at her, she sent a horrified glance around, towards the stairs, the upper rooms, then she laid a firm grip on her imagination, resolutely blinking away the vision of locked cupboards, the space under the eaves. No, of course not, Sarah couldn’t possibly be—
‘Thank you,’ Kevin said into the phone. He touched the receiver rest and then dialled again. ‘It’s ringing at the hotel,’ he said a few moments later. ‘Hello, is that the Scarsdale Arms? . . . Could I speak to Miss Pierson? Miss Sarah Pierson, from Milbourne.’
Do we actually need to speak to her? Jane asked herself rapidly. Or will it be sufficient to know she’s there, that she arrived safe and sound? But perhaps it might be as well to speak to her, they could ask about Arnold–or could they? What could they say? She tried to work something out.
‘Not there?’ Kevin said. ‘Yes, I see, thank you.’ He put back the receiver and turned to Jane. ‘There is no Miss Sarah Pierson in the Scarsdale Arms. She never showed up.’ He became sharply aware of the passage of time. ‘For heaven’s sake, come on!’ he cried. ‘I’ll get the sack if I don’t get a move on. You talk it all over with your stepmother, I’ll ring you some time this afternoon.’ He urged her through the front door and down the path.
CHAPTER 16
‘I can’t stay more than a few minutes,’ Ruth said when the greetings, the exclamations, the questions about the trip were over. ‘I’m meeting someone for lunch, I slipped away from the office early, just to make sure you’d arrived in one piece.’
‘At least have some coffee,’ Jane said. ‘It’s all ready and waiting. There’s something I must talk to you about.’ Ruth followed her into the kitchen. ‘I ought to discuss it with Father but it can’t wait till this evening.’
Ruth pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘Go on then.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Fire away.’
Jane poured out the coffee. ‘Do you remember the day before I went away? I tidied up at The Sycamores and there was that odd business about the cat.’ Ruth’s hand ceased to stir the spoon round in her cup. ‘Well, when I was away, I began to think about it, it worried me.’ She watched Ruth steadily all the time she talked but Ruth kept her head tilted to one side, listening with a slight frown, her eyes resting on the opposite wall.
Ruth didn’t interrupt, didn’t ask any questions, and Jane’s voice began to falter as she ploughed on. But I will finish it, she thought stubbornly, I’ll say what I have to say. If they all think I’m deranged, then they’ll have to think it, it can’t be helped. She saw the expression on Ruth’s face change to one of uneasiness, deepen into anxiety. When Jane finally stopped talking she sat up in her chair and gave her stepdaughter a look of open disquiet.
‘I hope you’re not going to say anything of all this farrago to Owen? The poor man’s upset enough about Zena’s death without you going round suggesting she committed suicide.’
Jane’s mouth set in a rebellious line. ‘I wasn’t necessarily implying it was suicide.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘I’ve begun to think it might have been murder. And Emily Bond, too. I believe she could have been murdered because she knew about the cat and she was the kind of person who would talk about it to anyone she met.’
Ruth pushed back her chair and stood up. ‘I know you’ve found the last year difficult,’ she said, ‘and I’ve done my best to make allowances. But to try to make trouble on this scale–I’m frankly appalled. Emily Bond died from pneumonia, there was an inquest.’
‘What about Arnold Pierson?’ Jane said obstinately, although a treacherous trembling began to threaten her voice. ‘I didn’t invent the fact that he walked out of his job.’
‘I don’t for one moment imagine he’s going round the world,’ Ruth said with scorn. ‘He’s just taken himself off for a rest somewhere. There could quite easily be someone else called Pierson sailing on the Kyrenia–or someone with a name very like Pierson, I don’t suppose you spelled it out for the clerk over the phone. You must remember Arnold’s father died only a couple of weeks ago, he was very attached to him–and to Zena–and then Sarah going off for a holiday, leaving him alone, it’s quite understandable, he simply felt he had to get away, have a break. He’ll be back before long, he’ll probably phone Owen in a day or two and apologize for not explaining matters. Owen will understand. You ought to understand too, you’re not a child any more, you’re old enough to control your imagination, to put it to work in more useful ways.’
Jane got to her feet and stood facing her stepmother. ‘But the cat—’ she persisted.
Ruth clicked her tongue in irritation. ‘The wretched cat had a fit,’ she said sharply. ‘It could have been suffering from one of a dozen different diseases, it was probably at its last gasp when you let it into the house.’ You knew about the cat, Jane thought suddenly, I told you about it. Panic began to wash through her brain. And Uncle Owen knew . . . and Father . . .
Ruth turned and walked to the door, she paused at the threshold. ‘I hope this is clearly understood. I absolutely forbid you to mention any of this rubbish to Owen or for that matter to anyone else.’ There was a brief pause. ‘Have you by any chance considered,’ she said in an altered tone, a shade friendlier, more intimate, ‘how all this would affect—�
�� She broke off and started again. ‘You must think of your father, he would be very upset if he knew what you’ve been saying.’ Again she paused. ‘Think about it. You’re an intelligent girl, you’ll understand.’ She went from the room and a moment later Jane heard the front door close behind her.
Jane remained by the table, biting her lip. If I think about it any more, she said to herself, I’ll do nothing, it will all fade away. And the Kyrenia sails tonight. She had a powerful impression that she must either do something within the next couple of minutes or put the whole thing from her for good. The one question that refused to be silenced danced before her brain; where was Sarah Pierson? She was gripped by the feeling that something terrible had either happened to Sarah or was about to happen to her and that it lay within her own power either to prevent it happening or to bring it to light if it had already taken place.
I can’t just forget it, she thought, shaking her head slowly. Whatever motives they’ll think I have for persisting, whoever might be involved, I must go on. Now that her mind was made up she felt calmer. She glanced at the clock, detachedly considering the times of buses. If I leave right away, she thought, I can just about catch the next one into town. It stops right outside the main police station. She walked swiftly and resolutely into the hall.
Detective-Inspector Venn put his head round the door of his office and called out to a passing constable. ‘Find Sergeant Cottrell, tell him I want to see him right away. He’s in one of the interview rooms.’ He closed the door and returned to his desk. ‘Just one small point.’ He gave Jane a fatherly smile. ‘Do you by any chance happen to know which hotel it was your uncle stayed at in Seahaven? The weekend he was away, when Mrs Yorke died? We like to have all these little details.’
‘Yes, I do know,’ Jane said. In his hurry to leave the hotel Owen had left his briefcase behind, he’d rung up to ask them to send it on, he’d used the phone at her father’s house, she’d heard him making the call. ‘The Cliff View Hotel.’
Venn made a note of the name. A highly-strung girl, he thought, a difficult position at that age, a new and beautiful stepmother in the house, could give rise to heaven knew what complications in a vulnerable personality. He would have liked to give her a friendly pat on the back, tell her to go off and enjoy herself with youngsters of her own age, take to writing short stories if she found everyday life lacking in excitement . . . but professional caution and ineradicable habit stayed his hand.
Just suppose, just for one moment suppose that there was some fragment of truth mixed up somewhere in all this ragbag. Suppose Sarah Pierson never came back from her holiday, suppose later on there were questions asked by adult voices, sharp official voices . . . and it came out that this child had sat in his office and asked him to do something and he’d patted her on the shoulder and told her to run away and play? He sighed. There was a knock at the door and Cottrell came in, flicking a glance from Venn to Jane.
‘This is Miss Jane Underwood,’ Venn said. ‘Sergeant Cottrell.’ He tilted his head back and looked at Cottrell. ‘Owen Yorke’s niece.’
Cottrell nodded. ‘Yes, I know your uncle,’ he said to Jane.
‘She’s a little worried about one or two things,’ Venn said smoothly. ‘She called in to ask my advice.’ He smiled at Jane. ‘Very sensible of you. I wonder, would you mind waiting outside for a little, while I have a word with Sergeant Cottrell? You’ll find a bench out there, I won’t keep you waiting very long.’
As soon as Cottrell had closed the door behind her Venn began to talk rapidly, standing up and pacing about the room. ‘I don’t know what you’re going to make of all this, I don’t know what I make of it myself. To put it in a nutshell that child has walked in here and more or less told me she believes her aunt–Zena Yorke–and Emily Bond–you remember, the old charwoman who died last week, open verdict–she believes both of them were murdered.’ He paused, waiting for Cottrell’s laughter.
But Cottrell didn’t laugh. He stood motionless, a slight frown on his face, staring up into his own thoughts. Then he said, ‘And who does she suggest murdered them?’
Venn flung himself down into his chair. ‘You don’t just dismiss the whole thing out of hand? You haven’t heard a single word of her reasons but you’re prepared to consider them?’ He sounded vastly incredulous.
‘I should be very interested to hear her reasons.’
‘Sit down,’ Venn said. ‘And pin your ears back.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘It’s a trifle complicated.’
Three or four cigarettes later Venn looked up from the transcript of the inquest evidence on Mrs Bond. ‘Only Emily’s fingerprints on the cup she drank the milk from.’ He frowned. ‘The suggestion is that Emily was murdered because she knew about the fact that Zena York drank–or is thought to have drunk–heavily doped milk. Now why would Arnold Pierson want to kill Zena Yorke?’
‘If he was fiddling the factory accounts,’ Cottrell said, ‘Zena might have found out about it. But why is the girl so certain it was Arnold? Apparently she related the story of the cat to her parents and Owen Yorke. Any one of them could have had a motive for killing Zena, I could invent you half-a-dozen motives myself, on the spot. And don’t forget Pierson saved Mrs Bond’s life that time, knocked her out of the way of the car. I can’t quite square that with going round to her cottage and murdering her.’ The accident, he thought, Owen Yorke’s car parked discreetly out of sight, Yorke coming down the steps from Mrs Fleming’s house, very anxious to remove himself from the scene. He felt a warning prickle along the back of his neck. ‘Where was Yorke the night his wife died?’ he asked.
‘He was away.’ Venn looked down at his notebook. ‘At the Cliff View hotel in Seahaven.’
‘It wouldn’t take long to get from Seahaven to Milbourne and back,’ Cottrell said. ‘Was he staying at the hotel alone?’
‘I did think of that,’ Venn said. He laid his hand on the phone. ‘And now I propose to find out.’ He put through a call to the Seahaven police, asked them to ring him back after they’d despatched a man to the hotel. ‘I don’t think we need the girl here any longer,’ he said when he had replaced the receiver. ‘Is there anything you want to ask her before I send her off home?’
Cottrell pondered for a moment and then shook his head. ‘I take it she won’t go running round the family telling them she’s been here?’
‘I’ll have a word with her. In any case the parents are both out at work, won’t be in till this evening. If we’re going to do anything about all this we’ll be well and truly started by then. Probably have to call round and see them then anyway. Ask her to come in, will you?’
When she was sitting opposite him again he gave her a warning about the need for discretion. ‘Just for the present, you understand. There may or may not be anything in all this but we’ll make a few enquiries. Either Sergeant Cottrell or myself will probably call round to your house later on this evening, so it isn’t really a question of asking you to keep things from your parents.’ He smiled at her. ‘Just that it might be better if you said nothing to anyone till we get in touch with you again.’
She nodded. ‘Yes, I understand. May I go now?’
‘Yes. And try not to worry. You did the right thing in coming to us. Even if it all turns out to be moonshine, you did the right thing, just remember that.’
In the doorway she paused, turned to look back at him. ‘Uncle Owen didn’t do it,’ she said. ‘Or—’ Then she wheeled round and plunged out of the room.
‘She thinks her father did it,’ Venn said when the sound of her steps had died away. ‘That’s why she’s so anxious to have it pinned on Pierson.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘I wonder how Zena left her money. I think I’ll have a word with Yorke’s solicitor. And Neil Underwood’s bank manager.’ Only six or seven banks in Milbourne, wouldn’t take long to discover which of them handled the account.
The phone rang on his desk, Seahaven with the result of their enquiries at the Cliff View Hotel. ‘Mm,’ Venn said with interest
as he listened. ‘That’s very useful, I’m much obliged.’ When he had rung off he tilted his chair back, linked his hands behind his head. ‘Yorke booked into the Cliff View by himself,’ he said in a lively tone. ‘But our man in Seahaven had the wit to run his eye over a couple of pages in the hotel register. And he observed that another person from Milbourne had registered in the hotel for that same weekend. Mrs Linda Fleming.’
Cottrell raised his eyebrows but said nothing. It’s beginning to slot together, he thought, it’s starting to jell. ‘Wouldn’t do any harm,’ Venn said almost gaily, ‘if I went round and had a word with Mrs Fleming.’ He let the legs of his chair bang down on the floor. ‘Probe around a little, see what I can discover.’ Then his eyes grew wary, he recalled Jane Underwood’s look of agitation, the hint of emotional instability. ‘Before we really get going,’ he said, ‘there is just one thing. How do we know there ever was a cat up at The Sycamores? We’ve only the girl’s word for it.’ A prominent citizen, Owen Yorke; and his brother-in-law of some account in official circles locally; have to tread very carefully, wouldn’t do to go blundering around. Always check your facts, he thought, question the basic assumptions.
‘We can get Quigley in,’ Cottrell said. ‘He was up at Mrs Bond’s cottage after she was found, he may have seen the cat.’
Quigley came up from the canteen where he had been snatching a cup of tea before going off duty. ‘A cat?’ he said in response to Venn’s questions, ‘no, I don’t remember any cat.’ He paused, shook his head. ‘No, quite definitely, there wasn’t any cat.’ Then he raised a hand. ‘Wait a minute, there was something–yes, that was it. Didn’t take much notice of it, but now you ask–there was a pile of tins of cat-food on a shelf. But no cat.’ He looked pleased at his own feat of memory.
‘All right,’ Venn said. ‘You can get off home.’ The door closed behind the constable. ‘At least it looks as if there was a cat,’ Venn said. ‘Ties in with the girl’s story about buying the tins, giving them to Mrs Bond.’ He stood up. ‘The Kyrenia sails at midnight. If we do decide we’re going to take a trip down to Southampton then we’d better make a start on a few enquiries. I’m going to have a word with Gethin, he’s in hospital with flu but I’m sure he’ll see me. I want to ask him why he didn’t consider it necessary to hold an inquest on Zena Yorke.’
