[Wexford 01] From Doon & Death

by Ruth Rendell

Burden drove his own car into Stowerton and pulled into the forecourt of Missal's saleroom. A man in overalls came out from the glass-walled office between the rows of petrol-pumps.

  Two and two shots, please,' Burden said. 'Mr Missal about?'

  ‘He's out with a client'

  That’s a pity,' Burden said. 'I looked in on Tuesday afternoon and he wasn't here...'

  'Always in and out he is. In and out. ‘I’ll just give your windscreen a wipe over.'

  'Maybe Mrs Missal?'

  Haven't seen her inside three months; Back in March was the last time. She come in to lend the Merc and bashed the grid in. Women drivers!'

  'Had a row, did they? That sounds like Pete.'

  'You're not joking. He said, never again. Not the Merc or any of the cars’

  'Well, well’ Burden said. He gave the man a shilling; more would have looked suspicious. 'Marriage is a battlefield when all's said and done.'

  ‘I’ll tell him you came in.'

  Burden switched on the ignition and put the car in gear.

  'Don't trouble’ he said. ‘I’m seeing him tonight’

  He drove towards the exit and braked sharply to avoid a yellow convertible that swung sharply in from Maryfield Road. An elderly man was at the wheel; beside him, Peter Missal.

  There he is, if you want to catch him’ the pump attendant shouted.

  Burden parked his own car and pushed open the swing doors. He waited beside a Mini-car revolving smoothly on a scarlet roundabout. Outside he could see Missal talking to the driver of the convertible. Apparently the deal was off, for the other man left on foot and Missal came into the saleroom.

  'What now?' he said to Burden. ‘I don't like being hounded at my place of business’

  ‘I won't keep you’ Burden said. ‘I’m just checking up on Tuesday afternoon. No doubt you were here all day. In and out, that is.'

  If s no business of yours where I was’ Missal flicked a speck of dust from the Mini's wing as it circled past. 'As a matter of fact I went into Kingsmarkham to see a client. And that’s all I'm telling you. I respect personal privacy and if s a pity you don't do the same’

  In a murder case, sir, one's private life isn't always one's own affair. Your wife doesn't seem to have grasped that either’ He went towards the doors.

  'My wife.. ‘ Missal followed him and, looking to either side of him to make sure there was no one about, hissed in an angry half-whisper: 'You can take that heap of scrap metal off my drive-in. If s causing an obstruction’

  Chapter 6

  Who was her father?

  Who was her mother?

  Had she a sister?

  Had she a brother?

  Or, was there a dearer one

  Still, and a nearer one

  Yet, than all other?

  Thomas Hood,

  The Bridge of Sighs

  The murder books had been taken away and the top shelf of the bookcase was empty. If Parsons was innocent, a truly bereaved husband. Burden thought, how dreadfully their covers must have screamed at him when he came into the shabby dining-room this morning. Or had he removed them because they had served their purpose?

  'Chief Inspector’ Parsons said, ‘I must know. Was she... ? Had she... ? Was she just strangled or was there anything else?' He had aged in the past days or else he was a consummate actor.

  'You can set your mind at rest on that score’ Wexford said quickly. 'Your wife was certainly strangled, but I can assure you she wasn't interfered with in any other way’ He stared at the dull green curtains, the lino that was frayed at the skirting board, and said impersonally, "There was no sexual assault.'

  "Thank God!' Parsons spoke as if he thought there was still a God in some nonconformist heaven and as if he was really thanking Him. ‘I couldn't bear it if there had been. I couldn't go on living. It would just about have killed Margaret' He realized what he had said and put his head in his hands.

  Wexford waited until the hands came down and the tearless eyes were once more fixed on his own.

  'Mr Parsons, I can tell you that as far as we know mere was no struggle. It looks as if your wife was sleeping until just before she was killed. There would have been just a momentary shock, a second's pain -and then nothing.'

  Parson's mumbled, turning away his face so that they could catch only the last words,'... For though they be punished in the sight of man, yet is their hope full of immortality.'

  Wexford got up and went over to the bookcase. He didn't say anything about the missing library of crime, but he took a book out of one of the lower shelves.

  ‘I see this is a guide to the Kingsmarkham district.' He opened it and Burden glimpsed a coloured photograph of the market place. 'It isn't a new book.'

  'My wife lived here - well, not here. In Flagford it was - for a couple of years after the end of the war. Her uncle was stationed with the R.A.F. at Flagford and her aunt had a cottage in the village.'

  Tell me about your wife's life.'

  'She was born in Balham’ Parsons said. He winced, avoiding the Christian name. 'Her mother and father died when she was a child and she went to live with this aunt. When she was about sixteen she came to live in Flagford, but she didn't like it Her uncle died - he wasn't killed or anything - he died of heart disease, and her aunt went back to

  Balham. My wife went to college in London and started teaching. Then we got married. That's all.'

  'Mr Parsons, you told me on Wednesday your wife would have taken her front-door key with her. How many keys did you have between you?'

  ‘Just the two.' Parsons took a plain Yale key from his pocket and held it up to Wexford. 'Mine and -and Margaret's. She kept hers on a ring. The ring has a silver chain with a horseshoe charm on the end of it' He added simply in a calm voice: ‘I gave it to her when we came here. The purse is a brown one, brown plastic with a gilt clip.'

  ‘I want to know if your wife was in the habit of going to Prewett’ s farm. Did you know the Prewetts or any of the farm workers? There's a girl there called Dorothy Sweeting. Did your wife ever mention her?'

  But Parsons had never even heard of the farm until his wife's body had been found there. She hadn't cared much for the country or for country walks and the name Sweeting meant nothing.

  ‘I)o you know anyone called Missal?'

  'Missal? No, I don't think so.'

  'A tall good-looking woman with red hair. Lives in a house opposite The Olive and Dove. Her husband's a car dealer. Big bloke with a big green car.'

  'We don't ... we didn't know anyone like that' His face twisted and he put up a hand to hide his eyes. They're a lot of snobs round here. We didn't belong and we should never have come.' His voice died to a whisper. If we'd stayed in London,' he said, 'she might still be alive.'

  'Why did you come, Mr Parsons?'

  If s cheaper living in the country, or you think if s cheaper till you try it'

  'So your coming here didn't have anything to do with the fact that your wife once lived in Flagford?'

  'Margaret didn't want to come here, but the job came up. Beggars can't be choosers. She had to Work when we were in London. I thought she'd find some peace here’ He coughed and the sound tailed away into a sob. 'And she did, didn't she?'

  ‘I believe there are some books in your attic, Mr Parsons. I'd like to have a good look through them’

  'You can have them,' Parsons said. 'I never want to see another book as long as I live. But there's nothing in them. She never looked at them’

  The dark staircases were familiar now and with familiarity they had lost much of that sinister quality Burden had felt on his first visit. The sun showed up the new dust and in its gentle light the house seemed no longer like the scene of a crime but just a shabby relic. It was very close and Wexford opened the attic window. He blew a film of dust from the surface of the bigger trunk and opened its lid. It was crammed with books and he took the top ones out. They were novels: two by Rhoda Broughton, Evelina in the Everyman's Library and Mrs Craik's Jo
hn Halifax, Gentleman. Their fly-leaves were bare and nothing fluttered from the pages when he shook them. Underneath were two bundles of school stories, among them what looked like the complete works of Angela Brazil. Wexford dumped them on the floor and lifted out a stack of expensive-looking volumes, some bound in suede, others in scented leather or watered silk.

  The first one he opened was covered in pale green suede, its pages edged with gold. On the fly-leaf someone had printed carefully in ink:

  If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf, Our lives would grow together In sad or singing weather...

  And underneath:

  Rather sentimental, Minna, but you know what I mean. Happy, happy birthday. All my love, Doon. March 21st, 1950.

  Burden looked over Wexford's shoulder. 'Who's Minna?'

  'Well have to ask Parsons’ Wexford said. 'Could be second-hand. It looks expensive. I wonder why she didn't keep it downstairs. God knows, this place. needs brightening up.'

  'And who's Doon?' Burden asked.

  'You're supposed to be a detective. Well, detect.' He put the book on the floor and picked up the next one. This was the Oxford Book of Victorian Verse, still in its black and pearl-grey jacket, and Doon had printed another message inside. Wexford read it aloud in an unemotional voice.

  'I know you have set your heart on this, Minna, and I was so happy when I went to Foyle's and found it waiting for me. Joyeux Noel, Doon, Christmas, 1950’

  The next book was even more splendid, red watered silk and black leather. 'Let’s have a look at number three,' Wexford said. "The Poems of Christina Rossetti. Very nice, gilt lettering and all. What’ s Doon got to say this time? An un-birthday present, Minna dear, from Doon who wishes you happy for ever and ever. June 1950. I wonder if Mrs P. bought the lot cheap from this Minna.'

  ‘I suppose Minna could be Mrs P., a sort of nickname.'

  It had just crossed my mind,' Wexford said sarcastically. They're such good books, Mike, not the sort of things anyone would give to a church sale, and church sales seem to have been about Mrs Parsons' mark. Look at this lot Omar Khayyam; Whitman’s Leaves of Grass; William Morris. Unless ‘I’m much mistaken that Omar Khayyam cost three or four pounds. And there's another one here, the Verses of Walter Savage Landor. If s an old-fashioned kind of book and the leaves haven't even been cut' He read the message on the fly-leaf aloud:

  I promise to bring back with me

  What thou with transport will receive.

  The only proper gift far thee.

  Of which no mortal shall bereave.

  'Rather apt, don't you think, Minna? Love from Doon. March 21st, 1951’

  It wasn't very apt, was it? And Minna, whoever she is, didn't receive it with transport. She didn't even cut the pages. I'm going to have another word with Parsons, Mike, and then we're going to have all this lot carted down to the station. This attic is giving me the creeps.'

  But Parsons didn't know who Minna was and he looked surprised when Wexford mentioned the date, March 21st.

  ‘I never heard anyone call her Minna,' he said distastefully, as if the name was an insult to her memory. ‘My wife never spoke about a friend called Doon. I've never even seen those books properly. Margaret and I lived in the house her aunt left her till we moved here and those books have always been in the trunk. We just brought them with us with the furniture. I can't make it out about the date -Margaret's birthday was March 21st'

  It could mean nothing, it could mean everything,' Wexford said when they were out in the car. ‘Doon talks about Foyle's, and Foyle's, in case you don't know, my provincial friend, is in London in the Charing Cross Road’

  'But Mrs P. was sixteen in 1949 and she stayed two years in Flagford. She must have been living only about five miles from here when Doon gave her those books.'

  True. He could have lived here too and gone up to London for the day. I wonder why he printed the messages, Mike. Why didn't he write them? And why did Mrs P. hide the books as if she was ashamed of them?'

  They'd make a better impression on the casual caller than The Brides in the Bath or whatever it is,' Burden said. "This Doon was certainly gone on her.'

  Wexford took Mrs Parsons' photograph out of his pocket. Incredible that this woman had ever inspired a passion or fired a line of verse!

  'Happy for ever and ever,' he said softly. 'But love isn't what the rose is. I wonder if love could be a dark and tangled wood, a cord twisted and pulled tighter on a meek neck?'

  'A cord?' Burden said. 'Why not a scarf, that pink nylon thing? If s not in the house.'

  'Could be. You can bet your life that scarf is with the purse and the key. Plenty of women have been strangled with a nylon stocking, Mike. Why not a nylon scarf?'

  He had brought the Swinburne and the Christina Rossetti with him. It wasn't much to go on. Burden reflected, a bundle of old books and an elusive boy. Doon, he thought, Doon. If Minna was anything to go by Doon was bound to be a pseudonym too. Doon wouldn't be a boy any more but a man of thirty or thirty-five, a married man with children, perhaps, who had forgotten all about his old love. Burden wondered where Doon was now. Lost, absorbed perhaps into the great labyrinth of London, or still living a mile or two away... His heart sank when he recalled the new factory estate at Stowerton, the mazy lanes of Pomfret with a solitary cottage every two hundred yards, and to the norm, Sewingbury, where road after road of post-war detached houses pushed outwards like rays from the nucleus of the ancient town. Apart from these, there was Kingmarkham itself and the daughter villages, Flagford, Forby...

  ‘I don't suppose that Missal bloke could be Doon’ he said hopefully.

  If he is’ Wexford said; lie's changed one hell of a lot’

  The river of my years has been sluggish, Minna, flowing slowly to a sea of peace. Ah, long ago how -I yearned for the torrent of life!

  Then yesternight, yestere'en, Minna, I saw you. Not as I have so often in my dreams, but in life. I followed you, looking for lilies where you trod ... I saw the gold band on your finger, the shackle of an importunate love, and I cried aloud in my heart, I, I, too have known the terrors of the night!

  But withal my feast has ever been the feast of the spirit and to that other dweller in my gates my flesh has been as an unlit candle in a fast-sealed casket. The light in my soul has guttered, shrinking in the harsh wind. But though the casket be atrophied and the flame past resuscitation, yet the wick of the spirit cries, hungering for the hand that holds the taper of companionship, the torch of sweet confidence, the spark of friends reunited.

  I shall see you tomorrow and we shall ride together along the silver streets of our youth. Fear not, for reason shall sit upon my bridle and gentle moderation within my reins. Will all not be well, Minna, will all not be pleasant as the warm sun on the faces of little children?

  Chapter 7

  When she shall unwind

  All those wiles she wound about me...

  Francis Thompson,

  The Mistress of Vision

  A black Jaguar, not new but well tended, was parked outside the Missals' house when Wexford and Burden turned in at the gate at seven o'clock. The wheels only were soiled, their hub-caps spattered with dried mud.

  ‘I know that car,' Wexford said. ‘I know it but I can't place it Must be getting old.'

  ‘Friends for cocktails’ Burden said sententiously.

  ‘I could do with a spot of gracious living myself’ Wexford grumbled. He rang the ship's bell.

  Perhaps Mrs Missal had forgotten they were coming or Inge hadn't been primed. She looked surprised yet spitefully pleased, like her employer's, her hair was done up on top of her head, but with less success. In her left hand she held a canister of paprika.

  'All are in,' she said. Two come for dinner. What a man! I tell you it is a waste to have men like him buried in the English countryside. Mrs Missal say, "Inge, you must make lasagna." All will be Italian, paprika, pasta, pimentoes ... Ach, it is just a game!' 'All right. Miss Wolff. We'd like to see Mrs
Missal’ ‘I show you.' She giggled, opened the drawingroom door and announced with some serendipity, 'Here are the policemen!'

  Four people were sitting in the flowered armchairs and there were four glasses of pale dry sherry on the coffee-table. For a moment nobody moved or said anything, but Helen Missal flushed deeply. Then she turned to the man who sat between her and her husband, parted her lips and closed them again.

  So that’s the character Inge was going on about in the hall. Burden thought Quadrant! No wonder Wexford recognized the car.

  'Good evening, Mr Quadrant,' Wexford said, indicating by a slight edge to his voice that he was surprised to see him in this company.

  'Good evening. Chief Inspector, Inspector Burden.'

  Burden had long known him as a solicitor he often saw in Kingsmarkham magistrates' court, long known and inexplicably disliked. He nodded to Quadrant and to the woman, presumably Quadrant's wife, who occupied the fourth armchair. They were somewhat alike, these two, both thin and dark with straight noses and curved red lips. Quadrant had the features of a grandee in an El Greco portrait, a grandee or a monk, but as far as Burden knew he was an Englishman. The Latin lips might have first drawn breath in a Cornish town and Quadrant be the descendant of an Armada mariner. His wife was beautifully dressed with the careless elegance of the very rich. Burden thought she made Helen Missal's blue shift look like something from a chain-store sale. Her fingers were heavily beringed, vulgarly so, if the stones were false, but Burden didn't think they were false.

  'I'm afraid we're intruding again, sir,' Wexford said to Missal, his eyes lingering on Quadrant 'I'd just like to have a talk with your wife, if you don't mind.'

  Missal stood up, his face working with impotent rage. In his light-weight silver-grey suit he looked fatter than ever. Then Quadrant did a strange thing. He took a cigarette out of the box on the table, put it in his mouth and lit the cork tip. Fascinated, Burden watched him choke and drop the cigarette into an ashtray.

  ‘I’m sick and tired of all this’ Missal shouted. 'We can't even have a quiet evening with our friends without being hounded. I'm sick of it My wife has given you her explanation and that ought to be enough.'