‘Tears?’ It was hard to imagine even a young Edith Hillyard in tears.
‘Some family problem, to do with her mother, and money. Or rather, lack of it.’
‘And?’
‘And that’s it, really. Except that wherever Miss Hillyard got her money, it couldn’t have been from her family, could it? She and her mother were actually quite poor – and yet, Edith went on to college.’
‘You said she was clever. Maybe she got a scholarship,’ he said, scholarships being at the forefront of his mind at the moment.
‘Maybe she did, at that, but it doesn’t mean it wouldn’t cost money. There would still be a lot to keep up with.’
As Miss Hillyard herself had reminded him a few hours ago, and now he understood why.
‘Where did the money come from, then?’
She spread her hands. ‘Well, her father had died when Edith was young and her mother came from a working-class family, somewhere near Stoke-on-Trent, I believe.’
‘Don’t tell me, let me guess. Her father’s wealthy family had disowned him because he’d married beneath him, but relented when he died and sent money to support Edith through college. Then one of them miraculously left her a bundle in their will.’
‘Chippers didn’t think so,’ she said severely. ‘Hillyard père was a failed musician who came to London to make his fortune, which never happened. And she felt certain there was no family money in the background.’
They fell silent. Ellen drank her tea and Reardon polished off the custard tart.
‘So it’s all still a bit of a mystery, but does it really concern anyone else? Is it actually relevant?’ she asked at last. ‘To who killed that poor woman?’
‘Why do you think I’m asking? Anything or anyone could be relevant, even Miss Hillyard.
‘Oh, come on, Bert, you can’t really suspect her. Why on earth would she do that, even if one could imagine such a thing happening?’
He had known equally unlikely suspects. And he had long since ceased to pin his faith on motive. True, when it came to murder, motive mostly came down to greed, anger or sex, but what could trigger it off, often something trifling and of no account to anyone but the murderer, remained a mystery. And yet, to think of Edith Hillyard pushing Isabelle Blanchard from a height, nailing up a door, covering her victim with that tarpaulin and leaving her to be found … no.
‘No, I don’t think that, Ellen. But there’s something that needs clearing up. There was some skulduggery going on between Phoebe Catherall and Isabelle Blanchard about taking up a teaching place here – which, according to Miss Hillyard’s account, she knew nothing about.’
‘Why would she? She need not necessarily have known, surely?’
‘Maybe not. But I’m mystified why she should employ so many unqualified teachers – Jocasta Keith, for one, and Phoebe Catherall for another, if what she gave her landlady to believe is correct. And the missing testimonials for Isabelle Blanchard seem to indicate she might not have been qualified either.’
‘There’s no reason why any of them should have been, you know. It’s a private school. Anyway, uncertificated doesn’t necessarily mean unqualified, or only officially. I’ve known excellent teachers who weren’t. And they might come cheaper.’
‘I suppose that could explain it.’
Ellen began gathering the cups and saucers tidily together. ‘You haven’t traced her yet then, this Miss Catherall?’
‘She’s disappeared into limbo. I’ve had Pickersgill out to Birmingham, talking to people at that picture place where she played the piano, but they knew nothing of her beyond working hours, and there’s no one else we can contact. Mrs Cooper was right when she said she kept herself to herself, it seems. I suppose she’ll turn up when we least expect it.’
He hoped that would not turn out to be as nastily prophetic as it sounded. Each time her name was mentioned brought another niggle of unease. ‘Look, I’m ready to pack it in for tonight. Why don’t we go home?’
As they left the room he said, ‘Miss Hillyard’s mother – did you say Stoke-on-Trent?’
TEN
‘You look chuffed with yourself,’ Reardon remarked as Gilmour came into his office at Market Street the following morning, waving a sheet of lined notepaper.
‘As well I might. I bring glad tidings. We’ve had a break-through, from Woodman’s, the taxi firm. You know Gravy didn’t find anyone there who remembered taking a fare to Maxstead Court – but now, here’s this bloke who’s been off sick because he’s had an accident and only just heard yesterday that we were making enquiries. Yes, I know, Gravy should have asked if they had any drivers off sick who might have remembered … but anyway, this chap hasn’t got a telephone, and couldn’t get out to post the letter, but he gave it to the milkman this morning and asked him to deliver it to us.’
‘The milkman? Enterprise isn’t yet dead, then.’ It didn’t take Reardon long to read the few lines of the letter. ‘It doesn’t say where he picked his fare up.’
‘Doesn’t say much at all, does it? He lives out at Little Sidding and I’m off to see him now. Unless you want me at Maxstead with you?’
‘I think I can cope with talking to a few schoolgirls,’ Reardon answered, with more certainty than he felt, given the negative results so far, and what he had heard of the Myerson girl. ‘They may be a bit more amenable now they’ve had time for a think. Take Gravy with you, then, and I’ll have Pickersgill with me. I’ll see you both later.’
It had taken Josie a few minutes to recognize where she was when she woke that morning – alone in a bright, comfortable little room, nothing but the bedside locker and a chair, a washbasin and a small bookcase filled with books you’d like to read when you were feeling better. Of course, that was it: she was in the sick bay. She lay listening to a little clock on the wall that had a loud, self-important tick, then saw what time it was. She had slept most of one day, and then again through the night!
It all began to come back to her. All those horrible things. Then being brought here and put to bed, and Matron, who was usually so bossy, being really nice to her, tucking her up every time she wakened for a few minutes, and promising to give her a lovely, special breakfast on a tray today. And the policeman who had been there yesterday and who was coming back this morning and would want to know everything, which she simply couldn’t tell him.
Oh Jiminy, no, she couldn’t, she didn’t even want to think about it, it was all too hideous, but even though she lay back against the pillows and closed her eyes, willing herself not to go over it all again, she knew she never would be able to forget what had happened. It rushed at her like a big savage dog and dragged her back into the darkness, and she was living the night before last all over again.
When they were sure all the rest of the school must be asleep, Josie had tried to let herself out of the pantry window. Their bedroom window only overlooked the rubbly old Quad, but it was high up and there was no drainpipe nearby, or any other way of climbing down. So the pantry window on the ground floor it had to be, but her shoe bag, stuffed as far as it would go into her pocket, made a big enough lump to prevent her from squeezing through. She yanked it free and threw it out on to the ground, but even then, getting through the window was a tight fit, though she was small for her age and agile. That was the reason she’d been picked to do this, she kept telling herself, though she knew really it was because Avis had decided she should be the one, in spite of her objections to the plan. At last she was able to wriggle herself free and dropped to the ground, grazing her knee painfully and tearing the leg of her pyjamas as she did so, meaning they would not only be filthy and probably have some blood on them from her scraped knee and she’d have to account for all that somehow to Matron, meaning a black mark. Picking her shoe bag up, she ran towards the east wing, stopping for a second to turn and wave to the others watching through their window upstairs that the coast was clear, forgetting she hadn’t stuffed the bag back into her pocket and it was still in her hand.
It waved like a white flag in the dark.
Her heart jerked, as much with fear as with running so fast. If anyone else had seen … Almost, she turned and ran back, but she could imagine the scorn she’d have to face, and forced herself to run round to the east wing’s back door. She’d just known she would end up being the one to do this, in spite of saying she wouldn’t. She didn’t want the others to think her scared stiff.
Though she was. So scared she was sweating under her navy gabardine raincoat, which was the best disguise to cover her pyjamas she’d been able to think of. Her palms were slippery, her heart was banging. Was she going to have a heart attack and die, like Grandpa last year?
‘You’re in a funk, aren’t you?’ Nancy Waring had kept prodding spitefully, when she was getting ready, her little black eyes snapping behind her specs.
The answer was yes. More so than anyone could guess. But to say it aloud in front of the other Elites wasn’t an option.
‘You go, then,’ she’d retorted, but Nancy had known she was on safe ground there. She was skinny, but she had big bones and was far too gawky to get through that small window.
Slipping out at night had been the only time to get into the east wing because the police were all over the place during the day. It still hadn’t been easy, though she was lucky that she and the other two shared a room, so no one else needed to know.
Before, on their nocturnal expeditions, it had been easy, and they’d never been found out, but this was different. In the normal routines of the school it was the duty of the teacher who was responsible that day to see that all the doors were securely locked, so that no unauthorized person could enter the school, but all the same, the huge iron keys were always left in the locks, day and night. That was supposed to be in case of fire, and the necessity for a quick exit, so that although the school was protected from intruders, no one would ever be in danger of being imprisoned inside without the means of getting out. But someone had evidently been having second thoughts about safety procedures; since yesterday, when the whole school had been abuzz with that awful news, all keys had been removed.
When she thought of the terrible thing that had happened to Mam’selle, especially where she had been found – and everything else – Josie’s heart jumped into her mouth in terror, and panic almost made her turn back. Miss Hillyard had informed the whole school of what had happened and they had been strictly warned not to talk about it, but of course everyone had been whispering in corners ever since. Avis had said the police went away every night, though she couldn’t really have known that was so. What she would do if they had left a policeman on guard after all and he came round the corner and found her? She crossed her fingers and took another step towards the oak door with its heavy iron ring. A hand gripped her shoulder and she uttered a choked, terrified yelp.
Petrified with fear, for a moment she literally could not move, her insides turning to water, but somehow she found the strength to break free and make a run for it. She had barely taken a stride before she was grabbed by the belt of her gabardine and yanked back. She managed somehow to twist round to face her captor and, when she saw who it was, she couldn’t believe it. The last of her courage slipped away like water through a sieve.
And now it was all going to come out. She was going to have to go over it all again, repeat what had happened, and they would make her tell them why she had gone there at all. The big policeman hadn’t questioned her yesterday, just listened to the others trying to make her talk. He was really quite nice, a bit like her father, and quite handsome if you didn’t look at the scar on one side of his face. But he was the new French teacher’s husband, which wasn’t so nice. Teachers had a way of making you confess, and policemen must surely be worse.
Vic Wetherby’s house was one in a row of four identical cottages built on the roadside just before you arrived in Little Sidding, with the village itself still half a mile away. They might once have been tied cottages, originally built for the workers at the farm whose roofs could just be seen at some distance. But though identical, each cottage had its paintwork, normally a standard, serviceable dark brown for this sort of house, done in a different colour, a sure sign that the farmer had been forced to sell them off to different owners. It was highly unlikely that the original occupiers, farm workers, would have had the money to buy them, even as sitting tenants. But whoever owned them or rented them now, Gilmour liked the non-conforming colour schemes. It gave him some hope that all individuality was not yet dead.
They had to wait some time for an answer to their knock, the reason being apparent when it was eventually opened by the man they’d come to see. He was balding, middle-aged to elderly, with a pink face, at present screwed up with effort, a bit corpulent, and could only walk slowly, and with the aid of a stick. The result of an accident, he told them, that had kept him off work for several weeks.
‘Twenty-fourth of April, few days after Easter when I picked her up,’ he said promptly, after showing them into his front room and letting himself down into his armchair with a thump and a sigh of relief. ‘I can tell you the exact date, ’cause it were the last job I did. Fell off the bloody ladder next day. Off me head, I must’ve been, climbing ladders, according to our Gertie, and I dare say she might not be wrong, but it’s hard to admit you’re not as spry as you was at one time. Been off sick since then; things didn’t go as easy as they should have, and I’ve lost me job an’ all.’
‘That’s hard lines,’ Gilmour sympathized.
‘Well, that’s how it is. Ernie Woodman isn’t a charity, not likely. What do you want to know?’
‘Let’s make certain we’re talking about the same woman you mentioned in your letter, for a start – for which thanks, by the way. What did she look like?’
‘Very smart, though she didn’t have no hat on and it was blowing like the clappers. That’s how I remembered her, particular – you can’t hardly miss hair that colour, can you? Nothing personal,’ he added, looking at Gilmour, but Gilmour was used to it. ‘She wanted to go out to that school over to Maxstead. Very nice and polite she was, but she just sat quiet in the back. I tried to make conversation with her, but she didn’t want to talk. Some do and some don’t. And she gave me a good tip when I dropped her.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Eightish when I picked her up, if I remember right. They could have told you that at Woodman’s. She’d booked earlier on.’
‘They didn’t remember her. They might have done if we could have given them more to go on. Seems quite a few trips out to the school were made around that time, though.’
Wetherby nodded. ‘Easter holidays, see. There’s a lot of to-ing and fro-ing between the station and Maxstead round about then, parents taking the kids home and bringing them back. No reason to remember anybody in particular. It was only when my mate Ron said you was looking for somebody with red hair I remembered her meself – and with it still being the school holidays, and that time of night an’ all.’ He reached towards the packet of Woodbine’s on a table, hesitated, but decided against them. ‘One thing I did think was funny. She asked to be dropped at the school gates, told me not to bother getting out. Them big heavy gates, see, they leave ’em open when they’re expecting deliveries, or guests, otherwise you got to do it yourself, or if you’re on foot, there’s a side gate. Used to be a gatekeeper lived in the lodge, but all that’s long gone. She didn’t want me to take her right up to the house, although it were a wild night and it’s a long drive. But if that was what she wanted.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s where I left her, by the gates.’
‘You know why we’re asking about her, Mr Wetherby?’
‘I do, poor wench. She’s been murdered, Ron told me. I hear it’s been in the Herald, but I’ve only just got back home and haven’t had time to catch up with the papers yet.’ He waved to a stack of newspapers piled at one end of the sofa.
It had of course got into the papers by now. The editor of the local, the Herald, had gone to town on the news
and Folbury was humming. It had also received a mention in one or two of the nationals, but it wasn’t big enough for them to make headlines. Gilmour wondered how long it could stay that way. ‘And you picked her up from where, Mr Wetherby?’
He named Melia Street, in a run-down area of Folbury both policemen recognized. ‘Funny thing, though,’ he went on. ‘I was told to pick her up round the corner, in the lane round the back of the house, not at the front door. So I can’t give you the house number. I doubt you’ll need it though.’ He laughed, but didn’t explain.
Making the constant trek between Maxstead and Folbury was tedious, but the enquiry couldn’t be wholly conducted from Folbury, and Maxstead was where it was centred. It gave Reardon excuses to use his motorbike whenever he could, though he was beginning to use it less and less since he and Ellen had bought the car. It was understood between them that she was to have the Morris when she needed it, though. He was thought eccentric (and not only by Ellen), and so he was, when it came to his BSA. He didn’t much mind. He liked to imagine it kept him in touch with his younger self, even if he didn’t roar along like an Isle of Man TT competitor, but kept it (mostly) at a speed more in keeping with advancing years, as Gilmour kindly put it. Today, since Gilmour had the police car to visit that taxi-driver, was a good chance to use the bike. He took an elated Pickersgill along with him, riding pillion.
He had a lot of time for this latest recruit. Dave Pickersgill had once, when he’d still been one of the dreaded Inspector Waterhouse’s uniformed constables, nearly come a cropper over a young woman reporter at the Herald. Now, Reardon having rescued him from Waterhouse, and as a newly fledged detective, he was watching his step, but learning fast.
The Property of Lies Page 14
