The Gospel Makers

by Anthea Fraser

  Fleming nodded gloomily. ‘Well, don’t drag your feet on this one,’ he said in dismissal. ‘Top brass are getting restive; they’re looking for a quick result.’

  Then perhaps, Webb thought acidly as he took his leave, they’d be good enough to tell him how to achieve it.

  *

  ‘I don’t know what’s got into Miss Dilys,’ Peggy Davis commented to her husband when she returned to the kitchen with her employer’s supper dishes.

  ‘She’s sitting at the table staring into space, and her plate scarcely touched.’

  ‘Well, she’s in the middle of a book, isn’t she?’ Bob returned without looking up from the racing results. From long experience, that simple fact explained a multitude of things.

  ‘But she’s not getting on with it, is she? She just moons about looking out of the window and wandering round the room. I’ve seen her from the garden, when I’ve been hanging out the washing. As for that writer’s block, as she calls it, when she went to the library on Monday I thought she was over it.’

  ‘It’s my opinion the nanny and baby are unsettling her,’ Bob pronounced, relighting his pipe. His wife paused in her act of scraping the uneaten food into the bin.

  ‘You might be right, at that. There’s no doubt she’s taken against Nanny Sarah for some reason. I can’t think why; she’s quiet enough, goodness knows, not a bit of trouble. And Seb’s an angelic baby. I wasn’t looking forward to them coming, that I do admit, but I’ll be quite sorry when they go.’

  ‘Well, I reckon Miss Dilys won’t, and no more will I. Might have a bit of peace in the evenings, without you jumping up and down like a shuttlecock to check on the baby because that girl’s out again. Hardly ever in, if you ask me. I reckon you should be getting a quarter of her wages, minding it nearly every night.’

  ‘Go on with you!’ Peggy said, but she smiled shamefacedly and added after a moment, ‘You don’t really mind, do you, Bob? Me being a bit taken up with the baby?’

  He reached up and caught her hand as she passed. ‘Lord love you no, that was only my fun. If you want to spend your time gurgling and cooing over the young ‘un, you go straight ahead, girl! No skin off my nose.’ And, giving her hand a little squeeze, he returned to his paper.

  Christina said suddenly into the darkness, ‘I know who she was!’

  Edward stirred sleepily. ‘What?’

  ‘The woman I saw in King Street yesterday. It’s been niggling at me ever since. She’s the one who was with that man at the King’s Head.’

  Edward came fully awake. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Positive. I should have realized before.’

  ‘It could be important, then.’

  ‘Yes; I’ll ring the police in the morning.’ She gave a little shiver. ‘What’s happening to us, Edward? First the murder, and now these awful people turning Stephie against us.’

  He slid an arm under her shoulders and drew her close. ‘It’s just a bad spell we’re going through, sweetheart. We’ll come through it all right, as long as we have each other.’

  But for the first time he wondered uneasily if that was, after all, quite enough.

  *

  The phone sounded and Webb reached for it, glad of the interruption.

  ‘Chief Inspector? It’s Christina French. I thought you’d like to know that I saw that woman on Tuesday — the one who left the bar with the man who was murdered.’

  Webb tensed, leaning forward. ‘On Tuesday?’ he repeated sharply. Two days ago; why the hell —?

  ‘Yes; I’m sorry for the delay, but I couldn’t remember where I’d seen her. It only came to me in bed last night.’

  ‘Go on, Mrs French.’

  ‘Well, that’s it, really.’ She sounded slightly deflated. ‘She crossed the road immediately in front of me, pushing a pram.’

  ‘You’re sure it’s the same woman?’

  ‘Positive. I recognized her at once, though as I said, it took me some time to place her.’

  ‘Can you describe her for me?’

  ‘Early to mid-thirties, quite tall, straight figure, wearing a tailored grey coat. No hat. Mid-brown hair, caught back with a tortoiseshell clip. Pale face. That’s about it.’

  ‘Excellent. I wish all witnesses were as precise. And the pram?’

  ‘One of the high, old-fashioned kind Silver Cross, I think. White, with a black hood.’

  ‘Could you see the baby?’

  ‘I was concentrating on the woman, but it must have been several months old, because it was sitting up.’

  ‘And where exactly was this?’

  ‘At the pedestrian crossing in King Street.’

  ‘Which way was she walking?’

  ‘Towards Westgate.’

  ‘The time?’

  ‘Just before ten-thirty; I was on my way to an appointment.’

  ‘Well, that’s very good news. The size of the pram seems to indicate that she’s local — she couldn’t have come in a car, for instance. No sign of the man waiting further up the road?’

  ‘I didn’t see him.’

  ‘I’m much obliged to you, Mrs French. Thanks for phoning — we’ll be in touch.’

  He slammed the phone down and shouted through the open office door, ‘Ken, Bob, Harry — in here at the double!’

  The three detective sergeants arrived within seconds, slightly out of breath.

  ‘A positive sighting of the woman suspect at last.’ Webb reeled off the particulars Christina French had just given him.

  ‘Bob, get on to all the Pram Clubs, Young Wives’ Groups, crèches, clinics, etc., and see if they recognize the description. If you don’t have any luck, move on to doctors’ surgeries and, if necessary, maternity units at local hospitals. The birth could have been anything from three to twelve months ago. Get a handful of DCs to help you.

  ‘Harry, organize a team to cover all the shops in King Street with the same description, particularly chemists and those selling baby clothes or toiletries. This could be the break we’re waiting for, lads. If she’s still around, she must live locally and, contrary to how it’s seemed so far, someone must know who she is. On your bikes!’

  The two sergeants hurried off, leaving only Ken Jackson awaiting orders.

  ‘And you and I, Ken,’ Webb finished, getting up from his desk, ‘are going back to the King’s Head. Armed with that description, we’ll interview all the staff again, and as many of the guests from last week as we can track down. She doesn’t look like your normal bar customer and someone might have noticed her. Apart from the conference delegates, I imagine much the same crowd goes there every lunch-time. Perhaps at last we can jog someone’s memory.’

  *

  Hannah sat at her dressing-table brushing her hair and wishing she could summon up a little more enthusiasm for the evening ahead. The Frenches were sure to be there, which, if they were still sulking after last week’s interview, could be awkward. Lord knows, she hadn’t wanted to antagonize them, but for Stephanie’s sake plain speaking had been essential.

  She was also apprehensive of Charles’s attitude. Though she’d assured David any closeness between them was in the past, there had been occasions, some quite recent, when, turning suddenly, she had caught Charles looking at her in a way that left no doubt about his feelings for her. All in all, she heartily wished she had declined his invitation.

  The doorbell rang, and she gave her reflection in the mirror a rueful smile. Such misgivings were far too late; the evening was about to begin.

  The entrance to the Golf Club was directly opposite Hassocks, and Hannah glanced at its lighted windows as Charles slowed down, remembering that the self-contained young woman who was staying there knew Miss Hendrix.

  Had she been more approachable, Hannah might have enlisted her help.

  Then the car turned into the gateway, Hassocks was behind them, and Hannah put her concerns behind her as well, determined not to allow any nebulous worries to spoil her evening.

  The clubhouse was an imposing
building, single-storeyed but with high, raftered ceilings and panelled walls. As they walked through the door into the lounge hall, they were immediately caught up in the social chat and laughter of a group of people determined to enjoy themselves.

  Charles excused himself to fight his way to the bar, and Hannah looked about her, recognizing several faces among the crowd. Then she heard her name called, and turned to see the Templetons approaching.

  They were a charming couple, Hannah thought, as she smiled a greeting: John so tall and straight with his thick grey hair and gentle, reassuring manner; Beatrice — Gwen’s elder sister — rounded and still pretty, with Gwen’s large, vulnerable brown eyes.

  ‘Hannah, dear, how nice!’ she said now, leaning forward to exchange kisses. ‘I’m so pleased we’re sitting together. Have you heard from Gwen recently?’

  ‘Last week, yes. She’s having a wonderful time.’

  ‘And how about you? Coping all right?’

  ‘We’ve had our moments, as John might have mentioned.’

  ‘My dear, John never mentions anything. Discretion itself — most frustrating!’

  Charles joined them, handing Hannah her glass. ‘Greetings, everyone. Have you studied the seating plan?’

  ‘Yes, we’re on table eleven.’

  ‘Who’s with us?’

  ‘The Donaldsons, the Perrys and the Frenches, if I remember correctly.’

  Murphy’s Law, Hannah thought with resignation. She was confident, though, that the Frenches’ social graces would rise to the occasion — and with luck they might be at the far end of the table.

  Various other people joined their group, and in the clamour of voices it became increasingly difficult to make oneself heard. Hannah was relieved when the Club Captain rang the bell and requested everyone to take their places for dinner.

  ‘How’s your mother?’ she asked Beatrice, as they filed into the dining-room. Old Mrs Rutherford, who normally lived with Gwen, was staying with her elder daughter while she was in Canada.

  ‘Quite well, really. Her cataracts are troubling her, but John says she’s not ready for an operation yet.’

  The Frenches were already standing behind their chairs — as Hannah had hoped, at the opposite end of the table. They smiled and murmured pleasantries as she passed them. Then applause broke out as the Captain and his guests made their way to the top table, grace was said and there was a general scraping of chairs as everyone sat down. Hannah gave a sigh of satisfaction and picked up the menu.

  *

  In his flat at the top of Beechcroft Mansions, Webb wondered moodily how the evening was going. For all Hannah’s denials, he felt sure Frobisher hadn’t given up hope of winning her round. Well, there was damn-all he could do about it.

  What he could do was get out his sketch pad and see if he could make any sense of this baffling case. At least they were making some progress. Following Mrs French’s phone-call yesterday, he and Jackson had met with more luck at the King’s Head; the description of the wanted woman had indeed struck a chord, and one man, a regular lunch-time customer, recalled bumping into the trio in the doorway of the bar.

  ‘Yes, I remember them now,’ he’d said. ‘Sorry — I didn’t realize it was them you were interested in; the description you circulated earlier rang no bells, but I remember the woman, and the other bloke who was with her, tall and thin. They were coming out of the bar as I was going in and we literally collided. The bloke said, “Pardon me”, and I registered that he was American.’

  Webb’s interest had quickened. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Well, that’s all he said, but he had an accent, and an Englishman would have said “I beg your pardon” or just “Sorry”.’

  ‘Can you describe him for us, Mr Bennett?’

  The man shrugged. ‘As I said, he was tall and thin — looked very intent and serious as he came out, which is probably why he didn’t see me — but he was pleasant enough when he apologized. Long face, bony forehead you know the type.’

  ‘Dark? Fair?’

  ‘Nondescript — brown hair. I didn’t notice the colour of his eyes. Nothing special about him, really.’

  As Webb recalled the conversation, he was making a quick identikit-type sketch of the man as described. It was a stroke of luck he was American — should make him easier to trace. Since the woman had a baby it was on the cards that they were married, in which case she might also be American. And bearing in mind that, in view of the large pram, she probably lived locally, inquiries were already under way for an American couple in the vicinity.

  He began to sketch her — drawn-back hair, tall, pushing a pram. Then he sat back and studied the drawing. A rather plain young woman with a baby. What in heaven’s name was her connection with Philip Kershaw?

  Whom Webb turned to next, a few quick lines of his crayon making him instantly recognizable. After a moment, he added the phone box in King Street. Had Kershaw made a call to the couple from there, and if so, how had he known them?

  He dropped the first sheet of paper to the floor and, taking another, embarked on a series of vignettes, lifelike caricatures of the group of Revvies. Strictly speaking, their only relevance in the case was Mrs Kershaw’s bequest, but they’d earned a place in his deliberations.

  When he had drawn everyone connected with the case, Webb began the second stage of his operation. This involved focusing his attention on each in turn of the faces he had depicted, attempting to pierce through the public mask to the nature of the person behind it. Had any of them lied? If so, why? And which, if any, was capable of murder?

  Engrossed as he was, the sudden shrill ringing of the telephone made him jump. Swearing softly, he put down his crayon and went to answer it.

  *

  The Golf Club dining-room was large and handsome with a gallery at one end. Beneath this, honours boards listed in gold the names of past captains and competition winners, and a glass-fronted trophy case displayed silver cups and salvers.

  Despite her earlier reservations, Hannah was enjoying herself. The soup had been excellent and she was now pleasurably awaiting the guineafowl which was the main course.

  It was at that point that a waiter approached John and touched his arm. ‘Dr Templeton? You’re wanted on the telephone, sir.’

  John frowned. ‘But I’m not on call this evening. My partner, Dr Fellowes —’

  ‘It’s Dr Fellowes on the line, sir.’

  Without further protest John excused himself, pushed back his chair and hurried out of the room.

  ‘That’s odd,’ Beatrice commented, ‘Malcolm never contacts John on his free evenings. I hope nothing serious has happened.’

  That it had was obvious on John Templeton’s return as, grave-faced, he quietly asked Hannah and Charles to accompany him outside.

  Threading her way between the tables with Charles close behind her, Hannah was conscious of a hard knot of apprehension. What dire news could the phone-call have contained to necessitate this grave summons from the dinner table?

  In the deserted lounge, cut off from the warmth and gaiety of the diners, they turned anxiously to John.

  ‘Bad news, I’m afraid,’ he informed them. ‘Hannah, my dear, I’m so sorry — it’s Miss Hendrix. She appears to have taken her own life.’

  Minutes later, having arranged with the Donaldsons to take Beatrice home, they were in John’s car driving to the police station. Hannah sat in the back gripping Charles’s hand. She was very cold and her mouth was dry. All she could think was: It’s my fault. I should have prevented this.

  ‘She’d an appointment at the surgery this evening,’ John said, breaking the silence as they waited at traffic lights. ‘Just a check-up, which I’d made a condition of allowing her home. She didn’t keep it, so, knowing I was concerned about her, Malcolm went along there after surgery. She’s not on the phone — there was no other way of contacting her.’

  The lights changed and they turned into Leyton Road. ‘There was a light in her window, but though
he knocked and rang there was no reply. So, by then extremely worried, he got on to the police, who broke in.’

  I don’t want to hear any more, Hannah thought, and yet I must. I have to know how she died, even though the picture of it will stay with me always.

  She said with an effort, ‘Was it — an overdose of some kind?’

  But John couldn’t enlighten her. ‘I don’t know, Malcolm didn’t go into details.’

  They turned into the gateway of the police station and skirted the grass and lily-pond to draw up at the front steps.

  Hannah suddenly realized where they were. ‘Why have we come here?’ she asked, as Charles got out and held the door for her.

  ‘They need to ask questions,’ he said gently.

  ‘God, Charles, I didn’t understand. Why didn’t I realize how desperate she was?’

  ‘Hush now, it’s all right. You’ve nothing to reproach yourself for.’

  They went up the steps and through the swing-doors into the brightly lit foyer. John went over to the desk and explained to the sergeant on duty who they were.

  ‘DCI Webb’s still at the scene, sir. If you’d like to wait in one of the interview rooms, I’ll have some tea sent in.’

  The next hour was a merciful blur. They sat facing each other across the small table, and the green walls were reminiscent of a hospital waiting-room. The tea was hot and strong, served in polystyrene mugs. Hannah thought of her glass of claret, still on the table at the Golf Club. It seemed a different world.

  Though the radiator under the window was on, she remained cold, encased in her private misery. How could she explain this to Gwen? How would it affect the school? All points to be considered, though the overriding consideration was the tragedy itself. Poor, poor woman, to be driven to this.

  Then, at last, David came, with the little ginger-haired sergeant she’d met before. And though all she wanted was to go to him and bury her face in his jacket, she could only sit and gaze helplessly up at him.