by Joan Smith
‘What, ask that bunch of twopenny ha’penny fascists? You must be joking!’ He glanced viciously over his left shoulder, then turned back to Loretta. ‘Anyway, what I came to say was, I assume you’re moving out now all this’s happened? Since Stalin over there won’t let me into my own home, it would suit me pretty well to stay here for a day or two. D’you think you’ll be out by this evening?’
Loretta regarded him open-mouthed. Even though Jeremy was probably within his rights in asking her to leave, it seemed a bit much to do it without any notice at all. And what was his motive for trying to hustle her out of the way? If Jeremy needed to be in Flitwell, he could jolly well put up at the Green Man for a few days – the ban on Clara hadn’t extended to him as far as Loretta knew. Why the rush? Loretta examined Jeremy’s bad-tempered face, and all her suspicions came rushing back. She decided to dig her heels in.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but that’s quite out of the question. My arrangement with Clara was that I’d be here for a few weeks, and I can’t just go back to London at the drop of a hat. I’ll have to speak to the people who are renting my flat, for a start.’ Her righteous indignation on the part of her mythical tenants was so strong that she completely forgot that, only three days before, she’d been offering to return to London and leave the cottage free for Jeremy. Fortunately for her, he failed to notice the discrepancy, although his colour was rising by the minute. ‘Look,’ she said firmly, holding up her hand to forestall whatever he might be going to say, ‘I don’t want to quarrel with you. I had a pretty rotten time last night, what with finding Clara’s body and giving a statement to the police, and I’m feeling shattered. I’ll ring the people in my flat and explain what’s happened, and I’m sure they’ll do their best to find alternative accommodation. That’s the most I can do. I’m sorry if it inconveniences you’ – she put a sarcastic stress on the word to convey her contempt for his behaviour ‘but that’s the way it is. Now, is there anything else?’
To her astonishment, Jeremy Frere sighed and looked away.
‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled, avoiding her gaze. ‘I know what you must think ... I’m – in rather a state. I hardly know what I’m saying...’ He paused. ‘Of course you must stay, I don’t know what I was thinking of – that stupid bloody policeman upset me ... I’m sorry.’
His confusion seemed to be genuine, and Loretta remembered that he’d capitulated in exactly the same way during the original row over the cottage. Perhaps she was doing him an injustice – he was an impulsive man, apparently unable to control his emotions, but that didn’t mean he was unmoved by his wife’s death. Grief affected people in different ways.
‘That’s all right,’ she said awkwardly, wishing he’d meet her eye. It was off-putting, talking to someone without being able to see his expression. ‘I tell you what, I’m just off to Oxford to get something to eat. Why don’t you make yourself a cup of tea in the cottage while I’m gone? I’m afraid it’s rather a mess – I haven’t had time to clear up since last night.’
‘Great,’ said Jeremy, with the air of someone making a tremendous effort to be friendly. ‘Got the keys? I’ll pull the door shut behind me when I leave.’
Loretta moved to open the tall wooden gates to the road, but Jeremy was there before her.
‘Let me.’
She got into the car, started the engine, and pulled forward until she could see the road was clear. As she moved away she looked in her driving-mirror; Jeremy Frere was standing just outside the gates watching her. Then he turned and went in.
‘Hello, can I speak to Dr Bennett? Oh, right, I’ll try again in a minute.’
Loretta sighed, anxious to get her conversation with Bridget over. Presumably her friend had heard of Clara’s death by now, but she might welcome the chance to talk about it with someone who’d been so closely involved. Reluctant as she was to go through it all again, Loretta felt she ought to offer Bridget what information she had. She had called the college number as soon as she arrived in Oxford, only to be told that Bridget was out. Now, after Loretta’s late lunch in an arts centre in George Street, the switchboard said that the extension was engaged. Loretta looked at her watch and pressed the buttons for a London number. The Sunday Herald answered and she asked for John Tracey.
‘Hello, stranger! Where are you? You went off without telling me how to contact you.’
‘I’m in Oxford, in a phone box. Well, one of those horrid modern things without a door, actually. Can you take the number in case I run out of money?’
As Tracey wrote the figures down she wondered how to begin; seeing the money she’d put in disappear at an alarming rate, she decided to be direct.
‘John, there’s been a murder!’
‘Not again. What’s that saying? One could be an accident but two looks like carelessness? Who is it this time?’
‘Honestly, John – you might be a bit more sympathetic. I don’t know why I bothered ringing you. I couldn’t help finding the body, even if it is the second time it’s happened. Anyway, last year doesn’t count, it wasn’t really a body.’
‘No need to bite my head off. What happened?’
‘I’ve been staying in a cottage near Oxford –’
‘The one you didn’t tell me about.’
Loretta sighed; Tracey was obviously still peeved about the way she’d ushered him out of her flat the previous week. He could be so insensitive at times, she thought. No wonder their marriage hadn’t lasted.
‘It’s a village called Flitwell –’ The rest of the sentence was cut off by the signal to put in more money. ‘Ring me back!’ she cried, and then the line went dead. Loretta waited impatiently for a couple of minutes, pretending she hadn’t seen the angry looks directed at her by the people queueing behind her to use the phone. When it finally rang she snatched it up.
‘Loretta? Sorry, the news editor wanted to check something with me. You were saying?’
‘I was saying I’ve been staying in a cottage belonging to a woman called Clara Wolstonecroft –’
‘Oh yes, now I’m with you, it came up on Ceefax this morning. That was bad luck, after you’d just moved in. Looks like a burglary that went wrong, not much in it for us.’
‘I didn’t ring because of your wretched paper! What did you think I was after, a fiver for the tip-off? John, I’ve just had a terrible experience!’
‘Well, yes, I can see that. Are you all right now?’
His tone expressed polite interest, as though Loretta had told him she’d sprained her wrist playing squash or been involved in a minor car accident.
‘I suppose so – I mean, as well you’d expect. I still feel fairly shaken up by it...’
‘Well, of course, you would be. Listen, Loretta, I’ll have to go – I’ve got a meeting in five minutes. Why don’t you give me a ring when you get back to London and I’ll buy you a nice lunch? You can tell me all about it then.’
If I can get a word in edgeways, Loretta thought sulkily, remembering how all her recent conversations with Tracey had been dominated by the subject of his love life.
‘Um... I’m not sure when I’ll be back, I’ve got one or two things to do here...’ She trailed off, hardly knowing herself why she was so reluctant to return to Islington.
‘Hang on a minute, Loretta.’ She seemed to have Tracey’s full attention for the first time. ‘You’re not up to anything, are you? You know what happened last time! You had us both running round like blue-arsed flies, and it was a complete waste of time. Leave it to the police, that’s their job. Loretta?’
‘Yes, I’m here. Do I take it the Herald isn’t interested in the murder?’
‘I thought you said you weren’t ringing with a story?’
‘I’m not. I just thought – well, Clara’s quite famous. I though you’d be doing something about it.’ Loretta didn’t want to admit that, as well as expecting sympathy from Tracey, she’d also hoped he might have some inside information to offer her.
‘I expect there
’ll be something on the literary pages, some kind of obituary,’ Tracey said. ‘But it doesn’t look like much of a news story – like I said, sounds straightforward. You haven’t answered my question. You’re not up to your old tricks, are you?’
‘Of course not.’ Loretta crossed her fingers. ‘It’s just that I’ve got to do ... How’s Rita?’ She changed the subject abruptly, sure the question would divert him from inquiring too closely into her plans.
‘Oh. All right.’ He paused. ‘Well, that is – actually, we’ve decided to call it a day. By mutual consent. Absolutely for the best, no hard feelings on either side. But – I’d rather not talk about it if you don’t mind.’
Loretta had to admire the cheek of it, after all the time she’d spent listening to Rita this and Rita that. It also explained Tracey’s perfunctory interest in her welfare; he was obviously preoccupied with thoughts of the athletic Rita.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said formally. Underneath her irritation she really did feel sorry for him – this affair had been the most significant he’d had for years. ‘I’ll give you a ring at home some time. You can’t call me – the cottage isn’t on the phone.’
They said their goodbyes and Loretta inserted her remaining change into the coin-box.
‘Just one more call, I won’t be long,’ she assured the woman who was next in the queue. If only the cottage had a telephone, she thought to herself. There was still her mother to ring, but that would have to wait ... She hit the buttons for Bridget’s college number.
‘Bridget ... it’s Loretta.’ She paused, signalling to her friend that she was ready for almost any reaction.
‘Oh, Loretta! I’ve been trying to get you all morning, but the police kept answering the phone in the house ... Are you all right?’ Bridget’s voice was tremulous and Loretta guessed she was near to tears.
‘Oh, I’ll survive,’ Loretta said diffidently. ‘How are you feeling? I thought you might like to know what happened – I was there, I mean. But not if it would make things worse ...’
‘Oh, no, I’d rather know! It’ll be in all the papers tomorrow, I suppose, and I’d rather hear it from you. If it won’t upset you, that is.’
‘Don’t worry about that. Listen, I’m in Oxford now. Shall I come over to your office? Or would you like to meet somewhere in town? As long as I get back to the cottage this evening ...’ She hadn’t made a firm arrangement to see Robert, but she’d wondered about calling at his house later on. She had no idea whether their brief relationship could survive the shock of Clara’s death, but she had a feeling it would be wise not to delay their meeting for too long.
‘Come over here, if you’re sure you’ve got time. D’you remember how to get here?’
‘You’d better give me directions again,’ Loretta said. ‘I’m in the middle of town, I don’t know what the street’s called. There’s a big Boots and W. H. Smith’s.’
‘Cornmarket.’ Bridget gave Loretta directions and said she’d expect her in five or ten minutes.
‘I just can’t believe it. I’ve known Clara since – it must be at least ten years. I can’t imagine her – dead.’
Loretta had just finished her account of the previous evening. She sat in silence, thinking it would do Bridget good to talk.
‘And in her own house, too. It’s – well, it’s not what you expect of a place like Flitwell. Did you know, Clara’s family has lived in that house since Queen Victoria? I wonder wha’ll happen to it now? I can’t imagine Imo wanting to stay... ’
‘But won’t it go to Jeremy Frere’
‘Jeremy! I’d forgotten him! Funny, I never remember Clara’s married again. Her folly, that’s what we used to call him – Imo and I.’ She smiled slightly. ‘I can’t think of anyone more unsuitable for Clara to marry. She met him on a cruise, you know.’
‘A cruise?’ Loretta was startled.
‘Yes, odd, isn’t it? It was three or four years ago when Clara had her big depression. The menopause, her doctor said, which just shows what an old fool he is. She just hadn’t got over Charles’s death – her first husband, Imo’s father. He died very suddenly, he had a heart attack. He hadn’t been ill or anything, even though he was a lot older than Clara. 1980 or thereabouts, it must have been. Clara seemed to be getting over it, as far as that’s possible, but it turned out she’d just been stuffed with tranquillizers. When she tried to come off them – that’s why her doctor blamed it on the menopause, of course. Doctors never like to admit to iatrogenic illness. Anyway, she got worse and worse, and all her GP could suggest was more drugs or a holiday. And she announced quite suddenly she was going on a cruise to the West Indies. Jeremy was on it. His gallery was doing a lot better in those days, as far as I can gather. She rang me up when she got back. Bridget, she said, you’re not going to believe this – I can hardly believe it myself. I’m engaged. I was flabbergasted, all her friends were. But I thought, if it makes her happy... and she’d started working again. Having Jeremy to talk to seemed to make all the difference. She’d hardly been able to pick up a brush since Charles’s death, and then suddenly, when she met him...’
‘So when did things go wrong?’
Bridget pulled a face. ‘Not long after they got married. Clara came back to Baldwin’s a day early – she’d been up in Scotland for some reason – and found him in bed with the woman who did the publicity for the gallery. Twenty years younger than Clara, of course. You can imagine how she felt.’
‘Why didn’t she just throw him out?’
‘That was her first thought, but then – she said she still needed him in a funny sort of way. They came to an arrangement – she turned a blind eye as long as he kept his girl-friends well away from Baldwin’s.’
‘No wonder Imo doesn’t like him. Or Ellie. You know Ellie?’
‘Mmm.’ Bridget nodded. ‘Though I don’t dislike him as much as they do. I always thought he was rather... pathetic. But he does know about art. And as Clara said, she didn’t marry him for sex. I think she looked on him as a child – tiresome a lot of the time, and given to whingeing, but she was less lonely. Oh!’
Bridget started to cry, fumbling in her pocket for a hand-kerchief. Loretta leaned across and took her friend’s hand; she had been on the verge of asking whether Bridget considered Jeremy capable of killing his wife, but the question would have to wait. After a while Bridget’s sobs began to subside. Loretta looked out of the window and saw it was still a sunny day.
‘How about a walk?’ she suggested. ‘Fresh air might do you good.’
Bridget looked surprised, but agreed. The two women went downstairs, across the quad, and into the small college garden. They walked arm in arm under the trees, Loretta listening patiently while Bridget talked disjointedly about Clara. After a while Loretta looked at her watch.
‘Nearly five,’ she said. ‘I ought to go. I wanted to pick up some food before setting off.’
‘You’d better hurry,’ Bridget agreed. ‘Most of the shops close at half past.’
She accompanied Loretta to the main gate. ‘Thanks,’ she said, kissing her friend on both cheeks.
As Loretta walked quickly back towards the main shopping centre, it occurred to her that Bridget hadn’t once speculated on the identity of Clara’s killer. Perhaps she assumed it was a break-in, Loretta thought. Then she recalled how taken aback she’d been when Chief Inspector Bailey put a direct question to her the previous evening. Bridget was clearly in a state of shock; perhaps the impact of grief was so great that questions were put aside until later.
Loretta hesitated for a moment outside Keeper’s Cottage, wondering whether Jeremy Frere was still inside. She couldn’t hear anyone moving about so she unlocked the front door and called his name. There was no reply, but the grey cat appeared from the bathroom and wailed softly. She put her box of shopping on the kitchen table, noticing as she did so a folded piece of paper under a cup. She picked it up warily, hoping that Jeremy hadn’t changed his mind about evicting her from the cottage forthwith
.
‘My dear L,’ she read, ‘I came over this afternoon in the hope of seeing you – suddenly remembered I have to be in London this evening. Jeremy was here, sd he thought you’d gone shopping. Sorry to have missed you – will be back tomorrow tea time. See you then?’ The next couple of words had been scored out and the message ended: ‘Love, Robert.’ What had he originally written? Loretta wondered. She picked up the note and held it to the light but was unable to decipher the words.
She sighed and let the note fall on to the table. She had been looking forward to seeing Robert. It wasn’t his fault, of course; they hadn’t made a proper arrangement, and he couldn’t help having business in London. Even so ... she picked up the note and read it again. The tone was friendly enough, and he had gone to the trouble of coming over to see her. But she felt bereft: she was on her own, with no one to talk to, she couldn’t even ring any of her friends in London unless she went to the bother of finding a phone box. Looking up, she caught sight of the dirty dishes, still stacked in the sink. Instead of feeling sorry for herself, she should clear those out of the way and think about what she was going to have for supper. She took off her jacket, rolled up her sleeves, and began running hot water into the sink.
As she scraped burnt meat from the bottom of the casserole, her thoughts returned to the problem that had been in the back of her mind all day: why hadn’t there been any news of Peggy? The copy of the Oxford Mail she’d bought on her way back to the car had contained full and rather lurid coverage of the murder, but the missing girl hadn’t been mentioned. Loretta wasn’t sufficiently au fait with the way the police worked to know whether this fact was significant. If Peggy had come forward and been eliminated from the inquiry, would the police have mentioned it to reporters? Presumably not, unless she had been able to give them some leads. But if Peggy had left Baldwin’s well before the murder took place, it was a fair bet that she wouldn’t know anything. On the other hand, if she was still missing, why hadn’t the police asked for help in finding her? It was very puzzling.
