by Diane Janes
‘Good heavens! Is it burglars, do you think?’
‘I’ve got nothing to steal. I know you’ll think I’m being silly, but I think it’s Stephen Latchford.’
‘Right.’ Mo didn’t even hesitate. ‘It’s definitely time to call the police.’
‘I think so too. Wait, though. You go up and have a squint through the bathroom window. Just to make sure I’m not imagining it.’ Even in the horror of the moment, Fran was abruptly seized with disbelief. Virtual strangers did not sit outside your house or creep around the kitchen garden, peering in through your windows. That sort of thing couldn’t really be happening.
‘Why the bathroom?’
‘Frosted glass. Not so easy to see us as it would be through the spare-room window.’
Mo made her way up into the bathroom as cautiously as if she was expecting to meet the mysterious watcher on the way. Fran followed her, displaying only a marginally lesser degree of trepidation. It took Mo only a moment to confirm what Fran had observed. There was definitely a car parked out there in the lane.
‘I think it’s his car,’ Fran said.
‘That’s it,’ said Mo. ‘We telephone the police at once.’
Though there was no possible way that anyone outside the building could see them, they both crept back down the stairs. They had almost reached the bottom when Mo, who was in the lead, said, ‘What’s that on the doormat?’
It was an ordinary white envelope, which had evidently been hand-delivered. Fran picked it up as if it were a hand grenade with the pin removed. There was nothing written on the outside, but she opened it to find two typewritten pages headed ‘Robert Barnaby Society – Proposed Publicity Initiative’. She flipped on to the second page, which concluded with a handwritten note. For your comment and consideration, Stephen.
‘That proves he’s been here.’
‘How long has it been lying there, do you think?’ Mo asked.
‘I don’t know. I’m sure it can’t have been here when I saw Tom out, but it could have arrived just about any time after that. I wouldn’t necessarily have noticed it, going up or down the stairs. Of course, you can generally hear the letterbox from the sitting room, but maybe we wouldn’t have done if we were talking.’
Mo considered the aperture in question. ‘You could easily close it quietly if you wanted to. You might also be able to hold it open and listen through it.’
They had been standing in the hall, staring down at the missive and its point of entry, but now Fran stirred into action again. ‘I’m ringing the police,’ she said.
It seemed to take an age to get through and then to communicate the details of their situation to a policeman at the other end of the line, but once Fran had done so, the man reassured her that another officer was not far away and would be with them in a matter of ten to fifteen minutes.
‘Let’s go upstairs and see what happens,’ Fran suggested.
The bathroom was too small for more than one person at a time to look out of the window.
‘What’s happening?’ whispered Mo.
‘Nothing. His car’s still there. Shush – I can hear another car coming along the lane, travelling quite fast. Gosh, it must be the only police car in the entire county. Imagine it happening to be this near. Ah ha, look at that! Our unwanted visitor has fired the ignition and he’s starting – yes, he’s pulling away and – and – ouch, let go’ – in the excitement of the moment, Mo had grabbed her arm – ‘the police car is going after him.’
With both cars out of sight, the two women stared wide-eyed at each other. The sounds of the two engines faded into the distance, then out of their hearing altogether.
‘Gosh. Will they catch him, do you think?’
‘Maybe. Let’s go back downstairs. They’re sure to come and tell us what’s going on.’
It was a full twenty minutes before one of the cars returned and disgorged two police officers, one in plainclothes and the other in uniform. Fran had the front door open before they had the chance to use the knocker. The policemen were unsmiling as they each removed their headgear and dutifully wiped their boots on the mat before following her into the sitting room and accepting her invitation to sit down. Fran saw them taking in the empty cut-glass tumblers and felt instinctively that a judgement was being made.
While the man in uniform took out a notebook and pencil, the other rather gravely asked Fran if she would like to explain, in her own words – hard to see how you’d be using anybody else’s words, as Mo said later – why she had telephoned the police. Fran explained that she thought she had seen a figure outside the kitchen window and, having gone upstairs soon afterwards, she had seen that there was a car parked outside in the lane. ‘I thought it might belong to a Mr Latchford, who had been bothering me lately. He has been to the house before.’
‘Did you recognize Mr Latchford’s car?’
‘Not at first. I couldn’t see the car properly.’
‘Has Mr Latchford dropped anything off here this evening, madam?’
‘Yes,’ Fran said eagerly. She reached over to the table and proffered the white envelope.
‘And can I ask you what’s in the envelope?’
‘Yes – it’s some information about the Robert Barnaby Society. You know, Robert Barnaby, the author, but that’s just an excuse—’
The policeman politely interrupted. ‘So there’s nothing … for example … threatening in what’s written?’
‘No, but …’
‘We’ve just stopped Mr Latchford, up there on the main road, and he told us that he only came here to post something through your letterbox. He says that you are an acquaintance of his and both belong to some sort of club. Would that be correct, madam?’
‘Yes. It is … sort of …’
‘According to Mr Latchford, he rang you a day or so ago and asked whether it would be convenient for him to call in tonight. You told him that it was not and asked him to put this information into a letter. Is that correct?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Apparently Mr Latchford was passing so he dropped it through your letterbox.’
‘Well, yes … but he was lurking about outside.’
‘You say that you saw him “lurking about”, madam? Can you explain what he was doing, exactly?’
Fran hesitated. ‘I didn’t exactly see him. First I thought I saw someone outside the kitchen window. Then I saw his car parked outside the house.’
‘How long would you say it was between thinking that you were seeing someone outside the kitchen window and actually seeing his car parked outside?’
‘I don’t know. A few minutes.’
‘And you thought you saw someone – you’re not quite sure?’
Fran shook her head.
‘When did you find the note through your door?’
‘Mrs Gallimore – my friend – saw it when we came downstairs, after I’d seen the car.’
‘That man was not just posting a note through the door,’ Mo broke in. ‘He’d had plenty of time to do that and drive away. He didn’t drive off until he heard you coming and realized that it was the police.’
‘Mr Latchford admits that he didn’t drive off immediately after posting the note through the door. He says he got his map out to check his route first, as he was on the way to visit a friend in another part of the district. He also says that it did not occur to him that he was causing any alarm, because of course he had no idea that anyone might be watching him through the window.’
‘We weren’t watching him,’ Mo protested. ‘He was watching us. He’s been bothering Mrs Black for a couple of weeks now.’
The officer turned back to Fran, his face still impassive. ‘Can you give us some specific examples of that? Has this man made any threats, any, er … improper suggestions, anything of that nature?’
‘Nothing like that, no,’ Fran said wearily. ‘He’s been round here a couple of times and it’s made me feel uncomfortable, that’s all.’
‘That wret
ched man has made us look like a pair of hysterical idiots,’ Fran said the moment the police had gone. ‘He’d got his story all ready and they just accepted it. I thought any minute that older guy was going to pat me on the head and tell me not to be a silly little girl.’
‘Looking at the other side of the coin,’ Mo said, ‘it must have put the wind up this Latchford fellow when the police pulled him over. He’ll surely think twice before he hangs around here again.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
The northern branch of the Robert Barnaby Society were due to meet on the following Saturday afternoon in Middleham, a visit to the castle having been arranged by way of a nod in the direction of By Sword and By Book, the Barnaby title which involved an excursion into medieval England.
‘You should come as my guest,’ Fran told Mo, ‘and see some of the suspects for yourself.’
‘No, thanks,’ said Mo. ‘I’d prefer not to spend my afternoon squatting on a toadstool, or whatever it is that you all get up to.’
‘There’s no squatting involved, I assure you. If asked to squat, the vast majority of our members would never make it back on to their feet unaided.’
Fran had therefore travelled to the event alone, taking the bus service which trundled through Sedbergh, Hawes and Leyburn. She had always liked that part of the Dales and her spirits were lifted still further when the motor coach finally came to a standstill in the market square of Middleham and she recognized Tom’s car parked among a group of other vehicles on the cobbled paving.
The meeting proved to be well attended for a regional event, with thirty or so people present, all of whom already knew one another to a greater or lesser degree. Ruth Winterton was there and Richard Finney, though Gareth Lowe had sent his apologies, which meant that everyone was spared his inevitably eccentric costume. Hugh Allonby and Sarah Ingoldsby were also prominent absentees, though Stephen Latchford was much in evidence, chattering excitedly to everyone except Fran, whom he pointedly ignored. Even Marcus Dryden had taken an afternoon off from hotel-keeping to come along. Marcus rarely attended meetings as the weekend was one of his busiest times, but he explained that he was also a member of the Richard III Society and could not resist a visit which coupled his interest in Robert Barnaby with the castle where the king had spent so much of his life, and he was therefore giving himself what he described as a ‘well-earned treat’.
‘Good heavens! I didn’t know there was such a thing as the Richard III Society,’ Tom said.
‘Yes, indeed. It’s been going for several years now and membership is growing all the time.’ Marcus Dryden might have elaborated further but they were interrupted by Richard Finney, who had just spotted what he took to be a buzzard soaring high above them and wanted to know if anyone had brought a pair of field glasses.
Blessed with a sunny day, the group was able to thoroughly explore the castle ruins and visit the nearby church before assembling in the large tearooms which were a feature of the main square. Afternoon tea had been pre-booked for the entire party and Fran found herself sitting at a table with Tom, Marcus Dryden, Ruth Winterton and Richard Finney.
It was the first regional meeting since the conference and therefore inevitable that the conversation would turn to Linda Dexter.
‘A terribly sad situation,’ Mr Finney said. ‘I wonder what drove her to do it?’
‘It isn’t certain that it was suicide,’ Fran said. ‘The inquest hasn’t brought in a verdict yet. They won’t resume proceedings until the police are ready.’
‘Oh, but surely it can’t have been anything but suicide?’ This from Ruth Winterton.
‘As Mrs Black says, the police are still investigating,’ said Marcus, picking up and handing around a plate of cheese sandwiches as he spoke. ‘Though I think they will ultimately come down on the side of suicide. It can hardly be anything else, the way Mrs Dexter’s bag was packed and her room was left completely tidy, just as if she’d checked out.’
‘Had her bed been slept in?’ Tom asked in a chatty tone, as if he was merely making polite conversation.
‘They asked our chambermaid about that and she said “no”.’
‘I suppose it might just be possible for someone to get into her room and be waiting there for her when she came down from the bar that night. I mean, there must be other keys to the rooms?’ Tom prompted, still adopting that casual, only-making-conversation type of voice.
‘We’ve got pass keys, of course.’ Fran noted that Marcus Dryden was not in the least fazed by the direction of the conversation. ‘I was asked about all that at the time, but, you know, the layout of the room is against anyone lying in wait. You can see the entire room from the doorway. If a woman were to walk in and see a stranger waiting for her, I would imagine that her normal reaction would be to scream the place down, but no one heard anything, apparently.’
‘Who was in the room next door?’ Tom asked, but Marcus said he couldn’t remember, and the conversation got diverted by Mr Finney asking Miss Winterton if she wanted more tea.
It was only when the waitresses were beginning to clear away that the conversation returned unexpectedly to Furnival Towers.
‘I see that Mr Allonby and Mrs Ingoldsby aren’t with us,’ Marcus Dryden said. His tone was slightly mischievous. ‘I assumed that they would be, as they are both staying with us at the Towers this weekend.’
‘Another unofficial committee meeting for two?’ enquired Tom.
‘So it would seem. Of course, our policy at Furnival Towers is discretion at all times.’ The hotelier winked and adopted a mischievous expression, while Miss Winterton pursed her lips in disapproval.
‘Do you get a lot of visitors through the Robert Barnaby connection?’ asked Richard Finney.
‘Goodness, yes. It’s probably our biggest single selling point. Some people are terribly funny. I had a chap the other week who wanted to lie full length on the floor to take photographs of the magic chair. I mean, honestly! I had to stand guard while he was doing it, in case any of my other guests tripped over him.’
‘Quite a lot of the guests must be members of the society, I suppose?’
‘Not so many as you’d think. Barnaby Society members have mostly already stayed with us during the annual conference, so it’s non-members as often as not, though we did have quite a spate of members just before the conference. Gareth Lowe and some of his pals came about a month beforehand on a Barnaby walking weekend. I don’t know how much walking got done but they certainly downed a lot of beer.
‘Then Mr James, the new membership secretary, came for a night – getting the feel of the place, he said, on account of being tasked with organizing the conference bookings. I thought myself that it was more to do with getting a first look at the chair and everything. A lot of people – even society members – don’t like to admit that they’re desperate to see it. They don’t want to be thought childish, I suppose. Mr James had never been to a conference before, of course. I believe he was living abroad until recently.’
‘I am sure that Mr James was also checking the layout to help with the room allocations,’ Miss Winterton said. ‘He seems to be extremely conscientious in everything he does. If he has to stand down, it will be a real loss.’
‘Thoroughly good sort of chap,’ Marcus Dryden agreed. ‘I got on splendidly with him myself. Of course, the Barnaby connection has been an absolute godsend, because back before the war we were almost entirely reliant on people who came for the shooting, and a small band of loyal regulars. Funnily enough, Mr Latchford’s mother …’ Marcus Dryden paused momentarily to jerk his head in the direction of the table in the corner, which included Stephen Latchford, ‘… was one of our regulars, and he came for a weekend himself, during the war.’ He lowered his voice conspiratorially and added: ‘He didn’t serve, you know. I’m not sure if he wasn’t a conshie.’
There was a moment’s awkward silence, then Miss Winterton pointedly changed the subject, turning to ask Mr Finney if it wasn’t true that Middleham was a well
-known centre for training race horses?
‘That was a bit naughty of old Marcus, mentioning the Allonby-Ingoldsby tryst,’ Tom said a little while later. ‘And it evidently irritated Miss Winterton no end.’ He and Fran were standing on the edge of the large group who were exchanging farewells outside the tea shop. The late afternoon bus was due and one or two people were already climbing into motorcars.
‘She didn’t much like it when he suggested that Stephen Latchford might have been a conscientious objector either,’ Fran said, keeping her voice too low to be overheard by anyone but Tom.
‘It’s not the sort of thing anyone should be spreading around,’ said Tom. ‘A rumour of that sort could end up getting the chap ostracized. Look here, are you in a hurry to get off? Because if you like we could drive partway out of the Dales, then stop for a drink and catch an early supper at a pub somewhere on the road. I could easily drop you home afterwards.’
She knew perfectly well that it was miles out of his way, but even so she heard herself saying, ‘After that huge afternoon tea, I’m not sure that I’ve got room for anything else to eat, but I’d love a drink.’
‘Good show – what say we drive back to Hawes and stop at one of the pubs there?’
Over two halves of beer, Fran told Tom about the episode with the police and Stephen Latchford. The trouble was that she found herself feeling nearly as foolish as when she had tried to get the problem across to the police, because with every retelling, the story sounded increasingly flimsy and pathetic.
‘No wonder old Stephen-with-a-ph was giving you the cold shoulder today,’ was all Tom said.
After that they went over the Linda Dexter question again, but nothing new emerged.
Neither of them seemed to be in any hurry to leave. When Tom’s knee accidentally rested against her thigh under the scrubbed wooden table, she let it stay there. She wasn’t hungry for food, she thought, not just because of the scones and dainty sandwiches which they had already consumed, but because she felt full up with desire. Tom had never seemed wittier, his brown eyes never more entrancing. She found herself noticing his hands, unusually graceful for a man’s, as they closed around his glass. The thought came to her that if she couldn’t have Tom, then just sitting here as long as possible, being with him, being his friend, laughing at his jokes and making him laugh in turn, was – well, basically as good as it was ever going to get. Then she noticed that the pressure of his knee was gently increasing.
