David Webb 7 - The April Rainers

by Anthea Fraser

  “When would that have been?”

  “August, I suppose.”

  “Before his wife died?”

  She flushed. “Yes. But she was no company for a man like that. Only thought of her children.” She hesitated, then went on quickly. “You’ll have heard about the court case, I’m sure, but you can’t know the full story. She drove him to it, Mr. — Webb, is it? He wasn’t a bad man.”

  If you were lonely enough and desperate enough, you could make yourself believe anything, Webb reflected. “How did he react to her death?”

  “How do you think? He was shattered, of course. And while he was still reeling from it, that sister-in-law of his came and took the children. And they were all he had left!” Her voice rose with indignation.

  “Did you ever stay at his house?”

  She flushed, shaking her head. “I couldn’t, because of the kids. Mine, I mean.”

  “But you have been there recently?” She nodded. “Did he mention receiving threatening letters?”

  Her colour deepened angrily. “He didn’t need to — I have eyes in my head. The bin was overflowing with them. How can people do that? As if he hadn’t suffered enough!”

  “Did you read any of them?” Webb asked quietly.

  “One or two, so I’d know what he was going through. They turned my stomach, I can tell you. Hate-mail, they call it. Ted said anyone whose name’s been in the paper gets them, specially if they’d done what he was accused of doing, and even more so if they seem to have got away with it.”

  “Were they all much the same?” Webb asked casually. If Baxter had shown her the April Rainers’ note, he might have made some comment, indicated he knew who’d sent it. A forlorn hope, but —

  “There was one that was different,” Mrs. Simpson was saying, and despite himself, Webb leaned forward.

  “Yes?”

  “Well, most of them went on about what they’d like to do to him — filth, mostly. But this one was more cold and — and factual, like. It read as if they not only wanted to kill him, but meant to. Oh!”

  She looked up, aghast, her hand going to her mouth. Apparently for the first time, she’d made the connection between the letter and subsequent events. “You think they did? Is that what you’re getting at?”

  “It’s possible. Tell me what you remember about that note, and particularly what Mr. Baxter said about it.”

  “Well, it was neat and tidy, not scrawled or made up from newspapers, like the others. And it was written in green ink. I remember, because you don’t often see that. It was signed, too, but not a proper name that you could put a face to.”

  Webb and Jackson waited, not helping her, and a moment later she said triumphantly, “The April Rainers! That’s it. It’s a nursery rhyme or something.”

  Webb nodded. “Did he make any comment?”

  “Said he’d be getting one from Bo-peep next.” She mopped at her eyes. “That was Ted all over, trying to see the funny side, even of that.” Which was a decidedly new slant on Baxter’s character and, Webb suspected, rose-tinted with sentiment.

  “But he’d no idea who sent it?”

  “None whatever.”

  “Was he worried by the specific threat?”

  “No more than the others.” She shivered. “It must have been horrible, knowing all those people were out there hating you, but not who they were.”

  “He didn’t think of telling the police?”

  She gave a harsh laugh. “You must be joking! As if —” She broke off, remembering just in time who her visitors were.

  Webb said smoothly, “When was the last time you saw him?”

  Tears welled again. “Wednesday last week. We met at the Magpie as usual, and after the darts I went back with him for a while. We never guessed it was for the last time.”

  “So you didn’t go to the pub this week?”

  “No. Tracey wasn’t well and I didn’t like to leave her.” Her eyes widened. “My lord! If I’d gone back with him this Wednesday like I did last —” She stopped, her face frozen in horror.

  Webb glanced at Jackson, who nodded and closed his notebook. There was nothing further to be learned here.

  “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Simpson,” Webb said, rising. “Sorry to interrupt your preparations for lunch.”

  The teenagers lounged against the kitchen door, watching with sullen suspicion as their mother showed the detectives out. The smell of roasting lamb followed them down the path.

  “Yes, Ken, before you mention it, we’ll break for lunch.”

  Jackson grinned, and his step noticeably quickened. “Right, guy. Shall we stick with the Brown Bear? They’ve a new line in steak and kidney, Bob Dawson was telling me.” And, whistling cheerfully in anticipation, he bent to unlock the car.

  6

  MARK WAS WHISTLING as he drove off the main road onto the uneven surface of the Oakacre estate. In the glow of a solitary street lamp the landscape looked positively lunar, but within a month or two, if the builders were to be believed, all would be transformed. The estate was to be an experiment, a carefully balanced selection of flats and houses aimed at encouraging a mixed community of young singles, families and retired people. A parade of shops and a surgery would also be provided.

  Mark’s house was one of only six so far completed. He had opted for a house rather than a flat because of the private lessons he gave two evenings a week. Unlike the flats, it had a separate diner, which he needed as a music room.

  He parked in the muddy, unmade drive and let himself into the house. The afternoon session had gone quite well, though he was still feeling his way with Felicity. Knowing her music so intimately, it had come as a shock to realize he didn’t know its composer at all. Several times when he’d anticipated her answer to a question, she had replied completely differently, and he’d had to realign the next one. Professional biographers, he reflected ruefully, would know better. Furthermore, he suspected that she’d expect to vet every page he wrote. His first rosy dream of accompanying her on concert tours had already been tempered by the realization that it would not be plain sailing.

  He’d been reflecting on this when Camilla’d walked with him to his car. “Are you going to do it?” she’d asked.

  “I don’t know. I’d like to, but there are so many difficulties.”

  “She’s paying you a great compliment, you know. For years, people have been wanting to write about her, have her speak to their societies, open concert halls or whatever, but she’s dodged them all. It would be ironic if, the first time she actually wants someone to do something, he declines.”

  “I’m not just making excuses,” he’d protested. “There really are obstacles. For a start, it would be at least a year before I could arrange a sabbatical and sort things out for my pupils.” Yet if he turned down the chance, he was unlikely to see Camilla again. It was that thought which had prompted him to invite her to dinner on Thursday, when the panic of the school concert would be over.

  “So you can pump me about my aunt?” she’d challenged him.

  He’d grinned. “Partly.”

  “As long as it’s only partly, yes, I’d like to. What time?”

  “I have pupils from five till seven. Say, eight o’clock?”

  “Fine. But I’ll see you before that, at the school concert.” When, Mark reflected now, he would be in Jackie’s company. Which could be awkward.

  *

  “Robert? Can you talk?”

  “Cynthia — thank God! I’ve been nearly frantic, wondering what was happening but not daring to phone you.”

  “Is your wife back?”

  “No, but they’re due any minute. What happened?”

  “Nothing, really. I imagine he’s weighing the pros and cons of getting back at us, and the embarrassment if it becomes public.”

  “Public? My God, it can’t! What about my job? And Anna, come to that. What did he actually say, when I’d gone?”

  “Very little. He insisted I go to the Club wi
th him, and I was studiously polite the whole time. I was dreading our being alone, but the only reference he made was to ask your name.”

  “You told him?”

  “Of course I told him. He could have found out easily enough.”

  “But God, Cynthia, what if he comes round here? Anna mustn’t hear about this.”

  Cynthia held down her irritation. Was this the suave lover with a string of mistresses behind him? She said nastily, “Hasn’t this happened before?”

  “No, it bloody hasn’t. You don’t seem to realize my whole career could be up the spout. The senior partner’s a stuffy old bird — Victorian values and all that. What’s more, he’s a friend of Anna’s father, which is how I got the job.”

  “It’s no use shouting at me, Robert. You’re quite as much to blame as I am.”

  “Can’t you talk to him — promise it’ll never happen again?”

  “That’s for sure, at any rate,” she said grimly.

  “Hell, there’s the car now. I’ll have to go. Phone me at the office tomorrow. And for God’s sake don’t let him come storming round here.”

  The phone clicked in her ear and Cynthia dropped it with a clatter. Never a thought about her own predicament, having to keep up appearances in front of the boys and explain away James’s withdrawal to the spare bedroom.

  She sighed. Well, if you played with fire, you were likely to be burnt and it was no use crying about it afterwards. All she could do now was try to keep calm, and hope neither James nor Robert would do anything to precipitate disaster.

  *

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Jessel,” the girl repeated over the phone the next morning. “We check as far as we can, but we’d no reason to think the ad wasn’t genuine.”

  “What name and address was given?”

  “Hold on, I’ll check the computer.” He waited, drumming his fingers irritably on the desk. “Requested to go in Saturday’s Weekend News. Name of Mr. J. Jessel, The Hollies, Stonebridge, phone Shillingham 59786.”

  Jessel swore softly. “What about payment? Was there a cheque?”

  “It hasn’t been received yet.”

  “You print advertisements without being paid for them?” It was not a practice he’d employ himself.

  “Advertisers have the option of pre-payment, or being invoiced afterwards, which is slightly more expensive.”

  “I hope you don’t expect me to pay for this?”

  “I’m sorry, sir.” Her voice was non-committal.

  Impatiently, Jessel dropped the phone. Over the weekend, without warning, the tables had turned and he’d become a victim, the one to whom unpleasant things happened. It was a new and unwelcome experience which, under the impact of first the hoaxes, then his wife’s betrayal, left him frustratingly helpless.

  At least he could look into the former, try to track down the perpetrator. The problem with Cynthia was much more complex. And again, unbidden, the picture of her came to mind, wide-eyed on the bed with the sheet held against her, and the unprepossessing figure of her lover in the doorway.

  Quickly he reached for the phone and dialled the stables. In response to his brusque questioning, the voice at the other end became defensive. The order’d come over the phone — a cart-load to be delivered to The Hollies, Stonebridge, payment on delivery. But the lady didn’t seem to know about it and had no money on her, so a bill was in the post. What kind of voice had it been? Well, he couldn’t rightly say. A gentleman, like.

  It was useless to argue. In any case, though it was an infernal nuisance, the manure would at least enrich the garden, once he got round to clearing it from the drive. He’d enlist the boys’ help — bribe them with extra pocket-money.

  Which left Cynthia.

  James was surprised how hurt he’d felt, though admittedly some of it was pride. Damn it, she had everything she could want: a beautiful home, two bright, healthy boys — and it wasn’t as if he kept her short of money. She’d a generous allowance, and he always stumped up if she needed any extra. On the emotional side, he was on less sure ground, but after twenty years, she couldn’t expect him to dance attendance as he had on their honeymoon.

  She was still a striking-looking woman, though, with her lithe body and that premature grey hair. The thought that another man fancied her wasn’t wholly unwelcome. Robert Kent, she’d said. They probably met at the tennis club; she spent a lot of time there. Surely she wasn’t in love with that weed? He dismissed the idea out of hand. No, she was bored, that was all. The classic, bored housewife. But damn it, if he could toe the line, so could she. Traditionally, it was the man who strayed, but it had never entered his head. He was too busy wheeling and dealing to have time for romantic dalliance.

  So what action should he take? he asked himself for the hundredth time. What did husbands do, for God’s sake, in a situation like this? For some minutes he stared unseeingly at his blotter. Probably best to forget the whole thing. Least said, soonest mended. She and Kent would be pretty worried for a while, and serve them bloody-well right. But if he made a fuss and it got out, people would laugh behind his back. A cuckold inspired ridicule rather than sympathy, which was unfair, but there you were.

  Yes, that’d be best, he told himself, pulling his papers towards him. He’d let them sweat it out for a while and say nothing. In the meantime, he’d take her to the Ashbourne concert as arranged; no point in throwing good money down the drain, and it did no harm to be seen among the wealthy and elite of the town. Then, later, he’d drop the hint that she’d better watch her step in future. And it mightn’t be a bad thing to take her about a bit more. Keep the knot more closely tied.

  Relieved to have resolved the problem, he pushed it aside and turned thankfully to the work awaiting him.

  *

  The next two days were, as Mark had anticipated, hectic ones. Felicity was to rehearse with the school orchestra on both Tuesday and Wednesday, but since Mark taught at St. Anne’s on Tuesdays, he had to leave Tim Ladbury in charge. As soon as his classes were over, he hurried round to Ashbourne.

  Felicity had gone and the orchestra disbanded, but Tim was still in the hall, sorting out music sheets. “How did it go?” Mark demanded breathlessly.

  “Not so bad. A bit ragged at first, but Miss Harwood took it in her stride, and as the kids overcame their nervousness, it came together quite well. Tomorrow’s rehearsal should iron out the remaining wrinkles.”

  Which, to his inordinate relief, Mark found to be the case. By four o’clock on Wednesday, when the rehearsal ended, anxiety had given way to excitement. Orchestra and soloist now melded perfectly; all would be well.

  Unwilling to leave the hall, he lingered for a while, watching the caretaker and staff begin assembling rows of chairs for the evening’s performance. White RESERVED tickets were laid on seats along the first few rows. Seated here would be Gwen and Hannah with their invited guests — Sir Julian and Lady Harwood, Camilla and Miss Matthews, the school governors, and directors of local companies who had already given generously to the Music-Wing Appeal. His parents were also invited, Mark remembered, aware that he should have contacted them.

  He glanced at his watch; he’d the final lesson of the day in five minutes. Making his way to the music wing, he hoped yet again that Jackie and Camilla wouldn’t come face to face during the evening.

  *

  It was the interval, and Felicity had not yet made her appearance. The orchestra had played well in the first half, both the Dvorak and the Rossini overtures being well received by the audience. Camilla had arrived with the other guests, but as Mark and Jackie were seated further back, she hadn’t as yet noticed him. It was now, as the audience mingled in the dining-hall for refreshments, that they might unavoidably meet. In the meantime, his parents were approaching and he perforce introduced them to Jackie.

  Making automatic replies to his father’s comments, Mark kept a wary eye open for Camilla’s approach. His mother, meanwhile, was chatting animatedly to Jackie, no doubt sizing her up as a p
ossible daughter-in-law. Jackie herself had been rather quiet this evening, possibly sensing his own tension, but now, responding to his mother’s evident interest, she was relaxed and smiling.

  Taking advantage of their preoccupation, Mark glanced surreptitiously about him and caught sight of Camilla at the far side of the room. Murmuring his excuses, he moved in her direction. Perhaps a quick word now would deflect her from seeking him out later. But Camilla was engaged herself, surrounded by a crowd of friends, and all Mark managed was a stilted word with Hattie Matthews, who stood, large and uncompromising, on the fringe of the Harwood group. Then a bell rang, and the crowds began to drift back to the hall. The great moment had arrived.

  It was a good ten minutes into the sonata before Mark let himself relax. It was going well, he thought elatedly. Tim was conducting superbly, and Felicity’s playing was as vibrant and tender as always, giving no hint of apprehension concerning her accompaniment. He sat back, able at last to enjoy the lovely strains of music, as well as the fact that, despite all odds and after months of hard work, his Great Idea had at last come to fruition. Felicity Harwood was here, in her old school, and he had arranged it. It was a moment of supreme satisfaction.

  The storm of applause as the final movement faded into silence was an indication of the enthusiasm of the audience, and time and again, as she acknowledged the applause, Felicity turned to the orchestra, inviting them to share it with her. Then the bouquets were handed up, sheaf after sheaf of glorious flowers, until there were too many for her to hold and one of the violinists came forward to take some from her.

  What happened next was something Mark would go over again and again in his mind, trying to make sense of it. The final bouquet had been passed up and Felicity took it, smiling. Then, as she bowed yet again, she glanced down — at what? the flowers? the stage? — and gave a little gasp which, amid the continuing applause, was seen rather than heard. Her smile froze into a stylized rictus, the colour drained from her cheeks, and as he watched in horror, she slid to the ground, the flowers she held falling around her like wreaths at a wake.