David Webb 7 - The April Rainers
Page 8
The audience, gasping in dismay, rose as one man, those at the back of the hall craning to see what had happened as the last ragged scatter of applause died into a stunned silence. Mark found himself racing forward just ahead of the St. John Ambulance attendant. They reached the steps to the stage at the same time as his father, Sir Julian and Miss Matthews.
John Templeton said firmly, “Stand aside, please, I’m a doctor.” And, to his son, “Draw the curtains, for God’s sake.”
Mark paused for one horrified glance at Felicity, lying crumpled at his feet with closed eyes. Was she dead?, he thought with incredulous horror, remembering Miss Matthews’s warnings. Had it all been too much for her? Then he hurried into the wings and a moment later the heavy curtains, which no one had expected to be used today, swung ponderously across, swathing the anxious group bending over Felicity.
“It’s all right,” Dr. Templeton said, “she’s coming round.”
He stood up, and between them he and the attendant carried the inert form off the stage.
*
“It was absolutely terrifying, David,” Hannah said later, as they sat drinking coffee in her flat. “I thought she’d had a heart attack, but John Templeton said it was a straightforward faint.”
“So what brought it on? Heat? Excitement?”
“I don’t know. She says she suddenly felt dizzy, and that’s all she remembers.”
“But?” prompted Webb, sensing her hesitancy.
“Well, no doubt that’s what happened, if she says so. But I could have sworn that something had frightened her. Just for a moment, before she collapsed, she’d a look of total shock, as though she’d seen someone or something she hadn’t expected to see.”
“But she’d been bowing to the audience for some time, you said.”
“Yes, and it was when she looked down that it seemed to happen.”
“No cryptic message on the floor boards?”
“Not a thing.”
“And nothing hidden in the flowers?”
“No. I had a quick look, under the pretext of rescuing them.”
“Did she say anything as she came round?”
“Only ‘Hattie.’ That’s Miss Matthews, her friend and agent.”
“Was she there?”
“Yes. She bent quickly down and said, ‘It’s all right, Flick, I’m here.’”
“I wonder …” Webb mused, staring into his coffee-cup.
“What do you wonder?”
“Whether Miss Harwood was simply asking for her friend, or whether it had been something to do with her that caused the shock.”
“I don’t see how. She was just sitting in the front row with the rest of us.”
“So what about Saturday’s concert? Is it still on?”
“It seems so. Miss Harwood’s set on it — it’s the world premiere of her new work, after all, and Radio Three are broadcasting it live. It would be an awful let-down if it were cancelled.”
“All the same, if she’s not well enough to give it —”
“She insists she will be, but it’s not just the concert, it’s all the rehearsing beforehand. She’s got two full days of it before Saturday — at her own insistence, I might say. What’s so awful is that I can’t help feeling responsible; perhaps it was too much to expect her to do two concerts in one week. I know Miss Matthews thought so — I’m sure she blames us for this.”
Webb put down his cup. “I shouldn’t worry too much. These professionals are pretty tough — they have to be. All the same, it would be interesting to get to the bottom of it.”
Hannah smiled. “Once a detective, always a detective. How’s the case coming along?”
“Not too well, and we’re coming up to a week now. For all the clues he left, the murderer could have appeared out of thin air, done the dirty deed, and disappeared again, leaving no one the wiser.”
“Which is presumably what happened last time, in London.”
“If that was the last time,” Webb said gloomily. “Crombie seems to think we might have a serial killer on our hands and there’ve been other, unreported cases. He’s got me worried now, and I’m considering releasing the April Rainers angle to the press. Trouble is, we’d be inundated with calls from people wanting to get in on the act.”
“How would you know which were genuine?”
“Oh, we’d hold back the details — green ink, copperplate writing, the style of wording. We could weed them out, all right, but it’s pretty time-consuming.” He sighed and stood up. “Anyway, thanks for getting my groceries, love. The way things are going, it could become a standing order.”
*
Felicity’s collapse was uppermost in both their minds when Camilla went to Mark’s for supper the next evening. However, no immediate reference was made to it as she looked with interest round the house.
“And this is the music room,” he finished, opening the door. “It was shown on the plans as ‘diner, study or den,’ but as you can see, they didn’t allow much space.”
“Enough for your easy chair, anyway,” Camilla said. “Oh, that’s for the mothers, not me.”
“You’re chaperoned?”
“You can smile, but living alone caused quite a few problems. It’s all right with the younger pupils, whose mothers bring them anyway, but there was no way I could be alone in the house with the others, either girls or boys, in the present climate. And the parents were no help. ‘But Mr. Templeton,’ they said, ‘we know you!’ Which, if they read their newspapers, they’d realize is no safeguard at all. Anyway, it’s for my own protection as much as theirs — you can imagine how rumours could start. But fortunately my ‘woman-wot-does’ came to the rescue. Instead of ‘doing’ me two mornings a week, she comes in the evenings, during the lessons, and honour is satisfied.”
“Doesn’t she mind?”
“Not in the least. Says she’s glad to get away from the telly. So I soundproofed this room for our mutual benefit — to muffle both ‘the caterwauling,’ as she calls it, and the sound of the Hoover.”
He led the way to the living-room. “Let’s have a drink, then supper will be ready. How’s your aunt?” he added, as he poured her gin and tonic.
“All right. She’s been at the concert hall all day, rehearsing. Hattie nearly went berserk, but there was no stopping her.”
“They seem very close,” Mark remarked, handing Camilla the glass.
“Yes, but don’t go getting ideas. There’s nothing unhealthy about it.”
“God, I never —”
“Well, people do wonder sometimes, but if you’re going to write her biography, you’d better get it straight from the start. They’re close friends, that’s all, who’ve known each other most of their lives.”
“How did they meet?” Mark asked curiously, remembering his surprise at the seeming misalliance.
“At your precious Ashbourne. Hattie was very bright, but she was fat and plain and spotty, and a prime target for bullying. Girls can be as bad as boys, as you doubtless know. But when Felicity arrived, she rounded on the bullies like a miniature tornado, and because she was pretty and talented — as well as being bossy, even then! — the other girls took notice. Hattie was taken firmly under her wing, and has been devoted to her ever since.”
“So they’ve always been together?”
“More or less. They were both at Oxford, but then Felicity went to study abroad, and Hattie stayed home. It’s amazing, really; she had a first-class Honours Degree, but she didn’t go for the glittering prizes. She used the time Felicity was away to train in various skills which she felt would be useful — management, accounting, even learning to type. Then, when Felicity came back and was ready to start professionally, Hattie was waiting, and they formed this formidable partnership. Hattie does all the donkey work — the booking, the accounts, the travel arrangements, leaving Felicity free to concentrate on her music. It works very well.”
“To get back to yesterday, what exactly happened, do you know?”
“It came on very suddenly.”
“Yes, and was over equally quickly. Father insisted on the doctor coming, but apart from slightly high blood-pressure there was nothing wrong, and by bedtime you’d never have known she’d been ill at all.”
“As though she’d had a severe shock, and once it was over, recovered completely?”
“Exactly. And in face of the doctor’s report, and her own insistence that she’s fine, we’d no option but to let her play.”
“Well, thank God she is all right.”
“Yes.” Camilla smiled slightly. “Now, do you think we could change the subject? It’s nice to have a famous relative, but I don’t want to talk about her all the time!”
“Of course. Sorry — end of pumping! Supper’s ready, anyway, so if you’ll move over to the table, I’ll bring it through.”
For the rest of the evening, he told himself, taking the dish from the oven, he wouldn’t even mention Felicity. In the event, there was no temptation. They talked about their careers, their favourite books and plays, their hopes for the future, and by the time Camilla left, both were aware of foundations being laid. He would have liked to kiss her, but was afraid of rushing things. She solved the problem by reaching up to kiss his cheek.
“Good night, Mark. It’s been a lovely evening. Thank you.”
“We must do it again,” he said, aware of sounding wooden. Then she was in her car, threading her way over the morass of rubble and builders’ planks that was Oakacre to the conventional smoothness of Fenton Road, and her tail-light disappeared round the corner.
7
“WE’VE RUN DOWN another friend of Mrs. Baxter’s, guy,” Don Partridge reported the next morning. “The woman in the chemist’s where she worked happened to mention her.”
“Well done. Name and address?”
“Joan Parsons, 12 Priory Gardens.”
Webb felt an instinctive jolt; that was the road where he’d lived during the eleven years of his marriage. He’d not been back since, though Susan had paid a nostalgic visit during her brief and ill-starred return to Shillingham.
“Right, Don, thanks; I’ll go along and see her. No, I won’t, though,” he added, in the act of rising. “She might open up more to another woman. Ask Inspector Petrie to come in, would you.” And, he told himself as he waited for Nina, his decision had in no way been influenced by the woman’s address. Nina had a way of dealing with people which, during their first case together, might well have saved her life. And now that Alan was back and Webb no longer had to share his office with her, the initial friction between them had mellowed to a mutual respect.
“Good morning, sir. You wanted to see me?”
“Nina, I’d be grateful if you’d visit one Joan Parsons, 12 Priory Gardens. The woman Linda Baxter worked with says she was friendly with her. I’ll leave it to you what questions to ask, but it would be useful to know if there was any other man in Mrs. Baxter’s life.”
“Right, sir, I’ll see what I can find out.”
As the door closed behind her, Webb breathed an almost imperceptible sigh of relief.
*
Joan Parsons was a small, bustling woman in her late forties. When Nina identified herself, she led her into the neat front room, with the clock in the exact centre of the mantelshelf and identical ornaments on either side.
“Sit down, Inspector. Can I get you a coffee? I’ve just made some.”
“That would be welcome, thank you.”
As Mrs. Parsons poured from the pretty flowered pot, she said steadily, “I don’t have to ask why you’re here.”
“I suppose not,” Nina said gently. “Had you known Mrs. Baxter long?”
“We met at ballroom dancing, when we were seventeen. There used to be classes every Saturday in the old Alexandra Hall. It was knocked down when they built the Arts Centre.”
“I remember the Alex,” Nina said. “I went to ballroom dancing, too.”
“Did you really?” Mrs. Parsons’s nostalgic expression brightened. “What a coincidence! Was it still Nettie Briggs when you were there?”
“Yes — good heavens! Nettie Briggs with her beehive hairdo! I’d forgotten all about her.”
“Just fancy that! Well, that’s where I met Linda, and we became friends from the word go. I was her bridesmaid when she married Ted.”
Nina said carefully, “Did she confide in you, when the marriage went wrong?”
The woman’s face clouded. “Not at first. And when she did, I had to promise not to tell Norma. That’s her sister, over in Ashmartin. Linda didn’t want her worrying. Mind, I didn’t like promising. In my opinion, it would have been all to the good if Jim had gone round to sort Ted out. It made my blood boil, to see what he did to Linda. She wasn’t the same person at all. Such a happy, laughing girl, she’d been.”
“Did she never consider divorcing him?” Nina had first-hand experience of an unhappy marriage.
“She would have done, if it hadn’t been for the kids. She decided to hang on till they were old enough to understand. Now, poor little blighters, they’ve neither a mum nor a dad.”
“I can understand how she felt, though.” Not as long-suffering herself, Nina nonetheless felt guilt at having deprived her own daughter of her father. “It’s a tremendous decision to take,” she added sombrely, “and if unhappiness had sapped her confidence, it makes it even harder.”
“That’s it exactly — he’d destroyed her confidence. She had a lovely voice as a girl, and used to sing solos at church concerts and things. But Ted was jealous of anything that didn’t involve him, and he made her give it up. Later, when the kids started school, she begged him to let her take up singing again, but he wouldn’t hear of it. ‘I’m not having latch-key kids,’ he told her. The nerve! Linda was always a devoted mum. And to crown everything, he told her her voice had probably gone anyway. But that’s the way he was, always putting her down. Called her all sorts, till she almost came to believe him. Yet she was still a capable, pretty woman, even at the end. Well, I mean, Mr. Chadwick would hardly —” She broke off, a red tide suffusing her face.
“Mr. Chadwick?” Nina repeated innocently.
“I shouldn’t have said that. I’d be grateful if you’d forget it.”
“Mrs. Parsons, I know Linda Baxter was your friend, but this is a murder inquiry. Please tell me about Mr. Chadwick.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” the woman replied. “It never came to anything.”
“Who is he?” Nina persisted.
“The gentleman where she worked. At Chadwick’s the chemist’s, in Westgate.”
“He was interested in her?”
“He would have been, if she’d given him half the chance. He noticed some bruises on her face which she’d not managed to conceal. That was how it started. I mean, Mr. Chadwick’s a gentleman, and he’d never have spoken if he thought Linda was happily married.”
“Did she tell him she wasn’t?”
“She didn’t have to — he has eyes in his head. He lives with his mother above the shop, and one day when she was very shaky after a bad bout with Ted, he took her upstairs for a cup of tea. Ever so gentle, Linda said he was. But as I say, nothing happened.”
“Did she ever meet him outside working hours?”
“She couldn’t, because of the children. As it was she only worked part-time so she could be home when they got back from school.”
“But even so, Mr. Chadwick became fond of her?”
“Yes. I know she found it a comfort, even though she didn’t give him any encouragement. And I’m the only one who knew about it. I shouldn’t really have mentioned it.”
“Have you met him yourself?”
“Not met, but I’ve seen him in the shop. I was naturally curious, after what Linda’d said. Seemed a very nice gentleman.”
“Have you seen him si
nce her death?”
Mrs. Parsons shook her head. “No, I — I couldn’t bear to go near the shop.”
“I’m sorry — of course not. So you won’t know how he reacted?”
The woman said dully, “How d’you expect him to react, poor man? He just had to take it, like the rest of us.”
Unless, Nina thought, he’d decided to avenge her. Still waters sometimes ran deep.
“Will you be going to see him?” Mrs. Parsons asked anxiously.
“The Chief Inspector will.”
“He won’t mention my name, will he? I shouldn’t like Mr. Chadwick to think I’d been tattling.”
“The Chief Inspector’s very discreet,” Nina said.
*
The chemist was a tall, thin man with receding dark hair and a prominent Adam’s apple. Webb caught a flash of panic in his eyes as he introduced himself.
“If it’s about Mrs. Baxter, your men have already been here,” he said. “We told them all we know.”
“Just a few more questions, sir,” Webb said easily. “Is there somewhere we could talk?”
A customer had come in after them, and was being served by the woman assistant. With obvious reluctance, Mr. Chadwick led them to the dispensary behind the shop.
“Could you tell me, sir,” Webb began, “if Mrs. Baxter confided in you about her husband’s treatment of her?”
Chadwick’s face suffused with colour, and the Adam’s apple jerked hysterically. “I was Mrs. Baxter’s employer, not her confidant,” he said stiffly.
“But you were fairly close to each other, weren’t you?”
The man’s indrawn breath was loud in the quiet room. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said faintly.
“I understand, for instance, that on at least one occasion you took her upstairs for a cup of tea?”
Chadwick swallowed convulsively. “How — how —”
“Mr. Chadwick, I’m not suggesting anything improper took place, but in the circumstances some reference must have been made to the bruises she’d suffered. Surely you noticed them?”
The chemist passed his tongue over dry lips. “Yes,” he said quietly, “I noticed. It grieved me to see her in such a condition, a gentle, charming woman like that.”