He took the scenic route to Poole, across country, and stopped at a small pub for some lunch. Neither the beer, nor the food was a patch on what the Golden Pheasant provided but it was a friendly place and he was able to sit outside in the sun.
A phone call ahead to the General Hospital at Poole had confirmed that Mrs Maureen Barton was a patient there and that afternoon visiting was allowed between three and four thirty p.m. To kill time, he went down to the harbour and watched the sailing boats coming and going on the water and breathed in the salty air.
He could understand why Alice and Vera were attracted by the idea of living by the sea. If he had been a navy man, he might have done so himself instead of retiring to a landlocked village. As Vera had rightly said, there was something clean and honest about it, and he also felt that it imparted a kind of mysterious solace to the soul. A panacea for all troubles. Fortunately in England, the sea was never very far away. It was always there to commune with, if one felt the need.
He returned to the hospital and followed the signs for the ward.
At its entrance, he asked a nurse where he could find Mrs Barton. She was nothing like Miss Simmons’s sister in the photograph. No starched cap or apron, just a shapeless nylon overall.
She frowned. ‘You’re not another of those CID people, are you?’
‘Definitely not.’
‘Because the one that came before upset her.’
‘I promise that I won’t.’
‘She hardly says anything. And she wouldn’t talk to the police sergeant at all. Not a word.’
‘Perhaps I might have better luck.’
She assessed him with a professional glance. ‘Well, she doesn’t have any other visitors, poor old thing, so you might cheer her up a bit.’
‘How is she?’
She turned down a thumb. ‘There’s not a lot we can do except keep her as comfortable as possible.’
Maureen Barton was in a separate room nearest the ward entrance. Laura had been in a similar room: a place for patients who needed extra care and attention and who were not expected to live long.
She was lying motionless, eyes shut, and surrounded by the monitors and apparatus that were keeping her alive. A small, frail woman, as pale as death.
He sat down on a chair by the head of the bed, which brought him down to her level. When he spoke her name, she opened her eyes.
‘Mrs Barton,’ he said. ‘I’ve come to talk about Gunilla Bjork – if you don’t mind.’
There was no response but, eventually, she turned her head slowly in his direction. When she answered, her voice was weak: not more than a whisper.
‘I don’t know you. Who are you?’
He gave her his name.
‘I’ve been staying in King’s Mowbray with Mrs Heathcote, an old friend of my late wife. She and her husband bought the farm that used to belong to the Holland family. You may remember them coming to the Golden Pheasant?’
‘Mr Heathcote came all the time . . . I never liked him.’
He said, ‘You would remember Gunilla Bjork, too. She worked for you and your husband, didn’t she?’
Her lips moved slowly. ‘She was no good . . . Roy had to give her the sack.’
‘So I understand.’ He paused. ‘Gunilla’s remains were found recently, buried in the Hollands’ old barn. The Heathcotes’ builders came across her skeleton when they were working there.’
She turned her head away from him, shut her eyes again.
‘I’m not a policeman, Mrs Barton,’ he said. ‘But I’m here because I think that your late husband may have had something to do with Gunilla’s death.’
After a moment, her eyes reopened.
‘He didn’t kill her, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Will you tell me what happened?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
Why indeed, he wondered. There was no good reason, except perhaps that a Chief Detective Inspector in thrall to a Greek goddess could not be expected to care very much about the death of a Swedish barmaid. It seemed important that someone did.
‘I’d like to know the truth.’
She was silent for several minutes, then she sighed.
‘I might as well. Nobody can do anything about it now. Roy’s dead and I’ll be gone soon.’
He waited and, presently, she went on. Her voice was even fainter and he had to bend his head close to hear her words.
‘I knew it was a mistake . . . hiring a girl like. She was bone lazy and nothing but trouble from the first . . . flirting with all the men . . . they were like bees round a honeypot.’
‘So I’ve heard.’
‘She’d tease them . . . lead them on . . . tempt them. I never thought Roy would fall for it . . . but he did. Just like all the rest. I knew by the way he looked at her. I couldn’t blame him . . . I hadn’t been a proper wife to him for years – not since I got so ill. He couldn’t help himself. Poor Roy. He was a good man.’
He said quietly, ‘Tell me about it.’
‘Gunilla used to go to the Hollands’ barn . . . to meet men. She’d play a silly make-believe thing . . . pretending to be a prisoner up in the hayloft and they’d have to climb up the ladder to rescue her.’
‘How did you know this?’
‘Some of them bragged about it in the bar. And Roy told me himself . . . afterwards.’
‘What did he tell you exactly?’
‘He said he followed her to the barn one afternoon. She was on her own, he said . . . she didn’t go to meet anyone that time. He watched her climb up the ladder to the hayloft and lie down with her hair hanging over the side, playing that game of hers. Some sort of old fairy tale.’
‘And then?’
‘She caught sight of Roy. She teased him, like she always teased them all . . . said if he climbed all the way up, he could have her as a reward. He was fit enough then, so it wasn’t difficult for him . . . but when he got to the top she wouldn’t let him near her. Told him he disgusted her and she’d sooner be dead than have him touch her, and she’d tell me that he’d tried to rape her. She made him so angry that he put his hands round her throat. He swore he didn’t mean to hurt her . . . that he let her go at once.’
‘Did you believe him?’
‘Yes. I know he was telling me the truth. He said she got into a terrible panic and rushed to climb down the ladder, but somehow she slipped and fell. When he reached her, he found the back of her head had hit a flint stone. She was dead.’
‘Why didn’t he report the accident to the police?’
‘There were red marks round her throat from his hands . . . he said they’d never believe he hadn’t killed her with the stone . . . never believe it was an accident. He thought he’d be arrested and tried for murder.’
‘So, he buried her in the barn?’
‘He dug a hole with the flint stone – they’re sharp, you know, they make good tools. It wasn’t very deep but it was enough to hide her. We didn’t think she’d ever be found.’
She might well not have been, the Colonel thought, if it hadn’t been for Cornelia’s bright idea of having a sprung dance floor.
‘What about her belongings?’
‘We put them all in her suitcase. Roy got rid of it in a pond miles away from King’s Mowbray.’
‘And the flint stone?’
‘He threw it into a stream. We told everyone that Roy had given her the sack and that she’d packed and left. Most of them were glad, you know . . . she’d upset too many people.’
He was silent for a moment.
Maureen Barton was looking at him. ‘You must do what you think best, Colonel. Tell the police, if you want. I don’t care now. It doesn’t matter any more. Roy and I never had children and there’s no other family left.’
She turned her head away.
He clasped her hand before he stood up and moved quietly towards the door.
She spoke again, quite clearly.
‘Roy was in the army, like you, Colonel –
before we started with the pub. He was in the Devon and Dorsets. He always said they were the best years of his life. You’d understand that.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Indeed, I do.’
‘He was a good man.’
‘I’m sure he was.’
As he left the ward, the same nurse accosted him.
‘I hope you didn’t upset her.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘As a matter of fact, I think she was quite glad to talk to me.’
The Colonel drove back to King’s Mowbray, taking his time. Maureen Barton had believed her husband’s story without question; he wasn’t quite so sure that he did and he doubted that Detective Chief Inspector Rodgers, with his sardonic reference to fairy tales, would have believed a word of it. You must do what you think best. Tell the police, if you want. It doesn’t matter any more.
He had been in a similarly tricky situation before, where someone guilty of a crime had confided in him. This one was no easier. The truth always mattered, but sometimes it could never be known. Or need never be known. Whatever had happened, Roy Barton was beyond the reach of the law, and so was his dying wife. And nothing could restore Gunilla Bjork to her uncaring family. Nor did there seem much point in hampering Chief Inspector Rodgers’s steady progress towards a blissful retirement with his irises.
The Range Rover was parked outside the house and he found Cornelia sitting on the sofa, drink in hand. Her third, at least, he reckoned, by the look of her.
‘Come and join me, Hugh. I need cheering up.’
He fetched a whisky. ‘What’s the trouble?’
‘Howard’s coming home in two days.’
‘Isn’t that a cause for celebration?’
‘Not exactly. He’s in a foul mood about everything. You’d think that finding the skeleton was all my fault. As though I’d put the bloody thing there myself, just to annoy him.’
He smiled. ‘I know that you didn’t, Cornelia.’
‘Nice of you to be so sure, Hugh. We’ll probably never find out who did, will we?’
‘I shouldn’t think so.’
‘Anyway, who cares? Howard refuses to come down here any more, so I’ll be going back to London. Good riddance to the place!’
He’d be glad to be rid of it himself.
‘What about the Swiss couple? Aren’t they arriving soon?’
‘They’ll come to London with me. I don’t suppose they’ll mind. They’re being paid enough.’ She raised her glass to him unsteadily. ‘Thanks for everything, Hugh. I’ll miss you most terribly. You’ve been a wonderful comfort and I couldn’t have managed without you.’
‘I’m glad to have been of help.’
‘Oh, by the way, I almost forgot . . . some woman phoned for you. She said she was your next-door neighbour. Voice like a foghorn.’
‘Did she leave a message?’
‘She wanted you to call her. Something about a cat.’
FOURTEEN
Damn! Damn! Damn! He should never have left Thursday for so long. He should have gone home days ago instead of playing at being Sherlock Holmes, as well as cook/companion/comforter to Cornelia who, whatever she pretended, could have managed perfectly well without him.
‘Now?’ she’d said, looking at him as though he’d gone mad. ‘You’re rushing back to Dorset for a cat?’
‘Yes, Cornelia, I am. For a cat.’
‘Can’t it wait till morning?’
‘No, it can’t.’
‘But what about me?’
‘You’ll be fine,’ he’d said, knowing that she would be.
When he had rung Naomi, she had sounded breezily cheerful.
‘Just thought I’d better let you know, Hugh. Thursday hasn’t been around for three days. I’ve had a search through the house and the garden and kept calling him, but no luck so far. I shouldn’t worry too much, he’ll come back when it suits him.’
That was just the trouble, the Colonel thought. If Thursday took it into his head that he’d been deserted, then it wouldn’t at all suit him to come back. He’d move on, just as he would have moved on throughout his long cat life, which must have included some very hard times. Thursday was like Kipling’s cat that walked by himself, and all places were alike to him.
He drove much faster than his usual pace, taking corners at a lick, roaring down the straight bits. The Riley responded as though it understood the urgency. It was still light when the Colonel arrived back in Frog End, the summer evening fading towards dusk. The food that Naomi had left out lay untouched in the bowl marked DOG beside the kitchen door. He went out and walked down to the far end of the garden, calling the cat’s name, hoping that he would suddenly make an appearance. He even checked the padlocked shed which he noticed bore distinct signs of Naomi’s inquisitive presence with the excuse of the mower. Tins and jars not put back in their proper place, the work stool slightly askew. After that, he searched the cottage from top to bottom, opening cupboard doors, looking under beds, behind furniture, on window seats, anywhere that Thursday might conceivably be curled up asleep.
When he rang Naomi, she answered almost at once.
‘Saw your car outside, Hugh. Any luck?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘I’m very sorry about it. I feel it’s my fault.’
She sounded upset and he said quickly, ‘Of course it wasn’t, Naomi. It’s entirely my fault for leaving him for too long. It was stupid of me.’
‘Well, he’ll probably come back as soon as he realizes you’re home again. You know how cats are . . . they’ve got a sixth sense, besides the nine lives.’
He didn’t really know how cats were, never having owned one, and he certainly didn’t own Thursday. For some mysterious reason, the battle-scarred old warrior, down on his luck, had chosen to throw in his lot with him – subject to satisfaction, of course, which he had signally failed to provide.
‘I hope you’re right.’
‘By the way, what happened about the skeleton in the barn?’
‘The police took it away. They’re still investigating. Somehow, I don’t think they’ll ever solve the mystery.’
‘Why not?’
He shrugged. ‘No hard evidence. Nothing for them to go on. It had been there for six years.’
‘Did they find out the cause of death?’
‘You’re sounding ghoulish, Naomi.’
‘Well, it’s a ghoulish story. Did they?’
‘She died from a blow to the skull.’
‘She?’
‘It turned out that the skeleton belonged to a young Swedish girl who had worked at the local pub. Apparently, she was in the habit of meeting admirers in the barn.’
‘Well, there you are.’
‘Where am I, Naomi?’
‘One of them killed her. That’s obvious.’
‘You may well be right.’
‘Of course I’m right. Even the police, slow as they are, ought to have worked out which one by now. You always seem to be getting mixed up with dead women, Hugh. First Ursula Swynford, then that actress – whatever her name was – then this foreign girl. I don’t know how you do it.’
‘I don’t do anything.’
‘It could become a habit.’
‘I’ll see if I can make it a man next time.’
‘That would be a change. How’s your friend, by the way? It must have been jolly unpleasant for her. Nobody wants a body to turn up in the barn.’
‘She’s getting over it. Her husband’s due back from his business trip soon.’
‘I was afraid she might get her hooks into you.’
He smiled. ‘Yes, I know you were. There was no likelihood of that, I can assure you, Naomi. I’m not in her league.’
She snorted. ‘Take a good look in the mirror some time, Hugh.’
He rang off and went out into the garden again. The light was going fast. Soon it would be too dark to see. He fetched a torch and did another patrol, poking about among bushes with a stick. He remembered reading an article about ol
d lions always going off to die alone in a hidden place. If small cats were the same as big cats, then Thursday could have done the same. He might never be found.
Finally, he went back into the cottage, switched on the sitting room lamps, poured himself a large whisky and sat down in the wing-back tapestry chair by the inglenook. The sofa opposite was where Thursday spent a great deal of his time, especially in winter when the log fire was lit. It looked bare without the customary ball of black and tan fur, and the house felt depressingly empty.
When the telephone rang, he got up wearily to answer it.
‘Hallo, Father.’
He could tell from his daughter-in-law’s agitated tone that he was in deep trouble.
‘How are you, Susan?’
‘We’ve been very worried about you, Father . . . where on earth have you been? We’ve tried ringing you ever so many times but there’s never any answer.’ Her voice was even louder than Naomi’s at her worst. ‘We were thinking of calling the police.’
‘I’ve been away,’ he said. ‘Staying with a friend.’
‘You ought to have told us, then we wouldn’t have worried.’
‘There was no need to worry. I do go away sometimes, you know.’
‘Will you be sure to tell us, in future?’
He suppressed his irritation, knowing that she meant well. ‘I’ll try to remember.’
‘How are you, then?’
‘Perfectly well, thank you. How are you all?’
‘Well, Eric’s got over his cold but Edith’s caught it now.’
‘I’m sorry about that. I hope you and Marcus didn’t catch it too.’
‘No, but we’re both very tired. Edith’s been very chesty and waking up a lot at night. We have to take it in turns to sit with her.’
He sympathized, remembering the nights when he and Laura had done the same with Alison and Marcus when they were ill. ‘She’ll get over it soon.’
‘I hope so. Have you had your supper, Father?’
‘Yes,’ he lied.
‘Did you try the pasta?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Are you taking those multivitamin pills we sent you?’
He had no compunction in lying again. ‘Yes, indeed.’
‘They’re very important for your health.’
Dry Bones Page 13
