Fate Worse Than Death

by Sheila Radley

  Presumably Flood slept in the loft, but Quantrill had no intention of climbing the ladder. Ladder-climbing was an ungainly activity for a man of his size, and Hilary Lloyd was watching.

  ‘I don’t imagine you’ve held Sandra here in secret for the past three weeks, Mr Flood,’ he said. ‘It’s too close to other houses for that.’

  ‘I haven’t held her anywhere,’ said Flood. ‘I told you, I didn’t want her.’

  ‘So you say. But you admit to being fond of her – and so was the man who was responsible for her death. We have evidence of that. If it wasn’t you, then you must have had a local rival.’

  ‘Half a dozen, for all I know …’

  ‘But who? Did she mention any names?’

  ‘If she did, I didn’t listen. I didn’t take a personal interest in the girl. We discussed painting most of the time – she had a good eye for line and colour. That was why she did well in the florist’s shop. You’d better try talking to the woman in charge of the business, she knew Sandra better than I did.’

  ‘I was told that the owner of the shop is away in New Zealand,’ said Hilary.

  ‘There’s another woman, then. She’s in Fodderstone for the summer.’

  ‘Would that be Mrs Annabel Yardley?’

  But Desmond Flood was deep in treacle again. ‘I don’t know …’

  Chapter Twenty One

  Beech House, the home of Mrs Elizabeth Seymour who owned the Saintsbury florist’s shop, was an early nineteenth-century gentleman’s residence of grey brick, with a hipped slate roof and a pedimented porch on two Tuscan columns. It stood on its own about half a mile out of Fodderstone on the Saintsbury road. On one side of the house, a beech hedge concealed the garden from the quiet road; on the other side was a paddock in which two horses were grazing. A large beech tree grew beside the open entrance gates, and parked on the gravel drive in front of the house was a red Alfa Romeo Alfasud.

  Hearing voices coming from outside the house, Quantrill pushed open an ornamental iron gate in the beech hedge and followed Hilary into the garden. There, sitting on the terrace enjoying a drink in the early evening sunshine, were Martin Tait and a slim ash-blonde woman who was wearing a cotton sundress of such stunning simplicity that it couldn’t have cost much less, Hilary estimated, than a hundred pounds.

  As soon as he saw them, Martin Tait leaped to his feet. He looked pleased with himself, and at the same time slightly guilty and slightly defiant, as though he had been caught in a compromising situation with a more attractive woman than his fiancée by his prospective father-in-law.

  He introduced his colleagues to Annabel Yardley, who greeted them with a distant, amused civility. ‘The Detective Inspector has quite a talent for making Pimm’s,’ she added, indicating a glass jug that contained an innocent-looking combination of pale liquid, fresh fruit salad and decorative greenery. ‘I’ll have another, Martin – and perhaps you’d like to offer some to your visitors.’

  Tait refilled her glass, and then raised the jug and an eyebrow at Sergeant Lloyd.

  Hilary shook her head. She enjoyed the taste of Pimm’s, but hadn’t drunk it for years; not since that May Ball at Clare College, Cambridge, when she was a final-year student nurse at Addenbrooke’s hospital and Stephen was still alive. Just for a moment the smell of the Pimm’s brought back that long lovely night on the river – the distant music, the softly spotlit stonework of the ancient walls and bridges, the ripple and plash of the water as their punt drifted along the Backs under the willow trees – and Stephen beside her, so brilliant and brave that they could both pretend for a few hours not to know that he was dying.

  No, she never wanted to drink Pimm’s again … And as for Douglas Quantrill, her unpretentious, stick-in-the-mud, salt-of-the-earth boss, she had already seen the look of horror on his face as he stared at Martin Tait’s frivolous concoction and identified the slices of orange, lemon, apple and cucumber, and the topping of sprigs of mint. His thoughts were as clear as if he’d voiced them: You’ll never catch me drinking that!

  ‘Thank you for the offer,’ Hilary said pleasantly to Annabel Yardley, ‘but I’m afraid we haven’t time to appreciate a Pimm’s.’ The Chief Inspector beckoned Tait aside, and Hilary sat down on the vacant garden chair. ‘We’re investigating Sandra Websdell’s death – as I’m sure Martin has told you – and we wondered whether you could give us some information about her.’

  Mrs Yardley opened her hooded eyelids wide, changing her amused expression to one of serious concern. Even though her family had left Fodderstone years ago, as a niece of the fifth Earl of Brandon she felt a certain responsibility towards the villagers, whether they were aware of it or not.

  ‘Yes, I do know about Sandra’s death, of course. I’m really sorry – quite shattered, actually. I did try to do my bit this afternoon, while I was flying with Martin, to spot her car in the forest. But no luck, I’m afraid. How else can I help you?’

  ‘You knew her because she ran Mrs Seymour’s shop, I believe?’

  ‘Yes. She was competent, and Elizabeth thought highly of her. I got to know the girl because she did all the buying of the flowers that Elizabeth arranges for friends’weddings and dances. I’m a flower-arranger too, for my sins, so Elizabeth roped me in to stay here and take over while she and her husband went orf to New Zealand. Life was absolutely hectic in June, and I don’t know how I’d have coped without Sandra’s help.’

  ‘What did you make of the girl, Mrs Yardley?’ asked Hilary. ‘Was she having some kind of secret affair, do you think, at the same time as she was engaged to Desmond Flood?’

  Annabel Yardley gave a well-bred snort of laughter. ‘God, no! What ever gave you that idea? She was a conventional, romantic girl – I doubt if she even went to bed with her fiancé, though he probably wasn’t up to it anyway. He was quite wrong for her, of course. I think the poor child saw him at first as some kind of brooding romantic hero who would be transformed by her love. I told her that he was a lost cause.’

  She sat back and took a cigarette from a packet that was lying on the garden table beside her glass. Martin Tait materialized in a moment, picking up her lighter and flicking it for her. Hilary watched them both, amused in her turn; glad to be self-assured enough to know that her own inexpensive clothes – a striped cotton shirt and a denim skirt worn with a good leather belt – were in no way inferior to Mrs Yardley’s because they were absolutely right for her job. A policewoman would look conspicuous if she went out detecting in rural Suffolk in a designer sundress.

  But Sergeant Lloyd found Annabel Yardley interestingly decorative: stylish, elegant, with an unmistakable aura of expensive sexuality. No wonder Martin Tait, although he had returned to his conversation with the Chief Inspector, couldn’t keep his eyes off her. Pity about that cold sore on the corner of her mouth, though …

  ‘As far as you know then, Mrs Yardley, Sandra Websdell had no other attachments. But do you think she might have had a secret admirer?’

  ‘Very probably.’ Annabel Yardley began to sound a little bored, tired of being questioned. ‘Sandra was a big girl, you know. She had a simply enormous bosom, 38 if it was an inch. It seemed to embarrass her terribly – but the men loved it, of course.’

  ‘Which men?’

  Jolted out of her boredom, Mrs Yardley blinked with surprise. ‘My goodness, you’re quick off the mark, aren’t you? Actually I meant the regulars at the Flintknappers Arms. They’re the only men I’ve seen her with. I happened to visit the pub one weekend early in the summer, and Sandra was there with Desmond Flood. She obviously felt shy and out of place, and because she was a Fodderstone girl she was being teased by the regulars. They were positively mauling her with their hot little eyes.’

  Hilary took her notebook from her shoulder bag, but Mrs Yardley waved it away. ‘I have no idea of their names,’ she said firmly. ‘The landlord was one, though – I do dislike him, he’s so conceited and familiar. Really, the Flintknappers is such a crude pub that I wouldn’t go there at
all if it weren’t the only one in Fodderstone. I’d say that the regulars are thoroughly untrustworthy – almost without exception.’

  ‘And who is the exception?’

  ‘Charley Horrocks. He’s an eccentric cousin of Daddy’s, actually. I prefer him not to know who I am because he’d be a serious social embarrassment. But I can vouch for the fact that he’s absolutely harmless.’

  The conversation between Chief Inspector Quantrill and Martin Tait had not at first gone well. Tait, unsure of how much Alison’s father knew about their relationship, was on the defensive.

  ‘Mrs Yardley rides,’ he said. ‘She knows the bridleways on this side of the forest. So it seemed a good idea to take her up to do some observing while I flew over the area.’

  ‘Oh yes? I thought it was your aunt’s local knowledge you were going to make use of.’

  ‘Ground knowledge. Aunt Con doesn’t like flying.’

  As he said it, Tait realized that he had no idea whether or not it was true; he’d never even thought of offering his aunt a trip in his aeroplane. He certainly didn’t want her with him this week, not when Annabel Yardley was available. On the other hand, it was important to keep Aunt Con sweet. He’d better suggest it. With luck – considering how ill she looked – she would refuse.

  ‘I’ve spotted some possible hide-outs within a mile of the village,’ he went on quickly. ‘There’s nothing left of Fodder-stone Hall – Mrs Yardley’s old family home. The park where it stood is arable land now, though there are crop marks that show the site of the house. But in the surrounding woodland I noticed two derelict buildings that must have belonged to the Hall at one time. One’s a partially roofless house, and the other is an old boathouse beside an ornamental lake. The area’s called Stoneyhill wood. I’ll pinpoint it for you on your map. As for Sandra Websdell’s car, it could have been driven along any one of the forest rides and hidden among the trees. It would take a helicopter to make a proper search, but I’ll do what I can.’

  ‘I’m glad of your help,’ acknowledged Quantrill. ‘One thing, though, Martin – any aerial observing that you do has to be entirely unofficial and voluntary. It must cost you a small fortune to keep that aeroplane flying, but I can’t possibly wangle any expenses for you.’

  Tait gave a confident shrug. ‘What makes you think I can’t afford it?’ he said.

  Quantrill and Hilary said good-bye to Mrs Yardley, and Tait excused himself from her for a few minutes. He went with them to their car, and marked their large-scale map. When he left them to return through the iron gate that led into the garden, Hilary hurried after him.

  ‘Martin –’

  They had once, for a short time, been sergeants together at Yarchester; colleagues rather than friends. Hilary found his air of professional superiority irritating, and his conviction that he was God’s gift to any attractive woman under the age of thirty-five tiresome. But at the moment she felt some concern for him, and even more for his girlfriend, Alison Quantrill.

  ‘You’re not going to like this,’ she went on, keeping her voice low. ‘But having once been a nurse I can’t get out of the habit of noticing health hazards.’

  Tait looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean? What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing’s happened yet, I hope. That’s why I’d better say this now, before you get involved. You’re spending this evening here, I imagine?’

  ‘Annabel’s invited me to stay for supper, yes.’

  ‘She’s a very attractive woman. And she obviously enjoys the company of interesting men. You could be in with a chance.’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘And the fact that she has a cold sore near her mouth doesn’t worry you? I know you must have noticed it.’

  ‘I have noticed it – and it doesn’t worry me in the least.’

  ‘That’s what I was afraid of. Listen Martin – cold sores are caused by a virus that’s closely related to a much more dangerous one. Most of them are quite innocent, of course. If Mrs Yardley were faithful to her absent husband, there’d be no problem. But she isn’t, is she? From that I’ve heard – and you must have heard it, too – she’s known to lead an active and varied sex life. And because of that, it’s just possible that her particular cold sore is a symptom of herpes.’

  Tait gaped. ‘Herpes?‘ He glanced over his shoulder to make sure that they were standing far enough from the garden hedge for their voices not to carry over it. ‘For God’s sake,’ he hissed indignantly, ‘she’s the niece of an earl!’

  ‘Blue blood doesn’t seem to provide immunity,’ said Hilary dryly. ‘The fact is, you don’t know where she’s been. If by any chance she has got it, and you come into physical contact with her, the Earl’s niece’s cold sore could become your genital herpes. And surely you don’t want to risk catching that?’

  Tait became agitated. He strode up and down the gravel drive, a few steps one way, a few steps another, trying to recall what he’d heard about the uncontrollable, incurable by-product of sexual freedom. Then he stood still, and stared at Hilary with suspicion.

  ‘Catching genital herpes from someone with a cold sore …? You’re trying to fool me, aren’t you?’

  ‘No. It’s a medical fact that the virus is highly contagious. It can be spread by kissing, even by finger contact. That’s why I had to mention it to you. Don’t you see, Martin? It’s not just yourself you’re putting at risk, it’s Alison too.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with Alison,’ Tait snapped. ‘That’s finished.’

  ‘It’s not just Alison I’m talking about. If you should contract genital herpes, you’ll be a danger to any woman you ever fall in love with. For their sakes, if not your own, you really ought to steer clear of the Earl’s niece.’

  Tait scowled. His eyes were cold with anger. ‘Damn you, Sergeant Lloyd,’ he said. ‘Who the hell do you think you are, to interfere in my private life? I’ll choose my own friends, thank you.’

  He turned and strode to the gate that led into the garden where Annabel Yardley was waiting for him.

  ‘I thought you were going to stay for supper.’

  ‘Sorry, Annabel. Duty calls – I’ve just remembered my poor old aunt. She’s the Websdell family’s neighbour, you see. She was with me this morning when I found Sandra’s body, and it was a nasty shock for her. Much as I’d love to stay with you, I really feel obliged to spend the rest of the evening with Aunt Con.’

  Mrs Yardley looked a little piqued that her arrangements had been altered, but not disappointed. ‘As you please,’ she said. ‘The flight was amusing, though. You did suggest that we might go up again tomorrow –?’

  ‘Ah, that was before Chief Inspector Quantrill came barging in,’ said Tait. ‘He wants my help with this murder enquiry, so I’m afraid it looks as though I’m going to be completely tied up for the next few days.’

  ‘Really?’ The fifth Earl’s niece’s voice had dropped to freezing point. She picked up a copy of Harpers & Queen and flicked dismissively through it. ‘Then what are you waiting for? Why don’t

  you eff orf?’

  Tait went, congratulating himself on his narrow escape.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  When Martin Tait returned after sunset to number 9 Fodderstone Green, he found that although the back door was unlocked his aunt was not at home. She must, he guessed, be with one or another of her neighbours.

  He noticed that she had been busy during the day. Propped beside the dustbin, not far from the back door, were three or four bulging plastic sacks, their necks fastened with elastic bands, that presumably contained the things she had decided to throw away. And he could smell smoke coming from an almost extinct bonfire at the end of the garden.

  He walked down to the site of the bonfire. The private letters and papers that he had carried out of the house that morning had already been reduced to a smouldering heap. But paper in bulk burns slowly and incompletely, and some of the thicker items – account books, diaries, photographs – were charred rather than burnt.
Tait made himself useful by fetching a garden fork from the shed and turning the papers over, lifting them so as to get enough air underneath to rekindle the flames.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ demanded an authoritative female voice. He looked up from his task and saw his aunt’s neighbour Mrs Braithwaite bearing down on him. She was wearing her summer lecturing ensemble, a floral dress and jacket in an unbecomingly shiny material, together with a pair of stout shoes. ‘What are you doing?’ she repeated, the retaining chain on her spectacles swinging on either side of her cheeks with the vigour of her questioning.

  Martin Tait felt that he’d had enough to put up with, during the past twenty-four hours, without being bothered by a stupid old bag like Mrs B. ‘As you see,’ he said coldly, ‘I am having a bonfire.’

  ‘In this weather? What are you burning?’ Marjorie Braithwaite peered at the revived fire. Then, with an exclamation of horror, she darted forward and snatched a half-burned hard-covered notebook that he had just lifted on the tines of his fork. ‘But it’s my diary – this year’s desk diary – the one I gave Constance at Christmas! What do you mean by burning this? Where is your aunt? Does she know what you’re doing?’

  Martin stirred the fire, hoping that the smoke would drive the wretched woman away. ‘No, I don’t know where my aunt is,’ he said through his teeth. ‘And no, she doesn’t know that I’m doing this.’

  ‘Then how dare you? How dare you? Words fail me,’ spluttered Marjorie, though this was audibly untrue. Tait let her go on protesting for some moments while he fed papers to the flames. When he could endure her company no longer, he turned to her with a cool smile.