by Faith Martin
How would she know if she had?
Angrily, Angela Baines shook her head. What on earth did it matter, when Janet wasn’t at home, like she should be?
She commenced pacing again, wringing her hands. She couldn’t bear it if anything happened to Janet. She just knew she couldn’t. She was all she had.
But her daughter would be home soon. She had to be.
Of course, Janet had never been the same since Iris died, Angela mused. Not that it worried her much – she knew that for all her daughter’s insistence that the wretched girl had been her best friend, Janet hadn’t really been fond of Iris, not deep down, of that Angela was positive. So her loss would cause her beloved daughter no serious harm.
But then David Finch had been found hanging in the Dewberry farm, and somehow, something had changed. But she wasn’t sure exactly what had changed, and that worried her. Angela was used to knowing everything about her daughter – what she was thinking, what she was feeling, what she might be planning, where she was and what she was doing. Angela had always prided herself on being a good mother. Having no husband to help her, she’d always made sure that Janet came first. Unlike some modern mothers, who seemed to think their children could raise themselves!
But there was no denying it. Ever since David Finch had died, something subtle, but something persistent, had been occupying her daughter’s waking moments, and she felt a chill begin to creep up her spine at the thought of what that might be.
Angela’s fists clenched in a mixture of fear and fury as she gave a muffled cry of apprehension and frustration.
Where is she?
Whilst Angela Baines paced her home, watching the sun begin to slowly set and becoming more and more frantic, Mortimer Crowley sat in his comfortable study, lounging back in his favourite chair with a black Bakelite telephone receiver pressed to his ear.
He was trying to keep his patience, but it was costing him. ‘No, Reggie, I’m telling you, I’m not holding any more parties until things settle down a bit here,’ he repeated. ‘And it’s no use whinging about it …’
He sighed, letting the upper-class accent moan on in his ear. The Right Hon. Reggie Arbington-Smythe, he suspected, spent his every waking moment half-cut, and today was obviously no exception. His words were so slurred he could almost swear that he could smell the booze on his breath over the telephone wire!
Which meant you simply just had to wait until he ran down a bit and then forcefully yell whatever information you wanted to impart into his ear, over and over again until you were sure it stuck.
Of all his ‘special’ friends, he was really only worried about Reggie, and maybe that old reprobate Welshman. Reggie, because he was capable of almost any indiscretion when he was really blotto, and Rhys because he had no damned sense of self-preservation at all. To him, the world was one big joke and he couldn’t care tuppence about anything except his own pleasures.
Unfortunately he hadn’t yet been able to reach Rhys, but Reggie had been easy enough to track down to one of his favoured Soho haunts.
‘Listen Reggie, you need to keep your mouth shut, all right?’ Mortimer said loudly, once he’d got the chance to get a word in edgeways.
‘Shut, ol’ boy? Can’t do that – can’t drink port with a shut mouth …’ The gratingly upper-class accent made Mortimer wince as the other man began to snigger.
‘I mean about the parties,’ Mortimer persisted grimly. ‘And about that girl, Iris, in particular.’
‘Iris? Iris – oh pretty little Iris the country milkmaid …’
‘Yes, her,’ Mortimer hissed, pushing back his mounting sense of fury. ‘If anyone comes asking about her, anyone at all, you know nothing about … our party games. All right?’
‘Ssshhhh,’ the Right Hon. hissed down the line like a demented snake, and Mortimer could almost picture his silly face, a finger pressed up against his lips. ‘Got you, ol’ boy. No mention of pretty Iris.’
‘Promise me Reggie?’ Mortimer pressed.
‘Scout’s honour, ol’ boy,’ the furry voice came back, and then, without so much as a goodbye, the phone was hung up. Probably the bartender at the club had offered to refill his glass, Mortimer thought sourly, and Reggie had promptly forgotten all about him.
He sighed and hung up. Well, he’d done his best. Not that he seriously expected the coppers to get onto him. From what he could tell keeping his ear to the ground, the police were content to lay the blame on the dead boyfriend. Poor sap. Not that he was complaining about that. The sooner they signed off on the case, the happier he’d be.
He and his ‘special friends’ made a habit of being very discreet indeed, but it would still be a relief when he could be sure that the whole May Queen murder fiasco was finally put to bed. He’d broken out in a cold sweat every time he saw a newspaper reporter slouching through the village, snuffling for titbits. But so far, they’d found nothing to cause him any real alarm.
But that could change in an instant.
He hung up, then redialled the Welshman’s number. Still no answer. Damn! He sighed. He’d have to keep trying. He listened to the unanswered burring in his ear, and stared out at the darkening garden, his thoughts on Iris Carmody and the last time he’d seen her. What a body that girl had. A face like a Victorian rose and no more morals than …
Realising where his thoughts were leading him, he broke off abruptly with a dry laugh. Who was he to criticise anyone else’s morals? One thing he wasn’t, was a hypocrite.
He sighed heavily.
Poor Iris. Poor greedy little Iris …
Mortimer Crowley was not the only one watching the sun set. Walking alongside a field of green, happily growing barley, Ronnie Dewberry paused to watch a pair of linnets busy nesting in the blackthorn hedges. Off somewhere in the distance, some peewits were calling plaintively. Yellow brimstone butterflies sought out their last sip of nectar of the day from the dandelions growing in the grass verges, whilst the sky slowly turned pink all around them.
Not that his mind was focused on the beauty of the natural world all around him. Instead his thoughts, as ever, were on Iris and David.
He was worried about the old man and that pretty assistant of his, who’d been around the village, asking so many questions. He didn’t really understand why the coroner was still poking around. Surely, now that the verdict had been handed down, his role was over?
And yet, clearly, it wasn’t. So what was going on? Did they suspect something? What did they know that he and the rest of the village didn’t? Was it possible … He paused, swallowing hard. Was it possible that they knew more than he thought they possibly could?
Not that he could see how. As far as he was aware, nobody knew how much he had hated Iris Carmody – or why. But if they were to find out …
Would he be arrested?
And if he was, how could he possibly defend himself?
For a moment, in that beautiful field, surrounded by that beautiful sky, Ronnie Dewberry felt cold, and scared, and utterly alone. His heart beat painfully in his chest, making him feel sick.
Ever since he’d been a kid, he’d sometimes ‘felt’ things. His grandmother had said he was a bit ‘fey’ like her own mother had been. He’d scoffed at her, of course, but still … There had been that time he’d felt so odd all day, and coming home from school had been told that his favourite uncle had just died.
Then, too, that time he’d wanted Bunty to sleep on his bed, holding her close and rubbing her black-and-white fur and feeling so weepy. And then she’d been killed by a kick in the head from a particularly nasty ewe.
And right now, he was feeling that same sense of foreboding – as if something massive and dark was looming ever closer. And he was afraid that he knew what that something might be.
That he could end up hanging by the neck until he was dead, just as his best friend had.
Chapter 27
Duncan Gillingham smiled at the waitress and ordered coffee and toast for both of them. Trudy, who wasn�
��t allowed to leave the house any morning without two boiled eggs and some bread and butter inside her, opened her mouth to object, and then shrugged.
If her dad and brother were anything to go by, Duncan would have no trouble eating her portion as well!
She glanced a little nervously at her watch. It was still early, and she had plenty of time before she had to report to the station; even so she felt rather uneasy. Not that anyone she knew – either from work or from her neighbourhood – was likely to see her in the smart little café off St Giles.
‘You look just as good out of uniform as you do in it, by the way,’ Duncan said cheekily, eyeing her rather pedestrian, pale blue skirt and white blouse and darker-blue cardigan ensemble with mock appreciation.
Trudy sighed. ‘Don’t play the fool, Duncan,’ she said. The clothes she was wearing were at least three years old. ‘I don’t have all day to sit and spar with you, you know.’
Duncan held out his hands in a pacifying gesture. ‘Fine! I really did want to clear the air between us.’ He leaned forward across the table and his dark hair fell forward across his forehead, making Trudy want to reach out and push it back.
The thought made her feel silly and a little breathless at the same time. What was it about this man that got under her skin so much? Yes, he was handsome, and yes, he could be charming and funny. But she knew it was all calculated. He wanted something from her and she knew it. But instead of all that putting her off, it only intrigued her.
‘Look, I really am sorry things became awkward between us the last time. That wasn’t what I wanted.’
‘I’m sure it wasn’t,’ Trudy said dryly. ‘You wanted me to remain in blissful ignorance of your fiancée so that you could lead me on and use me as a source in the police for your articles.’
She reached for her teacup and took a sip. She was rather pleased with the cool but slightly amused tone of her voice. She sounded, even to her own ears, rather sophisticated. Like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
She thought she saw a spark of surprise mixed with admiration in the look he gave her, and felt even more pleased with herself.
‘That might have been true at the beginning,’ Duncan admitted with a shame-faced smile. ‘But that wasn’t true for very long. I really do admire you, you know. Joining the police, doing the job you do. It can’t be easy.’
Trudy shrugged. ‘They say that nothing worthwhile is ever easy. So, why don’t we change the subject? I accept your apology, no hard feelings and all of that. Now, I really must go.’
Yesterday had been a bit of a nightmarish sort of day. It had taken her a while to realise that Dr Ryder had been right to insist that she make a full disclosure to her superior officer, and after giving DI Jennings a full report, she’d been glad to get home. Not that she’d slept much last night.
Needless to say, the Inspector had somewhat grudgingly praised her diligence, but for once, pleasing her taciturn boss had given her no sense of accomplishment. Now she just wanted to get back into the case and try and make some real progress.
Duncan rose as she stood up, and held out his hand. He knew better than to try and persuade her to stay. Instead, he merely said laconically, ‘Well, be seeing you then. Good luck. Have a nice weekend,’ he added, making Trudy pause for a moment. Then she remembered – of course, it was Saturday tomorrow and her day off. Not that she’d probably take it, with so much going on!
They shook hands like strangers, and Trudy nodded and walked away, feeling on the whole as if she’d acquitted herself rather well.
She might not have been feeling quite so satisfied, though, if she’d been able to read Duncan Gillingham’s mind as he watched her go.
For after letting her get a good head start, Duncan started out after her. She might not become his willing source of information, but he was convinced that wherever she went, a story was bound to follow. And he wouldn’t rest until he’d found out what she and the old vulture were up to in the village of Middle Fenton. Most of his fellow hacks thought that the Iris Carmody case was all but done and dusted, with the suicide verdict of the dead girl’s boyfriend and the coppers all but vacating the village. But Duncan’s nose told him differently, and he was willing to spend some time and effort in proving his hunches right. And he’d be very surprised indeed if little Miss pure-of-heart didn’t lead him to a very nice and exclusive scoop that would warm the cockles of even his editor’s arctic heart.
For the next few days at least, he was going to keep close. And if he could also think up a way of getting back in her good books … well, even better! He wasn’t prepared to admit that Trudy Loveday was actually managing to get under his skin, mind, but there was no denying that she challenged, annoyed, intrigued and aggravated him in a way that no other woman had yet done.
Angela Baines kept casting looks of pleasure and satisfaction at her daughter over her morning bowl of cornflakes, but her relief was tempered by a persistent sense of unease.
When Janet had finally come home last evening, apologetic and intent on appeasing her with a tale of being waylaid by an old school friend in dire need of succour and a sympathetic ear, she’d been so relieved that she hadn’t really questioned it much.
Now, seeing the dark circles under her daughter’s eyes, and the quick, slightly jerky movements of her hands as she pushed her cereal around her bowl without actually eating any of it, she felt yet more twinges of alarm.
‘Did you sleep all right, love?’ Angela began softly.
‘Yes, fine Mum,’ Janet lied; her voice distracted and almost mechanical.
‘Only you look rather pale.’
Janet forced a smile and reached for her glass of orange juice, taking the tiniest sip. She thought she might choke if she had to actually swallow anything of real substance. ‘I shouldn’t worry, I feel perfectly well.’
‘Are you going to volunteer at the shop today then?’ Angela persisted.
‘Yes, I think so,’ Janet again lied, her thoughts chasing each other around in her head like demented hamsters on a wheel. She wished, oh how she wished, that her mother would just stop talking …
She had spent the night thinking and thinking and thinking and still not arriving at any definite plan of action. Now she felt almost unreal, as if, instead of not catching a wink of sleep, she had fallen asleep after all, and was now in the midst of a dream. Nothing felt quite real, somehow, and yet she knew that it was.
And with the arrival of the dawn light, she knew she had to face the fact that, now, her life had changed irrevocably, and nothing she could do or say would allow her to go back to how things had been. She could only go forward and try to fight for her future.
For some time now, she’d felt a growing discontent with her life – the sameness of it all, the constant surveillance of her mother, the limited choices, this nosy village, the sheer boredom of her existence. How she’d envied and then hated Iris, because she was probably going to make her own silly dreams of a life as an actress or model in London come true. And now Iris was dead. Bright, full-of-life, clever, cruel, beautiful Iris. Soon they would release her body and she would be buried in the churchyard and the years would eventually pass and she’d slowly cease to matter to anyone except her parents.
And here she was, Janet Baines, feeling very much alive, scared witless and yet just a little excited too, on the edge of a precipice, trying to decide at which point to step off. Because she was going to have to do something.
Was she in actual danger?
That thought had been one of many that she had chased around in her head, over and over, during the night.
And even if she was, could she let it stop her from getting what she’d always wanted …?
‘I think it might rain,’ Angela Baines said, watching her daughter’s face nervously. ‘I think you should stay away from the city today, and keep close to home. No point getting caught in a shower, Janet.’
Janet didn’t reply. For once, she hadn’t heard her mother’s voice,
and her mother knew it.
Chapter 28
Trudy and Clement had no trouble finding Rhys Owen at home, in a rather nice semi-detached villa in Osney Mead, although it took him rather a long while to answer the summons of his doorbell.
He wasn’t a big man, but he somehow had a big presence, even when he was clearly hung-over. He had a lot of shaggy, curly hair of an indeterminate shade of brown, a pair of puppy-dog, big, brown eyes, and an oddly feminine mouth set in a jaw that reminded Trudy of Desperate Dan in the Beano.
‘Hullo, what brings a lovely thing like you to a man’s door then?’ were his first words, aimed, (Clement was relieved to note) at Trudy. Had his eyes not been so blood-shot as he looked at her, she might even have felt flattered.
His sing-song accent was noticeably Welsh, but Clement had the feeling that he’d probably lived in England for longer than he’d lived in Wales.
‘Mr Owen? Rhys Owen?’ Clement said crisply.
With some reluctance, the man turned to regard Clement Ryder. He blinked once or twice as he did so, for he had to look some way up. His relatively short stature meant that Clement loomed over him, and both of them could almost hear the Welshman wracking his brains as he tried to recall if they’d ever met before.
‘Yes, that would be me, Mr … er …?’
‘Dr Clement Ryder. I’m a city coroner.’
For some reason, Rhys Owen seemed to find this funny and burst into laughter. Perhaps he had been expecting a debt collector, or a man trying to sell him a set of encyclopaedias. Whatever had amused him, he obviously regretted it, for he changed the laughter to a groan and winced. ‘Ow, I shouldn’t do that when I’m feeling a little delicate,’ he admitted with a wide grin that showed a lot of white and well-kept teeth.
