She trailed into silence.
‘Well, I’m glad I was here. Thank you, Sally — you’re the first person who’s actually volunteered something that may give us an inside line.’
‘Do you know what he meant?’
‘No, I’m afraid I don’t, not yet. But I have a feeling that it’s a piece of the jigsaw that may fit with some other odd-shaped pieces once I get a chance to think about it. Now, where can I drop you off?’
*
It was no good. Frances was deathly tired, but she had lain awake for an hour. It was only a job, she told herself, as she thumped her pillows again. If you took it personally every time you couldn’t solve a crime, they’d have to retire you on compassionate grounds.
She wasn’t even in charge; it was Coppins’s case. But she had stuck her neck out, and if Coppins was left to take the blame, it would only make it worse.
She had not felt so vulnerable for a very long time. Pride was the deadliest of her sins, and it had shaped her attitudes for its protection. Professional detachment was a good shield when there was egg flying.
This time it could land all over her face, and maybe it would be good for her. But the prospect didn’t make it any easier to get to sleep.
She could hear from downstairs the muffled sound of her mother’s rhythmic snoring, and pulled the pillow over her ears with a groan of fury. She was almost tempted to go down and find the sleeping pills which knocked Poppy out so effectively, but she could not risk a valium hangover in the morning.
Then there was the music, weaving in and out of her hectic thoughts in a way which made sleep entirely impossible. There was something there — something that her tired brain couldn’t quite grasp. The Radnesfield theme — it was stronger and clearer than ever...
At last, in a fury of irritation, she flung back the covers. It was cold now, with the heating off for the night; she thrust her feet into slippers and pulled on her pink woolly dressing-gown as she padded through to the living-room where she had her treasured Bechstein baby grand.
There wasn’t a chance Poppy would wake, but even so she pressed down the soft pedal as she felt her way to the chords and patterns that approximated to the mind music that would not leave her alone. There were the themes she had identified before — Neville and Lilian, Helena and Edward, Sandra Daley, even a chirruping flute for Sally Wagstaff. But as she played and replayed the ever more intricate figures, it emerged more and more strongly — errant, illogical, picking up and weaving lesser strands into one powerful statement — the sound of Radnesfield.
At last she was satisfied that she had caught it, set it down in the black and white of sharps and flats. She had been concentrating on the technicalities; now she could play it, and listen.
It was a strange composition, a fantasia obeying none of the musical rules, harsh and primitive. But it was compelling, and as she played, and thought, she realized that it held more than she had been aware of putting in. There were suggestions of other people, people she did not know, as well as those she did. They formed, yet were subordinate to the main theme, their own development restricted in the final exposition.
As the last, harsh chord died into silence, she sat on the piano stool unmoving, her head bowed. At last she could begin to understand.
Chapter Thirteen
Saturday, and much of Sunday, had passed for Helena and Stephanie in sedated sleep, but in the long, slow hours of Sunday evening, they sat with Edward in the silent sitting-room of the Red House.
He was frowning over some papers. Stephanie was aimlessly flipping over the pages of a pile of magazines and Helena held a book, though she had not turned a page in the last half-hour.
No one had spoken for a long time. Helena would have been grateful for conversation, for anything that would anchor her more firmly in the real world. It was tempting her again, that state of denial in which she could live only in the present moment where there was animal contentment in not being cold or hungry or in pain. There were so many questions she dare not consider, so much that she must, for her own sanity, shut out.
The sedatives seemed to be lingering, a muzzy fog which made other people seem insubstantial, wraiths in a distant world. She had only to let go, and blessed oblivion would be hers once more.
But then there was Stephanie, Stephanie looking drawn and shadowed today, shivery as if she were coming down with ’flu. Helena had no right to retreat, leaving Stephanie with cold, ugly reality, unprotected against the confusion and pain and horror that her mother was too cowardly to face. At whatever cost to herself, she must shield Stephanie.
Speaking was an effort of will, to banish a little further off the mists of withdrawal.
‘I wonder if you shouldn’t just go back to school tomorrow, Stephie. You’ve given your statement to the police, and they know where to find you. Another day like this won’t do you any good.’
Stephanie’s face perceptibly brightened, but she said loyally, ‘I couldn’t do that. I’d feel such a rat, leaving you with all this hanging over—’
‘I’ve got Edward to look after me. I’d be happier, truly, knowing that you had your friends to take your mind off things. And you’ve got your work to think about too.’
‘We-ell —’ Her relief was transparent.
Somehow, Helena contrived to sound brisk. ‘Fine. I’ll take you over in the morning, then. But I do think you should get off to bed now, and have a good rest.’
‘I won’t sleep!’ Stephanie’s eyes, which had been drooping, widened with alarm. ‘I’ll just lie awake, going over it all again.’
‘Darling, just try. I don’t want to give you anything — you shouldn’t get into the habit of taking pills at your age — but you’ll probably find you’re much sleepier than you think.’
Normally, the issue of going to bed early would have set off an argument, but the girl, it seemed, lacked energy even for that. ‘Can I come down if I can’t sleep?’ was all she said, as she drifted to the door.
‘Of course. Have a bath, and see if that helps. Goodnight, love.’
It had cost her to sound bright and purposeful. Helena sank back in her chair, allowing her eyes to close for a moment. The silence, now Stephanie had gone, seemed to be closing about her; she realized she was taking short, anxious breaths, as if struggling for air.
She opened her eyes. Edward was still studying his papers with apparent concentration. She wondered if he had any more idea what he was reading than she did of the contents of the book on her knee. Would it help to drop this façade, find words for whatever mental agonies were thickening the silence in this peaceful room?
But they had never had that sort of relationship. They had come to this marriage two intensely private people; tacitly they had agreed to build a marriage of grace and order and tranquillity — and yes, she supposed, a certain superficiality — and the sun was always going to shine.
But life had been cruel to their pretty little summerhouse. And when the rain descended, and the floods came and the winds blew and beat upon it, there was no rock foundation. They could only patch and patch, and Edward, she suspected, would prefer that site should withdraw tidily to her haven of denial until the storms had passed rather than inflict on him the messiness of emotions she had difficulty in defining, even to herself. She wouldn’t know how to begin.
So there was no option but to keep the act going, and give normality her best shot. If there was nothing beyond the illusion, then the show had to go on. She must ignore the foreboding (drug-induced, surely) that they were rolling up the backdrop and starting to run the curtains down.
Her voice sounded quite level as she laid down her book and said, ‘I think I might take my own advice and have a leisurely bath. Are you able to have an early night too, Edward? I think you should — it’s going to be a difficult week ahead.’
‘Yes, I think it is, in every possible way.’ He put the cap on his pen with his usual deliberation, laying aside the papers. Under the light cast by the reading-
lamp at his side, his deep-set eyes were shadowy. ‘You know, I hate to say this, but one of the first things we’re going to have to tackle is the business of Stephanie’s inheritance.’
She shrank, like a snail with salt burning its tender flesh. ‘Oh, Edward! It seems — well, ghoulish even to talk about it, with poor Lilian’s body in some police mortuary, and your office still—’ She broke off, shuddering.
He was quick to sympathize. ‘My darling, I know. It seems the worst sort of insensitivity. But a lifetime’s experience of dealing with speculators tells me the vultures will be gathering. If we don’t get a phone call from that man tomorrow I’ll be astonished. And we should be prepared.’
‘Oh, the developer. Of course, he’s bound to be anxious.’
‘We’ll have to be ready to tell him the deal’s off. He may turn nasty — after all, it’s the second time the thing’s fallen through. But Lilian can’t have had the trustees’ formal consent to the sale, or Stephanie would surely have been informed. So we shouldn’t have any technical problem about backing out.’
The light-headed feeling was returning. She wasn’t strong enough to cope with this yet, though if she had been feeling less woolly-minded, she should have foreseen it. Edward was bound to see this as the silver lining to the whole grim affair, and she was tempted to give way, weakly, as she had done so many times in the past.
But this was for Stephanie. She had no right to indulge her cowardice at Stephanie’s expense, even though what she must say would cause the sort of trouble she had spent a lifetime avoiding.
As if from a long way off, she heard her own voice saying, ‘Edward, I don’t think the trustees will advise Stephanie to withdraw.’
‘Well no, they probably won’t. You can’t expect accountants to appreciate anything but the money side. But you’re her mother and sole guardian, so if you and she take a stand, say you definitely don’t want it to be sold—’
‘No.’
She had said it, and he was gaping at her blankly. However, with the flat negative, it seemed the fog in her brain began to lift.
‘Edward, I’m sorry. I know this means a lot to you, but I can’t stand in the way of this sale. The trustees will point out that it’s a splendid deal because it will be easy to get planning permission. If we turn it down they’ll find somewhere else, and Stephanie won’t be able to sell at all.’
He got to his feet in some agitation. ‘Why should she want to sell? It’s a home for her; we could even move back in, if she wanted to—’
Helena stared at him. ‘You’re not really suggesting, are you, that Stephanie and I move back into the house where Neville was murdered?’
He paused. ‘Well no, perhaps not. It’s such an ugly house, anyway. But she could let it, I’m sure. It doesn’t really matter, as long as this appalling business doesn’t go ahead.’
‘Edward, why is it so appalling? Oh, I’m sorry for the Wagstaffs, of course, but Stephanie could find them another farm nearby — give them a proper tenancy agreement, so that Jim would have a secure future — but otherwise—’
‘Oh, never mind the Wagstaffs. They’ve been here for barely twenty-five years. I’m talking about the destruction of a unique society, a society that has survived centuries of so-called progress without losing its character.’
She had no strength left for self-control. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ she snapped. ‘You’re — you’re fossilized! Can’t you see that this is a disgusting little place? You love beauty — can’t you see how ugly it is, morally as well as physically? As a matter of fact, I think it would be wonderful if all those poisonous, interbred “old families” were swamped by an influx of new people. It’s a horrible, diseased sort of atmosphere, where you sense that everyone is guarding secrets that should have had light shone on them years ago. It needs fresh people, and fresh attitudes, and fresh air. So I’m not going to recommend to Stephanie that she back out. I don’t even want her to.’
In other circumstances, she would have found Edward’s exaggerated dismay comical.
‘You mean — you can’t mean you wouldn’t do this for me? Helena, I beg you to change your mind!’
‘How can I? If it were only for me, things would be different. I’d do my best to see your point of view, and yes, if it meant so much to you I might agree, even against my better judgement. But how can I ignore my daughter’s interests?
‘In any case, Edward, it’s not for you. It’s for this unspeakable village, and its immediate past record says nothing for the merits of its unique society. All it has ever done for me is to shelter a murderer and let me go to prison instead.’
‘And if I assure you, most earnestly, that it would be for me, for both of us—’
Riding the tide of her emotion, she did not listen. ‘Then I would assure you that you are over-dramatizing. Don’t put me in the position where I must choose between you and Stephanie, because my first loyalty is to my child.’
For a second she thought, with astonished alarm, that he might hit her. She had never before seen a hint that he was capable of a passion so intense; the man who stood before her was a man she did not know. But with a visible effort, he controlled himself.
Uncannily, he said, ‘Helena, I hardly recognize you. Let’s try to be calm and sensible, and I’ll ask you once more. Will you, for my sake, stop this sale?’
There was a part of her which longed to back down, to avoid confrontation. The pliant, passive Helena, so carefully constructed over the years, would submit, then adeptly find cogent, imaginative reasons to justify the decision.
But she was no longer Helena, the Perfect Wife. Too much had happened. Perfect wives did not find themselves in gaol. They did not throw parties where one of the guests ended up dead. They did not look at their husbands, as Helena did now, wondering with detachment how she had ever come to marry him in the first place — this strange, too rigid man with his unhealthy obsession with a community she found repellent.
‘No,’ said Helena once more.
‘And that is positively your last word?’
‘It is.’
A muscle in his jaw tightened. ‘You — disappoint me, Helena,’ was all he said, and walked stiffly from the room.
Slowly the fight drained out of her, and shivering reaction took its place. It had all flared up so unexpectedly, summer lightning from a clear sky. She had had no time to work out a less confrontational response.
But perhaps, in this situation, there was no such thing. In the final analysis, their reactions were visceral, not cerebral. If it broke their marriage, so be it; a marriage which foundered so readily was a charade. Again, the image returned: not only were they bringing down the curtains, but the scenery was starting to fall, with the flames of destruction licking round them in the twilight.
She felt icy cold, her limbs leaden and unresponsive. Slowly, she dragged herself upstairs and ran a hot bath.
The figure waiting on the landing when she came out of the bathroom startled her momentarily, but it was Edward, holding out his hands in smiling reconciliation.
‘My darling, I’m sorry I lost my temper. It was inexcusable, when you’re so strained and worn out. I suppose I must be upset too. Forgive me?’
It was the plea she could never resist. ‘Oh, Edward,’ she said, and walked into his arms to be kissed and soothed.
‘I’m sorry too,’ she said, her voice muffled in his shoulder. ‘But Edward, you know—’
‘Ssh, ssh,’ he scolded her gently. ‘We’re not going to talk any more tonight. I’m going to tuck you into bed, you’re going to take the pills Dr Shepherd left for you, and we’ll sort everything out in the morning.’
She allowed herself to be led to bed, sinking gratefully on to the cool softness of the pillows.
‘Here you are.’ He was holding a glass of water, and two of the brightly-coloured capsules.
‘I’m sure one would do,’ she remonstrated feebly, but smiling he said only, ‘Doctor’s orders. He said you needed all th
e rest you can get over the next few days, and I promised to see to it. Don’t get up in the morning until you feel ready for it.’
He kissed her forehead, and her eyes shut automatically, like a china doll’s when it is laid down.
She had no idea how much later it was when the door opened again, but her head was feeling huge and light, an enormous balloon floating away, and she had to struggle to open her eyes at the sound of Edward’s voice, close to her ear.
‘Helena, can you hear me? It’s Stephanie — she hasn’t gone to sleep, and she’s getting herself into a bit of a state.’
She tried to raise herself, saying, ‘I musht – musht go to her.’ But her lips were flaccid, and her doll’s eyes were closing again.
‘Stay where you are.’ His hands on her shoulders were gentle, but firm. ‘I’ll give her one of your pills, shall I, and make her some hot chocolate. She’ll feel better in the morning after a good night’s sleep.’
Reassured, she smiled vaguely. Already the thick, cobwebby curtains of sleep were closing about her.
*
Once more, Detective-Inspector Coppins was not pleased with his subordinate. He was, in fact, outraged.
A fruitless visit to Lilian Sheldon’s agent had kept him in London until late the night before: over his early-morning tea, he had read the newspaper he was now brandishing under Detective-Sergeant Howarth’s nose.
‘Suicide bid during police grilling,’ ran the headline, and she groaned. ‘It — it wasn’t quite like that, sir,’ she offered, not very hopefully.
‘I’m hardly daft enough to have supposed it was. You can’t get thumbscrews without a magistrate’s warrant these days, can you? But it isn’t clever. The Chief Constable will get to that rubbish whenever he finishes his mail, and then that phone’s going to ring. And when it does, I want to hit him with something positive. We’re on borrowed time already. So where do we go from here?’
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