Edwina watched, her mood nicely poised between amusement and annoyance. You old witch, no one knows I’m here, so you can only have been asking questions for your own amusement. But I’ll bear in mind what you are like.
She ran up the stairs to Lily’s place, her feel moving lightly although she already felt heavier in the body, for today she was charged with energy.
The postman had called on Lily too. There was a letter on the mat, the smallest post since Edwina arrived. Lily’s friends were sporadic correspondents.
She picked it up, thinking: I won’t send it on, Lily won’t want it. Anyway, they’re travelling. Lily and Edwina’s father were touring France and might push on to Italy.
But this letter was not for Lily. She stared down at it, not wanting to believe what she saw.
The letter was addressed to her in clear typewritten characters. Her name and the full address. No mistake about it.
‘No one knows I am here,’ she said aloud to the empty flat. ‘Not even Dougie knows.’
But in front of her was clear evidence that this was not true. Someone did know, knew precisely where she was and had addressed the envelope accurately.
She opened it. A photograph fell out and fluttered on to the table in front of her. It was the small sort of snapshot picture you used for passports.
You sat in a booth, paid your money and waited for the flash. And this was what you got.
A face was staring up at her. If you could call it a face, hidden as it was behind dark spectacles and with a soft-brimmed dark hat pulled down over the brow. A greyish coat, a raincoat possibly, dragged towards the throat.
Oh, she knew who he was all right. Him. The telephone caller, the follower.
She did not even have to ask herself what was the meaning of the photograph, so crudely taken and cruelly despatched. This, too, she knew.
It meant no more telephone calls, that stage was over. Now he would be coming in person. She was meant to know his face.…
That man, whoever he is, she said to herself, both desires and hates me.
But there was a strange, still, archaic smile on the lips, as if the face wanted to say: I am a Fury.
She felt quite sick. She stood for a moment, letting the wave of sickness pass over her, her forehead began to feel wet. As a child she had had a terrier dog who, when about to vomit (and this happened to him often, he was a thief and a hunter), had stood still with his eyes rolling, waiting for the worst to happen. She could feel her own eyes doing this now. With an effort she held them still, focusing them on a photograph of Lily. The sickness began to ebb away; she sat down and closed her eyes. Her head steadied and the panic subsided. Keep calm, she told herself, and start to think.
So running away wasn’t such a good idea after all. She had been tracked down without too much trouble. It hadn’t even taken very long.
I’m not good at running away, she told herself. But I could learn, I could go further and run harder. Only where to?
There were places, she could think of several without any trouble; her family had more than one house. But she had this other traveller coming with her now: the child who would be her constant companion for the coming months. Perhaps she ought to take his opinion into account. Just because he could not voice it, was not to mean he did not have one. He had called her to a halt just now by the sickness.
At the moment this fellow traveller was telling her to sit down and take it easy. Since he had ways of enforcing his advice, she took it.
She had some unpleasant thoughts to handle. First was the fact that she had been found so easily. But behind this alarming thought was one even more alarming. Only her closest friends had known she was in hiding at all. Dougie was meant to have covered up with everyone else that she wasn’t in her own place.
So one of them, somewhere, somehow, had let it all out. Accidentally or on purpose, one of her friends had betrayed her. It was terrible to think that she could no longer rely on their loyalty or, at least, their discretion.
Who were the candidates? She was still inclined to rely on Dougie. He was clever enough to know that she could ruin his career in the art world if he let her down. Besides, there was a tough, resolute quality to Dougie, apart from his gentleness, that she respected. He held true, she thought.
Cassie then? It was fearful to her to think of Cassie other than in terms of total trust, but she was coming to it. Cassie’s tongue had always been suspect: she said too much, too freely. And now she had the policeman to talk to. Edwina had always thought that Cassie’s sexual wanderings could be dangerous, but she had thought of the dangers in terms of Cassie herself without thinking it might brush off on her.
Better withdraw a bit further from Cassie. Just to be on the safe side. The child’s side. Not that the child had uttered on this point, it had remained silent, might even have wanted to remain close to Cassie, but Edwina was doing the thinking now, for the moment in control.
Then what about Alice? Well, as to Alice, who knew what went on behind that pretty mask? Edwina who loved her had caught Alice out in one or two tricks that had made her raise an eyebrow. Alice could fight dirty if she had to. Sometimes she loved Alice without liking her.
What Alice had felt about Tim she had never been quite sure, but how Alice felt about Kit she had no doubt. Alice had betrayed herself in all sorts of little ways. Alice was very serious about Kit, and probably Kit knew it.
She would not let herself think about Kit Langley as a possible betrayer, but of one thing she was sure: of all the people concerned he was the one clever enough to have tracked her down if he had so wished.
But she wanted to trust Kit, he was something to hang on to. She put the lid down firmly on any analysis of her feelings for Kit. She felt she owed something to that silent other occupant of her body. Tim was not only part of her past life, he had entered into her present in a very vital and lively way. At the moment he was part of her, and even when that conjunction had its term he would have his representative with her for the rest of their lives. In time one might put certain things behind one, but they had a claim.
The burden of her past and her future sat on her shoulders heavily at that moment. Somewhere, somehow, she had got something wrong. Misunderstood, a person sent out the wrong signals so that what she was getting now in return was hatred.
She felt the hatred without knowing where it came from or why. She had to pray it was not emanating from her tight circle of close friends but she no longer knew whom to trust.
She took another look at the photograph. The glance yielded her nothing. Impossible to recognise anyone in that rig. It might be someone she knew, someone she saw often, but she couldn’t tell. It could be Dougie or Kit or the postman. All you could see was a longish nose and eyes that looked dark behind their glasses. It could even be Cassie. God knows her friends had often complained that her nose was long enough. Only not physically, it was her curiosity that was legendary. Perhaps the policeman Crail knew what he was about in chatting her up.
Or perhaps he just suspected her of killing Luke and wanted a close look. The figure of Luke moved out of the background at that moment and reminded Edwina that death had stood close to her. She had pushed Luke behind her these last few days but he was moving forward with a vengeance now to recall to her what could happen. What might have been meant to happen to her and not to Luke.
I was right to run, she told herself. That wasn’t a mistake, but I didn’t run far enough.
Or fast enough, or secretly enough. The welcome and security, the feeling of comfort that Lily’s flat had seemed to offer had been a delusion, like hiding under a table when the roof is blown in.
I can go further. Shift myself out of reach. There are places to go: that was one thought.
Then almost at once she heard Sid’s voice saying, ‘ Someone was asking after you,’ and his wife adding, ‘Old Mother Waters never does anything for nothing.’
Had that been what she said? It did not matter. Edwina had stood
in the street and studied Mrs Waters through the cafe window and been unable to make up her mind about the woman. She looked harmless enough, but she had been asking questions. She might just be a harmless eccentric or she might not. When Edwina had stared through the windows, Mrs Waters had not stared back. If anything, she had avoided looking at Edwina. Almost as if she preferred not, a pleasant thought.
Edwina decided: I’m going to take another look at that lady. Some quiet questions if she could phrase them right might not come amiss either.
Picking up the photograph she threw the rest of her post on the table, gathered up her bag, and hurried out of the flat and down the stairs.
The staircase was as empty as always, the whole house of flats quiet and still. So far she had never seen any of her neighbours and had hardly heard them. Just the baker going out late at night. He had a terrible cough. But she knew he smoked too much, that was one thing she did know about him, the cigarette smoke drifted up the stairs and through her door.
When she walked into the cafe it was to find two other customers standing at the counter and a third installed at the table by the window.
She asked for a cup of tea. It was not the sort of place she usually ate in, but she knew without being told that you could rely on the tea but not the coffee.
She carried her cup over to a corner seat next to the window, well aware that Mrs Waters was looking at her with interest, and that one of the customers had turned round to give her an open stare. The other two drifted out.
Mrs Waters, having put the money for the tea in the till, had moved to adjust her red turban in a mirror while giving Edwina a covert survey. Edwina gave her a minute then moved over to the counter. Mrs
Waters turned round.
‘Tea all right, love?’
‘A bit stewed.’
Mrs Waters glanced at Edwina’s cup, she could see the girl had
scarcely tasted it. ‘I’ll make you a fresh pot.’
‘Don’t bother.’
‘Can’t have my tea impugned.’
‘I want a word with you, Mrs Waters. You are Mrs Waters?’
Mrs Waters gave a little adjusting tug at her red turban. ‘My
name is Mignon.’
The customer leaning against the counter gave a melancholy
little hoot as if he had now heard everything.
Edwina ignored all this. ‘You were asking after me? Asking who
I was?’
Mrs Waters poured out another cup of tea. ‘Take this, dear, and
with my compliments. On the house. You’ll find this cup nice and
hot. Mustn’t drink the other if it’s not quite right. Soon have you
down the collywobble shop, wouldn’t we?’
Edwina persisted. ‘Why did you ask?’
‘Oh I don’t think so, dear,’ said Mignon Waters in a soothing
voice. ‘Why should I do that?’
‘Sid said you did.’
‘Oh Sid. I should drink your tea, dear, and forget it.’
Edwina said nothing but she made it clear that she was not
going to go away. The other customer finished his drink and moved
out of the cafe. Not his quarrel and he didn’t want to get involved.
But he remained outside, pretending to read his newspaper but
really keeping an eye on what was going on inside. He was a
spectator of life and he had hopes of drama.
Edwina pushed the new cup of tea away from her slowly and
carefully while keeping her eyes on Mignon’s well-made-up face.
It was a long time since she had seen such impudently false eyelashes
on a human face.
She made her point. Mignon moved the cup infinitesimally
towards herself, signalling defeat. ‘Well, I’m a nosy old thing,’ she said cheerfully. ‘And there you are such a beautiful young thing, and I’ve never seen you before. And your clothes are really something special. Bond Street, at least, the good end of it, too. I’d say that jacket was Valentino. Now aren’t I right? Admit it. I know about clothes. Hats, more.’ She put a hand to her turban. ‘I trained with Madame Mirman in the big days, when before Ascot or a big society wedding we’d work till we dropped …’ She paused to get her breath.
‘You asked,’ said Edwina. ‘Why? Not just because of my clothes, and the jacket is Ferragamo.’
Mignon Waters stretched out a hand and touched a sleeve, stroked it. ‘Well, I knew it was Italian. You can always tell.’ As if the touch of the excellent Italian silk tweed had made up her mind for her, she said, ‘All right. A customer saw you out of the window, asked if you lived in Lirriper Street and how long had you been here. I didn’t know but I said I’d find out. Anyway, I wanted to know. He never came back to ask.’
Because he knows. Somehow he knew. He was just checking for the hell of it. Enjoying it probably.
‘What shall I say if he does?’
‘Do you always do what people ask you to do? Or how much did he pay you? What did he look like?’
‘Now who’s asking questions?’ The disciple of haute couture abandoned elegance, got her arms akimbo, and looked remarkably like her grandmother who had sold clothes from a stall in Woolwich market. ‘I didn’t notice him specially. Just an ordinary man. It was a wet day and he was all done up in togs.’
‘Wearing dark spectacles?’
‘Can’t say. Might have, might not.’
Her tone was defiant. Not an ordinary man, thought Edwina, and you know it. Your voice gives you away.
Edwina left Mrs Waters looking at the still cooling cup of tea. Presently she would drink it. Nothing went to waste with her.
The man who had been enquiring after Edwina sat in the back room of Mignon Waters’ shop drinking his coffee while considering what to do.
Now he knew where Edwina was. That was one thing. What to do was another.
He had heard Edwina’s voice, not really heard what she said. Seen her through a crack in the door.
It was his second visit to Deptford but well worth while; except, of course, he had to decide how to act.
Mignon came back into the room. ‘Well, you heard that then?’
‘More or less.’
‘I hope it’s given you what you want.’ She sounded uneasy. Money had changed hands, but she did not want to feel a Judas. My name is Mignon, she told herself, not Iscariot.
‘It’s given me what I want.’ The exact place where Edwina had taken refuge. ‘Thank you.’
The polite response soothed Mignon’s nerves. He must, after all, be a nice man.
‘She’s gone off now. I’m afraid she was rather angry with me. I don’t mind.’ Mignon was respectful; anyone who wore clothes like Edwina’s was someone to regard.
Now she hoped that he would go away so she could put the episode behind her. Forget it. She had forgotten many worse things.
He had left his umbrella behind, a good one. She picked it up, recognising it as an expensive one made by Swaine, Adeney, Brigg of Piccadilly. On a small gold plate was engraved a name:
Timothy Croft 19 October 1982
‘What a shame.’ She stroked the beautifully polished handle with an appreciative finger. ‘He’s lost it.’
Mignon put the umbrella away in a cupboard gratefully. Later, she would pawn it.
Edwina walked slowly down the street, thinking: I’ll pack this in, it’s not working out, living in Lily’s fiat. I like it here, but it won’t do. I’ll put my things together and move out. Go to Scotland maybe. It’s peaceful up there. Stay there for a bit and pull myself together.
That’s how it could be. I won’t even tell Dougie.… Tell the bank, I suppose; he can send letters there. If they matter.
She crossed the road, neatly avoiding the traffic without looking at it, causing one driver to shout, ‘You want to die, miss?’
She stood for a moment looking in Sid’s shop window. The evening newspapers were being delivered from a s
mall van.
No, he was no ordinary man who pursued her with sickness and desire.
She caught sight of her reflection in the shop window; she looked normal, ordinary enough, but she was not. She had not been since she fell in love with Tim (or whatever that turbulent emotion had been) and ceased to be whatever it was she had been before – tough, cool, professional – and became what she was now, a one-person problem family on the run.
Tim would hardly know her. But would she know Tim any longer? His figure had been receding into the distance more and more, and the further he went the more of a puzzle he seemed. He hadn’t been straightforward; she could see that clearly now, although she had not seen it then. For the first time she faced up to the fact that there had been a dark area in Tim’s character that she had sensed without admitting.
From somewhere in that dark area could have walked the person stalking her now.
Luke’s face joined hers and Tim’s as she stood staring in Sid’s window. She had to give Luke a place too.
As she turned to walk away, Sid waved to her as he bent forward to pick up the heavy pile of evening papers. His wife was already reading one. Then they had a cup of tea and studied the paper together.
Several interesting stories were running, but it was the death by strangling of a woman in South London and the attempted murder of her friend that caught their eye.
A few minutes later Mrs Waters came across to collect her evening paper; she too read the story.
Across London Cassie and Alice already knew that there had been a new killing.
Canon Linker had told Bee and her secretary Janine as they sat at work. He felt obliged to tell them, a moral duty to speak. For him darkness was over everything then.
No one felt obliged to tell Dougie but he heard anyway, and was now running around distracted, wondering if he ought to get in touch with Edwina.
Only Edwina did not, as yet, know. She ran up the stairs to Lily’s flat, her hideaway, no longer so welcoming.
On the table was the photograph, still lying face up. She put it in her handbag. If she got brave enough she might show it to the police.
Death in the Garden Page 12
