False Accusations_Nothing to fear if you have nothing to hide...

by Cora Harrison

  And now this woman was dead.

  And no one in the village who knew Rosie could ever imagine that she could have had anything to do with killing her mother.

  And there was that affair with Benjamin and the woman. He had been seen there. She had heard that. Now that Benjamin had got a job in that BMW showrooms, had Mrs Trevor turned from the father to the son? And if so, would Benjamin have fallen for it? Or perhaps it was still that other business.

  Was there someone in history who had sacrificed her husband for the sake of her son?

  ‘I was looking at that cheque you signed for the Hoopers’ account,’ she said. Her voice was harsh and she made it so deliberately, desperately endeavouring to keep her courage up. ‘Couldn’t see how it had come to that amount. What did we buy? What did you do with their bill? I can’t find it anywhere. I think I will phone them tomorrow and ask them for an itemised account.’

  ‘You’ll do no such thing,’ he said, rising to his feet in a menacing way. ‘Do you think that I would allow a wife of mine to make a fool of me like that? That I’d have the shop thinking that she would grudge me a pair of socks or a new shirt. Don’t you even dare to think of it!’

  ‘It was my money originally,’ she said stubbornly.

  ‘You do something like that and you’ll find that it will end in the divorce court,’ he retorted. ‘And then you’ll discover that you won’t see too much of your precious son. Benjamin will want to stay with me. He’ll know that I can point him in the direction of how to make money. He’s used to having money and he’ll want to keep it. I’ll get him into a partnership in that BMW Dealers.’

  ‘I don’t think money has been good for him. And those cars.’ She stopped then. She did not want to think of Benjamin and his car. That unbearably awful thought had crept back into her mind and made her stand up.

  ‘I’m going to bed now,’ she said and left him without another word. She thought about Benjamin and that night when he had come home so very drunk and so very upset. His father had sorted things out. That was all that she knew about it and she had said no more. Benjamin was the most important thing to her in her whole life. His happiness, his safety meant more to her than anything else. She picked up his photograph on the side table and scrutinised it. Benjamin at the age of eleven, curling hair, still blond, eyes sparkling with excitement, just after that school play, his Toad mask in his hand, laughing at her pleading with him to take it off. Such a lovely boy. She wanted him to have everything in the world. She couldn’t upset Benjamin by looking for a divorce. Perhaps she had said enough. Michael knew that there would be more money to come to her after the death of her father. But this time she wouldn’t be so naïve. She would find a good solicitor and make sure that it was all well-tied up for Benjamin. Money, she thought, could do a lot.

  But not buy someone out of a murder charge.

  That man who had been killed in Dewhurst Lane. Knocked down. Died instantly. Two months ago to the day.

  And Michael handing large sums of money to Benjamin, every Friday night. It frightened her that Benjamin did not seem to have bought anything with that money.

  And, of course, this latest death was in Dewhurst Lane, also. Couldn’t be connected, could it? Why should anyone kill Mrs Trevor? The police would be around the village asking that question. It was nonsense to think that poor little Rosie had done it. Gentle as a lamb, that Rosie. She’d never hurt a fly.

  Chapter 6

  It was mid-afternoon by the time that Flora got back to Willowgrove Village. The day was still almost unbearably hot and she was relieved to pull off the motorway. She drove slowly along beside the river, with her window wound fully down to allow some cool air to come into the car. It had been another hot summer in Kent and the air was full of the dry aromatic scent of ripe hops. The green mint in the ditches was dark and shrivelled and a layer of white dust lay thickly over the undergrowth, clogging the lower leaves of the hawthorn and the goat willows in the hedges.

  The river had shrunk to a narrow stream around Willow Island and some children were paddling across, looking for shelter beneath the clump of grey-green willows which had given the island its name. Mr Bayley, she saw, had put a quarter of an acre of sunflowers beside his hop garden; a new venture for Kent and one that she hoped would not spread. The enormous and over-coloured plate-like flower heads belonged to southern regions of France and did not suit this Kent landscape of pale blue-green hops, willows and barely pink hedgerow roses.

  Simon was not at home. Piper was in the stable, standing on his back legs with his front paws up on the metal grid, with which she had reinforced the old wooden gate. He was barking an excited welcome to her. She rubbed his forehead and then guiltily fled indoors to change her smart town clothes for jeans and a t-shirt before submitting to his enthusiastic greeting. She felt hot and tired and very angry with Simon. The puppy had been bought for him, but these days Simon suited himself.

  When she went into the house, she erupted with fury at the sight of him, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts and fast asleep on his bed. She thought of Jim Prior, the same age, dressed in a hot uniform, enduring Sergeant Dawkins’ bad temper and dealing with drunks, shop lifters, car crashes and finding time and patience to be sweet and reassuring to poor Rosie.

  Afterwards she thought she had said too much. He went white, with temper, she thought, stuck his feet into a pair of flip flops and flung out of the house, still wearing nothing but his shorts. He had grabbed the lead from the old-fashioned hall stand, though, and when she looked out of the window she saw himself and Piper heading towards the back gate. A run in the woods and perhaps a paddle in the river would do both good. She wondered what to say when he returned and then decided to go out. The matter of retaking his A levels needed to be discussed in a calm atmosphere and when Simon was in a receptive mood.

  Paula opened the door almost before Flora’s finger left the bell with her usual greeting of ‘Flora, come in!’ And she carefully closed the door behind them both before saying quietly, ‘I was expecting you.’ All school secretaries are discreet, but Paula, living and working in the same village, was the most discreet of all that Flora had known. Her kind, round face was full of worry now; it was obvious that she knew about Rosie.

  ‘Go through to the garden; there’s a nice comfortable chair under the maple tree. I’ve got the coffee pot warming.’

  A couple of minutes later, she put the mug of coffee in Flora’s hands. Having Paula as a secretary must, she had often thought, be rather like having a nanny; must be the nearest thing to that feeling of being cosseted and cherished. So Flora relaxed for the first time that day. The cushioned chair under the maple tree was soft; its back angled for perfect relaxation; the maple tree itself gave out a cool, slightly scented shade and the coffee in the mug had that rich, strong aroma which seemed to promise instant revival of her flagging energies.

  ‘How did you know?’ Flora asked.

  ‘Bert told me. Wait a minute, I made some scones.’

  Flora nodded and sipped her coffee. Bert Madden and his son, Ian, ran a local taxi firm. It was surprisingly successful. The village had a high percentage of elderly people who, after a few years of running a car, had decided, sensibly, to sell it, as it probably cost less and was just as convenient to get Bert, or Ted, to run them to the airport, or to the local big town for the occasional day’s shopping, or even on an outing to the sea. Quite a few commuters employed them as well — they taxi-shared a lift to the station morning and evening, avoided the carpark fees, and, more importantly, avoided the risk of their valuable BMW or Audi being stoned during the day by some of the local authority home boys who had decided not to bother attending secondary school or community service.

  ‘So how did Bert know?’ The scone was delicious, sandwiched with some unsalted butter and a few home-grown, sliced strawberries. In a minute she would remember to admire the old-fashioned, scented, deep-pink double roses on the bush nearby. Paula, she knew, took her garden very ser
iously. Madame Isaac Periere; that was the name. She must memorize it. She seemed to ask its name almost every time that she visited.

  ‘Well, he was passing this morning,’ said Paula, ‘and he saw the police car and the two policemen bringing Rosie out. Then he saw your car outside the police station when he took Mrs Turner into Brocklehurst. It’s been on the news. No names or anything. I suppose they’ll wait until Jenny gets back.’

  ‘You know everything.’ Flora had known that she would. Paula was not a gossip, far from it, but she had a gentle attentive air and people told her things.

  ‘How is poor little Rosie?’ Flora could hear from Paula’s voice all the pain that she was feeling herself. To a certain extent, she thought, as children grow and mature, and move on to secondary school, you detach yourself from them. There are always new children coming in who need your care and your affection. Rosie was different; she always remained at the little girl stage and from the note in Paula’s voice, it was clear she felt the same.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Flora said, and took another sip of coffee. ‘I’m afraid to think what she will be like once she wakes up to reality.’ She tried to keep her voice steady, despising herself because the strongest feeling within her now, even surmounting pity, was a sense of self-disgust. Fearing to be found wanting, to lack the ability to rescue Rosie during this crisis. Flora could feel a sensation of panic rising within her.

  ‘Do you remember the story that Anthony Osmotherley wrote once,’ she said slowly. ‘I got you to type it out. He was only about eight at the time. He was the hero and Jenny was his mate. They were out in the Wild West and they set out to rescue a boy who was going to be hanged. He wrote it very well. He was a clever child. I remember a great sentence: “No child aged seven deserves to be hanged.” Do you remember it?’

  ‘I remember,’ said Paula with a fond smile and then a chuckle. ‘Yes, I remember the story. I typed it out on sheets of A5 so that it could be put together as a book and that you could put it in the school library. Anthony and Jenny designed the cover. They had great discussions about it.’

  ‘Well, I feel a bit like that about Rosie...’ Flora didn’t finish her sentence; Paula would understand how she felt. She took another few sips of coffee, broke off a stem of lavender from the purple bush beside her and inhaled its perfume before resuming. ‘I just don’t know what to do. I feel so worried about this. I wish there was someone else, someone who knew what they were doing, or who would have some influence over her. I’m afraid that I will fail her.’

  ‘You probably find it very difficult not to be the one in charge,’ said Paula shrewdly. ‘You’re used to deciding things yourself and backing your own judgement.’

  ‘That’s correct, I suppose.’ Flora tried to smile as she said the words. It was true; she had a baffled, helpless feeling almost as if she were relieving a nightmare. To be responsible for Rosie and to be unable to help her. She got up and walked around the garden for a couple of minutes staring with unseeing eyes at the swathes of purple clematis weaving their way through the luxuriant old rose bushes in Paula’s pretty garden. Then she came back and sat down, looking as calm as she could, picking up a slice of strawberry from on top of a halved scone and biting into it. Paula gave her a quick glance and changed the subject with her usual tact.

  ‘Jenny’s in Majorca, did you know that? Ian Madden took her to the airport very early this morning; she left her car outside her mother’s house.’

  ‘I wonder whether Mrs Trevor woke up before Jenny left,’ said Flora. ‘Was she the sort of person that would have gone back for a quick doze at six o’clock before getting up, washing, breakfasting, and then leaving the house in time to get to work by nine? I’ve seen her pass my house every morning at half past eight in her small red car so punctually that I could have set my watch by her.’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Paula thoughtfully. ‘But not very likely: knowing the woman, she would have probably put a load of washing on the line or something like that to fill the time. But she had the week off work, did you know that? She was going to have a conservatory built on to the side of the house. Perhaps she did decide to have a lie-in.’

  ‘You got that from Bert Madden, I suppose!’ Despite her worries about Rosie, Flora had to smile. The village network of gossip was working as efficiently as ever.

  ‘No, from Mrs Turner in the post office.’ Paula slipped another scone onto Flora’s plate. ‘Anyway, Bert was telling me that Ian thought he should tell the police that Mrs Trevor’s bedroom door to the garden was open. A murderer might have got in that way.’

  ‘I can’t see that was too significant — about the open door, I mean. I don’t think any passer-by would want to murder Mrs Trevor, and if you were thinking of a thief, well what would she have to steal? I don’t suppose that she got much for that job at the car taxation office.’

  ‘You’re wrong there.’ Paula’s voice was low and she cast a quick glance over the fence. Her neighbour’s garden was empty, though. No doubt the elderly couple were inside, watching game shows on TV. ‘Don’t forget. There were her pearls. They could have attracted a burglar.’

  ‘Of course!’ Flora exclaimed. ‘How could I have forgotten them!’ It did seem impossible that she had forgotten the pearls. During the seven years that she spent at Willowgrove Primary School, Rosie must have mentioned these pearls at least once a day. Every single child at the school would have heard about these pearls. Their value varied wildly; Rosie tended to plunge at a figure which had last been mentioned in her hearing, and say: ‘My mum’s pearls are worth more than…’ but generally she settled for pricing them at a million pounds.

  ‘Could I use your phone, Paula?’ Flora asked, getting to her feet.

  Neither Sergeant Dawkins nor P.C. Prior was available when she got through to the police station. Possibly they were at Mrs Trevor’s house, but Flora contented herself with leaving a message about the pearls and then came back out to the peaceful garden.

  ‘Would they have really been valuable, Paula? Or was it all a lot of talk from the children?’ Jenny, also, had liked to talk about ‘mum’s pearls’.

  ‘I’m sure I’ve heard from other people that she owned an expensive set of pearls. They were a very well-off family, the Herskins, you know,’ said Paula. ‘I think perhaps that was why Mrs Trevor was so uptight. She had been brought up in the lap of luxury and then her marriage failed, and her eldest daughter had all those problems. She did get a lot of handouts from the mother, from Mrs Herskins, but it’s not the same thing, is it? She would have liked a grander house, a good car, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Where is the mother now? Rosie’s grandmother, I mean. I haven’t seen her for a while.’

  ‘She’s got Alzheimer’s apparently, and she’s quite bad. Doesn’t know any one of them now. She’s in some sort of home; it’s a shame really because she was very fond of Rosie — fond of both of the girls, but very good to Rosie and I think that the poor child misses her. She used to take her out for little treats, buy her clothes, very pretty clothes, things that suited her. Taught her a lot about that sort of thing. More interesting to poor little Rosie than the typing course that her mother tried to make her take. But there was plenty of money in that family and I’d say that those pearls might well have been quite valuable. Makes you think of a break-in that went wrong, doesn’t it? I suppose that the police will check up on those boys from the Home, won’t they? Mrs Trevor wouldn’t be the kind of woman who let a young burglar go off with her pearls.’

  ‘Paula, how did Rosie get on with her mother?’ At last Flora had reached the question that she had come to ask and she did not want to be side-tracked. The village of Willowgrove invariably accused the boys from the home when any crime was committed. ‘Was there any trouble between them?’ She reached out and took the second scone.

  ‘All right, I think.’ Paula took her third scone and ate it with relish while she turned over the matter. ‘I’d say all right,’ she repeated decidedly. ‘She wasn’
t a bad woman, you know, Mrs Trevor. She did her best for the girl, but I think she was getting a little tired of Rosie; that was the impression I got anyway. Rosie’s nineteen now. Mrs Trevor wanted to lead her own life. Someone told me that she asked Jenny to take Rosie to live in her flat in Brocklehurst, but Jenny refused. That was the time that Jenny was working for a solicitor in Brocklehurst. It was her first job and I suppose she didn’t really want Rosie hanging around.’

  ‘I don’t blame her,’ Flora said immediately. ‘Jenny always was good at taking responsibility for Rosie, but that doesn’t mean that it was right, or good for either of them. It would have been better if Mrs Trevor had got Rosie a flat of her own and kept an eye on her, but let her have a little independence.’

  ‘Ah, but you see, the grandmother was no longer around to give handouts so I don’t suppose that Mrs Trevor could have afforded anything like that. She would be much too proud to have a daughter of hers living on the dole.’

  ‘So Rosie stayed on at home with nothing to do and nowhere to go.’ Flora brooded on it for a moment. These days, during the years of education, huge efforts were made for children with any degree of mental or learning disability — great advances with that, but it seemed as if the rest of society had not caught up with this development. Once they reached the age of eighteen, these young people were dumped on the scrap heap and left, if not to starve, at least to moulder away.