Death Speaks Softly

by Anthea Fraser

  'Can I get you a drink?'

  'Thanks.' He held out the flowers.

  'For the interpreting? That's sweet of you, but there's no need—I was glad to help. Is there any news?'

  'No. But that's not why I brought the flowers.' He paused, watching the delicate nape of her neck as she poured the drinks. Usually hidden by her hair, its fragile vulnerability constricted his throat.

  'Oh?' She turned, handing him a glass.

  'They're by way of a peace offering.'

  She half-smiled. 'I thought diplomatic relations had been resumed.'

  'But not the relationship I want to resume, as you know damn well.'

  Her startled eyes went to his face. 'David—' 'Yes, I'm sorry.' He drew a deep breath. 'I'd hoped we could talk, clear things up a bit.' 'They're perfectly clear already.'

  The doorbell rang through the flat. They stood for a moment, unmoving. His eyes looked haunted, she thought. But it was a bit late, now, to make peace offerings, just because they'd met by chance and he'd been reminded of her existence.

  'Excuse me,' she said quietly, bending to put her glass down. He remained standing in a cocoon of misery, listening to the voices in the hall. Then she was back, flushed and talking too quickly.

  'Charles, I don't think you've met David, from the flat upstairs. Charles Frobisher, David Webb.'

  'How do you do?' Frobisher smiled, held out his hand, and Webb forced himself to take it. The man oozed public-school confidence, from his accent, his clothes, his manner. He was wearing a dinner jacket with black satin lapels. There was a carnation in his buttonhole, and Hannah was holding an exotic corsage. His own offering of spring flowers, still lying on the table, seemed vulgar by comparison.

  Hannah, following his glance, said quickly, 'I'll put these in water. They're lovely, David. Thank you so much.'

  She left the room and the two men stood awkwardly. At least, Webb felt awkward. Frobisher seemed perfectly at home.

  'We're going to a concert at the Mozart Rooms,' he said easily. 'Naomi Fairchild. Have you heard her play?' 'I'm afraid not.'

  Hannah came back with his flowers in a vase. She'd also pinned the orchid to her dress. He emptied his glass quickly.

  'I mustn't detain you. Thanks for the drink, Hannah. Have a good evening.' He walked quickly from the room and let himself out of the flat. I've lost her, he thought numbly. And I've only myself to blame.

  Nor was the Marshbanks' evening proceeding as smoothly as they'd wished. The Warwicks had arrived half an hour late, which caused problems to Claire's careful timing of the meal, and Beryl's eyes were red-rimmed. Her usual bright gaiety was nowhere in evidence, and Bernard sat like a zombie staring at his drink and making no response to Tom's conversational gambits.

  When Claire went through to the kitchen, Beryl followed her, tears starting to her eyes. 'Claire, I'm most awfully sorry. I don't know what's the matter with Bernard. He's hardly spoken since he came back at lunch-time, and he doesn't seem to hear when I speak to him.'

  Claire wished she could reassure her, but her own feelings towards Bernard were ambivalent at the moment. 'Perhaps he's a lot on his mind,' she offered.

  'He—I shouldn't be telling you this, but I'd an awful job to get him here. He didn't seem to know what I was saying, and when I did get through to him, he said he couldn't come. I don't know what he meant; he hadn't any other engagements, and he wouldn't explain. He just kept repeating, "I'm sorry, I can't go."' She blew her nose and looked at Claire bleakly. 'Do you think he's ill? He refused to let me phone the doctor. In fact, he—started shouting at me when I suggested it. It's not like Bernard at all.'

  'Perhaps he's worried about Arlette,' Claire suggested, taking the prawn mousse out of the fridge. 'He might feel it reflects on the university.'

  Beryl shook her head worriedly, her long nose red-tipped. 'He's shutting me out, Claire. That's what frightens me.'

  'But surely Bernard's always self-contained? He strikes me as someone who prefers to solve his own problems, rather than discuss them with other people.'

  'But I'm not "other people", I'm his wifel I want to help him!' Her lips trembled. Claire slipped an arm round her and gave her a quick squeeze.

  'Of course you do, and I'm sure he knows that. If it's anything serious, he'll tell you in his own good time. Now, be a love and help me carry these through, will you?'

  As they reached the dining-room, she could hear Tom valiantly carrying on a monologue. Bernard's face had a shuttered look, like that of a blind man. He was staring down at the table and his gaze didn't refocus when the plate of mousse was set before him. For a moment, Claire wondered if he was going to ignore the entire meal. Then, to her relief, he picked up a fork—seemingly a reflex action —and began to eat.

  She caught Beryl's eye and gave her a little nod of encouragement. Then, backing up Tom, she embarked on an anecdote about Katy. But beneath her surface chatter, her thoughts circled darkly round Bernard's strange behaviour. He'd always been odd, but not to this extent. Now, even Beryl was worried.

  A thought suddenly came to her, so frightening that her stomach turned over, and, with a feeling of revulsion, she put down her fork. Suppose Bernard knew more than he was admitting? Suppose he was actually responsible for Arlette's disappearance? Was that why Mr Webb was so interested in him?

  CHAPTER 6

  That evening, though Webb and the Marshbanks were too preoccupied to see it, an item about Arlette appeared in the television news bulletins, and the next morning the Sunday papers carried her photograph under the caption, 'Have you seen this woman?' The nation was becoming aware of her disappearance.

  Having granted Jackson his requested day off, Webb drove alone to Steeple Bayliss, his easel and sketching equipment in the back of the car. The warm sunny weather was holding, and he planned to take at the very least an extended lunch-hour, unless anything had blown up overnight.

  But something had. Chris Ledbetter greeted him with a rueful grin. 'Sorry, Dave, but we've really landed in it this time. We've got a psychic on our hands.'

  'A what?'

  'I'm not sure what he calls himself—dowser, or something. He says he knows where Arlette is.' 'Oh God!'

  'And we can't fob him off, either. It seems he's well-known and has had success in missing persons cases. The top brass says we have to—quote—"afford him every assistance"— unquote.'

  That,' said Webb feelingly, 'is all we need.'

  'I'm just sorry to have to leave it to you.'

  'I can see it's breaking your heart.'

  Ledbetter grinned. 'Tell you what, come and eat with us afterwards. Jackson not with you today?'

  'No. The additions to the family are due, so he's staying close to home.'

  'I'll lend you Happy, then.'

  Which should also be a bundle of laughs, Webb thought gloomily. 'Before I get out my ouija board, what's the present state of play?'

  'No stone, as they say, unturned. Did you see TV last night?' Webb shook his head. 'Both BBC and ITV carried her photo and the press are running it today. For the rest, all the usual: picture in the Police Gazette, details on the computer, every police station alerted, Sally Army asked to keep a lookout, unidentified bodies checked.'

  'Any reported sightings?'

  'They'll start coming in any minute. Only a couple to date, and they've been discounted.'

  'And our psychic friend knows where she is?'

  'So he says. He saw the item on the news last night, and drove straight down from Yorkshire.'

  'Then what are we waiting for? Let him wrap up the case. Where is he?'

  'Having breakfast in the canteen. I'll ring through and have him brought here as soon as he's finished.'

  Ed Barnsley looked like someone's favourite uncle. Marginally the right side of sixty, he had bushy eyebrows, rosy cheeks and a beaming smile. Anyone less like a mystic Webb had never seen. His hand was taken in a warm, firm grasp.

  'Right, lads, let's get down to work. I'll have the little
lass back by dinner-time.'

  'You think she's still alive?' Webb asked. Despite his scepticism, the man's cheerful confidence lifted his spirits.

  'Oh aye, no doubt of that. But she's frightened, poor lass. The sooner we get her out of there, the better.'

  'And where is she?' Ledbetter this time.

  'Well, I'm not rightly sure. I've got the general direction, like, but if you'll give us an ordnance survey map, I'll narrow it down for you.'

  One was produced and spread on Ledbetter's desk. Barnsley took from his pocket a smooth round stone hanging from a piece of cord. While the two men watched, he held this above the map, letting it swing from its own momentum, and began a detailed quartering starting with the centre of Steeple Bayliss. Webb and Ledbetter avoided each other's eyes. For a while there was silence, punctuated only by Barnsley's heavy breathing. Then the stone jerked and began to circle in a clockwise direction, ever more quickly, until the man had to tighten his hold on the cord.

  'Ah!' he said under his breath, and bent forward. Despite themselves, so did the policemen. Directly below the pendulum was the village of Popplewell, some six miles to the south-west.

  Barnsley lowered his hand and the stone swung less widely until it pinpointed what looked to be a farm on the outskirts of the village. He closed his eyes.

  'She's in a small, dark room—windows shuttered on the outside. There's a bed, a chair and a washbasin in one corner. As far as I can see she's not tied up, but she's been knocked about a bit. There's a cut in her lip and a bruise on one cheek.'

  Webb said quietly, 'How many people in the house?'

  'Only one other, I reckon. A lad, tall, fair, about seventeen.'

  The description didn't fit anyone they'd interviewed. Webb said, 'Do any of your men know the village, Inspector?'

  'Jack Simpson comes from there.' 'Is he in today?'

  'Yes, he's working in the Incident Room.' Ledbetter picked up the phone, and minutes later Simpson, a uniformed constable, was also bending over the map.

  'I know the place, Guv. Raintree Farm. It's been empty for the last year.'

  'Empty?' Barnsley, Webb and Ledbetter spoke in unison, and Simpson looked at them in surprise.

  'That's right. The land was sold off when old man Yardley died, but no one wanted the buildings. They're still owned by his son, but he's never been near the place, as far as I know.'

  'How old would the son be?'

  'Oh, knocking on a bit. Fifties at least. The old man was in his eighties when he died.'

  So the son wasn't the tall fair youth. Webb gave himself a mental shake. He was acting as though he believed all this rubbish. Yet there was no denying either the dowser's sincerity or his supreme confidence. For all their sakes,

  Webb hoped he wouldn't be disappointed.

  'What's the layout of the land, Constable?'

  'It's pretty open, sir. Not a great deal of cover, if that's what you're thinking. A few spindly trees to the north, but there's a lane which leads only to the farm, and which could be watched from the windows.'

  'Are there any shutters?'

  'I believe there are, come to think of it.'

  Despite himself, Webb's heartbeat quickened. 'Let's hope they're all closed, then.' He turned to Ledbetter and lowered his voice. 'No need for the full stronghold routine. I suggest we take three cars in addition to mine, two officers in each. Mr Barnsley thinks there's only one man, but there could be others around. Surprise is the main factor. If the girl is there, we want to avoid any hostage nonsense. I'll take Sergeant Hopkins with me, and I'd be glad of Constable Simpson too, if he can be spared from the Incident Room. Local knowledge is always helpful. Will you pick the others, Inspector? A bit of muscle mightn't go amiss.'

  Within twenty minutes they were driving past the university on the Oxbury road out of town. Webb was at the wheel of his own car, Happy Hopkins at his side and Barnsley and Simpson in the back. It seemed a bizarre mission, and he'd have much preferred to have Jackson with him. He smiled inwardly, visualizing the retelling of it to Ken. Heaven grant it had a happy ending.

  After a few miles, a small road branched off to the right, signposted Popplewell. The village was sleeping peacefully in its Sunday lethargy. A straggle of cottages led towards the centre, formed traditionally by church, pub, post-office and duckpond. As previously arranged, the four police cars parked there and the men got out. From the open church windows, the strains of All Things Bright and Beautiful reached them clearly. Simpson had advised them that Raintree Farm was at the far end of the village, and with a few curt words, Webb deployed his troops. Two men to circle widely to the right, two to the left, two to approach from behind. He, Hopkins and Simpson would take the front.

  'What about me?' asked Barnsley eagerly. 'Happen I'll be needed, to pinpoint the room she's in.'

  Webb hesitated. 'Very well. Provided you obey orders implicitly. We don't like involving members of the public in operations like this.'

  As Simpson had said, the lane leading to the farm was in full view of the house windows, but they were indeed shuttered. That confirmation of Barnsley's information gave Webb an illogical sense of hope. Simpson had changed from his uniform jacket before leaving the station, borrowing a cream-coloured blazer. There was nothing to proclaim to any watcher that the police were approaching.

  But no watcher was apparent. The farmhouse stared blindly out at them with no visible sign of life. As they reached it, they could see men to either side closing in simultaneously. Webb waited several tense minutes before receiving confirmation that the windows all round the house were shuttered. There was no way to make a silent entry. He gave a signal and two of the heaviest men put their shoulders to the door. Surprisingly, it gave at the first assault. The six of them moved in a body into the dim, musty-smelling building. A scuffling came from the room to the right.

  'In there!' Webb snapped, and flung open the door. He found himself staring at the terrified face of a young man. A camp bed had been erected near the window, where cracks of light filtered through the shutters. On the floor beside it was a mug half full of tea, a milk bottle, cigarettes. A paperback lay face down on the bed.

  'Where is she?' Webb demanded. The youth jerked his head upwards. 'Search him,' he commanded, turned, and with Barnsley close behind him, clattered up the bare boards of the staircase.

  'Back room,' panted Barnsley. 'There!'

  The door he pointed at had a large iron key in the lock. An amateur jailer. Webb turned it and flung open the door. Across the room a girl cowered on the bare ticking of a mattress, staring at them with wide, frightened eyes. There was a cut in her lip and a bruise on her left cheek. Webb hadn't the slightest idea who she was. But she wasn't Arlette Picard.

  At Melbray, the Arts Appreciation course was in its second and final day. All seemed to be going smoothly. Mid-morning coffee had been served, and the kitchens had lunch under way. Claire stretched, looking longingly at the sunlit gardens outside the window. Daphne Farlow, who was on duty with her, looked up.

  'I say, it's rotten about that girl going missing, isn't it?'

  Claire sighed. The last thing she wanted to talk about was Arlette. 'Yes,' she said.

  But Daphne was not to be put off. 'I saw her parents arriving at the station. Prof. Warwick was with them, and two other bods.' Daphne hesitated and glanced at Beryl's empty desk. She was not on duty today, and after the previous evening's dinner party, Claire was relieved. Not that she felt up to coping with Daphne, either. Daphne Farlow, at forty-five, still looked and spoke like an overgrown schoolgirl. She wore her dark hair caught back with a rubber band and hanging in a straight ponytail down her back. She was earnest, gauche and well-meaning, given to shrieks of laughter when mildly amused. Yet Claire liked her. There was something innocent and therefore vulnerable about her which aroused Claire's protective instincts. She found herself trying to shield Daphne from the harsher aspects of present-day living, which, as she confessed to herself, was ridiculous.

&
nbsp; 'Did Prof. Warwick mention them last night?' Daphne was asking. Claire frowned. 'Last night?'

  'You said they were coming to dinner. Beryl and her husband.'

  'Yes, they did.' Claire spoke shortly, surprised at Daphne's persistence.

  'I thought they might know the Froggies. Old pals, or something.'

  'Daphne, what is this? How could the Warwicks possibly know Arlette's parents? They've only just arrived in the country.'

  'I know, but—' Daphne looked up, her face flooding with miserable colour. 'You see, I saw them. This morning. And they certainly looked pretty friendly.'

  Claire stared at her. 'Who did you see this morning?'

  'Prof. Warwick and Madame. They were in that little coffee shop in Lazenby Road. It was a fluke that I saw them —I'd just popped in to get some doughnuts. They were over in a corner, leaning towards each other and talking very intently—in French, I think, though I couldn't really hear. And—and he was holding both her hands,' she finished in a rush.

  Claire felt slightly sick. 'Professor Warwick and Madame Picard?'

  Daphne nodded. 'I feel rotten, spilling the beans like this, but you're Beryl's chum and I thought you should know. Of course, I'd rather die than breathe a word to her.'

  Claire moistened her lips. 'Let's get this quite straight. You're sure you couldn't be mistaken? If they were in a dark corner, and you'd come in from bright sunshine—?'

  Daphne shook her head emphatically. 'It was them all right. No question about it.'

  'Did he see you?'

  'Lord no, he never took his eyes off her. And he'd chosen a pretty out-of-the-way place; he wouldn't expect anyone he knew to be there.'

  'But you were,' Claire said flatly.

  'Yes. I take a short cut that way to avoid the traffic lights, but I've never been in the cafe before. It was jolly hard luck on him, wasn't it? I mean, if he—' She floundered, but Claire was incapable of helping her. 'Gosh, Claire, I hope I've done the right thing, telling you about it.'