Death Speaks Softly

by Anthea Fraser

  'I know.' Sarah sobered. 'Have you spoken to Sy?' 'Only briefly. He's pretty shaken, poor lamb.' 'Who wouldn't be? Beryl sounded upset, too.' 'Beryl?' Claire spoke more sharply than she'd intended. 'You've been speaking to Beryl?'

  Sarah turned in surprise, kettle in hand. 'Yes; we've been asked out for a meal on Friday, and I know it's your theatre night. So, since she'd offered to babysit, I took her up on it. Why?'

  'Oh—nothing.' Claire smoothed Katy's silky hair and gave her an impulsive hug. The memory of Beryl repeatedly plunging the knife into the loaf was not a comfortable one, but she was probably being silly. Anyway, Beryl had come round this morning to apologize. 'I think she's under a strain,' she added in mitigation.

  'Really? She seemed fine on Tuesday. Gosh, Mum, I've just thought. While we were all at home having tea, Arlette was—' She broke off with a shaky little laugh. 'Sorry! You came round to be cheered up!'

  But Claire followed her line of thought. 'Simon phoned, remember, while you were there?'

  'And I called her a femme fatale. So she was, but in a different sense.' She shivered. 'I hope they find out what happened.'

  'Mr Webb came to see us. You remember Simon speaking of him?'

  'Why?' Sarah's voice was sharp. 'What did he want?'

  'Oh, Edna'd seen Arlette with someone. He wanted to check on it. He's a nice man, and very knowledgable about paintings. Daddy says he does cartoons for the Broadshire News. Did you know?'

  Sarah shook her head. She poured boiling water into the teapot, then removed the baby from her mother's lap and slid her into the high chair. She said carefully, 'He didn't ask about Simon, did he?'

  'No, why?'

  'I just—Sy won't have to be questioned or anything?' 'I should think he already has been.' 'Yes, but—you know what I mean.' 'As a suspect?' Claire spoke bluntly, and Sarah flashed her an alarmed glance. 'I suppose if it turns out she was

  murdered, everyone who knew her is suspect. But since Simon was in Shillingham, and she died up here—'

  'Can he prove he was? In Shillingham?'

  'Well, he phoned me, didn't he?'

  Sarah said gently, 'Look, we know Simon. But someone else could say, How do you know he was phoning from Shillingham? He could have been establishing an alibi.'

  Claire felt chilled. She said with an effort, 'If he was expecting to show her the stables, he probably told the station officer she hadn't turned up. Or someone at the railway station could have seen him waiting to meet the train. And when she didn't come, he must have done something else. Hopefully with witnesses.' She paused, said, 'Oh God!' and took a quick sip of tea.

  Sarah laid a hand on hers. 'Mum, I'm sorry. I'm making things worse. It was just the way my mind was working. I woke in the night and started panicking about it.'

  'Motive, means and opportunity. Isn't that what a murderer needs? Means, we can discount. Anybody can push someone else off a precipice. As to opportunity, he didn't have it. We know he was in Shillingham all day, and please God plenty of other people do too. Which leaves motive, and what could that be? Simon hasn't a jealous bone in his body and he didn't even know her well. There was no way her death could benefit him financially, and he hasn't any dark secrets she could have discovered. So there, My Lud, is the case for the defence.'

  They held each other's eyes for a moment, then both smiled and the atmosphere eased. Sarah said, 'Thanks. I feel a bit better now.'

  'So do I,' Claire admitted. 'I'd been worrying about it too, but thinking it through as dispassionately as possible has proved there's nothing to panic about. I hope.'

  Katy, bored with conversation which didn't include her, and eying the Marmite 'soldiers' just out of reach, banged

  her hand on the tray of the chair and said firmly, 'Tea!' The last of the tension dissolved in laughter.

  The flat, having been shut up for thirty-six hours, was stuffy, and Webb flung open all the windows, pausing as he usually did to stare down the hill to the town spread at its foot. The thirty-six hours had been eventful: two missing girls found, one alive, one dead. And two babies born, one of them his godson. He'd accepted that honour with gratitude, but had he thought it through? For that matter, had the Jacksons? Webb, no churchgoer since his youth, realized he'd no idea whether or not the Jacksons attended regularly. Would he have to promise to see Tim had a Christian upbringing? The idea filled him with alarm. Was he worthy to be anyone's godfather? It involved more than presents at Christmas and birthdays.

  God, he could do without this philosophizing! It had been plaguing him ever since he'd learned of the twins' birth. He was alone too much, that was the trouble. Apart from work, he'd little contact with people. His principal hobbies of drawing and painting were solitary ones, involving hours spent in isolation. Alone, yes, but not lonely. Most of the time he was satisfied with his own company; and when he wasn't, until recently he'd had Hannah to turn to. In particular, there came a point in most of his cases, and certainly all the murders, when he needed a disinterested sounding-board to test his theories. Many were the nights he'd lain with Hannah at his side, propounding, discussing, discarding one possibility after another. Arlette Picard might not have been murdered, but her death depressed him, and there were still people he'd interviewed who, for varying reasons, had not told him the truth. And the fact needled him.

  If only Hannah were still available, to listen to him, even if not to make love to. He glanced at his watch. Seven o'clock. Would Frobisher be on her doormat again this evening? There was one way to find out. He lifted the phone and dialled her number.

  'David, hello. I'm so sorry about the girl. I phoned you last night, but there was no reply.'

  A more promising opening than he'd expected. 'I stayed in Steeple Bayliss. Yes, it's a bad business.'

  'I sent a note to her parents, but it's hard to know what to say.'

  'Still harder when you sit across from them, and don't even speak their language.' 'You found an interpreter?'

  'The university supplied one, but that wasn't what I meant.'

  'I know.' She paused. 'You sound depressed.'

  'I am. It's that stage of the inquiry.'

  Another pause. Then, 'Like to talk it over?'

  'Would I!'

  'Have you eaten?'

  'No, I've only just got back.'

  'Come down, then. I've plenty for two, if you'll settle for cold meat and salad. Monday fare.'

  'Couldn't be better. Thanks, Hannah. Give me half an hour.'

  Her hair was down this time, and she looked altogether more familiar and approachable. His flowers were still in the vase, holding their own. Below the open windows, the gardens of Beechcroft, a legacy from the gracious old house that had once stood on the site, lay bathed in the sunshine which, in the evening of the day, had finally broken through. Surprising how soothing an expanse of green was on tired eyes. And the myriad shades of it, in tree and shrub and grass and plant. It was the colour he found hardest to mix to his satisfaction.

  Hannah touched his shoulder, and as he turned put a glass in his hand. 'Cheers!'

  'Cheers.' He smiled at her over the rim of it, his eyes moving over her wide forehead and clear grey eyes, her lightly tanned skin and thick, golden-brown hair. She was lovely and he wanted her, but, playing safe, he'd not so much as kissed her cheek. He could take no liberties till she indicated they'd be acceptable—if she ever did. There was a lot of talking to be done before he'd know her exact feelings, and the shadow of Frobisher hovered between them.

  As usual, they kept to light topics while they ate. She had laid the table in her minute dining-room, and the formality thus stamped on the meal, compared with trays on their knees, was another warning not to read too much into her offer to talk.

  To Webb, salad meant a hunk of lettuce, with perhaps a tomato beside it. This one offered a visual as well as gastronomic delight. In a seasoned wooden bowl nestled bite-sized pieces of raw mushroom and cauliflower, frondlike beanshoots, glistening radishes, peppers, squares of a
pple and melon, spindly alfalfa and slender mange tout, all barely coated with a fragrant dressing in which he detected herbs and garlic. The meat she'd referred to was slices of rare beef. He'd been right there, he reflected, remembering his thoughts in the Barley Mow. What he didn't know was whether, the day before, Frobisher had shared it with her, and he was certainly not going to ask.

  They finished the meal with a piece of Stilton at exactly the right stage of maturity. If this was standard Monday fare he'd call again, but the cheese, like the beef, could be left over from a previous and carefully planned repast.

  Hannah carried the coffee to the sitting-room. The room was arranged for summer, with the window rather than the fireplace its focal point, and she put the tray on a table in front of it, closing the window, and lighting a lamp in the far corner of the room. The sun had set, but the sky was still streaked with red and gold, against which the outlines of the trees were etched in silhouette. Webb settled back in his chair with a contented sigh. The coffee was fragrant, the scent of its recent grinding still in the air. They drank it black and unsweetened.

  'You want to talk about the case?' Hannah prompted, curling her legs under her in the capacious chair.

  He hesitated, his eyes dropping to his coffee cup. Then he said deliberately, 'There are other things I'd rather talk about. Would you mind?'

  He could feel her stillness. 'Very well,' she said.

  He had the go-ahead, but didn't know where to start. How could he excuse those months of silence following his betrayal? Feeling his way, he said slowly, 'It's not enough to say I'm sorry. I've been a fool and a coward. If it's any help, I bitterly regret it.'

  She didn't speak, merely took another sip of coffee.

  'About Susan,' he went on with difficulty. 'I didn't mean to get involved—it had hurt enough the first time. I suppose I was flattered that she came back. And our relationship was always very physical. Even during the worst times, we still wanted each other. It just—flared up again.'

  'So if she came back another time?'

  At least she was listening. He shook his head vigorously. 'Positively not. For a start she wouldn't, but even if she did, it wouldn't happen again. Couldn't. I've learned my lesson, but at too great a cost. Hannah, these last months I've thought about you a great deal, wondered what you were feeling.'

  'But you didn't bother to find out.' No inflection in her voice.

  'At first I was too ashamed. And I was sure we'd meet anyway, at the garages or on the stairs. I wanted the first approach to be casual, as easy as possible. I thought if I knocked on your door, you'd shut it in my face.'

  'A note?'

  'Yes, of course I could have written, but what could I say? "I've been a naughty boy, but I won't do it again?" I'm not good with words, Hannah. Either written or spoken.' 'You're not doing too badly.'

  Was she smiling? There wasn't light enough to see—the lamp was behind her and it was dark beyond the window. He said, 'Tell me your side of it.'

  She bent forward to refill their cups, then sat back, swirling the liquid in her own and looking down at it thoughtfully. 'I think I expected it to happen,' she said at last. 'As soon as you told me she was here. I'd just got back from Europe —remember?'

  Yes, he remembered. They'd been in bed at the time.

  'But you see, David, I'd no claims on you. That was part of our agreement—we were free to see whomever we chose. I just—hadn't expected it to hurt so much.'

  He made a movement towards her but she shook her head quickly and he sat back.

  'When I saw you together that morning, I was sure you'd phone to explain. I waited all day and all evening, convinced you'd contact me. When you didn't, I first assumed that you and Susan were back together, and later, when I heard she'd left Shillingham, that you felt it had been as good a way as any to end our relationship.'

  'You thought me capable of that?' There was pain in his voice, but she answered levelly, 'What else could I think, since you never bothered to explain?'

  To which there was no reply. 'And Charles Frobisher?' he asked instead. 'Where does he fit in?'

  There was a long silence. Then she said, 'He's asked me to marry him.'

  Webb flinched and his heart began a slow and heavy pounding. Shock, he told himself. Stupidly, he'd not anticipated that—not seriously. But why not? He put his coffee cup down, forced himself to say lightly, 'I thought you weren't the marrying kind?'

  'I thought so, too.'

  'Till Mr Right came along?' He could hear the bitterness in his voice, and hated himself for it. He added, because he had to, 'And are you going to?'

  'I don't know.'

  'Do you love him?' he demanded roughly.

  She answered carefully, 'I'm very fond of him. He's kind, considerate, good company, interested in the same things as I am. And he loves me.'

  'So do I.' Probably the first time he'd said it. He heard her indrawn breath.

  'You have an odd way of showing it.'

  'Where did you meet him?'

  'I've known him for years—he's one of the school governors. But it was at the Christmas concert that we first— came together.'

  Three months after the fiasco with Susan. Why hadn't he approached her before then? Was his damn pride so important that he'd been prepared to lose her? Or had he had the gall to think she'd be waiting whenever he chose to go back? Hannah had her pride, too.

  He said accusingly, out of his hurt, 'You always said you wouldn't marry.'

  'Yes. Mainly because I wouldn't give up my career. But with Charles I shouldn't have to.'

  'He seems well-heeled,' he said unforgivably, and was grateful that she didn't reply.

  'Tell me, David,' she said after a moment, 'if we hadn't happened to meet in Steeple Bayliss, would you ever have contacted me? Or do you only want me now someone else is interested?'

  When he didn't—because he couldn't—answer, she said in a low voice, 'I'm sorry, that wasn't fair. I'm as much to blame as you are. Yes—' she raised her voice above his protest—'I am, because I didn't keep to our bargain. The no-strings bit. I believed I was, but I was fooling myself. Not about marriage—I never thought of that. But I expected— and wanted—us to go on as we were, indefinitely. Which was extremely childish.' 'Then I was childish too.'

  'It was you who ended it. And when you did, I had to rethink everything; my life, my ambitions—my future, I suppose. Because I wasn't as independent as I'd thought.'

  'Which is why, though you'd not thought of marrying me, you're considering Frobisher.'

  'I suppose that's it.'

  He leaned forward urgently. 'Hannah, I want you back. I'll do anything you ask, stick to any rules you care to make. Just don't—please don't marry Frobisher.' He paused. 'What did you tell him, when he asked you?'

  'That I'd think it over. And I am doing.'

  'Have you reached a decision?'

  She couldn't tell him that his coming back into her life had blown wide apart any plans she'd contemplated. 'Not yet.'

  'Then can't we start again? Rebuild what we had before?' He took hold of her hand. 'Please, Hannah. I know I've been a bastard, but give me another chance.'

  'I'd have to consider that, too. If you're suggesting we immediately go back to where we were, the answer's no. On the other hand, if you mean literally start again, getting to know each other on a different level, then—perhaps.'

  He let out his breath on a long sigh, bent his head and kissed her fingers. 'I suppose that's more than I deserve.'

  'It certainly is! Now—' she gently disengaged her hand —'do you want to discuss Arlette, or not? And if so, would a brandy help?'

  'I think it would.' He smiled, allowing the awkwardness between them to dissipate into less personal topics. She went to the drinks table and he heard the clink of glasses, the liquid being poured. He felt exhausted, mentally and physically, but it was a good feeling, because underlying it was an overwhelming sense of relief. The conversation he'd been dreading for eight months wa
s behind him, and miraculously it seemed he was still in with a chance. Which, as they'd agreed, was far more than he deserved.

  CHAPTER 9

  'Two items of possible interest, Dave,' Chris Ledbetter greeted Webb the next morning. 'SOCO report on the going-over of Palfry's car, and a discrepancy in Duncan's statement.'

  'Sounds promising. What gives?'

  'There were some blonde hairs in the car which are highly likely to have come from the dead girl.'

  'Wow! And he swore he hardly knew her. What about Morgan's?'

  'The results aren't through on that one. As to Duncan, we checked his statement and although he did have a dental appointment at eleven, it was only a fifteen-minute check-up, which takes us to eleven-fifteen or so. A little early for lunch, wouldn't you say?'

  'He probably went home and read the paper for an hour.'

  'That's what we thought. But as luck would have it, Happy got corroboration from a neighbour, who saw him drive up at a quarter to one. She was sure of the time because she'd just opened the door for her husband, who comes home for lunch every day. "You can set your clock by him," she said.'

  'So that's an hour and a half unaccounted for. And he had his car with him; he could get quite a way in that time.'

  'Only thing is, Campbell said Arlette was hurrying to meet someone at ten-thirty, which is on the early side.'

  'Unless she met Duncan afterwards. Where is the dentist, and where's Duncan's house?'

  'The surgery's on the main Gloucester road, and the Duncans live just off it.'

  'Which is the direction Campbell said she was going in. OK, Chris, we'll chase up Duncan and Palfry, and see where that gets us.'

  Alastair Duncan greeted them with his usual truculence. 'I'm sorry the girl's dead,' he said brusquely, 'but I've already told you all I know.'

  'As it happens, sir, we know more than you told us,' Webb said smoothly.

  The man glowered at him. 'What, exactly?'

  'That although you left the dentist at eleven-twenty, you didn't get home till twelve forty-five.'