'Coming up,' he said.
She knelt down on the rug before the instantly cheering fire, running her fingers through her hair and holding it out in layers to dry. Webb, coming back with the coffee, paused in the doorway, looking at the curve of her body and the fall of hair glowing in the firelight. Grimly he held down the surge of desire. She hadn't come for that, more was the pity.
'Here we are,' he said briskly. 'This'll warm you up.'
She sat back on her heels, shaking her hair into place. Behind the curtained windows the lurid light gleamed again, and the electric one flickered in sympathy. Flickered, and went out.
'Hell's teeth!' Webb said under his breath. 'That's all we need.'
Hannah laughed. 'We have the gas fire, and at least it gave you time to make coffee.' She reached up for the mug he handed her, resettling herself on the rug. He sat in his own chair, watching her. The red light on their faces gave the illusion that they were huddled round a camp fire, safe from the raging storm. Hannah must have shared the thought, for she looked up at him, smiled, and said, 'I have a tale to tell.' 'Go ahead.'
She sipped her coffee. 'Before I do, is it true Arlette's death was accidental?'
'Strictly speaking, it's up to the adjourned inquest, but that'll be the verdict, yes.'
'Are you glad?' She was thinking of the girl's mother. 'Or, after all that work tracking down suspects, does it seem an anticlimax?'
'We weren't so much tracking down suspects as trying to establish how she died. That, we've done. The feeling should be relief rather than anticlimax.'
She looked up. 'Should be?'
'Unfortunately I don't feel it.'
'Why not?'
'Because I've got this hunch that we're not at the end of it. Officially, it's all over bar the shouting, but I've got it fixed in my head that the girl's disappearance and death was only Act One of a continuing drama. I just wish to hell I knew what it was.'
Hannah said quietly, 'I may be able to help you there.'
He leant forward, elbows resting on his knees. 'How?'
'Can I ask you something first? When you went with Professor Warwick to meet the Picards, did you notice anything?'
His eyes had narrowed at the mention of Warwick, but he answered humorously, 'You're asking that of a detective?'
She returned his smile. 'Let me rephrase it. What did you notice?'
He considered, thinking back. 'I'd only just met Warwick. He struck me as singularly unforthcoming. Not unhelpful —I don't mean that. That came later, as you know. Just— giving nothing away.'
'And Madame? What was your first impression of her?'
Webb had a mental picture of her in the train doorway, holding on to the sides of it as her husband urged her down.
'That she regretted having come. She seemed in shock, as though she'd just realized what lay ahead.'
'Did the Professor say anything?'
'I heard him draw in his breath. I thought he was bracing himself, as I was.' He added, 'Why do you ask?'
'Because,' Hannah said flatly, 'they were lovers, thirty years ago in France.'
'God in heaven!' Webb said softly. Then, 'How do you know?'
'I've just had dinner with her. She phoned earlier and asked me to meet her.'
'What possessed her to tell you that?' 'The best of reasons. She's afraid.' Webb stiffened. 'Of what?'
'Of him. He won't accept that thirty years have passed. He's convinced she's still in love with him, as he is with her, and that they're about to marry. He's even sent his wife packing.'
'He's what?' He didn't wait for her to repeat it. He stood up abruptly, his face going into the shadows above the firelight. 'That's it! That's what's been worrying me all along. Bernard Warwick. I said before he was a walking time-bomb. Now he hasn't even got his wife to calm him, and as the time approaches for the Picards to leave, he'll become more and more desperate.' He paused. 'It seems I was right. The girl's death was only the prelude, the catalyst that brought them back together.'
Hannah looked up at him, the fire warm on her throat. 'What can you do?'
'We'll have to move carefully. He hasn't committed an offence.'
'Nuisance value? He keeps pestering her and she's humoured him to keep him away from her husband.' She explained Monsieur Picard's state of health.
Webb sat down again, clasping his hands together and flexing his fingers as he reviewed the possibilities. 'Simon might be our best bet in the first place.'
'Simon?'
'DC Marshbanks. His parents live next door to the Warwicks. I'll send him over tomorrow, to scout out the land. Another alternative is to move the Picards out, fast.'
'They won't go without the body. In any case, in his present state of mind he'd only follow them. It would be easy enough to find out their address—the hotel register, for a start. He may have already checked, he was there today.' She frowned, added tentatively, 'Perhaps we're over-reacting? He doesn't mean them any harm, after all. Quite the reverse.'
'He doesn't mean her any,' Webb corrected grimly. 'We don't know how he regards Picard.'
'If he attacked her husband, it would hardly endear him to her, would it? He'd be aware of that.'
'I suppose so. And if, as you say, Picard never leaves his room, he should be safe enough. All the same, we might put someone inconspicuous in the lobby, to watch the comings and goings. I'll have a word with Chris Ledbetter in the morning.'
Outside, the storm still raged. Hannah got to her feet, felt her way to the window and drew back the curtains. Webb's flat, unlike hers, was at the front of the building, with a view down the long hill to the town. There were no street or house lights—a main cable must be down. The only illumination came from the jagged zigzags which periodically tore the sky open. She heard David come up behind her, tensed for a moment, then relaxed. After all, why had she refused Charles? He stood beside her, a hand lightly on her shoulder.
'It shows how dependent we are on the flick of a switch. One blow from Mother Nature and we're helpless. We can't see, can't cook, in many cases can't even keep warm. And such modern refinements as TV, freezers and computers are completely useless. It brings us down to size, doesn't it?'
She nodded, but only absently. She was acutely aware of his closeness, even more conscious of the time-lapse since they had last been together. He bent his head and his lips brushed across her hair. 'Those stairs down to your flat, for instance. It would be madness to tackle them in the dark. I couldn't accept the responsibility.'
'So what do you suggest?' she asked softly, a smile sounding in her voice.
'I'll give you three guesses.' He turned her gently to face him, still hardly daring to believe that, after all, he was to be given another chance.
Hannah let her breath out in a sigh. 'In that case, Chief Inspector, I'll be happy to accept police protection.'
The next crash of thunder broke directly overhead, but neither of them heard it.
CHAPTER 13
'So I said to her, "Well, I've told you before, Mrs Davis," I said, "you're too soft with her. A good old-fashioned smack on the bottom, that's what she needs." Told her straight, I did. If you ask me, it's what half the kids these days need. No discipline, no one to tell them what's right and wrong. A crying shame, I call it.'
Claire nodded absently, resigned to the continuing saga of Sandra Davis. It was time she left for Melbray, but she was worried about Bernard. His car was still in the drive, so he'd not gone to work. Should she go to see if he was all right? She'd promised Beryl to keep an eye on him. And how was Beryl, waking this morning to a bleak new existence?
'—Rick Parker. "Well," I said to her, "I wouldn't trust that lad with my budgie. Eyes too close together." I could see that upset her, but I have to speak my mind. You must be cruel to be kind, sometimes. I wonder if they've found out who murdered that French girl,' Edna continued without pause, and Claire, groping her way through the verbiage, almost missed the reference.
'It's not definite she
was murdered,' she said mildly.
Edna sniffed derisively. "Course she was murdered, Miss Claire, and no wonder, neither, the way she carried on. I said as much to Mrs Davis. "You tell your Sandra to watch her step," I said, "or she might finish up the same way.'" Edna pushed her glasses up, nodding to herself with grim satisfaction. 'Well, I can't stand here chatting all day,' she added accusingly, 'I've my bedrooms to see to.' And to Claire's relief she lifted the vacuum cleaner and stumped from the room.
Claire followed her as far as the hall and turned into the sitting-room, where she glanced undecidedly at the clock. She really ought to be going—she'd promised to stand in for Daphne. Sally Polsom was holding the fort, but she couldn't do so indefinitely. The trouble, as Claire admitted to herself, was that she felt apprehensive about approaching Bernard. But if she didn't, she'd be worrying about him all day. Just a very brief call, then, to make sure—
A familiar rattling and roaring outside sent her hurrying to the window, and her face lit up. The Hesperus, battered but unbowed, had turned into the driveway and Simon was getting out. Claire ran to the front door.
'Darling! What a lovely surprise! Have you a day's leave?'
He returned her hug, glancing towards the house next door. 'Let's go inside, Mum, and I'll explain.'
'Nothing's wrong, is it?' Claire asked in quick alarm.
'No, no. Everything's OK.'
As they went through the front door, Edna appeared at the top of the stairs. 'Nice to see you, Master Simon,' she called down. 'We was just wondering if you've caught that killer yet.'
'What killer would that be, Edna?'
'The one that did the French girl in, of course.' Even Edna, Claire reflected, would not have been so tactless had she known of Simon's connection with Arlette.
He was answering gravely, 'She fell, Edna. No one was near her when she died.'
'Is that true, Simon?' Claire cut in. 'Well, thank God. It doesn't alter the fact that she's dead, but at least no one's under suspicion.'
Simon closed the sitting-room door. 'This isn't leave, Mum,' he said quietly, 'it's semi-official. About Bernard.'
Claire went cold. 'What about him?'
'You know Beryl's gone?'
'Yes, but how do you?'
'And that Bernard and Arlette's mother knew each other years ago?' Claire nodded. It might be her son who was speaking, but he was doing so in an official capacity, representing the law of the land, and she felt oddly ambivalent.
'Well, apparently he's been making a nuisance of himself, ringing her up all the time and so on.'
'But they're going to get married,' Claire protested. 'That's why Beryl left.'
'He told her that?'
'You mean it's not true?' She was staring at him in bewilderment.
'Not a word of it. She's no intention of leaving her husband.'
'Then why did he send Beryl away?'
Simon shrugged. He was standing with his back to the empty grate. He looked young and earnest and much as he'd always done, but there was a patina of authority laid over his youth that was at the same time touching and impressive. 'How does he seem? In himself?'
'Distinctly odd,' Claire said with a shiver, and it was to the policeman that she replied. She wouldn't have dreamed of discussing her friends with her children. 'I woke one night about a week ago and went to the window for some air. Bernard was out in his garden, standing quite still. I watched him for several minutes, and he never moved. And when they came to dinner the next evening, his behaviour was most peculiar. Beryl was very worried about him.'
'That would be when he'd just met Madame.'
'Of course. I never thought of that.'
'What exactly did Beryl say before she left?'
'That Bernard was marrying Madame Picard.'
'Did it come as a shock?'
'Well, yes, though not totally out of the blue. She'd told me earlier that he didn't love her.' 'When was that? Recently?'
'Yes, last Sunday. I called round when I got back from Melbray.' She hesitated, then unwillingly related the episode of the breadknife. To her relief, Simon didn't comment on it.
'But the bit about Madame Picard must have surprised you,' he said.
'Well, actually, no. Daphne Farlow saw them together. I hadn't mentioned it to Beryl, though.' 'Was she very upset about going?'
'I think she'd accepted it. She said Bernard seemed in a daze and didn't hear when she spoke to him. She thinks he's mentally ill.'
'But she hasn't called anyone in?'
'He wouldn't let her.'
'I see his car's there. Have you anything I could take round, as an excuse for calling? A cake, or something like that?'
'There are some drop-scones I made yesterday. I know he likes them.' 'Perfect.'
She said tentatively, 'Don't—harass him, darling. I promised Beryl I'd keep an eye on him.'
'Don't worry, Mum, I'll go very carefully.'
*
Bernard saw Simon's wreck of a car arrive next door. The long arm of the law, he thought, and laughed aloud. He had woken that morning with a feeling of elation. He was free! Beryl had gone with the minimum of fuss and Cecile, his love, was within his reach at last.
He'd no lectures that day, and had decided to work at home. There'd be no interruptions with unwanted tea or coffee—but no lunch, either. He remembered the unappetizing plates he'd found last night, and wrinkled his nose in distaste. Yet if cold fish was the only mess left at the break-up of a marriage, he'd no cause to complain.
But, with the day stretching ahead of him, he was unable to settle. He yearned for Cecile, ached to hold her again. Surely he'd been patient long enough? He accepted her reluctance to hurt Gaston, but he was himself entitled to some consideration. Perhaps he should go to the hotel again, persuade her to bring matters to a head.
As he reached that decision the doorbell chimed, and he answered it to find young Simon on the step. Alarm bells rang in his head. Never, in the four years he'd lived here, had the boy called before. What brought him now? The bag of scones he self-consciously held didn't deceive Bernard for a moment. He must watch his words, let nothing slip. Smiling, he held the door wide.
'Simon! What a delightful surprise! Come in, boy, come in. Have you got the day off?'
'Not entirely. I'm on my way to Maybury Street, but I took the chance to call on Mum. She sent these scones, by the way.' He held them out awkwardly. 'How are you, Bernard?' He always felt embarrassed addressing the austere professor by his first name, but Beryl had pressed these on himself and Sarah when the Warwicks first arrived.
'Never better, my boy, never better.' He sobered briefly. 'That's very thoughtful of your mother. You'll have heard that Beryl's left me?'
'Yes. I'm sorry.'
'Oh, don't be, don't be. We were always ill-matched, I'm afraid. This had been brewing for a long time; we're better apart. But we mustn't stand talking in the hall. Come to the kitchen arid I'll make some coffee.'
'I don't want to disturb you,' Simon said warily, following him as requested. He was baffled by Bernard's affability and unsure what he was supposed to be looking for. The Governor had been vague—'Play it by ear and report back,' he'd said.
He asked tentatively, 'Will you stay on here alone?'
Bernard smiled, plugging in the coffee machine. 'I shan't be alone, Simon. I'll be marrying again, as soon as circumstances allow. Have you met Madame Picard?'
'I—er, no, I haven't. But I knew her daughter.'
'Ah yes. A very sad business.' But it had brought him Cecile. Because of that, he found it hard to regret Arlette's death. He mourned her only on Cecile's behalf.
'You'll be marrying Madame Picard?' Simon pursued valiandy.
'Yes, indeed. We should have done so years ago, when we were young.'
'So she's getting a divorce too?'
Bernard frowned fleetingly. 'Of course.'
Simon swallowed hard. 'She has agreed to marry you?'
He feared a strong reprimand
at his persistence, but Bernard laughed. 'Never been in love, Simon? If you had, you wouldn't need to ask such questions.'
Which was no answer at all. Yet short of downright rudeness, he could pursue it no further. DI Ledbetter could take it from here.
Having done his duty to the best of his ability, Simon thankfully slipped off his mental uniform and relaxed. Bernard noted the change, and smiled to himself. Did they suspect him of doing away with Beryl? Think her body might be buried in the garden? If so, they were welcome to look. He'd considered killing her, true, but only academically. He couldn't be tried for that. And in the event she'd gone surprisingly quietly. Gaston Picard was the only obstacle that remained.
When Simon left, Bernard waited for a while, keeping an eye on the frightful green car. Ten minutes later, the boy and his mother emerged from the next-door house, got into their respective cars and drove away. As soon as they were out of sight, Bernard did likewise, and made his way to the White Swan car park. For no other reason than it was the nearest entrance, he went into the building the back way, walked past the kitchens and deserted bars and emerged in the foyer by the reception desk.
Alerted by Simon's visit, he spotted the plain-clothes man at once. He was facing away from Bernard, towards the lifts and staircase, and Bernard himself had not been seen. He moved swiftly back into the corridor to review the position. Whoever the man was watching for, it was clear that no one could go either up or downstairs without being seen. Except, thought Bernard, with growing excitement, by the back stairs which he'd just passed. He lingered a while longer, frustrated by being so near Cecile but unable to approach her discreetly. And as he hesitated, one of the lift doors opened and Cecile herself stepped out.
Now—would she be followed? Bernard waited with held breath, but the man remained engrossed in his newspaper, and Cecile, apparently unaware of him, walked purposefully across the foyer and through the swing doors to the street. Bernard was tempted to follow her, but a more daring plan was taking shape. He could approach Gaston direct, discover how far Cecile had prepared him for their imminent parting.
Death Speaks Softly Page 15
