Death Speaks Softly

by Anthea Fraser

  Webb grunted, thinking back to the day the case started, and his frustration at seeing Hannah with Frobisher. At least, thank God, that last emotion hadn't been waiting here to reclaim him. Last night—but if he started thinking of that, the paperwork would never get done. The phone on his desk rang, and, glad of the distraction, he lifted it. 'DCI Webb.'

  'Hello, Dave, Chris here. Just ringing to say your lad's been in to report on Warwick. He's fine, apparently, all smiles and not a worry in sight. But he's convinced he's going to be a bridegroom.'

  'You call that fine? He must be off his rocker.'

  'Oh, come on, let that bee out of your bonnet. The case is over, for Pete's sake. She must just have been playing him along.'

  'Why should she do that?'

  'Who knows? Perhaps for leaving her all those years ago. He'll get a nasty shock, but he's not the first one, and he won't be the last, so why get our knickers in a twist? Anyway, we're keeping an eye on the Picards—or trying to. The husband seems to have given us the slip.'

  'What?' Webb came to his feet, and Crombie looked up from his papers.

  'Gone walkabout in the sunshine. So what? Warwick's not been near him.'

  'How do you know?'

  'We've a bloke planted in the hall.'

  'Then why the hell didn't he see Picard?'

  'Hold on, now, Dave. I don't know. It was a slip-up, though he won't admit it. Good cop, too, John Rowley.'

  'If he didn't see Picard,' Webb said evenly, controlling his temper, 'he might have missed Warwick, as well.'

  'My God, Dave, you're really neurotic about that man! I told you—'

  'Humour me. Send someone round now, to the university and to Warwick's house. Find out where he is and how long he's been there, and ring me back.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  Webb consciously eased his grip on the receiver. 'Sorry, Chris, but I have bad vibes about this guy.' 'OK, OK, I'll send two cars to check on him.' 'And you'll ring me back?' 'I'll ring you back.'

  Webb sat down slowly and looked at his watch. It was two o'clock. Across the room, Crombie, deciding questions would be unwise, returned to his work.

  It was important, Bernard felt, to review the position in detail, check there was nothing he'd overlooked. Though he longed to phone Cecile, he must contain himself. Gaston's death would be a shock to her. Still, father and daughter could have a double funeral, which would be preferable to drawing out the agony. He accepted there would be agony, for the remaining children, at least. But it would all be seen to decorously and with due ceremony. As to his divorce, these things could be put through quickly now and he didn't foresee any hold-ups. So in—what?—three months?— they'd be free to marry. After thirty years, he could wait another three months.

  In the meantime, he must plan what to tell her, and at what stage. Thinking of Gaston, the snakes moved restlessly, but they no longer distressed him. He had the means of their destruction at hand. Love conquers all, he thought fatuously, even serpents. Poor, poor Brouge! How different his life might have been, had Jeanne Colliere come back into it. Perhaps he should add an addendum to his Life. He'd not realized, when he wrote the book, the full significance of the snakes and the reptilian brain.

  A police car drew up at the gate, and he frowned, annoyed at the interruption. Were they still looking for Beryl? Perhaps they'd come to dig up the garden. She was probably at Marjorie's, but he wasn't obliged to tell them that. If they wanted to search for a hidden grave, they were welcome. He opened the door, staring woodenly at the two young men on the step. Not Simon Marshbanks, this time. Ye gods, the house was becoming police-ridden.

  'Sorry to trouble you, sir,' said the spokesman, producing his card. 'Could you tell us what your movements have been today?'

  'I could, certainly, but why should I?'

  The young man flushed. 'Routine inquiries, sir.'

  'Don't treat me like an idiot, Officer. Constable Marshbanks has already been round. However, since it interests you, I've been home all day. I was hoping to work uninterrupted.'

  'Would it be all right if we stepped inside for a moment?' 'You have a search warrant?'

  'No, sir, nothing like that. Just a quick look round, if it's all right. It won't take a minute.'

  Bernard sighed heavily. 'Very well, come in.'

  He stood in the hall while the two officers went swiftly over the house, opening doors and cupboards and looking under beds, by the sound of it. Did they think he'd hidden her indoors? Only as they met again in the hall, exchanging a quick shake of the head, did he realize it was not Beryl who interested them.

  'Do you know Mr Gaston Picard, sir?'

  The unexpectedness of the question shook him, but his habitual mask gave no hint of his alarm. 'I met him last week, when he arrived in this country.'

  'Have you seen him since, sir?'

  'I have not. I heard he was confined to his room.' He paused, added with finely judged amusement, 'Why, have you lost him?'

  'And you haven't left the house at all today?'

  'No, Constable, I have not. Do you want it in writing?'

  'Sorry to have troubled you, sir,' the young man said stolidly, and they both took their leave. Bernard stood looking after them, smiling to himself as a casual hand patted the bonnet of the car as they passed it in the drive. The engine had had time to cool down, and in any case the strong sun pouring down on it would account for any residual warmth. Still, why should they think he knew anything about Gaston?

  Then he remembered. He'd spoken to Simon that morning of his impending marriage. That had been less than wise. He really must be more careful about confiding in people, especially the gentlemen, either actually or metaphorically, in blue.

  For the third time that afternoon, Cecile returned to the hotel to find no news of Gaston. She was hot and sticky, as much from her growing panic as the heat of the day and her incessant searching. On this occasion she paused long enough to bathe her blistered feet and change her blouse.

  Then, reining her stampeding thoughts, she tried to be objective. Was there anything she'd missed? Anything which, with hindsight, could seem significant?

  She had left Gaston at five past eleven, in time for her eleven-fifteen appointment. She conjured him up in her mind, sitting in that chair, the cushion of which still bore the imprint of his body. Impulsively she moved to it, laying her hand in the indentation. Oh God, where was he? Why hadn't he left a note, telling her where to find him? She felt wretchedly alone, not knowing how officialdom operated here. She could try the hospitals, but how to discover which and where they were?

  Suppose—her breath almost choked her—suppose, suddenly becoming faint as he walked by the river, he had stumbled and fallen into the water, and no one had seen him?

  She put her hands to her burning cheeks. She shouldn't have left him! Yet he'd been all right all those other times, when she'd had to meet Bernard. He'd never gone out before. Why had she been so stupid as to put the idea in his head? If only there were someone—

  Suddenly she thought of the schoolteacher, and ran to the phone. Beside it lay Hannah's letter of condolence, with the printed phone number she had dialled—was it really only last evening? But this time the ringing went unanswered. Mademoiselle would be at her school, and Cecile hadn't that number.

  She found she was whimpering to herself, and consciously tightened her control. Mr Webb? But he was back in Shillingham, and in any case he did not speak French. . Which left Bernard, who did, and though she was reluctant in the extreme to contact him, at least he could advise her who to approach.

  'Bernard?' As always, she gave the word its French pronunciation. 'C'est moi, Cecile.' Quickly, she recounted her worries, that Gaston had become lost, or confused, or ill. Worse than that, the fear that stalked her with hooked claws, she refused to acknowledge. She finished her rapid account and waited, breathless, for his response. It didn't come.

  'Bernard?' Her voice rose hysterically. 'Au nom de Dieu, aide-moi, je te supplie!'
/>
  'Mon ange,' he said, and his voice seemed to throb along the line.

  'Tell me what to do!' she implored him. 'How many

  hospitals are there? How can I contact them?' 'Sweetheart, stop worrying. All will be well.' 'How many—' 'Cecile, je t'adore.'

  Maddened with frustration, she slammed the phone down and remained for a moment arched over it, her body a curve of despair. The police, then. She'd passed their station on one of her walks about town. Selecting a different pair of shoes, she set off once more, and with increasing hopelessness, on her search. Where could she have gone, a young girl like that?

  Cecile halted abruptly, her heart drumming under her ribs. What was she thinking? Her acute anxiety had transported her back to her earlier fears for Arlette. But Arlette was dead, and would never come home again. And Gaston? Holy Mother, spare me that.

  The police station was further away than she remembered. Or perhaps it was simply that in her frantic haste to get there, the streets seemed unending, as in a dream, when you hurry but cannot move forward. By the time she reached it, her clean blouse was dark with sweat, her shoes pinching as badly as the last pair. Close to exhaustion, she leant on the desk and poured forth a torrent of French, which brought two men forward, to stare at her helplessly. She checked herself, wearily trying to remember such English as she knew. Was this a nightmare? Would she wake, to find Gaston sleeping peacefully at her side?

  They were kind, these English flics. Surprisingly, they already knew he was missing, but, like Bernard, advised her to keep calm. They'd checked the hospitals, and there was no report of his being admitted. That was good news, wasn't it? they said encouragingly.

  But was it? What if he lay beneath the dark water, as yet undiscovered?

  'And we've men out on the beat, ma'am.' (She had no idea what that meant. Battre? There was corporal punishment, here in England?) 'They've been asked to keep an eye open. He'll turn up safe and sound, you wait and see.'

  'But he would not—' She broke off helplessly, unable to explain herself in this hateful language.

  'There's a foreign film showing at the Regal,' one of the men volunteered. 'Perhaps he's popped in there.'

  She didn't believe it, but it was one of a dwindling bundle of straws for her to clutch at. Defeated, she nodded and, with an attempt at a smile, made her endless way back to the hotel.

  'David, is that you?'

  'Hannah!' Her name was startled out of him, and he was aware of Alan's interest. But she never phoned him at the station—it must be an emergency.

  'I've just had a call from Madame Picard. She's out of her mind with worry; apparently her husband left the hotel when she was out this morning, and hasn't been seen since.'

  Webb's eyes found the clock on the wall. Five o'clock. When Chris phoned back to say Warwick was safely home and had seemingly not left it that day, he'd forced himself to let go and turn his mind to the other matters clamouring for his attention. Now, all his half-formed fears rushed back. 'What did you tell her?'

  'I promised I'd go straight over. There's no one she can talk to, and she's on the verge of collapse.'

  'I'll come with you.'

  'That's what I hoped you'd say. Shall I come down?'

  'It would save a detour if you could. Park at the rear of the building. I'll meet you there in five minutes.'

  'What the hell's happening?' Alan Crombie asked plaintively as Webb dropped the phone.

  'I'm going to find out. But it looks as though we might have another body on our hands, and another French one, at that.' And without further explanation he strode from the room.

  Ten minutes later he was grimly fighting his way through the rush-hour traffic, Hannah, tense, beside him.

  'I'd just got back from school,' she was saying. 'She tried to get me earlier.'

  'Did she mention Warwick?'

  'Only to say he'd not been much help.'

  'So she must have phoned him. That shows how desperate she is.'

  'What can have happened, David? Surely he wouldn't go off without telling her? It's the first time he's even left his room since they arrived.'

  'How was he when she left him, did she say?'

  'A little better. He was dressed, which he apparently hadn't been for several days. She suggested he might like a breath of air.'

  'Then panics when he takes her up on it.'

  'But that was six hours ago!'

  'Let's recap. He's under par after the migraines or whatever, and he's still deeply shocked by his daughter's death.'

  Hannah caught her breath. 'You don't think he'd kill himself?'

  'I don't think he'd set out to, though he might yield to sudden temptation. Just slide into the river, for instance.'

  'Surely he'd have more regard for his wife?'

  'Hannah love, if he did do it, he wouldn't have been thinking straight.'

  'If he did do it,' she repeated grimly, 'it would fit in very nicely with friend Warwick's plans. Last obstacle removed.'

  'Exactly, which is why I put the guard on him—or tried to. When I heard he was missing, I immediately checked on Warwick, but he was safely at home and had apparently been there all day. However, if, despite appearances, he somehow managed to winkle Picard out of his room while his wife was out—'

  Hannah turned her wide gaze on him. 'Go on.'

  'Let's look at it from Warwick's angle. Any minute now they're going back to France. He still believes the woman'll marry him—or so he says—but suppose he decides to check that Picard'll agree to a divorce. And finds out not only that he knows nothing about it, but that he's no intention of giving up his wife. What then?'

  Hannah moistened her lips. 'But you said Warwick hadn't been out today.'

  'I said "apparently". We've only his word for it.' They were beyond the last, straggling suburbs now, and speeding towards Marlton. 'Suppose, just for the sake of argument, that he somehow managed to get Picard into his car. What would he do with him?'

  'Talk,' Hannah said slowly. 'Argue. Try to convince him he'd a prior claim.'

  'And where would this talk be taking place?'

  'Well, he couldn't risk staying in town. Someone might see him. So I suppose he'd drive out—' She stopped. 'Oh God, not again!'

  'Into the country,' Webb finished for her. 'And what better place to twist the knife than the spot where the girl died? Softening up the opposition, as it were.'

  'And you think that, in despair, Picard might have hurled himself after her?'

  'That could have been the idea. If he didn't do it voluntarily, he could have been persuaded.' Webb paused. 'Hang on, we're racing ahead of ourselves. There are several holes in that theory. How did he meet Picard? While he was taking a stroll? Too risky, and too public.

  'DI Ledbetter assures me Warwick wasn't spotted at the hotel, and couldn't have got to Picard's room unnoticed. But then the face he was using didn't see Picard leave, so I don't place much reliance on that.'

  'Perhaps he went out the back way,' Hannah said. 'That's the quickest route to the car park.'

  'Surely to God they'd have covered that. If they didn't, there'll be some rapped knuckles around. To be fair, though,

  Ledbetter was only humouring me; as far as he's concerned, the case is over. To rethink, then: Warwick couldn't know of the lobby plant, but he'd be manic about secrecy, particularly if he'd foul play in mind. So, if he did contact Picard —and remember that is only a hypothesis—he would have told him to use the back entrance.'

  He slowed down to pass a flock of sheep in the middle of the road. 'And if SB left the back of the building unguarded, they probably didn't check on phone calls, either. So we must now find out if Picard received one. There's a call-box coming up on the left. You don't know the number of the hotel, by any chance?'

  'I'm afraid not.'

  'Never mind, I'll get it.' He swerved in to the kerb, drawing up outside the red box. 'Won't be a minute.' Half way out of the car, he turned back and implanted a hard kiss on her mouth. Her body
responded, but her mind was with Madame.

  Seconds later, it seemed, David was back beside her and the car was getting up speed again. 'Right on the nail,' he told her. 'A call was put through to the room soon after Madame left this morning. A man's voice, no name asked for or given.'

  'Did you speak to her?'

  'No. No point in adding to her worries at this stage. There'll be time enough to contact her if we're right.'

  'If we do—find him there, it'll be hard to know if it was murder, accident or suicide.'

  'His daughter's case all over again. Except that this time there would be deliberate intent. At best, someone drove him knowingly to the place of her death, and left him there, If they did.'

  Steeple Bayliss High Street was still busy when they reached it, and they had to curb their impatience crawling behind buses and home-going traffic. Even on Gloucester Road it was slow going, and it was only when Webb turned off on the now-familiar track that he was able to go more quickly. The car bucketed over the uneven ground, rattling and bouncing, and when he stopped it, the sudden silence pressed painfully on their eardrums.

  'Stay here,' Webb commanded.

  'Sorry, I'm coming with you.'

  He didn't stop to argue, but set off up the slope at a run, holding a hand out behind him. Hannah caught it and ran with him, praying in short, breathless gasps that they wouldn't find what she was so sure would be lying there. When they reached the top, she hung back as David looked over the edge, gripping his fingers tightly.

  'He's there,' he said. 'I'm going down.' For the second time in five days, he lowered himself gingerly over the side. Hannah stood where he had left her, eyes stinging with tears. Oh God, how could she face Madame?

  'Hannah!' The voice from below had an urgent ring to it. She moved to the edge.

  'Yes?'

  'I think I heard a groan. We might be in time after all.' 'Cecile?'

  'Oh, Bernard! I'm insane with worry!' 'You've still heard nothing?'