“So,” he began once we were clear of the towering station, “what did you make of all that? Rita Jones?”
“I don’t think she’s our killer,” I told him surely. “But I think she’s involved in this somehow. Knows more than she’s letting on.”
“Nice of her to tell us about Frances Beacon,” Mills allowed. “Crosses one hurdle off the list.”
I gave a short hum of agreement. “She’s clever, to have picked up on it, that we wanted to meet her, that is. And what she said about the music box, about it looking heavy.”
“Could have just been her throwing us off her scent a little.”
“She was basically out the door! Prints were clean, no DNA. Why bother mentioning it then? And also,” I carried on, the thoughts coming to me all at once, “those are the sort of objects she works with in the house. You’d think she’d know how one would look and feel.”
“If she was going to steal something,” Mills added, “it would make more sense to have stolen something from the house like Goddard suggested. Something nobody would miss. Why Viviane’s music box?”
“I’d put it down to some bitter feud or personal jealousy, but that doesn’t feel right. Not with the two of them.”
“And the male DNA on the cloth? Her brother, maybe?”
“Maybe. Whoever our killer is, I’d doubt that they worked completely alone. My interest now is mostly in how guilty Josephine Goddard tried to make Rita Jones look.”
“She has known her for a few years now. If she suspects something’s a bit off about her, we should heed it. You thought something similar,” Mills reminded me. “The first time we met her, remember? She was all nervous and flighty.”
“Like I said,” I recalled, “she’s involved in some way or another. Whether the music box, or the killing, or even just something she knew about Viviane that she didn’t tell us.”
“If the killer was somebody not from the house,” Mills piped up thoughtfully, “they’d have needed a way in. Someone to open the door for them. Maybe our killer knew how to get to Rita, scared her into letting them in.”
“Would explain the slight guilty face she sometimes has. And would mean that she wouldn’t have had to be on the scene herself.”
“Blackmail or bribery?” Mills asked, pulling up into a car park by the theatre.
“If the music box is genuine, I’d say bribery. She didn’t mention being scared or suspicious of anyone.”
“Except the man in the restaurant,” Mills said.
“Except him,” I agreed.
We left the car, walking around the impressive theatre to the front doors. It was a beautiful building, probably as old as Henbell House, in fact, certainly built around the same time. A new glass extension sat to one side of the castle-like building with its stone arches and long windows.
It was quiet during the day, but the doors were open, and we walked into the foyer, Mills letting out an impressed whistle.
“Looks different without all the people,” he remarked. You could see the floor, for one thing, that was nice.
“Theatre’s closed, gentlemen,” a woman called as she walked towards us, a stack of programmes in her arms. “Box office opens in about an hour, though.”
“That’s alright, thank you.” I followed her over to the desk, where she placed the programmes down and pulled out my warrant card. “I’m Detective Inspector Thatcher and this Detective Sergeant Mills, North Yorkshire Police. We’re looking for a Miss Frances Beacon. Does she still work here?”
The girl blinked at the warrant card and lifted her head up, nodding. “Yep. Yes, she works in costume. I can fetch her for you?”
“That would be great,” I answered with a smile, putting my card away. The woman gave another nod and shuttled off to a set of doors marked ‘Staff Only.’
Mills sidled over to join me, glancing at the programmes. “So, still planning on taking the music box to Dr Dorland yourself? Because you could always get Smith to do it. Delegate a bit.”
I scowled at him. “Yes. I’ll take it myself. I was going to invite you along, but I don’t think I will now.”
“No, no, by all means,” he grinned like a schoolboy, “leave me at the station. I’d hate to intrude.”
“Strictly work,” I informed him sternly.
“Strictly, yes. But once the case is solved…” he trailed off with a shrug. “Sharp knew what she was doing sending us there, didn’t she?”
“Sharp should know better than to meddle,” I replied.
“Should she? You’ve been moping around for a while now, sir. What were you even doing on Sunday before I called you out? Pottering around the house in your socks?”
“You don’t see me getting involved with your love life,” I said dismissively.
“You never get involved with anyone’s life,” he reminded me. “And it’s like you didn’t give me a hard time with Susanne.”
“You left that welfare office looking like someone just gave you a lifetime supply of chocolate bars.”
Mills laughed, the sound echoing around the draughty, empty foyer. The staff doors opened again, and the woman from before returned, another in tow. She was wearing simple cotton dungarees with a measuring tape slung around her shoulders, various sewing implements stuck into the fabric or poking out from her pockets. Her brown hair was twisted up into a knot on the top of her head, her blue eyes looking over us uncertainly.
“Thanks, Clare,” she said to the other woman. Clare nodded and slipped back through the doors.
“I’m Frances,” she told us as she walked over. “This is about Viviane, isn’t it?” Her voice was tinged with sadness.
“It is.”
She nodded and walked over to a few waiting chairs, folding her feet beneath one as she sat. Mills and I followed, dragging a few chairs around so that we were sat opposite her.
“I heard about it in the news,” she muttered, reaching up to shove a stray hair back into place.
“We’re sorry to bother you at work,” I told her gently. “But we were hoping you might be able to tell us a bit more about Viviane. From what we know so far, she was a bit of a closed book.”
Frances laughed lightly. “That’s true. It took her a while to open up to anybody. For the most part, she just didn’t think anyone wanted to know. I blame her parents. Have you met them?”
“We have. That was a difficult relationship.”
Frances nodded with wide eyes. “Oh, yeah.”
“But she was close to her grandfather?”
Her face brightened slightly. “Amir! He was great, and she adored him. He’s the one who left her everything,” she said, growing distracted by a piece of thread tangle in her rings.
“Left her everything?” Mills asked.
“Yeah. You know, all her old stuff. The collection. That didn’t help the family situation,” she added ruefully.
“He was an archaeologist,” she explained after seeing our confused faces. “Most of those things he found himself, others were gifts. He had a great collection, worth a lot of money. When he died, he gave most of it to museums or schools, but his favourite things he left to Viv. Her parents weren’t all that happy about that.”
“And she kept them all?” I asked.
“Course she did. She loved all that,” she broke off to clear her throat. “Was brilliant with it too, conservation and history. She always talked about getting into it properly.”
“Why did she work at the house then? Why not follow that passion?” Mills asked her.
“The money at first, she needed to save up. And then it was a good experience, and then she enjoyed it too much…” Her voice trailed off. “Honestly, I think she was always too scared to leave.”
“Scared of what?” I asked, leaning forward.
Frances shrugged. “Failing. Her granddad’s shoes are hard to fill.”
I nodded. All that made sense. “Her parents told us that the two of you broke up recently?”
“Earlier this
year,” she gave a sad smile. “Her idea, of course.”
“Did she tell you why?”
“No.” Frances ducked her head, toying with the end of her measuring tape. “Just a load of stuff about her needing to focus on everything she was doing.”
“What was she doing?” Mills inquired.
“Don’t have a clue,” Frances replied. “She didn’t really share that part of her life with me, to be honest. It was her and Amir’s world, nobody else allowed. Like when a kid builds a pillow fort but doesn’t let the grownups in, you know?”
“Did you ever suspect that what she was doing was dangerous in any way?” I asked, keeping my voice low to stop it from bouncing around the room. “Was there ever any worry about the sort of work she was doing?”
“No. I mean, those things can be a bit sketchy sometimes, but she never sold anything or anything like that. Most everything she had she got from her grandad.”
I reached into my pocket, pulling out the picture of the music box and held it out. “Have you seen this before?”
“The music box. Yeah. She was working on that for a while, trying to track down where it came from. Something about the manufacturer's mark and all that. Why, what about it?”
“It’s missing from her collection. We think someone stole it.”
“Stole it?” Frances looked outraged. “Bastards.”
“Do you know how much it was worth?”
“God, no. I’m useless with all of that. Is that why she—?” She stopped abruptly, not wanting to say the words.
“We think it might be connected. When was the last time you spoke to her, Frances?”
“A few weeks ago, actually,” she admitted quietly. “I found some stuff of hers she left at mine and took it all over to her place. She invited me in for a brew which was bloody awkward at first, but…” She shrugged. “It was nice to chat for a bit.”
“Did she say anything strange? Anything out of character?” I asked.
Frances thought for a moment, subtly wiping a tear from the corner of her eye as well and then shook her head. “Nothing that stood out to me, I guess. Same old Viviane, always doing something.”
“Thank you, Miss Beacon. You have been extremely helpful,” I told her, standing from the chair. She followed, hesitantly fiddling with her apron.
“Was it—? Did she suffer?” she managed to ask in a small voice.
My chest clenched, and I spotted Mills turning his face away in the corner of my eye. All things considered, there were worse ways to go.
“Not for very long,” I answered her quietly. She blinked again and then managed a smile.
“Glad to have been of help,” she said smartly, heading for the door. “You could come and see the show,” she called over her shoulder. “I hear the costumes are breathtaking!” She pushed the doors open and vanished into the hallway.
Mills joined me at my side again, looking at the doors.
“What now, sir?”
What now, indeed?
Eighteen
Rita
Freddie’s voice became background noise, tuned out as he drove us away from the police station. He was rambling about food, getting something in for dinner, but I felt too sick. Sitting on that cold metal chair, the Inspector’s grey eyes boring into me, a sheen of cold sweat had run down my back, the way it does when you throw up, shaky and clammy. I stared out of the window, watching the world blur past. The rain came back, trickling down, smudging the outline of the buildings.
“Rita?” Freddie took my hand, and I jolted, turning to look at him. The car had stopped, I realised, parked in the driveway. I fumbled with my seatbelt, ignoring his worried stare and stepped out, breathing in the sweet, cold air scented with the wisteria that had finally started to bloom. Freddie walked to the green front door, unlocking it and switching the alarm off. He stood in the doorway a moment, waiting, and I took in one deep lungful before following him inside.
The house had been our uncle’s, left to us when he died, a Victorian terrace down a quiet, cobbled street of mews houses and unattended bicycles. I kicked my shoes off inside and headed wordlessly upstairs, into the bathroom where I climbed into the shower and scrubbed until my skin turned pink, face turned up into the warm water, letting it wash away the sweat and sickness that had clung to me since Josephine emerged into the parlour with my bag.
God, to think that was only this morning. The hours were a mess that I couldn’t make sense of. One minute, I was in the house waiting to meet Harry Cuthbert, and then Thatcher and Mills pitched up, and Josephine started rooting through my bag, pulling some bloody gold box that apparently had belonged to Viviane. My arm still hurt from where I’d fallen against the sofa, and as I left the shower, I glanced over my shoulder in the mirror. Sure enough, a nice bruise was already showing up.
I padded into my room, pulling on a pair of joggers and a jumper, and I had my socks up over the cuffs when Freddie knocked on the door.
“It’s open,” I muttered. He popped his head in and wandered in with a cup of tea in hand. He placed it on my bedside table and perched on my bed by my feet.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked softly.
“Not really.”
“Okay. I’m going to make some soup, come down when you’re hungry. Don’t make me come and spoon feed you.”
“I’ve never made you spoon-feed me,” I drawled back.
“You did once. You were six, and you bit me.”
I gave a weak laugh, leaning back against my pillows. Freddie managed a small smile, reaching over to squeeze my knee before getting up and leaving, pulling the door shut behind him. I let my head roll back against the headboard, pinching my eyes shut.
My thoughts went to Viviane. Poor, lovely Viv. How could they think that I could kill her? First, she was almost twice my height, and for another, I liked her. She was private, reserved, not the sort of person you’d invite over for dinner or to watch a film, but she was lovely, always knew exactly what to say when Josephine got all snippy, was always up for a little gossip. She wouldn’t have let Josephine take my bag.
Mad old cow. She put it in there, I knew she did. I wondered if the Inspector thought so too. He didn’t seem all that suspicious of me when I was there. Though maybe he was just good at hiding his thoughts well.
I was glad that Freddie came when he did, finally sorting my alibi out. It only took me being taken to a police station to do it but, better late than never, I supposed. I climbed down from my bed and stood in front of the mirror, looking a tad gaunt. The shadows under my eyes hadn’t gone anywhere, and my damp hair was already starting to dry in annoying little curls and flicks that stuck out from the side of my head. I was almost glad that the museum was closed. I don’t think I could face giving a tour. Certainly couldn’t face dealing with Josephine and her irritating pursed lips and bitter face. I picked up the tea Freddie had brought and sat in the window seat.
Outside, the rain fell down the glass, and the wind picked up leaves and flowers, tossing them around the quiet street.
Poor Viviane. She deserved better than this. Better than dying in the hallway where she worked, left there overnight to have everyone think she did it to herself. And she’d been robbed? I wasn’t sure when, but she hadn’t mentioned anything at work. I knew she collected things, but I thought it was more along the lines of stone carvings and whatnot. That box, though…
I shook my head. I hadn’t gotten a good look at it when Josephine pulled it from my bag, too much in shock and pain to care all that much. But the Inspector had left the photograph of it on the table when he left, and I stared at it as I waited.
It was familiar, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d seen it somewhere before, or something like it. In a museum, perhaps, in another stately home somewhere. There were ones just like it, I was sure, but it was the painted panels. Enamel, they must be, with the twisted vines of flowers hand-painted on. Those, I knew I had seen somewhere, and it was driving me mad that I
couldn’t figure out where. It was the sort of thing we might have in Henbell House, in fact. In one of the bedrooms. The Blue Room, it would look beautiful in there.
I sat up straight, a thought sticking in my head and burrowing in. The house. I drained the rest of my tea and left the mug on the side, quickly reaching under my bed to pull out a pair of boots and shove my feet into them. I grabbed a raincoat from my wardrobe, pulling the hood up over my damp hair. When I reached for the door handle, I hesitated. Freddie asked questions, nosy prick.
Oh well. I twisted the doorknob, stepping out into the hallway, feet creaking the old floorboards. As I reached the bottom of the steps, Freddie stuck his head out from the kitchen, wearing one of our grandma’s old aprons.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“On a walk.”
“It’s raining,” he countered.
“If I sit up there doing nothing, I’ll go mad. I just want to walk,” I told him. “Clear my head.”
Freddie looked unsure, but he nodded. “Be back in two hours, yeah? Don’t get sick.”
“Okay,” I assured him, making a beeline for the front door, snatching the umbrella in the stand and the key to my bike chain as I left.
I kept the bike around the side of the house, chained to the garden gate, so Freddie couldn’t see me as I unlocked it and wheeled it away from the house and onto the street. It wasn’t far to the museum from our home. It was part of why I liked working there so much. I dropped the umbrella in the basket and hopped on, using the back roads of wandering lanes and alleys to get there, avoiding the main roads and the impatient drivers.
The rain got heavier, soaking my trousers, but I didn’t care. Didn’t care if I got sick either, or of the protesting ache that grew in my legs, the throbbing in my back. I should have stayed with her that night, and I’d been kicking myself for it ever since. I wasn’t sure why I offered, just something unpleasant niggling at the back of my mind. Like when you pass an alley at night and just know not to go down it. I should have stayed, ignored her protests and stayed and helped her lock up, walked her to her bus stop, done something.
DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thrillers: Books 1-3 Page 65
