by Carrie Marsh
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
WHAT CHILDREN SAY
WHAT CHILDREN SAY
“Come, Tamsyn. Uncle Harry is up at the top step. It's safe, see?”
Marcie held the tiny, cold hand as, together, she and the child walked up the steps to the door of Stowe Manor. Tamsyn had refused to go up the steps to the manor alone.
Marcie looked up at Harry. She frowned and he lifted a shoulder. She felt relieved – he was a picture of ease and the child's sudden clinging to her hand seemed not to have worried him unduly. She felt herself relaxing too, deciding it was natural.
The poor girl has just lost her mother, she admonished herself. Of course, she is afraid of being alone. Her mother had gone away and disappeared. How was the child supposed to feel? If she was scared to let people out of her sight, it was natural. Marcie would be too.
“There you are,” Harry smiled. He bent down so that his height was less scary. “Welcome.”
Tamsyn drew back and stood behind Marcie on the level terrace. She looked up at Harry with frightened eyes, peeping out from behind Marcie's waist.
Marcie frowned again. Tamsyn knew Harry. He was her godfather! This sudden recoiling from him was worrying.
And this was not the first time Marcie had noticed how wary she had become. She had noticed something similar earlier when she had stopped to fill up with gas at the local garage – the child had flinched away when the attendant, Andy, had waved to her.
I wonder if she is afraid of men?
“It's uncle Harry,” she said gently. “He's safe. I promise.”
Harry shook his head slightly, as if to say: “don't press the issue”. He said nothing, just stepped aside and moved back into the doorway of the parlor so Marcie could escort the child past without seeing him.
Inside, Tamsyn tipped her head back, looking up at the white-plastered ceiling. It was vaulted, with the vaults decorated with fruits and flowers and vines. The child looked at them, smiling.
“You have lots of flowers up there,” she said, smiling at Marcie.
“Yes, we have,” Marcie agreed warmly. “It's pretty, isn't it? You can come and see them better later. Would you like tea?”
At the mention of tea, the little girl's face lit up. She looked at Marcie with round eyes.
“Tea.”
Marcie giggled. “We have some tea ready in the drawing room, all laid out.”
The little girl needed no encouragement, but ran off up the hallway. She paused, not sure where to go, and Marcie followed her, directing her to the wide doors of the drawing room.
Tea was laid out beautifully, with a bowl of snapdragons of different colors on the table, the pot and cups offset to the side, with scones and a jam tart to accompany it. The room was pale with the cloud-filtered light, and smelled lightly of lavender. Everything was genial and peaceful.
Marcie had used the rose-patterned tea service - the special antique one with the gold edging – knowing it made the occasion special. And this little girl desperately needed to feel special. She was eight, and she hardly spoke. She was deeply affected by her mother's death. Deeply traumatized.
Taking a place on Marcie's left, the little girl sat on the high, padded Victorian chairs around the round table, chattering happily as Marcie poured the tea. As Marcie had hoped, the beautiful surroundings helped her to relax, and lose that haunted, feral look that seemed to be habitual now.
When Harry came in, she stiffened and her manner became more tense. She hunched over the plate, shoulders taut, and eyed him sideways before looking down. She put down the scone as if she was no longer hungry.
Marcie raised her eyebrows at Harry, who placidly inclined his head and left. He was not averse to taking tea in the kitchen, especially since he knew there was another pie on the sideboard there.
“More tea?” Marcie asked.
“Yes, please.”
Marcie poured the tea, watching for the thawing of her fear, which came a few minutes after Harry left. She chatted away, keeping the conversation flowing, knowing that gentle conversation would relax her.
As she did so, Marcie allowed her mind to wander, trying to figure out what was going on. She had noticed a slight change of Tamsyn's manner when she visited, but had not realized how afraid she was.
“...an' Mrs. Hitchins brought us a cottage pie yesterday,” Tamsyn was saying genially. “It was nice. Better than the one Daddy makes.”
Marcie found herself smiling at the candid remarks of the child. She was certainly more lively.
“That's good,” she affirmed.
“The police came to see Daddy on Tuesday. Is Daddy in trouble?”
Marcie closed her eyes. The youthful voice was so solemn, her eyes wide and serious. “No, dear. Daddy isn't in trouble.”
“Are the police going to take him away?” Her voice trembled and Marcie could have wept.
“No, dear. The police aren't going to take Daddy anywhere.”
She privately cursed Gilding and wished it was possible to explain to a child the purpose of a police investigation. For all the little girl knew, her daddy could be thrown into prison tomorrow, leaving her alone.
“Oh. Good.”
“They won't take him away from you, see? Daddy can spend lots of time with you now that he has taken time from work, can't he?”
“Mm. We went to the field. The one where Grant showed me how to climb trees. He lifts me on his shoulders so I can climb up.”
Marcie felt a stab of pain for Richard, who had the patience of a spring loaded gun and was probably not as good at sharing things with his daughter. She was also interested.
Whoever she is frightened of, it wasn't Grant Hiddingh.
Not that she was overly surprised by that fact. Grant had been a gentle soul and doubtless good with children.
“You like climbing trees?” she asked.
“Yes, Marcie! I'm the best at trees...”
Marcie smiled as the child launched into a description of how she had raced some school friends in climbing a tree and won. She made it clear how impressed she was and the girl glowed. It was good to see her losing her haunted look.
“After tea, maybe I can show you your bedroom? And then if the rain clears, you can climb trees in the garden?”
“Yes! I want the rain to stop.”
Marcie nodded. So did they all.
When she escorted the little girl upstairs to where she had had the guest quarters made up with a silky peach coverlet and they had admired the view of the pond from the window, she noticed how tired the child was.
“Would you like to nap?”
“Yes,” she said, yawning. When Marcie paused in the doorway, she called out to her. “Tell me a story? Mommy told me stories. About a nasty giant, and a big tree, and a magic man and...”
Marcie sighed. “I'll tell you a story, but it won't be as good as those.”
The child grinned, as if this was to be expected. She took Marcie's hand, and only then was ready to close her eyes and settle into sleep. Marcie told stories until she noticed the rhythm of her breathing change and the grip on her hand go slack. Then she headed downstairs, throwing a blanket over the sleeping form.
She found Harry in the kitchen, leaning against the pantry, drinking a cup of tea. The remains of the pie were in the dish, a sizable wedge already absent.
“...poor girl,” Marcie sighed.
“She's scared of men, isn't she?” Harry said gently.
“Yes.”
“Any idea who?”
“Not yet,” Marcie acknowledged. “It's not Grant, though she met him.”
“You thought so,” Harry reminded her.
“Yes. She liked him, it seems.”
“And her father?”
“I don't think it's him, either,” Marcie said, frowning. “She mentioned a distaste for his cooking skills – which shows the girl has a good palate – but seems to feel safe with him.”
“Good,” Harry said placidly. “Would be difficult to
fix matters if he was the problem. Legal wise, I mean.”
Marcie nodded. She reached for a cup and Harry poured her tea. They stood in the warm, peaceful kitchen while the rain stopped and the sun came out, painting fingers of light across the tiles.
“Do you think we could find out who it is?” Harry asked.
“I don't know,” Marcie sighed. “I don't want to push her by reminding her of something worse that what's already happened.”
“True.” Harry sipped his tea thoughtfully. “Don't worry. It'll come out naturally.”
“I hope so,” Marcie said. She smoothed her navy skirt, noticing a dab of cream from a scone.
At that moment, she heard the scamper of feet in the hallway. She grinned. Tamsyn was awake.
“Sun!” the girl exclaimed, running for the closest outer door. Marcie was in time to help her open it, and together they exited out into the last of the day's bright sunshine.
The side door of the manor, through which they had exited, fortuitously led directly to the orchard and herb garden, the home of an old wrought-iron swing. Tamsyn whooped and ran to it, and Marcie found herself wishing her back was not already sore as she pushed the swing to the ever insistent cries of. “Higher, higher!”
The sunlight slanted down through leafless trees, making gold of the little girl's reddish hair. The earth smelled of loam and rain and damp, and the straw bales in the corner steamed where the sun touched them. Marcie found herself in love with life. She wondered if she would have wanted to have her own children, and pushed the thought away. She had this child here, now, and that was enough.
“Higher!”
Marcie laughed and did her best.
Eventually, Tamsyn jumped out, and landed awkwardly, grazing her knee. Marcie rushed up to help – not wanting to fuss at her, but also wanting to check how bad it was.
She mopped the trace of blood with a silken-soft cotton handkerchief, and bound up the knee.
“There,” she smiled. “Just what the doctor ordered.”
Tamsyn, who had been smiling a second earlier as Marcie made a story of a magic handkerchief and a sore knee, suddenly stopped smiling. Her eyes cooled back to their feral mistrust of earlier. She leaned back and looked at Marcie, eyes full of distrust.
“I don't like the doctor. He's scary. I wish Mummy didn't like him.”
Marcie blinked. “The doctor?”
“Uncle Luke.”
Luke Marlborough. Doctor Luke Marlborough. The man Janet loved.
Marcie could only guess about this. She would find out more at the sewing meeting the next day.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
ASKING QUESTIONS
ASKING QUESTIONS
“You do know refusing to cooperate is a crime too, Mr. Gerald?”
Gilding said it calmly through the grille of the front door of the tall, elegant house by Lytchwood Common. It was one of the new houses in the village – the whole area between the original stone, Medieval village, and the common was new. The houses mostly belonged to wealthy retired people. Or wealthy estate agents or developers like Gerald.
“I haven't done anything and I'm not letting you in.” The voice from inside was insistent.
Gilding sighed. He looked at Hannah, who raised a brow and shrugged.
“Okay,” she called through the door. “But if we leave, you'll be charged with refusing to assist a police officer. You can decide.”
She waited, and then glanced at Gilding.
“Come on,” Hannah said, “shall we go?”
He nodded agreement and turned and walked away with her. They had gone as far as the gate when they heard someone shout behind them. “Wait!”
He grinned at her then, out of sight of the house, and she smiled back. He fought the urge to congratulate her openly, and stuck with a pat on the shoulder as they walked back.
“Okay,” Gerald said, opening the door. “I'll talk.”
“Thanks,” Gilding said.
Inside, the house was as much out of a home and garden magazine as the outside. The sitting room, were Gerald showed them somewhere to sit, was decorated in pale neutral grays and wheaten whites. Gilding took a seat on the gray couch and felt himself sink ominously. The carpet was a wheaten white one with a long pile and he silently prayed nothing would eat his shoes while they sat.
He glanced at Hannah, who looked as uncomfortable. He wanted to smile but the atmosphere was too serious, so he turned his focus to the third person.
Gerald sat on a leather chair, leaning forward. He was a handsome man in a rugged way, with a long, slightly bulbous nose and pale blue eyes. He was shaved bald, and had a tall, well-built body, and would have made a great rugby player. He sat now with his elbows on his knees, fingertips together, and faced them genially enough. He didn't look like a man who had something to hide.
“We wanted to ask you a few questions, Mr. Gerald,” Gilding began. “Regarding your whereabouts on the nights of the thirteenth and fourteenth of this month.”
Gerald stared at him and sat upright immediately, a look of horror on his face. “Now, officer, if you think that I had anything to do with that mess that happened up on the Stowe Road, then I can tell you...”
“The tire tracks match the ones on your vehicle, Mr. Gerald,” Hannah said firmly. “We can prove it. I think cooperation would be the best strategy right now. Or you could be facing arrest.”
He looked at her, mouth opening to protest. Then he sat back in the chair and clasped his hands.
“Okay. As it is, I have nothing to hide. I was at home on both nights.”
“Can someone vouch for that?” Hannah asked at once.
“We can ask my neighbor, Giles. He saw me come back from work on both nights and he would have seen if my kitchen light was off – that side of the house is basically in his garden.”
“We will ask him,” Hannah said pointedly. She wrote down what he had said.
“Can you show us the vehicle, Mr. Gerald?” Gilding asked smoothly.
“I don't see why not,” he said.
The two officers looked at each other with raised eyebrows as Mr. Gerald stood and led them to the garage.
I'm surprised he's so keen to let us see the car, Gilding thought. There should be some signs of damage. He followed the man and Hannah through to the hallway and then through a door in the kitchen to the garage.
“Here it is,” Gerald said confidently, “Look as much as you like.”
Hannah bent down near the front of the vehicle, which to the naked eye did not look damaged. The car was parked near a wall, making it a tight squeeze to see anything of the front of it.
“Could you drive it outside, please?” Hannah asked, standing. “It's too dark in here to see any details.”
“Okay,” Gerald shrugged.
He opened the garage door and headed inside to fetch the car keys. While he was away, Gilding and Hannah walked to the front of the car.
“It's a proper bull-bar,” Gilding commented. “Looks frame-mounted. It's there to keep the thing safe, not just for appearances.”
“Exactly,” Hannah said. “And if you look carefully, I'd say it's been bent a little.”
“Oh?” Gilding's brow shot up fractionally. “Well done! Can I see?”
He was trying to bend down to see the front of the car, but he was too tall to crouch in the narrow gap where Hannah had been and at that moment Gerald came back.
“Here we are,” he said viciously. “Got the keys. I'll take it out now...”
Gilding and Hannah exchanged a glance as he got in and pulled the door shut and drove the thing out into the sunlight.
Outside, the sun had come out from behind the clouds, though the light was still the pale leaden variety that follows after a rain. Gilding stood back, trying to get an overview of the car that was almost certainly the murder weapon.
It was a sturdy Toyota Colt SUV, with a firm black bull-bar on the front. It was white, as they had expected from the slight paint mark on the two
cars.
If this is it, there must be a place where the paint is marked, Gilding thought.
Hannah had gone immediately to the front of the vehicle, and was crouched down now, the sun making silver of her pale hair. She turned to look at him, frowning.
“Here, sir,” she said, beckoning him over. He came to kneel next to her. Soft faced with earnest brown eyes with heavy lids, Hannah always looked more to Gilding like a nurse than a policeman – she radiated a gentle care. Except when she was on duty, when she was far more ruthless than any of the three male officers put together. She was also sharp and informed and he looked in the direction she was pointing.
“See here, sir? And here.” She turned to him. “I think this bull-bar was pushed back by the impact, coming about half an inch closer to the bumper. Then it was straightened.”
“I see,” Gilding said. He could see exactly what she meant – there was a slight dent in the metal where it seemed some tool had been used to bend it, and one could see little ridges in the black paint as if the metal beneath it had crumpled and then been straightened out again.
He reached for his camera and took a picture.
“What're you doing, officer?” Gerald sounded earnest.
“I'm recording information,” Gilding said smoothly, deciding to take a cue from Hannah's cool calmness. “I have every right to do that.”
Gerald cleared his throat, as if he wanted to say something but subsided.
Gilding stood back and looked at the car. He could see nowhere where the paint had been disturbed, and was not even sure that there would be any place where the paint showed any signs of being chipped. If the bull-bar had taken all the impact, then why would there be?
“Sir?”
“Mm?”
“Could we chat for a bit...out of earshot?”
“Sure,” Gilding inclined his head to the side of the driveway, where a tall tree grew to shade it. “Over there?”
She nodded and they stood under the tree to talk. Gilding kept an eye on Gerald as they did so. He didn't like the man in any circumstance, especially not right now when he was here investigating him as a murder suspect.
