A Place Of Safety (25 page)

Evadne carried the clothes downstairs and hung them in the kitchen near an open window to freshen up. Then she set about making a cup of lemon verbena tea which she always enjoyed with her morning paper.

Soon there was a scratching at the front door. Evadne opened it to admit Mazeppa carrying a basket holding
The Times
. She was standing in for Piers who was having a lie-in.

Mazeppa was a good girl, even famous - one of her puppies had won Best in Show at Crufts - but she had never got the hang of carrying a newspaper in her mouth. She felt this inability keenly and was deeply ashamed of being sent out with a basket. Evadne had never thought to explain that Piers only carried the local paper in his mouth. Even he needed a little help with the heavies.

Now Mazeppa, determined to impress, tipped the basket onto its side, pulled out a section of the journal, mangled it between her teeth, dragged it into the kitchen and laid it carefully down.

‘What have I told you?’ Evadne picked up the paper, poking her finger through an extremely soggy patch and wagging it at the dog. ‘How am I supposed to read this?’

Mazeppa beat her feathery, fleur-de-lys of a tail hard against the table leg panting and sighing with pleasure at all this attention.

‘Now I suppose you think you’re getting a biscuit.’

The thumping rhythm slowed, becoming less certain. Mazeppa’s face, already squashed by nature into a crumpled landscape of ridges, tucks and frowns, became even more scrunched up by anxiety. Evadne patted the dog, tossed it a chocolate Bourbon and took her tea into the sitting room. She opened the remains of the newspaper at the arts section.

There was an exhibition of early English mezzotints and watercolours at the V & A. Evadne loved watercolours. She wondered if the museum would accommodate the dogs. Mrs Craven had taken her poodle, a fractious little show-off, to a horticultural display at St Vincent’s Square. The Pekes, by comparison, were as good as gold. Perhaps they could be left briefly with the cloakroom attendant? She decided to ring the very next day.

Already consumed by a happy glow of anticipation, Evadne skipped the theatre reviews - why on earth would anyone need theatre with the drama of daily life all about them? - and found the book pages.

She always kept a little notebook and propelling pencil by her chair to write down new titles that appealed. Not that she could afford many of them but Causton library, even in its present state of constant penury, usually managed to raise or borrow a copy from somewhere.

Today there was a full page on children’s literature. It was divided into boxes relating to the child’s age and showed illustrations from the books, some funny, some charming, some so frightening Evadne wondered at the parent who would let them into the house. She wished she had a young friend or relation to climb on her knee and listen to
The Tale of Peter Rabbit
or
Babar the Elephant
. Perhaps the newly married niece would eventually oblige.

In the seven-to-nine-years section she found a new title from the Barley Roscoe series. Evadne knew all about Barley. Valentine Fainlight had donated a signed copy of his young hero’s adventures in aid of the church fete and Evadne had won it on the tombola. Barley was an appealing child, frequently in trouble yet always starting out with the best of intentions. He reminded her of William Brown but without William’s stunning insouciance when standing amidst the wreckage of his confident attempts to be helpful.

Evadne put the paper aside, rather sorry now she had opened it. She had been trying to put the name Fainlight from her mind. Trying not to dwell on the sad fact of Carlotta’s disappearance. Her heart went out to Valentine. When the nice young constable had asked her if she had known the girl or could give any information about her disappearance, Evadne had mentioned her lovelorn suitor. Then, fearing that she had implied some involvement on Valentine’s part, hurriedly explained that this was purely a matter of observation rather than actual knowledge.

And his poor sister. Oh dear. Evadne sighed aloud. She had heard Louise weeping in the garden of their house on Friday. Evadne had called on behalf of Christian Aid and had hovered uncertainly for several minutes, torn between a natural longing to offer comfort and an anxiety that an intrusion might embarrass or annoy. Louise had always struck her as a very private person. In the end she had walked quietly away. So much unhappiness. Evadne picked up
The Times
hoping to recapture her pleasant feelings of a few moments ago. She turned to the music page. This was largely taken up by an appreciation of a young and gifted jazz musician who had recently committed suicide.

Evadne sighed again, rather more loudly this time. Mazeppa jumped into her lap, gazed intently into her eyes and gave a long moan of sympathy.

 

At five fifteen precisely, when Louise Fainlight was quietly breaking her heart and her brother was kneeling on a tiled shower floor in a state of worshipful ecstasy; when Hetty Leathers and her daughter were cracking a bottle of Guinness to celebrate having scraped together the necessary to pay for fifty per cent of Charlie’s funeral (thanks to the Red Lion collection bottle) and the members of the Mothers’ Union were preparing their hearts and minds for their genteel and philanthropic endeavours, Detective Chief Inspector Tom Barnaby and Sergeant Gavin Troy presented themselves on the crumbling steps of the Old Rectory.

Lionel Lawrence hardly heard the bell and in any case was in such a state of inner turmoil that he had quite forgotten his telephone conversation earlier that day with the police. Lionel felt like a man who has owned a kitten for years, devotedly caring for it in a kindly if absent-minded manner, only to have it turn into a panther behind his back and bite a great chunk out of his hand.

Obviously Ann would calm down. He would have to be patient, talk to her, maybe even listen a bit. She plainly felt she had some sort of legitimate grievance although Lionel could not imagine what this could possibly be. But he would make whatever promises she wanted and even do his best to keep them. Anything else was unthinkable. To be cut adrift at his time of life, homeless, penniless. What would he do? Where would he go? After years of dedicated compassion towards society’s cast-offs, Lionel realised that now that he was in need of a spot of it himself, there seemed to be no one to turn to. Furious at his wife for putting him in such a position while knowing he could never afford to let it show, Lionel decided to forgive her, as a Christian should, and work hard towards their reconciliation.

The bell rang again and this time it registered. Lionel, still consumed with apprehensive visions as to his future, drifted across the black and white tiled hall and opened the door.

To his annoyance it was the policemen who had been so insolent only a few days ago. He couldn’t quite find the courage to tick off the senior officer and the younger was nosily peering over his shoulder into the house so Lionel settled for staring severely into the gap between them.

‘Sorry to interrupt,’ said Barnaby, looking about as unsorry as a man could be, ‘but I believe you’re expecting us.’

‘I most certainly am not,’ said Lionel. ‘What I am expecting in,’ he removed a pocket watch from his waistcoat pocket and locked onto it as if spellbound, ‘roughly twenty minutes is the Ferne Basset Mothers’ Union monthly committee meeting.’

‘We spoke on the telephone yesterday.’ Barnaby stepped forward as he said this and Lionel, taken by surprise at the sudden brisk movement, moved hurriedly to his right, investing this brief sidle with an air of intolerable persecution.

‘Arranged to talk to Mrs Lawrence,’ explained Sergeant Troy, by now also in the hall. ‘Fivish.’

‘Ah.’ Lionel did not close the door. ‘Well, she isn’t here.’

‘But will be shortly?’ suggested the chief inspector. ‘You did say she always attended the meetings.’

‘Indeed. It is one of the high spots of her monthly calendar.’

Good grief, thought Sergeant Troy. What a life. He tried to imagine Talisa Leanne’s mother joining a union. Poor buggers wouldn’t know what had hit them. Maureen’d argue the hind leg off a donkey, persuade you black was white. You’d believe a man could fly and if he’d got any sense the minute he saw her coming that’s exactly what he’d do.

Lionel marched off, leaving them standing in the hall. Although they had not been asked either to wait or to make themselves at home, Barnaby and Troy sat on two small wrought-iron seats on either side of the large copper vase. The chairs were extremely uncomfortable.

Troy, straightaway bored, peered through the arrangement of beech leaves and tansies only to realise the chief was already in one of his ‘do not disturb’ moods.

But Barnaby’s thoughts were by no means as tranquil as his calm exterior would suggest. He was thinking of the coming meeting with Ann Lawrence. Third time lucky, he had confidently told himself during the journey over. At their first brief meeting he had not even known that the missing girl would be relevant to the Leathers murder case. On Saturday, Mrs Lawrence had been so full of dope, no interview had been possible. Now she had had all of Sunday and Monday to recover. When he’d spoken to her yesterday she had sounded calm and not at all apprehensive. He recalled her actual words: ‘Yes, Inspector. And I want to speak to you. In fact, I’m looking forward to it.’

He murmured the last sentence aloud and Troy quickly said, ‘Sir?’

‘She said, “I’m looking forward to it” - our meeting. What do you make of that?’

‘Got something on her mind. Wants to talk it over.’ Troy glanced at his watch. ‘She’ll miss all the fun if she don’t get her skates on. The place’ll be swarming with mothers any minute.’

‘I don’t like it.’

‘
I
shan’t like it,’ said Troy. ‘It’s an aspect of life I could well do without.’

‘Be quiet.’ Barnaby was experiencing a slight feeling of sickness. The cold clutch of tension in the pit of his stomach. A moment of inexplicable and fearful recognition, like finding the lavatory chain swinging when you believed you were alone in the house. ‘Can you see anyone coming?’

Troy got up, stretched his legs and went over to the long window by the side of the front door. In the drive, striding with brisk determination towards the Rectory, were several women. They were not the stodgy matriarchs Troy had been expecting, tweed-wrapped and bluff-complexioned. Some wore bright trousers and jackets. One wore what looked like a green Homburg, a long purple mohair jumper and Fair Isle shooting stockings. See them coming? Ray Charles could see them coming.

Troy opened the door, stood to one side and let them swarm in. They didn’t hang about. Just legged it for the interior where they could be heard talking loudly to Lionel. Amidst this distant uproar was the clatter of china and teaspoons.

‘Get hold of Lawrence, Sergeant.’

Troy tried. Lionel was in the kitchen pretending to help and having his half-hearted, clumsy efforts laughed at with kindly indulgence. When it was understood that Ann was not present, the lady in the hat offered to make him some bacon and eggs. People were swarming all over the place. Someone said, ‘Ah, there you are’ to Sergeant Troy and asked if he would take a tray loaded with cups into the sitting room.

‘Mr Lawrence? Would you—’ Troy dodged back to let a sliced cherry cake past. ‘The chief inspector would like a word.’

‘What?’ shouted Lionel, taking the cling film off a plate of cucumber sandwiches and cramming two in his mouth.

‘In the hall, sir, if you would.’ Troy eased his way round the deal table and cupped his hand, gently but firmly, round Lionel’s nearest elbow. Wrong.

‘Have you ever come across the phrase “civil liberties”, Sergeant?’

‘Yes, Mr Lawrence.’

‘Well, if you don’t want a summons for assault, I suggest you take your hand away.’

Troy removed his hand. ‘And perhaps you are aware, sir, that refusing to assist the police in a murder inquiry is a punishable offence.’

‘There’s no question of that.’ Lionel, though still munching, moved briskly towards the exit. ‘Simply that every man is entitled to defend himself.’

They got into the hall just in time to bump into the chief striding out to find them.

‘Where the hell have you been?’

‘Sorry, sir. It’s a bit hectic—’

‘In here.’ Barnaby turned into the first doorway to present itself. A small octagonal room with a few hard-back chairs, some piles of sheet music and hi-fi equipment and an old Bechstein grand. Troy drifted over to the piano, produced his notebook, just in case, and rested it on the rich, mottled walnut lid.

Nearby was a silver-framed photograph of a fierce old man in a dog collar. Though almost bald, grey hair sprouted profusely from his ears and nose and he sported a fine pair of Dundrearys. He glared at the camera. His dog, a piggy-eyed bull terrier, rolled back its leathery lip presumably to free the teeth for a good nip. They looked made for each other.

‘So, Mr Lawrence. When did you last see your wife?’

‘What on earth—’

‘Answer the question, man!’

‘Mid-morning.’ Lionel gulped the words in some alarm. ‘Around eleven.’

‘Did she say what her plans were for later?’

‘Drive into Causton. I suppose she was going shopping. She didn’t say.’

‘Did you have an argument?’

‘How did—You have my assurance that our . . . discussion yesterday has nothing to do with your present inquiry.’

‘Point is, sir,’ said Sergeant Troy, who had started scribbling, ‘it might help us to know what her frame of mind was.’

‘Why?’ Lionel appeared mystified. ‘How, help?’

‘I understood from you that Mrs Lawrence has never missed a Mothers’ Union meeting.’

‘There’s a first time for everything.’

‘Aren’t you worried?’

Lionel now appeared not only mystified but slightly alarmed. And Barnaby, realising that he had raised his voice, checked himself. Another decibel or two and he would have been shouting.