A Shroud for Delilah (DCI Webb Mystery Book 1) (18 page)

Lana herself came in at that point with the tea tray, and the Chief Superintendent gallantly stood to help her. Webb watched him sardonically, seeing the woman’s pale face soften into a slight smile. A way with the ladies, had old Fleming, smooth and polished, but it had produced no results here. In fact, Webb thought resignedly, the only new fact to emerge from their visit was her reaction to Richard Mowbray’s name, and that was hardly relevant to their inquiries.

Later, at Chipping Claydon, Webb wondered what women saw in Mowbray. He wasn’t good-looking by conventional standards and his pallor struck the countryman in Webb as distinctly unhealthy. Added to which something about his eyes, flat and watchful like a snake’s, made the hair rise on the Chief Inspector’s neck. Still, you couldn’t work on the assumption that everyone you disliked was a murderer.

‘Interesting collection of weapons you have here, sir,’ he said blandly, nodding to a display on the left of the fireplace.

‘One of my hobbies. Those are sixteenth-century rapiers, with companion daggers. An interesting fact is that the daggers are left-handed.’ He met Webb’s eyes coolly, and the Chief Inspector felt he was being dared to comment further.

‘Fascinating, fascinating,’ Fleming murmured, seating himself in a wing chair and feeling for his pipe. ‘Have you any objection if I smoke?’

Mowbray turned to him, his momentary tension easing, and Webb seated himself on the sofa. He was aware that his dislike was mutual and felt it would be politic to leave the talking to his superior. Meanwhile he looked about him with grudging approval. Lovely house it was, perched above the village like an eyrie. And that was presumably the ex-wife looking broodingly down on them. An excellent painting, but Webb was glad he’d no likeness of Susan on his own walls. Even her snapshots had been thrown out when she left, not from any sense of drama but because they were no

longer relevant.

From his wife, he thought briefly of Hannah, aware of the need building up to see her again. Though Mowbray couldn’t know it, he was in a similar position to Webb himself. Was he hoping Mrs Romilly would be his Hannah? Webb couldn’t see it happening. The girl was a different mould, softer, more dependent. A ‘no strings’ arrangement would leave her hopelessly adrift — Mowbray was a fool if he couldn’t see it.

***

Michael left his parents’ home on the Sunday evening and as he went up his own path he heard the telephone ringing. Swearing under his breath, he hurried to get the key in and the door open before it stopped.

‘Hello? Romilly speaking.’

‘Hi, Michael. Dave Webb here.’

‘Oh, hello.’ Michael pushed the door shut with his foot. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I’d be glad of a little press help, if you could arrange it.’

‘Sure. Spell it out.’

‘I reckon the killer must be pretty pleased with himself, watching the police running round in circles. Probably fancies himself no end. We might be able to use that against him.’

‘How?’

‘By pretending we think it’s someone else. A murderer’s ego is often his Achilles heel.’

‘So what can we do?’

‘I’d like you to run a story along the lines that the police are closing in. Throw in, without specific quotes, that we’re anxious to trace a red-haired man of about forty-two, height six foot, broad build, with a Bristol accent.’

Michael, jotting down the particulars, grinned in the darkness. ‘Does that mean all tall, red-haired Bristolians are in the clear?’

He heard Webb laugh. ‘Pretty well. The description’s off the top of my head. It’s worth a try — let’s see what it brings forth. Sorry to phone so late, by the way. I tried earlier but there was no reply.’

‘I’ve been at my parents’ for the weekend.’

‘Ah. See your wife there?’

‘It must be bloody marvellous to be a detective.’

‘OK, OK, I only asked! Night then, Michael.’

‘Good night.’

Michael stood for a moment frowning down at the phone. Then, with a gesture of dismissal, he snapped on the lights and set about preparing for bed.

At the other side of town Webb was conscious of having missed something, something which he knew instinctively was important. For a while he tried to flail his

tired mind into recalling it. Then, climbing into bed, he abandoned it. Perhaps it would come back to him in the morning.

***

The following Tuesday Mrs Romilly drove Kate and Josh back to Monks’ Walk —‘Against my will,’ she told Kate as, after a cup of tea, she went on her way. ‘I’d be much happier if you stayed with us till everything’s cleared up.’

There was a note from Madge in the letter box. ‘Subdued celebrations this year, but could you and Josh come to supper on the third?’

That was tomorrow — Madge’s birthday. Kate hoped Paul had come to terms with Sylvia’s death and not aroused his wife’s suspicions.

‘Enjoy your break?’ Martin greeted her on her appearance in the shop. ‘We’ve been grilled by the fuzz in your absence! No doubt your turn will come.’

‘I’ve had more than my share already.’

Later, over coffee, Lana said, ‘I didn’t think you’d come back.’

‘It was only a half-term visit — I told you.’

‘Wasn’t your husband there?’

‘Briefly.’

‘I hoped once you were away from here, you’d come together.’

‘I’m afraid things have gone too far for that.’

The words stayed ominously in Kate’s mind for the rest of the day.

When she reached the Netherbys’ house, Madge greeted her warmly. ‘It’s ages since we’ve seen you, Kate. How are you?’

‘All right, thanks. Happy birthday.’ She proffered her parcel and Madge unwrapped it as excitedly as a child. It was a porcelain vase from the shelves of Pennyfarthings.

‘How lovely, Kate! Thank you so much, the colour’s perfect. Come and see what Paul’s given me.’

She flung open the dining-room door and stood to one side. Propped against the far wall was a large portrait of the Netherby children. They were laughing, their heads together, as lifelike as a mirror image. Except that the artist revealed more than a mirror, an indefinable essence of the children themselves. Kate stood immobile, aware of implications she had not yet grasped. Behind her, Madge said softly, ‘You know who painted it, don’t you?’

Yes, suddenly she knew. The artist could only be Sylvia Dane. It was a moment of truth and Kate wasn’t equal to it. Shame, relief, and understanding fused in her head, and to Madge’s consternation she burst into tears. Immediately Madge’s arm went round her.

‘Oh love, I’m sorry. Did it bring it all back? Come and have a drink. You’ll feel better in a moment.’

She led Kate to the kitchen where Paul, expressing concern, poured her a small brandy.

‘I didn’t know a thing about it,’ Madge was saying. ‘Paul supplied her with photos and she managed with only a couple of sittings.’ Kate recalled Sylvia explaining that very method.

‘We nearly let it slip a couple of times,’ Paul put in. ‘Like Sylvia knowing I’d been in Otterford the day of the murder. But my trusting little wife, bless her, merely assumed Henry’d told her.’ He laid his hand over Madge’s and smiled at her and Kate burned with shame for her own doubts of him.

‘Poor Sylvia,’ Paul continued. ‘Not knowing her love life was common knowledge, she thought I went to ridiculous lengths to conceal my visits. They could have been misconstrued, though. I collected the painting during a free period and sneaked it home when Madge was at the dentist. We never guessed it was the last thing she’d do.’

‘It’s beautiful, Paul,’ Kate said unsteadily. ‘A lovely thought and a lovely present.’ And to their surprise, she leaned over and kissed his cheek.

By the time the children came through, Kate had regained her composure and with it a little of her faith in human nature. She must let Michael know her doubts of Paul were unfounded.

Intercepting her thought, Madge asked quietly, ‘Was Michael at his mother’s?’

‘Just for the weekend.’

‘And?’

Kate shook her head. Madge’s marriage was secure after all, but there’d been no improvement in her own.

Later that evening, as Kate was thinking of bed, the doorbell suddenly rang through the flat, shattering the peaceful calm. At once her heart set up its familiar, muffled beating and all the fears she’d tried to bury reared up to face her again. She eased herself out of her chair and stood listening, jumping as the impatient clarion sounded again. Swiftly she moved to the window, lifting the curtain aside, but the street was deserted and the broad sill hid anyone standing directly below.

Despairingly, Kate knew she must go down. It was worse to stand here wondering than to face what was below. Slowly she started down the stairs, pausing at the bend to peer ahead to the rectangle of glass in the front door. No one was outlined against it. Not the Chief Inspector, then, as she’d half-expected. Perhaps some passing youths had simply pressed her bell. Twice?

Eyes unwaveringly on the glass pane, Kate moved down the narrow hallway. A car whooshed past outside and its lights briefly raked the door. She had reached it now and stood motionless, every nerve geared to sounds from outside. There were none. Inch by inch she slid back the bolt and turned the key, guiding it with her fingers so that it did not clatter back. She had her hands on the knob and she started to turn it when laughing voices sounded in the distance. If people were about, she should be safe. In one swift movement she pulled the door open and then gasped as something soft and heavy which had been propped against it fell inwards onto her feet.

It was several long seconds before, in the uncertain light, Kate dared to bend down and look more closely. Heaped grotesquely in front of her lay a dead pigeon, the soft bloom of its feathers stained with blood. A label was tied round its neck and Kate knew its message with numb certainty. ‘For Delilah.’

Her frozen paralysis splintered; she tried with both hands to push the door shut but the soft unwieldy bundle was in the way. Sobbing, gasping, she continued to strain ineffectually against it until in desperation she steeled herself to push out the obstruction with her shoe. The bolt was beyond her rubbery fingers, but she turned the key before, shaking and stumbling, she fled back up the stairs to the telephone. No time for the directory. With maddening slowness the dial completed its full turn three times. ‘Police!’ she heard herself say. ‘Chief Inspector Webb. I must see him
now
!’

CHAPTER 19

Oh
God
,
I
never
thought
it
would
come
to
this
.
I
wish
I
could
stop
,
but
I
can’t
.
No
one
else
will
do
it
,
and
the
purge
must
go
on
.

The
police
think
they’re
clever
,
but
they’re
on
the
wrong
track
.
Suppose
I
went
to
Webb
and
said
, ‘
You fool! I did it!’
?
It
would
be
worth
it
,
to
see
his
expression
.

I’m
very
aware
of
expressions
now
.
Sylvia
Dane’s
,
for
instance
,
so
superior
and
condescending
,
though
she’d
the
morals
of
an
alley
cat
.
And
Mrs
Forbes
,
as
fresh
and
wholesome
as
her
new
bread
,
yet
according
to
the
paper
she’d
had
three
lovers
in
as
many
months
.

I
thought
Kate
Romilly
was
different
,
but
I
was
wrong
.
She’s
the
same
as
the
others
and
I
can’t
make
exceptions
.
The
sentence
must
be
carried
out
.