A Shroud for Delilah (DCI Webb Mystery Book 1) (4 page)

Lucky Madge, to be expecting her husband home and the prospect of a safe, normal evening ahead. A shared meal, desultory conversation, bed. And if she woke in the night dreaming of murder, she could nestle against Paul and go back to sleep.

As I could with Michael, Kate reminded herself. If she was beginning to think that way after two days, there was nothing to stop her crawling back — if he’d have her.

She could even keep the job: drive down with Josh every morning, work at Penny-farthings, and take him back in the evening. ‘Kate?’

‘Sorry, I was miles away.’

‘I was asking how work went?’

‘Oh, I actually made a sale. One of those lovely, yellowing old maps. I’d have liked it myself.’

‘That’s a good start.’ Madge poured the tea from the comfortable brown pot. Safe — normal — comfortable. Why were these the adjectives that kept occurring to her? Kate wondered impatiently.

‘Josh can come tomorrow too, if it helps.’

Kate roused herself. ‘Wouldn’t he be a nuisance?’

‘Of course not. Tim’s delighted to have him so near, and I’ve had the least interrupted day I can remember.’

‘Then bless you. Miss Truscott was very kind, but her patience might wear thin after a whole day of him. We can reciprocate at the weekend.’

Madge looked at her quickly. ‘Won’t Michael be down?’

‘Perhaps. If he’s not too busy.’ She was ashamed of the bitterness in her voice.

‘We’ll see how it goes,’ Madge said placatingly.

***

Accordingly, Josh was collected again the next morning, and soon after, Martin left to keep an appointment. The steady typing from the office advised against interruption, so Kate took a duster and busied herself with some cleaning.

The sound of the door brought her round some shelves face to face with an unusual customer. The girl who had entered would have made an impact anywhere; in the rarefied atmosphere of Pennyfarthings, the effect was startling. Her hair was gold and her eyes deep violet, lustrously, and probably falsely, lashed. She wore parrot-green cords, high-heeled gold sandals, and a turquoise blouse of pure silk with the sleeves carelessly rolled up. An assortment of gold chains hung round her neck, her wrists, and both ankles.

Kate said tentatively, ‘Good morning. Can I help you?’

‘You’re Kate,’ the girl stated. ‘I’m Nella Cavendish.’

‘Ah — yes, of course.’ Martin’s girlfriend. She took the hand thrust towards her and met the assessing violet eyes, adding awkwardly, ‘How do you do?’

‘Martin told me he’d taken you to lunch, so I thought I’d better come and inspect you.’

‘Do I pass muster?’

To her surprise, Nella took the question seriously. ‘I think he fancies you. Should I feel threatened?’

Kate stared at her. ‘I’m — not sure what you mean.’

‘Well, you’ve left your husband, haven’t you, and Martin seems interested. I wondered if you’d any designs on him.’

Kate drew in her breath. ‘You don’t mince words, do you?’

‘I like to clear the air.’

‘Apparently. Well, you can rest assured. I’ve no plans to get my hooks into Martin.’

‘You see, there’s nothing I could do about it, if he wanted to be hooked. That’s the trouble with this no-strings arrangement. You’re never quite sure how permanent you are.’

Kate, who hadn’t realized the word permanent could be qualified, felt a stirring of pity. For all her brazenness and her dramatic appearance, there was something insecure about Nella. She wondered if the girl really loved Martin, would have welcomed a more conventional setup. But as though answering her thought, Nella added carelessly, ‘Of course, it works both ways. He’s not too happy when I spend the weekend with a crowd of randy photographers, but there’s nothing he can do, either.’ She gave a laugh. ‘At least we never take each other for granted.’

There was a pause. ‘Would you like some coffee?’ Kate inquired.

‘Not if I have to face the old bat. She thinks I’m a bad lot. Not Martin, of course. Men can do as they like in her eyes. She doesn’t seem to realize they need girls to do it with! Still, I approve of her. I wish all Martin’s acquaintances looked like Miss Truscott!’

‘I’m sure you needn’t worry,’ Kate reassured her. ‘He seems very proud of you.’

The lovely face brightened. ‘Does he? Good. Sorry to grill you like this, but it’s better to know from the beginning where you stand. You must come round for supper one evening.’

‘A lettuce leaf?’ queried Kate, and Nella laughed.

‘Don’t worry, I’m a good cook when I bother, even if of the “dash of that and handful of this” variety. I have flair.’

‘I can believe it.’

‘I mustn’t take up any more of your time. I’ve a booking at eleven, anyway. Glad to have met you, Kate.’ And she swung round and left as suddenly as she’d appeared.

Thoughtfully Kate went into the office. ‘Shall I make some coffee?’

Lana looked up. ‘I’m sorry, I hadn’t realized it was so late. I’ll get it now.’

Ignoring her offer, Kate filled the kettle and plugged it in. ‘I’ve just met Miss Nella Cavendish.’

‘Oh yes?’ A flush spread over her pale skin. ‘She’s very colourful, isn’t she?’

‘Flamboyant would be a better word. Still, it’s not my place to criticize.’ She sounded like a Victorian housekeeper, born, perhaps, a century too late. Waiting for the kettle, Kate studied the scraped-back hair and unadorned face. If she’d only take an interest in herself, Miss Truscott might well surprise people. Her bone structure was delicate, her skin flawless, and her eyes, when they could be tricked into meeting yours, were hauntingly beautiful.

The kettle whistled shrilly and she poured the water into the mugs. As she set Lana’s down by the typewriter, the woman said, ‘I was telling my father about your little boy. He’d so like to meet him. Do you think — I mean, would you mind if I took him home one afternoon, for tea? I’d bring him back well before bedtime.’

‘That’s kind of you,’ Kate said slowly, and Lana, misinterpreting her hesitation, added quickly, ‘There’s nothing unpleasant in Father’s appearance. Nothing that could frighten Josh. And the little boy next door has rabbits — I’m sure he’d enjoy playing with them. I could bake a cake and make some sandwiches—’ She looked up, eyes pleading now. Her breath smelt, disconcertingly, of bread and butter — or perhaps it was association of ideas.

‘I’m sure he’d love to come,’ Kate said.

‘Really?’ Lana let out her held breath.

‘But he starts school on Thursday, and the weekends—’

‘Tomorrow, then? He could come back with me at lunchtime and I’ll have him home whenever you say.’

Kate wondered uneasily how Josh would react to this pressing invitation, but he got on well with Lana and it would give Madge a break.

‘Then thank you. I’m sure he’ll be delighted,’ she said.

CHAPTER 5

Lana Truscott lived in the village of Littlemarsh, off the Shillingham to Broadminster road. The bus ride took half an hour, and it was this that swung the balance in persuading Josh of the desirability of the visit. He had a passion for buses, particularly if he could sit on the top deck.

‘It’s very kind of Miss Truscott to invite you, and you must behave well and not make too much noise, because her father isn’t well.’ The child had never seen an invalid and Kate was grateful for Lana’s reassurance, which she couldn’t have elicited herself.

‘I can still go to Tim’s in the morning, can’t I? We’ve made a den in a tree and it’s the last day we can play there before school.’

The next morning a police constable called at the shop. He looked young and ponderous, reminding Kate irresistibly of Mr Plod in Josh’s old colouring book.

‘Good morning, madam. New here, aren’t you?’

‘I started this week. Can I help you?’

‘Mr Bailey or Mr Mowbray about?’

‘Mr Bailey’s on the phone. Can I give him a message?’

‘I’ll wait till he’s free, if that’s all right. We’re inquiring about any strangers you may have noticed, in connection with the recent murder.’

‘There are always strangers. The town’s full of tourists all year round.’

‘Yes, ma’am, but there are strangers and strangers. The gentlemen will know what we have in mind.’ He paused. ‘Where do you come from yourself, ma’am?’

‘Shillingham.’ Kate said briefly.

‘Then you’ll be aware of the other incident.’

‘Of course, by the same man.’

‘Too early to say that, ma’am.’

The caution in his voice irritated her. ‘But surely—’

Martin’s appearance interrupted her, which was probably as well.

‘Good morning, Constable, I thought you might be in.’

Kate moved down the shop to deal with a customer and a few minutes later the policeman left.

‘A thankless job,’ Martin commented when they were alone again, ‘flogging round making inquiries. Still, they never know what they might turn up.’

‘I hope they find something soon. It’s not very pleasant, having a murderer in our midst.’

‘He probably isn’t, most of the time. He could live anywhere and come here on business. That’s what Constable Timms was after. If a particular supplier had been in, and he was also in Shillingham a couple of weeks ago, it could be significant. They’ll be inquiring at the bus station and garages, too. Most of the customers there are regulars, and an odd one might stick in the memory.’

As requested, Lana returned Josh at six o’clock. As Kate bathed him, he chatted about the visit.

‘We had fish fingers and chips for dinner, ‘cos I said I liked them. And there was a cloth on the table with holes all over it. Holes that were
meant
to be there.’

‘
Broderie anglaise
, I expect. I hope you didn’t spill anything.’

‘Only some ketchup, but she said it didn’t matter. Then we walked down a long lane to a farm, and there was a baby calf and I was allowed to stroke it, and some piglets and lots of chickens. And when we came back, the boy next door let me hold his rabbit. Then we had tea, with cake and jelly. I haven’t had jelly since I was little, but I didn’t tell her because she’d made it specially.’

‘And how was Mr Truscott? Did he like the fruit?’

‘Yes, he said to thank you. He was in bed, and very white, with arms like that.’ He made an impossibly small circle with finger and thumb. ‘But he laughed a lot and told me stories about when he went to sea.’

‘You seem to have had a lovely time. I hope you thanked him properly.’

But having dutifully recounted his doings, Josh’s mind had turned to more pressing matters. ‘Will you take me to school tomorrow?’

‘Of course, since it’s your first day. After that, Auntie Madge will wait for us at the corner and take you on with Tim, so I can get back for nine o’clock.’

‘Does Daddy know I start tomorrow?’

‘Of course he does,’ Kate said steadily.

‘I can tell him all about it on Saturday.’

Oh God, could he? Would Michael be here on Saturday, and if so, what mood would he be in? It seemed far longer than four days since she’d seen him.

***

As they set off for St Benedict’s the next morning, Kate’s nervousness exceeded her son’s. He looked so small in the new uniform, so trustingly confident of holding his own in his new environment, that she felt a lump in her throat. It was with relief that she saw Madge and Tim just ahead of them. Josh shouted, and they waited for them to catch up. The two boys ran on ahead and Madge said quietly, ‘Don’t worry, Kate, he’ll be all right. Paul will keep an eye on him the first few days.’

‘But with all this upheaval he mightn’t cope as well as he should.’

‘He’ll be fine, it’s you I’m worried about! Look, it’s half-day closing isn’t it? Come round for the afternoon and I’ll invite a few others to meet you.’

‘Bless you, Madge,’ Kate said gratefully.

But that afternoon, for the first time, she felt an outsider in Madge’s house. The other three present were schoolmasters’ wives but that was all they had in common. Anne Thompson was young and blushed when spoken to. Her baby, a red-faced nine-month-old, was sleeping in the porch, and Kate had to negotiate his pram in order to get in. Brenda Peters was roughly the same age as herself, a plain but pleasant girl with horn-rimmed spectacles from behind which her large brown eyes looked out in anxious friendliness.

The third member, Sylvia Dane, was older than the others, over forty, Kate hazarded, but her manner was young and she was glossily attractive.

‘I believe you work at Pennyfarthings?’ she said, as Madge introduced Kate. ‘I’ll be sending some of my paintings to your exhibition.’

‘Sylvia’s an artist,’ Madge explained unnecessarily. ‘She does wonderful portraits.’

‘I’ll look forward to seeing them,’ Kate murmured.

Madge brought in the tea trolley and for a while the talk was of school matters — new staff, the extended library, a proposed change of uniform. Kate’s attention wandered. St Benedict’s was so different from the homeliness of Highfield Primary. For the first time she regretted the generosity of Michael’s parents, whose educational policy had brought the school within their reach. Suppose Josh were unhappy there? Suppose he wasn’t as emotionally secure as she’d assumed? If so, the fault would be hers, for dislodging him at such a crucial time. Suppose—

Her mind skidded back to the present with an uncomfortable jolt as it registered the word ‘murder.’

‘Sex murderers are all psychopaths,’ Sylvia was saying firmly, stirring her tea with a decisive swirling of liquid. ‘The lust to kill tied up with the sex urge.’

‘There’s been no mention of sex,’ Brenda objected. ‘The women were stabbed, nothing else.’

‘Probably impotent, then. But the lipstick’s significant, don’t you think? Perhaps he’s a fetishist of some kind.’

‘You’re gilding the lily, Sylvia,’ Madge admonished, ‘and it’s bad enough already.’

‘Indeed it is. Until they catch him, none of us are safe.’ She turned unexpectedly to Kate. ‘Especially you, my dear. You’re living alone, aren’t you, except for your little boy? You mustn’t worry, though. We’re only just down the road. If you phoned us, Henry could be there in two minutes.’

‘Thank you,’ said Kate faintly.

Madge changed the conversation and gradually Kate relaxed. It was foolish to identify so strongly with the victims. Despite Sylvia’s tactlessness, she was no more at risk than the others.

Paul had been detailed to bring Josh and Tim home, and when they heard his key in the door Kate tensed expectantly. But he came in alone.

‘I turned the boys loose in the garden,’ he told them. ‘They’re full of high spirits after being cooped up all day, so I thought they’d better let off some steam.’

‘As long as they don’t start climbing trees in their new uniform,’ Madge said drily.

A thin wail came from the porch as the baby, roused from slumber by the schoolboys, voiced his protest. His mother hurried out to soothe him and the other women also rose to go. Since Paul was home, their own husbands would be on their way.

Kate went to the French windows to call Josh.

‘What did you think of Sylvia?’ Madge asked, stacking cups and saucers and putting them on the trolley.

‘She seemed quite pleasant.’

‘But?’

‘Perhaps a little overanxious to be one of the girls.’

Madge gave a short laugh. ‘In that respect she’s ahead of us. Believe it or not, she’s the local
femme
fatale
. At the moment she’s carrying on with someone from school. Everyone knows it, but no one’s sure who. The odds-on favourite is Robin Peters.’

‘Brenda’s husband?’

‘Exactly. I was hoping to give her pangs of conscience.’

‘But surely he’s younger than she is?’

‘Of course, a good ten years. It probably restores her morale, because her husband’s quite a bit older. She’s always stressing the fact.’

Josh appeared reluctantly at the window, rosy and dishevelled from his chase round the garden, and Kate concluded with gratitude that her concern had been misplaced.

He chattered incessantly all the way home, but though she half-listened, Kate was remembering the talk of murder and, when they reached it, the glass-paned door didn’t seem to offer much protection. There was a bolt at the bottom, but it had rusted solid and she was unable to move it. She resolved to have a word with Martin about it in the morning.

The smell of the casserole she’d left in the oven reached them as they went upstairs, and illogically Kate felt better. Somehow, murder and steak and kidney were not of the same world.

Josh ate ravenously. School dinner, she was informed, was ‘yuk’ — a standard complaint. She didn’t doubt he had done it full justice. Meanwhile he bombarded her with a string of surnames, something quite different from his infant days at Highfield. Even Tim had mysteriously metamorphosed into ‘Netherby’ when spoken of in the context of school.

They watched the statutory hour of television, but by the end of it Josh’s eyes were heavy and he didn’t make even a token protest at the suggestion of bed. Kate almost wished he had. She would have welcomed his company for a little longer that evening.

Deprived of it, she tidied away the supper things, drew the curtains, and switched on

all the lamps. It was an extravagance: she needed only the one by the sofa to read by, but she was not in the mood for shadows. She stood for a moment looking round at the heavy old furniture, the deep chairs, the paintings on the wall. It was a lovely setting but, sadly, it was not home. ‘Like living in a museum,’ Madge had said, that first day. Completely furnished as it was, there was no scope for personal touches. Apart from her library book on the sofa, the room looked exactly as it had when they arrived. And, she thought suddenly, as it would when they’d gone, completely untouched by their occupancy.

Kate sat down and opened her book, but although she read for some time, she was continually aware of the dark stairwell and the unlit area behind the counter. Eventually, ashamed of herself, she went to put on still more lights.

‘Positively no bogeyman!’ she said aloud. But her tenuous interest in the book had been broken and, putting it aside, she switched on the television. The newsreader was looking directly at her.

‘...and despite intensive searches at the scenes of both crimes, the murder weapon has still not come to light. Anyone—’

Savagely Kate switched channels. It was a very long evening.

Even when, taking her book with her, she went to bed, sleep eluded her. The wind had risen and she lay listening to the rustling of the trees on the Green and the creaking of the old building. Her mind was turning over the events of the day; an invoice she’d mislaid, an indecisive customer, the tea party at Madge’s.

‘Sex murderers are all psychopaths,’ said Sylvia’s voice, over and over. Behind her closed lids, Kate saw again details she’d not been aware of at the time: the glistening lipstick (spelling out DELILAH? No—) framing the words above the incongruously poised teacup — psychopath, sex, murder — as though she relished the taste of them.

Unfair! Kate chided herself, opening her eyes. Sylvia had said them only once; it was the obsessive repetition of her own brain that made them obscene. Involuntarily she pictured the stricken women facing their killer, saw the shadowy shape of the murderer, arm raised to plunge the knife home. Psychopath — sex — murder. Had he smacked his lips over the deed as Sylvia so nearly had at the thought of it?

Kate’s body was drenched in sweat. She flung the covers off the bed, turned her pillow to the cool side and plumped it into shape. In the next room Josh murmured in his sleep. Kate slid out of bed and padded through to look at him. He too had flung the covers off. One small hand hung over the edge of the bed. Gently she replaced it under the sheet. As she stood looking down at him, the Minster clock chimed four slow quarters, followed by a solitary note. One o’clock. Would she never get to sleep?