A Species of Revenge (9 page)

‘I'm very grateful to you. Could I wait here until I'm due to meet my sergeant? He shouldn't be more than ten minutes or so, now.'

‘Stay as long as you like. You stay where you are and I'll get you another pot of tea when you've finished that – on the house.'

 

The party for the new neighbours is in progress at Simla, and Francis Kendrick, having downed a glass of wine and made what he considers is quite enough small talk, is about to make his excuses and leave them to it, when he glances outside and sees one of the children, Lucy, or the one they call Allie – he can't remember which is which, only that she's the shy one – standing alone under the big conifer on the lawn.

Maybe it's the height of the tree – they've just been discussing it in the drawing room and someone has estimated it to be nearly a hundred and fifty feet tall, which sounds about right, supposing it to have been planted at the time the house was built, a century and a half ago – maybe it's this height, juxtaposed with that of the small solemn child, three foot six at most, which holds his attention. He likes the way she's listened to the conversation and then gone out to see the tree for herself. She stands dwarfed by its immensity, overawed by its size.

He puts down his empty glass, steps over the low windowsill into the heat of the summer-evening garden and, unaware of Hope's eyes following him, walks across the grass towards the little girl.

She is Allie – properly Alice – he discovers, not Lucy. She wears a cotton frock, bare legs and sandals, and her hair is side-parted and held back with a blue hairslide in the shape of a butterfly. She has a small chip on one of her front teeth. He can't think who she reminds him of. They talk about the size and age of the conifer, and he tells her that it is correctly a Sequoiadendron giganteum, known variously as the sequoia, the Wellingtonia, the Big Tree or the Mammoth Tree, that it belongs to one of the tallest and oldest family of trees in the world, and that its potential height is over ninety metres.

He watches her listening to him, big eyed and serious, absorbing the information, which he imparts to her in the same way he would to an adult. He'd be hard put to it to know how to speak to her otherwise, in what might be considered a more appropriate way, but in any case, he's never been one to underestimate what children can comprehend.

Allie thinks about it, scuffing the toe of her shoe in the deep, sun-warmed layer of brown needles beneath the tree, raising dust, and fingers a piece of the thick, fibrous, spongy bark which he tells her the tree regularly sheds. She reaches up to one of the sprigs of unripe green cones on the gracefully swooping branches, some of which touch the ground. She breathes in the resiny smell, it's like Dettol.

Belatedly, he says, ‘What are you doing out here, all on your own?'

‘I'd finished my lemonade and I wanted to see the tree. My friend Angel and me don't like grown-up parties.'

‘Don't you? Then we should be friends, Allie. I don't like them, either,' says Francis, and the smile few are privileged to see lights his face. He knows now who she reminds him of. She is an Arthur Rackham child, thin and spindly, a child in an illustration, with windblown clothes and hair, who dances under witchlike trees with spiky, insubstantial fairies and elves. Or Titty in Swallows and Amazons, still on occasions his preferred bedtime reading. He smiles again. ‘Have you ever heard of a pianola?'

‘No.' She considers gravely. ‘Is it some kind of piano?'

‘That's right, a mechanical piano. I have one, a similar sort of thing at any rate, called a Polyphon, that plays a tune with the same name as yours. Would you like to hear it?'

‘Yes, please.' She turns, says something over her shoulder, and reports back, ‘Angel says she'd like to hear it, too.'

After a moment of attentive regard, Francis answers, seriously, ‘Come along then, both of you.'

The sun has passed behind the sequoia and the shadows in the garden are lengthening, columns of midges dance around in what is left of the sunlight, making it thick and soupy, as the tall man and the little girl walk back to the house.

‘What?' Hope turned from the window to answer something Dermot Voss had said to her. The word was sharp enough to come to Sarah's ears over the murmured conversation. She watched the pair of them as her own conversation with Meg Saunders, the wife of the self-satisfied man who owned a thriving local timber yard, wound down. Mrs Saunders was clearly disappointed to find Sarah was only incidental to the scene and would soon be gone, and had lost interest on hearing that Dermot didn't have a wife whom she could cajole on to the various committees she chaired. Someone else spoke to her and she turned to answer with alacrity, blocking Sarah's view of her brother-in-law.

Dermot was feeling hard done by, his worst fears about this gathering fulfilled, and not only because of the quality of the wine, which was indifferent. The information relayed to him through Sarah, via Doreen Bailey, about the occupants of the gloomy old house (even gloomier and quite as old as Edwina Lodge, he'd discovered when they arrived) had not filled him with enthusiasm, while meeting them had put even more of a damper on his easily dampened spirits ... this middle-aged brother and sister, tall, thin and be-sandalled, unnervingly alike. Distantly polite, not the sort one warmed to ...

He repeated his question to Hope. ‘I was asking you what kind of books your brother writes?' He found her difficult and abrupt, though rather better than the brother, quite certainly the Cambridge professor whom he'd briefly met, years ago, but who showed no recollection of ever having met Dermot. There was no reason why he should remember, of course. As far as Francis Kendrick was concerned, Dermot had merely been the young man behind the camera in a stiff, awkward interview with one of the outside-broadcast team, and, if he were wise, he'd have put the incident which had occasioned the interview firmly behind him. He'd spoken briefly when they were introduced, then retreated into an abstracted silence before disappearing into the garden.

‘His books are mostly concerned with Byzantine art,' Hope Kendrick said in answer to his question at last, dragging her wandering attention back to Dermot and then becoming animated as she cited the number of books her brother had written, the critical acclaim he'd received ...

Dermot listened with half an ear, but brightened as the other sister, Imogen, re-entered the room, ushering in more guests and seeing them settled in a hostessy kind of way. This was more the type of woman he could appreciate. She had talked amusingly, when he first arrived, about living in Brussels, a city he knew fairly well. He knew from gossip relayed through Doreen Bailey, via Sarah, why she no longer lived there, though she didn't mention this to him. He'd realized immediately that she was still committed to this almost ex-husband of hers, but the situation offered possibilities, all the same ...

She now signalled across the room to Hope, who excused herself to Dermot and went to greet some newcomers, while he let himself drift in her wake towards Imogen.

Gil Mayo ate another handful of salted peanuts and wondered what the heck he was doing here. Parties of any kind were anathema to him, and as an overworked policeman his spare time wasn't so plentiful that he could afford to waste it in what he considered to be meaningless chit-chat with people he didn't know and would probably never see again. But he'd agreed to come, to take time out from the madhouse the station seemed to have become this week, a situation that had made his successful seminar no more than a beautiful memory. He'd played his part tonight with good grace and circulated obediently around the crowded room, making himself pleasant. He'd now wedged himself into a corner, hoping to remain unnoticed until Alex gave him the sign they could depart – a forlorn hope for one of his size and personality: he was a big man, with a presence as solid as the Rock of Gibraltar – not easy to miss. But, alone for the moment, his policeman's eyes were everywhere, noting, filing, remembering, instinctively sensing the undercurrents, the feeling in the room of something not quite right.

His eyes lit on Dermot Voss and Imogen Loxley, whom Voss was entertaining with audible accounts of how he'd picked out Lavenstock with a pin, come across Mrs Burgoyne and become intrigued with the idea of himself as an entrepreneurial landlord. Intriguing chap, Voss, on several counts. Through his job, widely travelled in many of the most dangerous spots in the world. Quick-witted, with an Irish fluency with words which enabled him to recount his travels so as to make them seem both fascinating and amusing, when often they must have been neither, involving him as they did in the worst situations mankind could create for itself. As if he enjoyed living on the edge, or it hadn't quite got through to him. Mayo would have liked to continue their conversation, if only to find out whether he was right in his assessments. He mustn't, however, monopolize the guest of honour. Most of the women in the room were dying for the chance to talk to him. Voss was the sort who would be attractive to women, there was a sort of daredevil look about him that they seemed to go for ...

‘What are you doing here?' said a voice. ‘Wouldn't have thought this was your scene.'

‘Nor yours, Henry.' Mayo was relieved to find a kindred spirit at his side – Ison, the local police surgeon, looking as ill at ease as he felt himself to be in this gathering, far cry that it was from the less salubrious places and circumstances where they usually met.

‘Viv brought me,' Ison replied, rather as if he were an umbrella picked up as an afterthought in case of rain, and Mayo remembered that Vivien Ison taught geography at the Princess Mary where Hope Kendrick also taught, and that they were near neighbours of the Kendricks into the bargain, their home being just a little further down the hill, in a cul-de-sac off Albert Road. Ison was a short, brisk man, with a bristly moustache and bright eyes, reminiscent of some small, furry, bustling animal who, over the years, had become more than just a colleague with whom Mayo worked. Work, plus a mutual respect and liking, was what had initially formed a bond between them, but it was a shared passion for music which had fostered the friendship.

‘Me, too,' Mayo said gloomily. ‘I mean, Alex brought me along with her. She's standing in for Lois, who couldn't come tonight.'

‘That situation working out all right?' Ison asked carefully.

‘I think so.' Mayo's reply was equally cautious, given more in hope than in certainty. His glance travelled across the room towards Alex, at the moment talking with evident interest to the woman he'd been introduced to as Sarah Wilmot. He caught her reflection in the big, dim old looking glass over the mantelpiece, softened by the evening light, and was momentarily reassured. Too often, lately, he'd felt something overbright about her, like a splintered reflection of her sister, Lois, and it was bothering him.

She'd recently astonished all who knew her by throwing in her hand, leaving her successful and promising career as a police sergeant, and begun working with Lois in her smart interior-decorating business. She'd so far resisted any attempts to involve her in a partnership, for which Lois undoubtedly, if mistakenly, blamed Mayo. Hardly new. Lois French blamed most of Alex's misfortunes on Mayo, including the major one of living with him.

But Lois was wrong about him trying to influence Alex in any way. In fact, he had quite a load of guilt on his shoulders about her decision to quit the Force, though he'd never actively encouraged her in that. Stood objectively aside, and let her make up her own mind. And her own mistakes.
Had
it been a mistake? He was damn sure dabbling in interior decorating wasn't going to prove stimulating or challenging enough for her in the long run.

The sun had passed behind the sequoia and dusk was gathering in the big dark room, the light absorbed by its heavy furniture, drawing its sombre colours into itself. It was a relief when Imogen began to move gracefully around, flicking on lamps that focused a kindlier radiance into the centre of the room, lighting faces, gleaming on glasses, on the women's clothes and their bare arms, leaving the shadows to the corners.

Alex was wearing a full patterned skirt that caught the light in its folds, and a kingfisher-blue silk shirt which emphasized the dark blue of her eyes. Her dark hair was a little longer than she'd worn it when in uniform. She wore his ring, a Victorian sapphire and diamond cluster – but still on her right hand. He swallowed a sigh.

He came to earth again to hear Ison harking back to the last time he'd been called out on police work. As usual, the doc couldn't resist the opportunity to talk shop. He was asking about Abigail's case. ‘Any developments on your body by the allotments? I hear the theory that he staggered along and fell down in a drunken stupor is ruled out. Must confess, that was my first impression.'

‘Not according to T-L. No alcohol present, for one thing.'

‘Then who are we to doubt?' Ison grinned, but Mayo knew his amusement didn't reflect his high regard of his colleague's opinions. Sobering, he added, ‘Poor devil. Chance in a million, drowning like that, in such shallow water.'

‘Not if you've been hit on the head first.'

Ison was immediately interested, wanting to know the full details of the autopsy. Fortunately, or perhaps intentionally, no one else came near. Everyone in the room must know by now that Mayo was a policeman, and people trod warily when encountering the law, whether they had cause or not.

‘Any ideas who he is?' Ison asked.

Mayo told him what they knew about Philip Ensor. ‘We've pulled out all the stops and I must confess we're nowhere nearer knowing what he was doing here. Nothing in his line of business in Lavenstock, though Abigail's tried several long shots. And nobody's come forward who'd seen him, despite that photo we issued to the media – not good, but the best we could do in the circumstances. Fortunately we now have a better one.'