Appointed to Die (37 page)

She sat down and gestured him to a chair. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Middleton-Brown?' she said, emphasising that she did not consider them to be on first-name terms.

David remained standing and came straight to the point. ‘I'm sorry to bother you like this, Mrs Hunt, but it really is most important that I get a complete picture of what happened in the Close on Monday night. So I'd like to ask you again to tell me where you were and what you were doing.'

Frowning in exasperation, Rowena stated, ‘I told you once. I was here at home all evening. I didn't go out, and I didn't hear anything.'

‘But what were you doing?' he repeated.

‘That's none of your business,' she snapped immediately, then softened it by adding, with a strained smile, ‘I don't really see what relevance it has.'

David decided to be forthright. ‘It might be very important, if – say – you were not alone?'

Her smile faded; her mouth tightened. ‘I'm not prepared to discuss that . . . suggestion,' she stated coldly, through clenched teeth. Rowena rose. ‘I repeat: it is none of your business. You have no right to ask me that. And now I really must ask you to leave, Mr Middleton-Brown.'

As David left Rowena's house, a woman came towards him from the other side of the Close, lurching unsteadily out of the shadow of the cathedral. He stepped aside politely to let her pass, but she stopped and accosted him. David had never seen the woman before, though as she opened her mouth he knew in a flash of intuition who she must be: Val Drewitt. At first glance she was not at all the type of woman one would expect to encounter in the genteel Cathedral Close, but Lucy had given him enough of a description of the policeman's wife for him to recognise her somewhat overblown charms. He was surprised to see, though, that she was not an unattractive woman, in a somewhat coarse but blatantly sexual way, her voluptuousness evident beneath the shiny hot-pink vinyl raincoat which she wore in deference to the autumnal chill.

‘Have you got a light, luv?' She thrust a long, menthol-tipped cigarette towards him.

‘No, I'm very sorry. I don't smoke.'

‘Well, never mind.' She laughed philosophically, exuding a powerful whiff of gin.

David continued walking back towards the entrance to the Close; to his surprise she walked along beside him. ‘So, you're another one, are you?' she remarked in a conversational tone.

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘Another one of that Hunt bitch's lays. She's not happy with just one, you know. You'd think that my husband would be enough for her – he's damned good in bed, even if she has to share the bastard with me. But she can't leave any man alone, can she? I watch her house sometimes, when I think Mike might come.' She chuckled to herself and chattered on, oblivious to David's stunned silence. ‘He tells me he's on duty, but I know he sneaks off to her for a quick screw every chance he gets. It makes me laugh to see him rushing in there, not knowing that I'm watching. Sometimes I get a surprise, though. Like the other night, when it was that other one instead. And today, it ended up being you. Funny. I would have sworn that Mike was going there this afternoon.' She dropped her voice confidentially. ‘Tell me, mate. Just between the two of us. Is she really that good?'

‘I'm . . . afraid I wouldn't know,' David mumbled, acutely embarrassed. ‘And now, if you'll excuse me—' Lengthening his strides, he soon left her behind.

* * *

That evening, David arrived at the Monk's Head before Inspector Drewitt. He bought himself a whisky and settled down near the fire, reflecting what a difficult and delicate task he had before him. He acknowledged to himself that Lucy was right: Rowena Hunt was definitely concealing something, and he had to find out if Drewitt knew what it was. To do that he would have to bring the policeman to admit that he was her lover, and then . . .

‘Hello, David.' Inspector Drewitt slid his powerful body into the seat across from him. ‘Sorry I'm a bit late. I was . . . delayed.'

With Rowena, thought David. ‘What would you like? A pint of Ploughman's?'

Drewitt eyed David's drink. ‘Actually, I'm more of a whisky man myself, if it's all the same to you.'

‘Right. A double?'

‘Great.'

He went up to the bar, returning with another whisky, and they drank in silence for a few minutes, Drewitt wondering what it was all about, and David steeling himself to ask the questions. Although the direct approach had not been met by any notable success with Rowena, he decided in the end that Drewitt was a blunt, straightforward man and more likely to be susceptible to it. ‘I saw your wife this afternoon,' he began.

‘Val?' Drewitt didn't seem unduly surprised or alarmed. ‘I didn't know that you knew Val.'

‘I didn't. Not until this afternoon, that is. I ran into her in the Close.' David looked down into the remains of his drink, avoiding Drewitt's eyes. ‘She said some things about . . . you and Rowena Hunt.' He raised his head in time to see the policeman's face redden; for an instant his visage hardened like stone, then he consciously relaxed.

‘Oh, did she now?' Drewitt forced a laugh. ‘I don't suppose there's any point denying it to you, though I'd prefer that the whole Close didn't know. Not on my account – for Rowena's sake.'

‘Of course.' Again David looked down.

‘Can I get you another drink?' Drewitt offered.

‘Thanks.'

When the policeman returned, he began talking; it was as though he'd been waiting for a long time for someone to confide in about the affair, and circumstances had provided David for that purpose. ‘It all started last summer,' he said. ‘About the time of the music festival. It's been going on ever since, at her place, whenever I can manage a bit of time off work, or after bell practice. I usually just tell Val that I'm on duty.' He smiled reminiscently. ‘I don't mind telling you, David. She's one hell of a woman.'

‘But your wife . . .' David tailed off, unsure what he'd meant to say.

Drewitt gave a short, cynical laugh. ‘You needn't think that Val's as pure as the driven snow, my friend.'

David hadn't imagined that she was, but he hardly knew how to respond, so he rushed on to the heart of the matter that was on his mind. ‘Were you with her on Monday evening?' he asked bluntly.

The policeman looked surprised at the question. ‘No,' he said, equally blunt. ‘I told you that I was on duty that night. And whatever else I may be guilty of, I
don't
mix duty with pleasure.'

‘I don't quite know how to say this,' David said uncomfortably, moving his glass around to make damp rings on the table, ‘but I'm not entirely satisfied about Mrs Hunt's alibi for Monday night. I thought that you might have been there, and she didn't want to say so.'

Drewitt stared into the fire for a moment. He raised his hand to stroke his trim moustache, so that when he spoke his voice was muffled. ‘I'm not so happy about it myself,' he admitted quietly. ‘She told the officer who interviewed her that she was home all evening, that she didn't go out at all. But I rang her around nine, to see if I might stop round when I went off duty at midnight.'

‘And what did she say?' David was almost afraid to speak, lest he break the spell of whisky-induced intimacy that had developed between them.

‘That's just it, my friend. She didn't say anything. She didn't answer the phone.' Drewitt looked at him, shaking his head in hurt bafflement. ‘She bloody well didn't answer the phone,' he repeated. ‘So where the hell was she?'

CHAPTER 38

    
Let not the ungodly have his desire, O Lord: let not his mischievous imagination prosper, lest they be too proud.

Psalm 140.8

With so much on his mind, David didn't sleep very well that night. He woke early, determined to make yet another trip to Shrewsbury prison to see the Dean. As early as was feasible, he was on the phone to the prison, making an appointment to visit his client.

‘I've arranged to see him this afternoon, just after lunch,' he announced to Lucy and Pat, coming through into the kitchen as they ate their breakfast.

‘What else do you have to ask him?' Lucy wanted to know.

‘I need to know if I'm barking up completely the wrong tree with this alibi business – if I'm putting far too much importance on the fact that Rowena doesn't have an alibi, and neither, apparently, does Jeremy.'

Lucy shot him a look over the cornflakes. ‘You haven't even talked to Jeremy yet, and he's your number one suspect – as you keep telling me.'

‘All in good time, love. You must admit that he's got a good motive, if he'd been doing funny things with the fabric fund and Brydges-ffrench found out.'

‘And don't forget that Rowena is hiding something,' Lucy reminded him.

Pat frowned, baffled. ‘But how can seeing the Dean help?'

Sitting down and helping himself to a piece of toast, David explained. ‘The alibi issue may be a complete red herring. Lucy was right when she said last week that it's not enough for someone else to have a motive and no alibi – there's still the matter of opportunity. I still can't see how someone other than the Dean could have poisoned and then swapped the Turkish Delight, even if they could have got into the Deanery unseen by Miss Marsden. How did they know it was there? And what sort of time period are we talking about? The whole question of alibis for the evening may be totally irrelevant, given the amount of time between when the Dean bought the Turkish Delight and Canon Brydges-ffrench ate it. That's the sort of thing I need to pin down – who knew he'd bought the Turkish Delight, where it was all afternoon, and so on.'

Pat poured him a cup of tea. ‘And what about the cellophane wrapper?' she suggested.

‘Exactly! When did he remove the wrapper? Before Canon Brydges-ffrench arrived? Before their meal?'

‘And it's not even just a question of opportunity,' Lucy pointed out. ‘Logistics come into it as well. Take Jeremy, for instance. I've been thinking about this – even though he lives next door to the Deanery, there's a high wall in between. I can't really imagine him shinning over the wall, can you? For him to get to the Deanery he has to go round the west end of the cathedral and all around the Close. Surely someone in the Close would have seen him, even if Miss Marsden happened to be away from her window.'

‘Couldn't he have gone through the cathedral?' suggested David, unwilling to hear anything that cast further doubt on his favourite suspect.

Lucy shook her head. ‘He doesn't have any keys – he told me so himself, a long time ago.'

‘I must admit,' said David, ‘that I'm compiling quite a list of questions for Mr Bartlett, when I finally talk to him.'

‘And when will that be?' Pat asked.

‘It depends on what the Dean says, of course. But possibly this evening.'

‘I could talk to him,' Lucy offered.

David frowned. ‘No.'

‘But I know him better than you do. He might tell me . . .'

‘Absolutely not,' he stated firmly. ‘If he has done something criminal with the fabric fund – and the evidence of the bell-ringers certainly points in that direction – then he's a dangerous man, Lucy. Whether he's committed murder or not. I don't want you alone with him.'

Pat, suspecting that that was not the only reason he didn't want Lucy alone with Jeremy, tactfully changed the subject. ‘I forgot to tell you, Lucy, that Judith Greenwood rang before you came downstairs. She wondered if you might be able to have lunch with her today.'

Lucy looked enquiringly at David. ‘Go ahead, love,' he urged her. ‘I'll grab a sandwich on my way to Shrewsbury.'

* * *

It was a cold, cloudless day of the sort one occasionally gets late in November, when the damp mists of autumn give way without warning to the crisp bite of winter. Lucy, pulling her coat close around her as she walked back from lunch with Judith, looked at the cathedral in the sunlight: the buttresses cast sharp-edged shadows against the transepts, and the carvings on the west front stood out in vivid relief. She paused at the entrance to the Bishop's House, looking towards the south transept; the Becket window was not visible from that viewpoint, obscured as it was by the surviving two-storeyed cloister. Lucy remembered then something that Jeremy had told her several months ago, that first evening when he'd shown her around the Close: the best view of the Becket window was from his bedroom window.

She didn't dare to stop and think about what she was going to do, against all good sense as well as David's express wishes. Taking a deep breath, Lucy squared her shoulders and propelled herself towards Jeremy's house.

His face lit up at the sight of her. ‘Lucy! Come in!'

At the warmth of his greeting Lucy's heart misgave her, but she quelled the impulse to flee, forcing a smile. ‘Are you busy?'

‘Never too busy for you, my dear.' He quirked one eyebrow in a consciously ironic way. ‘I was just doing a bit of work in my study, but it's nothing that won't keep. Come in and have a cup of tea.'

‘Yes, all right.'

‘If you don't mind my asking, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?' he queried, stepping aside to usher her into the entrance hall.

She'd scarcely had time to think up a coherent story, but somehow it came out sounding plausible. ‘I wanted to see how you'd hung my painting. Remember the last time we talked – you said that you'd moved it from the sitting room. Just my artist's vanity, I suppose – I wanted to make sure that you'd hung it to its best advantage.' She smiled.

Jeremy paused at the bottom of the stairs and looked at her questioningly. ‘Of course. But you do remember that I told you I'd hung it in my bedroom? It's rather a cliché, isn't it? “Come upstairs and see my etchings”?'