Death in Summer (16 page)

‘Of course.’

‘Like yesterday, Blackpool seems. But then again it isn’t, is it?’

‘Not quite.’

‘Well, there you go, as they say.’

‘You rest now, Dot.’

‘Your lovely house, your lovely wife. I’m happy for you, Thad.’

Her head drops back, a dribble runs from one corner of her mouth. Alarmed, Thaddeus presses the bell that hangs near the pillow.

‘She’s sleeping now,’ the nurse who comes says.

*

Rosie noses about the hospital car park. Leaning against the side of the car, he lets her for a while. Butter side up, and of course that’s true. Why could he never have been less elusive, less private with a woman who so longed for him to be
forthcoming? As she lay there now he could not even say that his garden is suffering from the drought, nor that his mother-in-law has come to his house, that he and she – old enemies – are determined to create a family of a kind and that, for both of them, there is the beginning of recovery after the shock of death. He is ashamed he could confess today to being a widower when he could not before.

The guilt that shadows a relationship accompanies him on the drive home, still hanging about his thoughts when he leaves the traffic behind. Not far from Quincunx a rabbit scuttles from one thorn hedge to the other and he slows down to avoid it, even though rabbits are a nuisance in the garden.

‘No, that’s Mr Davenant I’d think,’ Maidment says in the drawing-room.

He speaks soothingly, standing over her, looking down at her. She is huddled on the sofa, one hand grasping the other in an effort to prevent their shaking. Rosie is in the garden again, having given her single, staccato bark. A door closes, and there are Thaddeus’s footsteps in the hall and then he’s in the room.

‘The child’s been taken, sir,’ she hears Maidment saying, and Thaddeus saying Zenobia has told him already. Thaddeus asks what happened exactly and she says it was her fault. While she’s speaking there is the sound of another car.

‘When I woke up Georgina wasn’t there,’ she says.

Maidment goes before the doorbell summons him. The hall door opens and there are voices. Thaddeus’s tone is expressionless when he asks again what happened.

‘I fell asleep,’ she says.

The police officers are two men and a woman. Unable to prevent herself, she wonders if they’re the ones who came before, their presence now connecting the two events. The two events belong together, an insistence hammers in her brain: if Letitia had not died this would not be happening now. That makes no sense, yet already has gathered a rationality of its own.

‘Mr Davenant?’ one of the officers greets Thaddeus. He
is a bulky, dishevelled man, not in uniform, the frayed part of his tie half hidden in its knot. The tie is red and green, held in place with a tiepin. There’s a trace of cigarette ash on the brown of his jacket.

‘Yes,’ Thaddeus says.

She looks up to nod when Thaddeus says who she is. She says again it was her fault.

‘No one’s fault, ma’am, something like this.’ The policeman shakes his head, his tone tiredly sympathetic. She can feel him wanting to sigh; she knows he blames her. Old, he’s thinking, trying not to let it show. ‘Let’s just sort out the facts,’ he says.

None of the three sits down, although Thaddeus has indicated that they should. The uniformed man is short-haired, in early middle age, a finger missing from his left hand. The woman is much younger, and smarter in appearance, her blue uniform freshly pressed. A poor skin well disguised, Maidment observed when he opened the hall door, but Mrs Iveson doesn’t notice that.

‘Is there anyone you can think of?’ The man who is not in uniform continues to be in charge, the short-haired one fiddling with some kind of recording gadget or bleeper, she can’t tell which.

Thaddeus shakes his head. He says he has only minutes ago returned to the house. Then he turns to her.

‘Please tell us.’ He looks down at her, his voice calm, as if he wishes to be soothing, as Maidment was a moment ago. She thought it was a dream when she awoke and saw the rug empty but for the toys and the carry-cot on it. She stood up and looked around her. She stared at the rug and the toys and the carry-cot, feeling she was still in a dream.

‘I ran about the garden like a mad creature, calling Georgina’s name over and over again. I went on calling out, thinking she had crawled away. But of course that was ridiculous.’

‘And there is no one either of you can think of?’ Patiently the question is posed again. And then: ‘The child’s mother is not here, sir?’

Mrs Iveson closes her eyes; again there is the feeling that she is in a dream. Thaddeus says he is widowed.

‘I see, sir.’

Relentlessly, or so it seems to Mrs Iveson, the man goes on. His colleagues are not wearing jackets, but he has made no concession to the heat of the afternoon. His untidy brown suit is heavy and wintry-looking.

‘There’s no one who could have an interest in the child, sir?’

‘No.’

For a moment, when the Maidments brought her into the house, she found it hard to speak. Maidment suggested brandy but she didn’t want it. When he was on the telephone she asked Zenobia what time it was.

‘And you can think of no one, madam?’

‘No.’

The young policewoman silently condoles, her gaze lowered to her plain black shoes, then moving over the polished boards of the floor, then raised again. She cannot offer pity in a smile; it would not do to smile. WPC Denise Flynn she was introduced as.

‘When you dozed, madam –’

‘I slept for longer than I thought. When I woke up I thought maybe a minute or two. But it was half an hour,
perhaps three-quarters even. I didn’t know that until Zenobia brought me in from the garden, until I asked what time it was.’

‘And there was nothing unusual when you looked about the garden, madam? Nothing that struck you?’

‘Only that Georgina wasn’t there any more.’

‘Is it a regular thing for you to sit out in that particular place in the afternoon? With the baby?’

‘Yes, it has been.’

‘Every day?’

‘Yes.’

‘You show me, madam? If you would.’

They stand at the french windows. She points at the deckchair and the rug beneath the catalpa tree. WPC Denise Flynn steps out on to the paving outside, then hurries on the upper lawn. Bounding about around her, Rosie drops her ball, then picks it up and drops it again.

‘That dog all right, sir?’ the man in uniform asks sharply, the first time he has spoken, and Thaddeus says Rosie’s all right.

‘He wasn’t here, did you say, sir?’ the other man inquires. ‘The dog was out with you?’

‘Yes, she was.’

‘And you were gone, how long, sir?’

‘A couple of hours.’

‘Out for a walk, sir?’

‘No. We were in the car.’

Something stirs in Mrs Iveson’s consciousness, a sense of experiencing, not long ago, questioning like this. Having pointed at the deckchair in which she fell asleep, she hasn’t sat down again. She stands between the two french windows,
the fingertips of her left hand lightly touching the surface of the table with Letitia’s photograph on it. She doesn’t feel groggy any more, but that support is there if she needs it. Inspector Ogle, it suddenly comes to her: Inspector Henry Ogle asked questions like the ones the present man is asking, and there was something he wasn’t satisfied about with Miss Amble’s replies. That was happening when she dropped off.

‘The gentleman who let us in, sir. Is he – he would look after things here, sir?’

‘Maidment and his wife are employed in the house.’

‘And did the Maidments look for the child, madam, when they heard your distress?’

‘Maidment did. I told him to. We knew then Georgina couldn’t possibly have crawled away, but he looked all the same. He even went down the drive.’

‘And before that you were aware, Mrs Iveson, of no vehicle drawing away from the drive? Nothing like that?’

‘No.’

The policewoman returns. She doesn’t shake her head, or comment. The man who isn’t asking the questions glances at her but there is no exchange, not even of a look.

‘I came here,’ Mrs Iveson says, ‘to look after Georgina. We were going to have a nanny, but we changed our minds.’

It isn’t relevant. She doesn’t know why she volunteered information not prompted by a question. She sees herself for a moment, dropping off in her deckchair, old and stupid, not up to a simple task. No matter what their shortcomings, the girls they interviewed would not have fallen asleep.

‘We have an alert out, of course,’ the man says. ‘That was
relayed at once. May I ask, sir, if it is a usual practice for you to take the dog with you in the car at that time of day? Are you normally away, sir, of an afternoon?’

‘I’m almost always here.’

The man nods, with what seems like satisfaction. By the look of things, he concludes aloud, today was chosen specially.

‘Notice anyone about the place, sir? Hanging about, even a while back, madam?’

They both say no, are asked to think for a moment, and then say no again.

‘My wife was well off,’ Thaddeus adds.

‘And that is generally known, sir? Locally?’

‘I think it probably is.’

‘If we might question your couple now, sir?’

The room goes silent when Thaddeus leads them from it. She gazes across mallows and garish cosmos at the empty deckchair, her book on the grass beside it. Her reading glasses are there too, although she cannot see them.

‘A telephone call may come,’ Thaddeus says, returning. ‘We are not to answer it until there’s been time for one of them to get to an extension.’

‘They think Georgina’s been kidnapped?’ The word, so often encountered in the novels she reads, so often heard on the radio and the television, and come across in newspapers, feels alien on her lips. ‘A ransom demand?’ she says, and it sounds absurd.

‘Yes, that’s what they mean.’

‘We must pay, Thaddeus.’

‘They say we mustn’t.’

She moves across the room, to sit again on the sofa.

‘We have the money. What does it matter, parting with it?’

‘More likely, they say, tomorrow’s post will bring a note. More likely than a phone call. But they say you never know.’

Did the two who were so silent in the drawing-room contribute something to the conversation on the way to the kitchen, or is this just Thaddeus’s way of putting it? She wonders, caught up with an unimportant detail, unable for a moment to shake it off, and then it goes.

‘I should at least have heard a car.’

‘I doubt it would have driven up. The Maidments heard nothing either.’

‘Negligent is what they’ll say.’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

He says something else, she does not listen.

‘My God, how could I have?’ she whispers, and there is silence in the room again.

*

‘From a window,’ Maidment says. ‘I happened to be passing. I happened to look out.’

‘And when was this, sir?’

‘The day the knives came back.’ Maidment turns to his wife. ‘Thursday week, was it?’

‘It was Thursday week the knives came back.’ And Zenobia adds for the policeman’s benefit: ‘The kitchen knives resharpened.’

‘And what exactly did you see, sir?’

‘Nothing, to tell the truth. It was the dog drew my attention.’

‘And why was that, Mr Maidment?’

‘The dog was interested, but I couldn’t ascertain why. Her tail was going.’

‘Your view was obscured, sir?’

‘It’s a long way off. You have to see through trees.’

‘And we’re to presume Mr Davenant himself was elsewhere at the time? And the lady also?’

‘They were in the house.’

‘But although you didn’t actually see anyone you formed the impression that there was someone there because the dog was wagging her tail?’

‘He thought he noticed a movement,’ Zenobia answers for her husband. ‘He said it later. No more than some disturbance, he said.’

‘And this is where in the garden?’

‘There’s a door in the wall. An archway with wistaria, beyond the plum trees.’

Hearing this, the two uniformed officers leave the kitchen. ‘Nothing like that today?’ their superior pursues his questioning when they have gone. ‘Nothing out of the way?’

‘Nothing.’

Maidment responds at once, Zenobia after a moment’s thought. ‘Nothing,’ she says too.

‘Did you report the Thursday sighting in the garden, sir?’

‘How d’you mean, report?’

‘Did you mention it to Mr Davenant?’

‘There wasn’t much to report. In a manner of speaking.’

‘He said he would mention it,’ Zenobia intervenes, ‘if he had a suspicion that anyone came in by that door another time.’

‘It’s unusual, is it, for people to come into the garden this way?’

Unusual for an outsider, Zenobia agrees, and Maidment adds:

‘Mr Davenant slips in and out on the odd occasion, and Mrs Davenant did in her time. Taking the dog down to the stream.’

‘This door leads to the stream?’

‘There’s a path by the edge of the fields, going by the spinney to the lane. Or you can go on straight down to the stream.’

‘And people use this path?’

‘Not much.’

It was a short-cut from the house in days gone by, Zenobia says. ‘It seems they went to church that way if they wanted to walk in summer.’

‘So it’s not your experience, sir, that a passer-by might open that door and come into the garden, maybe making a mistake?’

‘Never.’

Zenobia points out that a passer-by would have no right. Sometimes a cat comes into the garden. Or a dog, not on a leash, is called back from the drive. Now and again a car comes up the drive, and goes away when it is realized that this is the wrong house. That’s not often, probably less than once a year.

‘Mr Davenant’s a widower, I understand?’

Surprised, Zenobia wonders why this is mentioned. The way he puts it, the man knows already Everything like that would have been established in the drawing-room. Maidment says:

‘There was a road accident. Not long ago.’

The policeman nods. A flicker of interest passes through his expression, a frown gathers and then is gone. The news was broken by the police, Maidment says. The news about that accident.