Death Speaks Softly (16 page)

'But I must make it clear I never laid a finger on her. There was no physical contact, nor did I want any. That would've been dangerous, and I'm a cautious man at heart.' Another half-smile. 'Bank manager mentality, you might say. Arlette brought glamour into my life, but only vicariously—like dreaming of Brigitte Bardot.' Even that dated him, Jackson thought.

'Thursdays became special. I'd hurry home and have a quick shave before she arrived. Don't ask me why; I didn't expect her to notice, just wanted to look my best. Pathetic, really.'

'And the hairs in the car?' Webb prompted. There was nothing imaginary about them.

'I'm coming to that. About ten days ago I saw her at the bus stop by the university, so I stopped and offered her a lift. It was as harmless as that—I just dropped her off in Farthing Lane on the way home. It's only round the corner from us, as I let slip before.'

'And you didn't mention it to your wife?'

'No. Which was stupid, because Arlette might have referred to it later. But it seemed part of my daydream and I didn't want to share it. Added to which, when I got home one of the twins said, "You're looking very flushed, Dad. Had a heavy date?" It was a joke, naturally, but imagine telling them, after that, that I'd just driven Arlette home. I'd never have heard the end of it.' He paused for a moment, remembering.

'So when you asked, in front of them, if she'd been in my car, I panicked. If I'd admitted it, it would have seemed more important than it was.'

'And where were you, sir, last Tuesday?'

'Here, as my diary will confirm. I'd a string of appointments all day. The only time I left my desk was for a quick lunch with some friends whom I meet every week. I can give you their names.'

So last Tuesday, which was now all that mattered, Rob Palfry had been at his desk. Webb and Jackson emerged from the bank with yet another name eliminated from their rapidly dwindling list of suspects.

'Chief Inspector! Good morning!' Tom Marshbanks had stopped in front of them. 'Or good afternoon, I should say, but I consider it morning till I've had my lunch. I'm on my way for it now. Would you and the sergeant care to join me?'

'Well, sir—' Webb hesitated, but he saw the light in Ken's eye, and he liked Tom Marshbanks. 'That's very kind of you.'

'Excellent. I usually go to a wine bar just along the road. They pride themselves on traditional English cooking, and do an excellent game pie.'

Webb grinned. 'A bit more up-market than we're used to, but it sounds tempting.'

The Pickwick had an appropriately Victorian atmosphere, with sawdust on the floor and a succession of small rooms leading out of each other. Ancient farm implements hung round the walls, emphasizing Steeple Bayliss's long history as an agricultural centre, and in the middle of the innermost room stood an enormous chimney, its huge grate filled with intricately wrought fire-irons.

The game pies were served individually in earthenware dishes, accompanied by baked potatoes and salad. The three men ate with relish, Webb and Jackson opting for beer rather than the house wine Tom Marshbanks ordered.

'How's the inquiry going?' he asked, as the cheeseboard was produced. 'We were distressed to learn of the girl's death.'

'We're not making much progress at the moment,' Webb admitted. Since his host was young Simon's father, he felt able to speak frankly.

Marshbanks helped himself to a biscuit. 'Simon's in the clear, I take it? Officially, I mean.'

For all the lightness of the question, Webb sensed the anxiety behind it.

'No question of that. We had to check,' he added apologetically, 'but luckily, when Arlette didn't arrive, he went along to the tennis club and, I imagine, worked off his pique there. Any number of people are ready to vouch for him.'

'Thank God,' said Simon's father.

'How did your dinner party with the Warwicks go?' Webb asked, only to change the subject, though the figure of the Professor lingered in his mind.

'Not too well, actually. Bernard seemed under a strain.'

'That was the impression we got. Any idea why?'

Tom was a truthful man, but he found himself hedging. 'Not really. I think his wife's worried, though.' He paused. 'What's your interest in him, Webb?'

Webb shrugged. 'He's in the clear for Tuesday, so it's not that. I just have this gut feeling the man's a walking time-bomb. Don't ask me why.'

Minutes later the two detectives took their leave, embarrassed by Tom's insistence on paying for their meal. 'Not trying to bribe you!' he assured them, with a grin strongly reminiscent of his son's. 'Just happy to stand lunch for Simon's colleagues. Good hunting!'

He watched them thoughtfully as they threaded their way between the tables, Webb tall and lanky, Jackson much slighter. And he thought uneasily of what Claire had told him about Bernard and the Frenchwoman. Like her, he'd been inclined to discount it, but even if Daphne were right, he could see no obligation to repeat the story to the police. Bernard was in the clear over Arlette's death, which was surely all that concerned them. But the phrase Webb had used—a walking time-bomb—struck Tom as strangely apposite, though he didn't know why, either.

With an impatient shake of his head, he dismissed the idea and signalled to the waitress for the bill.

On the way back to the car later that afternoon, Webb stopped impulsively at a florist's, went inside, and emerged, looking faintly embarrassed, with an azalea plant covered in pink buds. This he thrust into Jackson's hands. 'For Millie,' he said.

'That's very good of you, Guv. Thank you. But how about giving it to her yourself? I'm popping in to see her when we get back—why not come along? You might get a glimpse of the babies, if you're lucky.'

'Oh, you don't want me butting in,' Webb began hastily, but mention of the babies gave weight to Jackson's repeated invitation. It was time he made his godson's acquaintance. 'Well, if you're quite sure,' he capitulated.

So it was that, an hour and a half later, he found himself where he'd never expected to be, in the maternity wing of Shillingham General. And he tried to forget that this was where, eight months previously, Susan had spent her working day.

Millie's bed was halfway down the ward. She was sitting in a chair beside it, her face wreathed in smiles. 'Mr Webb! What a pleasant surprise!'

'The Governor bought you a plant,'
Jackson explained as Webb awkwardly handed it over, 'so I said he should come along, too. How are you, love?'

Millie was exclaiming with delight over the azalea. 'And it will last so much longer than cut flowers. It's ever so good of you.'

'Matter of fact,' said Jackson wickedly, 'I think it's young Timothy he's really come to see!'

'Oh, he's lovely, Mr Webb—they both are. I'm so glad you'll be his godfather. Timothy David, we're calling him.

Ken, love, take him along to the nursery and show him where they are.'

The nursery had a glass wall behind which visitors were confined. Ken told one of the nurses which babies they'd come to see, and two cots were wheeled over to the glass. Very little of the twins was visible. In each cot a small, tightly cocooned figure lay on its side. Each had orangey-red fluff on top of its head, and tightly closed eyes.

'Tim's on the right,' Jackson volunteered.

'They're—great,' Webb said, inadequately, he felt. He'd never seen such young children before, and the minuteness of them took him by surprise. Subconsciously he'd been expecting the plump, rounded limbs of babies several months old. As he looked down at his tiny godson, the infant opened his eyes, turned his head, and stared straight up at the glass screen.

'There!' Jackson exclaimed delightedly. 'He's looking at you!'

Webb had no idea how far the baby's vision went, nor if light reflected on the glass made his own face invisible. But for several awe-filled moments it seemed that the child was holding his gaze. Then the little face twisted in a spasm of wind, the minute lips made sucking motions, and the eyes closed again.

'He's great, Ken,' Webb repeated, this time with more conviction. 'You must be very proud of them.'

CHAPTER 10

Beryl said, 'Are you sure you feel up to this seminar, dear?'

Her voice reached Bernard as the buzzing of an insect, irritating, but meaningless. His thoughts, as always, were centred on Cecile. He'd phoned the hotel, but it was Picard who answered. Confining himself to formal condolences,

Bernard was shaken by his surge of hatred towards this man who was keeping his love from him. He considered asking to speak to her, but natural caution prevailed. Yet, poor sweet, she must be longing for him as he was for her, specially during this waiting period, while the police looked into Arlette's death.

'Bernard?' Beryl spoke more loudly, and he frowned, turning his head towards her. 'I said are you well enough to come to Melbray?'

'Well
enough?' he repeated irritably. 'Of course I'm well enough—there's nothing wrong with me.' Why couldn't she go away—permanently? Yet in fairness, she wasn't the problem Gaston posed. Once he explained, she'd leave all right. She'd too much pride to hang on where she wasn't wanted. Fleetingly, he was aware of pity. Still, he'd given her ten years.

'Have you got your notes ready?'

He smiled with genuine amusement. 'I don't need notes on Brouge. I know it by heart.'

Beryl didn't like the look of him at all. There was a feverish heat about him, apparent in his flushed cheeks and glittering eyes, and she knew he heard little that she said to him. Today, midway through the week-long course on French literature, was assigned to Bernard as world authority on Brouge.
Had
he planned what to say? Beryl had the gnawing fear that he would stand in front of his audience, staring blankly into space. And then what would she do?

She felt desperately, most horribly alone, a sensation which, though familiar before her marriage, had over the last ten years been blessedly rare. Unwillingly she thought back to those daunting times when she had to make decisions and deal with things completely on her own; the panic on entering a room, or speaking to a truculent tradesman, even querying change in the supermarket. Though Bernard hadn't been constantly beside her—in fact, looking back, very seldom—his ring on her finger and his presence in the background had given her confidence. Now, it was rapidly evaporating. And she
couldn't
say any more to Claire. What would she think? She owed it to Bernard to keep going, to pretend nothing was wrong if he didn't want to discuss it, and try to still any incipient gossip before it could take hold.

'If you're ready, then,' she said brightly, 'it's time we were going. Claire will be waiting.'

Claire, getting into the back of the car, also gave Bernard a wary glance. He hadn't returned her greeting, though Beryl covered the omission with her chatter. She'd half-expected him to withdraw from the course and had a replacement in mind, should it become necessary. Watching his face in the driving mirror, she was filled with unease. His eyes were glazed and the tremor in his hands made her doubt his fitness to drive, let alone to lecture. She guessed he was doing the one, as perhaps he'd do the other, automatically.

'Has Simon been in touch?' Beryl prattled. 'Any more news of developments?'

'No, nothing.' Claire, watching Bernard, saw the spasm go through him. What
was
the connection between himself and the Picards? And had it extended to their daughter?

Bernard thought: Brouge. It was Cecile who discovered him, not I. He remembered the mild spring evening all those years ago, when they'd joined the throngs of Parisians strolling by the river and paused at the stalls of the
bouquin
istes.

'Look what I've found!' she'd exclaimed. He could see her now in his mind's eye, not the Cecile of today, with her silver wings of hair, but the slim, bubbly girl who had so entranced him. 'Marcel Brouge', she'd said. 'A first edition. Have you heard of him?'

He hadn't, and, taking the book from her, flicked through it, becoming instantly engrossed. Later, having read it, he'd made inquiries about the author, and found little was known of him. But it was only now, as he guided the car through green English lanes, that he realized at least part of his obsession with Brouge stemmed from the connection with Cecile. The long-dead Frenchman had been his last, tenuous link with his lost love. It was fitting, therefore, that now, when he'd found her again, he should be giving this lecture. Full circle, as it were. If she weren't so distressed about Arlette, he'd have suggested she came to hear it.

His musings had, as Claire suspected, brought them without conscious thought to the manor house. At the gates, a noticeboard advertised the current programme. Under today's date, he read: 'Marcel Brouge, His Life and Works. Professor Bernard Warwick, MA St And., PhD R'dg, DU Paris.

He guided the car along the drive to the space reserved for the visiting lecturer. Inside, someone waited to greet him, and, free at last of his wife and Claire, he left them without a glance.

In silence, they went to their office. Daphne looked up as they entered, her eyes going from one solemn face to the other. Had Claire passed on her disquieting news? She flashed her a look of anxious inquiry, and Claire, interpreting it, shook her head.

'I hope the Profs on form,' Daphne gushed in relief. 'There's quite a crowd in there—more than came to Proust.'