Echoes of Silence (22 page)
Press on. Find out who killed Austwick, he reminded himself yet again, and he'd have found Beth's killer: a now familiar and somehow disturbing litany. He'd always had a sense of priorities and it had stood him in good stead: this ruthless thrusting away of anything that was going to hinder him in his ultimate aim was new, and nourished him in a way that alarmed him and told him he'd have to watch it. Truth, not revenge, was what he wanted, but he was discovering that the thought of vengeance could become addictive.
He looked at his watch and thanked Elvira for what had evidently been a difficult few minutes. âI've already taken up more of your time than I promised, but before I go ⦠I'd like to ask you something about Mrs Wyn Austwick. We found the copy of a letter she'd sent to you among her papers.'
âYes, she did write to me. We were going to meet when she came back from holiday. She wanted to talk to me, see where I figured in the family and so on.'
âHad you met her before?'
âBriefly, once, up at Low Rigg. She struck me as a poisonous woman. I'd have had nothing to do with her if I'd been Freya. Just the sort to take advantage of the confidential material she was entrusted with, I thought.'
A snap judgement that he wouldn't have found far off the mark, had his own judgement not been tempered by what he now knew of the dead woman, what had motivated her. One side of her character didn't negate the other.
âSo you know she'd been threatening Mrs Denshaw?'
âI've told you. I saw Polly yesterday. She told me what Freya had done. I couldn't believe it.'
âYes, it's muddied the waters somewhat â which might, of course, have been the intention. Give me your opinion. Is it possible she did know who killed Beth?'
âI think she
thought
she did, which isn't quite the same, is it?'
thought
she did, which isn't quite the same, is it?'
âAnd what do you think, Miss Graham? You were there, you
must have gone over the possibilities in your mind, then and since.'
must have gone over the possibilities in your mind, then and since.'
âEndlessly.' She looked suddenly bleak and pinched. âBut the only thing I am sure of is that no way would Peter have killed your little girl.'
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Sonia's little Fiat had been a birthday present from her parents four years ago, and on every subsequent birthday she received a cheque to cover the costs of taxing and insuring it, plus a little something over which, her mother directed without much hope, she should spend on some luxury for herself. Her mother was right not to be sanguine â the little something extra generally went into some charity box or other. Peter's lips tightened every time the envelope came from Montignac in the Dordogne, where her parents had now retired, but he never said anything. On Monday he remarked on it no more than he ever did, giving her the bunch of flowers which was his own invariable present, with a kiss and a smile, since it was, after all, her fortieth birthday.
Her face lit up. A kiss, a smile, and flowers! And when he said, âYou're a good girl, Sonia, you deserve more than a bunch of flowers from a poor parson,' her day was made.
âThat wasn't why I married you,' she ventured with a shy smile.
He might have asked her why she
had
married him, and might have received a surprising answer, but he merely smiled sadly in return. âI have George Sedgwick to see for a few minutes at twelve, but we'll have a drink together before lunch, as a celebration.'
had
married him, and might have received a surprising answer, but he merely smiled sadly in return. âI have George Sedgwick to see for a few minutes at twelve, but we'll have a drink together before lunch, as a celebration.'
Sonia blushed guiltily, to think that, even momentarily, among the excitement of her birthday and preparations for the Mothers' Union Christmas carol service, she could have forgotten. George Sedgwick was the churchwarden and they were doubtless meeting to discuss Freya's funeral service, which Peter himself was to conduct. She felt even more guilty when, for some reason, he kissed her again when he left.
She watched his tall figure cross the snow-sprinkled churchyard, his shoulders bent, his long black cassock flapping around his legs, until he disappeared inside the church door, doubtless to light yet another candle for his mother. It felt like an act of
treachery to wonder whether the celebration drink he'd suggested wasn't in fact a form of Dutch courage, to fortify himself for the interview later that afternoon with the police, but the thought had insinuated itself into her mind and wouldn't go away. Coupling with that other dangerous little bit of knowledge she'd been keeping to herself and was afraid she wouldn't be able to much longer: the fact that Peter had been out on the Friday night that woman had been killed, without telling her where he was. But then, he often omitted to tell her where he was going. She was being wholly disloyal and must forget it.
treachery to wonder whether the celebration drink he'd suggested wasn't in fact a form of Dutch courage, to fortify himself for the interview later that afternoon with the police, but the thought had insinuated itself into her mind and wouldn't go away. Coupling with that other dangerous little bit of knowledge she'd been keeping to herself and was afraid she wouldn't be able to much longer: the fact that Peter had been out on the Friday night that woman had been killed, without telling her where he was. But then, he often omitted to tell her where he was going. She was being wholly disloyal and must forget it.
Freya's death had hit him so badly. He'd always been the favourite among her children, perhaps because, unlike her daughters, he could not admit to her faults, nor she to his. And because he, like her, was the artistic one, the sensitive one, and as such deserved special treatment. Perhaps, thought Sonia defeatedly, it was better not to have such sensitivities. They didn't make for happiness. Perhaps I'm too critical of him. But her innate honesty made her qualify that: he's a man of God, but that is not a state of being which automatically confers perfection.
Nor had Freya been perfect. Try as she would, Sonia couldn't find it in her heart to grieve for her. She knew it was wrong and had prayed endlessly for grace to find something good by which she could remember the old woman. But Freya hadn't shown her much kindness or tried to hide the fact that she found Sonia uninteresting and physically unattractive. Of course she would never have admitted to liking anyone Peter chose to marry. Apparently, she hadn't cared much for Isobel, either, but at least Isobel had been pretty, which went a long way with Freya. For weeks there had been a certain amount of tension between Peter and his mother when he'd announced he was going to marry Sonia, but Freya could never be angry with her son for long and she'd grudgingly accepted that Sonia was here to stay. That didn't mean, however, that she'd had to love her daughter-in-law.
Sonia had had other presents for her birthday: a beautiful knitted garment from Ginny in wines and blues and golds, a pair of swinging silver ear-rings from Polly, some personally chosen, highly scented bath crystals from Harriet, and from the twins a box of chocolates. Each child had also sent her a handmade card,
full of effort, which had brought tears to her eyes, and she'd placed them on the mantelpiece in front of all the others. Even Dot had given her a pot plant, a little mock orange tree. The gift which had pleased her most, however, had come from Elvira, of all people. Sonia couldn't imagine why she'd sent it, delivered by messenger, when she often forgot to send even a card. A last-minute thought, she guessed, because someone had reminded her this was a special birthday. But how kind! A delicate, lovely piece of porcelain, a white bird, its outspread wingtips tinged with the faintest pink, an object more beautiful than anything she'd ever possessed. She looked at all her presents, eyes brimming, unbearably touched by this evidence of thoughtfulness, especially at such a time, but unable to imagine herself using any of them. Not even the chocolates, which no one ever remembered she shouldn't eat, not with her skin condition. Nor was she any good with plants, and she could all too easily envisage this one's inexorable fate. Then, remembering Peter's unaccustomed gentleness, with a sudden access of bravery and a jump of excitement, she thought, why not? Why not run herself an indulgent bath, using the bath salts, dress herself up a bit? Make an effort, Sonia! Yes, she would.
full of effort, which had brought tears to her eyes, and she'd placed them on the mantelpiece in front of all the others. Even Dot had given her a pot plant, a little mock orange tree. The gift which had pleased her most, however, had come from Elvira, of all people. Sonia couldn't imagine why she'd sent it, delivered by messenger, when she often forgot to send even a card. A last-minute thought, she guessed, because someone had reminded her this was a special birthday. But how kind! A delicate, lovely piece of porcelain, a white bird, its outspread wingtips tinged with the faintest pink, an object more beautiful than anything she'd ever possessed. She looked at all her presents, eyes brimming, unbearably touched by this evidence of thoughtfulness, especially at such a time, but unable to imagine herself using any of them. Not even the chocolates, which no one ever remembered she shouldn't eat, not with her skin condition. Nor was she any good with plants, and she could all too easily envisage this one's inexorable fate. Then, remembering Peter's unaccustomed gentleness, with a sudden access of bravery and a jump of excitement, she thought, why not? Why not run herself an indulgent bath, using the bath salts, dress herself up a bit? Make an effort, Sonia! Yes, she would.
First, she went to find a vase for the flowers, forgetting her sinuses and burying her face in the bronze and yellow chrysanthemums, their bitter-sweet smell seeming to say everything about her marriage.
And as she put the stiff stems in water, she began to sneeze. Peter never remembered her allergies, either.
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She had set the table with special care, bringing out the wedding present silverware and putting the solanum with its bright orange globes in the centre, displaying the chrysanths prominently on a bookshelf, though well away from her chair. There hadn't been time to prepare a special meal, but the Tesco's chicken thighs were simmering in the oven and giving out a delicious smell. There was just time to slip out to the off-licence to buy a bottle of sherry out of the âlittle something over' before Peter came back.
Lifting her coat from the rail in the hall, she couldn't resist looking at herself in the mirror. What she saw made her catch
her breath in surprise, while a smile spread slowly across her face. Her hair, newly washed, hadn't yet gone lank and greasy as it would later, the ear-rings danced, the stained-glass colours of the cardigan gave her a little colour. She'd even put on a dab of lipstick.
her breath in surprise, while a smile spread slowly across her face. Her hair, newly washed, hadn't yet gone lank and greasy as it would later, the ear-rings danced, the stained-glass colours of the cardigan gave her a little colour. She'd even put on a dab of lipstick.
She slipped on her coat, pulled the door to and started down the path with an unaccustomed spring in her step.
It was then that she heard the noise coming from the garage.
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Â
âHe must have come home when I was in the bath,' Sonia wept, sobbing into the already sodden ball of tissues crumpled in her hand. âBut why? Why?'
âSonia.'
Polly held the other woman's thin frame in warm, loving arms and tried to control her own shock and â yes, outrage. Peter had opted out, yet again. For, although sticking a hosepipe from the car exhaust in through the car window was a fearful â and in one way, courageous â thing for him to have done, it was not unbelievable. He hadn't even left a note. To do that to poor Sonia - on her birthday, too! When it had evidently been so important to her to share it with Peter: the dining-table beautifully set for two, and Sonia, smelling strongly of Harriet's Body Shop bath salts, with her obviously newly washed hair hanging over a face now swollen with tears. Still wearing the unaccustomed ear-rings and the long jacket Ginny had sent which, even in the state she was in, did wonders for her.
âHow could she, Polly?'
âShe?' Sonia, hardly knowing what she was saying, obviously meant âhe'. âWho can say what he was feeling, love?' Polly murmured, pouring more tea.
âI don't mean Peter! I mean how could
she
have been so stupid as to make that idiotic confession? If she hadn't said anything, no one would even have thought of suspecting Peter! That's what made him do it. How could he face going through all that again?'
she
have been so stupid as to make that idiotic confession? If she hadn't said anything, no one would even have thought of suspecting Peter! That's what made him do it. How could he face going through all that again?'
Polly had never heard Sonia so vehement, never before heard her blame a single soul for anything.
Yet another knock on the door. Another sympathiser, no
doubt, another kind offer to help. The telephone and the door bell had never stopped ringing: neighbours, friends, parishioners - Mrs Lumb the Leveller from the Old Vicarage offering to preside over the MU carol concert, Eva Spriggs, the busybody from across the road, bringing a delicate sponge cake ⦠she was answering the door now, round of body, warm of heart, not averse to being involved in the drama of the situation, but eager to help, if only by acting as doorkeeper. It was impossible not to be impressed by the warmth and sympathy coming from all corners, equally impossible not to notice the sorrow was for Sonia, rather than Peter. Not âpoor Sonia' at all, with her unassuming and compliant nature, but good, kind-hearted, hard-working Sonia, respected and evidently loved in the parish.
doubt, another kind offer to help. The telephone and the door bell had never stopped ringing: neighbours, friends, parishioners - Mrs Lumb the Leveller from the Old Vicarage offering to preside over the MU carol concert, Eva Spriggs, the busybody from across the road, bringing a delicate sponge cake ⦠she was answering the door now, round of body, warm of heart, not averse to being involved in the drama of the situation, but eager to help, if only by acting as doorkeeper. It was impossible not to be impressed by the warmth and sympathy coming from all corners, equally impossible not to notice the sorrow was for Sonia, rather than Peter. Not âpoor Sonia' at all, with her unassuming and compliant nature, but good, kind-hearted, hard-working Sonia, respected and evidently loved in the parish.
Viewing her in this different light, Polly acknowledged and admired the dignity with which she pulled herself together as Eva Spriggs ushered in more callers.
The police, of course, had had to be involved, and it was with little surprise but a quick leap of something she didn't quite recognise that Polly saw Tom Richmond. He was not alone. Accompanying him was a bulkier man, towering above him, though Richmond himself was over six foot: Superintendent Farr, an avuncular figure, with far from avuncular eyes. Surely a suicide didn't warrant a superintendent?
Richmond seemed well on the way to becoming a permanent fixture in their lives, and would be until ⦠Until what? Until Wyn Austwick's murderer had been found? For longer than that, she knew. He would probe deeper and ever deeper ⦠until he had successfully proved that Beth Richmond hadn't been killed by her mother, Isobel.
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Polly had never believed that Isobel had killed Beth. She supposed no one ever wanted to admit, even in the teeth of the evidence, that someone they'd known and liked could have been capable of such a wicked thing as murder. But she felt as though she knew it in her bones as true that Isobel could never have killed Beth. Or even if, by some outlandish, freakish, chance, she
had
been the unwitting cause of Beth dying, she would never have concealed her child in that way.
had
been the unwitting cause of Beth dying, she would never have concealed her child in that way.
She had been such a gentle soul, in danger of spoiling Beth by giving in to her rather than by chastising her. She scolded the little girl occasionally, of course she did, what mother didn't? But not so very often, for Beth hadn't been an especially difficult child â not when compared with the disturbed, violently antisocial children Polly taught. A bit rebellious, yes, disobedient from time to time, but nothing major, nothing like as much as she might have been, considering her life had been screwed up through no fault of her own, and that she hadn't yet adjusted to the changes. She'd been eight years old, for God's sake.
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