Embroidering Shrouds (11 page)

‘Which were?'

Christian looked away. ‘It wasn't right.
Him
getting the house.'

‘It wasn't your grandfather's wish', Joanna pointed out to him, ‘but the terms of
his
father's will. Besides, you should be grateful, Brushton Grange has provided a roof over your head.'

‘It would have been a better roof with
her
under it. Look at it,' Patterson said, scornfully gazing upwards through the window. ‘It's been there since the eighteenth century, and he's let it go. I mean, neglected doesn't quite sum it up, does it? It's a ruin. If
she
had lived there. Well,' he shrugged, ‘it wouldn't have been like that.'

Joanna suddenly had an insight into the times Christian Patterson had sat right here, looking through the window, with his great-aunt stitching by his side, feeding him poison. And she instinctively knew that Christian's grandfather had been right. Nan Lawrence had been an adverse influence on the youth.

His eyes swept around the room. ‘And she had to live here. Awful, isn't it?'

She felt bound to counter his criticism. ‘There was no need to build Spite Hall quite so near or so ugly. There must have been plenty of other sites on the land. She could have designed a bungalow or a cottage. It didn't need to be so functional, such an eyesore.'

‘It was a joke,' Christian said, almost disdainfully. ‘Just a joke.'

Mike and Joanna exchanged glances and wondered if anyone had ever laughed at Nan's joke. They doubted it.

Lydia sighed and closed the exercise book. It was no good. The stories always had a mind of their own.
They
dictated the text, not her. She put her pen down and stood up. That was enough for today. She must work outside, with the animals; hammer back the hen house roof. Anything to escape the memories.

The photograph lay on the desk, bleaching in a sudden burst of sunshine.

‘Is there anything missing?'

Christian looked carefully around the sitting room before shaking his head. ‘Not that I can see. But then there isn't much in it, is there?'

‘No.' He was right. What would burglars have stolen? There
was
no television, no video. ‘Did your aunt keep cash in the house?'

‘Hardly any. She was probably one of the few of her generation to actually bank her pension.'

‘So the only item of value was the clock,' Joanna mused. ‘Was that a family heirloom?'

‘Not from
her
family. She had
nothing
from Brushton Grange. Not so much as a pair of curtains. The clock came from her husband's family, the Lawrences. She used to say it was the only decent thing to come from them.'

The implication was, then, that Nan Lawrence's marriage had not been a happy one. It was not a surprise. Arnold Patterson had already hinted as much and Spite Hall hardly matched up as a post-war love nest.

Before they left the room something else was intriguing Joanna. ‘Why did your great-aunt choose such a gory subject for her tapestry?'

He shrugged. ‘I don't know. All I do know is that it meant a great deal to her. She'd been stitching away at it for a couple of years.' He glanced down. ‘I never really looked at it properly.' There was the hint of a smile playing around his lips. ‘I can't say I'm very interested in needlework, Inspector.'

‘What actually is it?' Korpanski asked.

‘Something for the church, I think. I don't know what. She never told me. I'd guess it's an altar cloth or a prayer-stool cover.' He smiled. Joanna was again struck by the intelligence behind those melting brown eyes. ‘And then someone clobbers her while she's bending over it.' He hesitated. ‘And the marks on it
are
blood. Her blood.' He gave a dry laugh. ‘So it never will get to the church, will it? All that work and it'll be police evidence in a murder trial – if you nail anyone, that is. You've failed so far, haven't you, Inspector Piercy?'

After his careful politeness the barbed comment was unexpected. It put Joanna into defensive mode. ‘We've had very little evidence to go on so far.'

‘And you're hoping my aunt's murder will provide you with a solution?'

‘We didn't
wish
this on her purely to –'

‘I wasn't suggesting you did,' Christian said smoothly.

‘But it must be fortuitous.' His gaze lingered on the chalked figure.

‘Murder is never fortuitous,' Joanna said sharply. ‘Even if through the crime we find out who the gang are, we would wish your great-aunt still alive.'

A half-smile played around the youth's lips. ‘Then you must be about the only one who does wish that.'

‘Except for you, Christian?' The gloves were off.

His eyes gleamed at the challenge. ‘Naturally.' He seemed thoughtful for a few seconds. ‘Inspector Piercy,' he said with a touch of humour. ‘No wonder you were so keen for me to accompany you back here.'

It was the perfect cue. ‘Who do
you
think did it, Christian?'

‘Well,' he said slowly, appraising first her, then Korpanski. ‘I really can't imagine. But I can't see myself concurring with your theory of a gang bursting in. The evidence surely would point to a gang creeping up on her.'

It sounded silly. He was mocking her, but Joanna felt equal to the challenge. She could use it to her advantage even. ‘You're right. It isn't possible they crept up on her, is it? And you've already assured us she wasn't deaf so she'd have heard them.'

‘That's right, Inspector.'

‘And she didn't have poor eyesight.'

‘Doesn't leave you many suspects, does it?'

He was so brazen, so cocksure, and she could have added more. That all the break-ins so far had been in the town – not three miles out along a long, straight drive, clearly visible from the road. That Nan Lawrence had had nothing of value. That anyone peeping through the window would have
known
there was nothing to steal, not even a television or a video. That a gang bursting in would certainly not have found Nan calmly sewing. That Nan Lawrence's injuries had proved she hadn't even turned her head around to look at her killer but had ignored him. That unlike every other felony they had been investigating for the entire year there had been no sign of a break-in, not a forced lock or a broken window. And lastly her own gut feeling that the evidence of a frenzied attack she had watched Matthew uncover at the post-mortem was the exact opposite of the cold-blooded carving of Cecily Marlowe's face. Everything in
this
crime was different. But she had no intention of confiding in Christian Patterson. Instead she gave the youth a broad smile and appealed to the amateur detective in him. ‘Actually, Christian, you might be able to help us.'

He returned her smile with a relaxed ‘Yeah?'

‘I daresay you're fond of trotting round the pubs with your mates at night. That's where a lot of the gossip gets picked up. Whoever the gang are they could be from Leek. If they are local they just might visit the pubs round here. It'd be very helpful if you could keep your ear to the ground.'

Christian nodded dubiously. ‘I'll do what I can but I wouldn't think they're likely to be from Leek. There are plenty of big, rough towns within an hour's drive of here. They're more likely to be from one of those places. I'll ask around if you like; see what I can come up with, but I don't think –'

Joanna gave him another smile. ‘Great. Thanks. Now let's take a trip round, shall we? And don't forget, anything you notice as being different or missing is worth a mention.'

It didn't take long; Spite Hall was little more than a troop hut, two rooms at the front, a bathroom behind the bedroom and a kitchen which spanned the width at the back. Everything about the proportions of the place was displeasing – the dark corridor which led up the middle, the long, narrow sitting room, the tiny kitchen, shabby and bare except for a glazed cabinet which seemed to hold nothing but cereal packets, a now mouldy loaf of bread, some tea bags and a tiny jar of marmalade. Two teacups, plain white, sat in the sink, a half-eaten packet of Rich Tea biscuits on the draining board. An old-fashioned radio, grey, grubby plastic with a vinyl handle stood on an oak table spread with a faded cotton tablecloth.

It was less than meagre. It was spartan. Christian took some time to scan the kitchen, then he shrugged. ‘It looks the same as it always does,' he said.

And Joanna found herself puzzling over his character. A conflict of opposites. Sometimes pleasant, sometimes covertly aggressive, and at other times deliberately on the offensive. Deep within her a question was forming. Had the boy loved his great-aunt or not? She couldn't tell. At times she was convinced of his previous affection and current grief, at others he seemed indifferent to the crime – almost amused by it. His grandfather had hinted at a close relationship between the old woman and her great-nephew, more than close, unhealthy. When Christian Patterson had first entered Spite Hall he had seemed upset – disturbed. But now all those emotions appeared to have melted away. He seemed calm, unconcerned, not curious, almost challenging the police. So which was the true Christian? Or had he adjusted so quickly?

Joanna's judgement on the old woman had been that she was not a woman to be weakly liked or disliked but someone who polarized the emotions. Nan Lawrence would have been loved or hated. Out of the three people closest to her, two of them had disliked her with fierce intensity and of the third she did not know.

Sergeant Barraclough joined them in the kitchen. ‘My granny had a kitchen just like this,' he said, looking around him. ‘Takes me right back to when I was a little boy and she used to bake scones for tea.' His eyes twinkled. ‘I tell you what, Jo, nothing in my entire life has ever tasted half as nice as those currant scones with a dollop of butter and jam.' He tapped his corpulent stomach. ‘Probably the beginnings of the ruination of my figure. But it was worth it.'

Joanna laughed. ‘Now we've had that trip down memory lane', she said, ‘perhaps you'll tell me how much milk was left in the bottle?'

‘A little less than a fifth of a pint. About enough for two cups of tea.'

‘Then she died after supper,' Christian said firmly. ‘She always left enough for two morning cups of tea. Then she rinsed the bottle through and put it on the step before the milkman called in the morning.'

‘At what time did she have her supper?'

‘Half past six.'

‘And you saw nothing on Sunday evening? No car draw up?'

Christian hesitated. ‘I saw her', he began, ‘through the window at about six. She'd left the curtains open. She was sewing.'

‘But you didn't call in?'

‘No.'

‘Really?' Korpanski's voice was heavy with scepticism.

‘What time did she get up and have her morning tea?'

‘Half past seven.'

Joanna glanced at Mike and knew that if Christian's statement was to be believed Nan Lawrence must have died sometime between six p.m. Sunday evening and early Monday morning. And if Tylman had been less observant they wouldn't even have been able to narrow it down to that.

The three of them left Barra in the kitchen with his reminiscences and trooped into the bathroom. It was tiled, with a white 1940s suite, grey-white threadbare towels, mould on the sills, plastic curtains and blue lino on the floor. They were in there for less than a minute; it was obvious nothing had been disturbed. And lastly they went to the bedroom where Sergeant Barraclough was concentrating his investigation. Articles from the wardrobe were strewn all over the bed, a couple of ancient furs, crimplene dresses, skirts, blouses, a toppling pile of shoeboxes and with them a fusty, mothballed air. Again Christian seemed momentarily moved; he held on to the door as though unwilling to cross the threshold. Joanna and Mike almost cannoned into the back of him.

‘Is anything wrong?'

‘It's the smell,' he explained. ‘The mothballs. That awful, pungent stink clung to her, it did.' He grimaced. ‘Funny, isn't it. Aunt Nan is reduced to two things, an unfinished tapestry spattered with her blood and the stench of mothballs. So much for immortality, Inspector.'

Joanna scrutinized his face, searching for some clue as to his true feelings but his face was calm and relaxed despite the comment. However, he still seemed reluctant to enter the room but waved his hand in front of him. ‘I wouldn't know what was in her wardrobe or her bedroom,' he said. ‘I never came in here as a matter of fact.'

Joanna could see Mike mentally tallying up this piece of data. If Christian's fingerprints were found on any permanent fixture in this room it would prove this statement a lie. And one proven lie was often the first sign of a crumbling suspect.

He still seemed determined to be helpful. ‘I can't
see
that anything's missing from here. I don't think there was anything of value here anyway. But, as I said, I never came in here.' The repeated dogmatic statement felt like a challenge to the police to prove it wrong.

‘Why don't you ask Marion Elland, Aunt Nan's home help. She was always flicking dusters and brandishing the vacuum cleaner around this place. Knew it better than her own home, I should think. If anything's been taken she'll know.' His eyes looked thoughtful.

Mike stirred from the hallway. And as far as you know your aunt didn't keep any money around the house?'

‘That's right, Sergeant,' Christian said. ‘That's what I said.'

Mike persisted. ‘Did you ever
see
much money lying around the house?'

‘A few pounds,' Christian replied, mirroring Mike's eyes with hostility. ‘Enough to pay off the milkman, nothing worth killing for, Sergeant.'

‘That depends, Christian,' Joanna said quietly. ‘Although many millions wouldn't stir me to murder, people have been killed for a few pence.'