Embroidering Shrouds (22 page)

‘The villainous Craig?' Joanna smiled. ‘We're checking him out. He does seem to qualify for top of the list.'

There was something about this man that invited confidences. Not just his cloth – more – maybe the warmth of the grey eyes.

He smiled again, a different smile, more worldly.

‘I'd like to think Nan's great-nephew was in the clear,' a touch of mischief in his face now, ‘if only in deference to his name.'

Joanna smiled with him. ‘Oh, Christian, you mean. I wouldn't exactly say he's in the clear. We're checking him out too.' Joanna drew in a deep gulp of air. ‘Reverend, I wonder about the others of your congregation.'

Instantly he was cautious. ‘Yes?'

‘Mrs Marlowe, for instance.'

‘What about her?'

‘Would she lie to the police?' Joanna asked bluntly.

The Reverend pondered the question quite carefully before he answered. He was not a man to be hurried, not easily stirred, but when the kraken wakes ...

‘Cecily is a weak person, fragile, easily frightened. And the assault on her in the summer left her terribly shaken. She was nervous before, now her every waking moment is filled with terrors. Would she lie? What exactly do you mean, Inspector?'

‘Her statement kept changing,' Joanna said. ‘It made it very difficult for us to investigate the crime because we didn't have an accurate account of what happened. We still don't know how many men broke in, we don't know what was taken. And –' Could she ask him to swear to secrecy? As sacred as the confessional? ‘– A few of her things have turned up in Nan Lawrence's house.'

Leon Gardiner stood up then, eyes burning with anger. ‘What are you saying?'

‘I don't know what I'm saying.' Joanna found herself raising her voice too and listening to the echoes bouncing around the stone walls. ‘I don't know. All I know is that we couldn't get an honest story out of Cecily Marlowe. She was cruelly hurt and then her possessions turn up at the bottom of someone's wardrobe, someone who was supposed to be her friend and who is murdered herself a little over a month later.'

‘Friends? What makes you think they were friends? Nan didn't have friends.'

But they had been Christian's words.

‘OK. OK,' she said quickly. ‘So they weren't friends any more. But there is no suggestion that it was Nan who carved up Cecily Marlowe's face, she couldn't have done it, she was too infirm. Cecily would have been more than a match for her, surely?'

The Reverend Gardiner turned to face the stained-glass window. ‘These are murky waters, Inspector.'

And if Joanna hadn't been in a consecrated place she would have replied,
You're bloody well telling me.
As it was she merely agreed, politely, and asked if he had anything further to add that might help them.

Leon Gardiner didn't even turn round. ‘I have not.'

It was all she was going to get out of him.

All the way to the pub she pondered the Reverend Gardiner's statement. More important than what he had stated had been the hidden statements, the veiled sermon, the judgement on Nan Lawrence's character. And if she wasn't very much mistaken he wanted to believe Craig Elland had been Nan's killer.

She arrived late at the pub, one o'clock instead of twelve-thirty. Matthew, Eloise, Caro and Tom were already sitting at a table, their laughter wafted towards her as she pushed the door open. Obviously Eloise's resentment did not extend to Joanna's friends, or was she trying to prove to her father that she was a nice girl really. A nice girl who could relate to
anyone
– anyone except her.

Joanna had reached the table before anyone noticed her.

The child was wearing make-up, quite skilfully applied, a touch of dark mascara to fringe her father's green eyes, plum-coloured lipstick. Eloise looked a fourteen-year-old but the woman she soon would be was easy to spot: intelligent, forceful, direct.

She stared defiantly at Joanna. The others all greeted her, Caro pushing a schooner of white wine towards her. ‘If it's warm', she said, ‘don't blame me. We've already ordered the roast beef. So,' she grinned at her, ‘how did the morning go?'

‘I went to church, the one Nan Lawrence attended.'

‘Lovely, darling.' Caro was almost writing notes. Too late, Joanna recalled the article, the backdrop of an English village church would be too tempting to pass by.

Caro moved conspiratorially close. ‘Do tell. Thunderous guttering, resplendent gargoyles, lead roof? That sort of thing?'

‘Pretty much.'

‘And the vicar?'

‘Resplendent too.'

‘What did he want to see you about, Jo?' At last Matthew was managing to insert a word into the conversation.

‘I don't know, Matt, nothing really.' She realized she didn't have a clue what the Revered Leon Gardiner had wanted to see her about, and he hadn't even mentioned the funeral service. Maybe he had spoken to one of the other officers and had the situation explained, maybe by the time she had visited he no longer had any need to speak to her. Certainly there had been no offloading on his part after the service. The others were all watching her. ‘His sermon was –' She turned her attentions back to Caro. ‘For goodness sake, I wouldn't want this appearing in your article.'

‘Off the record,' Caro said blithely. ‘Meanie.'

‘Well, it was about loving your neighbour, doing good to those that spitefully use you,' she quoted. ‘It wasn't quite what I'd expected, but apt.'

Tom's eyebrows moved upwards. ‘Appropriate but an unusual line to take.'

‘Nan Lawrence was an unusual woman,' Joanna said.

‘So was that the reason she was murdered?' It was Eloise's attempt to join the adult conversation.

Joanna nodded. ‘In a way.'

Caro interposed. ‘But I thought it was a gang of serial burglars, inner-city stuff.' She looked accusingly at her friend. ‘That's still the official line.'

‘I know. I can't go into it, Caro.' To her right Tom was nodding approvingly. ‘All I can say is the case isn't what it initially seemed. It isn't straightforward, there's something devious, strange about it. You'll have to wait. I'm sorry.'

Tom steepled his fingertips together. ‘I must say I thought from the beginning there was more to this case than met the eye. I read an article in one of the papers.' He grinned apologetically, pushed his gold-rimmed glasses back up his nose. ‘You know, long sit-out sessions at court, tend to read the paper.'

She had always valued Tom's opinions, as a friend, as a lawyer. She never had known anyone quite so deliberately impartial. ‘Go on.'

‘Struck me – I mean burglars are a predictable lot, stick to the same MO and all that.'

‘So?'

‘I'm sure I don't need to go into it. But it's all wrong, Jo.'

Joanna nodded her head.

And what was most wrong was finding the booty from Cecily Marlowe's place stashed at the bottom of Nan Lawrence's wardrobe.

‘Thanks for the kids' book,' Eloise said suddenly. ‘It's weird.'

Joanna looked full at her, saw less of her mother, more of her father. And behind the made-up facade she read emotion too: unhappiness, insecurity, anger. ‘
You
think the
book's
weird,' she said, ‘you want to meet the old biddy who wrote it.'

‘Oh?'

‘Lives in an old shack full of animals. A couple of hens called Sam ‘n' Ella.' Joanna laughed. Suddenly the situation seemed so funny, so bizarre. Nan had lived in Spite Hall. Her brother in a rambling old mansion, decayed as Miss Haversham's wedding cake. Lydia, huge and fat, lived in a place called Quills – in deference to her profession. But it was part pigsty, part chicken coop, part lambing shed. They made the Addams family seem like Hyacinth Bucket: staid, middle-class, ordinary. Joanna was still laughing as she finished telling Eloise about Lydia's tenants. ‘There's a lamb called Mint Sauce.'

‘You're joking.' It was the first time they had laughed together, at the same thing. It was a sobering realization. ‘And there's more.' Tears trickled down her nose.

Caro was alert. ‘Does this elderly eccentric fancy doing an interview?'

‘She might, then again she might not. You'd better ask her yourself.'

The meal arrived then, and plenty of it. Traditional roast, steaming hot with potatoes browned in the oven, thick slices of meat tender enough to carve with a fork, lashings of onion-flavoured gravy and fresh Brussels sprouts and carrots. Could you cook better than the food provided by a good moorlands pub? They did justice to it by suspending conversation.

Apple pie made with
real
Bramleys. Crusty pastry sprinkled with sugar the way her grandmother used to do, dripping with thick yellow custard. Joanna glanced at Eloise. The child was tucking in greedily. During coffee they were all mellow and chatty. Matthew regaled them with a couple of tales from work, Caro with the gossip of the London journalists' scene, Tom with some typically wry observations from the courts. Joanna and Eloise were the silent ones, each eyeing the other up like boxers before a really big fight.

Every time Joanna's eyes left her plate she was aware the child was watching her, but as soon as she knew she was observed the green eyes flickered away. Joanna turned her attentions to Matthew; he seemed happy. She watched him tease Caro about the forthcoming wedding, pull her leg about the service at a hotel, about her loving, honouring and obeying.

‘For the first time in your life? Caro the rebel? Go on,' he said, still laughing. ‘I bet you're even planning on wearing a white meringue.'

‘And why not?'

Joanna watched her friend. Caro always looked so sophisticated, city-dressed, even at a Sunday lunch in a rural Staffordshire pub, scarlet pencil skirt, black tailored jacket, the vivid colours setting off her blonde hair to perfection, make-up applied skilfully. Perfect enough for a model's photoshoot, scarlet lips even at the
end
of a meal. How did she do it?

‘It's about time I did something conventional, Matthew.' Caro was at her most arch, her fingers stroking Matthew's bare forearm. Joanna watched the pale hairs standing. Caro then linked arms with Tom. ‘Besides, who but darling Tom could possibly put up with me? You know I'm sharp and unpredictable but I do have my more conventional side. Who knows, in a year or two we might even go for the baby scene, those pink and blue things, providing I can get a decent nanny.'

The casual reference to babies shook Matthew. It was an accidental dart that shot straight into his Achilles heel. And Eloise? Joanna glanced curiously at her. How had she reacted? Her green eyes darted towards her father. Joanna leaned back in her seat. So – in this – mistress and daughter were united against the father. Neither of them wanted a child. Joanna studied Matthew's face, he had turned slightly pink, there was a soft shape to his lips. But he did.

They ordered second cups of coffee, Joanna searching for some neutral subject to introduce to remove all the undercurrents. But her main topic would soon be sub judice and she didn't quite trust Caro. Given the choice between loyalty to a friend and a good story, a good story won hands down, every time, and Joanna had learned this to her cost.

The men lined up at the bar to pay the bill and the three females were left together.

‘And how is life in ...?' Already Caro was floundering.

‘It's OK.' Eloise's eyes looked accusingly at Joanna. ‘I miss my old friends, I miss our old house, and I miss my pony. Most of all …' Even at fourteen she couldn't quite finish the sentence, tears threatened.

Caro headed for the safest part of the speech. ‘You didn't take your pony with you?'

‘It wasn't possible, we live in a flat. A friend has him.' Spoken as Jane would have done, emotion squeezed out by sharp diction.

And for the first time Joanna badly wanted to apologize for the disruption to a young life, to say she had not meant it to end like that, but it would be inappropriate, sound insincere. Besides, did she mean it? Had she really cared what happened to Eloise?

The men came back, chuckling over something they'd heard at the bar. They looked light-hearted, relaxed. It was the three women who looked tense, each of them sitting up straight, carefully not looking at each other. Joanna stood up. ‘Look, you lot go on. I really have to ...'

Matthew put a restraining hand on her arm. ‘No, Jo.' He was frowning. ‘Please. Don't ...'

‘I do. I really do have to go back. I've got a main briefing in the morning. There are things I want to get clear in my ...'

Matthew was shaking his head. ‘Jo.'

‘I won't be long, half an hour at the most. Why don't you get the Scrabble things out
...?
'

Eloise was watching her scornfully. She escaped.

It was already dusk by the time she arrived at the station. The duty sergeant looked surprised to see her but made no comment. She only understood his guarded glance when she climbed the stairs and rounded the corner. A light was on in her office. She was tempted to knock. But this was
her
office. What was anyone doing here? She pushed the door open. Korpanski was slumped over her desk, a can of beer in his hand, looking as startled to see her as she was to see him.

‘What the hell are you doing here, Mike?'

He gave a long sigh. ‘The whole thing finally got too much, I've come down for some peace. And you?'

She nodded and sank into one of the chairs. ‘Much the same,' she said gloomily.

‘Mike,' she said a moment later, ‘I had a thought.'

‘Glad one of us has, my mind's a blank.'

‘Has Barra gone through the bedroom looking for prints?'

‘He's dusted a few surfaces.'