In the Light of Madness (39 page)

Wednesday bit her tongue for the rest of the journey.

Back at the station, no one had had any luck with the families. The atmosphere was stale and leaden with frustration.

“What about Markham Hall?” asked Hunter, taking out a packet of mints from his jacket pocket.

“Nothing new,” replied Arlow. “A group are attending the funeral tomorrow, and gossip is rife about Claudia being an offering in a cult ritual.”

“We know where that idea sprang from,” he said, looking over towards Wednesday. “Wednesday and Lennox, you two to cover the people attending the funeral, and Arlow and Damlish take down all car registrations for a search enquiry.”

His abrupt manner always left a tense atmosphere in the room.

Wednesday followed Lennox to his office.

“What are you doing after work?” she asked casually.

“I’m seeing my sons. Taking them out for dinner.”

“What a coincidence, I’m having dinner at Mum’s. I’m hoping to drag Scarlett along.”

Wednesday drove home with the thoughts of attending another child’s funeral in the morning—the sight of a small coffin never failed to bring a lump to her throat.

The inky sky offered intermittent glimpses of the stars, and the smell of cigar smoke lingered on her jacket, reminding her how every action left a lingering trace in a lifetime.

The aroma of bacon wafted towards her on opening her front door. Scarlett was singing in the kitchen.

“Have you forgotten that we’re eating at Mum’s tonight?”

“No, I just fancied a bacon sandwich. Do you want one?”

“No thanks, I’m going to get ready and I suggest you do the same, we’re leaving in an hour.”

Wednesday trudged upstairs and threw her jacket on her bed. Her feet were cold and achy, and she longed to soak in the bath. She rubbed the back of her neck in an attempt to ease the stiffness.

Oliver let the pair in and embraced each one warmly. The smell of beef casserole and dumplings infused the air making Wednesday’s stomach growl.

Strolling into the lounge they found Joan sitting by the fire with a medicated vagueness about her. The orange glow from the wood-burning stove reflected off her skin, and her partially white hair was gathered in a bun on the top of her head.

Scarlett gave her mother an over-exuberant squeeze, and Wednesday bent down and kissed her tenderly on her forehead. Joan took hold of both of their hands and looked up at them.

“My beautiful daughters; you look tired Wednesday, and you, Scarlett, you look otherworldly.”

Wednesday sensed that her mother’s mind was not settled, and that perhaps madness connected with madness, hence her bizarre observation of Scarlett. Before the whirlwind of conversation could begin, Oliver announced that dinner was ready so they all trooped to the kitchen and took their places.

“So, how’s work?” he asked as he served the steaming casserole.

“Painfully slow. Three victims and numerous suspects.”

“Still don’t think my cult idea is viable?”

Oliver and Wednesday glared at Scarlett for mentioning the subject that so clearly had Joan on edge. Scarlett was oblivious to their reproaches and Joan began repeatedly tapping the knife on the edge of the plate.

“Are you going to start painting again, Mum?” Wednesday enquired, passing a plate to Scarlett.

Joan shook her head and stuck her fork into a chunk of beef, which she then moved around in the syrupy gravy. Her breathing sounded laboured as she pushed the air out through her nose.

“I’m making more bowls and vases ready for Christmas,” piped up Oliver, trying to fill the void in the room.

People around the table nodded in silent approval.

The meal was eaten amidst unasked questions. Joan and Scarlett were both drinking too much wine, and although they all knew Joan should not drink at all, they avoided confrontation.

“I still think an underground cult has infiltrated Markham Hall and is picking off the students, one by one. Why are the police resisting such a plausible suggestion? Perhaps you’re all afraid of delving into that murky world?” whispered Scarlett.

“We’re not afraid of any such thing. You have no evidence to substantiate your claim. You went to London to find tenuous connections, but this is Cambridgeshire, not an inner city suburb in the capital.”

Wednesday pushed her plate away, leaving some casserole, and took out her packet of cigarettes. Scarlett frequently cut her appetite by her words or behaviour. Wednesday scraped back her chair and walked over to the back door to light her cigarette.

Joan was reaching out for the wine bottle, when Oliver’s hand rested gently on her wrist. Without saying a word, he pushed the bottle out of her reach and then took her hand and placed it on his lap, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“Perhaps they’ll come for me and relieve you all of the madness I inflict upon you.” Joan’s gaze travelled around the room touching each face and seeking their response.

“Mum, we want you to be around us, don’t we?” replied Wednesday.

As Wednesday was the designated driver, Scarlett allowed herself to drink several large glasses of wine, which had done nothing but accentuate her elevated mood.

Wednesday stubbed out her cigarette in a flower pot by the back door, and announced they were going as she had an early start in the morning. In truth, she believed a monster was lurking in the room and she wanted to get out before it sank its teeth into her.

“Is Jacob working with you tomorrow?” Scarlett asked.

“Yes. Why?”

“Just wondered if he’d be free tonight?”

Wednesday rolled her eyes then kissed Joan and Oliver before jangling her car keys at Scarlett and walking into the hallway.

“She can be so boring and controlling at times,” uttered Scarlett as she flounced around the table offering hugs and kisses to her parents.

“She has a tough job, love,” said Oliver, holding her head between his cupped hands.

Scarlett shrugged her shoulders and waved theatrically as she caught up with Wednesday.

“Come on, trouble, let’s get you home.”

In the car, both women were thinking about Lennox, and both wondered whether he was thinking about them.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Scarlett descended to the kitchen half wrapped in her dressing gown, with her mane trailing in knotted tangles over her shoulders. Wednesday pushed a mug of coffee across the table and announced she was off to work.

“Send my regards to Jacob,” she said as she raised her mug in the air.

Lennox was already at the coffee machine when Wednesday walked in. He looked his usual dapper self, wearing the appropriate attire for a funeral. She wanted to ask him about his evening, but something in his demeanour recommended that she did not.

Arlow walked over to join them with a report in his hand.

“Forensics found a hair belonging to Colin Pollock on the travel blanket, which would have been a lead had he not been the one to bring it in.”

“We could bring him in on that,” said Damlish, who had arrived just behind.

“It would be inadmissible in court as we don’t know when the hair got there. He’s still worth watching, I suppose,” replied Lennox.

Arlow and Damlish dispersed to their desks as Lennox watched Wednesday getting a coffee. Rubbing his hands together, he waited for her to take her first sip before addressing her.

“I got talking to a parent of a student at Markham Hall, and apparently, Colin Pollock had put himself forward as a candidate for the deputy head post several months ago, but went out in the first round due to non-acceptance by the parents on grounds of not being of the right class.”

“And you think he’s killing the kids for revenge?” replied Wednesday, screwing up her nose at the bitterness of the coffee.

“Not exactly, it’s a flimsy motive. Nevertheless, that was never brought up in any of the interviews.”

“There may be no significance in it. Did your evening go as planned?” She added.

“Just about. What about you?”

“Family evenings can be a tornado of emotions.”

“More like a cauldron where mine are concerned,” he mused.

It was time to leave for the funeral, and Lennox offered to drive. The weather was appropriately dull with a soupcon of drizzle in the air.

They parked a distance away from the church due to the number of cars already there. It looked like the entire community had come out to say their farewells to Claudia; a much larger turn out than for Tom Dolby. They saw Arlow and Damlish parking a little way behind them.

Wednesday and Lennox followed the chain of people filing into the cold stone church. Through the countless heads before them, they caught sight of the coffin on which rested an opulent wreath of white peace lilies and shiny evergreen foliage.

The wooden pews were full, so the detectives stood next to a pillar at the back, positioning themselves so they could see the last mourners arriving. Hushed mutterings were heard over the church organ as fellow students from the school filed in, lead by Colin Pollock. People shuffled and jostled around to get a space, rubbing shoulders and bumping elbows. The reverend looked pensive as he stood next to the coffin, clasping his hands together in a prayer-like position.

People looked towards Greg and Lucinda Edwards but avoided eye contact.

Scarlett entered and positioned herself at the other side of the church, with her notebook in hand. Wednesday saw her.

Her train of thought was interrupted by the reverend welcoming everyone. He faulted through the motions of expressing the sorrow felt in the community, not only for Claudia, but for her family and friends, too.

Everyone they had interviewed was there, excluding Stewart Cleveland, who was either late—or not coming at all. Even the Dolbys were there, putting themselves through the intense sentiments once more; each scene and Bible reading reminiscent of Tom’s funeral. There were unrecognisable faces, which were no doubt contacts and friends of the Edwards from London.

The hymn “Abide with Me” was sung in harmony, thanks to the few remaining choir members led by Vera Olong. However, the tuneless drone from the students was loud enough to dispel the serenity of any hymn.

The congregation were sitting down when the peace was disturbed by the sound of Stewart Cleveland pushing through the crowd.

Everyone turned around to see what the commotion was all about, and when Lucinda Edwards saw him, she let out an ear piercing squeal echoing around the stark, stone walls. Greg Edwards held onto his wife’s arm and tried to calm her.

“You should have protected my daughter. It’s your school, you’re to blame.”

Lucinda was animated and in the domain of the church, she looked like a ghost revisiting her pile of decaying bones festering in the crypt.

Cleveland’s face shone with droplets of sweat. He was clearly rankled by her outburst. Nevertheless he had the audacity to maintain his head high, and remain in the church. People shuffled away from him and began looking at him with contempt.

He remained mute and Lucinda was finally soothed by her husband, in time to follow her daughter’s coffin back down the aisle towards the cemetery.

Mourners lined the abyss that was ready for the coffin, heads bowed and hands clasped together. Wednesday and Lennox stood back from the scene, surveying the ensemble and waiting for the coffin to be finally laid to rest.

Clusters of people began drifting away, including Stewart Cleveland, who had the decency not to stand centre stage. He briefly caught Wednesday’s eye before looking down towards the gravel path. In that instant, Wednesday sensed a tinge of remorse in his eyes.