Murder Fortissimo (14 page)

Her voice sounded slightly odd, carefully neutral, as though she was afraid to say too much. It was very unlike Harriet. He tested the water.

‘That would be very pleasant,’ he replied. ‘Any particular reason or just the pleasure of my company?’

For a moment he thought the sound she made, and hastily disguised, had been a sob but it was ridiculous, Harriet never cried, so he dismissed the idea and she went on.

‘Matron just buttonholed me,’ she said, her voice still sounding flat. ‘Apparently the Colonel has ordered a taxi and two of the ladies are going out to lunch with him, meeting up with his son and daughter-in-law somewhere. It was an unexpected, spur of the moment treat and that being the case, a favoured few of us are allowed to invite guests. I’m one of teacher’s pets, you see.’

It had occurred to him that Harriet might be speaking so formally because Matron was there, but apparently not. He set aside the slight anxiety her tone had aroused and welcomed the livelier note in her voice, accepting her invitation with pleasure.

‘Come quite early, Sam.’ It was back again, he could detect that odd, slight unhappiness. ‘We can have a sherry before lunch and a good long talk.’

She rang off and Sam was left staring at the phone in his hand. Wondering.

Gemma was washing up the breakfast things at Firstone Lodge. She had arrived back at work on the dot of 8.30 this morning, and she sang as she scrubbed out pans, emptied the dishwasher and scrubbed down the kitchen work surfaces. A night at home under her mother’s powerful but benign influence had gone a long way towards settling her mind. Her surprise rout of the hitherto sacred figure of Ryan had also given her a boost, though she was starting to feel slightly apprehensive.

What if he won’t take no for an answer, she fretted. What if he gets, well – funny? It took very little to make Ryan ‘funny’, she knew from past experience, and it wasn’t good when that
happened. As she scrubbed and sang and daydreamed there came a knock at the back scullery door and she gave a little scream as she saw a large shape outlined against the frosted glass panel. A large,
male
shape.

‘Hullo, Gemma.’ It was Kieran, bashful moon face beaming, big clumsy hands fidgeting, great clodhopping size thirteens shifting from side to side.

‘Oh! You didn’t half give me a fright. I thought it might be Ryan.’ She shrank back a little, giving him a nervous, sidelong glance. ‘He isn’t – he isn’t out there is he, Kieran?’

‘No, I’m on me own.’ He hastened to reassure her, breathing hard in his earnestness. ‘I just wanted to come and tell you I’m glad you dumped him, Gemma. He’s not good enough for you, never was.’

They stood in the doorway, smiling foolishly at each other, then she shot him a look of apology. ‘I can’t ask you in, Kieran, I’m ever so sorry, but we’re not supposed to have personal calls or visitors. But I’m ever so glad you came round, it was really nice of you.’

He beamed even more widely and she realized that he was shifting around on the spot, obviously trying to pluck up courage to say something. He opened his mouth and burst out: ‘I wish, I mean – will you come out with me, Gemma? We could go to the pictures in Southampton if you like. I could borrow my brother’s car; you know I passed my test in the summer. I’d look after you, I promise. I wouldn’t drive too fast or nothing.’

She felt a warmth spreading through her, a genuine feeling of pleasure and her eyes shone. ‘I’d really like that, Kieran. But what about Ryan? What if he gets, you know – what if he gets all funny about it, about us?’

For a moment Kieran’s shoulders drooped, then he rallied and puffed out his chest. ‘What can he do? I’m twice as big as him and I’m the one that always has to get him out of trouble whenever he picks a fight. He’s all talk and trousers.’

The village church at Locksley was not Doreen Buchan’s usual haunt on a Sunday morning but today her mind was restless and sought any solace, any distraction that it could find. The exterior of the church always disappointed her a little, her taste running to imposing gothic with spires and gargoyles. The small village church, with its squat, square brick-built tower, red tile-hung roof and walls of the local dressed flint, render and stone, was undoubtedly ancient, but to Doreen it looked scruffy and run down. The only bit she really liked was the addition the locals all regarded as a joke, the spindly late-Victorian spire added by a Gothic enthusiast in the mid-nineteenth century, a vicar with private means. Doreen admired the iron-framed monstrosity while deploring the ominous tilt to starboard that the rest of the village regarded with tolerant amusement.

The inside of the church was much better, closer to her expectations. With its stark white-washed walls, uneven floors paved in ancient terracotta quarry tiles and rush-seated chairs instead of pews, it lacked the glamour Doreen felt a church should provide, but the atmosphere soothed her. It was so old there were even gas brackets carrying mantles on the walls. Doreen had once been about to ask the vicar if they were as old as the church when a chance remark from Harriet Quigley, about the Edwardian parishioner who had donated them to the church, had set Doreen right and prevented an embarrassing faux pas. There was a stillness, a peace that transcended the bustle of outside life, but the church was also alive with a kind of energy and power and the light that streamed through the coloured glass in the east window threw a delicate rainbow pattern across the transept.

The service was strictly traditional in accordance with village
inclination, held there once a month as part of the vicar’s rounds. Doreen always found comfort in the majestic language of the King James’s Bible and the Book of Common Prayer as well as the well-known hymn tunes, strictly Ancient and Modern. But calmed and refreshed as she undoubtedly was, Doreen Buchan knew that today it had not been enough, that there would be no rest for her troubled spirit until she had sought the confessional.

‘Good morning, Doreen.’ It was Neil Slater, waving to her as he drove past. It looked as if he had just nipped home to pick up something, she thought. He wasn’t there last night – Vic had remarked on the unlighted flat when he came in from a swift half at the pub; he had made some joke about Neil getting his oats, something like that. Vic could be very coarse, sometimes. He had whistled loudly, a real builder’s wolf whistle, when he saw what she was wearing this morning.

‘Blimey, Dor,’ he had said, opening his eyes as he took in her new look. ‘You’re all done up like a Christmas tree! What’s this in aid of then? It’s not like you to go for bright colours like that.’

‘Don’t you like it, Vic?’ she had faltered, but he soon put her right.

‘I certainly do, you look smashing, Dor,’ he told her. ‘Ten years younger and good enough to eat. Here, what on earth has brought this on?’

‘Oh,’ she shrugged and fobbed him off. ‘Time for a change, I suppose.’

The explanation had satisfied him and somewhere inside she felt a tiny glow of pleasure as she caught him looking at her now and then during the morning, admiration and – yes, mounting desire – written clearly on his face.

So what
had
brought it on, she wondered, as she walked slowly along the lane? Vic was right, it was completely out of character for her to buy any clothes that drew attention to
herself. Sensible navy-blue, plain black, beige – oh yes, plenty of beige, that was what Doreen Buchan usually wore. Beige was safest of all. But yesterday morning something had snapped and while Vic was busy out on a site visit, Doreen had jumped into her car and headed for Southampton and the huge West Quay shopping centre.

As she queued to park she had felt her courage begin to fail. What possessed me, she wondered, to decide to go shopping this close to Christmas and on a Saturday too? Whatever it was that drove her, had made her go on. John Lewis, she thought, they’re bound to have what I want, so she had found herself on an escalator to the women’s fashion department. The place was packed with heaving bodies and she was jostled at almost every step, people everywhere chasing their tails in a desperate attempt to finish their present-buying. As she stood irresolute, diffidently fingering a soft woollen dress in a light, glowing turquoise, an elderly woman shopper beside her, elegantly kilted out in a classic style, turned to her with a friendly smile.

‘Go on,’ she urged. ‘Try it on! That colour would look beautiful on you; your eyes are almost the same colour.’

As Doreen hesitated, looking surprised, the other woman nodded towards the dress. ‘Do it,’ she said in an encouraging tone. ‘If you like, I’ll wait outside the fitting rooms and you can show me, if you’d like a second opinion. Yes, honestly, I’m not in a hurry.’

Now, on Sunday morning, Doreen paused to look up at the sky. No, it wasn’t going to rain, thank goodness. Oh, but it had been such fun, she recalled, shopping with her new friend. Together they had collected skirts and tops and jackets in colours and styles that the aloof, awkward Doreen Buchan had never dreamed of trying, and time and again, the other woman’s taste proved spot on. She had been in fashion all through her working life, she had confided, and adored clothes,
so it was a pleasure to help Doreen find things that suited her so well. The two of them had exchanged telephone numbers over coffee in the panoramic restaurant and Doreen had driven home with her new friend’s promise to meet up again soon ringing in her ears.

Whatever got into me? Why did I do that? She struggled to understand the impulse that had shaken her out of her lifelong caution. After much heart searching, something, some kind of explanation finally occurred to her. I used to wear all those dark colours so nobody could see me, she realized, remembering how, at school, she had hidden in the girls’ lavatories every day at playtime, lest her tormentors find her and start their chanting and bullying again. Later, when she was safely married to Vic and they were making their way up the ladder, the habit of concealment had remained with her. Be discreet, be a good wife, be a good mother; don’t draw attention to yourself, don’t behave in a common way, don’t let them see you. If nobody can see you, nobody will ever know. They’ll never find out about …
that
.

She squared her shoulders and walked quite briskly past the part of the churchyard that she found distressingly untidy. She had to keep quiet about that, though, when discussing it with the locals. Visiting the village some months earlier, during the negotiations about the purchase of White Lodge, she had been surprised and perturbed to notice that a section of the churchyard had been left apparently untended, the grass long and strewn with weeds.

When she had remarked, rather acidly, on this to Neil, he had explained that the parish was involved with the Living Churchyard scheme, whereby the growth of grasses and other plants was encouraged in the hope that it would provide a habitat for birds, wild flowers, insects and small animals. Doreen supposed it was a good idea, but it had certainly looked
a mess at that time and she dreaded to think how high the weeds would be in the middle of summer. She soon realized she dare not comment adversely when she discovered that the rest of the village thought it was a wonderful scheme and took every opportunity to boast about it like anything.

She and Vic had a light lunch together in the kitchen, and as she cleared away, she enquired casually what he planned for the afternoon.

‘What? Oh, sorry, Dor,’ he looked very sheepish and waved a hand at a pile of correspondence on the side table. ‘I’ve got to get on top of this paperwork before it gets on top of me.’

Unusually this feeble pun drew a correspondingly feeble smile from her instead of a moan and she fidgeted around for a few moments before making her tentative suggestion.

‘Shall I … would you like me to drive over to Chambers Forge, then? To spend an hour or so with your dad? I’m not that busy today, I can spare the time.’

He looked surprised but touched and grateful. ‘That’s really good of you, Doreen. I know you find the old man heavy going, and to tell you the truth, so do I. If only Mum hadn’t gone first, she was the glue that kept us all together and without her, well – you know what it’s like, trying to talk to him.’ He pushed back his chair and lumbered to his feet. ‘That’s my girl.’ He planted a smacking kiss on her cheek. ‘You’re looking lovely today – that blue suits you a treat. I did all right when I married you, didn’t I, Dor? Never a bit of bother, eh? And no secrets between us either.’

She could see that he was puzzled, wondering what he could have said to set the colour draining from her cheeks, but she knew how he would settle the question in his mind. Women’s troubles, that’s what Vic would decide. He always did and he always shied away in case she pressed any details upon him.

Sam and Harriet established themselves in comfortable wicker basket-chairs in the bay window of the sun parlour each with a glass of sherry pressed on them by Matron, who liked them both. They had been secretly amused to realize that Miss Winslow thought they added to the cachet of Firstone Grange. Harriet had taken great delight in telling Sam about the conversation she had accidentally overheard a day or so earlier, when Pauline Winslow had described the pair of them to Mrs Turner, as an asset, ‘a very well-known family, of course, and both so tall and distinguished in their looks and bearing’.

Harriet recognized that he was humouring her today, letting her play it her way, in her own time, by his response to her welcome. He gave her a pleasantly expectant smile but said nothing while she fussed over settling the chairs. At last, with the chairs arranged rather forbiddingly with their backs to the empty room, Sam looked at her and waited for her to open up so she took a deep breath.

‘Ellen Ransom regaled me with a surprising story last night,’ she began, then she gave him a concise run-down of what, exactly, Ellen had told her.

At his shocked indrawn breath when she recounted the dreadful conclusion of Ellen’s tale, she gave a slight nod, pursing her lips. ‘I didn’t get round to asking her about Christiane’s death; as you can imagine, it was all a bit much to take in at one go.’ She shifted a little in her seat and avoided his eyes. Best, oldest and dearest of companions that Sam might be, there were still some topics too private for discussion, even with him. Suddenly she felt a sharp pang of regret that Avril was no longer there to share the burden. Harriet too, had her times of desolation without the beloved friend she had met on their first day at their Swiss boarding school, when they were both aged eleven.