Pretty Maids All In A Row (18 page)

Still Jessica waited, incapable of ending her ordeal. A further snatch of music introduced
'Where are you going to, my pretty maid?'
When it came to an end, there was a final click and the line buzzed in her ear as, somewhere, a receiver was dropped into place.

Holding her mind suspended, she dialled the number of the Hall which, their first week in the cottage, Matthew had scribbled down in case she needed him. It was the cultured voice of the Dowager which answered.

'Good morning, Mrs Selby. I'm afraid your husband isn't here. He left about half an hour ago.'

'Did he say where he was going?'

'Just a minute.' The phone was covered. A muffled voice called a query, a distant voice replied. Jessica waited, motionless. 'Hello? No, my son understood he was going straight home. No doubt he'll be with you any minute.'

'Thank you.' Jessica replaced the phone, fastidiously wiping her hand on her apron. Where was he? It took only ten minutes to drive back from the Hall. Her brain was still working in the rhythm of the rhymes.
'Thou shalt not wash dishes
—' Where had she heard that recently?

Matthew!
He'd recited it when they first arrived here. What a perfectly horrible coincidence. If, said a little voice in her head, it really
was
a coincidence.

She felt suddenly sick. Catching up the phone again, she dialled the operator. 'Get me the police,' she said hoarsely. 'I don't know the number.'

She was talking to Webb when Matthew arrived. She said into the phone, 'My husband's just come in. Thank you, I'll be waiting.'

'Who was that?' When she didn't immediately reply, he looked at her more closely and his voice sharpened. 'Jessica, what is it? What's happened?'

'Where have you been?'

He stopped on his way across to her. 'You know perfectly well where I've been.'

'You left the Hall half an hour ago.' 'Must I account for every minute?'

'Yes, I think you must.' She was having trouble with her breathing.

'Jessica, what the hell is this?'

'Someone phoned and recited a string of nursery rhymes at me.'

'My God!' Then the implication of her attitude came through to him, and his face whitened. 'You don't imagine
I
...?'

'One of them,' she said with dry lips, 'was about not washing dishes nor feeding the swine.' 'So?'

She raised trembling hands to her face. 'Oh Matthew! That's what you said, remember? When we first arrived here?'

'Which makes me a murderer?' Anger overcame his disbelief.

'No, no of course not. But for God's sake, where were you?'

'Not,' he said in a clipped voice, 'in a telephone-box.' He stared back into her wide eyes and added flatly, 'You'd better sit down before you fall down.'

He helped her into a chair. 'As it happens, I was walking in the woods. How's that for a cast-iron alibi? Not that I expected to need one, with you.'

'I'm sorry,' she whispered.

'On the way home, a squirrel dashed across the road in front of me and shot up a tree. I jammed on the brakes, and more or less on impulse got out of the car, but I couldn't see it at first. Then I caught sight of it, or another one, racing along the ground, so I followed it for a while, enjoying the crackle of the leaves under my feet and the sunlight through the branches. I'm sorry. If I'd come straight back, I'd have been here and probably taken the call.'

'How could you know?'

'How indeed?' He went to the sideboard and poured them both a drink. 'I suppose it was friend Webb you were speaking to? He'll be intrigued to know I wasn't where I was supposed to be.'

'I didn't tell him.' This couldn't be happening. He was her
husband,
this hard-eyed stranger whom she'd practically accused of murder.

'Did you mention I'd serenaded you with
Curly locks?'

'Of course not.'

'Then please don't. He's suspicious enough as it is.' He drained his glass. 'This bloody place! What's it doing to us? We're treating each other like enemies.'

She made a sound and reached out a hand. He gripped it tightly. 'Darling, I'm sorry. I was just so terrified I didn't know what I was doing.'

With his other hand he tipped back her head, forcing her eyes to meet his. 'You didn't really think it was me?'

'Of course not.'

'Darling, I
love
you! Why should I put the fear of God into you?'

'I said I didn't—'

'But you wondered. Even if only briefly.'

To her shame she could not deny it. He gave a brief laugh and dropped her hand. 'And who can blame you? I did lunch with the victim the day she was killed.'

'Stop it, Matthew.'

'Well, at least let's get our story straight. You rang the Hall, presumably, and they said I'd been gone half an hour. Which they'll repeat to the police when they check.'

'You can't blame me for phoning.'
Jessica heard her voice rise. 'I needed to speak to you.'

He turned suddenly, sniffing. 'What's that smell?'

'Oh God, the potatoes! They'll have boiled dry.'

'I'll see to it.' He went through to the kitchen, and the burning odour intensified. She heard him open the back door and tip the blackened vegetables into the bin, and the hiss of water running into the burnt pan. After a minute he returned.

'Don't bother doing more. I doubt if either of us has much appetite.'

'There's a joint in the oven.'

His mind had moved on. 'What kind of voice was it?'

'A trained one. An actor's voice. But it must have been on a cassette, because there was music'

Twenty minutes later, Webb agreed with her. 'He wouldn't risk speaking, other than in a whisper. He must have played a children's cassette over the phone.'

'But why?'

'To frighten you, Mrs Selby. Possibly to warn you.' He paused. 'Which rhymes did he play? Had they anything in common?'

'Only that they were about women,'

Jessica said, avoiding Matthew's eye.

'Curly locks, Where are you going to, my pretty maid?
and
Mary, Mary.''
She added shakily. 'I think you're right—he
was
trying to make a point. He played the last line twice:
Pretty maids all in a row.'

And he had indeed had quite a row of them, Webb thought grimly. 'We can put a recorder on your phone,' he said aloud, 'but it's a bit late for that now. Did you hear any coins being inserted?'

'No, but he could have done it before I answered.'

'I think we must assume that whoever it was knew you were alone. And since your husband would normally be at home on a Sunday morning—'

'He must have seen Matthew leave?'

'Very likely.'

'But damn it, Chief Inspector, I'd been gone an hour and a half. If I hadn't stopped unexpectedly, I
should have
been home.'

'Then he may simply have noticed the car wasn't there, and decided to put the plan into effect.' 'So he must live quite near?'

'In the village, certainly, but as we know from Mrs Southern, this cottage is visible over quite a large area.'

Webb turned to Matthew. 'You mentioned being late home, sir. Why was that?'

Calmly, holding the policeman's eye, he repeated his account of his ill-timed walk.

Webb made no comment, but turned back to Jessica. 'Unless our man was alone in the house, he'll have used a call-box. There are only two in the village, one outside The Orange Tree and the other on the top road near The Willows.'

'Almost opposite here, in fact.'

'Quite. I'd say that was the more likely.'

'But wouldn't it be a risk, in broad daylight, to play a cassette into the mouthpiece?'

'You can get pretty small ones now. If he had it in a paper bag, say, on top of the instrument, it wouldn't be visible to anyone passing, and in any case there's no footpath on that side of the road.'

'He might have been seen entering or leaving the kiosk,' Jackson put in. They all turned to him, having almost forgotten his presence. 'By someone on their way to The Packhorse, for instance, for a lunch-time drink.'

'Quite right, Sergeant. The clients of The Packhorse will be getting tired of us.' He glanced at his watch. 'They may still be there; we'll go and join them. In the meantime, the kiosk will be sealed off till it can be gone over.' He rose, and Jackson with him. 'From now on, Mrs Selby, Constable Frost will keep an eye on you. Just take normal precautions and try not to worry.'

Jessica sat with clenched hands as Matthew saw the policemen out. Try not to worry! Hysterical laughter rose in a tide inside her. Even if she weren't raped or murdered, her marriage was under threat. Matthew wouldn't easily forget her greeting of him. And still the inane rhymes went round and round in her head.
Nobody asked
you, sir, she said.

As Matthew turned from the door she struggled to her feet. 'The beef will be grossly overdone, but we'll have to make the best of it. Will you lay the table?'

Silently, pursuing their own thoughts, they set about preparing for lunch.

It happened about nine-thirty. Lois was relaxing in her room, as she'd been twelve days earlier when Frances came to her door and the whole nightmare began. This time, the interruption was more dramatic. There was a cry, faint through intervening walls, followed by frenzied shouts of 'Help! Help! Someone come quickly!'

Lois wrenched open her door as Pammy Ironside hurried past. 'It's Mrs Southern,' she said over her shoulder. Together they ran into the old lady's room. Immediately opposite, the curtains were pulled aside and the window gaped wide, its sash pushed up to its highest extent. Mrs Southern lay in bed, sheet to her chin, as Pammy had left her twenty minutes earlier.

Lois ran to the window and leant out, listening intently. Immediately to her right, the skeletal framework of the fire escape led down to the dark garden. Nothing moved, either on it or in the shadows beneath, but the lawn had been cut that afternoon, and some wet blades of grass glistened on the broad sill.

Heart pounding, she turned back into the room. Pammy was bending over Mrs Southern.

'What happened?' Lois tried to speak calmly.

The old voice was surprisingly firm. 'I wasn't asleep, thank God. If I had been, I doubt if I'd have woken again.'

'It was only a burglar!' Lois said sharply, but her eyes fell under the scathing glance.

Ignoring her, Mrs Southern continued. 'The window was open a few inches, as I like it. The first sound I heard was it being pushed up. I was more puzzled than afraid. Then the curtain was pulled aside and a foot came over the sill. That's when I screamed. I startled him, of course. He hesitated—perhaps wondering if he'd time to silence me— then, as I went on shouting, he retreated rapidly.'

'Stay here, Nurse,' Lois ordered quickly. 'I'll send some tea up and get on to the police.'

So for the second time that day, Webb and Jackson drove out to Westridge, followed by Scenes of Crime officers. 'At least,' Webb said hopefully, 'we should get a footprint. There was a heavy dew this evening.'

But he was wrong. The fire escape was innocent of any recognizable prints, though a smudged wetness appeared on its steps, accompanied by blades of grass. The explanation was provided by Mrs Southern.

'He was in his stocking feet,' she said positively, in reply to his question. 'Grey socks. I saw them quite clearly.'

'Over his shoes, no doubt,' Webb said disgustedly. 'What else did you see, ma'am?'

'A pair of hands, in gloves, and a—a woolly face, with gaps for eyes.'

'The helmet again. Nothing you could recognize?'

'No. I
think
he wore a black, high-necked sweater, but I couldn't be sure.'

Webb turned to Lois. 'Were the side gates locked, as I requested?'

'I bolted them myself, before it got dark.'

'Then how the hell did he get in?'

When they went downstairs, the Scenes of Crime man told them. The left-hand gate had been unlocked. 'It's easily done, Guv. The bolt's down near the bottom and there's a big enough gap underneath to put your hand through and draw it back.'