Smoke and Mirrors (12 page)

As Miss Young sat down there was a low murmur in the church. Edgar, too, felt strangely disquieted by the teacher’s performance, for performance was how he thought of it. He thought of ‘The Juniper Tree’.
Marlinchen might be a corruption of Mary Magdalene and the boy coming to life could be seen to mirror the Resurrection.
So satisfying, the justice meted out in these stories. But where was the justice for the children in their coffins below the altar steps? He looked at the families in the front row. Sandra Francis’s head was bowed, her youngest child sat in her lap. He saw Jim Francis pat her shoulder and turn round to glance reassuringly at Edna Webster. Reg Webster was sobbing into his handkerchief.

The vicar spoke next and his words seemed to be deliberately dry and detached, as if to disassociate himself from the drama of stones being rolled away and dead bodies appearing trailing their shrouds. He said that the death of children was always particularly sad but that, as St Luke said, children had a special place in the Saviour’s heart and that, even now, they were at his right hand in paradise. He said this as though paradise were an address in Brighton. Then the congregation rose to sing ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’ and the coffins began their slow journey out of the church.

*

Max, watching from the back, thought that the vicar could have a future on the boards. His voice, though expressionless, carried effortlessly into the furthest rows, the cheapest seats. As for the previous speaker, the glamorous redhead, she was a thwarted thespian if he ever saw one. Edgar had been barely adequate, rushing through that rather beautiful passage as if he were reading a police report. Max was sure that Edgar had, in fact, been close to tears. He was too sensitive for police work; Max had told him so before now.

‘Dear me.’ Diablo dabbed his eyes as the coffins went past. ‘How sad this all is. Those poor families. They’ll never get over it, you know. My mother never got over the deaths of my two younger brothers in the first war.’ It was the first time that Diablo had mentioned this loss to Max. Edgar had lost a brother in the Second World War, he remembered.

The police contingent marched past. Max recognised the gormless sergeant and the good-looking blonde plus a host of other uniformed plods. Edgar stopped at their pew.

‘Thank you so much for coming. It was very good of you.’

‘We wanted to show our respect,’ said Diablo. ‘This must be terribly hard for you, dear boy.’

‘It’s hard for the families,’ said Edgar. ‘I don’t know how they’ll cope.’

The doors were open at the back now and people were streaming out. The committal, the vicar had said, was for close family only.

‘Who was the red-headed woman?’ said Max. ‘The one who read the Lazarus story?’

Edgar looked round quickly before replying. ‘Miss Young, the children’s primary school teacher. She’s an interesting woman.’

‘She looks it.’

‘What about coming for a quick drink?’ said Diablo hopefully. ‘I’m sure we all need it.’

‘I can’t,’ said Edgar. ‘I’ve got to get back to work.’

‘Tonight then.’

‘I’m busy tonight. I’m meeting Ruby.’

Edgar could never quite say Ruby’s name without blushing, thought Max. Aloud he said, ‘It’s her first night tomorrow, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, wish her luck from me.’

‘I will.’

Edgar smiled rather nervously at them both before making his way out of the church. Max, waiting for the crowds to disperse, wondered why he minded Edgar seeing Ruby. He should be pleased, surely, that she’d found herself such an eminently decent man. Except that Ruby was twenty-one and Edgar ten years older. But Ruby was old for her years. To his surprise, he realised that he was more worried about Ruby breaking Edgar’s heart than the other way round.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Diablo. ‘Look who’s here. It’s Roger the Dodger and that fellow who keeps telling me that I’m getting the lines wrong.’

Max followed Diablo’s pointing figure and saw Roger Dunkley and Nigel Castle amongst the crowd at the doors. He’d told Roger that he’d be attending the funeral, saying that he’d be back in good time for the matinee. Why hadn’t the director mentioned that he’d be there too?

‘Shall we find a side exit?’ said Diablo in a stage whisper. ‘A little of those two goes a long way with me.’

Max acquiesced but he couldn’t help looking back at the two theatricals as they mingled with the children’s family and friends. He couldn’t have said why their presence made him feel so uneasy.

Edgar left the station promptly at five and arrived in Worthing early. He parked the car and walked along the esplanade. He was meeting Ruby by the bandstand on the seafront. He remembered Ruby writing that Worthing was ‘so boring’ but, after the events of the last week, he found the solid hotels and broad streets rather reassuring. It was nearly dark but there was a cheerful, wholesome feeling about the town that was quite a contrast to Brighton. The passers-by all looked respectable types, huddled up against the cold, hurrying home to blameless high teas and
Mrs Dale’s Diary
. He thought of his old army major, who had also lived in Worthing. He had been thoroughly respectable. On the surface, at least.

By the time that Ruby appeared, he was frozen and had lost all feeling in his extremities. The sight of Ruby, though, was enough to warm his heart. She looked so pretty, her heart-shaped face framed by a fur hat, her black coat nipped in to show her trim chorus girl’s figure.

‘Am I late? Sorry.’

‘No. You’re exactly on time. I was early.’

He wasn’t sure whether to kiss her or not but she presented her cheek like a child. Her skin was firm and cold. She smelt of a sharp lemony scent that was unfamiliar.

‘It’s lovely to see you, Ed.’ She tucked her hand into his arm and briefly rested her head on his shoulder. His senses reeled. Was she treating him like a trusted friend of her father’s or was this something else? He thought of the day at the ice rink. Then, when he’d kissed her, she had definitely kissed him back. He remembered the sensation of her lips against his, the scent of her hair. One way or another, he had to kiss her again. The moment was lost now though, they were walking briskly along the promenade and she was telling him about Worthing and her landlady and what Buttons had said to one of the Ugly Sisters.

He had asked her to suggest a restaurant for dinner and she’d chosen an Italian place just off the seafront. She had Max’s gift for sniffing out a good meal, Edgar realised that at once. Toppolino’s was both friendly and professional, just full enough to be exciting but spacious enough for them to have a corner table with candles and a red-checked tablecloth. The waiters made a discreet fuss of Ruby, taking her coat away to hang up and bowing as they pulled out her chair for her. Edgar felt both embarrassed and proud to be seen in her company. He hoped that they didn’t look like father and daughter.

Under her coat Ruby was wearing a black-and-white check suit. When Edgar complimented her on it, she said, ‘Thank you. Mummy doesn’t really like me to wear black.’

This reference to her mother, the former snake charmer, threw Edgar off track. (On the way he had rehearsed things he could say; compliment her on her dress had been the first thing.)

Ruby saved him by leaning forward and saying, ‘I’ve been reading about your case in the papers. It must be terrible.’

Her saying that made everything easier. He was even able to tell her about the funeral that morning without thinking that he sounded too morbid.

‘Max . . . your dad . . . was there. With Diablo. It was good of them to come.’

‘I love Uncle Stan,’ said Ruby. ‘He’s so sweet.’ She didn’t mention Max. Edgar noted that Ruby was another one with an adopted uncle. Did she know about her grandfather’s visit? Max said that he’d promised to introduce Lord Massingham to Ruby. What would Ruby make of that meeting? ‘She’ll have the old bastard wrapped around her little finger in minutes,’ said Max. Edgar had no doubt at all that this was true.

‘How’s your show?’ asked Edgar. ‘Any last-minute panics?’

Ruby grinned. ‘The dress rehearsal was so bad that the director cried. You are coming to the opening night tomorrow, aren’t you?’

‘I’ll try,’ said Edgar. ‘It just might be difficult with work and things.’

‘Max said he’d come one day when he hasn’t got a matinee,’ said Ruby. ‘It’s difficult when we’re both in shows at the same time.’

Her tone was light but Edgar thought that she sounded put out all the same. The waiter was hovering and he chose lasagne at random. Ruby spent a long time deciding on saltimbocca and a side salad. Edgar recklessly ordered a bottle of red. He’d just have to drive home slowly.

‘Are you nervous?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said Ruby with a defiant tilt of the chin. ‘I’m only in the back row of the chorus, after all.’

This was almost exactly what Max had said. Had he been stupid enough to say it to Ruby?

‘Well, I know I’d be petrified,’ he said. ‘I was in a play at school once. I only had to say that someone “lies i’ the second chamber” and I couldn’t sleep for a week.’

Apparently the thought of Edgar the thespian cheered Ruby up. She laughed and accepted a glass of wine.

‘It’s quite good fun being a panto babe,’ she said, ‘and I’m learning a lot, but it’s not what I want to do all my life.’

‘Do you still want to be a magician?’ asked Edgar.

‘Yes. I suppose you think that’s stupid?’

‘No, I . . .’

She laughed. ‘It’s all right, Ed. Even I think it’s stupid sometimes. But it’s all I want to do. I’ve been practising some new tricks. Shall I show you?’

Edgar nodded, dazzled by her.

‘All right.’ She fished in her bag for a piece of paper. It was torn from a letter, he couldn’t help noticing. Who had been writing to her? Max? Her mother? Another man?

‘Write something,’ she said. ‘Anything.’

Of course, then he couldn’t think of a single thing. Not a single word in the whole English language. A is for apple. B is for bear. Think, man, think.

He wrote ‘Ruby’.

‘No, not my name,’ said Ruby, without looking. ‘Something more difficult to guess.’

She gave him another scrap of paper and he wrote ‘Juniper’.

‘Now fold it up.’

She took the folded paper and held it in the flame from the candle. It burnt quickly, the candle stuttering, the shadow wild on the stucco wall. Then she smiled at him and accepted her saltimbocca from the waiter.

It was only when they were drinking coffee that she told him to look at the screw of paper in his saucer.

He unwrapped it. One word, written in a slanting, foreign-looking hand: ‘Juniper’.

He gaped at her. ‘That’s amazing. How did you . . .?’

She smiled, her creamy cat’s smile. ‘That would be telling. Max says never to tell the audience how it’s done.’

But on the way to her digs she relented. She had visited the restaurant earlier that day and primed the waiter. He had been standing behind Edgar when he wrote the word.

‘That’s cheating.’

‘No,’ she said seriously. ‘It’s making use of what you have.’

Afterwards he wondered a lot about that remark.

*

It was nearly midnight when he got home. It hadn’t snowed but the roads were icy. He drove with his gloves on, leaning forward to see through the space carved by the windscreen wipers. When he’d kissed Ruby goodbye, in the doorway of her digs, she had clung to him but he didn’t know whether that was just because of the cold. He had kissed her on the mouth, just lightly, and she had accepted it, her face tilted upwards. She hadn’t joined in as she had that day on the ice rink.

He was glad to reach his flat, glad to escape the various turmoils of the day. Even though the house was likely to be as cold inside as out, he could at least have a whisky and get into bed. He let himself in, stepping over the post that always seemed to silt up in the communal hall. He was about to put the letters on the half-moon table when he realised that he was looking at his own name, ‘DI Edgar Stephens’, written in a clear hand on an expensive-looking envelope. No stamp or address. For a second he thought of Ruby and her trick. Had she somehow arranged for this letter to be here, waiting for him? No, that was impossible. Nevertheless the feeling remained, that this was a trick or a trap, something to be feared.

He opened the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of thick cream paper.

Edgar looked at his watch. It was ten to twelve. Too late surely to call on Daphne Young? It would be crass, almost amounting to misconduct, to knock on her door at midnight. He’d go round before work in the morning. Nevertheless he slept badly, dreaming of churches and juniper trees and bodies rising from the dead. He was up and dressed at six but thought he should wait until seven to make the call. He drank black coffee, looking out of the window. It was still dark but, as a watery sun rose over the rooftops, he could see the frost glittering on the pavements. Snow lay in dirty drifts at the side of the road. At seven he started up the police car and drove slowly down the hill, keeping in a low gear and trying not to brake too much. The address on Daphne’s letter was Montpelier Terrace, a smart residential area near the Seven Dials. The road was quiet, just a milkman and his horse plodding slowly past the white terraced houses. Edgar came to a halt, skidding slightly, and consulted the letter. First-floor flat, number 14.

There was no answer from the first floor but Edgar didn’t panic. It was still early, Daphne was probably in bed. He watched the horse disappearing around the corner, the milk-cart swaying behind him. A bus edged past on the road below. Edgar rang the bell again and counted to ten. Then he tried the bell below.

The door opened very suddenly and an elderly man in a dressing gown stood glaring at him.

‘What do you want?’

Slightly taken aback, Edgar said, ‘I’m Detective Inspector Edgar Stephens of the Brighton Police. I came to see Miss Young in the flat above but she’s not answering her bell.’

‘Well, she’s probably asleep. As any decent person should be at this hour.’

‘I really do need to see her urgently,’ said Edgar. ‘Do you have a key to her flat?’

A woman had joined the man. She was in dressing gown and curlers but seemed disposed to be helpful.

‘We’ve got a key,’ she said. ‘What’s this about?’

‘He’s from the police, Irma.’

‘Well, all the more reason to help him, Morris. Come in. Come in.’

He had to wait in the black-and-white tiled hall for what felt like hours while Irma and Morris searched for the key. Eventually they emerged. Irma had taken her curlers out.

‘Here it is. I’d put it in the spare tea caddy for safe keeping.’

‘Except you forgot where you’d put it,’ said her husband.

Edgar took the key and bounded up the stairs. The elderly couple followed, still arguing gently.

At least it was the right key. Edgar pushed open the front door, calling, ‘Miss Young? Daphne?’

There was no sound but the heavy ticking of a clock. Edgar opened a door and saw a sitting room with blue-swathed sofas and an upright piano. The next room was the kitchen. He opened the door at the end of the passage.

He turned to Irma and Morris. ‘Don’t come any further!’

But they, of course, had followed him and were peering over his shoulder. Irma said ‘Is she dead?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ said Edgar.

*

Daphne lay on her bed but, even to the inexpert eye, her pose was unnatural and grotesque. One leg was bent under her, the other stretched out to the floor. Her neck was back and, even from the doorway, Edgar could see the fingerprints around her neck.

‘Has Miss Young got a telephone?’ he asked.

‘All the flats have telephones,’ said Irma.

‘Stay where you are,’ said Edgar. ‘Don’t go into the bedroom.’

The telephone was on a small table by the front door. Edgar rang the station and asked them to send the coroner’s van. ‘And telephone Solomon Carter and ask him to meet me here. And when Sergeant Willis or Sergeant Holmes gets in . . .’

‘Sergeant Holmes is here now, sir.’

‘Is she? Well, tell her to meet me here too. Thank you.’

He went back to the bedroom. The elderly couple were still standing in the doorway. He hoped the experience hadn’t been too much of a shock for them but Irma said, in a surprisingly strong voice, ‘Shall I make us all a cup of tea?’

Edgar saw a chance of getting them out of the flat. ‘That would be very kind. Thank you. Could you make it downstairs? I’ll join you as soon as I can.’

Morris and Irma retreated, rather reluctantly. Edgar approached the bed. He knew he shouldn’t touch anything – there could be fingerprints, clues, blood, anything. But he wanted to see the body. He wanted to see some sign that Daphne had been dead for hours, that he wouldn’t have saved her if he’d driven round at midnight last night. He thought the body looked stiff but he couldn’t tell without touching it. Daphne’s red hair touched the floor; her lips were bared in something between a smile and a grimace. He thought of her yesterday, reading from scripture, her voice resonating around the packed church.
I am the Resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die.
He wished that he was like Sandra Francis, that he believed in God. He wished he could pray for her.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there. The clock ticked in the hall, otherwise the flat was silent. Edgar went back into the sitting room. This room, like Daphne’s classroom, was a jewelled cave. No utility furniture here; everything seemed to belong to an older, richer age. Red silk curtains gave the room a pinkish glow. The sofas were covered with blue fabric embroidered with stars and moons. On the table between the sofas there was a pile of paper snowflakes. Edgar’s throat contracted. Daphne had been making her Christmas decorations. Next to the paper shapes there was a cup. Just one. Daphne clearly hadn’t been expecting visitors. He touched it. Cold. A lipstick kiss was imprinted on the china. There were two books on the table too. A Bible and a book of fairy stories. He wrapped a handkerchief around his hand and opened the fairy stories. It fell open at a place marked by a photograph. Edgar stared at the children in the picture, all of them now as familiar as his own nephews. Mark, Annie and her little sister, Betty. It was the only photograph he had seen of Mark smiling. He had his hand over his mouth as if trying to stifle a laugh. Annie looked at him, halfway between irritation and affection. Betty beamed into the camera, clearly delighted to be in such exalted company.

‘Edgar! Fancy meeting you here.’

It was Solomon Carter, who had made his usual silent entrance.

‘Where’s the corpse?’

‘This way.’ Edgar led the way back to the bedroom.

*

Emma arrived just as he was leaving the house on Montpelier Terrace.

‘You took your time,’ he said.

‘I had to walk.’ Emma was pink-faced with exertion. It was uphill all the way from Bartholomew Square.

‘I’ll give you a lift back.’

‘Aren’t we going to examine the scene?’

‘Solomon Carter’s in there now. We’ll go back when they’ve removed the body.’

He opened the car door. Emma got in beside him. Edgar started the engine but didn’t make any move to set off. Exhaust smoke billowed around them.

‘How did she die?’ asked Emma.

‘Strangled, Carter says. He thinks she’s been dead about twelve hours.’

That meant he couldn’t have saved her even if he’d gone round last night. Even so, if he’d gone home after work, if he hadn’t driven straight to Worthing to see Ruby . . .

‘Anyone see anything?’

‘The neighbours, Irma and Morris Gold, have been very helpful. They’re the sort who notice everything. They said that Daphne came in at about two in the afternoon yesterday. She must have come straight home after the wake. The school was shut all day. Then they heard her go out at about three.’

That must have been when she walked to his house. As briefly as possible, he told Emma about the note from Daphne.

‘I’ve got it here. Look.’

She put on her gloves to touch it. Edgar was impressed, even though his prints must be all over the paper.

‘She thought she’d discovered something about the children?’

‘Yes. It must have been after the funeral. She came home and thought of something. She walked round to my place with the letter. She was back at four. Solomon Carter thought she must have been killed a few hours later.’

‘How did she know where you lived?’

‘It wouldn’t have been hard to find out. I’m in the book.’

‘Do you think she was killed because of this piece of information, whatever it was?’

‘I have to think that. She wrote to me. Who else did she tell? Someone thought it was important enough to silence her.’

‘I wish she’d just told you in the letter,’ said Emma.

‘So do I. But that was Daphne Young. She liked a mystery. She liked a good story.’

‘And it killed her,’ said Emma. They were silent for a minute and then she said, ‘Did the neighbours see anyone coming to the house?’

‘That’s the frustrating thing. They have their supper at six and weren’t at their usual spot by the window. Irma did say she thought she heard a man’s voice upstairs but, as Morris said, that could have been the wireless.’

‘Have you any idea what she thought she’d discovered?’ Emma tapped the cream envelope.

‘No. I’ve been thinking and thinking about it.’ Daphne must have come back from the funeral, made herself a cup of tea and sat on the sofa. Was she reading the book of fairy stories? Did that give her the clue? He told Emma about the photograph.

‘It was just a picture of Annie, Mark and Betty, that’s all?’

‘That’s all. No writing on the back. Nothing.’

‘You said it was marking a place in the book. Which story was it marking?’

The funny thing was, Edgar thought he didn’t know but he did. He could see the page as if it was imprinted on his eyelids, the little figure cavorting in its red trousers. ‘ “Hans My Hedgehog”’ he said.

‘Daphne said that Annie was like Hans,’ said Emma. ‘It must mean something.’

‘Yes,’ said Edgar. ‘But what? Come on, let’s go back and brief the team.’