The Language of the Dead (22 page)

She looked at him, bewildered. “Harm Emily?”

“Did she have any relationships with men, for example—with someone who might have become jealous or angry at her for some reason?”

“Men?” She blinked.

“Yes. A boyfriend, perhaps? A sweetheart?”

Something in that word—
sweetheart
—seemed to resonate with Elizabeth. Lamb expected her to say something about the pilot whose photo he'd found in Emily's wallet. Instead, Elizabeth paused for a few seconds and then, strangely, smiled. “No,” she said. “No sweethearts.
At least not since she was five. She was sweet on one of the boys then. Brian Hall. He was a cute little boy, always smiling.” She turned to Lamb. “He's dead now, of course. Drowned in the bath, years ago. I can't remember how many. He slipped and hit his head, you see.”

She stopped for a moment, as if to think. The shock she'd registered seconds before seemed already to have worn off. The act of remembering Emily as a girl seemed to have occasioned this metamorphosis. She smiled again.

“Yes, five,” she said. “Emily was a very pretty girl even then.” She sat up suddenly, as if ready for her tea.

“Was there anyone more recent than Brian Hall?” Lamb asked gently.

“Not really,” she said. She stopped speaking and looked at the floor. Lamb felt her retreating again. He realized he'd made a mistake in shifting the subject of their conversation away from Emily's childhood.

“But they were cute, the two of them, when they were children—Emily and Brian?” he asked.

“Oh, yes. They were very cute. And then Brian died.”

Elizabeth suddenly put her face into her hands, bent forward, and began to weep.

Lamb let her cry for several minutes. She sobbed loudly, her shoulders heaving. Several times she cried aloud, “Oh, God,” or “Please God, no!” Eventually, Lamb ventured to touch her shoulder. In response, Elizabeth put her right hand over her mouth for a second and then pressed her index finger and thumb against her eyes.

“She's dead,” she said, as if she were informing Lamb of this fact. “Emily is dead.”

“Yes,” Lamb said. “I'm sorry.”

Elizabeth drew in several quick breaths and sniffed. Her eyes, though red-rimmed, filled again with a kind of fierceness. Lamb thought that he had never met anyone like Elizabeth Fordham. Emotions seemed to course through her like unpredictable winds through a canyon. And yet he sensed that, despite this, she possessed some control over her moods. She pushed her hands along her thighs, wiping the moisture from her hands.

“Ask me your questions,” she said to Lamb. She had become erect and forthright. “I know that you must ask me questions if you are to find who did this to Emily.”

Wallace arrived with a tray containing a pot of tea, three cups, a small cup of milk, and a bowl of sugar. He put the tray on the table in front of the sofa. Elizabeth poured each of them a cup of tea, then abruptly stopped. Wallace quietly withdrew his notebook and a pencil from his jacket pocket.

“I understand she volunteered at the infirmary near the RAF base in Cloverton,” Lamb said. “What did she do there?”

“Whatever was needed. She was a helper. She helped with bandages and made tea. She was always a helpful girl.”

“Did she have a job?”

“No. I wouldn't allow it. Not with the war on. I didn't want her mixed up in things. She wanted to join the WAAFs, but I wouldn't allow it.”

She poured a bit of milk into her tea and sipped it.

Lamb sensed that she was again growing calm. “Do you know of anyone else who might have wanted to hurt Emily?” he asked.

“No.” She shook her head and looked away from Lamb. “Who would want to hurt Emily?” She said this almost as if she were speaking to herself.

“Oh, Emily!” she exclaimed. She was looking at the far wall. “Why must you be so difficult?” The tempest in her was rising again.

“Who else did she know?” Lamb asked. “Where did she spend her time?”

Elizabeth daubed at her eyes with her fingers. She thrust out her chin, again seeming to bring herself under control. “She wanted to join the WAAFs, but I wouldn't allow it,” she said again.

“Yes,” Lamb said. He realized that he had made another mistake. Elizabeth had wanted to explain her reasons for prohibiting Emily from joining the WAAFs and he had tried to guide her away from that.

“She got the idea from Lilly, her friend,” Elizabeth said. “We argued about it, but I didn't want her mixed up with it. We argued
about it.” She hesitated for a second, then turned to face Lamb. “Do you have children, Chief Inspector?”

“Yes. I have a daughter who is about Emily's age.”

“Well, then, you know how difficult they can be.”

“Yes.”

“Emily always has been a difficult child. And she defied me.”

Lamb nodded.

“When I forbade Emily from joining the WAAFs, she went instead to volunteer at the infirmary. She came in here one afternoon and announced that she'd done it.” She looked again toward the far wall. “I didn't fight it. I was tired of fighting.”

“What is Lilly's last name?” Wallace asked.

“What?” She was looking at Wallace but also looking past him.

“What is Lilly's last name, madam?”

“Schmidt—it's a German name. I hadn't really noticed until the war started, but Lilly has a German surname.”

“Can you tell us where we might find Miss Schmidt?”

“She's a waitress in the tea room in the village.”

Lamb produced the photo of the RAF pilot they'd found in Emily's wallet. He braced himself for another shift in Elizabeth's emotions. “Do you recognize this man?” he asked.

Elizabeth took the photo and stared at it. Lamb saw surprise in her eyes.

“No,” she said. “I've never seen him before. Why are you showing me this?”

“We found the photograph in Emily's wallet.”

Elizabeth threw the photo onto the coffee table.

“This is the man who killed her, then?” she asked. “This is her killer?”

“We don't know,” Lamb said. “We hoped you might identify him.”

She seemed to recoil from the photo, pressing herself against the couch.

“No. This is a mistake. Emily wouldn't have that man's photograph in her wallet. She would have told me if she knew this man.
Someone has put that photograph in her wallet.” Her eyes widened. “I wouldn't doubt that Lilly gave her the photo. She's still trying to persuade Emily to join the WAAFs, despite my having forbidden it.”

Lamb decided not to press the matter.

“She'd have told me if she knew this man,” Elizabeth repeated.

“Yes, of course,” Lamb said.

He produced the drawing of the spider attacking the butterfly and the small photo of the boy. “We also found these in Emily's wallet,” he said. “Do they mean anything to you?”

Elizabeth stared at the drawing fleetingly. “No,” she said quickly and with obvious disdain. “I don't know what this is. It makes no sense; it's garish and ugly. Emily didn't do this sort of thing.”

“Do you recognize the boy?”

“No. I have no idea who he is. I suppose he could be one of the children Lord Pembroke takes in over the summers. Emily and her brother, Donald, worked there a few summers.” She thrust out her chin again. “Lord Pembroke chooses several local young men and women of good character to help out with the children each summer. Donald applied first and was accepted, then Emily.”

The news surprised Lamb. He hadn't known that Pembroke hired young people from the villages to assist him with the orphans. Obviously, that was how Emily had known Peter.

“Do you know of a boy named Peter Wilkins who also stays with Lord Pembroke?” Lamb asked. “We have reason to believe he might have drawn this picture.”

“No. Why would you think that some boy connected with Lord Pembroke would have drawn this horrible thing?”

“He likes to draw insects.”

Elizabeth drew in her shoulders beneath her shawl, as if she'd caught a chill. “They're terrible-looking things,” she said. “Frightening. I don't know why he would have sent Emily such a thing unless it was to frighten her.”

“Where is your son, Donald, stationed, Mrs. Fordham? We may want to speak to him.”

Elizabeth looked away. Lamb sensed that she was shutting down again. “You can't,” she said. “He's too far away. He's in the Royal Navy.”

“Is he stationed on a ship, then?” Wallace interjected.

Elizabeth looked at Wallace with an expression that seemed to say that she found his question idiotic. “
Nothing
like that,” she said. “He's part of an anti-aircraft crew guarding Scapa Flow.” Her eyes flared. “Donald also defied me. I told him I didn't want him to become mixed up in the war, but he defied me.”

“Do you have the name of the unit to which he is attached?” Lamb asked.

“No. I don't concern myself with such things. Donald defied me.”

Lamb decided he'd gotten all he could for the moment from Elizabeth Fordham. The woman seemed to have entirely lost touch with the true substance of her daughter's life.

“If you think of anything else, please call me,” Lamb said, handing Elizabeth a card with his telephone number on it. “I can only say once again that Sergeant Wallace and I are very sorry to bring you the news we have brought you and will do everything in our power to discover who did this to your daughter.”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said, absently. “Thank you.” She sat again on the sofa with her hands in her lap, staring at the opposite wall.

“Is there anyone whom you might want us to contact for you, Mrs. Fordham? Perhaps someone who might come and stay with you for a time?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “No.”

She looked at her feet. “Emily,” she said quietly. “What am I going to do with you?”

THE EXCELSIOR TEA ROOM WAS IN THE LIPSCOMBE VILLAGE SQUARE.
Lilly Schmidt was wiping cake crumbs from one of the shop's four yellow tables as Lamb and Wallace entered. The shop was empty of customers. Lilly looked up when the bell over the door jingled.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” she said. Lamb could see from her countenance that she did not yet know that her friend had been murdered. Normally, such news traveled very quickly in the little villages. Apparently, though, no one yet had gotten around to Lilly Schmidt.

“Miss Schmidt?” Lamb said. The place smelled of cinnamon and coffee, which made him hungry. “Lilly Schmidt?”

“Yes.”

Lamb showed his warrant card and introduced himself and Wallace. “Do you have a minute or two to spare?”

“Yes,” she said. She appeared suddenly confused. “Is something wrong?”

They sat at the table that she had been cleaning. Lamb was glad that the shop was empty. It would allow them to speak frankly about Emily. If a customer came in, he might have to move Lilly outside. “Is anyone else here?” he asked.

“Not at the moment. The owner, Mrs. Beltram, has gone out.”

“I'm sorry, Miss Schmidt,” Lamb said. “I just wanted to ensure that we could speak frankly without being overheard. I'm afraid that I have some bad news. Emily Fordham was found dead this morning off the main road north of the village.”

“Emily?” Lilly put her hand to her mouth.

“Yes, I'm afraid so.”

“But why?”

“That's what we're endeavoring to find out. I'm sorry to tell you that she was murdered—she was struck a blow to the head.”

Lilly's eyes began to well with tears. “I don't understand,” she said. “I just saw her yesterday morning.”

Lamb leaned toward her. “I know it's difficult, Miss Schmidt. But if you believe you're up to it, we'd like to ask you a few questions about Emily that might help us to understand what happened to her.”

Lilly put her hand over her eyes in an attempt to stanch her welling tears. “All right,” she said.

“Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to hurt Emily—someone she might have argued or fought with?”

“No. Emily had no enemies. Everyone loved her.”

“How about a boyfriend? Was she sweet on anyone?”

Lilly looked away and put her hand to her mouth again.

Lamb touched her other hand, which was resting on the small blue table. “There can be no secrets, Miss Schmidt,” he said gently. “We must know what you know if we are to find who did this to Emily.”

Lilly turned to Lamb. Her lips quivered slightly. “Charles,” she said.

Lamb put the photo of the pilot on the table. “Is this Charles?”

“Yes.”

“How long has Emily known him?”

“They met last fall when she began helping at the infirmary near Cloverton airfield. They met in a pub in the village near there.” She looked down for a second, then back at Lamb. “I think Emily was looking for a pilot—that's why she volunteered at Cloverton. She found them romantic, you know. Heroic. And, sure enough, she found one. He's Canadian. She used to see him two or three times a week before the Germans started coming. She hasn't seen him much since, though. She told me yesterday morning that she was going to see him. She'd spent part of the previous night waiting for him after the airfield was attacked. She told me that she was certain he'd survived.”