The Tinder Box (8 page)

I'll bet you a pound to a penny they're tucked up

together somewhere and she'll come wandering in

with a smile on her face when you least expect it. I

hope you tear strips off her for it, too. She's no damn

business to leave the boys on their own.'

She let it ride, unwilling to be drawn into another

argument about Rosheen's morals. Ian worked on the

principle that what the eye didn't see the heart didn't

grieve over, and refused to recognize the hypocrisy of

his position, while Siobhan's view was that Kevin was

merely a bit of 'rough' that was keeping Rosheen

amused while she looked for something better. Every

woman did it. . . the road to respectability was far from

straight. In any case, she agreed with his final sentiment.

Even if it was Liam who had phoned from the

cottage, Rosheen's first responsibility was to James

and Oliver. 'So what should I do? Just wait for her to

come back?'

'I don't see you have much choice. She's over

twenty-one so the police won't do anything tonight.'

'OK.'

He knew her too well. 'You don't sound convinced.'

She wasn't, but then she was more relaxed about

the way Rosheen conducted herself than he was. The

fact that they'd come home early one night and

caught her in the barn with her knickers down had

offended Ian deeply, even though Rosheen had been

monitoring the boys all the time via a two-way transmitter

that she'd taken with her. Ian had wanted to

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sack her on the spot, but Siobhan had persuaded him

out of it after extracting a promise from Rosheen that

the affair would be confined to her spare time in

future. Afterwards, and because she was a great deal

less puritanical than her English husband, Siobhan had

buried her face in her pillow to stifle her laughter. Her

view was that Rosheen had shown typical Irish tact

by having sex outside in the barn rather than under

the Lavenhams' roof. As she pointed out to Ian: 'We'd

never have known Kevin was there if she'd smutted

him into her room and told him to perform quietly.''

'It's just that I'm tired,' she lied, knowing she

could never describe her sense of foreboding down

the telephone to someone over a thousand miles away. Empty houses gave her the shivers at the best of times

- a throwback to the rambling, echoing mansion of

her childhood, which her overactive imagination had

peopled with giants and spectres . . . 'Look, go back

to sleep and I'll ring you tomorrow. It'll have sorted

itself out by then. Just make sure you come home by

Friday,' she ended severely, 'or I'll file for divorce

immediately. I didn't marry you to be deserted for the

Ravenelli brothers.'

'I will,' he promised.

Siobhan listened to the click as he hung up at the

other end, then replaced her own receiver before

opening the front door and looking towards the dark

shape of the barn. She searched for a chink of light

between the double doors but knew she was wasting

her time even while she was doing it. Rosheen had

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been so terrified by lan's threat to tell her parents in

Ireland what she'd been up to that her sessions with

Kevin were now confined to somewhere a great deal

more private than Fording Farm's barn.

With a sigh she retreated to the kitchen and settled

on a cushion in front of the Aga with Patch's head

lying across her lap and the bottle of wine beside her.

It was another ten minutes before she noticed that the

key to Kilkenny Cottage, which should have been

hanging on a hook on the dresser, was no longer

there.

69

Wednesday, 10 February 1999

'But why are you so sure it was Patrick?' Siobhan had

asked the inspector next. 'Why not a total stranger?

I mean, anyone could have taken the hammer from

his toolbox if he'd left it in the kitchen the way he

says he did.'

'Because there were no signs of a break-in. Whoever

killed them either had a key to the front door or JŁ

was let in by Dorothy Jenkins. And that means it must

have been someone she knew.'

'Maybe she hadn't locked up,' said Siobhan,

clutching at straws. 'Maybe they came in through the

back door.'

'Have you ever tried to open the back door to the

manor, Mrs Lavenham?'

'No.'

'Apart from the fact that the bolts were rusted in

their sockets, it's so warped and swollen with damp

you have to put a shoulder to it to force it ajar, and

it screams like a banshee every time you do it. If a

stranger had come in through the back door at eleven

o'clock at night, he wouldn't have caught Miss Jenkins

in the kitchen. She'd have taken to her heels the

minute she heard the banshee-wailing and would have

used one of the phones upstairs to call the police.'

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'You can't know that,' argued Siobhan. 'Sower

bridge is the sleepiest place on earth. Why would she

assume it was an intruder? She probably thought it

was Jeremy paying a late-night visit to his grandmother.'

'We don't think so.' He picked up a pen and

turned it between his fingers. 'As far as we can establish,

that door was never used. Certainly none of the

neighbours reported going in that way. The paper

boy said Miss Jenkins kept it bolted because on the

one occasion when she tried to open it, it became so

wedged that she had to ask him to force it shut again.'

She sighed, admitting defeat. 'Patrick's always been

so sweet to me and my children. I just can't believe

he's a murderer.'

He smiled at her naivety. 'The two are not mutually

exclusive, Mrs Lavenham. I expect Jack the Ripper's

neighbour said the same about him.'

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Tuesday, 9 March 1999, 1.00 a.m.

People began to shiver as the smouldering remains

were dowsed by the fire hoses and the pungent smell

of wet ashes stung their nostrils. In the aftermath of

excitement, a sense of shame crept among the inhabitants

of Sowerbridge - schadenfreude was surely alien

to their natures? - and bit by bit the crowd began to

disperse. Only the Haversleys, the Bentleys and Jeremy

Jardine lingered at the crossroads, held by a

mutual fascination for the scene of devastation that

would greet them every time they emerged from their

houses.

'We won't be able to open our windows for weeks,'

said Nora Bentley, wrinkling her nose. 'The smell will

be suffocating.'

'It'll be worse when the wind gets up and deposits

soot all over the place,' complained Peter Haversley,

brushing ash from his coat.

His wife clicked her tongue impatiently. 'We'll just

have to put up with it,' she said. 'It's hardly the end

of the world.'

Sam Bentley surprised her with a sudden bark of

laughter. 'Well spoken, Cynthia, considering you'll

be bearing the brunt of it. The prevailing winds are

south-westerly, which means most of the muck will

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collect in Malvern House. Still - ' he paused to glance

from her to Peter - 'you sow a wind and you reap a

whirlwind, eh?'

There was a short silence.

'Have you noticed how Liam's wrecks have survived

intact?' asked Nora then, with assumed brightness.

'Is it a judgement, do you think?'

'Don't be ridiculous,' said Jeremy.

Sam gave another brief chortle. 'Is it ridiculous?

You complained enough when there were only the

cars to worry about. Now you've got a burnt-out

cottage as well. I can't believe the O'Riordans were

insured, so it'll be years before anything is done. If

you're lucky, a developer will buy the land and build

an estate of little boxes on your doorstep. If you're

unlucky, Liam will put up a corrugated-iron shack

and live in that. And do you know, Jeremy, I hope he

does! Personal revenge is so much sweeter than anything

the law can offer.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'You'd have been wiser to call the fire brigade

earlier,' said the old doctor bluntly. 'Nero may have

fiddled while Rome burned, but it didn't do his

reputation any good.'

Another silence.

'What are you implying?' demanded Cynthia

aggressively. 'That Jeremy could somehow have prevented

the fire?'

Jeremy Jardine folded his arms. Till sue you for

slander if you are, Sam.'

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'It won't be just me. Half the village is wondering

why Nora and I smelt burning before you did, and

why Cynthia and Peter took themselves off to Salisbury

on a Monday evening for the first time in living

memory.'

'Coincidence,' grunted Peter Haversley. 'Pure

coincidence.'

'Well, I pray for all your sakes you're telling the

truth,' murmured Sam, wiping a weary hand across

his ash-grimed face, 'because the police aren't the only

ones who'll be asking questions. The Lavenhams certainly

won't stay quiet.'

'I hope you're not suggesting that one of us set

fire to that beastly little place,' said Cynthia crossly.

'Honestly, Sam, I wonder about you sometimes.'

He shook his head sadly, wishing he could dislike

her as comprehensively as Siobhan Lavenham did.

'No, Cynthia, I'm suggesting you knew it was going

to happen, and even incited the local youths to do it.

You can argue that you wanted revenge for Lavinia

and Dorothy's deaths, but aiding and abetting any

crime is a prosecutable offence and - ' he sighed -

'you'll get no sympathy from me if you go to prison

for it.'

Behind them, in the hall of Malvern House, the

telephone began to ring . . .

74

Wednesday, 10 February 1999

Siobhan had put an opened envelope on the desk in

front of the detective inspector. 'Even if Patrick is the

murderer and even if Bridey knows he is, it doesn't

excuse this kind of thing,' she said. 'I can't prove it

came from Cynthia Haversley, but I'm a hundred per

cent certain it did. She's busting a gut to make life so

unpleasant for Liam and Bridey that they'll leave of

their own accord.'

The inspector frowned as he removed a folded

piece of paper and read the letters pasted onto it.

Hanging is too good

for the tikes of JOU

m hell

'Who was it sent to?' he asked.

'Bridey.'

'Why did she give it to you and not to the police?'

'Because she knew I was coming here today and

asked me to bring it with me. It was posted through

her letterbox sometime the night before last.'

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('They'll take more notice of you than they ever

take of me,' the old woman had said, pressing the

envelope urgently into Siobhan's hands. 'Make them

understand we're in danger before it's too late.')

He turned the envelope over. 'Why do you think

it came from Mrs Haversley?'

Feminine intuition, thought Siobhan wryly. 'Because

the letters that make up "hell" have been cut from a Daily Telegraph banner imprint. It's the only broad

sheet newspaper that has an "h", an "e", and two "l"s

in its title, and Cynthia takes the Telegraph every day.'

'Along with how many other people in Sower

bridge?'

She smiled slightly. 'Quite a few, but no one else

has Cynthia Haversley's poisonous frame of mind.

She loves stirring. The more she can work people up,

the happier she is. It gives her a sense of importance

to have everyone dancing to her tune.'

'You don't like her.' It was a statement rather than

a question.

'No.'

'Neither do I,' admitted the inspector, 'but it doesn't

make her guilty, Mrs Lavenham. Liam and/or Bridey

could have acquired a Telegraph just as easily and sent

this letter to themselves.'

'That's what Bridey told me you'd say.'

'Because it's the truth?' he suggested mildly. 'Mrs

Haversley's a fat, clumsy woman with fingers like

sausages, and if she'd been wearing gloves the whole

exercise would have been impossible. This -' he

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touched the letter - 'is too neat. There's not a letter

out of place.'

'Peter then.'

'Peter Haversley's an alcoholic. His hands shake.'

'Jeremy Jardine?'

'I doubt it. Poison-pen letters are usually written

by women. I'm sorry, Mrs Lavenham, but I can

guarantee the only fingerprints I will find on this other

than yours and mine, of course - are Bridey

O'Riordan's. Not because the person who did it wore

gloves, but because Bridey did it herself

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