Mr Lee had, of course, wanted to know her impressions of the house, nodding with approval as Jenny enthused about its situation and amenities and, with a much longer face, agreeing with her about the number of staff needed to run the house properly. The figures she had estimated, of one pound, ten shillings a week to rent and offers around eight hundred and fifty pounds for an outright sale, were also what Mr Lee had more or less expected.
‘Not that,’ he said gloomily, ‘there would be much chance of a sale. As a matter of fact, Mr Laidlaw’ – he was the owner of Saunder’s Green – ‘doesn’t want to sell it. The trouble is, I think there’s precious little chance of letting it either. It’s my idea that he’s holding onto the house with a view to knocking it down and building something up to date. His firm own a number of properties around Saunder’s Green. I imagine he’s got ambitions for the whole area.’ He glanced at her notes again. ‘However, you seem to have done very well, Miss Langton,’ he added with a smile. ‘Let me see the particulars when you’ve typed them up.’
Even though part of her was silently yelling, ‘Don’t go near the house!’ Jenny couldn’t help but be pleased by Mr Lee’s approbation. The figures, as he said, would have to be checked by Mr McKenzie, when he had recovered from his cold, but that would require a very brief inspection, as Jenny had done all the donkeywork of measurements and descriptions.
She typed up the particulars, resolutely thrusting to one side the urge to type, ‘Don’t go near the house!’ – that would, she thought, with a certain amount of irony, never do – and concentrated firmly on the exterior description.
She forced herself to focus on her typing, ignoring the way her stomach twisted every time she typed ‘Saunder’s Green’. She could have pleaded illness, she supposed, and gone home, but sheer stubbornness made her stick at it. She was rewarded as a feeling of dull aversion to the name of Saunder’s Green replaced unbearable horror as repetition deadened her senses.
And, she thought, as she completed the work, she had made the house sound great. All sunny and bright. Sunny? The stronger the sun, the darker the shadows.
There was, of course, other work to be done that afternoon; mundane, everyday work of answering the telephone, typing letters and speaking to prospective clients, all of which she welcomed as a distraction from the numbing feeling that she was keeping a dark sea of emotions firmly screwed down.
It was a struggle though. It continued to be a struggle as she put the dust cover on her typewriter and left the office. Although she’d been looking forward to seeing Betty that evening, part of her wanted to run back to her room and to hide away.
Would Betty guess anything was wrong? Not if she hid it. No; she could have a thoroughly pleasant evening with an old friend, talking of old times and the new husband (Jenny wished she could summon up her past enthusiasm) and she would never have to visit or think about Saunder’s Green ever again.
Yes, she thought, as she rang the bell of Betty’s house in Chandos Row, that’s what she’d do. She wouldn’t mention a word about the house and especially not the horror in the garden. That simply couldn’t be real. It was all (as Mum would’ve said) a silly fancy.
She heard footsteps and voices behind the door. ‘I’ll get it, Kathleen. It’ll be my old friend I told you about.’
Betty opened the door. She was just as she always was; kindly, freckly and with hair that simply could not be tamed into fashionable sleekness. The mere sight of her was so reassuring, Jenny felt a lump in her throat.
‘Jenny!’ said Betty happily. ‘Come on in!’ and then her expression changed. ‘What on earth’s wrong?’
The sympathy in her voice was too much. Jenny tried to speak, to deny anything was the matter and then – she couldn’t help it – she burst into tears.
Earlier that day, in the garden, Jenny had imagined Betty telling her to calm down and have a cup of tea. It was better than that. Betty didn’t tell her to keep calm but instead put a comforting arm round her, brought her into the sitting room, and poured out a stiff brandy and soda.
Sipping the unaccustomed spirit, Jenny felt a welcome warmth creep through her. Gradually the story came out, bit by bit.
‘So what was it?’ demanded Betty. ‘What caused it, I mean?’
Jenny shook her head dismally. ‘There’s only one thing it can be. I never really believed in ghosts or anything like that, but I suppose the house could be haunted. It’s supposed to be haunted,’ she added. ‘The housekeeper, Mrs Offord, said there was a lady in blue who appears in the garden.’
She held up her hand to stem Betty’s protests. ‘I know. I didn’t believe it either, but if that’s all I saw, I’d be rattled but I wouldn’t be so upset. I suppose I could be seeing – well – visions of long ago, I suppose, if all that happened was a creepy feeling about the wallpaper and so on, but that thing in the garden …’ She shuddered. ‘That can’t have been real. Ever.’ She drained her brandy and looked at her friend. ‘I must be going off my head.’
‘No, you’re not,’ said Betty quickly.
‘Can you explain it then?’
Betty shook her head. ‘No, I can’t. But there is an explanation, I’m sure of it.’ She put her hands together in her lap, thinking. Then, obviously coming to a conclusion, she sat upright and, lighting a cigarette, looked at her friend seriously. ‘Would you mind telling Jack about this?’
‘Jack? Your husband?’ Jenny drew back in alarm. ‘Jack Haldean?’ She felt panic-stricken. ‘Betty, I can’t! It’s one thing telling you but I can’t tell someone I hardly know. I know he’s your husband but I’ve only met him once. He really will think I’m nuts.’
‘Do you think you’re nuts?’ asked Betty acutely. ‘Really?’
‘I …’ Jenny stopped. ‘No, I don’t,’ she said with a small smile. ‘I mean, I don’t feel nuts, but what does that feel like? I do know it was all very real and yet it can’t be real.’
‘When I first met Jack,’ said Betty, ‘I’d seen something I couldn’t explain. No one would believe me. Everyone said I’d had a nightmare but I knew that what I’d seen was real. You know what happened. I’d only met Jack once before, but he believed me. I can’t tell you how reassuring that was.’
‘But what I saw can’t be real, Betty,’ protested Jenny. ‘That’s the point.’
Betty put her hands wide. ‘Real or not, something happened to you, something that’s upset you terribly. I think there’s a very good chance that Jack will be able to work out what that something was.’
‘Is this wifely pride speaking?’ asked Jenny with the ghost of a smile.
‘Not entirely. I am proud of him, of course, but Jack’s very cagey about the cases he’s been caught up in. I can tell you this, though. One of his best friends is Chief Inspector Bill Rackham of Scotland Yard.’
‘What, that big, ginger-haired man?’ asked Jenny. ‘I remember him from the wedding. I thought he was rather nice.’
‘Bill is nice,’ said Betty with a smile. ‘What’s more, he’s nobody’s fool, but he’s told me that Jack’s often been able to work out what’s happened when he’s been absolutely stumped.’
Jenny hesitated. ‘Even so …’
‘Come on, Jenny,’ said Betty briskly. ‘You’re not someone to be frightened of shadows, or dream up stuff that isn’t there. Jack knows that too. He’s heard me talk about you. With his help, we can get to the bottom of whatever it was that happened.’
She put her cigarette case in her handbag, snapped the bag shut with a decisive click, and stood up. ‘Now, why don’t we have something to eat, as I planned. Jack’s at the Young Services club this evening. I’ll telephone him and leave a message, asking him to come home after we’ve had dinner. I’ve booked a table at Aquino’s on the corner and I’m sure you’ll feel better after some food.’
‘You sound just like the housekeeper, Mrs Offord,’ said Jenny with a valiant attempt at a smile. ‘She thought food was the answer, too.’
‘Well, I’m hungry,’
said Betty firmly. ‘Dinner is the answer to that.’ She hesitated. ‘Will you speak to Jack? Honestly, Jenny, he won’t laugh at you. I can promise you that.’
‘Let me think about it,’ said Jenny after a pause. She tried to smile once more. ‘But I would like some dinner, I must say.’
THREE
Dinner did help, as did Betty’s complete certainty that there was a rational explanation to account for what Jenny had seen. What Betty was also completely certain of was that Jack could discover what that explanation was.
Jenny didn’t agree. What’s more, she felt very shy of discussing what she’d seen with a man who, despite being married to Betty, was more or less a stranger. She’d been introduced to him at the wedding, of course, but saying ‘How d’you do’ and ‘Congratulations’ hardly amounted to getting to know someone.
She’d enjoyed his books and she had a clear memory of a tall, dark-haired, good-looking man with an infectious smile who was obviously bursting with happiness. Betty had told her his mother had been a Spaniard, which accounted for his olive skin and slightly gypsy-ish looks, but although she remembered him, she didn’t know him.
Dinner really had helped, though. Jenny was a little wary of the food. Betty, with her Italian honeymoon behind her, confidently ordered something called Bucatini all’ Amatriciana, which turned out to be pork in a sauce with pasta. Jenny, with memories of the soggy macaroni served at school, tentatively tried it and, to her surprise, found it delicious.
That, naturally, bought with it an account of the honeymoon travels, but Betty was really interested in catching up with news of Jenny’s family. By the time she had been brought up to date with news of Martin and Eric, with a good few memories of Jenny’s parents thrown in, Jenny had relaxed to an extent that would’ve seemed incredible to her only an hour before. She still had to face Jack though, and re-live the whole experience of the afternoon.
They walked back to the house but, as Jenny got her key out, Jack opened the door.
‘I saw you coming along the street,’ he said with a friendly smile. He kissed Betty lightly on the cheek, then turned to Jenny.
‘You must be Miss Langton. Betty’s told me about you, of course. I’d resigned myself to spending the evening at the club, as Betty told me it was strictly girls only tonight, so this is a turn up for the books. Come on in.’
Jenny was immeasurably reassured. He was in evening dress, which suited him. Unlike some good-looking men, though, he seemed entirely unconscious of his appearance. It was nice of him to be so welcoming too. A lot of men would’ve resented having to change their plans for the evening, but he seemed genuinely pleased to see them.
He led the way into the hall, then hesitated. ‘Would you mind coming up to my old rooms? I understand you’ve got a bit of a problem on your hands, Miss Langton, and I find it easier to think in familiar surroundings.’
‘How tidy is it?’ asked Betty suspiciously.
‘It’s fine,’ Jack reassured her. ‘Well, mainly fine, anyway.’ He grinned. ‘Come on.’
He took them up the stairs and showed them into his old sitting room, a comfortable room with well-worn chairs and a sofa, and a desk by the window with a typewriter, a pile of papers and a big bookcase.
The typewriter caught Jenny’s interest. ‘You’ve got a Remington, I see. I use one of those.’
‘They’re good machines, aren’t they?’ said Jack, at the sideboard. ‘Can I get you a drink? I’ve got some coffee brewing but would you like something else as well?’
Betty looked at Jenny. ‘Would you like a glass of brandy? I know I would.’
‘Brandy it is,’ said Jack, walking to the sideboard and reaching for the glasses.
He knew there was something wrong. Betty had always talked about Jenny as being level-headed and down to earth but she was obviously on edge with, he suspected, tears not very far away.
Money troubles? A man? No, he decided, adding soda to the brandy. If it was money, Betty could and would come to the rescue without any help from him and if it was a man, Betty was perfectly capable of doling out any sympathy and advice that was needed.
Had she witnessed a crime? Maybe; if so, it was something she was unsure about. If it was something obvious like a dead body or a burglary, Betty would have surely told him when she’d left the message for him at the club, but all she’d said was that Jenny had a problem and needed to talk to him.
He felt a tingle of excitement as he turned to the two girls. There had to be a mystery in the offing but first of all, Jenny Langton needed reassurance. So, back to talking about everyday things such as typewriters.
‘Yes,’ he said, putting the glasses on the table by the sofa. ‘I like the Remington. Help yourself to cigarettes, by the way. The box is on the table. I had a Corona for years but it finally gave up the ghost, so I got a Remington, which is a much bigger machine.’
‘Jack,’ said Betty firmly, ‘Jenny isn’t here to talk about typewriters.’ She looked at her friend. ‘Shall I start or will you?’
Jenny braced herself. ‘No. If you really think there’s an explanation and I’m not just going nuts, I’d better tell the story.’ She looked at Jack ruefully. ‘Only I know how it sounds. It sounds crazy.’
‘Go on,’ said Jack encouragingly adding, with a smile, ‘I must say you don’t seem particularly crazy to me, Miss Langton.’
She gave a little sigh of relief. ‘I don’t feel it, either, but …’ She shook herself. ‘We mentioned typewriters. Funnily enough, my story more or less starts with typewriters.’ She looked at him questioningly. ‘Betty told you I work for Wilson and Lee, the house agents?’ Jack nodded. ‘Well, Mr Lee is an old dear. It’s his family firm. There isn’t a Wilson any more as the last one died about 1890 or something, but Mr Lee has been with the firm all his life and is a bit set in his views. He had to get used to the idea of lady clerks during the war, so he didn’t mind giving me a job, but he was convinced that all I was really capable of was making the tea, answering the telephone and typing.’
‘Was there a lot of typing?’ Jack asked with a grin.
Jenny nodded vigorously. ‘Tons. I did it all. None of the other clerks can type, you see. The older clerks actually refer to me as “the lady typewriter”.’
Jack laughed. ‘That’s very sweet and old-fashioned of them. You’re better looking than a Remington, but it still sounds like an awful lot of work.’
‘It is,’ said Jenny with feeling. ‘Anyway, I was really keen to get away from typing all day long and get to grips with something more interesting. I wanted to see round houses and so on, and this morning the great day dawned. Mr McKenzie, who should’ve done the visit, was taken poorly with a cold, which left old Mr Southwick, who really hasn’t got a clue how to present a property to make it interesting.’
‘How on earth did you manage to get Mr Lee to send you?’ asked Betty. ‘You’ve told me some of this before and I thought you had a very uphill job to convince him to trust you to visit a house.’
‘I’ve been leaving newspapers for him to look at,’ said Jenny with a slightly guilty smile. ‘You know all these articles on the Modern Girl that there are in the papers? I made sure he saw them. I suppose it’s a form of advertising, really.’
Jack laughed and raised his glass to her. ‘Well done, you. I’ve written articles about the Modern Girl myself. It’s nice to think they might have done some good.’
Jenny smiled in return, then her smile faded. ‘I was over the moon. I didn’t let Mr Lee see how happy I was, of course.’
‘And then, when you got to the house, it all went wrong,’ said Betty sympathetically.
‘As a matter of fact, it started to go wrong before then.’ Jenny twisted her cigarette nervously in her fingers. ‘Do you remember at school, Betty, I sometimes talked about the Watcher?’
‘No, I …’ began Betty, then stopped. ‘Yes, I do,’ she said slowly. ‘You didn’t see him often, but I do remember that you saw him.’
‘The
Watcher?’ asked Jack. ‘Who’s the Watcher?’
Jenny breathed in deeply, then started to explain. ‘My mother always said it was nonsense,’ she finished unhappily.
‘But you don’t think it is?’ asked Betty gently.
‘No. I honestly don’t think it is, but who he is, I don’t know. After what happened at the house, I suppose he might not even be real.’ Her voice cracked. ‘I know what I saw, but it can’t be real. I don’t want to see things. Things that aren’t there, I mean.’
She felt a sudden surge of panic. ‘Look,’ she said, scrambling to her feet, ‘you’ve both been very kind, but I really must go. I’m sorry to have troubled you. You’ve both got better things to do than listen to me spout a load of silly nonsense.’
With a swift movement, Jack put his hand on her shoulder, settling her back in her chair. ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘Miss Langton, you’ve obviously had a bad fright. That isn’t nonsense. Won’t you tell me what happened?’
‘I said you’d be able to explain it, too,’ put in Betty confidently.
Jack glanced at Betty with a deprecating grin. ‘That’s going a bit fast, perhaps.’ He turned back to Jenny. His voice became very gentle. ‘However, I haven’t a hope of being able to explain anything, unless I know what happened.’
He saw the panic leave her eyes and she nodded slowly.
Jack took his hand from her shoulder and sat down again. ‘So, let’s begin. You’d seen the man you call the Watcher. That obviously unsettled you, and I’m not surprised. What happened when you arrived at the house?’
Jenny hesitated. It was so hard to know where to start.
Jack saw her floundering. ‘Be a house agent,’ he suggested with a smile, taking a cigarette from the box. ‘Give yourself promotion and pretend I’m interested in the house. What does it look like?’
He saw her confidence return. ‘I like the idea of promotion,’ she said with a sudden smile. ‘If you were a prospective tenant, I’d say that the property is called Saunder’s Green House. It overlooks Saunder’s Green on the outskirts of Stowfleet and is a spacious but manageable villa, with extensive grounds. It was built in 1882 of good-quality local brick and has mains water and gas. It has the benefit of a purpose-built garage with parking for at least two cars. The garage is a later addition, of course, but it’s in keeping with the rest of the house.’
Forgotten Murder Page 4