Element of Doubt

by Dorothy Simpson

  ‘And where was this?’

  ‘Where …?’

  Was she prevaricating in order to give herself time to think? Thanet wondered.

  ‘Where was he, when you saw him?’

  ‘In … In the corridor, outside Mrs Tarrant’s bedroom.’ A faint flush was creeping up her neck and into her cheeks.

  Could her reluctance be simply due to embarrassment, that she had caught Tarrant listening outside his wife’s door when she, Marilyn, knew that Nerine had been entertaining her lover?

  ‘Did he go in?’

  She shook her head. ‘I saw him try the door handle, then he hurried away downstairs.’ She avoided Thanet’s eye. ‘I assumed the door was locked and he decided she wasn’t in there,’ she murmured.

  Marilyn Barnes was a very poor liar, thought Thanet.

  ‘Miss Barnes, I do understand your commendable sense of loyalty to your employer, but I assure you that there’s no point in trying to cover up Mrs Tarrant’s … unfortunate behaviour. We know that Mr Speed was her lover, Mr Tarrant himself told us so, and he also told us that he didn’t enter his wife’s room at that point because he realised that Mr Speed was in there with her.’

  She was nodding slowly, as if relieved that the burden of decision had been taken from her.

  ‘So I wanted to ask you. Did you, yourself, see Mr Speed in the house at lunchtime yesterday?’

  ‘No.’

  In that case, why the hesitation, earlier? And had he imagined the gleam of relief in her eyes, just then? Yet the monosyllable had been unequivocal and to Thanet’s ear had the ring of truth about it. He decided to leave it, for the moment.

  ‘I also wanted to ask you … Having thought over the events of yesterday, as I’m sure you have, can you recall anything else that you think might be of the slightest interest to us?’

  She gave a quick, tight shake of the head and avoided his eyes again.

  Yes, there definitely was something … Something to do with Roland Tarrant?

  But the stubborn set of her lips told him that, whatever it was, she wasn’t going to tell, at the moment anyway.

  It was time to move on to old Mrs Tarrant.

  Marilyn led them along the corridor to the next room and entered without knocking.

  ‘I’ve brought you some visitors, Lavinia. Some gentlemen. You met them yesterday, remember?’

  The room was cluttered with furniture, pictures and ornaments and there were photographs scattered about on every available surface. Thanet guessed that when Nerine moved in as mistress of the house and began to redecorate to her own taste, old Mrs Tarrant had gradually accumulated in her own quarters those things which were of special sentimental value to her. She was sitting in a wing chair in the sunshine, gazing out of the window.

  ‘Hullo, dear. Visitors, how nice.’ She smiled without recognition at Thanet and Lineham, put her hands on the arms of the chair and began to lever herself up.

  Thanet smiled back. ‘Please, don’t get up.’

  He would scarcely have recognised her as the extraordinary vision he and Lineham had seen on the stairs yesterday. She was still wearing make-up but it was discreet and carefully applied, probably by Marilyn, Thanet thought. Her clothes were sober, a navy linen dress and thick white cardigan, sensible flat-heeled navy sandals. Her faded blue eyes betrayed uncertainty. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t remember …’

  Thanet shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  She waved a gracious hand. ‘Do sit down.’

  They complied, Marilyn perching on a low stool beside her employer, Thanet choosing an armchair and Lineham a more upright one a little further away.

  Marilyn put an affectionate hand on Mrs Tarrant’s arm. ‘Inspector Thanet is a policeman, Lavinia. He is trying to find out about the … accident.’

  ‘Accident?’

  ‘To Nerine.’

  ‘Has Nerine had an accident?’

  Marilyn glanced at Thanet. You see what I mean?

  ‘Lavinia,’ said Marilyn patiently. ‘I told you. Yesterday. She fell from her balcony and … and died.’

  ‘Died?’ The old lady stared at Marilyn. ‘Nerine is dead?’

  Marilyn nodded.

  How many more times, Thanet wondered, would she have to break the news to the old lady? Senility was a terrible disease. In this particular case it didn’t matter so much. By all accounts there had been no love lost between old Mrs Tarrant and her daughter-in-law. But what must it be like when it is the news of the death of a much-loved husband, wife, son or daughter that has to be broken over and over again, when the shock of hearing it must be suffered not once but many times by someone already enfeebled by age and illness?

  ‘I did tell you,’ said Marilyn.

  Mrs Tarrant shook her head. ‘I don’t remember.’ She sighed, and glanced at Thanet. ‘My memory isn’t very good these days, I’m afraid …’

  She was silent for a few moments and then she said, ‘But I can’t pretend I’m sorry – that she’s dead, I mean.’ She leaned forward and said conspiratorially, ‘She was trying to get rid of me, you know.’ She glanced at Marilyn for confirmation. ‘Wasn’t she, dear?’ One claw-like hand clutched at Marilyn’s for reassurance. ‘She wanted me to sign some papers, so she could put me in a home. But Roland wouldn’t let her. My son.’

  Automatically she reached for a photograph which stood to hand on a small table beside her chair. She glanced at it before handing it to Thanet. ‘That’s him,’ she said proudly, ‘with Damon, my grandson, on his first birthday.’

  The snapshot had been taken in the garden. Tarrant was squatting in a patch of sunshine under the trees on a carpet of autumn leaves, both hands supporting the baby standing with splayed legs in front of him.

  ‘Damon took his first step that day,’ said the old lady reminiscently. Roland was so proud.’ Her face darkened. ‘He’s a good boy and deserves better than that wife of his.’ She glanced at Marilyn, a curiously arch, knowing smile. ‘Doesn’t he, dear?’

  So the old lady either knew of Marilyn’s feelings for Tarrant or at least suspected them, thought Thanet.

  Marilyn was attempting to cover up. She patted the old lady’s hand and said quickly, ‘The Inspector is trying to find out how the accident happened, Lavinia.’

  ‘Accident?’

  ‘To Nerine.’ Marilyn glanced at Thanet again. Now you really must see what I mean. With commendable patience she explained it all again. Mrs Tarrant listened with an almost child-like air of trust, then sighed. ‘It’s so frustrating, when you can’t remember things … So Nerine is dead …’

  Again she was silent for a few moments and Thanet was waiting for the conversation to follow the same track as before when she nonplussed him by impaling him with a sharp, knowing look and saying, ‘Are you sure it was an accident, Inspector? Knowing Nerine, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if someone helped her on her way.’

  Marilyn was looking amused and rather proud, like a parent whose offspring unexpectedly walks off with a prize at speechday.

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ said Thanet. ‘And we wanted to ask you. Did you by any chance see anyone in the house, yesterday afternoon?’

  Mrs Tarrant stared at him, her eyes opaque with – what? Thanet wondered. Concentration? Indecision? Briefly, so briefly that Thanet wondered if he had imagined it, they darkened as if a shadow had passed across them. She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t recall …’

  ‘What about your daughter-in-law? Did you see her at all, yesterday afternoon?’

  The old lady shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think so.’ She turned to Marilyn. ‘Did I, dear?’

  Thanet and Lineham exchanged glances. She doesn’t even remember the row in the bedroom.

  Marilyn gave Thanet a questioning look.

  He nodded. Go ahead.

  ‘You don’t remember the … argument with Nerine, early in the afternoon, Lavinia?’

  ‘No. No, I don’t.’ Mrs Tarrant cast at Thanet
a look composed of a curious mixture of guilt, embarrassment and glee. Then she leaned towards Marilyn and said in a near-whisper, ‘Was it because …?’

  Marilyn nodded. ‘I’m afraid so.’

  Mrs Tarrant’s hand went to her mouth, the gesture of a naughty child caught in some trivial misdemeanour. ‘Oh dear. Was she cross?’ It was obvious that she was hoping the answer would be ‘Yes’.

  Marilyn’s nod was emphatic, her tone full of reproof. ‘Very cross, Lavinia.’ She hesitated, then said, ‘That’s why I wondered if you’d seen her again, later. When I went to get you up after your rest you seemed rather … upset.’

  ‘Did I?’ Mrs Tarrant stared at Marilyn as if she held the key to her locked-up memories. She shook her head helplessly. ‘I don’t remember.’

  This was pointless, Thanet decided, a waste of time.

  ‘Never mind,’ he said gently. ‘It really doesn’t matter.’ Not true, but still … ‘Perhaps, if you do remember something, Miss Barnes would be kind enough to let me know?’

  Marilyn nodded. ‘Of course.’

  Mrs Tarrant seemed to have lost interest in the conversation. She was leaning forward, gazing down out of the window. Something had obviously attracted her attention.

  Curiosity brought Thanet to his feet. This room must be at the back of the house. It overlooked the converted coach house and the garages. A woman wearing a blue skirt and white sweater was walking aimlessly away across the drive towards the left-hand corner of the house, head down, hands clasped behind her back.

  ‘Is that Miss Linacre?’ he said to Marilyn.

  ‘Yes. It looks as though she’s feeling a bit better today.’

  Well enough to be interviewed, Thanet hoped.

  He turned back to the old lady. ‘Well, thank you, Mrs Tarrant. You’ve been very helpful.’

  She gave a gratified smile. ‘Have I? Good. Do call again, won’t you? It’s lovely to have visitors. Oh …’ She glanced at Marilyn. ‘What am I thinking of? We haven’t offered our guests any refreshment, dear. Could you arrange some coffee for us?’

  ‘I’m afraid we have to go now, Mrs Tarrant,’ said Thanet. ‘Next time, perhaps?’

  She beamed. ‘Next time, yes. I shall look forward to that. Marilyn, see the gentlemen out, would you?’

  ‘No, it’s all right, thank you, we know the way.’

  Outside Lineham said, ‘Whew, stuffy in there, wasn’t it!’

  Thanet agreed. ‘Let’s go and get a breath of fresh air.’

  At the front door he paused to light his pipe and exchange a few words with the constable on duty before making for the terrace where Nerine’s body had been found.

  ‘Is that the path you were talking about yesterday?’

  Beyond the terrace was a rectangular lawn, enclosed on three sides by tall, well-clipped yew hedges. The path, which was of crazy paving, ran along the base of the left-hand hedge and disappeared through a gap at the corner.

  ‘Yes. That report said that Speed’s car was parked at the entrance to a field just around the bend from High Gables, didn’t it? He could easily have got into the house through the garden and no one would have been any the wiser.’

  ‘Is there a gardener?’

  Lineham grimaced. ‘Yes, but unfortunately he wasn’t here yesterday. He doesn’t come in on Thursdays.’

  ‘Pity. Let’s take a look, shall we?’

  They set off along the path. After a few paces Lineham said, ‘I think I’d rather be dead than senile.’

  ‘Wouldn’t we all.’

  ‘I still think it’s possible that the old lady might have shoved her daughter-in-law off that balcony, even if she has forgotten all about it. You must admit it’s obvious there was no love lost between them. I got the impression she enjoyed messing up Mrs Tarrant’s bedroom, just to spite her. If so, Mrs Tarrant could have sensed that it was deliberate, and that would have made her even more mad. Though the old lady certainly hasn’t lost all her marbles, has she, sir? Once or twice she seemed pretty sharp. I was wondering … Did you notice that look she gave Miss Barnes, when she was talking about Mrs Tarrant being an unsuitable wife for her son?’

  ‘Ah, you spotted that too. Yes, I did.’

  ‘Well, it’s obvious that she’s fond of Marilyn Barnes. Apart from being afraid that her daughter-in-law might persuade Mr Tarrant to get rid of Marilyn, don’t you think it’s possible she might also have thought that with Mrs Tarrant out of the way Mr Tarrant might marry Marilyn? I should think she’d be delighted at the prospect. And if so, it would certainly strengthen her motive for getting rid of Mrs Tarrant, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘True.’ Much as he disliked the idea, Thanet was forced to acknowledge its plausibility.

  ‘D’you think there might be something going on between Mr Tarrant and Miss Barnes, sir?’

  Thanet shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

  ‘If he is in love with her, it would give him an even stronger motive, wouldn’t it? Because he can swear black and blue that he didn’t care about his wife’s lovers, but I find it impossible to believe he could go on year after year and never want to do anything about it.’

  ‘I’m not sure I agree with you there, Mike. I think I’m prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt, for the moment, anyway.’

  Lineham looked sceptical, but didn’t argue. ‘But as far as Miss Barnes is concerned … If she is in love with him, it gives her an additional motive too, doesn’t it? If she was in danger of losing her job, I mean …’ Lineham caught Thanet’s eye and, obviously recalling his own attitude the last time they had discussed this particular possibility, gave a slightly embarrassed grin. ‘I still don’t like the idea that she could have done it, I must admit. I’m just trying to keep the open mind you’re always on about.’

  ‘Just as well at this stage. There’s certainly no shortage of suspects.’

  Thanet stopped walking. They had reached the corner of the yew hedge and he stood gazing about. Here the crazy paving gave way to gravel and the path divided. To the left it started to curve away between densely packed beds of tall shrubs towards the edge of the garden; to the right it ran along the back of the hedge and disappeared in the direction of the front gate. Thanet supposed that in a garden of this size it was necessary to have a whole network of paths; there would be a great deal of wheeling about of rubbish, tools, fertilisers and so on.

  They took the left fork, ducking and side-stepping occasionally to avoid stray branches of philadelphus and shrub rose, viburnum and holly. Fifty yards or so further the gravel became beaten earth, the shrub borders ended and a narrow belt of silver birch and Scots Pine began, stretching away to right and left and creating, Thanet imagined, a windbreak around the entire garden. Beyond the trees was a tall, close-boarded boundary fence and here again the path divided, running along the base of the fence in both directions and presumably providing, at intervals, access to different areas of the garden.

  They paused.

  ‘I imagine that the field where Speed parked his car is on the other side of this fence,’ said Lineham. ‘There must be a gate somewhere.’

  They followed the path to the right first, but the fence continued in an unbroken line as far as the hedge which bordered the road. Retracing their steps to the point at which they had emerged they walked on in the opposite direction.

  ‘There it is!’ said Lineham triumphantly.

  The gate was almost invisible until they were upon it, being constructed of the same close-boarding as the fence. There was no lock, only a latch.

  ‘You’d think they’d take a bit more care over security,’ grumbled Lineham as he opened it.

  Thanet was not surprised to find a footpath on the other side. It was obvious that long before High Gables had been built on its little projecting spit of land, people from the village would have established a right-of-way across this short cut behind it. A couple of minutes’ walk confirmed that after leaving the boundary fence the footpath cut across a field to the gateway in which Speed m
ust have parked his car. Over to the right a country hedge of hawthorn, dogwood, field maple and wild rose delineated the sharp bend in the road.

  ‘No problem, then,’ said Lineham. ‘He had a nice little private route to the house, whenever he wanted to visit her. When are we going to talk to him again?’

  ‘All in good time,’ said Thanet. ‘I want to read a full report from the witness who saw him park, first.’ He turned and began to walk back in the direction of the gate, hands in pockets, head down, shoulders hunched. Lineham, recognising the signs, followed in silence.

  Just before they reached the gate Lineham hesitated, then reached out to pluck at Thanet’s sleeve.

  ‘Sir,’ he whispered.

  Thanet turned, still abstracted. ‘What?’

  Lineham nodded in the direction of the village.

  Approaching them along the footpath was the woman they had seen earlier from old Mrs Tarrant’s window.

  They were at last about to meet the elusive Daphne.

  ELEVEN

  At the sight of the two men Daphne Linacre’s step had faltered.

  Scarcely surprising, thought Thanet. The soaring statistics of rape, muggings and crime in general had resulted in fifty per cent of the female population being afraid to go out alone at night. And here, on a deserted country footpath …

  He stepped forward boldly and raised a hand in greeting.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Linacre,’ he called. ‘Detective-Inspector Thanet, Sturrenden CID. I hope we didn’t startle you.’

  She had stopped when he first spoke. Now she started walking again. Thanet had already noticed that despite the dense shade along the footpath she was wearing sunglasses, and he cursed the migraine which had presumably made them necessary. He hated talking to people without being able to see their eyes. More than any other feature, eyes reveal what their owner is feeling.

  Close to, he could see that Daphne Linacre’s clothes were expensive, the blue linen skirt elegantly cut, the white cotton sweater handknitted in an intricate design. Unfortunately their owner’s body did not match up to them. It was as if nature had used up all her skill, all her art, in creating the physical perfection that had been Nerine. Daphne was too stocky, her waist too thick, her breasts too flat, her hips too lumpy. But there was plenty of character in her face: determined jaw, firm mouth, and a resolute tilt to the head which went some way towards explaining why she had become such a successful businesswoman.