by Maynard Sims
“Why didn’t you tell me all of this before?” he said, when she finally finished speaking.
“I nearly did, a couple of times, but I wanted to see how things panned out first. I wanted to be sure this wasn’t just a figment of my overactive imagination. Plus I didn’t feel I knew you that well, and I wasn’t sure how deeply you were involved with the Franklins, especially Jessica.”
“And now you’re sure?”
“No, not really. But there comes a time when you have to start trusting people.”
“I had no idea things had reached such a pitch.”
“You said the people before me had problems.”
“They did, but nothing like this. I’ll start looking for somewhere else for you when I get in to the office tomorrow.”
“No, that’s not what I want.”
“Well, obviously you can’t stay here.”
“Why the hell not? I’m damned if I’m going to be driven out, James.”
He narrowed his eyes when he looked at her. “You’re stubborn.”
“Stubborn, pigheaded, obstinate…yes, all of the above.” She smiled.
“And foolhardy,” he added.
“That too. But more than anything, I’m curious. I want to know what really happened to Dolores and Jessica. Certainly Jessica. I got the impression from her that she needs me to discover the truth, and to let others know what really happened here.”
He shook his head. “Then you’re braver than me. Just going upstairs freaked me out.”
“But you’ll help me? You’ll help me uncover the truth?”
“In any way I can,” he said.
“Good. I need to speak to Bernard Franklin.”
He stood abruptly. “I should have seen that one coming,” he said. He walked to the kitchen and started pulling open cupboards.
“What are you looking for?” she said finally, after he had searched three of the units.
“You must have something stronger than coffee.”
“I have,” she said. “There’s brandy in the bottom right-hand cupboard, and wine in the fridge.”
He grunted, and pulled open the fridge door. The fridge light cut through the shadows covering his face, throwing his features into stark relief. He looked angry… No, not angry… He was frowning deeply, but it was an expression of concern. “Seeing Franklin? It’s the one thing I don’t think I can provide,” he said, pulling out the bottle of Chenin Blanc, and twisting off the screw cap.
“Can’t or won’t?” she said, as he came back to the sofa, handed her a glass and sat down.
“I could lose my job,” he said. “Franklin’s made it quite clear in the past that he wants nothing to do with tenants he lets to. It’s why he employs us, to act as a buffer. Franklin pays over the odds for the service, and I can’t see Edward Falmer thanking me for spoiling the sweet deal he has going with him. I’m sorry, Beth.”
“Not even a phone number?”
“He’s ex-directory. If you call him, he’ll know we provided the contact details. I’m sorry,” he said again.
“Don’t be. It was a big ask…and I wouldn’t want you to jeopardize your position. Jobs are hard to come by these days, good jobs even scarcer.”
“Thanks for understanding. It seems a bit churlish after…well, after…”
“Don’t say it.” She cut the thought off before he could give voice to it.
“Look,” he said after a while. “I’ll see what I can do. I’ll try to find a way around it.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
They finished the bottle of wine together.
“Do you want to stay over?” she said, as she poured the last dribble of wine into his glass.
“I think I’ve drunk too much to be safe, so I’d better. These sofas are quite comfortable.”
“So is the bed.”
He looked at her steadily. “Are you sure?”
She nodded her head slowly. “Yes,” she said. “I’m sure.”
The crying woke him at just after three o’clock. He glanced across at Beth who seemed to be sleeping soundly, lying on her back, her chest rising and falling to the steady rhythm of her breathing. He lay there, eyes open, staring at the shadows of the room, listening to the heartbreaking sound of sobbing, and trying to picture in his mind where it was coming from.
Finally he slid from the bed, and walked out into the lounge. He closed the bedroom door silently, and walked to the bottom of the stairs. Again he was convinced the crying was coming from upstairs.
Wearing only his boxer shorts, his feet bare, he started to climb, tentatively taking one stair at a time, and pausing on each step to listen.
After what seemed an age, he reached the top, and stared along the narrow landing. A door was open halfway along, and he racked his brains trying to remember if he’d left it open when he’d been up here earlier, but his mind remained infuriatingly blank, the memory of this afternoon remote and elusive.
The sobbing seemed to be coming from the room with the open door.
He crept quietly along the landing toward the room, keeping his back to the wall.
It was surprisingly light up there. Surprising because there were no windows on the landing, and there was no light issuing from the open door, but he had no problem avoiding the occasional piece of furniture. He could even make out the details of the paintings hanging on the wall, and what he saw shocked him.
Hanging on the wall were no longer the anodyne landscapes that had hung there before. Those had been replaced by intensely rendered depictions of a much darker subject. The paintings were graphic renditions of various groups engaged in orgiastic sex.
The central figure in each of the paintings was Dolores Franklin, instantly recognizable by her long dark hair. In each of the paintings Dolores’ voluptuous, sensual body was depicted in various stages of undress, and in each of them she was being serviced by a number of men, all of them young, all of them displaying lean, fit bodies.
In the painting James was staring at there was a darker figure standing in the shadows, watching the orgy. The figure was indistinct, blurry, and he couldn’t make out any features.
He was so immersed in the painting it took him a while to realize that the crying had stopped. He dragged his attention away from the gaudy, intoxicating images and turned it instead to the open door.
He listened intently, but there was only silence. Now the sobbing had ceased there was nothing to fill the void except for the steady rise and fall of his breathing, and the slightly rapid thud of his heartbeat.
He advanced on the open door, again overwhelmed by the feeling that at any moment Jessica Franklin would appear, demanding he explain his presence here. He glanced behind him at the empty landing, and then stepped through the open door.
Moonlight streamed in through the window, illuminating the bed and other pieces of furniture in the room, picking them out in a soft silver glow. He looked around the room quickly, and then walked across to the window, and stared out at the garden. It looked neater than when he had last seen it. He remembered Beth had remarked about a neighbor who had come round to tidy up the flowerbeds. It was good she was starting to make friends. She needed more than the awful Miranda.
He was under no illusions, despite what had happened today. Any relationship he developed with Beth was doomed to failure, just like all the other relationships he’d attempted to have over the years. He should be honest with her and end it before it went any further. But there was a small, infinitesimal part of his brain that allowed himself to hope that this time, it might be different. So for the moment he’d keep his mouth shut and let life run its course.
The moonlight illuminated the garden, bringing the bushes and shrubs into sharp relief, and capping the crowns of the woodland trees with silver. Had the moon not been so bright he probably wouldn’t have seen the
slight figure in a short, white dress break from the house, and dash across the lawn to the waiting cover of the trees. She ran like a wounded animal fleeing a predator, glancing behind her every few steps, a fearful expression on her face. His heart lurched as he stared into the haunted, terrified face of Jessica Franklin.
In seconds she had reached edge of the garden and disappeared into the shadows of the wood. Moments later another figure appeared on the lawn, moving rapidly in pursuit of her: a statuesque figure with long streaming hair falling over barely clothed shoulders. Dolores Franklin moved across the lawn with an assured, purposeful gait, closing the distance between her and the trees effortlessly. In her hand was a thin, whippy cane that she used to cut through the air in front of her.
Almost as if she sensed she was being watched, she turned and glared back at the house. She stared up at the windows for a moment, and then shook her head, and carried on in pursuit of the girl.
James watched until Dolores was lost from view as she entered the trees, and then he turned away from the window, a thin sheen of sweat making his skin feel clammy.
Beth’s eyes fluttered open as James came back to the bedroom. “What time is it?” she said sleepily, trying to focus on his face.
“Shhh, it’s early. Go back to sleep.”
“Where you been?” she mumbled, as he settled in the bed beside her.
“Call of nature,” he said, turning to adjust his pillow.
She reached out and stroked his shoulder. “Thanks,” she said.
“For what?”
“Being here.”
“I’ll get you Franklin’s address.”
She was suddenly awake. “You will?”
“We’ll go and see him together.” His voice was getting sleepy.
“Why the change of heart?”
“Questions,” he said. “Far too many questions.”
She listened to his breathing deepen and realized he’d fallen back to sleep.
Yes, she thought. Far too many questions.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“I’m surprised he agreed to see us,” Beth said, as they drove through the electronic wrought-iron gates that guarded Bernard Franklin’s Cherry Hinton house. As the gates closed behind them Beth looked back at the high brick wall that surrounded the property. “He obviously values his privacy.”
“He agreed to see me. I didn’t tell him you would be with me. I’m here as the representative of Falmer’s to discuss Stillwater.”
“Won’t he be annoyed when he realizes he’s been misled?”
“Probably,” he said.
Beth noticed his face was calm, almost impassive, but he gripped the steering wheel tighter. So far he had said nothing to her about his sudden change of heart, why he had suddenly agreed to introduce her to Bernard Franklin. She hadn’t pushed him on it. Something had happened when he had stayed the night with her, but whatever it was he wasn’t saying. She had even gone so far as to agree to let him drive, leaving her wheelchair behind and opting to use her crutches instead.
Franklin’s house was large and slightly imposing. Built in the early part of the nineteenth century in imposing red brick, with a gray-slate roof and high windows, it looked more like a hospital or school than a family home.
“Ugly house,” she said, as they pulled in front of it.
“It used to be a nursing home,” James said. “Before that a private school,” he added, confirming her first impressions. “It was due for demolition before Franklin stepped in and bought it. He spent a fortune bringing it back from the brink. But, as I think I said before, he’s very rich.”
The front door opened as they were getting out of James’s Mercedes. A middle-aged woman stood in the doorway. She looked to be in her fifties, dressed in a plain black dress, her gunmetal gray hair swept up and away from her face in a severe bun. Her face was round and ruddy cheeked, but there was no warmth in her dark blue eyes.
“Falmer’s?” she said, as they approached the door.
“James Bartlett,” James said, extending his hand.
She ignored it. “Helen O’Dowd,” she said. “I’m Mr. Franklin’s housekeeper. Come in. He’s expecting you.” She turned abruptly, and went back inside, leaving them to follow, but not before fixing Beth with a curious, appraising look from her flinty eyes. It was a look that said, I know you’ve been invited here, but I don’t approve. I don’t approve at all.
Friendly, Beth mouthed at James, as they followed the housekeeper inside. He shrugged and smiled.
They stood in the cavernous hallway, gazing up at the portraits that covered the walls, mostly of unsmiling people who gazed back at them imperiously, as if questioning their right to be there.
“Not very welcoming, is it?” James whispered to her.
Mrs. O’Dowd turned back to them, a frown creasing her brow. “Wait here. I’ll tell Mr. Franklin you’re here. He might be a while. He’s a very busy man.”
She spun away from them, and disappeared down a short corridor that led off from the hallway.
“Why do I feel we’ve been summoned to see the headmaster?” Beth said, when they were alone.
“I wonder why he chose her,” James said.
“An antidote to Dolores, I suspect,” Beth said.
“Probably.”
Their conversation died as they stood in the hallway and waited for Franklin to show himself. They were both dismayed when Mrs. O’Dowd reappeared ten minutes later. Her attitude hadn’t softened. “Mr. Franklin will see you in the library,” she said curtly. “This way.”
The short passage led through to a door-lined corridor. She stopped at the third door along, rapped on it sharply with her knuckles and, at the muffled response, pushed it open and ushered them inside, closing the door behind them.
Franklin was seated at a large mahogany desk, head bowed over a file open in front of him. “I agreed to see you, Bartlett. I didn’t expect you to bring someone with you.” Finally he looked up at them, his gaze sweeping over Beth as she stood in front of the desk supporting herself on her crutches. She suddenly felt very self-conscious, aware that she looked awkward, standing there supported by the ugly-looking aluminum props—awkward and vulnerable.
“You must be Ms. Alvarini, my tenant. Edward Falmer advised me you were a—”
“Disabled?” Beth cut him off.
Franklin’s eyes narrowed. “Writer,” he said. “What do you want? Is there a problem at Stillwater? I make it a rule never to meet my tenants. It was very remiss of Bartlett to bring you here.”
He didn’t invite them to sit, so Beth hung there on her crutches, and tried to gather her confidence. For all his bluster Franklin wasn’t as intimidating as he liked to think. She remembered him skulking in the bushes as he watched his wife cavorting with the young men at the side of the lake; remembered the look of revulsion and despair on his face: a weak man, unable to deal with his wife’s infidelity, only able to watch from the wings while she flaunted her unfaithfulness.
“I have some questions to ask you about Stillwater,” she said.
“I don’t see there’s anything I can tell you that couldn’t be dealt with Falmer’s.”
“Did you kill your wife in that house?”
The blood drained from Franklin’s face as if it had been sucked back into his body. His mouth sagged open, and he stared at Beth incredulously. “How dare you!” he said, his voice tremulous. “How dare you come here uninvited and make such an outrageous accusation.”
“Well did you?”
“Beth,” James said, warningly.
“Get out,” Franklin said. “Get out of here now!” Franklin reached under his desk and pressed a concealed button.
“I’ve seen her, Mr. Franklin; Dolores, there at Stillwater. You knew she was cheating on you. You told everyone she’d left you, but she came back, didn’t she?
And you…”
“Enough!” Franklin said, and got to his feet. “I won’t listen to any more of this. Edward said you were a writer. I suppose it’s your imagination that’s fabricated these…preposterous allegations, but I’m not prepared to sit here and listen to any more of this slanderous nonsense.”
He came around the desk, and for a moment Beth thought he might hit her. Instead he drew himself up to his full height, and stared into James’s face. “Take yourself and this…person, off my property. And you can say goodbye to a career with Falmer’s. When I tell Edward about this he’ll be as outraged as I am.”
The library door opened and Mrs. O’Dowd entered.
“These people are leaving, Helen. Kindly see them off the property.” He turned to Beth. “And I want you out of Stillwater, now.”
“You’ll have to give her due notice,” James said. “It’s the law.”
Franklin glared at him, and stalked across to the window, staring out at the sprawling grounds, leaving them in no doubt that the interview was over.
Mrs. O’Dowd crossed the floor. “This way please.” She stretched out her arms to shepherd them out of the room.
“I’ve seen your daughter too, Mr. Franklin. I’ve seen Jessica,” Beth said, and watched Franklin’s shoulders stiffen, but he didn’t look round.
“Get out,” he said under his breath.
“This way,” Mrs. O’Dowd said frostily, and guided them to the door.
“What the hell was all that about?” James snapped at her, as the iron gates swung shut behind them. His foot was pressed flat on the accelerator, and he was taking the curves in the road carelessly.
“Careful,” she said. “Slow down, or you have us in a ditch.”
James eased back on the gas, his anger betrayed by a vein that throbbed at his temple.
“I told you I wanted to talk to him.”
“Yes, you did, but I didn’t expect you to accuse him of murder.”