The Seven Stars

by Anthea Fraser

  The head of Ashbourne School for Girls was on a year’s sabbatical, leaving Hannah, as her deputy, in temporary charge.

  ‘Heaven knows, it can only be better than the last,’ she answered soberly.

  There was no denying the previous term had been a baptism of fire. Webb’s mouth quirked ruefully as he reflected on the appropriateness of the phrase; a New Age religious cult had set up in town and members of Hannah’s school became involved with it, with devastating consequences.

  ‘All I ask,’ she continued, ‘is that we have a quiet, uneventful few months and a chance to get our breath back. We need to rebuild confidence, both in the school and in ourselves.’

  Webb was silent, knowing easy platitudes to be unacceptable. Casting round for something to distract her, he had an inspiration.

  ‘I’ve a free weekend coming up; how about going off somewhere? London perhaps — take in a concert or a show — or even Paris, if you like?’

  Since Hannah’s reputation had to be above suspicion they avoided being seen together locally, which for the most part confined them to visiting each other’s flats. In any case, his unsocial hours of work meant he could seldom make advance arrangements. Whereas, Webb thought with recurring frustration, Charles bloody Frobisher could — and did — sweep her off to dinners and theatres whenever the mood took him. Or, to be more accurate, whenever Hannah agreed to go with him.

  ‘That sounds wonderful!’ she exclaimed now. ‘Which weekend is it?’

  ‘The one after next — twenty-second/twenty-third.’

  Her face fell. ‘Oh, David, I’m so sorry, I can’t. We’ve been invited to the Rudges’ party that Saturday.’

  Webb’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who’s “we”?’

  ‘The other governors.’ She didn’t meet his eye. ‘You know Sir Clifford’s on the board? He throws a party for us every year around this time. It’s always very sumptuous.’

  ‘I bet it is,’ Webb returned sourly. Frobisher would be there, then. As chairman of the governors, he was probably the bloody guest of honour.

  ‘He was really shaken by that burglary,’ Hannah was continuing. ‘They took a Georgian wine-taster — worth over fifty thousand, so I heard. It was extremely rare because it was British, and only a few are known to exist.’

  ‘Well, if it’s any consolation, the thieves wouldn’t get anything like that for it,’ Webb commented. ‘I suppose we must be thankful the Rudge place is the only country house break-in we’ve had in Broadshire. So far,’ he added grimly.

  ‘No doubt Sir Clifford’s television programme made him a likely target. Still, it could have been a lot worse; the Hall’s crammed with antiques; if they’d filled their coffers there, they wouldn’t have needed to rob anywhere else!’

  ‘But as we’ve seen, that’s not how they work. They know exactly what they’re after — usually the pride of the collection — and leave everything else behind.

  ‘Mind you, what really gets me is when they ignore the treasure and take off with something relatively worthless. It’s as though they’re cocking a snook at us, calmly walking in and taking whatever they fancy.’

  He took another drink of whisky. ‘One of these days, I keep telling myself, they’ll make a mistake, leave a clue of some sort, and then we’ll nab them. But they’re certainly giving Regional Crime a run for their money.’

  ‘When they are caught, what are the chances of getting anything back?’

  ‘Pretty slim, I’d say. Since none of the jewellery has turned up on the international markets, they must have someone on hand to break up and reset it. Considering the quality of the stones they’ve nicked, that alone would bring them in a fortune. As for the rest, nearly everything they take is small and easily transportable. It’s probably whipped straight out to the continent or wherever and passed on almost before it’s missed.’

  ‘It must be heartbreaking for the owners,’ Hannah said.

  ‘Not as heartbreaking as for the insurance companies! They’ve paid out millions in the last couple of years.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Anyway, my love, I advise you to keep the tiaras in the bank till we’ve collared this lot!’

  She smiled, looking up at him as he got to his feet. ‘Going home?’

  ‘Unless I’ve a better offer.’

  ‘You only have to ask!’ she said demurely, and allowed herself to be pulled into his arms.

  *

  The truce with Andrew lasted for exactly a week, though during that time Helen was conscious of continually nursing it along, keeping from him things that would annoy him — a request for cash from Thomas, for instance — and avoiding any topic which might lead to controversy. For his part, Andrew spent several evenings at home, complimented her on her appearance more than once, and kept his temper.

  But the strain was beginning to show, and although in the event it was she who was at fault, the equilibrium would not have lasted much longer.

  The phone-call came at ten-thirty one night. Andrew had gone out to play snooker and Helen, bored by an evening of indifferent television, had gone to bed early and was sound asleep. The strident ringing jerked her awake and she reached fumblingly for the phone.

  ‘Mrs Campbell? This is Ron Goodman. Sorry to call so late. Is your husband there?’

  She pushed the hair out of her eyes and looked blearily at the clock. Not the middle of the night, as she’d supposed. ‘No, I’m afraid he isn’t.’

  ‘I meant to ring earlier but something came up. Could you give him a message? The boss has called a meeting for nine o’clock, so would you ask him to go straight to the office and not to Winchester as we’d arranged?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Thanks. Sorry to trouble you,’ he said, and rang off. Helen dropped the phone on its cradle, thankfully sliding back into sleep, and the phone-call, like the dreams that followed it, dissolved and faded from her mind.

  She didn’t give it another thought until Andrew’s return the next evening, when it was instantly obvious that something was wrong. He slammed his briefcase on the table and glared at her.

  ‘Was there a phone-call for me last night?’

  She stared at him blankly as memory stirred at the back of her mind.

  ‘Well? Was there, or wasn’t there?’

  ‘Oh Andrew,’ she said, stricken. ‘I’m so sorry. It went completely out of my head.’

  ‘It went completely out of your head. Well, that’s just fine. So I go shooting off to Winchester as arranged and sit twiddling my thumbs for an hour, and when I ring the office to see what’s happened to Ron, I discover I’ve missed an important meeting.’

  She gazed at him aghast. ‘I really am terribly sorry. I was asleep — the phone woke me — and this morning I’d completely forgotten about it.’

  ‘And that’s the best you can do? God knows, it’s not as though you’ve anything else to think about! If your memory’s so abysmal, you should have written it down and left me a note.’

  ‘Look, I’ve said I’m sorry. Going on about it isn’t going to change anything.’

  ‘Well, I’ve made damn sure it won’t happen again. I’ve told them at the office always to phone back in future, rather than leave a message which there’s no guarantee I’d get.’

  She flushed. ‘That’s not fair. You know I —’

  ‘I felt an absolute idiot, being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and when I finally got to the office, Frank had to go through the whole thing again for my benefit. You can imagine how much that pleased him. All in all, it’s been the hell of a day, thanks to you.’

  ‘Well, it’s over now,’ she said, trying to restore a more equable atmosphere. ‘Why don’t you pour yourself a drink while I —’

  But he had turned on his heel and left the room. Helen drew a deep breath and went on preparing the meal.

  It was a miserable evening. Andrew refused to be drawn by her attempts at conversation. He sat in total silence reading the papers, and she realised despairingly that this was just what s
he had dreaded. Without the children, there was no need to smooth over the cracks in their relationship. Perhaps evenings like this were all they had to look forward to.

  She made a last, desperate effort. ‘Look, Andrew, snap out of it, for pity’s sake. It’s not the end of the world. I was at fault and I apologised. What more do you want?’

  ‘It’s not as though you’ve anything else to think about,’ he said again.

  Her patience snapped. ‘No, not a thing!’ she flared. ‘My mind is a total vacuum. Fortunately I’m programmed to cook your meals, wash your clothes, do the shopping and drive the car, but not to take messages! You’d better trade me in for a newer model!’

  He had put down the paper and was staring at her, and she realised it was the first time in twenty-two years that she had lost her temper with him. Until now, that had been his prerogative.

  With trembling hands she collected the coffee cups, took them through to the kitchen, and went upstairs without returning to the sitting-room. When he came up half an hour later, she pretended to be asleep.

  In fact, it was hours before she slept, as the evening’s bitter words replayed themselves in her head. What she needed — what they both needed — was time apart, time to reflect on what was happening to their marriage and whether or not they wanted it to continue. But whatever else was decided, she must find herself a job as soon as possible. Andrew’s taunts made that a priority.

  On which decision she finally fell into an uneasy sleep.

  *

  The next morning they exchanged the minimum of words and it was a relief to both of them when Andrew left for work.

  What she would really like to do, Helen reflected as she cleared the breakfast table, would be to work with antiques again. Perhaps if she wrote to her former employers? But she was out of touch with the market, needed more up-to-date knowledge.

  She stopped suddenly, a plate in her hand. What about that course she’d read of, up in Broadshire? The place where it was held was near Steeple Bayliss; there’d be the bonus of being close to Pen, perhaps able to see her one or two evenings.

  She ran upstairs and rummaged in her handbag for her diary. Then, sitting on the bed, she dialled the number.

  Yes, there were still a few vacancies for the antiques course. No, unfortunately it wasn’t a residential one; normally it would have been, but work was in progress on modernising the bedrooms and they wouldn’t be available till Easter. However, lunch and afternoon tea were provided and there was plenty of excellent bed and breakfast accommodation in the vicinity. If Mrs Campbell would confirm her booking in writing, they would send her a list of possible addresses.

  It wasn’t until she’d replaced the phone that she thought of the Seven Stars. Why bother trying to find somewhere else when she’d been so comfortable there? And it was only a twenty-minute drive from Melbray.

  Ten minutes later she had spoken to a surprised Stella Cain, who confirmed that of course they’d be delighted to put her up for two weeks from Sunday the twenty-third. Remembering the interesting company, the good food and the pretty, poppy-splashed bedroom, Helen felt a grain of comfort.

  She was tempted to ring her daughter, but decided against it. Since her plans would fuel more antagonism, it was better not to mention them to anyone till nearer the time. In the meantime, to lessen Andrew’s cause for complaint, she would cook and freeze one-portion meals for the two weeks she was away.

  With the decision made, Helen felt immediately better and the day passed pleasantly enough as she planned her cooking and freezing programme. Andrew, too, must have resolved to put the row finally behind him. He returned that evening with a box of chocolates, and though no reference was made to the night before, Helen accepted it as a tacit acknowledgement of his overreaction. For the moment life had teetered back on to a more or less even keel.

  *

  ‘Chris?’

  ‘Hello, Dave.’

  ‘I’m just phoning to see how things are going on the hit-and-run.’

  ‘Slowly. There were flakes of paint on some tree-roots at the scene and broken glass from a headlight, but as yet we haven’t pinned down the car they came from.’

  ‘Any more on the girl?’

  ‘Well, as you know, she was local, from Marlton. Ironically enough, she worked at the guesthouse where Skinner went to phone.’

  ‘She was never walking home from there? It’s a good three miles, and on a night like that —’

  ‘She usually cycled, according to her parents, but that night she left her bike behind — probably felt it was too foggy to ride.’

  ‘It would have been better than walking — at least she’d have had a light. But you’d think in that weather her employers would have run her home. What did they have to say about it?’

  ‘Very shocked, as you’d expect, especially since under normal circumstances it wouldn’t have happened; she usually worked mornings, but that day she’d had a dental appointment so switched to the afternoon. Probably didn’t realise the fog had come down till she was actually leaving.’

  Webb grunted and changed the subject. ‘Did you get to the exhibition?’

  ‘Not a chance, though Janet went along one afternoon. Said it was very striking.’

  ‘Well, it might come to Shillingham yet.’

  A smile came into Ledbetter’s voice. ‘Oh, I doubt if they’ll take it out to the sticks!’

  There was a centuries-old rivalry between the two towns, now principally maintained by their football teams. Originally Steeple Bayliss had been the county capital, till increasing industrialisation made its position in the topmost corner of Broadshire less convenient than central Shillingham.

  ‘Well, any time you feel like slumming, come over and I’ll buy you a pint.’

  ‘I’ll hold you to that. See you.’

  ‘See you,’ Webb replied, replacing the phone.

  ‘It’s your weekend off, isn’t it, Dave?’ Crombie commented from across the office. ‘Anything lined up?’

  ‘No; in this weather it’s scarcely worth making an effort.’ He glanced through the window at the dank, drear day. Though had Hannah been free, it would have been different.

  ‘I’ll probably have a painting binge,’ he said. ‘I’ve one or two ideas brewing.’

  ‘Missed out on seeing the Russians, so you’ll produce your own?’ Crombie suggested with a grin. ‘Fair enough.’

  The Governor’s artistic talents, though he rarely spoke of them, were well known at Carrington Street station. More particularly, they had several times been instrumental in his solving a case, the startlingly lifelike caricatures of the people involved alerting him to some previously unnoticed trait which proved significant. The process was known among his colleagues as the Governor ‘drawing conclusions’.

  What they did not know was that Webb was also the acclaimed cartoonist whose work appeared sporadically in the Broadshire News, signed by an enigmatic ‘S’ in a circle, denoting a spider in a web. He had a few in his desk drawer, he thought now; might as well get them off to Mike Romilly before he started nagging again.

  With a sigh, he returned to his paperwork.

  *

  Hatherley Hall, the home of the Rudges, was on the northeast fringe of Shillingham, in the residential district of the same name. Since Charles also lived in that direction, Hannah had suggested meeting him there, but he’d insisted on calling for her.

  It was another misty evening, streetlamps festooned with fuzzy haloes and everything damp to the touch. Hannah settled into the soft leather car-seat and pulled up her collar. To think she might have been in Paris with David!

  The Hall stood on a rise of ground at the end of a long, curving drive. Through the mist, she was conscious of the tall, silent forms of trees on either side, like watchful sentinels waiting in the shadows. Then, round the final bend, the house came into sight, its lights struggling to shine out in welcome.

  Charles parked on the broad sweep of gravel alongside the cars of earlier ar
rivals and, his hand at her elbow, they walked quickly to the door and were ushered inside.

  As always on these occasions, the great double doors leading to both drawing and dining-rooms had been folded back, making the hall into one vast reception area. A maid was waiting to take their coats, and at the top of the sweeping staircase a string quartet had already started to play. Things were done in style at Hatherley, Hannah reflected.

  Their host and hostess hurried forward to greet them, and as she kissed Lady Ursula’s papery cheek, Hannah thought, as she always did, how beautiful she must have been as a young woman. The delicate bone structure was still discernible, the eyes, though deeper in their sockets, were still large and lustrous, while her soft grey hair coiled into a loose chignon, giving her an air of almost regal dignity.

  Sir Clifford was, as always, briskly charming in his immaculate dinner jacket, his thick white hair parted with care. The ebony cane on which he relied to ease an old leg injury was as much a part of him as the military-style moustache which now brushed her cheek.

  ‘My dear Hannah, how pleasant this is! Too bad Gwen can’t be with us this year.’

  ‘I’m sure Canada has its compensations!’ Lady Ursula murmured. ‘Have you heard from her lately?’

  ‘Not since Christmas, but she’s enjoying herself enormously.’

  They were interrupted by the approach of one of the waiters with a tray of drinks, and as the Rudges went to greet new arrivals, Hannah and Charles moved further into the hall.

  Since there were twenty governors of the school and each had brought a partner, there was quite a crowd. Many were friends as well as colleagues, in particular John and Beatrice Templeton — Beatrice, in fact, being Gwen Rutherford’s elder sister, and her husband the school doctor.

  Having chatted to them for several minutes, Hannah caught sight of Monica Latimer, one of her oldest friends, and, excusing herself, moved across to join her. Monica was the proprietor of Randall Tovey, the county’s most prestigious fashion store, but it was her husband George, a local bank manager, who was on the school board.

  ‘I hope you’re coming to our preview on Tuesday, Hannah?’ Monica greeted her. ‘Wine and nibbles and a chance to see our spring fashions?’