Cruel as the Grave

by Meg Elizabeth Atkins

  ‘George, I was dying of boredom. I had those things because I thought it was the right thing to do. It didn’t make any of us happy.’

  ‘No. I know. But that’s not to write the whole thing off. With the right woman, someone to provide a stable home life — ’

  ‘Bugger that. It’s fun I’m looking for.’

  George sighed, reverted to the evening’s business. ‘What about Katie?’

  Katie’s Kaff. Katie herself, known to them both from their hot and undiscriminating youth, had got through two husbands without conspicuous grief. At present she was on holiday abroad doing the most raucous things she could think of, but her business hummed away at its usual rate because she had stamped her personality so firmly on it staff and customers kept looking over their shoulders for her.

  Hunter said, ‘She’s a Mrs Wellbed in the making.’

  ‘She always fancied you.’

  ‘Mrs Wellbed?’

  ‘No, you silly sod. Katie. So did that little punk waitress. I thought she was going to get inside your shirt.’

  Waitress was a courtesy title on George’s part. Katie’s Kaff had skivvies who cleaned, cooked, washed-up, took your order and slapped down on your table a huge plate of delicious, cholesterol-stuffed food.

  ‘I don’t fancy fifteen-year-olds with nose rings,’ Hunter said. Katie’s staff would never speak out of turn — but they could hint. No harm in that. If anyone later checked on Katie, she could always know nothing about anything or (depending on who was asking, and why, and if it suited her) she could be a source of information.

  George said, ‘D’you think that kid was having you on? Hoping you’d go back?’

  ‘No. Katie’d have her magenta hair out by the roots. No, she wouldn’t dare hint Katie knew something, had heard something, if it wasn’t true. But... It could just be one of the lurid rumours that are going around.’

  ‘We’ve heard enough of those this evening. D’you want me to follow it up?’

  ‘No, George, I will. It’s worth a call when Katie gets back.’

  Eleven

  Hunter and Anette stood on the porch of 18 Woodside. Anette rested her hand on a curved wooden column. ‘Isn’t it beautiful? Victorian? Edwardian?’

  She spoke softly. The morning spread its hush about them: blurred shapes, the fall of a leaf. Sunlight behind mist softened the boldness of scarlet and yellow and russet. Hunter tried to think if he had ever been in a lyrical garden before.

  The door was opened by a neat, grey-haired woman, crisp in a pretty floral overall.

  ‘Miss Willoughby?’ Hunter enquired.

  She didn’t say certainly not but she might just as well have done. ‘If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll get her for you.’ She went briskly away with a face full of pity for people who couldn’t tell the difference between the cleaner and the lady of the house.

  Hunter murmured, ‘Oops,’ then he and Annette had nothing to do except stand looking through the open door into the hall.

  Gleaming parquet; rugs in subdued tones of gold and green and blue. A cast-iron umbrella stand of Gothic design that would have looked mad anywhere else but here became a charming curio; a matched pair of mahogany hall seats, acanthus carved; a console table of inlaid rosewood.

  Helen Willoughby appeared, elegantly dressed, graceful, a look of polite interest animating her fine-boned face. She must have been very beautiful once, Hunter thought; anyone can see her niece in her. He proffered his warrant card, began, ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Hunter from Chatfield police station — ’ She took an involuntary step backward, her face rigid. He said quickly, ‘Everything’s perfectly all right, Miss Willoughby. We’d just like a few words with you. Forgive me for startling you.’

  She recovered rapidly, nodding to Annette when Hunter introduced her. ‘This has been a stressful time for us, and as my brother is away, I thought... ’ She did not appear to find it necessary to finish the sentence. ‘Please come in.’

  She led them to the sitting room. Long windows, a grand piano, gilt-framed mirrors reflecting softly luminous colours: cream, ivory, egg-shell blue. So much comfort and good taste Hunter felt as a reproach: you had to be invited, arrive in your best clothes, preferably by chauffeur-driven car... Playing the stolid copper, he moved with assurance about the room; no one would guess he was terrified of breaking something. ‘He’s still away, then? Your brother?’

  ‘Yes. He should have come back this week but has rather a bad cold. We thought it best for him to stay in Cheltenham just for the present. I shall probably go and collect him this weekend.’

  She was perfectly composed. Reserved, distant, but regarding them in turn with ladylike interest. If she wished them in hell, her carefully schooled expression would never betray it.

  ‘You’ll be aware by now, I suppose, that we’ve released the name of the woman whose body was found in the Chat. Miss Beattie Booth. Does it mean anything to you?’

  ‘My niece told me she’d been to see you. You asked her that question, didn’t you? My reply is exactly the same as hers... ’

  Annette had chosen to sit on a chaise-longue upholstered in ecru silk damask in an instantly dismissed moment of imagining herself reclining in a lace peignoir. She found herself looking glumly at the graduation photograph of a radiant young woman who could only be the niece. Unobtrusively changing position, she examined several silver-framed photographs: always the young woman, an older man, Miss Willoughby.

  In gathering information about Reggie, Annette had inevitably learned something of the family — the mother, who had died young; the dictatorial father; Paula and her two daughters. But they had no place here; here, where she reigned, Helen made her wishes plain: these are my family; these are the people I love.

  ‘... whilst I would agree my brother is happy-go-lucky, he’s truthful and an honourable man. I’m sure Liz told you so.’

  Hunter, assessing the woman before him, gave some thought to the anonymous telephone call. In spite of his promise to Liz, if he thought there was anything to be gained, he would tell her about it. It would distress Miss Willoughby, yes. But... jolt her from her composure? No, he doubted that. Her defences were very securely in place. There was nothing to be learned by those means.

  Sensing that Hunter needed to ponder something, Annette indicated a photograph, said to Helen, ‘This is delightful. Is it your garden?’ The four figures could have been left stranded from an Edwardian tea party: the two women sitting in falls of chiffon, sweeping hats, parasols daintily poised. The men standing, blazers, straw boaters — Reggie sporting a monocle. Not only was the group enchantingly composed, it differed from the other photographs in that a new figure had appeared: a man in his sixties perhaps, burly, close cropped hair and beard, extremely attractive. They seemed timeless, always caught in sunshine, willows around them — ‘it could be the real thing. But it’s you, isn’t it, Miss Willoughby.’

  ‘Yes. And my niece, Liz... Reggie... and a friend of ours, Wilfred Heatherington. Liz helps with the costumes for Hambling Amateur Dramatic Society — well, when she can find the time. She’s so gifted. They were doing Charlie’s Aunt and we thought it would be fun to dress up in those lovely clothes.’

  Hunter glanced at it. Grown-ups playing like children. It was very beautiful. Returned to business. ‘Do you know of anyone who has a grudge against your brother?’

  ‘No.’ She was surprised. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I understand there’s been gossip about him.’

  ‘The gossip, Inspector, has been occasioned by your actions,’ Helen said, an edge to the dove-like voice.

  ‘Has it?’ he said interestedly, as if this had not occurred to him. She was an intelligent woman. For an instant they measured each other, will against will. Her upright posture, firmly clasped hands, spoke of a lifetime of restraint; the open look she turned on him said: it’s a waste of time trying to provoke me. I know everything about self-control.

  ‘During these last few weeks, have you no
ticed anything strange in your brother’s behaviour?’

  ‘Most certainly not.’

  ‘No. Ah, I phrased that clumsily. I apologise. For instance, the night that concerns us — the night he went over to Midham — was this normal sort of social pattern for him of a Thursday?’

  ‘Well... there was no special evening for him to go to Robert’s. Thursdays, weekends, any time really.’

  ‘Yes, I see. And that evening, you were at home when he left the house?’

  ‘We more or less left together.’ She was plainly not a gossipy woman, she would talk easily only to people with whom she was close, but she was patient, polite, taking trouble with the way she answered him. ‘You see, it happened to be one of the evenings when I visit an old friend. She’s more or less bed-ridden; a group of us have a rota, taking it in turns to sit with her, talk, read to her, settle her for the night. I stayed quite late, sometimes it’s very difficult for Martha to get to sleep, day and night aren’t always readily distinguishable to her. I came home earlier than Reggie, I did hear him come in, I think it would have been near midnight.’

  ‘I see. Have you been away during the last few weeks?’

  ‘Not since June, when we had our holiday together in Tuscany. Won’t you sit down? Let me get Mrs Riley to make us some coffee.’

  ‘No, thank you. I don’t think we need take up any more of your time.’

  Annette said to herself — yes, please. I want to sit in this lovely room and have coffee from a silver pot and biscuits on a tiny china plate. I want to look out at the garden listen to you telling me in your caressing voice how well the clematis have done this year, and how difficult it is to keep the eucalyptus pruned —

  ‘No, thank you. Good morning, Miss Willoughby,’ she said in her brisk, no nonsense way.

  *

  They had been shown out. The door was shut. Helen could be at any window, unseen, watching them.

  Annette slipped into Hunter’s BMW. He was slower, going round to the driver’s door. As he opened it, a very dirty Metro turned into the drive, parked in front of the first garage. The young woman who got out gave Hunter a hard stare, let herself in in a proprietorial way through a wrought-iron gate at the side of the house, and disappeared. They looked after her. Her dirty car, shapeless coat, granny boots, could not have been more out of place. ‘I’d say the cleaning woman only she’s already there,’ Annette murmured.

  They fastened their seat belts. Hunter said, ‘Well, we have ascertained that Miss Willoughby’s hearing is perfect. No — you could have been right. Deafness plus a house that size — an army could tramp in and out and she’d never know.’

  ‘I thought — from what I’d heard about her — she’d be an old dragon. You know, autocratic, cold, ordering everyone about like servants. But she’s not. That... gentle grace... ’

  ‘Her charm’s easy to fall for — why not, when it comes so naturally. Also a woman of considerable self-discipline.’

  ‘Yes, that came across, too. But that’s her type, isn’t it? And she had to develop some means of survival, stand up for herself, protect her little brother. Their mother died young and by all accounts their father was a perfect old bastard.’

  ‘Did he ill-treat them?’

  ‘Not physically, as I understand it. Every other way. Drove them closer together.’

  ‘There’s something the niece said about them.’

  ‘Would that be the spinster schoolmarm niece?’ Annette asked dryly.

  ‘Yes, that one. She said they live in their own world, where everything’s polite and beautifully ordered. I understand now what she means. There’s not much room for harsh reality there.’ Hunter started the car, turned out of the drive.

  Annette glanced back. ‘Beattie’s posh house? With the garden big enough for a swimming pool? Even from the road you can see that, can’t you? And it must apply to all the houses along here. But... look at it. What in God’s name has any of that to do with Beattie?’

  ‘Stranger things have happened.’

  ‘You mean — Reggie might like a bit of rough?’

  ‘Could be.’... I hope his niece does. I’ll make her an offer.

  Annette gave him a sideways look. You old dog. Right, you needed to question Miss Willoughby. You think the niece knows something. Right. But that’s not just what this is about. You’re hoping to stampede the beautiful niece into coming to see you again. You old dog.

  *

  Liz made her second visit to Hambling police station with a certain diffidence. At the front desk, in place of the short constable she had almost lifted off his feet (perhaps I’ve just come to say I’m sorry to everyone for behaving so badly) was a strapping young woman Liz would not have taken on at any price. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Hunter: I’m not sure. I’ll just ring through for you. People are always in and out, it’s not easy to keep track. Who shall I say it is?’

  Liz gave her name, waited, and after a few moments found herself sitting in an interview room facing two pleasant young people.

  ‘I’m afraid Mr Hunter had to go over to Headquarters. Is there any way we can help? I’m Detective Sergeant Collier and this is Detective Constable Jones.’

  Nothing in their ease, their smiling efficiency, indicated their breakneck reaction to her request to see Hunter -

  (Annette: ‘Who? Who? Don’t let her go. Put her in an interview room. Don't tell her the guv’s not here. James — I said she’d come in, didn’t I? James, where the bloody hell are you?’

  — Collier — they are striding full speed down a corridor. ‘If Hunter couldn’t get out of her whatever it is, I don’t see how we can. No, of course we’re not going to pass up the chance, you silly besom — ’)

  Liz, answering their smiles across the table in the dingy room, recalled Hunter’s ‘my team are professionals.’ He couldn’t have meant these — just two well-dressed people, as ordinary as any of her friends. She said to Annette, ‘You went to see Helen — my aunt — last week, with Mr Hunter, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was she all right?’

  ‘Perfectly, as far as I could tell. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Well, I haven’t seen her since last Sunday. She left for Cheltenham yesterday. I spoke to her on the phone during the week... ’ To make sure she had recovered from the awful incident on Saturday evening, that there had been no repetition of it, or anything like it. During their conversation Helen assured Liz that the Detective Chief Inspector had been perfectly civil and the woman constable seemed a very nice type of girl. ‘They just wanted to make sure for themselves I knew nothing about this woman.’

  Reasonable enough, but Liz couldn’t shake off an unspecified uneasiness. Was there a new, brittle strain to Helen’s voice? She felt so out of touch.

  ‘You didn’t say anything about the anonymous phone call?’

  ‘No, I think Mr Hunter assured you he wouldn’t.’

  ‘Yes. It’s just that I worry about her particularly as Reggie’s away.’

  Collier asked, ‘You’ve been in touch with him?’

  ‘Oh, yes — ’ Liz spoke with the kind of enthusiasm intended to convey they were in constant communication. The barest truth was that of the several times she had phoned, Reggie had only once been available — scarcely that because he was just about to go out. She had written — an affectionate, teasing letter — not expecting a reply. Reggie was hopeless when it came to anything more than ‘All my love’ on a greetings card.

  She said, wistfully, ‘It’s just that I’m always used to them being here, weekends, spending time with them. You’re sure Helen was all right?’

  It could not have been more evident to Annette that Liz was badly in need of reassurance. ‘Miss Farrell, your aunt struck me as a very capable woman. She was as helpful as she could be.’

  Liz looked shocked. ‘But, of course, she would consider it rude not to be helpful. It’s Paula who specialises in obstructiveness.’

  ‘Paula?’ Annette repeate
d. Her enquiries had accounted for Paula, although she was not aware she was the young woman who had arrived at Woodside just as she and Hunter were leaving.

  ‘Helen’s younger sister. She makes huge hisses about everything and upsets Helen. Me, too, to be honest, sometimes. She’s an absolute pain in the backside. We never tell her anything.’

  Collier said quietly, ‘And what is there to tell?’

  ‘What?’ Liz’s expression was fleetingly anxious. ‘Oh, I mean silly things, family things. Nothing that really matters. Relatives can be absolutely... Heavens, is that the time? I really must go — ’ With smooth, unstoppable movements she was up, half out of the room.

  ‘Miss Farrell — ’

  ‘So sorry. Appointment. Simply must dash — ’

  She had gone.

  ‘James, you silly bugger. You scared her off.’

  ‘I know. All right. It was too soon.’

  ‘It was too heavy.’

  ‘She wouldn’t have reacted like that if she hadn’t got something to hide.’

  ‘We’ve blown our chance of finding out what that is, haven’t we? James, you really are a silly bugger.’

  Twelve

  The day was bitter with wind and grey with sleet. It was, fortunately, invisible from the steamed-up interior of Katie’s Kaff. Katie, comfortably built, well-preserved and well-bejewelled, sported an unsuitable suntan that made the faces around her even more pallid than usual. She seldom smiled (a smile was something given away, violating her businesswoman’s instincts) but she made exceptions for certain people. Hunter, for one.

  ‘Hallo, Sheldon. Long time. Still married?’

  ‘Yes,’ Hunter lied serenely.

  ‘Pity. I’d have you if you wasn’t.’ She placed a thick white mug before him, full of her ferocious tea: mahogany coloured, steaming. ‘Fancy anything? It’s on the house, seeing as it’s you.’

  She nodded to the menu board, an invitation to chronic ill-health. Fried bacon and egg balm cakes; jumbo sausages; steak and kidney in a suet crust; meat and potato pie; the best chips anyone ever tasted — with everything. And puddings: spotted dick, syrup sponge, jam roly-poly. ‘No, thanks, Katie,’ Hunter said, inwardly sighing. How many customers had fallen dead here of indigestion? Blissfully.