An Accidental Shroud

by Marjorie Eccles

  'That looks like Matthew Wilding over there,' she remarked to Carmody, who had polished off both his sausages and was eyeing hers.

  It was Matthew, hunched into an anorak but bare-headed, his short, crisp hair slick with rain. He was with another, bigger and fairer young man. Shouldering their way through the crowds, they were moving along at a smart clip, absorbed in conversation, heedless of puddles and cutting across the road on the red light, seconds after it had changed from amber, pursued by horn-blasts from several enraged drivers.

  'It's our Matthew, though it won't be much longer if that's the way he carries on,' answered Carmody, observing this. 'You going to eat that sausage?'

  'Have it with pleasure. If you dare.'

  'You wouldn't be so picky if you were married to Maureen. Wonderful woman, but not much in the cordon bleu stakes,' Carmody admitted, spearing the sausage on the end of his fork and spreading it liberally with mustard as Matthew and his companion came to a halt in front of Halfords.

  'That young man seems to have made a remarkable recovery from the shock and horror of last night's revelation,' Abigail said. 'And he must have a more forgiving nature than I'd have given him credit for, if that's who I think it is with him ... Naomi Graham's son, what's-his-name?' She didn't know why she was so sure of the other person's identity, but she was, watching the two of them gazing at motor spares, lubricating oil and cans of touch-up paint with all the absorption of children with their noses pressed to a toy shop window.

  'Joss. That's him all right.' Carmody had total recall for names and he'd met Joss during the questioning of the men on Jake Wilding's building site. 'Matthew's half-brother, if everybody is to be believed.'

  'Yes,' Abigail said, thinking of course, the family resemblance again. 'He's the one who gave Matthew his alibi, right? The one he goes rally driving with. The one who happened to get a job with Jake Wilding. Now there's a cluster of coincidences, if you like.'

  'I don't believe in coincidences,' Carmody said, with all the unshakeable conviction of a flat-earther.

  'Neither do I, Ted. Come on.'

  'No pud?'

  Abigail's look said what she thought of any pudding likely to be served at the Triangle. They'd only come here because it was market day and every other place was full, and because the food was said to be better than the canteen food, which was a lie.

  But by the time they'd paid up and extricated their macs and made their way outside, ready to cross to Halfords, something about the pair had altered Abigail's perceptions, and she tugged at Carmody's sleeve. 'Wait a minute, Ted.' The two were still gazing into the window, but it was patently obvious from the angry profiles occasionally turned to each other that they were in the middle of a blazing row. Even as Abigail noted this, Matthew, with a black look at his companion, strode off, splashing with furious abandon through the puddles. The other turned and watched him go with narrowed eyes, then, shrugging his shoulders, made rapid headway in the other direction.

  'It's time I had a word with Joss Graham,' Abigail announced.

  Carmody, looking enigmatic, said she was in for a treat.

  Mayo had made his last appearance in court on this particular case. The judge's summing up had been mercifully brief, and the jury had come out after only two hours, giving the guilty verdict the prosecution had been hoping for. He was feeling benevolent. The rain had stopped and the sun made the air glitter like April. And he grinned like a Cheshire cat every time he thought about the letter from Alex which had come that morning.

  He'd arranged to see DI Moon in his office and while he waited, asked for a tray of tea to be sent up and went to inspect the clock he'd placed on top of the filing cabinet, now looking nothing like the clapped-out old wreck he'd found on a market stall. He was pleased with the results of his labours, all the hours of his spare time spent in polishing the slate case and cleaning up the brass spandrels and, with infinite patience, repairing, cleaning and oiling the works. It could now be seen as the handsome Victorian marble mantel clock it was, nothing very exciting, but a respectable addition to his collection of venerable timepieces. Its tick was comfortable, it had a sweet chime. It still wasn't keeping perfect time, so he'd brought it into the office where he could keep an eye on it. He regulated it now, checking the correct time with his watch, and went back to the bulky file, open on his desk. If only human beings were as easily adjustable!

  'I've been having another look at the file,' he said when Abigail was settled before him with a cup of tea. 'We know Matthew Wilding was out with Joss Graham last Friday night and got himself plastered, right? Have we checked where they did their drinking, yet?'

  'Farrar did. He's just reported back and – you're going to love this, sir – it was the Rose.'

  'What?'

  Mayo's mind immediately charted new possibilities, though Abigail's next words quickly stemmed the flow of speculation. 'Farrar says that Sal Cellini confirms they were there until about half past ten and that young Matthew was apparently stoned out of his head. They weren't exactly thrown out, but they would have been if Graham hadn't responded to the suggestion that they leave, PDQ. He thinks Cellini might know more than he's saying about that.'

  'Stoned on something more than alcohol, is that what he means?'

  'Possibly, but if he suspects it, he isn't saying.'

  'Then if Matthew was that far out of his head, from whatever cause, it makes it doubtful that he could have murdered and disposed of Fontenoy in the way he was.'

  'And Lindsay Hammond confirmed that he got home about eleven, anyway. She was wakened by car headlights, or that's what she says.'

  'No obvious reason why she should be lying, is there?'

  'No-o. Nothing I can put a finger on. I just have a funny feeling about her.' Abigail frowned, then made a dismissive gesture and went on to tell him of the apparent quarrel she'd witnessed between Matthew Wilding and Joss Graham. 'I've been trying to get hold of Naomi Graham since first thing this morning. I called at the house and I've been telephoning every hour since, but no joy. So I thought I'd go and see Joss Graham at the building site.'

  'What are we waiting for?' Mayo reached for his jacket. 'If we go now, we'll catch them before the light goes and they have to knock off.'

  'Where did you find it?' asked Christine. She recognized the ring instantly and felt a plunging sensation in the pit of her stomach.

  'Under the corner of the rug in Lindsay's room.'

  Mrs Knight's tone could not have been described as anything other than accusing, as if Christine, like some Victorian mistress, had put the ring there purposely, to test whether she'd lifted the rug to clean under it or not. In actual fact, Mrs Knight's thoroughness was the one thing Christine couldn't complain about. She even rolled out the cooker in the kitchen to clean behind it. But she was an unappealing woman who went about her twice-weekly cleaning with a self-righteous ferocity, as if defying anyone to imply she resented performing such menial tasks. She was the comfortably-off wife of one of the local Labour councillors and only did the job to prove that all women were equal.

  She held the ring out as if it were something unspeakable. Her bright hard eyes stared at Christine. 'Looks valuable to me.' The subtext being: Some people have more money than sense, not taking care of what they have. 'I thought I'd better give it you rather than just putting it on the dressing table.' Subtext: So if there's any question about it, I'm in the clear.

  Christine, who had previously always worked on the principle that if you had anyone working in the house, it had to be someone you could get on with, suddenly asked herself why she was putting up with someone she disliked so much. She decided that was it. She would find a suitable time, and tell Mrs Knight that she could go.

  She busied herself now with other things until the lady had departed in her smugly elderly Mini and she and Lindsay were alone in the house after lunch. They were in the sitting room, Lindsay sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the huge window that overlooked the garden, cradling her l
ute. She had been playing a plaintive Renaissance song, singing softly to it in her sweet alto, and the echoes still hung in the room. Christine was loath to break the mood, she couldn't recall the last time she'd heard Lindsay playing or singing. Until her illness, she'd been a star pupil, full of promise – and soon would be again, of course, now that she was getting better. Christine took a deep breath and dropped the ring on the coffee table, telling Lindsay where it had been found.

  Lindsay immediately looked panic-stricken, her face flushing a dull and unbecoming red. 'It must have slipped off my finger.'

  'That's not surprising – it must be several sizes too big for you. It's a man's ring.'

  With infinite care, Lindsay put her lute down on the carpet next to her. 'I had it on my thumb,' she said, inexplicably.

  Christine's face mirrored Lindsay's dismay as they both looked down at the Janus ring, sitting balefully on the polished walnut, light refracted from the glowing, deep blue stone.

  'You've never shown me this before. Where did you get it?'

  Lindsay looked quickly at her mother and saw that Christine had recognized the ring as being the one which Fontenoy's had had in stock for quite some time, one which Nigel had on occasion worn. She thought rapidly, then took a deep breath and told her that Nigel had given it to her, weeks ago. Christine picked it up again and clenched it in her fist. 'You never used to lie to me, Lindsay.'

  'I'm not lying now.'

  But Christine knew that she was. And that Lindsay knew that she knew. The full implication of what this might mean hit Christine and, as if the realization had caused scales to fall from her eyes, she suddenly saw a great deal more than she had hitherto about Lindsay's condition over the last few months. A lot of puzzling questions were answered. Glandular fever? What a fool she'd been!

  The painful knowledge came to her that she'd failed her daughter. Otherwise, why had Lindsay not felt able to confide in her, ask for her help? Quickly following on came the realization, however, that a mother might well be the last person any girl would tell in the circumstances – especially one who was preoccupied with reshaping her own life, remarrying, happier than she had been for years – but I honestly didn't think I was that sort of mother, Christine thought desolately.

  But who had been responsible for doing this to her daughter? And with another shock, a name immediately came to her. In her mind's eye she saw Lindsay talking to him at the wedding reception, eyes full of tears, drinking champagne and looking as though she wished it were hemlock.

  'If someone else hadn't already killed him, I'd do it myself,' she said through her teeth.

  'Mum?'

  'Just tell me the truth, Lindsay – about everything. Don't be afraid I won't understand. You're not the first to have had this happen. It was an abortion you had, wasn't it?'

  The Janus ring bit into her palm. The two-faced god, which couldn't be more appropriate. Lindsay went red again, then white. She stood up abruptly. I mustn't fail her again, I must think what to do for the best, thought Christine, as she went to take Lindsay in her arms, only to have her back away, her eyes wide.

  'You think – you think – Nigel? Oh, but that's gross!'

  Although immediately realizing the enormity of her mistake, Christine noticed that Lindsay didn't deny the abortion itself. 'It wasn't Nigel? Who was it, then?'

  For a long time, Lindsay said nothing. 'Nobody who matters,' she said at last, in a low voice. 'A boy I knew at school. After a party. You won't believe it, but it was the first time.'

  'Of course I would, if you say so.' And, knowing Lindsay, she might be so consumed with guilt that Christine could well believe it might be the last. She needed help. At the same time, she knew that Lindsay wasn't ready for that, she wouldn't talk to her yet, she'd need time before she could. She'd only clam up if she were pressed now.

  'Well, Lindsay, what about this ring? How did you come by it?'

  'I can't tell you that, I can't!'

  This is murder we're talking about, Christine said to herself, it's no time for being squeamish, or soft, even if you suspect your child of unimaginable horrors. Her resolve strengthened. She made herself sound firmer than she felt.

  'What are you going to do?' Lindsay asked nervously.

  'It's not up to me, Lindsay, it's what you have to do, isn't it?'

  20

  The narrow road, a turning off the main road, wound upwards into the partially developed housing site. A large board at the entrance announced:

  FORDE MANOR GARDENS

  ANOTHER PRESTIGIOUS DEVELOPMENT

  BY

  WILDING HOMES.

  LUXURY THREE-BEDROOM AND FOUR-BEDROOM HOUSES.

  PHASE ONE NEARING COMPLETION.

  Home and Dry with Wilding Homes!

  The site was imaginatively designed. Several small cul-de-sacs and crescents led off the central main road which wound sinuously up the hill, some of the front gardens already partly landscaped.

  Ask for Thelma, they'd been told, and were now directed to the site office, housed in a portakabin near the bottom of the site, down among the earth-moving equipment and the wire-meshed compound where raw materials and machinery stood.

  Considering the state of the unmade roads and the rain of the previous day, which had left behind a sea of red mud, the office was unbelievably spick and span, smelling strongly of floral air-freshener. At an equally sterile desk sat Thelma, papers neatly spread and a small computer switched on as an indication that she'd been working on them. A Mills & Boon paperback peeped out from under a file.

  'Oh, it's you again!' she said when she knew they were the police. 'When are you going to let us have that pick-up back? Mr Wilding's going spare.' She was a redoubtable-looking woman, with a middle-aged perm and too much make-up, sucking a sweet. Despite the unenthusiastic greeting, their arrival had obviously created a welcome diversion and when the coolness had worn off, she was ready to help. The police activity and subsequent inquiries which had already taken place on the site, the questioning of the first-aider about any recent on-site accident involving quantities of blood, must have had the place jumping with speculation and she was no doubt hopeful of picking up some tasty titbit of gossip.

  'Joss Graham?' Transferring the sweet from one cheek to the other, she informed them that today they'd find him working on one of the houses near the entrance to the site. They must already have passed him. He had no specific duties but worked at whatever job he was told to do. 'And very willingly,' she added approvingly. 'Joss never minds what he does. Not like some. But being so much better educated, he's no need to stand on his dignity, has he? You know he's a microbiologist?'

  'Is that so?' Mayo felt obliged to show the surprise Thelma evidently expected. 'What's he doing working here, then?'

  'He couldn't get a job in his own field, but he's not the sort to be too proud to take what he can get.' Clearly, Thelma saw herself as cheerleader of the Joss Graham fan club. Mayo thanked her, prepared to meet a cross between Einstein and the Archangel Gabriel.

  'Go up Lineker Road and then Christie Avenue, and you'll find him at the first house in Mansell Crescent,' Thelma had said. Before going up there, however, Mayo decided to take a look at the collapsed ruin of the old house, Forde Manor, less than a hundred yards away. The vehicle tracks Carmody had mentioned had been obscured by the recent heavy rain, but the flattened fence hadn't yet been repaired, leaving a clear view of the field beyond. It told them nothing. There was nothing to see, apart from a heap of rubble. Incredibly, scarcely one brick had been left standing on another and it was impossible to tell what the original house had been like. They left the desolate scene behind and went in search of Joss Graham.

  He was working on what was to be the front garden of one of the houses, sitting on a yellow-painted excavator and manipulating it to cut out the curving driveway as delicately and precisely as if with a knife and fork, manoeuvring round the porcelain bathroom fixtures which stood waiting outside the front door to be carried in.
/>   Abigail wondered if she could have met him before and then decided that it was the glimpse she'd had of him yesterday that had made her think so. He was a type, there was at least one on every building site, a big, macho bloke with a tanned, outdoor complexion. Under a yellow hard hat, longish, wavy fair hair that any girl would have been proud of. Very blue eyes, one earring and a lazy smile. He leaned out of the cab to speak, looking down on them. The smile was directed at Abigail, not Mayo, whom he largely ignored. He was the sort to have been stripped to the waist, had it not been so cold. As it was, he wore nothing more than jeans and a check work shirt, pushed up to the elbows so that the tattoos on his forearm were only partly covered.

  He had stopped work, switching the machine to idle as they approached. Mayo showed his warrant card and told him they were making further investigations into the murder of Nigel Fontenoy.

  'The guy who had the antique shop, yeah. Yeah, I know. I've heard Matt Wilding talk about him.'

  'Ever met him?'

  'You think I move in those sort of circles?'

  'Is there somewhere we can talk?' Mayo asked, giving him a sharp look.

  'Sure.' Graham switched the machine off, jumped down and led them into the kitchen of the house next door to the one with the bathroom fittings outside. There was a smell of damp plaster and new wood. The kitchen was finished, and there was an electric kettle, coffee mugs, a jar of instant coffee and a bag of sugar on the counter. 'Like a coffee?'

  Mayo waved the suggestion away. 'Thanks, but we don't want to keep you from your work. Inspector Moon here has one or two more questions to ask you. It shouldn't take long.' Graham had, like the rest of the workforce, previously been questioned, but now that his connections with both Jake and Matthew Wilding were known, it was necessary to be more specific.

  'Feel free.' He had a pleasant voice and a classless intonation, but his conversation was sprinkled with too many of these deliberate Americanisms, which Mayo found irritating. He nodded to Abigail and leaned back against the sink, while Graham hitched himself on to a corner of the central unit.