Pretty Maids All In A Row

by Anthea Fraser

  Jill hesitated. 'I won't be treading on Bill's toes?"

  Another cause for embarrassment. They both knew she was wasting her time on the Woman's Page; she was as capable as Bill Hardy of being chief reporter. Michael hadn't admitted, even to himself, that by restricting her scope, he hoped to needle her into leaving.

  'You want the woman's angle, I suppose,' she added, her voice without inflection.

  'You'll make the front page with this—what more do you want? But only if you get a move on—we're pushing it as it is.'

  Jill's calm brown eyes rested briefly on his bent head. Then she nodded and left the room. Fool! she chided herself, as she got quickly into her Mini and fastened the seat-belt. You won't get any change out of him, so don't expect it. And no promotion, either, she reflected, threading her way through the traffic with practised ease. She was ambitious, but for the moment she was tied to Broadshire. Her married sister had been paralysed in a road accident and Jill, pleased to be needed, had moved in with her indefinitely, to run the house and feed the family. Fleet Street would have to wait, but she'd get there one day, and by her own efforts, with no thanks to Michael Romilly.

  The familiar pain rose in her and she fought it down. It was over. Had been for almost a year. The fact that she still loved him was her bad luck, and she'd have to live with it.

  With an effort, she changed her line of thought. She'd never been to Westridge. It wasn't a village you passed through on the way to anywhere else. Turning off the Heatherton road, she pushed her personal problems aside and concentrated on the task ahead.

  'I told you there was publicity value in this!' Matthew shut the door behind the last reporter. 'That girl yesterday opened the floodgates.'

  Jessica leant back against the sofa and closed her eyes. 'I've a feeling they're more interested in the house than in us, since it might be the scene of the crime.'

  'The police took the typewriter, by the way. Lucky I brought my own after all.'

  'That was the one which—?'

  'No doubt that's what they're ascertaining. Carrie's a bit subdued this morning, isn't she?'

  'I'm subdued myself,' Jessica retorted with a touch of asperity. 'And don't forget she was fond of Mrs Cowley. It must be a terrible shock.' She looked up at him. 'What was she like?'

  'Attractive, in a rather brittle way. Suspiciously blonde hair, well made up but rather a lot of it. Talked quickly, in short sentences.'

  'It's hard to reconcile the femme fatale image with Carrie's sainted benefactor. Did it occur to you she might be? A siren, I mean?'

  'Not really. She wasn't that obvious. I shouldn't think she hired herself out, for instance. But free with her favours —yes, I can accept that.' He studied his wife's pensive face. 'But she did not offer them to me, and for my part, nothing was further from my mind. Does that answer your unspoken question?'

  She smiled and flushed. 'Sorry, darling. I wasn't really thinking that.'

  'If you weren't, you must be the only one.' 'What do you mean?'

  'Our friend the Chief Inspector reckons I'm a good candidate.' He turned away, feeling for his cigarettes. 'Well, that's enough disruption for one day. I must get down to work. See you at lunch.'

  Jessica nodded and picked up the Daily Telegraph. It, too, reported on the murder. Tomorrow, no doubt, it would carry the interview they'd just given.

  The doorbell again. She looked helplessly about for her crutches, but Carrie came running down the stairs and, with a strained smile at her, went to open it. Leo Sandon stood on the step.

  'Good day, good day!' he boomed. 'Is the lady of the house at home?'

  The lady of the house, thought Jessica, was lying on a mortuary slab somewhere. But she called out, 'I'm here, Leo. Please come in.'

  He bent his head to go through the doorway, his luminous dark eyes on hers. He was wearing a purple shirt, black cord jeans and open sandals, and a leather shoulder-bag of the type affected by continental males hung from his shoulder. His toes, Jessica noted in one all-embracing glance, were as long and thin as the rest of him.

  'Madame!' He took her hand and raised it to his lips. Over his stooping shoulder, Jessica saw Carrie's pale surprise.

  She said weakly, 'I thought you were another reporter.'

  He smiled benignly down on her, restored to his full height. 'You've entertained the gentlemen of the press? How diligent of them, to sniff you out so soon.'

  'It was only because of the murder—'

  'Murder?' he interrupted, frowning. 'What murder?'

  Jessica stared at him. It had filled her mind to the exclusion of all else for the last twenty-four hours, and she found it impossible to accept that there was anyone, at least locally, who hadn't heard of it.

  'Mrs Cowley's murder. The lady whose house this is.'

  'But how unfortunate,' he said, as if a cricket match had been rained off. 'Poor woman. Still, it hardly concerns you, does it?'

  'There are those,' Jessica said drily, 'who might not agree with you.'

  'Really? You surprise me.' He paused. 'You haven't forgotten your little promise, I hope?'

  She made an effort to meet him on his own terms. At least it would offer temporary distraction. 'To read your poems? Of course not. I've—been looking forward to it.'

  His face lit up. 'Splendid—so have I.'

  Above their heads, the wail of a vacuum cleaner started up, and he frowned. Jessica said quickly, 'We could go in the garden if you like, but I'll have to ask for your assistance.'

  'My dear lady! With the greatest pleasure!'

  He reminded her, Jessica thought, fighting down hysterical laughter, of one of the great actors of the past. Beerbohm Tree, perhaps, or Henry Irving. His voice was resonant and beautifully cultured. It was just that he seemed a century out of date.

  They processed—there was no other word for it—through to the kitchen and thence out of the back door. Carrie had put two deckchairs on the lawn earlier, in case Jessica wanted to go outside. The morning was warm and overcast, a world of green and grey. Leo settled her, with a great deal of fussing, in one of the chairs, and pulled the other round to face her before seating himself. With his long legs almost under his chin, he looked like a praying mantis.

  'Now,' he said, his voice vibrant with excitement, 'for the recitation!' From the leather shoulder-bag he produced a slim, beautifully bound volume, and Jessica exclaimed in surprise.

  'So you have been published! Matthew thought—'

  But he shook his head. 'No, no. A conceit only, printed at my own expense. May I suggest you commence with The Wild Wind. I lay awake last night, and seemed to hear your voice speaking the words.'

  He leafed through the pages, found what he was looking for, and, bending forward, passed the book to Jessica. Its pages were heavy vellum and in the centre of the opened one were six lines of uneven length. Diffidently she flicked it over, but a new title was displayed on the next one.

  'It's just this page?'

  He smiled. 'No doubt you'd heard I write long verses. That's true. The majority are two or three pages, but this one was a particularly happy creation—a small gem, as I hope you'll agree. I was able to say all I wanted in half a dozen lines. Now, will you read it, please?'

  Jessica had rapidly scanned the lines, none of which boasted a capital letter or any punctuation. Hoping fervently that she was putting in the expression he desired, she proclaimed as awesomely as its brevity allowed:

  'o formless being

  whose passing bends the trees

  who whispers to me in the still of night tho never seen take at the last my breath that never dying

  I may roam eternal night with thee'

  As she finished there was a brief pause. Leo was gazing at her raptly, his hands clasped together. At last he gave a deep sigh. 'I knew it!' he breathed. 'I knew it would touch you, as it does me. Thank you, thank you.'

  Feeling she'd hardly earned such praise, Jessica said tentatively, 'Shall I read another?' and immediately regre
tted her offer. For the next poem he selected was indeed long, and at first glance she hadn't the remotest idea what it was about. Thankful for her practice in reading unseen prose, she ploughed into it, occasional swift glances reassuring her that her rendition was meeting with Leo's approval. He seemed to have selected in this poem all his favourite words and strung them haphazardly together, so that, provided you didn't try to make sense of it, it sounded beautiful. She hoped she'd remember enough to regale Matthew with over lunch. And surely it was lunch-time now? She daren't risk a glance at her watch—it would be too pointed. Matthew —Carrie! Come to my rescue, please!

  But when, some fifteen minutes later, the interruption came, it was not what she expected. She was floundering through yet another obscure verse when her voice was suddenly drowned by the approach of a low-flying helicopter. Thankfully, she broke off, but the effect on Leo was astounding. He leapt to his feet, overturning the deckchair in the process, his face contorted with fury.

  'Be off with you!' he screamed, shaking his fists at the hovering machine. 'Don't imagine you can frighten me!'

  The pilot, assuming Leo was trying to attract his attention, came lower still, making lazy arcs over the garden as he attempted to discover what all the fuss was about.

  'Spies! Filthy spies!' Leo was ranting. 'Mayn't we even read poetry in a garden now, without attracting notice? Get away—do you hear me? Be gone this minute!' Beside himself with rage, he turned, caught up the deckchair, and smashed it back on the ground. Above the noise of his shouting and the throbbing of the aircraft, Jessica heard a crack. She had never seen anyone literally dance with rage and she watched, mesmerized, until, bored with the performance, the helicopter moved away. Leo promptly burst into tears. For some sixty seconds he sobbed with complete abandon, tears gushing unchecked from his eyes. Then he stopped as suddenly as he'd begun, took a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. He smiled at Jessica, entirely without embarrassment.

  'It'll go on my report,' he said in his normal voice. 'One more black mark against me. I'm aware that my room is wired, but I thought we'd be safe out here.'

  Jessica moistened dry lips. 'I'm sure you're mistaken. It was only—'

  He held up a hand to silence her. 'Forgive me, dear lady. I know you're trying to soothe me, but it's no use blinking facts.' He turned to right the chair and noted the crack in one of the uprights. 'Shoddy workmanship these days,' he remarked, seemingly oblivious of the fact that he himself had caused the damage. 'No matter, it will still bear my weight. Now, where were we? Chaste virgin moon, I believe.'

  Jessica gazed at him helplessly, knowing herself to be incapable of continuing. And was saved by the back door opening as Matthew emerged.

  'Hello, Leo. Will you join us in a sherry before lunch?'

  Leo sprang to his feet with an expression of petulance at yet another interruption. Fortunately this time it was fleeting.

  'Good of you, Matthew, but I must get back. Jessica has honoured my poor offerings, thereby elevating them to the classics!' He took her hand again and kissed it. 'I'll call another time, if I may, and we shall indulge ourselves further. Goodbye, dear lady. My most grateful thanks.'

  Matthew opened the side gate for him, then came across to Jessica, his smile fading as he saw her face. 'Darling, whatever is it?'

  'He's mad!' she whispered. 'Matthew, he's quite mad.'

  He drew her up into his arms, feeling her trembling. 'Tell me what happened.'

  Wonderingly, unbelievingly, she did so. 'Heaven help me,' she ended, 'I thought he was a figure of fun. I was laughing to myself about him all the time. Then, suddenly, that! It was horrible?

  'Poor darling.' Matthew held her close, kissing her hair. 'I did tell you he was unbalanced. I doubt if it's worse than that.'

  'But he was so violent*. If that pilot had been on the ground, Leo would have gone for him, I'm sure. I was terrified'.

  'Sweetheart, the world's full of people with a persecution complex. Ask any desk sergeant at a police station. People are always going in and saying their phones are tapped and Big Brother is watching them.'

  She shuddered. 'Does his family know he's like that?'

  'Oh yes. But he's harmless, really.'

  'And then suddenly crying—like a baby. Openly and unashamedly. It was grotesque.'

  Matthew led her back to the house. 'We'll have a brandy instead of sherry. That'll steady you. What is it about this garden? You had the jitters last time you were out here.'

  'He said he'd come back. I hope to God he doesn't. It was so totally unexpected, the change that came over him. Like—like being bitten by a teddy-bear!'

  Carrie turned from the cooker as they entered the kitchen, her eyes moving over Jessica's face. Had she seen anything from the kitchen window? Jessica could hardly ask her. 'Dinner's ready, mum.'

  Matthew smiled at her. 'Thanks, Carrie, but we'll have a drink first. Give us five minutes, will you?' Closing the kitchen door, he turned Jessica to face him. 'All right now?'

  'I suppose so. God, what a morning! First the press and then Leo.'

  'Don't worry any more. I'll have a discreet word with Dominic. He won't come again.'

  'No.' She straightened. 'Don't do that. As you said, no doubt he's harmless, and I don't want to hurt his feelings. Probably no one else has time to listen to him or read his dreadful rhymes.' She paused, then corrected herself. 'Poetry.' She met Matthew's eye and smiled. 'I'm all right. Really. Never mind the brandy, let's have lunch.'

  CHAPTER 8

  Matthew said, 'You will be all right, won't you?' 'I shall have to be.'

  'I was lucky to get this appointment, but if you want me to, I could cancel it.' His tone was indicative of his reaction to such a request. If I'm made to feel guilty each time I leave you—

  'That's not necessary.'

  'I'd suggest your coming too, but the research wouldn't interest you and car journeys are painful for you anyway.' 'What time will you be back?'

  'About six, I should think. The museum closes at five-thirty.'

  'I thought the Sandons had their family documents at the Hall?'

  'Not on Lord Hubert. He was a general in the Napoleonic Wars, mentioned in despatches and so on. As he's a local celebrity, his stuff is in the county museum—diaries, ledgers and lord knows what. I'll have to go through all of them. God knows how long it will take. Ask Carrie to come in and get lunch for you. I'm sure she would.'

  'Not on a Wednesday; she helps at the nursing home.' Seeing his flicker of impatience, she added, 'I can manage, don't worry, and I've plenty to be getting on with. I haven't been over my lines yet, and there's that novel you brought from the library.'

  He looked relieved. 'Good girl. Just keep the doors locked, and you'll have nothing to worry about.'

  Which naturally resurrected her fears. She stood at the door watching him drive off. At the cottage across the road, a man was talking on the step to the young woman who lived there. She was rocking a baby in her arms, patting its back mechanically as she answered his questions. Was he from the press or the police? There was no way of telling. Like a general reviewing a battlefield, Jessica sized up her position. On her left, fields adjoined the garden and there were no near neighbours. There was a house to the right, but she'd never seen the owners. Would anyone hear her, if she screamed?

  She shut the door quickly and turned the key. Then, swinging herself on her crutches, she went through to the kitchen and bolted the back door, too. She leant against the sink for a moment, staring out at the garden where, the day before, Leo had disintegrated before her eyes. Suppose he came back today? She wouldn't dare open the door to him, but if he walked round the house looking in windows, there was nowhere she could hide. Had Matthew locked the side gate? If only she could go upstairs unaided! And even if Leo didn't come, she had eight long hours ahead of her, during which she'd be constantly listening for any unexplained sound.

  The phone shrilled, making her jump, but when she stumbled to it, precariously l
eaning forward to lift the receiver, it was only another reporter with the same old questions. Ironically, today she'd have welcomed a visit rather than a phone-call.

  A sitting target. The phrase came unbidden into her mind. And it occurred to her suddenly that the murderer— and the rapist, if they weren't the same—would also be reading the newspapers. And would learn that Jessica Randal, incapacitated by a broken leg, was now staying in the murdered woman's cottage.

  Didn't the criminal return to the scene of the crime? And the police seemed to think Freda'd been killed here. Why else had the house been given such a going-over? Suppose he decided to kill two birds with one stone? She shivered at the appositeness of the cliche.

  She was still by the telephone, and on impulse picked up the directory and flicked through it for Kathy Markham's number. Perhaps she'd be free to come to coffee—even lunch. A simple meal wasn't beyond her capabilities, despite Matthew's insistence on rest. She could follow up her invitation to the daughter at the same time. What was her name? Angie! As if she could forget!

  But when the number had been dialled, it rang unanswered in an empty house. Jessica's disappointment was out of all proportion.

  As long as you lock the doors, you'll be safe. But what about the windows? It would be simple to break one of their tiny panes and put a hand inside to unlatch them. If this was America, she thought, at least she'd have a gun to protect herself. Everyone did.

  She said aloud, 'Don't be a fool. You're not the only woman in this village alone in her house.'

  But the only one who'd received so much publicity.

  At least no one knew Matthew wasn't home.

  Unless they'd been watching the house, and seen him leave. She seemed to be holding a conversation with the two halves of her brain, arguing a case and demolishing it at the same time.