Pretty Maids All In A Row

by Anthea Fraser

  'I'm just being stupid.'

  What was Matthew doing now? Relaxing in his hotel room, or having tea with his family? Quite suddenly she longed for him with an intensity which was painful. Hey!

  she told herself, he'll be back tomorrow! But she wanted him now. Wanted to see his large, heavy-lidded eyes, the quirk of his eyebrow, his slow smile; wanted above all to feel his strong arms round her, keeping her safe. Because suddenly, in that crowded, sun-warmed tent, she felt alone, singled out, as though a spotlight were concentrated on her.

  She looked quickly about her, seeking the averted gaze, the hurriedly turned head. No one was watching her; why then should she feel she was being studied, auditioned for a part she didn't want to play?

  It was six-thirty when, their invitation to supper declined, the Markhams dropped Jessica at Hinckley's Cottage. As she closed the front door, she admitted ironically that Matthew had been right; after a tiring afternoon, she would have been happy to relax alone. The prospect of an evening with Delia, with her darting eyes and quick speech, was not appealing. Still, Jessica reminded herself, it had been kind of her to offer, and they needn't sit up late.

  Not hungry after tea at the Fair, she scrambled some eggs and ate them while watching television. Phone me, Matthew. I need to hear your voice. But the instrument beside her remained silent. Silly, she chided herself, they'll be at the party by now. Some guests mightn't even realize the family was split. Would Matthew and that other Angie welcome them as joint hosts? Or was he cast in the role of guest? There was so much she didn't know.

  Delia arrived at eight. With a perfunctory smile, she walked past Jessica into the room and stopped by the television. 'Oh!' she said, surveying the wildlife programme Jessica'd had one eye on. 'I was watching the other channel.'

  'Change it if you like.' How typical of Delia's over-familiarity! Yet if she were engrossed in television, at least no conversation would be necessary.

  'Ta.' As the programme changed, the room filled with the screech of brakes and rapid gunfire of a pseudo Western.

  Two hours, Jessica told herself. Only two hours, then she'd suggest an early night.

  But Delia, it appeared, was one of those people who, without lowering the volume, liked to talk through television programmes.

  'Enjoy yourself at the Fair?' she asked, raising her voice above the sound of breaking glass as one of the villains was thrown out of the saloon.

  'Yes, thank you.'

  'Did you have your fortune told? She was a real gipsy, you know.' Delia laughed and recited. "My mother said that I never should Play with the gipsies in the wood."

  'No, I didn't bother.' Jessica paused, then added out of politeness, 'Did you?'

  'Not me. Carrie's the one for that. Never misses a chance of having her hand read.'

  'I didn't see her at the Fair.'

  'No, she was working. Matron asked if she wanted the afternoon off, but she said no.'

  'And, of course, she's babysitting this evening.'

  'For the Plunketts. Do you know them? Young couple just down the road. Couple of kids.'

  'I don't think so.'

  'You've not missed much. Pretty hair she has, though. Wears it down her back as if she was sixteen.' Her eyes on the cavorting figures on the screen, Delia added, 'When's your hubby coming back?'

  'Lunch-time tomorrow.'

  Delia waited as though expecting more information, but Jessica volunteered nothing. Would it look rude if she took out a book? Regretfully, she decided it would. The programme came to an end and Delia stood up. 'Mind if I pop upstairs for a minute?'

  'The cloakroom's—' Jessica began, but she was already half way up. Jessica gazed stoically at the advertisements. It was going to be a long evening.

  'It's Try Your Luck now,' Delia announced, returning and seating herself expectantly in her chair. 'Do you watch it? They win fantastic prizes—holidays in America, and caravans and things. The questions are easy, too. I usually know the answers.'

  'You should go in for it yourself,' Jessica said, and to her chagrin was taken at face value.

  'That's what Carrie says. Why don't you write in, she says, and win us a holiday?'

  A large, simpering woman in a short skirt was the first contestant. She selected a number and the compere opened a box and read but the question contained in it. 'What is the most popular name in nursery rhymes?'

  'Jack!' answered Delia promptly, and, talking over the stumbling contestant, she reeled off quickly, 'Jack-a-Nory, Jack and Jill, House that Jack Built, Jack Spratt, Jack Horner, Jack be Nimble, Handy Spandy Jack-a-Dandy—'

  'Good heavens!'Jessica exclaimed. 'I'd never have got all those.'

  'There are more, if you count Jackie. Weird, isn't it, to think how old those rhymes are. Hundreds and hundreds of years, and the words hardly changing. Everyone learns them, and you never forget, even if you've no kids of your own to remind you. You haven't any, have you, but I bet you still know plenty of nursery rhymes.'

  'I'm not an authority on them,' Jessica said with forced lightness, 'and anyway they've unpleasant associations at the moment.'

  Delia smiled and, pulling her handbag towards her, felt inside it. Suddenly, cutting across the television applause, came a voice that turned Jessica cold.

  'Curly locks, Curly locks,

  Wilt thou be mine?

  Thou shall not wash dishes,

  Nor yet feed the swine.'

  There was a click and Delia withdrew her hand.

  Jessica stared at her. 'You? It was you who phoned me? So it was a hoax, after all.'

  'Yes and no,' Delia said, and there was a note in her voice which raised the hair on Jessica's scalp. 'I phoned you, but it wasn't a hoax.'

  'I don't understand.' She felt bewildered anger. 'What a horrible thing to do. You must have known how I'd feel.'

  'Not really, no. You a famous actress and everything. You mightn't be as scared as us country bumpkins.'

  Surely there was some way of restoring sanity to the conversation? Unable to find it, Jessica smiled stiffly and fixed her eyes on the screen, where another contestant was now on trial. Delia had played that tape. But why? It didn't make sense. And why say it wasn't a hoax?

  'You see,' Delia said, and though she now spoke softly, Jessica could distinguish every word above the mindless studio laughter, 'nursery rhymes turn me on.'

  'I can't think why. They're for children.'

  'Oh, there's a reason for it. I'll tell you, if you like.'

  Keep her talking, Jessica thought. There has to be a simple explanation—she's just trying to scare me. 'All right, tell me.'

  'It was my mum, you see.' Delia's voice shook slightly. 'She used to have men in, while my dad was on nights. One evening—I'd have been about twelve—my kid sister woke up and started crying. Mum had gone out. I didn't think she was back, so I got up. The cot was in her room, but when I got to the door I heard her voice, all queer and breathless, reciting nursery rhymes—Bye Baby Bunting and Rock-a-bye Baby.' Delia's hand was clenched on her bag and Jessica saw that it was shaking.

  'So I put my head round the door to see why she was talking so funny. It was quite light—a full moon—and there she was on the bed with this bloke, rocking the cot with one hand. I stood there a long time, watching and listening to the rhymes, till the kid went back to sleep.'

  Jessica moistened her lips. 'It must have been traumatic,' she said. A pulse was beating a rapid tattoo at the base of her throat. She made herself glance at her watch, say lightly, 'Is that the time? I'd forgotten I promised to ring—'

  'No,' Delia said quietly.

  Jessica stared at her.

  'No phone-calls.' 'Now look—'

  'The phone's off the hook upstairs.'

  A burst of applause from the screen assaulted Jessica's ears like a handful of pebbles, sharp and penetrating. She's mad! she thought. I must humour her. But God, she'll be here all night! And I can't even move quickly, let alone run away. It was the age-old nightmare, needin
g to escape and unable to move. But what did she want?

  She drew a breath. I'm an actress, aren't I? Then act, as if my life depended on it. Perhaps it does. 'Why did you do that?' she asked calmly.

  'I don't want interruptions.'

  'Very well. You have my undivided attention.' She paused. 'You say you were twelve, but your sister was in a cot. I'm surprised you're that much older than Carrie.'

  'Ah,' Delia said softly, 'but you see, Carrie isn't my sister.'

  'Not your sister?' Jessica echoed weakly.

  Delia smiled. 'I thought you'd have guessed by now. Freda Cowley did.' And as Jessica stared in total bafflement, she repeated softly, 'Carrie's not my sister—she's my wife.'

  Webb looked round the crowded public bar of The Pack-horse. 'So you've nothing to report on the Fair?'

  WDC Pierce shook her head. 'There's a firework display on now, but PC Frost said I needn't stay.'

  'We'd no joy either, had we, Ken?' Webb looked at the bar clock. 'Ten past nine. We might as well be making tracks.'

  'Excuse me, sir.' The barman stood by their table. 'Chief Inspector Webb, sir? There's a call for you.'

  Webb pushed back his chair and followed him to the stone passage leading to the lavatories. A phone was fixed to the wall, its receiver hanging by its flex. He nodded his thanks and the man withdrew.

  'Webb.'

  'Station Sergeant, Guv. A lady just phoned. Wants you to ring back.'

  'What lady, Sergeant?' Hannah? He didn't deserve that.

  'Mrs Farrow. Said she'd remembered something and you asked her to phone.'

  Susan! 'Did she leave a number?' Webb took it down, said curtly, 'Thank you, Sergeant,' and, fumbling for coins with one hand, dialled rapidly. The phone was lifted at once.

  'Susan?'

  'Hello, Dave.'

  'You've remembered, about that face?' 'Yes, but I'm afraid it won't help. It was just a hairdresser I went to once.'

  'But she is a hairdresser.'

  'That's what was wrong. The one I knew was a man. Funny, though, I could have sworn it was the same face.'

  Webb stared at the brick wall in front of him. Some crude graffiti were scribbled there, but he didn't even see them. Beside him, two men came, laughing together, out of the lavatory.

  'Dave?'

  'Yes, I'm still here. Look, Susan, this could be vital. When and where did you know this man?'

  'I didn't know him. He did my hair a couple of times, that's all, when we were living in Ashmartin.'

  '' Ashmartin?'' Where the unknown woman was raped. 'When was that?'

  'Must be three years ago now. Before we moved to Stratford.'

  Delia Speight a man? Webb's scalp was pricking, as though electric needles moved systematically over it. 'Thanks, Susan. If this cracks it, you'll get a bottle of champagne.' He put the phone down and was turning away, his brain already clicking into gear, when it rang again. Impatiently he turned and caught it up.

  'Yes?'

  'Guv? Fenton again. Thank God I caught you. I've just had Mr Selby. on the line from London. In a fair state, at that. He's been trying for over an hour to phone his wife, and can't get through. Keeps getting the engaged tone, but the operator says there's no conversation on the line. Could—'

  'I'm on my way.'

  Webb dropped the phone and strode back into the bar. The sight of his face was enough to bring Jackson and Sally Pierce to their feet.

  'Outside—at the double. I'll tell you as we go. Hinckley Cottage, and pray God we're in time.'

  The eye sees what it expects to see. Where had she read that? Believing 'Delia' to be a woman, Jessica—and presumably everyone else—had seen him as a woman. Now, knowing otherwise, it took only the slightest adjustment of focus to perceive instantly that he was a man—even though that adjustment made her flesh crawl. There was a bloom of golden hair on cheeks that, perhaps, were not as rounded as a woman's. He'd no need of a wig. The curly hair was unisex, of a length and style suited to both. Now, having acknowledged his charade, he'd let the feminine mannerisms lapse and was lounging in his chair in a frankly male attitude. In blouse and skirt, it reduced his previously convincing performance to the crudest level of drag.

  Jessica spoke at last, surprised and gratified to find her voice normal. 'So why the play-acting?'

  Speight shrugged. 'I've always cross-dressed occasionally. Then I was in trouble a few years back, so I went over completely and we moved here as sisters.'

  'But you must have needed papers—national insurance—'

  'My kid sister died when she was three, so I used her name. She was the real Delia Speight.' 'Carrie—didn't mind?'

  'She was used to it. She lived next door, and we often dressed up as kids. I was always the girl.' He looked at her sardonically. 'And in case you're wondering, cross-dressing doesn't mean I'm either queer or impotent. We've always lived as man and wife.'

  Understanding filtered through. 'Then she wasn't—' 'Raped? No, though it came in handy, accounting for her condition.'

  'And—?' But that question Jessica daren't ask. Nor did she need to.

  'Freda Cowley? Well, like I said, she found out.' Jessica moistened her lips. 'How?'

  'Came back with Carrie one day after the dentist. She went to the bathroom for aspirin, found my aftershave, and put two and two together.'

  'What happened?' Keep him talking. The longer he talked, the more time she'd have to plan. The cloakroom was the nearest room with a lock. But would he allow her to go alone?

  'The next day, Wednesday, was my half-day. She rang and asked me to come and do her hair. I do go to clients' houses, so I thought nothing of it. But when I got here, she came out with it. Thought it was a huge joke, but at the same time it excited her. Going to bed was her idea.'

  He shrugged. 'She might have kept quiet, but I couldn't risk it. If she talked, the whole new life we'd built up would be blown. Or she might have put the screws on, which would be worse. I didn't want to kill her—that's not how I get my kicks—but I'd no choice.'

  'So you made love to her, and then you smothered her?' In our bed?

  'It was quick. She hardly knew a thing.' 'Then you tidied the house to make it ready for tenants. For us.' 'Right.'

  'And sent the keys to the estate agents.' 'Yep. To account for her disappearance.' 'It was very clever of you.'

  'That's what I thought. But now you've found out, too.'

  Jessica said carefully, 'No, I didn't. You told me.'

  'Same difference. I hadn't meant to, though. It was the talk of nursery rhymes that did it.'

  'What did you intend to do, D—. I don't know your name.'

  'Johnnie. Going to rape you, wasn't I, like the others. Wait till you were in bed, then climb up the ivy—make it look an outside job. Quite a feather in my cap, laying Jessica Randal.'

  'You could hardly boast about it.'

  He ignored her. 'And when it was over, "Delia'd be there to comfort you.' He gave a pleased laugh.

  It was a play, she assured herself, not real life at all. Any minute now, the producer would call from the shadows, 'Take it again from—' For how could she be sitting here, in this godforsaken cottage, chatting to a murderer?

  'Of course,' she said reasonably, 'it's not like it was with Freda. I'm not interested in blackmail—I've enough money already—and it's not as though I live here. In another couple of weeks, we'll be gone. Your secret doesn't concern me.'

  Those masculine/feminine eyes, bright and fringed with stubby lashes, were on her face, assessing her reactions.

  'I fancy you,' he said at last. 'Have done since I first saw you.'

  'When you did my hair?'

  He smiled. 'Long before that. When you first arrived. Carrie told me you'd come, so I went up the road with my binoculars. You were asleep in the garden. I watched you for quite a while, and from then on it was only a question of time. So when she said last night you'd asked her to sleep here and she couldn't, it was the perfect opportunity.'

  J
essica stared at him disbelievingly. 'Carrie suggested you came? Knowing—?'

  'No, of course she didn't, and I didn't tell her, neither. This is between you and me.'

  'Mrs Markham knows you're here. She was there when you offered to come.'

  'She knows Delia's here,' he corrected her. 'But what has Delia to do with the rapist climbing in the window?'

  Jessica held his eyes, seeing the desire there. 'And now?'

  'You can take your choice. Rough or smooth, as they say at Wimbledon.'

  Panic surged through her. God! she screamed silently. Help me now, And her prayer was answered, for Speight straightened suddenly. Then, moving swiftly out of his chair, he switched off the television and stood listening. Jessica, bewildered at the sudden change, stared uncomprehendingly as he turned and raced for the kitchen. She heard the scraping of the bolt and the back door rocking open, before detecting the sounds that had alerted him—voices outside and footsteps on the gravel. A second later, a heavy knock sounded on the door and a voice called urgently, 'Mrs Selby? Webb here. Are you all right?'

  For several long seconds, Jessica sat staring at the door, willing her shaking lips to respond. As another knock, louder than the first, shook the house, she managed to call, 'Round the back! He ran out that way!'

  With difficulty she pulled herself on to legs that would not support her. The journey across the room was the longest of her life, and when her fumbling fingers opened the door at last, only the red-haired girl from the Fair stood there. She put an arm round Jessica and led her back inside. 'I'll make a pot of tea,' she said.

  Webb swore as he rattled the side gate. Locked, damn it. 'Leave it, Ken. There's a field alongside, we'll go that way. He can't have got far.'

  'But where would he be making for?' Jackson panted, running at his side.

  'Home, perhaps. God knows.' They swung together over the fence and into the dark field, running diagonally across it towards the far end of Hinckley's garden. The ground was rough and uneven. 'Mind your ankles,' Webb warned.

  They reached the far end of the field and paused, staring through the darkness ahead.