‘But neither of them have any rational connection with the attack on Frances. Or if it wasn’t meant for her, with Jennifer – except that she was their doctor.’
‘Which could still be coincidence,’ Paddy reminded him. ‘Or which, on the other hand, could be an indication that this is, maybe, a random copycat killer, God help us. Take your pick, dammit.’ He scowled at Luke, at the list, and out of the window, at the late afternoon sun.
‘I really thought we might be on to something with Gregson,’ Luke said.
‘You went after him hard enough, before Cyril’s report came through,’ Paddy said, in a slightly disapproving tone. ‘Not your usual style, at all.’
‘Sorry,’ Luke said, briefly. He pointed the pencil again. ‘What about this one?’ The point touched sculptress Hannah Putnam’s name.
‘Don’t see it, myself,’ Paddy said. ‘I admit she’s strong enough to have done it, but . . . again, no connection between them. Unless Mrs Taubman was a lesbian, which doesn’t seem likely, from what I’ve heard. Ageing coquette’s more like it. Anyway, Ms Putnam seems to have herself under pretty strong control, in my opinion.’
‘Perhaps too strong,’ Luke said. ‘Might snap rather than bend, under pressure. Cyril said a short-bladed triangular knife. Sculptors use all kinds of knives and tools.’
‘So do carpet layers, craftsmen, carpenters, and home handymen. He said it was most likely a Stanley knife, or something similar. Pick one up in any D-I-Y shop. Short, strong blade, very sharp. Baldwin laid some new carpet in his baby’s room only last month.’
‘So you still think it’s Baldwin?’ Luke was surprised.
‘Until we find him, dead or alive, we can’t discount the possibility, can we? Maybe the connection is that Mrs Taubman was out walking that bloody dog of hers the night Frenholm was killed on the towpath, and saw it all, across the river. It’s not all that wide there. The sky was mostly clear and the moon was full that night. If the killer was somebody she knew – like Baldwin – she might have recognised him. And he might have recognised her, too.’
‘Ah,’ Abbott said, leaning back. ‘Nice one, Paddy.’
Paddy grinned. ‘Nice one, Aunt Clodie Mayberry, you mean. She suggested it on the phone this afternoon. Said she’d read something like it once.’
‘I understand Mark Peacock’s been trying to get in to see you,’ Luke said to Jennifer. Evening had fallen, warm and soft after the sunny last fling of the afternoon, but with a crisp edge that said enjoy it while you may. They were walking in the garden behind the house.
‘Yes, so Kay mentioned. He came in this morning in a foul temper, apparently. Called her some awful names. He’s very nervy, she said. Told her he had a right to see me as he had “every intention of making me his wife” – as if I were some kind of pet he were adopting. He’s changed since his mother’s death. I don’t understand it. It’s almost as if—’ She paused.
‘As if what?’
She shrugged. ‘As if his old trouble were coming back.’ She glanced up at him. ‘You knew about that.’
‘Yes, your uncle explained. But we checked his record and he’s been having regular prescriptions of his drug right along. We also checked with Pelmer – all the prescriptions have been regularly filled. I imagine it’s just the freedom of having his own way, at last. Lord of the manor syndrome.’
‘I suppose so.’ She turned her head to look up at him, a tall, lean shadow beside her, his features barely distinguishable in the darkness. Was he telling her the truth, or did he still suspect Mark? ‘Have you really arrested someone, at last?’
‘We have a man in custody, yes,’ Luke said, carefully.
‘And is it all over at last?’
‘Not quite. A lot of loose ends to tie up.’
‘Is he crazy, this man you’ve arrested?’
‘I’m not qualified to say.’ Luke looked up as the tops of the high hedge moved fitfully in an errant breeze. They seemed to be waving to someone. ‘He’s not a very pleasant person. Perverted sexual tastes. Driven by ego to survive at all costs, as all murderers are. They kill because they’re convinced they’re more important than their victims. Other than that, you can’t generalise.’
‘Then please, sir, can I have my life back?’ Jennifer asked. ‘I’ve gone nearly crazy having to hide my face and sit around. Did he admit to attacking me?’
‘No, not yet. We’re still questioning him. He’s only confessed to the first murder, so far.’
‘Oh.’ She was quiet for a moment. ‘Still, I suppose you’ll get it out of him in the end.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ he said, hesitantly.
‘Well, I can’t go on living like a nun for ever!’ Jennifer said.
‘I’ll be glad to alter that,’ he offered. ‘Purely for medicinal reasons, of course.’
‘Oh, very funny.’ Frustration put an edge to her voice she hadn’t intended. ‘Nothing has happened since Frances was attacked, and nothing will. Tomorrow I’m going back to work as usual.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t, just yet.’
‘But why?’ she demanded. ‘You’ve caught your killer, haven’t you?’
‘We’ve caught a killer. We’re not certain he’s responsible for all the deaths we’re investigating. We’re still working on several lines of enquiry . . . ’
‘You’re doing this deliberately, aren’t you?’ she snapped. Suddenly the romantic evening was not so romantic. Suddenly he was not wonderful, but simply infuriating. His slow, stolid way of talking, his caution, his practicality, his damned calm made her want to scream. He had never been like this as a boy. Mercurial, fast-moving, quick-thinking, decisive, aggressive. Where had he hidden all that – under a rock, somewhere in Upper Woods? ‘You want to lock me up, don’t you?’
‘Every man secretly wants to lock up the woman he loves,’ he said, deliberately. ‘Keep her in a velvet-lined box, to be taken out only for personal delight. It’s damned hard, suppressing our chauvinist impulses in order to be acceptable to today’s feminist-oriented society.’
‘Oh, shut up!’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘And stop laughing at me.’ Had he said ‘woman he loves’?
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘And I won’t be locked up like a . . . like a . . . bauble.’
‘All right. Then I’ll just have to put a guard on you and the house. I would have thought you would have been more sensible, Jennifer.’ The laughter had gone from his voice. He sounded tired. ‘If I had a broken arm, I’d take your advice. Why won’t you take mine?’
‘Because you’ve got your killer and because it doesn’t make sense, that’s why.’ She peered at the shape of him in the darkness. ‘Or is there something you aren’t telling me?’
‘There’s a great deal I’m not telling you.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’m not certain of it, because it will cost you very little to do what I ask and it might cost me a great deal to make a mistake at this point.’
‘I’m going in,’ she said, abruptly. ‘I’m cold.’
‘Jenny . . . ’ he began.
But she was gone, only the sound of her feet, marching angrily down the gravel path, only the shadow of her, passing before the lighted windows, and the slam of the surgery door.
Then nothing but the rush of the breeze through the high hedges that surrounded the garden.
Oh, hell,’ he muttered, and went back to the station.
Night fell on Wychford.
One by one the lights that had burned through the evening winked out, and soon the shops showed their wares to empty streets where the three traffic lights blinked on and off and on and off for no one.
The river Purle gurgled and chuckled its way beneath the bridges and through the rushes along the banks. The trees, having lost so many of their bright leaves, made
clacking, creaking conversations as branch rubbed on branch, twig against twig.
In the lovely houses and the small cottages, warmer blankets had been brought out against the autumn nights, and hot water bottles reappeared from the backs of cupboards. Teeth were brushed, milk was warmed. Wychford slept early.
At Peacock Manor only two windows showed light. In one of the darkened rooms a radio muttered. The trestles and scaffolds of the builders gave forth strange clanks as ropes moved against them in the wind. There were large mounds on the lawns where the workmen had heaped stone, bricks, sand. Trenches temporarily gashed the once-flawless lawn with dark wounds.
At the police station, many lamps burned late. The night shift began. There were new instructions, and more reports to be filled in. The coffee urn was refilled and someone had to go home for extra teabags and milk. And then back again for sugar. There was talk of sandwiches.
At Monkswell lights burned late only in the pottery, the lithographic shop, and behind the café. When Hannah Putnam drove out of the parking lot at ten o’clock, there were still four cars there. In one of them a dark figure looked at his watch and wrote something in a notebook, then reached for his radio.
At the housing estate Tricia Baldwin held her baby close in the big double bed, and wondered whether she should ask her mother to come down. She couldn’t go on alone like this, waiting for the worst to happen. She couldn’t.
Gradually the night gave way to the secret sounds of the hunters, large and small – an owl over the meadow, a fox in the woods, a cat at a mousehole, a rat in a dustbin.
And a killer, sharpening a blade.
The wind picked up a little, then stopped as night wore on. Clouds obscured the moon from time to time. The temperature continued to drop, until the first delicate fronds of frost began to form on the tips of grass and leaves.
At High Hedges, the phone began to ring.
Chapter Thirty-five
‘Calm down, Basil,’ Jennifer said, into the phone. ‘Are you certain he . . . ’ She listened to the agitated voice at the other end of the line. ‘I see. Yes, it does rather sound like that, doesn’t it? Similar circumstances.’ The voice went on. And on. ‘Well, it sounds as if you would really do better to ring 999, you know. Two strong ambulance men might be a better bet.’ She listened a little more. ‘Yes, well . . . all right, I’ll come. No, I’m fine, really. No problem. Tell him I’m coming – it may help.’
Jennifer put down the phone, turned, and nearly jumped out of her skin. Frances stood behind her, a robe thrown on over some rather alarming pyjamas, the white bandages around her face gleaming in the faint light from the open bedroom doors.
‘What’s wrong?’ Frances hissed, in a stage whisper that might have wakened the dead, had there been any around. Fortunately, everyone else slept in the farther end of the house. Only their two rooms were here at the front, and Jennifer had been quick to get to the phone, as she hadn’t been asleep.
‘Apparently Mark is having a recurrence of his old trouble,’ Jennifer said. ‘He had a breakdown when his father died, and now – with his mother dead, the whole thing seems to be coming back. Basil says he’s practically climbing the walls over there. He took some unnamed sleeping pills of Basil’s, but they seem to have made him worse, not better. The drug he’s on might account for that, I suppose but—’ She paused, uncertainly.
‘That does happen, sometimes,’ Frances said.
‘Yes, I know. It happened the night his mother was killed – after I gave him a shot to calm him. I didn’t know he was on haliperidol, then. The two might have set up an adverse reaction, although if anything I would have thought . . . ’ She sighed, impatiently. ‘My God, when will people learn you can’t just give drugs to people willy-nilly? Basil is a fool.’
‘He was probably only trying to help,’ Frances protested.
‘Yes.’ Jennifer was considering. ‘I’m just wondering if dear, dim old Basil has done this before. Given Mark pills to make him sleep that actually make him—’ Her voice faded. She swallowed, hard. ‘Worse,’ she whispered.
They stared at one another. ‘Maybe you’d better call Luke,’ Frances said.
‘Oh, no, I’m not going to make a fool of myself accusing people again before I know what’s happening,’ Jennifer said. ‘I want to get a look at Mark first.’
‘You’d better wake David,’ Frances said, nervously.
‘No, it’s all right. I can handle Mark,’ Jennifer said.
‘I’m going with you, then,’ Frances said, firmly. ‘Why did Basil call you, by the way? The answering machine should have turned him on to Calgary.’
‘He apologised for that. He said Calgary was out on a call already. So he used the private number, expecting to get David, I suppose. Or even Uncle Wally, although what he thought he could do is beyond me. The number was in Mark’s diary.’
‘That’s the trouble with living in a small town,’ Frances muttered, scuffing towards her bedroom as she untied her robe. ‘Everybody’s got your number.’
‘I want to put a WPC on to Jennifer,’ Luke said to Paddy.
‘We’ve already got a patrol going by every twenty minutes or so,’ Paddy reminded him. ‘We just haven’t got the manpower, what with everyone spread so thin over all the suspects . . . ’
‘I know. It’s not someone getting in that worries me so much as her getting out. She’s getting restless, and says she intends going back to work tomorrow.’
‘Wonderful.’ Paddy’s expression was resigned. ‘Shall I send one of the cars over now?’
Luke glanced at the clock. ‘No, I imagine she’s safe in bed at this hour. Morning will be good enough. They’ve got someone else taking night calls, anyway.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Can you ask the patrol to stop and take a good look around on their next pass?’
‘Will do.’
‘I mean – just in case.’
‘Of course.’
‘I’ll put Whitney on the bodyguard detail – she’s been assigned here until the end of the week. It will make a change for her from using that waxing machine up at the plant. She says her shoulders will never be the same.’
‘Fine. Anyway, I don’t think Jennifer would do anything foolish, do you? After all – Frances is there.’
They looked at one another.
‘Is Whitney at the hotel?’ Luke finally asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Maybe you’d better wake her up.’
‘I don’t believe we’re doing this,’ Frances muttered, slouching down in the passenger seat. She wore a dark woollen scarf over her head and around her neck, but in the glow of the Maestro’s dashboard lights the white edges of the bandages were visible along her cheek. She looked like a grumpy nun. ‘If this were one of my stories, fine, but it’s real life, it’s the middle of the night, and it’s cold. No sensible woman should be out in it.’
‘I have never claimed to be a sensible woman,’ Jennifer said, grimly. ‘Have you?’
‘Frequently,’ Frances said. ‘And every time a lie.’
‘There you are, then.’
‘So what are we doing, flying along here?’ Frances demanded. ‘Surely be to God you should have called the riot squad at the very least, if Mark Peacock is swinging from the trees?’
‘I’m expecting to call them, as soon as I’ve verified the symptoms,’ Jennifer said, through tight lips. They were tight because she was using them to keep her teeth from chattering.
On the way down the High Street, they passed a patrolling panda car going up. ‘I used to hate the sight of them,’ Frances observed. ‘Now, I can see they’re not so bad. Family, sort of.’
‘We’ve got ourselves into something, haven’t we?’ Jennifer said. ‘With the two of them?’
‘I’ve only got into something with one of them,’ Frances said, demurely. ‘Your personal excesses are of no interest
to me.’
‘Uh-oh,’ Jennifer said, as they turned into the drive that led up to the manor. It looked as if a festival was in progress. Every light was blazing, and a great wedge-shaped carpet of light flared out from the open double front doors on to the gravelled drive.
‘I think you should definitely call Luke and Paddy,’ Frances said. ‘Or somebody.’
They got out of the car and looked around. After a moment, Basil appeared out of the darkness and came across the gravel towards them, carrying a torch. ‘Thank God you’ve come, Jennifer. He’s got out, he’s in the grounds somewhere. Jeffers and the other servants are looking for him. I’m certain they’ll all give in their notices tomorrow morning. The boy’s mad – simply insane with grief.’
‘I’m going to call the police,’ Frances said, firmly, and started to march up the stairs to the open front door. Basil looked after her.
‘Who is that?’ he asked Jennifer.
‘A friend. What happened, Basil?’
‘Why is she all bandaged up like that? I thought you—’
‘It’s a long story. Tell me what happened with Mark.’
‘I’m not certain, to tell you the truth. I went to bed and I thought Mark had done the same. We’ve been working very hard and we were both exhausted. He’s been having trouble sleeping and so we made it an early night.’ Taubman’s hands were shaking, and the light from the torch wobbled across their feet, back and forth. ‘I’m sorry about the pills—’
‘Never mind. Have you given them to him before?’
‘Well—’ Taubman looked uneasy. ‘A few times, yes.’
‘When?’
‘Well—’ There was a sudden shout from the darkness towards the river, and they both jumped.
‘We’ll sort that out later,’ Jennifer said, unnerved by the sound. It had been Mark’s voice, no doubt about it, but wild and uncontrolled. ‘Tell me about tonight.’
‘I was almost asleep over my book. The next thing I knew, Jeffers – that’s our new butler – was knocking on my door. Mark, he said, was in the lounge, behaving peculiarly. He – Jeffers, that is – had gone down to investigate a noise, and found Mark . . . dancing, in the lounge.’
The Wychford Murders Page 27