When they closed on Wednesday, they had two hours in which to set up everything, and Kate at last appreciated the work Richard and Lana had done, deciding in advance where each painting should be placed.
‘It’s going to be a fine evening,’ Martin said with satisfaction. ‘We can start setting up things in the courtyard.’ Between them they wiped the wrought-iron tables and pushed them back against the walls. There was enough space for some dozen canvases outside.
‘Doesn’t the gallery along the road resent the competition?’ Kate asked.
‘Not at all.’ Richard stood back to study the effect. ‘It’s quid pro quo. Anything that stimulates an interest in art can only benefit them. People often go straight on from here.’
By six-thirty everything was ready. The men went home to change and Kate returned to the flat. It seemed quiet without Josh. She bathed quickly and washed her hair, then selected a demure long-sleeved dress in rose lace which she had worn to Press Club dinners with Michael.
The next few hours passed quickly. The shop was crowded by an eager, appreciative throng, all exclaiming at the paintings, studying their catalogues, and gratefully accepting the glasses of wine which Kate offered them. Was there a murderer among them? She dismissed the idea as absurd.
Martin was in the courtyard with Nella, who, in purple dress and emerald scarf, was more exotic than any of the artists. For the most part, the latter were men with beards and little women in hats, but when Kate tried to match artist with picture, she was continually surprised. A large, clumsy-looking man had executed an exquisite floral painting, an elderly lady a strident jungle scene.
Someone touched her arm and she turned to see Sylvia Dane, flushed and animated, a grey-haired man at her side.
‘Good evening, Kate. This seems a very successful gathering. May I introduce my husband, Henry?’
He came forward, quiet, bespectacled, with a gentle smile. ‘How do you do, Mrs Romilly. I believe I’ve the pleasure of taking your son for mathematics.’
‘I’m glad it’s a pleasure!’ Kate smiled, and turned to Sylvia. ‘Madge was right, your portraits are wonderful. That one of the old man particularly.’
‘Oh yes, old Mr Bennett.’ Sylvia looked pleased.
‘How many sittings do you need for something like that?’
‘It’s pretty flexible, really. Many of the people I paint can’t spare the time to sit around for hours on end. I’ve developed the technique of making lots of lightning sketches from all angles, catching fleeting expressions and so on. Then I decide on the position of the sitter, sketch that, and beaver away by myself, with just occasional “refresher” studies. It works particularly well with children, who won’t sit still anyway.’
Darkness fell, a breeze sprang up, and they moved back indoors. Several paintings already bore a satisfying red dot denoting a sale. Everyone seemed well pleased with the evening, and by nine-thirty all the guests had gone.
Kate collected the empty glasses.
‘Put them back in their box,’ Martin told her. ‘We’ll take them home and wash them in the machine. Now, who’s hungry?’
‘We always go for a meal after the view,’ Richard explained. ‘Another reason for proposing Josh’s absence! The usual choice is The Duck Press on the Heatherton Road. Do you know it?’
Kate shook her head.
‘I’ll bring the car round,’ Richard added, ‘while the rest of you lock up.’
The drive took only twenty minutes. The restaurant was a cleverly converted barn, made up of a series of low-beamed rooms leading off one another. There was an air of quiet, unobtrusive luxury and Kate settled back to enjoy herself. It was a long time since she’d been out for dinner.
‘Choose what you like, it’s all on expenses,’ Martin told her. ‘We’ve earned it, after all the work we’ve put in. Except Nella, of course. She’s just along for the ride.’
‘Lana deserves this more than I do,’ Kate remarked. ‘She was saying she’s been working towards the exhibition for the last six months.’
‘Can you imagine Lana in this setting?’ Richard asked with a short laugh. And, looking at the dim lights, the suave, silent waiters and thick napery, Kate thought back to the impersonal house at Littlemarsh and felt a touch of sadness.
‘What’s the latest on the murders, Kate?’ Martin asked suddenly.
‘How on earth should Kate know?’ Nella demanded.
‘Didn’t I tell you, her husband’s editor of the local rag. He has a cosy relationship with the fuzz.’
Nella gave a mock shudder. ‘All I can say is, I’m glad I’m not divorced. I should hate to have my lipstick on a mirror.’
Richard poured out the wine. ‘Thousands of women are divorced these days. It could just be coincidence.’
‘But the word “Delilah,”’ Martin protested. ‘Surely that implies censure, accusation? I’d say the police should be looking for a deserted husband out for revenge.’ There was a brittle silence, then he gave a nervous laugh. ‘Present company excepted, of course! Sorry, Richard.’
Richard did not, as Kate expected, laugh the remark off. He gave no indication of having heard it, and a moment later Martin went on, ‘I’m probably way off-beam. It’s just how it struck me, that’s all.’
Kate had noticed before that Martin, the junior partner, was sometimes less than at ease in Richard’s company, and wondered what had brought them together.
Nella, of course, had no reservations and as always spoke frankly. ‘But if it was a deserted husband, wouldn’t he rape the victims before killing them? Or does he get his kicks in other ways? The lipstick could be a phallic symbol, I suppose.’
Richard said caustically, ‘You’re very quiet, Kate. No interesting theories to put forward?’
‘I’m afraid not. I enjoy murder between the pages of a book, but these are a bit too close to home.’
‘Of course, your husband knew Number One, didn’t he?’ Martin cut in. ‘I suppose it follows he could also know the murderer.’
‘Or be the murderer!’ Nella said, and grinned broadly. ‘And I didn’t mean that, either!’
With an uncomfortable glance at Richard, Martin changed the subject and there was no more talk of murder.
Martin and Nella spent the return journey entwined on the back seat of the car.
‘Love’s young dream!’ Richard said cynically in a low voice. ‘We could tell them a thing or two, couldn’t we?’
Kate didn’t reply but tears stung her eyes as memories rushed back of happier days: the expression on Michael’s face when he first saw Josh, the bunches of flowers which had not been forthcoming for a very long time. Were Martin and Nella right to keep an escape clause in their relationship? Would they really, when the time came, be able to leave each other without a backward glance? Or would this early freedom condition them for a more permanent relationship in the future, more securely based than either Richard’s marriage or her own?
The car stopped but Richard made no attempt to get out. ‘Good night, Kate,’ he said.
She struggled with the door handle and, averting her eyes from the back seat, climbed out of the car.
‘Night, Kate,’ echoed Nella indistinctly, and there was a corresponding grunt from Martin.
They had driven away before her key found the lock.
***
‘How did the view go?’ Lana inquired the next morning. ‘I see quite a few of the paintings are sold.’
‘Everyone seemed pleased with it.’
Richard came in and dropped a small cellophane packet on Lana’s desk. ‘For Cinderella who couldn’t come to the ball.’
‘Oh, Mr Mowbray!’ The deep flush again as Lana caught up the packet with trembling hands. It contained a rose, golden yellow, and a quick spray by the florist had resulted in a picturesque dewdrop nestling on its petals. Almost too perfect, Kate thought, and hated herself for her cynicism.
‘Oh, thank you!’ Lana was gushing. ‘What a kind thought! It’s beautiful!’
>
‘I’m glad you like it. We thought of you last night, didn’t we, Kate? We toasted absent friends.’
Kate felt he was involving her in some secret joke at Lana’s expense. Yet it was kind of him to buy the flower. Why couldn’t she accept that, instead of suspecting that he enjoyed fuelling Lana’s devotion?
Michael phoned that evening. ‘Kate, I’m tied up on Saturday. Could we make it Sunday this week?’
‘Provided Josh is at the Minster by five o’clock.’
‘Ah — that creates a problem. I was going to suggest you brought him up here. There’s a model car exhibition which I’m sure he’d enjoy. Could he get special dispensation, do you think?’
Typical Michael, confident of bending the rules to his purpose. When she didn’t speak, he said, ‘Unless I hear from you, I’ll assume it’s OK. Eleven o’clock at the house?’
‘Very well.’
Josh, who was eating his supper, broke into her thoughts. ‘I had a note for you yesterday and I should have taken it back today. Mr Peters was cross.’
‘I’m sorry, darling. What was it about?’
‘A concert at school tomorrow. Auntie Madge is going and she said I can stay with Tim and Uncle Paul if you want to go.’
Madge herself phoned a few minutes later. ‘I meant to mention the concert when I brought Josh back, but it slipped my mind. It’s the older boys, of course, and some of them are quite brilliant. Paul’s sorry to miss it but he has some homework to correct and it will save getting a babysitter. Since the next day’s Saturday, I thought you mightn’t mind Josh staying up a bit later than usual.’
So it was that Kate had her second evening out in the course of three days. The school was an impressive building fronting on Broad Street. It had been built in its present form towards the middle of the last century and its carved wooden panels and marble floors spoke of a more pretentious age. The hall where the concert took place was galleried, with a stage at one end. Madge and Kate took their places on the wooden chairs. There was a hum of conversation and rustling of programmes.
‘If Josh shows any aptitude for an instrument,’ Madge remarked, ‘he couldn’t be in a better place. They have outside teachers who come in to coach, famous names among them. As a result, the standard is extremely high.’
She was right. Kate hadn’t known what to expect of the evening but she was unprepared for the effortless mastery the boys displayed over the intricacies of sonata and fugue, the sensitive violin-playing and the élan of the percussion. Having attended from a sense of duty, she was surprised at the extent of her enjoyment.
She and Madge walked home through a cool evening with a hint of mist. ‘Autumn is well and truly here,’ Madge said ruefully. ‘Next stop, fireworks and Christmas!’
The light was on in the dining room and as they walked up the path they could see Paul seated at the table with exercise books spread around him. He came to the door to let them in.
‘Are you stopping for coffee, Kate?’
‘No, thanks, I’ll go straight home. It’s late enough for Josh, and I’m sure Madge wants to get Tim to bed.’
‘I’ll run you back, then.’
‘No, please don’t bother. We’ll be home in less than ten minutes.’
Afterwards, she wondered how different events might have been if she’d accepted his offer.
Even in the few minutes it took to wean Josh from the television and button him into his mac, the mist had noticeably thickened. Auras hung round the street lamps, the garden gate was wet to the touch, and sounds were distorted. With Josh’s hand firmly in hers, Kate walked quickly down Mead Way and along Gloucester Street. On the corner was a small public house — the Swan, judging by the creaking sign outside, and beneath it, huddled in their anoraks, stood a group of youths. The air was thick with the smell of fish and chips. The group made no attempt to let them pass, and perforce Kate stepped into the road, shepherding Josh in front of her.
She heard one of the boys give a snort of laughter and another said loudly, ‘Good evening.’ Kate did not reply, tried not to quicken her footsteps. As it was, Josh was almost running.
‘I said, good evening, lady.’
‘Good evening.’ Stupid to feel nervous of them. They might even be boys from the school. But she knew they were not. The fitful street lamp had shone on the strangely obscene polished skulls of a bunch of skinheads.
Into Queen’s Road now, with the crescent of Monks’ Walk ahead and the Green to the right of them. To her horror, she heard footsteps fall in behind them.
‘Walk you home, miss?’
‘No, thank you. I haven’t far to go.’ Immediately she could have bitten her tongue. She had no wish for these youths to see where she lived, notice, perhaps, that the house was in darkness, so no large, reassuring husband awaited her return.
‘Would the little boy like some fish and chips?’
‘No, thank you.’ Kate’s heart was beating furiously and she was aware of the pale disc of Josh’s anxious face turned up to her.
‘Mummy, what do those boys want?’
‘Nothing, darling, they’re just being friendly.’
‘What do those boys want, Mummy?’ came a cruelly mocking echo. A roar of laughter greeted this sally.
‘Bet Mummy knows, don’t you, Mummy? Trouble is, finding it!’
‘Are you going to be nice to us, then?’
Oh God, please let someone come along the road — anyone. Across the Green the silver mist rolled waist-high. Suppose they tried to force their way inside? Suppose-? She couldn’t put into words what else they might do. How many were there? She daren’t turn her head. Four or five, certainly. Possibly more.
Josh said plaintively, ‘Can we slow down? I’ve got a stitch.’
Useless, then, to walk him past the familiar entrance and on to more certain safety.
Yet there was nowhere else she might take sanctuary. Surreptitiously, she fumbled in her handbag for the key. Best not to slacken pace in advance, but turn the key and slip inside in one movement. She said softly and rapidly, ‘When I open the door, Josh, run straight upstairs and put all the lights on.’
‘Hey — Mummy!’ The raucous voice from behind. ‘You haven’t answered our question! Are you going to be nice to us?’
Fear made her desperate. She shot the key in the lock, pushed Josh inside and, jamming on the light, turned to face them. ‘Leave me alone or I’ll call the police!’ she said.
Then she was inside, fumbling again with key and bolt which, mercifully, Martin had oiled for her. And all the while the hairless heads and grimacing faces were outlined at the glass, watching, gesticulating, their language increasingly explicit. She walked up the stairs without looking back, conscious of their eyes following her as far as the bend. Josh awaited her at the top in a blaze of light, eyes wide and frightened, and as she gathered him to her the doorbell pealed through the flat.
‘I wish Daddy was here,’ he said tremulously.
‘If they ring again, I’ll phone Uncle Paul. He’d be round in two minutes. But there’s nothing to be frightened of, darling. They’re only being silly.’ Aren’t they? Aren’t they?
The bell chimed again but still she hesitated, reluctant to phone and admit her fright to Josh as well as to Paul. Loud voices called up to the window and as she drew the curtains there was an ironic cheer.
‘They’ll soon get tired,’ she told Josh brightly. ‘Come on, I’ll make you a mug of hot chocolate and we’ll go to bed.’
Blessedly, it seemed she was right. There was no more noise from below. They had only been amusing themselves, tormentors rather than vandals or worse. But if she’d lived farther away, if they’d had more time, what then?
Kate took a long time to go to sleep that night.
***
When Martin arrived the next morning, he picked up a duster without speaking and went straight out again.
‘What was that for?’ Kate asked when he returned.
‘A four-letter word
chalked on your door. Don’t worry, it’s gone now. Amazing what gives some people a thrill.’
Kate held down a spurt of fear. The boys would have forgotten the incident by now, and in the misty darkness they couldn’t have remembered which doorway had been her bolt hole.
It was a pity Michael wasn’t coming that day, to take Josh’s mind off the previous evening. He was rather subdued and kept close to Kate’s side.
‘No fond papa?’ asked Richard when Martin had taken the child to look at the paintings.
‘No, I’m taking Josh to Shillingham tomorrow.’
‘What will you do with yourself? Hardly worth coming back here, is it?’
‘I haven’t really thought.’ But he had a point. It would be a waste of time to drive twenty miles back after leaving Josh, and then have to return to collect him.
‘Tell you what, I’ll meet you for a drink. I’ll be home this weekend and it’s only ten miles from Shillingham. We could have lunch if you like.’
Kate was conscious of Lana’s averted head.
‘It’s kind of you, but I’m not sure what I’m doing yet.’
‘Well, the invitation stands.’
Saturday proved busy as usual, with the paintings drawing extra crowds. Another couple were sold, three more reserved for consideration. At lunchtime Lana departed, not quite meeting Kate’s eyes as she wished her a happy weekend. It seemed Richard had deliberately made his suggestion in front of her, and Kate wondered to what end. Then she shook herself with a mental smile. She really must stop complicated motives to Richard. He was probably innocent of them all.
But though she hadn’t accepted his invitation, he seemed to consider it confirmed. ‘What time are you dropping Josh?’ he asked towards the end of the afternoon.
‘Eleven.’
‘Then meet me at the King’s Head at quarter past. The bar won’t be open but they serve coffee in the lounge.’
‘Richard, I—’
‘Look, relax. I haven’t any dastardly designs on you. It’s simply that if you’re at a loose end, it would help to pass the time.’
She flushed, feeling stupid. ‘Yes, of course. Then, thank you.’
Thinking about the exchange later, Kate had the uneasy feeling that he had manipulated her as easily as he did Lana.
A Shroud for Delilah (DCI Webb Mystery Book 1) Page 8