A Shroud for Delilah (DCI Webb Mystery Book 1)

by Anthea Fraser

  Unhappily, Kate knew she’d make an excuse. Paul was home and not confined to bed. She didn’t want him present at their chat.

  She forgot her regrets for the next hour or so as she learned with pleasure of the progress her son was making. He had settled in with no problems and adapted to the increased volume of work. Master after master confirmed Henry’s earlier opinion of Josh’s abilities, and it was with Henry himself that Kate ended her round.

  As she sat down at his desk, he gave an exclamation of annoyance. ‘How stupid of me! I put out that book of poetry to bring this evening, and came away without it. I do apologize.’

  Kate assured him it didn’t matter, but when she left him minutes later, he urged her to call in for the book on the way home. ‘You’ll be passing the door, and Sylvia will give it to you. It’s on the hall table, tell her.’

  To please him, Kate promised she would, though she was no more eager to see Sylvia than Paul. Still, it would hurt Henry if she didn’t call, and she needn’t go in. Lana’s bus provided an excellent excuse for going straight on home.

  The rain which had been foreshadowed earlier was falling heavily as Kate left the school. Street lamps shone on glistening pavements and parents leaving with her made quick dashes for their cars. In the headlights the rain glanced down diagonally like showers of silver arrows. Kate turned up the collar of her coat, dug her hands deep into her pockets, and set off briskly down the road, avoiding the rushing passage of cars which sent a spray of mud across the pavements. She was glad when she could turn off the busy thoroughfare of Broad Street into the quietness of Monks’ Walk.

  She was almost tempted to go back on her promise and give Sylvia’s house a miss. Henry’d understand, in view of the weather and her lack of umbrella. But it was, after all, on her way, and he’d been kind enough to find the book for her.

  With a sigh, Kate turned into the gateway and hurried up the path. Light showed behind the drawn sitting room curtains and the frosted panel in the front door. She pressed the bell and waited, listening to the steady patter of rain on the path behind her. It was encouraging that Josh was doing so well; Michael would be pleased to hear of his progress. For the first time she wondered if she should have told him in advance about this evening. Still, they couldn’t have gone together in the circumstances.

  Oh, come on, Sylvia! Kate pressed the bell again, glancing at her watch in the uncertain light. It was only nine-thirty and Lana would not yet be worrying about her bus. All the same, Kate was herself cold and wet and longing to be home. On a wave of impatience she turned the handle and to her surprise the door swung inwards.

  A smell of curry prickled her nose. Ahead of her stretched the remembered hall, and on the oak table just inside lay the book of poetry. Kate was tempted simply to take it and go.

  ‘Hello?’ she called. ‘Sylvia? Henry asked me to collect the book.’

  There was silence. Not even the sound of television to explain Sylvia’s non-appearance. Perhaps she was having a bath?

  ‘Hello?’ she called again. Pushing the front door shut, she crossed the hall and tapped at the sitting room door, turning the handle as she did so. Sylvia was sitting with her back to the door. She must be asleep.

  ‘Sylvia, it’s Kate. Sorry to disturb you, but—’ Her voice trailed off as she moved round the chair and experienced a jolt when she saw the woman’s eyes were open.

  ‘What is it?’ she said sharply. ‘Are you ill?’ She bent forward, touching one of her hands. It slid sideways off her lap and very slowly Kate backed away, staring down at her. A stroke? she thought agitatedly. A heart attack? Should she feel for a pulse? Sylvia’s white blouse was spotted with red. Gradually, unwillingly, Kate was realizing that the spots weren’t evenly spaced. This can’t be happening, thought part of her brain, but with magnetic dread her eyes were drawn to the shadows above the lamplight, where the antique mirror hung over the fireplace. And there was no surprise in what she saw there.

  She thought clearly, Henry’ll be back soon. He mustn’t find her like this. A slight movement from Sylvia’s direction caught her eye, and with wild unreasoning hope she spun round. But it was only a fly and to her unspeakable horror it settled on one of the exposed eyeballs and proceeded to clean its legs.

  Kate felt the bile rush into her throat. She stumbled out of the room, all coherency fled, clawed at the front door and, leaving it open, blundered down the path and out onto the pavement. Immediately she collided with someone — someone who caught hold of her and exclaimed, ‘Kate — is it you? What’s wrong?’ It was Richard.

  She raised her wild face to his. ‘Sylvia’s dead — murdered. I’ve just seen her.’ She swayed and he steadied her.

  ‘Mrs Dane? You’re sure?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure. And there’s lipstick on the mirror. Richard, we must stop Henry—’

  ‘Have you phoned the police? Kate?’ He shook her as she broke into despairing sobs.

  ‘No, I couldn’t stay there. Oh God, Richard — there was a fly on her eye!’ She retched and again he held her, waiting for the spasm to pass.

  ‘We must phone straightaway. Come on, I’ll come back with you.’ And at her frenzied resistance: ‘You needn’t see her again, I promise.’ He hurried her back up the path and through the open front door. Kate averted her eyes from the sitting room and Richard led her quickly past it to the kitchen.

  ‘Sit here for a minute while I phone the police. And I’d better make certain she’s dead.’

  Kate sat unmoving for long minutes while, despite her assurances, Richard went to check the dead woman. Then she heard his voice briefly on the phone. He came back into the kitchen folding his handkerchief and, seeing her glance, smiled self-consciously.

  ‘Perhaps I read too many thrillers, but I thought it best not to touch anything. We have to stay here till the police arrive, but they won’t be long. God, what a business.’

  She wasn’t sure if she was trembling or shivering, but rain ran off her hair inside her collar and her hands were like ice. Richard took them between his own and began to massage them.

  ‘We must stop Henry,’ she moaned.

  ‘The police will see to that. They’ll be here any minute.’ There was an air of suppressed excitement about him, as though he welcomed the challenge to his initiative, the need to remain calm in a crisis. He seemed almost disappointed when, after a preliminary ring, the front door opened and Constable Timms hurried in.

  Richard, still holding Kate’s hands, nodded towards the sitting room and the constable disappeared inside. A moment later he reappeared.

  ‘Right, sir. Have either you or the young lady touched anything?’

  ‘I haven’t. The front door was open and I used a handkerchief for the phone. I’m not sure about Kate. She found her.’

  Constable Timms bent down. ‘Are you all right, ma’am?’ Before, at the shop, she had thought him a rather pompous young man. Now he was in charge, solid, dependable, the embodiment of law and order.

  ‘Can you remember if you touched anything?’

  Her lips felt like rubber. ‘I opened the front door when no one answered the bell. ‘And I’ — she gasped — ‘I touched her hand.’

  ‘Was it cold?’ Richard asked, and Timms glanced at him reprovingly.

  ‘No,’ Kate answered mechanically, ‘quite normal. Oh God!’ She caught her lip between her teeth and added piteously, ‘I’ve never seen anyone dead before.’

  ‘Can I take her home, Constable? She’s in a state of shock.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for the investigating officer, sir. He shouldn’t be long.’

  They arrived almost together, Webb, Stapleton the pathologist, and the police doctor, but they did not come to the kitchen. Kate continued to sit there,

  Richard was silent at her side. She had stopped feeling cold, feeling anything, in fact, till sensation returned in full measure with the awareness of something brushing against her legs. With a gasping shriek she jumped from the chair, s
ending it skidding across the floor as a small form shot from under the table and out of the door. It was the grey cat Madge had stroked at the dinner party.

  Kate gazed after it, waiting for the clattering of her heart to subside.

  ‘Pity it can’t talk,’ Richard commented, righting her chair. ‘It might have saved everyone a lot of trouble.’

  They both turned as Webb came into the room. ‘I’m sorry to keep you waiting. Do sit down. Chief Inspector Webb of Shillingham CID. Mrs Romilly and Mr Mowbray, is that right?’ He glanced at Kate. ‘Any connection with Michael Romilly of the Broadshire News?’

  ‘He’s my husband,’ she said dully.

  ‘I wondered. Unusual name. And you found the body, I believe. Are you feeling a little better now?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘We’ll get the police doctor to look at you before we take a full statement, but I’m afraid there are some questions that can’t wait. I’d like you to tell me exactly what happened, why you came to the house and so on.’

  ‘I’d been to the school — parents’ evening. Mr Dane asked me to collect a book on my way home.’

  ‘The front door was open?’

  ‘No, but it wasn’t locked. When Sylvia didn’t answer I tried the handle.’

  ‘Go on.’

  The shaking started again. Richard said roughly, ‘Can’t you let her go? She’s in shock, for God’s sake. She’ll tell you everything in the morning.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. The doctor will see her in a moment, but the first account is vital, while it’s still fresh. Memory can play funny tricks, especially in cases of shock.’ All the same, he’d have to check she was fit to be questioned. Her hands were spread-eagled on her cheeks and above them her eyes, a deep blue-black, stared at him unseeingly. Webb wished he could lean forward and gently draw her hands from her face.

  Kate said for the third time, ‘Please don’t let Henry see her.’

  ‘It’s all right, Mrs Romilly,’ Webb assured her. ‘Someone’s been sent to the school. He’ll know by now what’s happened.’

  He was gentle and patient with her, but he let her omit nothing. The staring eyes with their expression of blank surprise, the lifeless hand, the fly, the scrawl on the mirror, all had to be described, lived through again. Suddenly, as though coming back to life,

  Kate jerked upright. ‘I must get home! Lana will miss her bus!’

  ‘Miss Truscott’s baby-sitting,’ Richard explained. ‘She lives in Littlemarsh.’

  ‘Truscott? I know that name. Pulled a chap out of the river about six months ago.’ ‘Her brother,’ said Richard briefly.

  ‘Well, we’ll get someone to run her home.’

  ‘But she won’t know that,’ Kate insisted, ‘she’ll be worrying — and Josh might have woken. I must go.’

  ‘Very well, Mrs Romilly. I’ll ask Dr Roscoe to look at you and then you can go home. If the doctor gives the all-clear I’ll be along in about half an hour to fill in more details.’

  ‘I’ll take her back,’ Richard said firmly, getting to his feet.

  ‘That won’t be necessary, sir, but perhaps you’d be good enough to go down to the station with Sergeant Collins. We’ll need a full statement from you as well. Don’t worry about Mrs Romilly, a woman police officer will look after her.’

  Ten minutes later, having seen the doctor, Kate was helped into the back of a police car by a woman detective. The rain was still streaming down. She had lost sight of Richard, and in this strange new world she missed him. He was her only link with normality.

  Lana came hurrying down the stairs, her eyes widening at the sight of Kate’s escort.

  ‘You’re very late, Kate. Has anything happened?’

  ‘It’s Sylvia,’ Kate said jerkily, ‘she’s been murdered.’

  ‘Sylvia? You mean Mrs Dane, the artist? But she lives quite near, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Mrs Romilly’s a little shocked,’ Detective-Constable Lucas put in smoothly. ‘It was she who discovered the body.’

  Lana gasped. ‘But how could you? You were at the school!’ Her eyes went uncomprehendingly from the policewoman to Kate. Then she said quickly, ‘Look, I wish I could stay with you, but the bus—’

  ‘Constable Ridley will run you home, miss. The car’s waiting outside.’

  Lana stared at her blankly. ‘But there’s no need. I—’

  ‘You’ll have missed the bus by now anyway. Ten-thirty, wasn’t it?’

  It was true, Kate realized, checking with her watch. Lana had no hope of reaching the bus station by ten-thirty. She seemed to realize this and, her immediate problem solved, turned back to Kate.

  ‘Then would you like me to stay a while?’

  ‘I’ll be with her, miss. Probably all night. Don’t worry.’

  ‘They sent Richard to the police station,’ Kate said.

  ‘Mr Mowbray?’ Lana’s tone sharpened. ‘How does he come into this?’

  ‘I met him. He came back with me.’

  The policewoman interrupted. ‘If you don’t mind, miss, your driver’s waiting and I think Mrs Romilly should go and sit down.’

  Kate said, ‘Did Josh wake?’

  Lana shook her head.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Lana.’

  The staircase had never seemed so long. Kate allowed herself to be helped up, her dripping coat finally removed, and settled by the hastily lit gas fire. Vaguely she was aware of movements behind her as the young woman made tea, but exhaustion was heavy on her eyelids. She hadn’t slept well the previous night. Perhaps they’d let her sleep before she had to answer any more questions.

  Her last conscious thought was that she hadn’t collected the poetry book after all.

  CHAPTER 17

  She was a pretty little thing, Mrs Romilly. Webb couldn’t imagine what she was doing here, with Michael presumably still in Shillingham. Another marriage breaking up? He sighed.

  ‘Now, Mrs Romilly,’ he began, disguising his weariness, ‘let’s go through it again, shall we? And this time Sergeant Jackson here will write it all down.’

  She seemed a little calmer now, in her own surroundings. If chance allowed, he always preferred to conduct interviews, with suspects and witnesses alike, in their own homes rather than the police station. An inveterate absorber of atmosphere, he owed the solution of many of his cases to a supposedly relaxed half hour in someone’s home.

  Webb studied the young woman opposite. Her rain-soaked hair had dried in a soft halo of curls and her huge dark-blue eyes stood out in the pallor of her face. Beside her, Mary Lucas looked indecently robust and healthy.

  ‘Right, now, first things first. Katherine Louise Romilly, I think you said. And would this be your permanent address?’ His tone was bland but he watched her closely and caught the faint flush.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Her voice was very low.

  ‘Then we’d better have the other one too.’

  ‘Treetops, Lethbridge Drive, Shillingham.’

  The routine questions of date and place of birth she answered promptly, but a return of tension was apparent when he reverted to more pertinent matters.

  ‘Can you tell me, Mrs Romilly, how well you knew the deceased?’

  ‘Hardly at all, really. I did go to dinner once, with some friends.’

  Dates and names were duly noted by the unobtrusive sergeant at the table.

  ‘And when did you last see her alive?’

  Kate looked confused. ‘That was probably the last time.’ In the kitchen, her head close to Paul’s. Paul!

  ‘Yes, Mrs Romilly? You’ve remembered something?’

  ‘No.’ She moistened her lips. ‘I’m sure that was the last time.’

  ‘But you’ve seen her husband since?’

  ‘Only this evening, at school.’

  ‘Tell me again about the book you went to collect.’

  Was he trying to trip her up? Kate wondered in a panic. She recalled hearing somewhere that people who found bodies were sometimes suspected t
hemselves. But he couldn’t think—

  Stumblingly she went through it all again: Henry’s promise to lend her the book, her reluctance to stop off because of the rain. Again, some slight inflection must have betrayed her.

  ‘That was your only reason for not wanting to call?’

  ‘I — well, yes. Except that I was in a hurry to get home and relieve Miss Truscott.’

  ‘But there was no urgency about that, was there? There was more than an hour before Miss Truscott’s bus was due. If you’d wanted, you even had time for a coffee with Mrs Dane.’

  ‘I — didn’t know her very well.’

  ‘Or like her very much?’ probed the Chief Inspector astutely.

  Kate caught her breath. ‘She was always very pleasant to me.’

  ‘What were the other occasions on which you’d met her?’

  ‘At Mrs Netherby’s one afternoon. That was the first time.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She came to the shop once or twice.’

  ‘Didn’t she also attend your art exhibition?’

  ‘Oh yes, the private view. I’d forgotten that.’

  It had been a surprise to Webb to realize who the deceased was. A frequenter of art galleries in his spare moments, he had seen and admired examples of her work. No doubt, he thought sardonically, their prices would now rocket.

  ‘And at the time of her death you were at St Benedict’s School?’

  Kate said very carefully, ‘I don’t know the time of her death.’

  ‘A preliminary estimate gives it as between eight and eight-thirty this evening.’

  ‘Then I was at the school, yes.’

  ‘And that can be verified?’

  She showed a brief flair of spirit. ‘Certainly, by about six different masters. I didn’t have any gaps between appointments.’

  And so it went on in minute, to Kate obsessive, detail. She had one moment of panic; Webb asked if she knew of anyone visiting Sylvia recently. She could not, positively not, implicate Paul.