by Frank Smith
‘The truth. Miss Pritchard. That’s all.’
‘But I thought...that is...’ She stopped, not knowing what to say.
‘That the investigation into Miss Shaw’s death was closed?’
She nodded. Paget’s eyes flicked towards the tape recorder. Sally cleared her throat again and said: ‘Yes.’
‘It was,’ he said candidly. ‘That is until I realized that it was you Monica went to see that night after she was supposed to have gone to bed. And it was you who followed her back to the school; followed her upstairs and…’
‘No!’ Sally Pritchard looked as if she were about to faint. ‘No,’ she said again. She closed her eyes and put her hands to her face. ‘I didn’t follow her. But I am to blame. It was my fault. I didn’t mean to...‘ She groaned. “If only she hadn’t come that night. She’d be alive. Monica would be alive.’
Paget exchanged glances with Tregalles.
Sally dropped her hands. Her face was wet with tears.
‘I think you’d better tell me about it,’ said Paget quietly. ‘From the beginning, please. Would you like to take your coat off now. Miss Pritchard? You must be sweltering.’
Slowly, she took the offending garment off. Her shirt clung to her upper arms; it was soaked with perspiration, but it didn’t matter now. Nothing mattered now.
It had begun, Sally said, at the party Christmas Eve. ‘Although, in fact, it began long before that. It’s just that Monica hadn’t realized it,’ she said. ‘I knew what was happening, but I hoped that somehow she would - oh, I don’t know. I’m not sure now what I thought,’ she said distractedly.
Sally said she’d felt guilty about sending Monica off the way she did in the middle of the Christmas party, so she went looking for her. ‘That part was true,’ she told Paget earnestly. ‘And, as I said, I found her up there by the shed. She was sobbing her heart out, and I really thought someone had dragged her inside the shed and tried to rape her. It was only after Penny told me that it was Sylvia in there with Maurice that I realized Monica had been having me on all the time. She must have seen me coming and decided to punish me by saying she’d been attacked.’ Sally leaned back in her chair and stared up at the ceiling. She ran her hands through her short hair. ‘God! If I’d only known that at the time,’ she groaned.
‘But I didn’t. I felt sorry for her. I felt it was all my fault. I tried to comfort her. I held her, soothed her, and...and...’ She seemed to be having trouble getting the words out. ‘...and I kissed her.’
Sally avoided his eyes.
‘I felt the shock go through her,’ she said quietly. ‘I’d known for months that Monica was in love with me, but she had no idea what was happening to her. I told you she was very naive. It was as if she’d been struck by lightning. She went rigid and held on to me. She dug her nails into me, and she kissed me back. Hard. So fiercely that I couldn’t breathe.’
‘I said the first thing that came to mind. I had to try to convince her that nothing had happened. That everything was as it had been. I said: “You’re drunk, Monica,” and shook her off. I practically had to drag her down the yard to the car. I bundled her inside and she was all over me. I could hardly drive for fending her off. And questions! I kept telling her she was drunk, and finally she moved over against the door and went into a sulk. I kept telling her that she mustn’t say anything to anyone, especially Jane Wolsey, or she would be barred from ever coming over to the stables again.’
Sally shook her head as if in wonder at herself. ‘I don’t know what I said,’ she went on. ‘I just kept talking...’ She looked down at her hands. ‘You see, no one knew about me. I’ve managed to keep it secret all the time I worked at Glenacres. I even went out on the odd date with a man just to...well, you know. Everyone at work just assumed my only passion was horses, and I encouraged them to think that.’
‘But Monica wouldn’t let it go, would she?’
‘No. But then again, I was so stupid. As I said, Monica sat there sulking, and I began to feel guilty again. You see, at that time I still thought she was telling the truth when she said she’d been attacked. By the time we got to Thornton Hill, I felt perhaps I’d been too rough on her, so as I took her into the school, I gave her a little hug just to show her I wasn’t angry with her.’
Sally sighed. ‘But being Monica, she read more into it than was meant. She was smart enough to realize that she couldn’t say anything to Jane Wolsey about what had happened. Poor Jane wouldn’t have been able to cope with anything like that. She’d probably have had hysterics on the spot, and God only knows what she would have done to me. You see, awkward and obstinate as Monica was, Jane was very fond of her. I think she saw something of herself in her, and she tried her best to protect and defend her.’
‘It must have been a terrible shock to Jane when she found Monica the next morning.’
Sally lowered her eyes and looked down at her hands. Paget couldn’t see her hands below the table, but he could see the tremor in her arms. She was coming to the crucial part of her story, and was finding it difficult to go on.
‘After Miss Wolsey left her that night, Monica got up, got dressed, and came to see you, didn’t she?’ he prompted.
‘Yes.’ The word was like a sigh; there was unutterable sadness in the sound. ‘But...’ Sally frowned. ‘How did you know that? No one knew except...’ Colour touched her face and she looked away.
‘You told me that day in the barn when Sylvia came in looking for the key to the shed,’ he said. ‘In the dusk, you saw her silhouetted in the doorway and you mistook her for Monica. You said yourself there was the hair, the face, and the coat. Sylvia was wearing a long blue coat. In that light it looked much like the new coat of Monica’s. But Monica had never worn that coat until she went out late that night. She was wearing a white jacket when you were supposed to have seen her last. She’d spilled wine on the jacket, and Miss Wolsey had taken it to have it cleaned, so she wore her new coat.’
‘Besides,’ he continued, ‘she wanted to look her best for you, didn’t she?’
Sally slowly shook her head and closed her eyes as if in pain. ‘Don’t,’ she whispered. ‘My God, don’t you think I feel bad enough?’
Paget couldn’t help but feel some pity for Sally Pritchard. After all, she had asked for none of this, but he could not afford to ease the pressure on her. Not yet, at least.
‘Tell me what happened,’ he said. He filled her cup with water and she took it gratefully.
‘It was after midnight,’ she said. ‘We - I was in bed. Suddenly there was this banging on the door, and I could hear someone calling out. I thought there must be some sort of trouble; an accident or something. I ran to the door, but as I got there I could hear this person outside. She was singing at the top of her voice. I thought at first it was some drunken caroller playing the fool, but it was Monica. She was singing “Joy to the World” just the first line over and over again like a broken record.’
Sally took another sip of water. ‘As soon as I opened the door, she burst inside, grabbed me and hugged me until I thought I’d suffocate. She was happy; exuberant. I’d never seen her like that before. And she kept talking; chattering away like a magpie. She kept saying how wonderful it was to be there on Christmas Day with someone who loved her. I tried to talk to her, to calm her down, but she kept flitting about the room, chattering away...And then she flung open the bedroom door and saw...’
The words caught in her throat and her lips trembled. Her eyes implored him to understand; to ask her no more questions, but he couldn’t allow her to stop now.
‘She saw your lover there,’ he finished for her.
Something in Sally’s eyes seemed to die. She looked away, but it was answer enough. ‘What happened next?’ he asked gently.
It was a long time before Sally answered. ‘She just stopped,’ she said. ‘Monica just stood there. It was as if she were frozen. The look on her face as she looked at me...’ Sally buried her face in her hands. ‘I shall never forge
t it as long as I live,’ she whispered.
‘Then she ran out. I ran after her. I could hear her sobbing as she ran, but she was gone. She ran like the wind. There was nothing I could do.’
‘Nothing?’
Sally Pritchard raised a haggard face. ‘I - I don’t understand,’ she said.
‘You didn’t follow her to the school? Go in the back door? Go up to her room? You would know the way, wouldn’t you. Miss Pritchard? You were once a pupil there.’
‘No. No, I didn’t. I - I stayed up all night trying to think what to do. I couldn’t forget the pain on Monica’s face. She’d been rejected all her life, and now, when she thought she’d finally found someone...’
Sally took a deep breath. ‘I couldn’t face her and Jane in the morning. I simply couldn’t. That’s why I phoned and told Sylvia that I was ill, and asked her to take them to church. Then, when she telephoned to say that Monica had committed suicide, I didn’t know what to do. I knew I’d killed her just as surely as if I’d stabbed her through the heart.’
‘And you still say you didn’t go out again that night?’
‘I told you...’
‘Someone did,’ he said roughly. ‘Someone went to Monica’s room.’
She flinched as if he’d struck her. ‘It wasn’t me,’ she said shakily.
‘Then there is only one other person it could have been,’ Paget went on relentlessly. ‘Someone who feared exposure; someone who was there with you that night; there in your bed when Monica came bursting in. Someone who knew about the unlocked back door at the school; someone...’
Sally began to shake. She put her hands to her ears to block the words. ‘Stop!’ she cried. ‘Stop! Please stop. Please...’
26
The pale winter sun slipped behind the western hills as they drove the now familiar road. The forecast was for more settled weather, and Paget hoped they were right for once. He was tired of the rain.
Behind him, Sally Pritchard stared out of the window with dull, unseeing eyes. Her body swayed with the motion of the car but she felt nothing. Nothing, that is, except an overwhelming sense of guilt. She wanted to cry out; to take back what she’d said or say it wasn’t true.
But it was true.
A tear slowly trickled down her face.
‘Miss Pritchard?’
She became aware that the car had stopped. The door was open and the policewoman was holding out her hand. Sally Pritchard undid her seat-belt and got out of the car, ignoring the proffered help.
The chief inspector and sergeant stood to one side, waiting.
The car had stopped opposite the front door, but Sally set off around the side of the cottage with the others following in single file. As she passed a lean-to beside the back door, she reached in and grasped a spade and continued on.
She led them down a brick-lined path and came to a halt beside a raised vegetable garden, now covered in snow. Without a word being spoken, she began to dig.
There was no frost in the ground. The heavy rains had seen to that. The spade went deep beneath her foot, and she grunted as she lifted the sodden clay. Tregalles stepped forward to take the spade from her, but she pulled away and jammed it even deeper into the ground.
She continued to dig; the mound beside her grew, and water began to trickle into the hole. Abruptly, she dropped the spade and reached down into the mud. She pulled at what appeared to be a sodden rag and dragged it clear of the hole, dumping it unceremoniously at Paget’s feet.
The missing pillowcase.
Paget stooped and opened it to reveal a broken picture frame and shards of glass. He peered into the bag. There was something else in the bottom. He coaxed it out until it lay revealed. He looked up at Sally, but she had turned away, blinking hard to hold back the tears.
‘Right, that’s it, then,’ he said quietly. ‘Once we have it we’ll be on our way.’ He turned to the policewoman. ‘I’d like you to remain here in the house with Miss Pritchard until we return,’ he told her. ‘You will answer any incoming phone calls yourself, and it goes without saying that Miss Pritchard will not be calling anyone.’
‘I understand, sir.’
Sally Pritchard spoke for the first time. Her voice was flat, without expression. ‘Am I under arrest?’
‘For the moment, no,’ said Paget. ‘But charges may be laid when I return. It all depends on how truthful you have been, Miss Pritchard.’
The light was fading fast by the time they reached the open gates of Warrendale Hall. The driveway was flanked by ancient oaks, their leafless branches meeting overhead to form a vaulted canopy against the darkening sky.
The house was not as large as Paget had thought it would be. From the size of the estate, he’d imagined something much more grand, and certainly of stone. But Warrendale Hall was on a smaller scale, and the better for it, Paget thought. Gabled and half-timbered in Tudor style, it looked as if it had grown there, so well did it blend with its surroundings.
‘Looks as if it has been there for ever, doesn’t it?’ Tregalles said as they got out of the car. ‘But it hasn’t. Len Ormside’s great-grandfather helped build this house. The first one burned down, and they had it rebuilt exactly the way it was originally. It’s less than a hundred years old, according to Len. Hard to believe, isn’t it?’
Paget stood looking at the house. It was beautifully proportioned, and he looked forward to seeing the interior.
But it was not to be. Lady Tyndall, they were informed by the maid who answered the door, was in the conservatory. She picked up a house telephone, punched in two numbers and spoke briefly to someone at the other end.
‘Lady Tyndall will see you,’ she said, putting the phone down. ‘Please follow me.’
She led them down an exterior passageway that bypassed the main house. Long, leaded windows looked out over the grounds, but it was becoming too dark to see much of the park-like setting. At the end of the passage was a glass door. The maid opened it and stood to one side, allowing the two men to enter the conservatory. The door closed quietly behind them.
Like the house, the conservatory was not overly large, but it was well stocked with plants of every description. Warm, moist air wrapped itself around them, and Paget found himself loosening his coat.
‘Chief Inspector Paget?’ Lady Tyndall appeared from behind a bench containing row upon row of potted plants.
She was younger than he’d thought, but then he’d only seen her at a distance before today. Mid-thirties, perhaps; not much older than Sally Pritchard, in fact. Today, she wore a black, turtle-neck pullover and a pair of light grey trousers protected by a full-length apron tied at the waist. Her jet-black hair was pulled back hard against her head, and held in place by an ornamental silver comb. The style, combined with her olive- coloured skin and facial structure, made him think of warmer climes.
‘And Sergeant Tregalles, Lady Tyndall,’ Paget said.
‘Sergeant.’ A faint inclination of the head in Tregalles’s direction. ‘How may I help you?’
Paget came straight to the point. ‘We have received certain information concerning the death of Monica Shaw,’ he said quietly. ‘Specifically, we have a sworn statement accusing you of causing the death of Monica Shaw, and I must caution you that you are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but...’
‘Thank you. Chief Inspector, but I hardly think that is necessary,’ Lady Tyndall broke in. She didn’t seem at all surprised, but there came into her eyes a look of weary resignation. She turned and began to fiddle with one of the plants, nipping out leaves with thumbnail and finger. ‘I was rather afraid Sally would do something foolish like this,’ she said softly. ‘But she’s wrong, you know. I had nothing to do with Monica’s death.’ She paused, head on one side as if considering what she had just said. ‘Oh, I suppose I did in a sense,’ she amended, ‘but that was hardly my fault.’
Lady Tyndall turned to face Paget. ‘I assume that Sally has told you...everything?’
‘Concern
ing your relationship with her? Yes, she has,’ said Paget.
‘Hmm.’ A flicker of annoyance crossed her face. ‘I suppose it was inevitable, but it was quite unnecessary. Poor Sally. I tried to tell her, you know, but she wouldn’t listen.’
‘Then, perhaps you would tell us what did happen that night,’ Paget prompted her.
She flicked a glance at him and pursed her lips in a speculative way. ‘Yes,’ she said as if talking to herself. ‘I suppose that would be best.’
Driving home that night, Paget went over Lady Tyndall’s story in his mind. Once she’d agreed to talk to them, she had been remarkably frank.
Her marriage to Lord Tyndall some ten years earlier had been one of convenience for both of them, she said. He was twenty years her senior, and a good friend of the family, so she had known him ever since she was a child. Despite the difference in their ages, they were remarkably well matched intellectually, and they had enjoyed each other’s company for years before they married.
Tyndall, like so many descendants of the old aristocracy, was going ever deeper into debt just to keep up the estate. Maria Carrera, on the other hand, although born and raised in England, came from an extremely wealthy South American family, and so a deal was struck.
‘Richard needed the money and I wanted the title,’ she said. ‘And I was prepared to pay for it. It was as simple as that. And we have both been well satisfied with the bargain.’
Tyndall, though not a homosexual, had virtually no interest in a sexual relationship with her, and he had recognized long before they agreed to marry that she was not interested in men. In every other way, they were good friends and well matched, and if Maria wished to indulge in a discreet affair from time to time, he had no objection.
‘It’s an unusual arrangement, I agree,’ said Lady Tyndall. ‘But it is a sensible one. We both have what we want, and we enjoy each other’s company.’
On Christmas Eve, she said, her husband had been detained in London, and had telephoned to say he would stay in their Knightsbridge flat overnight and try to get back by lunch-time Christmas Day. She telephoned Sally, then went over to the cottage to spend the night with her.