“It was over the body when I found it,” Marcus said gently. “I moved it. And we must get rid of it— right now. No evidence that could possibly point to you.”
She was shivering again now, remembering the woman on the stairs the way the housecoat had fitted her.
“Marcus— you do believe me, don’t you? About the other woman? That she was here last night?”
“Yes, Harriet, I believe you. But I tell you honestly— I doubt if anyone else will. I’m sorry, darling, but it is— well, it’s such an extraordinary story, isnt' it?”
And she had to agree. For a moment she was able to see the situation as though she were an outsider. People in the village knew she was unhappy with Jeffrey they must know. There had been gossip about Jeffrey and Linda Joel— she knew that only too well. It had been overhearing such gossip in the village shop that made her first aware of the fact that Jeffrey found outside satisfaction. And when Jeffrey was found, and his wife was discovered to have run away— what else would they think but that she had killed him and that was why had run?
“Where can I find something to rap this in?” Marcus was asking.
“What?— oh— in the kitche—” she began, and then they both froze.
There were footsteps moving outside, up the path, and after one moment in which they both stood very still, staring at each other, Marcus moved swiftly to the window, keeping well back out of sight from outside.
“It’s a woman,” he hissed. “Short, dumpy, wearing a green coat and a headscarf—”
“Mrs. Joel—” Harriet said. “The cleaner.”
“Come on—” And he shot across the room, grabbing at her, pushing her towards the kitchen.
He took up her coat from the hall as they ran— he was still wearing his own— and thrust her though the kitchen and out of the back door, gently closing it just as they heard the front door rattle open.
“Keep still,” Marcus hissed, holding her arm tightly. “And quiet—”
After a moment, in which no sound came from the house, he began to move along the side path, pulling Harriet behind him, and peered around the shrubs at the front door.
“All right,” he murmured. “Now— quiet, for pity’s sake—” And they moved along the path, to the front gate.
The gate creaked as they opened it, and for a second they stood frozen, waiting for some response from the house, but there was none. And then they were in the lane, running to the car, getting into it, and Marcus let the clutch in, cursing the noise of the engine as it warmed up. But still there was no accusing shout as he turned the car, no sign of anyone in the now deepening darkness of the evening.
To her own surprise Harriet slept on the drive back to London, her body taking over from her mind; and when she woke, still and confused, the car was pulling into the forecourt of the flats.
“Harriet, darling—” Marcus said gently as he turned off the engine. “Are you awake? Properly awake? Good. Now listen. Try not to look so— terrified, can you? I know it’s difficult but try to look as though we’ve just spend a day in the country. We don’t want anyone remembering seeing you looking as though—”
“As though I’ve committed a murder—” Harriet said bleakly. “Or returned from viewing the scene of the crime.”
“Exactly. That’s my girl. Come on now.” But they met no one in the lobby or the lift, and when they reached the flat and safety, she almost fell into an armchair in relief.
He moved about purposefully, switching on the heater, taking her coat from her, putting it away. And when he went toward the kitchen she followed him, and obeyed his instructions to make coffee for them both.
“Sue will be home soon, I daresay. We’ll have to tell her, Harriet— I’m sorry, but—”
“Of course you must,” Harriet said. “She’s your sister, after all.”
“It’s not just that. But we’ll need her to support your alibi—”
Harriet stopped making the coffee and turned to him.
“Marcus, are you sure we’re doing the right thing?” Shouldn’t we tell the police? I mean, I can only tell them the truth, however wild it sounds. And if you tell the truth, you can’t get into trouble, can you? not in this country?”
“Darling, that’s one of the hoariest of myths— evidence is evidence— Oh, my God—”
He stood very still, the knife he had been using to cut bread for toast clattering to the table. “Oh, my God— how could I have been so—”
“What is it?” Harriet felt a sudden chill as she stared at the consternation on his face. “What’s the matter?”
“Oh, darling, forgive me!” He came and put his arms round her. “How could I have been such a fool—”
“For Gods’sake, Marcus—”
“The housecoat— I dropped it in the living room!”
She felt herself go faint as she realized what he was saying.
“I left it there— and what’s more— I must have been mad— we lit a fire— and the brandy glass you used—”
“I— put it down on the coffee table. And Marcus— the jam.”
“The jam?”
“When I got in through the larder window, I knocked a pot of jam onto the floor— it broke— and it’s still there—”
He began to walk about. “Let’s think clearly. Obviously, they’ll realize someone broke in— the point is, did that Joel woman see the car in the lane? And if she did, will she be able to describe it? Did she take the number? Because if she did, the police will be able to track it back to me— and therefore you—”
Harriet was thinking clearly now, her fear gone. The sleep she had had in the car, the need to plan and Marcus’sudden loss of control of the situation seem to give her a new calmness.
“There’s no point in thinking about it now, Marcus. If she did, she did. If they track you, then I’ll tell them the truth— and oh, look, wouldn’t it be better to tell them now? The police? Better than waiting to be caught. Surely that will look much more suspicious?”
He shook his head. “No. They’ll want to know why we didn’t report the body at once, don’t you see? We can’t go to the police, darling At worst, you’re the obvious suspect. At best, we’re both accessories after the crime— or whatever they call it— and—”
The phone rang shrilly, and Harriet’s heart leaped with fear. But it was only Sue.
“She’s going on to some party or other.” Marcus said wearily when he came back. “One of those all-night affairs— I wish she wouldn’t. But there were people with her, and I couldn’t make her come home, not without telling her something about— what’s happened. And I daren’t do that on the phone— not even on an automatic exchange. There are such things as crossed lines— someone might possibly hear. Look, Harriet — I’m past— thinking straight. Tomorrow—”
“Oh, Marcus, I’m sorry!” Harriet went to him, put her arms around his neck. “I’ve brought you nothing but misery— you look dreadfully tired—” His face was indeed drawn, with none of the easy self-confidence that was usually so much a part of him. “If only you hadn’t stopped to light your pipe in that place last night—”
He kissed her, managing a smile now. “I wouldn’t have found you. And no matter what happens, I’ll always be grateful for that. Dear Harriet.”
She held his face in her hands, and with all the emotion she had left in her said gently, “And I, my love, and I. You’ll never know how much. I wouldn’t have thought it could happen— that I could ever fall in love like this— in such a short time—”
“It is, isn’t it? Barely twenty-four hours since we met. But I do love you, Harriet. Very much.”
“It’s crazy—” she said, half crying, half laughing. “I’m involved in a horrible murder, and I’ve never been happier in my whole life—”
They broke apart then, Harriet almost frightened of the intensity of the feeling in her, and drank coffee and ate hot buttered toast, by tacit agreement saying no more about what they had found at Thaxham. And after that they cleared up
the kitchen, and Marcus took her to Susan’s room.
“You’ll have tried every bed in the place soon, at this rate,” he said and kissed her goodnight. “God bless, sweetheart. Tomorrow, we’ll think again about what to do. Right now, we both need sleep. Lots of it.”
She fell asleep at last, to dream confusedly of the house at Thaxham, of the body of Jeffrey sprawled so hideously in the bathroom, but even as she struggled with the horror of her dreams, she was aware of a sense of safety, of Marcus near her, of a possible solution to the whole terrifying mess. Marcus would find an answer.
Chapter Six
She woke again to the buzz of voices and the sound of traffic, and for one brief moment it was as though the day before had never happened, that they had not been to Thaxham at all, that she had dreamed the whole business.
But she couldn’t keep the memory battened down as easily as that. She dressed quickly, not taking time to wash properly, contenting herself with a scrubbing of her face and hands with some skin cleanser she found on Sue’s untidy dressing table.
As she did so, she tried to make a decision. Would she let Marcus go on taking the initiative as he had done so far? He had been wonderful, the day before, so strong and gentle, had made the horror of what had happened almost bearable. But he was not made of iron, she told herself, patting face powder over the dark shadows under her eyes. Last night he dad looked exhausted, wrung out. She melted with love for him as she remembered, felt in spite of everything of lift of the pure happiness that she was realizing Marcus could give her.
I can’t let him carry the whole burden, she told herself firmly, as she went out of the bedroom, toward the kitchen and the sound of voices. The door was ajar, and as she put her hand out to push it open, Sue’s voice came clear and decisive.
“For crying out loud, Marcus! How the hell can I swear that you were here all day with her when I was at the office all day, and went to Brenda’s party last night? There are hordes of people who saw me— if I get up in court and say I was with two of you, it’ll make matters worse, won’t it?”
“For God’s sake, Sue, I’m an accessory after the fact of a murder, aren’t I? Just as Harriet is? Use your head, girl. There must be some way out of this— Look, did you see anyone when you went out to lunch? Could you have come home then and seen us? If you can swear to that much, and that I was here with you the afternoon and evening before when he was killed, that’d be better than nothing—”
“I stayed in the office for lunch— and I don’t know who saw me. Certainly I can cover for you for the day before which is the most important— but yesterday—”
“I’m worried about that damned Joel woman— if she saw—”
But Harriet couldn’t listen any more. Silently she turned, went back to Sue’s bedroom and sat on the bed, her thoughts whirling. Bad enough that she, Harriet, was involved in this mess— but it was her mess, her husband who had been killed. And because of her, Marcus, the only person in the world since Barbie’s death who had shown any affection for her, Marcus was up to his ears in it,too. If she loved him, she couldn’t let him get into trouble for her, could she?
She could not. A love affair that started like this one hasn’t much chance at the best of times, she told herself miserably. And if, because of me, Marcus and Sue lie themselves into real trouble, what hope is left? None at all. She would just have to deal with things herself. And when she had and the answers were found, she could come to Marcus with her head high, with no more misery than had already happened to mar their relationship.
That was the only way out, as far as Harriet could see. I may have been living in a state of idiot subservience to Jeffrey all these years, may have been frightened stupid this past couple of days, but I’m not altogether a fool, she told herself firmly. Marcus wants to keep you away from the police because he wants to protect you, because he sees you as some frail helpless child. But you’ll have to face them sooner or later, and better before Marcus is too involved, rather than later when it will be too late to exonerate him of any part in Jeffery’s death. The longer I keep away from the police, the more embroiled he becomes.
Swiftly, she put on her coat, belted it round her, and just before she left the room, stopped. There was no pencil or paper about, so she scrawled on the dressing-table mirror with Sue’s lipstick, hoping Sue would forgive her.
“I can’t let you two get into trouble for me, making up alibis. I’m going to the police— and when things are cleared up, I’ll come back, if you’ll have me. H.”
She crept along the hall to the front door, the sound of the voices from the kitchen reassuring her she had not been heard, and let herself out of the flat, leaving the front door ajar for fear of making a noise if she closed it behind her. Now she had made up her mind, she had to follow through; and she knew all too well that if Marcus appeared now, he would stop her, would only have to touch her, ask you to let him cope for her, and she would give in. And Marcus had suffered enough on her account.
As she reached the main road, a bus was drawing up at the bus stop just beyond the flats and, on an impulse, she ran and climbed onto it. She needed time to think, time to get her story straight. Would she admit to the police that she and Marcus had been to the house at Thaxham the day before, tell the whole truth? Or keep quiet about that, to avoid implicating Marcus?
She took a fourpenny ticket, having no idea at all where the bus was going, and when the conductor told her that she had reached her fare stage, obediently got off. She was in Sloane Square again and, after standing for a moment on the curb, a little bewildered by the traffic and hurrying crowds, she saw a small coffee bar opposite and went in. As she drank the cup of lukewarm froth the bored italian waitress brought her, she thought carefully, and decided not to tell the police about the visit to Thaxham.
She tried to visualize how it would be, how she could walk into a police station, say she wanted to report a murder. What would happen then? Hazy memories of films she had seen helped. They’d take a statement, of course, and then accuse her. And accused persons were supposed to ask for their lawyers then, and they would phone for—
She put her cup down with a clatter. Phone for whom? Jeffrey had a solicitor, she supposed, somewhere. But she didn’t know him, and even if she did, she wanted no part of Jeffrey’s life, even now he was dead. Who then? How do you find solicitor?
I’ll start walking, she thought. I’ll just walk towards the police station, and the first solicitor’s office I pass, I’ll go in and ask him to be my solicitor. That’s what I’ll do.
Outside again, in the noise and the traffic, she realized she didn’t know where the nearest police station was, anyway. God, but I’m stupid, she thought, angry with herself. No wonder Marcus thinks I need protecting all the time. Not to worry. Just walk till you find a solicitor’s office, and then he’ll tell you where to go with your story.
It was almost by accident that she found the office. She had been walking along one road after another, past shops and office buildings, around corners, past houses, back into main roads, and nowhere did there seem to be a solicitor. Surely, she thought wearily, there must be on somewhere in this district—
It was as she waited to cross the main intersection that it happened. A small child and his mother passed and, as they did, he pointed upward, and cried shrilly, “Look Mummy— a helicopter—”
“It’s an aeroplane, darling,” the mother said, laughing and catching Harriet’s eye with a maternal isn’t-he-sweet-and-absurd? look. Harriet smiled back, and automatically looked up toward the child’s pointing finger. There was an advertisement hoarding for an airline, high on the wall, and beside it, a window bearing gilt lettering on its panes. “Andrew L. Peters & Co.,” it read. “Commissioner for Oaths. Solicitor.”
Out of the mouths of babes, thought Harriet, and turned, looking for the doorway that led to the office. She found it tucked between a tobacconist and a launderette, a dark door with a well-polished brass plate on
it. But when she pushed it open and looked inside at the flight of linoleum-covered stairs that led upwards, her heart failed her. It didn’t look a very prepossessing entrance for a good solicitor to have. But this was the only one she had found and, somehow, that child had been meant to show it to her, she thought confusedly. And that is silly superstition but I must get to the police soon, before I get frightened again.
So, she went in and climbed the stairs nervously, but holding her head high. Andrew L. Peters it had to be.
The office looked more reassuring than the entrance had. There was a door at the top of the stairs marked “Inquiries,” and she pushed it open to find herself in a big warm room, with several desks in it and four people busily at work, three men and one girl.
She stood unnoticed for a moment, looking round at the high shelves full of files, at the desks piled with papers and books, at a glazed door at the far side, marked “Andrew L. Peters. Private,” and the big windows with the gilt lettering, now reversed, that she had seen from the street outside.
“Can I help you?” The girl at the nearest desk had noticed her, and awkwardly Harriet said, “Er— yes, please. I would like— can I talk to Mr. Peters, please?”
“Have you an appointment?” The girl looked friendly.
“Er, well, no. But it’s important.”
The friendliness became rather wary, and one of the young men at the other desks looked up, interested.
“May I ask if you are a client of Mr. Peters?” the girl asked.
“Well, no— but I want to be— and it’s— important.” Harriet began to wish she hadn’t thought of getting a solicitor, had just gone to a police station, but it was too late for that now. And anyway, she needed a lawyer.
“Mr Peters only sees people by appointment,” the girl was saying. “If only you could tell me what you wish to see him about, I could make an appointment, and—”
“I can’t,” Harriet said flatly. “And it’s very urgent indeed. I must see him now— at once.”
“But, really, miss—” the girl’s glance dropped to Harriet’s ungloved hand— “er— Mrs.—”
The House on the Fen Page 6