“For pity’s sake, will you be quiet— let me think!” Harriet said furiously. “Will you stop riding me!”
“I have no wish to ride you, as you put it,” he said stiffly, and looked at his watch. “I have a lot of work on hand and not much time to waste, I’m afraid. You must make up your, mind one way or the other.”
Helplessly, she stared at him, crumbling a piece of bread roll between her fingers. He had her in a cleft stick. Either she became his client or he went to the police and reported the story himself. Whatever happened, Marcus’s name would come out. She couldn’t win.
“All right,” she said at length. “All right. I’ve no choice.”
“No,” he said, crisply. “And neither have I. If you’d had more sense than hysteria in your makeup you’d have known that from the moment you told me there had been a murder committed, or that one was about to be committed, I was involved, like it or not.”
“I’m sorry to have dragged you into my miserable affairs, then,” she said sharply, stung. “And I seemed hysterical— well, I’ve had some cause, God knows—”
“Yes,” he conceded the point with some reluctance. “I suppose you have. From all accounts, you’ve had a difficult time of it. Women being what they are, you could have behaved worse, I daresay.”
He smiled his rare smile then. “I may have annoyed you, Mrs. Darnell— I often do annoy people— but I’ll tell you this. It’s done you a world of good. You looked like a shaking scared rabbit when you first say you in my office. Now you look more like a women with a bit of spirit about her. Hmmph. Being angry suits you fine.”
She blinked. “I was not looking for a beauty therapy when I walked into your office, Mr. Peters,” she snapped. “I wanted a little sympathy, and some understanding as well as some practical help. I daresay I should be grateful to get the latter, anyway. If gratuitous rudeness is part of the help, I’ll just have to put up with it, I suppose.”
“I suppose you will,” he said. “Not that I’m ever gratuitously rude. Only when I have just cause. And if you go on meandering here, I’ll have very just cause. Waitress!— my bill, if you please!”
The police station smelt of disinfectant and old boots, and she shivered a little as they stood at the counter, waiting for the station sergeant to finish his telephone call and attend to them. “There is no need to be frightened,” Peters said in a low voice. “As long as you have not committed a crime and tell the truth, you’ll be fine.”
“I’m not—” she began, but the sergeant came over then. “I’d like to see the CID man in charge, please,” Peters said crisply.
“What about, sir.” The sergeant was a big man, and he smiled at Harriet with distinct friendliness, but she couldn’t manage to smile back.
“I wish to report a crime,” Peters said sharply. “My card.” And he fished a square of pasteboard from his pocket and handed it over. The sergeant looked at it and his face changed.
“Mr. Peters? I thought I’d seen you before, sir. You handled the Bennet case— I’ll see if Inspector Blaikie is free now,” and he went away.
“I’ll speak to him first myself, alone,” Peters said to Harriet, and she nodded numbly, obediently sitting down on the bench against the wall that he indicated with a nod of his head.
She seemed to sit there for a very long time after Peters had followed the sergeant to a room beyond the desk. She watched the traffic outside, roaring and grumbling its way past the crowded pavements, and for a moment, played with the idea of running away.
I could get up and walk out. No one would stop me, not yet. I could go away and change my name and get a job and just disappear. And that would mean never seeing Marcus again, not ever. And for a second, even that seemed a tolerable price to pay to get away from this smelly chilly police station and with its green-tiled walls and clacking typewriters and ringing peremptory telephones. But the urge to run disappeared when she looked up and saw the station sergeant staring at her consideringly. He’ll never forget what I look like, she thought, awkwardly glancing away. Even if I ran, they’d catch me.
Peters came back the, his face grim.
“Inspector Blaikie wants you now,” he said. “They’d been looking for you.”
“Eh?” she said, startled.
“They found the body yesterday. A cleaning woman reported it.”
“Mrs. Joel.”
“Aye. And she said she saw you, too, in a car— they got the number, and they’re trying to trace it now.”
“So they’d find out about Marcus, anyway?”
“Precisely. So there’s no point in any lofty silence, is there? You’d better come along. Blaikie’s waiting.”
She told her story as best she could, constantly aware of Peters sitting beside her, aware of the blank-faced Inspector Blaikie, a grizzled slight man in his late forties, and the women police constable sitting just out of line of vision and taking down shorthand notes of what she said. When she gave the address of Marcus' flat— she didn’t want to, but Inspector Blaikie asked for it, and Peters nodded sharply at her, so she had to— there was a rustle of movement as someone left the room. But she went on doggedly, telling the story again, in every detail she could, feeling sick again as she described the way Jeffrey had looked when they found him.
When she had finished, she waited for questions. Surely they would ask her why she and Marcus had run away, why they had not reported the murder? But the Inspector merely stood up and said to Peters, “We’ll have this typed and then Mrs. Darnell can sign it. Perhaps you’ll wait outside till then.”
So they returned to the bench in the waiting room by the desk, and she sat there, frozen with misery, while Peters made a complicated telephone call to his office after demanding the sergeant’s grudging permission to use the desk phone. She wondered bleakly how Marcus would feel when he found that she had told the police about him. Will he stop loving her? she thought. But that was a dreadful thing to think, so she tried to concentrate on the traffic in the free out-of-doors beyond the glass-paned double doors of the police station.
Suddenly, there he was, running up the steps of the station, his suede coat flying open, his collar round his ears, and he almost burst through the door, staring round anxiously, his face lighting up when he saw her. He came over, pulled her to her feet and put his arms around her tightly, so that her face was crushed against his shoulder.
“Darling— I’ve been frantic— absolutely frantic. Why did you run off like that, my love, why? You could have trusted me to look after you—”
She pulled back to look up at him, eagerly holding on to his coat lapels.
“Marcus— I’m so sorry— I wanted to keep you out of the mess— that was why I went. I thought I could just go to the police and not tell them about you— but I had to— Peters made me— and anyway, Mrs. Joel saw us yesterday and she told the police about the car—”
“Peters?”
“I— thought I ought to have a solicitor—”
He frowned sharply, his grasp of her slackening a little, and she felt chilled, ashamed of her behavior.
“I wanted to keep you out of it, Marcus, that was why. And now I seem to have landed you right in the cart. They made me give them the address—”
“I know,” he laughed, and held her close again. “Silly child. How did you think I found you? They came and asked me to come to the station to ‘help them in their inquiries’— a charming phrase, that. You could have trusted me though, darling— but—” He smiled then. “Don’t worry. It will be all right, I promise—” And he pulled her face toward him with a firm grasp on her chin, and kissed her soundly, and the familiar shiver melted her knees again.
When she opened her eyes, the first thing she saw over Marcus’ shoulder was Peters’ sardonic face, and she felt her face redden and pulled away from Marcus awkwardly.
“Er— this is Mr. Peters, Marcus,” she said, smoothing her hair and furtively mopping her smudged lipstick. “You remember— the solicitor I told
you about—”
Marcus turned and stared at Peters and nodded sharply.
“How do you do, I’m Cooper— friend of Mrs. Darnell.”
“I know that,” Peter said, looking the other man up and down with a coolly insulting stare that made Marcus redden angrily. “It’s a pity, If I may say so, that you did not have the good sense to call the police and find some legal help for your friend yesterday, instead of encouraging her to run off like a scared rabbit—”
“What we did yesterday is our concern, not yours,” Marcus said sharply. “And now, I’m here, I think we can dispense with your services, thank you very mich. If you’ll send your bill to me, I’ll see that it’s settled—”
“No.”
Harriet was almost surprised to hear her own voice, but she went on hurriedly, “No, Marcus. It’s sweet of you, but I can’t let you take on any more for me. You’ve done enough, and I’ve got you into enough trouble. I can’t let you pay Mr Peters' bill. I’ll pay it myself— that is—”
She reddened again, and turned to Andrew Peters.
“Look, you’ll have to wait, I’m afraid, until all this is over and I can get a job and earn some money. I’ve none of my own, you see, at all. I had to ask Jeffrey for everything, and now he’s dead, well—”
“Darling, don’t be such a proud juggins,” Marcus said gently. “If yo feel so strongly about money, well, you can pay me back later, if you must. But let me settle the bill now, and—”
“Please, Marcus, no—”
“You both seem a deal more concerned about my bill than I am,” Andrew Peters said and, deliberately turning his back on Marcus, spoke directly to Harriet.
“Mrs. Darnell, you retained my services in the first place, and only you can decide whether or not you wish me to continue to act on your behalf. No one else can dismiss me, do you see? Now, do you want to do just that, or don’t you?”
“Let me find someone a bit more— friendly— that this man for you Harriet.” Marcus said pulling her hand into the crook of his arm. “Someone who'’ll be a bit less rude—”
“He doesn’t mean to be rude—” Harriet said awkwardly, feeling for a moment like a bone over which two dogs were squabbling.
“It’s just his manner, I think— he can’t help it—” Why on earth am I defending him to Marcus? she thought, confused. Andrew Peters is rude and unfriendly, I told him so myself.
Peters sketched a mock bow, and said, “Well, thank you for that. Not that I need you to defend me as much as you need me, I’m thinking—”
She looked at from Marcus to Peters and back again, from Marcus’ angry face to Peters' expressionless one, and felt helpless. Someone else. I’d have to tell the whole story all over again to another stranger. I can’t!
She turned to Marcus, tried to explain to him how she felt, and after a moment, he shrugged and managed to smile at her.
“Whatever you want, of course, darling. I just want you to have the best help there is, that’s all. But don’t distress yourself over the fact I dislike the man—” He threw a cold stare at Peters who seemed sublimely unaware of it. “I daresay he’s used to it.”
“What happens now?” Harriet turned back to Peters. “Do I— do I have to stay here?”
“It was that I came to tell you, but that touching little scene you were playing gave me no chance,” Peters said, and went on before Marcus could say anything. “Blaikie says you can go when you’ve signed your statement. You’re not to leave London without notifying him— or me for that matter— and he’ll be making further inquiries. They’ll notify us of the date and time of the coroner’s court, and of course you’ll have to be there for that— you too, Cooper. In the meantime, you’re both free agents— but I am not. I’ve work to do.”
He pulled another card from his pocket and gave it to Harriet, scribbling a number on the back of it. “This is my office number and this one is my home number. If there’s anything urgent outside my office hours, you can call me there. If I’m not there, my housekeeper is, and she’ll take any messages.” He held out his hand to her and, after a moment’s pause, she gave him hers.
“Good-bye for now, Mrs. Darnell. I’ll be looking after you to the best of my ability, that I promise you. Don’t hesitate to contact me if you’ve any real worries, now. Real worries. I don’t want any hysteria, mind, but I’m available otherwise—”
“Very good of you,” Marcus said insultingly.
“— but only to you, as my client. I don’t deal with other people even if they are involved. Involved people need a solicitor themselves, to take care of their interests, but that, of course, is none of my concern. Good day to you, Mrs. Darnell, and try not to do anything else as silly as you’ve done so far.”
And with a brusque nod at Marcus, he turned and went quickly out of the glass doors and down he steps, waving peremptorily at a taxi as he did so.
Chapter Eight
“Have you had lunch, darling?” Marcus’ voice in her ear sounded very anxious, and she turned gratefully toward him, taking her eyes away from the taxi that was carrying Peters away.
“I’m sorry about all this, Marcus, truly I am. I’ve made the most ghastly mess, haven’t I? All I wanted to do was keep you— and Susan— out of it, and all I’ve done is embroil you further.”
“We’ll talk about that later— Look, my love, answer me, will you? Have you had lunch?”
“Mmm? Oh, yes. Peters gave me some.”
“That—”
“Don’t,” Harriet said hastily. “Please, don’t. Whether we like it or not, he’s my lawyer. I suppose if I hadn’t been in such a panic to get things sorted out I’d have chosen a different— an easier sort of man to act for me. But —”
“But you went off half-cocked.” The grin he produced took the sting out of his words. “Look, let’s get out of here, shall we? This isn’t exactly the place I’d choose to have a pleasant tête-à-tête—”
“You’ll have to make a statement first, won’t you?” Harriet said a little timidly. “I mean— isn’t that why you came here?”
He had been looking around the station with some distaste at the sergeant’s bland gaze and the broad back of a typing constable, and he laughed as he brought hie eyes back to her face.
“I came here to find you— and for no other reason— but they did send for me in order to get a statement, I suppose. Dear, sensible, silly Harriet! How do you manage to be all those at the same time?” She felt a sudden little spurt of irritation.
“I do wish you’d stop treating me like a child, Marcus. I know I’ve done a few stupid things this past few days but you do make me feel sometimes as though I were six inches high and covered in pink icing—” He pursed his lips in a mock whistle, raising his eyebrows.
“Attagirl! Some of the shock wearing off? Good! look, my love. Let me go and put the story of my life into that large policeman’s receptive ear, and then we’ll go and find somewhere pleasant and comfortable where you can show just how tall you are and just how rapidly pink icing can disappear. Right!”
“Right,’she said, and smiled at him, ashamed of her petulance.
“I hope it won’t be too— nasty.”
“It wont be,” he said cheerfully. “Tell the truth, and shame the devil, eh, sergeant?”
“As you say, sir. Will you come this way, please?” the sergeant said stolidly, and Harriet was again left to perch uncomfortably on the bench by the desk while she waited.
Even though Marcus doesn’t like him, I’m glad I didn’t send Andrew Peters away, she thought a little guiltily. He’s damned rude— no pink icing for him but he seems to know what he’s about. Which is more than I do right now, that’s for certain—
By the time they left the police station, the afternoon was half gone, and Harriet suddenly felt quite incredibly tired. Marcus noticed her pallor, with his usual sharp perceptions, and said gently, “You’ve got a bad dose of reaction, my love. And I know how to cure it.”
“Do you
? I doubt it’s as easy as that. I feel so - ashamed, Marcus. You— you’re the only friend I have— the first I’ve had for years. And I go and land you in this horrible mess, which I can’t understand, and can’t really believe myself, so why anyone should believe it, I don’t know— though Andrew Peters believed me, without a moment’s hesitation, which is a lot in his favor. I still can’t work it out. Who was that woman at the house that night? And did she murder Jeffrey? She must have, because if she didn’t who did? But why? Why? Why should a complete stranger want to murder my husband? Maybe it was philanthropy, or something— or my alter ego. No— I know, it was my doppelgänger— you know, Marcus? Those mirror-images of people who turn up in horror stories sometimes, who go around committing crimes their doubles would like to commit but never dare— my doppelgänger has murdered Jeffrey for me, so really I’m the guilty one—”
“Shut up!” Marcus’ voice was low, but it cut across her rising hysteria like a hot knife through butter. “I told you, my sweet— you’re suffering from a bad dose of reaction, and I know how to cure it. Come on there’s not much time left—”
Obediently, she fell into step beside him, hurrying along the crowded pavements, onto a huge and bumbling red bus, sitting beside him at the very front.
“What— what did the police ask you? You were such ages in there with that Blaikie man.”
“Ah— damned bureaucrats. They think everyone’s time but their own is expendable. Just muck about and ask stupid questions—”
“What questions?” she persisted.
“Darling, I honestly can’t remember! Where exactly we met, what time, where were the flats with the old man— things like that. Useless stuff.”
“Not that useless,” she said somberly. “Don’t you see, Marcus? They think I killed Jeffrey before I came to London at all. They must be trying to work out what time I left Thaxham so that they can match it with the time Jeffery died. Police surgeons can work out that sort of thing, can’t they? You and that old man at the flats, you’re the only alibis I have, don’t you see? Oh, if only I hadn’t dodged Joe Potter so well. If only he’d seen me—”
The House on the Fen Page 8