‘You’ve an interesting house here. Lovely garden. Very photogenic,’ he remarked, just when Abigail thought he’d forgotten, when he’d already indicated that they were about to leave. ‘I understand it’s appeared in magazines?’
‘Not recently. It was featured in the county magazine, and in House & Garden, but that was last year.’
‘Another one planned?’
‘No, why do you ask?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t want to miss it, if there was.’ He thought it better that she shouldn’t know the reasons for asking, not yet. He was sure, anyway, that it was going to come to nothing, that the man who’d been doing the snapping might well have been just another walker with a camera, as Barnett had suggested, and not someone using it as a screen for making a close inspection of the premises.
Mayo was silent, deep in thought, for a long time on the way back.
‘Mark that lady down,’ he remarked as they drew into the station yard. ‘We haven’t finished with her, not by a long chalk.’
Abigail paused in the act of unstrapping her seat belt. ‘You’re not suggesting she was the one who put the bomb under her husband’s car?’
‘Hardly. But I wouldn’t fall over with surprise if she didn’t have ideas about who did.’
He didn’t choose to enlighten her further, and Abigail knew better than to press him. He’d tell her if, and when, he was good and ready.
In fact, his instincts were telling him, strongly, that there had been another one who hadn’t been entirely open with them. That something crucial, something vital it was necessary for them to know, had been withheld. It had been a negative sort of interview, in every sense, an image in which the reversal of tones might have given quite the wrong impression. Guilt there certainly was, but whether it was merely the guilt felt by nearly everyone when someone close to them dies – what might have been, sins of omission and commission – or guilt of a very different nature, it was difficult to say. What was certain was that they had merely skimmed the surface. There were interesting, and possibly even murky, depths to Dorothea Lilburne they hadn’t plumbed.
Well, he was experienced at being very patient indeed when necessary. What he needed he would get from her in due time. He was just as certain of that as he was sure that Mrs Lilburne was a woman who would only give if she could do it of her own accord.
Afterwards Marc Daventry was to wonder what had made him choose that particular house agent from all the ones advertising in the local paper when he’d finally decided to buy a house. He thought perhaps it was the name – Search and Sell, which sounded both optimistic and approachable, though he couldn’t decide whether it was some sort of pun or not.
There were scores of properties advertised in the windows, all with attractive-looking photographs. The prices gave him a jolt but he went in, refusing to be put off. It was warm and welcoming inside, with a blandly soothing decor in shades of coffee, cream and caramel, a lot of potted plants around and comfortable chairs to sit in – though not so luxurious that customers might start grumbling about the commission they were being charged.
He was asked to fill in details of his requirements at this initial stage, and to write down his name and address and his occupation in block capitals. When he handed the form back and the woman behind the desk had read it through, she looked up, repeating his name. ‘Marc Daventry. Marc with a “c”? That’s French isn’t it?’
It gave him a strange, proud feeling to be able to say: ‘My mother is French.’
He’d been aware of the woman’s fixed stare all the time he’d been filling the form in, and now she studied his face as if she were about to say more. She was a plain, overweight woman in her late thirties, or perhaps older than that, with pale-lashed eyes and sandy hair scraped back from her face with two tortoiseshell slides, wearing a short-sleeved blouse in a bright shade of coral which was the uniform of the assistants, and added a touch of colour to the decorations, but didn’t suit her complexion at all. Her name, he was informed by the plastic tag pinned to her chest, was Avril Kitchin.
She was so long in replying that he asked, ‘What’s the matter? Anything wrong with my name?’
‘No, no! Just checking I’d got it right. It’s unusual, that’s all.’ She shuffled papers together clumsily, put details of all the properties she had available into a folder, slid it across to him and suggested making appointments to view several of them immediately.
‘I’ll study them first,’ he told her.
‘Well, don’t leave it too long. Anything that’s worth having goes immediately,’ she warned him, which he found rather hard to believe, considering how long it had taken to dispose of the house in Rumbold Avenue. He put it down to sales patter, though she wasn’t exactly the dynamic sales type – a stodgy sort of woman, without much get up and go. Unsmiling, not the sort you warmed to. He felt her gaze following him as he went out of the shop.
When he’d gone through the contents of the folder, thought about them and read between the lines, he sat back, dismayed by the miserable sort of properties being offered within his stipulated price range, and began to feel it would be pointless to waste time in making an appointment to view any of them. If this was all he was going to be able to afford, he thought he’d better forget the idea. Peter Mansell told him it was worth going to have a look at almost anything – you wouldn’t have believed what a slum their house was before they’d bought it and done it up. But Marc didn’t fancy spending all his spare time searching for property that he would have to spend further time on renovating. He would have to think of some other way of talking to Avril Kitchin again.
By now, he knew he had to do this. The encounter with her had unaccountably stayed with him, and due to his heightened awareness of anything to do with his name, he felt that although she’d denied it, it had meant something to her, even that she’d perhaps known, or still knew, a woman called Marie-Laure Daventry who had once had a son called Marc. The bizarre notion actually passed through his mind, though he quickly dismissed it, that Avril Kitchin might be Marie-Laure Daventry, who had changed her name.
After two or three days, he’d been able to bear it no longer, and he’d decided to go and talk to her again. It was lucky that, because of working night shifts and standby rotas, he sometimes had free time during the day.
Opposite Search and Sell was a small open space where a row of picturesque, but near-derelict, almshouses had once stood. After years of argument with the local preservation society, the town council had finally won their battle to have them demolished, and in their place had planted a low-maintenance but ugly shrubbery of evergreen viburnums and berberis and spotted laurels, into which all manner of rubbish blew, and stayed, and which the local yobs added to with their discarded fish-and-chip papers and Coke cans. Because of this, it was not the pleasant place the council had originally envisaged, and the seats placed round the periphery were not much used, except of necessity by the elderly or infirm, pregnant mums or those with a long wait for the next bus at the stop further along.
Marc took up a seat there with a car-maintenance magazine as a pretext at about twelve, and settled himself to wait until Avril Kitchin came out for lunch. If she didn’t, he was prepared to return just before the agency closed, and wait for her then, though he hoped he wouldn’t have to. Mid-January, even with your warmest clothes on, wasn’t the best time to sit about on park benches. He’d be getting some funny looks if he sat there too long. But at half past twelve, one of the other women who worked in the agency returned and two or three minutes later, Avril Kitchin emerged.
She was wearing moon boots and red woolly gloves and a quilted anorak in dark blue over her coffee-coloured uniform skirt, with a patterned scarf over her head, and she was carrying a shopping bag. Marc thought she looked like a Russian peasant going to queue for food, and indeed, she was heading purposefully in a flat-footed way towards Sainsbury’s. He crossed the road and followed her, but it seemed she was going to have her lunch before doing
her shopping. When she reached the small coffee shop next door, she went in.
Marc stood two behind her in the self-service queue, bought himself an orange juice and then took it to the table where she sat with a Danish pastry and coffee in front of her. ‘Is this anyone’s seat?’
She shook her head, barely glancing at him. ‘Please –’ She gestured to the free chair, pulled off her scarf and bent down to reach a paperback from her bag before starting on the pastry and beginning to read.
‘Miss Kitchin,’ Marc said.
She looked up, surprised at hearing her name. Perhaps if she’d been prepared, she might have been able to conceal the consternation on her pudding face and in her pale, round eyes when she realized who he was. As it was, she looked almost panic-stricken, and it was this that told Marc he’d been right, he was on to something. He felt a surge of elation so sharp that it hurt.
‘Miss Kitchin,’ he began again, excitement almost choking his voice.
‘Mrs,’ she corrected automatically. Well, there were women who refused to wear wedding rings, and he could believe she might well be that sort.
‘I’m sorry to bother you over your lunch, but I couldn’t think how else to get hold of you in private. I think you can help me.’
‘You should’ve come to the agency – or telephoned, if there’s somewhere you want to view.’ The annoyance in her voice didn’t hide the fact that she was deliberately misunderstanding him, of that he was sure.
‘It’s not about a property. It’s about my mother. Her name is Marie-Laure Daventry. I think you know hr, don’t you?’
He thought she looked frightened. The dull colour rose in her cheeks, but she tried to cover up by pretending further annoyance. ‘Well, you’ve got a nerve, I must say, following me around and badgering me like this while I’m having my lunch!’
She pushed aside the apple Danish as if he’d quite made her lose her appetite.
It was insufferably hot in the café. He could smell tea and hamburger, and felt the sweat inside his collar. A woman at the next table was watching and listening to their conversation quite openly. Other people were beginning to stare. Marc lowered his voice.
‘I’m sorry. I’d no intention of bothering you. I wouldn’t have approached you at all, only I’ve tried every other way I can think of to find my mother. You do know her, don’t you?’
She eyed the food she’d pushed away as if regretting the action, and then rather defiantly pulled the plate towards her again. No point in wasting it, her attitude said. Marc could see her thinking what she ought to say as she munched her way stolidly through the pastry, and he deliberately held himself back from saying anything else until she’d finished. ‘What if I do?’ she said at last, wiping her mouth on the paper napkin.
‘You can tell me where I can find her.’
‘What makes you think I know? Why should I tell you, anyway, even if I did? What makes you think she wants to be found? You’ve no right to invade her privacy.’
She spoke rapidly, in a low voice, her face flushing even more unbecomingly as she realized the admissions she was making. ‘It wouldn’t be like that,’ Marc said. ‘I just want to see her and talk to her. If she doesn’t want to keep in touch after that. I’ll leave her alone, I swear it. It’s up to her.’
He sensed there was some sort of inner struggle going on, but he felt this was all to the good. At least she wasn’t dismissing his proposal out of hand. ‘Tell me just one thing – is she living near here?’
Her expression told him that he’d guessed correctly, but she was scrabbling in her bag for her scarf, not looking at him, suddenly in a hurry, regretting having allowed herself to be pushed as far as she had been. ‘Look, I’ve only an hour for my lunch.’ She scraped her chair back. ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve some shopping I must do.’
‘Will you see me again, then?’
‘No! No, that would be a mistake. It isn’t that easy –’
‘Why not?’
‘I can’t! You’ve no idea what you’re asking!’ She was plainly panicking now.
He looked steadily at her, with that intense compelling look which he’d long since discovered usually made people do what he wanted. ‘I shall find her, you know, even if you won’t help.’ He would stick closer to Avril Kitchin than a postage stamp, follow her until finally, in one way or another, she led him to his mother.
Suddenly, she gave in. In a panic-stricken way, she said, ‘I can’t promise anything, but, well – all right, tomorrow. Tomorrow’s my half-day. I’ll meet you here tomorrow, the same time.’
Of course, she was playing for time, she perhaps wanted to speak to Marie-Laure before seeing him again, to prepare her for what was bound to be a shock. He didn’t mind that. It would give him time, too, to get used to the idea that at last, he’d found her, he was going to meet her ...
After the two police officers had gone, Dorothea began stacking the used coffee cups in the dishwasher. Halfway through, she stopped to write a note to Sue, the young woman who came in three times a week to do the cleaning, to remind her to do the larder shelves, then remembered it wasn’t her day ...
She had to collect some things of Flora’s to take to the hospital, but she’d forgotten what...
Toilet things, surely? And a nightdress, perhaps that new white silk one of her own she hadn’t worn yet, more suitable than those silly things Flora usually wore ...
And there was something else she should remember, though she couldn’t think what that was, either ...
She stared across the gleaming surfaces of the kitchen Jack had recently had newly fitted for her, without seeing it. Was it always going to be like this? This lack of concentration? This hard knot in her chest, making her want to cry out loud in her need for Jack? With the source of tears that might have washed it away, dried up?
And that other person inside her head, whispering, whispering ...
The clock in the hall struck ten and she began to move automatically. She was due to meet Anthony Spurrier at half past.
Twenty minutes later, she was taking the garden path across to the institution, carrying the small bag with Flora’s things in it.
Her car, as well as Flora’s Polo, both of which had been garaged in the old barn, had been damaged in the blast, hers a total write-off, Flora’s probably repairable. She was going to have to do something about finding another car, summon up energy to decide on something in which she’d little interest. She must ring the garage and tell them to send her the nearest replacement to her old one they could find. She couldn’t go on being dependent on other people to ferry her around.
It was impossible in any situation, however fraught, for Dorothea to pass through the garden without casting a critical eye around, as she did now. Walking quickly, but observantly, she tried to assess what damage all those policemen, tramping over every square inch of the garden yesterday, had caused; paused briefly to see whether the peony buds were yet pushing prematurely through, while there was still danger of frost. They were not, but her gaze fell on a stray escape of ground elder, against which she waged implacable war. She pounced, her fingers burrowing deep to pull it out by the roots, otherwise it would send out fat white rhizomes under the soil, to surface where you least wished it to be – right in the crown of another delicate plant, most likely, threatening to choke it. She tugged the weed out at last and for several moments stood staring down impassively at it lying in the palm of her hand, as if reading her life in it, the delicate, trefoil leaves pretty and inoffensive, the roots unbelievably tenacious and invasive. Then she let it drop on to the path, later to be put on the bonfire. Burn it, destroy it, the only way to get rid of any infestation, completely and permanently.
Brief as it was, the incident had delayed her; she must hurry, or Anthony Spurrier, who was taking her down to the hospital, where he would see Flora for the first time since her accident, would be waiting. Dorothea, who was always punctual, except when she lost track of time in the garden, couldn’t allow him t
o think she was letting down her own standards.
He was, she reflected, a rather naive young man, despite his impressive qualifications and the nature of his work, which she felt should have taught him more of the subtleties of human nature. She’d evidently astonished him by knowing about his relationship with Flora. He’d been overwhelmed that she’d bothered to set his mind at rest about her injuries and to keep him informed of her progress. Dorothea was wryly amused at this. How little they all knew her! She understood and cared more about Flora than anyone dreamed of.
All the same, the depth of Anthony’s anxiety had demonstrated to her that perhaps it might not be so bad – Flora and Anthony Spurrier. He might be the one to make her happy, after all. It wasn’t in the least what she’d envisaged for her daughter – no big wedding, no alliance with a son of one of the best families. Anthony was never likely to be rich, though that scarcely mattered now – Jack had left Flora well provided for; he was several years older than she was, and that might even be an advantage. Flora needed a firm hand, a father figure ... the knot in Dorothea’s chest tightened again and she walked more quickly, images she would rather not see blurring before her eyes.
She’d almost reached the group of slender birches near the gate where the crinums had flourished until lately, before she remembered the snowdrops.
She was upset, out of all proportion, at this evidence of further confusion in her mind. How could she have forgotten her precious bulbs? So completely? When it had been the last thing she’d been doing before her world had shattered? Was it too late to save them, when they’d been lying out there in the cold, drying winds ever since, with their roots exposed to the sun?
When she reached the place where she’d left the trugful of bulbs there was, however, no sign of them – and the space which she’d designated for them was now filled. Planted in a neat square, in regimented rows like soldiers on parade, were the snowdrops, some of the leaves still a little limp and drooping, others already picked up. But planted, saved from withering away.
A Death of Distinction Page 8