Tower of Silence

by Sarah Rayne

  He had thanked her for her company at the dinner, and had not given her another thought until he heard her voice on the other end of his phone.

  She was apologetic, breathless, and not very coherent. She was so very sorry for troubling him, she said, and of course he must be extremely busy—Doctors were always so very busy, of course, one knew that—

  Patrick said patiently, ‘Is there something I can do to help you, Miss March?’

  ‘I am so sorry, I must be more concise. It’s just that I am so worried by what has happened, Dr Irvine—’

  ‘Worried?’

  ‘Mrs Kent,’ said Selina. ‘Joanna Savile, you know. She is staying with me–I have a little paying guest arrangement here—She came to Moy to talk to some of your people yesterday—’

  ‘Yes, she gave us a very good talk,’ said Patrick, and waited. What on earth was the old dear trying to say?

  ‘You see, she didn’t come back last night,’ said Selina. ‘And really, I don’t quite know what to do.’

  Patrick said, ‘You mean–she’s missing?’

  ‘I can’t be sure about it, Dr Irvine. But I telephoned her flat in London–she had given me her number–and there was no reply. Her husband is abroad, of course, but I thought perhaps he had returned early—But there’s no message, and I’m beginning to feel quite worried, although I don’t want to start any panic if there’s a simple explanation.’

  Patrick said, ‘But Joanna wouldn’t just have gone back to London without telling you, surely?’

  ‘Oh no, I’m quite sure she wouldn’t. She was a very thoughtful girl. And her car is still here–a very nice car, which she hired for the journey. That’s what I find so worrying. Wherever she’s gone, she hasn’t gone in the car. I do find that odd.’

  ‘Have you phoned the police?’

  ‘Well, not yet. You see, I thought perhaps there had been something at Moy that might have necessitated her staying out…’

  Like running off with a lover? thought Patrick. Or is she wondering if I seduced Joanna after the talk and she’s still languishing in my bed? He said, ‘Miss March, Joanna left here at around five o’clock yesterday. I’m sure she did, although I’ll ring down to the gatehouse now, to make sure. Could I phone you back to confirm that for you?’

  ‘Oh, well, if you wouldn’t mind–I don’t want to be a trouble—’

  ‘Give me your number, and then give me ten minutes,’ said Patrick. ‘But if Joanna really hasn’t been seen since yesterday, I’m afraid you’d better call in the police.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  If Selina had known that Joanna Savile–Joanna Kent–would cause so much trouble she would have made some excuse to stop her coming to Teind.

  Now that Selina had admitted that Joanna was missing–now that she had burnt her boats by telephoning Dr Irvine–it was difficult to know what ought to be done next. Selina had never really had anything to do with police investigations–at least not since the aunts had died, and even then she had not really been old enough to be much involved.

  Dr Irvine had kept his promise about telephoning back: he had rung Selina well within the promised ten minutes to say that Joanna had definitely left Moy around five o’clock–the man on duty at Moy’s main gate had signed her out and had unlocked the doors himself, and seen her get into her car and drive away.

  ‘But you said her car’s still at your house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ah. Yes, that’s worrying, isn’t it?’ He had sounded genuinely concerned. Selina wondered if he had found Joanna attractive. He said, ‘Would you let me know what happens? Could I phone you tomorrow, to see if there’s any news?’

  Selina had said, Yes, certainly, and Dr Irvine had said that if he could help with any of the practicalities of the situation Selina was to be sure to let him know.

  It was the practicalities of the situation that were concerning Selina now. What to do, and in what order to do it. Whom to telephone. Joanna’s husband? But he was travelling in Spain somewhere. The police? But would the police be interested in an adult who had only been missing for twenty-four hours? Selina thought it was more likely that they would assume Joanna had gone off with a lover–her car was still here, and there were no signs of a struggle anywhere, surely mute proof that wherever she was, she had gone there voluntarily? Was it possible–was it credible?–that Joanna had stolen out at dead of night while Selina slept, to meet someone and run away with him? Selina was not very familiar with the ethics of running away with a lover, but she thought this sounded possible.

  But one of the first practicalities was clearly to make a check on the things in Joanna’s bedroom to see what might be missing. Selina did this conscientiously, asking Emily Frost to help her so that no one could later accuse her of stealing anything or reading any private letters. Today Emily was wearing her hair slicked flat to her head, held there by some kind of unguent. It made her look as if she had been half drowned in a rainstorm.

  ‘I would not, of course, dream of reading letters not intended for me, or invading a guest’s privacy in any way whatsoever,’ she said to Emily, who had drifted across to the window and was staring out over the old orchard. ‘But people are so suspicious nowadays. My great-aunts, Rosa and Flora, who brought me up, were very strict about respecting other people’s privacy, although we did not often have people to stay.’

  ‘No visitors?’ asked Emily, coming back into the room, and Selina said, Well, the vicar sometimes came to Saturday afternoon tea, and the doctor and his daughter used occasionally to come in for sherry before Sunday lunch. Or one of Aunt Flora’s church groups might meet in the sitting room if the church hall was booked.

  ‘What about your friends?’ Emily was peering into the deep old-fashioned wardrobe. ‘Didn’t you have school-friends at weekends or anything like that?’

  But Great-uncle Matthew had not cared for shrieking schoolgirls stravaiging about the place. Selina had occasionally been invited to birthday parties or picnics, but Great-aunt Rosa had said you could not really accept invitations without returning them, and to do so was difficult on account of disturbing Matthew’s work, so most of the invitations had to be declined.

  But Selina was not going to say any of this, and certainly not to someone employed to help with the cooking. She said, briskly, that they must get on; they must see if there was anything that might give them a clue as to Mrs Kent’s whereabouts.

  Emily was surprisingly helpful when it came to sorting through Joanna’s clothes. She said there were quite a lot of things still here–the bronze chenille jacket, for instance, and that smashing red silk skirt as well. ‘I don’t think she’d have left those behind if she was running away with a lover, do you?’ she said. ‘They’re much too nice to leave. Expensive as well. But I think there was a darkish suit, and I can’t see that in here, can you?’

  Selina was not very sure what Joanna might have worn to give her talk to the Moy prisoners, but a darkish suit sounded appropriate. She volunteered, rather hesitantly, the suggestion that there seemed to be a couple of other things missing–a jacket and some trousers, she thought, and one or two blouses. Emily had not heard anyone use the word blouse for years. She asked about underthings. Would Joanna have put them in the chest of drawers?

  But Selina did not think they could look through undergarments which would not tell them anything anyway, for how could either of them know what Joanna had brought with her?

  Emily considered saying that if Joanna had really gone off with somebody, she might well have invested in dazzling new underwear anyway and ditched the existing lot, but decided against it. She opened the drawers and glanced over the contents without disturbing them in case there was anything that might help, but there seemed only to be underwear and tights and a couple of cotton nightshirts. She asked about shoes and bags.

  ‘Now shoes and handbags I do know about,’ said Selina. ‘I always notice good shoes and handbags.’ She told Emily what Great-aunt Rosa used to say about being abl
e to tell a lady by her accessories, and Emily said, rather blankly, ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘Her black shoes are missing, and also a black handbag. But the large brown bag–the one she had when she arrived–is here.’

  ‘Two handbags?’ Emily usually stuffed anything she needed into a jazzily coloured tote bag. ‘Would she have brought two handbags with her?’

  ‘Oh, yes. She would never have carried a brown bag with that dark grey suit,’ said Selina at once. ‘And both her suitcases are here, as well.’

  ‘And,’ said Emily suddenly, ‘the computer.’ She crossed to the small table that Joanna had used for working, and flipped the laptop open. ‘I didn’t see it before. Uh–Miss March, I don’t think Joanna would have left this behind. Not voluntarily.’

  ‘But she’d have taken any papers with her.’ Selina had seen the laptop, but she had not realised that it was a computer. She had thought it was a briefcase. ‘She’d have put typed notes or anything of that kind into her bag.’

  ‘Not really. She’d more likely have everything stored on hard disk,’ said Emily. ‘For printing out when she got home. There’s no printer here, and I don’t remember seeing one.’

  This was all incomprehensible to Selina. She regarded the flat leather-topped oblong, wondering if this was one of the practicalities she had been worried about.

  ‘I think,’ said Emily after a moment, ‘that you’d better phone the police after all, don’t you? Or maybe it would be better to try reaching her husband first. Is there any way you could do that?’

  Gillian, phoned for help, thought the Rosendale Institute would certainly know where Joanna’s husband might be reached: they were a very reputable organisation and they should be contacted. Selina did not like to say she did not want to get involved in discussions with unknown people about Mr Kent’s possible whereabouts and Joanna’s disappearance. She said, non-committally, that she would think about it.

  ‘If you’ve got Joanna Savile’s address I could drive round there and see if there’re any signs of recent habitation,’ said Gillian, but Selina did not think this was necessary, or at least not yet.

  ‘But you ought to phone the police,’ said Gillian. ‘They’d be able to get a message to her husband. If she’s really vanished, he’ll have to know.’

  ‘But, Gill dear,’ said Selina a bit awkwardly, ‘supposing Joanna has–well, run away with somebody?’

  Gillian paused, and then, obviously choosing her words carefully, said, ‘I don’t think that if you were planning on going hand-in-hand into the sunset with a lover, you’d do the vanishing from Inchcape.’

  Selina said, oh yes, she quite saw that.

  ‘There’s probably some very ordinary explanation,’ said Gillian. ‘I should just go on with life as if nothing’s happened. Would you like me to come up? For moral support? I expect it’s a bit daunting for you on your own—’

  ‘Oh, there’s no need for you to come all this way,’ said Selina at once. ‘I believe I’ll just report it to the police, and let them do whatever is necessary. And I can always telephone the vicar or Lorna Laughlin in a crisis. You remember Lorna?’

  Gillian did remember Lorna, who had recommended Emily, and was the nearest thing Selina had to a friend. She was glad to think that at least Selina, funny old darling, had someone to call on. She asked how Lorna was.

  ‘She’s very well,’ said Selina. And then, ‘D’you know, I believe you’re right about going on with life as if nothing had happened, Gill. That’s exactly what I shall do.’

  It was almost dark when Krzystof Kent eventually reached Inchcape, and huge bunches of purple storm-clouds were massing overhead. It was probably symptomatic of his state of mind, but as he swung the car off the main road and followed the signs for Inchcape, there was a moment when it felt as if the storm was stalking him. It seemed to be staying about half a mile behind him, never quite catching him up, but persistently there.

  It was the kind of thing that Joanna would have turned into a joke: she would have made some comment about warnings from the old forest gods and probably sketched a vivid word-picture of Thor, petulant and shoulder-hunching with Donner and Blitzen–‘You said I could have the next storm, you promised,’ and Thor dropping his hammer on somebody’s toe–‘I told you to mind where you left that thing.’

  Joanna would have conjured up the absurd cartoon images vividly and swiftly because she always did, and if she turned out to be dead that was one of the many many things about her that would haunt Krzystof.

  ‘There’s probably some perfectly ordinary explanation,’ his boss had said, when he finally managed to reach Krzystof at the villa near Pamplona that the small team had adopted as a temporary headquarters. ‘I only got the call about it yesterday, so it really is still only a matter of forty-eight hours…well, seventy-two to be absolutely accurate. Can you get a flight back to the UK right away? You’d be better to fly up to Aberdeen and hire a car to drive across, from the sound of things.’

  Krzystof said this was what Joanna had done. It was a fearsomely long drive from London to Inchcape.

  ‘We’ll set that up for you,’ Krzystof’s boss had said. ‘It’ll be easier to do it from here than from your end. We’ll get you on a flight, and arrange for a car at the other end. Take as long a leave as you need, of course, and don’t hesitate to call on me for anything.’ He had repeated, in his kindly way, that when Krzystof reached Scotland he would probably find that there was a quite straightforward explanation.

  Krzystof devoutly hoped that his boss was right, but the trouble was that the explanation might be simply that Joanna had run off with somebody else.

  She had certainly not sounded as if she was going off with a lover when they parted. ‘If you’re swanning off to northern Spain I might as well soak up a bit of Scottish atmosphere for the new plot,’ she had said. ‘I’ve got to deliver the new manuscript in six months–I must have been mad to agree to that deadline, because it’s going to be a bit of a scramble. But I expect I can get a cottage or maybe a peaceful b and b for a week or two, and when you get back you can join me. I’ll work during the day while you scour the glens for some new relics for the Rosendale–the dagger that Rob Roy used or Charles Stewart’s drinking mug or something. It’ll make a nice change for you after looking for Inquisition torture instruments. And we’ll meet up every evening and I’ll tell you what Jack Tallent’s been up to and whether he’s solved the murder, the old goat, and we’ll eat Scotch salmon and fresh trout, and drink Glenfiddich in front of a log fire.’

  Would anyone contemplating running away with a lover really have talked like that? But then maybe Joanna had not met the lover until she got here.

  She had not found any holiday cottages for rent, but the Tourist Information Centre near to Stornforth had put her onto a bed-and-breakfast place. ‘It’s a tiny place called Inchcape,’ Joanna had said. ‘It’s about midway between the Cairngorm and Grampian mountains, and it’s so remote it’s barely a dot on the map. In fact it’s very nearly as far north as you can get without actually falling off the edge and having to swim for Norway. But I think I’ll like it there.’

  She had liked it very much. When Krzystof checked in at their flat before flying to Aberdeen, he found a long, diary-type letter from Joanna on the mat. ‘This is so you’ll know where I’ve ended up,’ she had written. ‘And also how to reach Inchcape. I know from bitter experience that anything sent into the field won’t reach you, so I’m adding a bit to this letter as I go along, which is a bad substitute for actually being able to talk to you, but all I’ve got at the moment. I’ll send it to the flat for when you get back there.’

  She had fallen in love with Teind House right away. ‘It’s a marvellous old place,’ she had written. ‘I don’t think it’s been modernised since about 1930, and the lady who owns it–Miss Selina March–doesn’t look as if she’s been modernised much, either; in fact she looks as if she fell into a fragment of some pre-World War II era and never managed to climb out agai
n. Remember when we went to see my grandmother before we were married? Domed glass covers with wax flowers underneath, and sun-faded rooms and dark heavy furniture glowering in corners? That’s Teind House. But just for contrast, flitting in and out of it all is a delightful child called Emily Frost who’s somehow connected with Moy but comes up to Teind to help with bits of housework. She’s rather attractive: she’s got one of those three-cornered faces, and she has the most amazing wardrobe of hairstyles.’

  On what seemed to be her second day at Inchcape, she had written, ‘I’ve agreed to give a talk to some of the inmates of Moy–the asylum for the criminally insane, which is probably Inchcape’s main, if macabre, claim to posterity. It won’t be in the least dangerous–there’s a rather good-looking Dr Irvine who’s going to hold my hand while I’m there. I suspect he might like to hold a bit more than my hand if I gave him the signal, because he looks as if he might be a bit of a wolf on the quiet. Did you look Hungarianly brooding and revengeful when you read that, Krzystof darling? You needn’t. I’ll let you know how the talk goes, and we’ll take Patrick Irvine out for a swish dinner when you get here, as a thank you. As a matter of fact, I suspect Emily has a bit of a yen for him, although I’m not sure if either of them realises it–he’s years older than she is. I hope it doesn’t end with him breaking the child’s heart, because like most wolves he’s probably a heart-breaker. Maybe it’s a reaction to being shut up with those poor mad killers for most of the week.