The Night She Died

by Dorothy Simpson

  Treading gingerly for fear of rotting floorboards, Thanet began to move softly up the short, straight flight of stairs, his footsteps muffled by the rotting remnants of the stair carpet. Somewhere above him was Annabel’s studio and his curious, irrational need to see it, his hope that it might have survived the depredations of the thieves who had more or less stripped the ground floor, caused his heart to beat faster, his breathing to become ragged.

  And so his first reaction as he stepped into the long, narrow room which took up one half of the entire first floor and ran through from the front of the house to the back, was one of disappointment. Here, too, little had been left. A bulky button-backed settee, its linen covering discoloured and rotting, still stood beneath the front windows and a long deal table, its top liberally stained with faded splotches of paint, had obviously been dismissed as having no commercial value.

  Thanet walked to the centre of the room, his footsteps sounding hollow on the bare floorboards, and then stood looking about him. The windows in the rear wall – the north wall, presumably – had been enlarged and the light was excellent. To the right of them was a deep alcove, the alcove in which Julie’s cot must have stood. Thanet walked across to look at it. At one time it must, he decided, have been a dressing-room leading off the back bedroom. The dividing wall had been removed and then, perhaps at a later date, a ceiling curtain track installed. This was, no doubt, the very curtain which had saved Julie’s life. Thanet fingered the rotting material and then grimaced, rubbing his hands on the seat of his trousers.

  He turned away. There was nothing to be learnt here. If the ghosts of the past still lingered, they had nothing to say to him. He had done what he had wanted to do, however. He had seen the place where it all began, and some need in him was satisfied. He made his way softly down the stairs, shut the back door firmly behind him.

  Back in the village people were just coming out of church. Thanet pulled into the kerb and watched them disperse, some by car and some on foot. Many of them no doubt would clearly remember the murder of Annabel Dacre, some might even still mourn her. He waited until the last car had driven away, then he got out of his own, locked it and strolled across to the lych gate at the entrance to the churchyard. The sun was warm on his back as he turned to study the peaceful scene.

  Little Sutton was a typical English village. There was a large, roughly triangular area of somewhat ragged grass, surrounded by a hotch-potch of houses, some large, some small, reflecting the development of English architecture from Tudor times to the present day. Tiny black and white timber-frame cottages rubbed shoulders with Georgian aristocrats in mellow red brick and the occasional Victorian upstart with its usual quota of stained glass and dank evergreen shrubs. The only modern house, a chalet bungalow with picture windows and a green-tiled roof had obviously been built in the former garden of one such monster.

  To one side of the Green were the two huge oak trees which Thanet had recognised in The Cricket Match, their massive trunks ringed with white wooden benches – no doubt a favourite place for the older men of the village to congregate on summer afternoons, thought Thanet. But today, despite the sunshine, it was still too chilly for anyone to be sitting about in the shade, and the green was deserted except for a boy of about twelve who was throwing sticks for his dog.

  In a little while he would try to find Sutton House and interview Dr Plummer, Thanet thought. Meanwhile the sleepy calm of the place had infected him and without any conscious purpose he turned and strolled into the churchyard, admiring the satisfying simplicity of the Norman church tower, the mellowness of the stone. A pity, he thought, that its setting was so unkempt. The churchyard was large, many of its grave’s overgrown with grass. An attempt had been made to tend a wide swathe of ground on either side of the path, however, and there was an area with well-tended graves and modern headstones which was trim and neat.

  Thanet left the path and began to wander about amongst the older graves, pausing now and then to try to read an inscription; many were quite illegible, worn away by centuries of wind and rain.

  He had not yet admitted to himself what he was doing and it was not until he came across it that he knew. The grave cried out to be noticed, an island of order in the surrounding chaos.

  ANNABEL DACRE

  1935–1960

  ‘Snatched away in beauty’s bloom’

  The grass was close-cut, the edges neatly trimmed, and in the centre of the rectangle was a perfect circle of miniature rose bushes, strong new shoots giving a promise of the flowers to come. Someone, even after twenty years, was still taking a good deal of trouble over Annabel’s grave.

  Who? Thanet wondered. Her mother? Remembering the Memorial Exhibition for a daughter twenty years dead, the pain which had caused Mrs Dacre to seal up Annabel’s house and let it fall down rather than allow anyone else to live in it, Thanet could well imagine Annabel’s mother making a regular pilgrimage to tend her daughter’s grave.

  ‘Beautifully kept, isn’t it?’ The voice behind him made him jump.

  The woman was tall, almost as tall as Thanet, and thin, painfully so. The brown knitted suit she was wearing hung loosely on her, and her cream straw hat topped a face from which the flesh had melted away. Skin the colour of parchment accentuated the shockingly skull-like effect. Her eyes, however, were beautiful, a deep, delphinium blue and alert – disconcertingly assessing, Thanet felt, the effect her physical appearance was having upon him.

  ‘Theodora Manson,’ she said, putting out her hand. ‘My husband is vicar here.’ Her hand in his felt as dry as a dead twig, as insubstantial as a dead leaf.

  ‘Luke Thanet,’ he responded. He gestured at the grave. ‘It’s a long time for someone to have kept on coming, year after year, to keep it looking like this.’

  ‘Her mother does it’ Mrs Manson said. ‘She’s getting old now and she’s had a lot of ill-health lately, but she still manages it somehow.’ She looked down at the grave. ‘Annabel was a lovely girl – beautiful, that is. And a very talented painter. Such a waste.’

  ‘I think I’ve seen one of her paintings,’ Thanet said. ‘A village cricket match.’ He nodded over his shoulder. ‘On the Green.’

  ‘Ah yes, I know the one you mean. I saw it at the recent exhibition of her work. You didn’t go, I gather?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. I didn’t see the painting until after the exhibition was over, or I would have. I liked it very much.’

  ‘Would you like to see another of her paintings?’

  Thanet concealed his surprise at the invitation. ‘Yes, I would. Very much.’

  ‘Come along, I’ll show it to you. We’re very proud of it. It’s called The Church Fête, which was why I especially wanted it for my husband. I bought it for his birthday, the year before Annabel … died. It seemed a wicked extravagance at the time, but I’ve never regretted it. Apart from anything else, it has proved to be an excellent investment, though we don’t think of it that way. We simply enjoy looking at it.’

  They turned on to a footpath which crossed the churchyard towards the high stone boundary wall. Mrs Manson led him through a rickety wooden gate into the vicarage garden. Thanet exclaimed in delight and Mrs Manson smiled with undisguised pleasure at his reaction.

  ‘It’s my hobby,’ she said.

  Smooth green lawns stretched away on either side, bordered by curved flower beds packed with a profusion of shrubs and flowers. Thanet knew very little about gardening, but he could recognise the hand of an artist when he saw one, could appreciate the hard work and expertise behind an apparently casual yet perfect effect like this.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ he said. ‘Really beautiful.’

  ‘I’ve worked on it for thirty years. I don’t do the lawns, now, of course, but I still managed the rest somehow. Fortunately it doesn’t need much maintenance. It’s so stuffed with plants there’s no room for weeds. We’ll go in through the french windows,’ she said, setting off across the lawn towards the house.

  The
long windows stood open to the warmth of the midday sun and the scents of the garden. Thanet followed the tall, gaunt figure through a faded sitting-room into what was obviously the vicar’s study. Mrs Manson gestured towards the painting. ‘We hung it where it gets the best light,’ she said.

  Thanet stepped forward eagerly. This was the first of Annabel’s paintings that he had seen properly. It was small, perhaps ten inches wide by eight inches high, and glowed on the pale wall like a jewel. Thanet leaned forward to examine it more closely. In brilliant, primary colours, Annabel had painted the village fête on the Green. There were the two tall oaks, the circular white-slatted benches, the scatter of houses set around the vivid emerald of the grass. The painting was crammed with detail – stalls, sideshows, red and white striped fortune-teller’s tent complete with turbaned head protruding from between the flaps. And everywhere were people – buying, selling, talking, laughing, walking, gesticulating – tiny, stylised figures yet each uniquely individual.

  ‘It’s marvellous,’ Thanet said, meaning it. ‘Fascinating.’

  ‘That’s me.’ said Mrs Manson with a smile, pointing to the turbaned head. ‘I used to be rather good at fortune-telling. Not particularly appropriate for a vicar’s wife,’ she added with a gleam of amusement in her eyes, ‘but there we are. We have to use the talents God gives us, don’t we? Especially when they bring in money to repair the church tower.’

  ‘She put real people into her paintings?’ Thanet said with interest. ‘I didn’t realise that.’

  ‘Oh yes, we’re all there. That’s my husband.’

  Mr Manson, sober in black suit and clerical collar, was bending over to comfort a sobbing child.

  ‘Remarkable perception, Annabel had, for one so young.’

  The last words came out in a gasp and Thanet, turning sharply, found Mrs Manson supporting herself on the back of a chair, her lower lip drawn in and clamped between her teeth, her forehead beaded with sweat. He exclaimed in concern, helped her to a chair and lowered her gently into it.

  ‘Can I get you something?’

  She shook her head feebly. ‘No thank you. I’m sorry. I’ll be all right in a few minutes.’

  ‘A glass of water?’ he persisted.

  ‘No, really.’ She leaned back, closed her eyes, seemed to withdraw into herself, somewhere far away from him. Thanet stood awkwardly in front of her for a moment or two and then tiptoed softly to the door. It seemed rude, ungrateful to go without a word of thanks, but he felt that he had no right to intrude any longer. At the door he paused. Had she said something? He turned, found that she had rolled her head towards him, was looking at him.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ The words were scarcely more than a whisper.

  He was suddenly angry, at the pain she must be suffering and at her need to apologise. ‘Don’t,’ he said fiercely and then, modifying his tone, ‘Thank you for showing me your picture: Are you sure there’s nothing I can do for you?’

  Her head moved slightly in a gesture of gratitude. ‘I’ll be all right in a little while.’

  He raised his hand in farewell and then left, walking swiftly through the garden without seeing it, his mind a confused jumble of emotion – pity for Mrs Manson, whom he had liked, anger at his own helplessness, admiration for her stoicism, guilt at his deception. He was back at the lych gate before he realised that there was something else, too – frustration that their discussion of the painting had been interrupted. He would have liked to identify more of those tiny figures. Amongst them, quite possibly, had been the murderer.

  The thought made him feel even more angry with himself. ‘Heartless pig,’ he muttered as he crossed the road towards his car. He had unlocked it before he realised that he had not yet finished his work here. He still wanted to see Dr Plummer.

  He relocked the car and looked about. The boy and his dog had gone and the Green was deserted. Somewhere not too far away, though, someone was using a motor-mower. Thanet stood quite still, trying to detect the source of the sound. Then he set off across the Green.

  In the garden of one of the little black and white cottages a young man, stripped to the waist, was cutting the grass. He switched off the machine, came to the gate. ‘Doctor Plummer?’ He walked across the pavement and pointed. ‘That house. The big one with the white windows.’

  Thanet thanked him and walked on.

  Sutton House was one of the classic Georgian ones. The man who opened the door was in his late twenties. ‘Doctor Plummer? I’m sorry, he’s not here.’

  ‘I’m really very anxious to get in touch with him.’ Deliberately, Thanet did not yet identify himself. If he could get what he wanted without doing so, he would. No point in giving Plummer prior warning. ‘Will he be back, later?’

  ‘I’m sorry, no. Actually, he’s in hospital – went in just over a week ago. I’m standing in for him. Can I help you?’

  ‘Thank you, but it’s a personal matter,’ Thanet said. ‘Could you tell me which hospital?’

  ‘Sturrenden General.’

  So, when Julie was murdered last Tuesday evening, Plummer had been in hospital. Easy enough to check, Thanet thought as he went back to his car. That left Alice Giddy and the two Pococks, out of the original five suspects. In the car he began to sing.

  Things were definitely looking up.

  12

  A treat, Sunday lunch at home: roast beef, meltingly tender; roast potatoes, crispy on the outside, white and fluffy inside; white cabbage cooked in its own juices with chopped bacon and onions; individual batter puddings, as light as soufflés; thick, rich gravy and finally, apple pie and cream. Thanet appreciated every mouthful. In the present economic situation this was a tradition which was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain, but he and Joan had agreed that however much they had to tighten their belts during the week they would keep it up as long as they possibly could.

  Afterwards he was tempted to linger. The thought of a long lazy afternoon reading the Sunday papers, chatting to Joan, playing with the children, beckoned to him. He knew, however, that if he gave in to temptation the reality would not be like that. He would be restless, unable to settle down all the while he knew that there was work he should be doing. So when he had topped off the meal with a refreshing cup of tea he kissed Joan a reluctant good-bye and set off for Maddison House.

  How the builders had ever managed to obtain planning permission to build the place was a mystery to him. There must, he thought, have been some palm-greasing somewhere. It was a single, ten-storey block of luxury flats which had been built in a wooded area about half a mile from the edge of Sturrenden. Clearly visible above the trees from some distance away, it looked as out of place as a beached whale. Thanet looked about with interest as he emerged from the approach road through the wood into the extensive, cleared space around the building.

  Neatly tended lawns and rose-beds, and well-placed urns of velvety, wine-red wallflowers indicated that the tenants of Maddison House employed a gardener who was industrious if not inspired. Thanet bent to look more closely at one of the elaborate lead urns, then tapped it with his knuckles. He straightened up with a grimace. Fibreglass, without a doubt. He didn’t like the spurious.

  Wide glass doors led into a spacious hall floored with black and white marble tiles. Against one wall was a long oak table and on it a huge bowl of scarlet tulips. Thanet remembered the caretaker (possibly cum-gardener) that Parrish had mentioned. No doubt it was his job and possibly his wife’s, to give the place this groomed, carefully-tended air and to keep it running smoothly and efficiently.

  Thanet consulted the wall indicator and discovered that Flat 26 was on the seventh floor. He took the lift, stepping out into a red-carpeted lobby some twelve feet square with four front doors in it. He rang the bell of Flat 26 and waited, conscious of the silence. There must be dozens of people living in this place and yet so far he had not seen or heard a single sign of life. What did they all do on Sunday afternoons? Sleep?

  As soon as the door of 26 op
ened, however, he realised that the flats were extremely well soundproofed; waves of sound assailed his eardrums. He recognised Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony. Alice Giddy obviously had an efficient stereo system.

  ‘Miss Giddy?’ He looked at the woman before him with interest. Tall, dark, elegant, Low had said. Good-looking in an odd kind of way, but too intense for his taste. Alice Giddy had not changed much, it seemed. Almost as tall as Thanet, she was wearing a striking dress – robe was perhaps a better word, Thanet thought – in peacock blue, with a swirling, abstract design in black from shoulder to hem. Her hair was short and straight, glossy as a blackbird’s wing and beautifully cut to the shape of her neat head. Cool green eyes surveyed Thanet from a face which reminded him of a Siamese cat’s in more than shape; it had the same quality of independence, of indifference to the opinions of others.

  ‘Yes?’ she said, lifting her eyebrows in polite enquiry.

  He introduced himself, showed his identification at her request. After a moment’s hesitation she turned. ‘You’d better come in.’

  The room into which she led the way was as strikingly individual as Johnson’s studio-cum-sitting-room. The walls were chocolate brown and decorated with a series of huge murals in swooping whorls of orange, gold, purple and green. The carpet was thick, white, shaggy and there was little furniture: a low glass-topped table and two long, white leather sofas heaped with tiny cushions in many colours, fabrics and shapes.

  She crossed to the elaborate stereo system against one wall and stopped the record on it before waving him to one of the sofas. ‘Do sit down.’ She seated herself opposite him, crossed her legs, folded her hands neatly in her lap and waited. Her very lack of curiosity or interest intrigued Thanet and warned him that he would have to be very careful if he were not to lose control of this interview. Certainly there would be no question, with this woman, of setting her at her ease and catching her off her guard or, for that matter, of fobbing her off with evasions and half-truths. He decided to be as impersonal, as business-like as she.