“And what about me?’’
“I’ve wound you up,’’ said Charmian. “You’re finished. Didn’t you know that?’’ From the window of the car she saw Emily Carter, arms full of books, hurrying across to the Library. A notice had gone up that the Library was closed for the day. The door was locked, as Charmian could see, but Emily apparently wasn’t aware. As she looked Emily dropped two books. “ Lulie’s gone. Yes, I know she’s hanging around the town, but she’ll be cleared out. Van will be next. You’ll be detained when we get back.’’
“Thanks,’’ said Don. “It’s been a pleasure knowing you.’’
“You’ll be released without any charge being made. I don’t think there’s much to charge you with. But by the time you get out you’ll have been turned inside out. They’ll even have your weight down in kilograms.’’
Emily had picked up her books and was advancing on the Library. As Charmian watched she was trying the handle. Presently she would turn away, baffled and perplexed. Emily never read notices. Probably she didn’t even know there was a royal visitor today.
“And then what?’’ asked Don. “After I’m released, then what follows?’’
Charmian shrugged. “ While you’re thinking things out, remember two murders have to be explained: Alda’s and Mrs. Banks’s.’’
“I had nothing to do with either of these deaths. They were murder.’’
“And you’re not a murderer?’’
“No. Not ever. Please believe me.’’ He touched her arm. “ I want to see you again.’’
Charmian was quiet. Emily had turned from the Library and was trudging back down the path.
“Well, it’s no good,’’ said Charmian.
“I don’t accept that.’’
“I’m not even thinking about you as I sit here,’’ said Charmian. “Know what I am thinking about? I am thinking that the police were slow to be convinced that the real trouble today was going to be in the Computer House. They must have been slow, because their car’s only just approaching it.’’
She let the car run forward down the slope until they could see the entrance to the building. Emily had caught sight of the police arrival too and was standing watching.
Don started to move, to get out of the car, but Charmian pushed him back. The police had the door of the Computer House open and were through into the building.
“I saw you coming back from a trip into there, didn’t I?’’ said Charmian. “ Before we set off to Palmer’s Road School? I suspected it. Well, you needn’t answer. It doesn’t matter any more.’’
Emily was talking to a policeman now.
“How were you going to do it? A fire? Or just take a spanner to the computer itself. Perhaps you’ve done that already for all I know. And the fire set for later to cover your traces. You will have left traces,’’ said Charmian.
Emily had recognised Charmian and came hurrying up.
“I was talking to that policeman,’’ she said in an excited way. “He said there’s a girl shut up in there.’’
Don moved at once. “She shouldn’t be there. No one should be there. I had nothing to do with that.’’ He stared at Charmian
“Look,’’ she said.
They saw a policeman hurry out of the door and open the door of one of the cars. Behind him came two more policemen and walking between them, half supported by them, a girl.
Charmian saw her hands.
“More blood,’’ she said.
The party was just clear of the building when a flash of light shot across the upper row of windows, followed by the sound of glass falling. Almost at once there was a red blaze behind the broken windows, and then, soon, clouds of smoke.
“So they did plant something,’’ said Charmian. “Smells like a petrol bomb.’’
But she was puzzled. It was a fire, true, but only a small fire. And even as she watched it was dying away. The fire sprinkler system within the building had damped it down.
“Looks like a failure,’’ she murmured. She frowned.
Don gave a tight smile, his eyes still on the building. Soon they both saw another small fire blaze up. In the distance they heard the wail of a fire-engine’s siren.
“What is the purpose of these fires?’’ asked Charmian.
Don still kept his eyes on the building. “ You don’t know much about computers, do you?’’ he murmured. “They’re sensitive things. They can’t manage to work except in a protected atmosphere. No need to wreck the building. Just the air-conditioning. That’s been burnt out. The big computer goes with it.’’
Charmian lay on her bed in Marchbanks. From where she lay she could see the ceiling and the light reflected on it. She felt tired and unhappy. She turned her head and looked towards her table with her work books on it and beyond to where some new clothes and a pair of white gloves and an academic gown were laid out. Party clothes, and like Cinderella and the Wicked Fairy all rolled into one she was going to a party.
She got up, drank some water and tried to contemplate a world in which people organised, paid for and went to parties. But all she could see was a world in which children took drugs, hated their brother’s girl friend because of her colour, and could lay their hands on guns so they could do something about it.
“He’s a new kind of killer all right,’’ thought Charmian. “Aged fifteen and not going to be sorry he did it.’’
She changed her clothes. One thing to be grateful for: the computer could be repaired, at great expense, and the girl who’d been shut up in the cupboard was already making plans to take three days’ holiday and go to London. She seemed determined on London. Charmian cleaned her teeth. It was a habit of hers to clean her teeth frequently. No doubt a psychologist would have had plenty to say about it. Dr. Alice Brummer, for example.
“I suppose she’d say I wanted to wash out my evil thoughts,’’ said Charmian, surveying her face in the mirror. In spite of the way she felt, she saw with surprise that she looked fresh and pretty, quite at her best.
The door banged next door, so presumably Don was home, back already. She hadn’t expected the police to keep him long. It wasn’t the end so far as he was concerned though, and no one knew it better than Charmian. And Don, too, probably. The police had really only served notice on him that they were getting serious.
All was silence next door. No more cosy little gatherings of happy friends. Those days were over.
There was one more good thing from Charmian’s point of view. No more letters. She doubted very much if she’d be getting any more hate letters. The nexus between her and Don was broken. Their relationship never quite developing, certainly never happy, was not the only reason why the letters had been written to her. Charmian suspected there was another and more sinister reason.
There was a bang on the door. “Telephone for you, Daniels,’’ said a detached female voice. “ Take it in the first booth in the hall.’’
But even when Charmian got to the telephone there seemed a long wait while clicks and faint noises of breathing sounded down the line, before she finally heard Grizel’s voice.
“Hello,’’ Grizel said cautiously. “That you, Char?’’
“Where are you speaking from?’’
“Home.’’ Grizel sounded surprised.
“What are those noises?’’
“It’s a party line. I expect it’s my neighbour listening. She usually does,’’ said Grizel calmly. “You there, Biddy?’’
The breathing stopped abruptly and there was a terminal click.
“Well, really,’’ said Charmian.
“Poor thing, she can’t get out much. I usually just give her a shout if I want to be private.’’
“Like now?’’
“Like now,’’ agreed Grizel. “You remember you wanted me to ask around about Alda Fearon? For ages I didn’t get anything much except hints, plenty of those.’’
Charmian had never known her friend so long-winded, or so it seemed. “Get on with it. What have yo
u got?’’
“No one seemed to want to say anything. Then I had an inspiration. I remember Eveline Morrison. You remember her? She’s always willing to tell the truth in the end if you keep at her long enough.’’
“Yes.’’ Charmian remembered Eveline Morrison. She was Police Matron at the Training Centre where they had all started off, even Alda Fearon in her day. Eveline Morrison had been going on for donkey’s years. And being a matron, she had taken on medical discretion, but since she was a born gossip it was hard on her, and, as Grizel had pointed out, she talked in the end. She kept up with all her “ girls’’ as she called them, and certainly knew all there was to know about Alda. “And what did she have to say?’’
“Alda did have some trouble before she left the force. A case that went sour on her. Not her fault, but it upset her. That was why she decided to get out.’’ Grizel paused for breath. “ There was this man, educated, clever; he taught mathematics in a college. Eveline isn’t sure where. But it must have been in the East Midlands somewhere, because that was where Alda was based and that was where the trouble was. He was an addict; the hard stuff. There was some sort of story behind it—a bad operation, but there it was: he took the stuff. And then he introduced a kid at the college to it—a girl. Again, there was a sort of story, maybe it wasn’t all his fault. But Alda, you know how she could be, she took the clear line, the girl concerned was one of her cases, and the man went to prison. Career, marriage all gone. But, and this is the strange thing, Alda took it bad too!’’
“When did all this happen?’’
“About five years ago. Eveline doesn’t know quite what shook Alda so, but says there was something.’’
“Thank you, Grizel,’’ said Charmian.
“It helps?’’
“I believe so,’’ said Charmian.
Carefully, as if she was making a report to her old chief, Inspector Pratt, Charmian put together her picture of Alda’s death.
Alda had received a blow on the head from a small hard object from which, some thirty-six hours later, she died. (Evidence: medical report). The occasion of the blow had been the night she had rushed out into the garden and shouted at a prowler. For some days before this she had suspected someone of watching her. (Evidence: Alda’s own account to Charmian.) Either she had never seen her killer, or retrospective amnesia had destroyed the memory of him. But just before she died she was beginning to remember. (Evidence: Alda’s letter to Charmian.) Eddie was someone from Alda’s past. (Evidence: the phrase she used: “ Eddie’s back’’.) Eddie was the man of the drug incident which Grizel had turned up. (Evidence: no evidence, just guess work.) So Alda had been killed by Eddie or by someone on behalf of Eddie.
This last supposition too was just highly probable guess work.
Mrs. Banks had died because, presumably, she too knew Eddie.
And Priscilla Duval had died in a terrible accident going back to look for a photograph of Eddie? This too was a guess.
Chapter Fourteen
“So it’s over,’’ said Shirley to Charmian. The two women were standing side by side in the crowd on the grass outside the Senate House. The Royal Party had just gone inside. Shirley had taken photographs and made her notes about dress, hats and jewels.
“Part of it is,’’ said Charmian. “That part.’’
Behind them was a large marquee and the atmosphere was definitely party. Except perhaps these two. Both were quiet. Shirley of course was here on business. She checked her notes. “What was she wearing—silk, would you say or silk and wool?’’
“I don’t know.’’
“It wasn’t easy to be sure. What about the shade, sea-blue, would you say?’’
“Could be.’’
“I think I’ll call it sea-blue. That big brooch was aquamarine.’’
Charmian took a glass from a passing waiter and started to sip.
“By the way, did they have a dog with them?’’
“I didn’t notice.’’
Shirley looked up from her book.
“You look rotten,’’ said Shirley, who didn’t look so well herself either. “What’s so important about remaining? The best part’s over anyway. I’m an expert on these things. I know.’’
“Yes, you must have been to plenty.’’
“From weddings to funerals,’’ said Shirley.
“When do you go to London?’’
“I don’t know if I go.’’
“What could stop you?’’
Shirley shrugged.
“It was your prize,’’ persisted Charmian.
“I’m trying to go. Let’s put it that way.’’
“The flowers are beautifully done here today, aren’t they?’’ said Charmian, walking around a little.
“Beaufleurs, King’s Road, Midport,’’ said Shirley absently. “They’re a good firm.’’
“You’ve got it pat.’’
“Oh, I know them.’’
As if to prove the point a small plump woman who was eyeing a display of blue and white flowers with critical eyes, looked up and saw Shirley. “ Oh, I wanted to see you.’’
“Admiring your handiwork?’’
“Keeping an eye on it, you mean. These hydrangeas have got to do a reception in the Embassy Ballroom tonight. They’re only hired, you know.’’
“That’s economical,’’ said Charmian.
“Oh, everyone does it now. But I don’t want the goods spoiled. Do you know I just saw someone stub a cigarette out on an azalea?’’
“I’m surprised you could do that. It must be quite difficult.’’
“Customers can do anything,’’ said the woman with conviction. “You should see. This cigarette was stubbed out on the earth, naturally, but it singed a flower. Oh, Shirley, that order of yours, I’m having trouble with it. Lily of the Valley, you know. Must it always be Lily of the Valley?’’
She and Shirley walked a few yards off, talking in low voices. Charmian watched them for a minute then turned her attention to the crowd. It was thinning out. As Shirley had said, the best part of the party was over. Absently she took another glass of sherry from the tray, and then another. She wasn’t drunk; in the mood she was then in nothing was going to make Charmian drunk, but she was going to react just a little more sharply to events in the next few hours.
Shirley came back.
“I don’t like Lilies of the Valley,’’ said Charmian. “They have such a sad smell. I had them in my wedding bouquet.’’
“You do say the oddest things,’’ said Shirley.
“I think them, too.’’
Shirley eyed her sharply, but did not take up the challenge, if indeed it was one. She felt somehow it was.
“Why did you hang around here when you’re plainly not enjoying it?’’
“I wanted to keep my eye on things.’’
“The trouble’s all over, isn’t it?’’
“For the time being,’’ said Charmian temperately.
“And young Goldsworthy out?’’
Charmian was silent.
“You like that young man, don’t you?’’
“Yes. In a way.’’
“The only way that counts.’’
“You know too much about it. Far, far too much.’’
“It’s my job to watch people and observe, that’s why I got a prize.’’
“It’s my job too,’’ said Charmian. She smiled slightly. “But no prizes for me.’’
“We both have difficult jobs. And our own lives cut right across them. You in your small corner and me in mine.’’ Shirley added: “We ought to work together. I could help you.’’
“What could you offer me?’’
“Good publicity for one thing.’’
“That’s a strange thing to offer.’’
“It might not be.’’
“Well, I tell you what,’’ said Charmian. “If I find I want help, I’ll ask you.’’
“And what are you going to do now?’’
Shirley watched her walk away.
Not far away from the University area and forming a big block of grey buildings was Midport’s City Hospital. It was a well known, even famous institution, which had recently contracted to accept students from the new medical school at the University. Some who were already working there were known to Charmian.
Charmian was not familiar with the layout of this hospital but her career had given her a working knowledge of many other hospitals and a certain expertise in finding her way about them. She was also well acquainted with the habits of students. It was now late afternoon and the hospital staff was enjoying as much of a lull as ever came its way. The main entrance hall was quiet and warm in the sun. She crossed it, studied a large coloured ground plan of the hospital (some hospitals had brightly coloured plans, others had signposts at all corners, all assumed a good knowledge of the English language and its abbreviations and a large amount of self-help), and with the map’s advice made her way to Canteen: Junior Staff. Here, if anywhere, she reckoned, medical students and nurses would be congregated when off duty. Some hospitals, of course tried to separate nursing staff and doctors, even junior, unskilled, but it was a difficult task and she was prepared to bet that Midport didn’t try.
The room was half full with a crowd of nurses at one table and white coated medical students at another. Other tables had one or two people sitting at them. Charmian looked round. She saw a face she knew. It belonged to a fat, prematurely aged medical student who, if present form was kept up, would soon be a patient himself in the gerontology department.
Charmian grabbed him as he got up to go.
“Introduce me to a nurse,’’ she said.
“Eh?’’ He didn’t know her name, but he recognised a University figure and he also recognised authority when he heard it. Maybe she was a lecturer or something.
“Any nurse,’’ said Charmian.
“Oh well—’’ He looked flustered.
“It’s all right. I’m a policewoman,’’ she said.
A New Kind of Killer, and Old Kind of Death Page 15