Chapter Fourteen
‘The policemen seem to be getting very excited down there,’ Jill said. ‘I wonder if something’s happened.’
The remark wasn’t the most tactful that Jill could have made, but she was feeling harassed. Antonia seemed to be in the process of developing a doglike devotion for her, the sort of schoolgirl crush that demanded a positively saintlike patience on the part of the adored. When Jill spoke, Antonia raised her head with a jerk and glanced towards the window.
‘Are they?’ she said hurriedly. ‘The police do a lot of rushing around, don’t they?’
She appeared to lose interest in the policemen and directed her attention back to her clothes. She already had pulled most of them out of her suitcase and draped them over her bed. The effect reminded Jill of a stall at a Bring and Buy Sale.
Antonia stared doubtfully at her wardrobe and, with an air of quiet desperation, picked out a pale green cardigan. Jill noticed a maroon photograph album on the eiderdown underneath. Antonia laid the cardigan against a tweed skirt which was the colour of tinned peas.
‘Do you think they go together? I’ve never been quite sure.’
Jill cast a rapid eye over the rest of Antonia’s wardrobe and decided that on this occasion tact and expediency should have priority over truth. ‘They look very nice.’
Antonia began to undo her dressing gown. ‘Are you sure Charlotte won’t mind having me to stay?’
‘Of course not. Otherwise she wouldn’t have asked you.’
‘I don’t know.’ Antonia gave an unlovely wriggle. ‘People sometimes do things because they feel they ought to rather than because they want to. I thought it might be like that with her.’
This was getting dangerously close to the truth. ‘Well, it isn’t. After all, she knew you at school.’
‘Yes, but we weren’t friends. She terrified me, in fact.’
Jill smiled. ‘She must have liked you more than you realised.’
She turned away, partly in the hope of ending this potentially awkward conversation and partly because she was curious about what was happening outside. Down in the drive. Bayswater was climbing into the Wolseley. There was a huddle of foreshortened policemen with Thornhill in their centre; he seemed to be giving instructions. As she watched, the group broke up. Thornhill opened the door of the police car and glanced up at the window of Antonia’s bedroom. Jill drew back into the room, hoping that he had not seen her prying.
‘I’ll just go and wash my hands,’ Antonia said coyly. ‘I won’t be a moment. You will stay, won’t you?’
Jill said she would. Antonia scuttled out of the room, leaving the door open. Jill wandered across to the bed and picked up the heavy maroon volume.
Our Kashmir Album
Srinagar 1932.
She turned the black pages slowly. People were full of surprises – she would not have thought that Antonia was the type to enjoy the doubtful pleasures of nostalgia.
The past reached out clammy fingers, smelling of damp and must. There was something sad about these blurred snapshots and elaborate studio photographs. They recorded what was now a vanished culture, sahibs and memsahibs frolicking decorously in an alien land. There were no children on display – whatever had they done with the children? Everyone looked stiff and rather serious. None of the faces had a dark skin.
Jill paused at a photograph near the end of the album: it showed Harcutt in regimentals with a woman, presumably his wife, in a long evening dress; she was clasping his arm and looking up at him in a manner suggesting that she was only doing so because the photographer had asked her to. They were not a handsome couple, but they radiated the self-confidence of people who are content with their position in life, which they know on the best authority to be somewhere near the peak of creation.
It wasn’t easy to equate the man in the photograph with the Major Harcutt whom Jill had briefly known. She looked at the woman, too, curious to discover whether there was any trace of Antonia in her, and wondering what sort of woman could have borne to marry a man like Major Harcutt. The putative Mrs Harcutt had dark hair and a plain, rather stern face. There was a strong suggestion of plumpness about her waist and hips. Her dress exercised a restraining influence on the flesh beneath.
‘Not very interesting, are they?’ Antonia said from the doorway. Her fingers fiddled with a button of her blouse. ‘Just a holiday in India.’
‘You don’t mind my looking?’
Antonia reddened. ‘Of course not.’
Jill began to close the book. As she did so, she noticed that Mrs Harcutt was wearing what looked like a silver brooch. It was pinned to the bosom of her dress, and it was in the shape of a true love’s knot.
Chapter Fifteen
‘By the left. Quick march.’
The thirty-two men of the Edge Hill branch of the British Legion tramped along the north side of the green. As they turned on to the main road, a police car appeared at the gates of Chandos Lodge. It cut in front of the column, forcing the marching men to come to an unscheduled halt. The car drove off at high speed towards Lydmouth.
‘By the left,’ Veale ordered, for the second time. ‘Who do they think they are? Quick march.’
The men marched on towards their headquarters.
‘Legion branch, halt.’
The column shuffled to a standstill.
‘Legion branch, dismiss.’
The column turned to its right and, as it did so, dissolved into thirty-two men.
Terry Forbes began to fold up the flagstaff. ‘For a moment, I thought they were giving us a police escort,’ he said to John Veale.
‘Stupid buggers,’ Veale said, drawing deep on his Woodbine. ‘Could have knocked us all down. No respect, have they? Not even the bloody police.’
‘There’s gratitude, Mr Veale,’ Terry Forbes said.
Chapter Sixteen
Gloria had noticed before that there was a strange synchronisation about the laborious and prolonged bowel movements of her husband Harold and her stepdaughter Jane: it was like women in a nunnery having the curse at the same time.
There were two lavatories in the private quarters of the Bathurst Arms. Just before opening time on Sunday morning, she discovered that both of them were in use. This was irritating, because her own need was urgent. There was nothing for it but to go outside.
Gloria tucked the newspaper under her arm and opened the back door. The town was wrapped in its Sunday morning calm. Seagulls squealed over the river and somewhere a bell was ringing. She walked unsteadily on high heels across the cobbled yard to the lavatories reserved for customers. The door of the cubicle reserved for ladies opened directly into the yard. She went inside and bolted the door.
Christ, it was cold. The wooden seat was freezing and the draught swirled round her ankles. The only thing between her and the outside world was a door with a nine-inch gap between it and the concrete floor. Such gaps were essential, Gloria had discovered, to ensure that customers did not use the lavatories for purposes they were not designed for. She folded open the News of the World, and prepared to make the best of it.
She had hardly started when she heard footsteps in the yard. Someone had come through the wicket gate from the alley which led up to Lyd Street. Now Gloria came to think of it, it was strange that she had not heard the footsteps coming down the alley too. So maybe someone had been lurking in one of the outbuildings. The footsteps crossed the yard, hesitated and then walked slowly towards the door of the cubicle.
Oh my God, thought Gloria, that’s all I need: a bloody pervert.
There was a silence. She guessed that the man would be bending down to peer under the door. Quickly she stood up and pulled down her dress.
‘Gloria,’ Charlie said, his voice low and husky.
She snapped back the bolt and pulled open the door. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘I wanted to see you.’
He smiled at her, his teeth very white in his dark, unshaven face. Gloria, who was
expert at assessing men’s smiles, felt immediately wary. He had been in a fight – his lips were cut and swollen. He looked as if he’d slept in his clothes and hadn’t washed for a week. He also made her feel dangerously warm inside.
‘In ten minutes’ time,’ she said, ‘you can come in the front door and buy yourself a drink. But I don’t want you round here. What am I going to say if someone sees you?’
‘Gloria – can you do me a favour?’
‘I doubt it.’
She began to walk towards the back door. He skipped in front of her. She stopped, feeling a not unpleasurable thrill of menace because he was much larger than she was. Despite herself, she found his urgency was exciting.
‘Just hear me out,’ he said.
‘Are you mad? Harold could look out of the window at any time.’
‘Bugger him. You weren’t meant for Harold. You were meant for me.’
She stared angrily up at him. ‘A girl can’t wait for ever. You had your chance and you lost it. Now, will you get out of my way?’
He didn’t move. ‘You and Harold have got a car, haven’t you?’
‘What if we have?’
‘I want to borrow it.’
‘Don’t be stupid. Harold would go crazy.’
The muscles were working under Charlie’s skin as though there was something trying to get out. ‘This is important.’
‘So is Harold’s car.’
‘He doesn’t have to know. All I need is the key. It’s parked at the front – I can just drive off. Please.’
Against her better judgement she said, ‘What’s this all about?’
‘I need to get away from Lydmouth. That’s all. I won’t damage the car, I promise. I’ll go to Bristol, or somewhere, and leave the car in the station car park. I’ll send you a wire so you know where it is. Or phone you.’
In his urgency, he laid his hand on her arm to stop her from going into the house. She saw a rusty stain on the inside of the index finger and the thumb.
‘What’s that?’
He glanced at the hand. ‘I cut myself on a tin. Gloria, if you help me now, we’ve got it made. You and me.’ He let go of her arm and took something from the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘Look at this.’ He opened his hand, and there in the palm was a roll of notes.
Gloria was a good judge of hard cash. He had at least a hundred pounds there, almost certainly considerably more.
‘Where did you get that sort of money?’
‘There’s more where that came from,’ he said. ‘You can have anything you want. Cars, houses, holidays, furs.’ He dropped his voice and said huskily, ‘I’ll treat you like a film star, I swear it.’
Gloria’s eyes slid away from the roll of banknotes and up to the blank windows of the Bathurst Arms.
‘You’ll get me the key, Gloria? And maybe a bit of food? I’m starving.’
He loomed over her. He smelled sour. For the first time since his arrival, she was frightened. Part of her enjoyed that. Harold never made her feel scared. She smiled at Charlie.
‘Of course I will,’ she said. ‘Wait there.’
She ran past him. Everything was in slow motion. Her high heels made her awkward. She reached the back door, opened it and looked back. He was standing where she had left him.
‘I’m sorry, Charlie, but I can’t.’
Still he did not move. ‘We’re something special, Gloria. You know that. For old times’ sake.’ His voice was very gentle and it seemed to come from a long way away.
‘We were something special,’ she said harshly. ‘But that’s all over.’
She slammed the door, bolted it and leant against it. She was trembling. A moment later, she nerved herself to look out into the yard. It was empty. Her eyes felt hot and sticky. She needed to make sure her make-up was undamaged.
Upstairs someone pulled the chain of one of the lavatories. The first roar of water was almost immediately joined by a second. Harold and Jane even pulled the chain at the same time.
Harold was a kind man who left her alone for most of the time: and he had money in the bank.
Gloria began to climb the stairs. A girl had to look after herself. After all, no one else would.
Chapter Seventeen
‘My dear,’ Charlotte Wemyss-Brown said, rising to the occasion like a trout to a fly, ‘you must think of Troy House as your home for as long as you like.’
The telephone began to ring. At a glance from his wife, Philip went to answer it. Charlotte placed an arm under Antonia’s elbow and steered her towards the stairs. Like many people, Charlotte laboured under the delusion that those who had suffered an emotional shock should be treated as invalids.
On the stairs, Antonia looked over her shoulder at Jill who was still standing in the hall. Antonia said nothing, but it was obvious from her face that she wanted Jill to come with them. Jill smiled at her and went into the drawing room.
She warmed her hands at the fire. She was ruefully aware that in one way Antonia had done her a service: the drama of Major Harcutt’s death and Antonia’s arrival at Troy House had entirely swamped Charlotte’s curiosity about Jill’s meeting with Oliver Yateley. Leaving Antonia to Charlotte was a little like leaving an early Christian to a hungry lion. But Jill desperately needed time to think. She was still struggling to work out the implications of what had happened at Chandos Lodge. She knew that she would have to talk to Antonia; she knew, too, that she would have to make up her mind what to do for the best. It would have been a difficult decision at the best of times, and it was even worse now.
The door opened and Philip burst into the room.
‘My God,’ he said, striding towards the fireplace. ‘Jill, this is extraordinary. We’ve had a murder.’
Jill’s mind was still on the Harcutts. ‘What? Antonia’s father?’
‘No. This really is a murder.’ Philip’s face became almost sly. ‘That was someone I know at police headquarters. Apparently, some London gangster has been found battered to death in a house in Minching Lane in Templefields. And you’ll never guess who the police are looking for. It’s actually someone we know, in a manner of speaking. Charlie Meague – he’s the son of the charwoman that Charlotte was telling you about. Do you remember? The one she had to sack.’
‘But—’ Jill began, and stopped.
Philip changed course and headed for the drinks trolley. Jill had time to think that perhaps it was none of her business that Charlie Meague had once worked for Major Harcutt.
‘I think I’ll have a drink.’ Philip rubbed his hands together. ‘Can I get you one? And what were you going to say?’
‘Nothing for me, thanks. Just that it seems a coincidence – two deaths in one day.’
‘Thank God for coincidences. Where would we be without them?’ As he spoke, Philip poured himself a large whisky and added a squirt of soda. ‘Mind you, we won’t be able to make the most of the Harcutt business, not in the Gazette. Charlotte and I have already had a chat about that.’
‘Because Charlotte knows the family?’
Philip sipped his whisky. ‘Partly.’ He grinned at Jill. ‘There’s also the point that Charlotte thinks the Gazette should be above stories of raw human emotion – at least in the local news. She thinks our readers want to know the price of sheep and what Lady So-and-So said when she opened the church bazaar. And she may be right, too.’
‘What happens now?’
‘It’s anyone’s guess. The only certainty is that Superintendent Williamson will call a press conference at some point. If not several.’
There were heavy footsteps on the stairs. Philip gulped down half of his whisky. Neither of them spoke: it was not a guilty silence, but to Jill it smacked of collusion. Charlotte swept into the room, her face a little pinker than usual.
‘All serene, darling?’ Philip asked. ‘Would you like some sherry?’
Charlotte ignored him. ‘Antonia’s in quite a state,’ she murmured to Jill. ‘Rather emotional and weepy. I wonder if we should g
et the doctor.’
‘Did you suggest that to her?’ Jill said.
‘Yes – she was really rather rude. Of course, one must make allowances. The poor child can’t know what she’s saying.’
Charlotte sank into the armchair by the fire. Philip gave her a large glass of sherry.
‘Shall I go up and have a word with her?’ Jill asked. ‘Do you think it would help?’
‘Oh – would you?’ Charlotte took a cigarette from Philip’s case. ‘She seemed to clam up on me. Then there’s the question of lunch.’
‘The sooner the better, as far as I’m concerned,’ Philip said. ‘I’m starving. Church always has that effect on me.’
‘The trouble is, I don’t know whether Antonia will want to join us or not. And whatever happens, we’ll have to let Susan know. You know what she’s like when her arrangements are upset. It’s bad enough as it is, telling her there’ll be four for lunch instead of three. So if you could find out if Antonia’s coming down, that would be an enormous help.’
As Jill left the room, she heard Philip say, ‘Darling, you’ll never guess – we’ve had a proper murder.’
Jill slowly climbed the stairs. She didn’t want to have this conversation with Antonia – she didn’t even like the girl – but there was no point in putting it off. She wondered parenthetically what on earth had happened to her life in the last few weeks: getting pregnant, losing the baby, leaving her job, breaking off with Oliver Yateley, and now this.
Antonia had been given the bedroom next to Jill’s. She was sitting at the dressing table with her back to the door. Her eyes met Jill’s in the mirror. She was smoking, and the little china dish on the dressing table already contained three butts. Jill closed the door.
‘I wish I could go away,’ Antonia said slowly. ‘I hate Lydmouth. I never want to come here again in my life. Do you think they’d let me go back to Dampier Hall tomorrow?’
An Air That Kills Page 26