‘I’ll look forward to it.’
Rona finished her own coffee more slowly, turning over in her mind what she’d learned about Helena Maddox. How little you could tell from the persona people presented to the world, she thought. She had written Mrs Maddox off as a rich, lovely woman with a penchant for complaining, knowing nothing of her unsatisfied longing for children or her gift for music. As a writer, she should be more cautious in labelling people, she upbraided herself, and resolved to be less hasty in future.
Eight
It was not until Sunday evening that Rona checked her mobile for messages, and saw to her astonishment there were over a dozen. The explanation soon became clear; Lew Grayson had kept his word and run another snippet in Friday’s Courier. She retired to her study and, with pen poised, started to play through them.
As was to be expected, they were a mixed bag. A group of boys kept interrupting each other as they spun a lurid story about a vampire stalking the town, to the accompaniment of hysterical giggles in the background; an elderly lady stated that her grandmother had been housemaid to what was then known as ‘the gentry’, and had some tales to tell. More scandals, Rona thought with wry amusement, but since the caller had left neither name nor number, they were lost to her. There were a couple of obscene calls, then one that startled her into full attention.
‘How’s the old girl?’ came a strident voice, loud in the quiet room. ‘Told you who the lovers are yet?’
She’d been right, then, the thief was a man, though something in the timbre of the voice suggested it was disguised. Why? Did he think she might recognize his normal one? The thought made her uneasy, as did the fact that he hadn’t, as she’d hoped, considered it a game, forgotten once the note was written. Perhaps, after all, she should warn those featured on the tape.
Determinedly she continued with the messages. Several claimed to have material of interest, and left contact numbers without being any more specific. They might well be a waste of time, but since they’d taken the trouble to phone, she would have to call them back.
‘Are you coming down for a drink?’ Max called from the foot of the stairs.
‘I’ve nearly finished; just a couple more to go.’
And it was the next call that made up for all the time-wasters. ‘Miss Parish,’ said a hesitant voice, ‘my name is Beth Spencer and my husband’s in prison convicted of murder. I know beyond shadow of a doubt that he’s innocent, and I wonder if you can help me prove it? You’re probably my last hope. I’d be so grateful if you’d contact me. My number is—’
Rona switched off the phone and sat staring into space, her heart hammering. One thing was certain, there was no way she could tell Max about this call. But nor, she accepted, was there any way she could ignore it. God, she should have known the Harvey affair would haunt her. People seemed to have got it into their heads that she could solve problems that defeated the police, which was plainly ludicrous; she wasn’t even an investigative journalist. Furthermore, in this case the police had not been defeated: they had brought to trial a man whose daughter had been killed by the victim, and who had concealed a knife stained with his blood on his own premises.
Should she go and see Beth Spencer? Or should she phone back and tell her gently that it wasn’t part of her remit to reopen criminal files? She closed her notepad and went back downstairs. By the time she reached the kitchen, she knew which option she would take.
Beth Spencer worked as a dental receptionist, and since she preferred Rona not to come to the house when the boys were home, she suggested a lunchtime meeting. It was arranged that they would meet at St Stephen’s Coffee Shop at one o’clock.
As she drove to Buckford the next morning, Rona agonized over whether to tell Nuala about the missing cassette. She’d not seen her to talk to since she’d found the note, should she admit the loss, or would it simply add to Nuala’s worries? She was already concerned about her aunt, and the raised voices that had greeted Rona’s un expectedly early return last Wednesday hinted at further problems.
Over the weekend she had reread the transcript of the missing tape, and convinced herself there was nothing on it to compromise anyone. The mention of the errant lovers was the only item remotely capable of causing trouble, and since they hadn’t been named, any damage it could do was limited. Surely, then, for everyone’s peace of mind, it was better to say nothing.
As the previous week, Rona parked her car, grateful for the vacant space, and carried her case into the house. Nuala appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘Hello – had a good weekend?’
‘Yes, thanks.’ Rona went up the stairs towards her. ‘Not at work today?’
‘No; I’m in the office at Samuel’s department store for the next three weeks, and they’re closed on Mondays.’
‘Nice way to start the week! How’s your aunt?’
‘Not good.’ Nuala followed her as far as the bedroom door. ‘I’ve slept over there the last few nights to make sure she doesn’t go walkabout, but as you can imagine it wasn’t well received, and she still refuses to see the doctor. She insists she’s perfectly all right, and she was certainly compos mentis all weekend.’
‘Perhaps it was just a hiccup then,’ Rona said, putting her case on the bed. The window was open and there was a small vase of flowers on the dressing-table. She sniffed at them appreciatively. ‘Thank you for these; they’re lovely.’
‘From the garden.’ Nuala’s mind was still on her aunt. ‘I did ask her about the couple,’ she continued, ‘but she swore she didn’t know what I was talking about. She’s obviously decided to clam up.’
‘She might have forgotten,’ Rona suggested, but Nuala shook her head.
‘No, I could tell she knew. Still, it doesn’t look as though we’ll get anything out of her.’ She turned to go, then glanced back. ‘You did say you wouldn’t be in for supper tonight?’
‘That’s right, I’m going to the vicarage. I’ll be back about five as usual, though, to type up my notes and have a wash and change.’ She wondered fleetingly whether to ask if she might return earlier, but decided against it. Jack Stanton might not care to have comings and goings during the day.
‘Fine,’ Nuala replied. ‘We might not be home, but you have your key.’
After she’d gone downstairs, Rona hung up the dress she intended to wear that evening, then glanced at her watch. Still nearly two hours before her lunch appointment. Since this was officially her ecclesiastical week and she’d be seeing the vicar this evening, she could do worse than make a start on St Giles’s, just over the wall.
This time a church welcomer was on duty, a pleasant, middle-aged woman waiting just inside the door. Several other people were wandering around farther up the aisle, and one or two were reading the bronze memorial plates on the walls.
Feeling it would be unethical to present herself as a tourist, Rona identified herself and explained what she was hoping to do.
‘Oh yes, Miss Parish, Mr Breen said you might be in. Is there anything I can help you with, or would you prefer to walk round by yourself? There are several pamphlets, which might help.’
‘Thanks, I’ll take one.’ She remembered now that she had one from her last visit, but had foolishly left it at home. ‘Perhaps I should look round first, and ask you for further information afterwards?’
The church was as lovely as she remembered, and she walked slowly round, referring to the informative little booklet. The font, she learned, was thirteenth century and the tower had been erected in 1400. One of the memorial plates commemorated those killed during the Civil War, two of whom had died in that very building under Roundhead fire. She and Max had seen the cannonball on their previous visit.
Several chapels dedicated to various saints lay off the side aisles, and two of them had early wall paintings that had been uncovered some twenty years previously. The paten, Rona read, had been made for Jane Seymour, to celebrate the birth of her son. It had passed into Queen Elizabeth’s possession, and she had later
given it to one of her favourites who lived nearby, who in turn had presented it to the church.
The sun slanting through the stained glass, the smell of beeswax mingling with perfume from the flowers massed in the chancel and the organ playing quietly in the background combined to make Rona linger, and with a start she realized she must hurry to keep her appointment. She thanked the woman at the door, promising to return later, and set off quickly down Clement’s Lane.
There was no market in progress today, and the square had reverted to its normal appearance. Rona turned into the coffee shop, identifying the woman sitting alone at the same moment as she hesitantly raised a hand.
She rose as Rona approached. ‘Miss Parish? Beth Spencer. Thank you so much for seeing me.’
‘As I warned you,’ Rona reminded her, ‘I really don’t see how I can help.’
Beth Spencer was small and neat, with short blonde hair curling close to her scalp. She was wearing a white blouse and blue denim skirt, possibly her receptionist uniform. Her face was endearingly freckled and she had earnest green eyes that she kept fixed on Rona.
‘I don’t know how much you’ve heard about my husband?’ she began at once.
‘Not a great deal,’ Rona confessed. ‘I read a brief account of the case when I was researching newspaper archives.’
‘But since you’ve been here, people have spoken of him?’
‘He seems to have some local support,’ Rona answered obliquely.
There was a pause while, prompted by the waitress, they chose what they’d like to eat. As she moved away, Beth leaned across the table, her hands clasped. ‘I hoped they might have said they thought he was innocent. Obviously, as his wife I believe it, but I’m not alone, I promise you.’
Rona remembered Catherine Bishop’s words – positively the last man she’d have expected to commit murder. ‘Suppose you tell me what happened, from the beginning?’ she invited.
‘Well of course it all started when Lottie was killed.’ Beth’s hands tightened their clasp but her face remained impassive. Rona wondered how many times she’d had to go through this account.
‘It was a Saturday afternoon, and Alan – my husband – was taking her to a birthday party. The house wasn’t far away, and they were almost there when this car came screeching round the corner, lost control and mounted the pavement. Lottie had run on ahead, and caught the full impact. She was – pinned against the wall.’ Beth closed her eyes briefly. ‘There was nothing anyone could do.’
‘Your husband witnessed it?’
‘Yes. He ran over and started clawing at the car, as though he could move it away from her. According to passers-by, he was screaming at the driver to reverse, to back off, but the man was in total shock, just staring straight ahead. Not that it would have made any difference,’ she finished quietly. ‘The impact crushed her to death.’
Rona moistened her lips, glad of the diversion as their spritzers were brought to the table.
‘Anyway,’ Beth resumed tonelessly, ‘Alan finally wrenched the car door open, leant across the driver, and threw it into reverse himself. As the car jerked back, someone caught Lottie and laid her down on the pavement. It was clear she was already dead, though Alan refused to accept it. The – the police had to prise her out of his arms.’
Rona averted her eyes from the raw anguish on her face, unable to think of anything to say.
‘The driver was arrested – over the limit, of course, after a lunchtime session, though only slightly. I know nothing would bring Lottie back, but it might have helped if he’d had to pay for what he did. He killed her, for God’s sake! He should have got at least ten years. But he was apparently “of good character” –’ her voice was savage – ‘and he’d been drinking because he’d received his divorce papers. The upshot was he was sentenced to eighteen months, and as if that wasn’t insult enough, they released him after nine! Can you believe it?’
‘How did your husband react?’ Rona asked quietly.
‘He was out of his mind with grief – we all were.’
‘I meant, what did he think of the light sentence?’
Beth Spencer thought for a minute. ‘He wasn’t as angry as I was – I’m not sure he even took it in; he was too busy blaming himself, because he’d not been holding Lottie’s hand. He kept saying if he’d kept her back with him, the car would have missed her. But Lottie always danced ahead. That’s how she was, and she knew to wait at the kerb.’ The irony of that blurred her eyes, and it was a minute before she continued.
‘He thought I blamed him too. Perhaps I did, in a way.’ She shuddered. ‘It was a nightmare existence for all of us. Alan lost about two stone in weight and neither of us were sleeping. Then we stopped talking about it. There was nothing new to say, and it was just too painful, so we shut it away and did our grieving privately. In any case, we had to keep things as normal as possible for the boys. Harry had just joined Josh at Buckford College, and I must say the staff there were absolutely wonderful.’
Their food was brought and they began to eat, each busy with her thoughts.
‘And then Mr Pollard was released,’ Rona said.
‘Yes. We were officially informed of the date, but we didn’t discuss it. We didn’t discuss anything; instead of being drawn together by it all, we’d tended to drift apart – no longer knew what to say to each other.’ She looked up, meeting Rona’s eyes. ‘So I’ve no first-hand knowledge of what happened next. I can only repeat what he told me, though I must stress I believe him utterly.’
She pushed the untouched food to the side of her plate and laid down her knife and fork. ‘He received a letter,’ she said. ‘It was typed, local postmark, and it said Pollard still felt an overwhelming sense of guilt, and if Alan wouldn’t meet him and accept his apology, he didn’t want to go on living. Practically begged him, Alan said, to meet him outside the Cat and Fiddle in Sunningdean. Sunningdean,’ Beth added flatly, ‘was where Pollard lived; it’s about ten miles away, on the Chilswood road. Well, he screwed it up and threw it away. Which, with hindsight, was a big mistake. Then he began to have second thoughts, wondered if he should accept the apology and perhaps prevent the man from doing something desperate. And the outcome was he decided he’d have no peace unless he went to Sunningdean.
‘He still didn’t tell me, and that, too, went against him at the trial. He said he didn’t want to upset me, so he told me he was meeting some friends from work and might be late back.’
She took a long drink, emptying her glass. ‘And that’s when the second nightmare began. Since he’d said he’d be late, I went to bed, and was woken by the phone. I was half asleep and couldn’t make out at first what he was saying, specially since I thought he was with friends. But he told me he’d gone to this pub to meet someone and stumbled across a man lying on the pavement. It turned out to be Barry Pollard, and he was dead. Well, he had to go to the police station and make a statement, and when the police asked why he was out at Sunningdean, the story of the anonymous letter sounded incredibly thin. By that time, of course, they’d realized who he was, and promptly arrested him on suspicion of murder. Admittedly he had blood on him, because he’d turned Pollard over, thinking he was drunk and trying to help him up. But it was Alan who called the police, dammit! If he’d been the killer, surely he’d have fled; added to which, there was no sign of the weapon. Then.’
The waitress materialized beside them, asking if they’d like a pudding. In the circumstances, it seemed a particularly mundane query. They shook their heads, but Rona ordered coffee for two.
Beth went on with her account. ‘What’s more, they wouldn’t even release him while enquiries were made. Do you know, he had to spend a year in prison before he even came to trial? And that bastard Pollard, who really had killed someone, was at liberty from the day he was arrested until his trial six months later. How’s that for British justice?’
The coffee arrived and Rona poured it.
‘Then the police turned up,’ Beth continued, �
��and conducted a search of the house and grounds. And – I’ll never understand this – they came across one of our kitchen knives hidden in the garage. God only knows how it got there. It had been wiped clean, but forensics found traces of blood and were able to match it to Pollard’s. And that was that.’
‘How did they account for it being there, when your husband had been in custody all the time?’
Beth snorted. ‘They were convinced he’d hidden it near the scene, then rung me before dialling nine-nine-nine and told me where it was.’ She looked down at her clenched hands. ‘I was given the third degree, I can tell you, but eventually they had to give up because I obviously hadn’t a clue.’
‘And you still haven’t?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ve wracked my brains over it ever since, but I can’t come up with an answer.’
‘Was the garage kept locked?’
‘Yes, always. That was another damning fact.’
They sipped their coffee in silence for a minute, then Rona said, ‘Do you think it was Barry Pollard who sent the letter?’
Beth looked surprised. ‘It must have been. He’d have been waiting for Alan, but someone got there first.’
When Rona didn’t reply, Beth looked at her sharply. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘It seems a bit of a coincidence, that’s all, unless it was a random killing. How would anyone but your husband know Pollard would be there at precisely that time? Did the police check if anyone else wanted him dead?’ She wished, too late, she could bite back the word ‘else’, but Beth didn’t appear to have noticed.
‘Oh yes, to give them their due, they checked. When he first went to prison there’d been a lot of hostility – about the light sentence and everything – but that was eighteen months earlier and it had all died down. People forget.’
‘Perhaps not everyone. Suppose someone else was after him, and it was nothing to do with Charlotte? This person might have been biding his time till he came out, and had the brainwave of framing your husband – an obvious suspect – for the murder.’
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