Beth was staring at her wide-eyed. Obviously this hadn’t occurred to her. ‘You mean the murderer sent the letter?’
‘I’m only saying it’s a possibility.’
Beth slammed her hand on the table, making Rona jump. ‘Oh, why didn’t he keep it? They could have tested the envelope or the stamp for DNA, and perhaps traced the real killer.’
They were silent for a minute, regretting lost opportunities. Then Beth said in a low voice, ‘I’m worried about Alan. Not just because he’s locked up, but because he seems to have given up hope. It’s as though he thinks he deserves to be there, not for killing Pollard but for allowing Lottie to die. The boys and I go to see him regularly, and I can tell he’s making an effort for us, but every time we go he’s a bit thinner and more haggard-looking.’
Suddenly she leant forward and gripped Rona’s hand, her eyes alight. ‘I’ve had an idea: would you go and see him yourself? In prison?’
Rona stared at her, her mind spinning. ‘Would it be allowed?’
‘As long as he’s agreeable. Oh, please say yes!’
Briefly, Rona pictured Max’s reaction to her becoming involved in another murder case; but excitement was beginning to stir. ‘I shouldn’t want to give him any false hope,’ she prevaricated.
‘Leave it to me; I’ll explain everything, say I talked you into it and you can’t promise anything. After all, what harm can it do? He might be more open with you, and at the very least it would be a fresh perspective on things.’
Still Rona hesitated. ‘What exactly would be involved?’
‘He’d have to send you a visiting order. Then you phone the prison to book your visit.’
That would be an article in itself, Rona thought, an exclusive interview with Buckford’s most famous murderer. And if the police had doubted the very existence of the letter, they mightn’t have gone to great lengths to discover who sent it.
‘Miss Parish? Will you?’
Rona looked at her pleading face. ‘All right, provided he agrees.’
‘Oh thank you, thank you! I’ll phone him this afternoon and ask him to send you an order. What’s your address?’
‘Two Parsonage Place, but I’m only here three days a week.’
‘That’s fine – Wednesday’s one of the visiting days, and if you phone tomorrow, you’d be giving the necessary twenty-four hours’ notice. Visiting’s from three to four. I’ll leave a message on your mobile when I’ve spoken to him – and I can’t tell you how grateful I am.’
She insisted on paying for the meal and they parted on the pavement, with Beth promising to phone as soon as she had news. Rona walked slowly across to the library, settled at her usual table and took out her laptop. It had not been possible to record their conversation – the noise level in the café was too high, and the meeting in any case too informal. Now, she attempted to write down everything that had been said over the meal, and by the time she had done so, was already regretting having agreed to see Alan Spencer. What on earth could she say to him? The police weren’t fools; they must have had a pretty good case against him, and the court had agreed with them. She wondered if she could find out who’d been handling his defence, but it was doubtful if any barrister would see her after so long and with nothing new to suggest.
When her notes were up to date, Rona searched the shelves for volumes on the town’s history. On the whole, the books didn’t make for interesting reading, though she was able to extract figures showing the growth in population, and the date when the market charter was granted by King John. For the most part, though, they were simply more detailed accounts of what she’d already extracted from the archives in Marsborough.
At five o’clock she collected her things together and walked back through the warm streets to Parsonage Place. The pubs would be another interesting angle to follow, she thought as she passed the King’s Head. Many of them were almost as old as the town itself.
There was no sign of the family when she let herself into the house. She went up to her room, and, sitting at the little table, checked her mobile, which had been switched off during lunch and her session at the library. There was another sheaf of messages, and she played them through, but found nothing promising. Since she had time in hand, she rang back everyone who’d left a number, leaving messages for those who didn’t reply and thanking those who did, and telling them she’d be in touch in due course. Too bad she couldn’t screen them in advance, but she daren’t write any of them off; it had, after all, been as a result of giving Lew Grayson her number that Beth Spencer had contacted her, though she was reserving judgement on whether that had been a good or a bad thing.
Since the house was still quiet, she then had a bath and washed her hair before changing for her supper engagement. The sleeveless lemon-yellow dress felt cool and fresh, and accentuated the tan she’d acquired from walking in the sunshine. She picked up her bag and the potted plant she’d bought for Lois, and had started down the stairs when she heard a key in the front door. A moment later it opened, and she came to a sudden stop. Because it wasn’t either Nuala or Will who was walking into the hall, but a man she didn’t know. He caught sight of her at the same moment and halted in his turn, and as their eyes met, Rona recognized him. It was the man who’d been watching her last week in Market Square.
‘Well,’ he said softly, ‘the paying guest, I presume?’
She slowly continued down the stairs. ‘Rona Parish,’ she said coolly. ‘And you are?’
‘Clive Banks, Nuala’s husband. How do you do?’
She was taken by surprise, having been under the impression firstly that they were divorced and secondly no longer in touch. Wrong on both counts, it seemed. At any rate, he still had a key to the house.
‘I don’t think anyone’s in, and I’m about to go out myself.’
‘And very nice you look, too. Walking sunshine.’ His eyes moved approvingly over her, and to her annoyance she felt herself flush. He was slightly built, barely her own height and with narrow shoulders, and was dressed in cords and an open-necked shirt. His hair and eyes were dark, and he had a small moustache. The old-fashioned word ‘spiv’ came to Rona’s mind. What had Nuala seen in this man? Yet, she admitted unwillingly, there was a certain virility about him.
He did not move aside to let her pass, which necessitated her brushing against him to reach the door.
‘Nice perfume,’ he commented. ‘None of your African Violets; it must have cost a pretty penny.’
By now she had the door open. ‘Good evening, Mr Banks,’ she said, and walked quickly down the path and out of sight along the road.
Lois Breen opened the door to her.
‘My dear, how charming you look! Do come in. Gordon’s not back from evensong yet, but he won’t be long. Come and have a drink on the terrace.’
The house was large, rambling and untidy in an acceptable, homely way. There was a selection of coats, anoraks and macs hung on top of each other on the hall stand, and an assortment of shoes and boots beneath it. Lois received Rona’s offering with delight, and led her through an over-furnished sitting room to the terrace.
‘Far too many chairs,’ she said over her shoulder, as though reading Rona’s thoughts. ‘We have to cater for study groups, Mothers’ Union meetings and goodness knows what else. When we’re alone, Gordon and I curl up in the den. One thing about a house this size, you’ve plenty of rooms to choose from. Obviously the clergy used to have large families.’
‘Have you any?’ Rona ventured, taking the seat indicated, a sagging deckchair.
‘Two married daughters, one living in Devon and one in Scotland. Very inconsiderate of them! Couldn’t be farther apart if they tried. Now, I’ve made a jug of Pimm’s; is that all right?’
‘Wonderful!’
Ahead of them stretched the long garden with the oddly shaped wooden building she’d seen from her window – and, in fact, she could see the window itself, open as she had left it, beyond the far wall. As she looked, she thou
ght she caught a flicker of movement behind it, and felt a touch of alarm. She had left Clive Banks alone in the house; had he gone to her room, and if so, why? To snoop among her things? She tried to remember what she’d left out on her table, but brought herself up short. She was being silly, she told herself; Nuala was sure to be back by this time. If anyone was up there, and she was by no means certain, there would be a perfectly obvious solution, such as clean towels or a topping up of the little flower vase.
Lois had returned with a jug of Pimm’s smelling deliciously of mint and cucumber, some of which sloshed into Rona’s glass as she poured.
‘Sorry,’ Lois apologized. ‘Drink round it, if you can.’
The sound of the front door reached them, followed by approaching footsteps.
‘You’ll never guess who I saw in town,’ came Gordon Breen’s voice. ‘Clive Banks! No doubt that means trouble.’
His words had brought him to the glass doors, where he caught sight of Rona and looked slightly taken aback. ‘Sorry; I saw Lois out here but I didn’t realize you’d arrived. Me and my big mouth!’
‘He came to the house just before I left,’ Rona said, her apprehension returning. ‘Nuala wasn’t in, and I left him there. I hope that’s all right.’
Lois shrugged. ‘Not much else you could have done. Pimm’s, darling?’
‘Please. Work’s over for the day, and I can now relax.’ He sat down heavily in another of the deckchairs and turned to Rona. ‘Sorry, I was speaking out of turn. Obviously, my words were meant for my wife’s ears only.’
‘I thought they were divorced?’ Rona said.
‘No, he just walked out,’ Lois answered, ignoring the warning glance her husband sent her. ‘I wondered how long it would be before he turned up like a bad penny.’
‘I really think we should change the subject,’ Gordon said firmly. ‘And my apologies for introducing it in the first place. Now.’ He turned to Rona. ‘How’s the research going? Doesn’t your husband mind your coming up here every week?’
‘Apart from the dog, he doesn’t notice the difference,’ Rona answered unthinkingly, her mind still on Banks. Then, seeing the surprise on their faces, she laughed. ‘Sorry, I’d better explain: Max is an artist who can only work with music playing at full volume. As a writer, I need complete silence. Therefore he has a cottage ten minutes’ walk away, and on three nights a week, when he has evening classes and I’m working all hours, he quite often spends the nights there. But he comes home on Wednesdays, and I’m also back by then, which is what I meant by there being no difference.’
‘I must say you have an unusual marriage,’ Lois commented mildly. ‘You told me earlier that you haven’t taken his name.’
‘Only when it would be embarrassing not to!’ Rona confirmed with a smile. She nodded in the direction of the wooden hut. ‘Is that a summer house?’
‘No, it’s my workshop,’ Lois said surprisingly. ‘I’m a sculptor, for my sins.’
‘How fascinating! May I have a look, or isn’t that allowed?’
‘It’s certainly allowed, but I’d strongly advise you to wait until you haven’t got your glad rags on. The air’s thick with dust in there and it gets everywhere.’
‘What kinds of things do you sculpt?’
‘Anything that takes my fancy – busts, animals, figurines. Don’t expect marble statues, though; I limit myself to wood.’
‘She exhibits in London,’ Gordon put in proudly. ‘I’ll show you one of her catalogues when we go inside.’
Lois laughed. ‘Meet my publicity agent! Speaking of going in, supper’s almost ready, if you are.’
The dining room, at the front of the house, was dark and grew darker as the meal progressed and the light began to fade outside. There were candles on the table in old, tarnished candelabra, and their flickering light emphasized rather than alleviated the encroaching darkness. The first course was a tangy gazpacho served with olive bread, and was followed by a huge dish of lasagne and a Greek salad. Dessert was fresh figs, and the coffee was dark and bitter, served in small cups. Not standard vicarage fare, Rona thought, but this was no standard vicarage.
A few large moths had blundered through the open windows, drawn by the candles, which Lois quickly blew out and switched on the light. ‘Can’t have them cremating themselves,’ she said lightly, ‘it’s bad for business!’
Throughout the meal they had talked easily on a variety of subjects but Rona, who’d intended to bring up the subject of Alan Spencer, decided against it. Gordon had been embarrassed earlier in the evening, and was unlikely to welcome any other contentious subjects. He did, however, regale her over coffee with some amusing stories about past incumbents, and Rona wished she’d had her recorder with her. Before she finished up here, she must interview him properly.
The clock on the shadowed mantelpiece chimed two quarters, and Rona, surprised to find it was ten thirty, rose to go. ‘Thank you so much,’ she said. ‘It’s been such an interesting evening, and the food was delicious.’
‘I’ll walk you back,’ Gordon said, rising with her.
‘No, I wouldn’t hear of it! It’s only round the corner.’
‘No arguments; at the moment, this isn’t the place to be out after dark.’
This was the second time she’d been warned, Rona remembered uneasily. So they strolled together down the cobbled alleyway and along the length of Parsonage Place to number two.
‘Thanks again,’ Rona said at the gate.
‘I’ll wait till you’re safely inside.’
At the door she turned, gave him a wave, which he returned, and let herself into the house. Was Clive Banks still here? she wondered. And was it his raised voice she’d heard last week? The house was quiet, only the hall light left burning to see her safely in. Behind his closed door, she could hear Jack Stanton’s gentle, rhythmic snores.
Her mind full of the day’s events, Rona switched off the light and went upstairs to bed.
Nine
At first, the ringing and banging invaded her dreams in a re-enactment of past fear: once again she was alone in the house, waking to the cacophony with Gus barking hysterically in the hall. Then, opening heavy eyes, she became aware of her surroundings and the fact that although no dog barked, the ringing and banging were continuing. Rona sat up, fumbled for the light, and, blinking in the sudden brilliance, looked at her bedside clock. It was two fifteen.
The noise stopped abruptly and voices sounded below her in the hall. Alarm spread through her like wildfire. Sliding her legs off the bed, she reached for her dressing gown and, padding out on to the landing, looked over the banister. Two uniformed police officers, one man and one woman, were standing in the hall, talking to Nuala who was shivering in her nightdress. As she watched, still disorientated and half asleep, Jack Stanton’s door opened and the old man, leaning on his Zimmer, appeared in the doorway in striped pyjamas.
Rona’s first coherent thought was that Clive Banks was in some way involved, especially when she saw Nuala cover her face with her hands. As she watched, Nuala nodded in reply to something and, turning, came running up the stairs, tears streaming down her face.
Rona said tentatively, ‘Nuala? Whatever is it?’
Nuala paused, threw her a distracted glance. ‘It’s Aunt Edna. She’s been found lying in the street. I – I have to go and identify her.’
‘She’s dead?’ Horror flooded over Rona and she added impulsively, ‘Would you like me to come with you?’
‘Oh Rona, would you?’
‘Of course. I’ll get dressed.’
Her fingers were stiff and unwieldy as she struggled with the fastening on her bra, the zip on her jeans, but she had time to splash cold water on her face and brush her hair before Nuala emerged from her own room.
‘It’s awfully good of you,’ she said through chattering teeth. ‘I could do with some moral support, and Dad has to stay here with Will.’
They went together down the stairs, where the solemn-faced officers
awaited them. Nuala introduced Rona as a guest who was staying with her, and gave her father a quick, reassuring kiss. Then they were going down the path and into the police car waiting at the gate. Across the low wall, bathed in moonlight, lay the sleeping shape of the vicarage. Only a few hours ago, Rona thought, she had been there, sitting on the terrace. It seemed a different time frame.
The police constables could not answer any of Nuala’s questions. Having broken the bad news, their orders were simply to escort her to the hospital mortuary, where other officers would fill in the details.
At the hospital, Rona accompanied Nuala to the small room with its window giving on to the mortuary, and waited at the door while Nuala went forward to gaze on the waxen face of her aunt. She gave a brief, confirming nod and turned away, choking back a sob. Rona put an arm round her and they were led into another room where, to Rona’s surprise, two plain-clothes officers awaited them.
Introductions were made and the four of them sat down.
‘Please tell me what happened,’ Nuala said shakily.
DI Barrett tapped his pen on the table for a minute before replying. He was a lean, loosely jointed man with fairish hair, a long nose and a set mouth. Rona had the impression he did not care for being called out in the early hours of the morning.
‘Miss Rosebury was found soon after midnight,’ he began, not looking at either of them. ‘The officer—’
‘Midnight?’ Nuala interrupted. ‘But I wasn’t informed till after two o’clock.’
Barrett frowned. ‘Firstly, madam, the officer who found her had no means of establishing her identity, and secondly, the fact that her handbag was missing led him to suspect her death might not have been accidental.’
Nuala drew a sharp breath. ‘But she never took her bag when she went out at night, just slipped the front-door key in her pocket.’
The inspector’s frown deepened. ‘She made a habit of walking the streets at night?’
He made her sound like a prostitute, Rona thought, her dislike of him mounting.
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