Faithful unto Death

by Caroline Graham

  So far the investigative interviews in and around Flavell Street, now in their second day, had come up with only one really interesting result. But this certainly seemed, at least in part, to bear out Sarah Lawson’s story.

  A couple, backing their Ford Fiesta out of one of the lockup garages behind the flat, had seen a man running up the iron staircase. He had entered number thirteen by way of the kitchen door, going straight in without even knocking. They said the man, wearing jeans and a black T-shirt, had dark, curly hair and was not very tall. As he had his back to them they were unable to describe his features. From the way he moved they believed he was youngish. Pressed, they suggested no more than the early thirties. This had occurred at around two thirty on Tuesday, 11 June.

  Shown photographs of Sarah Lawson and Simone Hollingsworth, the couple recognised only Sarah. There were half a dozen other such confirmations, mainly from people in the launderette or Mr. Patel’s greengrocery. More than one person described her as wandering about like a lost soul.

  The following morning Sarah Lawson was due to be arraigned before the magistrate. Bail, due to the seriousness of the offence, would probably be refused. Certainly it would be opposed by the police.

  Once officially on remand, she would be transferred to a woman’s prison, probably Holloway. Barnaby took this last opportunity of interviewing her on his own patch. Though he had been told she was still not eating, he was shocked at the rapid change in her.

  She was crouched, shivering in the corner of her cell on a foam mattress, knees drawn up under her chin, long skirt covering her legs. The bones of her cheeks and forehead were jutting forward as if they would break through the skin. She stared around wildly as the door was opened, shame and despair ravaging her face.

  “Miss Lawson,” said Barnaby. He couldn’t bring himself to ask how she was. He sat down on the edge of the toilet. “What are you hoping to gain by all this?”

  “I just want to get it over with.”

  “What?”

  “Everything. This long disease, my life.”

  “You won’t be allowed to starve yourself to death, you know. You’ll be taken to hospital and fed, one way or the other.”

  “So it’ll be later rather than sooner. What does it matter?”

  “I wonder if you understand the process—”

  “Far better than you, I suspect.”

  “What I mean is that fasting can inflict serious and permanent internal damage. What if you decide, after all, that you want to survive?”

  “I shan’t change my mind.” Though distracted and full of suffering, her profile was set as if in stone.

  He couldn’t leave it there. In some muddled way he felt he had to try and talk her round. Yet all he seemed to be capable of was reducing the situation to banality. Trite phrases fell from his lips. Her betrayer was not worth it. The world was full of people. She would meet someone else. (Sergeant Troy would have been proud of him.) At least he avoided time heals all wounds.

  “You’re wrong,” said Sarah, “about meeting someone else. I believe Plato got it right and that we partly exist until we find the single missing person who will make us whole. Only then shall we know true happiness.”

  “Goodness. I wouldn’t like to calculate the odds on that. They must be worse than the Lottery.”

  “And yet, by some wayward calculation of the stars, I found mine. So you see, Inspector, there’s no point in searching again. And, once you have known that completeness, being torn apart is simply unbearable.”

  The calm finality behind the words made further discussion of the matter pointless. Barnaby got up and walked towards the door, turning back as he reached it. “You know Simone has been found?”

  She cowered at the words. Flinched as if a bucket of icy water had been thrown in her face. “Yes. They told me. Is she . . . all right?”

  “Physically, yes. But she’s still confused. He threw her out of a van, did they tell you that? Your charming better half?”

  “Out of . . . ?” She stared at him as if he had suddenly broken into a foreign language.

  “We’ve got a description of him. He was seen going into Flavell Street via the back entrance. Not too tall, thirtyish, dark hair. That accurate, would you say?”

  “What . . . what are you . . .”

  And then, as Barnaby received the stare and returned it with an equal force and intensity, Sarah Lawson began to batten down the hatches.

  The Chief Inspector was reminded of a film he once saw, a costume drama where a distraught, unhappy heiress, discovering the man she loves is only after her money, runs around the great dark Victorian house in which she lives barring it against his next visit. He could still hear the shutters. Slam, slam, slam, slam. Slam.

  And so it was now.

  “Yes.” When Sarah eventually spoke she sounded very tired. “Yes, I think that’s a fairly accurate description.”

  “Is there nothing you won’t say, Sarah? Nothing you won’t agree to to help out?” Pitiful though she was, Barnaby still experienced anger. “No lies you won’t tell?”

  “No. None.”

  Barnaby let down the flap then and shouted for the duty officer to unlock the door.

  Next day, following the publication of the drawing of Simone in her dark glasses, some reports of sightings started trickling in. These were nowhere near as numerous or as full of exotic detail as happened at the beginning of the case. Either the public was by now fed up with the Hollingsworth extravaganza or Simone had been very securely hidden away after she was removed from Flavell Street. Of the few that were reported, nearly all in or around London, none proved to be worth the time and effort spent following them up. Crimewatch, which should flush out many more, was not due to go out for another three days.

  Just after lunch Barnaby received notification from Rain-bird and Gillis, Causton’s most well-established undertakers, that the funeral of Alan Hollingsworth had now been arranged and would take place in two days’ time. The service would be held at St. Chad’s parish church, Fawcett Green, and the internment directly afterwards in the burial ground adjacent. No flowers by request.

  Barnaby, wondering by whose request, scribbled a note on his pad. The last thirty-six hours had been so crammed with new incident and revelation that trying to absorb and assess it all had pushed the deaths of Hollingsworth and poor Brenda Brockley to the fringes of his mind. Now he turned his attention to both.

  Brenda was the one that depressed him most, perhaps because he felt that it was the one he could do least about. They knew she had been killed by Hollingsworth’s car. Presumably, if not inevitably, he had been driving it. What chance now, though, to find out exactly what had happened?

  At least, in the matter of Hollingsworth’s own death, they had a suspect. The faceless, false-hearted and falsely named Tim. Sarah, at her second interview, had seemed to imply it was he who was responsible.

  Of course there was also Gray Patterson who fitted the bill to perfection. A powerful motive, no alibi and a friend of Sarah Lawson. However, set against this must be the fact that there was absolutely no forensic evidence to put him inside Nightingales the night of Hollingsworth’s death. Also, on the afternoon Simone absconded, he was sitting in the Causton Odeon watching Goldeneye. Thirdly, and surely most telling by far, Patterson could by no stretch of the imagination be described as a short man with dark curly hair.

  And it was this man that they now had to lay their hands on.

  The storm of two days ago had really broken the weather. The day of the funeral, though warm, was patchy. The sun was inconstant, clouds scudded about and the branches of the elms and yew trees in the churchyard bent and rustled in the slight breeze.

  The Reverend Bream, a snowy surplice covering his shabby cassock, read the elegy. His voice was grave and rich and full of quite genuine-sounding sorrow. It was at such moments that he came into his own.

  Barnaby and Troy did not go to the service. Neither did they join the tiny group at the gr
aveside but stood some small distance away on a grassy knoll—outsiders with no part to play but that of spectres at the feast.

  “For man born of woman has but a short time to live . . .”

  And who could argue with that? We give birth astride a grave, as the poet said. At least Barnaby thought it was a poet. Or maybe he remembered it from one of the plays that Joyce’s group put on. Whatever, the writer was spot on. Looked at in cosmic terms, it was as fast as that. Now you see the sun shine, now you don’t.

  Although quite a large collection of people hovered at the lych gate, there were only eight mourners at the graveside. Avis Jennings was there next to Simone, her arm round the girl’s slender shoulders. Constable Perrot, his helmet in the crook of his elbow, stood more or less to attention. The accountant Ted Burbage, representing Penstemon, was next to Elfrida Molfrey. She and Cubby Dawlish held hands and gravely bowed their heads.

  The other two mourners were strangers to Barnaby. He guessed at the dead man’s brother and his wife. She must be a wife for surely such an upright, stern-faced, joyless countenance could not belong to a man frivolous enough to bring along a mistress. He wore a black suit of dull, heavy cloth. She a limp dress the colour of dirty water with an uneven hemline and a black velvet band stitched round one sleeve. Her expression was even more sour than her husband’s. Barnaby was reminded of his mother’s phrase, “Fit to turn the milk.”

  “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust . . .”

  “If the booze don’t get you the tax man must.” Troy spoke almost absently, his gaze fixed on the window’s pale, distressed face. He trembled unaccountably and felt rather queasy.

  “What on earth’s wrong with you?”

  “Ay?”

  “Shaking about.”

  “It’s the heat, guv.”

  The baked meats were laid out at the doctor’s house. Mrs. Jennings had been quite restrained. Flamboyantly showy cakes and delectable confections of cream and sugar were absent. The most elaborate item on the table was a many-layered millefeuille made with fresh raspberries. There was half a York ham on an old-fashioned white china stand and a herby salad freshly picked from the garden. Dr. Jennings began to carve but was interrupted by an urgent call, whereupon he disappeared and the vicar took over.

  Conversation was subdued and remained so, perhaps because the only liquid offered was Indian or China tea. Simone, naturally the focus of everyone’s concern, appeared overwhelmed. She sat between her husband’s relatives on a velvet chaise longue looking, to Sergeant Troy’s way of thinking, like a soft and lovely rose between two cacti. The hospital dressing on her temple had been removed and, though she was carefully made-up, the bruise showed through.

  Mrs. Jennings had made it plain to both himself and Barnaby that they would be welcome to partake of the refreshments but Troy still felt extremely uncomfortable. Being neither friends nor family their presence could only underline the dark provenance of the situation. How could he simply go up and offer his condolences to Simone, no strings attached? For the first time since he joined the force, Sergeant Troy wished he wasn’t a policeman.

  Barnaby did not mingle. He was in the kitchen tucking into some home-baked Ciabatta with a piece of runny Brie and a bowl of salad. He was also talking to Avis Jennings who had discovered she was a cake fork short and was rummaging in the cutlery drawer.

  “I understand from your husband that Simone is getting better.”

  “She’s quite a bit better, yes. Her memory’s returning in fits and starts. Jim says it’s often like that. She knows us and Elfie and remembers all sorts of things about the village but not much about her . . . ordeal. It’s not surprising, is it? I mean, that she wants to block things out for as long as possible. Ah, there you are!” Avis scolded the missing fork and started to polish it on her skirt. “I know I would.”

  “Perfectly understandable.”

  “I took her round to the house just to get some fresh clothes and stuff. But she didn’t want to stay.”

  “How did you get in, Mrs. Jennings?”

  “Jill Gamble let us have the key.” She looked at Barnaby somewhat anxiously. “I hope that’s all right. We were only there a few minutes.”

  “And were you with Mrs. Hollingsworth all the time?”

  “I was, actually.” Avis was deeply puzzled. “She just put a couple of dresses and some underwear in a bag. They are her own things, Inspector.”

  Barnaby, his mouth full of delicious cheese, merely nodded.

  “Well, I must to my muttons,” said Avis. “I wish the Scottish contingent would tuck in. It’s not as if they’re overwhelmed by grief. Simone said Alan hadn’t spoken to either of them for years.”

  “Some people would think such behaviour perfectly proper for a funeral.”

  “Hm.” Avis sniffed. “In my opinion a pinch of rectitude goes a very long way.”

  Troy, in the odd moments that his eyes strayed from Simone, had noticed general eddying towards a door at the far end of the room which led directly to the kitchen. Although there was definitely not what you could call a queue, Sergeant Perrot was hovering near the opening and slipped in as Mrs. Jennings emerged. Mrs. Molfrey was also gently whirling in that direction followed by Cubby Dawlish, whirling counterclockwise while hanging on to a plate of ham and salad and a nice strong cup of Ridegway’s Breakfast Blend.

  As things turned out, all three arrived together. Perrot remained standing but the other two sat down. Cubby drank his tea. Elfrida, delighted to be tête à tête once more with the top brass, turned her glowing face towards Barnaby.

  “I’m not reproaching you of course, Chief Inspector. I know how incredibly busy you must be. But I was disappointed not to hear from you, after the news of my revelation.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not with you, Mrs. Molfrey.”

  “No chink, no chime. Didn’t—” Elfrida glanced over the Chief Inspector’s shoulder and, in the nick of time, saw Colin Perrot’s expression of horrified apprehension,”—you get my message? I spoke into your answering machine.”

  “Sorry,” smiled Barnaby. “They’re not always reliable, I’m afraid. What was it about, Mrs. Molfrey?”

  “As I think I previously told you on the day Simone disappeared, I walked up the lane with Sarah Lawson and she was carrying this large box. She said it was some Kilner jars that Simone had promised for her white elephant collection at the fête. But then, when we got to her gate, she sort of hefted it up in her arms, like this, oof oof—”

  “Careful, dearest,” murmured Cubby.

  “—and there was not a single sound. This from a box supposedly full of glass. Then I thought to myself, what on earth would Simone be doing with such things anyway? She could hardly cook, let alone bake bread or make jam. Certainly I can’t imagine her ever bottling fruit or vegetables. Also,” Elfrida gave Barnaby a look he immediately recognised. It was identical to the one worn by Kilmowski when he brought a particularly large and succulent corpse into the house and laid it proudly on the doormat. “You could tell by the way she was hanging on how heavy the box was. There was more in there, believe you me, Inspector, than a few empty jars.”

  “That’s very interesting, Mrs. Molfrey.” And it was too. There had certainly been no such box either in Bay Tree Cottage itself or the garden shed when they were searched. “When is this fête?”

  “Not until August Bank Holiday Monday.”

  “And who would Sarah pass them on to?”

  “No one if she was running her own stall. You could ask Mrs. Perrot—she is on the committee again this year, I believe, Colin?”

  “That’s right, Mrs. Molfrey.” Perrot, still metaphorically wiping the sweat of relief from his brow, smiled warmly at his rescuer. “I’ll certainly ask, sir, if the stuff has been passed to someone else.”

  “If you would, Constable.”

  “I should tell you both perhaps, although you’ll no doubt hear it on the news tomorrow, that Miss Lawson has been charged with taking part in the kidnap and
ransom of Mrs. Hollingsworth.”

  “Oh! But that’s . . .” Mrs. Molfrey could not continue. With trembling fingers she adjusted the anthracite chiffon veiling draped over her ringlets. It was trimmed with marcasite which sparkled as it caught the sunlight pouring through the kitchen window. “I can’t believe. No. No.”

  “That’s right. No,” echoed Cubby firmly. His bright blue eyes shone with conviction. “She’s too . . . what is the word I want, Elfie?”

  “Proud.”

  “That’s right. Proud.”

  “You’ve got it wrong, Inspector,” said Elfrida. “I’m sorry, I know how presumptuous that must sound—”

  “We don’t charge people without strong evidence, Mrs. Molfrey. Also, Sarah Lawson has confessed.”

  “But she doesn’t care about money. You’ve seen how she lives.”

  “She may not care about money. But the person she was working with cares very much indeed.”

  This shocked them both. He watched new and terrible complexities crowding their minds. Neither spoke again. They sat on, bewildered, for a few moments then got up and went away, Cubby patting Elfrida’s hand in tender consolation.

  “Perrot?”

  “Sir.” Constable Perrot moved smartly up to the pine table and rested his helmet.

  “I’m putting a twenty-four-hour watch on this place. To be transferred to Nightingales should Mrs. Hollingsworth decide to move back.”

  “Do you think she’s still in some sort of danger then?”

  “Perhaps. In any case we need a sharp eye kept. She’s a very important witness. I’ll leave it with you.” Barnaby pushed his chair back. “You’ll be relieved once the shifts get sorted.”

  “No problem, sir.”

  “Are you all right for tea?” Avis popped her head round the door.

  “I could do with another cup,” said Barnaby. “But I’ll take it out there.”

  The scene in the Jennings’ drawing room had changed slightly. Elfrida and Cubby were no longer present. Edward Hollingsworth had moved to the window seat where he was deep in conversation with Penstemon’s accountant. His wife was stacking used plates at the table and putting them on a large wooden tray. Troy was sitting next to Simone on the green velvet chaise longue.