by Joan Smith
“Lo, Loretta,’ Peggy said cheerfully. She was back in her old jeans, and looked much more comfortable then she had in Clara’s print dress. ‘D’you want Clara? She’s out, I dunno where. Want some soup?’
Loretta refused the offer politely, explaining she’d come to use the phone.
‘Go on,’ Peggy advised her, ‘she won’t mind. I used it to phone my little girl last night, and she wouldn’t take no money.’
Loretta’s mother, who lived in Gillingham, answered the phone at the third ring. She was in the middle of icing a cake, she said, and couldn’t talk for long. Satisfied that she’d done her duty, Loretta returned to the kitchen.
‘You look well,’ she told Peggy, observing the rosy colour in the girl’s cheeks. Even the cut over her eye now looked insignificant.
‘Yeah, I feel it,’ Peggy confirmed. ‘You know, Clara’s great. I thought she was dead bossy first time I met her, but it’s just her way. I feel dead ...’ – she groped for the right word – ‘dead safe here. Mind you, she’s hopping mad today.’
‘Who is? Clara?’
‘Yeah. You should have seen her this morning when she read the paper. They’ve put something in about the peace camp, and she was... ooh, her eyes really sparkled. She rang up and gave them what for.’
‘What did it say?’ asked Loretta.
‘Oh, I didn’t read all of it. But it was by that MP bloke she knows, Colin something. He’s got a posh name. It was about how all the girls at the camp are lezzies, and they should go home to their husbands. That’s what he says. Just shows what he knows,’ she added, raising her eyebrows to show her contempt for this assertion of traditional values. ‘He oughta go to a refuge, one of them places I was in. That’d teach him a few things about why women leave their fellas.’
‘And this was in the Guardian?’ Loretta asked, surprised. This was the only paper she’d seen delivered to Baldwin’s the previous day, but it didn’t sound like a Guardian feature.
‘Nah, it was in that other one, the Daily Telegraph,’ Peggy told her. ‘Jeremy, he went down to the village shop this morning and bought it. He took it with him to London.’
Loretta was disappointed, and wondered whether she’d be able to get a copy at the shop in Flitwell. She had to go into the village some time that afternoon – Robert was coming over for a late supper, and she needed to buy food.
‘Oh well, I’ll be off,’ she said, thinking that she might as well do this errand next. ‘Tell Clara I used the phone, and I’ll give her some money when I see her.’
‘OK.’ Peggy lifted a hand in farewell. Loretta left her struggling to open a packet of ginger biscuits.
Robert arrived earlier than expected that evening and Loretta met him with a half-peeled peach in one hand and a kitchen knife in the other.
‘Did you think I was another intruder?’ he asked, shutting the front door and putting his arms round her. ‘Mmm, you taste of peaches.’
‘They’re supposed to go in with the lamb, but I can’t resist eating them,’ she said, kissing him again. ‘I hope it’ll be all right.’ She moved back to the Aga and stirred something in a battered Le Creuset casserole. ‘It’s supposed to be lamb with apricots, but they didn’t have any in the village shop. I’m having to make do with peaches instead – I brought some with me from London. Flitwell isn’t that civilized, I couldn’t get any fresh coriander, either. What would you like to drink?’
‘This’ll do.’ He picked up the open bottle of red wine standing on the table and filled the empty glass Loretta had put out for him. Then he leaned across to turn up the volume of Loretta’s cassette player, which was in the middle of a recording of highlights from Turandot. ‘Listen to that,’ he said above the noise. ‘Perfect – just perfect.’ He drew out a chair and sat down at the table, idly turning the pages of a magazine Loretta had left lying there.
Loretta smiled and carried on slicing peaches. When she’d tipped all the pieces into the casserole she put on the lid and looked round for the potatoes she’d put out to scrub. She cleaned them, dropped them in boiling water, and began topping and tailing a heap of green beans.
‘It’ll be ready soon,’ she said, turning to look at Robert.
He raised his eyebrows, unable to hear her over the music. Loretta shook her head, hoping they weren’t disturbing Clara. She went back to the Aga, wondering if the lamb was cooking too fast. Behind her, Robert turned the volume of the music down to its previous level.
‘I could listen to that for hours,’ he said, getting up and coming to peer over her shoulder. ‘Smells good.’ He ran a finger lightly down her back from the nape of her neck to her waist. ‘Oh, about the coriander. If you really can’t do without it, you could try Clara. She grows it herself, she’s very proud of it. I’m sure she’ll let you have some.’
Loretta untied the apron that was protecting her linen trousers and silk shirt and hung it on the back of a chair.
‘Won’t be long.’ She stopped at the front door and blew a kiss to Robert. Leaving the door ajar, she began picking her way round her parked car.
She followed the path through the gap in the hedge, pausing on the other side to enjoy the scene that lay before her. To her left, the wood on the far side of the valley was a dense mass, the sky above it deep and brilliant blue. There was a faint perfume on the night air, roses perhaps, or some other flower she didn’t recognize. Loretta took a deep breath, savouring a moment of unalloyed happiness; she would have lingered longer had it not been for her eagerness to complete her errand and return to Robert in the cottage.
As she passed the bay window of the drawing room she noticed that light was showing through the crack where the curtains hadn’t quite been drawn together; someone was in although, when she went through the conservatory to the back door, there was no light in the hall. She tried the back door which was, as usual, unlocked – Clara had laughed off Loretta’s suggestion that it might be sensible to keep it secured after dark. Loretta stepped into the hall, felt for the light switch, and called Clara’s name. There was no reply.
‘Clara!’ She tried again, louder this time.
It occurred to her that Clara might be using the phone in the drawing room. She moved to her right, and rapped with her fingers on the half-open door. There was still no response, nor could she hear anyone talking. Loretta pushed the door gently. It swung wider, revealing a chair lying on its side on the floor. The realization that something was wrong froze Loretta for a second, then, gathering her courage, she moved further into the room.
Clara was lying in an armchair on the far side of the fire-place, sprawled back as though thrown into position with considerable force. Her legs were apart at an ungainly angle, and one arm was flung back above her head. But what horrified Loretta most of all was the way in which Clara’s eyes were fixed on a point in the ceiling; it was this detail, the rolled-up, bulging, unnatural eyes, that forced the truth upon her. Clara Wolstonecroft was dead, quite dead – before the fact had begun to sink in, and certainly without conscious thought, Loretta was stumbling out of the room, across the hall, into the conservatory. Her breath coming in strangled gasps, she plunged headlong into the dark garden, one thought and only one hammering in her head: she must get away, away from this place of death, before the thing that had happened to Clara happened to her, too.
Chapter 4
A dark shape shot past, causing Loretta to fall; she was up on her feet in seconds, but incoherent with fear and horror by the time she reached the front door of the cottage. It gave at her touch, propelling her into the kitchen. Robert leapt to his feet as she crashed into the table, the smile on his face fading into astonishment as he registered the state she was in. Loretta tried to speak, failed to get out more than Clara’s name, and gave up the attempt. Instead, she caught Robert’s arm and began dragging him towards the dark garden. To her relief he didn’t argue, and it was only when they reached the open back door of Baldwin’s that he stopped to ask questions.
‘Where
is she? Downstairs?’
Loretta nodded.
‘Which room?’
She pointed wordlessly to the door of the drawing room. Robert was already striding across the hall when she lunged after him, grabbing his arm again.
‘She’s dead,’ she said incredulously.
Robert stared at her for a moment, gently removed her hand, then moved towards the open door. He paused on the threshold, looked back at her, and went inside. Almost at once she heard a wail, and Clara’s cat appeared round the door. He took a few steps towards her, danced back, and then returned to brush up against her legs in a state of extreme agitation. Absent-mindedly, Loretta bent to stroke his head; it was his form, she realized, that she’d stumbled over in the garden. The cat permitted her caress for a second, then darted away into the drawing room. Loretta stood up too quickly, and her head began to spin; she looked round, spotted a chair by the back door, and lowered herself on to it, gripping the upright back tightly with one hand. She realized she had been taking quick, shallow breaths, and forced herself to draw air into her lungs and hold it for a count of five. The dizziness receded and she looked up, gazing round the hall as if puzzled by its very ordinariness. Her glance took in her hand, still clutching the back of the seat, and a new thought struck her: fingerprints, she shouldn’t be touching anything in case there were fingerprints. She drew her hand away, staring at it as though it had been invisibly contaminated, even though there was no reason at all why the murderer should have ... her mind stopped there, for the first time making conscious acknowledgement of what she had half-known all the time, that Clara had been murdered. Why else had she fled from Clara’s body instead of ringing for an ambulance? She let out a soft ‘oh’ of despair, letting her head drop forward as though, by closing her eyes, she could transport herself elsewhere. To no avail: the practical part of her mind immediately presented her with an image of the drawing room as she had seen it a few moments before, and she was aware of a nagging question. How? How had it been done? She concentrated hard, trying to make her inner eye travel dispassionately over the body in an attempt to recall whether she had seen signs of violence. It was no good, all she remembered clearly were the protruding eyes, the horribly sprawled limbs. Blood, she asked herself, had she seen blood? She had only the vaguest recollection of what Clara had been wearing – something flowery and pink, probably one of her Liberty print dresses – and she simply couldn’t remember blood stains. All right, what about the neck, did her mental picture include marks of strangulation? Loretta gasped and clenched her fists, frustrated by her inability to recall the scene in detail. She was still engaged in this fruitless exercise – it didn’t at any point occur to her to go back and take a second look at the dead woman – when Robert returned to the hall.
‘I phoned the police.’
He was ashen, distracted. The cat appeared again, this time making straight for Loretta. She picked him up, murmuring soothing noises and wishing she could do the same for Robert; she didn’t know him well enough to know which words might soothe, which merely irritate. The shock had been bad enough for her, who had met Clara only three days before; what must it be like for an old friend like Robert? They waited in anguished silence, neither knowing what to do. Eventually Loretta got up, letting the cat slip to the floor.
‘Robert–’
Crash!
Loretta jumped backwards, colliding with the chair. Her nerves were so stretched that it was only when the sound was repeated, a double-rap this time, that she realized it was the door-knocker, its impact magnified by the previous silence in the hall. Before she had fully gathered her senses, Robert was moving towards the front door.
‘Oh ... I was expecting Clara. Is she in?’ A smartly dressed middle-aged man was standing on the doorstep, apparently taken aback by their presence. Loretta wondered if the shock of Clara’s murder was still visible on their faces.
‘I–’ he began.
‘She–’ said Robert.
They stopped and looked at each other. Loretta swallowed, unequal to the task of telling this unsuspecting visitor that the woman he had come to see was dead.
Robert cleared his throat. ‘Look, you’d better come in.’
The man paused on the threshold, looking from Robert to Loretta and back again.
‘Is something wrong? Oh, no, she hasn’t – don’t tell me she’s not here? I know I’m a bit late, but this is the limit. I mean, it was her idea I should come tonight. I had to leave a meeting early to get here–’
‘No, no, you don’t understand! Clara’s –’ Loretta couldn’t bring herself to finish.
‘I’m sorry, but she’s dead.’ Robert spoke flatly.
‘Dead? Dead?’
Loretta saw the shock hit the man’s eyes, like a mask slipping. His face went very white; he looked, she supposed, as she had directly after discovering the body.
‘But how can she – I don’t understand. I talked to her this afternoon, she didn’t say – she sounded – look, this isn’t some sort of joke?’
‘Of course not! She’s in there if you want to see for yourself!’ Loretta pointed at the door of the sitting room.
The man stared at her for a moment, then turned abruptly and strode into the room. It suddenly hit Loretta that she’d done the wrong thing – surely the fewer people who went near the body the better? She cast an agonized glance at Robert, who seemed to grasp her meaning. He moved towards the door but, as he did so, there was a gasp from within and the stranger reappeared.
‘You didn’t tell me she was – like that!’ He glared accusingly at Loretta.
‘You didn’t give us a chance!’ Tears welled up in her eyes again; this scene was more than she could take. She felt Robert move to her side, and his arm went round her.
‘It hardly makes any difference,’ he said coldly. ‘The main thing is she’s dead. We can stand here arguing all night but it won’t bring her back. Excuse me.’ He went to where the front door was still standing open and shut it.
The newcomer sighed and shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just – so unexpected. I’ve known Clara since we were children. Have you called the police?’
‘They’re on their way. I don’t think we should do anything till they get here. I’m Robert Herrin, by the way. We met once at dinner.’
The man stared at Robert for a second. ‘Yes, of course. I remember now. And you’re...?’ He looked at Loretta.
‘Loretta Lawson. I’m staying in Clara’s cottage.’ For some reason, she was unwilling to extend her hand.
‘Colin Kendall-Cole. I came to see Clara about something. She – she rang me this afternoon.’ His hand went to his collar, feeling underneath the plain grey tie to loosen the top button of his shirt.
Loretta took in his dark, slicked-back hair and expensive, faintly striped suit. He looked exactly what he was, she thought: a country solicitor turned Conservative MP. She felt justified in her instinctive reluctance to shake hands. Then, her eyes moving briefly across his shocked face, she was overcome with guilt; he was a human being, and one who had just witnessed the corpse of an old friend.
‘Perhaps we could go and wait in the cottage?’ she suggested, looking from Colin to Robert.
‘Wait a minute.’ Robert held his head to one side, as though he had heard something. The noise was faint, but at this moment Loretta heard it too; a police car was approaching. The siren got louder, then abruptly cut off. Car doors slammed, and there was a pounding on the front door.
The first contingent was a uniformed patrol which happened to be the area on other business at the time of Robert’s phone call. They viewed the body briefly, then returned to the hall.
‘Which of you people found her?’ asked the older man.
‘I did,’ Loretta said hesitantly, wondering whether to embark on the whole story or wait until someone more senior arrived.
‘What time was that, miss?’
Loretta realized she didn’t know, and looked at Robert for help.
‘Which means you found her between nine thirty and nine thirty-five,’ the older policeman said, turning back to Loretta. ‘Then what happened?’
‘I went back to the cottage for Robert... I suppose I was frightened,’ she said lamely.
‘So then you came and had a look, sir?’
‘Yes. And dialled nine-nine-nine.’
‘And you, sir, when did you arrive on the scene?’
Loretta felt Colin stiffen. ‘I arrived on the scene, as you put it, officer, five or ten minutes ago. I’m afraid I can’t be more precise. It’s been a great shock.’
‘And I suppose you went to have a dekko as well?’
‘I did, officer.’ Colin was feeling in an inside pocket of his suit jacket. When his hand emerged, it was holding a wallet. ‘Perhaps you’d like to take my card?’
The policeman took it, and Loretta watched a flush travel up his neck and on to his cheeks.
‘Sorry, sir,’ he mumbled. ‘Have to make these inquiries – sure you understand.’ He paused, then turned to Loretta. ‘Sorry, miss – I don’t think I got your name.’
After he’d written down Loretta’s and Robert’s names, the policeman made a show of going to the stairs and peering up them. His foot was on the first step when there was the sound of more cars drawing up; moments later, reinforcements arrived in the shape of a man who introduced himself as Chief Inspector Bailey. He was accompanied by a group of people whose functions seemed to be mainly technical, including a couple of men with fingerprint equipment and a woman detective. A few minutes later a doctor arrived. After consulting with the uniformed PCs who were already on the scene, Bailey went into action.