by Diane Janes
Fran reddened and was about to reply when her Aunt Violet and Uncle Henry were shown in and they all became caught up in greetings and polite remarks about the sadness of the day. They were followed by Uncle George and Aunt Lizzie with news of Cousin Edwina’s new baby. Fran found herself blushing for no reason. It isn’t that I mind at all, she told herself, it’s just that I mind that they think I mind. She could not meet her mother’s eye and, as she fiddled with her gloves, it occurred to her that she was dressed in the same slate-grey two-piece and black hat that she had worn for Linda Dexter’s funeral. At least it had been a proper funeral, with Linda laid to rest in home soil. The men and boys who had not come home had been interred elsewhere or even completely lost in the Flanders mud.
The little party walked the short distance to church and took their places at the front of the small crowd which had gathered in the churchyard. Though referred to as an unveiling, the memorial cross already stood bare to the grey sky, the names of almost thirty souls inscribed upon it. There was a hint of drizzle and a strange, bitter taste in the air. The taste of collective loss, Fran thought. As the preliminaries began, she tried to picture her brothers’ faces, but instead found herself noticing the piece of cotton which had come adrift from Reverend Lewis’s surplice and was dangling limply against his dark clerical gown. The breeze stirred against the thread and then unexpectedly blew it against the nose of Harry Postlethwaite, the plump, red-faced village newsagent who had never seen military service but was standing stiffly, as if to attention. Evidently not wishing to spoil the dignity of his pose, Mr Postlethwaite, unaware that he was being observed, attempted to remove the offending strand of cotton by twitching his nose. Fran experienced an abrupt and irreverent desire to laugh.
It’s no good, she thought. You can’t stay sad forever. And yet, you sort of have to. The sacrifice made by her brothers had placed obligations upon her. She had been transformed from the youngest of three into an only child, with a particular duty to keep her widowed mother happy. That meant keeping up the pretence that she was still married – even when no one was fooled – and trying to protect her mother from the perceived scandal of a divorce. The scandal of an affair would be even worse, of course. If Geoffrey and Cec had been alive, marrying nice girls and producing grandchildren, she might have somehow managed to vanish behind the distractions they provided, but as it was, she would always be under the spotlight, centre stage.
When the time came to enter the church, she slipped her arm through her mother’s and they walked at a measured pace immediately behind Colonel and Mrs Dillington-Smyth, whose heir had been lost at Passchendaele. The relatives of the lost were afforded precedence as the crowd processed into the church, their order of entry dictated by an unspoken acknowledgement of social position, so that the Dillington-Smyths took the lead, with the other middle-class families following on and Mr and Mrs Needham, who lived in one of the tied cottages at Ranelagh Farm and had lost all three of their boys, bringing up the rear. This too, Fran thought, did not reflect the reality of her brothers’ loss. She recalled a letter from Cec, in which he had spoken of his fellow Tommies. We are all like brothers here … A lot of things will change when the war is over. But they had not changed, she thought sadly. Or at least, not in the right way.
TWELVE
Mo could hardly wait to get in the door before announcing, ‘You’ll never guess! I’ve been given a pair of Wimbledon tickets. Let’s go down and stay with my friends the Radleys for a couple of days. We can shop or visit galleries on the second day.’
‘I’d love to,’ Fran said. ‘It’s simply ages since I’ve been down to London.’
Mo flopped onto the sofa, still looking pleased with herself. ‘I’ve had such a splendid week. First our Ladies A team won their match, and now I’ve got a pair of Wimbledon tickets. It should be second-round matches, if play is running to schedule.’
‘It sounds wonderful. What would you like to drink?’
‘Better make it a coffee. Oh, on second thoughts, I’ll have a small G and T. Any progress on your enquiries, Sherlock?’
‘Nothing much since I brought you up to date after the funeral. I gave it a couple of days, then wrote a little note to the sister. I found their address in the postal directory; they don’t appear to be on the telephone.’
‘So what did you say to her?’
‘I offered my condolences, obviously, then said that I was from the Robert Barnaby Society and that I would appreciate her contacting me because Linda and I had shared some particular interests.’
‘And how about that Stephen-with-a-ph fellow? Heard anything else from him?’
‘No, thank goodness. Don’t you think it was a bit suspicious, the way he was all but waiting on the doorstep after the funeral? Maybe he knew where I’d been and came on purpose. Anyway, I certainly think he should be on the list of suspects.’
‘But where’s the motive? He may have chosen his time because he was just being plain nosy.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘And how’s Watson doing?’
‘Watson?’
‘Well, if you’re Sherlock – though it’s more like Shylock – look at the size of this measure.’ Mo held up her glass in feigned disgust.
‘You said a small one. Anyway, I thought you were driving.’
‘I did. I am. Go on – has he found anything out yet?’
‘Not yet, but he’s going to stay at the Furnival Towers on Friday night. There’s a Barnaby Society executive committee meeting in Stafford this Saturday, and I’ve arranged to take an earlier train so that we can meet up beforehand and compare notes. I’m hoping that Linda’s sister will have got back to me by then.’
There had been some difficulty with her mother regarding the Barnaby Society meeting. After the War Memorial had been officially consecrated and they had returned to her mother’s house to consume roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, her mother had raised the question of the church bazaar on the following Saturday, which she had assumed that Fran would attend with her, as she always did.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mummy, but I can’t. I have to go to a committee meeting.’
‘A committee meeting? What sort of organization holds its committee meetings on a Saturday afternoon?’
‘A society which has committee members drawn from all over the country, some of whom have to work on weekdays.’
‘You can send your apologies.’
‘Oh, no, Mummy I really can’t.’ Fran forked in a mouthful of spring cabbage to play for time. Why couldn’t she? Inspiration. ‘It’s the first full meeting since I was elected. It would be terribly bad form to cry off at less than a week’s notice.’ She swallowed the cabbage, barely chewed and hurried on. ‘I know the bazaar is in a terribly good cause, but I really do have to go to the Barnaby Society meeting.’ And not just because Tom Dod will be there – the thing about being newly elected is true.
The meeting was at a small hotel near the railway station. It was not difficult to find and she recognized Tom’s Hudson parked on the forecourt. He was waiting for her in the hotel’s lounge-cum-reception and stood up when he saw her approach, his features blossoming into a broad smile of welcome.
‘Let me get you a cup of coffee. Or would you rather have a pot of tea?’
‘Tea would be lovely, thank you.’
After he had summoned the waiter and placed their order, she launched on to the business in hand right away, still basking in the warmth of that smile. ‘I’ve had no joy with Linda’s sister, I’m afraid. I’ve tried writing to her and, when I was in Kendal, I even called at the house but there was no one at home. I popped my card through the letterbox, with another little note scribbled on the back, but there’s been no response. I don’t want to call again in case I put her off by being too pushy.’
‘Oh, well, maybe we need to give it time. I’ve done quite well, I think. I got a lot from Furnival Towers. First of all, there’s very little to prevent anyone from being kidnapped.’
/> ‘Good heavens! Don’t they lock the front door at night?’
‘They do. But as security goes, that’s about it.’
‘And I suppose you can open the front door from the inside? And there isn’t anyone on the Reception desk at night?’
‘No, there isn’t. But I don’t think that’s how Linda left the building …’
‘Go on,’ Fran prompted as he left the phrase hanging in the air.
‘First of all, I had quite a long chat with Marcus Dryden. All friendly, conciliatory stuff. I think he pretty much guessed that I was on a fishing expedition but he didn’t seem to mind. He isn’t too pleased about any of this, as you can imagine. He’s very much down the suicide track, and let’s face it, he would be, because it wouldn’t do his business much good if women are afraid to stay there because someone was abducted from one of his hotel rooms.’
‘Quite,’ said Fran. ‘Though I suppose we can’t rule out the possibility that Linda left under her own steam to meet someone and was murdered at the rendezvous.’
‘Yes, I wondered about that. But why would she take all her clothes if she was just slipping out to meet someone? Also, you would expect her to leave by the front door and that was still locked next morning, according to Dryden.’
‘Looking at it another way,’ said Fran, ‘why would the kidnapper bother to take all her clothes either?’
‘I think I can see why. Supposing someone wanted to prevent Linda from giving her speech? If they left the speech behind in her room, it would fall into someone else’s hands. If they only took Linda and the speech, someone might realize that it had gone and that would actually draw attention to it. But if they took everything …’
‘That’s very clever of you. And would explain why the car and everything in it was burnt!’
Tom nodded. ‘But there won’t just be one copy of her speech – there’s sure to be another draft at the very least, to say nothing of whatever notes she was working from.’
‘It looks as if your million-to-one shot just narrowed down to ten thousand to one.’ She noticed that he couldn’t help but look pleased with himself.
‘Of course, there may be other reasons for removing all her luggage.’
‘You said there was another way of getting out instead of the front door,’ Fran prompted.
‘I found out from Dryden that Linda was in room seven. Later on that evening, I had a mooch around and found number seven. It was very easy to find because it’s along that ground-floor corridor where I was staying myself. Room seven is right at the end, next to the fire door, which is one of those push-bar types that you get in cinemas. I tried it, on the off-chance that it set off an alarm somewhere. If it did, I was going to say that I was just nipping out for a cigarette.’
‘You don’t smoke, do you?’
‘No, but I didn’t think anyone would actually check my pockets for gaspers and a lighter in order to dispute the point.’
‘And did an alarm go off?’
‘No. I left the door open for ages but no one came to investigate. In fact, I wedged it open a crack with a bit of brick that I found just outside the door and left it like that while I went outside to have a scout around. The fire door comes out on the side of the building where there are no windows directly overlooking it, and from the fire door it’s barely a couple of yards to a little path which runs straight down to the car park. There is a slight risk that someone might see you as you go down the path, but only if they happened to be looking out of their bedroom window at the right moment; and once down on the car park, you can’t be seen from the hotel windows at all. When I got back to the fire door it was still wedged open, just the way I’d left it.’
‘So you think someone forced Linda to pack up all her stuff and exit via the fire escape?’ said Fran.
‘You sound doubtful.’
‘Why didn’t she shout for help?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe she couldn’t. Maybe she was gagged. Maybe she was tied up and it was the kidnapper who cleared all her stuff into the case. It wouldn’t have taken long. It was only a weekend trip and I don’t suppose he was worried about creasing anything. She was quite small and slight. I reckon I could easily have carried her down to the car, providing she wasn’t putting up much resistance.’
‘Maybe she agreed to do it because she didn’t realize how much danger she was in.’
Now it was Tom’s turn to look doubtful. ‘Why on earth would she agree?’
‘Perhaps she thought it was a sort of joke,’ Fran said doubtfully. ‘Some sort of Gareth Lowe-type escapade.’
‘In the middle of the night?’
‘I admit that it’s far-fetched, but you never know with Gareth Lowe. He’s completely barking.’
‘Anyway, there’s something else about taking all the luggage,’ Tom said.
‘Go on.’
‘According to Dryden, the police told him that it’s pretty much scuppered their chances of proving one way or the other whether there was anyone else in the room with Linda. You see, by the time Linda was missed, the girl who cleans the room had already changed the bedding and wiped everything clean. A hotel room is a nightmare from the point of view of fingerprints at the best of times, because dozens of different people are coming in and out, but if Linda’s things had still been there, the chambermaid wouldn’t have assumed that the guest had checked out and probably wouldn’t have cleaned the room so thoroughly.’
‘All of which makes a hotel room a far better place to abduct Linda from than simply murdering her in her own house, where you might leave traces that were harder to explain,’ mused Fran. ‘And I suppose setting fire to her car would destroy any fingerprints you’d left inside it.’
‘One other thing Marcus Dryden said—’
But Fran was not destined to hear what else Mr Dryden had said just then.
‘Hello, you two. You’re early.’ Gareth Lowe – mercifully clad in an ordinary tweed jacket over flannels – had entered the room without either of them noticing him. ‘Awful weather again, isn’t it? You wouldn’t think it was May. Doesn’t bode well for the summer, what?’
Having just described him as barking, Fran was only too glad to let Tom make the conversational running with Mr Lowe. Thank goodness he hadn’t arrived a moment earlier! She would really have to be much more careful what she said about people in public. It was partly Tom’s fault, she thought. He made her feel so at ease that she forgot her manners and said things which were really not nice at all.
Soon after Gareth came Jean Robertson, and after her John James. Hugh Allonby and Sarah Ingoldsby arrived together, closely followed by Ruth Winterton, the formidable retired headmistress of a girls’ school, and finally came Vivian Blakemore, a fussy, middle-aged bachelor who always wore a flower in his buttonhole and was half a minute the right side of arriving late.
Hugh Allonby led them into a small, private room which had been reserved for the occasion. It had faded wallpaper and even more faded hunting prints on the walls. The windows were rendered opaque by dusty net curtains and most of the floor space was occupied by a square table surrounded by about a dozen chairs. They seated themselves around three sides of the table: Hugh Allonby took the central seat, furthest away from the door, flanked by Jean Robertson, who acted as secretary, and Vivian Blakemore, who was the society’s treasurer. Ruth Winterton, Sarah Ingoldsby and Gareth Lowe chose seats with their backs to the windows, while the three newcomers to the committee, Tom, John James and Fran sat facing them. Apologies had been received from Richard Finney, the journal secretary.
Fran wondered if Hugh Allonby would begin with a word about Linda Dexter’s death, but once everyone had finished shuffling papers and filling water glasses, he went straight into the formal agenda: minutes of the previous meeting, matters arising, correspondence received and so on. There were no contentious issues, but even so, Fran could gauge the extent of Hugh’s influence on proceedings by the way Ruth Winterton and Gareth Lowe deferred to him on every que
stion, while Vivian Blakemore was obviously content to bumble along in whichever direction Hugh led, even if he was not entirely certain of the ultimate destination. With Sarah Ingoldsby’s loyalty factored in, she thought, Hugh could always be confident of the committee’s support. Even if she and Tom were to form an alliance with those lesser-known quantities, Jean Robertson and John James, they could only achieve a tie, at which point Hugh had his chairman’s casting vote. It was not that she had joined the committee to wreak change or cause dissention – far from it – but she found it vaguely dispiriting to think that the committee’s sole purpose was to rubber stamp Hugh Allonby’s decisions.
The business was conducted at a stately pace, so it took almost two hours to reach Item 6: The Annual Conference 1929. Hugh portentously cleared his throat. ‘Now, Miss Robertson, I suggest that there is no need to minute what I’m about to say next. I think we are all aware – even Miss Winterton, who unfortunately could not be with us this year – of the unfortunate event which somewhat marred this year’s conference. Fortunately Mrs Dexter’s body was not discovered until after everyone had gone home, so the conference was not spoiled for most of those who attended.’
It had become very close in the stuffy little room. Noticing Fran reach for her almost empty glass, John James pulled the jug towards him, lifted it and poured her some water. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
‘The police have of course been making enquiries and I think I can safely say that they will conclude that Mrs Dexter committed suicide. She was, as I think some of you are possibly aware, a rather unbalanced woman, given to some very peculiar ideas. This is clearly not the sort of person, still less the sort of episode, with which the society would want to be associated. I think I have done quite well in keeping the press at bay.’ He paused long enough for Vivian Blakemore to murmur something approving and Gareth Lowe to add a gruff: ‘Hear, Hear.’
‘I have had a word with Mr Finney regarding our journal, and let him know that no mention of this unpleasantness should appear—’