by Diane Janes
‘I don’t feel much like eating either,’ he was saying. ‘Tell you what, why don’t we take a stroll up to the edge of the village? It’s a lovely evening out there.’
As she stood up and wriggled out from between the table and the bench seat, his hand rested momentarily on her shoulder, as if he was assisting her progress in some way.
She must not give way. He had a wife called Veronica. Veronica was at home with her little boy, William, at that very minute, and even if she had never heard of Frances Black and never would, Veronica was relying on her to do the right thing by that great sisterhood of married women to which they both belonged.
They had left the pub now and were walking along the deserted street in silence. When they reached the turn which led to the railway station, Fran said, ‘I suppose it’s time to head back.’
‘Do you have to get home? I wondered whether we might make a night of it.’ He was looking right into her eyes. There was no mistaking the message. ‘I know a really nice little hotel just down the road.’ When she said nothing, he put an arm around her shoulder, ready to draw her into a kiss. For a split second, the prospect of melting into his arms danced enticingly before her, but it was interrupted by a vision of a faceless woman holding a little boy by the hand.
Fran pulled away abruptly. ‘Please don’t do that, Tom. It’s not … appropriate.’
He drew back, as if she had struck him, but recovered quickly. ‘Oh.’ He hesitated. ‘Right. I see. I’m so sorry.’
‘I have to get back. Home. I’ve got a cat. She’ll be getting hungry.’ The words tumbled out, ridiculous, incongruous. ‘I’ll see you …’ She faltered to a halt, not knowing when she would see him again, or in fact how she was now supposed to get home. The situation had become hopelessly awkward, embarrassing.
‘It’s quite all right,’ he said quickly, almost as if he had read her mind. ‘I will run you straight home, of course.’
‘Thank you.’ She turned back towards the pub where they had left the car, retracing her steps so briskly that she arrived alongside the Hudson slightly out of breath, and climbed in without waiting for him to hold the door for her. He gunned the motor into life and began to drive at his habitual speed, but all the usual pleasure of travelling alongside him was crushed beneath the stifling silence which enveloped them. She longed to say something which would reinstate good relations, even if their easy camaraderie could never be restored, but it was as if her mind had been completely emptied of words and she was ridiculously afraid that if she attempted to talk she might begin to cry. His own silence seemed to be born of awkwardness rather than hostility. On two occasions he cleared his throat, as if in readiness to speak, but nothing emerged. Eventually, after they had put Hawes some miles behind them, he began to say what sounded like, ‘I am most terribly sorry—’
She cut across him at once. ‘Please don’t say anything. I would far rather not talk about it.’ Stupid, stupid, words coming out all wrong. Of course they must talk, but somehow she could not take it back, and so they drove on and on in silence.
It was getting dark when they drew up at her gate. For the last fifteen minutes or so she had been wondering whether she should invite him inside, so that they could try to put things right, but as she had rejected his attempt at an apology and had no idea what else to say, what possible use would it be to prolong matters? So instead, she said, ‘Thank you very much for bringing me home.’
‘I’ll telephone – if I find out anything else about Linda Dexter,’ he said, turning half towards her, his expression masked by the encroaching dusk.
She knew it was a question. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Of course. I expect we’ll speak during the week.’ She was still fighting back tears and her voice sounded clipped and abrupt, like someone dismissing a tradesman. She had not meant it to come out that way at all.
She did not wave goodbye or watch as he drove away, but instead stood at the gate, focusing all her attention on her handbag while she fumbled for the door key. I am not going to cry. I am not going to cry. She opened the gate and walked up the path, trying to forget the expression on Tom’s face when she had pulled away from his attempted embrace. He had seemed so surprised and hurt. It was her own fault, she thought. She had led him on. Her eyes must have betrayed her a thousand times, and now she had rejected him in an abrupt, humiliating way, when in reality … ‘Stop it,’ she said aloud. ‘You are not going to be that person.’
It was only when she had reached the doorstep that she actually looked up properly at the cottage and saw the damage. With trembling fingers, she unlocked the door and reached for the matches to light the lamp in the hall. Mrs Snegglington trotted forward to greet her.
‘Hello,’ Fran called nervously, but the only reaction she received was a curious look from the cat. Carrying the oil lamp before her into the sitting room, she went straight to the telephone and asked for Mo’s number.
‘Hello,’ the blessedly familiar voice sounded in her ear. ‘What’s up?’
‘I’ve just got home and discovered that someone has put my front windows through.’
‘Say that again?’
‘I’ve just got home after a Barnaby Society meeting and found that someone has smashed my downstairs windows. I don’t know what to do, Mo.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
Mrs Snegglington was not at all happy about the transfer to Mo’s house, where she was being confined to the drawing room. She intermittently prowled around, looking for an exit, before settling disconsolately in an armchair and refusing all suggestion of fuss or laps, having adopted a strict policy of non-fraternization.
‘If only she could tell us who did it,’ Mo said, nodding in the cat’s direction. ‘She must have seen them come or go.’
‘She might have been asleep – let’s face it, she usually is. She probably knew nothing about it until she heard the rocks come through the windows.’
Mo hesitated. ‘I know you told the police about that Latchford man, but did you mention Tom Dod?’
In the day and a half since the Barnaby Society meeting at Middleham, Fran had brought her friend fully up to date with the Tom situation.
‘I didn’t mention Tom, because he couldn’t possibly have done it. He was with me, remember.’
‘Unless for some reason he did it on his way to the meeting. He could have come a different way and still have got there in a shorter time than it took you to get there by bus.’
‘That doesn’t make any sense, Mo. And anyway, why would it be Tom?’
‘The more scared you are, the more likely to fall into his arms?’
Fran said nothing. There was a time when she would have ridiculed such an idea, but then hadn’t she also ridiculed Mo’s constant assertions that Tom was romantically interested in her? Perhaps this latest suggestion was no more bizarre than the fact that her windows had been put through. The situation felt unreal, as if her whole life was sliding into chaos. The policeman who had attended the cottage in answer to her call on Saturday evening had not been one of those who had previously answered her call for help a few nights earlier, when Stephen Latchford’s car had been parked out in the lane. This latest policeman had arrived while she and Mo were sweeping up the broken glass and waiting for the local handyman to arrive and do some temporary boarding up. After a lifetime of never having had anything to do with the police, Fran reflected, it now seemed as if various members of the constabulary were beating a regular path to her door. The latest model was tall and thin, with a ponderous, north country accent. When she told him that she suspected a Mr Stephen-with-a-ph-Latchford might be responsible for the damage, he said that the police would call on this Mr Latchford, of course, but that they could not jump to any conclusions when there was no real evidence about who was responsible. ‘It might just be a random act of vandalism, Mum, or a case of mistaken identity.’
In the meantime, Mo had insisted that Fran and the cat stay with her, at the very least until the new glass could be cut and the windows w
ere mended. ‘As long as you like,’ Mo had said, but Fran knew that it wasn’t fair on the cat, who liked to be in her own territory, where she could make believe that she was a great feline hunter, though in fact she was far too lazy to catch even a catnip mouse on the end of a string.
‘You know, I can’t help feeling that this is all mixed up with Linda Dexter,’ Fran said.
‘Don’t,’ Mo said. ‘Next thing you’ll be thinking that you’re going to be the next victim, or something.’
‘You have to admit that all this business with Stephen Latchford only started the weekend that Linda Dexter died.’
‘That’s true – but mightn’t that just be coincidence, because that was when he realized that he lived so near to you? Didn’t you tell me that he has only just moved into the district?’
‘From the area where Linda Dexter used to live,’ Fran reminded her.
‘Fair point.’ Mo brushed back a strand of hair which was escaping across her forehead. ‘Try to think back. Were there ever any signs that there was some kind of problem between Latchford and Linda Dexter?’
‘Not that I noticed.’
‘Let’s try going through things systematically again. Could Stephen Latchford perhaps have some connection with Linda’s family, either the sister who stood to inherit, or else the murder back in 1914?’
‘The sister gets everything,’ Fran said. ‘She’s married, and I saw her husband at the funeral. It isn’t Stephen Latchford.’
‘Well, of course not.’ Mo laughed. ‘The connection couldn’t be that obvious, not least because Linda Dexter would have recognized anyone who was close to her sister, and probably ditto her ex-husband … And probably the chap who murdered her father and stepsister too – weren’t they quite close?’
‘The killer was her ex-sweetheart, so I suppose she would still know him if she saw him again, even after all this time. I know people change and a man could dye his hair, or grow a beard, or something like that, but people don’t generally change that much. I saw people at the unveiling of the village war memorial who I haven’t seen in years, but I still recognized them and knew who they were.’
‘Assuming that this person didn’t have a key to Linda Dexter’s hotel room, one supposes that she must have let them into the room herself,’ Mo mused. ‘Of course, she may not have bothered to lock the door behind her. Lots of people don’t. What kind of locks are they?’
‘Oh, the old-fashioned kind. You have to turn the key on the inside to lock them.’
‘And you say she wasn’t a particularly strong, athletic type?’
‘Just the opposite.’
‘So there are really quite a lot of possibilities. To begin with, if she didn’t bother to lock her door before she went to bed, the killer could have simply walked in and taken her by surprise. Or he could have knocked on the door then grabbed her when she opened it, without giving her time to cry out. If he was watching, waiting for her to come to bed, he could have barged straight in after her, again taking her by surprise and not giving her time to cry out.’
‘There’s nowhere to hide in that corridor, but Stephen Latchford’s room was right opposite and he could have been watching through the keyhole. You’re absolutely right that if the attack came out of the blue, she may not have had time to shout for help.’
‘I believe it’s not that difficult to strangle someone, using a gent’s tie or something similar,’ Mo said. ‘Particularly if you have come prepared. Once Linda was dead, you could pack up her things and move them down to her car, then you choose your moment and carry the body out the same way, dumping it on the railway line and trusting to luck that the train would make such a mess of the poor woman that the doctors wouldn’t be able to say exactly what had happened to her.’
‘Tom said he thought it would have been quite easy to carry her.’
‘Let’s hope he wasn’t speaking from personal experience.’
‘Oh, really, Mo!’
Mo did not immediately reply. She knew that Fran had not spoken with Tom since parting from him at the garden gate on Saturday night. After a lengthy pause, she said, ‘Cheer up, old thing. We’re off to Wimbledon next week, don’t forget. Remember when we saw Lili Alvarez in ’twenty-six? Gosh, but she was pretty. Do you think she will make the final again this year?’
TWENTY-NINE
Mo drove Fran back to Bee Hive Cottage the following morning, where they found that the windows had been replaced and the handwritten bill for the work was propped in front of the other post, which Ada had picked up and placed on the mantelshelf. The rest of the place looked spick and span and just as usual. It took more than a bit of broken glass to divert the stolid Ada from her normal routine.
Fran shuffled through the envelopes, immediately recognizing the distinctive handwriting on one of them. ‘Hello,’ she said as she tore it open and swiftly scanned the contents. ‘There’s one here from Hugh Allonby, asking me to telephone him, on what he describes as “a matter of urgency”. I wonder what on earth he can want.’
‘Only one way to find out.’
‘Somehow I don’t think it’s going to be good news. Mr Allonby has been furious with me, ever since Tom and I sort of defeated him over getting hold of Linda’s papers before he managed to procure them himself and bury the contents forever.’
‘Perhaps the Grand Master of the Barnaby Society just wants to talk to you about the handover of those precious notebooks.’
Hugh Allonby did not want to talk about the notebooks. When he found that it was Fran on the phone, he did not bother to beat about the bush. ‘I was trying your telephone number for most of yesterday,’ he said. His tone was accusing, as if she had been avoiding him on purpose.
‘I’m not at home at the moment. I’m staying with a friend. I came back to pick up my post and only found your letter a few moments ago.’
‘Really?’ Hugh’s tone was acerbic. Fran was uncertain which aspect of the statement he doubted – the reality of her absence or the possibility of her having a friend. ‘As you know, I have entertained reservations about your being on the executive committee ever since your conduct over those papers belonging to Mrs Dexter, but yesterday I became aware of another matter, which is surely the final straw.’ He paused, but as Fran said nothing, he was forced to continue. ‘Mr Stephen Latchford, one of our most valued and respected members, telephoned me in great distress. He informs me that you have now told the police not once, but twice, that he has been harassing you in some way. Mr Latchford is a very fair-minded man, and he said that, on the first occasion, this could have been the result of no more than an innocent misunderstanding. Apparently there was some suggestion of a prowler at your property and he had coincidentally been there that evening to deliver something – something which he tells me that you had actually asked him to drop off.’
‘That’s not entirely correct,’ Fran began, but Hugh Allonby ploughed on regardless. ‘It now seems that because someone has committed some act of vandalism at your property, you have suggested to the police that Mr Latchford may have been responsible, and they called on him again and questioned him at some length. As he said to me, it is very difficult for a single person, living alone, to rebut these kinds of allegations, however misplaced. He is talking about slander and involving solicitors, and he has pointed out that your being a member of the executive committee gave you access to a membership directory, which in turn enabled you to send the police straight to his door. Naturally, I have assured him that I will take appropriate action at once. I’m afraid I will have to ask you to stand down from the committee immediately. It is possible that you mean well, but you’re a loose cannon, Mrs Black, and we cannot afford loose cannons. If you don’t resign voluntarily, I will have no alternative but to convene a special executive meeting and have you removed. I simply will not tolerate members bringing the society into disrepute.’
‘But that’s ridiculous.’ Fran attempted to take breath in readiness for a fully thought-out protest, but again Hu
gh Allonby gave her no opportunity.
‘As chairman, I have to put aside any personal feelings and consider the interests of the society. My duty, first and last, is to protect the reputation of Robert Barnaby and the society convened in his name. We already have this unpleasant business of a member’s suicide hanging over our heads, and I cannot afford suggestions that one member is accusing another of harassing them. By all means, take a couple of days to think about it, but I shall expect to receive your letter of resignation and a copy of your formal apology to Mr Latchford by the end of this week. It goes without saying that this must be kept between ourselves. It will naturally be put about that you have had to resign for personal reasons.’
‘Apology!’ Fran exploded, but it was unlikely that Hugh Allonby heard her as he was already in the process of hanging up the telephone.
‘What will you do?’ Mo asked, after Fran had repeated Hugh Allonby’s side of the conversation.
‘I don’t know. I don’t much care about being on the wretched committee, it’s just that I don’t want to let him win. Which, of course, he will do, either way. Tom managed to sway everyone last time, but I think the committee would support Hugh Allonby over this.’ She did not add that Tom probably would not care about her having to resign from the committee anyway, now that she had finally rebuffed his attentions.
‘He’s a crafty one, this Stephen Latchford,’ Mo said, thoughtfully. ‘He’s completely turned the situation around, making himself into the victim, instead of you. Properly, they ought to be looking at it the other way, or at least in a neutral way, because if he is pestering you, then it’s him who should be penalized, not you.’