‘Well, this is interesting.’ Flora took a deep breath and turned it over in her mind. She tried to visualise the austere Mrs Trevor and the flashy Mr Rice in an illicit embrace and found her imagination failed.
‘Do you think she’s the type? I can’t see her appealing to him. She always seems so abrupt and business-like.’
‘She’s not that bad looking,’ said Paula judicially. ‘She can’t be much more than forty. She was young when she married. Do you remember that old Humphrey Bogart film? Dave and I were watching it the other night. Humphry goes into this book shop and the assistant is a very plain looking girl, wearing rather heavy glasses. She pulls down the blind and puts up the “closed” notice, then she loosens her hair and takes off her glasses and Bogart says: “Hello!”’
Paula’s mimicry was excellent and Flora smiled. Paula was a great actress. She did remember the film. With a pang she remembered John and herself watching it also. It was one of their old favourites. She took another gulp of coffee and said, as she always said to Paula, ‘You’re probably right.’
‘I know I’m right,’ said Paula. ‘Think of Mrs Trevor with her glasses off, those big blue eyes … and her lovely blonde hair, not screwed up in that bun behind her head, but nice and loose and floaty like Rosie’s — she could have been a very pretty woman. It was just her manner that put people off.’
Flora was silent for a moment, feeling herself becoming a bit sorry for Mrs Trevor. Not a great life, deserted by her husband, left with two little girls, one with great problems. But then the thought of Rosie made her pull herself together, she took another swig from the strong, black coffee and said, ‘I wonder how I could have a chat with Mr Price?’
‘I’m going there tonight. It’s Joanne Price’s turn to host the book discussion group. We’re looking for another person as someone dropped out last month. We’re discussing The Catcher in the Rye — I’m sure that you know that. Would you like to come? Michael Rice usually makes an appearance at some stage during the evening.’
It was a long time since Flora had been in Frogshall. When Michael Rice had first bought it when he was doing so well on the stock market, he had asked a lot of village people there for a New Year’s Eve party and she had gone along. John had been still alive then and he, as a hard-working, conscientious test engineer, couldn’t abide the brash, ostentatious, moneyed Mr Rice, so they only stayed for about half an hour.
She was surprised to see the place again. It hadn’t changed, but that was the point. Nothing was new and everything that had been new seven years ago was now beginning to show its age; Thatcher’s England, it appeared, hadn’t done so well for Michael Rice as he had probably hoped for. He had managed to hang on through the stock market crash, but it looked as if it were only by the tips of his fingernails that he still clung there.
He greeted her with a flattering amount of attention, making several loud remarks about how the standard of literary discussion would be going up this evening.
‘I wonder could I have quick word with you some time?’ she asked respectfully. ‘An elderly aunt of mine has just died up in Halifax, leaving me her house, and I am wondering whether to sell and invest or else to retain it and rent.’
‘I’d be delighted,’ he said expansively. ‘I’ll find a few brochures and pamphlets for you and we can have a quick chat after you ladies have discussed the book. I’ll be in my study, if by any chance I don’t hear when you all finish.’
‘I didn’t know that you had an aunt in Halifax,’ murmured Paula as Mrs Rice went off to open the door to some more of the members of the literary circle.
‘I don’t, but I’ve always thought Halifax sounded the right sort of place to have an aunt.’ Flora made the remark in a low voice, her eyes on young Benjamin who, just outside the sitting room window, was on the point of getting into a red sports car. The well-raked gravel of the past was now quite patchy, dotted with weeds and just behind where the red car was parked, it showed large troughs where wheels had churned it up. No gardener to rake the gravel these days. It would, of course, be beneath Benjamin to rake it himself! Spoiled, the village had said when he got that car for his eighteenth birthday. That job that he had in a BMW showrooms didn’t pay much; and he seemed to only drop in there a few times in the week, so the village gossip related. In fairness, though, the late eighties and early nineties were bad times for real jobs. Most of them, even the university graduates, seemed to go on the dole or else get some sort of false jobs, created by Social Security. That sort of thing was not, of course, for the boy that his clever classmate had nicknamed ‘Toad’. All he seemed to do these days was to drive around in his flashy car, usually with some girl beside him. Still, he had a kind heart; he must have had to take Rosie out in his car, she thought as she delved into her memories of The Catcher in the Rye. Surely she could make a few wise remarks about the growing-up process and the struggles of young men as they turned from boys into responsible citizens.
To Flora’s relief, very little of the evening was spent in discussion of the book, which she only faintly remembered. After a few perfunctory remarks, a few choruses of ‘Oh, I liked that bit, too’, the conversation turned to village affairs and everyone embarked upon a thorough discussion of Mrs Trevor’s murder. The boys from the Home were immediately pinpointed and various anecdotes told of their doings and of sightings of them late at night, ‘lurking’, put in Mrs Barrows and was so pleased with that word that she repeated it a few times, reminding Flora of her favourite Georgette Heyer book, The Talisman Ring, where the Bow Street Runners had hit upon that word as an excuse for lack of action.
‘And, of course, there was her pearl necklace,’ said Paula, keeping up the discussion, thought Flora, by starting a new hare. And one that will run and run, she thought and sat back waiting for accounts of where the pearls might have been kept, of when Mrs Trevor had worn them in village affairs, of how one of the boys from the Home might have seen, might have heard of these pearls, and last and most interesting, of how much those pearls were worth. Opinions were still divided as to how many were in the string, when Mr Barrows came to collect Mrs Barrows and then the meeting broke up.
‘I’ll just pop in and see your husband,’ said Flora to her hostess. She could see by Paula’s face that she wanted to wait for her, but Flora ignored that. It would, she thought, be impolite to make an arrangement for coffee or tea seeing as they had all been so well fed at the Rice household. She said a general goodbye and was interested to hear, as Mrs Rice escorted her down a passageway, that the assembled company had not departed, but were now discussing her and her involvement with Rosie. She shut the door and faced her hostess’s stockbroker husband. She would have to be clever to get a word in edgewise, she thought, as the flow of words broke over her.
‘Found a number of things for you, Mrs Morgan, rock solid companies, all of them. And if you’d trust me to handle the matter, then I’d be sure to get you a good deal for your investment. Now just let me explain a few matters to you...’
Do these people learn to talk like this? Flora thought, as she listened politely. You got the same thing, of course, in education circles. When she retired, a whole new vocabulary was growing up, with a whole new batch of people for whom remedial departments were now renamed as departments for human potential and were staffed by people with management degrees instead of people experienced in the teaching of reading, spelling and of basic arithmetic. No doubt Mr Rice knew what he was talking about, but no doubt he was also doing his best to make the whole matter as obscure as he possibly could.
‘I don’t want you to go to too much trouble, Mr Rice,’ she said, jumping into a gap in the flow of words, as he reached into his desk for yet another pamphlet. ‘You see I haven’t quite decided what I would spend this money on as yet. I might go on a cruise, have a really decent, luxurious holiday. And then there is Simon. He’s very keen to have a car. I’d like your advice on that. You see, I was thinking of buying a second-hand car for Simon, but then I t
hought, what about buying him a new car that he would be proud of and that he would be careful with.’ She eyed him closely as she continued, blandly. ‘You know what young men are like. I’m afraid of him drinking and then driving home. Being involved in an accident. He might knock someone down, some poor pedestrian, one night on a dark road, just like poor Mr Sinclair and his dog. God forbid!’ she added. It was not an expression that she would commonly use, but it seemed to fit the occasion. She sat back and looked at him.
His colour had deepened and there was a tough look in his eyes. She remembered her husband John’s disdain for the very moneyed Mr Rice. East End barrow boys, that’s what those stockbrokers are, one and all. Tough barrow boys.
This particular stockbroker had an ugly look in his eye. She had seen enough to know that her guess was true. Now she looked back again at the pamphlets.
‘On the other hand,’ she said drawing the words out, ‘it might be more sensible to spend the legacy on ensuring the future.’ She got up, smiling slightly at him. ‘I’m so grateful to you for sparing me this time and giving me the advantage of your experience and your expertise,’ she said, making the words sound quite formal and almost headmistress-like. There was a look in his eye that she did not like and she was glad to get back to the hall where Joanne Rice was still chatting to Paula about Mrs Trevor’s pearl necklace.
Chapter 10
Next morning, Flora woke to the sound of the phone ringing at her bedside. Simon, she thought, and her heart missed a beat. He had not come home last night even though she had waited up until midnight. She fumbled for the phone and managed to get it to her ear.
‘Sorry to disturb you so early in the morning.’ Sergeant Dawkins’ voice was brisk. Flora cast a quick, guilty look at the clock beside the telephone. Eight o’clock. A year ago, she would have been already at her desk at school. Still, she was retired now and decided not to make any efforts to sound brisk and business-like. Her heart was slowing down now. After all he is nineteen years old, she told herself. There had to come a time when Simon had to take responsibility for himself.
‘I have to go out for a little while and I thought I should inform you before I left that Miss Trevor has now said that she did not kill her mother.’ Sergeant Dawkins’ voice held a weary note.
‘Oh, good.’ Flora heaved a sigh of relief and tried to banish Simon from her thoughts. Perhaps Sergeant Dawkins had done the right thing in refusing bail. A night in the cells had brought Rosie to her senses.
‘I’ll be there in an hour,’ she said and put the phone down quickly before he could raise any objections. She went out to the bathroom and to her relief, heard the sound of snoring from Simon’s bedroom. He’s drinking too heavily, she thought as she ran a bath. No nineteen-year-old should snore like an old man.
It was a very different Rosie who was brought in by the same motherly-looking female officer. This time she was weeping hysterically. The night had been a long one, Flora thought compassionately. The cell had probably been ugly, malodorous and lonely. No one had materialised from the TV and suddenly Rosie was a confused and frightened child.
‘I didn’t kill her, I didn’t kill her.’ She kept on repeating the words. ‘I made a mistake, Mrs Morgan. Make them let me go home.’
The pathos of this was almost unbearable to Flora. Rosie trusted her to solve the problems and there was little that she could do. She felt consumed by a helpless rage. She had to get the child out of this place.
‘Is Sergeant Dawkins here?’ She had been surprised not to see him when she arrived.
‘I understand that he has gone to the airport.’ The female officer hesitated slightly over the answer and delivered it in a low voice. Flora did not press her further. No doubt he had gone to meet Jenny. She was surprised that he had bothered, but then the police station wasn’t too far away from the airport so she supposed he thought it was worth his while; Jenny might have valuable evidence and he wouldn’t want to give her a chance to talk to friends or acquaintances before he had an opportunity to question her.
Flora hesitated. An idea had come to her. She hated to leave Rosie in this distressed state, but she wanted to talk to the solicitor. And there was something else that perhaps she could find out before she left the station. It would probably easier to get it out of this woman than from the self-satisfied Sergeant Dawkins.
‘Rosie, I’ll be back soon.’ Flora hardened her heart and rose resolutely to her feet, as Rosie wailed. Under the cover of the noise, she said quickly to the police officer, ‘Could I have a word with you?’
The woman got up obediently and came to the door with her. Even after she pulled it closed behind her, they could hear the terrified sobbing from inside.
‘I telephoned Sergeant Dawkins yesterday afternoon, and informed him that Mrs Trevor possessed what was generally considered in the neighbourhood to be a valuable pearl necklace,’ Flora said in a low voice. ‘Do you know whether the pearls have been found?’
‘I couldn’t say, Ma’am,’ she said in a police-constable manner.
Flora compressed her lips with annoyance. Rosie’s sobs grew louder. The policewoman’s eyes seemed to grow slightly misty. She cast a worried glance over her shoulder at the door. Strange. She must deal with this sort of thing every day. Still perhaps Rosie was an exception; there was something very child-like and appealing about her, something that was probably not in evidence with the average young criminal.
‘You see,’ Flora said confidingly, ‘I want to go and talk to Rosie’s solicitor and it would be useful to know whether the necklace is missing. I don’t believe Rosie did that terrible thing to her mother; I think she was just looking for attention when she claimed responsibility. I’m wondering now whether it was a straightforward robbery that went wrong. Mrs Trevor was a tough woman who would not let herself be easily robbed by some young criminal…’
Flora’s voice tailed off. She looked at the woman appealingly. The woman constable looked back, her eyes reflective as if trying to assess the questioner. Flora put on her best ‘trust me’ expression. After a moment, the police woman gave a half nod. She scanned the empty corridor carefully before saying in a low voice, ‘As the designated appropriate adult, Ma’am, I should perhaps inform you that I was asked by Sergeant Dawkins to conduct a search of the accused and of her clothing to make sure that no item such as a pearl necklace could have been concealed. Nothing was found.’
Flora nodded. She had got her answer; she wouldn’t push it. Rosie had been searched — and that was an act of desperation if ever there was one — a single pearl, not to mind a whole necklace could not have been concealed anywhere within that floating, almost transparent dress. Clearly the pearl necklace had not been found in the house or grounds.
‘Thank you for informing me, Constable,’ Flora said politely and sped off towards the solicitor’s office. She profoundly hoped that he was there and that he could see her this morning. She wasn’t sure that Rosie could stand too much more of this. When her sister arrived Rosie would be sure that Jenny would sort out matters for her and would be despairing when that didn’t happen.
‘You know, Flora,’ said the solicitor, stretching out his legs and looking like a man who has little to do other than to drink coffee and to chat with visitors, ‘this is a bit of a dilemma. Often when a youngster of low intelligence admits to a crime, we lawyers can imply, if not outright state, that there has been undue pressure, but in this case the girl herself rang up the TV station and admitted to the murder.’
‘She looks like an adult but really she’s such a child,’ Flora said frowning.
‘That’s your view of her. It may not be others’. Depends on the jury,’ said the solicitor cynically. ‘Middle-aged women will see her as a flashy piece of stuff, if you’ll excuse me, and they will think that she didn’t show much affection for her poor mother who did so much for her and was maintaining her in idleness — that dress didn’t look cheap. Remember, instead of having a fit of hysterics when she discovers the
dead body, she calmly goes to the phone, rings her sister’s boyfriend, who, she is clever enough to know, is a TV reporter and announces, as cool as a breeze, that she has just killed her mother.’
‘She lives in a fantasy world,’ Flora said. ‘I remember when we did a play of The Wind in the Willows, and she was the gaoler’s daughter, she insisted on wearing the frilly pinafore that her mother made for the part for weeks after the show. I have a feeling that yesterday she was living in the part of some TV drama that she saw recently. She’s come back to reality today,’ she ended, remembering Rosie’s sobs and frantic denials.
‘Well, we’ll have to do our best.’ He didn’t sound too enthusiastic.
‘But you do believe that she didn’t do it.’ Flora eyed him carefully. He was a nice man, not very forceful, perhaps, though very pleasant. I’m a tough woman, she told herself firmly. I’m not going to entrust Rosie to anyone who is not convinced of her innocence. She wasn’t sure whether it was within her powers to demand another solicitor from legal aid, but being unsure of her ground had never stopped Flora from waging a righteous battle on behalf of those she was helping.
He thought about that for a moment or two, looking quite serious.
‘I know that you will do your best for her,’ Flora said quickly, ‘but I am just interested to know your private opinion here in your office with no witnesses around.’
He took another minute over it. ‘I think she is innocent,’ he said after a long pause. ‘No one can be sure and that is about as far as I am prepared to go.’
‘That’s far enough,’ she said quickly and drew in a deep breath. ‘So,’ she said, ‘if Rosie didn’t do it, someone else must have.’
‘You’re thinking about the pearls.’
‘That’s it,’ she said firmly. ‘I think the pearls are important. That’s really what I came into to talk to you about today. I think we should focus on the pearls. Jenny, the sister, should be there the next time that I see Rosie. I think Jenny will be able to tell us whether the pearls are valuable or not. She’s a clever, astute girl; she would know.’
False Accusations: Nothing to fear if you have nothing to hide... (Willowgrove Village Mystery Book 1) Page 8