by MARY HOCKING
‘Gordon Blue,’ Colin said.
Nancy said, ‘What would you do with him?’
Nancy’s mother poked at the food fastidiously. ‘It’s not nice, that sort of thing happening where you live. And Picton’s Quay is a long way from anywhere if anything was to go wrong. . . .’
‘Whatever could go wrong!’ Nancy laughed.
‘They’ve closed the railway, and there’s no bus after six. . . .’
‘Darling, we have a car! Hannah! This is quite superb. Some nice man somewhere is just waiting for you. You have so much to offer. We’ve just been saying. Mother and I, how much you have to offer.’
She was usually a little more subtle than this. Hannah wondered why she was so disturbed. Later, she found out. While they were stacking dishes, Nancy said, ‘Mother doesn’t know about this, but it’s just possible we might have to make a move, something to do with Colin’s job. This wretched business has come just at the wrong time for us. People are so funny, you never know what’s going to put them off buying property.’
Colin came out and said, ‘Is this private or can anyone join in?’
‘I was just having a word with Hannah.’
‘Well, when you’ve finished, I think your Mama is rather anxious to depart. She’s afraid Jack the Ripper will be stalking the streets of Picton’s Quay if we leave it any longer.’
Hannah thought of what Nancy had said about Neil while she did the washing-up. When she first went to work for him, Hannah had found him very attractive, but as she saw more of him he had lost some of his appeal for her. Perhaps Nancy was right about his being immature, but it was his vanity which had marred him in Hannah’s eyes. His reaction to some of her jokes had gradually made her aware of his vanity: one had to be careful when one joked with Neil, familiarity was not permitted. Even his modesty was a form of vanity. He would never thrust himself forward, others must come to him; but they musn’t venture too close, that would be familiar. Once his spell had been broken, however, far from being safe, she had begun to feel more involved with him; just as in the fairy stories, there was a penalty for seeing too much. She had a responsibility for him. She had felt this very strongly today. Cope’s illness had distressed him more than seemed reasonable. How much did he depend on Cope? Was it possible he was in love with him? It would not have surprised her to discover that Moray was a little ambivalent sexually; but she could not fit Rodney Cope into this picture. These, and other speculations, helped to relieve the tedium of washing-up. When she had finished, and had tidied the sitting-room, she went into her bedroom and opened the window.
It was a warm night; the air was still and petrol fumes hung on it. She could hear men shouting outside a nearby pub, a heavy vehicle changing gear on Station Hill, the caterwauling of a police siren. She thought about Lomax. He had seemed a gentle, thoughtful person when she first knew him, but he had not attracted her sexually. Now that she was becoming aroused by him, she was no longer sure that he was gentle; in fact, she was not sure of anything about him. As always, loving was a step in the dark. She was not too dismayed by the prospect.
In his flat, Neil Moray was writing. He was feeling better. There is no surer cure for despair than action. ‘. . . at the time when I made these statements, I was unaware. . . .’ In ten days’ time he was to address the Chamber of Commerce, and he had decided to make this the occasion for a full statement of his position with regard to the West Front development. It was going to be hard for him, this was an audience which would not applaud what he had to say, and some harsh judgements would be made. But he needed to do something hard.
He did not finish until three in the morning, but he slept more peacefully after that than at any time since his interview with Heffernan. It was almost as though, at that interview, Heffernan had taken possession of a part of him. Now, he had freed himself.
Chapter Twelve
It was obvious from the pathologist’s report that the inquest would be adjourned. Enough had been said by then to convince most of the people in the village hall that Pauline Ormerod was a ‘load of old rubbish’ – words actually used by the woman sitting next to William Lomax. One of the people who had helped to create this impression was the neighbour who had given information as to how Pauline spent her last few days.
‘In bed, with a bottle of whisky, no doubt.’
‘This isn’t an occasion for speculation,’ the coroner rebuked her.
‘I had to go into her house on the Tuesday. We are having North Sea Gas installed, and the equipment for my stove was left at her house by mistake. She was in her nightdress when she opened the front door, and reeking of whisky. That was three in the afternoon. I don’t know if you call that speculation.’ She was a lady of the old Imperial school with a crisp, commanding voice and assured bearing. Although she had no time for Pauline Ormerod, she was not malicious; she was simply speaking the truth and saw no reason why she should soften it. The coroner was not quite sure how to handle her.
‘You were not on good terms with Mrs. Ormerod?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she agreed. ‘I was not. Geoffrey Ormerod is a friend of mine.’ Her tone made it clear that no one who was friendly with Geoffrey Ormerod could do other than deplore his wife.
A similar impression, no less damaging for being conveyed with a show of reticence, was given by the Ormerods’ doctor. He acknowledged that Mrs. Ormerod was a patient of his with brisk disdain. She suffered from bouts of depression and he had prescribed and-depressants. She had not been to him recently. He could not comment on her drinking habits.
Identification was made by Mrs. Ormerod’s brother. He had not seen much of his sister over the past few years and was unable to give any information about her activities. It was three months since they had last met and on that occasion they had had a disagreement over money. He did not seem to approve of her any more than her husband’s friends had done.
The only person who appeared to be upset was the man in charge of the dredger who had discovered the body. He kept saying that it was a terrible thing to have happened; although the coroner pointed out that Mrs. Ormerod had undoubtedly been dead for some time before her remains came in contact with the machine, this did not comfort him. It was plain that he irritated the coroner. Lomax thought he was the only witness to display any human feeling.
The police evidence was mainly negative. No information was as yet available to explain why Mrs. Ormerod had gone to Picton’s Quay that night. The house had been searched and had revealed a state of affairs which, while it had shocked the impeccable young constable who gave evidence (clothes strewn around, dirty bath, a number of half-empty spirit bottles in the bedroom and six full bottles of milk in the porch) had thrown no light on Pauline Ormerod’s plans for the evening. Her car had been found on the outskirts of Picton’s Quay on the morning of Thursday, 19th June; the tank was empty. No one in the village had seen her or noticed the car. The rain had caused a lot of damage and for once in a way the villagers were absorbed in their own affairs to the exclusion of all else.
The pathologist gave evidence that death was due to strangulation.
‘A woman like that asks to be killed,’ the woman sitting next to Lomax said when it was all over. ‘Did you know her?’ he asked.
‘I know of her. Lord Piers Plummer’s daughter, she was.’ She spoke as though the name itself was sufficient proof of depravity. ‘My sister used to be in service with Lord Piers Plummer. She said for all her lovely face, that girl never washed her neck, you could see the tide mark.’
On his way out, Lomax encountered the Ormerods’ solicitor. Harold Slater took him by the arm. ‘Now what brings you here. Will?’ It was more than a casual inquiry.
‘I have a personal interest.’
Slater gave the high-pitched laugh which was his invariable way of expressing exasperation. ‘What a provoking person you are! How could you possibly have a personal interest in Pauline Ormerod? Now, look here. Will. . . .’ They had come out into the village street; S
later halted Lomax, pushing him back against the rough stone wall surrounding the church, rather in the manner of a bad man giving the sheriff a warning, Lomax thought, except that neither was built for violent action. ‘I hope you aren’t going to make a lot of this. Ormerod has been pilloried enough by you fellows as it is.’
‘I haven’t pilloried Ormerod. Why wasn’t he here, by the way?’
‘His doctor advised that the strain might be too much for him. He’s had a bad time, so leave him alone, like a good chap, will you?’
Lomax rested his arm on the wall which was already hot from the sun. ‘Pauline Ormerod came to see me on the night of the election. . .’
‘She was always going to see people,’ Slater interrupted. ‘She wasn’t in control of herself. She came to see me a week or so ago. She’d been drinking, I had to ask her to leave. I hope you had the sense to do the same thing.’
‘She had some story. . . .’
‘For goodness sake. Will! You fellows are quite unprincipled. The woman was a complete neurotic, you know that as well as I do; but for the sake of a story you’d take the word of a raving lunatic as the sober truth! The trouble with journalists is that they have no code of conduct. You won’t mind my saying it, I know.’ He gave Lomax a glassy smile. ‘We’ve known each other a long time.’
‘We have indeed,’ Lomax said indifferently. ‘Pauline Ormerod came to me to tell me something about that burglary. . . .’
‘Burglary!’ Slater laughed more shrilly than ever; his eyes were unwinking as those of a china doll. ‘Come now, you’re not as naïve as that!’
‘Are you suggesting. . . .’
‘I’m not suggesting anything at all. And if you’re wise, you won’t make any suggestions either. One way to land yourself in real trouble would be to follow up anything that woman may have said. I wouldn’t like to see you in trouble. Will. Aaah!’ He suddenly stretched out a hand and stood on tiptoe; Lomax wondered whether he was going to levitate, but it turned out he was attracting the attention of Inspector Braithwaite, who was about to enter The White Hart. The inspector waited without any show of enthusiasm while Slater scampered across the road to join him.
Lomax remained by the church wall, feeling tired and uncertain whether to return to the office or have a drink at The White Hart. The decision seemed to be one of great importance, it weighed him down. He went into the church to wrestle with it.
All his life he had been unduly moved by defeat. Automatically, and often unreasonably, he was on the side of the country over which battles must be fought for the greater good of the greater number, on the side of the villagers who must leave their homes so that the long-needed reservoir can be provided, on the side of those who choose to sleep under the arches or on the beaches, on the side of the squatter, the gypsy, the prisoner at the bar. There was nothing necessarily good or even praiseworthy in this attitude, the world would not be a better place because there were a few like him who lined up with the losers. But he was as he was, and in his way he had been true to himself.
Fine, fine! Good rousing journalism, Todd would be proud of him! And what did it amount to in practical terms? What was his reaction when he was presented with one human being in trouble? He had not raised a finger to help her. Why? Well, he had just heard why, hadn’t he? The neighbour, the doctor, the woman who sat next to him, had expressed it clearly and unequivocally. She was neurotic and she had been drinking. What was more, she had been biting her nails. No one had thought to mention that to the coroner.
The vicar came out of the vestry and said apologetically as he hurried down the aisle, ‘Don’t let me disturb you, please; you are welcome to stay.’ He gave Lomax a rather hunted look, as though afraid he might want something more positive than a few moments’ peace. Lomax recalled that he was a keen bird-watcher, people said he preferred birds to people.
The vicar opened the door quietly and made his escape. It was dark and peaceful again. The church was small and smelt of old age; it was a good place in which to meditate. Lomax meditated, not on God, but on his servant William Lomax. Ever since his wife had left him he had been living well within his limits, emotionally and intellectually. Discretion does more than age to dim our senses. He said, ‘God deliver me from discretion.’ He could not think of anything else to say, so he left the church, pausing at the door to put ten pence in the box labelled ‘repairs to the fabric’.
By the time he got back to Scotney it was nearly two o’clock and he was hungry. He parked his car near the clock tower, and went into the nearest eating place, which was a snack bar with dark mock-leather seats and the dull pink lighting he associated with the heyday of the cinema; piped music did little to enliven the atmosphere. Inspector Braithwaite was sitting alone at a table by the window.
‘I thought you were lunching with Slater,’ Lomax said as he sat opposite the inspector.
‘You can’t have thought anything as silly as that. I had a half¬pint and told him I had to get back to the station in a hurry.’ Braithwaite probed suspiciously at a hamburger and stretched for a bottle of tomato ketchup. ‘What did you say to upset him so much?’
‘I told him that Pauline Ormerod came to see me on the night of the election.’
‘I wish people would attend to their own jobs and leave me to do mine.’ Braithwaite’s superior was suspended, there was a rumour that other officers might be implicated, Braithwaite had had his fill of scandal; the only kind of job he would be happy with at present was looking for stolen bicycles. But having so recently decided to eschew discretion, Lomax could not consider Braithwaite’s feelings. He said:
‘She told me that she had had an affair with Moray’s campaign manager, Rodney Cope, and that he had been responsible for the break-in when those documents were taken.’
Braithwaite smeared tomato ketchup liberally over the remainder of the chips and said, ‘And you believed her?’
‘I can’t be sure.’ The waitress came and Lomax ordered Cheddar cheese and French bread. When she had gone, he went on, ‘I believed she had had an affair with Rodney Cope. I wasn’t sure about the burglary.’
‘Been drinking, had she?’ Braithwaite’s face was expressionless, not for nothing was he known as Stonewall Jack.
‘She knew what she was saying.’
‘She went around the place saying things and making scenes according to Slater; he said he had to throw her out of his place only ten days ago.’
‘You’ll have to steel yourself to collect some evidence, won’t you?’ Lomax asked mildly.
Braithwaite pushed his plate to one side and ladled sugar into his coffee. ‘This is evidence you’re offering me, is it?’
‘I am offering a statement made to me by the deceased which seems at least as relevant as anything said at the inquest today.’
‘Taken you a long time to do anything about it, hasn’t it?’
‘I’m afraid it has. But I didn’t know she was going to be killed.’
‘Now wait a minute, wait a minute!’ Braithwaite slopped coffee onto the table and screwed up a paper napkin to dab at it before it trickled off the edge onto his trousers. ‘What’s got into you, man? Are you trying to run a new scandal every month? You got circulation problems, or something?’
The waitress came with a thin paring of cheese and sliced bread. Braithwaite stirred his coffee more cautiously. ‘I’ve got enough trouble with the Ormerod affair still rumbling on. Now you want to start something that’s going to upset all the people who kept clear of that! It’s all very well for you to play around; but Moray and Ormerod have powerful people behind them, and if I make a false move and fall on my face, you won’t be there to give me a helping hand. You’ll be the first to put the boot in.’
‘Who is the powerful person behind Moray?’ Lomax asked. ‘You know the talk as well as I do.’
Lomax ate a piece of bread; he was saving the cheese until last. ‘Why do you think Mrs. Ormerod went to Picton’s Quay?’
‘You never give up, do you?
’
‘She must have had a reason for going. It’s not the kind of place one gets a sudden urge to visit on a wet night!’
‘Maybe she did have a reason. We’ve got reports of a fellow who was hanging about the area in the last few days. . .’
‘Long hair and a beard?’
‘Look, Will, anyone mentions long hair and a beard and I’m automatically suspicious, particularly if they’ve been sleeping rough and are of no fixed abode. Right? While you automatically assume innocence. Right?’
‘I’d want a bit more information before I assumed anything.’
‘So would I, so would I. But I guarantee I’d be proved right more often than you. I take a good look at people; you just look at your navel and think about your principles.’ Obviously recognising a good exit line, he hailed the waitress as she passed and demanded his bill. ‘As for what you’ve told me, I’ll look into it. But I’ll need something more to go on than Mrs. Ormerod’s unsupported statements. You heard what people thought about her at the inquest, and those were people who knew her. But if you come up with any real evidence, you know where to find me.’
Lomax wondered what Slater had said to him over their drink at The White Hart. It was rumoured that other influential people beside Ormerod had been holding their breath at the time the disclosures were made. If there was one thing all parties seemed agreed on, it was that, for better or worse, the Ormerod file should now be closed.
When he had paid his bill, Lomax walked along the promenade before going into his office. The tide was on the ebb, there was a smell of damp sand and seaweed; under the pier, children were waiting for donkey rides. The heat was beginning to build up; Archie Maxwell, Scotney’s amateur weather man, said it was going to be a record summer.
Chapter Thirteen