Frances felt her cheeks start to burn. She could hardly hum him a tune, and the three o’clock theory that had looked so good had fizzled out in an 8 a.m. check.
‘What did you get out of them, then?’ he prompted. ‘I mean, before they started trying to kill themselves?’
‘Well, I’m afraid it looks very much as if they’re both in the clear.’
‘In the clear?’ Coppins’s bellow was given resonance by a mixture of rage and anguish. ‘After all that, they’re both in the clear?’
‘They didn’t realize — they each thought the other had done it, so inevitably they reacted oddly. We’ll have to check it through, of course, but unless they’re both astonishing actors…’
She ran down. Coppins, pursing his lips, was absorbing the bad news.
‘OK, OK. But I wasted a day checking out the London end, which is stone dead. So you’re in the driving seat — what’s our lead?’
‘Well – more statements, sir. The new information from the Daleys may turn up something fresh. Then question people more thoroughly, concentrating on the village families this time…’
His second bellow was even louder than the first. ‘That’s not a lead, sergeant! That’s a—’
He was cut short by the ringing of the telephone on his desk. ‘Coppins,’ he said, still looking daggers at her, then, ‘For you.’
Frances took it, with a silent prayer that at this crucial juncture in her police career, Poppy had not been inspired to call her with some domestic complaint. But it was Maxwell Tilson’s voice that spoke in her ear.
‘Martha Bateman,’ he said, without preamble.
‘Martha Bateman?’ Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Coppins’s face brighten.
‘Everything points to Martha. She’s cock of the walk in the village, and she and Jane are old enemies, which in many ways makes them closer than friends. Reading between the lines, I would lay you a tidy wager that she knows what’s going on.’
‘She’s high on my list of people to see today anyway, so I’ll move on that at once. But are you saying she would be capable of actual murder?’
‘Capable? Oh, most certainly. I can see Martha with the cushion in her hand and not a moment’s compunction, On the other hand, too many people know something, and Martha, I assure you, would never give anything away.’
‘Might they merely suspect, and be shielding her?’
‘The suggestion, I suppose, is possible. Talk to her anyway, and see what comes of it.’
‘I’ll do that. Thanks. You’ve been more than helpful.’
‘Rebus in arduis, my dear, remember. Good luck.’
‘Well?’ Coppins pounced hopefully.
‘Maxwell Tilson thinks Mrs Bateman might know something she’s not telling.’
‘Bateman? She’s that hatchet-faced cleaning-woman, yes? Looks at us as if we were the sort of thing you find in the bottom of a water-barrel. Now, her I like. Just the type to be obsessional— sees the village as her patch, takes out anyone who threatens it—’
‘Tilson seems doubtful.’
‘They all want it to be the tramp in the bushes. But let’s keep in mind, Frances, that it has to be someone. Soon would be nice. Soon would be very nice. So get to it, will you? I’ll be down later in the day, but I’ve got a meeting here first, if you need to make contact. To tell me you’ve made an arrest, or anything like that.’
‘Yes, sir.’ At least she was Frances again, but his determined optimism depressed her even more than she was depressed already.
The phone rang again as she left the room. As she shut the door, she could hear him saying earnestly, ‘Well sir, I’m not denying we’ve had a few problems, and it would certainly be premature to say more at this stage, but we have developed an active and promising line of enquiry...’
*
Frances always thought better in the car, where there were no interruptions and the actions required were purely mechanical. She followed the now-familiar road to Radnesfield without conscious thought.
The original list of suspects was looking increasingly ragged. Jack and Sandra: theoretically, they might have staged the whole thing, but in fact, she believed them. Edward: well-alibied for Neville’s death at least by a watchmaker, then a vicar, so try arguing that one in court. George Wagstaff: more likely, in her estimation, to settle the matter with his fists, like his daughter, but no hard alibi for either murder, so he had to be considered along with Chris Dyer and Peter Farrell — haunted by who knew what demons... Well, perhaps it was time to widen the net.
She had noted the people Daley had fingered as being involved in the demonstration against Fielding, and they too were on her list of interviews today. Though none of them had been invited to the fatal party, it was no secret that it was taking place: Perhaps Neville’s murderer had, after all, thought he had the chance to silence Helena. Or had he known earlier about Lilian’s new threat to Radnesfield?
Could it even be a conspiracy? It was hard to imagine, unless it were the tacit conspiracy of silence. Yet even in the cold light of day she could not shake her conviction that the heart of this community was the core of evil.
Martha Bateman, now. She was as near to being that heart as anyone, and within it a powerful and ruthless woman...
Martha, the crazed killer. But as she played with the idea, the image that came to mind, more chillingly, was of an executioner, inexorable but just.
Just! That was it. There was a sort of cold, puritanical rectitude about the woman, an adherence to rigid principle, which was not normally characteristic of a killer. The snag was that here they had a different vernacular of morality, and Martha’s ideas of justice might be rooted in tenth- rather than twentieth-century principles.
Reaching Radnesfield, she turned the car once more into the Four Feathers forecourt to check in at the trailer before she went across to the Red House to see Mrs Bateman.
The young WPC was alone, sorting out files. She had a round pleasant face, but today she was looking subdued.
‘Anything come in, Sue?’
‘Chance would be a fine thing. They’re all out there asking questions, but you’d need lighted matches under the fingernails here to get an answer to “What’s the time?” It’s getting to me, I can tell you.’
Frances laughed. ‘You’re not taken with Radnesfield, then?’
The girl shuddered. ‘They don’t live in this century, this lot. Andy Smith saw one garden with beehives, all hung round with black streamers. They told him it was because the bees knew there was death about — gives you the shivers, doesn’t it?’
‘It does, a bit. Well, I’m just on my way to interview another of Radnesfield’s attractions — Martha Bateman. Do you know her?’
‘Oh, we all know Martha. Three constables have tried asking her questions, and she’s chewed them up and spat out the bones. She passed here just a few minutes ago.’
‘On her way to the Red House?’
‘No, the other direction. Going home, I think.’
‘That’s lucky. I didn’t fancy interviewing her at the Red House with Edward Radley supervising. If I’m not back in an hour, send them with a shovel to scrape me off the carpet.’
*
It was niggling anxiety which forced its way at last into her drugged state in the morning. It emerged first in convoluted, anxious dreams, where obstacle after crazy obstacle was put in her way. Moaning and muttering, she struggled to break free; several times, the drowsy undertow dragged her back, but at last she forced her eyes open.
The red figures of the digital clock glowed in the darkened room. Nine thirty-four, they said.
Lord, she felt terrible! Her eyes were trying to close again, her head was muzzy, and her tongue seemed thick and swollen. She rolled herself out of bed and groped her way to the bathroom.
Water helped: greedily, she gulped a glassful, then went to stand under a lukewarm shower.
Stephie, that was the thought that had brought her to the surface.
Stephanie had been upset last night, but Edward had dealt with it, which was just as well, since she couldn’t have moved if the bed had gone on fire. She must sort things out properly before she let her go back to school.
She shied away from the problem of Edward. They had both been overwrought last night; they weren’t in the habit of losing their tempers, and they had no practice in coping with the results. She tried to tell herself that perhaps, after all, some sort of compromise would be possible once they talked it through calmly. Things often looked better in the morning.
It was only when she opened her bedroom door that she realized how quiet the house was. Usually by this time Mrs Bateman was pushing a hoover round, clattering plates and slamming doors.
Stephanie would still be asleep, of course, after taking a pill. She wouldn’t disturb her, at least until she had had the chance to talk to Edward, who would be downstairs. He never slept late in the morning, however tired he might be.
Sure enough, he was sitting at the breakfast table in the kitchen, presenting a pleasantly domestic picture with a newspaper in his hands. He smiled up at her.
‘Now, I thought you might have slept later.’ He looked strained and weary still, but sounded determinedly cheerful. ‘I even told Martha not to come in, so that she wouldn’t wake you — I don’t think she knows how to work quietly. Let me make some fresh coffee.’
‘Yes, please. It might make me feel rather more as if my head belongs to me. In fact, I woke up worrying about Stephanie. I didn’t dream it, did I, that you came in and said she was upset last night?’
A frown crossed his face. ‘No, you didn’t,’ he said slowly. ‘Actually, I was sorry you were so dopey — I’d hoped you might still be awake enough to talk some sense into her.’
Helena stiffened. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well —’ Edward was fiddling with coffee and kettle, as if he found it hard to go on. ‘It’s awfully stupid, really — you know how irrational they can be at that age, and Stephie’s shaken anyway — but she seemed to have gone back to that idiotic notion about Neville, when she was convinced you had done it—’
‘Oh, no! Surely she can’t — and Lilian? What about Lilian?’
‘Yes, Lilian too, that was the thing. She had worked herself up into such a state that she just wasn’t prepared to listen to reason. I talked to her, of course — scolded her, really, for being so silly, but in the end the best thing seemed to be just to give her the sedative and leave her till the morning.’
‘I must go up to her — explain—’ She was on her feet, but Edward gently urged her back into her chair.
‘Leave her to have her sleep out. She was wildly over-wrought, and she’s much more likely to get things back into perspective once she’s properly rested. Drink some coffee at least, and then you’ll be better able to cope yourself. There’s no point going up in an agitated state and upsetting her all over again.’
It was sensible advice, but twenty minutes later she could bear it no longer.
‘I’m going up.’ She sprang to her feet, taking Edward by surprise, but as she hurried up the stairs she heard him come out of the kitchen behind her.
There was no answer when she tapped on the door; calling, ‘Stephie!’ softly, she opened it.
The darkened room was in its usual state of frantic disorder, and Stephanie was only a mass of tangled black hair on the pillow. She did not move as her mother came in, but Helena could no longer contain her anxiety.
‘Stephanie,’ she said, touching the girl’s shoulder, then shaking it a little when there was no response.
It was as she bent towards her sleeping daughter that the small brown bottle, with the rest of the clutter on the table at the bedside, caught her eye. It was her own bottle of sleeping pills, and it was empty.
Chapter Fourteen
Martha Bateman had never dealt in uncertainties. Through ancestral osmosis, she had always been sure how the Old Ones would have thought, and the principles, until now, had been clear. But her lips were pleated into a thin line as she let herself into her cold, quiet, tidy house.
She went into the sitting-room and hovered, looking about her, but there was not so much as a stray speck of lint to pick up from the carpet. What she needed to take her mind off things was to give something a good turn out, but there was nothing to do.
She lifted a cushion which did not need plumping, and shook it vigorously. She turned to pick up another, and, in turning, her eye fell on the photograph on the mantelpiece.
She picked it up, automatically rubbing the already dazzling brass of the cheap frame on the edge of her sleeve, and looked at the picture of the boy with his too-eager smile and bright, unfocused eyes. She gulped, and her eyes went to the only other photograph in the room; the picture of a woman in late middle age, handsome rather than pretty, with strongly-marked brows and a square, definite chin. Her eyes were clear and commanding.
Martha’s gaze dropped. ‘I can’t,’ she muttered. ‘You made me promise, but I got to break it — I got to!’
She jumped at the knock on the door, but when she saw Frances Howarth on the doorstep, her shoulders sagged in a movement that almost suggested relief.
‘Mrs Bateman, I know you’ve spoken to the police already, but I think it’s time you and I had a talk.’
The woman did not make the sharp rejoinder Frances had expected. She stood aside, saying only, ‘You’d best come in then, since you’re here.’
Frances followed her through into the neat living-room: her quick eyes noticed the picture of the boy, laid flat on the table as if it had just been set down.
‘Your son?’ She picked up the photograph.
‘He were.’ It was almost snatched from her hands, set up again on the mantelpiece in its accustomed place.
‘I’m sorry.’
Martha sneered, openly. ‘That’s the right thing to say, isn’t it? Don’t mean much.’
‘I didn’t know your son, obviously, but I’m sorry for anyone who has that particular grief.’
Martha looked away, and the aggression went out of her; she turned, saying, as if to herself, ‘Better off where he is,’ and Frances, looking again, saw with renewed pity the tell-tale signs of retardation. But she had to go on.
With a confidence she was far from feeling, she perched on the unyielding edge of the moquette sofa: after a moment’s pause, Martha sat down on an upright chair as far from her inquisitor as possible.
‘Well?’ she said provocatively, ‘Aren’t you going to start asking me them questions?’
‘It would probably be better to say I just want you to talk to me. I’m a foreigner here, and it’s becoming plain that we need answers to questions we don’t know to ask. But you know, Mrs Bateman — you know, but you’ve chosen not to tell anyone.’
The other woman became visibly agitated. ‘I’m — I’m sure I don’t know what you mean…’
Frances, though she did not show it, was surprised. She had expected cold hostility; she had found, instead, a troubled woman, and these she had dealt with before.
Her tone had been authoritative. Now she sat back, sounding relaxed, almost casual.
‘Oh, I’m not asking you for a statement, or taking notes. It’s just an informal chat. And I’m not in a hurry. I can sit here all day, until you feel like talking.’
‘You’ll do no such thing!’ She was definitely shaken.
‘No? Are you going out?’
‘My husband — comes home for his dinner, he does; won’t be best pleased to find you’ve forced your way in here.’
‘Then wouldn’t it be better to talk to me now, so that I can leave you with plenty of time to get his meal ready?’
Martha glared at the voice of sweet reason and closed her mouth as if it would never open again. The silence prolonged itself and became oppressive.
Unused to this weapon, Martha’s nerve broke. Jumping to her feet, she exclaimed, ‘Oh, let’s have done with this here nonsense. I don’t know what you want,
that I don’t.’
‘Tell me about the woman in the picture.’ Using the silence, Frances had noted that this was the only other photograph in the room, and that it had a handsome leather presentation case.
Martha took it up, as if to remove it from the desecration of her gaze. ‘Mrs Radley, that is. My Mrs Radley — not that other woman.’
‘Not Mrs Helena Radley, you mean? You don’t approve of her?’
Martha sniffed. ‘Nothing special wrong with her, except she were another man’s wife, to my way of thinking. Nothing good comes of that sort of thing, and so I told him. Anyway, she said he shouldn’t marry – that I told him too. But he were beyond all by then, paying no heed—’
‘She? The late Mrs Radley?’
‘She were a saint, with all she had to put up with, a saint and a wise woman. Owed her everything, I did, would have done anything for her, anything she asked. And now—’
Her voice shook, and she stopped. Resisting the temptation to prompt her to finish the sentence, Frances said gently, ‘You must have been very fond of her.’
Martha looked down at the picture. ‘She were kind—’ She faltered again.
‘Tell me what happened, Martha.’ The detective’s voice was melodious, warm, insistent.
There were tears on the woman’s cheeks; she stood silent for a moment, then, pulling out a pristine man’s handkerchief, mopped her eyes and blew her nose, savagely. She sat down again on the chair, her spine so erect that it did not touch the chairback.
‘All right,’ she said harshly. ‘Maybe she’d have wanted it, at that.’ She sat with the photograph cradled in her roughened hands as if it were a talisman.
‘I were fifteen when I went into service up at the House, fifteen and never been a night over the doorstep. But my pa died, and my ma, she had my sister to help her with the young ‘uns then, and if the wages wasn’t much, I got my keep anyways.
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