Just the echo of my own feet, she told herself.
Strung out in a line behind her were three solitary pedestrians: a boy in jeans, a man in a grey summer suit, and behind him a policeman.
For a moment she hesitated, a memory dragging at her, then she walked on.
She walked quicker and quicker, not wanting any feet to follow her, dreading that they should catch her up.
Tim had had a grey summer suit like that. He’d been wearing it when she had last seen him; might even have been wearing it when he was killed.
She pushed the thought back to the bottom of her mind, and hurried. She could no longer hear anyone behind her.
She ran up the stairs to her front door, there was no one following, she knew that, but she got the door open quickly.
She knew at once he was in there with her.
Not following behind after all, but walking ahead, the footsteps in her mind.
It was not dark in the flat, there was still the light from the long summer evening filtering through. Nevertheless Edwina felt the need for brightness. Quietly she reached out for the light switch. She flicked it down: no light came on.
She stood there, breathing quickly, hanging on to self-control. She had the very strong sense that the person who had been persecuting her was there, with her. Hidden but present. It was that person.
Better to run, out of the door and back down the stairs to safety in the street. She had time to think: how did he get in? Swift as the thought came the answer: the keys hung in the gallery again.
She edged backwards, still keeping her eyes on the sitting-room door. The light from the window beyond seemed to change, as if a figure had moved into position between it and the door.
Edwina turned quickly; a wave of dizziness and nausea hit her. She closed her eyes, and threw out a hand to steady herself.
To her horror another hand took hers in a firm, warm grip. The hand held hers, and she felt the little finger stretch out and stroke her gently.
Then the dizziness rose up uncontrollably and she fell forward into darkness.
But even as she fell she retained enough perception to think: Is this love or hate that’s being directed at me?
Chapter Twelve
Kit said: ‘You can’t live like this.’ He too had been keeping an eye on Edwina.
He was standing in her own sitting room, looking down at her. Janine Grandy was there, with a glass of brandy in her hand. Clever of her to have found the brandy, thought Edwina, dismissing the thought that she might have had it with her. Even people as well organised as Janine did not come supplied with flasks of brandy. Kit knew where it was, of course. How long had she been unconscious? She put up a hand to the back of her head where a bump was to be felt.
‘Not long,’ said Janine, as if she had read her thoughts. ‘At least I don’t think so. I came in with a draft of a chapter that Bee Linker wanted you to read and found you lying here with the door open.’ She did not add the bottom line that Bee Linker, who appeared to have some prescient idea of what would happen, had told her to keep an eye on Edwina, because she was deeply distrustful of Bee’s intentions. Who wanted to be a creature in one of Bee’s dramas? But she and Edwina might have been chosen to be. ‘I think you’d just fainted and you must have hit your head on the door as you fell. No concussion, I don’t think, but perhaps we should get you to hospital?’ She looked at Kit.
‘Probably. But anyway, out of here.’
‘How did you get here?’
‘I came in a few minutes after Janine and found her with the door wide open trying to revive you.’
‘Did you see anyone leave?’
‘No.’
Janine shook her head. ‘ No one passed me on the stairs … I think you’d been out quite a few minutes. You were very cold.’
‘There was someone here. In my flat. That’s why I fainted.’
‘Then we ought to tell the police,’ said Kit decisively; he turned towards the telephone.
Janine stopped him. ‘I think we ought to make Edwina comfortable first.’
‘I’m taking her out of here.’
Edwina sat up. ‘Wait a minute.’
‘I’m not leaving you here alone. Either you come with me or I stay here.’
‘Or I could stay?’ suggested Janine. She wondered what Bee Linker would make of that – her characters acting out of turn?
‘Edwina, you’d better decide.’
Edwina stood up, she felt less dizzy, quite well suddenly. What a strange business this child-bearing was. ‘The thing is, I felt as though I knew him.… When his hands touched me, I felt: I know this person.’
‘Then we’d better get you out of here.’
‘Then you don’t think it imagination?’ She was comforted to think Kit took her idea seriously.
Kit shook his head. ‘If you had that feeling strongly, then there’s probably something in it.’
‘Much more likely to be a common break-in,’ protested Janine.
‘There was no break-in,’ corrected Edwina. ‘This person had a key.’
This person held my hand, this person stroked my hand, this person is not a stranger. ‘ I’ll phone the police from my place. Get your things together and we’ll be off.’
‘Can I help? No, then I’ll leave you to it.’ Janine picked up her handbag. ‘I’ve left that stuff from Bee on the table. You were going to check it for historical accuracy.’
‘I’ll do it.’
It was death of a sort those hands had been seeking, Edwina was sure of it, but it would have been a loving death; somehow, that came through the fingers.
Whatever love meant in that context.
Janine departed, leaving them alone. Kit looked at Edwina, then turned away.
‘I’ll ring the police while you pack.’
‘Won’t they want to talk to me?’
‘They can do that later. I’ll say you’re not up to it now. The main thing is to get you out of here, and with me.’
Edwina hesitated, just for a moment. ‘Yes, of course. I’ll put my things together.’
‘Take your time. Don’t hurry.’
‘I won’t need much.’
Kit did not answer, but he helped her with the small case and locked the door behind her. ‘Tomorrow we’ll get the locks changed.’
‘And then I can move back.’
‘If you want to.’ He sounded patient but, for the first time, tired.
‘And you don’t want me to?’
‘Of course I don’t want you to: I don’t think it’s safe.’
‘I’ve run away once already; it was no good. Moving in with you will be running away, but I have a life to lead. People, like the doctors, I have to see. An appointment at the end of my nine months that I can’t run away from. It’s all there, ahead of me; I’ve got to accept it. Live through whatever is waiting for me.’
‘Come on,’ said Kit with good humour, picking up her case. ‘My fatalistic lady.’
He did not know the story of the blackmail (although rumours were getting about), he did not know exactly what had happened to Edwina in Deptford, nor was he privy to as much of the police investigation as Bill Crail. He knew that Luke Tory had been poisoned, that Miss Dover had been strangled, and he was prepared to guess that the murderer was one and the same. He did not believe in coincidence, either. But he could draw upon another source of information. He knew a lawyer who worked with the Department of Public Prosecution where he had many police contacts. One top-flight policeman had told the lawyer, who told Kit, that the killer was a ‘clever bastard’ who had planned the poisoning carefully, but ‘grabbed a chance’ to kill Miss Dover. This policeman also added that the physical force used to kill Miss Dover had been the minimum necessary. ‘Not a bruiser, this one, but a nervous, highly-strung bugger.’ Hence the need for sugar, and the eating of the cake.
And something else, too. This senior policeman reported that the murderer of Miss Dover might be under average height for a man, since
the strangler had had to stand on the stair above to get a good grip on Miss Dover who was tall for a woman; from the marks on the stair-paint, the killer might have worn built-up shoes.
Another wart on the killer’s nose was becoming visible.
One day someone would see all the warts and recognise the face.
All this time, the police were continuing an orthodox investigation, which meant considering all the forensic evidence, and studying the movements and backgrounds of all possible contacts. In their way of business, one thing led to another. It would pay off in the end because this killer had a past and a history which was waiting to be uncovered.
Meanwhile, the murderer was up and walking away. But not unwounded. The encounter with Edwina, although planned, had proved bruising. Edwina, somehow, had to be loved.
Perhaps naturally, Edwina slipped into a state of drowsy sleep for the next few days. Her head felt small and her body large, it was better to sleep it away. The episode of her intruder had drained her of some vital force that she now had to make up. She had tucked herself away in the spare room of Kit’s flat and turned into a sleeping princess.
To the anxious enquiries of Alice, Cassie and Dougie, not to mention the police, Kit had said that it was natural in pregnant women to have periods approaching hibernation. No, he was not calling the doctor, and he was feeding her on fruit juices, milk and honey, and he felt sure she would live. Would wake up, as well, when it suited her.
Edwina had stirred herself sufficiently to tell the police all she could remember. She was not alert enough to take in the sceptical smile with which WDC Lewis received it, but Kit did, and resented it.
He had to leave Edwina alone a lot; she had slipped into his life as a resident just when two important cases were coming to the boil. He was in court or involved in consultations for most of the day. But he was worldly wise enough to guess that it was probably the best way for it to be. Hang around Edwina and she’d clear out the sooner.
Three days passed like this in tranquillity, during which time the police investigation into the deaths was continuing and Ginger Drury was making her bid for recovery. She was putting up a good fight.
The whole circle of people whom this case touched was vibrating now, some strongly, others gently, to the central event, which was a death, as if they were part of some delicate metal construction like a piece of mobile sculpture where, if you touched one part, the rest moved.
The death to which they moved had taken place some time ago, longer than some of them realised; the movement initiated then had taken a while to pass through the frame, but now it was reaching out to agitate everyone, including those who had not guessed they would be touched.
Such as Lily, the new Lady Bulkley.
It was during this period that Alice rang Cassie. ‘She doesn’t trust us. Wouldn’t stay with us. Gone to Kit.’
‘Do you blame her?’ Cassie was forthright. ‘But do we trust her?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t mean she’s causing all this, but my God, it all hangs around her.’
On the fourth day, Edwina woke up feeling refreshed and lively. She was alone in the flat, Kit had already departed, but he had left a Thermos of coffee and a note.
‘Mrs Vicars comes in today to clean. She has a key and won’t bother you.’
Edwina lay back on her pillows and drank a mug of coffee. She decided she wanted to be bothered. Today she felt like company. Presently she became aware that Mrs Vicars had arrived, and was at work in the next room.
A head wearing a duster tied on like a surgeon’s cap was poked round the door. ‘Care for a bit of toast? Nicely buttered?’
‘Love a bit.’ Several bits. Edwina suddenly felt very hungry, and blissfully normal and well. It was marvellous to be alive again.
Mrs Vicars brought in two golden slices of toast on a thick white plate. ‘I knew you’d fancy a bit. Mr Langley said not to bother you but I’ve been pregnant myself and I knew you’d fancy a bit of toast if I asked.’
‘You know about the baby,’ said Edwina, biting into the toast.
‘Bless you, dear, the messages we’ve had while you were laid out. You’re quite a famous lady.… Anyway, I always keep an eye on Kit’s young ladies.’
‘Do you now?’
‘I was at the wedding, you know. At the church. Oh, she’s a lovely young lady, your step. I knew her aunt.… We went to school together. Funny how things turn out, isn’t it? She was beautiful-looking too, but, of course, she didn’t have Lily’s opportunities. Dead now. Died young. But Lily won’t die young. Takes after her father. Strong bones there.’
Edwina ate her toast, and let Mrs Vicars talk herself gently round the room dusting as she went. It was quite obvious to her that Kit had asked her to look after Edwina and had probably ordered the toast. She had a quick picture of him in court, addressing the judge, raising some delicate point of law and all the time thinking about her eating the toast that he had ordered. Dear Kit.
Mrs Vicars did not stay long. ‘Not one of my long days,’ she explained, departing.
Edwina dressed, studied her diary, noted that she had an engagement at the clinic in the afternoon of tomorrow for another scan, but was otherwise free.
Kit’s living room was full of sunlight which showed up where Mrs Vicars’ cheerful dusting had missed and a certain happy disorder which, apparently, it was not Mrs Vicars’ purpose to destroy. Books, papers, letters and shoes were left as they had been put down. A man’s room. Kit’s specifically: it had all the imprint of his busy, eager personality.
In the window was a big table, and under the table, not hidden by the red plush cloth, was a big box with the initials T.C. stamped in gold.
Here at last was the box of Tim’s papers to which she had often felt she was coming close, only to have it drawn away again.
She knelt down on the floor before it. Locked, of course. She looked about her. Kit did not follow her useful habit of leaving all keys labelled and hung on a rack for all to view; where he kept keys was his secret. She opened a few likely-looking drawers, but except for neat piles of writing paper with envelopes in one and socks and shirts in another there was nothing to see.
‘Prudent fellow.’ But this she knew already. He would always look after his keys, not leave them around. Pity about Tim’s box.
Wait a minute, she told herself. You know Tim better than that: he never locked a box in his life. If he had, then he’d have lost the keys. This box of his looked locked, you think it’s locked, but I bet it isn’t really.
She pushed at the tongue of the lock, trying to force it upwards. It held. Perhaps she had been wrong after all and it was locked.
She went to the kitchen, selected a blunt knife and thrust it under the tongue of the lock, levering it gently upward. Still it resisted. She tried more force. Then a little more.
With a pop the lock sprang open as if it had been waiting to open itself to her all the time. Whether she had broken the lock or merely released it she did not know. Nor care.
The box was full. On top was pressed a layer of newspapers as padding. By the dates they had been put there by Kit Langley himself. Anyway, after Tim’s death.
Judging by what lay underneath, Kit had just tumbled all Tim’s possessions from the shelves into the box and put the newspapers on top. This would not represent carelessness on Kit’s part, he would not have wanted to pry into Tim’s life. Perhaps he had not wanted her to, either, because he had held back the papers in a gentle way.
And yet he had left her here with them in a box which was not, after all, impossible to open. Perhaps he was leaving it up to her: to open and read if she wished. That would be like Kit.
Just as to leave his possessions in a muddle was like Tim. He had left life in a muddle if she really faced up to it. Well, she was here now to tidy it up. Was this really her function in Tim’s life? To meet him, to love him, to bear him a son, so that it was then all right for him to die?
Li
fe couldn’t be like that, could it? But it might be.
If it was like that, then there had to be some great muddle in Tim’s life which she was to tidy up.
She had known Tim for two years; he had been Kit’s friend first. She had loved him from the beginning, and he had responded, but looking back she could see she had been the initiator. If there had been a sexual war then she had been the aggressor. She had led, Tim had followed.
Beneath the newspapers was a collection of law books. These lay on top of files and notebooks relating to his cases in court. Underneath those were letters, some of her own, as she saw at once. Moving all these aside, she came upon a series of thick desk diaries, going back several years.
She took them out, one by one, flicking over the pages; as far as she could tell, they were a record of engagements both business and personal, a mere skeleton with initials and times, no more. She turned the pages till she found her own initials. Yes, there she was.
Satisfied, and yet frustrated at the same time, she put the books down. They only went back a few years.
At the bottom of the box was a large, sealed envelope.
Edwina took it up; it felt heavy in her hands, bulky. Interesting. She wanted to tear it open. Really not meant for her to see; sealed envelopes should be kept closed, no doubt, but she found she had very little inhibition about opening it. Her fingers did it for her without warning.
The contents fell out quickly, most of them anyway. Her fingers, at it again, must have given the envelope a quick shake.
Kit had known what she might find. It had been his hands which had sealed the envelope Tim had left open as if, any minute, he might add a bit more material.
Perhaps he had feared it, and this was why he had done away with himself. It was Kit’s private belief that he had done away with himself. Or let himself go into death.
Edwina’s eyes fell upon the newspaper cuttings as if they belonged to another world, another planet.
Just at first; then she began to read what she had in her hand as if she had always known it was there waiting for her.
Death in the Garden Page 18