by Sarah Rayne
Serena was in the drawing room at Cadence Manor when the telegram arrived – the hateful orange envelope that everyone in England feared to receive. She nodded to Flagg to leave her, knowing he would probably wait for news in the hall anyway.
Yes, there it was, as damning and as final as words could be.
‘Deeply regret inform you Crispian Cadence killed on the field of battle . . . Extreme bravery, despite being non-combatant . . . Outright shot to head, no suffering . . . Sincerest condolences . . .’
After what felt like a very long time, Serena became aware of the telephone ringing, and then of Flagg’s voice saying it was Dr Martlet, and would her ladyship speak to him. He would switch it through to her, if so. Serena hated the telephone and it was extremely unreliable anyway. But she said yes, she would speak to him.
Dr Martlet’s voice said, ‘Lady Cadence? I think you’ve had a telegram?’
‘Yes.’
‘Crispian.’
It was not quite a question, but Serena said, ‘Yes. Crispian’s gone. I don’t know why one uses that word, except it seems less harsh . . .’ She paused, because to use the word dead about Crispian, who had been so alive, so bright and good and so very strong, might bring the deep and dreadful grief welling up from her heart. She remembered how he had written that his billet was not very well lit, and how Mrs Flagg, loyal to her finger-bones, had vowed they would light all the lamps for him when he came home. They would never light them now because Crispian would never come home.
Gillespie Martlet said, ‘Gil’s dead as well.’
‘Oh, no. I’m so sorry.’ The words came out colourlessly, but in Serena’s mind was the vivid glowing image of the two young men who had gone out to France, both of them so very brave, despite what people had thought and said of them.
‘They were both killed while carrying the wounded away from the battlefield near the Somme, seemingly,’ said Dr Martlet. ‘And from the date and time, it seems they went together.’
Chapter 35
The Present
Veronica’s day had started off looking a bit dreary – nothing much to do, no dear old Clem to phone for a gossipy chat, no shopping trip or lunch planned. Then, out of the blue, the phone rang and the voice that by now sent little thrills of delight all over her said, ‘Berenice? Are you by any chance free this evening?’
That was like him, flattering her by assuming she had a frantic social life, implying he did not really think someone like her could be free at such short notice.
Veronica pretended to consult a diary. ‘I am, as it happens,’ she said. ‘What exactly had you in mind?’
‘I thought I might look in for a drink,’ he said. ‘Would that be all right?’
Would it be all right? But it was never a good idea to seem too eager, so Veronica said, ‘Yes, do call. That would be nice.’
‘Half seven? I’ll see you then,’ he said, and rang off. He never spent much time on the phone.
He arrived punctually as always. He had told her once that punctuality was the politeness of kings. He said it was believed to be a phrase coined by a French king. This was one of the things Veronica found so entrancing: he was widely read and so cultured. She was toying with the idea of taking some kind of evening class so she could match him. It would make for an evening out and she could buy some smart dark suits to wear to the classes.
He complimented Veronica’s new hairstyle; she had been able to get a last-minute appointment at the local salon after he phoned and had had blonde highlights put in, so she was pleased he noticed. She waited, hopefully, to see how the evening would unfold and by way of opening the subject, asked how long he would be staying.
‘All evening, if you can put up with me.’
‘I think I can manage that.’ They smiled at one another. It was wonderful how much in accord they were. Veronica said, ‘And the entertainment? Did you have something in mind?’
He smiled, and his whole face lightened. ‘I did, as a matter of fact,’ he said. ‘I’ve been looking forward to telling you about that.’
Veronica sighed with pleasure and leaned back against the sofa, stretching her legs sensuously. She was wearing expensive black stockings with killer heels. The heels were crippling to walk in but they looked really good, so it was a pity not to show them off a bit.
The entertainment was to be another of their role-playing games. He was endlessly inventive. She marvelled at how inventive he was. He ought to write a book or something. He had laughed when she had said that once.
Tonight he was going to be a house-burglar. Not the rough kind, of course. Not like an inarticulate teenager, high on drugs, smashing a window to get in and grab the DVD-player or the stereo. He would be the old-fashioned kind: the gentlemanly cat burglar – Raffles, perhaps, or Arsène Lupin or even a swashbuckling Scarlet Pimpernel.
‘Slinking into the house under cover of darkness,’ he said, watching Veronica. ‘Initially after the jewels owned by the lady of the house.’
‘But ending up in the bed of the lady of the house?’ said Veronica, and was delighted when he smiled approvingly.
‘You clever girl, Berenice,’ he said. ‘You have no idea what a delight it is to talk to someone who understands so instinctively. So many ladies don’t. But you’re different, aren’t you? That’s exactly what I had in mind. Let’s see, it’s ten to eight. How about if I stroll down to the wine shop on the corner and collect a nice bottle of something for our sophisticated burglar to enjoy later?’ He stood up. ‘When he gets back he might find the front door is on the latch so it would be easy for him to get in. He’d come in really quietly, but once he is in he might get all kinds of surprises, mightn’t he? Perhaps even a welcome he hasn’t bargained for?’
‘Oh, yes!’ said Veronica gleefully.
It meant another of the frantic scrambles around the bedroom while he was gone, setting the scene. She could never prepare ahead because she simply had no idea what he would want, but tonight was fairly easy. She pulled on an ivory silk nightgown he had not seen before and thrust the discarded clothes hastily into the wardrobe. A quick dab of scent, then she turned down the lights leaving only a faint glimmer from the bedside lamp. At this time of year it was not absolutely dark at eight o’clock, but it was dark enough to warrant lights and half-drawn curtains. She got into bed to wait for his return.
Her bedroom was at the front of the house so she would probably hear him coming in, unless he was as mouse-quiet as the burglar he was pretending to be. She had left the bedroom door ajar and there was a low light in the hall downstairs so she would see his shadow on the stair. She glanced at the bedside clock. It was only ten past eight – he would not be back yet. It was a ten-minute walk to the wine shop. Say eight to ten minutes inside the shop getting the wine, then another ten minutes back. He could not be here before twenty past eight at the earliest. She was just thinking up a few suitable lines to use – he would expect her to get into the spirit of the game – but before she could do so, from downstairs came the faint sound of the front door being softly opened and then closed.
Veronica smiled, pleased he had been so quick, and watched the door, waiting to see him come up the stairs. He was taking a long time about it and the house was very quiet. Was this part of the game? Perhaps he was pouring the wine, or even pretending to search the downstairs rooms before coming upstairs, wanting to keep her in this strung-up state of anticipation. If so, she could have done without it because actually the silence was starting to become slightly scary. It would be a really good fantasy once it got going, but lying here in the near-darkness was making her feel a bit vulnerable.
Ah – there was the sound of soft footsteps on the stairs at last. Now they could begin. To start them off (also to dispel the unnerving quietness), she called out.
‘Is someone there?’ This was what anyone would say, hearing a sound.
There was no response, so she tried again, and this time was annoyed that her voice sounded a bit shrill.
&n
bsp; ‘Who’s there? Are you a burglar?’
A shadow moved on the stair. Veronica half sat up in the bed. In another minute he would appear in the doorway and say something and Veronica would stop feeling so unaccountably frightened.
The shadow came nearer and her heart began to race because there was something wrong about it. Too tall for him? Too short or too plump? She pushed back the bedclothes and reached for the dressing gown at the foot of the bed, but even as she did so the shadow became solid; it stepped into the room and Veronica let out a gasp of surprise. But the figure was across the room before she could do anything, pushing her back against the pillows, catching her off guard. Glaring eyes stared down at her and there was the glint of a knife being raised.
The figure said, ‘I’m not a burglar. You know who I am, don’t you, Veronica?’ And then, on a throaty hissing note, ‘I’m a murderer.’
There was no time to fight, no time even to cry out. Veronica felt a dreadful tearing pain in her throat that sent a searing agony down to her lungs, and she heard someone in the room give a wet bubbling gasp, then realized it was herself. For the space of two heartbeats she stared up in horror at her killer, then blackness closed down and she slumped across the pillows.
Ella had not gone to Veronica’s house with the intention of killing her. She had gone to ask her, openly and directly, exactly what she had meant about Clem’s diaries having vanished and about Ella being the one to find his body. It would be an entirely normal thing to do and they would have a civilized discussion. Veronica would understand Ella’s concern and Ella would find out exactly what Veronica had said to the solicitor and the coroner’s official. She did not phone beforehand so as not to give Veronica time to prepare a story. Veronica was a great storyteller. Actually, she was a liar, if you were going to give the thing its proper name.
Circumstances favoured Ella. Amy had gone out – probably to meet that Malik man. Derek, as usual, was at one of his interminable rehearsals. Ella would be glad when that wretched opera had had its week’s run at Bramley Town Hall, and life returned to normal. Still, it meant there was no one in the house tonight to ask where she was going.
She drove to Veronica’s house – there was no need to be secretive about an innocent call on a friend – and parked in the street a few yards away because she could see a car in Veronica’s drive. It was not the little hatchback that Veronica drove and Ella frowned, because it had not occurred to her that Veronica might have a visitor. Might it be this mysterious lover, about whom she had been dropping all those heavy hints? Ella had no wish to meet him, and she had even less wish to ring the doorbell and be greeted by Veronica in a tousled state of undress. She slowed her footsteps, trying to decide what to do. She had got as far as the gate when a wholly different emotion slammed into her mind.
She recognized the car parked in the drive. She stood there for a moment, her mind in chaos, and as she did so the front door opened and a figure came out. It walked quickly down the drive and Ella stepped back into the shadow of the thick hedge, ready to run back to her car. But the figure turned in the other direction. Ella watched it until it turned the corner, then went into the house. Her mind was swirling, and something seemed to be filling up her entire body – something that was furious and scaldingly painful, and something that whispered to her what she should do. Ella nodded slowly, because she could see the whispering voice was right. It was absolutely clear what had to be done.
She went into the house – the front door was not locked – and, still in the same scalding dream-state, went through to the kitchen. What to use? That was the question now. What about a knife? Yes, there was a rack of them on the work surface. Ella took the largest and tested it on an apple lying in a bowl of fruit. The blade was shockingly unsharp, which was typical of Veronica, so Ella gave it a few turns in the sharpener standing nearby. It would be dreadful to bungle this, with Veronica being such a friend all these years. Satisfied the knife was properly sharp, she went upstairs and into the bedroom. Then she stabbed her oldest friend twice through the throat.
After it was done, Ella stood looking down at Veronica’s body for a long time. The corrosive fury had left her and it was as if she stared into a black gaping void. She had no idea what to do next and the yawning chasm was stopping her from thinking.
It was the faint clatter of the knife slipping from her nerveless hands that snapped her back to awareness. The black void dissolved magically and Ella was able to think properly again. She stepped back from the bed, which was all bloodied and messy. Had any of the blood gone onto Ella? Yes, of course it had, it was on her sweater and her hands. But her legs and her shoes were all right.
She went into Veronica’s bathroom, took off the sweater and washed it as thoroughly but hastily as she could. Veronica always had nicely scented soap and the towels were a very good quality. Ella dried her hands, then went back downstairs and pushed the sweater into the handbag she had left in the hall. It was a large everyday handbag with a sturdy metal clasp. She had left her jacket on the end of the banister and she put it on, buttoning it up to the neck to hide the fact that she had only her bra underneath. To make sure, she took one of Veronica’s scarves from the hallstand and wound it round her neck, draping it over the jacket’s fastenings.
What else? She had probably left any number of fingerprints everywhere, but she was a frequent visitor to Veronica’s house so that was all right. She was just looking round the kitchen to make sure she had not left anything incriminating, when the front door opened and someone came quietly into the house and went up the stairs.
Ella had expected this, and the plan that had slid neatly into her mind earlier was very clear. She knew exactly what to do.
She went out through the kitchen door and walked quietly along the side of the house. But she stopped under the front bedroom window, which was Veronica’s, because she wanted to hear, she wanted to make sure . . .
She made sure all right. The cry that came through the half-open window was unmistakable. Ella smiled to herself, and felt in her handbag for her keys. They were quite heavy keys because she always had Derek’s car keys on the ring, as he had her keys on his. She had insisted on that for years, saying they never knew when they might find it useful.
It was very useful now. She stopped by the car parked on Veronica’s drive and quietly opened the driver’s door. The familiar chamois driving gloves were in the side pocket; Ella pulled them out and wiped the bloodstained knife on them. She was careful to leave enough smears of blood on the handle to be noticeable but she made sure she wiped the handle thoroughly enough to get rid of her own fingerprints. Only when she was satisfied did she drop the knife and the gloves onto the seat next to the driver’s.
Then she locked the car again and went back down the street to her own car. In a moment she would make a call to the police. It would be an anxious, slightly distressed call, and it would bring them out to the house of her oldest friend. Once inside the house, they would find Ella’s cheating faithless husband standing over the murdered body of Veronica Campion, with whom he had been having an affair.
Chapter 36
Amy had cried for almost the entire evening, mostly for Gran, who looked as if someone had stripped all the bones out of her body, but also for Gramps, dear, well-meaning Gramps, who had been taken to the police station and locked in a cell, and was going to be charged with murdering Veronica.
Amy simply did not believe he had done it, although she supposed it was just about credible that he had been having it off with Veronica. It was important to remember that because people were old – well, OK, older – it did not mean they were past it. Gramps had clearly not been past it if he had been screwing Veronica. In fact, when Amy thought back, Gramps often had a definite glint in his eye. He was actually quite nice-looking, with that thick silvery hair and dark eyebrows, and his enthusiasm for his beloved opera and his interest in the people he worked with was rather endearing. The more Amy thought about it, the more she though
t Gramps might be rather admired at the council offices and in the amateur operatic circles. But this started her crying all over again, because it made her remember how he had loved his rehearsal nights and enjoyed talking about them, and how he had played some of his Gilbert and Sullivan CDs, and how she had planned to talk to him about The Deserted Village music.
Whatever the truth of all this, she was not going anywhere until it was put right, even if she had to miss the whole of next term and even if she had to miss her exams. At some point she would have to phone her parents, although she had no idea what she was going to say to either of them, and specially to Dad. It was not a thing that could very easily be told over the phone. Amy was suddenly unreasonably annoyed with Dad for going out to Africa to build bridges for somebody and taking Mum with him, so that neither of them was here.
The really upsetting thing was that the evidence seemed so damning. Two CID men called at the house and explained everything. Amy had not had a great deal to do with the police, but she thought they were being very considerate.
It was almost midnight when they arrived, apologizing for disturbing Mrs Haywood at such a late hour, which Amy thought an unnecessary remark to make, because they must know that if your husband had just been carted off for murder you were not likely to head for bed at the usual time. Gran had been sitting in the chair by the fire since she got back, shivering and staring at nothing. But when the detectives arrived she seemed to make a huge effort, and by the time Amy had made coffee for them, she was talking almost normally.
They questioned her carefully but very thoroughly. She had gone to her friend Veronica Campion’s house earlier tonight, that was right, was it?
‘I did go to Veronica’s,’ said Gran in a wobbly voice that Amy hoped would not break. ‘There was no particular reason for the visit, except that we’ve rather clung together since Clem Poulter died. Childhood friends, you see. We were supporting one another through the loss. I just felt I’d like to see her. She would have understood. At least,’ said Gran with a brief glint of her old waspishness, ‘I thought she would.’