Baby Drop

by Jennie Melville

  Charmian picked up the post, and the newspaper, then checked the answering machine which she had ignored yesterday.

  There was a call from her sister: ‘Hello there, this is Imogen. You’re out as usual. Call Mum tomorrow. It’s her birthday, you forgot it last time. Message ends.’

  Charmian tied a mental knot: Right, Imogen, right. When I come home. She looked at the clock. Not the time to ring, as her mother would be comfortably sipping her first cup of tea of the day which was definitely a Do Not Disturb Me time. Her mother had recently started doing a degree in English, specializing in Shakespearian studies, from the Open University, she worked late at night, and said she needed her rest. Her mother, who wished now to be called Maggie, was an independent lady who really hardly thought about her daughters at all these days (‘ Out of the nest, weren’t they?’), but Imogen had the idea that she needed to be cherished. Although Maggie, nearly six foot, with flaming red hair, expensively tinted once a month, was fully capable of looking after herself. Indeed, she preferred to do so.

  Imogen lived twenty miles from their widowed mother and made it part of her job to see that Charmian behaved like a member of the family instead of an alien who occasionally winged in from another planet. The sisters had an affectionate relationship which allowed Imogen to do what she called ‘keeping Charmian up to the mark in family matters’. She never called her mother Maggie while Charmian did her best: it marked the difference between them.

  Before she dressed, she wrote a short report on the locket, passing on what she knew, then she put it in a thick envelope, and addressed it to Dan Feather. At the same time, she took the photograph of it into her bag, between other papers.

  Charmian carried a cup of coffee and some hot toast up to her sleepy lover, kissed him, told him to rest and that she would be back.

  She drove briskly to her office through rain-washed streets still empty of traffic, down Maid of Honour Row, up River Street, past Peascod Street, into Hanover Road, then on to her office. Here, with no one to disturb her, she did two rapid hours of work, cancelled two appointments by fax (one was with the Chief of Command, there would be an angry response but she could deal with that later), and kept an eye on the time.

  Nine a.m. A reasonable time to make a call, even to a hospital.

  In any case, Kate’s luxurious establishment allowed visiting at all hours.

  Before she did anything else that day, she had to see Kate.

  The nurse outside Kate’s room was one she did not know. She was plump and cheerful, wearing a very pretty starched cap. ‘I’m Mrs Rewley’s special,’ she said with a friendly look, and as Charmian raised an alarmed eyebrow. ‘Her mother insisted.’

  Yes, that sounded like Anny.

  ‘May I see her?’

  ‘She hasn’t eaten much breakfast, so it might be a good idea. Cheer her up. But don’t stay long.’ She looked at Charmian as if she could say more.

  Inside the room, the bedside lamp was on and Kate had a newspaper on her lap, but her eyes were closed. She looked pale but the two red patches beneath her cheeks were more marked than before.

  ‘How are you feeling, dearest child?’

  Kate opened her eyes. ‘So so. Lovely to see you.’

  Charmian kissed her cheek, and sat there for a moment, holding the girl’s hand. The vibrant, energetic Kate she had known seemed to have disappeared into a frail stranger. Was it worth it? she asked herself.

  ‘I hate to bother you with questions.’

  ‘But you’re going to …’ Kate’s eyes were the same, full of amused comprehension. ‘Come on, Godmother, when have you ever let human frailty stop you?’

  ‘Are you feeling frail, Kate?’

  Kate hesitated. ‘Strong enough.’ She closed her eyes for a second, then opened them wide. ‘So ask away.’

  ‘When you saw the yellow car, you told me you saw someone sitting in it, are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, it was a long way off.’ She thought about it: ‘ But it was parked under a street light … I could see a bit. Yes, there was someone at the wheel. Sort of hunched over the wheel, you know.’

  ‘Kate, and you thought it was a woman? Are you sure?’ It could be so important.

  ‘Ah, sure? That’s more difficult …’ She shook her head. ‘I thought it was female.’ She took a deep breath.

  ‘Thanks, Kate … There was a white van parked in that street as well, I don’t suppose you could see who was in that?’

  ‘No, nothing. Sorry.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have bothered you really, but I wondered if there was anything else you could say.’ She waited.

  ‘Only that in my mind they were part of the burying of the boy. Imagination, I expect. Once again, sorry.’

  ‘No, love, you’ve been very good.’

  Kate let her lips curve in a small smile.

  ‘I’ll go now.’

  Kate hung to her hand. ‘ Stay awhile.’ They sat for a moment or two in silence. ‘I think the baby’s started.’

  Charmian moved her hand. ‘I must tell the nurse …’

  ‘No, no, I think she knows. I thought it had begun yesterday, but I was wrong … false alarm.’ She moved against her pillows as if in pain. ‘But not today, this is it.’

  ‘I’ll stay,’ said Charmian, abandoning all plans for work.

  ‘No.’ Kate released her hand. ‘You can go now. The nurse will be in, you’ll see. Goodbye.’

  Charmian stood by the bed, not sure what to do, but Kate gave her a little push. ‘ Go on. Time for you to go.’

  Outside the door, the nurse was already hovering. ‘ I think you ought to be with her,’ said Charmian. ‘ Things might be moving.’

  ‘I thought as much.’ Charmian watched as the nurse opened the door and went in. She walked down the corridor, then stood there watching. But the door remained closed. Presently, the nurse came out and went to a telephone and made a call, then she came over to Charmian. ‘Everything will be all right. The doctor is on his way. I’ll tell Mr Rewley and he can tell Mrs Cooper.’

  ‘When can I telephone?’

  ‘Later, later.’ She was noncommittal, already turning her attention back to her patient. ‘I must go. Don’t worry, Mr Green, her obstetrician, is very good.’

  —Don’t worry, thought Kate as she drove away. Of course one worries.

  She drove first to the Incident Room where activity had been ticking over in a quiet way for some time. Dan Feather must also have risen early because there was his car.

  Was William Madge still there? It seemed very likely that he was being questioned again by Dan Feather. She delivered the envelope, with the message it was to be given to him as soon as possible.

  Charmian drove off once more, with no sense of personal danger. She wanted to get this over, then pass to Dan Feather any evidence she might have turned up, together with any conclusions she had come to, and take a few days’ leave to concentrate on Humphrey and Kate.

  Now, deliberately, she put those loved figures aside, deposited them at the back of her mind, to concentrate on what she wanted to do now.

  The road out of Windsor was now heavy with morning traffic, but she used the slowness of the journey into the country to think. What had she got? The initials on a locket, the discovery of this locket near the baby’s bones, but also near Joe.

  Amy Mercer had known something of that death and Sarah’s disappearance and been killed because of her contact with Charmian. The killer, or killers, because she had to reckon with that concept, had no notion how much was revealed by the very act of this second killing.

  Charmian was known, her address was known, and Amy’s contact with her was known. Only someone close to Amy and knowledgeable about Charmian could have been in action.

  That conclusion took some thinking about and as she drove she wondered what Dan Feather was making of it all and if he had looked at the locket and questioned William Madge on the subject.

  She knew where her own thoughts were taking her: out to Ch
antrey House, but she was also making a detour. The car took the way almost without consulting her.

  Once again she parked on the grass verge near the Vinery. There it was, that long grey building humped into the ground, and on which no vines grew, nor ever had as far as she could see. Perhaps the Romans might have had a vinery here and folk memory had preserved the name, but if so the climate had changed, she thought, as she got out of the car, to walk on the muddy turf.

  The path to the house was already overgrown with trailing plants that had spread out from the flowery border to settle on the paving stones. Biddy would have cut them back but now they were free to advance. Charmian found the sight dispiriting. If the whole of the animal world disappeared plants and insects would take over in no time at all. Nature did not really care who survived, she could always start again.

  The Vinery was empty, had been for days and it showed. The curtains were drawn upstairs and the brass knocker on the front door was unpolished. Biddy might not have been much of a housekeeper but Charmian remembered that the knocker had been bright the day she had come before.

  Before what?

  Before Biddy was taken to Chantrey House, before William Madge gave me the news about the locket and before Amy Mercer was killed.

  ‘Amy knew you, Biddy, and she knew Sarah, I think she was going to tell me something.’ Chairman’s foot slipped on a frond of wet greenery and she slid into the mud. ‘Damn.’ She stood up, leaned on the front door, and rubbed her hands on a tissue.

  The window to her right was uncurtained so she could see through: straight ahead of her, in full view, was a row of little dolls. They were seated primly on the sofa, except where one or two had fallen over and were leaning fondly or drunkenly on each other. The silent, still brood stared back at Charmian.

  Dolls, she recalled, were once given to women who had lost their babies to place in the cradle as a substitute. What a lot of substitute babies there were in this house.

  The Vinery was empty except for them; the dolls were alone in the house, which they ruled.

  Charmian went back to her car, avoiding the slippery bits of the path, and drove away from the dolls’ house. She had got what she had come for.

  The mother and daughter who had lived in this house had been disturbed people who had put on as good a face as they could for the outside world, and since children take the atmosphere from the parent, then it had to have started with Biddy. The row of dolls, still in place, was a dead giveaway.

  No average well-balanced mother would have let such an obsession with the same little plastic objects develop in a child who was not much more than a baby herself.

  Charmian, like most police officers, was one of those who strongly believed that parents are responsible for nearly all that goes wrong with children. Of course, some parent behind that parent was responsible too but she didn’t believe in going more than one generation back. You had to stop somewhere.

  She turned the car to drive fast towards Chantrey House.

  The Chantrey was a big place, she moved into the drive and the house surrounded her. Lady Grahamden’s Rolls was parked in front of the house where it was being cleaned by a man in overalls; Kleankars, said a name across the front.

  ‘Is Lady Grahamden in?’

  ‘Might be, love.’ He did not pause in his polishing. ‘Try the front door.’

  ‘Is that car kept out here or is it garaged?’

  He did look at her then, as if he wondered what all this was about. ‘I dunno. It was left out here for me to work on. I’ve never been here before … I reckon the garages are over there.’ He nodded towards the grey-roofed range of old stables and coach houses.

  ‘Got more than one car, have they?’

  ‘I don’t know. I expect so, they’re gentry, aren’t they?’

  Charmian walked over to the stables but the ironwork door leading to them was locked. Inside, she could see a cobbled yard with several buildings with neatly painted white doors and windows, all closed except one. Through that one open door she could just make out a yellow car.

  They liked things private at Chantrey House. Money was spent here, all was in good order, but display was not allowed. No doubt someone, probably Peter Loomis or even Emily Grahamden herself, would put the car away and then lock it up. But someone had forgotten this time. One of those crucial lapses that tell so much.

  She rang the bell, and was admitted by Peter Loomis himself. ‘Can I see Biddy, please?’ The please was an extra as she was determined to see Biddy Holt.

  Peter Loomis stood back politely. ‘ Do come in, but as to Biddy …’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t think she’s up to it.’

  ‘It’s important.’

  ‘Better not try. We are trying to keep her calm.’

  —Dosed to the teeth had been more or less what Lady Mary had implied. Charmian was unmoved. ‘ Please,’ she said again. And this time the please was more threatening than placatory. Loomis looked worried as if he didn’t know what to do.

  Then Emily Grahamden appeared at the end of the hall. ‘ What is it?’

  ‘Miss Daniels’ – he had her name off pat, Charmian observed – ‘she wants to see Biddy.’

  ‘Well, let her, let her.’ Emily advanced down the hall. ‘She not quite herself but you can see what you can do with her.’

  ‘I want to ask her some questions.’

  ‘Of course you do. So do we all … We’ve had another shock here, you know, the niece of my old servant, friend, I must call her so these days, has been found dead.’

  ‘I expect Miss Daniels knows all about it,’ put in Peter Loomis, who seemed embarrassed by his mother’s flow of talk.

  ‘Poor Moucher’s quite destroyed by it. No one can see her, that’s certain.’

  ‘She is someone I might want to see.’

  ‘Is this an official visit?’ asked Lady Grahamden.

  ‘Oh don’t, Mother.’

  ‘It always could be,’ said Charmian, noting Peter’s ill ease. She decided to push her luck: ‘ Who owns that yellow car in the garage?’

  ‘Moucher,’ he said, after a pause. ‘Mrs Moucher, it’s her car.’

  ‘Then I shall have to talk to her. And the car will have to be examined.’

  ‘What’s all this about?’ Emily Grahamden again, being the great lady more than ever, and this time her son did not try to quieten her.

  ‘I can’t say.’

  —I’m just guessing, but I think Amy was killed because she knew something about Joe and Sarah, and Joe was killed because he knew or had seen Sarah.

  ‘You know we have a lot to grieve us,’ said Emily with dignity and conviction, ‘ much, and we are bearing it as well as we can.’ Her breathing was fast and shallow, but she was under control.

  Charmian kept quiet, an instinct told her to say nothing more at that moment when Emily Grahamden was face to face with black thoughts.

  ‘Oh, let her see Biddy,’ said Emily Grahamden, turning away. ‘Take her up there.’ As she moved away, her shoulders sagged as if she was past bearing what she must bear.

  Charmian heard her mutter: ‘One protects, one protects, but it is past protecting.’

  Peter turned to Charmian. ‘Biddy’s upstairs. I’ll show you, but don’t hurt her … Biddy’s a good person, who’s always tried to do her best: His voice was full of pain. ‘I don’t trust you, you know.’ Charmian made a slight kind of bow, letting him know she regarded this as a compliment if a sharp one. ‘And Biddy hasn’t, couldn’t, kill anyone, if that’s what you are thinking.’

  —Well, William Madge is lined up for several killings at the moment, but you don’t know that, nor shall I let you know, just yet, maybe later.

  Biddy was in a soft chair by the window, through which she was looking, with a cat resting on her lap. The cat leapt away as they came but Biddy did not move, the window had all her interest.

  From it she could see lawns and the roof of the stables as well as the outline of a low grey building like a chapel.
>
  ‘Are you up to talking?’ Peter asked, his voice gentle. ‘ Say if not.’

  ‘I can talk.’ It was the voice of a polite, good child.

  Peter stood by the door. ‘Shall I stay, Biddy? Want me to?’

  Charmian said: ‘You can stay if you like, listen. I don’t mind.’

  ‘Please go,’ said the good little girl who was Biddy now.

  As he slowly and doubtfully left the room, Charmian said: ‘Do you want to stay here, Biddy? I can get you out, you know, you can come with me. Lady Mary will put you up.’

  ‘I might as well be here … What else is there? I can’t have Sarah back, they said so. I wanted her back. Very much. We could have stayed together, I would have managed, somehow. I suppose you think I couldn’t?’

  ‘I’m not thinking anything about that, because I don’t know and can’t imagine.’ My imagination is stretching wider and wider but I don’t know if it can take in all I begin to sense here. ‘What I want you to do for me, if you will, is to tell me again about the day Sarah was taken away.’

  Biddy began to trot out the first story: how the man had come to collect Sarah, how the child had run to meet him, and how she had thought it was the expected father. ‘I thought it was the father,’ she said. ‘Although I didn’t know his face. His face was a blank to me.’

  ‘But later, you changed that story and said that perhaps you had seen the man before, wasn’t that so?’

  ‘Yes.’ Biddy nodded. ‘I think I did.’

  ‘I assure you that you did … so his face was not quite a blank to you?’

  ‘It’s what I remember,’ she faltered. ‘ How I remember it.’

  They went through it all again, but all Biddy could say was that this was what she remembered.

  Charmian leaned back in her chair and looked at the young woman with sympathy. What can she remember? She has blacked out the truth; she is remembering a lie.

  But it is her memory; she is telling the truth as far as she recalls it.

  Does memory always tell the truth? And Charmian knew it did not.

  ‘Thanks, Biddy,’ she said, patting the girl’s hand. ‘You’ve done well. I think you might be able to go home soon, if you want to.’