To her fury, the car failed to start.
Several frustrated minutes later, she decided to get a taxi and go to Windsor by train. She had told herself when she bought her house how useful it was to have a good train service. Well, now was her time to try it.
Waterloo was hot and crowded but she threaded her way through to the Windsor and Eton train, grabbing an evening newspaper on the way. She could hide her face behind it if she didn’t like the look of her fellow passengers. She knew from past experience that she had the sort of face that encouraged people to speak to her in public places. As a rising young policewoman it had been an advantage, but it had its contrary side too. She didn’t always want to talk.
The carriages were crowded with ladies carrying bags from Harrods and Fortnum and Mason, with a touch of purple contributed by a Liberty carrier bag here and there. Did she also get a glimpse of the soft mauve of a bag from Asprey’s? She remembered that the summer sales had just started.
She got the last empty seat in a carriage near the engine, sitting down gratefully, aware that the first drops of summer rain were falling.
She had read a few words of her evening paper, another scandal in the city, no news to someone who had already been fed the richest details by Humphrey Kent, when she began to feel she was being stared at. She raised her head, to see two pairs of interested eyes gazing upon her.
Sitting opposite, identically dressed in trim town suits of dark brown linen, with a pale violet shirt for Flora and a yellow one for Emmy, were the Trust twins. On each lap was a carrier bag from Harrods, and in each hand was an ice-cream. Emmy was eating with easy enjoyment, but Flora was a little abashed at having been caught out.
‘Had no lunch, you see, couldn’t spare the time. And we were so hungry and thirsty.’
‘Don’t blame you.’ Charmian’s hands felt hot and sticky. ‘I could do with a cup of tea.’
‘One could not totally recommend a cup of station tea,’ said Flora. ‘In fact, it’s not a cup but a plastic beaker which spoils the taste. Such taste as there is. But the ice-cream is excellent. Do you hear the thunder?’
Charmian nodded. A flash of lightning had seared her eyes, the roll of thunder was long and loud. They were travelling into the storm.
‘Had some good shopping?’
Flora looked pleased with herself and Emmy finished her ice-cream and gave a small nod. It was the most positive response from her that Charmian had ever witnessed.
‘Yes,’ Flora nodded. ‘We decided we needed some new clothes. Emmy particularly.’
Charmian felt surprise; she had never heard Emmy’s interests receive mention before.
‘You see Mr Pilgrim has come back into our lives.’
‘Ah,’ said Charmian alertly. The reclusive Mr Pilgrim with an accommodation address.
‘Yes, he came to a public lecture on Florentine art at which Emmy and I were present and spoke to us.’ She gave Emmy a look, it seems Emmy and he have been in correspondence.’ Flora did not sound angry. ‘He declared his intentions. It seems we shall soon have a wedding in the family.’
Emmy smiled. She spoke with a self-assurance new to her. ‘Flora thought blue for the wedding, but I chose white.’
‘A white linen suit. Very proper,’ said Flora, once again without rancour. ‘ We shall all live together, of course.’
I wonder if she will go on the honeymoon with them, thought Charmian and decided she probably would. She had a sudden picture of them all three together with Emmy by degrees taking over the speaking rôle and Flora subsiding into silence, until, with a complete reversal of their part, Emmy was the talking twin and Flora the mute one.
Charmian retired behind her paper with her thoughts. She knew that both the Trusts had small but comfortable private incomes, and since it was her belief that Mr Pilgrim was a con man of no mean skill, it behoved her to do something about it. But what?
At Windsor station, she looked around for a taxi to take her to the Ward’s house in Merrywick.
‘I’ve got the car here,’ said Flora. ‘Can we give you a lift?’ She liked driving her friends to wherever they wanted to go; it gave her an insight into their lives. She got more than she bargained for this time when Charmian revealed she was bound for the Wards, and her eyes widened.
‘Right you are. It’s on our way.’ Flora drove the car neatly and fast, with Emmy in the back surrounded by her parcels and Charmian by her side. ‘Mr Pilgrim has heard about you,’ she said, as she drove, ‘and would like to meet you. You agree? Oh good, ‘I will see what can be arranged.’ The car drew up before a large, opulent-looking bungalow. ‘ Here you are, this is the house. Do they know you are coming? I shouldn’t worry, someone is bound to be at home.’ As the car drew away, she pointed out of the car window. ‘There’s a bus stop. One bus every half hour. Save you trudging home. Or give me a ring,’ she ended generously.
Charmian walked up the garden path between standard rose bushes carefully trained over wire cages. The curtains were drawn, the house looked shuttered and blind. The bell did not seem to work so she tried the knocker. She was not so confident as Flora that someone was at home.
But no, Flora was right. Footsteps could be heard coming in response to her knock.
When the door opened she saw a short middle-aged man with a tired face. He was dressed with scrupulous neatness in a dark suit with a pale shirt. The skin around his eyes was red and puffy, as if he had cried, and not slept.
‘Mr Ward?’ She introduced herself. ‘May I talk to you? And your wife?’
‘My wife isn’t here. I sent her and my other girl away.’ He lowered his eyes and spoke hesitantly. ‘We have another daughter, three years younger than Millicent. They’re with their grandmother. I don’t want to tell you the address unless you press me. I’m here on my own. I’ll talk to you if I have to, and if it will help find who killed Millicent.’
He led her into a long sitting-room. Furnished comfortably but without fuss, it was an easy family room. Even now it was dusted and neatly arranged. Only the dead flowers in the vase on the table hinted at something amiss.
He offered her a chair and sat down himself facing her on a pink velvet sofa. ‘I know who you are.’
‘You do?’
‘You’re quite a well-known lady. My wife went to a talk you gave. Told me all about it. She admires you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Difficult job you’ve got, teaching women how to look after themselves. Their own worst enemies. Look at Millicent. They think she went out into the garden because something caught her attention. Lured out there.’
‘Someone she knew?’
He remained silent. Then, ‘I’d say so, wouldn’t you? Or someone she trusted.’
‘Any idea whom?’
‘If I had, do you think I’d be sitting here, talking to you? I’d have shot him.’
‘Have you got a gun, Mr Ward?’
‘I should get one.’ Charmian found she believed him. ‘Or I’d let my hands do the talking for me.’ He looked down at his hands, they were strong and square.
She knew she had to try to get him to talk about Millicent’s feeling about the Gaynor household, because she was seeking for an insight into a family situation she knew must be there, but found hard to pin down.
‘Did she like the Gaynors?’ It seemed an easy question, a beginning, anyway.
‘Didn’t like Joanna much, or she thought the girl didn’t like her. They didn’t have anything in common. Millicent was older, they had different interests. They did get a bit closer when Millicent was working on a school project about horses. Joanna helped her there, introduced her to people. Even took her to some stables where she seemed to have friends.’
‘They were at the same school?’
‘That’s right, but Millicent was in one of the top forms. I believe Joanna was going to be sent away to school anyway.’
‘Was she now?’
‘Millicent thought she’d be glad to go, but I think a girl needs her home.’
‘Did she think Joanna wasn’t happy at home?’
‘She didn’t put it like that. I think Milly just felt it wouldn’t be the sort of home she’d be happy in herself. But she liked Mrs Gaynor.’
‘Oh she did?’
‘And of course the pay was good.’
‘The pay?’
‘Yes, Mrs Gaynor paid well for what Millicent did, and provided a lovely meal. I never gave my girls much pocket money. Didn’t think it right. Get out and be independent, I used to say; earn for yourself. I blame myself now, of course.’
‘You mustn’t blame yourself, Mr Ward.’ She guessed that the younger daughter would profit from what had happened to Millicent, and have an easier ride. Poor Millicent, the loser all round.
‘But I do. And always will.’
He got up. ‘Can I give you a cup of tea? I had just made some.’
‘Thank you.’ Charmian followed him into the kitchen, a light bright affair with polished pine surfaces and yellow paint, all orderly and neat in spite of everything. Mr Ward obviously ran a very tight ship. She could not help reflecting that in similar circumstances her own kitchen would have been in a state of considerable disorder. But everyone showed misery differently and his way was to keep externals tidy. It probably supported him.
The tea however was horrid, cold and weak, a whole pot made with one teabag and some time ago at that. It was served in thin Worcester cups which she doubted if his wife used in the kitchen.
Mr Ward sipped his tea with a puzzled look as if he sensed that something was wrong with his brew but could not work out what.
Charmian stirred her tea. ‘Would you say the Gaynors’ was a happy household?’
‘Didn’t really know them that well. Brian Gaynor’s a bit high powered for me. Now, for me, buying this house and sending the girls to good schools was success, but for Brian this is just a passing phase, he’ll go on and up.’
‘Success like that often bears hard on the family,’ probed Charmian.
‘Yes,’ agreed Mr Ward absently. ‘Millicent did say she heard quarrels. The kids got shouted at a bit sometimes.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Millicent did say she saw bruises sometimes,’ he said, still absently, as if unaware of what he had said.
‘On both children?’
‘Only the girl.’
Only the girl, Charmian echoed the words silently. She put the cup of tea away from her. ‘Thank you for the tea.’ She hadn’t finished it.
They talked for a few more minutes, then he saw her to the door. As he stood there he said, still absently, as if it meant nothing to him, but was a part of his dead daughter that he wanted to pass on, ‘Millicent said to me once when she came back from an evening there, “They’re keeping something quiet in that house, there’s something they don’t talk about.” ’
‘A lot of families must do that.’
‘Not my family, we talked everything out. It wouldn’t be what Millicent was used to.’
He ought to see some of the families I know, thought Charmian as she prepared to walk home to Kate, looking forward to telling her about the invitation for lunch and polo on Sunday. The bus she might have caught had she been quicker was just disappearing round the corner. But the rain had ceased and the storm was over. She would enjoy the walk.
When the rain had stopped, Annabel went out into the stable-yard to look for Joanna. The sky was still lowering and murky with more than a hint that the storm would come back. She wanted Joanna in the house.
The yard was empty, it seemed to her that the lads had gone home. She was well acquainted with Lesley, Johnny, Freda and Gillian and knew that they kept a sharp eye on the clock. They came in early, they liked to leave on time.
She called Joanna’s name, but without much hope of a reply. Her experience was that if Joanna did not want to answer, Joanna would not. Her usual anger at Joanna’s evasiveness surfaced.
‘Joanna?’ she called loudly and angrily. ‘Where the hell are you?’ The girl had entirely too much freedom.
She advanced to the construction in the middle of the yard where Tommy Bingham had once practised his polo shots. He hadn’t used it since the onset of his illness and it had the slightly neglected air
of a piece of apparatus that was out of favour.
The door moved as if in a wind. But there was no wind.
Annabel went over and gave the door a strong push.
‘Joanna,’ she said. ‘ I could kill you.’
Not all mothers who threaten to kill their daughters actually
plan to do anything about it.
Chapter Eleven
Kate was in the kitchen of the house in Maid of Honour Row mixing up an omelette. Charmian had not put a lot of money or effort into the kitchen, and to Kate’s way of thinking it needed bringing up to date. It was easy to see where Charmian really lived, she thought, and it was not in the kitchen. In her living-room with her books, cat and music, that was Charmian’s world. About the bedroom she was not so sure, she did not know too much about that side of Charmian’s life. For the first time it struck her that it might really be a nuisance to her godmother to have her living there.
She smiled at Charmian and gave a small wave. ‘ Supper is on the way. Mushroom and bacon omelette with salad.’ On the table was a long baton of French bread. ‘ I thought of garlic bread but guessed you’d say no.’
‘I’d love it, but as you say, not tonight. I’ve got an appointment.’ Couldn’t breathe garlic over the Gaynors. Although it was said to keep the devil away, she had no desire to beat the evil out of Joanna in that particular way. ‘And I mustn’t take long,’ said Charmian, putting her bag on the table, and sorting through her post. ‘There’s not a lot of time.’
‘I know. I took a message from Dr Seeley that she’d meet you at Fletcher’s Cottage at eight o’clock. She can’t trust your timekeeping.’
‘No doubt with reason.’
‘That’s why I’m whipping up an omelette.’
‘I didn’t know you were into cooking.’
‘I’ve just taken it up. It’s life giving, isn’t it? And of course as an architect, which I will be one day, I ought to know a bit about how kitchens work. I’ve never done much, I always used to leave it to my mother who is marvellous, but doesn’t really welcome help in the kitchen. But she cooks like an angel.’ Kate was busy chopping mushrooms.
‘So she does.’ Charmian was remembering the many good meals she had eaten at Anny’s hospitable table. ‘And an angel who has read Elizabeth David and Elizabeth Craig. Your father wasn’t bad, either.’ There was nothing in the post except a short note from Wimpey to say there had been no progress of any importance on the triple murders, but it was early days, and he personally thought it would be a long hunt. The horse-prints and the droppings had produced nothing helpful, as yet, but the prints of the shoes had interested their expert who would be coming back to them with his conclusions. The animal had been small and limber, shoes size three and fed on the usual feed of several thousand local nags. And yet the horse matters, Charmian said to herself. The appearance of those prints, the very use of the horse is telling us something. Murderers like this don’t do anything by accident. This is a proclamation of sorts if we can read it aright. What is it saying to us?
Kate broke into her thoughts.
‘You know they are divorcing?’
‘No, she hasn’t told me.’
‘Ashamed, I expect. Never think it of her, would you? But she is beating the breast a bit. She thinks it is her fault.’
‘Half of it probably is.’
‘Yes,’ said Kate, pausing in her cooking to consider. ‘I suppose it is. Yes, you are right. But I think they will miss the quarrelling. It’s the way they are.’ She turned to the stove. ‘You need an omelette pan, but I’ll make do with this.’
‘There’s one in the bottom of the cupboard,’ said Charmian. ‘ I think my mother gave it to me. By the way, I have an invitation to lunch
and to watch polo from the Bingham box on Sunday.’
‘What, that rusty old object?’ Kate pointed a contemptuous finger at the waste-bin. ‘It’s in there and should have been dumped ages ago. When did your mother give it to you? Nonstick is the name of the game now and heavy metal at that. About the lunch, good. I’d fixed up to see Johnny anyway.’
‘You’d better watch out with him.’
‘Oh he’s an angel.’
‘Angelic but ruthless.’
‘Like me,’ said Kate smugly. ‘You get back to your case load and leave me to myself.’
‘I will, you ungrateful child.’ Charmian picked up a crust of bread, buttered it and started to eat. Muff gave her a reproachful and hungry stare from the floor. I too am peckish, the look said. ‘Do hurry up with that meal,’ Charmian said, ‘I have to get on with the said work.’
‘I know how your mind must be working on this case. I know because you are working with Ulrika Seeley and I read a little book by her in the London Library.’
‘I didn’t know you belonged to the London Library.’
‘I don’t, but Anny does.’ It was Kate’s belief that they thought she was Anny, in which she was wrong. The librarians knew exactly who she was and meant to stop her next time she came in. ‘I use it all the time. As a kind of club. It’s very handy.’
‘What was the article?’
‘It was called “From Saint to Sinner: the Myth of Woman”. So I know the sort of thing she does. It was about the view of women as criminals through the ages,’ Kate said appreciatively. ‘ It was jolly good. I was supposed to be researching the arch in Florentine pictures and this was much more interesting. Didn’t understand all of it, but I enjoyed it.’
‘Good for you.’
‘She seemed to think the female of the species can do anything.’
‘I didn’t need telling that. And I shouldn’t think you did either.’
‘No.’ Kate was thoughtful. She had had in her a streak of violence, now dying down as she grew older, and knew that women could kill.
‘Seeley seems to extend this judgement to children. She cites the case of a female child who killed at least three people and possibly more. So I suppose I knew what you are both thinking.’
A Cure for Dying Page 14