Death Speaks Softly
Series: David Webb [4]
Published: 1994
Tags: Mystery, Crime
Mysteryttt Crimettt
* * *
Death Speaks Softly
i
For my daughter Fiona, with love.
CHAPTER 1
Bernard Warwick leant forward and peered at his face in the shaving mirror. It stared inscrutably back at him, and a smile twitched his mouth. 'Shouldn't like to play you at poker, old man!' his colleagues would remark. 'Never have the faintest idea what you're thinking!'
Which was as well, he reflected, lathering his face. (He preferred the traditional method of shaving, had not even unwrapped the electric razor his wife bought him years ago.) He'd learned young the necessity of hiding his feelings, and was not sufficiently interested in others to attempt to discern theirs. He accepted them at face value—they could afford him the same courtesy.
Face value. It was an effective mask, he acknowledged, studying in the glass the unlined brow from which dark hair was brushed uncompromisingly back. The cheeks had a healthy glow, and the clear, firm skin was that of a man half his age. Only the eyes, veiled with a wary blankness, might give an observer pause. It looked an unlived-in face, with no hint of the agony of living endured behind it. He was, in fact, fifty years old, which made it almost thirty since—
His hand trembled and a bright blood-bead stained the foam. Was it possible, he wondered, scraping the razor across his skin, to have a nervous breakdown without anyone being aware of it? What was a breakdown? A sense of isolation, searing despair? That had been his existence for the last thirty years. His one great terror was of cracking up. Sometimes he lay rigid in the night as Beryl slept beside him, imagining the disintegration of his personality, the crumbling to powder of brain, flesh, and sinew, all concealed behind that calm and placid facade.
How would they react, his university colleagues, were he led away, gibbering, to a padded cell? With the cliche about genius and madness? He knew, without conceit, he was considered a genius. Knew, too, that such gifts as he possessed were the result of having flung all his repressions and frustrations into an academic career. 'Professor Bernard Warwick of Broadshire University, the world's leading authority on the works of Brouge'. . . Yet, though they respected him, he'd no close friends. Beryl alone would weep for him.
Beryl! Why, in God's name, had he married her? In a last, panic-stricken attempt to forget the unforgettable? If he did have a breakdown, she'd have played her part in it, with her unending attempts to please him. Sometimes, in those agonizing night watches, he considered murdering her. He would see himself, tall and unemotional in the dock, hear learned counsel ask, 'But why, Professor Warwick? Why did you kill your wife?' And he would answer simply, 'Because she loved me.'
'Bernard?'
He jumped at the sound of her voice, as though it came from beyond the grave rather than the bathroom door.
'It's eight-fifteen, dear, and your breakfast's ready.'
'Thank you. I shan't be a moment.' He tipped some aftershave into his palm and patted it over his face. Enough of fantasy, the workaday world awaited him.
As, half an hour later, he backed his car out of the drive, his next-door neighbour emerged from his own house. Bernard raised a hand in salute. Tom Marshbanks was the closest he had to a friend, though the contact was maintained through their wives. The fleeting exchange cheered him. There were, after all, still some blessings he could count, and chief among them the town in which he lived. It never failed to please him and now, on a bright May morning, it was looking its best.
Steeple Bayliss, Broadshire's oldest settlement, predating even Broadminster, was the seat of its university, and had, till the end of the last century, been its county town. Then, as new developments sprang up all over the county, its location tucked away in the north-west corner made administration less feasible, and it was superseded by the more central if less imposing Shillingham. The resentment and rivalry caused by this move had lasted to the present day, principally between the two football teams.
As Bernard made his way down the steep road into town, he revelled in the sunlit stone buildings tumbling towards the river and the magnificent viaduct by which he would shortly cross it. And as he did so, he glanced as he always did to his left, taking pleasure in the gently rocking boats at the quayside and the permanently moored Barley Mow, a large, converted barge which was now a public house and a favourite haunt of young people in the town. Even at this hour, tables were being set up on the quay alongside, and their gaily coloured umbrellas gave the scene a continental air.
Then he was across the river and following the road up towards the main gates of the campus. His academic day was about to begin.
That afternoon, in the house next to the Warwicks, Claire Marshbanks watched anxiously as her fifteen-month-old grand-daughter lurched towards the bookcase.
'Had I better empty the shelves? Daddy's first editions aren't for chewing!'
'Don't fuss, Mum. She knows she mustn't touch them.'
The child, inches from the bookcase, turned unsteadily and tapped the back of one hand with the other. 'Ah-ah!' she said sternly.
The adults laughed. "What did I tell you?' Sarah said, triumphantly shaking back her hair. She looked ridiculously young to be a mother, Claire thought, but she was more confident with her firstborn than Claire herself had been.
'How's Paul? Still enjoying the new job?' Sarah's husband was deputy Head of Infants at the local primary school.
'He's loving it. Once Katy's old enough for playgroup, I'll apply for a part-time job there.'
Claire made no comment. She'd be happier if Sarah waited till the child reached school age, but of course she was impatient to teach. She'd become pregnant within months of qualifying. 'By the way, I asked Beryl to drop in. You don't mind, do you? I've a feeling time drags for her on the days she's not at Melbray, though she'd rather die than admit it.'
'I don't mind, but she's heavy going, isn't she? She's so —intense, somehow, hanging on your every word. I just dry up.'
Claire smiled. 'Poor Beryl, she's so desperate to improve her IQ, she drains every topic to its dregs. It's understandable, though. Being married to Bernard would give anyone an inferiority complex.'
Katy sat down suddenly, absorbed in a glass ashtray she'd removed from the coffee-table. Experimentally, she put it to her mouth.
'It's smooth, and perfectly clean,' Claire said. 'Edna washed all the ornaments this morning.'
'Dear Edna, how is she? I haven't seen her for ages.'
'The same as always. I was treated to a verbatim report of every conversation she's taken part in over the past week.'
'Does she still call you "Miss Claire" now you're a grandma?'
Claire laughed. 'We knew each other as children, don't forget, with Ivy working for Granny.'
'All the same, it sounds like something out of Dallas?
The telephone shrilled suddenly, and Claire leaned back in her chair to answer it. 'Simon! Hello, darling. How are you?' She listened for a moment. 'No, there haven't been any calls here. Why? . . . Perhaps she missed the train. What should I say if she does ring? ... All right. Sarah's here, with Katy.' She nodded at her daughter's mouthed message. 'She sends her love ... I will. Goodbye, darling. Take care.'
'What's up with Sy?'
'He'd arranged to meet this French girl he knows, and she hasn't turned up.'
'The femme fatale from the Uni?'
Claire looked surprised. 'That's not how I'd describe her. I only met her briefly, but she seemed quite shy.'
'From what I hear, half the campus is lusting after her. Is Sy smitten too?'
'I've no idea. He's taken he
r out a couple of times, but I think that's all.'
'It might be enough!' Sarah said darkly. 'What's she like?'
'Quite pretty, I thought, with a decidedly French air. Curly blonde hair in a single plait, thick fair eyebrows and a small, pouting mouth.' The doorbell rang. 'There's Beryl now. Go and let her in, would you, darling. I'll keep an eye on the baby.'
Beryl Warwick was small and thin. Her hair, a vibrant red in her youth, had faded to pepper-and-salt, and she had the pale skin usual with such colouring. Her face was pointed, her nose rather long, and she gave the impression of peering round it like an alert terrier on the scent of a rabbit.
She came quickly into the room, greeted Claire, and paused to coo at the baby. Katy, still intent on the ashtray, ignored her.
'Isn't she growing, Sarah? Before you know it, she'll be starting school! I've brought her some dolly mixtures. Is that all right?'
'How kind of you. Thank you. I'll take charge of them, shall I?'
Claire admired her tact, knowing that sweets were no part of Katy's diet. 'I'll put the kettle on,' she said.
Beryl perched on the edge of a chair, prepared to show interest in any comment Sarah might offer. Dutifully, the girl made an effort.
'Anything exciting coming up at Melbray?'
Melbray was a large manor house just outside town, now owned by a syndicate. It ran weekend leisure courses, antique shows, concerts and conferences, and in the summer staged an ambitious outdoor theatre in the grounds. Claire and Beryl were on the organizing committee.
With the ball back in her court, Beryl spoke brightly. 'Yes indeed. There's Art Appreciation next weekend. We've lined up some very good speakers, and it's fully booked. Then there's a week's residential course on French literature, and at the end of the month, a Bank Holiday pop concert.' She made a little moue. 'Not my taste, that one, but we cater for everybody and it will be carefully monitored. Entry by ticket only, and so on.'
Claire returned with the tea-tray and Sarah manoeuvered the baby into her own chair and tied a bib round her neck. Katy, anticipating food, began banging on the tray with the flat of her hands.
'May I help to feed her?' Beryl asked eagerly.
Sarah smiled. 'She doesn't need help. She's an independent young lady, my daughter!'
Claire, noting the wistfulness on her friend's face, wished she'd primed Sarah beforehand. Beryl had married only ten years ago, at the age of thirty-eight, and the marriage was understandably childless. Claire found her silent worship of the baby touching.
'You haven't forgotten you're coming to dinner on Saturday?' she asked, handing Beryl her tea.
'No indeed, we're looking forward to it. It will do Bernard good to relax. At home, he always has some work to do.' Beryl's plain face lit up at the mention of her husband. She managed to introduce him into most conversations, as though to reassure herself of his existence. 'Did I tell you he's been asked to do a paper on Brouge's early work? I know it's an honour, but he has so little time as it is. I'm afraid he'll burn himself out.'
'Bernard takes everything in his stride,' Claire remarked. 'He'll pace himself; I'm sure you needn't worry.'
'But I do,' Beryl said simply. Then compressed her lips as though regretting the admission. If the late love which had come to her brought cares as well as joy, they were not for discussion over the tea-table.
When tea was over, she stood up and replaced her cup and saucer on the tray. 'Thank you, Claire, that was very pleasant. Lovely to see Sarah and Katy again.' Her eyes lingered on the child's silky head. 'Any time you want a babysitter, dear, you only have to ask.'
Sarah looked up at her. 'Really? You mean it?'
'Of course I do. I'm seldom out in the evenings. Bernard—' She broke off. 'I can come any time. I'd enjoy it.'
'Well, that's great. Having only just moved back here, we haven't sorted out babysitters yet. Thanks very much, I'll be in touch.'
Beryl nodded and moved to the door. 'Eight-thirty tomorrow, Claire?' They took turns in driving to Melbray. 'I'll be ready.'
Claire saw her out, and Beryl walked the short distance to her own door. All the front gardens in the road were open-plan, but the Warwicks and Marshbanks shared a gravel walkway lying behind a grass island on the pavement, which was planted with multicoloured conifers. Claire's house was on the fringe of it, but the Warwicks' lay hidden from the road by graceful branches of fir and cedar. It was like being imprisoned in a wood, Beryl thought, seeing nothing but trees from her front windows.
She let herself into the house with a brief sigh, the bright eagerness which so daunted Sarah falling from her as she closed her front door. How lucky Claire was, she thought; a husband who adored her, a clever son and daughter, and now that darling grandchild. She clasped her hands tightly together. She wouldn't swap Bernard for anyone—of course she wouldn't—but if only he could be a little more demonstrative. Her whole purpose in life was to please him, to make his home comfortable, and to be a loving, intelligent wife; but he gave no sign of noticing her efforts. Perhaps he took them for granted—and perhaps, she excused him loyally, it was right that he should.
Occasionally, shyly, she'd force the issue. 'Do you like my new dress, Bernard?' Or, 'Did you enjoy the chicken? It's a new recipe.' No hint that she'd spent the entire day marinating, stuffing and basting. But whatever the question, his reply never varied. 'Yes, dear, it's very nice.'
Sometimes, yearning for confirmation of his love, she'd touch his hand, yet though he'd smile and pat her arm, she felt unaccountably that she'd embarrassed him. But then Bernard wasn't like other men, and she shouldn't expect him to be. He was brilliant—everyone said so. He could have had anyone he wanted—and he had chosen her. The wonder of it still amazed her. So—what was she worrying about? She gave herself a little shake and, as she walked briskly through to the kitchen, was already planning the evening meal.
Late that night, a man lay staring into the darkness, oblivious of his wife sleeping beside him. Silly little bitch—what did she think she was playing at? It wasn't as if he'd taken her by surprise. He'd made it pretty clear what he wanted.
And she hadn't objected to his kisses, he thought, pulses racing at the memory of rounded limbs and fluttering eyes. But when she'd really got him going, when he could hardly contain himself, she'd just pulled away, glanced at her watch, and announced that she had a train to catch! A train! He'd thought she was joking, had laughed and buried his mouth in her neck. But she began struggling, pushing at his hands, and he'd felt the accelerated beat of her heart.
'Please no, monsieur!' (Monsieur! Made him sound about ninety!) 'I assure you, it is true. I have an appointment, in Shillingham.'
'Then he'll have to wait, won't he, till we've finished here.'
'But you don't understand! I must demand that you return me to town.'
'Demand?' He'd stared at her, aware even then that the imperious word had been only a slip in translation.
'Beg,' she amended swiftly. 'Je vous implore, monsieur. On m'attend.'
No wonder he'd lost his temper. All that startled innocence all of a sudden. Who was she kidding? Everyone knew about French girls.
God, he'd been a fool to get involved with her! But she was so luscious, so golden, like a ripe peach he longed to sink his teeth into. He groaned softly in the darkness, turning his head from side to side till his wife stirred in her sleep.
Well, he'd taught her a lesson, anyway. And serve her right, playing fast and loose like that. There were names for girls like her. But he wished to God it hadn't happened, that he could turn the clock back. That was one mistake he'd never make again. The only consolation was that neither would she.
Philip Baker stormed into the tutors' common room and flung his briefcase on the table.
'Yet again that bloody French girl hasn't showed up. Talk about unreliable! She didn't phone in, did she?'
Mark Lennard looked up from his papers. 'Not that I've heard.'
'It's the second time in ten days, for G
od's sake. Last week it was something to do with her liver.'
Mark laughed. 'The French are obsessed with their livers. Surely you know that?'
'What I do know is there's no one available at such short notice to take her class. She seems to think she can come and go as she pleases.'
'Calm down, Phil! What about a spot of entente cordiale? The girl's probably ill.'
'Then I'd feel a damn sight more cordiale if she'd inform me of the fact.'
It wasn't until Arlette Picard failed to return to her lodgings on Wednesday evening that anyone registered more than annoyance at her absence.
'I wonder what's keeping her?' Mrs King said worriedly, gazing out of the window. 'She's always back by this time —she knows we eat at seven.'
'She thinks it's too early—she told me,' her daughter volunteered.
'Well, I'm sorry about that, but I'm not going to change the habits of a lifetime to suit her ladyship. When in Rome, do as Rome does.' She glanced again at her watch. 'You'd think she'd phone if she was going to be this late. She's usually good about that.'
'Why not ring the university? She might still be in the Library.'
'Not this late, surely.'
Iris shrugged, returning to her magazine, and after a minute her mother went to the phone. But when she succeeded in locating someone from the French Department, the news was not reassuring.
'Iris, she hasn't been in today!'
'That's odd.' Iris frowned. 'How did she leave it yesterday?'
'She said she'd a date in Shillingham that afternoon, and as she hadn't a class till mid-morning, she'd probably spend the night there.'
'With Sophie, I suppose. That's where she stayed a fortnight ago.'
'That's what I thought. So I didn't expect her last night, and I supposed she'd go straight to work this morning. But if she never turned up—' Mrs King turned, staring at her daughter. 'Sophie's an au pair, isn't she? Do you know the name of the family?'
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