Death Speaks Softly

by Anthea Fraser

  Morgan subsided, scowling. He watched in silence as Ledbetter propped his crutches against the wall and swung to one of the chairs. Fellow looked like a film star, he thought disgustedly, but he wasn't underestimating Webb.

  'Now Mr Morgan,' the glamour boy began, 'we have reason to believe you've not been completely honest with us.'

  'We've been all over that. I admitted I took her to—'

  Ledbetter raised his voice. 'When was the last time you saw Miss Picard?'

  Morgan moistened his lips. 'The night before she went missing. We had a Chinese meal, then I took her home.'

  'What was she wearing, Mr Morgan?'

  ‘Wearing? How the hell should I know? I never notice what women wear—ask my wife!'

  'What she was not wearing was the linen skirt and blue top she'd just bought. Mrs King was very clear on that.'

  'So?'

  'She wore those for the first time the next day.'

  'All right, I'm not arguing with you.'

  Chris Ledbetter leant forward, his hands clasped on the table. 'But you see, Mr Morgan, fibres from the skirt were found in your car. You understand what that means, don't you?' Morgan stared at him, his small eyes as expressionless as pebbles. 'It means,' Ledbetter continued softly, 'that she must have been in your car on the Tuesday, the day she disappeared.'

  Morgan said tonelessly, 'Oh God,' and ran a finger round the inside of his collar.

  'So perhaps you'll tell us the truth this time. Third time lucky, shall we say?' The sarcasm in the detective's voice brought no reaction. Morgan scarcely seemed to hear him.

  'Oh God!' he said again, on a rising note, and then, 'I didn't kill her, I swear it!'

  'The truth,' Ledbetter repeated implacably.

  Morgan took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. At the small table in the corner, Happy Hopkins, too, paused, his pen in his hand. Now, thought Webb, perhaps we'll get the answer.

  'All right, I did meet her. We fixed it the night before.'

  'Go on.'

  Morgan said desperately, 'Can I smoke?'

  Ledbetter raised his eyebrows at Webb, a noted non-smoker. He nodded. 'If it'll help.'

  Morgan reached in his pocket, producing a silver cigarette case and lighter. Not the usual class of villain, Happy thought, watching from his corner. Crumpled packets and a box of matches were the norm. Morgan lit up, inhaled deeply, and seemed to take confidence from it. He offered the case to the officers, but they declined.

  'I wanted her,' he said then. 'I always had. You probably guessed that. And she must have known. Girls do, don't they? I thought she was teasing, playing the innocent, but looking back, I'm not so sure.' He tapped his cigarette on the metal ashtray. 'When we started going for a meal, I assumed one thing would lead to another, but I was wrong. She seemed almost shocked when I kissed her. It took me aback, I can tell you—damn it, I thought she'd be expecting it. Perhaps she thought I was wining and dining her out of the goodness of my heart. Anyway, all I got a brief peck and no more. She was far more interested in teaching me French grammar.' He grimaced ruefully. 'And she insisted on calling me "monsieur". As time went on she relaxed a bit, though I still had to toe the line. And of course, the more she played hard to get, the more I wanted her.'

  'Go on,' Ledbetter prompted into the growing silence.

  Morgan stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. 'The main trouble was never having long together. I daren't be too late arriving at bowls, and in any case the car was limiting. I thought if I could have her to myself for a while, where we wouldn't be hurried or disturbed, things would work out. After all, most girls would be flattered to be with a man in my position.'

  The policemen avoided each other's eyes as Morgan, unaware that he'd said anything questionable, drew deeply on his cigarette.

  'I waited till I'd a legitimate reason to be out of the office. Then, that Monday night, I suggested a run into the country the next day. She agreed, provided she was back by lunch-time. We arranged to meet in the Lamb and Flag car park at ten-thirty.'

  He stared at his cigarette, remembering. 'I was there first. I can see her now, coming towards me with her hair bouncing on her shoulders and that spring in her step girls have when they know they're being watched. As she slipped in beside me, she leaned across and gave me a quick kiss— the first time she'd taken the initiative. Then she smiled and said, "You like my new clothes?"' He ran a hand across his eyes. The policemen waited in silence.

  'She sat in the car while I did the inspections. I went through them in record time, I can tell you. I was at the stage when I could hardly keep my hands off her. There was a kind of bloom about her, somehow. And the kiss, coupled with the fact that she'd agreed to come—well, I was sure she knew what I had in mind.'

  'And you were wrong again?'

  'Couldn't have been more so. I drove along the Gloucester road and turned off over the heath. After a while we got out and I spread a rug on the grass. And that was where things started going wrong. She flatly refused to play, insisting she'd thought we were going for a drive. The hell of it is, she might genuinely have misunderstood. It's hard to tell, with foreigners. There are innuendoes, colloquialisms which would be explicit to an English girl but could have been lost on Arlette. At the time, though, I didn't think of that. I thought she'd deliberately led me on, and I was mad as hell.'

  But he hadn't raped her, Webb thought. According to the PM she was virgo intacta, which had come as a surprise. 'So what happened?' he asked quietly.

  'I did my damnedest to persuade her. Hell, I was pretty worked up by then, and there she was, righting me off and insisting she'd a train to catch. Not at all what I'd planned. I lost my temper, started shouting at her, and she burst into tears. In the end I scooped up the rug, threw it in the back of the car, and drove off without her. I remembered shouting something about finding her own way back and serve her right.'

  'Or did she run away, and you went after her?'

  'No, as God's my witness it was the way I told you. Indirectly, I did cause her death. I accept that. I shouldn't have left her there, it was a lousy thing to do, but it never entered my head to harm her. Ever since I heard what happened, I've been going through hell.'

  'And what do you think did happen, Mr Morgan?'

  'She was making her way down to the road, wasn't she, to hitch a lift back to town. But the slope's pretty steep there, and those high heels would have been lethal.' He paused and added, 'Literally lethal. One must have broken under her and pitched her forward.'

  It was a pretty astute deduction. Too astute. The broken heel had not been mentioned in press reports. Webb said softly, 'You found her, didn't you?'

  Morgan spread his hands resignedly. 'I thought you'd get round to that. When I heard she was missing, I drove back to look for her. Damn it, wouldn't you? No one saw me— they weren't searching so far afield.'

  'When was this, Mr Morgan?' Webb interrupted.

  'The Thursday evening, as soon as I heard. I parked where I had before and started walking and calling for her. I realized she mightn't answer if she knew it was me, but I had to try. The Nailsworth road wasn't far away, and I guessed she'd have made for it. And eventually I found her.'

  He stared down at the table. 'All right, I should have told you. But it wouldn't have helped Arlette. She was dead. I imagine her neck broke when she fell.'

  Webb studied his downcast face. 'What was your reaction when you found her?'

  'Horror, guilt, then panic. If I reported finding her, you'd wonder how I knew where to look. And though she died because I left her, it hadn't been intentional.'

  'An anonymous call would have been better than nothing.'

  'They can be traced, can't they? I daren't risk it. Anyway, you were bound to find her some time.'

  'So you were content to let her parents go on worrying and hoping—'

  'No!' The word was a shout and Morgan put his head in his hands. 'Not content,' he added more quietly. 'But I had my wife to
consider, and—'

  'You should have thought of that before,' Ledbetter said primly, and Morgan flashed him a look of dislike. 'Did you touch the body at all?'

  'There was no point. I climbed down, praying she'd still be alive, but when it was clear she wasn't, I just left her.' He paused. 'There was one thing I did. Her little scarf had come off and was lying half under her. I pulled it out, using my handkerchief, and stuck it on a bush beside her. I thought someone might see it from the road.'

  'Hardly, at sixty miles an hour.'

  Morgan shrugged. 'Anyway, gentlemen, that really is the lot. I behaved badly, I don't deny it, and as a result a girl died. I'll have to live with that for the rest of my life.'

  Nigel Morgan had waited for his statement to be typed, signed it, and thankfully left.

  'So that's it.' Chris Ledbetter leant back in his chair with a contented sigh. 'Case closed. Well done, Dave. I'm grateful for your help.'

  Webb sighed also, but not with satisfaction. 'The devil of it is, I don't think it's over.'

  Ledbetter straightened. 'You're not saying you don't believe him?'

  'Oh, I think it was accidental death, and that'll be the verdict.'

  'So what's worrying you?'

  'I wish I knew. Call it a hunch. I've a feeling that the girl's death was only the starting-point, though of what, I'm damned if I know.'

  Ledbetter smiled crookedly. 'You should try swinging a pendulum!'

  'Sounds barmy, I agree. But there are ripples spreading from it that haven't been explained. I just don't think we've-seen the end of it.'

  'So what do you propose to do?'

  'God knows. Go back to Shillingham and put my head in the sand.' He paused. 'But I'll breathe more easily when the body's released and they all go back to France.'

  'What could possibly go wrong now?'

  'If I knew that, Chris, I shouldn't feel so helpless. You must have had cases that leave you dissatisfied; that's probably all it is.'

  'Well, whatever you say, I'm grateful for your help. I'll do the same for you some day. Now, let's go and have a drink. That'll cheer you up.'

  And Webb, pushing his reservations aside, nodded in agreement.

  Usually, the days Bernard came home for lunch were the highlight of her week. Today, Beryl was dreading it. All night and all morning, his words had rung in her head. The reason I killed my wife—the reason I killed my wife—

  Of course he'd been talking in his sleep, and of course he'd not known what he was saying. But the fact that he'd said it, meant it must be in his mind. Sometimes, when she reached this point, she was able to dismiss the whole episode as nonsense. If everyone took seriously what was said or done in dreams . . . But at others, her response was less logical; because over the last week Bernard's manner had become more and more unbalanced, and to her horror she realized she was afraid of him.

  He came into the house and without a word seated himself at the table. Beryl said, 'Plaice and parsley sauce today.' It struck her as the most banal of remarks at this crisis point, but he answered automatically, 'Very nice, dear.' It was an echo of his old self, the self which had disappointed her by its lack of appreciation, but whose return, now, would have filled her with joy. And because of that normal phrase in the face of such gross abnormality, she said impulsively, 'Tell me what's wrong, Bernard. Please.'

  He raised his head and his eyes found her face. As she watched, their blankness shifted into focus and he said tiredly, 'I'm sorry, Beryl. Very, very sorry.'

  'But what is it?' She sat down beside him, putting a hand on his. Though she felt it tremble, he didn't move away. She went on gently, 'I only want what's best for you, but lately my just being here seems to upset you.'

  'Because you love me,' he said. She gasped, recoiling as though he had struck her from the phrase that haunted her, and he left it unexplained, seeming to think it explained itself. Yet frightened as she was, she must pursue it; this might be her last chance.

  'I'm your wife. Is it wrong to love you?'

  He sighed, pushing his plate away untouched. 'You're right,' he said, 'I owe you, at very least, an explanation. I've tried to be good to you, Beryl, and I hope you've been happy. It's no fault of yours that I couldn't love you; I'd no love to give. It's belonged to someone else for thirty years.'

  'I didn't know that,' she whispered.

  'There was no point in telling you. I never dreamed I'd see her again.'

  Comprehension came slowly. 'And now you have?' 'Yes. Don't judge me too harshly. It's beyond my control.' 'Who—' Beryl's voice croaked. She cleared her throat and said more strongly, 'Who is she?' 'Cecile Picard.' 'Picard? The girl who—?' 'Her mother.'

  'Oh God!' Beryl whispered. Then, 'But she's married, too. What about—?'

  'No one can come between us. Not now. She's my salvation, my talisman against the snake.'

  'Snake?' Beryl's eyes widened. He was mad!

  'The reptile brain,' he said, 'digesting the cerebrum from within. It happened to Brouge.'

  Was this the theme of the book upstairs? And was he now relating it to himself? But he allowed her no time to follow his meaning. 'And I'm just as necessary for her. Our coming together is the one thing which can make Arlette's death bearable for her. Surely you see that? Good coming out of grief?'

  'I—don't know,' she murmured, since he seemed to expect a reply.

  'It's obvious enough.' There was impatience in his voice, and from long habit, Beryl tried obligingly to understand. 'How does her husband feel about it?' 'That's immaterial. He must accept it, like the rest of us.' 'Including me?' 'Yes. I'm sorry.'

  But incredibly, she was already accepting it—the explanation, if not, as yet, its outcome. For the change in him dated almost exactly from Arlette's disappearance—she'd already established that. Now, she could pinpoint it more finely. Since the arrival of her parents. But this long-lost-love story—was it true? Or had he, in his strange way, been overwhelmed by the Frenchwoman, and spun a fantasy round her? Surely Bernard, calm, self-possessed, almost, she thought blushingly, passionless, was incapable of such deep and lasting love? But perhaps, as he'd said himself, that was 'immaterial'. True or not, it was clear she herself was no longer wanted.

  He was sitting in silence, with bowed head. She said almost sulkily, 'So what happens now?'

  'Cecile will accompany her daughter's body back to France. She'll attend the funeral, tidy up her affairs, then return here.'

  Beryl swallowed. 'To this house, you mean?'

  He looked at her in surprise. 'It's my home.'

  'And mine!' she cried, tears starting to her eyes. 'Have I no rights at all?'

  'But you see,' he said reasoningly, 'I have to stay here because of my work, whereas you're free to start a new life wherever you choose. I'll make generous provision for you.'

  'I don't want "generous provision", I want my husband and my home!' She could feel the tears coursing down her cheeks, knew despairingly that now, when she most desperately needed to win him over, she must look her worst. He didn't speak, and after a moment, struggling for control, she said baldly, 'You want me to get out. Is that it?'

  Still no reply.

  'And if I don't?' The reason I killed my wife—She shuddered involuntarily.

  'The fault is mine, Beryl,' he repeated patiently. 'I accept that. You've been hurt, and I'm sorry. But Cecile and I suffered for thirty years1. Surely we've earned some happiness?'

  She said chokingly, 'It's too bad you've had to put up with me so long. Don't worry, there'll be no more scenes. I'll pack a suitcase, and send a van for the rest of my things. Goodbye, Bernard.'

  She left the room with as much dignity as she could summon, and went upstairs. In a fog of misery she reached down a suitcase and almost randomly began to drop things into it. Could a marriage—a world—fall apart in two short weeks? When Arlette Picard disappeared, she'd thought she was happily married. If the girl hadn't died, her mother wouldn't have come, and nothing would have changed.

&
nbsp; She heard the front door bang and moved to the window. As so many times in the past, she watched Bernard walk down the path, get into his car and drive away. She couldn't believe it was the last time she'd do so.

  She turned back to the case, closed it, and cast an unseeing glance round the room. Then she went downstairs. The two plates of fish were still on the table, the sauce congealing over them. Bile rose in her throat. Leaving them where they were, she went out to her own car, put the case on the back seat, then, as an afterthought, walked along the gravel behind the banks of conifers to the Marshbanks' house.

  Claire came to the door, her face immediately concerned. 'Beryl! Whatever is it?'

  'I've come to say goodbye,' Beryl said clearly. 'I'm leaving Bernard. If that's the right way round.'

  Claire took her arm and led her inside. Beryl went unresistingly, allowed herself to be settled on the sofa, and accepted a small glass of brandy.

  'Now, tell me what happened.'

  Calmly, she did so, omitting only Bernard's talking in his sleep. 'I don't know whether to believe it or not,' she finished. 'It seems so improbable that I wondered if he'd just— deluded himself into thinking it was true. I mean, that poor husband! Surely she wouldn't leave him now, straight after their daughter's death?'

  Claire said gently, 'I think it is true, love. Daphne saw them together.' And she repeated what Daphne'd told her.

  'So that's it,' Beryl said dully. 'Well, it doesn't make much difference.' She looked up, meeting Claire's eyes with a wan smile. 'In fact, in a way it helps. When I learned that he'd never loved me, I thought it was my fault, that I'd failed him in some way. But I hadn't—he said so himself. He could have married the most beautiful, intelligent woman in the world, and it would have been the same. He was so obsessed with this Cecile, he'd nothing left to give.'

  'What will you do?' Claire asked quietly.

  'Go to my sister in Shillingham. She was widowed last year.'

  'But what about Melbray? You enjoy going there so much.'