by Gwen Moffat
‘But he told you.’
‘I wasn’t privileged. He thinks you know already. Do you?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know if he killed her?’
‘I don’t think he did.’ She found his eyes disturbing but she was not going to tell him why she thought Mossop innocent of his wife’s murder. He was Press, and an unknown quantity. She regarded the stones of Harper’s barn and was reminded of Caroline.
‘You believe in getting other people to do your work for you, Mr Cole.’
‘Conservation of resources.’ It was glib but he smiled. ‘I don’t think he did it either. Who’s short of money round here? Who’s got the evil mind?’ Miss Pink’s eyes were drawn to Coneygarth as if the cottage were magnetic. ‘There can’t be many to choose from,’ Cole said.
She stepped out from the shelter of the yews and continued down the track. The doors of the barn were open and Harper was attending to the tyres of his Cortina, operating a foot pump and staring sightlessly at the rain. He focused on Miss Pink then looked incuriously at Cole. During the introductions the journalist regarded the other man with interest.
‘Have you lived here long?’ he asked.
‘A few months.’ Harper looked at Miss Pink with the eyes of a sick dog and she gave Cole no opportunity to launch into an extempore interview but led him away, making conversation.
‘I’ll bring you over when the sun’s shining and he’s in a more welcoming mood; he’s had a terrible cold for days. . . . His barn’s not bad; you wouldn’t be interested in the house, it’s been spoiled. You’ve seen the packhorse bridge: the parapets had to be so low because of the loads on the ponies’ backs. . . .’
‘Enchanting. And so is the house beyond it: those yew trees! What must it look like by moonlight? Too corny for words?’ His glance slid past her shoulder. ‘Someone is trying to attract our attention.’
Lucy Fell had opened her kitchen window and was leaning out to call to them but no sound could be heard above the wild rush of the river. She beckoned. Miss Pink waved acknowledgement and crossed the bridge to Thornbarrow’s garden gate, Cole striding happily at her side.
‘At last,’ he enthused, ‘I’m going to see the inside of one of these places—it is a statesman’s house, isn’t it?’
‘A statesman was only a yeoman farmer, so all houses of this size were statesmen’s.’ She didn’t think Lucy’s summons had extended to him and, about to point this out, she hesitated. ‘Just a moment, Mr Cole.’
He turned, politely eager. ‘Yes?’
‘I think it might be better if you kept to your conservation angle in this house.’
‘Oh. Does she have something to do with the crime?’
Whenever he said ‘crime’ she wanted to shout: ‘Which one?’ and now her eyes wandered desperately over the dale. Where was Caroline being held? She became aware that he was waiting for an answer.
‘Distantly,’ she said, trying to make the words lighter than she felt, ‘but someone is missing and he may have met with an accident; Mrs Fell is rather worried about that—naturally.’
He grinned and nodded. ‘Boy friend?’
‘In a way.’ She opened the gate and went along the flags to the back door which was ajar.
‘God!’ Lucy exclaimed, sweeping across the living room. ‘What a hell of a day; the floods will be out if it goes on like this. Who’s that with you, is it Zeke? Drop your wet things in the passage and come in to the fire.’
Miss Pink made the introductions and they pussy-footed into the house. Cole stopped with a gasp at sight of the bread cupboard. ‘May I?’ he breathed, advancing.
‘Have a look round,’ Lucy said blithely on her way to the kitchen, ‘it’s all yours.’
He turned to Miss Pink, his hands clasped ecstatically. ‘Can I see inside?’ he called. ‘Or shall I expose the skeleton in your cupboard?’
‘What, more?’ Lucy asked drily, invisible. ‘You look; enjoy yourself.’
He opened the cupboards to reveal her drinks and glassware and, in the much larger section underneath, a collection of massive family party pieces: tureens, oval dishes for whole geese and turkeys, a complete dinner service. He ran his hands over the carving, exclaimed at the hinges, sighed over the faulty sapwood, and then stood back muttering about light, and making notes in a small book. Lucy came in with a tray and he started to plead for pictures. She treated him with indulgent amusement and said he could take photographs at any time, then she released him, as if he were a small boy, to roam the house.
‘I sleep in a four-poster,’ she explained to Miss Pink. ‘Modern mattress and electric blanket, of course, and Liberty hangings. It’s over two hundred years old.’ They listened to the stairs creaking as Cole ascended slowly. ‘He’s looking at the panelling,’ Lucy said. ‘Is there any news about Jackson?’
‘Not to my knowledge,’ Miss Pink said truthfully. ‘Tell me, did you ever have a theory as to who might have written that anonymous letter to you?’
‘I told you: Peta.’
‘But she had one as well; hers was blackmail.’
‘That’s definite? That’s nasty. Did she pay?’
‘Yes. That was nastier. What was the relationship between Wren and Peta?’
The other was startled. ‘Jackson and Peta? He drank at Storms, and probably had an affair with her—of a sort. I wouldn’t expect him to be serious about it.’
‘Was she possessive?’
Upstairs a cistern flushed. ‘Making himself at home,’ Lucy observed. ‘What is he? An Iraqui?’
‘Oh yes, I was forgetting you’d been in the Middle East.’ Miss Pink looked at her hostess calmly. ‘I thought Jackson would have been in touch with you.’
Lucy’s face was stiff. ‘Why?’
‘Because, on Friday evening you seemed very much attached to each other and he’d know you’d be worried if he disappeared suddenly and without explanation. You are worried, aren’t you?’
‘Not so much now. I’m beginning to wonder if he went to London—with Caroline Harper.’
‘Wouldn’t he have let you know?’
Lucy smiled wryly. ‘Not, I think, in the circumstances. She’s very attractive.’
Cole reappeared, silently in his stockinged feet, and eyed his hostess with awe. ‘And you live—among all this—just an ordinary, everyday life!’
‘Who’s ordinary?’ She was wearing the grey flannel suit and all her rings, and as Miss Pink watched she saw a change, not merely in the other woman’s face but in the lines of her body: a softening, a relaxation, a kind of preparation as if Lucy were marshalling her forces. The eyelids drooped a little, one noticed the long thighs and slender ankles, the superlative grooming.
‘Sit down,’ she ordered, and lifted the tea pot. ‘Tea?’
‘Yes. Yes, please.’ He glanced warily at Miss Pink who was waiting for him to renew his request to take pictures, but it was Lucy who, passing him a plate of scones, asked casually: ‘When would be a suitable time for you?’
He flashed his gold fillings. ‘Tonight?’ he asked brightly, and in the same tone, correcting himself, This evening?’
‘I have an engagement this evening.’
‘On Sunday? What do you do on Sunday evening in this—er, community?’
‘Carnthorpe and Eden Valley Naturalist’s Trust are having a lecture from a lichenologist.’
‘Oh no. You mean, you’re interested in lichens?’
‘No, in the lichenologist.’
Miss Pink rubbed her nose. Cole frowned. ‘Are you serious?’
Lucy’s eyes narrowed teasingly; she looked beautiful and confident and not at all middle-aged.
‘What happened to Jackson Wren?’ he asked.
In the silence her face went quite blank. ‘How long have you been here?’ she asked.
‘Since last night.’
Her voice was honed. ‘Hardly long enough to do a check on your gossip, leaving aside the question of etiquette in repeating it. After five years�
� time we might allow you to gossip about the dale, if you were amusing, but it’s a lengthy initiation; anything quicker is considered rather vulgar.’
He bit his lip and blinked, then stood up. ‘That slipped out. I can’t ask you to forgive me; I’ll just go. Thank you for the tea.’
‘When you come back to take your pictures,’ she said lightly, her tone halting him on his way to the door, and rising herself. ‘Wear something other than wellies and waterproofs. Do you like cordon bleu cooking?’
‘Yes.’ He stood there, letting things happen to him. She put a hand on his arm. ‘Tomorrow night? Shall we say six o’clock? But you’ll want to come earlier for your pictures. Come any time.’
He blundered out, forgetting to say goodbye to Miss Pink and when he’d gone Lucy came back to the fire shaking her head in amusement. ‘I suppose he’d pass in London but he’s a bit exotic for Sandale.’
‘I’m afraid I’m to blame for that faux pas; I told him most particularly not to mention Jackson Wren.’
‘In that case he’s to blame—and I’m not having a stranger sitting here drinking my tea and preening himself just because Mossop has told him I’m the local tart and who my current lovers are.’
‘You did say you were interested in the lichenologist.’
Lucy grimaced. ‘Double standards. I can say what I like about myself but I won’t allow the same liberties to other people. Yes, I am interested in this chap tonight, and I was interested in Jackson, and I like your friend and, as I said about spending money while I can enjoy it, the same applies to men. I dread the night I go to bed alone and realise I’m indifferent to the fact. Do I shock you?’
‘Not at all, but—I’m echoing Cole—what about Denis Noble?’
‘Yes indeed, what about the workers, such as they are? You’ve met him, Miss Pink; he’s everything a girl should want: rich—well, with access to money, handsome, attentive, solid.’
‘Yes?’
‘And pedestrian. We’re like an old married couple. When I go to Zermatt, I go to ski, not to bumble about on the lower slopes. I have to drive his Rover over the passes for him; I want to share the driving with a fellow in a Berlinetta Boxer—before it’s too late. Can you see Denis in a Ferrari?’
‘He’s very fond of you.’
‘Oh damn, you would make it hard.’
‘Perhaps, if you were a little more discreet. . . .’
‘When was I not discreet? Are you a catalyst? You’re the only person who’s come here in years who I can talk to. Do you think Sandale is my Shangri La? Do you know why I stay here? I can live anywhere: the Canaries, Bermuda, Geneva. I’ve tried them all and none of them’s got anything more than this place. I don’t stay in the Lake District because I have a feeling for it but because I’ve got no feeling for anywhere else. London’s all right, but overwhelming after a while; you get bloated with rich food and chatter, and you’ve seen all the plays and the operas and the ballets. You come home to recharge, and go back when the shows have changed and there’s a new season’s collections to look over. It’s the same with men.’
‘What did you do before you married?’
‘I was an actress, not a good one; I was always second-rate. I’m the girl who never got any farther than the rung next to the top.’
‘Who’s responsible for that?’
‘Myself, of course. I’m not an opportunist and I’ve got no sense of application. I’m lazy, you see, like Peta and Jackson.’ She grinned engagingly. ‘I like men though; you might say I’ve made them my career. My husband and I were quite happy, at least, he was.’
‘I can believe that,’ Miss Pink said, rising.
‘Would you like to hear this talk on lichens? I’m sure you’d be interested.’
‘I would, but I have an engagement tonight. Another time perhaps. There is one thing before I go. Could Wren have written those letters? You didn’t see the others, of course, but what about the one you had?’
Lucy’s eyes were matt, two-dimensional; it was a moment caught in time like a fly in amber and Miss Pink thought that she would remember it for a long while. Then the other woman moved and sighed. ‘When you come right down to basics, he’s a worthless devil if anybody is, and he can’t be hanged.’ She drew another deep breath. ‘Yes, he knew Peta and yes, he could have done it—all of it; he has the necessary streak of viciousness—and violence comes very easily to that type.’
Chapter Thirteen
Rumney was milking and Miss Pink closed the door of the cow-house gently behind her, not wishing to alarm the cows. The farmer turned his head. ‘Learn anything?’
‘I don’t like to talk here.’
‘But no one would listen outside the door!’ She said nothing. ‘Where’s the dog?’ he asked.
‘I haven’t seen a dog.’
He rose smoothly, removing the bucket and stool. Putting them down behind the cow, he went to the half-door and whistled. After a moment he said quietly to the darkness: ‘Watch!’ then resumed his place. ‘The dog will give warning if anyone’s about. Now you can talk.’
She told him what she’d learned about Peta’s murderer and the blackmailer, telling it on the premise that they were the same person. She said nothing about the most important development. She’d decided not to tell Rumney; the immediate motive for confiding in him would be that danger was involved in delivering the ransom, but if there were danger to Miss Pink because the kidnapping was genuine, then the danger was as great for Caroline. Rumney would insist on accompanying his guest, or he would tell the police; he wouldn’t stake one life against another, whereas she was prepared to gamble. On the other hand, if—as had crossed her mind fleetingly—there was a chance that Caroline had turned on her father and was conspiring to rob him of fifty thousand pounds, then Caroline’s life was not in danger but then neither was Miss Pink’s (or so she argued). She confined the kidnapping in a compartment of her mind and shut the door on it, quickly, because if Wren killed Peta, he could kill Caroline—and Miss Pink did not think that Caroline was involved in a conspiracy to rob her father.
Rumney was not surprised that Sarah was being blackmailed. The conversation at breakfast and Miss Pink’s constraint at lunch-time had prepared him. What did astound him was Mossop’s revelation to the man Cole that Peta had been stealing from the tills at Storms.
‘But even that ties in,’ he pointed out. ‘Mossop was bound to find out, so she was murdered before she talked.’
‘Mossop knew,’ she corrected, ‘unless he discovered why she was stealing money only after her death.’
A Land Rover came up the street and stopped outside the cow-house.
‘That will be Arabella,’ Rumney said. ‘She went to town for some folk concert.’
The girl appeared at the half-door. ‘The river’s awfully high, Uncle Zeke; it’s a good thing you moved those sheep from Quentin’s land. I stopped in the Throat and it’s almost up to the road.’
‘You shouldn’t stop in the Throat, girl; not after the rain we’ve had. There’s always rocks coming down in the wet.’
‘There are rocks on the road now; it’s terrifying. But the rain’s stopped.’
‘For the moment; the forecast is more rain. Was the concert good?’
‘Fabulous. Uncle Zeke, Jackson’s van is in the big car park in Carnthorpe.’
‘Is it?’ Miss Pink exclaimed, her mind racing.
‘Why, I didn’t see you, Miss Pink; it’s so dark. Yes, it’s his van; I went over and looked.’
‘Was there an attendant in the car park?’
‘Not on a Sunday. I’m going in again tomorrow and I’ll ask him when Jackson left it if you like, but it looks as if you’re right; he’s gone off with Caroline. I guess he’ll hitch back from London, or wherever they went. It’s starting to rain again; are you coming in for tea, Miss Pink?’
‘I’m coming now.’ She hesitated, then said casually, ‘I’m going to see Harper this evening, Zeke, and then I may run into Carnthorpe to hear a lectu
re at the field society’s place.’
‘I don’t know that that’s wise; if there’s a landslide in the Throat you may not be able to get back.’
‘I’ll manage somehow.’
In her room at Sandale House she stood at the window and thought about her position. A number of people held a piece of the puzzle and some, including Jackson Wren, held more than they’d divulged, or had been ascertained about them, but she alone held the bulk of it. But for the latest terrible development, it was now the time to go to the police; yet that was the last thing she could do. She knew all the arguments ranged against private negotiations with kidnappers but always one returned to the incontrovertible fact: that trying to trap the criminal endangered the life of his victim. Neither could she inform the police after she dropped the ransom money; it was essential to wait for Caroline’s release. She knew that if it were her own daughter she would negotiate, so why should she put Harper’s daughter in a lesser league?
There was a possibility that Caroline was already dead; that was a risk which had to be taken but—and here she was implacable—if she were dead, then the people responsible would be found. It crossed her mind that this sudden surge of ruthlessness was what the police felt when they were so adamantly opposed to private negotiation: justice not at all costs, but at cost. It was comparatively easy for the public to give the authorities moral support when a gang held hostages and made outrageous demands, but when the threat came home and you had talked to the victim on the other side of a fire two nights ago, and when you could see the light in the house of the second victim now, justice was nothing more than a word. She dropped the curtain and turned back to her room. The die cast, she was only a courier; there was nothing more that she could do. She was sorry for Harper; she was suddenly appalled to realise that she was far more sorry for him than she was for Caroline.