Castle made a conciliatory gesture. ‘I’m not suggesting anything. I was wondering if anyone could confirm your story – one of the tenants of the other cottages, for example?’

  Paul gave a weary shrug. ‘I’ve no idea, I’m afraid. I didn’t see anyone, but someone might have noticed a light, or seen my car.’

  ‘We’ll leave that for the moment. Tell me, Mr Reynolds, how did you feel about having your advice rejected?’

  For the second time, Paul was thrown by the unexpectedness of the question. He felt his spirits sinking to a new low as he recalled the bitter argument that had followed, the poisonous atmosphere over that weekend which had soured his enjoyment of Fergus’s visit, the disgusting way Myrna had flaunted her relationship with Leonie. Sooner or later, the inspector would be sure to ask why an employee in a comparatively humble position had been invited to the party. The green eyes seemed to bore into his brain as he struggled to think of some way of deflecting the inquiry from the path that, sooner or later, it was bound to follow.

  There was a knock on the door; a uniformed officer entered and said apologetically, ‘Sorry to interrupt, sir, but there’s a young lady insists on seeing you urgently. Won’t take no for an answer.’

  Before the inspector could speak, the man was elbowed aside and Leonie herself burst into the room. Her eyes were wild and her face contorted with grief and fury. Ignoring everyone else, she rushed round the desk and threw herself at Paul like a wildcat, clawing at his face with both hands and screeching, ‘You bastard, you killed her! I warned her you meant it but she wouldn’t listen to me—’ Her words dissolved into incoherent shrieks; she began punching him, kicking his shins and tearing at his hair. It took the three of them – the inspector, the sergeant and the constable – to drag her off.

  Paul sat in a daze, mechanically dabbing with a handkerchief at the blood trickling from a scratch on his cheek, while the men subdued the struggling, sobbing woman and took her out of the room. The sounds of disturbance grew fainter; somewhere in the house a door slammed and there was silence. Then DI Castle came back into the room, this time on his own, and sat down. He leaned back in his chair, lightly clasping his knees with thin, tapering fingers. To Paul’s uneasy gaze he appeared like a bird of prey, but his tone was almost conversational as he said, ‘Perhaps there’s something else you’d care to tell me, Mr Reynolds?’

  Six

  While Paul was being questioned by DI Castle, Sukey went back to the van, reported to the control room and settled down to wait. The place was swarming with police, but she paid no heed to any of them. Almost in a daze, she sat drumming her fingers on the wheel, trying to sort out the jumble of thoughts and emotions swirling round in her head. Amid the shock and revulsion, her concern for Paul in his predicament jostled with the problem of how she would break the news to Fergus and its probable effect on him. The prospect made her feel physically sick; there was no way she could soften the blow. She recalled the tremor in her son’s voice and the haunted look in his eyes as he expressed the fear that his father might ‘do something stupid’, followed by his look of relief on hearing her confident words of reassurance. His faith in her judgement had been touching; she dreaded the thought of how he would react to the possibility that it had been shown, in such a terrible fashion, to be at fault. Her own doubts returned to torment her. Was there, after all, a darker side to Paul’s nature than she had ever suspected?

  The minutes ticked by. She watched in the rear-view mirror for the familiar white vans bringing the colleagues to whom she would hand over the task of searching the house for evidence that would lead to Myrna’s killer, praying that the pathologist wouldn’t turn up first, dreading the prospect of having to return to the death scene. Lost in thought, she was startled by a tap on the window. Sergeant Radcliffe was standing beside the van, accompanied by a wooden-faced Mrs Little.

  ‘Sukey, would you be kind enough to give this lady a lift home?’ he asked. ‘I could send one of our chaps, but if you’re leaving anyway—?’

  ‘I have to wait until more SOCOs get here, but they shouldn’t be long – ah, I think I see them now. If Mrs Little doesn’t mind waiting while I have a quick word?’

  Without speaking, the housekeeper climbed into the passenger seat, giving no indication as to whether she minded waiting or not. She sat clutching her handbag and staring straight ahead with a blank expression. When Sukey got back into the van after a brief handover to her colleagues and enquired where she lived, she replied, ‘In Dearley village, it’s not far,’ without turning her head.

  Sukey drove slowly towards the gate, where a uniformed constable had been posted. He had stopped a small red sports car and was speaking to the woman driver, indicating with gestures that she was not allowed to enter. As if complying with his instructions, she reversed the car a few feet, but instead of driving away she wrenched the wheel hard round and shot forward. In the nick of time, he leapt aside and the car came charging like a bullet up the drive towards the house. As Sukey hastily put two wheels onto the grass to avoid it, she had a brief glimpse of a pale, strained face and boyishly short fair hair.

  At the gate, the shaken constable was speaking on his radio. ‘Did you see that?’ he demanded indignantly as Sukey pulled up. ‘Started arguing, seemed to change her mind and then – pow!’

  ‘Whoever is she?’ Sukey asked.

  ‘Leonie Filbury,’ said Mrs Little before he had a chance to reply. The incident seemed to have brought her to life. As if she had been holding her breath, she exhaled noisily and added, with a note of grim pleasure in her voice, ‘She’s in for a nasty shock when she finds out what’s happened to her darling.’

  ‘She’d get more than a shock if I had my way!’ muttered the aggrieved officer. If he read any significance into the housekeeper’s words, he gave no sign of it.

  ‘Is Ms Filbury a friend of Mrs Reynolds?’ Sukey enquired casually as she turned out of the gate and drove slowly along the narrow winding lane leading to Dearley village.

  ‘You could call it that, I suppose!’ There was no mistaking the sarcasm in the housekeeper’s voice.

  ‘Have they known one another long?’

  ‘About six months, since Leonie – Leo, she likes to be called, can’t think why – came to work in the estate office. Soon became thick as thieves, they did.’ Mrs Little gave a sardonic chuckle. ‘Used to make Mr R as mad as a hatter. Not that there was anything new about that,’ she added darkly. ‘I’ve seen him many a time looking as if he’d like to stick a knife in her, and now he’s done it, hasn’t he?’ Before Sukey had an opportunity to reply the housekeeper said, in an abrupt change of tone, ‘Stop here, this is where I live.’ She clambered out of the van the moment Sukey pulled up, slammed the door and pushed open a wooden gate on which the words ‘Pear Tree Cottage’ were painted in faded white letters.

  ‘Thanks so much for the lift,’ Sukey muttered waspishly after the retreating figure. Driving on for a short distance looking for a convenient place to turn round, she came to the church. It was set well back from the road, which widened on either side of the gateway for several yards affording parking space for half a dozen or so cars. A little further along on the opposite side was the village shop.

  It was almost midday and the temperature had been climbing steadily. Sukey had brought sandwiches and a flask of coffee for her lunch, but at that moment a long cool drink, or maybe an ice-cream, had more appeal. She parked in a free space, locked the van and crossed over the road. As she did so, she noticed a Land Rover parked a few spaces further on. Over the tailboard, Ezra Hampton’s dog watched her curiously as she passed.

  She pushed open the shop door and an old-fashioned bell tinkled a welcome. In contrast to the heat outside, the interior was pleasantly cool. It was larger than she expected from the size of the frontage and the stack of plastic baskets just inside indicated that it was run as a mini-supermarket. Several customers were at the counter and from the way they were clustered in a group rather than waiting in line to pay for their purchases, she got the impression they were engaged in conversation. As she glanced round in search of the drinks cabinet, she heard a man’s voice say, ‘Here’s someone who can tell us. This lady’s from the police.’ It was Ezra.

  The last thing Sukey wanted was to be subjected to a cross-examination on the events of the past few hours. Naturally, there would soon be an official statement about Myrna’s death, but it was always up to the officer in charge of the investigation how much detail of any incident was revealed. She would have to be careful what she said. ‘I do work for the police, yes,’ she admitted, on finding herself the focus of everyone’s attention, ‘but I’m not—’

  ‘She’s a Scene of Crime Examiner,’ Ezra explained without giving her a chance to finish. ‘Came early this morning to look into the barn fire. Bet she knows what’s been going on at the Manor.’

  The word ‘crime’ had the effect of opening the floodgates and Sukey was bombarded with questions. ‘Has there been a burglary?’, ‘Miss Evans says she saw the doctor’s car – has someone been hurt?’, ‘Why is there a policeman on the gate?’

  ‘There has been rather a nasty incident, but I’m afraid I can’t—’

  Sukey began, but she was interrupted by a tiny, frail-looking woman with white hair who stepped forward, put a hand on her arm and looked up at her with pale blue eyes that burned with a fanatical light.

  ‘I knew there was evil brewing,’ she declared. She spoke with a local accent in a theatrical tone that was almost comic. ‘Didn’t I say so, only last week?’ she went on, glancing round at the others as if seeking confirmation. Their only response was a succession of resigned shrugs, indulgent smiles and eyes rolled heavenwards. Over the woman’s shoulder Sukey caught the eye of the proprietor, a man of about sixty with a thin face and crinkly grey hair. He gave a slight shake of the head and tapped his forehead with a yellow forefinger.

  The woman turned back to Sukey, her grip tightened and she thrust her face forward until it was only a few inches away. ‘I saw death in the cards,’ she said earnestly, ‘and there is unease on the other side… spirits of the departed unable to rest. Didn’t I tell you, only this very morning, Mr Hadlow, how last night I saw silent figures, one bearing a shroud?’

  ‘You did indeed, Mrs Willow, but I’m sure these good people have work to do,’ interrupted the man behind the counter. ‘So if you’d just like to pay for these—’ He reached across the counter, gently but firmly detached a basket containing a handful of grocery items from the woman’s gnarled fingers, placed it on the counter and rang up the contents on the till. ‘That’s four pounds ten pence, please,’ he said, holding out his hand for the money.

  He waited with barely concealed impatience while she fumbled in her purse, put away her change and stowed her purchases in a dilapidated shopping bag, all the time mumbling under her breath. With evident relief, the others stood aside as she made for the door. Suddenly, she turned and raised her free hand in a gesture that struck Sukey as almost threatening. ‘I saw death in the cards!’ she repeated, her voice raised as if she was addressing an audience in the village hall instead of a handful of customers in its little shop. ‘And mark my words, there is more evil yet to come.’ She wrenched the door open and slammed it behind her, setting the bell jangling.

  ‘Poor old Pussy!’ said one woman as they all exchanged glances.

  ‘Never been the same since Albert died,’ Mr Hadlow agreed, reaching for the next basket.

  A few more questions about the morning’s events were directed at Sukey while everyone was being served, but she turned them all aside, insisting that they would have to wait for an official statement. Having reluctantly accepted there was no point pressing her further, the other customers departed. When at last Sukey left the shop with her can of Coca Cola, she found Ezra waiting for her.

  ‘Just a word,’ he said quietly. ‘I understand why you didn’t say anything to set those old gossips prattling around the village, but just between ourselves, is it Mrs Maxford who’s been hurt? Or should I say, Mrs Reynolds?’

  For a brief, panic-stricken moment it occurred to Sukey that, never having actually set eyes on Myrna in life, she might have mistaken the victim’s identity. If the housekeeper’s directions had been accurate – and there was no reason to think otherwise – the corpse had certainly been lying in Myrna’s bed, and Myrna’s photograph had appeared in the local papers often enough for her to be instantly recognisable, despite the ghastly wounds. All the same…

  ‘I was called to the house to deal with a break-in,’ she said, playing for time. ‘While I was there, it became clear that a woman had been hurt, so I called for police assistance and a doctor. My job there was finished, so I came away. That’s really all I can tell you.’

  She made to cross the road to where her van was parked, but Ezra put a hand on her arm. His ruddy face registered acute anxiety. ‘I heard they sent for Mrs Maxford’s husband,’ he said. ‘They wouldn’t do that if it wasn’t serious.’

  ‘I understand he came home to fetch something he’d forgotten,’ Sukey interrupted. ‘Now, if you’ll please excuse me, I do have another job to go to.’

  ‘I’m sorry to have bothered you… it’s just that there’s some estate business I have to discuss with Mrs Maxford. I need a decision from her… it’s quite urgent.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d better have a word with her husband. He’s probably still up at the house.’

  ‘Talking to the police, I suppose?’ A change came over Ezra’s expression. ‘I suppose he’s the one who attacked her,’ he muttered, almost to himself.

  ‘What makes you think she was attacked?’

  ‘Just a hunch. It’s common knowledge that she gives him a hard time.’ When Sukey did not reply, he said, ‘Sorry, mustn’t keep you. By the way,’ he added in another change of mood, ‘I’d better put you in the picture about poor old Pussy Willow. She never could accept that Albert’s gone and she started going to a medium. Trying to get in touch with him, that sort of thing. The woman’s convinced her she’s psychic, hence all that rubbish about ghostly figures and seeing death in the cards.’ Ezra sighed and shook his head. ‘Been through a lot, poor old lady. I hope there’ll be no need for the police to go troubling her.’

  ‘Isn’t it possible she might have seen something?’

  ‘She’s always seeing things, especially after dark. She often goes to the churchyard at night and stands by his grave. If anyone comes along, she makes out she’s looking for her cat.’

  ‘How sad. Well, thanks for the information, Mr Hampton. Now, I really must go.’

  ‘Of course. Good-day to you.’

  Sukey went back to the van feeling thoroughly depressed as she wondered how many other people who had regular contact with Paul and Myrna would also be jumping to the conclusion that his was the hand that had wielded the knife.

  Seven

  ‘I told her he meant it, but she only laughed.’

  Apart from giving her name, it was the first time Leonie Filbury had spoken since being handcuffed and pushed, still screaming and struggling, into the back of a police car. Once there, her resistance had collapsed and she slumped against the officer sitting next to her like a clockwork doll whose mechanism has run down. She remembered nothing of the short drive to Dearley village police station, nothing of the formalities on arrival. Her one conscious thought was that the person whom she loved best in all the world was dead. They wouldn’t say how, wouldn’t answer any of her questions. All they seemed concerned with was the fact that she, Leonie Filbury, had attacked Paul Reynolds. That was why she was here, in this cramped, bare room, staring into a mug of tea which a woman police officer, who introduced herself as Jennie, put in front of her. An image seemed to form in its steaming surface – an image of Myrna, gazing back up at her, the beloved features distorted almost beyond recognition. She covered her eyes with her hands to blot out the horror; convulsive sobs constricted her throat and all but choked her.

  Jennie pushed a box of paper tissues towards her. ‘Come along, dry your eyes and drink your tea,’ she said gently, but the note of sympathy in the young woman’s voice only made the tears fall faster.

  At last, after several minutes of passionate weeping, she became calmer. She groped for the box of tissues, pulled out a handful, scrubbed her wet cheeks and swollen eyes and took several gulps from the cooling tea. ‘Sorry,’ she muttered, running her fingers through her cropped hair. ‘Made a bit of a fool of myself, didn’t I? Shock, I suppose.’ She gave the officer a searching look. ‘You have arrested him, haven’t you?’

  ‘Arrested who?’

  ‘Her husband, of course – who else?’

  ‘What makes you so sure he did it?’ The voice was still gentle, but cool and detached now.

  ‘Of course he did it. I told you… I told the others… I told her—’

  Leonie felt her voice cracking at the memory of how urgently she had pleaded with Myrna to take the threats seriously and how lightly her warnings had been brushed aside.

  ‘Now, come along, you’ve cried enough.’

  The officer’s voice was brisk now with a touch of impatience, as if she was dealing with a child making too much fuss over a hurt knee. A feeling of hopelessness compounded Leonie’s misery as she realised that this woman, with her crisp white shirt, her scrubbed hands and her mouse-coloured hair in its prim little bun, would never understand that what she was suffering was more painful than a thousand hurt knees. It was the love of a lifetime, snatched away forever when it had barely begun. ‘Sorry,’ she repeated hopelessly.

  ‘So tell me, exactly what did Mr Reynolds say or do to make you so certain he’s the one who killed her?’

  ‘He said he was going to.’

 

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