The Traitor's Girl, page 4
Vi lounged back in her chair, and pointed her fountain pen at her father. ‘I was just saying you were being a real old stick-in-the-mud about holding the village Christmas party at our house.’
Annabel looked from one to the other curiously. If Vi hoped to embarrass her father or shame him into agreement, she didn’t succeed.
‘It does seem a shame, Sir Dennis,’ said Jenny. ‘Are you sure we can’t persuade you?’
‘Out of the question this year, I’m afraid,’ said Sir Dennis, smoothly adamant. ‘Our ballroom has been converted into Cosgrove Park HQ so there’s no chance of holding it there. Surely there must be an alternative?’
‘There’s nowhere else large enough, besides this hall,’ said Jenny. ‘We might have to look at moving the venue out of the village.’
‘Or cancelling it altogether,’ said her mother with a distinct note of hope in her quiet, quavery voice.
There was a general outcry at that suggestion and Jenny’s mother subsided again, drawing into herself like a prodded anemone.
Annabel thought about the vast, silent emptiness of her grandmother’s Great Hall. She’d bet it was almost as large as the space they were in now.
She became aware that Sir Dennis studied her as if she were a new species of newt and he were David Attenborough. She shifted in her chair and turned her face away.
Mrs Lambie said, ‘Perhaps we ought to consider alternatives?A community centre or a hall for hire somewhere?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Vi. ‘I refuse to have our party at some characterless community centre. There must be somewhere better than that.’
‘I’m afraid we are too late even for community centres,’ said Jenny. ‘Christmas is less than a month away. Most venues were booked ages ago.’
‘What about here?’ ventured Rowan.
‘We can’t very well hold a party in a place with a leaking roof,’ Jenny pointed out. Hence the buckets, Annabel thought.
Suddenly, Sir Dennis entered the fray. ‘I vote in favour of Beechwood Hall. It’s about time Miss Banks put something back into the village.’
Mrs Lambie directed a speaking glance at the vicar’s wife. ‘Miss Banks is an intensely private person. I think it highly unlikely she would agree, but there’s no harm in asking, I suppose.’
Jenny said, ‘Oh, the Hall would be ideal! Do use your influence, Mrs Lambie.’ Several furtive glances were sent Annabel’s way but she pretended to be oblivious. She didn’t want to admit her own influence with her grandmother was nil. Nor did she want to tell all and sundry Carrie was missing. Perhaps word would get around soon enough but she had the feeling Carrie would be very annoyed to have her business discussed in a public meeting.
‘Right, then,’ said Jenny, moving on. ‘Shall we form a subcommittee to come up with solid alternatives by next week’s meeting?’
When that was done and arrangements made, Mrs Lambie spoke up. ‘In the meantime, we need to begin rehearsals for the nativity play. I propose we hold them here until a better solution is found.’
After dealing with sundry other matters, including raising money for a ping-pong table at the village school and the progress of Cosgrove Park, a housing development on Sir Dennis’s land, the meeting closed with the question of the Christmas party left unresolved.
Everyone except Sir Dennis helped clear the tea things and finally, Annabel was left alone with Mrs Lambie in the tiny kitchen at the side of the church hall.
‘Let me help you,’ said Annabel. ‘How about I wash and you dry?’
Mrs Lambie thanked her and showed her where everything was. ‘Now. Tell me what I can do for you.’
Annabel explained about Carrie’s disappearance and the vandalism at the studio.
‘So Carrie has taken herself off somewhere without a word to anyone? That is not entirely unprecedented, though I agree the damage to the studio is concerning.’
‘Yes, I think so too, but the police are being slow to act. She never mentioned anything to you about going away?’
‘No, not a thing,’ said Mrs Lambie. ‘She hasn’t quite been herself lately, though. It did make me wonder, but I wouldn’t say anything, of course.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Mrs Lambie fluttered the edge of a tea towel and picked up a plate from the drainer. ‘She’s been secretive, I suppose you’d say. More than usual, that is. I’ve known her since we were girls but Carrie always held herself somewhat aloof.’ She glanced pointedly towards the hall, where Simon was helping Rowan stack chairs and move tables to clear the space. ‘She’s spent a lot of time holed up with that Simon of yours, that’s for certain, working on some book or other. Writing her memoirs, I tease her.’ Humorously, the older lady rolled her eyes heavenwards. ‘I can tell you, I’ll be interested to read that piece of work when it comes out.’
Annabel smiled. ‘Believe me, so will I.’ She rubbed at a tannin stain on the inside of a cup. ‘Simon mentioned that sometimes Carrie goes to stay with a woman called Eve Digby. You don’t happen to have her phone number, do you? Or maybe her address?’
Mrs Lambie hit the countertop lightly, as if struck. ‘Now there, I can help you. Not with the address, but Carrie left the phone number with me in case she was ever needed while she was there.’ She wiped her hands on her Liberty print apron and went over to rummage in a capacious leather handbag that sat on the kitchen bench. ‘Wait till I find it.’
She flipped through a small black shagreen address book. ‘B, C, D . . . Here we are. Eve Digby.’ She read out the number, which Annabel wrote down on a scrap of paper and slipped into her purse.
‘She’s formidable, that one,’ said Mrs Lambie. ‘Mind how you go with her.’
She wouldn’t be drawn further on what she meant by that, but told Annabel she’d see for herself.
When Annabel came out, Simon was pacing in the churchyard talking on his mobile phone.
‘Got it!’ she mouthed at him, waving her scrap of paper.
He finished his conversation and offered her the phone. ‘Here. Use this.’
She took it gratefully. She’d never seen the need for a mobile phone at home but it would have been handy on this trip. He showed her how to use it and she made the call. When a masculine voice answered, Annabel stumbled over her words in surprise. ‘Oh. Is this the residence of Miss Digby?’
‘Who’s calling, please?’
She supposed she’d take that as a yes. ‘My name is Annabel Logan. Miss Digby won’t know me but she’s a friend of my grandmother, Carrie Banks.’
There was a pause. ‘Hold the line.’ The command was gruff, bordering on rude. Simon, who had bent his head to listen in, raised his eyebrows at her and mouthed the word ‘charming’.
She frowned at him and shook her head.
‘Hello?’ This voice was female, clipped and rather impatient, as if Annabel was a troublesome underling.
‘Hello. Good afternoon, Miss Digby? It’s Annabel Logan here. I’m Carrie Banks’s granddaughter.’
Silence. Hardly an encouraging start. Then the voice said, ‘Ye-es?’ in a slightly warmer tone.
‘I was wondering . . .’ Annabel licked her lips. ‘You see, my grandmother rang me in Australia, begging me to come to her as soon as I could. Well, I dropped everything to come and I let her know when I was due to arrive. But now she seems to have vanished and no one knows where she’s gone.’ She had tried not to let her emotions creep into her voice but she couldn’t stop the waver on the final sentence. She paused for a response, but the lady on the other end of the line still said nothing.
Annabel rushed on. ‘I was told that sometimes my grandmother stays with you, so I wondered if she was there now? Or if you knew where she might have gone?’
‘I’m sorry. I really have no idea.’ And less interest, her tone seemed to say.
‘There’s something else,’ said Annabel, before this repelling person could hang up on her. ‘My grandmother’s studio was vandalised.I can’t help worrying that it’s connected to her disappearance.’
Another long pause. ‘You’d best come and see me.’ The older lady rattled off the address as if giving orders. ‘Tomorrow at eleven sharp.’
‘Thank —’ But Eve Digby had hung up in Annabel’s ear.
‘Oh!’ Annabel held the phone away from her and stared at it. ‘What a rude individual! You’d think if the long-lost granddaughter of a dear friend called, the least she could do is be polite.’
Simon removed the phone from her grasp and pressed a couple of buttons, then slipped it into his pocket.
‘No luck, then?’
Annabel made a face. ‘I don’t know. She wants me to visit her tomorrow.’
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’
‘She would have said if Carrie was there, though, wouldn’t she?’ Unmindful of where they went, she fell into step beside Simon.
He shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Will you come to see her with me?’ said Annabel.
Simon eyed her, then dug his hands in his trouser pockets and looked ahead. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. People like Eve Digby don’t talk to journalists.’
‘It sounds as if you’ve tried and failed before.’
‘As it happens, you’re right about that.’ He flashed her a self-deprecating smile and she thought Eve must be made of stern stuff to resist his persuasion. ‘Carrie forbade me to tell Eve about the book or approach her on any other pretext.’
She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘So you’re getting me to do your dirty work.’
His smile broadened. ‘Let’s just say our objectives happen to coincide in this instance.’
They’d been walking through the graveyard, which was lined with yew hedges that threw shade on the path. She shivered and said, ‘Can we go somewhere a little warmer? The pub, maybe?’
Back at the Red Lion, Simon ordered a brimming pint for himself and a cider for Annabel.
‘What can you tell me about my grandmother?’ said Annabel when he’d sat down with their drinks at a small table. ‘I know very little, as you can probably tell.’
He hesitated. ‘I think it would be better coming from her, don’t you?’
‘Frankly, no,’ said Annabel. Frustrated, she put her head in her hands and raked her fingers through her hair. ‘I’m totally at sea in all this. I didn’t even know Caroline Banks was still alive until a couple of weeks ago.’
‘Really?’ said Simon. ‘Why haven’t you met her before? Was there some sort of family rift or something?’
And somehow, rather than Simon spilling Carrie’s secrets, Annabel found herself telling him about her parents’ accident, about being adopted by Trish and Harry, and strangely, about never quite feeling she belonged.
He was a very good listener, which of course he would be, wouldn’t he? Annabel sipped her cider. It was uncarbonated and very dry, different from the sweet, fizzy stuff she drank sometimes at home.
‘What do you do for a crust?’ Simon slid a coaster to and fro on the dark wood of the table.
‘I’m an English teacher.’
He grinned and she frowned at him. ‘Why are you smiling like that?’
‘If all my teachers had looked like you I wouldn’t have played truant so often.’
She laughed, but shook her head, her thoughts returning to her grandmother. ‘I can’t believe Carrie is this famous artist and I never knew. The only thing my mother ever said about her was that she ran away with some other man when my mother was only three years old and they never heard from her again. Later, her father told her that her mother was dead. He never remarried, and he never talked about her. I wonder if he knew where she went.’
‘It must have been hard for them both,’ said Simon.
‘I wonder if Mum ever found out Carrie was still alive.’ Emotion welled inside her. ‘Might she have seen her in the papers or something? For her artwork, perhaps. I suppose we’ll never know.’
‘It’s unlikely Fay would have seen her photo in the press,’ said Simon. ‘As far as I can tell, Carrie seems to have burst upon the art scene in the late fifties, early sixties. Always shy of the spotlight, though. I read an interview with her art dealer who said he begged her to do the whole publicity bit or at the very least attend her opening nights, but she was adamant. She refused all interviews. No one knew where she lived or even what she looked like. She couldn’t have planned it better, of course. Her mystique only added to the value of her paintings.’
‘What makes you so different?’ said Annabel, brooding over her half-empty glass. ‘Why did she agree to talk to you?’
He shrugged. ‘Why did she contact you after all these years? Maybe the time was right.’
Annabel put down her glass with a thump. ‘God, you don’t think she’s found out she only has a month to live, do you?’ She slumped back in her chair. ‘That would be just my luck.’
Simon gave a crack of laughter and she realised what she’d said, and that she really was rather tipsy, drinking cider on an empty stomach. Empty but for a fairy cake and a cup of tea, that was.
She gave him a rueful smile. ‘Yes, it is all about me. Didn’t you know?’
‘Carrie seemed in the pink of health when I saw her.’ He flipped the coaster he’d been fiddling with on its edge and tapped the tabletop with it. ‘I suppose it’s possible, but she didn’t mention any health troubles. In fact, she seemed quite keen to show off her physical fitness. She told me her secret was touching her toes ten times every morning. That and a nightly dose of pink gin.’
Gosh he had a nice smile, thought Annabel, considering him. Simon sat with his back to the wall, facing the door, his gaze intermittently sweeping their surroundings. He seemed always alert, as if a good story might jump out at him at any time. A bit unlikely in this neck of the woods, she’d have thought.
The food came then, and she realised how hungry she was. She hadn’t paid any attention to the menu or what Simon had ordered, but now she saw he’d done her proud. An old-fashioned pastie, a fat pastry envelope with its corrugated edge the most perfect golden brown. She cut into it to let the steam escape in a twisting, rising coil. The savoury, meaty scent was almost a meal in itself.
Refraining from tucking in straightaway for fear of second-degree tongue burns, she said, ‘Do you have a theory about where my grandmother is?’
Simon shook his head. He’d chosen for himself a lamb shank glazed with dark juices on a bed of mashed potato. In a deliberate motion, he rested his cutlery on the side of his plate. ‘But I think it must have been something serious to have sent her away without warning when she was expecting you.’
Her insides twisted and tightened. ‘Thank you.’ She’d needed to hear that. ‘Tell me the truth. Do you think I ought to be worried about her? The police don’t seem to be.’
He hesitated. Then he said, ‘I think Carrie has gone somewhere of her own volition. It seems very unlikely she was kidnapped or something of that nature.’ He didn’t mention the possibility of Carrie’s lifeless body lying in the woods somewhere and Annabel shied away from raising the issue.
Simon sipped his pint. ‘Try not to worry too much. She might come back tonight and it will all have been for nothing.’
‘What will you do about your interview?’ asked Annabel, trying for a lighter note.
‘Oh, there’s plenty of work to go on with,’ said Simon. He glanced at the clock. ‘Did you come to a decision about what you’re doing this evening?’
Ruefully, she admitted, ‘I would like you to come and stay at the Hall, if that’s okay.’
Simon nodded. ‘I’d be happy to.’
Citing jetlag, Annabel escaped from Simon’s disconcerting presence and retired early to her bedroom. He’d taken a room down the corridor from her, finding his own linen to make up the bed. Quite at home, in fact, she thought enviously.
They had to share the bathroom, which brought things to mind that Annabel would rather not think about. By now, most unattached Aussie blokes she knew would definitely have made a move. Simon seemed to be exercising an old-fashioned gentlemanly restraint. He did not make crass allusions about their situation or try to inveigle himself into her bedroom, but something in his manner signalled clear interest. If she had suggested they share more than a bathroom that evening, she had the feeling he would not have recoiled in horror.
This awareness between them brought a new charge to Annabel’s state of anxiety. It was with a mix of relief and regret that she retreated to her room that evening.
When she woke the next morning, Simon had gone. He’d left a note next to the kettle in Carrie’s apartment, wishing her luck with Eve Digby and telling her he’d be back at around five o’clock. In a postscript, he added, ‘I’ve fed the geese and released them from their pen, so beware!’
Bath’s beauty staggered Annabel. In other circumstances, she would have spent the day doing the tourist thing, visiting the Roman baths, the Abbey and the Pump Room, but she was too nervous even to fill the half hour she had to spare by wandering the streets.
She parked outside Eve’s terrace house and sat there, nerves jangling, mentally rehearsing what she would say.
When a man loomed up beside the car and jerked open her door, she nearly jumped out of her skin.
‘Miss Logan?’ he said calmly into the silence after she had given a faint scream.
‘Y-yes. That’s me.’
‘Miss Digby sent me down to fetch you. Step this way.’
Not quite your typical butler. Not that Annabel had ever met a butler before but she’d seen plenty of them on television. This man was grizzled and middle-aged but had the tough-guy look of a bodyguard.
Maybe the Jeeves style of butler was hard to find these days. Or maybe this fellow wasn’t actually a butler. He didn’t trouble to introduce himself, so she couldn’t be sure what his status might be.
He led her up a small flight of stone steps and into a narrow, dim hall. Up another flight, to the right of the first-floor landing, he opened a door without knocking and ushered her inside. ‘Miss Logan here to see you.’
