Landscape with Corpse, page 8
He looked down at me benevolently. ‘But you…were sharing?’
Oliver was now at my other shoulder. They were both much taller than me, and could exchange glances over my head.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘My husband and I were sharing with the young lady you saw, in considerable distress, sitting on a folding stool. Elise Harcourt is her name.’
‘So that all three of you were together when you heard that this woman, Pamela Wilton, was dead? Have I got that right?’
‘You have,’ I assured him. ‘Except for the fact that we didn’t know she was actually dead.’
‘And how did you hear that there’d been something…well, distressing, shall we say…that had happened?’
It was Oliver who answered that one. ‘I met Geoff Davies, coming along to find me, all upset, and he asked me to come quickly—so I did.’
‘Yes. Are we nearly there?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I had to admit. ‘About here, I think.’
‘Another hundred yards,’ Oliver said. He sounded quite certain.
‘Are you sure, Oliver?’ I asked.
‘I made a mental note. The shape of the gap—those two firs together. Habit.’
‘Clever you.’ I patted his arm. ‘Don’t you think that’s clever, Mr Llewellyn?’
‘Not for an ex-policeman. It becomes instinctive. Now here?’
‘Yes,’ said. Oliver.
Llewellyn glanced at his watch. ‘Twelve minutes,’ he said. ‘From the site of his wife’s death to the husband’s painting den. Walking a steady pace.’
‘Is that relevant?’ I asked.
He smiled at me. I’d swear one eyelid flickered in Oliver’s direction. ‘It might be. It might not. Call it a building block. Would you care to lead the way?’ he asked me.
‘Certainly,’ I agreed. I led the way, until Paul was revealed, still industriously working away with his acrylics, a brush in his hand.
He clearly heard us, but didn’t glance round.
‘Haven’t you got settled yet?’ he asked. His peripheral vision must have been excellent, in that he saw us as Oliver and Philipa. But it hadn’t recorded the superintendent’s presence.
‘What the devil’s going on over there?’ Paul went on. ‘I saw Jennie settling in. No mistaking her, in that red shirt. Who else could it have been? But now…look for yourself…there’s quite a crowd.’
Then he did look round, his hand stilled. ‘Who the hell’re you?’ he demanded. Slowly, he raised himself from his stool.
‘Detective Superintendent Llewellyn, sir.’ He said it gently, quietly.
‘Why the devil should we need a…’ Paul’s voice faded away, and he turned back abruptly, to stare fixedly over the estuary. ‘Here…you don’t mean…Something’s happened, hasn’t it? Over there. I knew…I just knew it! One minute, Jennie was there—you couldn’t miss that red shirt of hers. What is this? What?’
Llewellyn was smiling thinly, I saw, standing beside him. It wasn’t a smile of pleasure, and I could only assume it was to disarm Paul.
‘I’m sorry, sir, but I have some bad news for you. The young lady with the red T-shirt is dead.’
Paul stared blankly at him, then blinked. ‘It can’t be…can’t. Look, I’ve got her in the picture. See, That red spot. That’s Jennie.’
‘No doubt you painted that when she was alive, Mr…Mr Wilton, would it be?’
‘Yes. Look—what’s going on? Why’re you here, instead of over there?’ He gestured with the brush he was holding. ‘Jennie’s dead? That’s what you said. So why aren’t you over there?’
‘Miss Jennifer Crane is dead, sir,’ said Llewellyn, his voice as flat and toneless as he could make it. ‘But I didn’t come here to speak to you about that. I came to speak to you about your wife. Pamela, is it?’
‘Everybody calls her Pam,’ Paul told him, hopelessly and uselessly, his voice now empty of emotion. At last he was registering the fact that he was personally involved with somebody even closer to him than Jennie. Pam. His wife. ‘What about Pam?’ he asked, his throat dry.
‘I’m sorry to have to inform you that your wife is dead, too.’ Llewellyn was bleak, his voice painfully polite.
‘No!’ said Paul. It was a flat rejection.
‘I’m sorry…’
‘You said Jennie,’ Paul shouted. ‘You’re just trying to be funny. Jennie! She’s dead, you say. Isn’t that enough for you?’
‘Enough for me, sir,’ said Llewellyn. ‘Apparently not, for the person who killed her. The evidence at this stage is that the same person killed both of them. The site of the wound and the method of attack are very similar. The basic fact is that the two women are dead. I’d like you to come along with me now, Mr Wilton. I would like you to confirm that the dead woman whom I’ve just been looking at is in fact your wife.’
Slowly, Paul subsided on to the folding stool he had been using. He seemed to realise he was still holding a paintbrush in his fingers, and threw it, in anger, to the ground.
‘Yes, yes,’ he said hollowly, though he made no move to comply. He half turned, and gestured to the painting he’d been working on. ‘She’s on there,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Jennie’s on there—alive. I just don’t believe…and Pam! No, no! Oh Christ, no!’
Then he put his hands over his face, and we stared down at his shaking shoulders.
‘You’d better come along with me, sir,’ said Llewellyn. ‘The walk will help. Walking always helps.’
But, I thought, only when you’re walking away from horror, but not walking towards it. Llewellyn put a hand on his shoulder and his voice abruptly contained more authority than compassion. ‘Come along, sir.’
Paul got to his feet and stared Oliver in the eyes. ‘You’ve seen this, Oliver? Is it true?’
‘It’s true, Paul. Sorry.’
Numbly, Paul now moved to obey. He cast one look at his painting, and at his equipment spread around, another glance at the scene across the estuary, then he moved obediently, but stumbling, to the tree barrier.
I bent and picked up the brush he had thrown to the ground, automatically noting that it was a round number three, loaded still with red paint, the black handle indicating that it was a sable. He had a small bottle of water standing beside his tubes of acrylic paint, so I popped it in there, to preserve it. Something to preserve from the double tragedy. There was no time to wash it properly.
Llewellyn walked shoulder-to-shoulder with Paul, but not speaking to him, Oliver and me following. I wondered why Llewellyn had asked us to come along with him. Geoff could have done it. But the obvious authority of Oliver helped to add reality and truth to the fact that both Paul’s wife and his mistress had died within the past hour.
Yet Llewellyn could not have known of this connection between Pam and Jennie. Paul had stood between them, both physically and emotionally.
‘Are there any more of your group scattered around?’ asked Llewellyn.
‘Well…’ said Oliver. ‘Somewhere along here—I can’t exactly remember where—there are two brothers. They’ll have to be told.’
‘Where—exactly?’
‘I told you, I can’t be sure.’ Oliver looked around for a guiding sign. ‘Ah…look…There they are now.’
Philip and Martin were standing clear of the trees, waiting for us. ‘What’s going on?’ called out one of them. I couldn’t tell which, at that distance.
‘There’s trouble,’ I said, hurrying on ahead to break the news as gently as possible.
‘We guessed something was wrong,’ said Martin, I was now close enough to see. ‘Police cars…’
‘I’m afraid this is real trouble,’ I told them. ‘Two sudden deaths. Pam and Jennie. Violent deaths. Can you leave your stuff—I don’t know what the police will want us to do.’
Llewellyn was then at my elbow. ‘What I want’, he said, ‘is for everybody to stay up by the coach, until we’ve sorted out a few things. D’you think that’ll serve, Mr Simpson?’
He had nominated Oliver as the one to play shepherd. Oliver made no objection.
Llewellyn had now got his first clear look at the brothers. I introduced them.
‘Martin and Philip Graves, Superintendent.’
‘Oh my God, twins,’ he said. ‘Just what I needed.’
7
I thought I was beginning to understand the superintendent’s very dry sense of humour, and this seemed to confirm it. Tradition had it that twins might alibi each other, though no policeman could quote an instance. In this particular case, alibis were not on the agenda, so his joke was, quietly, at himself.
Nevertheless, the twins stared at him blankly.
‘What’ve you got against twins?’ demanded Martin. ‘We can’t go back and start again, and it was Mother’s fault in the first place.’
Philip nodded. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘And who the hell are you?’
‘All right, all right!’ Llewellyn held up a conciliatory hand. ‘I was not being serious, anyway, and I am Detective Superintendent Llewellyn. But there is something very serious involved here. In the past hour, two members of your group have died violently. And I’m sorry to tell you that it’s going to upset your plans seriously.’
‘Died?’ asked Martin blankly.
‘It’s Pam Wilton,’ I told them. ‘Killed while she was working at her painting. And also…Jennie killed while she was working. And well…I don’t know what’s going to happen now.’
I turned to face Llewellyn. ‘What is next? It seems that you’re in charge.’
‘I am, indeed,’ he declared. ‘And for now, let’s all get back to your coach. I’ll have to be there…ah, you see, they’re coming now. The Scenes of Crime team. I’ll have to brief them.’
And he marched away towards the coach, we trailing behind him. A van was bumping along the twin tracks from the direction of the estuary. We walked on, leaving the twins staring after us, then, realising that they were not going to be given the time to tidy up their working place, following us with reluctance.
The van drew level with us as we reached the coach. Elise must have gone inside, as Geoff was now sitting on the stool, knees apart, his head hanging low. Hearing us, he got to his feet.
‘What now?’ he asked, in a dead and defeated voice.
Llewellyn smiled reassuringly at him. ‘I’m going to ask you all to climb into that coach, and then leave everything to us. Go back to Bryngowan Manor. That’s right, is it? That’s where you’re from? Good. The personal property you’ve had to leave behind you will be looked after, and you’ll get it all back. Shortly.’
‘Shortly…’ said Geoff hollowly.
‘Yes sir.’ Llewellyn looked round. The team was disembarking from the police van. ‘Later on—this evening—I’ll be along to the Manor, and we’ll have a little introductory meeting. But I’ll need a map indicating where you were all—’
‘I’ve got one you can use,’ Geoff interrupted shortly. Now, he seemed anxious to get away from there. ‘I drew it up myself, so it’s not really accurate. But it indicates where everybody was. All right?’
‘Thank you.’ Llewellyn made an enveloping gesture. ‘I’m not used to getting this much help.’
‘I want it over,’ said Geoff, gesturing to embrace the whole vista. ‘Over and done with. And leave us in peace. For heaven’s sake, we’re just artists. It’s a peaceful pursuit.’
Llewellyn beamed at him. ‘This time, sir, not quite so peaceful. So…if you’d all like to get aboard—and I’ll ask for you up at the Manor, Mr…er…er…’
‘My name’s on the map,’ said Geoff, handing one over to him. ‘Now…can we please get away from here?’
‘Any time you like.’ Llewellyn examined our various gloomy expressions. ‘And I don’t suppose I need to tell you all that I don’t expect everybody to go diving into their cars and rushing off home. As a favour to me.’
He flashed us an empty smile, and turned away.
We climbed into the coach, silently, miserably. It seemed to be nearly empty with two of the group missing, and none of our equipment aboard. Larry sat quietly behind his steering wheel. Then, the moment the coach started moving, the complaints were expressed.
‘My brushes are going to set solid.’
‘The light’ll never be the same again.’
‘I bet there’ll be dirty fingerprints all over everything.’
And so on.
‘They’ll be very careful,’ Oliver said reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry.’
But this was received with scepticism. By now they all knew that Oliver had been in the police, and they were wondering, darkly, on whose side he might be. Which was saddening, really.
I was aroused from my thoughts by the abrupt turn into the gateway, and raised my head. The coach drew to a halt on the terrace, and Geoff said, trying to lessen the gloom, perhaps, ‘All change.’
Larry had clearly phoned ahead, because they were all there waiting for us, strained and ghoulish expressions focused on us as we alighted. The full collection of the two other groups had come out to welcome us, along with the staff. But it was not a joyous welcome.
In silence, they drew aside from the coach door, so that we filed between a double row of set faces, Oliver leading, with me just behind him, and Elise, at my heels, whispering, ‘wait for me, wait for me,’ then Paul, stiff and unresponsive, the twins trailing behind, Geoff as rear-guard at their heels. Larry did not stir from his driver’s seat.
The principal, Donald McHugh, was waiting for us in the reception hall, full of anxiety and solicitous in the extreme. ‘Have you eaten? Does anyone care for a drink? We could fix you up with a hot meal.’ And so on. Concerned and fussy, he was. But all we wanted to do was get to our rooms, to collapse on the bed in tears or to head towards a hot bath to wash away the tarnish of death. Or simply to mope in solitude and distress. Nobody expressed any desire for food.
Paul was ahead of us up the stairs, almost running, and we reached the landing as he slammed his door violently behind him. I did not dare to allow myself to wonder how I would be feeling should Oliver be dead. And as I was about to open our own door, a voice whispered from behind me, ‘Please!’
I turned. Elise was at my heels, Oliver smiling behind her. She turned up her harried face to me and almost sobbed, ‘I’ll go mad in my room—all on my own.’
‘Then come along in,’ I offered. What else could I have said? Oliver raised his eyebrows at me.
I closed the door behind them, and Elise stood just inside it, looking about her.
‘Ooh!’ she said. ‘This is nice. Swish.’ That had been Jennie’s word for it.
I sat her down on the edge of our bed. ‘I intend to have a bath,’ I told her. ‘Or a shower.’
‘D’you mean you’ve got a choice?’
I nodded.
‘How lovely! There’s only one bathroom to each corridor, in the annexe. And you can bet they’ll be queuing for them.’ She left that hanging, the actual request remaining unexpressed.
‘So all right,’ I told her. ‘You can use our bathroom. A shower or a bath. Two of us together, because they’re separate. It’s a matter of choice. Oliver and me, or you and me, or Oliver and you.’
I’d said this with deliberate gravity, as a small levity designed to distract her from her morbid thoughts. She blushed, and put her hand to her lips. ‘Oh…I couldn’t.’
Oliver grinned at her.
‘You two girls carry on,’ he said. ‘I’m going down to see if they’ve opened the bar. Mr McHugh said something about that, and I could certainly do with a drink. Shall I bring something—’
‘No, Oliver, I think not,’ I told him. ‘You run along. Give us twenty minutes. There’s a lot to be said.’
He raised his eyebrows.
‘Is there?’ Elise looked quickly from one face to the other, with a hunted look in her eyes.
‘I rather think so,’ I assured her, using my reassuring voice, and I heard Oliver close the door behind him.
Elise pouted at me. ‘There’s only one thing on my mind, and I can assure you I don’t want to talk about that. Not even think about it.’
‘I’m sure you don’t, Elise.’ I smiled at her, trying to relax some of the tension in her expression. ‘But I do.’
She tossed her head. ‘Why do you want to?’ she demanded. ‘It’s not a nice thing to think about, let alone say out loud.’
‘I’ve been talking about not very nice things since I was in my early teens, Elise. My father was a senior officer in the police force, and he used to like to have somebody to discuss his cases with him. Get it out of his system, as he put it. But my mother died when I was very young, so there was only me. And we talked together, my father and I. It means that I’m rather immune to all the horrors that human beings can inflict on each other. And I’m interested. I can’t help that, either. Aren’t you interested in finding out the exact truth? It’s a fairly rare thing, is absolute truth. It hides itself away, sometimes with a bit of help.’
She had wandered over to the window, and was staring out towards the scene of Jennie’s and Pam’s deaths.
‘It doesn’t sound very nice to me,’ she said, lifting her chin. ‘Not at all ladylike. Can’t we talk about something else?’
‘It’s not a ladylike thing to do—murder.’
She turned, staring at me, wide eyes startled. ‘Are you saying that I—I…that I could have…Jennie…oh, you couldn’t be saying that.’
‘Of course not, Elise. All I was trying to do was explain that I might be able to help our group if I can get enough information. You know what I mean. Enough background. And the social niceties—ladylike and things like that—are at the moment very irrelevant. Do you get what I mean, Elise?’
‘Well, I’ve got nothing to tell you.’
I eyed her, my head cocked sideways. ‘I’m sure you know something, Elise. It’s just that you don’t care to say it. Or you don’t even realise that you know it. Everybody’s the same.’
She tried to go all regal on me, lifting her chin. But it didn’t work very well with the face she had. I grinned at her.
