A Clear Conscience (32 page)
âI could live without those,' Bailey said, pointing towards the grilles with his fork before it speared a piece of burned toast.
âYou don't have to live with them.'
âNope, not every day, but there are better versions. Double glazing, better-looking stuff than that. I can fit it. Nice curtains you've got. Are they new?'
âDon't you notice anything?'
âYou. You, always looking like you, whatever you put on. That's what I notice. You could call it X-ray eyes, but I also like what you put on. I also like you. You could chuck me out tomorrow, I'd still think so. I'd like you anyway. Oh yes, even if you get frightened and even if you lie. You've always got a good reason. Something to do with being a good woman. More than I could say about being a good man. Get this egg off this duvet.'
She was spilling the stuff in the effort to cut the toast.
âMary Secura thinks I'm a burnt-out case.' He choked on the coffee, the thought trickling across his mind about whether he should tell her about an appointment in Police Complaints. Settling on an answer.
âShe doesn't listen to what you say. Doesn't sleep with you, either. Thank God. So how would she know? Doesn't egg travel?'
Boiled eggs go off like bombs, Helen remembered. Scrambled, they only need to go as far as carpet level to bring in a cat with an addiction to butter. She scooped up the rest on her plate.
âWere we right about Cath?'
He got out of bed and ushered the cat out of the room. Kicked the fresh-painted door with his foot.
âI think so. Why? Don't you?'
âWe didn't have a jury in on this one, that's why. There should be a jury. Evidence, all the safeguards which should come before judgement day. It feels arrogant.'
He nodded gravely. âI know. I think I know. There are
exceptions. Come here. I don't like doubt. I can't stand it. Did you hear me earlier? I once thought that if you didn't marry me, I might die, still think it once a day. You want a jury? You want a deed poll?'
Sweet morning, swelling against the garden windows, insistent to be seen. The first hint of a chill and a big, black beetle marching a path to suicide on the way to the kitchen. Far too much light in here. Helen West, soon to be a married woman, swanned in there, gossamer clad, walking on air, tired as all hell, fit for anything. Including yesterday's post, something to read while the kettle boiled. She was proof against anything. Even circulars, and the remnants of Emily's letter:
⦠Well, while you've been battling in your version of the real world, I've been labouring away in mine, and there's quite a lot I have to eat humble pie about. Such as discovering that my youngest child is a pathological liar, but maybe we should just call her creative. You see, I never believed she was CAPABLE of stealing the perfume, but it was her, she buries it. Alistair found it when he noticed signs of digging and went out there to see if the silly child had hidden this funny old bayonet thing which had somehow gone missing. When you tackle Jane about lying, she's perfectly frightful! She just makes up something else! Yes, she'd taken the bayonet (admittedly she'd found it in the first place, so I suppose it WAS hers really), but Jane being Jane, she HAS to say that she was only giving it back to Cath, because she'd seen Cath put it there in the first place. I ask you! Now that was the worst lie of all, because she'd always said some ghosty chap had put it there, oh, she's impossible. Mind, I'm glad to be rid of the thing, it was awfully sharp, and she would play with it.
Sorry to ramble on, but life is not a bed of roses. I do miss Cath. The bayonet incident reminds me of one of many reasons why. I mean, she would get things done for me,
on her way home; she always knew places to get things done. Got all the knives sharpened for me one day, something I suppose you can do in the East End easier than round here! All blunt again now, of course, and the kettle doesn't work. Now please don't mind if I ask a favour, but I know you, loyal old thing that you are, you might see Cath in her troubles. Could you give her back this perfume? I know now she never stole it. It's the best I can do as an apology. She must have brought it in with her on the day Jane found it in her bag. We know it can't be ours, of course, because it isn't the real thing â¦! That's what started us off, wondering about Jane.
Helen read with her hip propped against the work surface, found she had turned to face the wall with the corner of a unit pressing into her stomach, painfully. It was a rounded edge, but it hurt. So did the contents of the letter. She needed the concentration of that slight pain in order to think. Of Cath, and her unreal perfume, and her odour of sanctity. Secreting in a garden a knife she would know how to sharpen, the knowledge of which she denied. Why hide it if she did not know Joe had used it?
Because she had used it?
âNo,' Helen said out loud. âNo, no, NO!'
S
he went back to the bedroom. They had promised each other they would break their habit of keeping secrets.
Bailey was still asleep. Sleeping the slumber of the just. To which she was no longer entitled.
FRANCES FYFIELD
has spent much of her professional life practicing as a criminal lawyer, work which has informed her highly acclaimed novels. She has been the recipient of both the Gold and Silver Crime Writers' Association Daggers. She is also a regular broadcaster on Radio 4, most recently as the presenter of the series “Tales from the Stave.” She lives in London and in Deal, overlooking the sea, which is her passion.
www.francesfyfieldc.co.uk
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Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This book was originally published in 1995 by Pantheon Books.
A CLEAR CONSCIENCE
. Copyright © 1994 by Frances Fyfield. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition NOVEMBER 2013 ISBN: 9780062301482
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