Death in the Cotswolds (20 page)

She had an old oak writing desk, relic of a Welsh grandparent, where she kept all the usual documents. Fighting to convince myself that I not only had the right, but the obligation, I flicked through all the cubbyholes, looking for a will, or insurance policy, that ought to be consulted as a matter of urgency. Something akin to the feeling I’d had about Helen’s abandoned possessions took hold of me, but this time it was skewed by the fact of a sudden and premature death. Gaynor had had no chance to put anything in order. She hadn’t had time to destroy or hide anything private. It was all exposed to view, naked without its owner there to shield it. It was a horrible sensation. I expected her ghost to tap me on the shoulder and accuse me of snooping.

One of the desk drawers was locked, which came as a real surprise. Normal people, living alone,
don’t lock things. Who did she think would try to open it? What could she possibly want to hide so securely?

I satisfied myself with the idea that her father had probably locked it twenty years ago and then lost the key. Nobody would have bothered to try to open it since, until the police, who I imagined had used some sort of device to get it open when they examined the flat for clues nearly a week ago, although it seemed strange that they should lock it again.

I drifted into fantasy, imagining the desk going to an auction room, being bought, still locked, and the new owner taking a hairpin to it and finding some wondrous object like a diamond necklace. I lifted one end of the desk, and waggled it cautiously, listening for movement inside the drawer. It was a foolish attempt. All I accomplished was to put so much weight on one of the legs that it gave a nasty cracking sound, forcing me to hurriedly drop the whole thing. It would be a shame to break it – it was obviously a genuine antique.

I had already found all the documents I needed, including an old address book. On the front page, in childish writing, was the usual many-lined address, culminating in “The Universe.” It dated the book to Gaynor’s pre-teen years, I guessed. Flicking through, I found myself, alongside six or seven names and addresses from Brynmawr in
South Wales, where Gaynor had gone to school. It was a forlorn little thing, with no entries for anybody in the Cotswolds apart from myself. No Caroline Johnson or Oliver Grover or Gervase-brother-of-Xavier, I noted with satisfaction. There were ticks and dates against my name, which I finally worked out indicated that she had sent me a Christmas card each year. Only four other people got cards from her, it seemed. The only one that looked as if she mattered was a Normanton, Mandy, under the Ns, with an address in Calgary, Alberta. This must be Gaynor’s cousin, and the probable inheritor of the flat and its contents.

It seemed a reasonable assumption that nobody had yet contacted Mandy to tell her of the demise of her cousin. I would have to ask Stella – she knew all about such procedures. There was no phone number in the address book, which meant I would have to consult the overseas Directory Enquiries, or else write a letter.

Gradually I became aware of the myriad tasks mounting up, with nobody to tackle them but me. The death hadn’t been registered. The utilities hadn’t been disconnected. I wasn’t sure which to do first, or even how to go about most of them. And I still hadn’t been upstairs.

Gaynor’s bedroom was even more distressing. Her duvet was folded back, none too neatly, and there was a mug with dregs of tea on the table
beside the bed. I peeped into the wardrobe, wondering what I ought to do with her clothes and was struck by how few garments hung there. A drawer at ground level contained folded shirts and two pairs of trousers. In a small two-drawer chest I found underwear, scarves, hankies and a swimming costume.

On top of the chest was a porcelain dish containing the usual dusty collection of rubber bands, small change, dead batteries and odd buttons. Things you took out of your pockets before slinging the garment in the washing basket. There was also a very pretty vase with a single frond of dried pampas grass in it. At least that could go, I thought, with some vague intention of making a start on clearing the place. I lifted the vase and something chinked inside it. Upending it, I caught a small brass key.

The locked drawer must have been nagging at the back of my mind, because I ran down the stairs and tried the key, full of a sense that this was important.

It fitted, and the drawer slid out with utter smoothness. It was stuffed full of leaflets, magazines, some jewellery and a photo.

Fingering them delicately, even warily, I could not believe what I was seeing. The literature was all about Freemasonry – but with the twist that they described Lodges run by and for women. Instructions on how to establish such a Lodge, the
restrictions and tolerances accorded to them by the Grand Lodge, the regalia they could use and the secrets they must keep.

The photo showed Gaynor Lewis standing between two other women. A printed label was attached at the bottom, giving the date and ‘First official meeting of the New Lodge.’

The two other women were Verona Farebrother and Caroline Johnson, formerly Hollis.

Phil and Thea were sitting in the lamplight when I went over to Greenhaven. It was chilly and they both wore the jumpers I’d given them. They asked me in, politely but with no obvious enthusiasm.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘But I need your advice.’

As I described my discovery in Gaynor’s flat, producing the photograph with an accusing flourish, Phil seemed impatient and distracted. Before long he interrupted me. ‘Yes, yes. We’ve examined the house already. We found the address book and made copies of all the addresses. We opened the locked drawer, as well and saw what you saw.’

I was stunned. ‘And?’ I stammered.

His face went still. ‘I can’t tell you that,’ he said. ‘All I can say is that it might prove useful in our investigations.’

Thea had listened to everything with total attention. ‘Caroline is a Freemason,’ she said
slowly. ‘Did you know? Before seeing the photo, I mean?’

Phil shook his head. ‘No, I did not. I’d heard some reports that there was a female Lodge being set up, but it didn’t interest me and I had no idea who was involved.’

‘But…’ I was shouting, still flapping the picture at him. ‘This must tell you who killed them. This must be what it’s all about.’

They both stared at me. ‘Why?’ said Phil at last. ‘Why must it?’

‘You’re not accusing Caroline are you?’ said Thea with a light
huff
of laughter.

I sat down with a thud on one of the upright chairs standing against the wall. ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I can’t think. This is so
bizarre
. Gaynor can’t have been a Mason. Why would she?’

Phil’s face revealed that he knew far more than he was saying. He was way ahead of me and I was once again the clamouring child following in his wake, desperate for his attention and friendship.

‘We don’t think it’s important,’ he said softly.

I stared at the floor where the carpet showed the more vivid marks where rugs had protected it from the ravages of ordinary life. Thea had packed the rugs in one of the black bin liners now sitting in the dining room. I almost gave up my quest for an explanation under the pressure of Phil’s confident male superiority.

Almost, but not quite. ‘Daphne,’ I said, as the name flicked into my mind. ‘Daphne might have found out. She hates the Masons. She would be furious with Verona if she found out she was dabbling in it.’

Phil and Thea both seemed uncomfortable. ‘What?’ I demanded. ‘What haven’t you told me? Why do I feel like an ignorant child here?’

‘We’re questioning Mr Grover and his – partner,’ said Phil. ‘They can’t account for their movements either on Sunday or yesterday. We know there were certain conflicts between Grover and Miss Lewis. Since then we’ve been informed about similar trouble with Miss Farebrother. I can’t say any more than that.’

Again I had to force my brain to function. ‘Oliver’s a mason,’ I remembered. ‘Is that something to do with it?’

Phil clamped his lips together. Angrily I kept up the questions. ‘And why the Barrow?’ I demanded. ‘And knitting needles? That wouldn’t be the way they’d do it. You might as well accuse Pamela and Kenneth. At least she knits.’

And they knew the two dead women. And Kenneth had money trouble, bad enough to upset Pamela. I raised my head. ‘It could have been them,’ I repeated. ‘Just as easily.’

Thea got up and threw another log on the fire. ‘That’s the last one,’ she said.

Her voice sounded different – uncaring, as if it didn’t matter whether or not they had any heating. I wondered what had happened since I last spoke to her. I guessed it had something to do with their plans for the coming week.

‘It doesn’t matter any more,’ said Phil. ‘We’ll be leaving tomorrow.’

‘Oh?’ It seemed very abrupt, and idiotically upsetting. I didn’t want them to leave me to cope with the aftermath of two murders by myself. I looked at Thea, hoping she could read my thoughts.

‘We’ve been arguing about it,’ she said, disarmingly frank as ever. ‘I was hoping to stay on here.’

I knew better than to reveal to Phil that she and I had already discussed the matter. I merely said, ‘I’ll miss you if you go. It’s been nice having somebody in the house.’ I looked at Phil. ‘And the police protection’s been reassuring, too.’

He puffed out his cheeks. ‘Don’t give me that,’ he said. ‘I’ve hardly been here all week.’

‘Well, you were quite a lot better than nothing.’ They both looked at me, checking whether or not I was being arsy. I smiled. ‘No, but really, I hate to see you go.’ I looked round at the disorganised room, full of boxes and sad furniture. ‘You’ll never finish all this by tomorrow, will you?’

Phil groaned. ‘We’ve given up hope of that. I’m going to call a house clearance outfit. They can just
take the lot. We’ve boxed up the bits to keep. It’s not a lot, to be honest.’

A kind of panic gripped me at the thought of Helen’s lovely things being bundled off to various jumble sales and salerooms. ‘No!’ I said. ‘You can’t do that. Why did you leave it a year, if that’s all you’re going to do?’

‘That’s what I said,’ Thea remarked.

‘What about Caroline?’ I said, determined not to let her slip out of the conversation completely. ‘She might want a few mementoes. She liked Helen.’

Phil took a deep breath, assembling his energies for the female onslaught. ‘I don’t really think she warrants much consideration,’ he said. ‘She’s remarried now. Her life as a Hollis is over.’

It was an odd way of putting it, revealing his instinctive male sense of ownership over his wife, marked by the surname that she had rejected in favour of another man’s. I couldn’t begin to imagine how that felt, but he obviously didn’t like it. I glanced at Thea, wondering if she was thinking along similar lines.

It was hard to tell, but it did occur to me that she might be entertaining the idea that her own surname could one day be Hollis, in which case she too might feel justified in keeping some of Helen’s things.

I lost patience. ‘Phil,’ I said, rather loudly. ‘There are at least three of us who have been too polite
and restrained so far for our own good. Caroline, Thea and me. And you’ve been too distracted to realise that we might well fancy some of this stuff. Not just clothes and jewellery but furniture, rugs, pots and pans. You don’t need the money a house clearance chap would give you. It would be hardly anything, anyway. If it’s all too much for you, then get out of the way and let me and Thea sort it out. We can get Caroline to come over as well, if she wants to.’

He was genuinely surprised. ‘For heaven’s sake!’ he exploded, looking at Thea rather than me. ‘Why the bloody hell didn’t you
say
?’

She made no reply, just stood her ground and let his words echo around the room. I could manage no such composure. ‘How could she?’ I demanded. ‘She doesn’t know where she stands, what her position is with your family. Have a bit of sense.’

He stood up very straight. ‘Listen,’ he snapped. ‘I’ve been landed with a double murder investigation over the past few days. I get bombarded with calls, reports, demands, crackpots every five minutes. Nothing’s as I planned. Even the dogs have hardly seen me. Quite frankly, the sooner I get shot of all this garbage, the better I’ll be pleased.’

This silenced me. I hardly dared look at Thea, for fear she would reveal a sudden distaste – or worse
– for him, if this is how he behaved. Did he always get so stressy when he had to find a murderer? Or was there something particularly bothersome about this one?

Thea smiled at him, a smile full of understanding and forgiveness and unmistakable affection. ‘I know, Phil,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to get so aggressive about it. It’s not your fault the week’s been ruined.’

It was dreadfully sad for a minute or two. The word
ruined
hung in the air. So whose fault is it? I wanted to shout, knowing we couldn’t find an answer to that. I felt a sharp stab of rage against the unknown murderer. Even if they – he or she – thought it mattered less because Gaynor and Verona were virtually alone in the world, the ripples still spread far and wide.

‘So make sure you catch the bastard,’ I said.

‘Right,’ Phil nodded. ‘I intend to.’

I wasn’t prepared to leave it there. It was impertinent and inappropriate of me, but I was sufficiently involved to risk it. Phil was being unnecessarily grumpy with me and I wanted to understand why.

Thea was standing close to him, a hand on his back, an intimate touch that spoke volumes about her abiding fondness. I imagined her fingers, slowly stroking him through the jumper, sensual and proprietorial. He was a lucky bloke. I could see him
leaning back into her touch, a distant look in his eyes.

‘Are you saying you think you’re close to making an arrest?’ I asked, using words from countless television dramas.

He wanted me to go. We were standing in the hall, all three of us, and I was inching my way towards the door.

‘We’re running some forensic tests,’ he said. ‘When I get the results I might know enough to take action.’

I remembered the mugs carrying two sets of fingerprints. ‘You’ll already have found Caroline’s prints on things in Gaynor’s flat,’ I guessed.

He nodded. ‘Doesn’t mean anything. We know they knew each other.’

I remembered something else. ‘The stuff in the attic. What about that?’

He put up a hand. ‘I can’t reveal what we’ve found. Surely you understand that. A careless word now could mean the whole case collapses.’ He was almost pleading with me. ‘You have no idea how careful we have to be these days.’

Thea moved, just a slight forward tilt, but it felt as if she was urging me to leave. Phil was between us, looking at me but in physical contact with her. Suddenly I understood something: he had not moved on from twenty years ago. He couldn’t grasp that I was no longer the same obsessive
teenager I’d been then, despite what I’d tried to tell him in the car the day before. Knowing this made me volatile and foolish, but also somehow
dear
to him. It was pleasing to be loved, after all, and perhaps he had known more than I realised about my feelings then. I had to put him straight, if only for Thea’s sake.

‘Phil, I’m not sure how to put this, but I should point out that we’re not youngsters any more. I’m thirty-six. You don’t have to treat me so carefully.’ I floundered, aware of putting myself in a very embarrassing situation if I didn’t watch out.

Thea, sweet Thea, came to the rescue.

‘Ariadne’s trying to tell you that she’s grown out of the crush she once had on you,’ she said, her tone suggesting that he was the one risking embarrassment, not me. ‘Although I’m not sure why she feels she has to say it
now.
’ She raised an eyebrow at me.

I groaned. ‘There’s never going to be a perfect moment, is there?’

Thea gave a look of commiseration, and Phil shook his head. ‘I’m tired,’ he said. ‘I’m going to sit down.’

Thea came outside with me, which I hadn’t expected. ‘We’re not leaving until after lunch tomorrow,’ she said. ‘So I’ll come over and say goodbye in the morning.’ She leaned closer, glancing along the dark deserted street. ‘I think he’s
right about Oliver Grover, you know,’ she whispered. ‘It makes good sense.’

‘Not to me it doesn’t,’ I argued. ‘And he’ll have to come up with some very good proof to convince me.’