Evil Angels Among Them (30 page)

The moment of truth had arrived. Lucy, who had found her talk with Sally illuminating – if not in the areas expected – also had to make an effort to change mental gears. ‘It was about yesterday. I understand that the police were here, asking you questions.'

Instantly Sally's face lost its openness. ‘Yes?' she confirmed in a neutral voice, ending the single word in an uplift of enquiry that implied ‘what is it to you?'.

Lucy tried to make her smile both confiding and confidence-inspiring. ‘I'm interested because it was my friend Becca Thorncroft who was on the other end of the phone call. But you know that, I'm sure.'

Sally's expression of unfeigned surprise belied that assumption. ‘No, I didn't. The policeman just said that they had traced a phone call to this house. He didn't tell me any more about it. What was the phone call about, then?'

‘Let's just say it wasn't very nice. And it wasn't the first one she'd had, either.' Lucy hurried on. ‘You said that Mr Mansfield wasn't at home at the time.'

‘He wasn't,' Sally stated, defensive. ‘I was telling the truth. He didn't get home until just before the police came.'

‘I believe you,' Lucy assured her. ‘But what I wanted to ask you was if, to your knowledge, there was any other man in the house at the time.'

Sally sat very still for a moment. ‘Why do you ask?' she queried warily.

‘Because,' Lucy explained, deciding to be honest, ‘if Mr Mansfield didn't make that phone call, someone else did.'

‘Is there any reason why it couldn't have been Mrs Mansfield?' Sally asked. ‘I just figured that it must have been her if it wasn't Mr Mansfield.'

Lucy shook her head. ‘It couldn't have been Mrs Mansfield – or you, either,' she added hastily, afraid that Sally might misinterpret her words as an accusation of guilt. ‘The call was definitely made by a man.'

‘Then I can't explain it,' Sally said, too quickly.

‘You're sure there wasn't any other man in the house?'

‘Why should there be?' she countered.

Why, indeed? Lucy asked herself. Unless . . .

Suddenly, with an instantaneous and blinding intuition, a great many little things fell into place. There was the accidental encounter she and Becca had had with Diana Mansfield on the path between the Hall and the church. Diana had been flustered, and had said that she was going to the church to see about the flowers. But the next morning it was Marjorie Talbot-Shaw who had been doing the flowers, not Diana Mansfield. And there was the piano, and Diana's awkwardness about it, and her request that Lucy undertake a commission for a painting ‘for a friend' and not tell Quentin. Above all, there was the painting of the proud cavalier. Those flashing, self-confident eyes: now Lucy knew without a doubt whose eyes they resembled. ‘Diana Mansfield is having an affair with Cyprian Lawrence,' she blurted aloud even as the thought confirmed itself unshakably in her mind.

Sally Purdy let out a gusty sigh, and her face changed. ‘Well, since you know . . .'

‘It's true, isn't it?'

‘It's true,' Sally admitted reluctantly. ‘Mrs Mansfield thinks that I don't know.' Her mouth twisted in a wry smile. ‘That's what she wants to believe, any road. But I'd have to be deaf, dumb and blind to work in this house every day and not know what was going on. The closed doors, the whispers. The way she looks at him, like she wants to eat him up. And who does she think washes the sheets, I ask you?' she finished, grinning, her palms upturned in a gesture of amusement.

Lucy's mind leapt ahead to the next conclusion. ‘And he was here that night, wasn't he? While Mr Mansfield was away?'

Sally nodded. ‘I didn't see him, of course – they were at least too careful for that. But as I say, I do wash the sheets.'

‘So he could have made the phone call . . .' Lucy thought aloud. ‘If he was still in the house . . .'

‘I didn't go upstairs right away yesterday morning,' Sally confirmed. ‘He – Mr Lawrence – usually stays over when Mr Mansfield is away, and I like to give him plenty of time to sneak out before I go upstairs.'

‘Very discreet,' Lucy approved.

‘Oh, but she'd die if she thought I knew!' Sally's face changed again, assumed a worried look, and her volubility returned. ‘You won't tell her, will you? I'd hate Mrs Mansfield to think I was talking out of turn. You can see why I couldn't tell the police when they asked me if anyone else was in the house. I couldn't do that to Mrs Mansfield! She's a nice lady, and she's been ever so good to me, giving me things for Jessica – toys that used to belong to her kiddies years ago, and even clothes and things. She's even offered me some of her own clothes, those lovely silk things that she wears, but of course I could never get into them.' She looked down at her ample bosom ruefully, mentally comparing it with Diana Mansfield's sylphlike shape, then continued her litany of praise. ‘And she never complains when I'm late, or when Jessica is sick and I can't come. And even him – that Mr Lawrence. I know that Dad hates him, because of him sacking the choir and all, but he's never been anything but nice to me. He even said that he'd give Jessica piano lessons free of charge, but Dad said no.'

Buying her silence, the cynic in Lucy said. Both of them. But she merely nodded reassuringly. ‘Don't worry,' she said. ‘I won't tell anyone what you've told me.' Or at least no one but David, she added to herself. That didn't count.

She told David as soon as they had a moment alone, doing the washing-up together after lunch, having shooed Becca out of the kitchen.

‘Good Lord,' was his response. He stood for a moment in abstracted thought, rubbing the tea towel round and round on the plate until it squeaked. ‘Well, love, you were right,' he said at last. ‘I admit it, freely and with nothing but admiration. There
was
another man at Walston Hall yesterday morning.'

Lucy inclined her head in modest acknowledgement of her genius.

‘But what are you going to do about it?' he queried. ‘You've promised that you won't tell the police.'

‘I'll tell you what
we're
going to do about it.' Lucy outlined her plan, the only one she'd been able to come up with: she would talk to Diana Mansfield, and David would talk to Cyprian Lawrence. They would see what they could find out, then compare notes later.

She went off to fulfil her part of the plan later that afternoon. This time Diana Mansfield herself came to the door, and professed herself delighted to see Lucy. ‘Lucy! What a nice surprise! Would you like some tea?'

‘That would be lovely,' Lucy said sincerely; it was exactly what she'd hoped Diana would say.

‘Is Becca all right?' Diana asked, finding it odd that Lucy had come on her own.

‘Oh, she's just about coping.' That elicited a rather puzzled look, so Lucy elaborated. ‘The phone calls, you know.'

‘Oh!' Diana stared at her, comprehension coming slowly. ‘Oh, I didn't know that it was Becca. The police didn't say. And David wouldn't tell me.'

Lucy tried to laugh it off. ‘I thought you knew. I thought that
everyone
in Walston knew by now.'

Diana showed Lucy into the drawing room, then went off to see about the tea. When she returned, she found Lucy standing in front of the portrait of the cavalier. ‘Admiring our friend again, I see,' she said with a small laugh.

‘He's very handsome,' Lucy agreed. She turned to face Diana and added deliberately, ‘Don't you think he's very like Cyprian Lawrence? Especially round the eyes?'

Diana gasped. ‘I've never . . . I've never seen a resemblance. But perhaps . . . You could be right. The eyes . . .' Under Lucy's unblinking, knowing gaze she sank on to the sofa, staring back at her with horror.

‘He was here that night, wasn't he?' Lucy said gently.

‘Oh, God.' Diana covered her face with her hands. ‘Who told you? Surely Cyprian didn't tell you. And no one else knows.' Then as another, more horrible, thought occurred to her, she looked at Lucy again and demanded urgently, ‘It wasn't Quentin, was it? Oh, God, please don't tell me that Quentin knows!'

‘No one told me,' Lucy assured her, going to sit beside her on the sofa. ‘I just . . . noticed a few things. Like the cavalier's eyes, and the way you looked at the painting.'

‘Oh, God.' Diana took a deep, shuddering breath.

Lucy reached for her hand and squeezed it. ‘Do you want to tell me about it?' she offered. ‘I promise that I'll respect your wish for secrecy, but it might make you feel better to talk about it. And to someone from outside the village.'

Withdrawing her hand, Diana gave her a long, measured look, then got up and poured the tea with hands that were only very slightly shaking. She passed Lucy a cup of tea and sat down in a chair across from her; she seemed to have regained her composure. ‘All right,' she said, taking a deep breath. She related her story simply, without emotion and in a calm voice, her eyes only occasionally flickering to the portrait on the wall. ‘It started last year, shortly after Cyprian came to Walston. I'd always wanted to play the piano, as I told you, and I asked him to give me some lessons. That was before Quentin retired, and he was always in London during the week. So Cyprian started giving me lessons here, in this room. And one day . . . something happened. A spark, I don't know. We . . . ended up in bed. It's been going on ever since, whenever we get the chance. It was easy at first – Quentin was never here, and Cyprian could stay the night with no one the wiser. But since Quentin's retired . . . it's become a bit more difficult. Most of the time it has to be at Cyprian's cottage, during the day, though we've managed a few nights here when Quentin's been away. Like Wednesday.' She allowed herself a half-embarrassed smile. ‘And even a few times here during the day, practically under Quentin's nose. I suppose we've been foolish once or twice, but we've never been caught. We're very fortunate in having the footpath between the Hall and the church – I suppose you've realised that it goes right past Cyprian's cottage. We can go back and forth without anyone in the village seeing us. That day, last week, when we met on the footpath . . . but I suppose you've guessed that,' she said lamely.

Lucy nodded, unwilling to interrupt.

And then came the rationalisations. ‘I love him, you see,' Diana explained calmly. ‘I know that he's . . . younger than I am, but I love him. And I need him. Quentin hasn't been interested in me for years. Not in that way, anyway. We haven't shared a bed since . . . oh, I can't remember, it's been so long. Not that
he's
been celibate,' she added, her voice taking on a note of bitterness for the first time. ‘Quentin has always kept a mistress. One of the perks of being a rich, influential businessman, no doubt. We never talk about it, you understand, but I'm sure that he knows I know, and I'm also sure that he isn't particularly bothered that I know, as long as I don't mention it. We've been keeping up this polite fiction for years. All the time I was living here while Quentin was still in London – that suited him very well, I should think. A nice, presentable wife who only had to be seen at weekends, and a young mistress to entertain him for the rest of the week.' She put her teacup into the saucer with a strident rattle. ‘That's where he was on Wednesday night, of course – in London with her. He said that it was a business meeting, and of course I let him pretend. He goes off to see her once or twice a month. And what sort of a fool does he take me for? I can smell her on his clothes when he comes home. I don't suppose he cares. Not that I mind,' she added, attempting to be fair. ‘It gives me a chance to spend the night with Cyprian.' That brought a smile to her face. ‘And that's the best of all. An hour here and an hour there is fine, when that's all you can get, but there's nothing quite like spending the night in the arms of the man you love.'

In spite of herself, and in spite of the fact that she concurred with the last sentiment, Lucy found Diana's frankness somewhat embarrassing. ‘But if Quentin has a mistress . . .' she said, leaving Diana to draw the inference.

‘Oh, but you don't understand.' The bitterness was back, evident in Diana's brittle smile. ‘It's all very well for Quentin to have a mistress. He's a
man
. But he would go spare if he even suspected that I had someone else. Women aren't
supposed
to enjoy sex, or to want it, especially women of my age. How little he knows,' she added; her smile held contempt mingled with a sort of triumphant reminiscence.

Diana got up and went to stand in front of the portrait, devouring it with her eyes. ‘Cyprian is a wonderful lover,' she said softly. ‘I had no idea what it could be like, not with Quentin, not for all those years. All those years wasted . . .' Her voice became so soft that it was almost as if she were talking to herself; Lucy had to strain to hear. ‘And now that I've found him . . . I just couldn't bear to lose him. If someone else . . . younger . . . came along, or if he grew tired of me, I couldn't bear it.'

It was Doris Wrightman's turn to entertain her sister to supper that Friday night. There was nothing special about that evening; it was one of many such Friday evenings, with mediocre food eaten in indifferent company, stretching behind them and ahead of them in an unbroken line. If anything distinguished this week from its many fellows, it was the potential rich mine of conversational topics, centring on the week's extraordinary happenings in Walston, replacing their usual exchange of bits of stale gossip. Enid sipped her customary bitter lemon before supper, considering which delicious titbit of conversation she would offer up first.

‘It was a lovely funeral, wasn't it?' she said with a sigh.