Pretty Maids All In A Row

ANTHEA FRASER

Pretty Maids All in a Row

Diamond Books An I
mprint of HarperCollins
77-85 Fulham Palace Road Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

This Diamond Crime Two-In-One edition published 1994

Pretty Maids All in a Row
© Anthea Fraser 1986

The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

ISBN 0261 66297 X

Cover photography by Monique Le Luhandre

Printed in Great Britain

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Pretty Maids All in a Row

CHAPTER 1

His teeth were chattering, though it was unbearably hot in the room and he was bathed in sweat. Pulses throbbed sickeningly throughout his body as panic engulfed him, closing his throat, pricking his scalp, furring the inside of his mouth. It took a conscious effort of will to remain where he was, and not go running naked out of the house.

She had drawn the curtains, and through their thin material the September sun blazed undiminished, filling the room with a rosy glow. He'd laughed at her for drawing them, since they were on the first floor. 'Expecting the window-cleaner?' he'd asked her. Now, he was grateful for the thin screen they offered.

He stood in the middle of the room, drawing deep breaths and being careful not to look at the bed. That was better. His brain was beginning to function again. There was no hurry. Important to remember that. No one was likely to come to the house, and he wasn't expected anywhere. Plenty of time to work things out.

Still with his back to the bed, he went to the chair and, feeling in his jacket pocket, drew out cigarettes and matches. No one had seen him arrive, he was sure. He moved to the window and put his eye to the small gap between the curtains. Across the narrow lane a patch of uncultivated land rose towards the road on the next level, but to right and left small cottages basked, humped under their thatches, in the hot sunshine. It wouldn't be safe to move till dar
k, which wa
s—what?—a good four or five hours yet. Plenty of time to plan, to avoid mistakes.

Testing himself, he turned back to the bed. She lay as he had left her, sweat still glistening on her body, the lurid pink glow unkindly highlighting sinews on her neck and grey at the roots of her hair. She'd been a good lay, though, he thought dispassionately. Plenty of experience. A pity, but he'd had no alternative. Impossible to rely on her keeping quiet, and he'd too much to lose if she talked.

He tipped a lozenge of ash into a little china dish on the dressing-table. Remember to rinse that later. Through the mirror was a looking-glass room, the reverse of normality. Appropriate, really, in the circumstances. He could see the bed with the figure on it, and, centre stage, his own bare body, cigarette in hand.

He'd feel better after a shower. Easier to think clearly with his clothes on.

Slowly the hours passed. Quite early on he had drawn back the curtains, standing to one side as he did so. It would not be possible, later, to switch on lights, so everything must be completed in daylight, and he had to make it seem she'd gone on holiday. Now, as at last blueness filtered through the air, he had only to wait for it to thicken, and he could
g
o
-Methodically he reviewed his actions. A suitcase, removed
from the top of the wardrobe, had been packed with clothes and toiletries and stood ready by the front door, a mackintosh draped over it. On top of the mackintosh lay a neatly typed and stamped envelope. He'd post that once he'd got rid of the body. Upstairs, bed linen and towels had been changed and the soiled items bundled into a black plastic bag he'd found under the sink. The contents of a second bag were more gruesome but, after dressing the body, he'd managed to bundle her in. She was sitting with her knees up and torso bowed over. There was a surprising amount of room.

He'd also emptied and rinsed the milk bottle and cleaned out the fridge. The dahlias on the hearth, just beginning to droop, had been ruthlessly tipped into the bin and the vase washed. Windows were secured throughout the house, which he'd gone round in rubber gloves from the kitchen, wiping all the surfaces he'd touched.

'Upstairs and downstairs and in my lady's chamber!' That gave him an idea and he laughed aloud in the still house. Returning to the typewriter, he inserted a fresh sheet of paper and punched out a few lines. Not easy in rubber gloves, but he managed it. He read through what he had written, smiling to himself:

Here comes a candle to light you to bed,

And here comes a chopper to chop—off—your—head.

He ripped it out of the machine and, fumbling open the black bag, stuffed it into the pocket of her dress. Wonder what they'd make of that, if and when she was found.

Her car still stood
in the drive, the keys on the kitchen table where she'd dropped them. Useful, that. Restlessly he checked the house again. The stage was set. The bedroom, with its crisp sheets and neat counterpane, looked innocent of all violence, all terror, pain and fear. There was nothing anywhere to arouse suspicion.

Nodding with satisfaction, he went downstairs for the last time and, holding his breath, opened the front door. It was raining, a hissing torrent of silver needles glinting in the light from the street lamp. Swearing, he lifted the mackintosh from the suitcase and, shaking it out, draped it hood-like over his head and shoulders. He was ready to go.

Carrie lay on her back in the darkness, listening to the rain sluicing and drumming outside. She imagined the familiar garden, alien by night, with rivulets coursing along the paths, and trees bowed down by the torrent. She hadn't put the deckchair away, either. Its seat would be a miniature pool, the ancient canvas, faded with the suns of uncounted summers, sagging under the weight of water.

Her imagination moved from the confines of the garden to the village beyond its walls. The waterfall near The Orange Tree must be a foaming Niagara by now and the roads snaking zig-zag fashion down the hillside, treacherous streams of water. She hoped Mrs Cowley was having better weather, wherever she was.

Carrie frowned in the darkness, her tongue exploring the throbbing tooth whose pain had woken her. It was odd, her going off like that without telling anyone. She hadn't mentioned it on Tuesday—or perhaps she had. Carrie'd been in no state to remember much, after her visit to the dentist. And Mrs Cowley'd been so kind, running her home in the car and even coming in with her, to make sure she had aspirins. If she
had
mentioned going away, Carrie accepted that she wouldn't have registered it.

It was no good, she'd have to go down for some more pills. Softly, in her bare feet, she padded down the stairs and through the kitchen to the bathroom extension beyond. Her face in the mirror over the basin was gaunt and pale, eyes dark-circled with pain. She shook two tablets into her palm, bent her mouth to the tap and drank the tepid water, shuddering. One thing, at least she could sleep in. Tomorrow was her day for Hinckley's, but with Mrs Cowley away she could indulge herself.

Cautiously, standing on the cold linoleum, Carrie prodded her tooth again. Its deep-seated throbbing shot pain up the side of her jaw and behind her ear. She liked going to Hinckley's, though. Mrs Cowley had such pretty things, it was a pleasure to dust them.

No one in the village remembered who 'Hinckley' had been. Possibly the builder or original owner of the cottage, which had stood in its patch of garden for nearly two hundred years. But Westridge didn't believe in change, and no matter who the present owner, Hinckley's retained its name. In the same way, the post office was known as Miller's, though Fred Miller had been in his grave ten years.

She sighed, snapped off the light and made her way back through the dark kitchen and up the stairs, wincing as the top one creaked beneath her weight.

'Carrie?'

'It's all right—I went down for some aspirins.'

She snuggled back into bed, drawing the sheet up to her chin. The psychological effect of the pills was swifter than their therapeutic value and already she was drifting into sleep. Her last waking thought was that perhaps there'd be a postcard from Mrs Cowley in a day or so, letting them know when to expect her back.

Jessica Selby leant her head against the back of the seat and closed her eyes. The two-hour drive from London had tired her more than she'd admitted and her leg, encased in plaster and laid along the back seat, ached intolerably.

Matthew's voice roused her. 'All right, darling?'

She smiled at him in the mirror. 'I shall be.'

'Not bumped about too much? It's rougher going, now we're off the motorway.'

'I'm fine,' she lied. What a way to end a honeymoon, swathed in bandages in a Swiss hospital!

'Poor love, this couldn't be worse timing, could it? You should be recuperating in comfort at home, instead of being whisked to the back of beyond like this. But the deadline can't be extended, and I'm selfish enough to want you with me.'

'So I should think. We've hardly had time to get to know each other yet!'

Matthew laughed as she'd intended, but she realized with a jolt that she'd spoken the truth. Eight weeks ago, they'd not even met. They didn't actually know each other at all. Admittedly they knew about each other, but that was hardly the same. She was aware, for instance, that Matthew was a successful biographer, with several bestsellers to his name; that he'd previously been married for fourteen years and divorced for two, and had a son and daughter, whose existence she preferred to ignore. And for his part he knew her to be an actress, also with a broken marriage behind her, though thankfully no children. It was a shaky enough basis on which to bind themselves to each other.

Her eyes returned to his reflected face, unsmiling now as he concentrated on his driving. But perhaps because of her tiredness, the focus of her gaze shifted, and for the fraction of a second she seemed to be looking at a stranger. Then his eyes met hers again and he smiled, dissolving her incipient panic, and she silently scolded herself. Over-dramatizing, as usual. Keep your histrionics for the stage, my girl, they're too wearing to live with!

'Is it a pretty village, this Westridge?' she asked.

'I was more struck by its convenience, with the Hall only ten minutes away. But yes, I suppose it's pretty. It's built on several levels, running along the ridge of a hill. From the top road, you look down on the houses and gardens below, and beyond them to the farms on the floor of the valley. But when I say it's convenient, I'm speaking personally. It won't be for you, my love, though since you're not mobile anyway, it shouldn't make much difference. And the cottage has a garden, so at least you can relax and learn your lines in peace.'

Jessica was silent. A Londoner born and bred, she suspected that a month in the country would bore her to distraction, even with two good legs to get about on. The idea of being stuck in a cottage garden day after day didn't appeal at all. Still, if Matthew had to be up here for his research, she'd no option but to come too and make the best of it.

'I hope the house is suitable,' she said after a moment.

'It sounds perfect. It has the requisite cloakroom downstairs, so you need only go up and down stairs once a day, and there's a room which I can use as a study.'

'Lucky it should come on the market just as we needed it.'

'Fate!' he said with a laugh. 'I realized when I was up last week that the village would be perfect for us, but the agents had nothing on their books. Which is why I snapped this up as soon as they phoned, without even seeing it.'

'And the agent's meeting us at the pub, you said?'

'That's right. We'll have to go through the inventory.'

They turned off the main road and Jessica, reading the signpost, leant forward.

'We've a fair way to go yet,' Matthew warned her.

The road on which they found themselves was narrow and winding, with passing places. For a while there were no buildings on their right, and they had an uninterrupted view across the valley to the multicoloured woods on the opposite slopes. On their left, cottages were built against the hillside, the base of their garden walls at shoulder height. By craning her head, Jessica could see steep paths leading up to porched doorways, many of them overhung with flaming curtains of Virginia creeper. Flowers of all colours abounded, both in the gardens and along the verges of the road.

The descent became steeper, with houses on their right now, larger and more modern than the earlier cottages. At intervals short, steep roads led down to the next level, but Matthew followed the one they were on until it forked at the end of its descent. The left-hand turning, he informed her, led through woods to Sandon Hall.