Pretty Maids All In A Row (10 page)

'Well, sir, since it's almost lunch-time, I suggest you have a leisurely meal and then perhaps go for a drive.'

'Now look,' Matthew began truculently, 'is this really necessary? We've been here a week ourselves; surely we'll have obliterated anything of use?'

'There'll still be traces, sir. Fingerprints, an odd hair. It's amazing what these chaps come up with. If you'll collect your handbag, ma'am, and anything else you need, we can leave together and I'll take the keys.'

'They didn't accept with very good grace,' Webb remarked to Jackson as they got into their car. 'Can't say I blame them, but murder's seldom convenient.'

'You know who she is, don't you, Guv?'

'Who who is?'

'Mrs Selby. She's Jessica Randal, the actress. I recognized her. Millie has a magazine with their photographs in. They've not been married long.'

'You're a fund of information, Ken.'

'Millie'd like her autograph, I bet.'

'Well, I'm damned if I'm going to get it for her. Now for the cleaner. I didn't want to interview her at the Markhams', but she should be back by now.'

Jackson nodded. The Governor always liked to see people in their own homes. 'She lives in Donkey Lane, the steep road we came down from the top.'

Carrie Speight opened the door immediately. Her face was white and her eyes red-rimmed from weeping.

'I'm sorry to disturb you,' Webb said gently, 'but I'm afraid there are some questions we must ask you.'

She nodded and stepped to one side. 'You'd better come in.'

Webb ducked his head as he went through the low doorway into the cottage. Though smaller and less opulent than Hinckley's, it was neat, clean and cheerful. At her uncertain gesture of invitation, the two policemen seated themselves on the chintz chairs.

'Now, Miss Speight, how long had you worked for Mrs Cowley?'

Tears brimmed again and Carrie bit her lip. 'Must be three years now. Such a kind lady, she was. She used to give me her blouses and things, when she got tired of them. Some of them had hardly been worn. Of course they needed altering, but I'm quite good with my needle.' She broke off, ended in a whisper, 'I'm sorry, sir. I shouldn't run on like that.'

'That's all right, miss. You live with your sister, Mrs Markham was saying.'

'Yes, sir. She works at the hairdresser's.' 'Here in Westridge?'

'Yes, and they're glad to have her. She could get a job in Shillingham any day, but she doesn't fancy the journey.'

Webb guessed the bus service would be infrequent, and about a forty-minute ride each way. 'Will she have heard yet, about Mrs Cowley?'

'I don't know, sir. We don't get a paper, but someone at the salon might have told her.'

'She wouldn't have known her as well as you did?'

'Well, she did her hair, like. A lot of the ladies go to Delia. She's very good.'

'When was the last time you saw Mrs Cowley?'

Carrie wiped her eyes on the corner of her apron, a gesture that struck Jackson as medieval. 'Tuesday it was, sir, week before last. My tooth had been bad, but I went to Hinckley's as usual. I don't like letting people down. But Mrs Cowley saw I was in pain, and she phoned her own dentist in Shillingham. Made an emergency appointment and drove me there herself. Then she waited while they did the filling, and brought me home again. She even came in with me, to make sure I'd got aspirins for the pain. I never dreamed I wouldn't see her again.'

Carrie broke down and sobbed for several minutes, while Webb pulled at his lip reflectively.

'Could I have the name and address of the dentist, miss?' He'd provide the definitive ID if no relatives came forward.

'Mr Carruthers, in Kimberly Road. Number twenty-four, I think.'

A successful one, then. Kimberly Road was Shillingham's Harley Street. 'Now, miss, had Mrs Cowley any relatives that you know of?'

'Only her husband, like.'

'You knew him?'

'Oh yes, sir. Leastways, I only saw him a couple of times, when he was home with the 'flu. He was usually at work when I was there, and then of course he moved away.' 'Any idea where he is now?'

'No, sir.' Carrie looked up suddenly. 'You don't think
he—
’I

'We don't think anything at the moment, miss. Now, who was she friendly with, in the village?'

'I don't really know. Mrs Markham, I suppose, but they weren't that close.' She coloured. 'Mrs Cowley preferred gentlemen's company.'

'And who were they? You won't be breaking any confidences, Miss Speight. It can only help Mrs Cowley now.'

'Well, sir, I did take one or two phone calls for her. There was Mr Palmer and someone called Richard. They never gave their names, but Mrs Cowley sometimes mentioned them. Oh, and Major Hartley. I recognized his voice.'

'Were they regular callers?'

'Mr Palmer was, at least once a week. And there was another gentleman who phoned a lot. I don't know his name, but I don't think he was from the village.'

'Did you meet any of them?'

'I know Mr Palmer by sight, sir, but I never saw any of them at Hinckley's.' She paused, then added loyally, 'Mrs Cowley was very lonely, sir.'

'And the gentlemen's wives didn't understand them.'

'Probably not,' Carrie agreed earnestly. 'Ever so kind, Mrs Cowley, if anyone was in trouble.'

Webb felt it best to change the subject. 'When the Selbys engaged you, did you notice anything different about the cottage?'

'Only their things, like.'

'Nothing unaccountably out of place—anything like that?'

'I did wonder where the washing was. Mrs Cowley changes the bed on Fridays and puts the sheets in the basket and I wash them as soon as I get there. But when—I mean, that Friday there was no answer when I rang the bell, though she hadn't told me she'd be away. So when I went back on Tuesday, and Mrs Selby asked me to stay, I looked in the laundry basket, but it was empty. I thought perhaps Mrs Cowley'd sent them to the laundry, so as not to leave dirty things for people coming to the house.'

In which case, Webb reflected grimly, Mrs Selby had probably been right and the killer had changed the bedclothes, ready for the tenants he hoped would take the cottage. Very likely the woman had actually been killed in the bed, by someone she regarded as a 'lover'.

He said, 'Didn't I see you in the distance last week, at The Willows?'

'That's right, sir. I work there on Wednesdays.'

'It's been a bad month for the village, hasn't it?'

She bit her lip and nodded.

'Only comfort is, we've more to go on, now.'

Her head jerked back, eyes flying to his face. 'But you don't think it's the same man?'

Webb was surprised. Would she prefer both a rapist and a murderer at large? 'It's more than likely.' Yet Stapleton had been unable to establish rape and there were no signs of knife pricks on the body.

'But if he'd already killed once, surely he'd have killed Sister?'

She had a point there, but the common link of both the village of Westridge and the jingles was too strong to overlook. And at the time the rapist was demanding nursery rhymes of Fran Daly, only the murderer knew the dead woman had one in her pocket.

'Well, don't worry about it, Miss Speight. We'll soon catch him.' He stood up, nodding to Jackson. 'There are three pubs in the village, I believe. What are they like?'

'The Orange Tree's the smartest, sir, and the only one with a restaurant, though you can get bar snacks at the others.'

'OK, Ken,' Webb said, strapping himself into the car, 'back to the cottage. The SOCOs should be there any minute. Then we'll go and have a bite to eat at The Orange Tree. It's the nearest pub to Hinckley's, and good landlords know quite a bit of what's going on. We can kill two birds with one stone.'

In the restaurant at The Orange Tree, Jessica was toying with her glass. 'I felt a bit mean, dropping Charles Palmer in the soup.'

'You had little option, my love. It's never wise to withold evidence.'

'Oh, but surely—' She broke off and her eyes widened. 'You don't mean he might have done it?'

'Of course he might have done it. At this stage, anyone might.'

'But he knows I know his connection with Freda. Suppose he tries to shut me up?'

'He'll be too late, won't he?' Matthew rejoined calmly. 'And come to think of it, if he had killed her, he'd hardly ring up, would he, let alone identify himself.'

'A double bluff, perhaps. Or he could have been checking that the cottage had been let.'

Matthew gave a short laugh. 'I know you sometimes
act
in murder plays, darling, but you should try your hand at writing them!'

'He could have been at the Markhams', though. The murderer, I mean.'

'True.'

'And I thought ] was going to be bored in the country! Only here a week, and we've had rape and murder, not to mention our house being turned over by the police.'

'It's a bloody nuisance. I was getting on so well this morning.'

'All the same, darling, once you knew your landlady'd been done away with, even your concentration might have been broken.'

He held her artless gaze for a moment, then laughed shamefacedly. 'We're a selfish lot, we writers. Of course I'm sorry for the poor woman, but it is damned inconvenient. Still, since our home is barred for the next few hours, what would you like to do?'

On the other side of the panelled wall, Webb and Jackson had settled with their pints and, having identified themselves, invited the landlord to join them. Jeff Soames was a tall man, with thin strands of hair laid hopefully across his balding pate. He had shoulders like a Rugby forward.

'A shock about Mrs Cowley,' he said gloomily. 'I suppose that's why you're here?'

'That's right. You knew her, of course?'

'Oh yes, and her old man, before he upped and left her.'

The Markhams had mentioned that. 'Has she been in recently?'

'Yes, she was quite a regular.' He paused. 'Popular, too.' 'Especially with the gentlemen?'

'You've heard, have you?' Soames seemed relieved. 'Well, she went a bit wild, like, after he'd gone. Nice woman, though. I was sorry for her—and not the only one. She'd plenty of willing comforters, from all I hear.'

'Any names, Mr Soames?'

The landlord looked alarmed. 'Oh, now look, sir, hold hard! They're my regulars too, some of'em. My bread and butter, as you might say. How'd they feel about me shopping them to the police?'

'One of them might have killed her.'

The man swallowed. 'Yes—well. As long as you keep it confidential, like.' Some half-dozen names followed, among them a couple Carrie Speight had mentioned. Jackson noted them down.

'When was the last time you saw Mrs Cowley?'

'The Wednesday, it must have been. Almost two weeks ago. She was in at lunch-time, bright as a button, chatting to that gentleman.' He jerked his head in the direction of the dining-room.

Webb straightened, his eyes narrowing. 'What gentleman is that, sir?'

'Why, the one that's taken her cottage. Mr Selby, isn't it? When I heard he'd moved in, I reckoned they must have fixed it over lunch. They left together, and all.'

'You're quite sure it was Mr Selby she was with?'

'Well, she didn't come in with him, like. He was here first. He chatted to me at the bar for a while, asked if there were any cottages to rent around here. Then he took his steak and kidney to that table over there, and soon after Mrs Cowley came in. She bought her usual lager and took it across to his table. I heard her say something like, 'All alone, are you? So am I!'

'Then what happened?'

'Well, sir, the bar filled up and I was kept fairly busy. I didn't notice much else. Mr Selby bought himself another drink, and one for her too, and a bit later I saw them leave together.'

'And that was Wednesday lunch-time, the fifth of September?'

'Reckon that was the date, yes.'

Webb felt a tingle of excitement. That might well have been the last time she was seen alive—and in the company of Matthew Selby, who'd denied all knowledge of her. He said casually, 'Is there another way out of the dining-room?'

'No, sir, they have to come through here.'

'And have you by any chance somewhere we could talk privately?'