Pretty Maids All In A Row (22 page)

The doorbell rang, and the woman who'd brought the coffee went to open it. A minute later, Hannah looked up to see David and another man standing in the doorway. She rose to her feet as Mrs Markham went to greet him.

'Chief Inspector, this is Miss James, Deputy Head of Angie's school, who's kindly come to see her. Chief Inspector Webb, Miss James, and—?'

'Sergeant Jackson,' David said. His eyes held Hannah's. 'Good morning, Miss James.'

'Good morning.' She turned to Angie, whose apprehension had returned with the arrival of the police. 'I'll tell Miss Bates you'll be back for the match. Thanks for the coffee, Mrs Markham.'

Kathy went with her to the door. 'I'm so sorry—I suppose the police—'

'Don't worry, I've accomplished what I came for.' Avoiding the bucket again, Hannah walked down the path.

On their way back to the station, Jackson said suddenly, 'I may be imagining things, but I'd like to ring round and see if anyone else found something odd when they woke up this morning.'

'What do you mean, odd?'

'Like that pail of water at the Markhams'.'

'But it was the boy's. Mrs Markham explained as we left.'

'That's what she assumed, but I had a quick look and there were no tadpoles. And remember when we called at The Willows? There was that broken egg on the path, just inside the gate.'

'So what? Some kid had probably balanced it on the wall. What are you getting at, Ken?'

'Humpty Dumpty had a great fall?
And Jack and Jill's pail of water? Perhaps this thing's getting to me, but—'

Webb whistled softly. 'You could be on to something. I didn't see the significance, but you're more geared to nursery rhymes. Right; ring round by all means. I don't know where it'll get us, but it'll be interesting to see what turns up.'

Webb reported on Jackson's findings later that afternoon when, at Chief Superintendent Fleming's request, he called in at Headquarters.

'And the upshot was that the Selbys had received some jam tarts with a heart on the box; the Palmers, who have an ornamental well in the garden, found a toy cat floating in it; Carrie Speight reported a wreath of roses on the step with a handkerchief tied to it, and at Sandon Hall a walnut tree was decorated with a pear and nutmeg covered in foil.'

Fleming frowned, tapping his pen on his thumbnail. 'I don't like it, Spider. We're getting enough stick from the public, with two weeks gone and no arrest imminent, without the murderer himself playing silly buggers with us.'

'If he was doing, sir.'

Fleming's frown deepened. 'Explain.'

'Well, sir, firstly we don't
know
it was the murderer, though I admit it seems likely.'

'Who the hell else? Willie Winkie on his run through the town?'

Webb allowed himself a politic smile. 'But if it
was
Chum-mie, then I don't think he was playing games. Or only of the cat and mouse variety.'

'You mean these objects were meant as a warning?'

'I'd say so. He's already tangled with most of the recipients.' He paused. 'There's something else bothering me, sir. As far as we can establish, our man has raped before—the woman in Ashmartin, if no one else. But why the three-year gap? Then for some reason he
kills
his victim, after which he reverts to rape again. It's not consistent.'

'Go on.' .

'Once a man's killed for sex, rape alone doesn't satisfy him.'

'You're not suggesting at this stage that we've
two
villains at large?'

'No, there aren't likely to be two nursery-rhyme freaks.' 'Unless one copied the other.'

'But there'd been no publicity about the rhymes till the body was found, and Mrs Cowley was killed
between
the attacks on the Ashmartin woman and Mrs Daly. Yet both of them were forced to recite rhymes, and the deceased had one in her pocket. What I'm getting at is this: we've no evidence that Mrs Cowley
was
raped.'

'Only because of advanced decomposition.'

'But suppose she hadn't been, that she was killed for an entirely different reason.'

'Like what?'

Webb shrugged. 'One of the standard motives: fear, gain, blackmail.'

'But if he hadn't raped her, why draw attention to himself by putting the rhyme in her pocket?'

'That's a hard one. Perhaps as a challenge, or perhaps because he gets such a kick out of them that he couldn't help himself. He had to leave his trademark.'

Fleming considered that. Then he said, 'So what do you propose?'

'We'll go through the statements from a different angle. See if anyone had anything to gain by her death, or a secret she might have stumbled on.'

'There were quite a few cheating on their wives and open to blackmail.'

'It would have to be more than that.'

'Suppose one had a rich wife and didn't want to lose out through divorce?'

'I doubt if there's that kind of money in Westridge, apart from the Sandons.'

'Then what about them? The goofy one, who wanders the woods spouting poetry? Or the three sons sowing their wild oats?'

Webb said slowly, 'The Honourable Leo's a non-secretor. It's possible. There's been scandal a-plenty over the years, we might be due for some more.' He stretched, easing his aching back. 'In the meantime we'll do the best we can with the latest exhibits. I doubt if we'll get much from the toy cat. It's old, only one eye and an ear missing, though we can check with the manufacturers who stocked it and when. Davis and Trent are covering the florists, but the tarts looked homemade, Mrs Selby said, and she's eaten them.'

Fleming sighed. 'OK, Spider, keep me posted. And for God's sake nab him soon.'

'I'll do my best, sir,' Webb replied.

In his basement sitting-room at The Willows, Frank Chitty sat in his rocking-chair whittling wood and humming softly to himself. Under his skilled fingers, the wafer-thin shavings fluttered to the ground like curly cream snowflakes as the wood took shape. A busby, a round head and square shoulders, legs standing to attention. There were five companions awaiting this toy soldier, ready painted and varnished and lined up neatly in the box under his bed. Six was enough, he reckoned. He'd go back to dolls next. Dolls was his favourite, Dutch dolls, they called 'em, with their painted black hair and the red circles on their cheeks.

He'd best tidy up before Cook finished in the kitchen. Even in his mind, he no longer used his wife's name. She'd been Cook to him as to everyone else for the last thirty years. Well, he couldn't call her 'Mother', more's the pity, since they'd never had kids. The wooden trains and wagons he'd fashioned so lovingly over the years had no eager recipients in view. Every now and then, when they were taking up too much room, Cook collected them and took them to the kids' hospital. Fair enough. In the early days she'd suggested selling them, but that had upset him. He loved his little wooden figures, and to part with them for money would be like selling children.

Children. He ached for them sometimes. And grandchildren he could dandle on his knee and tell fairy stories. And nursery rhymes.

A quiver ran through him and the knife slipped, leaving a bright blood-bead on his finger.
Who killed Cock Robin?
Only it wasn't Cock Robin, but Mrs Cowley down at Hinckley's, her with her long legs which she displayed all anyhow getting in and out of her car, and not minding who saw them, either. She'd seen him watching her once, outside the post office, and laughed at him with her red mouth and bold eyes. He'd dreamt of her once or twice after that, waking trembling and hot with excited shame. Still, a man was a man, and it was a long time since Cook had condoned any hanky-panky, as she called it.

There'd been other things he'd done, too, that he didn't like to think about afterwards.

He wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, and, as the shaking lessened, picked up the knife again and went on whittling.

Jessica lay in the dark, listening to Matthew's quiet breathing beside her. Her mind was a churning pool in which thoughts darted among the shadows, elusive as fish. Those jam tarts. She'd been appalled, this evening, to learn of their origin. The knowledge that she'd so trustingly eaten them made her stomach heave. Suppose they'd been poisoned? In this menacing world she inhabited, they could easily have been.

Other people had received things, too, the sergeant said on the phone, though he hadn't mentioned who or what.

The Knave of Hearts he stole those tarts and took them clean away.
Her hands clenched under the bedclothes.
Stop it!
But God, she was supposed to have police protection, wasn't she, after Sunday's phone-call? Where'd he been, she'd like to know, when the potential murderer crept up to her door? And what was the meaning of these sinister offerings?

She had met Freda Cowley's killer. The thought, hidden in her subconscious since the weekend, emerged clearly for the first time, and she gasped. He had phoned her, personally, and had stood on the step below this very window as she and Matthew lay sleeping. Suppose he'd climbed up the ivy and into the window, as he'd tried to enter Mrs Southern's?

Rigid with fear, Jessica remembered that the window was open now. Suppose he came back tonight? Under the thin cotton nightdress her body was bathed in sweat. She couldn't get out of bed without disturbing Matthew, but she wouldn't close her eyes as long as that window remained open. Tentatively she touched his arm.

'Matthew—'

He sighed, stirred, and settled back again. 'Darling.' She g
ave his arm a little shake. 'Um
? What is it?'

'I know I'm being silly, but would you close the window, please?'

He reached for the light switch and in the sudden brilliance stared down at her. 'You woke me to ask me that?' Then, seeing the hair clinging wetly to her face, he realized her fear.

'All right.' He swung his legs out of bed. 'But remember to shut it on Saturday, because I shan't be here to do it for you.'

In five minutes he was asleep again, but for Jessica, with the spectre of Saturday added to her fears, it was a full hour before she slid uneasily into oblivion.

CHAPTER 13

Before she went to The Willows the next morning, Jessica sought out Carrie in the kitchen.

'I've a favour to ask you,' she said with a smile. 'My husband has to go to London tomorrow, and he'll be away overnight. Could you possibly come and sleep here? At the moment I don't want to be alone.'

Carrie turned from the sink. 'Oh Mrs Selby, I'm so sorry. I'd have been glad to, but I promised to babysit for Mrs Plunkett. They're going to a dance in Shillingham and won't be back till late, so she asked me to stay the night.'

It hadn't occurred to Jessica that her request might be declined. She was tempted to plead, but Carrie was unlikely to go back on her word, and a second refusal would be belittling. She could only accept her repeated apology and leave the room.

She reported the outcome to Matthew in the car. 'It was rather a blow. I was counting on her.'

'It can't be helped, and you'll be just as safe without her. She'd have been company, but she's not an armed guard. Anyway, it's only for one night and you'll have spent the afternoon at the Fair. You'll probably be glad to relax and have an early night.'

Jessica was unconvinced. She could book into The Orange Tree, but the landlord was already curious about Matthew, and moving out of her own home would draw attention to her fear. If Matthew were going anywhere but to his own family, she'd have gone with him.

'You'll be all right, love,' he added bracingly. 'Don't let it upset you.'

But would this murderer, who knew her, also know Matthew would be away that night?

He drew up outside The Willows and helped her out of the car. 'All right?'

She nodded, smiled and went inside. He stood for a moment looking after her. She was certainly nervous, poor love. He'd been on the point of asking if she could stay at the Hall, when he learned Dominic and Giselle wouldn't be there. As soon as the Fair was over, they were taking his mother to a relative's for a few days, and Matthew knew Jessica would prefer her own company to Leo's.

With a sigh, he got back into the car. It was a nuisance, but he couldn't disappoint Claire by not going to her party. Things would sort themselves out.

The room was silent except for her sobbing. He stood at the window, moodily staring out at the dull afternoon. At last he said angrily, 'Don't you love me any more? Is that it?'