Pretty Maids All In A Row (5 page)

Webb thought back to his meeting with the victim. She'd looked up quickly when he introduced himself and he'd seen recognition in her eyes, though she'd made no comment. Her own name also seemed familiar, but he couldn't place it, and he was sure he hadn't seen her before. He'd a good memory for faces—he needed it.

'I thought I'd at least be spared identification,' she had begun bitterly, and, cutting short his assurances, added: 'You've arranged for a search of the grounds at first light. Once people know where the attack took place, it won't take long to discover who was involved.'

She was right, of course. He'd left her with Sally Pierce, to whom, her protest made, she had presented her story with almost unnatural calm. Webb had played back the recording in the car.

'He came up behind me and something sharp pricked my neck. "Don't make a sound," he said, "or it will be your last."'

'Would you know his voice again?' Sally'd interrupted. 'No, he was whispering. You can't recognize a whisper.' 'Go on.'

'He told me to put my hands behind my back. He laid the knife on the ground while he tied them, but I was too frightened to try to break away. Then this thick, woolly helmet thing came over my head and he pushed me ahead of him into the bushes.' She paused. 'It was most effective, that helmet. Not only could I not see, it dulled all my other senses, too. I even had difficulty breathing. But I
think
that when he first came up to me, I caught a whiff of beer on his breath. I know I immediately thought of The Packhorse, because I'd seen all the cars along the road.'

She drew a deep breath. 'I imagine you don't want the clinical details. They can't vary much from case to case.'

'It would help to know if he was violent, apart from threatening you with the knife.'

'Not physically, no. Mind you, when I knew it was inevitable I didn't struggle. But the odd thing was he insisted I kept reciting nursery rhymes.'

'Nursery rhymes?'

'It was—macabre. He had the knife in his hand, and it was an effective prompter, I can tell you. Every time I faltered, he gave me a little prick. Then, when he'd finished, he made me turn on my face while he untied my hands and removed the helmet. He threatened various obscenities if I turned to look at him, but he needn't have worried.' Her voice shook momentarily and she steadied it. 'And that, Miss Pierce, is all.'

So there it was. A weird one, all right, but to Webb's mind the whiff of beer was the most significant factor. In all probability it was a one-off occurrence, a combination of drink and suddenly aroused desire. Say someone from the pub had wandered out for some fresh air and suddenly needed to relieve himself. The road was well lit at that point, and perhaps the dark gardens of The Willows offered the necessary privacy. Then, if he'd seen a woman walking towards him—Webb shrugged. If he was right, the offender was most likely a stranger to the area; a villager would have known where to go if caught short. Anyway, Jackson was at the pub at the moment, obtaining the names of last night's clients, in so far as the landlord could supply them. The list could be checked against that supplied by Frank Chitty. And the visiting darts team—from Oxbury—would have to be seen, but they'd little to go on.

Sally Pierce came up, red hair glinting in the sunshine. 'Right, sir. I've spoken to all the residents whose rooms are at the back. Without exception, they were watching TV at the crucial time.'

'I expected nothing more. None of the neighbours noticed anything, either. People usually draw the curtains once it gets dark. Right, Sally, I want another word with PC Frost. He'll know of any likely villains in the area.'

The search of the grounds was in full swing when, at eight o'clock, Matthew drew back the bedroom curtains. 'What the hell's going on up there?' he exclaimed. 'Must have been a break-in or something—the place is swarming with cops.'

Jessica struggled into a sitting position. 'What are they doing?'

'Crawling about on their hands and knees, from what I can see, but that clump of trees blocks the view.'

'Help me out of bed, darling—I want to look.'

He drew a chair up to the window for her and they watched for some moments before Matthew turned away. 'No doubt it'll be all round the village, whatever it is, so we'll hear in due course. In the meantime I'll get our breakfast.'

By the time he returned with the tray, Jessica too had lost interest. 'Carrie'll tell us, when she comes to cook supper,' she said, and her thoughts moved to more personal matters. 'What shall I wear for dinner tomorrow? I haven't dined with an earl before.'

'Whatever you're comfortable in. It won't be formal.'

'Will they all be there?'

Matthew smiled. 'Gauging the size of the audience? I'm not sure about the boys, but Dom said Leo and Lady-Alice would be joining us. Leo wasn't around last night— composing a poem somewhere, no doubt. He's given to long, rambling verse which no one understands.'

'Has he published any of it?'

'He hasn't even tried. Insists it's for his own satisfaction. He's a bit of an oddity, but quite harmless. There's a weak strain in the family which pops up every so often, though it sometimes skips a generation.'

'Darling, how intriguing! What sort of weakness?'

'Oh, several of them have died young. One in the last century drowned himself. A bit unbalanced, that's all-nothing to worry about. And from all accounts, even the dotty ones are utterly charming.'

'If my family history was full of weirdos, I shouldn't want to broadcast the fact.'

'Darling, they're proud of it. Proves their blue blood, and all that. Did I tell you they have the same Christian names in every generation? Tradition decrees the first son should be christened Dominic, the second Leo and the third Jocelyn. No doubt provisions are also made further down the scale.'

'And you say there are three sons. Isn't it confusing, with a Dominic and Leo already in the house?'

'They get round it by calling young Dominic Nick and young Leo by his second name, Patrick. Jocelyn refuses to answer to anything but Joss, and who can blame him?'

'True, though I like it for a girl. I take my hat off to Madame la Comtesse. It must take nerve, marrying into a family like that.'

'Quite the contrary. I mentioned the Sandon charm, and Dom has more than his fair share. Believe me, they were queuing for the honour. And he's not the first this century to choose a French wife. His grandmother was a Mademoiselle Yvette de Chauvigny. It was her diaries Dom handed over last night.'

Jessica smiled. 'How's your French?'

'Just about up to it, except for the abbreviations. I need a code-breaker for those.'

'Will Madame Giselle help you?'

'She offered, but I don't want to impose too much. We'll see how it goes.'

Jessica folded her napkin. 'I'm looking forward to meeting your Sandons,' she said.

Lois looked at the younger woman with concern. For a moment, she'd thought she was going to faint. 'It's all right, Carrie,' she said gently, 'don't worry about it.' Just as well she'd broken the news herself, rather than let her hear a lurid version in the kitchens. Carrie was a sensitive girl. 'They—haven't caught him?'

'No, but I'm sure they will,' Lois said firmly. 'It's not likely to happen again. All the same, don't walk home alone from your baby-sitting for a while. I'm sure someone would always run you back, in the circumstances. Right,' she ended briskly, 'off you go, then. Oh, and Carrie—' the girl turned back, her hand on the doorknob—'go and pacify Mrs Southern, would you? She's been asking for you. Dust on her dresser, no less!'

Carrie's tension dissolved in a smile. 'I'll start with her room, then.'

It was two doors down from Matron's, on the first floor and, like hers, overlooking the back garden. The old lady was, as usual, seated in her chair at the window, a rug over her knees. She turned as the door opened.

'Ah, Carrie. Good morning. You know what's going on down there?' She nodded towards the garden—the only movement, Carrie realized with sympathy, that she could make unaided.

'Someone was—waylaid last night, Mrs Southern.' She didn't want to cause alarm.

'Waylaid? How do you mean?'

'Attacked,' Carrie elaborated unwillingly, moving the ornaments off the dresser.
'Murdered,
you mean?'

'Oh no, just—attacked. She wasn't—badly hurt.'

'Who was it, do you know?' Carrie shook her head. 'I can't think what the place is coming to, a respectable village like this. The man was drunk, I suppose, or on drugs. From what I read, everyone seems to be, these days.'

Carrie said deliberately, 'I'm going to polish all your furniture this morning, make it shine till I can see my face in it. It's so lovely when it's all gleaming.'

The old face softened, the lines of displeasure fading. 'You're a good girl, Carrie. The only one here who knows how to care for nice things. That Ivy's useless. All she does is move the dust about a bit. Now, what other news have you for me?'

'Let's see. Mrs Cowley's gone off on holiday and a lady and gentleman are at Hinckley's while she's away. The gentleman's a writer. He's doing a story about the Sandons up at the Hall.'

'That's interesting. What's his name?'

'Mr Selby. His wife's a lovely lady, but her leg's in plaster at the moment. She fell while they were away on holiday.' She chatted on for a while, breathing in the fragrant smell of the polish as she rubbed it over the wood, but she was no longer holding her audience. A frown between her eyes, Mrs Southern was staring down at the useless hands on her lap.

Carrie broke off and moved towards her. 'Is something wrong, Mrs Southern? Anything I can get you?'

The sharp old eyes came up to hers, but their expression was uncertain. 'You'll tell me the truth, won't you, Carrie? Is it, or is it not, Christmas?'

Carrie, trying to keep the surprise off her face, answered levelly, 'No, Mrs Southern. Today's the twelfth of September.'

For a moment the grey eyes held hers, before dropping away. 'Then why are people dressing as Santa Claus?' the old lady demanded querulously. And to that, Carrie could find no reply.

Frances had insisted on carrying on with her duties. She was seated in the little office off the hall, reading the mail as she did every morning. Now and again, however, her hand would tremble and she'd have to wait for the spasm to pass. And her mind kept wandering.

So that was Dave Webb. She'd never expected to meet him, things being as they were, and least of all in these circumstances. He'd been gentle with her, though. Not like some detectives she'd heard of.

Heavy footsteps sounded on the marble floor outside and Frank Chitty hesitated on the threshold with an anxious smile, before coming into the office bearing a cup and saucer. 'Cook thought you'd like some coffee, Sister.' Frances had never heard him use his wife's name. 'Feeling all right, are you?'

'Perfectly, thank you, Chitty.' Damn him, she thought with impotent rage, he knows I was the one. They
all
do. She forced herself to add, 'Thank you, it's very welcome.'

He nodded and ambled off. Frances lifted the cup and stopped suddenly with it halfway to her mouth: Could it have been
Chitty?
She tried to cloak him with such characteristics as she'd gleaned of her attacker—the soft whisper, the beery breath, the unspeakable hands. She shuddered uncontrollably, and the coffee spilt on her papers. Carefully she set the cup down and mopped up the droplets with her handkerchief. Was this how it was going to be from now on? Would she instinctively cast every man she saw in the role of prospective rapist? And almost harder to bear was the solicitous pity of her colleagues, from Lois all the way down to Cook. Everyone she'd seen this morning had, in the first instance, looked quickly away, not meeting her eyes. Did they privately wonder if it was her own fault, if she'd encouraged him? Did they ask themselves if quiet, reserved Sister had made an assignation in the dark garden, and simply got more than she bargained for?

A sob rose in her throat and she turned it into a cough. Then, with great deliberation, she drank the hot coffee sip by sip, letting it scald her tongue.
He went by the south and burnt his mouth—

Blindly, she reached for the next letter, slamming her mind shut to everything else.

Delia Speight took her white overall out of the carrier-bag and shrugged it on. 'I hear there's been some excitement up here this morning.'

'You could call it that,' Nurse Ellis said shortly. Though unable to explain why, she didn't care for Delia.

'A rape, they're saying in the village.'

Obstinately the nurse refused to be drawn. It was natural for Delia to be curious, but a bit of tact wouldn't have gone amiss. Damn it, she, Jane, might have been the victim.