Pretty Maids All In A Row (8 page)

'All right.' As Carrie walked through the dark kitchen to the bathroom beyond, she tried to close her mind to other people's troubles. She'd enough of her own.

CHAPTER 5

It was Friday morning. Everyone known to have been at The Packhorse on Wednesday had been interviewed and, with varying degrees of willingness, had agreed to the clothes they'd been wearing being sent for examination. Webb had stressed they'd the right to refuse but as the darts captain remarked, 'Tongues would start wagging if we did.'

Crombie pushed a pile of statements to one side. 'If you ask me, this is the one that got away. Nobody noticed anyone leave, except to go to the men's room, and no one was absent for a suspiciously long time. Of course, our man could have been the inoffensive little chap in the corner that nobody noticed. In fact, he probably was.'

Webb grunted, glancing through his mail. Among the already opened letters, he came across a sealed one marked Personal and slit it open, his eyes rapidly scanning the sheet of paper. Then he said softly, 'Hell and damnation. Listen to this, Alan.

Dear Sir, I've just read in the
News
about the nursery rhyme rape. You might be interested to know I had a similar experience a few years ago. I was too ashamed to report it, and have never mentioned it to anyone, but surely it must be the same man? I too had a hood slipped over my head, my hands tied behind me, and was made to recite nursery rhymes throughout my ordeal. There's nothing to be gained by our meeting, but I thought you should know it's almost certain that the rape you're
investigating isn't this man's first.

He looked up, meeting Crombie's eyes. 'A new line in anonymous letters. Good hand, educated woman by the look of it. God, Alan, the percentage of rapes that are never reported! If he's done it once before, he could have done it a d
ozen times. Far from the one-off,
we were hoping for, he's turned at a stroke into an habitual offender.'

'No signature at all? Not even "A well-wisher"?'

'Not a damn thing.' Webb slammed his open palm on the desk. 'Whatever she says, of course I have to see her. We need to know exactly when and where it happened before, the method of approach, whether the knife was in evidence —a dozen things.' He flipped over the envelope. 'Postmark's Ashmartin, but that's no help. She could have gone in for the day shopping, or moved house in the meantime.'

'You reckon it's genuine?'

'I wish it wasn't, but it has the ring of truth about it.'

'Put an ad in the
News
asking her to phone you. You needn't actually meet if she's so hell-bent on secrecy, but at least you could question her. And we know she reads the paper, so she must still be in the county.'

'That's a thought. Our only hope, anyway. In the meantime I'll get through to Ashmartin and see if they've anything on their books. I'm not hopeful—if they had, they'd have been in touch before now.'

It opened a new avenue, anyway, he thought gloomily as he waited to be connected, but it was one he'd have preferred to remain closed.

The day proved frustratingly unprofitable, and by nine o'clock that evening, Webb was pacing up and down his living-room. His small flat was at the top of a custom-built block, erected along with several others in the grounds of gracious old houses which had been demolished to accommodate them. Hannah's larger flat was on the floor below, overlooking the extensive grounds, but his own, at the front, had a view down the long hill to the town centre. During the summer it presented a rich, multicoloured foliage of trees, so dense it seemed he could walk along the tops of them.

Every evening when he returned home, he spent some minutes at the window, allowing the physical distance he'd come from his office to extend to mental dissociation. It was a useful unwinding procedure, and he'd have been surprised to learn it was endorsed by the Honourable Leo Sandon. This evening, however, he'd already been home an hour, and the greenery of the outlook had merged into darkness as lights sprang up down the hill.

He had bathed and changed into leisure clothes. Despite the open window, the room was airless after the day's heat. Ten past nine. But she'd come as soon as she could. He
knew where he was with Hannah.

When she did arrive, he had the door open before her finger was off the bell. They stood for a moment looking at each other, an intangible shyness the legacy of the six-week separation. She seemed subtly different from his memory of her, more bronzed from the European sun, her tawny hair highlighted by its strength. But her grey eyes on his, her half-smile as she waited for him to speak, ignited the impatience within him. He reached for her hand, drew her gently inside and, with rising urgency, into his arms. And at once his unacknowledged fear that somewhere on her travels she might have met someone else, someone willing to offer her marriage and a family—even that the extended separation might have given her pause to reflect adversely on their own relationship—all these doubts were gloriously swept away by her clinging arms and the answering passion of her mouth.

Their news would have to wait. By unspoken consent they went straight to the bedroom, rediscovering each other with a joy and tenderness that Webb acknowledged humbly he did not deserve. Love was a word he'd erased from his vocabulary since Susan's going. It held too much of pain, vulnerability, dependence. None of these attributes would he seek again. Hannah knew and accepted that. As deputy headmistress of an exclusive girls' school, her career was more important to her than marriage. That they had come together, two people neither asking nor giving more than was acceptable to the other, was a continuing wonder to him, and he fervently thanked whatever fates there were for his good fortune.

When they were lying side by side, fingers tightly linked, she said softly, 'I told you I missed you.'

'I believe you. Thank God.' He lifted her hand in his, kissed her fingers, and said, entirely without premeditation, 'Susan's back.'

She stiffened, her head turning towards him. 'Back where?'

'In Shillingham. She came to see me yesterday.' Hannah considered this. 'Which was why you phoned?' 'Yes.'

She asked carefully, 'What did she want?' 'Allegedly to speak to me about the rape. A friend of hers was involved.'

'What rape was that?'

'I was forgetting you've not had time to read the papers. There was an incident in Westridge. Rather unpleasant.'

'And your wife came back because of it?'

'No,' he answered quietly, accepting that she had seized unerringly on the fact that most disturbed him. 'She was already here. She's signed on with a nursing agency.' He paused, then added flatly, 'Her husband's left her.'

Hannah digested this in silence. Then she said, 'How did you feel, seeing her again?'

'Churned up. Resentful. Oddly protective. Mixture as before.'

'Where's she living?'

'She didn't say. Nurses' hostel, probably. God knows if she's any money.'

'Darling, you're really not responsible for her.'

'So I keep telling myself.'

'Are you going to see her again?'

'She wants us to have a drink sometime.'

'And you agreed?'

'In a manner of speaking. I said she could give me a buzz.'

Hannah lay gazing at the blue square of the window. At last a faint breeze was stirring, and the curtains moved lazily. Damn Susan. Why did she have to come back and put a spoke in their smoothly-turning wheel? She'd hurt David badly before, she could do so again. Did he want her back? Would he take her, if she asked him?

The idea took solid form as a lump in Hannah's chest. Yet she was being selfish. Perhaps after her unhappy experience, Susan genuinely wanted to try again. Suddenly all the joy of their lovemaking, her excitement at seeing him again, was under threat. She made herself say quietly, 'Would you like me to take a back seat for a while?'

His hand tightened painfully on hers, but when he spoke his voice was light. 'If you can ask that after the last half-hour, I'm a failure!'

Reflectively she stroked his fingers, her eyes still on the window. Did he know how susceptible he still was to his ex-wife? If Susan were cleve
r, she could play on his protec
tiveness, his memory of having loved her. And that might just be enough.

'I'm so glad you could come!' Kathy greeted them warmly. 'Darling, here are Mr and Mrs Selby. My husband, Guy.'

'And we're Matthew and Jessica. Forgive me for not shaking hands—I might overbalance!'

'We'll find somewhere comfortable for you, and you can hold court. Everyone's longing to meet you. Especially our daughter, Angie,' she added, as a pretty young girl came hurtling down the stairs. 'She's hoping to get into RADA when she leaves school.'

'We must have a long talk,'
Jessica said.

'And this is Mr Selby, Angie,' Kathy prompted, and the girl turned from Jessica long enough to shake his hand.

Matthew's smile was brilliant. 'Angie, did you say? My ex-wife's name, but I shan't hold that against you!'

There was a brief, embarrassed silence, then Kathy gave an uncertain little laugh and led the way to the sitting-room. As they appeared in the doorway, the babble of voices died away and everyone turned to face them. Jessica, used to making an entrance, thankfully slipped into auto-pilot, concealing her surprised hurt at Matthew's rudeness. Was that dart of spite for herself or the child?

It pricked at her memory as she smiled and chatted to the succession of people who came to be introduced, filing names and faces for possible future use. Lois Winter, matron of The Willows, a pleasant woman with a young face and pretty grey hair; the Vicar and Mrs Dugdale; Charles and Annette Palmer—

Charles? Jessica's eyes flicked to his face. 'Haven't we—' she began, and broke off at his warning look. Of course, the man on the telephone! She recovered herself, seeing his flash of gratitude. All the same, he shouldn't escape unscathed for hanging up on her. He was a tall, florid-faced man with a low forehead and crinkly black hair. His wife, pale and blonde, had noticed nothing. Intriguing! Well, he could wriggle on her pin a little longer, though in fairness not in front of his wife.

When all the introductions were over, everyone split into groups again. Lois Winter had taken the seat beside her. 'Does it bore you to speak of your work, or may I say how much I enjoyed
Private Lives?'

'Please do! I've yet to meet an actor who can refuse a compliment!'

'I hope your injury won't keep you off the stage too long.'

'I don't think so, it's a relatively simple fracture. We hope to open at the Embassy in mid-November, in
Ten
Little Niggers.'

A frisson passed over her companion's face, but Jessica, who hadn't read the
Broadshire News,
did not interpret it. The national press had afforded the rape only a small inside paragraph, and no mention had been made of nursery rhymes.

'May I wish you a long and successful run, then,' Lois said steadily. 'I'm also a fan of your husband's. I've read all his books and admire them tremendously,'

Matthew himself, ashamed of his outburst, had nevertheless watched the obeisance paid to his wife with sour envy. He'd have to accept TV offers after all, he mocked himself. Only then would be become familiar to the square-eyed public. He found himself chatting to the local headmaster, a hollow-cheeked and sad-eyed man with dull, dusty-looking hair. His wife was small and plump, her face unashamedly devoid of make-up and her pronounced north-country accent at variance with the soft local burr to which Matthew had already become accustomed. Her husband's origin was apparent only in the occasional flattening of a vowel, a southern university having for the most part standardized his accent.

'A fine Yorkshire name you have there, Mr Selby,' Mrs Bakewell was saying.

'I suppose it is.' Never having thought about it, Matthew was vaguely surprised.

'Grand part of the country. We'll be glad to get back there, when Donald retires.'

Her husband gave a brief smile, and Matthew wondered if Bakewell himself had other ideas. He'd an air of disappointment about him; perhaps there'd been hopes of a professorship, and he resented ending his career a village schoolmaster.

'I hear you're doing a history of the Sandon family, Mr Selby,' Donald Bakewell remarked. 'Lot of black sheep there, I imagine. All safely in the past, of course. I don't know the present earl, but he's highly thought of in these parts. Looks after his employees well, from all accounts.'

'We met at Cambridge,' Matthew said, and, seeing Mrs Bakewell's lips tighten, regretted the admission. No doubt Leeds or Bradford would have been a more acceptable academe. 'They have quite a colourful past, but I dare say that goes for most of our old families.'

'Have you been to the church yet? Reg Dugdale has registers going right back, and the graveyard's full of Sandons. The earliest tombstones are illegible, more's the pity, but if you peer close enough you can make out a few thirteen hundreds. The family still has boxed pews, you know, which they dutifully occupy at Christmas, Easter and Harvest Thanksgiving, though I believe the present countess is Catholic'

'I suppose all the Sandons were, once, coming from French stock,' put in a pale, fair woman who had drifted up and stood listening to the conversation.