Pretty Maids All In A Row (9 page)

'So were we all, once, Mrs Palmer!' the schoolmaster reminded her. 'Our little church switched faiths along with the others, when it was expedient to do so.'

'Of course—I was forgetting.' The newcomer flushed and Matthew felt sorry for her. He turned as an attractive woman joined them, and learned with gratitude that she had read his books. Perhaps this wasn't such a backwater after all!

Jessica meanwhile, with her usual flair for timing, chose her moment to tease Charles Palmer. Aware of him still on the fringe of the group nearest her, she looked up at her hostess and said in her clear, carrying voice, 'Tell me about Freda Cowley. Her departure seems to have taken people by surprise.'

'Yes, she didn't even tell Carrie, which was thoughtless. But she's always been impulsive. Probably the chance suddenly came to go off for a week or two, so off she went.'

'I had a decidedly odd phone-call,'
Jessica went on, and, noting Charles Palmer's rigidity from the corner of her eye, used a dramatic pause to maximum effect. 'A woman over from the States,' she continued then, 'who seemed to think Mrs Cowley was expecting her. She'd been invited to spend her vacation at Hinckley's Cottage.'

Kathy frowned. 'That's too bad. Freda's gone too far this time. What did you tell her?'

'I offered to give her the estate agents' number, but her money ran out while I was looking it up and she didn't ring back.'

'It would be Wilma Bernstein, I expect. Freda said she was coming, but I didn't know when.'

A few minutes later, when the groups had reformed, Jessica found Charles Palmer bending over her to refill her glass.

'Your revenge was masterly. Please forgive my rudeness on the phone, but you'll appreciate my alarm at an unknown voice, specially when I'd foolishly identified myself.'

Jessica sipped her drink thoughtfully. 'Have you a pair of binoculars, Mr Palmer?'

'What an odd question! No, why?'

'It doesn't matter.' She was a good judge of acting and felt he spoke the truth. Nevertheless, she didn't care for him, and when someone else came to speak to her and Palmer moved away, she wasn't sorry to see him go. Meanwhile
Matthew, who hadn't been near her since their arrival, was also approaching.

'I think we should be going, darling. Carrie will have supper ready.' He wasn't quite meeting her eye, and Jessica felt a surge of irritated affection. She loved him dearly, but she was finding he could annoy her. The honeymoon was over!

When they made their farewells, Angie was standing at her mother's side. Mindful of the initial embarrassment, Jessica said impulsively, 'We didn't have our talk, did we? How about coming round for coffee? I'll phone in a day or two.' The child's delight was evident, and Jessica's conscience assuaged.

'I gather I'm still in disgrace?' Matthew commented as he helped her into the car.

'Is that why you've been avoiding me?'

'I couldn't get within yards of you. But I am sorry, darling. I behaved badly.'

'Why?'

He smiled ruefully 'Pique, I suppose. It was so obviously you they wanted to meet. I was the also-ran.' He brushed aside her protest. 'You must remember that last time I was married, I was the family celebrity. I still haven't adjusted to second fiddle.'

'That's ridiculous, as you well know. In many circles, you're better known than I am. People can read your books anywhere; they only see me act in London.'

'They know you here, all right. Am I forgiven, then?'

'Of course. Now, tell me what you thought of everyone.'

'Spider? Fleming here. Sorry to interrupt your Sunday, but there's been a development.'

Webb swore silently. He'd been about to drive out to a new site he'd discovered, to do some sketching. 'What kind of development, sir?'

'This nursery rhyme business. We've a body that seems to tie in. See you in twenty minutes.' And he rang off.

A
body?
That was all he needed. Stuffing his notebook into his pocket, Webb pulled the door of his flat shut and ran down the two flights of stairs. He hadn't contacted Jackson —perhaps the Chief Super had. But Jackson was a family man, and less likely to be home on Sunday afternoons. He was probably in the park with Millie and the kids.

Webb wove his way between the leisurely Sunday drivers, curbing his impatience. Once on the Broadminster road, he made better time. How could a body tie in with the nursery rhymes? The case was escalating, he thought uneasily. First the anonymous letter, now this. And they'd made no headway at all on the rape.

County Headquarters was a large and impressive building in the Broadshire countryside. There was no village nearby, but an old stone bridge that crossed the river just down the road had given the area its name. Webb turned off the main road, drove round to the car park. The day was heavy and still, a sulphur light over everywhere. It would probably thunder later—clear the air a bit.

Fleming was in his office, with Eric Stapleton. The pathologist always depressed Webb, not only because he was unavoidably associated with death, but because of the dried-out air about him, as though all his natural juices had been sucked dry. The expression in the small eyes behind their rimless glasses never altered. They were surprised at nothing.

'Sit down, Spider. What do you make of this?' Fleming pushed across the desk a plastic envelope inside which was a crumpled piece of paper. On it, several lines of verse were neatly typed. Webb read them, his heart sinking.

'Her
e com
es a candle to light you to bed,

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

'Except,' said Fleming drily, 'that her head wasn't chopped off. She was suffocated, Stapleton tells me, probably with a pillow. And this was stuffed in the pocket of her dress.'

'Where was the body found, sir?'

'In a dried-up ditch off the Heatherton-Marlton road.' 'No ID on her, I suppose?'

'Right. Woman in her late thirties, quite attractive—or she would have been. Height five foot six, weight nine stone, hair dyed blonde, eyes blue. No distinguishing marks.'

'I'll check with Missing Persons. How long has she been dead?'

Stapleton spoke for the first time. 'Tell me when she was last seen, and I'll hazard a guess!' 'Roughly, sir?'

'Judging by the maggots, about ten days.'

'From which you'll gather we can't issue a photograph. So have a quick look at her, Spider, and do one of your artist's impressions to pass to the press. At the very least, it'll give an idea of her hairstyle and the shape of her face. Someone might come forward.'

Webb grimaced. 'Hope my Sunday lunch stays down.'

'Sorry, but you're the best artist we have. Saw one of your cartoons in the
Weekly News.
Damn good.'

'Thank you, sir. Mike Romilly twists my arm every now and then.'

Half an hour later, his visit to the dead thankfully behind him, Webb sat at his desk drawing his impression of her. His forte lay in cartoons and landscapes; his portraiture was less certain, but he was doing his best, and under his pencil the dead face was coming alive. He could only hope the resemblance was sufficiently strong for someone to recognize her.

And someone did. With the introduction of murder, the national press showed more interest, and when Kathy opened her paper at breakfast the next morning, Freda Cowley's face was staring up at her. Above it, heavy black newsprint demanded, 'Do you know this woman?'

Kathy dropped the paper, her hands flying to her mouth. 'Guy!
Guy!
Come quickly!'

He husband dashed downstairs, swung round the newelpost and hurried into the kitchen. 'What is it? What's happened? You sounded—' He broke off, staring down at the paper on the table. 'Dead? Oh my God!'

Kathy said tremblingly, 'No wonder she disappeared without telling anyone. And when I think what I said about her!'

Guy put an arm round her and bent to read the newsprint. 'Found in a ditch yesterday—dead about ten days. That's just when she disappeared, isn't it, ten days ago?' He could feel his wife shaking, and his arm tightened. 'Sit down, love, and have a drink of coffee. I'll pour it for you.'

'They don't know who she is. We'll have to phone and tell them.'

'Probably half Westridge has been on by now.' 'All the same, we'll have to.'

Guy hesitated.
‘I
suppose we are sure it's Freda? I mean—'

'Of course we are. They describe her dress, too.' Kathy's eyes filled. 'Guy, I was with her when she bought it, at Faversham's.'

'All right, all right. Who do I have to ring?'

'It's a Shillingham number.'

She held her coffee-cup with both hands, taking tiny sips of the scalding liquid and trying to stop herself from shaking. Out in the hall, she could hear her husband dialling, then his voice with a slight tremor in it.

'I'm ringing about the sketch in this morning's paper. We think we know who the woman is. Her name is Mrs Freda Cowley, of Hinckley's Cottage, Westridge.'

CHAPTER 6

The man looked shaken, Webb reflected, but that was only natural. His wife, too. Striking-looking woman, with those unusual eyes.

'So you'd no personal dealings with Mrs Cowley, sir?' 'None whatever. I dealt with the agents, Bayliss of Marlton.'

'You say you were up the previous week. You didn't meet her then?'

'No, the cottage wasn't available at the time. The agent phoned a couple of days later.'

'And you took it sight unseen? That was quite a risk, wasn't it, when it's to be your home for a month? Even more so, since your wife has special requirements at the moment.'

'I checked there was a downstairs lavatory. That was our only "special requirement".'

'But wouldn't it have been wiser to see it for yourself before deciding?'

'Chief Inspector, I wanted to be in Westridge, it hadn't looked as though I was going to manage it, then this suddenly came up. Why look a gift horse in the mouth? And since we're perfectly satisfied with the place, I can't see that any of this is relevant.'

'The agents said they'd received instructions from the owner?'

'That's right.' Selby paused. 'She must have posted them just before she was killed.'

'But suppose,' Webb said heavily, his eyes on the man's face, 'she hadn't intended going away?'

'I don't think she did,' Jessica interrupted jerkily. 'She didn't tell her cleaner, and that woman who phoned insisted she was expected.'

'What woman was that, ma'am?'

The conversation with Wilma Bernstein was repeated.

'But if she hadn't intended going away,'Jessica said, 'who sent the agent the keys?'

'My God!' Matthew's face whitened. Webb had wondered how long it would take them to question that. 'You mean her killer posted them?'

'Clever, really. While people might wonder at an empty house, if a tenancy'd been arranged, no one would worry.'

Jessica frowned. 'But the bed linen and towels were clean. She must
...
I mean, unless . . . Oh God!'

Which was a point he hadn't reached himself, Webb reflected. They had a cold-blooded customer on their hands this time. 'When you arrived, ma'am, there was nothing to make you suspect all was not as it should be?'

'No, nothing. I did wonder at her leaving valuable china on the shelves, but only fleetingly.'

'There were no personal belongings about, which you'd expect her to have taken with her?'

They both shook their heads. Which explained the suitcase in the burnt-out car. That the victim proved to be its missing owner had come as no surprise.

'Have there been any other phone calls for Mrs Cowley since you arrived?'

Jessica hesitated. 'One, yes. From someone called Charles.'

'You don't know his surname?'

She said unwillingly, 'Actually, we met him later. Charles Palmer. He didn't want it mentioned in front of his wife.'

'We'll be as tactful as we can. Now I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to vacate the house for a few hours. Scenes of Crime officers are on their way.'

'You don't think she was killed
here?
Jessica's voice rose.

'It's possible, ma'am, but that's not all they'll be looking for.'

'But where are we to go?' Matthew demanded. 'You can't just—'