COPYRIGHT

Harper

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain in 1987 by Collins Crime

Copyright © Emma Page 1987

Emma Page asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

Source ISBN: 9780008175825

Ebook Edition © MARCH 2016 ISBN: 9780008175832

Version [2016-02-18]

DEDICATION

For the homesteaders

(and the tramps’ kitchen)

Long may they flourish

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

About the Author

By Emma Page

About the Publisher

CHAPTER 1

In Northwick Road, a humdrum shopping area in a workaday suburb of Cannonbridge, the shopkeepers were closing the tills and putting up the shutters. An overcast evening, unseasonably cool for the second week in May, the last stages of a wet, blustery spell that had interrupted a fine, early spring.

No. 47, Franklin’s, occupied premises somewhat larger than the chemist and draper on either side; it was housed in what had originally been two small shops, now knocked into one. Franklin’s dealt in the sale and rental, service and repair of television sets, radios, washing-machines, fridges and other items of domestic electrical machinery.

One of the service engineers drew up in his van and went briefly inside to cash up, hand over his lists and jobsheets, check if there were any evening calls for him. There were four repairmen, as well as a young male assistant in the shop. Roy Franklin, the owner, worked harder than any of his employees, putting in long hours behind the counter as well as going out on emergency calls in the evenings and at weekends.

‘You can get off now for your bus,’ he told the young assistant when the last of the repairmen had made his call and left. Franklin went upstairs to the living quarters, and into the kitchen. The flat was scrupulously clean, very plainly and economically furnished. Everything severely practical, involving no unnecessary work.

He didn’t switch on the radio but stood for a moment in the middle of the room with his eyes closed and his head thrown back. The place was silent; only the muted sound of traffic and the shift and stir of the fridge. He opened his eyes and blew out a long, noisy breath. ‘Tea,’ he said aloud. He crossed to the sink and filled the kettle. He was a lean, sinewy man of medium height, in his middle thirties. Dark hair and dark blue eyes. A bony face, good-looking enough ten or fifteen years ago, but the skin stretched tight now over the cheekbones, his hairline already beginning to recede, the lines scoring his forehead deepening day by day. He had a quick, intent gaze, the look of a man who saw life as an arduous battle he was determined to win.

He made himself a sandwich while he waited for the kettle to boil; he began to eat the sandwich with an abstracted air. Every couple of minutes as he drank his tea he glanced up at the clock, crossed to the window and stooped to look up the road. The third time he did this he was rewarded by the sight of his wife Jane–his second wife, married to him for more than two years now–turning into the road on her scooter.

His air of abstraction vanished. He left the window and switched on the radio. He finished his sandwich and poured himself another mug of tea. He was listening to a current affairs programme when his wife entered the flat.

Jane didn’t speak when she came into the kitchen. She flashed him an assessing look as she put down her things and poured herself some tea. Her face was set and unsmiling, her posture rigid and controlled. Her coming filled the kitchen with a sense of tension and conflict; the silence between them seemed like the stubborn silence in the middle of some fierce disagreement rather than the expression of chronic hostility.

She was a year or so younger than her husband, a well-built, athletic-looking woman with strong, rounded arms; she was dressed in neat, inexpensive, no-nonsense clothes. Her gleaming chestnut hair, thick and straight, was cut in a trim helmet shape. She wore no make-up; she had an aseptic, scrubbed look.

She went over to the kitchen cabinet and selected a small glass bottle from among several standing on a shelf. She tipped a couple of tablets out on to her palm and swallowed them with her tea. Roy stood watching her without comment.

‘I had a sandwich,’ he said at last. ‘I’ve got to go out on a call. I shouldn’t be long, about half an hour, I should think.’

She moved her shoulders. ‘I’ll have supper ready when you get back.’ Her manner was tired and irritable. She took a pan from a cupboard and made a start on preparations for a simple meal. ‘I won’t be able to do the books this evening,’ she told him over her shoulder. ‘I’m doing the night shift at the nursing-home. One of the staff is away ill.’ She was an assistant nurse, working full-time for a local agency. In what little spare time she had she helped her husband in his business; they usually worked on the books on Tuesday evenings.

‘We’ll do the books tomorrow instead,’ Roy said easily. He had inherited the business from his father. It had originally been a small family grocery store but his father had always had an interest in radio and television and had begun to carry out small repairs for his customers on an amateur basis. Later he had branched out into selling sets and later still into renting them out. When Roy left school he went into the business and soon took charge of the electrical side. He spent a good deal of time trying to persuade his father to expand that part of the business and forget the groceries, but his father had continued cautiously and stubbornly to cling to what he saw as the enduring, reliable, bread-and-butter trade. On his father’s death Roy had lost no time in closing down the grocery side. As soon as the opportunity arose he bought the shop next door in order to enlarge the service and repair side of his trade. He was anxious now to expand yet again, into stereos and videos, home computers.

Jane crossed to the sink and pulled on a pair of rubber gloves. She began scrubbing vegetables. Roy stood in silence, looking at the back of her head, then he said in an expressionless tone, ‘Venetia phoned this afternoon.’ Jane stiffened at his words, her hands fell idle in the water. ‘To arrange about the weekend,’ Roy added. ‘What time I’m to pick up the children.’ Venetia was his first wife. There were two children of their marriage: Simon, aged eight, and Katie, six, both living with their mother. The children often stayed with Roy for a weekend. He was very fond of his children, and Jane, busy as she was, was always happy to see them.

She stood waiting for him to continue but he said nothing more. She turned abruptly from the sink and burst out at him with vehemence, ‘Didn’t she say anything about the money? Isn’t she going to answer your letter?’

He gave a long, weary sigh. ‘I’ve already had a reply to my letter.’ He raised a hand to silence her. ‘It came on Saturday morning. I didn’t tell you about it, I didn’t want to upset you.’

She tore off her rubber gloves and thrust out a hand. He took a letter from his pocket and handed it to her. ‘It’s from her solicitor,’ he said.

She ran her eye over the brief, formal communication: Far from wishing to consider any reduction in the amounts regularly paid over to her, Mrs Franklin was currently contemplating an application to the court to increase the maintenance award for the two children; there were additional expenses as they got older and inflation continued to present a problem.

Jane uttered an angry sound and flung the letter down on the table. She burst into tears and then, even angrier because of this show of weakness, uttered another sound, of intense irritation, and dashed the tears from her cheek.

Roy went over and put an arm round her shoulders. ‘Don’t get so upset about it,’ he urged. ‘It’ll sort itself out one day.’

She pulled away from him. ‘I’ll be thirty-five next month. It’ll soon be too late to start a family of our own.’ She flung round to face him. ‘You must go and see her. Writing letters is no good. You’ve got to talk to her, make her see reason.’

He shook his head with finality. ‘She wouldn’t listen. She’d simply tell me to talk to her solicitor. I knew it was a waste of time writing to her but you would have me do it.’

She went back to her vegetables and resumed her task with unnecessary force. ‘Then if you won’t go, I will,’ she threw at him, defiantly resolute. ‘I’ll make very sure she listens to me. She won’t push me off to her solicitor.’

He seized her shoulders and swung her round. ‘Oh no you won’t!’ His tone was sharp and imperious. ‘You’ll do nothing of the sort.’

She tried to jerk herself free but his grip was too fierce. ‘You can’t stop me,’ she told him.

‘I want your solemn word that you won’t go.’ He gave her shoulders a brisk shake. ‘Promise me.’

She glared back at him for several seconds, then all at once she abandoned the struggle. ‘Oh, very well,’ she said, suddenly deflated. ‘I promise.’

He let her go. He drew a deep breath, then put an arm round her in a gentle embrace. ‘It’ll be all right one of these days,’ he assured her. ‘You mustn’t get so worked up about it.’ He drew her to him and they exchanged a long, lingering kiss.

Thursday dawned brilliantly clear. At midday the sun rode high in a cloudless sky, by late afternoon the swifts were beginning to dip and soar over Foxwell Common, a mile or two out of Cannonbridge. On the paved terrace at the rear of her cottage on the edge of the common, Venetia Franklin reclined at ease on a sunlounger of gaily striped canvas. She lay with her eyes closed, her hands linked behind her head, a faint smile on her lips.

Beside her, on a wooden table, a radio played light music. The scent of honeysuckle drifted over the garden; from the top of an apple tree dense with pink and white blossom a greenfinch poured out his silvery runs and trills. A delicious emanation of heat rose up from the old grey flagstones. I do believe the fine weather’s come back to stay, Venetia thought with pleasure. She revelled like a cat in warmth and sunshine. Her skin took on a delicate honey tan in the summer, the soft curls of her barley-blonde hair grew even paler.

From the shrubbery the voices of the children, Simon and Katie, floated out as they darted about in one of their complicated games. The sound of sheep bleating strayed across from the common.

She yawned and stretched, opened her eyes and glanced idly round the garden. Her eyes were large and luminous, a deep sea-blue, with long, dark, curling lashes. At twenty-nine she was a good-looking woman; she had been a ravishingly pretty girl. Not very tall, slightly built and fine-boned, with narrow wrists and ankles.

The phone rang from inside the cottage. Her face broke into a smile. She sprang to her feet and ran in through the back door, along a passage into the sitting room. She snatched up the receiver.

‘Venetia?’ At the sound of Philip Colborn’s voice her smile vanished.

‘Oh, it’s you.’ Her tone was easy and amiable. She remained standing, turning her head this way and that as she listened, glancing about the room. From time to time she interjected a word or two, giving him no more than surface attention.

On the wall nearby hung a long mirror. She considered her image with a critical eye, studying her new dark blue cotton sundress with its bold white patterning, pondering the effect against the silky skin of her shoulders.

A note of remonstrance appeared in Colborn’s voice. In the garden the children laughed and called. She half turned to scrutinize her rear view in the glass. With her free hand she raised the skirt of her sundress. She stood with her head inclined, the gaze of her sea-blue eyes detached and assessing, contemplating the reflection of her slender, shapely legs.

Springfield House, the home of the Colborn family for over two hundred years, occupied a prime position in Cannonbridge, close to the town centre but retaining, with its large grounds, a good deal of quiet and privacy, a sense of the spacious, leisured Georgian days in which it had been built.

The Colborn who had chosen the site and built the house had been a successful lawyer, the son of a country parson. In early middle age he had gone into politics, representing the borough of Cannonbridge for the next thirty years; he had achieved minor office. He took for his wife the daughter of an earl, a high-principled, handsome, energetic young woman. Lady Wilhelmina made a lasting name for herself in Cannonbridge by her devotion to good works. There was still a Lady Wilhelmina Crescent in the town, a Lady Wilhelmina Memorial Hall, a Lady Wilhelmina tavern.

After this splendid start the fortunes of the Colborns suffered a long, slow decline. Succeeding generations were less talented, less enthusiastic, less energetic. The family remained prosperous, well esteemed locally, until the early part of the twentieth century, when the gentle decline began to accelerate. A son was killed in the Boer War, another in the Great War. A third Colborn was killed in the Second World War and a fourth, Philip Colborn’s father, died five years after the war of wounds received at Alamein.

At the time of his father’s death Philip, his only child, was seven years old. Philip’s mother felt the loss of her husband as a savage blow. Always a dependent, clinging woman, she sank rapidly into isolated, grieving widowhood, withdrawing from all social life and before long retreating even further, into outright invalidism. She lived on until Philip was a grown man but never again made the slightest effort to bestir herself to go out into the world.

The house slipped into neglect and from neglect into decay. The magnificent gardens became a wilderness. Several rooms were shrouded in dust sheets and closed up. It wasn’t money that was in short supply but energy and resolution, interest and motivation. Little by little the name of Colborn slid from the consciousness of the town.

At half past seven on Friday morning Philip Colborn woke in his bedroom on the first floor of Springfield House. His eyes ached, his head throbbed. His sleep, as often of late, had been uneasy and broken. He and his wife Ruth had occupied separate bedrooms since the time three years ago when he had been struck down by influenza.

He got slowly out of bed and went over to the window. He was forty-one, with a tall, rangy figure. He had been handsome as a young man and was still good-looking enough, with his fair hair and grey eyes, to attract a female glance. He drew back the curtains and gazed bleakly out at the day. A sparkling May morning, sunlight glittering the dewy lawns. From downstairs he could hear a radio playing, something from Bizet, hauntingly beautiful.

The gardens were once more a superb sight, thanks to the determination and dedication of his wife Ruth. They had married nine years ago, eighteen months after the death of Philip’s mother. He had wanted to sell Springfield House which he saw only as the gloomy, secluded, dilapidated dwelling in which he had grown up. He had thought of buying a much smaller house on one of the new developments on the edge of Cannonbridge; he believed the move would provide a sense of release, of a fresh, hopeful start.

But Ruth had been horrified at the notion. She was certain the house could be restored to its old glory within a few years, the gardens even sooner. The fabric of the dwelling was still essentially sound. All the furnishings and pictures, all the objets d’art were still there; nothing had been disposed of. And there was more than sufficient money. Philip had inherited the whole of his mother’s estate and in addition he had his salary from the bank where he worked. He had allowed himself to be persuaded.

‘Are you awake, darling?’ Ruth called up to him now from the foot of the stairs. He crossed the room and opened the bedroom door. The music rose up at him, imploring, yearning. An alluring odour of coffee drifted over the threshold. ‘I won’t be long,’ he called down.

When he came into the kitchen a little later Ruth had already finished eating. ‘I have a particularly busy day ahead of me,’ she reminded him. She was a year or two older than her husband. Not very tall, delicately made, with a calm, pale, oval face and small regular features. Her thick, heavy brown hair, the colour of beechnuts, was wound carefully and becomingly round her head in shining braids and loops that gave her a look of a Brontë or Jane Austen heroine.

She moved swiftly and efficiently about the kitchen, attending to half a dozen tasks. From the radio a pair of voices soared in harmony. Philip went over and switched the radio off. Ruth halted for an instant and glanced at him in surprise.

‘I’m sorry.’ He sat down at the table. ‘I have a headache. I slept badly.’

She gave him a look of tender concern. ‘Shall I get you an aspirin?’

‘No, thanks. Just some coffee.’ She tried to persuade him to eat but he shook his head. While he drank his coffee she went along to the front hall to look for the post and came back with a handful of mail, mostly for herself. She always had a good deal of mail; since her marriage she had assiduously followed the example of Lady Wilhelmina and worked tirelessly for a dozen charitable causes. She slit open the envelopes, swiftly sorted out what must be dealt with promptly, what might safely wait a little. She sat down opposite Philip and poured herself some coffee.

Philip glanced through his letters without enthusiasm. He was employed by the bank where the Colborns had always kept their accounts; he had been manager of the Cannonbridge branch for four years now. Ruth had worked for the same bank herself. She wasn’t a native of Cannonbridge; she had been transferred to the Cannonbridge branch a year or so before she and Philip were married–that was how they had met.

She glanced up from her correspondence and saw his dejected air. ‘Cheer up,’ she said in a tone of bracing optimism. ‘It’s a beautiful day.’

He was jerked out of his thoughts. He gave her a long look as if he hadn’t really seen her for some time, then he leaned across the table and laid a hand on hers. ‘I do appreciate all you’ve done for me,’ he said with feeling. ‘I may not say so very often but that doesn’t mean I’m not deeply grateful.’

A flush rose in her cheeks, a tear shone in her eye. She looked at him without speaking, giving him a tremulous smile, surprised and pleased.

He gave her hand a squeeze before releasing it. He made an effort to take an interest in her day. ‘I know you told me what you’re doing,’ he said apologetically, ‘but I’m afraid I’ve forgotten.’ He knew it was some big occasion but he couldn’t for the life of him remember what.

She gave him a quick rundown of the morning ahead: a committee meeting, some essential calls, a look-in at a fundraising coffee morning. ‘But it’s this afternoon I’m really looking forward to,’ she said with a smile of profound pleasure. ‘It’s the presentation of the purses at Polesworth.’ Polesworth was a stately home, the seat of a viscount. It stood in a magnificent park ten miles out of Cannonbridge; the presentation was in aid of the county branch of a national charity for underprivileged children. Two hundred years ago, in the days of Lady Wilhelmina Colborn, there had been occasional trafficking between Springfield House and Polesworth; in the decades after Lady Wilhelmina’s death the trafficking had dwindled and eventually ceased. Now, nine years after Ruth had come to Springfield House as a bride, her feet were about to take her in for the first time though the noble portals of the mansion.

‘I hope it all goes well,’ Philip said warmly. ‘I’ll ring you tomorrow evening.’ He was spending the weekend at Danehill Manor, some sixty miles away. The manor belonged to the bank who used it for conferences, staff courses, seminars. Philip was being picked up at the bank at three o’clock by the manager of a neighbouring branch who was also going to Danehill; they wouldn’t be back till Sunday night.

He frowned anxiously. ‘I’m not at all happy about my paper,’ he said. He had to read a paper on the role of banks in the expansion of small businesses. He had revised the paper yesterday evening, had asked Ruth to glance over it once again before going to bed.

‘It’s fine,’ she assured him now, as she had already assured him half a dozen times. ‘You’ve nothing to worry about. I know it’ll go down well.’

She stood up, leaving the breakfast things to be dealt with shortly by her daily woman, an efficient and competent worker, much superior to the ordinary run of dailies, an invaluable assistant to Ruth in her busy life.

In the hall Philip picked up his briefcase and overnight bag. He rarely came home to lunch, either taking out a client or going to his club. He gave Ruth an affectionate kiss. ‘Look after yourself,’ he told her. ‘Don’t go overdoing things.’

She smiled up at him. ‘Make your mark at Danehill. It’s a good speech. It’ll be a great success.’ She stood watching in the doorway as he got into his car and set off down the drive. As he approached the elegant wrought-iron gates, already standing open, a woman turned in at the entrance. She was pushing a wheelchair that held a vacant-looking, lolling boy; she stood aside to let the car go past.

Philip raised a hand in greeting and she waved back. The boy gave a vague grin and flapped a hand. Dorothy Pickard and her brother Terry, familiar figures about the streets of Cannonbridge and the lanes of the neighbouring countryside, regular callers at Springfield House. Dorothy was forty but looked older. Her naturally pleasant, lively expression was overlaid with an air of chronic anxiety.

Terry was seventeen but appeared much younger. He was small and slightly built; he had been the unexpected child of his mother’s middle age and had suffered from birth from severe multiple handicaps. His mother had done her best to weather the difficult years that followed. Her husband, a building labourer, took himself off when Terry was four, unable or unwilling to share the burden any longer. Mrs Pickard continued stoically to soldier on until herself struck down by ill-health. Dorothy was at that time unmarried, living at home, doing what she could to help her mother in the evenings and at weekends. She worked full-time as an assistant at a garden centre on the outskirts of Cannonbridge; she had always been fond of an outdoor life. When Mrs Pickard’s health failed Dorothy gave up her job to look after her mother and brother, taking any casual work she could find for a few hours here and there: fruit-picking, serving in a local greengrocer’s, putting in half a day at a garden stall in the market.

Mrs Pickard grew steadily worse and Dorothy was forced to give up even these small jobs. Twelve months ago Mrs Pickard died and the entire responsibility for the boy fell on Dorothy. She accepted the duty without resentment or complaint, one of the hazards of existence, to be borne as cheerfully as possible.

Now, as she pushed the wheelchair along the drive of Springfield House, Ruth Colborn came out to meet her, smiling and waving at Terry. The Colborns had no children.

As soon as Terry became aware of Ruth’s approach he gave his vacuous grin and flung his hands about. Ruth crouched down beside the wheelchair and spoke to him, as she always did. He made incoherent, grunting sounds in reply.

‘I’ve put out the leaflets for you,’ Ruth told Dorothy as she straightened up. In the course of her daily perambulations Dorothy delivered notices, brochures, electoral handouts. Ruth’s leaflets were to advertise the annual charity garden day at Springfield House, to be held this year on the first Saturday in June.

To the left of the drive lay a large secluded shrub rose garden. Dorothy halted by the entrance and glanced in. Springfield House had always been noted for its magnificent shrub rose garden, devoted to the old varieties. After her marriage Ruth had resolutely set about rescuing the shrubs from the wilderness of neglect.

‘They’ll be a wonderful sight in another three weeks,’ Dorothy said, eyeing with lively appreciation, and a certain amount of knowledge from her garden-centre days, the graceful forms of Rosa Alba, Rosa Gallica, the Musk, China and Moss Roses, the Noisette and Rugosa. The branching sprays were tightly packed with clusters of buds beginning to show colour, snowy white, delicate cream, pale shell pink, lilac, purple, velvety crimson.

Airy wafts of fragrance floated after them as they moved off again towards the house. ‘I won’t be a moment,’ Ruth said as she went inside for the leaflets. While she was gone Dorothy wheeled Terry along the gravelled walk surrounding the house, pausing to peer in through the windows at the many splendours. When she reached the drawing-room she pressed her face against the glass, gazing up at the full-length portrait of Lady Wilhelmina occupying the place of honour to one side of the fireplace.

The portrait had been painted in London by an artist of note, shortly after Lady Wilhelmina’s marriage. It showed a young woman of erect carriage and slender figure with a handsome, serious face, a wide brow and fine eyes. She had a fresh complexion, thick, shining brown hair arranged in heavy loops and bands. There was some slight natural resemblance between Lady Wilhelmina and Ruth Colborn. It had taken Ruth some years after her marriage to grow her hair to a length where she could arrange it in the same style as Lady Wilhelmina’s gleaming tresses; she had accomplished the feat at about the same time as she had completed the restoration of the house and gardens. Another, later, portrait of Lady Wilhelmina hung in the Mayor’s parlour at the Town Hall and the resemblance between the two women, considerably heightened by Ruth’s new hairstyle, was often remarked on. The similarity in the charitable activities of the two women was mentioned with increasing frequency in the local press. Ruth never failed to note these references with an inward glow of pleasure.

‘Oh–this is where you’ve got to,’ Ruth said as she came hurrying up with the leaflets. Dorothy stepped back from the window and took the bundle from her, stowing it away in a basket fixed to the wheelchair. Her expression now was hesitant and uncertain, she was visibly bracing herself to say something to Mrs Colborn. She plunged in at last before she lost her nerve.

‘I don’t know if you’ve had time to think over what I asked you about the other day,’ she said in a rush. ‘About getting Terry admitted to Lyndale.’ This was a home for the handicapped and disabled, standing in an outlying suburb of Cannonbridge; it was run by a charitable trust and provided for roughly a score of residents. Ruth was a member of the managing committee, a frequent visitor to the home.

‘I wouldn’t dream of asking you,’ Dorothy continued urgently, ‘if there was anything else I could think of. You’re the only person I know that could possibly help me.’ A man Dorothy had known for years, a man who worked the local markets, selling seeds and plants, flowers and shrubs, had recently made her a proposition. He had been a widower for eighteen months; his wife had always worked the markets at his side. He had one daughter who had helped in the business since leaving school but she was shortly getting married and going to London to live.

The man–Ken by name–had recently told Dorothy that if she could make some suitable arrangement for Terry, he would like to marry her. He would expect her to work the markets with him as his wife and daughter had done; he was confident she would pull her weight. It wasn’t that he had anything against Terry but there could be no place in such a life for a severely handicapped lad whose problems must increase as he grew older.

‘Ken isn’t selfish or hard-hearted,’ Dorothy had explained to Ruth. ‘He’s a decent, kind, hard-working man.’ But he was also a practical, realistic man; he had seen more than one marriage broken by the presence of a handicapped youngster. Nor had Dorothy forgotten the example of her own father.

‘Lyndale would be just the place for Terry,’ Dorothy had assured Ruth. On a scale closer to the domestic than the institutional, where he could more easily settle in, and near enough for her to be able to visit him regularly. The place wasn’t strange to him. She often called there with Terry in the course of her errands. Everyone was kind to the boy, he would probably scarcely notice the transition from his own home.

‘I’m very sorry,’ Ruth said gently. ‘I’m afraid I can’t have made myself clear the other day. It wouldn’t be kind to let you entertain false hopes. There really is no possibility, none at all. Lyndale simply will not take anyone of Terry’s age. Twenty-one is the absolute minimum. But there are places that might take him. I could—’

‘Not round here,’ Dorothy broke in, like a terrier pouncing on a bone. ‘Not in Cannonbridge.’

‘There’s a very good place only fifteen miles away,’ Ruth said patiently but Dorothy burst in again. ‘They’d listen to you at Lyndale. If you spoke up for Terry, they’d take him for sure.’

Ruth smiled slightly. ‘I’m afraid I can’t attempt to turn their policies upside down. They don’t make these rules without a lot of thought.’

‘But they did have one or two youngsters there at one time,’ Dorothy persisted. ‘I’m sure I can remember.’

‘Well, yes, that is so,’ Ruth conceded. ‘They did make an occasional exception—’

‘There you are then!’ Dorothy cried in triumph. ‘That’s what I’ve been saying all along. It isn’t a hard and fast rule. If they could make those exceptions then, they can make one for Terry.’

Ruth sighed. ‘It’s a hard and fast rule now, I’m afraid. It’s just because of those earlier exceptions that the committee decided to be very strict in future. The truth is, those particular admissions didn’t work out very well.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘But in any case, quite apart from Terry’s age, there’s a much stronger reason for not admitting him. He really wouldn’t fit in very well at Lyndale.’

Dorothy’s frown returned. ‘He’s not a troublesome boy. You know that.’

‘Yes, I do know that, but the committee have decided that in future they will only admit applicants who are capable of making some kind of personal, social contribution to the life of Lyndale, who are able to help themselves and each other to some extent. It’s far better for the residents, makes them more independent, more sociable, gives them a sense of purpose. It produces a much healthier atmosphere, and of course on a practical level it means the home can be run with fewer staff–and that’s no small consideration these days.’ She paused and then asked gently, ‘Can you honestly see Terry being able to fit into that pattern of life? I’m afraid he’ll never be capable of any more than he is at present.’ She looked down at Terry who grinned amiably up at the pale blue sky.

‘I can’t lose this chance,’ Dorothy said with fierce determination, darting at Ruth from another angle. She knew Ken wouldn’t wait for ever, or even for very long. He needed a wife now; if not her, then he would find someone else. She pressed her hands together. ‘I know we could make a go of it. We’ve always got on well, and I’d love the life. I’ll never get another chance like this.’

Ruth turned towards the house. ‘You mustn’t give up hope,’ she said in a tone of great kindness. ‘I’m sure we can find somewhere suitable for Terry. I’ll make some more inquiries.’

But Dorothy shook her head stubbornly. ‘It’s got to be Lyndale,’ she said, totally unmoved by everything Ruth had said, still confident of the final outcome. ‘Lyndale or nothing.’

Over the weekend the weather continued fair, showing signs of becoming settled again. Along the avenues the laurels raised their creamy candles; on the hills above the town the rowans were in bloom. By two o’clock on Friday afternoon the first fair of the season was in full swing on a stretch of open ground beside the railway station.

Shortly before half past four on Monday afternoon the phone rang in the Franklins’ flat in Northwick Road. Downstairs in the shop Roy heard it ring. He had just finished serving a customer and was busy returning a selection of food processors to their places on the shelves. He paused for a moment and stood listening. Along the counter his assistant explained to a woman the terms on which they offered credit sales.

The phone stopped ringing and Roy resumed his task. A minute or two later there came the sound of someone running down the stairs from the flat. The door at the end of the shop burst open and Jane Franklin darted in. She ran up to Roy.

‘Sunnycroft School’s just rung,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Venetia hasn’t turned up to collect the children. They rang the cottage twice but there’s no answer. They wanted to know if you’d pick the children up. I said we’d be over right away.’

‘There’s no need for you to come,’ Roy said brusquely. ‘You can give a hand in here while I’m gone.’

She shook her head with determination. ‘I’m coming with you.’

He looked as if he might argue but then thought better of it; he gave a little jerk of his shoulders. He spoke to the assistant and then went rapidly out with Jane behind him.

Sunnycroft School, a small private establishment, was situated in a residential suburb at the other side of town. The traffic was building up towards the rush hour and it was a good fifteen minutes before Roy drove up to the front entrance. He jumped out and pressed the bell.

The door was opened by one of the teachers. ‘I’ve just rung Foxwell Cottage again,’ she told Roy. ‘There’s still no answer. The children tell me their mother went away for the weekend, they’ve been staying with you.’

Roy nodded. ‘I expect something cropped up to make her late setting off for home.’

The teacher frowned. ‘I would have thought she’d have rung to let us know. She’s never missed picking them up before, she’s always very punctual.’

‘If her car broke down on the road,’ Jane put in, ‘she might not have been able to get to a phone.’

‘Yes, I suppose that could be it.’ The teacher led the way into the hall where Simon and Katie sat waiting. They had a subdued, anxious air, only partly dispelled by the sight of their father and stepmother. They got to their feet and stood glancing from one face to the other.

‘Isn’t Mummy coming?’ Katie asked. She went up to Jane and slipped a hand into hers.

‘I expect she’s been delayed,’ Roy said easily.

In the car Jane chatted to the children about their day at school. They answered briefly and flatly. Roy scarcely spoke and after a few minutes all four lapsed into silence.

They reached the edge of town and Roy headed the car towards Foxwell Common. It was a fine, sunny afternoon with a little thin, high cloud. The landscape looked serene and peaceful. Along the hedgerows the hawthorns were in full snowy blossom, the common was bright with yellow gorse, the grass thickly studded with golden dandelions.

The hamlet consisted of half a dozen dwellings. Roy drove past a black and white thatched cottage owned by a widow who used the parlour as a little general store, past a farmhouse, a pair of old dwellings modernized for letting out to holidaymakers but empty now, so early in the season. He turned the car in through the open gates of Foxwell Cottage.

‘It’s all right! Mummy’s back!’ Katie cried out on a note of relief. She had caught sight of her mother’s car over on the right, on the far side of the house.

Simon frowned. ‘Why didn’t she drive straight to school to pick us up?’ No one answered.

Roy came to a halt and switched off the engine. He opened his door and got out. Jane and the children made to follow but he stooped and put his head in at the rear window. ‘Stay where you are,’ he commanded the children. Jane’s head came sharply round and he flashed her a look. ‘You stay with them.’ She said nothing. All three sat upright and alert, looking out at him in silence.

He walked over the gravel to the front door and pressed the bell; it rang sharp and clear. There was no response. He glanced about. The cottage windows were open, upstairs and down. He tried the front door. It yielded to his touch and he went inside. On the floor of the hall lay a couple of envelopes, a picture postcard, a scatter of leaflets. He went in and out of the ground-floor rooms, calling out Venetia’s name. There was no stir of movement, no whisper of sound. Nothing out of order in the sitting room or dining room.

He went upstairs, glanced in at the children’s rooms, the bathroom. In Venetia’s bedroom an overnight bag and vanity case stood packed at the foot of the bed. A summer dress, crisply laundered, had been carefully laid out on the coverlet. A shoulder-bag lay on top of the chest of drawers.

By now he had given up calling out. He went down to the kitchen. On the table in the centre of the room was a tray holding used tea-things, an open biscuit tin beside it.

The back door was propped open with an old firedog. He went out on to the paved terrace. A garden table stood beside a canvas sunlounger; on the table a couple of beakers and a jug that had held lemonade. A folded newspaper bearing Friday’s date stuck out from behind the cushions of the lounger.

He stood for a moment with his head back and his eyes closed. The only sounds were the twittering of birds and the distant hum of a mechanical saw. He went round the cottage to where Venetia’s car stood with its back to him, its front windows wound down. The boot wasn’t locked. He glanced inside; it was empty except for the spare tyre and a bag of tools.

He went round to the nearside front door of the car, opened it and stooped inside; the keys were in the ignition. On the rear window ledge lay some children’s comics and a rag doll. He knelt on the front seat, leaned over and glanced down–and there she was. Jammed into the space between the front and rear seats, facing him, her eyes closed. She lay on her back, in shirt and jeans, her knees drawn up. Her hair fell in disordered curls over her forehead. Her face was contused and contorted, with livid bruises, her lips swollen, her mouth wide open. Something had been rammed down her throat, some patterned stuff, brown and silky.

He remained staring down at her for several seconds, then he reached over and laid the back of his hand against her puffy, discoloured cheek. He drew a long quavering breath and got out of the car. He staggered over to the side of the cottage and stood leaning against the wall, his head in his hands. After a minute or two he roused himself and walked round to where Jane and the children still sat silent in the car.

They saw his face as he approached, white and shaken, his trembling, uncertain gait. They gazed dumbly out at him. He didn’t glance at the children but put his head in at the front window and without looking at Jane said in a low, unsteady voice, ‘You must take the children home at once and stay there with them.’ He put a hand up to his eyes. ‘There’s been an accident. I must ring the police.’

Jane said nothing but gave a single answering nod. She slid into the driver’s seat and switched on the engine. In the back the children had caught something of what he’d said. They sat in tremulous silence, their faces puzzled and uneasy.

Roy stepped back and watched as Jane turned the car and drove out through the gates, then he went slowly back to the cottage. All at once he began to shake violently. He couldn’t control the fierce tremors, he could scarcely discipline his fingers sufficiently to open the front door.

The phone stood on a small table in the sitting room. As he approached it the tremors increased. The receiver rattled against its rest as he tried to pick it up. Suddenly he began to cry. It was some minutes before he managed to dial the number and all the time the tears ran down his face.

CHAPTER 2

Evening sunlight slanted in through the window of the kitchen at Foxwell Cottage. Detective Chief Inspector Kelsey stood leaning against the dresser. A big, solidly built man with a large face and craggy features; a freckled skin and shrewd green eyes, a head of thickly-springing carroty hair. At the table in the middle of the room Roy Franklin sat leaning forward, his arms crossed on the table top, his head resting on his arms.

Venetia’s body had gone off to the mortuary. Inside the cottage, upstairs and down, in the garden and on the common, men were busy searching, sifting, probing, examining.

Inquiries had been made at the neighbouring dwellings but no one had seen or heard anything unusual over the weekend, no one had noticed any car turning in through the cottage gates, no one had been seen hanging about the cottage or the common, behaving in any way suspiciously. The common was of no great size and was full of gorse bushes. As a consequence it was not in favour as a picnic spot or playground. Venetia had never been on close terms with any of the neighbours. Her acquaintance with them had always been pleasant enough but had never progressed beyond an exchange of minor civilities when their paths crossed.

Among the leaflets lying in the front hall of the cottage was one advertising a bazaar at a Cannonbridge church hall. A phone call to the organizers of the bazaar supplied the information that the leaflets had been delivered by Dorothy Pickard. A constable had been despatched to talk to Dorothy.

He had returned to say that she had pushed the leaflets in through the door of Foxwell Cottage at about ten o’clock on Saturday morning. She had seen no one about the place, had heard no sound from inside the dwelling. The cottage gates were standing open, fastened back, and she had left them as she had found them. She remembered noticing Mrs Franklin’s car parked at the far side of the cottage but she hadn’t gone near it.

In addition to delivering leaflets on Saturday Dorothy was also selling raffle tickets in aid of a charity. Mrs Franklin had often bought tickets from her so she rang the bell in order to speak to her. When there was no reply she walked round to the back door which stood propped open. She saw the sunlounger on the terrace, the table with the used jug and beakers. From this and from the fact that all the windows were open she judged that Mrs Franklin must be somewhere on the premises. She knocked loudly at the back door and when there was no answer she put her head in and called out, again without success. She looked down the garden but saw no one. She concluded that Mrs Franklin might have gone up to the little shop or walked across the fields to the farm for some eggs.

By the time the police arrived at the cottage Roy Franklin had drunk a couple of stiff whiskies from the sideboard and had managed to get some kind of grip on himself. He had immediately suggested to the police that the murder was clearly the work of a criminal psychopath, possibly someone from a local psychiatric institution–there were two in the area. The circumstances of the crime had at once prompted the same thought in the Chief Inspector. Both institutions were contacted by phone and officers were sent to begin inquiries.

Venetia had been wearing a certain amount of jewellery: a gold wristwatch, gold stud earrings, a gold chain round her neck. She also wore three rings, a diamond engagement ring, a wedding ring and the sapphire and diamond ring Franklin had given her after the birth of Simon. No attempt appeared to have been made to remove any of these items.

Nor, apparently, had there been any attempt to enter the cottage. There was no sign of disturbance nor, as far as Franklin could tell them, did anything appear to be missing. The cottage was well furnished and there were several ornaments and other items of value that could easily have been snatched up and thrust into a pocket. On the dressing table in Venetia’s bedroom was a jewel box containing several pieces of fair value. Inside the shoulder-bag on the chest of drawers was a wallet holding a sizeable sum of money, a chequebook and credit cards. Nothing apparently touched, nothing taken.

One of the buttons was missing from the shirt Venetia wore. The shirt was of fine cotton, striped in blue and white; the buttons were fancy, dark blue buttons of good quality, many-faceted. The missing button had been ripped from the shirt, tearing out a small piece of material. The search had so far failed to turn up the button.

According to Franklin he had called for the children, as arranged, at five o’clock on Friday afternoon. Venetia had given the children their tea on the terrace, as she often did in fine weather. He had exchanged a few words with her but they hadn’t stood about chatting; he knew that she was going away for the weekend. She hadn’t mentioned at what time she intended setting off but he had the impression that it would be as soon as she had tidied up and changed out of her shirt and jeans.

It had been agreed that he would take the children to school on Monday morning; Venetia would be back from her trip in time to pick them up at the school on Monday afternoon. This wasn’t the first time they had made such an arrangement.

When the children finished their tea they ran into the cottage to wash their hands and faces. He went inside and brought out their cases. Venetia fetched a tray from the kitchen and began to clear the tea-things. When the children came out they said goodbye to her and got into the car. He immediately drove off, leaving the gates open, fastened back, as they had been when he arrived. That was the last time he had seen Venetia alive. He had had no further contact of any kind with her.

He didn’t take the children straight to his flat. His wife Jane was at work and wouldn’t be in till around six. Jane had never met Venetia; she had never wanted to and the necessity had never arisen. It had always been he who had picked up the children. It had been settled between himself and Jane that he was to take the children to the fair on the common by the railway, bringing them home at about seven, by which time Jane would have prepared supper. At the fairground he had seen various people he knew and there were other children from Sunnycroft School there with their mothers. He had spoken briefly to one of the mothers who was a customer at his shop.

At seven o’clock he had duly taken the children back to the flat. Jane was there and they all had supper and then watched television. The children went to bed at about nine and he spent the next hour or so in his workshop. He and Jane went to bed around half past ten. On Saturday morning he busied himself as usual in the shop and workshop. Simon spent the morning with him. Katie went out shopping with Jane and afterwards stayed with her while she attended to the housework and cooking.

On Saturday afternoon he left his assistant and one of the repairmen in charge while he and Jane took the children to a nearby safari park. Again they saw and spoke to other children and parents known to them from school. They returned to the flat at about eight. On Sunday they all four spent the day in a riverside town fifteen miles away. They took a boat out on the river, ate a picnic lunch and tea on the river bank, returning home around half past seven.

It seemed highly probable that Venetia had died very shortly after Roy drove away from the cottage with the children on Friday afternoon and the preliminary medical examination tended to support this impression. A short distance from the cottage, on the common, they had found a spot on a small rise, beneath the overhanging branches of a hawthorn, where the grass had recently been flattened. Someone standing under the branches could look down unobserved on the cottage and garden.

Chief Inspector Kelsey had asked Franklin if he had ever before seen the silky brown scarf that had been stuffed down Venetia’s throat but Franklin had shaken his head.

The Chief Inspector stood now looking down at Franklin as he sat at the table with his head on his arms. ‘Have you no idea where your wife–your ex-wife–might have been intending to spend the weekend?’ he asked suddenly.

Franklin raised his head and sat slowly up. His face was flushed, he had an air of immense fatigue. ‘No idea at all. She never used to say where she was going when I went to collect the children. She never even used to tell the children where she was going.’ Making sure they would be in no position to reveal information about her private life, Kelsey reflected, however skilfully Roy or Jane might try to pump them.

‘Can you tell me about any men friends she may have had?’ he asked. ‘Do you know if she was thinking of marrying again?’

Again Franklin shook his head. ‘I’m sure she did have men friends but she never mentioned them to me. I wouldn’t have expected her to. She certainly never said anything about marrying again.’

‘Did you ever make any attempt to find out about men friends?’

He frowned. ‘I certainly did not. It was none of my business.’ The divorce had come about because of his own infidelity, not that of his wife. He had never been jealous of her, had never been given cause to be jealous during their marriage, he didn’t consider himself a jealous man.

‘Would you have objected to her marrying again?’

He began to look angry. ‘No, of course I would not. Why on earth should I object? I married again myself, I’m very happily married.’

‘Did Venetia bear you any resentment over the divorce?’

‘She did not,’ Franklin said brusquely. ‘We were on good terms. She was never a trouble-maker, she was always easy-going, never aggressive, never the sort to make unnecessary difficulties.’

The Chief asked if Venetia had had any kind of job.

‘No,’ Franklin told him. ‘She never worked after we were married. She wasn’t the type to want a career.’

‘Do you know of any close women friends?’

‘I’m afraid not.’ He supplied the Chief with patchy details of various women Venetia had been friendly with during their marriage but the friendships had never been close. ‘I’ve no idea if she still saw any of them,’ he added. He had been able to identify the picture postcard in the hall at the cottage–sent from Italy on holiday–as being from a married couple they had both known slightly during their marriage; he hadn’t seen anything of them since the divorce.

‘What about her family?’

Franklin looked thunderstruck. ‘Her mother! I’d forgotten about her. I’ll have to tell her.’ He looked appalled at the notion. ‘She’s a widow,’ he told Kelsey. ‘Venetia’s father died some years ago, not long after we were married. Her mother sold the house and went back to Wychford, that was where she’d lived as a girl.’ Wychford was a small town ten miles to the west of Cannonbridge. ‘She can’t get about much, she suffers badly from arthritis. She moved into sheltered accommodation a few years ago, one of those places with a warden. I haven’t seen her since the divorce.’ He grimaced. ‘She was pretty upset about all that–even though she’d never thought me good enough for her daughter.’ Venetia had been an only child and he knew of no other relatives.

He looked uneasily up at Kelsey. ‘I’ll have to go over to see Mrs Stacey–Venetia’s mother. I can’t very well tell her over the phone.’ He pushed back his chair. ‘I’d better get cracking.’

‘We can tell her if you like,’ Kelsey offered. ‘We’ll have to see her anyway.’

Detective Sergeant Lambert drove the chief over to Wychford. When they reached the apartment block Kelsey sought out the warden and explained his errand. She took them along to Mrs Stacey’s flat, going in first to prepare the ground, and staying in the room while the Chief broke the news.

Mrs Stacey was a small, slight woman in her late sixties, looking several years older. Her habitual manner appeared withdrawn and self-absorbed; she had a faded, desiccated air, a resigned and melancholy expression.

It seemed to Sergeant Lambert that she bore the news with a good deal more fortitude and self-control than might have been expected. As if she were walled off in her little flat from the happenings of the larger life outside and what filtered through to her restricted world could have no very profound or lasting effect on the small routines of her daily existence.

The warden brought in a tray of tea and waited till Mrs Stacey felt able to answer questions. When the door had finally closed behind the warden Kelsey began by asking Mrs Stacey if she had any idea where her daughter had intended going for the weekend.

‘No idea at all,’ she told him. ‘But then I wouldn’t expect to know.’ She spoke without any sign of emotion, she might have been talking of some chance acquaintance.

She hadn’t seen much of Venetia since she’d moved back to Wychford, she had seen even less of her after the divorce. ‘She brought the children over to see me once in a way. For my birthday or at Christmastime.’ She gestured with a knobby hand. ‘She had her own life. We were never close, I was almost forty when she was born. She was always a lot closer to her father.’

Kelsey asked when she had last seen her daughter. ‘The best part of two months ago,’ she said. ‘It was a Sunday, early in March, a beautiful sunny day. She just put the children in the car and brought them over. She could be like that sometimes, acted on impulse.’ She looked at Kelsey with no expression on her lined, withered face. ‘She didn’t let me know they were coming. I don’t have my own phone here but people can ring the warden.’ Her hands drooped in her lap. ‘I was having a nap after lunch when they came . . .’ Her voice trailed away. It’s beginning to get to her, Sergeant Lambert thought.

‘Did you notice anything in particular about her state of mind?’ Kelsey asked. ‘Did she appear worried in any way? Did she mention any difficulties?’

‘Do you mean difficulties about money? As far as I knew, she was all right for money. She never complained of being short and she always seemed able to afford what she wanted. She never discussed her financial affairs with me.’

‘Did she mention any other kind of worries? Of a personal kind, perhaps?’

She shook her head slowly. ‘She seemed perfectly all right, just as usual.’

‘Do you know of any men friends?’

‘She had men friends, of course. She was never short of boyfriends, right from when she was at school.’ She glanced across at a photograph of Venetia as a girl of sixteen or seventeen. It stood with a dozen others on a Victorian whatnot in the corner. She gave a long trembling sigh and fell silent.

‘Can you tell me the names of any of her men friends?’ Kelsey prompted when she showed no sign of continuing.

She shook her head again. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know any names. She’d just say something in passing, she’d been to a show or out to dinner, but she never mentioned any names.’

‘Do you know if she had any intention of marrying again?’

‘She did say once or twice that she’d never marry again, once was more than enough. She said it as if she meant it–but then another time she’d say something half-joking, as if she did think of marrying again.’ She paused and then added, ‘One day last year she said: “Do you remember how you always wanted me to marry someone respectable? A professional man of standing in the community?” She glanced up at Kelsey. ‘She was teasing me when she said that, of course. Years ago, when she was a girl, I used to say that sort of thing to her sometimes, that she mustn’t throw herself away on the first man that asked her, she ought to marry someone of substance.’ She drew a little sighing breath. ‘She laughed–this was that day last year–and said: “You never know, I might surprise you after all one of these days and do just that.”’

‘Do you think she had some particular man in mind when she said that?’

‘I’ve no idea. You never knew when to take her seriously.’ She closed her eyes and lowered her head. After a moment she fumbled in her pocket with her twisted fingers and took out a handkerchief; she dabbed clumsily at her eyes.

‘She was only eighteen when she got married,’ she said as she put the handkerchief away again. ‘Roy was five or six years older. I was against it, I thought she was much too young. But her father never could stand out against her for long. And he thought Roy had a lot of go about him, he thought he’d do well in life.’ She sighed again and shook her head. ‘So I hoped for the best, I hoped it would work out all right.’ She moved a hand. ‘I can’t say I was very surprised when it ended in divorce, I never thought they were really suited.’

‘Were you surprised at the way the divorce came about?’

‘You mean that it was Roy who found someone else and not Venetia? No, not really. After a year or two, when the honeymoon days were over, Roy started going on at Venetia, finding fault with her. He thought she was extravagant, she should help in the business. He wanted her to serve in the shop–she used to work in a shop before she was married but it was a very different place from Franklin’s, very high-class. Youngjohn’s, the china and gift shop, I expect you know it. They have such lovely things there and of course Venetia always liked beautiful things, she had very good taste.’ Tears threatened again but she made a determined effort to blink them away. ‘She never paid much attention to Roy’s grumbles, she just went on in her own way. She used to laugh at him, say he took things too seriously, there was more to life than working every hour God sends.’

‘What kind of terms was she on with Roy and his second wife?’

“Very good,’ she said at once. ‘There was never anything spiteful about Venetia.’

‘Do you know of any particular woman friend? Someone she might have confided in?’

‘She wasn’t the kind to have close women friends.’ She pondered. ‘There’s Megan, Megan Brewster, I suppose she might have talked to her, though she hadn’t seen her for years until about six months ago. Megan was the nearest she ever had to a sister when they were young.’ The Brewsters had lived next door to them in Cannonbridge. The two girls were the same age, went to school together, sat next to each other in class. ‘They were really very different,’ Mrs Stacey said. ‘I suppose it was the attraction of opposites.’ She nodded over at the whatnot. ‘Megan’s in one of those photographs, with Venetia. On the second shelf.’

Kelsey went over and picked up the photograph. Venetia, eleven or twelve years old, very pretty in a short-sleeved cotton frock, her long curly fair hair tied up in a pony tail; she was smiling, posing theatrically for the camera. And Megan beside her, taller and thinner, with short, straight, black hair cut in a fringe. She stood erect and poised, her hands at her sides, her dark eyes looking squarely and unself-consciously out at the camera, her expression serious and thoughtful.

‘The Brewsters left Cannonbridge when Megan was fourteen,’ Mrs Stacey said as Kelsey sat down again. ‘Mr Brewster was transferred to the West Country. The girls wrote to each other at first but after a while they stopped. And then one day just before Christmas last year, when Venetia came over here with the children to see me, she told me she’d had a phone call from Megan. She was really pleased to hear from her again. Megan’s still single, she’s a real career girl. She works for a department store.’ She mentioned the name of a nationwide chain. ‘She’d been moved to the Martleigh branch.’ Martleigh was a good deal smaller than Cannonbridge and lay some twenty-two miles to the north-east of that town.

‘I know Venetia went over to Martleigh more than once to see Megan.’ Mrs Stacey broke off and put a hand up to her face. ‘Of course–Megan won’t know about Venetia. How dreadful–she’ll probably hear it on the radio or see it in the papers.’ All at once she began to cry, terribly and painfully, her head bent, her misshapen hands covering her face.

Kelsey waited in silence until she was again in command of herself. She sat up and gave him a level look from her faded blue eyes. ‘If you’ve any more questions to ask,’ she said, ‘don’t worry about me. Go right ahead and ask. I’ll be all right.’

‘Just two more points,’ Kelsey said gently. ‘Do you feel you can shed any kind of light on what’s happened?’

‘Living in that cottage,’ she said at once, with certainty. ‘It’s far too isolated. I never liked her living there alone, just with the children, after the divorce. I suggested to her more than once that she might think of moving into town but she said she liked it out at Foxwell, it was quiet and private. But I never thought it wise. So many unbalanced people about these days, people who’ll stop at nothing. A young woman on her own like that, unprotected, it seemed to me to be asking for trouble.’

‘I’m afraid this is going to be an ordeal for you,’ Kelsey said as he took out the brown scarf folded into its plastic wrapping. He did his best to prepare Mrs Stacey, to lessen the shock before he asked her if she would look at the scarf to see if she could recognize it. She braced herself and looked down with careful concentration at the silky material with its subdued, paisley-type pattern. The scarf was not of good quality and was far from new. She studied it for several moments before she shook her head decisively. She was quite certain she had never seen the scarf before. ‘I would be very surprised indeed if it had belonged to Venetia,’ she said with conviction. ‘It’s not at all the kind of thing she would wear.’

CHAPTER 3

The results of the post mortem were expected around the middle of Tuesday morning. Before that there was the Press to deal with, the local radio station, a conference, briefings.

Shortly after eleven Chief Inspector Kelsey came down the hospital steps. There had been no sign of any sexual assault on Venetia Franklin. She had been struck a savage blow on the chin, powerful enough to break her jaw. The back of her skull had also been fractured, probably as the result of a fall caused by the blow to the chin. Death had followed swiftly upon the ramming of the scarf down her throat. The stomach contents revealed that she had died very soon after a light meal of tea and cake, such as she had eaten with the children just before Franklin arrived.

Sergeant Lambert followed the Chief across the hospital car park. Kelsey looked at his watch. ‘We’ve time to call in at Venetia’s bank before we go over to see Megan Brewster,’ he told Lambert. He had spoken to Megan on the phone, had arranged to see her at twelve-thirty. And he had fixed an appointment with Venetia’s solicitor for tomorrow afternoon. The solicitor couldn’t see him before then, he would be in court the whole of today and tomorrow morning.

Venetia’s account was with the Allied Bank, the oldest established bank in Cannonbridge. It was housed in a handsome period building in Broad Street, close to the town centre; it had an atmosphere of great calm and substance.

The assistant manager was at the counter when the two policemen crossed the marble floor of the spacious hall. ‘I’m afraid Mr Colborn’s not in,’ he told the Chief. ‘You’ve just missed him. He has an appointment with a business customer, he’ll probably be with him for the rest of the morning.’ But the assistant would be happy to furnish the Chief with any information he might require.

He took the two men into an office. ‘Mrs Franklin opened an account with us after her divorce,’ he told them. Before that she had had a joint account with her husband at another bank in the town. The last contact Allied had had with her was last Friday afternoon when she had looked in for a moment to say she had decided after all not to sell some shares she held. She had spoken to the assistant; she had seemed much as usual, in good spirits.

He went through the records of her account with the Chief. All very straightforward and unremarkable. Her income came from three sources, two of them deriving from her ex-husband. The first was a fixed monthly payment of a size which seemed to the Chief of the order of what might be expected in the way of alimony from a man in Franklin’s position. In addition Franklin paid into her account every quarter a sum which varied up or down but was always fairly substantial. Venetia had lived comfortably within her income and from time to time she had, on the bank’s advice, invested the surplus that arose. The dividends from these investments provided her third source of income, very small in relation to the other two. She had never paid in any money, cash or cheques, from any other source.

When the two men left the bank they went straight over to Martleigh, to the store where Megan Brewster worked as knitwear buyer. They took a lift to her office on the top floor.

She was a tall, very slim, very elegant young woman with dark, shrewdly intelligent eyes, shining black hair fashionably cut. She was still recognizably the girl in Mrs Stacey’s photograph; she had the same direct look, the same disciplined air.

She answered the Chief Inspector’s questions readily, in a straightforward manner. She had been appalled at the news of the crime, at the brutality of the killing, but after the initial shock she couldn’t, in all honesty, say that she was totally surprised. Venetia had talked to her about visiting singles clubs and bars and Megan had thought this very unwise, had tried to warn her against it. She made a face of distaste as she spoke. She had told Venetia she believed such places acted as a magnet for every kind of undesirable. But Venetia had laughed, brushing her objections aside as prudish and old-fashioned. She was sure many of these clubs were highly respectable, providing relaxed, comfortable meeting-places for ordinary decent citizens on their own for perfectly valid reasons.

No, Megan couldn’t supply the name of any particular bar or club Venetia had visited. She couldn’t even say for certain that Venetia had actually visited any at all. She hadn’t seen Venetia for five or six weeks. ‘I’ve been in Europe on a buying trip,’ she explained. She had been away for a month, had returned a few days ago. She had last seen Venetia ten days before she left for Europe. Venetia had driven over to the store, had spent the morning shopping there, had lunched with Megan, as she had done three or four times since Megan had got in touch with her again. On this last occasion she had asked Megan to help her pick out a couple of dresses. ‘She wanted them to be high-fashion, youthful,’ Megan said. She had heard nothing from Venetia since that day. Nor had she any idea where Venetia might have intended going last weekend.

Venetia hadn’t discussed her personal affairs with her in any detail. She had given Megan a brief, sketchy account of her marriage and divorce but had shown little inclination to dwell on the past. ‘She seemed to be just beginning to realize she was free,’ Megan said. ‘That she could live her life to suit herself. She felt all kinds of exciting possibilities were opening up.’

Megan didn’t know of any close woman friend Venetia might have had. ‘She didn’t seem to have many friends of any kind,’ she told them. ‘It can be difficult after a divorce.’

Kelsey asked if Venetia had appeared to have any problems, if she had spoken of any worries, but Megan shook her head. ‘Far from it. She seemed very pleased at the way her life was opening out. And she certainly didn’t seem short of money, she seemed able to buy what she wanted when she came over here. That last time, when I helped her to pick out the dresses, she never even looked at the price tag till she’d decided what she was having. Pretty expensive dresses they were too, but she didn’t turn a hair.’

The Chief showed her the scarf but she didn’t recognize it. She said at once that she couldn’t imagine Venetia owning or wearing it.

Venetia hadn’t discussed her relationship with her ex-husband and his second wife but from passing references Megan had gathered that the relationship was amicable enough. Venetia did once mention the way in which her marriage had ended. ‘She said Roy had grown more and more critical and pernickety but she didn’t let it bother her.’ Then one day, purely by chance, she had caught him out in a lie about where he’d been the evening before when he was supposed to be on a business call. She challenged him about it half-jokingly. He hesitated and then to her astonishment suddenly told her there was someone else and he wanted a divorce. As soon as Venetia got her breath back she told him that provided he could make acceptable arrangements for herself and the children she would offer no objection. ‘She burst out laughing when she was telling me about it,’ Megan added. ‘She said she couldn’t get the divorce fast enough–though she didn’t go out of her way to make that plain to Roy.’

‘Do you know if she thought of remarrying?’

Megan shook her head. ‘I’m certain it was the last thing in her mind.’

‘Do you know of any particular man friend?’

‘I’m sure she wasn’t in love with anyone. She did once mention someone, one day over lunch, some man who was keen to marry her. I gathered she’d been having an affair with him, it had started soon after the divorce. She wasn’t serious about him, she’d plunged into the affair without much thought, a reaction from the divorce. She was cooling off by the time she spoke to me about it. He was getting too possessive. She said she hadn’t cut herself free from one set of chains to let herself be tied up in another. She wanted fun and a good time, not dog-like devotion.’

‘Did she mention his name? Or anything else about him?’

‘She certainly never mentioned his name.’ She pondered. ‘The only thing I can remember her saying–and I don’t really think it meant anything–was when she stood up at the end of lunch to go over and get her coat. She pulled a face and said: “Could you really imagine me being married to a bank manager?” I didn’t get the impression he actually was a bank manager, I think she said that to give me an idea of the kind of person he was, the sort of life he led, conventional and respectable.’

‘She didn’t enlarge?’

‘No. She came back with her coat, said goodbye and went off home. She never talked about him again.’

‘Did you get the impression that she’d finished with him?’

Again she pondered. ‘No, I don’t believe she had. I think she saw him from time to time. I remember her saying he still had his uses.’

It was two-fifteen when the two men again walked in through the massive mahogany doors of the Allied Bank. Mr Colborn had still not returned. ‘He probably stayed late with the client,’ the assistant manager told them, ‘and then went out to lunch with him. If I can be of any further assistance . . .’

Kelsey asked if the bank had records of any payments Mrs Franklin might have made in recent weeks to clubs, bars, dating agencies, singles organizations and the like. A few minutes later the assistant told him that the account showed a payment made about a month ago to a singles club, and another payment a day or two later to a travel agent. Both these concerns were in Strettisham, a small town five miles away. As if, Kelsey reflected, Venetia had chosen to begin her forays at some little distance from her own doorstep.

When they left the bank the Chief told Lambert to drive to Springfield House on the chance that Colborn might have nipped off home after leaving his client, might have seized the chance to put his feet up for half an hour.

The Chief had never set foot inside Springfield House but he had been aware of its existence since his childhood. On his way to the library on Saturday mornings as a schoolboy he used to pass the house with its tall gates firmly closed, the drive rank with weeds, grass thrusting up through the circle of gravel before the house. The place had always seemed to him to have an air of mystery and romance, past grandeurs and faded splendours.

They reached the tree-lined road and Lambert turned the car in through the gates, standing open now, splendidly refurbished, the elegant black spears tipped with gold, glittering in the afternoon sun. A car was drawn up before the house, a blue Ford Orion.

Lambert’s third ring at the bell was answered by Colborn. He wore a dark business suit, he looked pale and weary. He didn’t appear surprised to see them–as if, Lambert thought, he was too tired to feel surprise about anything. Kelsey had come across him briefly at functions in the town but Colborn showed no sign of recognition. He stood in silence, looking at them.

The Chief introduced himself and explained that they had called in connection with the death of a customer of the bank, Mrs Venetia Franklin. Colborn listened with no expression on his face other than that of deep fatigue as Kelsey told him they had been to the bank and had been given details of Mrs Franklin’s account. ‘One or two questions arise,’ Kelsey added. ‘You might be able to help. We were passing the house, we took a chance you might be at home.’

‘I dropped in for a bite of lunch,’ Colborn said flatly. ‘I spent the morning at Holloway’s–Holloway’s Heating and Plumbing. He kept me later than I expected.’ He stepped aside for them to enter. ‘This is a terrible business about Mrs Franklin,’ he said as he closed the door. ‘Utterly beyond belief.’ He took them into his study and offered them drinks which they refused. He took a glass of whisky himself and sat cradling it. He seemed totally exhausted; his speech, movements and gestures were all profoundly lethargic. He displayed no impatience as he sat waiting for Kelsey to ask his questions, he stared down into his glass, his face drained, tinged with grey.

‘How long have you known Mrs Franklin?’ Kelsey began.

‘About two years.’ Still he sat gazing into his glass. ‘She came to us after her divorce. She wanted a different bank from her ex-husband.’ He glanced briefly at the Chief. ‘That’s very common.’

‘Had you known her before that?’

He moved his head. ‘Very vaguely. I’d come across her at some charity function in the town. I just knew her to stop and speak a word to.’

‘No more than that?’ Colborn shook his head in silence. He raised his glass and took a long drink.

‘After she began banking with you,’ Kelsey went on, ‘did you extend your acquaintance with her?’

He turned his glass in his hands. ‘As a customer, yes, naturally. She asked my advice about investments, credit cards, and so on.’

‘Did you become friendly with her on a personal level?’

‘No, I can’t say I did.’ He passed a hand across his forehead. ‘I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a bad time. I’ve had a pretty strenuous time at the bank lately. So many firms in difficulties these days, so much that can go wrong, one has to walk a perpetual tightrope when it comes to making decisions.’

‘We won’t keep you much longer,’ Kelsey promised. ‘I wondered if you knew Mrs Franklin from way back, before she was married?’

Colborn shook his head.

‘Did you at any time form a close friendship with her?’ Again he shook his head. He showed neither impatience nor resentment at the line of questioning, he didn’t ask what the Chief was driving at. He said nothing at all beyond answering what he was asked, sitting there grey and fatigued, drinking his whisky.

‘When did you last see Mrs Franklin?’ the Chief continued.

‘About ten days ago, in the bank.’

‘In the way of business?’

‘Not even that. She was standing at the counter when I happened to cross the hall. I just said good morning as I passed.’

‘Have you any idea where she might have intended going this last weekend?’

‘No idea at all.’ He looked across at Kelsey. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got rather a bad migraine. It tends to come on if I get over-tired. I had a fairly hectic weekend. I was at a seminar at the bank’s place in the country. I went straight there from work on Friday afternoon, I didn’t get back till Sunday night. I haven’t had a chance to relax properly for days.’ He glanced at his watch and uttered an exclamation. ‘I must go, I have appointments.’

Kelsey stood up. ‘We’ll be off, then. Don’t trouble yourself, we’ll find our own way out.’ He paused on the study threshold and glanced back. Colborn hadn’t moved but still sat in his chair, looking as if all effort was utterly beyond him.

Outside in the car Sergeant Lambert said, ‘He looked pretty rough. I hadn’t credited banking with being such a wearing business.’ As he switched on the engine he suddenly added, ‘Youngjohn’s–the shop where Venetia worked as a girl. It’s in Broad Street, a few doors from the Allied Bank.’

Kelsey’s head came sharply round, he sat for a moment in silence, staring at Lambert, then he said, ‘That customer, the one Colborn spent the morning with—’

‘Holloway’s Heating and Plumbing.’ Lambert knew where the business was situated, out on the industrial estate. A small, thriving business, bent on expansion.

‘We’ll nip along there now,’ Kelsey said. ‘We’ll have a word with Holloway.’

Ten minutes later they were in Holloway’s office. ‘We’ve been trying to get a word with Mr Colborn,’ the Chief told him. ‘We understood he was here with you.

‘He was here,’ Holloway said with an edge of impatience. He was a short, thickset bull of a man with a jutting jaw. ‘For all the good he did he might as well never have come. He left here some time ago, before twelve.’ He flung out a hand. ‘Total waste of time, he was in no state to make head or tail of my books. He looked half dead when he got here, as if he’d been up all night. I asked him if he was all right and he said he was. But when he started asking me the same questions twice over I put it to him fair and square that he hadn’t got his mind on what he was supposed to be doing.

‘Then he came out with it and said he had one hell of a migraine, he could hardly see straight. I said to him: “Why on earth didn’t you say so right out, instead of carrying on with this pantomime? You could have cancelled the appointment, fixed another day.’” He thrust out his jaw. ‘I told him, “The last thing I need is my commercial future judged by a guy with migraine.”’ He walked with Kelsey to the door. ‘So he gave in and took himself off. I don’t know where you’ll find him now. He may be back at the bank or he may have gone home to bed. That’s where I’d be in his condition, he looked absolutely knackered to me.’

CHAPTER 4

‘Back to Springfield House,’ Kelsey directed as he got into the car. ‘I’ll lay you two to one Colborn’s still there.’

And the blue Orion was still drawn up by the front door when they again turned in through the gates. This time it took four rings before Colborn came to the door. The grey had left his face, his cheeks were flushed, he looked as if he had just been wakened from a doze. Again he said nothing but stood looking at them without impatience or irritation.

‘A couple of points we overlooked when we were here,’ Kelsey said in a tone of apology. ‘If we might step inside again. It won’t take a minute.’

Colborn drew back the door in silence and they stepped inside. He closed the door and turned to face them. In the same moment the Chief produced the brown scarf in its plastic wrapping and thrust it out under Colborn’s nose.

‘Have you ever seen that before?’ he asked abruptly.

Colborn jerked his head back in surprise. He stared down at the packet. ‘It’s a scarf,’ Kelsey told him.

A look of appalled horror crossed Colborn’s face. He glanced up at Kelsey. ‘You mean it’s the scarf . . .?’

Kelsey didn’t answer that. He repeated, ‘Have you ever seen it before?’

The colour had drained from Colborn’s face, he looked on the point of collapse. He put out a hand and steadied himself against the wall. ‘Do you recognize it?’ Kelsey pressed him. Colborn drew a long trembling breath and shook his head. He looked poleaxed, utterly grief-stricken.

‘You loved her,’ Kelsey said. ‘That’s the truth, isn’t it?’

Colborn dropped his head into his hands and began to weep, with great shuddering sobs. ‘You’d better tell us about it,’ Kelsey invited. Colborn made no response. The shuddering and sobbing continued. ‘We can’t stand here,’ Kelsey said brusquely. ‘We’ll go along to your study.’

Colborn made a strong effort to take a grip on himself and the shudders began to die away. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his eyes. After a minute or two he seemed to have regained some measure of control. He followed the Chief along to the study.

The moment Sergeant Lambert closed the study door behind them Colborn began to speak, in a rush, with an air of relief. ‘It was a terrible shock when I heard about Mrs Franklin,’ he said in a rapid, uneven tone, his face contorted at the recollection. All three of them were still standing. ‘I was told of it when I got to the bank this morning. One of the girls had heard it on the local radio. I couldn’t believe it.’ He looked earnestly at the Chief. ‘It was all over between us months ago. It was never anything very . . . intense, for either of us, it was—’ He drew another trembling breath. ‘Just folly, really. She was at a loose end after the divorce and I—’ He moved his shoulders. ‘I was restless, overworked. It seemed some kind of answer, a distraction from pressure and strain. She was always light-hearted, she took my mind off my worries.’ He pressed his hands together. ‘But it was an appalling shock, all the same. I was still fond of her. It didn’t end in a quarrel, nothing like that, it was all very amicable.’

‘How did it end?’ Kelsey asked.

Colborn spread a hand. ‘I simply came to my senses, saw the risks I was taking. I put it to her and she understood. I have a very good marriage, I value it highly, it was madness to risk losing my wife.’ He broke off suddenly with a look of consternation. ‘My wife–she won’t have to know any of this?’

‘She won’t hear it from me,’ Kelsey assured him. Colborn closed his eyes for an instant. ‘But there’s no telling in a case of this kind,’ Kelsey warned him. ‘These things have a way of coming out. It might be better to tell her yourself, right away. She’ll probably be a lot more understanding than you think.’

‘I couldn’t do that,’ Colborn said on a note of dismay. ‘She’d be horrified. She doesn’t know anything about Venetia, she doesn’t even know she existed.’

‘She’ll know she existed by now all right,’ Kelsey said. ‘Everyone in the town will know about Mrs Franklin by now. Your wife’s bound to discover she was a customer at the bank. You’ll have to be prepared to talk about her. Your wife’s bound to be interested, to ask you questions, it’s only natural.’

‘I can cope with that,’ Colborn said. ‘But I couldn’t tell her the rest of it.’

‘It’s entirely up to you.’ Kelsey made a dismissive gesture. He glanced about. ‘We might as well sit down. Now–you told us earlier that you didn’t know Mrs Franklin before she was married.’

‘I did know her very slightly,’ Colborn said. ‘She was a good deal younger than me.’

‘Were you in love with her at that time?’

He shook his head. ‘She was just a pretty girl who worked in a shop near the bank. She used to come in for change. I talked to her sometimes.’

‘Did you want to marry her at that time?’

‘Good heavens, no! I was in no position to think about marrying anyone. My mother was alive then, I was living here with her. She’d been an invalid for years. I had enough to contend with without looking for new responsibilities.’

‘And recently, when you took up with Mrs Franklin again, did you want to marry her then?’

Colborn was beginning to look immensely fatigued again. ‘No, there was never any question of that, for either of us. It was never that serious.’

‘Perhaps you wanted to marry her but she was unwilling?’ Kelsey persisted.

Colborn shook his head.

‘Did she perhaps agree to marry you and then later change her mind?’

Colborn pressed the fingers of both hands against his temples. ‘No, that was never the situation.’

‘Is there anything else you want to change in what you told us earlier? When you last saw her, if you knew where she was going for the weekend, and so on?’

Again he shook his head.

‘She made no objection when you told her you wanted to end the association?’

‘She would have liked to go on with it. She always took it lightly–she wasn’t running any risks, it was just an amusement for her. But she understood when I pointed out that it could ruin everything for me, my marriage, my career. We didn’t part on bad terms. If I saw her in the bank or if she wanted my advice about some business matter, it was always perfectly friendly, no hard feelings on either side.’

‘There was never any awkwardness?’

‘Never. She was a very pleasant woman, she had a very nice nature.’ He suddenly dropped his head into his hands again. After a few moments he looked up and said with an attempt at composure, ‘I can’t deny I’m pretty shattered by her death.’ His eyes were full of pain. ‘It’s caught me at a low ebb. It’s the shock, coming on top of all the pressure I’ve been under lately.’

‘Do you know of any new men friends she may have had in the last month or two?’ Kelsey asked.

‘No. I wouldn’t expect to know.’

‘You made no attempt to find out?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘Perhaps she told you she’d met someone else, that she wanted to break it off with you? Perhaps that was how you came to part?’

‘No, that wasn’t the way it ended. I’ve told you how it was.’

‘Did you know she had joined a singles club?’

‘No, not exactly, but it doesn’t surprise me. She told me she intended going out more, making new friends.’

There was a brief silence, then Kelsey said, ‘Jealousy can be a terrible emotion.’

‘I was never jealous of her,’ Colborn protested. ‘It was never on that level, never that strong. The truth is, I was relieved when it was over. I didn’t enjoy telling lies to Ruth, it’s not in my nature.’

‘Were you in touch with Mrs Franklin last Thursday or Friday? In any way at all?’

He shook his head.

‘Where were you last Friday afternoon?’

‘I told you, I spent the weekend at the bank’s place in the country, Danehill Manor. I left the bank at three o’clock. I was given a lift by one of the other managers.’

‘We’ll have his name,’ Kelsey said. ‘You realize we have to check everything of this nature.’

There was an appreciable silence.

‘If we could have his name,’ Kelsey repeated. ‘It’s a matter of routine.’

There was another silence, then Colborn said, ‘I’m afraid this is rather awkward.’

‘In what way awkward?’

Colborn made no reply. His face wore a look of great unease.

‘You did leave the bank at three and drive to Danehill Manor with your colleague?’ Kelsey asked sharply.

‘Well, actually, no, it wasn’t quite like that,’ Colborn said at last. He stared at the wall. ‘My colleague rang me at the bank shortly after two to say something had cropped up and he wouldn’t be able to get away as early as he’d planned.’ He looked at Kelsey. ‘I’d prepared a paper to read at the seminar, we all had to do that. I was nervous about it, I hadn’t been able to give my mind to it properly. During the morning I kept thinking of other points I might have made but I had no time to do anything about it. I jumped at the chance to do some more work on the paper. I asked my colleague if he’d pick me up at home instead of at the bank. At three o’clock I left the bank and came over here. I worked on the paper till my colleague came to collect me.’

‘Did you say anything about this alteration in your plans to any member of your staff? Did you tell your assistant you were going home?’

‘No. When I left the bank they took it for granted I was being picked up outside by my colleague. I saw no reason to tell them otherwise.’

‘You saw no reason to tell us either.’

He moved his shoulders. ‘I didn’t actually tell you my colleague picked me up at three outside the bank.’

‘You knew that was what we believed. You allowed it to stand.’

‘It didn’t seem very important.’

‘If something similar should crop up in the course of this interview, or any other interview we might have,’ Kelsey said crisply, ‘perhaps you’d be good enough at the time to correct any misapprehension under which you see me labouring, however unimportant it might appear to you.’ Colborn gave a jerky nod.

‘Can your wife confirm that you arrived here soon after three and worked on your paper?’ Kelsey asked.

‘I’m afraid not. She wasn’t here at the time, she was at Polesworth all afternoon, for the presentation of purses.’ Kelsey knew about the ceremonies at Polesworth. ‘She went on afterwards to supper and a musical evening at the house of some friends.’

‘At precisely what time did your colleague call for you here?’

‘I can be very precise about that.’ Colborn’s tone began to show animation. ‘It was half past five. I looked at the clock when he rang the bell and he commented on the time himself when I opened the door. He was concerned about being late getting to the Manor, he was full of apologies.’

‘Right, then,’ Kelsey said briskly. ‘I hope we’ve got a proper tale at last. Now, if we might have your colleague’s name and where we can get hold of him, we’ll be able to confirm what you’ve told us.’

‘For God’s sake, don’t do that!’ Colborn said in alarm. ‘It’ll be all round head office, they’ll wonder what on earth’s going on, it’ll do my career no good at all.’

‘I see your point,’ Kelsey said in the tone of a reasonable man. ‘But you must see mine. We can’t simply take at face value everything anyone cares to tell us. It’s all got to be checked.’

‘Yes, I see that,’ Colborn said. ‘But there must be some other way you can check it.’ He struck his hands together. ‘The garage–you can check there, he’ll remember. It’s just round the corner from here, the Silver Star. I always go there, the owner’s a customer at the bank. When we left here my colleague said he had to get some petrol. We went to the Silver Star and while he was filling up I stood chatting to the owner. I told him where we were off to, that we were late, and he commented on the traffic.’ He paused. ‘I remember he looked up at the clock and said we’d be right in the thick of the rush hour. You ask him, he’ll confirm what I’ve told you.’

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