Whoever Has the Heart Read online

  I drank some tea, and ate buttered bread and honey. This might be my case, the one I was looking for.

  Women avenge women. I wished I had known Chloe Devon.

  I went to bed early, wrapping myself in blankets on the camp bed which I set up in front of the fire. I must see about ordering a bed; I knew a shop the other side of Oxford which made beautiful beds and which would deliver one speedily. I had saved the owner a lot of money from a con man so I knew he would look after me well.

  The fire crackled with a comforting voice, Muff deposited herself upon me, we were both tired and both soon asleep.

  In the morning I drove into my office on the edge of Windsor. It seemed natural somehow, I hardly thought of Maid of Honour Row.

  When I got there, a fax informed me that another arm had been found in New Cross, south London. This arm had been identified as belonging to the girl. On this arm, the fingers still had their pads; the prints matched those in Chloe’s flat.

  Additional information came with this fax which referred to the first arm found: the pathologist who had given it a first examination was puzzled by the bite marks on the fingers. These, he thought, had not been made by a dog or by rats. He was working on it.

  Before I left a leg had been found in a car park in Paddington.

  Bits of Chloe were turning up all over London. But no head and no heart.

  It was universally acknowledged that whoever had the heart, had the case.

  Chapter Four

  Several days passed, and a quick visit to Maid of Honour Row showed me that although the builder had fulfilled his promise of replacing broken window glass and of protecting my roof with tarpaulin, nothing else had been done. Presumably a long queue of aged widows and mothers with babies still stretched ahead of me. I telephoned to get an answerphone message that he was too busy to answer now but would reply when he could, so the rumour passed on by Birdie and Winifred that he had taken off for a holiday in the sun must be false.

  But just in case I left a message of my own to remind him to protect his face when he worked on my roof since my medical friends told me that too much sun was dangerous, leading to heat stroke and skin cancer. Then I left my telephone number in Brideswell in case he wanted to reply.

  My own answering machine had no word from Humphrey, to my secret pique, nor any letters. And he was good at letters.

  Billy Damiani however had left several messages: one in the office, and two at Maid of Honour Row. I had nothing to tell him, except what was in the newspapers.

  I think Billy Damiani was frightened: he was being questioned almost daily now by the Met as pieces of body turned up (a leg today), but there was nothing I could do for him. ‘Let the machine take over,’ was all I said.

  Every morning I set my alarm to wake me at six, then I fed Muff, drank some coffee, and took a bath. I was on the road driving to my office in Windsor before seven. The roads were emptier then so I made good time. I usually cut lunch and worked straight through, leaving early to get back to what I was coming to think of as my ‘country house’. It was getting to be an addiction. The bed and chairs I had ordered would be arriving today so I had left the key with David Cremorne.

  David said it would be a pleasure, he was fascinated to see what I was doing to the house, he knew I was going to be innovative. So far I had not done much. The most innovative thing had been to ask Jack Bean, Ellen’s husband, who was the village handyman, to fit a small cat door for Muff. It was an exit she took full advantage of, and I had seen her in the churchyard, tail busy, eyes alert, on the hunt.

  There was a car parked in the road outside my house, with David’s bike leaning against the garden wall.

  A new car, a big BMW, surely not the means by which the bed had been delivered. I knew the man who made the bed had had much success with fashionable customers with a show of his beds and tables in Liberty’s but I didn’t think he ran a car such as that one.

  I parked my own car behind it and opened my front door. Humphrey was sitting by the fire (lit unasked by someone), he had Muff on his knee, and he was talking to David who lounged on the other side. They both looked comfortably at home.

  Humphrey had managed to surprise me as usual.

  Both men leapt to their feet when they saw me, Humphrey still holding Muff.

  I put down my briefcase and shoulder bag. ‘You two know each other?’

  ‘I know his book,’ said Humphrey.

  ‘He’s made some interesting suggestions,’ said David with a pleased face. ‘ If I have the luck to run to a second edition, then I shall use them.’

  ‘And of course, I know your cousin.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ David was cautious. ‘ I’ve never met him myself. He never comes home from Africa.’

  I demanded to know what was uppermost in my mind. ‘Did the bed come?’

  ‘It arrived the same moment that I did,’ said Humphrey. ‘I helped the man in with it.’ Yes, he certainly knew how to surprise me.

  David was looking at the fire. ‘I was here. We all carried it up the stairs and put it together. Tonight you will sleep in state. You didn’t say it was a four-poster.’

  ‘Only a small one.’ I was a little ashamed of the extravagance. Charmian Daniels, the girl from Dundee, shouldn’t own a four-poster bed. ‘It seemed right for the house. Did the hangings come with it?’

  ‘Came and are up. Muff helped there.’ He looked affectionately at the little cat, still lolling in Humphrey’s arms. ‘She likes you.’

  ‘Known her a long time.’

  I moved towards the table with bottles and glasses. ‘Let’s have a drink.’ I was trying to feel my way, neither of them seemed disposed to be moved from the fire. I wanted a shower and to change out of my working clothes. I was also hungry. I must have looked it, I suppose; Humphrey did know me very well, even better than he knew Muff.

  ‘I’ve booked a table at the Dragon,’ he said. ‘Let’s all have dinner there.’

  ‘Not me, although I’d love to.’ David sounded regretful. ‘Crick’s cooking a special pheasant casserole. I mustn’t keep it waiting either, he gets very tetchy with his cooking.’ He stood up to go.

  I saw him to the door, and thanked him for his help. ‘Pleasure,’ he said. ‘ Some bed.’

  I returned to where Humphrey was poking the fire.

  ‘That’s a new car,’ I said.

  ‘Brought it back with me. You’ll like it. It’s easy to drive. Come back and stay with me.’ He looked around him. ‘ You can’t live here just yet, you haven’t got enough furniture.’

  ‘I’ll manage. I’ve got several pieces, and the bed, don’t forget the bed. I’m getting some more. How’s your house in Windsor? Did it suffer in the big wind?’

  ‘Not touched.’ He put some more wood on the fire. ‘I shall sell it, I think. One can be overhoused. Let’s talk about it over dinner.’

  ‘I want to ask you about Billy Damiani,’ I said as I went upstairs. ‘Oh, he’s trouble all right,’ I heard him mutter.

  The two men had placed the bed well, with its back against the wall where I would be able to look out of the window. It had settled into position as if it had always been there.

  The hangings were a William Morris print of birds and flowers, inspired but not copied from an Elizabethan embroidered counterpane.

  It was ridiculous to have spent so much money, and I didn’t even legally own the house yet.

  Humphrey had followed me upstairs. ‘Nice curtains,’ he said. ‘You see you can choose things for yourself without asking Kate or Annie Cooper.’

  ‘This wasn’t difficult, all the hangings came with the bed.’ I hung up my coat. All I had was a peg on the wall, not even a proper hook. Somewhere to put my clothes must be attended to next. I smoothed the coat lovingly, it was cashmere. I still valued cashmere as if I was still that youngster from Dundee who hadn’t got much. ‘I was surprised to see you here today. I didn’t expect you.’

  ‘You did leave a message saying you were st
aying here. Besides, I was worried about you.’

  ‘About me?’ I was surprised again. It was agreed that I was good at looking after myself. That I expected to and didn’t want help was a tacit agreement.

  ‘The wind.’

  ‘I wasn’t touched. The house yes, but not me. Nor Muff.’

  ‘I felt I could trust Muff to survive,’ he said drily. ‘You can trust me.’ I added, lightly, since I hadn’t meant it seriously, ‘ Even though I have had a telephone call warning me off living in Brideswell. Someone in the village who doesn’t like me, I suppose. Not all country people relish townees moving in.’ And perhaps even fewer liked police officers. ‘But I promise you I can look after myself. Been doing it for years.’

  ‘I wish I believed that. I remember some of the things you’ve got yourself into.’

  ‘I’m a reformed character.’

  ‘I wish you weren’t involved with Damiani.’

  ‘I’m not involved with him.’

  ‘He sticks to things and people.’

  Mary had said something like that. ‘Not to me,’ I answered, really believing it.

  He didn’t answer. ‘I’ve got something for you.’ He produced a red leather box, a box of fine old morocco. ‘Open it.’

  Inside was a large sapphire surrounded with a ring of diamonds. It was a beautiful ring, a dream of a ring, but it was a young girl’s ring, I couldn’t wear it.

  I wanted it, of course, what woman wouldn’t want a ring like that, but it was not for me. I looked down at my hands, well kept but workmanlike, not hands for a ring of such richness.

  It would also be like wearing a label round my neck saying I was owned property. Rings can sound out strong signals.

  ‘It’s lovely.’

  ‘That’s not a no, is it? It doesn’t sound like a yes.’

  ‘It’s too valuable.’ Too large, too everything.

  Over dinner, we talked first about me and my plans. I told Humphrey that I had received a flattering invitation to take part in the chief constables’ course, but that I was doubtful. So I moved on to Billy Damiani. He was a hard man to discuss. I knew without being told that he kept all his secrets behind different doors and no one key opened the lot.

  We were eating duck with orange. I have had periods of being a vegetarian but I think I am a carnivore at heart. Besides, it was wild duck, mallard, which is a superior creature to eat to the domesticated bird, being more flavoursome and less fatty. Humphrey had chosen the red wine to go with it and this too was good.

  ‘May I have some water?’ English hotels hate to give you water although they are very obliging with the bottled fizzy stuff which sometimes seems to cost as much as the wine. Mary Erskine was not there to cast magic over me, but Humphrey seemed to have an even more powerful aura. The waiter scuttled to bring me the water.

  I was not, as it happens, wearing the ring, but it sat in its box on the table between us.

  ‘Tell me what you know about Billy Damiani,’ I said.

  ‘I should guess you could find out anything you wanted to know for yourself.’

  ‘Now come on, don’t be difficult. What I want is your judgement on him and all those secret little details men like you always know about people.’

  He drank some wine, considering what I had said. ‘You can be sharp sometimes.’

  ‘Yes, I know, it goes with the job,’ I said impatiently. ‘Come on. Why don’t you want to talk about him?’

  The red wine swirled round in his glass. ‘The answer is I don’t want to talk about him in relation to you. I don’t like to think of him in relation to you. I wish he had not approached you. He shouldn’t have done.’

  ‘He’s frightened, he thinks I can help. He’s not interested in me.’

  ‘You’re wrong there. He thinks you’re very sexy. Says so.’

  ‘Well, damn him.’ I sat back. ‘And how do you know?’

  He didn’t answer that, but poured us some more wine. ‘I should like to think he will be damned.’ A streak of good old-fashioned Calvinism with its belief in hell and damnation showed itself in Humphrey on occasion. A dose of equally old-fashioned jealousy helped him along there this time. I was interested in that, too old to regard it as a trophy in the wars of sex, but interested.

  ‘There’s no evidence he killed Chloe Devon,’ I said. ‘But he might have done. He’s certainly under suspicion.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about him that will be of any use to you in anything you want to do in this case.’

  I shrugged. ‘ I’m not required to do anything, not my ase. I’m just curious.’

  ‘He is rich, the origin of the money is mysterious but is generally believed to have come from a small inheritance which he speculated with successfully. Property, anything that made money. That isn’t an answer and it means we don’t really know but there is a hint of some criminal connection. I think the money is real,’ he said cautiously, ‘however acquired, drugs possibly, but he is past master of the good-appearance game.’

  ‘You hate him,’ I said.

  For a moment Humphrey did not answer, then he said: ‘I believe I do.’

  ‘It’s not like you to be so personal.’

  ‘Yes, it is. Life’s personal. Sometimes I think you don’t notice that.’

  I looked at him over my wine glass. ‘You really are angry with me. It’s the ring, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, it’s not. It’s the whole thing. You are so bloody difficult to pin down.’

  ‘And I thought you were.’

  We were quarrelling and somehow Billy Damiani came into it. This quarrel was not totally my fault. I felt the anger of a person wrongly accused. And because I was angry, I didn’t say anything, but sat there in silence.

  My anger quietened down, and I found questions in my mind. What was there between these two men and would I ever discover it? Or was it just one of those little masculine secrets that women find so hard to understand?

  And was it possible that Humphrey was the reason that Damiani had come to me for help?

  If it was help he had in mind and not some unidentifiable motive of his own.

  I was seeing Humphrey in a new light, and my anger cooled still more. It didn’t stop our quarrel exactly but it slowed it down.

  ‘Coffee by the fire, sir?’ said the obliging waiter.

  As we stood up, I said to Humphrey: ‘Just in case it clears your mind on anything I do not fancy Billy Damiani.’

  As we walked towards the blazing fire by which a silver pot of coffee was waiting for us, I saw Thomas Dryden in the bar. He was drinking quietly and seriously by himself. And now he did not look like a farmer or a poet but like a man who drank for a profession. He made a gesture of recognition, something between a nod and bow. He knew who I was now, all of Brideswell knew, I was the ‘woman police officer’, and as such an object of interest and gossip to the whole village. I was beginning to understand by now that Brideswell was Byzantine in its relationships.

  Humphrey picked up his coffee cup. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Thomas Dryden, lives in the village, I don’t know where.’

  ‘He’s putting it away a bit.’

  I glanced towards Dryden. ‘He’s unhappy, I think.’

  Humphrey gave him another look. ‘Any special reason, or just general depression?’

  ‘I don’t know but I think it must be connected with the death of his wife.’ I added: ‘A lot of deaths recently in that family. No, don’t look at me like that; nothing in my line of business, natural deaths.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘As far as I know.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘And you haven’t asked any questions?’

  He knew me too well. A series of deaths close together in one family always make me suspicious.

  I had to admit that I had asked a few questions in the right quarters. ‘All the deaths of the Beasleys seem to have been accepted as natural …’ Illness, a viral infection of unknown origin for the Beasley family, or possibly poi
son if you believed Ellen Bean. There would have been an inquest but it must have returned a bland verdict. It might be worth discovering.

  Only for Katherine Dryden who had died in a car crash had there been a faint suggestion of a query: an accident, she had taken a difficult bend too fast. So said the coroner’s inquest and the local CID had accepted it. No problem.

  But it was the sort of accident one could always wonder about.

  As if he knew I was thinking about him, Thomas Dryden raised his head and gave me a smile. I smiled back. We didn’t know each other except by sight but it looked as though that just might change soon.

  The coffee was good, hot and strong. I could see why the Red Dragon prospered, the food and drink there was genuine and if the prices were high then you got what you paid for.

  ‘A good-looking chap,’ said Humphrey morosely. ‘Or he would be when sober.’

  I put down my coffee cup. ‘Let’s have a really good quarrel and get it over with.’

  ‘I’m not quarrelling.’

  ‘No, it takes two, I agree, as in other activities.’ I waited for a laugh or at least a smile but none came. I hesitated. There was something here that needed healing and I must try to heal it. I stretched out a hand. He was wearing a nice greyish rough tweed which I had always liked. ‘Don’t go back to London or wherever tonight.’

  ‘It would be nice to miss the drive.’

  ‘Miss it then.’ I was thinking hard: I had coffee, bread, honey, and Cooper’s Oxford Marmalade. There would be breakfast.

  Through the open window, I saw a young policeman hurrying past. Perhaps he always hurried, but I was interested enough to go to the window and look out.

  Something seemed to be going on down by the church. By leaning sideways I could see a car parked, a van with its headlights on, and several people standing by.

  I went back to the fire. ‘I think there may have been an accident. I’m going to take a look.’

  Humphrey stood up. ‘ I’ll come with you.’

  As we got nearer to the church it became clear that the centre of interest was not in the churchyard but on the stretch of woodland beyond. Even as we looked I saw the vet’s white van start up, headlights full on, and drive across the grass to the trees. A thicket of shrubs hid the heart of the wood.