Whoever Has the Heart Read online

  No sign of her. Somehow she had managed to get out; I remembered now that I had opened the kitchen window briefly to see if it was still raining, and by the time I had settled that to my satisfaction and shut it again, she must have taken her chance to slip through. She was adept at that trick. I didn’t always see her go, the invisible flash-past-me cat. I didn’t like to leave for the day without knowing where she was.

  I grabbed my top coat because it was cold if not wet and walked out into the village to look for her.

  For a moment I hesitated about which way to go, but then I decided to walk towards the church. I was not averse to this stroll down the main street. There was a grim dialogue going on in this village and I ought to listen to it.

  I walked down the street very slowly, looking about me for the cat. I didn’t call her name, there was no need. If she saw me she would show herself to me, as she always did. Lines of parked cars and a long coach showed me that the police had moved in to establish an Incident Room. As I got closer a trail of cables stretching from a manhole to the coach showed that they had their electronic equipment in place. Overnight they had worked fast.

  Outside the baker’s shop, which I now recognized as a central meeting place for the village since it also housed the Post Office, a small line had formed. I put myself behind a tall blonde girl with big blue eyes. She wore jeans, a sweater, a friendly smile, and she had the pale fairness of the Scandinavian.

  ‘You from Sweden?’

  ‘Yes, I am working with Tim, with the animals. I am Lu, short for Louise. We had a Queen Louise, you know. I think she was English.’

  ‘Ah yes.’ I nodded, the queue was moving slowly forward. ‘Do you like the work?’

  ‘He is a lovely man, so kind, and I love him and he loves me. He has little rages but I take no notice. All men have moods, there is a little demon in all of them. I say be a good boy or I will beat you.’

  ‘And do you?’

  ‘No, because he would like it too much.’ She giggled. ‘And that is not good, I think. He falls down a black hole sometimes.’

  She obviously believed in total confession.

  ‘He is so generous, he say to me you should be draped in pale mink. I will give you mink. I say to him but no one wears mink now, it is cruel, and he was surprised.’ She laughed. ‘Perhaps he will grow me some diamonds.’ She saw my face. ‘That is a joke,’ she explained carefully.

  Behind me I heard Ellen Bean give a snort. ‘Silly girl,’ she said.

  I could see the look on her face that meant village gossip was coming. ‘ She doesn’t know him like I do. If there’s a bigger womanizer in the village than the doctor, then it’s him. Once you could rely on the vicar and the doctor and the vet to pay their bills. I say nothing about the parson, he does the best he can.’

  ‘Debts?’ I said.

  ‘There’s a recession on, you know. Mortgaged and borrowed to the hilt, the lot of them.’

  Then she turned to the woman behind her, a slender woman with well-dressed grey hair. She was wearing jeans and a sweater, and looked every inch the actress. I hardly needed Ellen to introduce me to Nora Garden.

  ‘Nora, this is my friend Charmian Daniels.’ Ellen seemed to take a dour pleasure in knowing me.

  Nora Garden smiled and held out a well-manicured hand. ‘Oh, lovely, but I’ve heard of you. You’ve had a lot of media attention.’

  More than I wanted, I thought, and wondered what stories she had picked up. Some I would rather have had buried.

  As I left with my purchases, Muff materialized on a garden wall behind me. ‘Oh, there you are.’ With relief I stretched out my hands to pick her up. Muff looked at me, studied the other two women, then effortlessly jumped into Ellen’s grasp.

  ‘That’s a proper witches’ cat,’ said Ellen with approval as Muff stared, calm and complacent, from her arms.

  ‘She’s my cat.’ I was hurt. ‘Very much my cat.’

  ‘Mine if I want her,’ said Ellen.

  I was about to protest when I remembered the many hours that Muff spent with Winifred Eagle and Bridie Peacock, witches emeritus. It was likely that Muff had picked up a tip or two. Looking at her now, I could believe it.

  ‘No witchcraft, please,’ I said.

  ‘I retired when I married.’

  ‘Bean is a very good witch’s name,’ said Nora Garden, aligning herself unmistakably on my side in this war that seemed to be going on.

  As we stood there, we all saw a car draw up and first a man I recognized as Clive Barney got out and then Dr Harlow.

  Ellen said gleefully: ‘Dr Harlow, eh? Wonder what trouble he’s got buried in his backyard?’

  ‘You sound as if you don’t like the doctor?’

  Nora Garden smiled. ‘Naturally Ellen doesn’t like doctors, she does her own healing.’

  I reclaimed my cat. ‘I must take this creature back.’

  ‘Let her get home on her own,’ said Ellen, turning away. She was going towards the police encampment. ‘ I suppose you know everything that’s going on in there?’ She nodded her head towards it.

  I didn’t answer. If I had been honest I would have said: ‘ Not as much as I would like.’ It was automatic among certain of my colleagues to guard the left hand from knowing what the right hand was doing. And if on the left was a woman, well, all their instincts were to stay on guard.

  Muff began to struggle so that I dropped the keys to the house. ‘Damn.’

  Nora Garden picked them up, moving in one elegant liquid movement that I envied. I am fit and reasonably athletic, but she moved beautifully. I wondered if she had ever been a dancer.

  ‘I’ll help you,’ she said. ‘Be glad to. You have a happy house. I loved Beatrice Armitage.’

  ‘I wish I’d known her.’

  ‘Not easy. Layers to Beatrice. I never called her Bea, by the way. Beatrice is such a lovely name.’

  ‘She called herself Duchess sometimes, I’ve been told.’

  ‘Sometimes, sometimes. Just a joke.’ She unlocked my front door and held it open for me.

  Muff and I entered, and I let Muff go, she stalked off, pride injured.

  ‘Come in, it’s a muddle, but I shall get it in order … I’m afraid it’s changed from what you knew,’ I said, seeing her look around.

  ‘Oh, things have to change. Beatrice would have been the first to say so.’

  There was still some coffee left, so we went into the kitchen and sat drinking it. As we drank I studied my companion.

  I had known Nora Garden by reputation for some years; I had seen her on the television screen and on the stage in various parts, some tragic, some comic. She was better at light comedy. She was not a star but she worked steadily which was more than most players can say. As far as I knew she had never married, but she had the air of a happy woman. And did I say she was slim, and beautifully dressed? Nothing helps a woman more. Jeans she may have been wearing, but they were of soft suede and the sweater was cashmere.

  ‘I’ll have to redecorate,’ I said apologetically.

  ‘She lived like a great lady to the end, except of course right at the end when she was a bit incapacitated, but we all deteriorate at last, don’t we?’ said Nora sadly. ‘But there wasn’t a lot of money left by that time, if there ever had been much. She was so generous, lent money, gave money away.’ She shook her head. ‘It didn’t mean much to her. I had started to bully her a bit about that.’

  I wondered if Mary Erskine had borrowed from her aunt? Mary was always hard up, and although she had scruples, they were not always the ones you expected.

  ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘You never saw her? She never was a great beauty but she had so much charm, so much goodness, that was her secret. And she always married for love. Money never came into it. She couldn’t resist a beautiful face.’

  ‘Quite a few in the village,’ I said, thinking of some of the faces of the men I had seen.

  Nora laughed. ‘Aren’t there? I’ve noticed myself, unusually
high number. And I’m sure Beatrice appreciated everyone.’ Nora put down her mug. It was mugs that day, no good china had migrated from Windsor yet. ‘You make better coffee than Beatrice ever did. Couldn’t cook, of course. Her generation, her class, never did.’ She laughed. ‘She served you the most terrible food on cracked plates, she never minded about that either, but she did it with such an air.’

  I could believe what she said, the state of the kitchen suggested it. Persian rugs on the floor, perhaps even a picture or two, but the oldest cooker I had ever seen.

  ‘I thought she’d live for ever. I was surprised when she died. I was on tour and by the time I got back to Brideswell, she was dead. She took ill, lingered for a few days but never came back to life.’ Nora put her beautiful hands together as if in benediction. ‘Poor love. God, I miss her.’

  ‘Had you known her long?’

  ‘Only since I came to the village … But you could say I came because of her. My grandfather worked for her father. As gardener. So I’d always known about her. The marriages and the gossip. She was a sort of symbol of glamour to me. Someone to learn from.’

  I thought Nora was glamorous herself. No longer young, but by no means old, there was a sort of shine to her. If she had learnt that from Beatrice Armitage, then Lady Mary’s Aunt Bee had been quite something.

  ‘And she used to send telegrams when I had a First Night, come and sit in the stalls and clap. Never came to the dressing room, though. But I’d send a thank-you card and she’d a card at Christmas. I suppose I came to live here because I wanted to know her better.’

  And why did you come? her eyes said.

  She got her answer. ‘Lady Mary is a friend of mine. She showed me the house. I’m looking forward to living here.’

  ‘But you will still work in Windsor?’ Her eyes were bright with interest.

  ‘My base. But I mean to be here a lot.’

  ‘I’m here when I’m not working. Wasn’t at home when that poor girl disappeared.’

  I wasn’t willing to talk about that, although I was interested that she had wanted me to know that fact, but I probed at an area that interested me. ‘Did you know the Beasley family?’

  ‘The ones who died, those three?’ She shook her head. ‘ That was tragic, a whole family wiped out like that, and then Kath Dryden going. There are other Beasleys, Drydens too for that matter, all over the place. Two of the old village families. No, I was filming when they died, I didn’t know them except by sight. I suppose we said good morning and what a nice day, but that was about it. The old villagers tend to keep themselves to themselves, as they would put it. Newcomers are treated politely but not like real villagers. Except for the Cremornes who fit in. Well, the family owns most of the place still. You’ve met David and Crick, I suppose?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Have you read his book? Brilliant, I believe, he’s a natural scholar. No money there either, Crick’s got a small pension, David has just what he earns from writing, and he always says not much. They are lucky to live in that house, rent free.’

  ‘He could get a job, I suppose.’

  ‘Don’t know what as. He’s a real scholar and they’re usually unemployable.’

  Unemployable. I added the word to my picture of David. Perhaps Nora didn’t like him very much. I was learning about the complicated relationships in Brideswell.

  She sighed. ‘I’d better go. I was on my way to buy a loaf.’ And collect all the gossip of the day. She could still do that. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’

  At the door, she paused. ‘You know, this house is haunted. Beatrice is still here, perhaps she always will be. But she must like you. The house still feels happy’ She kissed my cheek very lightly. ‘Bless you, dear.’

  And with a flourish of her cashmere throw, she was gone. Muff had gone too.

  Later that day I found out what had been found hidden in Dr Harlow’s backyard: he had Chloe’s head.

  Chapter Seven

  There was a ghost in Brideswell, one in my own house, so Nora Garden said, but I had yet to see its face.

  Its face? Is it neuter or do ghosts have a sex? Surely this one, if it existed at all, always a matter for doubt, had a sex? Both sexes. It had a man-woman face. A face that opened its mouth, with a tongue that wailed and whipped.

  This was how I saw it later.

  At this time all I knew was that two people, Ellen Bean and Nora Garden, had spoken of this ghost to me. The two women knew each other so perhaps it was the same ghost. But I was not sure that they were truly friends.

  As I got myself ready to leave for the day after Nora had left (I was going to be late), I knew I did not believe in ghosts. Nora had implied that Beatrice was the ghost, possibly a happy haunter and this house her ground; Ellen’s ghost sounded a different character altogether and not nearly so nice to know.

  Later, I was to feel the force of this spirit.

  Of course, Ellen Bean, as I was to realize, would not have been interested in a happy ghost, only one raw and hungry would have caught her attention. She had met such a lost soul before, no doubt, and recognized Brideswell’s affliction for what it was. I ought to have trusted Ellen’s senses, she knew what she’d got.

  I left a window in the kitchen open a few inches for Muff to return. Unwise, perhaps, but I did not expect to be robbed with so many police in the village. I expected they would be keeping a quiet surveillance on my house in any case. I was an object of interest to them quite apart from the murder. I had heard that there was a rumour going around that I was retiring to grow roses.

  I walked round the kitchen, checking all was in order and as safe as I could leave it. No smouldering matches, no kettle left plugged in. I had been ironing my skirt: the iron was cold.

  I observed once again the mark on the wall by the Aga. There was a hook and mark as if something had once hung there.

  I put my hand on it, the wall was cold, cold. That’s my ghost, I said aloud.

  Outside, standing by my car, I stopped myself. There is always something you don’t know, a voice inside me said. There is always something you don’t know.

  Question to ask Ellen Bean: When did your ghost die?

  Chapter Eight

  As soon as I walked into my office I studied a fax that had just arrived.

  It told me where the doctor had found Chloe’s head. Or rather, he had not found it, it had been found for him. Not by his dogs, as might have been expected, but by the police.

  The head, minus most of the hair, which had been cut off, had been found in the compost heap at the bottom of his garden. An intensive search of the whole area by the police had turned it up.

  Perhaps they had been concentrating on his garden since he had found the torso, but only they knew and they were not saying. Just a routine search, had been the line.

  Educated, sophisticated men who might be killers do not bury the head of the victim in their own backyard. Or do they?

  Plainly Chief Superintendent Barney found this a very perplexing question. He did not want to believe it of the doctor. But I knew the questions he would be asking Harlow.

  Did you know the dead girl?

  Had you ever seen her?

  Have you any explanation of how her head was found behind the shed in your garden?

  It would be gently and politely done, because Harlow was a doctor and a gentleman, a respectable figure.

  What I did not know, not being party to their private thinking, was whether the investigating team really considered the doctor a suspect or whether they were playing by the rules.

  And then it would be their turn to have a go at Billy Damiani, taking over from the Met squad (who would certainly still be in the background). They would be putting their own version of the questions that had already been asked of him. The questioning would be sharper and tougher now that it looked as if Chloe had never left the village alive.

  Damiani wouldn’t like it, and surely this was why he had tried to involve me, so that he would have a prot
ective barrier. I was meant to be that screen.

  I didn’t know what Clive Barney and his team thought of Billy, or his involvement in the murder, I didn’t know what I thought myself. But I did know he was a prime manipulator and had tried to manipulate me.

  That made me suspicious. People like Billy Damiani, sharp as they were, had their own stupidities, and he had been stupid about me. No doubt he often underrated women. He had certainly underrated me if he thought I would in any manner dance to his tune, and it might very well be that he had underrated Lady Mary Dalmeny Erskine. She would keep her distance now if Billy was seriously suspected of murder.

  I met Lady Mary as I took a brief trip to Maid of Honour Row midmorning. The rush of paperwork was over, and I wanted to see what was going on in my house, if anything, and collect some more clothes.

  She was putting an envelope through my letter box. She looked at me in surprise. ‘Didn’t expect to see you.’ She withdrew the envelope. ‘Your office said you had gone to London.’

  ‘I shall be going later. What’s that?’

  ‘Your copy of the lease for the house. If you still want to buy, we can go ahead when the will is through probate.’

  ‘Certainly I want to buy, I am quite settled on it. You know that.’

  ‘Things change sometimes,’ said Lady Mary. ‘I’ve seen Humphrey. He doesn’t seem very happy. I don’t think he likes the idea of that house.’

  ‘He’ll get used to it.’

  ‘You really are rough.’

  I was silent. Humphrey could fight his own battles. I wasn’t going to ask her how and where she had spoken to Humphrey. They had met somewhere, they moved in the same circles. I knew there was a link between them that I should have to learn to live with. She claimed she was looking after his rose garden.

  ‘And then there’s the murder. He doesn’t care for that either. Of course, I know that wouldn’t put you off. It’s your way of life, after all.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t mean it quite that way’ She did, though, just a little bit, she had shown a claw and now retracted it. Strangely enough, Mary’s little scratches endeared her to me rather than otherwise, they defined her. Defined me too, I suppose, in my reaction to her.