Death in the Garden Page 9

  ‘That’s the place. I went past it yesterday, and I saw a man sitting in there photographing himself. Didn’t have the curtain drawn – or not to the full. I could see, anyway.’ She paused.

  ‘What did you see?’

  ‘It was him. Grey suit, dark kind of cloak thing, dark spectacles, dark hat. Imagine taking a passport photograph in dark spectacles. He sat there, taking himself again and again. And I thought: that’s him, the one that called on Edwina in the gallery, the one that made the telephone calls.’

  ‘That’s just guessing.’ Miss Dover was lofty.

  ‘No, I’m sure I’m right. Must be. Too much of a coincidence for there to be two of them. So, not guessing. Call it intelligent deduction.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘Nothing; I couldn’t. I was frightened. I could feel myself shivering inside. He’s not nice, my old dear, not nice at all.’ Then she added, with apparent inconsequence but as if it had been the worst thing of all, ‘I could see tiny, thin ankles in black socks under the edge of his trousers. And he had such red lips.’

  After a pause Pickles said, ‘So that’s your news? I don’t call that good news.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You frighten me, Ginger old thing.’ And Miss Drury knew that she had done.

  ‘Not wanting to.’ She had frightened herself. ‘Now if it was – is – the man who’s been pestering Edwina and to a lesser extent Alice and Cassie, if it really was him and not me being imaginative, then why was he taking the photographs?’

  She shook her head. It was as if a stench of nastiness, of a rotting something, had floated across from the photograph booth and settled all over her.

  ‘You know, she’s coming here.’

  They watched the tall, elegant figure of their part-time secretary pick her way delicately across the Piazza, avoiding both puddles and litter, placing her narrow feet in their high-heeled shoes as delicately as a pony.

  Janine delivered her message about the bread in a polite voice.

  Miss Drury received the order cheerfully, writing it down on a pad she kept hanging from her wrist on a chain like an old-fashioned Victorian chatelaine. ‘I’m the bread queen. Dover here specialises in the oddities.’ Pickles made a grumbling sound at the back of her throat like an angry cat. ‘Doesn’t like me saying that. I tell her she’s got no conscience but it’s not true, her conscience comes and goes. She’s working up for an attack now.’

  ‘And what happens then?’ Janine sounded mildly interested.

  ‘Depends: either a priest or the police.’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Miss Dover.

  ‘Joke, dear. Whoops – customers.’

  The stall had suddenly filled with a small crowd, an actor from the Cardboard-Cut-Out Theatre collecting his supper, a member of the chorus from the Garden, and a cellist carrying his big case.

  Miss Dover and Miss Drury ceased to quarrel and fell to work while Janine was glad to leave.

  Across the road, the Cardboard-Cut-Out Theatre was packing itself up to move on to Woolwich for its late performance. They were a fluctuating group whose members came and went as other work offered. The murder of Luke had shaken them too; after all, two of the actors had been present at Lily’s wedding. The police had questioned the two kings but they had not been able to help much. They had been in and out, choreographing their act. Space was what they used, they explained, so they had to know what they had in order to shape their act, but in the end no one had looked at them, their act had fallen away into nothing so they had joined the party. No, they had not noticed. As a matter of fact, dressed up as they were with masks and crowns they had what you might call tunnel vision. The first king acted as the spokesman, the second king nodded assent.

  But, as they packed away their scenery, their most pressing worry was financial. Rent was due, and not a penny in the bank for it. ‘A sub all round,’ said the actor who had been the first king. ‘Same as usual.’ He added, ‘I’m broke myself but Albie ought to be good for a bit as he’s got a voice-over, and Nina will come forward as usual.’ Albert and Nina were stand-bys.

  From her desk in the gallery window Edwina watched the activity; she always felt a little sad when the Cardboard-Cut-Out Theatre packed up. Perhaps they would never come back.

  Cassie appeared on her doorstep; she had Sergeant William Crail with her. She waved at Edwina who gave a token little nod of the head back.

  And there was Janine. Cassie waved at Janine who strode across the pavement, seeing no one; she did not wave.

  Janine had seen Cassie as she had seen Edwina, but she did not feel like waving at a policeman. There were times when Janine found employers hard to understand.

  That evening Edwina cleared her desk of all important papers, left some work ready for Dougie to do in the morning, then reset her answering machine.

  There had been no messages from ‘ him’ after all. Maybe that was at an end.

  She returned to her flat in Packet’s Place and let herself in. The telephone was ringing, and full of her new-found confidence in her power to take charge again, she picked it up.

  ‘Edwina? I know it’s you. I know the sound of your breathing.’

  The voice with its message; the voice that once again was, inescapably, the message.

  If it had said nothing more she would have understood the threat.

  ‘I want to teach you what love is about.… I want to teach you the pain and the grief.

  ‘You don’t know what it is all about, you three. You attract men and then you put them down. I call you the three witches.

  ‘But you are the worst. I loathe your guts.’

  Once again, she had the tantalising feeling that she knew the voice, that if she tried harder she could say, Yes, that is the person.

  Chapter Five

  The murderer had a way of going walkabout, looking out of a window at the world of Covent Garden with a silent, secret satisfaction.

  In this state of mental fluidity the world as seen from the window had a strange air to it. To begin with it was almost empty, being sparsely peopled only by those whom the murderer was emotionally involved with. There were quite a few of them, to be true, but hardly a stageful. Two of the principal actors walking around on this scene were already dead, as was at least one of those with only a non-speaking part: a cough and a spit as actors say. One character walked there who had not yet done so in real life, and perhaps never would.

  But filtered out were the entire staff of Tuttons, of the Duke of York, the tourists, and all the passing crowd of the area around Covent Garden. For the murderer they did not exist, not on the stage where the puppets moved as their strings were pulled.

  Absent also was the entire detective arm of the Metropolitan Police, with the exception of the despised Sergeant William Crail, known by face, unknown by name, a man of no account, who had been seen with Cassie Ross. As a tracker-down he could be disregarded, as could the whole police force; to the murderer they had disappeared.

  But prominent on the scene were all those whose lives touched Edwina Fortune. Edwina was the centre, the image at which all blows were aimed. Hatred extended outwards from her like a fan, with each ray of the fan one of her friends.

  First in this group were Cassie and Alice. This trio seemed larger than average, more than man-sized so that they seemed subtly but decisively out of proportion with the rest of the scene. This was how the murderer saw them. Tagging along behind came Canon Linker and Bee in company with Ginger and Pickles. Kit Langley also walked the scene; he was growing in size lately, a bad magnification. But he would never grow bigger than Edwina.

  Edwina’s gallery was a principal object of fascination, for all the faces portrayed were of women; the murderer called it the Witch Gallery, occasionally altering the consonant to Bitch according to mood. One day, with luck, it would burn down. When it went up it might meet Cassie’s workroom coming down. One explosion would do for both. Possibly. You could always think about it. An interesting thou
ght for a sleepless night. Or when work became mechanical, so that the mind floated free.

  After such a free flight the spirit seemed stronger in itself, more resolved in its purpose. Or so the murderer felt.

  From similar excursions in a private landscape the mind usually returns with an enhanced sense of life.

  Or, in this case, death seemed to gain strength as if fertility was added to it. Or so the murderer thought.

  Chapter Six

  After the voice had ceased talking Edwina stood still, trying to be calm; she poured herself a glass of brandy and stood there sipping it.

  Deep inside herself she felt a movement, a kind of inner tremble; for a moment she thought it was the child moving and put her hand protectively on the flutter to calm and soothe it.

  But no, she knew this was too soon; she wasn’t supposed to feel this yet. Life was lurking within her but it was smaller than a mouse and not so mobile.

  She knew how she felt about it: positive.

  I am going to protect this creature, it is my creature, my responsibility, and bring it through. It was hope stirring inside me as well as life; I reject the idea you are just a uterine murmur.

  In the morning she called the number that the police had given her earlier to ask for her own telephone number to be altered. An efficient voice promised a return call to tell her what action had been taken.

  One decisive move made; Edwina’s mood this morning was strong and aggressive. She was already dressed, ready for the day ahead. She must be ready; she had an instinctive feeling that her time was limited.

  In one way, very nearly six months.

  But that was the long-term view. In another way she guessed she had days, possibly just hours.

  Someone was out there trying to break into her citadel; she thought of herself now as a kind of fortress, no longer impregnable, far from it, more of a sandcastle than a stronghold, but still ready to resist a siege.

  In this private, protected place was just her and the baby, no one else was going to get in. Cassie and Alice were on the outside, Cassie just that bit further away.

  Because she now slightly distrusted her friend Cassie’s relationship with the policeman, she telephoned Alice first to propose a meeting. ‘Things to talk over.’

  ‘Oh, meet here. In my place – the shop,’ Alice suggested at once, as Edwina had known she would. Alice always did; she liked her own territory. Alice was a very territorial animal, like a little cat.

  ‘No, here.’ Edwina was firm, almost abrupt; she knew what she wanted. ‘ Tell Cassie, will you?’

  Alice was interested. ‘Aren’t you talking to her?’

  ‘Things to do here first. And you know what Cassie is like on the phone.’ But it was true, she was edging away from Cassie Ross, in my gallery; lunch-time, if you can set it up. We’ll have a glass of wine. Dougie will be there.’ She had a part for Dougie to play.

  The Cardboard-Cut-Out Theatre was trundling into its chosen position; she could see Hal Everett, one of the two kings at Lily’s wedding, and Lynette Parsons, co-founders of the troupe. She had handed over her cheque for their services at the reception and hoped it had relieved the pressure on them, she had heard the rumours of financial extinction. She gave them a wave as she passed.

  Hal waved back. ‘And Nin’s cheque came through today; she dropped it in herself, so we’re afloat again, Lynnie.’

  ‘Nina herself again?’

  ‘She seemed fine. She’ll be coming to Woolwich as from Wednesday. No daytime work till she’s finished with the new voice-over: Dog-meat special: she’s the cat.’

  They were slightly envious. Nina could do any voice, Nina always had money.

  At the Help-Yourself-to-Health stall, Miss Dover was alone dealing with an elderly customer. ‘No, I haven’t taken the primrose-oil capsules myself but we sell lots of them. Yes, they come expensive. No, I don’t know why; I suppose primroses haven’t got a lot of oil. Yes, I should think it would do you a lot of good. Why not take a month’s supply and see how you feel at the end of it?’ She packaged up the capsules of oil, received a satisfyingly large sum of money and turned to greet another customer, a regular this time who came for the usual supply of wheatgerm and iron. Separate, not mixed. Pickles handed them over without much chat: she was longing to nip out behind the staff for a quick puff of Virginia; sinful, but with Ginger out she could do it. And after days of healthful food and talk, the system longed for something sinful like tobacco. She did not allow herself to think of alcohol, although she and Ginger kept a bottle of gin and one of whisky in the kitchen cupboard to fortify them in their lower moments. Last night had been such a one, at least for Ginger, and, her mood rubbing off, they had both overdone the drinking a bit. No wonder Ginger had not been herself this morning.

  Pickles looked at her watch: Ginger ought to be here soon.

  She waved to Edwina who was looking so nice this morning, fresh and pretty.

  ‘Honey, dear? In the comb or a jar?’

  ‘Comb, please. All on your own? Where’s Miss Drury?’

  ‘Ginger’s gone to the doctor, soon set her to rights.’

  ‘Sorry she’s not well.’ You never thought of either of the two at the health food stall being ill. Seemed unprofessional somehow.

  ‘Terrible nightmares, wakes up screaming, wolves or witches. I tell her it’s that red hat she wears. So she’s gone to see Dr Fisher. He’ll soon set her to rights.’

  ‘Oh yes, he’s my doctor too. GP, that is.’ Of course, her obstetrician was someone else again. She had left Dr Fisher when she became pregnant; somehow it had seemed safer so to do.

  Edwina took the honey and sped away, pursued by Miss Dover urging her to take care of herself and to remember her to her friends.

  Oh, my friends, my friends, echoed Edwina, who knows about them? A swirl of antique, archaic suspicions, that arise in women when they are pregnant, was moving inside her, asking age-old questions about loyalties and love and sex. It’s all rubbish, unfounded, unbelievable, she told herself, you’re just being irrational. Yet she could not stop herself; did not even want to do so very much, because she thought this might be where her newfound strength was.

  She wondered what sickness or what wound Miss Drury was revealing to the doctor, and what he was saying in return. He was a pleasant, easy man, Dr Fisher, although it might have been Fischer once. Or perhaps it had been his father who made the change, for this one was still quite a young man, barely of middle-age. He was reputed to have the largest list of patients with hysterectomies in the district, as if he was saying: ‘Don’t worry about the loss of the womb. Most women would be the better without it,’ and adding to himself: ‘And most men the safer for it, too.’

  An uneasy echo went through her mind. She seemed to see Ginger Drury facing Dr Fisher across the table, looking as frightened as Little Red Riding Hood and murmuring that she was afraid of wolves or witches, she was not sure which. What would the doctor say? What was the remedy against nocturnal wolves and witches? He would probably ask her where she was getting them from. Or would he?

  Something else stirred in Edwina’s mind: she had a strange notion she had caught a clue as to why she was being pursued, and the idea of Little Red Riding Hood Drury no longer seemed quite so mad.

  Tim was dead; I ought to have been allowed to see him dead. He won’t rest, otherwise. Echoes of him seemed to come through the description Dougie and Cassie had given of the man, the follower. Surely not? Not the voice, oh, she would have known the voice, wouldn’t she?

  Every so often she thought it would help if she could read Tim’s diaries. She knew they were still among his possessions left with Kit. She had asked for them once.

  Tim had not been a happy person. Looking back, she saw that now. Gay, impulsive, lively, but not really happy. She wanted to know why. Now she had started asking questions, she saw there was a puzzle.

  It is true, Edwina thought to herself, what the writer said: most women do not know how much men hat
e them.

  Gravid and alarmed, she sped on to the gallery. There was a fresh early morning smell to the Garden. She caught the whiff of coffee brewing from one of the coffee shops on her left, mixed with the scent of fresh-baked croissants from the boulangerie close by.

  She collected a beaker of coffee and a bag of croissants on her way. Without knowing it, she was running. Dougie looked up from his desk. ‘ Hungry? I could have made you coffee.’

  ‘I fancied their mocha.’ She had fancied it ferociously, her mouth watering for it.

  ‘It’s your condition.’

  ‘Thanks, Dougie. You’ve got a great sense of humour.’

  ‘Probably when you’ve drunk it, you’ll never want to taste it again.’

  ‘What a lot you know, Dougie.’

  ‘All down to my sister.’

  Edwina spread honey thickly on the croissant; there were thick bits of waxy comb embedded in it, and her stomach gave a gentle roll. Resolutely she took a bite, swallowed it, then pushed it away. ‘Damn you, Dougie.’ She drank the coffee thirstily and by the time she had finished she knew Dougie was right. She would never drink mocha again. Or not for approximately six months.

  ‘Never mind.’ Dougie had been watching sympathetically. ‘There are at least six varieties of coffee: Costa Rica, Brazilian, Kenya …’

  ‘Shut up, Dougie.’ Already she began to hate the thought of coffee.

  ‘Do you know you came running in here? Absolutely running. What were you running from?’ Then he added, ‘Or to?’

  Edwina considered. ‘From, I think, Dougie.’ Then: ‘Tell you what, Dougie dear, the way I feel I don’t know if it’s more dangerous running away or running towards because I don’t know whom I’m running from. Could be you, could be any man.’

  ‘Except you know it’s not me.’

  Edwina gave him a smile: ‘ I trust you, Dougie. I don’t think you hate me.’

  ‘I know which side my bread is buttered.… And you are the very best butter.’

  Edwina’s stomach gave a twitch and she stood up. ‘Don’t ever mention butter again.’