A Shroud for Delilah (DCI Webb Mystery Book 1) (21 page)

He straightened, excitement pricking his scalp. He’d gazed down a length of garden to a gate opening on pinewoods. From Victor Truscott’s bedroom. Suppose there’d been a more sinister reason for his daughter’s doctoring him with pills? Webb had accepted they’d extend her freedom, but to do what?

All but one murder was committed in the afternoon. Lana Truscott worked at the shop mornings only. And the old man had said something he hadn’t latched on to at the time: ‘Lana’s allergic to cats.’

To
cats
! Lana, sneezing and red-eyed, rubbing her arm as though the coarse wool irritated her skin. Or was the irritation not from the wool but in the skin itself, a rash which, taken with her sneezing, pointed to allergy rather than the cold she’d mentioned? And only three days earlier, the Danes’ cat had clawed a killer.

Webb reined in his racing thoughts. They’d need more proof than that. The pine needles and the cat slotted into place. What of the moped? Hadn’t — his mouth was dry — hadn’t Ralph Truscott driven one to his death in the river? Suppose it hadn’t been sold but kept in that shed he’d noticed in the back garden? If, to avoid notice, it were wheeled through the back gate into the wood and across the fields, the rider’s shoes would collect some needles. Mrs Parker assumed the rider was a youth: because, small and slight, the figure was in fact more like a woman?

So Lana Truscott, like Mowbray, had the opportunity — long, lonely afternoons while her invalid father slept. What of motive and means? Webb cast his mind back, remembering that when Ralph Truscott died, his sister’s grief had outweighed his estranged wife’s. And the broken marriage, following on illness and redundancy, had been the catalyst that led to suicide. Did she, in a crazed, one-woman campaign, feel she was avenging him, even — my God! — Richard Mowbray, to whom she seemed devoted and whose wife had also left him?

Baffled, Webb shook his head. He’d never understand the tortuous twistings of the human psyche. Still, he’d established motive and opportunity. What of the weapon? Mowbray was unlikely to loan her his.

Then he drew in his breath. He’d facetiously imagined Mowbray using and replacing his own weapons, but there were also daggers at Pennyfarthings! Suppose Lana Truscott had done precisely that, and the murder weapon had literally been in front of their noses all the time?

Though not quite all the time. And during its absence, wouldn’t Kate or the partners have missed it? It seemed an unacceptable risk to take. Momentarily shelving that question, Webb returned to the motive. Lana would know Mrs Dane’s reputation, and consider it as guilty as desertion. And she’d been babysitting for Kate Romilly on the night of her murder, a mere hundred yards from the Danes’ house! No wonder the moped and pine needles weren’t in evidence. If he was right, the murderer came in by bus — and was considerately driven home in a police car!

There was still the question of why the victims admitted Lana. Possibly she’d posed as a market researcher. But once having let her in, they wouldn’t expect attack from another woman.

And the packages. His second alternative seemed correct. Lana liked Kate, didn’t want to harm her. Yet she had left her husband, a ‘crime’ that couldn’t be ignored. If she could be frightened back to him, she would also be removed from Mowbray’s orbit. For should Kate, having left Michael, become involved with Richard, she’d be twice damned and nothing could save her.

And she was still in danger, danger which, like the five women before her, she had no means of recognizing.

Webb reached for his radio, calling the control room to instruct all units to be on the lookout for Lana Truscott. ‘Please God she’s safely at home,’ he finished briskly. ‘I’m on my way to Littlemarsh now. Send a backup, will you, to wait out of sight till I get there. Oh, and if you can catch Romilly at the
News
, tell him to go to his wife. She might need his support.’

He bundled his belongings together and started back to the car at a run.

CHAPTER 22

‘But I’m glad you called, Lana,’ Kate said warmly. ‘It must be very lonely at home.’

Lana was standing in the middle of the room, gauche, out of place, her face white above the dark navy of her coat.

‘Give me your coat and sit down,’ Kate prompted. The woman lowered herself into a chair but made no attempt to remove the garment. Her eyes as she looked up at Kate were unfocused, as though, Kate thought uncomfortably, she was looking at some-thing else. But she’d been devoted to her father; no wonder she was in a state of shock.

Briefly Kate thought of Mary Lucas upstairs. Lana’s ring at the door had coincided with a radio signal from outside telling them who the caller was. In keeping with instructions, Mary had left Kate to greet her visitor alone.

‘They cut him up,’ Lana was saying jerkily. ‘Just because he hadn’t seen the doctor.’ She shuddered, her whole body racked with the spasm.

‘It’s for the death certificate. They can’t issue one if—’

‘They did the same to Ralph. The one who should have been cut up was Sandra. She killed them both.’

‘Try not to think that, Lana. I know it must seem that way, but—’

‘When Ralph died, Father—’ She broke off, staring down at her twisting hands. ‘Father said, “If Sandra walked in now, I’d strangle her with my bare hands.”’

‘But he didn’t mean it. It’s the kind of thing people do say in moments of stress.’

‘He meant it,’ Lana said simply.

Kate’s eyes fell from the mindless gaze and she tried to change the subject. ‘Did you find your cheque-book?’

Lana looked at her blankly.

‘When you went down to look. Was it in your desk?’

‘Oh, yes. Yes.’

It was going to be a difficult afternoon. A full hour yet before Josh would be home. Had she locked the front door when Lana arrived? Almost certainly not. Her face through the glass had put it out of her mind. Still, the police guard was across the road.

‘I’ll make a cup of tea,’ she said brightly.

‘No. There isn’t time.’

Kate, about to rise, hesitated in surprise. ‘You’re leaving already?’

Lana didn’t seem to have heard her. She said harshly, ‘Don’t worry about Josh. I’ll look after him.’

Kate stared at her, the pinprick of unease deepening.

‘I love Josh, Kate. You know that. He wasn’t meant to find the mouse. I’d have given anything, to spare him that.’

‘But it wasn’t your—’ Kate broke off, coldness spreading inside her.

‘I saved the pigeon till I knew he was in bed.’

‘Lana, you’re surely not saying—?’

‘And I labelled it, so you wouldn’t think it was from those boys.’ Her mouth twisted in the parody of a smile. ‘You’re not easy to frighten, Kate. I tried so hard to send you back to your husband. So hard.’

Kate said very carefully. ‘What else did you do?’

Lana moved her hands an inch or so. ‘The phone calls, the man on the bench. There wasn’t really anyone.’

‘But I saw him,’ Kate insisted through dry lips.

‘He happened to be there when I arrived for work. I’d never seen him before.’ She met Kate’s bewildered eyes and added plaintively, ‘Why do you make me do this? You’re my friend, but you’re harming Josh and I can’t let you. We must stamp out permissiveness, or one day he’ll be hurt as badly as Ralph, and — and Richard.’ Her face glowed briefly as she spoke his name, the first time Kate had heard her use it.

Kate said with an effort. ‘You’re confused, Lana. It’s not surprising, all the murders and then your father’s death. But try not to worry. The police are after a man with red hair, and when they find him it will all be over.’

‘There isn’t any man.’ Lana fumbled in her handbag and drew out a dagger. Kate recognized it. It was the smaller of the Indian kards. ‘This is what I went down for. Neat, isn’t it? It fits into the hilt of the large one, so it’s never missed.’

Afterwards, Kate couldn’t explain why she hadn’t called Mary. True, a scream might have provoked attack, but it never even occurred to her. Quite simply, she couldn’t accept that Lana would hurt her. All the same, she needed humouring.

‘You’re right, Lana.’ She strove to keep her voice level. ‘I shouldn’t have left Michael. I’ll go back to him, I promise.’

Lana looked confused. ‘But it’s too late.’

Wilfully, Kate misunderstood. ‘It’s never too late. Think how happy Josh will be!’

Lana made a low sound in her throat, half pain, half anger. ‘If you’d said that last week — yesterday—’ She rose clumsily to her feet, her handbag sliding unnoticed to the floor. Kate rose with her, eyes on the gleaming blade.

Lana said shakily, ‘It won’t hurt. You won’t feel—’

Everything happened at once. There was a cry and the sound of feet overhead, a crash downstairs as the front door rocked open. The two women stood frozen as footsteps came running down one flight of stairs, up the other. From behind her, Kate heard Michael’s voice: ‘Kate! Oh my God!’ and superimposed on it, another: ‘All right, Miss Truscott, you can drop that now.’

The silence stretched like elastic, snapped as Mary Lucas said, ‘Cover me, Jack. I’ll try—’

Lana moved suddenly, arm upraised. Michael yelled, ‘
Down
, Kate!’ and she flung herself sideways to the floor. But the dagger was not after all intended for her. With a choked cry Lana drove it into her breast and fell forward as the detective ran to catch her.

Kate lay where she had fallen till Michael pulled her to her feet.

‘You’re all right? She didn’t touch you?’

Kate’s eyes were drawn in glazed fascination to the figure on the floor. Mary Lucas, feeling swiftly for a pulse, looked up at her colleague and shook her head.

‘Should we try resuscitation?’

‘No point, Jack. She knew where to aim — she’s had plenty of practice.’ Mary straightened, turned to Kate. ‘Thank God you’re OK. The message only just came through. I’ve never moved so fast in my life!’

Kate moistened her lips. ‘Is Lana dead?’

‘Yes. Best thing, really.’ Mary stooped and closed the staring eyes.

Kate said on a rising note, ‘Oh God!’ The shaking had started, rattling her teeth. In the distance she could hear police sirens, growing louder.

Mary said gently, ‘It’s over, Kate. Would you like me to take you upstairs?’

‘Don’t bother.’ Michael’s arm tightened round Kate’s shoulder. ‘She’s coming home with me. Aren’t you, Kate?’

She turned her head, meeting the anxious question in his eyes. ‘Yes,’ she confirmed. ‘I’m going home.’

After all, she had promised Lana.

If you enjoyed reading
A Shroud for Delilah,
you might be interested in
Island in Waiting
by Anthea Fraser, also published by Endeavour Press.

Extract from
Island in Waiting
by Anthea Fraser

CHAPTER ONE

Sometimes I wonder how different my life would have been if I had not gone to the theatre that evening five years ago; whether, without the legacy of summoning voice and abnormally vivid dreams, I should still have visited Hugo in the Isle of Man and, once there, become so involved in the fabric of its past. Or were the dreams themselves the gateway to all that lay ahead?

As I waited in the departure lounge at Heathrow, however, I had no suspicion that those dreams would overlap into my waking life and dominate it. I knew only that once again, after barely two weeks at home, I was running away from my parents’ exasperation, and wondered dejectedly why I alone of the family should have been denied a share in its brilliance.

For brilliant the rest of them undoubtedly were. My father was Professor of History at one of the Oxford colleges, my mother head of an exclusive girls’ school, while brother Hugo, after an outstanding university career, had recently been appointed to the staff of the famous St Olaf’s College in the Isle of Man. It was to Hugo I was running now.

‘We regret to announce a delay of fifteen minutes in the Isle of Man flight.’

The disembodied voice broke into my musings and I turned my head. It was then that I saw him through the crowd, tall and fair, infinitely reassuring and familiar. I started to my feet with a smile and began to make my way towards him. Then, between one heartbeat and the next, a startling fact slammed into me, bringing me to an abrupt halt.
I hadn’t the slightest idea who he was
!

I stood immobile, a rock in the moving sea of people, struggling to tie down my undeniable recognition, and, drawn by the force of my gaze, he turned towards me. His eyes met mine briefly and moved on. Clearly he didn’t share my awareness.

Hoping no-one had noticed my discomfiture I returned to my seat and opened the magazine I had bought for the flight while my chaotic thoughts continued to crash into each other.

The recognition had been so instantaneous, so natural and instinctive, that it was impossible to dismiss simply as a mistake. He didn’t resemble anyone I knew, nor, I felt sure, was he an actor or politician whose face was known to everyone. It had been a deep, personal familiarity I had felt and started to act on, as though the most natural thing would have been to hurry to him and receive his kiss. I could only thank Providence that reason had reasserted itself before I’d made even more of a fool of myself.

The flight was called and I moved with the crowd into the windy October night and across the tarmac to the waiting plane. He was already seated as I walked down the aisle to my place and as our eyes met the feeling of intimacy again washed over me. It was obviously one-sided. His own glance held only the guarded appreciation of any man face to face with any reasonably attractive girl.

The incident had disturbed me considerably and as I fumbled with the seat-belt I was trying to regain some measure of calm. After all, no harm was done; he was quite unaware of my narrowly averted
faux pas
.

‘Just relax, dear,’ advised a motherly voice on my right. ‘No need to feel nervous.’

I turned to meet the kindly smile of a middle-aged woman who had taken the seat next to me.

‘Thanks, but I’m not worried about the flight.’

‘Sorry if I spoke out of turn, I thought you seemed a bit flustered. You’re used to all this, are you?’

‘Fairly. I flew home from France two weeks ago.’

‘Lucky you! Have a nice holiday?’

‘Not exactly, it was hard work! I was in Paris for eighteen months on a cookery course and then spent the summer working at a hotel in Provence.’

‘Well now, fancy that! Not that I like all that foreign stuff myself, mind. Give me plain English cooking any day. And what are you going to do with yourself now?’

What indeed? It was partly to postpone making such a decision that I had come to visit Hugo. My parents, slightly mollified by my diplomas, had expected me to rush out immediately in search of suitable employment, and their quite genuine pleasure in welcoming me home had worn noticeably thin as we continued to fall over each other in the tiny Oxford flat.

‘Have you been to the island before?’ my new friend enquired when I had parried her last question.

I hesitated. ‘Apparently not.’

She raised her eyebrows with a laugh. ‘Apparently?’

‘My family tell me I haven’t, but when my brother’s appointment came through—he’s a master at St Olaf’s—I was sure I knew the island. Perhaps I saw a documentary on it once.’

I was looking forward to seeing Hugo again, even though I must now share him with a wife. He had married during my stay in Paris and the only time I’d met Martha was when I’d flown over for the wedding. It had not taken me long to realize that my new sister-in-law was as brilliant as the rest of my family. I could only hope that her presence wouldn’t lessen the rapport which, despite the six-year age gap, had always existed between Hugo and me.

The long descent had already begun and I turned to look out of the window, eager not to miss my first glimpse of the island.

‘That’s Douglas down there,’ my companion informed me. ‘Doesn’t it look grand with the lights all round the bay?’

The rushing landscape beneath us was coming closer and closer and minutes later we touched down at Ronaldsway Airport. People were already on their feet and further up the aisle the man I had thought I knew was taking his briefcase from the rack.

‘Have a nice holiday, dear!’

I said good-bye to my travelling companion and when I looked back he had gone. With a small sigh I freed myself from the seat-belt and collected my things.

Hugo was waiting in the airport buildings, huge and welcoming and more bear-like than ever with the addition of a new beard.

‘Chloe!
Comment ça va?
Good to see you!’

I returned his hug with enthusiasm. ‘Good to see you, too! It’s been a long time.’

‘I left Martha at home struggling with dinner. I’d better warn you that cookery just isn’t her scene. Poor lamb, she’s terrified at the prospect of entertaining a Cordon Bleu professional!’

‘She’s frightened of me? I don’t believe it! I’m the one with the inferiority complex! You know how I retreat into my shell at the first hint of intellectual conversation!’

He laughed. ‘I can see I’m going to have a great time running from one of you to the other with words of encouragement! Here’s the luggage coming now. Which is yours?’

I pointed out my case, Hugo retrieved it and I followed him out through the windy darkness to the parked car.

‘I’m afraid you won’t see much tonight.’

‘It’s strange, but I still have this feeling I’ve been here before. There’s a clear picture in my mind of glens and round-topped hills.’

‘Which description, though accurate, doubtless fits quite a few places! By the way, you realize you’re no longer in the United Kingdom?’

‘Really? How’s that?’

‘I’ll leave Martha to explain. She’s become quite absorbed in the island’s history—even thinking of doing a paper on it.’

‘I thought art was her subject?’

‘She read history as well. That’s how we met.’

‘Clever girl! Didn’t you say in a letter that she teaches at St Olaf’s too?’

‘Part-time, yes. She takes art classes three afternoons a week. We’re only ten minutes’ drive from college so it’s quite convenient. We could have lived in Staff House, of course, but we’d had enough of communal life at varsity. There’s something very satisfactory about being able to retreat behind your own front door at the end of the day.’

‘Do the rest of the staff live in?’

‘Some. Quite a few of the married members have flats in Mona Lodge, just outside Ballacarrick.’

‘And your cottage is actually in the village?’

‘Yes, but Manx villages aren’t like English ones. No neat little village green with a duck pond and general stores. Most of them simply consist of a straggle of houses with a church and school alongside. This is St John’s we’re skirting now, where Tynwald is held every summer. You’ve heard of it, I suppose, the island’s independent parliament?’

I rubbed a circle in the steam on the car window, but the rain sluicing down outside proved an impenetrable barrier. ‘I think so. Does the word Tynwald mean “parliament”?’

‘Yes, and it’s also used for the actual ceremony held once a year. It comes from “thing”—assembly, and “vollr” field. The legislative system is Scandinavian, of course, and the whole place is steeped in history. Perhaps that’s why it appeals to us so much!’

Something in his words touched a chord inside me and set it vibrating. Everyone was so sure I had never been here, and yet—

‘I hope the weather holds for you,’ Hugo was continuing. ‘This rain should have cleared by morning but if the mist comes down you won’t be able to do much.’

Mist. Again, more strongly, some inner memory stirred. The word seemed to materialize, cloaking itself in its own trailing shroud and wrapping round me with a deep, penetrating chill. Mist, the forlorn cry of seabirds—and a feeling of sudden, unexplained terror. I shivered involuntarily.

‘Cold? This heater’s on the blink, I’m afraid. Not much further, though.’

The car sped on under writhing, wind-torn trees, between thickly wooded plantations, past isolated cottages crouching in the shadows. My heart began to flutter uncomfortably at the base of my throat. Steeped in history, Hugo had said. And folklore too, I felt certain. No race could have lived here all these centuries without becoming aware of other, unseen inhabitants, timeless as the hills themselves.

‘Home stretch!’ Hugo’s voice made me jump. ‘That was Ballaugh we’ve just come through. We’ll be there in a couple of minutes now. Here’s the turning.’ We left the main road and a moment later swung into a driveway and the car came to a halt, its wheels churning gravel. To our left a porch light shone in welcome. Hugo took my arm and ran with me through the driving rain to the shelter of the cottage where Martha was waiting to greet us. She was a tall girl, only an inch or so shorter than Hugo, with long dark hair and helpless-looking eyes behind enormous horn-rimmed spectacles.

‘Hello, Chloe. Welcome to the Isle of Man!’

She turned to Hugo who kissed her soundly and for a brief moment I felt an outsider. Then his other arm came round my shoulders. ‘Chloe’s a bit chilly. Is there a good fire going?’

I followed Martha through the door on the right into a fair-sized room dominated by a stone fireplace where an open fire crackled cheerfully. Thick woven curtains in warm orange shut out the wind-filled night. There were deep, patently comfortable armchairs, a sofa, shelves and shelves of books, and Hugo’s old desk in one corner. Immediately at home, I moved to the hearth and held out my hands.

‘How lovely to see an open fire after years of central heating and smokeless zones!’

Hugo selected a log from the side of the hearth and threw it on the fire. ‘Sit down and warm yourself. I’ll put the case in your room.’

Left alone, Martha and I smiled at each other a little nervously and both started to speak at the same time. I said: ‘I hear you teach at St Olaf’s.’ And she: ‘I hope Hugo warned you to bring indigestion tablets!’

We laughed and the ice was broken.

‘How was France?’ she asked eagerly. ‘I’m longing to hear about it.’

‘Hard work most of the time. We didn’t get much chance to socialize.’

‘What a waste! Didn’t you meet any devastating Frenchmen?’

‘There was one, at the hotel where I worked during the summer. I’ve had a couple of letters since I came back.’ Fleetingly I thought of Jean-Claude and the warm, Mediterranean nights. It seemed—it was—another world from this dark, wet little island in the middle of the Irish Sea.

‘I do hope you’ll make allowances for my cooking,’ Martha was saying anxiously. ‘As Hugo probably told you, I flap around in an aura of burned pans and hard potatoes. He has lunch at college during the week, which has saved him from an ulcer so far, and luckily there’s a good little restaurant quite near where we go if my attempt at dinner is a complete write-off.’

That she wasn’t exaggerating was unfortunately soon apparent. The delicious-smelling casserole proved to be undercooked, the carrots hard and the meat stringy. Hugo and I chewed on stoically while Martha, almost in tears, kept up a stream of apology. Only when the plates had been cleared away and cheese and biscuits produced were we able to teeter back on to an even conversational keel.

‘Any thoughts on the future, Chloe?’ Hugo asked, handing me a cup of coffee. ‘How are you planning to make use of that impressive array of diplomas?’

‘At the moment I haven’t a clue.’ But his casual enquiry was having the opposite effect from my parents’ pointed questioning and already the first tentative ideas were beginning to take shape in my head. ‘I’d really like my own restaurant, but that’s aiming rather high at this stage. Perhaps I might start as a freelance chef, advertising my service for dinner parties and so on. There’d be no overheads and the pay should be good. I suppose London would offer the best scope.’

‘Imagine cooking because you enjoy it!’ Martha said wonderingly.