Almost Love (33 page)

Chapter Forty-Four

Alex had only just ushered Francis Codd off the premises when the doorbell of the Archaeological Society rang again. She was astounded to see Edmund standing on the step.

“Edmund! I didn’t expect you to come here again until after . . .”

“Thank God Codd has gone at last,” said Edmund brusquely, pushing past her into the entrance hall. He made no attempt at a greeting, far less any sign of affection. He spoke rapidly. “I’ve brought back the key, and the papers that I borrowed. I have another favour to ask: would you mind keeping the papers here in the library until I’ve finished with them? It’s more convenient than my keeping on going back to Broad Street – it’s very difficult to work there. And,” he added, with a trace of sarcasm, “I’m sure you won’t run foul of the trustees as long as the documents are at one of the Society’s premises; especially at its headquarters, where they will be safeguarded most tenderly by its appointed ch
â
telaine.”

Alex chose to ignore the jibe.

“I suppose that will be all right, unless someone else wants to look at them. But, Edmund, you must be exhausted. I’m so sorry about . . . what’s happened.” She laid her hand gently on his arm. “Won’t you sit down for a few minutes?”

“I don’t have time. The boys will be at the house in a couple of hours to help me to organise the funeral. I need to get this business with the papers sorted out now.” He paused, and gave her a suspicious look. “Who would want these papers, anyway?”

“No-one that I know of,” she said in a timid voice, somewhat taken aback. Then, recovering her composure and trying not to sound irked, she added. “As you’re perfectly well aware, I’m just trying to fulfil my commitment to safeguard all of the Society’s possessions and to make sure that members have access to them when they require it. Since I don’t know what’s in those documents, I have no idea whether anyone else will want to see them in the near future or not. It’s unlikely, but the possibility is there.”

“Uh-huh,” said Edmund off-handedly with unfaked absent-mindedness; he clearly was not paying attention to what she was saying. “I’ll back the car up to the door. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind helping me to carry the stuff in.”

“Of course,” said Alex, rather more coolly. Even making allowances for his bereavement, she could hardly tolerate his rudeness. “It’s only a few files, after all. I can probably manage to carry all of them in myself, as you’re in such a hurry.”

He flicked her a sidelong glance.

“I took rather more than I signed for,” he said evasively. “There was a tin box that I thought looked interesting and I forgot to record the catalogue entry for it when I was signing. I haven’t had chance to go through it, though, with all its little packages. It certainly belongs to the period that I’m working on, but with what has happened to Krystyna, it will have to wait until later.” He gave a forced little laugh.

Alex felt that, under the circumstances, she couldn’t bear to quibble about his leaving with her a box that ought to have been returned to Broad Street; she would at least have the contents available for others, should anyone want them. She shrugged.

“Right, I’ll get the car,” said Edmund

“Wait . . . I’ll help you.”

He was already walking away from her. He half-turned to negotiate the steps and strode out into the street, his gammy knee causing him to limp slightly, so that he cut rather a pathetic figure. Alex watched him walk out sight and waited until his battered red car came into view. Edmund reversed carefully up the one-way street. He parked the car immediately in front of the steps that led to the front door. He leapt out, still truculent.

“We’ll need to be quick, I don’t want to get a parking ticket,” he said breathlessly, looking over his shoulder as if he expected a policeman to appear at any moment. Alex was smitten with a sudden urge to laugh. Coming from a man whose wife had died the previous day in horrific circumstances, the comment was shockingly banal.

“Don’t worry, vehicles have the same right to deliver here as to the other shops and businesses in the street.”

Edmund was busy wrenching open the nearside rear door of his vehicle and evidently did not hear her. He thrust his head and the top half of his body into the car. He appeared to be struggling with something that had been wedged on to the back seat. After a protracted tussle, he emerged briefly, his face angry and puce-coloured.

“I’m going round the other side to give it a shove. Could you hold your arms out beside the seat, to catch it if I can slide it towards you? You won’t need to take the whole weight of it: I just need you to stop it from tipping over and getting damaged.”

Still feeling that she had wandered into a farce, but now increasingly troubled both by Edmund’s lack of courtesy and his consuming obsession with the box, Alex did as she was bidden. Edmund gave the box a final vigorous push and it slid partway on to her outstretched arms. As he had indicated, she was not taking its full weight, but still its heftiness made her gasp.

“All right?” asked Edmund. “I’m coming straight round to take it from you. When I’ve got it, you go round the other side and push the rest of it into my arms. Don’t worry, I’ll catch it.”

“I’m sure it’s too heavy for you. Can’t we ask someone to help?”

“There’s no time!” Edmund was almost shouting now. “Just do as I say!”

Alex crawled on to the back seat and was preparing to hoist the box into Edmund’s arms when she heard a voice say:

“Can you manage that, Mr Baker, or would you like me to help?”

She looked up sharply to see Detective Inspector Tim Yates standing over Edmund as he crouched on the pavement. Edmund added further to her unease by greeting the policeman with a kind of merry sarcasm.

“Detective Inspector Yates! There can’t be too many people who can boast the pleasure in the same day!”

“I could say the same, sir,” said Tim blandly. “The offer of help is here if you want it.”

“Thank you, Inspector Yates, that would be kind,” said Alex quickly, trying to cover up Edmund’s rudeness. She wondered if the policeman would consider his behaviour to be as bizarre as she did herself.

Tim positioned himself alongside Edmund. Alex gave the box a final shove, and together the two men supported it as it tumbled out of the car.

“I can carry it up the steps by myself,” said Edmund tersely, offering no thanks. “I carried it out from the old chapel, so I know that I can manage it.”

“But there are no steps there,” said Alex.

Edmund ignored her. With two or three clumsy movements he succeeded in flipping the box over, and grasped the handles at either side. He half-staggered under its weight. Despite his remonstrations, Tim moved forward to support its underside. “Let go of the handle nearest to me,” he said, sliding his hand beside Edmund’s into the solid leather bracket. Edmund was clearly annoyed by the action, but he had no option but to co-operate. They walked up the steps in unison, holding the tin box roughly level. They paused at each step before continuing.

“God knows what you’ve got in here,” said Tim as they reached the top of the flight. Edmund shrugged theatrically.

“I don’t know what’s in there, either,” he said. “I haven’t managed to find out.”

“Where now?” asked Tim.

“Through the lobby, into the entrance hall, and then take the first door on the right,” said Alex. “You’ll have to turn sharply to get through the door. If you could put it under the long table immediately inside the door, it won’t get in anyone’s way.”

The situation was so absurd that it made Tim want to laugh. He noticed, however, that Alex Tarrant’s expression was serious, even anxious. With a considerable amount of further heaving and pushing, they navigated the lobby, the hall and the library door and finally lowered the box onto the floor in front of the table. Together they pushed it out of sight.

“Thank you so much,” said Edmund, huffily polite at last. “I suppose that you’ve come to ask me some more questions?”

“Not at all, Mr Baker. I had no idea that you’d be here. It’s Mrs Tarrant that I’ve come to see.”

“What? Oh. Oh, about her burglary, I suppose. Well, if you don’t need me, please excuse me. I have to go to meet my sons.”

“I’ll show you out,” said Alex.

While Tim awaited Alex Tarrant’s return, he took in his surroundings. The library was a large oblong room, a little gloomy even with the lights on – there was also some natural light, but it was supplied by very small internal windows set high in the walls. All four walls were lined with massive glass-fronted bookcases, some containing elaborately-bound volumes in red or brown leather tooled in gold. He had seen books like these in country house collections. Some of the bookcases housed plainer sets of cloth-bound books labelled in black or green ink. Some reached as high as the windows; others were shorter, their flat tops adorned with eighteenth-century renderings of the busts of classical authors. Cicero, Livy, Homer, Aristophanes and Julius Caesar – all looking remarkably similar, their eyes blank, their curls adorned with marble crowns of laurels – were identified by silver plaques embedded in their marble necks. It was a place of restrained opulence, designed as a fitting environment for gentlemen to study or quietly dream or snooze without forfeiting the comforts of home. Did any of the gentleman-founders study seriously, Tim wondered, or were they all dilettantes? Whatever the answer, they deserved some credit both for establishing the Society and for funding it so well that it was still flourishing more than a quarter of a millennium later. Tim reflected that if he had been born in a different age, he might have enjoyed the life of a gentleman scholar. He pulled himself up sharply. The limited knowledge that he possessed of his antecedents was enough to tell him that if he’d been born in the eighteenth or nineteenth, or even the first half of the twentieth, centuries, the only career open to him would have been to follow the plough.

Alex Tarrant had re-entered the room so silently that he did not hear her.

“Penny for them, Inspector. Have you visited the Society before?”

“No, though I’ve often meant to. I’m a History graduate and I’ve always been intrigued by this place. Perhaps I might consider joining the Society. How much are the fees?”

She regarded him coolly. She seemed amused.

“Joining the Society is a little more complicated than just paying a fee,” she said. “Its constitution allows a maximum of one hundred members at any one time. When a vacancy becomes available, two existing members have to nominate and second any new prospects. The other members can veto the applications if they wish – they are allowed two weeks in which to do so. If there are more prospective members than there are places available, but no-one objects to any of the prospects, the places are allocated by vote.”

“There are no female members?”

“No. Ladies can be honorary members, and one of our annual dinners is a ‘ladies’ night’. Not all that many ladies come to it, though. Many of our members are confirmed bachelors . . . and there are some widowers, of course.”

“I see. Strange, then, that they appointed a woman as Secretary.”

She gave an ironic smile.

“Not really. It’s an administrative role and women make good administrators, as you may have noticed. We work hard and are less likely to cause trouble than men! You would be correct, though, if you’ve deduced that I’m the first female Secretary in the Society’s history. It would also be true to say that some of the members were a little dubious about my ability to match up to the job.” There was an edge to her voice.

“Does that worry you?”

“Not especially. It does annoy me that though I’ve been doing the job for four years they still choose to review my performance in my absence. I doubt that they’d try to get away with that if I were a man.”

“But you like the job?”

“Very much. Otherwise I wouldn’t have come here.”

“You didn’t come to Spalding because of your husband’s work?”

“No, the other way around. Tom could get work almost anywhere. It’s like being a teacher – everywhere needs social workers. As a matter of fact, he was worried that the post he accepted here might not have been demanding enough after his work in the East End. But South Lincolnshire seems to have more than its fair share of problem children – as I’m sure you could have told me, Detective Inspector.”

Tim nodded.

“Is there a possibility that your flat was broken into by one of the kids that he’s dealing with?”

“I think that’s unlikely. He’s on their side, don’t forget.”

“Just sounding you out. I’ve been in two minds about saying this to you, Mrs Tarrant, because I don’t want to worry you unnecessarily, but there is circumstantial evidence connected to your break-in that suggests that it might have been carried out by whoever visited Claudia McRae’s house on the night that she disappeared.”

“You must mean that hideous mark on the wall – there isn’t any other evidence.”

“There was a similar defilement at Dame Claudia’s cottage, yes. We haven’t made it public, so I’d be grateful if you’d keep the information to yourself.”

“Is it blood?”

“In the case of the cottage, yes; human blood, but not hers; we haven’t been able to identify to whom it belonged yet. The scrapings that were taken from your kitchen wall have still to be analysed.”

“But you think that that is blood as well?”

“I’m trying to keep an open mind until we know. It certainly looks like blood, but that’s where the similarity ends – unless we can find something that connects you with Dame Claudia. As far as we know, her house wasn’t broken into, for one thing – apparently, it was her habit to leave the front door open. But most importantly, no-one disappeared or was abducted from your address. Tell me,” he added, looking keenly at Alex, “is there any link at all between you and Claudia McRae that you can identify? Something that could make someone want to intimidate you?”

Alex looked troubled.

“There’s no obvious link that I can think of. Of course, we are in a similar line of work, though not
very
similar – she is a famous archaeologist and, as I’ve just said, I’m an obscure administrator. I heard her speak when I was a student, but I was never introduced to her; for all I know, she is totally unaware of my existence. Some of the Society members knew – know – her, but I don’t recollect ever having discussed her with any of them – not until Oliver Sparham said that he’d seen her on the day that she disappeared, anyway. ”