An Accidental Shroud (21 page)

'You reckon, sir?'

'Why, don't you?'

'It's possible -'

'And so are a lot more things. Like Graham having easy access to Wilding's truck, like him being a big strong lad, physically capable of manhandling Fontenoy's body, like having an alibi that stinks. He'd ample opportunity after leaving Matthew Wilding, and only his sister to say what time he got in. But what about the motive? Why should he want to murder Fontenoy? If it had been
Wilding
who was murdered, now – well, it's pretty obvious he hates Jake Wilding's guts ...'

Abigail said, 'He and Matthew Wilding have alibied each other. What if they were in it together?'

'The same thought had crossed my mind. Matthew stood to gain a lot from Fontenoy's death, and could've made it worth Graham's while to help him. But you know, I'm still bothered by that missing box. We must assume that
was
the parcel Fontenoy took up to London – and unless he left it there, it went missing from the safe on the night he was killed, so it's therefore crucial to the murder. I'm looking for something which would explain that. Such as Fontenoy sending the box to Naomi Graham via Wilding, in exchange for that document she's alleged to have.'

The phrase she had used about herself and Carmody, and which had been inexplicably haunting her ever since, suddenly came back to Abigail in a different context. Two halves of a sixpence. The broken coin, the lovers' token, the conspirators' map torn in two, both halves of which must dovetail ... it seemed like a notion straight out of romantic adventure fiction,
Boys' Own Paper
stuff. And yet …

'I may be way out on this, sir,' she said slowly, 'but supposing it wasn't an
exchange
Fontenoy had in mind. What if those two belonged together – the document of Naomi Graham's, and the contents of Nigel Fontenoy's box – that neither was complete without the other ...'

Mayo's interest was caught. 'Go on.'

'If we assume Fontenoy
did
take the box to Jermyn's, it seems reasonable to think it contained – well, certainly not papers, as Christine Wilding suggested, but the sort of thing Jermyn's would be interested in – jewellery of some kind.'

'That's feasible.' Warming to the idea, Mayo added, 'And Naomi's document could be the provenance for it, the proof of its authenticity. The thing that would up the ante many times. Good thinking, Abigail. And supposing Wilding knew about the box – through Christine – and he now has both, hm? When shall we be able to talk to Jermyn's man?'

'He gets back tomorrow. But if he doesn't know anything about what was in the box, I don't really see how we can find out, other than putting the thumbscrews on old George Fontenoy.'

'Well, we're making a lot of assumptions anyway which may be unjustified. The thing to do is to get hold of Naomi Graham – and as soon as possible.'

Abigail looked at him quickly. 'Yes, Nigel Fontenoy may have been killed for the contents of that box. And if Naomi Graham still has the document ...'

'Well, I don't like the way this is pointing, but let's not get ahead of ourselves. Let's see we keep tabs on our friend back there on the building site. Meanwhile, if we haven't already had Wilding junior in yet, I think I'll see him myself.'

Abigail, as she drove back to the station, was again tantalized by that last glimpse of Joss Graham, aware that some sort of connective idea was forming in the back of her mind. What if –? she thought suddenly. No, she was jumping the gun, guessing. But what if her guess, hunch, intuition, call it what you will, was right?

She didn't mention what she'd just thought to Mayo, not yet, not until she had seen Naomi Graham and could be more sure. Mayo didn't go much on hunches and she'd already come up with one about the box and its provenance which might be way out. She wasn't going to push her luck.

Naomi Graham had spent most of the day feverishly clearing out, preparatory to packing, answering neither the door nor the telephone, hoping to finish before Cassie got home. It was hopeless, even with the assistance of a glass or two of wine. It remained a total mystery to her how she, surely the most unacquisitive person alive, had managed to amass so many possessions, and was only to be explained by the fact that her stay in Lavenstock had lasted far longer than she'd originally meant it to. Things had simply accumulated, mostly as a result of living in this terrible climate. So much more was needed, not only in the way of clothes against the cold and the wet, but blankets, heaters, hot water bottles, things unnecessary and unimagined in the Mediterranean countries that were fast acquiring in Naomi's mind all the attractions of the Isles of the Blest.

Cassie, arriving home long before Naomi had finished and finding her mother with a glass in her hand, contemplating with despair the chaos she had created, stared accusingly at her across the mess like some goddess of vengeance, her dark face flushed, her black luxuriant hair vibrant and electric, her dark eyes flashing, all Greek.

'What are you doing?' she demanded.

'Isn't it obvious? I'm getting ready to leave. I've had enough of this place!' Naomi declared, waving her glass.

An Intercity express, on the up-line to Birmingham, made its presence felt, shaking the window-frames until the panes rattled, while Cassie watched her mother with narrowed eyes. When she could make herself clearly heard, she declared, her mouth passionate, 'I won't go with you.'

'I never imagined you would,' Naomi replied, with undisguised relief. For a moment there, she had imagined Cassie was going to suggest accompanying her.

Cassie regarded her mother with pitying scorn. She herself had not, it was true, ever made any secret of her wish to remain in England. She'd no desire to begin the penniless, vagabond life with her mother all over again. She was determined, in fact, that nothing would make her. But behind the wariness at the back of her mind, the panic, even, behind the questions as to why her mother was really leaving, was the feeling that it would have been nice to have been asked.

'You can stay on here, until the house is sold,' Naomi offered, feeling she was being more than generous. Mundane considerations such as how Cassie was to keep it going on her part-time wages from the filling station or what would happen to her when it was eventually sold, hadn't entered her head – or if they had, she'd assumed Cassie would manage somehow, as Naomi herself always had. As she had now, for instance, having managed to winkle out someone to stay with in Turkey, until the house was sold. Cassie was young, she had a fierce energy and self-reliance and besides, Naomi had a duty to herself, hadn't she? But whether the house was sold or not was ultimately of little account, money was the last thing that mattered to her. All that counted now was to shake the dust of Lavenstock from her heels forever. It was imperative to move on.

She had no regrets. Nothing good had ever happened here, everything bad. Worse would happen if she stayed. Things had changed with Nigel's death. She shivered as though someone had walked over her own grave. For a moment, her thoughts were insupportable but, as always, she shrugged them off. Only two things remained to be done: to write a letter, and to see George Fontenoy. It was nigh on twenty years since she'd last seen old George, but she didn't expect him to have changed. Unlike Nigel, he'd always been an eminently reasonable man and, in a nicer way than Nigel with his pretty little girlies, had had a soft spot for a handsome young woman, she recalled, forgetting that she was no longer either handsome, or young.

She came out of her thoughts to see Cassie shrugging herself back into her leather jacket, a sullen, determined look on her face. It was the sort of look that Naomi had come to dread, the look that Cassie and Joss shared.

'Where are you going?'

'To see Joss, amongst other things. Don't worry,' Cassie added, which was a mere figure of speech because she knew her mother was incapable of it, 'I'll be back.'

In a few moments, her motorbike could be heard roaring away. Naomi shut her eyes for a moment against an unfamiliar, choking despair, then poured herself more wine.

Having knocked several times on the front door of the ramshackle little house above the railway cutting and received no reply, Jenny Platt was about to go round to the back when the door was suddenly opened by a woman who stared at them without speaking.

Abigail introduced herself and Jenny, and explained why they were there. 'I take it you've no objection to answering a few questions, Mrs Graham?'

'I was never Mrs Graham, Mrs Andreas either, but it'll do if you want to be formal. I prefer Naomi. Come in.'

Jenny raised a quizzical eyebrow in Abigail's direction as they were shown without haste into a small front parlour that had a musty, unused feeling and yet at the same time spoke eloquently of too many people living in too little space. Every surface was cluttered, including the floor. The tacky furniture, apart from a large TV set and some seriously expensive sound equipment, had the appearance of having come from the nearest Oxfam shop, which was in fact the case. The tall, untidy woman who had shown them in was dressed in a random assortment of clothes, apparently from the same source as the furniture. Her feet were bare and a little grubby, a silky shawl with a matted fringe slipped from her shoulders. She was a 1960s fugitive, yet, beneath the tat and the undisciplined grey hair, the slackness round her jaw, it was possible to see that she might once have been very attractive.

Seats were found for them by adding more to the piles of everything else on the floor. 'Drink?' Naomi asked, waving the bottle, and when the offer had politely been declined, topped up her own glass. This done, she subsided on to the carpet, sitting in the lotus position with the wine bottle handy and answering Abigail's questions, if not willingly, at least truthfully, as far as Abigail could tell. Yes, Jake Wilding was her first husband. Yes, he had visited her on the night of Nigel Fontenoy's death. Yes, the inspector had the times of his visit substantially correct. And
no,
she had not handed over to him a letter or document, or anything to give to Nigel Fontenoy, she couldn't imagine what Nigel could possibly have been on about. Her voice was suddenly sharp-edged with malice, a secretive expression crossed her face.

'Are you sure about that, Mrs Graham?'

'Why should I lie?' Why indeed, especially so obviously?

'What was it Nigel Fontenoy so desperately wanted from you?'

'Oh, please! I've told you, I gave him nothing. Even though he sent Jake to persuade me rather than face me himself. And offered me
money
.' She said this as though it was the ultimate insult. 'Nigel always did think money was the answer to everything.'

Abigail said suddenly, 'Why do you think he was murdered?'

'Why are you asking me that?' she demanded, suddenly stiff-lipped. 'What makes you think I'd know?'

'Because, Mrs Graham – Naomi – we think it might be because of something he had in his possession. If you
do
have this document, has it occurred to you that
you
might be in danger?'

This seemed to frighten her more but her mouth stayed stubbornly set. Abigail sighed. 'All right, let's talk about something else. I believe you once worked for Nigel Fontenoy and his father, as a jewellery designer?'

The alacrity with which the other woman answered showed how she welcomed the change of subject. 'Yes, but that was before I left Lavenstock for the first time. I'm leaving again, this time for good. I don't fit in here, I never did.' Her eyes strayed towards a nearly full trunk with its lid propped open, which might partly, but not wholly, have explained the room's untidiness, the recent signs of feverish activity.

Why had she decided to leave Lavenstock now, at this particular juncture? 'You've had a buyer for your house, then?'

'A buyer? Scarcely anybody's even been to view it.' Naomi laughed shortly, unaware that Cassie, showing at least two sets of buyers around in her absence, had skilfully managed to point out the many defects not apparent among the equally numerous and all too obvious ones. 'My mother managed to live happily here for thirty odd years but nobody seems to want anywhere without two bathrooms and central heating nowadays.'

'That's the way it goes.' Abigail smiled sympathetically, but she knew better than to let herself be deflected by discussions of that sort. 'To go back to your jewellery designing -'

The rest was drowned by a noise like the roar of Niagara suddenly filling the room, as two trains rushed past each other through the cutting below. The windows rattled and a small scatter of rubble, dislodged from the chimney, fell down the back of the gas fire to join the dust and the fag-ends and spent matches thrown into the hearth as if it were a real fire.

'It's always like this. You get used to it.' The remark was intended, presumably, to apply to the noise, though it could equally have applied to the general ambience, Abigail was sure. Naomi seemed to be the sort of person whose natural habitat was chaos and confusion.

Doggedly, she went back to her original point. 'What made you give up such interesting work?'

'Perhaps I discovered I'd no talent, after all.'

'That's not what I've heard.'

'My mother has a silver ring you made,' Jenny offered, a fact which had emerged during her conversation with Abigail on the way. 'It's really lovely.'

'Perhaps I came to despise such a decadent trade, then. It doesn't add a lot to the sum of human existence, does it? It caters for women's vanity, that's about all you can say for it.'

It was possible she genuinely felt this, with her jumble sale clothes and a total absence of any jewellery at all – unless this last was a remnant of her designer's fastidiousness, a scorn of wearing any jewellery that was tawdry, or not genuine.

'But you're right about one thing!' Suddenly, Naomi was flushed and animated. 'I did have talent. Why deny it? Here, let me show you something!'

She might have been more loosened up by the wine than Abigail had thought. It could have been that she still had her own small vanities. Whatever it was, with a sudden access of energy, she began scrabbling in the half-packed trunk, throwing out in all directions the clothes which had been more or less folded and put in it, and finally came up with a roughly finished wooden box, inside which was a tray containing tools. Lifting this out, and then using one of the small chisels as a lever, she half prised up the base of the box, which proved to be merely a piece of plywood resting on a fillet of beading, thus forming a shallow cavity, apparently little more than half an inch above the real base. With a slightly furtive gesture, she slid in her hand and extracted a soft suede pouch. Turning it upside down, she allowed a slender gold snake bangle to slide on to her palm. Formed out of strands of differently coloured gold twisted together, the strands knotted halfway, it had a single large garnet glowing at the centre of the knot.