Death Speaks Softly (12 page)

The sound of a car horn woke Webb and he blinked, looking at his watch. Five o'clock. He must have slept for a couple of hours. So much for an afternoon's sketching. He'd get some stick from Chris tomorrow. It wasn't too late, though the light wasn't as good as it had been. He sat up, rubbing a hand across his face, and remembered what woke him. He must be nearer a road than he'd thought.

He got to his feet, brushing the blades of grass off shirt and trousers and shaking out the rolled-up sweater. The sun had left the area and it was noticeably cooler. He put his sweater on, grateful for its crumpled warmth.

Should he make a start on some work, or go home for a cup of tea? Without the sun, the stretch of rolling countryside had a desolate look, and despite the sweater he shivered. The tea won, hands down. He'd come and sketch another day. Again, over the brow of the hill behind him, came the impatient blast of a horn. Curious, he walked up the slope and found himself on a ridge which dropped away in front of him to the valley floor some hundred feet below. Along that floor stretched what looked like a busy highway. At a guess it would be the Nailsworth to Shillingham road. He stood for a moment watching the cars rushing towards and past each other. There was a strong breeze here on the exposed hilltop, and Webb sneezed suddenly, fumbling in his pocket for a handkerchief. But the wind caught it, tugged it out of his hand, and floated it over the edge.

Swearing, he bent cautiously forward, and his sudden coldness had nothing to do with the wind. The heap of camel and blue huddled on the ledge some fifty feet below was identification enough, without the poignant confirmation of the scrap of fuchsia silk fluttering bravely on a gorse bush. He had found Arlette.

With no hope inside him, he made his way backwards down the uneven hillside, fingers scrabbling for a hold as his feet dislodged miniature landslides of pebbles and tufts of grass. There was no way she could be alive, not with her head at that angle. Twelve feet above the ledge he stopped, the stench reaching his nostrils making him gag. Five days in the warm weather had turned a pretty, laughing girl into something foul. He forced himself to look down. She was lying like a discarded doll, her pretty hair tangled in the gorse bush which had arrested her fall. The heel of one sandal had broken and was hanging by a thread to the shoe.

His first reaction was a helpless anger. All that life and vitality, drained away into the rocky hillside. What a waste —what a diabolical waste. Then he thought of the polite, frantic couple who were her parents. With a deep sigh, he started to make his way back up the hill.

She was feeling calmer now, and not a little ashamed of her outburst in front of Claire. She'd go round tomorrow and apologize. In fact, what she was most conscious of was a feeling of anticlimax. Because an hour after Claire left, Bernard had come home and, apart from that glazed look in his eyes, had behaved no differently from usual. Which is to say he went out to water the plants and trim the edges of the lawn as if nothing had happened.

They had their usual Sunday tea—the ham sandwiches which had witnessed so much drama in their making, and a cake she'd baked the previous day, before the storm broke. She thought back to that different self who had made it, happy to be trying out a new recipe, looking forward to the dinner party that evening, awaiting Bernard's return for lunch. The self who had foolishly imagined herself loved, or at any rate the object of some affection.

She bit her lip as she recalled the words he'd thrown at her, each of them hooked to dig painfully into her memory and cling on there. How could he have lived with her for ten years, without giving an inkling of his true feelings? If they
were
his true feelings. Perhaps he was suffering from a mental illness, a kind of brainstorm? Perhaps he hadn't meant those things after all, didn't even realize he'd said them? Because this evening he'd been as calm and polite as usual, with no hint of that white-faced fury which had terrified her.

Now they were sitting as they always did, she with some embroidery and Bernard with his papers. But he wasn't reading them, she could tell. He spent a lot of time staring out of the window at the darkening garden. Every now and then he'd give a little start, force his eyes back to the papers, and turn one over. But his mind was elsewhere. What was he thinking about?

Cecile, Cecile..
He could hardly believe she'd come back. All those years of longing, withering away without her, and now she was here. The husband was of no consequence, a weakling, lying in a darkened room ever since their arrival and of no comfort to her. A migraine, for God's sake! It was a woman's complaint, but in her sweetness and loyalty she made excuses for him. Bernard didn't dispute them; he could afford to be generous, because it was himself she loved. He was convinced of it. Not that she'd said so in as many words. She was too distraught about the girl to think clearly, and he appreciated that. But subconsciously, desperate for the support and comfort her husband couldn't give, she had turned to him. Which was as it should be.

The snip of Beryl's embroidery scissors broke into his reverie. He blinked, looked down again at the papers in his lap. Beryl. There'd been a scene at lunch-time, when he'd returned from his meeting with Cecile. He'd said too much, he knew, though he couldn't remember what. Poor, plain Beryl, with her colourless eyebrows and her spinsterish ways. He recalled his earlier fantasy, of murdering her because she loved him. Now, it was in the bounds of possibility, though he hoped it wouldn't come to that. After all, she'd had ten happy years, Gaston three times as many with Cecile. In all fairness, they should now be prepared to step down.

But nothing definite could be said until the girl was found. He frowned, trying to visualize her, but she'd made no impression on him; he'd no memory of her unique to himself, only the picture he'd seen in the paper. He felt doubly cheated, by that lack of personal memory and by not having known who she was. But she didn't resemble her mother. If she'd had Cecile's large brown eyes, her smoothly dark hair—

He clenched his fists, feeling himself tremble. God, how he wanted her! He was fifty years old, but the only fulfilment he had known had been at twenty, with her. It wasn't too late. Now he could
live
again, with his beloved. His beloved.

'Shall I put the news on, dear?'

He jumped and frowned. 'I beg your pardon?'

'The news. It's time, if you'd like to see it.'

'Very well.' Why must she interrupt? Cecile—

Beryl said on a high note, 'Oh, Bernard! God, no!'

Odd. There on the screen was the picture he'd just conjured up of Arlette.
What
were they saying? Dead? Oh, my love! My poor, poor sweet—

The announcer's voice droned on. There were pictures of a steep bank over a busy road, and some activity half way up the slope—men moving around and a plastic tent being erected. Had he missed something? Had she been
murdered?
If someone had killed Cecile's daughter, he, Bernard, would personally strangle him with his bare hands.

That fellow Webb's face filled the screen. So the police were treating her death as suspicious. Now perhaps they'd get on with finding her killer, instead of pestering him.

'Her poor parents,' Beryl said softly, as the news item changed. 'How must they be feeling?'

He should go to her, he thought in agitation. No doubt Gaston was prostrate on his sickbed. She needed his own strength, the force of his love, to carry her through.

In a flash of clarity, he saw the purpose in it. It was necessary for her to suffer, and for Gaston's inadequacy to be revealed. Only then would she realize that she'd never stopped loving himself.

'It's fate, you see,' he said aloud.

Beryl looked startled. 'What is?'

'The girl's death.' He shouldn't need to explain. Couldn't she understand anything?

'Whatever do you mean?' She was staring at him wide-eyed, and to his annoyance there was that look of fear that he'd noticed at lunch-time.

'It's plain enough, surely,' he said with heavy patience. 'It's the only way to—' He broke off. What was he saying?

He really must be careful about thinking aloud. Who knew what he might say? Might already have said?

'The only way to what?' There was a quaver in Beryl's voice.

'Never mind. Nothing. You wouldn't understand.'

'Bernard, dear, I don't think you're well. Won't you go and see the doctor? To please me? I'm sure there's something he—'

'There's nothing wrong with me, Beryl, that can't be put right quite simply.'

She tried to smile. 'Well, that's good news.' 'I hope you continue to think so,' he said.

'Simon?' It was Iris's voice, and she sounded as though she'd been crying.

'Hello, Iris.' He was in a state of shock himself. If he hadn't arranged to meet Arlette, if she'd done something entirely different with her day, would she still be alive? It didn't bear thinking about. His memory of her was so vivid, the colours of it so strong and undiminished, that his brain wouldn't accept she was dead.

'Are you there, Simon?'

'Sorry. Yes.'

'I've—I've just seen it on TV.' 'I know. I feel awful, too.'

'It isn't only that, though. Was she murdered, do you think?'

'It's too soon to say.'

'They said on the news there were suspicious circumstances, so I—'

His voice sharpened. 'What is it, Iris? Is there something you haven't told us?'

'She made me promise not to—swore me to secrecy.'

'Arlette did?'

'Yes. She said if I ever breathed a word—' 'For God's sake, Iris! What is it?'

'Someone she used to meet. That no one knew about.' 'Who?'

Iris gave a little sob. 'If I'd told you before, would it have stopped her being killed?'

'How do I know, until you tell me?' He stopped, having pity on the weeping girl. 'I don't think so. It looks as though she died the day she disappeared.'

'Oh.' She gave a relieved little hiccup.

'Well, come on. Who was she meeting?'

'I don't know if she met him on Tuesday,' Iris said cautiously.

'Who was it?'

'Mr Morgan. William and Olga's father, who she gave coaching to.'

Simon let out his breath. 'Was she seeing him regularly?'

'He brought her home every week. Only they didn't come straight home. I was up in my room once, drawing the curtains. It was dark, so it must have been March sometime. And I saw her get out of a car just down the road. A man got out too, and gave her a long kiss. I asked her about it after, and that's when she told me.'

'Thanks, Iris. For letting me know.'

'Will I get into trouble for not saying? A policeman came asking questions, but I didn't tell him because I'd promised not to.'

'Never mind. We'll follow it up now.'

'Mr Morgan won't know it was me who told you?'

'No, I promise. Don't worry.'

Reassured that she had done her duty, albeit belatedly, Iris put down the phone.

It was ten o'clock
, and Webb had gone back to Led
better's house after all, too weary to resist his pressing invitation. Arlette's body had been extensively photographed, examined by the police surgeon, the pathologist and the scene of crime officers, and finally wrapped in plastic and manoeuvred down the h
ill to the waiting hearse. Webb
himself had accompanied it to the morgue. There, she'd been identified by her parents, and a post-mortem was arranged for the following morning. Now, sitting in the Ledbetters' pleasant sitting-room, the two men were relaxing at last.

'We'll soon know if she was dead when she went over the edge,' Chris Ledbetter was saying. He was sitting in the corner of the sofa, his injured leg laid along it, and, the snack supper finished, a rare glass of brandy in his hand.

Webb took a sip from his own glass. 'There was no other obvious cause. But if she died from the fall,
did
she fall, or was she pushed? Because what in hell was she doing way out there, when she was expecting to catch the one-whatever to Shillingham? She was hardly dressed for walking, in those sandals.'

Janet Ledbetter came into the room, followed by her daughter carrying a fresh pot of coffee. Emma at seventeen was ravishing. Lucky she took after her father, Webb thought affectionately, for though he was fond of Janet, no one could call her good-looking. She had soft, mousy-coloured hair, a small, pinched face and a shy smile. An odd choice, perhaps, for someone as flamboyantly handsome as Chris. Cynics suggested he'd married her to avoid competition, but Webb knew that was untrue. Not only was Chris entirely lacking in vanity, but the Ledbetters were one of the happiest couples he knew, and he envied them for it.