Death Speaks Softly (9 page)

'Do sit down.' Her gesture included Jackson. 'I've just made some tea. Would you like some?' 'Thank you.'

As she busied herself pouring it, Webb studied the room. The colouring was subtle—cream walls, grey carpet, but the heavy curtains were a warm apricot, a colour repeated in the upholstered suite. Though the easy chairs were modern, they blended perfectly with the antique cabinets and occasional tables that dotted the room. Bowls of flowers stood everywhere, part of the overall decor, and original watercolours were displayed on three of the walls. Given the opportunity, he'd study those more closely.

The realization that this understated luxury was home to his young constable, while he himself was cooped up in a small flat at the top of Beechcroft Mansions, brought a wry shaft of envy, as shortlived as it was unaccustomed. Because what the hell would he do with all this stuff, rattling round in a house this size?

'Now,' Tom Marshbanks said briskly, as they sat back with their tea, 'what can we do for you?'

It emerged from Webb's questions that Claire'd met Arlette, and he was glad to add her impressions to those already collected. She repeated Edna's story of the parked car and passed on her address; which ended the official part of the visit. Webb had no justification for introducing Warwick's name, other than professional curiosity and a gut feeling he couldn't put a name to. Nevertheless, leaning back in his chair, he said conversationally, 'I believe Professor Warwick lives next door?'

To his surprise, Mrs Marshbanks, refilling her husband's cup, jumped, and some liquid spilled in the saucer. 'I'm sorry. How careless of me.'

Webb glanced at her husband and caught his quick frown. 'Are you close friends?' he asked, ignoring the interruption.

'My wife's on a committee with Mrs Warwick,' Marshbanks answered. 'I don't know either of them well, though as it happens they're coming to dinner this evening.'

'Then you get on well together?'

Marshbanks met his bland gaze. 'Are you as casual as you're trying to imply, Chief Inspector?' Webb smiled. 'Almost, sir.'

'But Bernard works at the same institution as Arlette. Is that it?' 'Exactly.'

Marshbanks smiled slightly. 'Well, you've met him. Does he strike you as the type to start up a dangerous liaison with one of his colleagues?'

'I can't say he does, sir.' Webb paused, his eyes on Claire's averted face. 'Forgive me, but Mrs Marshbanks seemed startled when I mentioned him.'

She raised her head. 'It's too silly for words. Just that last night, I—' She stopped, flushed, and finished quickly, 'I had a dream about him. It disturbed me, that's all.'

It wasn't what she'd started out to say, Webb felt sure. What had really happened last night?

'Have they any family?'

'No, they've only been married ten years. They were late starters.'

'Neither had been married before?' 'No.'

'But they strike you as happy? Look,' he added impulsively, 'I apologize for grilling you about friends. I'm sure you realize it's necessary, and completely confidential.'

'As I said, I don't know them well. Claire?'

'He seems a most devoted husband. Beryl thinks the world of him.'

'Has he ever mentioned Arlette Picard in your hearing?'

She shook her head decidedly. 'Never.'

'Right. Then there's only one more question I have for you.' He smiled suddenly, relaxing. 'May I look at your superb watercolours?'

'Of course.' Claire was as much taken aback by the smile as the request. Unlike his earlier, more perfunctory ones, it had transformed the rather hard face, with its bleak grey eyes and tight mouth, into a surprisingly attractive one. As she walked with him to the wall of paintings, she was aware of him for the first time as a man rather than a police officer, reassessing the plentiful brown hair, the loose, rangey body and the unselfconscious height of him. This last appealed to her particularly; a tall woman herself, Claire was the same height as both her husband and her son, and it was an unaccustomed pleasure to be with someone who made her feel petite.

His knowledge of the paintings came as a surprise. Without hint of pretentiousness, he discussed easily with her the techniques of the various artists and the relative merits of their works.

'I'd no idea you were such an authority, Mr Webb,' she said with a laugh. 'You should be conducting our Arts Appreciation course!'

He looked embarrassed. 'I
hope my enthusiasm didn't run away with me. It's a hobby, that's all, but I'm certainly no expert.'

Tom spoke from behind them. 'I thought cartoons were your forte, Chief Inspector?'

Webb turned with a rueful smile. 'They're supposed to be incognito. Simon's powers of deduction, no doubt.'

'What cartoons?' Claire was puzzled.

'In the
Broadshire News.
And very pertinent they are, too. Signed with an S in a circle.' Tom smilingly held Webb's eye.

'And no doubt that cipher's also been cracked?'

'A spider in a web.'

'A
spider?
Claire echoed.

'An unavoidable nickname. One of the old lags started it, years ago. It's pretty widespread now.'

Claire said, 'That's fascinating, but cartoons are very different from watercolours. Do you paint as well?'

'Just as a hobby. Landscapes, mostly. It's a great form of relaxation.'

'And you sell them, too?'

He laughed. 'Good lord, no. I lose interest once they're finished, and bundle them into the loft.'

'I'd be very interested to see them.'

He shook his head. 'Really, they're nothing special. Strictly for my own amusement.' He looked across at Jackson, doodling on his notebook. 'We must be on our way. Thank you for your help—and the tea.'

'What a fascinating man,' Claire said, when Tom returned from showing the policemen out. 'You never told me about the cartoons.'

'I thought you knew. Simon mentioned them one day, and since then I've looked out for them. He's got a real gift for caricature—the people he draws are instantly recognizable.'

'I'd love to see his paintings. If they're as good as you say the cartoon are, he could be a real find. I wonder if we could persuade him to exhibit at Melbray?'

Tom laughed protestingly. 'Hold on, darling! He doesn't strike me as the type who'd welcome publicity.'

Deciding to pursue the matter if chance arose, Claire thought back to the reason for the visit. 'I hope Edna won't mind our sending the police round.'

'Mind? She'll have a field day. You'll get a blow by blow account on Tuesday.'

'They seemed interested in Bernard, too.'

'An interest you fuelled by shying like a frightened pony.'

'Yes, it was silly. I wasn't expecting it, that's all.'

'Just because the poor chap fancied a breath of air—' 'At three in the morning?'

'You did yourself. You went to the window for it, he to the garden. What's the difference?'

'I suppose you're right. But if he'd been walking about it would have seemed more normal. He just didn't move at all, for at least ten minutes.'

'Perhaps he was meditating. Anyway, get your reflexes under control before they come to dinner, or we're in for a sticky evening.'

'By Jove, Guv,' Jackson commented as they drove back to Shillingham, 'that cleaner woman was a talker, wasn't she? Took you all your time to get a word in.'

'Better than having to keep prompting,' Webb returned, 'but she'd told Mrs Marshbanks all she knew. And it boils down to the fact that Arlette had an older man in tow. So what? It doesn't make him any more suspect than the younger ones.'

'My money's still on Duncan.'

'It could be any of the tutors, come to that, or those fathers we saw this morning. Palfry over-reacted, and Morgan, though he was calm enough, had a shifty look about him. He
could
be a leading pillar of the community, but if I'd a daughter, I wouldn't let him within sight of her. They might all warrant another visit, specially since nothing's coming out of the house-to-house. For the moment we're well and truly stymied.'

Jackson said diffidently, 'Well, as long as we
are
stymied, Guv, would it be OK if I took tomorrow off? Millie—'

'Yes, of course, Ken.' Webb smiled. 'As a matter of fact, my chat with Mrs Marshbanks put me in the mood for sketching. I might snatch a couple of hours myself, if things stay quiet.'

There was something else he wanted to do during the weekend, and that was make his peace with Hannah. Seeing her again had resurrected all his feelings for her, and he couldn't imagine why he had let so much time pass without contacting her. Accordingly he stopped on the way home to buy some flowers, and, after he'd bathed and changed and before his courage could ebb, he ran down the flight of stairs that separated his flat from hers, and rang her bell.

The door opened at once, and from her welcoming smile he realized, with a sinking of the heart, that she'd been expecting someone else. She was wearing a lace dinner-dress in midnight blue and her hair was swept up on top of her head in a style he'd never seen before. It made her look at the same time stunningly beautiful and a stranger.

'Oh—David. Hello.' Her eyes went uncertainly to the flowers held stiffly in his hand.

'Hello, Hannah. Have I called at a bad time?'

'You have, rather. I'm going out in a few minutes. In fact, I thought you were—But come in.'

She stood to one side and he miserably stepped past her into the hallway. It had been redecorated since his last visit, emphasizing both the time-lapse and his sense of being out of place. But the sitting-room, with its windows open to the garden below, was blessedly familiar.

'Can I get you a drink?'

'Thanks.' He held out the flowers.

'For the interpreting? That's sweet of you, but there's no need—I was glad to help. Is there any news?'

'No. But that's not why I brought the flowers.' He paused, watching the delicate nape of her neck as she poured the drinks. Usually hidden by her hair, its fragile vulnerability constricted his throat.

'Oh?' She turned, handing him a glass.

'They're by way of a peace offering.'

She half-smiled. 'I thought diplomatic relations had been resumed.'

'But not the relationship I
want
to resume, as you know damn well.'

Her startled eyes went to his face. 'David—' 'Yes, I'm sorry.' He drew a deep breath. 'I'd hoped we could talk, clear things up a bit.' 'They're perfectly clear already.'

The doorbell rang through the flat. They stood for a moment, unmoving. His eyes looked haunted, she thought. But it was a bit late, now, to make peace offerings, just because they'd met by chance and he'd been reminded of her existence.

'Excuse me,' she said quietly, bending to put her glass down. He remained standing in a cocoon of misery, listening to the voices in the hall. Then she was back, flushed and talking too quickly.

'Charles, I don't think you've met David, from the flat upstairs. Charles Frobisher, David Webb.'

'How do you do?' Frobisher smiled, held out his hand, and Webb forced himself to take it. The man oozed public-school confidence, from his accent, his clothes, his manner. He was wearing a dinner jacket with black satin lapels. There was a carnation in his buttonhole, and Hannah was holding an exotic corsage. His own offering of spring flowers, still lying on the table, seemed vulgar by comparison.

Hannah, following his glance, said quickly, 'I'll put these in water. They're lovely, David. Thank you so much.'

She left the room and the two men stood awkwardly. At least, Webb felt awkward. Frobisher seemed perfectly at home.

'We're going to a concert at the Mozart Rooms,' he said easily. 'Naomi Fairchild. Have you heard her play?' 'I'm afraid not.'

Hannah came back with his flowers in a vase. She'd also pinned the orchid to her dress. He emptied his glass quickly.

'I mustn't detain you. Thanks for the drink, Hannah. Have a good evening.' He walked quickly from the room and let himself out of the flat. I've lost her, he thought numbly. And I've only myself to blame.

Nor was the Marshbanks' evening proceeding as smoothly as they'd wished. The Warwicks had arrived half an hour late, which caused problems to Claire's careful timing of the meal, and Beryl's eyes were red-rimmed. Her usual bright gaiety was nowhere in evidence, and Bernard sat like a zombie staring at his drink and making no response to Tom's conversational gambits.