In The Presence Of The Enemy (75 page)

Barbara acquired no different answer from anyone else in the village. Nearly everyone she met wanted to help, but no one was able to.

So, knackered and hungry, she returned to Lark’s Haven. It was long past time to phone London anyway. Lynley would be waiting to assemble something suitable to keep AC Hillier out of their hair.

She trudged to the door. There’d been no word on Leo Luxford. DS Stanley was employing his grid once again, with a heavier concentration on the area round the windmill. But they’d had no indication that the kid was even in Wiltshire, and showing his picture in every hamlet, village, and town had produced nothing but a montage of shaking heads.

Barbara wondered how two children could disappear so thoroughly. Having grown up in a sprawling metropolitan area, she herself had been drilled endlessly in her childhood with the only injunction that was secondary to

“look both ways before crossing the street.”

This was “and never talk to strangers.” So what had happened with these two children?

Barbara wondered. No one had seen them dragged screaming off the street, which meant that each of them had gone willingly. So had they never been told to be wary of strangers?

Barbara found this impossible to believe. So if they
had
been drilled with that timeless injunction as she had been, then the only conclusion was that whoever had taken them wasn’t a stranger to them at all. So who was common to both these children?

Barbara was too hungry to look for a link.

She needed to eat—she’d stopped and bought a Corned Beef Crispbake (“just pop it in the oven”) for that express purpose at Elvis Patel’s Grocery—and after she ate, perhaps she’d have the blood sugar and the brainpower necessary to make sense of the data she had and to look for a connection between Charlotte and Leo.

She glanced at her watch as she went in the front door, Crispbake in hand. It was nearly eight o’clock, the perfect hour for elegant dining. She hoped Corrine Payne wouldn’t mind if she commandeered the oven for a while.

“Robbie?” Corrine’s wispy voice came from the direction of the dining room. “That you, darling?”

“It’s me,” Barbara said.

“Oh. Barbara.”

Since the dining room was on Barbara’s route to the kitchen, she couldn’t avoid a meeting with the woman. She found her standing over the dining table on which was spread out a length of sprigged cotton. Corrine had pinned a pattern to this and was in the process of cutting it.

Barbara said, “Hullo. Mind if I use the oven?” and she lifted the Crispbake for Corrine’s inspection.

“Robbie isn’t with you?” Corrine slid the scissors beneath the material. She snipped along the pattern.

“Still on the job, I expect.” Barbara winced, realising after she’d said it that she’d chosen a rather unfortunate expression.

Corrine smiled down at her work and murmured, “Yourself as well, I suppose?”

Barbara felt her neck itch. She tried to speak airily. “Masses of stuff to be done. I’ll just heat this up and get out of your way.” She headed towards the kitchen.

“You almost had Celia convinced,” Corrine said.

Barbara stopped. “What? Convinced?”

“About you and Robbie.” She continued to cut along the line of the pattern. Was it imagination, Barbara wondered, or had Corrine’s scissors picked up the pace? “She phoned here not two hours ago. You didn’t expect that, did you, Barbara? I could tell by her voice, of course—I’m very good at that—and while she didn’t want to tell me, I had the story out of her. I think she needed to talk. One does, you know. Would you like to talk to me?” She looked up and met Barbara’s gaze quite pleasantly. But the way she raised her scissors sent hackles running like mice up and down Barbara’s spine.

Barbara wasn’t one for subterfuge. She’d missed that coursework entirely during her days at school. She often thought her inability to master feminine wiles was the main reason she spent every New Year’s Eve listening to the radio and eating most of a St. Michael’s Toffee Pecan Dream Pie. So she thrashed round in her head for an appropriate response that would direct Corrine Payne onto another topic, but she ended up saying, “Celia’s got the wrong idea about me and Robin, Mrs.

Payne. I don’t know where she got it, but it’s altogether wrong.”

“Corrine,” Corrine said. “You’re to call me Corrine.” She lowered the scissors and began to cut again.

“Right. Corrine. So I’ll just pop this in the oven and—”

“Women don’t get ‘wrong ideas,’ Barbara.

We’re far too intuitive for that. I’ve seen the change in Robbie myself. I simply didn’t know what name to put upon it until your arrival. I understand why you might lie to Celia.” On the word
lie
, the scissors snapped with excessive energy. “She is, after all, Robbie’s intended. But you’re not to lie to me. That won’t do at all.” Corrine gave a gentle cough as she concluded. Barbara noticed for the fi rst time that her breathing was congested. She watched as the older woman patted her chest smartly, smiled, and said, “Nasty old asthma. Too much pollen in the air.”

“Rough in the springtime,” Barbara said.

“You can’t imagine how rough.” Corrine had moved round the table as she’d continued her cutting. She now stood between Barbara and the kitchen door. She cocked her head and produced an affectionate smile. She said,

“So tell me, Barbara. No lies to Corrine.”

“Mrs. Pay—Corrine. Celia’s upset because Robin’s preoccupied. But that’s always the way it is in a murder investigation. One gets caught up. One forgets about everything else for a while. But when the case is over, life gets back to normal, and if she’ll just be patient, she’ll see I’m telling the truth.”

Corrine tapped the tip of the scissors against her lip. She examined Barbara appraisingly and when she returned to her cutting, she returned to her theme of choice as well. “Please don’t take me for a fool, dear. That’s unworthy of you. I’ve heard you together. Robbie’s tried to be discreet. He’s always been terribly thoughtful that way. But I’ve heard him going in to you in the night, so I’d prefer we be honest with each other about everything. Lies are so unpleasant, aren’t they?”

The implication rendered Barbara speech-less for a moment. She stammered, “Going in? Mrs. Payne, are you thinking that we’ve been—”

“As I said, Barbara, you may feel the need to lie to Celia. She is, of course, his intended bride. But you mustn’t lie to me. You’re a guest in my home, and that isn’t very nice.”

Paying
guest, Barbara wanted to clarify as Corrine’s scissors began to pick up speed.

Soon to be ex-guest if she could pack her belongings fast enough. She said, “You’ve got everything wrong, both you and Celia. But let me clear out. It’ll be better for everyone.”

“And give you greater access to Robbie?

Through a place where you can meet and do your business with perfect freedom?” Corrine shook her head. “That wouldn’t be proper.

And it wouldn’t be fair to Celia, would it? No.

I think it’s best that you stay right here. We’ll get this sorted out as soon as Robbie gets home.”

“There’s nothing to sort. I’m sorry if Robin and Celia are having troubles, but it’s nothing to do with me. And you’ll only embarrass the hell out of him if you try to make a case that he and I…that we…that he’s been…I mean while I’ve been here…” Barbara had never felt so fl ustered.

“Do you think I’m making this up?” Corrine asked. “Are you accusing me of producing a falsehood?”

“Not at all. I’m only saying you’re mistaken if you think—”

“Mistaken’s no different from lying, dear.

Mistaken
’s the word we use in place of
lying
.”

“Maybe you do, but I—”

“Don’t argue with me.” Corrine’s breath caught raspily in her chest. “And don’t deny. I know what I’ve heard and I know what it means. And if you think that you can open your legs and take my Robbie from the girl he’s meant to marry—”

“Mrs. Payne. Corrine.”

“—then you had better think again. Because I’m not going to stand for it. Celia’s not going to stand for it. And Robbie…Robbie…” She gasped for a breath.

“You’re getting yourself worked up over nothing,” Barbara said. “You’re going red in the face. Please. Sit down. I’ll talk if you want to. I’ll try to explain. Just settle down or you’ll make yourself ill.”

“And wouldn’t you like that?” Corrine waved the scissors in a way that set Barbara’s nerves on edge. “Isn’t that
just
what you’ve had planned from the first? With his mum out of the way, no one else would be here to make him realise he’s about to throw his entire life away for a piece of rubbish when he could have…” The scissors clattered to the table.

She reached for her chest.

“Hell,” Barbara said. She made a move towards Corrine. Gasping stertorously, Corrine motioned her off. Barbara said, “Mrs.

Payne, be rational. I met Robin just two nights ago. We’ve spent a grand total of about six hours in each other’s company because we’ve not been working the same part of the case.

So think about it, won’t you? Do I look like a
femme fatale
to you? Do I look like someone Robin would want to sneak in to in the middle of the night? And after an acquaintance of only six hours? Does that make sense?”

“I’ve been watching the two of you.” Corrine struggled for breath. “I’ve seen. And I know. I know because I phoned to—” Her fi ngers grasped her chest.

Barbara said, “It’s nothing. Please. Try to stay calm. If you don’t, you’re going to—”

“Sam and I…We set the date and I thought he’d want to be…first one…” She wheezed.

“To know…” She coughed. She wouldn’t give in. “But he wasn’t there, was he, and we both know why and aren’t you ashamed—ashamed,
ashamed—
to be stealing another woman’s man.” The sentence drained her. She crumpled over the table. Her breathing sounded as if she were sucking in air through the eye of a needle. She grabbed on to the length of material she’d been cutting. She dragged it with her as she sank to the fl oor.

“Flaming hell!” Barbara leapt forward. She shouted, “Mrs. Payne! Hell! Mrs. Payne!” She grabbed the other woman and turned her onto her back.

Corrine’s face had altered from red to white.

Blue edged her lips. “Air,” she panted.

“Breathe…”

Barbara dropped her back to the fl oor without ceremony. She surged to her feet and began to search. “The inhaler. Mrs. Payne, where is it?”

Corrine’s fingers weakly moved in the direction of the stairway.

“Upstairs? In your room? In the bathroom?

Where?”

“Air…please…stairs…”

Barbara tore up the stairs. She chose the bathroom. She flung open the medicine cabinet. She swept a half dozen medications into the basin beneath it. She fl ung out toothpaste, mouthwash, plasters, dental f loss, shaving cream. There was no inhaler.

She tried Corrine’s room next. She pulled drawers from the chest and dumped out their contents. She did the same with the bedside table. She looked on the bookshelves. She went to the clothes cupboard.

Nothing.

She raced into the corridor. She could hear the woman’s agonised breathing. It seemed to be slowing. She shouted, “Shit!
Shit!
” and hurled herself at a cupboard, where she drove in her arms and began throwing everything onto the floor. Sheets, towels, candles, board games, blankets, photo albums. She’d emptied the cupboard in less than twenty seconds with no more success than she’d had anywhere else.

But she’d said
stairs
. Hadn’t she said
stairs?

Hadn’t she meant…?

Barbara raced back down the stairs. At the foot of them stood a half-moon table. And there among the day’s post, a lush potted plant, and two pieces of decorative crockery sat the inhaler. Barbara snatched it up and dashed back to the dining room. She placed it into the woman’s mouth and pumped frantically. She said, “Come on. Oh God. Come on,” and she waited for the medical magic to work.

Ten seconds passed. Twenty. Corrine’s res-piration finally eased. She kept breathing with the assistance of the inhaler. Barbara kept holding her lest she slip away somehow.

And that’s how Robin came upon them, less than fi ve minutes later.

Lynley ate his dinner at his desk, courtesy of the fourth floor. He’d phoned Havers three times—twice at Amesford CID and once at Lark’s Haven, where he’d left a message with a woman who’d said, “Rest assured, Inspector, I’ll make certain she gets it,” in the sort of deadly polite tone that suggested what Barbara was going to get might include far more than his request that she phone London with her day’s summary of her part of the investigation.

He’d phoned St. James as well. There, he’d spoken only to Deborah who said her husband hadn’t been home when she herself had returned from a day’s shooting in St. Botolph’s Church just a half hour before. She said, “Seeing the homeless there…It puts everything in perspective, doesn’t it, Tommy?” Which gave him an opportunity to say, “Deb, about Monday afternoon. I have no excuse other than to say I was acting like a boor. No, I
was
a boor.

That whole bit about killing children was inex-cusable. I’m terribly sorry.” To which, after a thoughtful and entirely Deborah-like pause, she replied, “I’m sorry as well. I’m rather vulnerable when it comes to that sort of thing.

Children. You know.” To which he said, “I know. I know. Forgive me?” To which she replied, “Ages ago, dear Tommy,” although it had only been forty-eight hours since the harsh words had passed between them.

After speaking to Deborah, he’d phoned Hillier’s secretary to give an approximate time when the AC might expect his report. Then he’d phoned Helen. She’d told him what he already knew—that St. James wanted to speak to him and had been wanting to speak to him since noon that day. She’d said, “I don’t know what it’s all about. But it has something to do with that picture of Charlotte Bowen. The one you left at Simon’s. On Monday.”

Lynley said, “I’ve spoken to Deborah about that. I’ve apologised. I can’t unsay what I said, but she seems willing to forgive me.”

“That’s quite like her.”

“It is. Are you? Willing, that is.”