Last Act of All (23 page)

‘
Here you are.’ He was holding a glass of water, and two of the brightly-coloured capsules.

‘
I’m sure one would do,’ she remonstrated feebly, but smiling he said only, ‘Doctor’s orders. He said you needed all the rest you can get over the next few days, and I promised to see to it. Don’t get up in the morning until you feel ready for it.’

He
kissed her forehead, and her eyes shut automatically, like a china doll’s when it is laid down.

She
had no idea how much later it was when the door opened again, but her head was feeling huge and light, an enormous balloon floating away, and she had to struggle to open her eyes at the sound of Edward’s voice, close to her ear.

‘
Helena, can you hear me? It’s Stephanie — she hasn’t gone to sleep, and she’s getting herself into a bit of a state.’

She
tried to raise herself, saying, ‘I musht – musht go to her.’ But her lips were flaccid, and her doll’s eyes were closing again.

‘
Stay where you are.’ His hands on her shoulders were gentle, but firm. ‘I’ll give her one of your pills, shall I, and make her some hot chocolate. She’ll feel better in the morning after a good night’s sleep.’

Reassured,
she smiled vaguely. Already the thick, cobwebby curtains of sleep were closing about her.

*

Once more, Detective-Inspector Coppins was not pleased with his subordinate. He was, in fact, outraged.

A
fruitless visit to Lilian Sheldon’s agent had kept him in London until late the night before: over his early-morning tea, he had read the newspaper he was now brandishing under Detective-Sergeant Howarth’s nose.

‘
Suicide bid during police grilling,’ ran the headline, and she groaned. ‘It — it wasn’t quite like that, sir,’ she offered, not very hopefully.

‘
I’m hardly daft enough to have supposed it was. You can’t get thumbscrews without a magistrate’s warrant these days, can you? But it isn’t clever. The Chief Constable will get to that rubbish whenever he finishes his mail, and then that phone’s going to ring. And when it does, I want to hit him with something positive. We’re on borrowed time already. So where do we go from here?’

Frances
felt her cheeks start to burn. She could hardly hum him a tune, and the three o’clock theory that had looked so good had fizzled out in an 8 a.m. check.

‘
What did you get out of them, then?’ he prompted. ‘I mean, before they started trying to kill themselves?’

‘
Well, I’m afraid it looks very much as if they’re both in the clear.’

‘
In the clear?’ Coppins’s bellow was given resonance by a mixture of rage and anguish. ‘After all that, they’re both in
the
clear
?’

‘
They didn’t realize — they each thought the other had done it, so inevitably they reacted oddly. We’ll have to check it through, of course, but unless they’re both astonishing actors…’

She
ran down. Coppins, pursing his lips, was absorbing the bad news.

‘
OK, OK. But I wasted a day checking out the London end, which is stone dead. So you’re in the driving seat — what’s our lead?’

‘
Well – more statements, sir. The new information from the Daleys may turn up something fresh. Then question people more thoroughly, concentrating on the village families this time…’

His
second bellow was even louder than the first. ‘That’s not a
lead
, sergeant! That’s a—’

He
was cut short by the ringing of the telephone on his desk. ‘Coppins,’ he said, still looking daggers at her, then, ‘For you.’

Frances
took it, with a silent prayer that at this crucial juncture in her police career, Poppy had not been inspired to call her with some domestic complaint. But it was Maxwell Tilson’s voice that spoke in her ear.

‘
Martha Bateman,’ he said, without preamble.

‘
Martha Bateman?’ Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Coppins’s face brighten.

‘
Everything points to Martha. She’s cock of the walk in the village, and she and Jane are old enemies, which in many ways makes them closer than friends. Reading between the lines, I would lay you a tidy wager that she knows what’s going on.’

‘
She’s high on my list of people to see today anyway, so I’ll move on that at once. But are you saying she would be capable of actual murder?’

‘
Capable? Oh, most certainly. I can see Martha with the cushion in her hand and not a moment’s compunction, On the other hand, too many people know something, and Martha, I assure you, would never give anything away.’

‘
Might they merely suspect, and be shielding her?’

‘
The suggestion, I suppose, is possible. Talk to her anyway, and see what comes of it.’

‘
I’ll do that. Thanks. You’ve been more than helpful.’

‘
Rebus
in
arduis
, my dear, remember. Good luck.’

‘
Well?’ Coppins pounced hopefully.

‘
Maxwell Tilson thinks Mrs Bateman might know something she’s not telling.’

‘
Bateman? She’s that hatchet-faced cleaning-woman, yes? Looks at us as if we were the sort of thing you find in the bottom of a water-barrel. Now, her I like. Just the type to be obsessional— sees the village as her patch, takes out anyone who threatens it—’

‘
Tilson seems doubtful.’

‘
They all want it to be the tramp in the bushes. But let’s keep in mind, Frances, that it has to be someone. Soon would be nice. Soon would be very nice. So get to it, will you? I’ll be down later in the day, but I’ve got a meeting here first, if you need to make contact. To tell me you’ve made an arrest, or anything like that.’

‘
Yes, sir.’ At least she was Frances again, but his determined optimism depressed her even more than she was depressed already.

The
phone rang again as she left the room. As she shut the door, she could hear him saying earnestly, ‘Well sir, I’m not denying we’ve had a few problems, and it would certainly be premature to say more at this stage, but we have developed an active and promising line of enquiry...’

*

Frances always thought better in the car, where there were no interruptions and the actions required were purely mechanical. She followed the now-familiar road to Radnesfield without conscious thought.

The
original list of suspects was looking increasingly ragged. Jack and Sandra: theoretically, they might have staged the whole thing, but in fact, she believed them. Edward: well-alibied for Neville’s death at least by a watchmaker, then a vicar, so try arguing that one in court. George Wagstaff: more likely, in her estimation, to settle the matter with his fists, like his daughter, but no hard alibi for either murder, so he had to be considered along with Chris Dyer and Peter Farrell — haunted by who knew what demons... Well, perhaps it was time to widen the net.

She
had noted the people Daley had fingered as being involved in the demonstration against Fielding, and they too were on her list of interviews today. Though none of them had been invited to the fatal party, it was no secret that it was taking place: Perhaps Neville’s murderer had, after all, thought he had the chance to silence Helena. Or had he known earlier about Lilian’s new threat to Radnesfield?

Could
it even be a conspiracy? It was hard to imagine, unless it were the tacit conspiracy of silence. Yet even in the cold light of day she could not shake her conviction that the heart of this community was the core of evil.

Martha
Bateman, now. She was as near to being that heart as anyone, and within it a powerful and ruthless woman...

Martha,
the crazed killer. But as she played with the idea, the image that came to mind, more chillingly, was of an executioner, inexorable but just.

Just!
That was it. There was a sort of cold, puritanical rectitude about the woman, an adherence to rigid principle, which was not normally characteristic of a killer. The snag was that here they had a different vernacular of morality, and Martha’s ideas of justice might be rooted in tenth- rather than twentieth-century principles.

Reaching
Radnesfield, she turned the car once more into the Four Feathers forecourt to check in at the trailer before she went across to the Red House to see Mrs Bateman.

The
young WPC was alone, sorting out files. She had a round pleasant face, but today she was looking subdued.

‘
Anything come in, Sue?’

‘
Chance would be a fine thing. They’re all out there asking questions, but you’d need lighted matches under the fingernails here to get an answer to “What’s the time?” It’s getting to me, I can tell you.’

Frances
laughed. ‘You’re not taken with Radnesfield, then?’

The
girl shuddered. ‘They don’t live in this century, this lot. Andy Smith saw one garden with beehives, all hung round with black streamers. They told him it was because the bees knew there was death about — gives you the shivers, doesn’t it?’

‘
It does, a bit. Well, I’m just on my way to interview another of Radnesfield’s attractions — Martha Bateman. Do you know her?’

‘
Oh, we all know Martha. Three constables have tried asking her questions, and she’s chewed them up and spat out the bones. She passed here just a few minutes ago.’

‘
On her way to the Red House?’

‘
No, the other direction. Going home, I think.’

‘
That’s lucky. I didn’t fancy interviewing her at the Red House with Edward Radley supervising. If I’m not back in an hour, send them with a shovel to scrape me off the carpet.’

*

It was niggling anxiety which forced its way at last into her drugged state in the morning. It emerged first in convoluted, anxious dreams, where obstacle after crazy obstacle was put in her way. Moaning and muttering, she struggled to break free; several times, the drowsy undertow dragged her back, but at last she forced her eyes open.

The
red figures of the digital clock glowed in the darkened room. Nine thirty-four, they said.

Lord,
she felt terrible! Her eyes were trying to close again, her head was muzzy, and her tongue seemed thick and swollen. She rolled herself out of bed and groped her way to the bathroom.

Water
helped: greedily, she gulped a glassful, then went to stand under a lukewarm shower.

Stephie,
that was the thought that had brought her to the surface. Stephanie had been upset last night, but Edward had dealt with it, which was just as well, since she couldn’t have moved if the bed had gone on fire. She must sort things out properly before she let her go back to school.

She
shied away from the problem of Edward. They had both been overwrought last night; they weren’t in the habit of losing their tempers, and they had no practice in coping with the results. She tried to tell herself that perhaps, after all, some sort of compromise would be possible once they talked it through calmly. Things often looked better in the morning.

It
was only when she opened her bedroom door that she realized how quiet the house was. Usually by this time Mrs Bateman was pushing a hoover round, clattering plates and slamming doors.

Stephanie
would still be asleep, of course, after taking a pill. She wouldn’t disturb her, at least until she had had the chance to talk to Edward, who would be downstairs. He never slept late in the morning, however tired he might be.

Sure
enough, he was sitting at the breakfast table in the kitchen, presenting a pleasantly domestic picture with a newspaper in his hands. He smiled up at her.

‘
Now, I thought you might have slept later.’ He looked strained and weary still, but sounded determinedly cheerful. ‘I even told Martha not to come in, so that she wouldn’t wake you — I don’t think she knows how to work quietly. Let me make some fresh coffee.’

‘
Yes, please. It might make me feel rather more as if my head belongs to me. In fact, I woke up worrying about Stephanie. I didn’t dream it, did I, that you came in and said she was upset last night?’

A
frown crossed his face. ‘No, you didn’t,’ he said slowly. ‘Actually, I was sorry you were so dopey — I’d hoped you might still be awake enough to talk some sense into her.’

Helena
stiffened. ‘What do you mean?’

‘
Well —’ Edward was fiddling with coffee and kettle, as if he found it hard to go on. ‘It’s awfully stupid, really — you know how irrational they can be at that age, and Stephie’s shaken anyway — but she seemed to have gone back to that idiotic notion about Neville, when she was convinced you had done it—’