The Company She Kept (14 page)

She wasn't exaggerating. She really meant what she said. He hadn't been so far out, seeing her as a latter-day Joan of Arc. But such commitment took the wind out of his sails, left him breathless. Was it with admiration, or envy, because he had nothing that came within miles of this? People, yes, they mattered to him as much as that – Alex, of course, his dear love. And his daughter, that went without saying ... But a cause, a commitment?

She must, by some trick of telepathy, have picked up his thought. Smiling faintly, she asked, ‘Do you play chess?'

‘Occasionally. Not very well. I'm too impatient.' Which was only partly true. He was a man patient in the extreme when it came to tracking down a villain or sifting through the details of a case. And he could spend all day regulating the most wayward and finicky of clocks, but games of any kind bored him. He lacked the competitive spirit over something he could see only as a time-wasting diversion.

‘You should. It's a useful accomplishment, if only because it teaches you to plan ahead. And believe me, I've planned! I've watched and waited, and worked out my strategy so that I know exactly what moves I'm going to make. This business of the Women's Hospital's been on the agenda for years, with all sorts of schemes for and against. I once thought it might be privately financed ... that turned out to be a pipe dream, but we're bound to win in the end, if not by sheer weight of opinion, then by more militant methods.' A sudden, rather mischievous smile illuminated her face and chased away the sententiousness. ‘I shouldn't be saying this to you of all people, should I?'

‘We'd better forget you did, then.'

The smile slowly died, and her eyes were shadowed again. The small frown between her brows reappeared. ‘Any news yet?'

‘Something has cropped up since we saw you last, yes. I think you may be able to help, at any rate I'd like to talk to you about it.'

‘You've some idea who might have been responsible?'

‘Oh, it's too early for that yet.' The usual soothing, anodyne platitude. ‘We've a lot of inquiries to follow through, but first – what can you tell me about a woman called Kitty Wilbraham?'

‘Kitty Wilbraham?' A little silence fell. ‘She was a patient of mine – a private patient – in my previous practice.'

‘How long ago would that be?'

‘That's something I couldn't tell you off the cuff. But I've been here in this practice for ten years and it was before then. She went back to live in North Africa. I haven't heard of her since but I think she's almost certain to have died by now. She was nearly eighty when she left England. Does that answer your question?'

‘Partly. She was a personal friend as well as a patient?'

‘I hope she thought of it that way. I certainly did.' Without elaborating further, he moved quickly on to something else, choosing his words carefully as he told her that evidence had been found suggesting that Angie Robinson had been the writer of an anonymous letter. One which might well provide a motive for her murder.

At first politely incredulous, her expression changed as he explained further. But having no alternative but to believe him, she was obviously deeply reluctant to accept that Angie had done what he said she had.

‘The letter seems to refer to something that happened fourteen years ago, and seemingly upset her badly. A séance of sorts,' he said, using the word deliberately this time, since it seemed to get people going. ‘Possibly at a place called Flowerdew.'

‘Flowerdew! That was Kitty's house!'

‘So I believe, ma'am.'

Outside in the waiting-room a child burst into a loud wail, held its breath for a perilous length of time, then started again, full force. She waited until it had been pacified, then said quietly, ‘You're talking about that game we played, aren't you? That idiotic game? Somebody's told you, Sophie, I imagine. I can't imagine now why I ever agreed to participate.' She broke off. ‘But I don't understand how something as trivial as that possibly have caused Angie's murder.'

‘Trivial? Perhaps you'd better tell me about it first, before we allow that.'

‘Well, it certainly wasn't a séance! Just a silly idea someone had to pass an idle hour. I don't remember whose idea it was. Fingers on a glass, pushing letters about on a table top, you know the sort of thing. It was nothing.'

‘Oh, I don't know that I'd call it nothing. Some people are funny about things like that. Can't say I'd like it much, myself. The very idea gives me the willies, getting messages from the dead – and I'm not impressionable, like Angie Robinson seems to have been. Sounds dangerous rather than silly, when it comes to predicting someone's death. That was what happened, wasn't it? The spirits, Dido or Elissa or whoever, predicting a death?'

‘That was just Felix, larking around,' she said shortly, ‘pushing the glass so that it went where he wanted it to, just for fun.'

‘He must've had a peculiar sense of humour, this Felix,' Mayo said mildly. Then, so sharp she almost jumped, ‘Felix who?'

‘Darbell. Felix Darbell.'

‘Tell me about Felix Darbell.'

She stared at him, her colour a little high. ‘I can only tell you what I knew then. I believe his parents were friends of Kitty and their marriage had just broken up. He was staying at Flowerdew for the summer until he went up to university. He used to help in the garden and round the house.'

‘What sort of person was he? Likeable? Quick-tempered, maybe?'

‘He was only a boy.' She shrugged, avoiding a direct answer. ‘About twenty, and you know how young people can fly off the handle, how impatient they can be. It sometimes makes them appear arrogant – especially when they're clever, like Felix was. He could give the impression of being rather supercilious at times.'

‘And who else was there?'

‘I'm not sure if I can remember.'

‘Well, you must have been, for one. And Angie. Presumably Mrs Lawrence –'

‘Yes, Sophie was there,' she said levelly.

Her performance so far was as well-rehearsed as Sophie Lawrence's. The two of them had spoken, he was sure. He wondered how close their relationship was.

‘Oh, we keep in touch,' she answered when he asked. ‘And Felix Darbell was also there that night? Mrs Wilbraham, for another, perhaps?'

‘No, Kitty had gone to bed.'

‘What happened, Dr Freeman? What happened that preyed on Angie Robinson's mind all this time?'

She was wearing her engagement ring this morning, an elaborate cluster of emeralds and diamonds set in dull gold that looked well on her strong, capable hands. She moved the ring round and round as she spoke, in an unconscious gesture that reminded him of Sophie Lawrence twisting her bracelets. ‘As far as I can remember, Angie made no objection at first. It wasn't until the glass started whizzing round and spelling out “Dido” – only because Felix was pushing it, I'm sure! – that she started getting frightened.'

‘Why?'

‘Why was she frightened? Well, Dido, which you perhaps don't know, was the name of a queen of ancient Carthage. Angie hated all that stuff about the past, especially when Kitty would begin to reminisce about her work on the ruins in Carthage. She and her husband, Alfred Wilbraham, were quite famous for the work they did there. Kitty had had an extension built on to the house as a study, and it was full of rather sinister mementoes they'd brought home – like a mask of the goddess Tanit above her desk. She used to relish telling the most lurid, blood-curdling stories about children being sacrificed and thrown to the flames, that sort of thing. She was one of those people with a natural gift for story-telling, so that it all seemed to have happened yesterday instead of three thousand years ago ... It was basically very interesting and informative, but Angie couldn't stand it. She always shut her ears to anything unpalatable.' The doctor sighed. ‘But Felix was really very naughty. He knew what a phobia she had and I'm afraid he was playing her up that night. Angie realized this when the glass spelled out “Dido” and, as far as I remember, it was after that it all ended in confusion, the table got tipped up and the glass broke and that was the end of it.'

‘You mean there was a quarrel?'

‘Not really. It just wasn't a very pleasant end to the evening. I suppose tempers were a bit frayed, but what I can't see is how it could possibly have anything to do with Angie – well, with the way she died. Didn't she say, in that letter? Could I see it?'

‘I'd sooner you didn't. But I can tell you that the implication was that someone was murdered that night. And we believe that's why she herself was killed.'

‘Another murder – that night? Surely you don't believe that?'

‘Unfortunately, it seems only too likely. And that it was Mrs Wilbraham.'

‘But I've told you, Kitty was in bed. That's ridiculous!' Mayo let her struggle with the question of whether or not to speak. ‘You asked me before what Angie was like,' she said at last. ‘I couldn't tell you then, it was too soon after ... too painful, but if I'm honest, I have to say she'd do anything for attention. Believe me, Mr Mayo, nobody was murdered that night. If Angie pretended that, she was just drawing attention to herself, to make people feel sorry for her. She couldn't help it.'

‘That's always a possibility, I suppose. But don't forget, Miss Robinson herself has been murdered – and after she'd sent that letter to us. If it wasn't that she was prepared to talk about what she knew, can you suggest any other reason why she was killed?'

It took her some time to answer. ‘You have to understand she was a woman with a huge persecution complex – a chip on the shoulder. She believed people avoided her because her face was marked, ugly. She blamed that for not being liked, poor Angie, when really ... I'm afraid she could be spiteful, and that could have upset quite a few people.'

‘Enough to murder her?'

‘Who knows?'

He prepared to leave, capping his pen, sliding his notebook into his inside pocket. ‘I'll bear in mind what you've said, Dr Freeman. Meanwhile, have you any idea how we could get in touch with Mr Darbell?'

‘With Felix? No, I'm sorry. I haven't seen him from that time to this.'

‘What university was he going to?'

She shook her head. ‘One of the Redbricks, I think ...'

‘Never mind, we'll find him. Oh, and there's just one more thing. I'm sure you've seen this before.' His hand came from his pocket with the earring held out on his palm.

She went very white. ‘It's Angie's, of course. Where – did you get it?'

‘It was found in her car.'

‘Oh. Oh, I see.'

They were hook-in type earrings with a fine wire which passed through the pierced earlobe, and in the struggle to get her into the car it was not impossible this one had become dislodged and fallen into the side pocket on the passenger side, where it had been found. But nobody had yet figured out how the tiny piece of black polythene – quite possibly a fragment pulled from a dustbin liner, which had been caught on the base of the hook itself – had got there. It wasn't much to go on, and damn-all else had been found inside the car, except traces of Angie herself: fingerprints, and several of her blonde hairs on the back of the driving seat where they might have expected to be found – but also on the passenger seat, confirming the theory that she had been propped up there after she was killed, before being driven up to Hartopp Moor. Traces of the peaty moorland soil had been found adhering to the underside of the white Astra.

‘They're old, aren't they? And valuable?' He knew now that the metal was pure silver, set with semi-precious carnelian and turquoise.

‘More from sentiment's sake. Kitty gave them to her.'

He left the surgery, not wholly satisfied with the interview but not entirely displeased, either, though viewing much of what the doctor had said about that night fourteen years ago with some scepticism. He'd advanced one step further than he had with Sophie Lawrence, though, in that he had an admission that something, even if it was only an innocent game of table-tapping, had occurred. But innocence was not part of this equation, of that he was sure. He was convinced now that Angie Robinson's letter, however misguided or embroidered with her own fantasies, or even if it had simply been written out of spite against Felix Darbell for winding her up, had basically given a true picture of what had happened. It made sense now to believe that it was Kitty Wilbraham's murder that night which had eventually led to the finding of Angie's body on Hartopp Moor.

Back at the station, he found Dexter's report on the Bulstrode Street flat on his desk. The SOCO sergeant had confirmed Mayo's suspicions, stating that in his opinion no struggle had taken place there; neither had the packing cases revealed anything that could help with the inquiry. The team had by now also been along to Kilbracken Road and looked at Angie Robinson's former room there, but she had left it stripped bare to the old-fashioned bedroom suite, the carpet and the curtains and nothing suspicious had been found. It was Dexter's considered opinion that Angie Robinson had met her death in neither place.

On the plus side, however, the latent prints which had been lifted from the whisky bottle and the glass in the flat had proved not to be the victim's. Identical ones had also been found on the doorknob. The glass had been subjected to saliva tests and the prints had been computer-checked but did not match the records of any known criminal. So, if the man who had visited her the night she died and made free of her whisky had been this man Felix Darbell, he did not have a criminal record.

In fact, most of their findings so far seemed to have been of a negative nature. None of the house agents in the town had had any dealings with the victim, the house-to-house team had drawn a blank in finding anyone who had known her in any intimate capacity. She had never made any close friends among her colleagues at the hospital; outside working hours, she had mixed only with the other women working for the hospital campaign – and had known them only on that basis, seeing them on the three nights a week when they had assembled to run the campaign at the old chapel, but not at other times. She hadn't been popular but nobody had been close enough to her for her to have aroused any emotion in them stronger than a vague dislike. Certainly nothing which could have induced in them any murderous intent. Outwardly, a piteously bleak and barren life, with no hint of what lay churning beneath the surface.