David Webb 7 - The April Rainers Page 6

  “Well, that’s a new line on moats and drawbridges. The question is, can I get in?”

  “It would be too risky to drive in, anyway. You’d better park up the road, under the trees.”

  “Fair enough. See you in half an hour, then.”

  She replaced the phone and paused to study her reflection in the mirror. The wide-eyed face looked curiously young, framed by prematurely grey hair in a straight, smooth bob. Appraisingly she turned from side to side, studying her image. Flat stomach, muscular arms and legs. Neck a bit crepey, though — she must watch that. But generally, not at all bad — a conclusion confirmed by men’s eyes every time she went out. So what was James’s problem? Though glad enough of her decorativeness at official functions, his manner at home was one of controlled impatience — and she’d damn well had enough. No wonder, at forty-five, she’d fallen for Robert Kent’s smooth talk.

  They’d met at the tennis club. Robert’s job as an estate agent meant he had no difficulty absenting himself from the office, and during the summer they’d formed the habit of driving out into the country for a drink. Before long, the drink had become only the preliminary to their activities.

  Cynthia gathered that, unlike herself, Robert was used to conducting an affair, needing the excitement it added to his life. She didn’t imagine she was in love with him, nor think for a moment that he loved her. But James had forfeited the right to her loyalty, and she needed the assurance that she was still attractive. And when, as it must, the affair fizzled out, it was comforting to know that no broken hearts would ensue. For the moment, though, and for their differing reasons, they suited each other, and Cynthia at least was content to look no further ahead.

  Glancing at her watch, she went to prepare for his arrival.

  5

  THAT EVENING, over dinner with his girlfriend, Mark was steeling himself to cancel their date for the next day. In the event, it was she who raised the subject.

  “Oh, I meant to tell you: Sally phoned and asked if we’d like to go sailing tomorrow. The forecast’s good, so I said yes.”

  “I’m sorry, Jackie, you’ll have to count me out.”

  She looked at him in surprise. They’d sailed on the reservoir several times, and he’d always enjoyed it. “I thought you’d want to go, but we don’t have to if you’d rather not.”

  “No, I mean I can’t make tomorrow at all. Something rather exciting’s happened; I had lunch with the Harwoods today, and Felicity asked me to write her biography.”

  She frowned. “But you’re not a writer. Not that kind, anyway.”

  “I know, but she says it’s because I know her music so well. And with all due modesty, I do.”

  “But surely it’s a full-time job, doing a biography?”

  “That’s the trouble. She wants me to take a year off.”

  Jackie stared at him. “Just like that?”

  “It’d be a wonderful opportunity. I’d go with her on tour, be part of all the preparations and rehearsals, perhaps even be there while she’s composing. Also, it would bring me to people’s notice, which mightn’t be a bad thing. She’s a very sought-after subject, you know; professional biographers are queuing up for the chance to write it.”

  “Then why doesn’t she let them?”

  “I’ve no idea. Look, I haven’t said I’ll do it; it’s not as simple as that. But the more I think about it, the more tempting it seems.”

  “But what about your job? They’d have to get a replacement, and you mightn’t be able to slot back in again when it suits you.”

  “I know; it’d take a lot of planning. Anyway, to help me decide, I’m going to make a provisional start now, and take it from there. Which is why I can’t see you tomorrow; I’m going round in the morning with my tape-recorder.”

  Jackie put her fork down. “Well, I think that’s a bit much, expecting you to give up your weekends. You hardly get any free time.”

  “She’s only here for a week or two, so we have to take what chances we can.”

  “Even when it means breaking a date? And what’ll I tell Sally? It’ll make me look such a fool.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said again, an edge creeping into his voice. How often did he have to apologize?

  Perhaps she heard it, too. She looked at him with her head on one side. “How old is this woman? Ought I to be jealous?”

  He smiled. “Knocking fifty — not much of a threat.”

  But Camilla might be, he thought uneasily, aware that his attitude to Jackie had changed in the last few days. Her hesitant air, which he’d originally found attractive, now made him impatient rather than protective, and mannerisms he’d thought endearing had started to grate. She was possessive, too; her question on grounds for jealousy had been only part joke.

  Damn it, he was being unfair. He had met Camilla only twice, and no doubt she had someone in her life already — maybe someone serious. It was foolish to let her dominate his thoughts to the detriment of poor Jackie, who had suited him well enough up to now. He looked up to find her watching him.

  “I really am sorry,” he said more sincerely. “Let’s go to the cinema one evening instead.”

  “All right. But seriously, Mark, don’t let this composer woman rush you into anything. You don’t want to regret it later. What’s she like as a person?”

  He considered before answering, weighing up his own impressions with what Camilla had told him. “I’d say she’s pretty tough: she’s had to be; but you can’t expect geniuses to be like ordinary mortals. See what you think yourself — you’ll be meeting her on Wednesday.”

  As she would Camilla. Would warning bells ring, and if so, would they be justified?

  Pushing all hypotheses from his head, Mark straightened and smiled.

  “Now, let’s change the subject. Would you like a dessert? The trolley looks tempting.”

  *

  The phone by the bed started to ring, and Robert and Cynthia sprang guiltily apart. “It’ll be about the car,” she said breathlessly. “There was an ad in the News — a hoax of some kind.”

  “Aren’t you going to answer it?”

  “No point. It’s been ringing all day.” She smiled, tracing his mouth with one finger. “Ignore it — it’ll stop soon.”

  “What did you mean,” he asked idly, “about the wrong-number ploy wearing thin?”

  “Well, you can’t keep saying that, can you?”

  “I haven’t said it at all, yet.”

  “Yes you have. Twice in the last couple of days.”

  He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  The phone stopped ringing as abruptly as it had started.

  “Thank God,” Cynthia said, shaking back her hair.

  “Cynthia?”

  “Well, you rang, didn’t you, when James was here? And we agreed from the beginning you’d only phone during the day.”

  “But apart from today, I’ve kept to that. I’ve never rung in the evening before.”

  She stared at him. “It wasn’t you?”

  “No, I’ve just said so.”

  “Then who was it?”

  “A genuine wrong number?”

  She frowned. “Twice? The first time was after Felicity Harwood’s reception. The Conways had asked us back for drinks, and it was nearly twelve when we got home. The phone rang just as we were locking up. James answered it, and for several seconds, apparently, there was silence. Then a voice muttered something about a wrong number. When it happened again last night, again about midnight — we were in bed that time — he was really angry and talked of reporting it. But I persuaded him not to, because I thought it was you.”

  “Give me credit for some sense! Why the hell would I ring you at midnight?”

  “I don’t know.” She paused, considering it from a new angle. “Perhaps it was part of this harassment campaign.”

  “What harassment campaign? You’re talking in riddles.”

  “There was the ad about the car, and, as you saw, a load of
manure’s been delivered, which James swears he never ordered. He’s had some anonymous letters, too.”

  “So someone’s got it in for him? Well, well. What’s he been up to?”

  Cynthia lay down, pulling the sheet over her shoulders. Though she disapproved of James’s business methods, she’d no intention of discussing them with Robert. “Goodness knows,” she said.

  “I read about him sacking the Broadshire Life editor.”

  “There was a personality clash.”

  “Pretty brutal, though, when she’d got the magazine back on an even keel.”

  Though she agreed with him, there was something distasteful about his lying in James’s bed criticizing him. A sense of loyalty, illogical in the circumstances, nevertheless asserted itself, and she turned devil’s advocate. “There’s no room for sentiment in business,” she said and, before he could reply, added quickly, “What time is it?”

  “Just after ten.”

  “You’d better be going. The boys may be back soon.” Downstairs, a door banged, and she shot upright, holding the sheet against her.

  “Cynthia?” a voice called. “Where the hell are you? Not in bed already?”

  “My God, it’s James!” She turned frantically to Robert. “Quick, into the bathroom, and take your clothes with you.”

  He scrambled from the bed, caught up his things, and had only just reached sanctuary when the bedroom door burst open and James stood there.

  “Good Lord, you are in bed! Why didn’t you answer the phone? I tried to ring a few minutes ago. It’s the opening night of the new country club, and Douglas and I thought you girls might like to go along.”

  He paused, taking in Cynthia’s stillness and the sheet flung back on the far side of the bed.

  “My God, you bitch!” he said softly. “You’ve had someone here, haven’t you? And in my goddamn bed, too. Where is the bastard?”

  Cynthia said, “James — no! No, you’re wrong. I was just feeling tired. Give me five minutes and I’ll —”

  But he strode to the bathroom door and started rattling the handle. “Come out of there! At once, before I break the door down!”

  There was a pause and Cynthia waited, mouth full of heartbeats. Then the door opened and Robert stood there. With no time to dress, he’d wrapped a bathtowel round him, beneath which his bare legs looked knobbly and faintly ridiculous.

  “And who might you be?” James demanded.

  “I — I just —”

  “Never mind.” Robert flinched at the contempt in his voice. “Get the hell out of my house. Now. I’ll have the details later.”

  “Can I — get dressed?”

  “No, you damn well can’t. Put your pants on and get out.”

  Robert retreated briefly and reappeared, clutching the rest of his clothes. With a helpless glance at Cynthia, he went quickly from the room.

  James turned to his wife. “And you,” he said deliberately, “can get your clothes on. You’re coming to the club, whether you like it or not. I’m not going to be made a fool of in front of my friends. We’ll discuss this later.”

  *

  The next morning, Mark arrived at Fauconberg House as arranged and was shown directly to the music room, where Felicity awaited him.

  “All set?” she inquired, as he set down his tape-recorder.

  “I think so. I hope I don’t make a hash of this; I’ve never done anything like it before.”

  “Nor I, but it’s only a trial run, remember. We’ll both be feeling our way.”

  “Right. Here goes, then.” He cleared his throat and switched on the machine. “Were you born in this house?”

  “No; we moved from across town when I was three, but it’s the only home I remember.”

  Gradually, they settled into the interview, and to his relief Mark found that one question more or less naturally followed another. As he’d imagined, she could not remember a time without music.

  “My mother sat me beside her at the piano when I was very small so I could watch her play. And when she finished, I was allowed to make my own attempts. By the time I was four or five I was making up tunes in my head, and not long afterwards picking them out on the keyboard.”

  “So parental encouragement was the spur for both you and Sir Julian?”

  But she was quick to qualify that, and Mark learned to his surprise that their father had been actively discouraging. “He was tone-deaf and hadn’t the slightest interest in music, so he resented our ‘wasting our time,’ as he put it.”

  “But your mother persisted?”

  “As far as she could. She came from a musical family, and though, with hindsight, her playing was only average, her father had been a conductor with the Shillingham Phil. Which is why Julian’s appointment meant so much to her.”

  “But your father’s attitude actually held you back?” Mark persisted.

  “Oh yes. He wouldn’t allow us to have private lessons, despite Mother’s pleading. He maintained no one made a decent living at music, so it was a waste of time and money. It was only when we started school, Julian at St. Benedict’s and I at Ashbourne, that we’d any professional tuition. It was like coming alive, for both of us.”

  “And you made up for lost time?”

  “Yes, we sailed through all the exams and were soon taking part in school concerts, performing as soloists.”

  “You on the violin?”

  “In the early days we both played the piano, but when I was about ten, my music mistress suggested I try the violin, and that was another rebirth. After that, I seldom had one out of my hand. I remember I used to play by the hour to gramophone records.”

  “And your father was won round eventually?”

  She shook her head vigorously. “By no means. If anything, he was harder on Julian, insisting he go into a nice, safe profession like banking. No red-blooded male went in for music.”

  “And you?”

  “By that time, I knew I wanted to compose. I pleaded to be allowed to read music at Oxford, where you can submit compositions for your degree, but of course he wouldn’t consider it. ‘Whoever heard of a woman composer?’ he’d say. And since I showed no interest in anything else, he decreed I should go to secretarial college. I would then, I was told, be able to earn my living until I married, after which, with a few babies to look after, I’d have better things to do with my time.”

  Mark shook his head wonderingly. “So what changed his mind?”

  “Nothing did,” Felicity said quietly. “He died when I was fifteen.” She looked up suddenly. “Can you imagine how I felt? I’d been fighting him over music most of my life, resenting his stubbornness, thinking — you know how children do — I wish he was dead!’ Then, suddenly, he was. For a long time, I thought I was responsible, that I’d somehow wished it on him.”

  “And his death changed your life?”

  She nodded soberly. “I read music at university, then went on to the Paris Conservatoire.”

  “It’s frightening to think that had your father lived, you might have been a shorthand typist!”

  “Never! I’d have run away and earned money to pay for lessons — scrubbing floors, if necessary. But it would certainly have taken longer.”

  “It’s good to know Ashbourne played such a positive role in your music. Do you remember who taught you?”

  “Certainly I do. Miss Grundy. She’s still alive, in her nineties now, and living in sheltered accommodation. I try to keep in touch, but now that she has arthritis in her hands, she can’t answer my letters. I must call in to see her while I’m here.”

  She stood up and walked over to a cabinet. “Here are my diaries for the years I was at school. You might find them helpful. There are other papers scattered about the house — manuscripts, diplomas, that kind of thing. Just ask Elizabeth if you’d like to see them.”

  She paused, looking down at him. “But I mustn’t rush things. You might decide not to go ahead.”

  “We’ll see,” Mark said diplomatical
ly.

  Felicity laughed. “Well, that’s enough talking for the moment. Let’s go and have a drink before lunch, and we can have another session this afternoon. It’ll be the only chance we’ll have this week, but if you leave me the machine as you suggested, we can cut a few corners. Then, when the concerts are over and you’ve had time to write up what you have, you might have more idea of how you feel about it.”

  *

  “Mrs. Dora Simpson? Chief Inspector Webb, ma’am, and Sergeant Jackson. Shillingham CID.”

  The woman stared at them with frightened eyes. “It’s about Ted, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right. Mind if we come inside?”

  She glanced across the road at the twitching net curtains. “Well, I can’t help you, I’m afraid.”

  “Nevertheless, we’d like a word,” Webb said implacably, and she reluctantly stepped aside. The hallway smelt of roasting meat — lamb, Jackson judged, and his stomach growled in sympathy. Millie had a nice piece of pork this weekend, and it wouldn’t improve, being kept hot all hours till he got back.

  They were shown into the front room, and two teenaged children who were lounging on the sofa watching television were summarily dismissed.

  “Now, sir.” Mrs. Simpson stood in front of Webb, her hands nervously twisting together. “How can I help you?”

  Webb studied her for a moment in silence. In her youth, she must have possessed a shallow, fleeting prettiness. Perhaps she didn’t realize it had gone. This Sunday morning, her eyelids were painted an iridescent blue, her lips glistening plum, and her overbleached hair was tied with a pink bow.

  “Are you widowed, Mrs. Simpson?” he asked gently.

  “Divorced. Six years ago.”

  “How did you meet Mr. Baxter?”

  She bit her lip and her eyes filled with tears. “It was at the pub — the Magpie. I used to go in sometimes with the girls from work, and I’d see him there. A fine-looking man, he was. I noticed him straight away, and he noticed me, too. Always looking in my direction. The men he was with used to tease him about it. Then one time when the other girls were on holiday, I went on my own and we got talking.”