A Dead Man Out of Mind (23 page)

Cindy Lou's manicured fingers lingered on his for a moment as she took it from him; she dabbed at her eyes in a delicate way so as not to smudge her make-up, and gave him a watery smile of gratitude. ‘Oh, you're very kind,' she murmured. ‘I'm sorry. I don't know what's come over me. But Frankie hurt me so bad that sometimes I just can't help myself.'

‘He did?'

‘I gave that man everything. Everything I had! And how did he repay me?'

David shook his head.

‘By sleeping with his slut of a secretary.' Her anger flashed again for an instant as she thought about it, her Frankie and that unspeakable girl who, apart from her youth, could surely have nothing to offer a man like Frankie, who was used to the better things of life. The letters that she'd found had been written in a childish scrawl and were badly spelled, if sexually explicit; it was an unforgiveable insult to
her
, his wife, that he should have transgressed with someone so unworthy. This time a tear actually did spill over; she let it roll down her cheek for effect and said in a piteous voice, ‘And she's not even pretty! I just don't understand how Frankie could do it. It wasn't a gentlemanly thing to do. Oh, Mr Middleton-Brown – you'd never do anything like that to your wife, would you?' She regarded him searchingly.

Disconcerted, he tried to pass it off as a joke. ‘My secretary is sixty-two,' he mumbled with an unconvincing smile.

She looked hurt, as if she had expected a more gallant reply. ‘You know what I mean, Mr Middleton-Brown.'

He gazed into his champagne, hoping to be forgiven for his gaucherie. He had expected Mrs Nightingale to be indifferent towards her husband, or possibly even vindictive, but from what Russell Galloway had said he hadn't anticipated this combination of outrage and misery.

‘I gave that man everything,' Cindy Lou repeated bitterly. ‘Frankie was happy enough to have my money – my daddy's money – to spend. And he was glad enough for the lifestyle that money gave him, and the doors it opened. Do you think he ever would have made it as far as he has in business without my money behind him?'

‘But I thought that the money wasn't at issue,' said David, glad to be back on firm ground. ‘Mr Galloway said that your husband wasn't seeking any sort of financial settlement . . .'

She gave a scathing laugh. ‘He'd better not even try it, the rat. My daddy's got lawyers who can run circles around Frankie's lawyers. Daddy never did like Frankie. He made sure before we got married that there was no way Frankie would ever be able to touch my money if we split up, or if I didn't want him to have it.' Downing the rest of her champagne in one gulp, she held out her glass for David to refill it, adding, ‘Now let's see how he likes being poor again, like he was before he met me.'

At last the conversation was beginning to go the way David had hoped. ‘You mean he doesn't have any money of his own?' he probed.

‘Hardly a red cent,' she declared with satisfaction. ‘In fact, between his gambling debts, and all the money he's lost with Lloyd's, he's so far in the hole that he'll
never
dig himself out. Not unless he manages to figure out a way to kill off his sister-in-law and his brother, in that order, and get away with it!' she added facetiously. ‘Not that I'd put it past him, mind you!'

David was stunned; he stared at Cindy Lou Nightingale for a moment as he realised that she'd been abroad and wouldn't have known about the two deaths. She misunderstood his reaction, and went on to explain, ‘His brother has millions, but it's not doing him any good, poor guy. He was in an accident, and will be a vegetable for the rest of his life. But even if he dies, Frankie won't get any of his money unless the wife dies first – otherwise she'll get it all. Poor old Frankie – two inconvenient people in between him and all that money.'

‘But it's been in all the papers,' David blurted out. ‘You wouldn't have seen it. They're both dead. Rachel Nightingale was killed in a traffic accident last week – a hit-and-run driver. And her husband died a few days later.'

Cindy Lou's laughter was tinged with hysteria. ‘Then he's done it, the greedy little bastard. He's finished them off somehow. I know him, better than anyone, and I know what he's capable of, especially when that much money is involved. Mark my words – those deaths may have looked accidental, but Frankie was behind them.' She raised her glass with a smile of grudging admiration. ‘Here's to Frankie. May all that money bring him nothing but misery. And I hope he gets caught.'

CHAPTER 20

    
Their throat is an open sepulchre: they flatter with their tongue.

Psalm 5.10

St Jude's Church was full for Rachel Nightingale's funeral, as two congregations of parishioners turned out to pay tribute to their curate; now that she was no longer a threat to them in any way, they were prepared to be generous to her in death as they never would have been in her life, and to mourn her with every evidence of sincerity.

Father Keble Smythe delivered an eulogy that was both stirring and profoundly touching in its evocation of a Godly life cut short by cruel fate. That, combined with the beautiful singing of the choir and the heart-rending words of the Order for the Burial of the Dead from the Book of Common Prayer, ensured that Ruth Kingsley was not the only person in the congregation to shed tears that morning.

Ruth wept noisily; beside her, Lucy's tears trickled in silence as she clutched Ruth's hand. In her own quiet way, Lucy mourned as deeply as Ruth: in the short time she'd known Rachel, the other woman had made a great impression on her, chiefly for the manner in which she had managed to transcend unspeakable tragedy and rebuild her life so positively. Lucy had looked forward to getting to know her better, to discovering the secret of her inner strength. Now she would never have that opportunity.

After the funeral there was no interment, or even a committal; in due time there would be another service in Cambridge, in the church where Rachel had begun her clerical career, and afterwards she and Colin would both be laid to rest beside their young daughter, in a Cambridge churchyard. So the proceedings rather fizzled out at the end, and the mourners adjourned to the vicarage, where, in the absence of a close family to do the honours, Mrs Goode had surpassed herself in providing a plentiful cold feast for anyone who chose to come. Needless to say, no one stayed away, and soon the vicarage was crammed full of those who had come to mourn, to eat, or to gossip – or any combination of the three. They filled the sitting room, then spilled over into the dining room, where the food and drink were on offer, and even eventually took over the kitchen and the Vicar's study.

In a remarkably short time, and by virtue of her untimely death, Rachel Nightingale had seemingly achieved the status of sainthood. So Lucy surmised from the conversation in the kitchen, where Dolly Topping and her cadre of women gathered. ‘I, for one, won't hear a thing said against her,' Dolly pontificated. ‘We may not have always seen eye to eye, Rachel and I, but she was a lovely young woman. And so devoted to her poor husband.'

‘Oh, she was,' Joan Everitt agreed. ‘You remember, Dolly? – I always did say so. Last week, when the meeting was at my house – you didn't come, Dolly, remember? – I was so impressed with the way she spoke. Afterwards I asked her about her husband, and it nearly made me cry, the way she talked about him.'

‘Terribly sad,' confirmed Dolly, who insisted on having the last word on all matters. ‘And I'm so sorry that I had to miss that meeting. I heard that her talk was fascinating.'

Sickened, Lucy turned away. Ruth had already disappeared; Lucy was very much afraid that the girl, who held doggedly to her belief that Rachel had been murdered, might be engaged on a misguided fact-finding mission. Before she found her niece, though, she ran into Emily. ‘Oh, there you are, Luce. I've been looking for you,' Emily greeted her.

Lucy looked around for Emily's husband. ‘Gabriel's not here?' The Archdeacon had assisted with the funeral service and might have been expected to attend the post-funeral reception.

‘He's around somewhere,' confirmed Emily. ‘The last time I saw him, that creepy Administrator was dragging him off into a corner for a chat about something. That's when I decided to leave him to his own devices and find you instead.'

‘Have you seen Ruth?'

‘I did, a little while ago. She seemed to be coping all right.'

‘Poor kid.' Lucy sighed. ‘She's taken it very hard, you know. She didn't know Rachel long, but she really got attached to her. How are
you
coping, Em?' she added.

Emily shook her head reflectively. ‘I thought I was doing all right, until today. But I just can't deal with all these endless eulogies by people who would have gone a mile out of their way to avoid her a fortnight ago.'

‘Horrible, isn't it?'

‘Obscene,' Emily stated with force. ‘Apparently there was a huge row at St Margaret's, everyone ganging up on Rachel, last Friday evening just before her . . . accident. And now no one will admit that they took part in it – just innocent bystanders, they all claim.' Her voice sounded bitter.

‘Well,' said Lucy, who hadn't heard about the row before, ‘at least it may explain some of what's going on now – all the denial and so forth. Though no one would ever say it, I'm sure they feel guilty about it. I mean, it's possible that she was so badly upset about the row that she wasn't being as careful as she might have been on her bicycle – and in that case, all the people who were involved might feel a little bit responsible for her death. Does that make sense?'

‘There might be more to it than that.' Emily lowered her voice cautiously. ‘Listen, Luce. Gabriel thinks that there's something funny going on. I can't really explain it now, but he has reason for thinking it. And we wondered . . . well, you and David have had experience with this sort of thing before. I know it's short notice, but could the two of you come to supper tomorrow night, just to talk about it?'

Lucy hesitated. She was reluctant to speak for David, especially given the situation. And she wasn't particularly keen on an evening with Gabriel herself; in the best of circumstances it would be awkward, and this was far from the best of circumstances. But Emily's dark eyes were fixed on her with a pleading look, and the demands of friendship prohibited a negative answer. Besides, she said to herself, they owed it to Rachel. David might not be very happy about it, but he would agree that it had to be done. ‘Yes, all right,' she said. ‘What time would you like us to come?'

In an effort to redirect her grief over Rachel's death, Ruth resolved to carry through with her intention to do a bit of investigation. To that end she had slipped away from her aunt, and tried to make herself inconspicuous on the edges of various groups of people, eavesdropping on conversations. But she heard little more than the sort of valedictory comments about the dead curate that had so upset Lucy.

‘Oh, hello,' said a tentative voice at Ruth's shoulder; she turned to find Vera Bright, her face splotchy and her eyelids swollen. Recognising the signs of a fellow sufferer from genuine bereavement, Ruth gave the older woman a quick, impulsive hug.

‘Hello, Miss Bright. I was looking for you at the church, but I didn't see you.'

Vera Bright clutched Ruth's hand. ‘How nice. We were a little late, I'm afraid.'

‘Your father came too?'

‘Yes. He's gone off into the other room to talk to the men, and I just didn't feel like being on my own, so I thought I'd have a word with you.' She fumbled in her pocket for a handkerchief, which she produced to dab ineffectually at her eyes. ‘I'm sorry, my dear. I can't help myself. This has been such a shock.'

‘Oh, I know.' Ruth looked around and spotted a pair of vacant chairs against the wall of the sitting room. ‘Why don't we go over there and sit down?' she suggested.

Vera complied readily. ‘This is very nice, my dear. And it's most kind of you to keep an old lady company.'

‘Not at all,' Ruth protested. ‘Can I get you anything? A cup of tea, or something to eat?'

‘Oh, no. I don't feel that I could eat a thing. I haven't really eaten properly since . . . well, you know. Since it happened,' she confided.

‘Me neither,' admitted Ruth. ‘I haven't had any appetite at all. I just can't believe it. I can't believe that she's really . . . gone. It's too horrible to contemplate.'

Vera sighed. ‘You're the first person I've talked to who really understands. There are a lot of people here saying nice things about Rachel, but somehow they don't sound as if they really mean it. I believe that you do.'

‘Oh, yes,' Ruth declared passionately. ‘I loved her – she was the most wonderful person. I've been devastated. Shattered. And I just can't stand listening to all those hypocrites who were so horrible to her when she was alive.'

‘There was
one
other person who cared about Rachel,' said Vera. ‘But I haven't seen her here today. Nicola Topping – do you know her? She was very fond of Rachel – I can't imagine why she's not here.'

‘Topping? Is she related to Dolly Topping?' demanded Ruth with an incredulous look.

‘Her daughter. She's a few years older than you, my dear. But you can take my word for it that she never shared her mother's opinion of Rachel. In fact, I don't think her mother ever knew how much she relied on Rachel's advice, or how much time she spent with her.'

Ruth was still suspicious. ‘How do
you
know?'

For the first time in their conversation, Vera looked uncomfortable. ‘I'm not really at liberty to say. But I promise you that it's true. I hope her mother didn't find out and keep Nicola away today.'