A Shroud for Delilah (DCI Webb Mystery Book 1) (15 page)

He had been watching her tensely and now dropped his hands with a short laugh. ‘The answer’s no, isn’t it? Well, it was worth a try. No hard feelings.’

‘I’m — sorry,’ Kate murmured, and bent to the coffee tray. Damn Michael! she thought with sudden vehemence. Damn him for keeping her in thrall after shrugging off her own claims.

Her hands were still shaking as she passed Richard his coffee.

CHAPTER 16

After Richard had gone, Kate sat for a long time in the silent room, waiting for her jumping nerves to settle. On the table in front of her the tray still stood with their empty cups. The smell of cold coffee titillated her nostrils, overlaid by a memory of Nella’s scent from earlier in the evening. Kate imagined her now, vivid and full of life, talking and laughing with her friends. Nella, Richard, Martin, Lana. They were so much a part of her life that it was startling to realize how little she knew them. And of them all only Nella, flamboyant and outrageous, had been completely open with her. The others, for reasons of their own, kept her at a distance.

She tried to think of them objectively; Martin, whose ready smile masked a furtiveness she hadn’t at first suspected; Lana, reserved and wary, jealous of Richard’s attention; and Richard himself, acknowledging his desire but remaining cool and uninformative to the point of anonymity.

Yet in this new and hostile world they were all she had. Madge, tried friend of many years, was barred to her now by Paul’s deception. Nor could she approach Michael. At the weekend they’d exchanged barely a dozen words, and a telephone call might be answered by Jill.

Essentially she was alone, and in her aloneness the pinpricks of unease occasioned by the moth, the mouse, the silent phone calls, escalated into a menace she could no longer dismiss as chance. For some reason she was being deliberately singled out for harassment. Why?

Her mind switched with terrifying logic to the Delilah victims. Had their final retribution come on the same unanswered question? Kate went cold. Suppose they too had received prior, unexplained warning of their fate?

She stood up abruptly, knocking against the low table so that the cups rattled. Tomorrow she’d tell Richard the whole story. He’d been concerned for her about the mouse, he’d be able to advise her.

The relief at the prospect of transferring her burden was immense, and on the crest of it she went to bed.

But her peace of mind was tempered by the dream she had that night. In it, she was clinging to a cliff face while below her the incoming tide rushed into a rocky cove. Gulls circled overhead screaming discordantly, but above their cry she heard her name called and, looking up, saw Richard leaning over the cliff top.

Painfully she inched her way up, sliding and scrabbling with bleeding hands until, at the limit of her endurance, her stretching fingers touched his. And suddenly, shockingly, he wrenched himself free, prising her fingers from his to send her hurtling away to fall, spiralling crazily, to the dark and jagged sea below. As she fell she heard herself crying out his name in a long, despairing scream.

It was the scream that woke her, shuddering and sweating, and not even the reassuring light she reached for could dispel the strands of nightmare. Because, hidden in the melodrama, was a grain of truth. Despite Richard’s caresses, she had no idea whether or not she could trust him.

***

The effect of the dream survived the night, remaining with Kate and colouring everything with nebulous uncertainty.

‘How’s Josh?’ Lana inquired over coffee.

‘He’s not had any more nightmares.’ Last night, it had been her turn.

‘Poor little soul, I felt so sorry for him.’

‘You must have an admirer, Kate,’ said Martin. ‘Count Dracula, perhaps.’

Kate forced a smile and did not reply.

Though she’d been apprehensive of seeing Richard again, he gave no hint of embarrassment. It was as though he’d never held her, never urged her to make love to him. The incident seemed as unreal as his image in her dream, and it struck her that even if they had spent the night together his attitude would not have changed. It was a humiliating thought.

At twelve-thirty Lana asked what time she’d be required that evening, and Kate, who’d forgotten it was parents’ evening, hastily collected herself.

‘About seven if you can manage it, Lana. We’re asked to be there by a quarter past.’

Josh returned from school with the information that Madge would wait for Kate on the usual corner. ‘Uncle Paul isn’t going,’ he added. ‘He’s got a sore throat so he wasn’t at school today.’

Guiltily, Kate was grateful. She had no wish to come face to face with Paul.

‘I hope Josh won’t wake while you’re out,’ Lana said on arrival. ‘If he was frightened, it would be you he’d want.’

‘I think he’s over it now,’ Kate reassured her. All the same, Josh hadn’t recovered his normal
joie
-
de
-
vivre
. She hoped he wasn’t about to go down with the whooping cough Paul had mentioned.

There would be rain later, Kate thought as she pulled the door shut behind her. Heavy purple clouds were banking to the east and against them the outlines of roofs and trees were stencilled with abnormal clarity. It gave to the scene an ominous sense of importance, almost of foreboding, like a stage set for tragedy. She shook herself and hurried on, thinking more prosaically that she should have brought an umbrella.

Catching sight of Madge on the corner, Kate felt a rush of affection. Damn Paul for coming between them! She threaded her arm impulsively through Madge’s and gave it a little squeeze. Madge’s slightly anxious look disappeared.

‘That’s better!’ she commented. ‘I was getting worried about you. You almost seem to have been avoiding me.’

‘Nonsense!’ Kate said roundly. ‘You won’t get rid of me as easily as that!’

The hall was crowded as they took their seats on the undersized chairs that are the penance of parents’ evenings the world over. ‘I’m sorry Paul isn’t well,’ Kate said dutifully.

‘A touch of tonsillitis, I think. The doctor’s put him on antibiotics but he’s not in bed.’

Kate hoped darkly that, with Madge and Henry safely occupied, he would not take the chance of slipping round to Sylvia’s. She might be prepared to risk a sore throat in the furtherance of their affair.

‘At least,’ Madge was adding, ‘it saved the bother of finding a babysitter.’ And Kate relaxed. Paul was unlikely to abandon his children, even if his wife was not afforded such consideration.

The Headmaster, resplendent in cap and gown, took his place on the platform and the evening began with a speech outlining the policies and achievements of the school. Afterwards, the parents scattered to seek out those masters who taught their own sons.

‘There’s no point in waiting for each other,’ Madge told Kate. ‘One of us is bound to finish before the other. But come round after work tomorrow and we’ll have a cup of tea. I haven’t seen much of you lately.’

Unhappily, Kate knew she’d make an excuse. Paul was home and not confined to bed. She didn’t want him present at their chat.

She forgot her regrets for the next hour or so as she learned with pleasure of the progress her son was making. He had settled in with no problems and adapted to the increased volume of work. Master after master confirmed Henry’s earlier opinion of Josh’s abilities, and it was with Henry himself that Kate ended her round.

As she sat down at his desk, he gave an exclamation of annoyance. ‘How stupid of me! I put out that book of poetry to bring this evening, and came away without it. I do apologize.’

Kate assured him it didn’t matter, but when she left him minutes later, he urged her to call in for the book on the way home. ‘You’ll be passing the door, and Sylvia will give it to you. It’s on the hall table, tell her.’

To please him, Kate promised she would, though she was no more eager to see Sylvia than Paul. Still, it would hurt Henry if she didn’t call, and she needn’t go in. Lana’s bus provided an excellent excuse for going straight on home.

The rain which had been foreshadowed earlier was falling heavily as Kate left the school. Street lamps shone on glistening pavements and parents leaving with her made quick dashes for their cars. In the headlights the rain glanced down diagonally like showers of silver arrows. Kate turned up the collar of her coat, dug her hands deep into her pockets, and set off briskly down the road, avoiding the rushing passage of cars which sent a spray of mud across the pavements. She was glad when she could turn off the busy thoroughfare of Broad Street into the quietness of Monks’ Walk.

She was almost tempted to go back on her promise and give Sylvia’s house a miss. Henry’d understand, in view of the weather and her lack of umbrella. But it was, after all, on her way, and he’d been kind enough to find the book for her.

With a sigh, Kate turned into the gateway and hurried up the path. Light showed behind the drawn sitting room curtains and the frosted panel in the front door. She pressed the bell and waited, listening to the steady patter of rain on the path behind her. It was encouraging that Josh was doing so well; Michael would be pleased to hear of his progress. For the first time she wondered if she should have told him in advance about this evening. Still, they couldn’t have gone together in the circumstances.

Oh, come
on
, Sylvia! Kate pressed the bell again, glancing at her watch in the uncertain light. It was only nine-thirty and Lana would not yet be worrying about her bus. All the same, Kate was herself cold and wet and longing to be home. On a wave of impatience she turned the handle and to her surprise the door swung inwards.

A smell of curry prickled her nose. Ahead of her stretched the remembered hall, and on the oak table just inside lay the book of poetry. Kate was tempted simply to take it and go.

‘Hello?’ she called. ‘Sylvia? Henry asked me to collect the book.’

There was silence. Not even the sound of television to explain Sylvia’s non-appearance. Perhaps she was having a bath?

‘Hello?’ she called again. Pushing the front door shut, she crossed the hall and tapped at the sitting room door, turning the handle as she did so. Sylvia was sitting with her back to the door. She must be asleep.

‘Sylvia, it’s Kate. Sorry to disturb you, but—’ Her voice trailed off as she moved round the chair and experienced a jolt when she saw the woman’s eyes were open.

‘What is it?’ she said sharply. ‘Are you ill?’ She bent forward, touching one of her hands. It slid sideways off her lap and very slowly Kate backed away, staring down at her. A stroke? she thought agitatedly. A heart attack? Should she feel for a pulse? Sylvia’s white blouse was spotted with red. Gradually, unwillingly, Kate was realizing that the spots weren’t evenly spaced. This can’t be happening, thought part of her brain, but with magnetic dread her eyes were drawn to the shadows above the lamplight, where the antique mirror hung over the fireplace. And there was no surprise in what she saw there.

She thought clearly, Henry’ll be back soon. He mustn’t find her like this. A slight movement from Sylvia’s direction caught her eye, and with wild unreasoning hope she spun round. But it was only a fly and to her unspeakable horror it settled on one of the exposed eyeballs and proceeded to clean its legs.

Kate felt the bile rush into her throat. She stumbled out of the room, all coherency fled, clawed at the front door and, leaving it open, blundered down the path and out onto the pavement. Immediately she collided with someone — someone who caught hold of her and exclaimed, ‘Kate — is it you? What’s wrong?’ It was Richard.

She raised her wild face to his. ‘Sylvia’s dead — murdered. I’ve just seen her.’ She swayed and he steadied her.

‘Mrs Dane? You’re sure?’

‘Oh, I’m sure. And there’s lipstick on the mirror. Richard, we must stop Henry—’

‘Have you phoned the police? Kate?’ He shook her as she broke into despairing sobs.

‘No, I couldn’t stay there. Oh God, Richard —
there
was
a
fly
on
her
eye!
’ She retched and again he held her, waiting for the spasm to pass.

‘We must phone straightaway. Come on, I’ll come back with you.’ And at her frenzied resistance: ‘You needn’t see her again, I promise.’ He hurried her back up the path and through the open front door. Kate averted her eyes from the sitting room and Richard led her quickly past it to the kitchen.

‘Sit here for a minute while I phone the police. And I’d better make certain she’s dead.’

Kate sat unmoving for long minutes while, despite her assurances, Richard went to check the dead woman. Then she heard his voice briefly on the phone. He came back into the kitchen folding his handkerchief and, seeing her glance, smiled self-consciously.

‘Perhaps I read too many thrillers, but I thought it best not to touch anything. We have to stay here till the police arrive, but they won’t be long. God, what a business.’

She wasn’t sure if she was trembling or shivering, but rain ran off her hair inside her collar and her hands were like ice. Richard took them between his own and began to massage them.

‘We must stop Henry,’ she moaned.

‘The police will see to that. They’ll be here any minute.’ There was an air of suppressed excitement about him, as though he welcomed the challenge to his initiative, the need to remain calm in a crisis. He seemed almost disappointed when, after a preliminary ring, the front door opened and Constable Timms hurried in.

Richard, still holding Kate’s hands, nodded towards the sitting room and the constable disappeared inside. A moment later he reappeared.