Apportionment of Blame (2 page)

“What does it mean, Friends House?” I asked her. “Whose friends?”

“They are Quakers. Friends are Quakers. It's the Religious Society of Friends.”

“I thought they were something from centuries ago. But I think I know where you mean.”

“I don't know anything about them. Just what Friends means, and that was all I needed to know.”

I heard the water come to the boil and turned to pour it on the grounds, replacing the top of the cafetière before finally sitting on the cane chair against the wall, where I sat looking at her. She was looking more relaxed and I was grateful she appeared not to be harmed in any way. All I could see was a slight red mark across her face where the tape had been.

“What are you looking at?”

“Nothing, except to check that you are OK.”

I realised I had been staring at her, those deep, blue eyes and that wonderful heart shaped face. Trying to cover my embarrassment I turned back to the coffee, pushed down the plunger and poured the dark brew into two mugs.

“Do you take milk or sugar?”

“No. Neither.”

“Well, thank goodness for small mercies.”

I gave Joyce her coffee and sat down again with mine.

“So what did the note mean? All that about a magnolia and a bench?”

“There's a garden at the end of the building.”

“This Friends' House place?”

“Yes. I used to go and sit in the garden sometimes, if I was too early for a train, and there is this huge magnolia tree, with a bench right underneath it.”

“And you went to investigate on your way here?”

“Yes. I thought it would save time.”

She blew on her coffee and took a tentative sip, but decided it was too hot.

“So?”

“It was all very well organised.”

“What was?”

But she paused. And I waited.

“When I got there it looked like it always does. One or two people sitting eating sandwiches, or dozing. It can be quite peaceful there, despite the traffic noise.

“I walked round to the bench and I could see a piece of paper pinned underneath it. It must have been when I bent to get the paper, someone had been waiting. No, wait. It was two people, because one grabbed me and the other put the tape over my mouth. They rushed up before I could do anything about it. Then bundled me out through the back of the garden and into a car they had waiting.”

“That must have been terrifying.”

“Yes. It was.” She sipped again at the coffee, deciding this time she could cope with its temperature.

I remembered the note in my pocket, took it out and opened it up. ‘YOUR NEXT!' I read out loud in what little light there was from outside.

“Not if I see you first!” I said angrily, screwing up the note and throwing it across the room.

I was aware that Joyce was staring at me, with a mixture of amusement and concern on her face.

“Is this how investigators behave whenever something untoward happens? I must remember to stay out of range.”

“Well,” I said inadequately, and moved to pick up the note, which I unscrewed and read again.

“I don't like being threatened.”

Joyce sipped at her coffee and watched me.

“Can we put the light on?” she asked. “I can hardly see you in this gloom.”

“OK. I'll pull the blind down first.”

I crossed the little office and played with the right hand string to bring the light screen down across the window. Then I turned on the lamp. It didn't make much difference to the light level, but it did make the place feel a bit more cheerful.

I put both notes on the desk to compare.

“What did the note under the bench say?”

“I don't think it said anything. I think it was just a ruse to get someone out there, to put the frighteners on. It worked quite well.”

She put the coffee cup down and began to rub her hands together in a nervous way.

“It terrified me.”

“It should have been me.”

“The result would have been the same.”

“Perhaps so, but I'd rather it had been me than you.”

“Well it wasn't, so there is no point in thinking that now.”

I moved the notes round to read them again and read the first out loud.

‘IF YOU WANT TO KNOW HOW SHE DIED, LOOK UNDER THE BENCH BELOW THE FRIENDS MAGN OLIA.'

“The writer isn't very well educated,” I suggested. “Look, there should be an apostrophe at the end of Friends.”

“Yes, I'm sure we'll solve this mystery by examining the vagaries of the writer's grammar.”

“No. Look. The second note says YOUR NEXT. It's very common for people to spell it like that, and not as an abbreviation for
you are
.”

“You actually think this is important?”

“Well, it's something. It's a start.”

“But it hardly gets us any nearer to finding out what happened to Helen, does it?”

“It tells us her death was not an accident. Because if it was we wouldn't have all this fuss.”

“Are you telling me that someone killed her?”

“Well, you must have had your doubts about her death, or you wouldn't have asked me to start sniffing round, would you?”

“No. But it was only that Helen was so careful. She had far more sense than to fall in the path of an oncoming train. It just didn't make any sense.”

Joyce's half sister, Helen, had died at a level crossing on a rural railway line near the Essex - Suffolk border. It had been dark. The driver said he didn't see anything until she was suddenly right in front of his cab. He didn't have a chance.

The police had concluded it was either a tragic accident or that Helen had taken her own life, and the coroner, equally uncertain, had brought in an open verdict.

Joyce was not convinced by either of the police suggestions. That's why she had called me. Why me, you might ask.

We knew each other from school. We had done some of the same subjects at GCSE and gone on together to the Sixth Form College in Colchester to do some of the same A levels. So we were old friends. But only ever that, which some of my friends could never understand.

After school we didn't see much of each other. Occasionally during holidays, at pubs or clubs, but nothing regular. After university I had gone to work in the City, while Joyce had taken up her first teaching job in the Midlands.

“What do we do now?” Joyce asked.

“Let's start by going through what's happened. Then, perhaps, we might come up with some way forward.”

I thought for a moment. There was no need to think for long.

“You called me to tell me about Helen. I went to look at the scene of the accident, talked to people who live nearby, then I went to talk to the police.”

“Do you still think it was an accident?”

‘No. Probably not. It's just an expression.”

“All right. Then what?”

“The police were not very helpful, clearly not impressed that an amateur sleuth was getting involved. But they did say
there was no evidence there had been anyone other than Helen at the scene. No footprints or anything.”

“But the ground would have been frozen. It was very cold that night.”

“I know.”

“Then?”

“Well, everything else happened today. Someone brought a note telling me about the bench and the magnolia. I called you. You went to look and got bundled off by person or persons unknown.”

“There were two. I said.”

“Yes. You did. And we have to assume that the whole palaver of bundling you off and dumping you here, was to give us a warning.”

“To stop asking questions.”

“Yes. The point is, I've hardly asked any questions yet. And then only out near the accident. So how come a note arrived

Joyce just sat and looked at me. What she saw was unlikely to fill her with confidence, as I was baffled.

“There has to be a link between the accident site and here,” I considered.

“Well, I have no idea what that might be.'

‘No. Neither do I.”

For want of anything else to do I picked up our two coffee cups and took them to the corner sink to wash them out.

“Was there anyone else in that garden when you were there?” I asked over my shoulder.

She didn't reply, so I turned to look at her. Her face was still as she stared forward and down, a thoughtful frown on her forehead.

I realised, as I had realised many times before, how beautiful she was, and how much I wanted to help her solve the mystery which had all but broken her parents.

“Can you remember anything?” I asked her cautiously.

“I am trying to visualise the scene when I arrived,” she said.

I waited, drying the cups and putting them back on a shelf.

“There was someone sitting on the seat by the steps. He would have been facing the magnolia tree.”

“Can you remember what he looked like?”

“I hardly saw him, except out of the corner of my eye as I came down the steps into the garden. My mind was focussed on the magnolia tree and the bench.”

“Anybody else?”

“That's what's strange. The two who bundled me off came out of nowhere.”

I sat down again, not taking my eyes from her face.

“They must have been waiting for ages for someone to turn up.”

“And there's something else,” I said as I suddenly realised. “The note implied that by looking under the bench, we would find out how Helen died.”

“Assuming it referred to Helen.”

“It must do. I am not doing anything else related to someone's death. And the note came here, to my office. But all that happened when you found the note was that you were bundled off. What does that tell us?”

“I told you I never saw anyone other than the person sitting to the side of the steps. What happened to me came out of the blue. Perhaps they were saying what happened to me in the garden, happened to Helen by the railway line.”

“And You're next means it could happen to me as well.”

“Exactly!”

“So it was a warning. A strange warning, but certainly the message was clear. Stop investigating Helen's death, or a similar fate could await you.”

“Us.”

“Yes.”

We were staring at each other now.

“So she was murdered,” Joyce said slowly, as if not wanting to have to say it, but having no option.

“It looks like it.”

“I was right, although I feel no better for that.” And then in a very matter of fact way, “So what do we do now?”

For once the answer came easily and quickly.

“There are two things we have to do. Find the link between Essex and here. There must be one. And try to find someone who saw what happened to you in the garden.”

“OK then,” Joyce said and got up.

“But not today, and take your time,” I said. “Enough has happened to you for one day. We should wait till tomorrow. It will give you time to get over the shock that could easily hit you later.”

Joyce nodded.

“I tell you what,” I suggested with as much enthusiasm as I could muster, “let's go across to the garden. You can show me where it happened, and then we can go and have a drink somewhere. How about that?”

“All right,” she said.

I got up and reached for my coat from the stand in the corner.

“Are you feeling well enough to go out now?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“Come on then.”

As soon as we reached the corner of Euston Road I recognised the building I had seen and walked past so many times before. White, square cut stone, greying with pollution, a pillared frontage above steps in the centre, and a flat roof. It looked quite grand - almost Greek.

“How come these Friends have a building that size? They must be pretty well off.”

“I don't know.”

We waited for the red light to change, then crossed and walked past the front of the building. At the far corner there was a sign for a book shop and beyond that a stone wall. Behind the wall was the corner of the garden.

It was a simple garden, but well cared for. Two squares of grass surrounded by borders of plants, with a paved path around the outside and down the centre. The magnolia tree dominated the side of the garden furthest from the building, and I could see the bench beneath it in the light of the street lamps.

We walked up to the top of the entrance way and looked down the steps to our left. The garden was deserted.