Charity (60 page)

Of all the things Dawn had done for him, this one act of teaching him to get in and out of bed alone humbled him most. It reminded him of how he had wallowed in self-pity for years after his amputation, refusing the offer of artificial legs until it was too late.

To think they once said he wouldn’t live beyond fifty! He’d show everyone – he’d still be around for his ninetieth birthday.

The pills and the whisky began to work almost as soon as his head touched the pillow. He closed his eyes and thought about Dawn while the storm lashed around the house in fury.

Stephen felt the softness of the pillow on his face, but in his dreams it was just Dawn’s big breasts comforting him.

It was only when his hands tried to reach for her that he felt the restraints across his chest and knew this was no dream.

He fought hard and long, bucking, thrashing and head-butting, his fingers clenching at the bedcovers, unable to reach his silent assailant.

A sharp pain in his chest arrested any further movement. He could hear fluid bubbling in his lungs and all the time the pressure over his nose and mouth grew stronger.

Dawn
he tried to shout, but the word was only in his head and he knew this was the end.

Charity bent over the steering wheel, her hands clenching it so hard her knuckles were white. By the time she’d got to Henley’s Corner on the North Circular Road the traffic was thinning and all she could see clearly was the road ahead in the beam of her lights. The rain was driven sideways by the strong wind, wipers having a hard job to clear it fast enough, and the impression was of being in a boat.

Once on the dual carriageway she felt herself relaxing slightly. There were no more lights from houses, few other cars on the road and the speed was exhilarating. On and on she drove, past the turn-off to Beaconsfield, then on past High Wycombe. It was only when she saw signs ahead for Oxford that it dawned on her she had run out of her flat and driven this far without really knowing what she was doing.

Why had she come out? Was it a crazy idea to go to Studley Priory, or to see Prue?

To her further dismay she saw she was almost out of petrol, so she took the road to Cowley. It was another ten minutes before she saw a garage up ahead, but as she got closer she saw it was shut. She went on and on, with no idea where she was. She saw a sign saying ‘Iffley’ but this meant nothing and once again she only saw a closed garage. By the time she reached a still busy intersection Charity had lost all sense of direction and she turned right, thinking that led towards the centre of Oxford, but within minutes she became aware she was going further away from the town. Panic overtook her, she gripped the steering wheel harder still, peering through the rain-lashed windscreen, unable to see more than thirty feet ahead.

At last she saw a brightly lit garage. Sighing with relief she pulled in and stopped. But as she turned to the passenger seat and saw no handbag the feeling of panic came back.

She put her arms on the steering wheel, her head dropping on to them in bleak despair, tears welling up inside her.

Her watch said ten past twelve. The hours between leaving the office and now were hazy. She had left her flat without knowing where she was going, or why, and she had no money with her. Was she going mad?

A tap on the window made her look up. A man in a yellow oilskin coat was peering in. Charity sat up, wiped her eyes and opened the window.

‘What’s up, love? Lost yer way?’ the man said.

‘I need petrol,’ she said. ‘But I’ve just found I left my purse at home.’

‘Ain’t you got a cheque?’ he asked.

‘No,’ she shook her head. ‘Could you let me have petrol and I’ll send you one tomorrow.’

The man sucked in his breath. The woman looked honest enough, too young and pretty to be trying it on and she’d been crying. But if she didn’t send a cheque on, he’d have to pay.

‘Can’t do that,’ he said. ‘You could leave yer watch as security.’

Charity would have given him anything just then. She pulled it off her wrist and handed it to him.

‘OK, love,’ he said. ‘Fill ’er up then come over to the office for a receipt.’

Anger took the place of apathy as Charity found she’d taken a wrong turning and ended up in the middle of a council estate. She would do as Rita said and see a doctor; maybe with help she could put all this hurt behind her. As for Toby, he could look out for himself from now on. At this moment she never wanted to see him again.

She found her way back on to the right road eventually and now she wanted nothing more than to be home, back in her little flat, safe within her own four walls. Round the roundabout she’d started off from and at last the signs showed she was back on the A40. The empty road seemed to go on and on for ever and she stepped harder on the gas to get home quicker.

There was nothing to indicate she was approaching London. Lights had gone out in houses; even the street lamps appeared dull in the driving rain. With her foot hard on the accelerator, concentrating only on the road in front of her, she wasn’t aware she was approaching Hanger Lane. All she saw was the clear road ahead in the arc of her wipers. Not the red light.

Bob and Janet Robinson were coming down from Ealing on their way home to Wembley in their Ford. Bob had his foot down and he was laughing at Janet’s tale about another guest at the dinner party. Their light was green and they belted across the crossroads.

‘Christ Almighty!’ Bob yelled as the black Mini appeared from nowhere right across their path.

Stan Meadows lived in a flat above the shops that overlooked the crossroads. He was just going to bed when he heard the squeal of brakes and leapt to the window to see what was happening.

The two cars collided with an almighty crash just as he looked out. The black car spun round in a complete circle and crashed into the barrier outside the tube station. The light-coloured one spun in the opposite direction, right round into the path of oncoming traffic.

Sodium lamps made the scene as light as day. Rain lashing down turned the road to a river, a Belisha beacon on a pedestrian crossing making dozens of golden moon shapes in the water.

For a moment he could only stare. He could see someone hanging halfway out of the black car’s windscreen, blonde hair vivid against the gleaming paintwork and steam or smoke rising from the smashed bonnet. When he looked back to the other car he saw there were two passengers, both slumped forward.

He grabbed the phone and dialled 999.

It was just after seven in the morning when Dawn Giles arrived back at Studley Priory, stepping past the huge puddles on the drive.

‘Fancy forgetting to lock the door,’ she muttered as she found it still on the latch. She paused in the hall, looking across the drawing room to the library and glanced at her watch.

It was too early to wake Stephen, so she turned into the dining room to make her way to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea.

She frowned at the cooker. It was still on a low heat. Opening the door she found Charity’s supper, now a dark brown mass.

‘Perhaps Stephen forgot to tell her.’ She sighed, scraping it into the bin and leaving the plate to soak. Waiting for the kettle to boil, she returned to the drawing room and pulled back the curtains. Only then did she notice that there was no car in the drive.

Puzzled, she went upstairs, taking her coat off as she went. Quietly she opened the door of the room Charity was intended to sleep in, only to find the bed empty.

‘Oh dear,’ she sighed. ‘I suppose she decided not to come with the storm and all. He’ll have that to hold against her now.’

Dawn hung up her coat, changed into her uniform and brushed her hair before going downstairs again.

It was eight o’clock when she went into Stephen’s room with the tea tray. In the gloom she could see him lying asleep on his back just as he always did. She put the tray down on the desk and went to draw back the curtains.

As light flooded into the room, she screamed, clutching her apron between her hands.

His face was blue, eyes bulging out of his head like azure marbles and his mouth gaping open.

Despite all Dawn’s training and her familiarity with death she was rooted to the spot with horror.

It was the worst day Dawn Giles had ever experienced. First Dr Harris arrived, then the local police, then a police doctor, who confirmed Dr Harris’s opinion that Stephen had been strapped down securely while still sleeping, then suffocated with a pillow.

Margaret arrived for work at nine, but instead of being allowed the comfort of talking to another woman, a policeman ordered Dawn curtly to stay in the drawing room until she’d been questioned.

Suddenly the house was crawling with men. Some in uniform, some plain clothes, and not one of them seemed to realise just how upset Dawn was. They took over the house, poking into every drawer, every cupboard and asking so many questions.

They took Charity’s, Prue’s and Toby’s telephone numbers but didn’t tell Dawn whether or not they’d been able to contact any of them.

Stephen’s body was photographed, then later taken away for a post-mortem and she still wasn’t allowed to move. Worse still, Dawn realised with ever growing horror that she was a prime suspect.

At five in the afternoon the police got the message that Charity Stratton had been found in a hospital in Ealing. Admitted seriously injured less than two hours after the time of Stephen’s death, her car had crashed as she came off the Oxford road.

Dawn didn’t know how to react to this further tragedy in the family, and it didn’t help that the police wouldn’t explain anything. Had Charity been here? Was it possible that she had killed Stephen? Or was it just coincidence?

At ten Dawn went to bed, but knew she wouldn’t sleep. All alone in the big house, she was scared. Not just of all the strange creaking sounds the Priory made at night, but of the future.

She had been told by the police not to leave the house, or to gossip with anyone about the investigation. They’d locked Stephen’s room and taken away the key.

Everything she’d worked for these seven years – gone. Who would want to employ her as a nurse when it got out that she’d left her last patient all alone?

The police were informing both Prudence and Toby about the murder and soon they’d be here, doubtless blaming her for everything. Neither of them would give her a reference now.

Charity was aware of someone sitting beside her, though she couldn’t see them, just as she’d been aware of people handling her on and off for some time. She had memories of terrible pain, but could feel nothing now.

Her right arm wouldn’t move, it seemed to be held fast, but her left fingers were touching something bumpy and soft. She moved them slightly, like a blind person reading Braille, but no message came back to her. Slowly she lifted them up to her face.

‘Miss Stratton?’ A deep male voice spoke.

She tried to move her head in the direction of the voice, but a sharp pain in her neck prevented her. Slowly she lowered her hand to her mouth. It felt so strange, something like after having an injection at the dentist, puffy, yet numb, then as she felt upwards towards her eyes her fingers touched a bandage.

‘What’s happened to me?’ Her voice came out as a croak, her hand feverishly discovering that her entire head seemed to be bandaged.

‘You’re in Ealing hospital. You had a bad accident in your car. Do you remember?’

‘My car?’

She could picture herself in her car. She was in a traffic jam just by Lord’s Cricket Ground and someone was honking a horn at her because she hadn’t moved when the car in front did. She moved the memory frame forward and saw herself getting out at her flat, locking the car and going in.

She could hear the man telling her about an accident at Hanger Lane, about the passengers in another car she hit, but it meant nothing.

‘Am I blind?’ she whispered.

She could tell he’d moved closer to her; she could feel his breath on her cheek.

‘No. Your eyes and head are bandaged because of bad cuts, and your arm’s broken. But the doctor will come and tell you about it.’

‘Who are you, then?’ Her lips were sore and her tongue felt too big for her mouth.

‘I’m a policeman,’ he said. ‘Jim Baker. I’ve been sitting here waiting for you to wake up. How do you feel?’

She couldn’t answer that question accurately. Maybe if she could see how bad her injuries were she’d be able to make an assessment. She felt numb, her mind cloudy, and apart from her fingers touching the blanket she had no real feeling.

‘Am I paralysed?’ she asked weakly.

‘I don’t know,’ he replied and she heard sympathy in his voice. ‘But the doctor will come any minute.’

She felt herself drifting off again, and even though she was aware the man was speaking to her, it meant nothing.

‘She woke for a minute or two.’ Jim Baker got up and moved towards the policeman who’d come to relieve him. ‘But she didn’t say much.’

Charity had been admitted to the intensive care unit of the hospital thirty-six hours earlier but once it was discovered she was the niece of the wealthy man who had been murdered in Oxford the day before, she had been moved up to a private room on the second floor. The two policemen had been sitting with her in shifts since then, waiting for her to come round.

PC James Baker was stout, prematurely balding even though he was only thirty. Unambitious, he usually ended up being given jobs like this because of his patient, caring nature. Martin Cox was the same age, and they had joined the force at the same time, twelve years ago. Already their sympathies were aroused by the patient, regardless of whether or not she’d played some part in the murder. Lying in that bed she looked so small and helpless, like a child.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Hugh Mainwaring stared at the newspaper in front of him. He had a client waiting to see him, a pile of briefs that needed checking through and there were letters he should dictate for his typist, but he was stunned by all the memories thrusting their way back into his mind.

‘
Charity
,’ he muttered to himself.