Frozen Charlotte (16 page)

The blue eyes met hers with some understanding and Martha felt relief that she had spoken what had been in her mind from the beginning of lunch when she had recognized the incongruity of this relationship.

‘I’m dreading tomorrow,’ Chrissi said miserably. ‘I know Simon’s daughters won’t like me.’ Her voice trailed away.

‘They’re grown women,’ Martha said firmly. ‘They must adjust.’

Simon’s arm stole around Chrissi’s thin shoulders. ‘Take heart, my darling,’ he said quietly. ‘Be brave.’

Chrissi was not the only one dreading tomorrow.

The rest of the lunch was equally perfunctory and Martha left the soulless restaurant at three.

Depressed and a little tired she decided to walk back down to the car park, towards the English Bridge, passing Finton Cley’s antiques shop halfway down Wyle Cop. She glanced in the window and had a shock.

It sported a huge sign. ‘Meet Martha Gunn’. Below it was a female Toby jug with the three plumes of the Prince of Wales on her hat.

Finton had mocked her before about her name. For ages she had not understood why. One day she had asked him. ‘Why do you always smirk when you say my name?’

He’d looked smug, a public schoolboy who had a secret. ‘I can’t believe you’ve lived all your life and don’t know the significance of your name? Your parents never told you?’

She’d shaken her head. ‘They might not have known either.’

‘Well that would be a coincidence.’

She’d waited, knowing he would tell her. ‘She was a Brighton bathing attendant,’ he’d said finally, ‘in the early nineteenth century and reputed to have attended the Prince Regent. One version of events has her actually throwing him into the sea. A risky thing. Look.’ He’d shown her the three feathers on her hat.

Martha looked through the window. And now here was the original Martha Gunn herself.

She pushed open the door. Cley was sitting down, reading a book. Although the shop bell jangled he did not look up but continued reading. She cleared her throat. He inserted a bookmark, closed the book and finally turned round. ‘Martha,’ he said. ‘I’ve been expecting you. Somehow I thought that little jug would tempt even you inside.’ He stood up. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine. You?’

He looked at her searchingly. ‘You seem a bit . . . on edge.’

‘It’s been a difficult day,’ she said. ‘And I expect more of the same tomorrow.’

She smiled and walked across to the window, picking the Martha Gunn jug up. It had a price tag of £1,800 on it. ‘An expensive lady,’ she said.

‘I can manage a small reduction,’ Cley said smoothly, playing the antiques dealer to perfection.

She turned. ‘How much of a reduction?’

‘It depends.’

‘On what?’

‘On whether you understand.’

She stared at him. He was a charismatic character, with long, curling hair, too long for current fashion, one pirate earring swinging against his ear lobe. He was in his early thirties and had a very public school accent. He puzzled her, seeming to always have a secret message. She had thought it was simply her name but now she realized there was more to it than just that. Still holding the jug she sat down. ‘Why don’t you stop playing games, Finton,’ she asked softly. ‘It is you, isn’t it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Message for Martha,’ she said.

He eyed her for a moment as though wondering. ‘Why don’t I stop playing games,’ he repeated softly. ‘Why don’t I? Why don’t I tell you the truth, Martha? I’ll tell you why, shall I?’

She waited, starting to see things more clearly now, as though frosted glass had suddenly become clear.

When he spoke again it was both soft and hard. ‘You like stories, Martha Gunn?’

He drew in a deep breath. ‘So why don’t you sit down? Have a cup of tea and listen to the story I have to tell.’

He began. ‘My father’s name was William. William Cley.’ He looked at her curiously. ‘Does the name mean anything to you?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t think so. And yet . . .’ She paused. ‘I have heard it before but I don’t know in what connection.’ She hazarded a guess. ‘Work?’

‘Interesting, isn’t it,’ Cley said. ‘The name means practically nothing to you and yet you virtually destroyed his family.’

‘What?’

‘My father died twelve years ago. Unfortunately he had left a note stating his intention.’ Cley met her eyes without flinching. ‘His life insurance specifically excluded suicide so my mother and sister were left without any money. I had been at public school so of course I had to leave and was bullied fairly mercilessly at state school for my posh accent and eccentric clothes. My mother, you may be interested to know, went to pieces. She’s dead now and my sister became very depressed and an alcoholic. There was no money for me to go to university. I could have become a lawyer or a doctor, just like you, but instead I had to support my family, both financially and mentally. That was what happened to William Cley’s family after you brought in a verdict of suicide, Martha Gunn.’ Then quite suddenly he erupted. ‘Why didn’t you simply say accidental death?’

‘If he left a note,’ she said quietly, ‘I had no choice. Your father would have known what he was doing and the consequence of his actions.’

Cley’s face crumpled. ‘I know that,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t make me feel any better.’

‘Finton, I’m sorry about your father,’ she said, ‘but I was simply doing my job. You can’t blame me.’

He did not reply but stared ahead of him, his dark eyes sad.

She bought the jug anyway.

TEN

Sunday

T
he lunch invitation had been extended to Sukey and Agnetha so they drove in Martha’s car out towards the black and white half-timbered manor house where Simon had lived with Evelyn. Armenia and Jocasta had never really lived there as it had been bought after they had left home. Martha didn’t know if Simon had ever realized, but Evelyn had never really liked it. Bought as a status symbol, Evelyn had found it spooky and too big even with an army of cleaners and gardeners.

The place was immaculate. They drove down the gravelled drive, taking in the manicured lawns bordered by topiary yew bushes and beyond that the little stone archway which led to Evelyn’s favourite spot – the rose garden. Martha couldn’t see Christabel having much of an interest in roses. Still – you never knew. She pulled up outside the oak door and tugged at the bell.

Armenia opened the door, rolling her eyes. ‘What a bloody . . .’ she exploded then remembered her manners. ‘Hello, Martha. Lovely to see you. Sorry you’ve been dragged into all this.’

She was her mother in some ways, slim and elegant, but she lacked Evelyn’s soft warmth. Armenia was as brittle as glass. She was, though she would have denied it hotly, a clone of her father. Tough, stubborn, very determined, she was a force to be reckoned with.

She looked past Martha and gave a shriek. ‘Sukey Gunn,’ she said. ‘You’ve quite grown up. Right behind my back.’ She gave her a hug and Agnetha too. ‘Thank goodness you’re here,’ she said. ‘It’s been dire. My father. Oh.’ She threw her hands up in the air. ‘It’s ridiculous. I’m ashamed of him. Bloody little gold-digger. Thinks we can’t see right through her? Come on into the lions’ den.’

Martha followed her into the panelled hallway hung with a few ancient portraits. Nothing to do with Simon – he had come from humble beginnings – and they weren’t anything to do with Evelyn either. They had been bought at various salerooms up and down the country. Simon had a friend who was a clever and knowledgeable art dealer and he had purchased most of these through him. But the portraits had the desired effect. They made the house look like an old family seat which was the look Simon wanted.

Armenia was joined by her sister, Jocasta, who looked every bit as fed up as her sister. ‘Hi,’ she said gloomily. ‘Join the happy family – I don’t think.’ She led them into the sitting room.

Simon and Chrissi were sitting side by side on the sofa and frankly Chrissi looked terrified. Simon shot Martha a despairing look and stood up. ‘Glad you’re here,’ he said.

Chrissi gave her a swift smile. ‘Hello again,’ she said in her little girl’s voice.

Simon had a housekeeper, Hannah Scholz, a woman in her thirties who had come from what had once been East Germany. She had been a real find, very tidy and organized, a terrific cook and it seemed to Martha that she did the work of three women, keeping the house immaculate. She was also blessed with common sense and looked after Simon as she had looked after Evelyn right up until her end, adding nurse to all her other roles.

Hannah called them in to Sunday lunch, roast beef with all the trimmings. The distraction of serving food and eating, plus the usual conversation, did lighten the atmosphere at the table. Hannah kept her gaze away from Martha which probably meant that she did not want to join in on the condemnation of Christabel.

Afterwards they sat and talked and Martha began to see Christabel not as a young lovely woman or even a gold-digger but as a person, and she decided then that she would ring Simon later in the week and talk to him. She had a few thoughts to share with him.

DI Randall and PC Roberts had a couple of hours to walk around Malaga, which proved to be an interestingly ancient and historic city. Then they made their way back to the airport and boarded the plane. They spoke a little about their meeting with the Godfreys but Alex was anxious to speak to Martha.

One phrase that Vince Godfrey said had stuck uncomfortably in his mind.
‘What my wife wants she gets.’
For all the fact that Vince had protested he loved his wife there had been some bitterness – resentment – in his words.

But Petula had not had all she had wanted – if a husband’s fidelity counted for anything. So how would a woman like that respond to a husband who broke his wedding vows and was unfaithful? Might she feel he owed her something?

They had no children. Neither had expressed any regret over this but had stated the fact baldly, without inviting sympathy. Perhaps a truly selfish person was better off having no children.

Alex winced. Personally he would love to have had children.

Alex had the feeling that Vince had said more than he had meant. If he consulted Martha and related the conversations, he argued, he might have a woman’s take on it. Maybe.

He rang Martha first thing Monday morning and wasted no time on preamble, stating bluntly, ‘I wonder if I might come over and discuss this case with you?’

‘Of course, Alex. You know you’re always welcome to talk about cases with me. How was Spain?’

‘Not hot but we did see a little sunshine and enjoyed walking round Malaga. And of course we simply had to visit a bar for some
tapas
. I’ll come straight over if it’s all right with you.’

‘Fine. I’ve got something to tell you too,’ she said.

‘I forgot. Sorry. How was your weekend with your friend’s husband?’

‘Dire,’ she said. ‘Even worse than I’d expected. Civil war in the Pendlebury household, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh dear.’

He was round in less than half an hour before she’d really got stuck in to her morning’s work. Jericho let him in with a sour, grouchy look. Alex took no notice but went straight into Martha’s office.

‘Not much of a tan,’ she teased.

‘No.’

‘Now what can I do for you?’

He sat down in the chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him. ‘At some point, Martha,’ he said, ‘we’re going to have to decide whether to pursue this case or drop it.’

‘Ye-es,’ she said. ‘I realize that. But you know I always want to find out what the truth is. It doesn’t help that Mark Sullivan can’t be absolutely certain of “a” how long ago the child died, and “b” whether it was born alive and “c” whether it died from natural causes.’ She hesitated. ‘I take it the visit to the Godfreys wasn’t an out and out success then?’

‘Not really,’ he said. ‘They certainly didn’t admit to anything.’

‘What were they like?’

‘He’s obviously made a lot of money. Money he doesn’t quite know what to do with. I wouldn’t like to say how exactly he made so much money. It might simply be hard work but he seemed a shifty sort of guy to me. He was certainly relieved to see us leave. They have no children and he practically admitted that he had been unfaithful to his wife.’

‘Oh dear,’ Martha said. ‘And before they lived in number 41?’

‘An elderly lady well into her eighties lived in the house before the Godfreys. She’d lived there for years and by the end was fairly incapacitated so obviously didn’t go into the loft in the last few years. If, say, one of her carers was pregnant, she could have hidden the baby up there without the old lady being aware. It’s possible. Vince Godfrey said she was demented by the time her relatives took her to live with them.’ He shifted in his seat. ‘Then there are the Godfreys themselves. Though they both said they had carried out extensive renovation to the property Vince Godfrey says he was not the one to box in the immersion tank. If Petula Godfrey had become pregnant there would have been no need and no point in concealing either the pregnancy or the baby. If she really hadn’t wanted a baby she could have had an abortion and if she was intending to keep the child she would have had proper antenatal care.’

He chewed his lip, frowning. ‘She admitted to having a couple of maids but denied that any one of them had become pregnant. She said she would have fired them.’ He stopped. ‘If one of her maids or one of her husband’s mistresses had become pregnant . . . ?’

‘That’s a very sinister scenario,’ Martha said. ‘Do you really think? Are they capable of . . . ?’ She looked at him. ‘You’ve met them,’ she said. ‘What do you think? That she murdered one of his mistresses and the baby too?’

‘It does seem incredible.’

‘Is there another body there? Or did the mistress escape leaving the baby behind? Surely not?’

‘I know, Martha, none if it does make sense but the fact is
someone
hid that body in the house.’

‘The Godfreys seem unlikely, surely?’

‘Ye-es except that I thought that Vince – Mr Godfrey – was trying to convey something to me when he said how determined his wife was, that she had to have what she wanted. He was telling me something, Martha.’

She was silent, unable to think of anything helpful to contribute.

‘Anyway. Enough of that. Tell me about your weekend. How did dinner with the vamp go?’

‘OK,’ she said. ‘She isn’t really a vamp. Just seems very young. She was much as I’d expected but no worse. Truth is I don’t think she’s a bad kid. Just not for Simon. That’s all. She’s wrong for him.’

‘Because she’s not like Evie?’

‘Give me some credit, Alex. No, not just because of that. It’s because she’s the wrong age, the wrong outlook, the wrong intellect. Even the wrong class. Everything’s wrong.’

‘You think she is a gold-digger?’

‘Not in the usual sense. I’m sure she doesn’t think of it like that. It’s more that she might love him now but when he’s older, more vulnerable, he won’t be the same man. Anyway, that wasn’t what I had to tell you. Alex. I know about the Message to Martha.’

‘What? You’ve solved it on your own?’

‘Not really. My stalker wanted me to know who he was and why.’

‘I am intrigued.’

‘Thought you would be.’

‘Go on then.’

She related Finton Cley’s story, finishing: ‘Quite simply he blames me.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘We-ell. His point is that I put the family through a lot of unnecessary pain. He thinks I should have suppressed the letter and put in a verdict of misadventure. Then there would have been an insurance payout; he could have stayed at public school.’ She recalled Finton’s face.
‘I might even have become a lawyer or a doctor, like you.’

She carried on with the story. ‘His mother wouldn’t have been flung into penury and presumably his sister, in spite of her father’s suicide, would not have descended into depression and alcoholism.’

‘Very neat,’ Alex said, ‘but if there was a note and you had suppressed it you could, presumably, have been accused of insurance fraud.’

‘That’s right. I had no choice. I pointed this out to Finton but he was fairly unforgiving. His mother has since died and his sister has alcoholic cirrhosis of the liver. It’s a sad story.’

Alex touched her hand. ‘You’re not responsible, Martha.’

‘I keep telling myself that but a little voice inside me listens to Finton’s arguments and I do feel responsible.’

‘You are not responsible,’ he repeated, louder this time.

‘No, I know that. I don’t really see how I could have acted any differently but it is one of the difficult and sore points of the job.’

‘Is he going to leave you alone from now on?’

She nodded. ‘I think so.’

‘It’s a grim business. Talk about something else.’

Afterwards she could have bitten her tongue off but she’d said it by then anyway. ‘Did your wife mind you going away for the weekend?’

His face seemed to freeze and she knew she’d said something gauche. He said nothing but the look of anguish that passed across his face was grey and chilly. He opened his mouth and still said nothing. Then he looked away from her.

‘I would dearly like to confide in you one day, Martha,’ he said softly, ‘but now is not the time. My wife is not a well woman.’ He met her eyes very briefly and she nodded and smiled.

‘When you’re ready to talk, Alex,’ she said, ‘I will be ready to listen.’

He met her eyes, then: ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I shan’t forget.’

She changed the subject. ‘Mark Sullivan seems better.’

A tinge of humour touched Alex’s face. ‘A little bird told me that Dr Sullivan has somehow managed to curb his drinking.’

‘That was the conclusion I came to and I’m so glad. So very glad. He’s clever and talented and it was a rotten waste.’

‘He’s also left his wife, so the same little bird told me, and is living alone in a small rented bungalow.’

‘Another one with a much younger girlfriend?’

‘I don’t think so, at least, not that the little bird has told me. I think it were
the drink that done it
.’ Alex stood up. ‘Thanks for listening, Martha. I appreciate it.’

‘Keep me informed,’ she said. ‘What’s your next move?’

‘Get someone to talk to the estate agents who sold number 41 to the Godfreys, see if I can interview the relatives of the old lady, just in case they have anything to add – maybe about carers or something, take some sniffer dogs over to the house the Sedgewicks lived in before they moved just in case they did bring the body with them to number 41.’