Guilty Thing Surprised (8 page)

‘Don’t distress yourself. Perhaps you cleaned the car
because
you were upset. Was that it?’ She was very slow on the uptake, Wexford thought, too frightened or too obtuse to see the loophole he was offering her. He offered it more explicitly. ‘I suppose you took the very sensible attitude that when one is unhappy or worried, work is the best thing to take one’s mind off one’s troubles?’

Relieved at last, she nodded. ‘Yes, that was it.’ Immediately she undid the small good her agreement had done her. ‘I wasn’t very upset, not really. I mean, she wasn’t
my
sister.’

‘That’s true,’ said Wexford. He drew his chair closer towards her and their eyes met, hers held by his like the eyes of a rabbit mesmerised by headlights. Suddenly Burden was excluded and the two of them were alone. ‘She was your husband’s sister, of course, just a sister-in-law.’ Her face sharpened and hardened. ‘They didn’t like each other much, did they?’

‘No, they didn’t.’ She hesitated very briefly sliding as if unvoluntarily from the arm to the seat of the chair, but not taking her eyes from Wexford’s face. ‘They didn’t get on at all,’ she said. ‘If you must know, Denys couldn’t stand her.’

‘Strange, Mrs Nightingale seemed to get on with everyone else.’

‘Did she? Oh, with the county people, you mean.’ She gave a deep quiet sigh and then spoke in a level rapid voice, ‘Elizabeth didn’t have any real friends. My husband, he flunks she was killed by a maniac, one of those men who attack women. I expect that’s what it was. She must have been mad, going into the forest at night. Really she was asking for it.’

‘Perhaps,’ Wexford said. He smiled genially to help the atmosphere relax. Georgina Villiers was calmer now. She unclasped her hands and looked down at them, breathing shallowly. ‘Do you know why your husband didn’t get on with his sister?’

‘Well, they hadn’t anything in common.’

And what, Wexford asked himself, does a woman like you, dull and characterless and conventional, have in common with an intellectual like Villiers, a teacher of classics, an authority on Wordsworth?

‘I suppose,’ she said, ‘he thought her rather silly and extravagant.’

‘And was she, Mrs Villiers?’

‘Well, she had a lot of money, didn’t she? He hadn’t any other reason for not liking her, if that’s what you mean. She and Quen were very ordinary people really. Not the sort of people I’ve been used to, of course, I never associated with people like that before I was married.’

‘You got on well with them?’

‘Quen was always kind.’ Georgina Villiers twisted
her wedding ring, moving it up and down her finger. ‘He liked me for my husband’s sake, you see. He and my husband are
great
friends.’ She looked down, nervously biting her lip. ‘But I think he got to like me for myself. Anyway,’ she said, suddenly shrill and cross, ‘why should I care? A man’s wife ought to come first. He ought to think more of her than of outsiders, not go and do his work in somebody else’s house.’

‘You felt that Mr Nightingale had too great an influence over your husband?’

‘I don’t care,’ said Georgina, ‘for any outside interference.’ She pulled at the earrings, slightly releasing the screw of one of them. ‘I was a teacher of physical education,’ she said proudly, ‘before I was married, but I’ve given it up for good. Don’t you think a woman ought to stay at home and look after her husband? That’s best for people like us, have a real home and family without too much outside interest.’

Frowning at Burden, who was nodding his head approvingly, Wexford said, ‘Would you object if we searched this house?’

Georgina hesitated, then shook her head.

The bungalow had another reception room and two bedrooms, the smaller of which was unfurnished and uncarpeted.

‘I wonder what he does with his money?’ Wexford whispered. ‘He’s got a good job and he writes those books.’

Burden shrugged. ‘Maybe he’s extravagant like his sister,’ he said. ‘He’ll be different now. He’s got a good wife.’

‘Oh, my God!’

Searching the sparsely filled cupboards, Burden
said stiffly, ‘Well, I think it makes a nice change, talking to an ordinary decent woman.’

‘Perhaps she is ordinary and decent. She’s dull enough, God knows. There’s nothing here, no blood, nothing that could conceivably have been used as a weapon.’ They moved on into the kitchen where Wexford lifted the lid of the old-fashioned coke boiler. ‘Blazing away merrily,’ he said. ‘They could have burnt practically anything on here and she’s had hours to do it in.’

Georgina was waiting for them in the living room, sitting apathetically, staring at the wall.

‘I can’t think of why my husband’s so long. You’d think that today he’d want to be here with me. You’d think …” Suddenly she froze, listening intently. ‘Here he is now.’

She leapt from her chair and rushed into the hall, slamming the door behind her. Listening with half an ear to the whispered conversation between husband and wife, Burden said, ‘She’s certainly a mass of nerves. It’s almost as if she expected us to find something. I wonder if …’

‘Sssh!’ said Wexford sharply.

Denys Villiers walked into the room, talking over his shoulder to his wife. ‘I can’t be in two places at once, Georgina. Quen’s in a bad way I left him with Lionel Marriott.’

Burden’s eyes met Wexford’s. The chief inspector got up, his eyebrows raised in pleased astonishment.

‘Did I hear you mention the name Lionel Marriot?’

‘I expect so, if you were listening,’ said Villiers rudely. He still looked a good deal more than thirty-eight, but less ill than in the Old House that morning. ‘Why, d’you know him?’

‘He teaches,’ said Wexford, ‘at the same school as
you do. As a matter of fact, his nephew is married to my elder daughter.’

Villiers gave him an offensive glance. ‘Remarkable,’ he said, his tone clearly implying that Marriott, a cultured person and colleague of his own, had distinctly lowered himself in being associated by marriage with the chief inspector’s family.

Wexford swallowed his wrath. ‘Is he a friend of your brother-in-law’s?’

‘He hangs about the Manor from time to time,’ Coldly Villiers disengaged his arm from his wife’s grasp and slumped into an armchair. He closed his eyes in despair or perhaps simply exasperation. ‘I want a drink,’ he said, and as Georgina hovered over him, her earrings bobbing, ‘There’s a half-bottle of gin somewhere. Go and find it, will you?’

6

I
t was a great piece of luck, Wexford thought as he strolled down Kingsmarkham High Street at sunset, that by serendipity he had lighted on one of Quentin Nightingale’s cronies and that the crony was Lionel Marriott. Indeed, had he been allowed to select from all his vast acquaintance in the town one single person to enlighten him on the Nightingales’ affairs, Marriott would have been that one. But it had never crossed his mind to connect Marriott with the Manor, although perhaps it should have done, for what great house in the whole neighbourhood was closed to him? What person with any pretension to culture or taste wasn’t on hobnobbing terms with him? Who but a recluse could deny familiarity with Kingsmarkham’s most hospitable citizen and most fluent gossip?

Wexford had met him half a dozen times and this was enough for Marriott to count him one of his intimates and to avail himself of a rare privilege. Few people in Kingsmarkham knew the chief inspector’s
Christian name and still fewer used it. Marriott had done so since their first meeting and required in exchange that Wexford should call him Lionel.

His own life was an open book. You might not want to turn its pages, but if you hung back, Marriott himself turned them for you, as anxious to enlighten you as to his own affairs as to those of his huge circle of friends.

He was about Wexford’s own age, but spry and wiry, and he had been married once to a dull little woman who had conveniently died just as Marriott’s boredom with matrimony was reaching its zenith. Marriott always spoke of her as ‘my poor wife’ and told stories about her that were in very bad taste but at which you couldn’t help laughing, for his narrative gift and art of skilful digression was such as to reveal the funny side of every aspect of the human predicament. Afterwards you salved your conscience with the thought that the lady was better dead than married to Marriott, who could never for long be attached to just one person and ‘all the rest’, as Shelley puts it, ‘though fair and wise, commend to cold oblivion’.

For ‘cold oblivion’ or, at any rate, loneliness seemed to be Marriott’s great dread. Why else did he fill his house with people every night? Why else teach English literature at the King’s School by day when he had a private income, sufficient even for his needs, his generosity and his hospitality?

Since his wife’s death he hadn’t been celibate and each time Wexford had encountered him it had been in the company of one of a succession of attractive well-dressed women in their forties. Very probably, he thought, as he entered the High Street alley that led down to Marriott’s house, the current companion would be there now, arranging Marriott’s flowers,
listening to his anecdotes, preparing canapés for the inevitable ensuing cocktail party.

His house was at the end of a Georgian terrace of which all but this first one had been converted into shops or flats or storeplaces. By contrast to their sad and dilapidated appearance, his looked positively over-decorated with its brilliant white paint, renewed every two years, its jolly little window boxes on each sill, and the six curly balconies which sprouted on its facade.

Those not in the know would have supposed it to be owned by a spinster of independent means and a fussy inclination towards horticulture. Smiling to himself, Wexford climbed the steps to the front door, ducking his head to avoid catching it on a hanging basket full of Technicolor lobelias and fire-engine geraniums. For once the alley wasn’t chock-a-block with the cars of Marriott’s visitors. But it was early still, not yet seven o’clock.

It was Marriott himself who came to the door, natty in a red-velvet jacket and bootlace tie, a can of asparagus tips in one hand.

‘Dear old boy, what a lovely surprise! I was only saying five minutes ago how miserable I was because you’d utterly deserted me, and here you are. The answer to a sinner’s prayer. Wouldn’t it be lovely, I was saying, if dear old Reg Wexford were to turn up tonight?’

Wexford belonged to the generation and social stratum that feels almost faint to hear Christian names on the lips of mere acquaintances and he winced, but even he couldn’t deny that whatever Marriott’s faults, no one could make you feel as welcome as he did.

‘I was passing,’ he said, ‘and anyway I want to talk to you.’

‘And I’ve been longing to talk to you, so that makes two of us. Come in, come in. Don’t stand there. You’ll stay for my party, won’t you? Just a little celebration, a few old friends who are dying to meet the great chief inspector after all the lovely things I’ve told them about you.’

Wexford found himself swept into the hall, propelled towards Marriott’s drawing room. ‘What are you celebrating?’ He took a deep breath and brought out the first name. ‘What is there to celebrate, Lionel?’

‘Perhaps “celebrate” was the wrong word, dear old boy. This part is more in the nature of an “I, who am about to die, salute you” gathering, if you take my meaning.’ He peered up into Wexford’s face. ‘I see you don’t. Well, no, a busy man like you would hardly realise that this is the last night of the holidays and it’s back to the spotty devils tomorrow.’

‘Of course,’ Wexford said. He remembered now that Marriott always gave an end-of-the-holidays party and that he always referred to his pupils at the King’s School as the ‘spotty devils’. ‘I won’t stay, though. I’m afraid I’m being a nuisance, interrupting you when you’re preparing for a party.’

‘Not a bit! You don’t know how overjoyed I am to see you, but I see from your icy looks that you disapprove.’ Marriott threw out his short arms dramatically. ‘Tell me, what have I done? What have I said?’

Entering the drawing room, Wexford saw a bar improvised in one corner, and through the arch that led into the dining room, a table loaded with food, roast fowls, cold joints, a whole salmon, arranged among carelessly scattered white roses. ‘I see,’ he said, ‘that I was wrong in supposing you have been a close friend of Elizabeth Nightingale.’