Motive for Murder (16 page)

‘Most unpleasant, for several people. But I'm not going to plead with you.'

‘Or appeal to my better nature?' she mocked.

‘Have you one? Look, you know as well as I do that Sarah has nothing to do with this. You're determined to print your sordid little story, and there's nothing I can do to stop you. Short of killing you, that is!'

‘And I wouldn't put that past you!'

‘Am I allowed to know who you're marrying?'

‘Stuart Henderson.'

‘The journalist?'

‘Yes.'

‘And what does he think of having someone else's child foisted on him?'

‘If I want her, he's quite happy.'

‘I see. Well, I'm not happy, and that's all there is to it.'

‘I think not, Matthew. I'll take you to court if necessary.'

‘Please don't threaten me, Kate.'

Her voice rose. ‘I'm sure they'd agree that this is hardly the place for a child – a house where her father brings a succession of young girls under the euphemistic name of secretaries!'

My finger nails stabbed convulsively into my palm. I closed my eyes.

Matthew's voice when it came was shaking. ‘Get out of this house, Kate.
Now!
'

I imagined them facing each other, Kate on her feet by this time. There was a long silence, then the sound of footsteps. God, don't let Matthew come in here! My prayers were answered. I heard him stride down the passage and slam out of the front door.

I stood up, waiting for the hammering of my heart to subside. I could hear Kate in the room above, doubtless flinging her things into her suitcase. I went to the door, opened it and listened. No one was about. Miss Tamworth would have gone to meet Sarah and take her to her music lesson. Mrs Johnson, I knew, was shopping in Chapelcombe.

I had to get out of the house, but I daren't use the front door in case I met Matthew. I went through the empty kitchen and out at the back. A line of washing wafted gently in the breeze that was all that remained of the night's gale.

I crossed the yard and walked slowly round the vegetable garden, my gaze passing unseeingly over the delicate green fronds of carrots, the rich coppery green of kale.

A car engine roared into life. There was a scattered hail of gravel as wheels spun furiously, and I rounded the corner of the house in time to see Kate's little white sports car shoot through the gates and away down the hill.

I was still staring after it when Mike turned in at the gate. He too stood looking after the hurtling car, then he turned, saw me, and walked across the grass to meet me. ‘What's got into Kate? She came out of that gate like a bat out of hell. Nearly ran me down.'

‘I – think she had a row with Matthew.'

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? They certainly weren't rowing when I left them last night.'

He looked at me more closely. ‘You still don't look too good.'

‘I had a rest before lunch. I'm all right.'

He glanced restlessly about him. ‘Let's sit on the grass for a while. The sun's dried it now.'

I let him lead me over to the hedge and we sat down in silence. Mike lit a cigarette, his hands trembling a little. Kate's car must have given him a jolt, missing him so narrowly. He drew rapidly on the cigarette and the smoke plumed upwards, polluting the crystal air. I slid down on to my back and lay staring up at the clouds.

After a moment he lay beside me, one arm pillowing my head. ‘It's a hell of a world, Emily.'

I turned my head to look at him. ‘Why so, particularly?'

‘Oh, Kate and Matthew and you and me – all caught up against our will in a mad kind of treadmill.'

‘You're waxing very philosophical today!'

‘It's my mother's birthday. A time to take stock, perhaps.'

‘Oh. I'm sorry.' So he had been on edge before the incident with the car. I would like to have known Mike's mother; that lovely young girl in the painting, so eager for life, who had grown up into the rather sad-faced lady in Sarah's album.

‘I wish I'd known her,' I said aloud.

His eyes darkened. ‘Oh Emily, if you only had, how different everything would have been!'

I didn't understand, but the hurt in his eyes forbade any questioning. ‘Don't be unhappy, Mike,' I said gently.

He pulled me towards him and his lips moved over my face. I lay with closed eyes, comforted by the caress. I think it was then, in the lull before the storm, that the realization which I had been fighting for some time finally stole over me and I accepted it. I was exhausted, mentally and physically, and unable any longer to deny my love for Matthew and the unhappiness that went with it. After the last twenty-four hours it was very soothing to accept Mike's gentle, undemanding kisses on my cheek, with no questions asked.

Still sleepy, I was half-dozing in the warmth, when, from the open sitting-room window, I heard the telephone ring. We both sat up and I said, ‘I don't think anyone's in. I'll have to answer it.'

‘You aren't in, either!' Mike remarked, and kissed me on the mouth. I pushed him gently away and in that moment the phone stopped ringing. ‘There you are,' he said, ‘someone's there, after all.'

A minute later the front door opened and Matthew appeared. He stumbled forward and stopped, leaning heavily on the stonework. I felt a clutch of fear and, scrambling to my feet, I rushed across the grass, conscious of Mike just behind me.

Matthew's face was a mask and he seemed to have difficulty breathing. He turned his head blindly in my direction as I seized his arm.

‘Matthew, what is it? Are you ill?'

‘It's Kate.' His voice rasped through lips like parchment. ‘I think she's dead.'

‘Dead?' I repeated stupidly, and heard Mike's swiftly indrawn breath.

‘Her car's just gone over the cliff. It's blazing fiercely; they can't get near it.' And as I clung to his arm, numb with shock, he added – only just audibly – ‘God, I didn't mean to kill her!'

My memory of those next terrible days is mercifully confined to brief flashes, each in itself sharp and unbearable: Matthew returning from the inquest and locking himself in the library; Kate's book on the chair, forgotten in her precipitate departure; Sarah's first, uncomprehending protest – ‘But she didn't say goodbye.' There was Mrs Johnson sobbing in the kitchen and Tammy going about the house tight-lipped and red-eyed, but above all there was Matthew, alone and unapproachable in his shocked disbelief. I ached to comfort him, but there was nothing I could say.

It transpired that it was Benson from the farm who had seen the accident. He'd recognised Kate's car a split second after it came roaring round a bend, swerved to avoid a cyclist, and bucketed its way over the short grass verge to the cliff edge. He had watched in fascinated horror as it teetered on the brink, front wheels in space, before, in slow-motion, disappearing over the edge. By the time his numbed legs had carried him there, it had burst into flames and a moment later the petrol tank exploded. The heat was too intense to go near – there was nothing he could do.

He had dialled 999 from the call-box across the road, and then rung Touchstone, knowing Mike was there and hoping he would break the news to Matthew. It was his bad luck that Matthew himself answered the phone.

The police, deferential and offering condolences, called at the house. Had Mrs Haig been in a hurry when she left the house? According to witnesses, she had been driving dangerously fast. Matthew replied that he had not seen her go.

Had she been upset in any way, might she subconsciously have been ‘taking it out on the car'? There was a long silence. Then Matthew replied in a low voice, ‘Not that I know of.'

Over his bent head, Mike's eyes met and held mine.

During the course of the next few days, we learned that the car had been so comprehensively destroyed that the laboratory had been unable to trace any mechanical failure. From the severity of the blaze, they deduced that Kate must have been carrying a spare can of petrol in the boot. The second inquest duly returned a verdict of accidental death.

Stuart Henderson came down for the funeral. He was a tall, thin man, considerably older than Kate. I liked him at once. It must have been an unnerving experience for him; meeting Matthew in any circumstances would have been awkward, without the added tragedy of Kate's death.

It was cool and dim in the little church, and there was a faintly spicy smell composed of polished wood and the musty tang of old prayer books. The rhythmic breaking of the waves reached us beneath the bronchial dirge of the organ. The church was full; the Haigs were well known and respected.

It was a simple and moving service. I held tightly to Sarah's hand and, despite my efforts to stop them, the tears ran down my cheeks. I was weeping as much for Matthew as for Kate, but Mike, on my other side, was a solid, comforting presence.

It would have been quick, I kept assuring myself; she'd hardly have had time to realise what was happening. Much worse for Matthew, left behind with his burden of guilt and self-reproach.

And out of the blue came the thought: at least her threat of scandal died with her.

* * *

Somehow, the time passed. I had not, after all, made my phone call to Gil, though my mother rang when she read of Kate's death.

I assured her I was all right. No point in worrying her with nebulous fears, and in any case these no longer seemed so urgent. My sense of foreboding had been amply justified by Kate's death, and no amount of talking to Gil could have forestalled it. I'd long since rationalised Matthew's first, agonised murmur. He had ordered Kate out of the house, and she'd driven off in a temper; of course he blamed himself for her death.

He still walked on the moors for long, lonely hours, but gradually his shoulders straightened and the look of strain left his mouth. And Sarah, with the wonderful resilience of childhood, began to smile again. September slid into October, and still the weather held.

Work on the book was spasmodic. Sometimes Matthew dictated furiously for hours on end. Then the next day I would find the typed pages torn across, with the word ‘Sorry!' scrawled across them. And we would start again.

Once he said, ‘I realise I'm not the easiest person to work with at the moment.'

‘It doesn't matter,' I said. I would have typed the same page a hundred times if its dictation could have eased him in any way.

Even Mike seemed subdued. I seldom saw him during the day – in fact, almost the only times I had done so were during Kate's ill-fated visit. But on my free evenings we went to the cinema once or twice, and for drives along the coast, and on one occasion he invited me for supper at the farm. In all that time there was no sign of Derek and Sandra, for which I was grateful.

It was on the visit to the farm that he said without preamble, ‘Before the accident, you told me Matthew and Kate had a row.'

His words hung on the air with a question in them.

‘Yes,' I said unwillingly. I had spent a large portion of the last few weeks trying to forget it.

‘What about?' he asked quietly.

I looked away. ‘I've no idea.'

‘Presumably it was to do with Kate's marrying again?'

I didn't reply and he gave a bark of a laugh. ‘You can bet Matthew didn't know about it the night before. It must have come as one hell of a shock.'

To change the subject, I picked up a silver cigarette box which he'd said was a twenty-first birthday present and ran my thumb over the monogram – M.C.S. ‘What's the “C” for?'

He did not reply. He was sitting very still, watching me. ‘Why won't you talk about the row?'

‘It was nothing to do with us. What does the “C” stand for?'

‘“Charles”. Look, Emily, this might be important. Why did Matthew lie to the police?'

‘
Lie?
'

‘He said there was no reason for Kate to be in a temper when she drove off. We know that isn't true.'

I replaced the box carefully. ‘He probably thought it was none of their business. What difference did it make, anyway? It couldn't alter the fact of her death. It's not as though another motorist was involved, who needed to be exonerated.'

Mike said reflectively, ‘Those cliffs certainly had it in for Kate.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘First the boulder, then that. Two “accidents” in twenty-four hours.'

I didn't like the emphasis he placed on the word. It reminded me, for the first time since Kate's death, that I'd suspected the boulder incident hadn't been accidental. Suppose her death wasn't, either?

‘What are you trying to say, Mike?' I could hear my voice shaking.

‘Nothing, my love, not a thing. But the way you leap to my cousin's defence makes me wonder if he has need of such loyalty.'

For a moment we stared at each other. Then Mike got to his feet with a laugh. ‘OK, OK, we'll drop it. Are you ready for something to eat?' And he rang for Mrs Trehearn. But he had resurrected for me two sentences, both spoken by Matthew. One was ‘There's nothing I can do to stop you – short of killing you!' And the other, an anguished whisper: ‘I didn't mean to kill her.'

Aware of Mike's assessing eyes, I sat down and tried to eat my meal.

* * *

It was a few days after that conversation that I met Jane. I had gone into Chapelcombe to do some shopping, and with half an hour in hand before the bus home, I went to the Tudor Café. The afternoon was cool, with a mist low over the sea, and the café was surprisingly full for a Monday. There were no free tables, so I approached one where a girl was already sitting.

‘Do you mind if I join you?'

‘Not at all.' She looked up with a smile and passed me the menu. ‘Summer's finally gone hasn't it?' She nodded out of the window at the grey afternoon.