Motive for Murder (22 page)

‘So Linda presented an obstacle to my reclaiming Kate,' he continued. ‘Naturally, the obvious solution was to drown her. God, Emily, it's you and Mike who should be writing the novels!'

I barely heard him. My mind was flitting back and forth searching for a means of escape.
You've said too much . . .
The words echoed like a knell in my head. I was nearer than he was to the door, but he'd only to reach out to catch hold of me. Oh Mike, please come! Now!

‘Too bad,' he was going on stingingly, ‘that it was all for nothing, and Kate escaped my clutches.' He stopped suddenly and his face blanched. I hadn't spoken but he must have read my expression.

‘Or did she?'

The room was quiet except for our breathing – his deep and rasping, mine too shallow to fill my lungs.

‘And how,' he asked raggedly, ‘did I give myself away over that one?'

‘Matthew – don't! Please stop it.'

‘Come on, what was the criminal's inevitable mistake?'

How could I remind him of his tortured whisper in the porch? I shook my head blindly but he was inexorable.

‘I'm waiting.'

I faltered, ‘When we heard – when Benson phoned – you –' I couldn't go on.

‘God knows what I said, but no doubt I incriminated myself. I'd no idea I'd a recording angel in the house. Dear God, Emily, you've certainly given me the cloven hoof, haven't you?'

‘I'm sorry,' I whispered ridiculously. I was torn in half by two equally strong urges. The first was to fling my arms round him and soothe away that numbed look of horror. And the second, perhaps after all the stronger, since there is no instinct like self-preservation, was to turn and run before he could collect himself.

My chance came. He half-turned from me, putting his hand to his head. In the same instant I gathered my jellied muscles together and leapt for the door. As I wrenched it open I was aware of his white, startled face turning towards me. Then I was across the hall and up the stairs two at a time, and at last in the safety of my room. The bolt slid and the key turned in the lock for double protection.

I thought wildly, I won't starve in twenty-four hours. I have some chocolate in my bag. When I don't arrive at the farm tomorrow, Mike will come. Mike will come! I repeated it like a charm. Why oh why did Gilbert have to choose this weekend to go to Scotland, when I needed him so desperately? For the first time I consciously recalled his words at the station, that he would be much happier if I did not come to Cornwall. What presentiment had reached out to him in his anxiety for me – the shadow of my death?

I shuddered. The telephone clarioned in the hall, setting all my nerves jangling. If it was Mike, dare I go down to take the call? Or would Matthew say I was out? In any event, no one called me. I sat on the edge of the bed and tried to stop trembling, feeling very sick. The lunch gong sounded. I didn't move. After a while, Mrs Johnson came and knocked on my door.

‘I'm not feeling well, Mrs Johnson; I'll just stay in my room. No, thank you, I don't want anything. I'll be all right.'

All right! A hysterical laugh rose in my throat but I swallowed it back.

It must have been half an hour later that I heard Matthew come up the stairs. His footsteps stopped outside my room, and there was a tentative tap.

‘Emily?'

I stood up, staring at the door. A louder knock.

‘Emily? I want to speak to you.'

Soundlessly, my eyes never leaving the door, I backed across the room and stood against the far wall. The door knob rattled impatiently.

‘Emily, for God's sake, I've
got
to talk to you!'

No doubt he had! The door creaked as he leant against it with the handle turned. I heard him swear softly. ‘Open this door!'

Foolishly I shook my head.

‘Emily!' A hard shove against the door. Would he break it down, like they did in films? I pressed back against the wall, my hands behind me. A draught from the open window trailed its cold fingers against my neck, and I felt my skin rise in a shiver.

His voice changed, pleaded. ‘Please, Emily, I can't leave you like this!'

Leave? I quivered into alertness.

He said impatiently, ‘Oh very well, if you want to hide I haven't time to play with you!'

I heard him go to his room and a moment or so later come back along the corridor. This time there was no hesitation at my door. Down in the hall he called, ‘I'm going now, Mrs Johnson.'

The front door slammed, the car revved up and moved out of the drive. I had not moved. I stayed pressed back in case he should look up at my window.

At last, as the sound of the car receded, I pushed myself away from the wall, crept over to the door and unlocked it. I opened it and stood listening. Tammy would be in her room. Had she heard Matthew hammering at my door? Clinging to the banisters, poised for instant flight should the front door burst open again, I inched my way down the stairs and went soft-footed into the kitchen.

‘Miss Barton! You didn't half give me a turn! Are you feeling better?'

‘Where's Mr Haig?'

‘He's had to go to London, sudden like.'

‘London?'

‘Yes, there was a phone call. Won't be back till late tomorrow or Sunday.'

Was it a trap, a way to get me off my guard? But I had heard the phone. Then I had a reprieve!

‘Would you like a glass of nice hot milk, dearie?'

Relief made me giddy. I looked at the table where lay the remains of the lunch. ‘I'd love a piece of your pie, Mrs Johnson. I feel much better now. But first I must make a phone call.'

Mike's phone rang for a long time. At last a woman answered – Mrs Trehearn.

‘No, Miss, I'm sorry Mr Stacey's out. Don't know when he'll be back, I'm sure. He's down at the Show ground.'

I replaced the receiver. Well, if it was true that Matthew had gone to London, tomorrow would be soon enough to see Mike. I went back to the kitchen and Mrs Johnson's pie.

I spent yet another of the restless nights that had plagued me since I came to Cornwall, sleeping with an ear cocked for Matthew's unexpected return. Every creak of a floorboard, every hoot of an owl brought me upright, washed in cold fear. Then, as the sound identified itself, I would lie down again and try to relax. Gradually the window shape became less dense, paled into grey. I lay staring at it unblinkingly, my body taut and rigid.
I didn't mean to kill her – drowning her was the obvious solution – you've said too much
. . . In my mind the words formed the jagged shapes of a jigsaw and how sickeningly they fell into shape. Then, swinging from acceptance to rebuttal, I rejected the whole concept. He
couldn't
have done it – not Matthew!

I jumped as Mrs Johnson knocked on the door. She tried the handle and it rattled ineffectually. Guiltily I remembered I'd not unlocked the door. I slipped out of bed and did so.

‘Sorry,' I said, with what I hoped was a convincing smile. I climbed back into bed and took the tray from her. ‘I was a bit nervous in the night, so I locked myself in.'

‘Very wise, Miss. I always lock my door, being on the ground floor, like. Not that we've ever had any trouble with burglars, but I always say you can't be too careful. Shall I light the fire for you? Quite a nip in the air first thing, these mornings.'

‘Thank you.' Sleeplessness had made me shivery. I gratefully sipped the scalding tea.

‘Nice day for the Show, if it'll hold,' she commented, jerking her head out of the window. ‘It was raining in the night but 'tis passed now, for the present.'

She waddled complacently from the room. I drew a long breath. Well, it was morning at last, and today I should see Mike and all would be well. If only I could have loved him instead of dark, dangerous Matthew!

Before I could help myself the memory of his kisses swamped me and with it a wave of longing which palsied my hand, spilling the tea in the saucer. I set the tray on the table by the bed and got up. It wasn't until I was dressed that I realised that, with Matthew away, the morning stretched emptily ahead. I could do some typing, but I felt too restless.

The solution was provided almost immediately. There was a tap on the door and Sarah's bright face peered round at me.

‘Hello!'

‘Hello yourself!'

‘Are you going to the Show, Emily?'

‘This afternoon I am, with Mike.'

‘Oh, can I come too? Please!'

I said regretfully, ‘Oh Sarah love, I'm afraid not. We've something very important to talk about.'

‘I could wait outside,' she said helpfully.

But we couldn't discuss her father's guilt, knowing she was outside the door.

‘Uncle Mike usually takes me,' she added, as I didn't speak.

‘I'm sorry, poppet, really I am. Couldn't you go with Tammy?'

‘I suppose so,' she said disconsolately, tracing a pattern on the carpet with her toe. Something in the line of her body, the droop of her neck, reminded me, with startling vividness, of Kate, and my heart went out to the child.

‘Tell you what,' I said quickly, ‘we could go out this morning instead. I'll take you to the Tudor Café for an ice, then you can go to the Show with Tammy this afternoon.'

‘All right.' She brightened. ‘And perhaps we'll see you and Uncle Mike there, and it would be all right then, wouldn't it?'

‘Yes, of course.'

Privately I doubted if we'd get to the Show.

After my conversation with Mike, we would hardly be in the mood for prize pigs and show jumping. It was more than likely that I would be on the evening train, rattling home to London. Come to think of it, I could have utilised the morning packing my belongings. But a promise was a promise, and I knew that when I left Touchstone I would miss Sarah almost as much as Matthew.

We decided to walk down to town and set off hand in hand. I was aware of a feeling of unreality, as though I stood apart watching myself mechanically walking and talking. No doubt it was the result of my sleepless night, added to the tensions of the last few weeks and yesterday's scene with Matthew.

The wind caught us as we came out of the little road on to the main one running down beside the sea. Ahead of us, the twin hotels on opposite headlands crouched like great seabirds landed by stormy tides. Against the cliffs huge breakers rose, flinging up volcanoes of spray.

Sarah skipped at my side, her cheeks stung into colour, her hair blowing out behind her. I remembered my promise to take her on holiday some time. Poor Sarah, it seemed she was doomed to lose everyone who befriended her. Only Tammy remained, with Matthew's uncertain presence in the background. He had told Kate he loved the child but I doubted if she was aware of it.

‘Your father's very fond of you,' I said suddenly, and her head turned in surprise.

‘Of course!' she said.

‘I mean, he might not show it, but –'

She smiled. ‘It's all right, Emily, I know he is. It's only that he's always so busy, and I probably remind him of – of Mummy.'

She had said that before, but the repetition took on a new poignancy, now Kate was dead.

‘Oh sweetie,' I said contritely, pulling her against me, ‘I didn't mean to upset you. I'm supposed to be giving you a treat!'

She smiled tremulously and looked up at me. ‘Do you love me, too, Emily?'

I stopped, there on the windblown path, and looked down into her face.

‘Yes, Sarah, I do,' I said, with perhaps more emphasis than the question warranted. ‘I love you very much and you must always remember that, even if – if I have to go away.'

‘Away?' Her face fell. ‘But you're not going away, are you?'

I hugged her without answering and we started to walk again. Chapelcombe was unusually deserted for a Saturday morning, and buses that had passed us going up the hill were crowded with people on their way to the Show.

‘You going along, then?' asked the woman in the sweet shop, handing Sarah her lollipop.

‘Yes, this afternoon.'

‘Shouldn't leave it too late; there'll be rain before dark.' She nodded out of the window to where, out over the sea, purple clouds massed heavily together, lined with gold like great cushions.

Nearer at hand, the mellow sunshine flooded into the shop, pouring its molten gold on the counter and glinting on the tall glass jars of sweets that stood there. ‘It's lovely now, anyway,' I said.

‘The calm before the storm!' she answered, handing me my change.

Sarah and I were the Tudor's only customers. The waitress, who knew me now, stood chatting beside our table while Sarah ploughed her way through an ice-cream sundae.

‘The Show's later than usual,' she said. ‘End of September it should be, after the last visitors have gone. Doesn't get dark so quick then. It finishes with the Floral Dance, you know, Jack playing the flute leading us all down the hill and into the Smugglers' Rest for cider all round.' She smiled, rubbing her hands on her apron. ‘My Tom reckons that's the best part of the Show!'

Half the shops were closed as we walked back again out of the town. I was more tired than I had thought, and my legs were aching by the time we reached home. Just for a second, as we turned in at the gates, I had the panic thought that Matthew's car would be in the drive. It was not.

We sat in the big, dark dining-room, Tammy and Sarah and I, and I made a pretence of eating, but the palms of my hands were damp with nervous excitement. The steamed pudding was more than I could face.

‘I wonder if you'd excuse me?' I murmured to Tammy. ‘I promised Mr Stacey I wouldn't keep him waiting.'

She inclined her head and Sarah sent me a reproachful glance.

‘Perhaps we'll see you there.' I hesitated, wondering what possible excuse I could have for kissing Sarah goodbye when she was expecting me back this evening.