Pretty Maids All In A Row (3 page)

'How gloriously feudal! And his wife doesn't mind?'

'Not in the least. She's French, and accepts that
noblesse oblige.
There are also three sons in their late teens—quite a
menage.''

'And they live there all the year round?'

Matthew gave a short laugh. 'Don't sound so incredulous! They have a place in London, but this is their base. Dom's a conscientious landowner and takes a great interest in the estate.'

'And what's the French wife like?'

'Charming. I'm sure you'll like her.'

'I'll be summoned to meet them, then?'

'Invited's the word. I believe they're fans of yours.' He folded his napkin, glancing at her empty plate. 'I'll take these things out of your way while you dress. Can you manage?'

'Yes, darling, thank you.'

She knew, despite his matter-of-factness, that the domestic trivia irked him. After a summer free from writing, during which they had met and married, he was anxious to get back to work. The last thing he needed was a wife unable even to wash the dishes.

The telephone shrilled suddenly on the bedside table and she lifted it. A voice said quickly, 'Freda? It's Charles. Where the hell have you been? I've been trying to get you for days.'

‘I
'm sorry,'
Jessica said, 'we're new here. I'm afraid—' The phone clicked abruptly and the dialling tone bleeped in her ear. She lowered the receiver, staring at it with raised eyebrow. Then, with a little bang, she replaced it on its cradle. 'Charming old-world courtesy!' she said aloud.

Matthew's voice called up the stairs. 'Was that the phone? I had the water running.'

'For our landlady, I presume. He didn't wait for explanations.'

Slowly and with difficulty she washed and dressed. This was the worst time, she assured herself. In a week or two, things would be much easier. Thank God she'd be mobile before rehearsals started.

She eased herself on to the dressing-stool and critically studied her reflection. Her dark hair, expertly shaped to her head, would have to fend for itself till her return to London. She'd no intention of letting a village hairdresser loose with a pair of scissors. For the rest, high cheekbones, wide expressive mouth, clear skin which, offstage, required the minimum of make-up; and, beneath finely arched brows, those large eyes, a smoky shade between slate and blue, which gave her face in repose a brooding quality. It was good material to work with, she thought impersonally, and repaid the care she gave it.

Plunging her fingers into the jar of skinfood, she began her daily massage.

*

Carrie said nervously, 'Good morning. I—I saw the car, and wondered if Mrs Cowley was back?'

'I'm afraid not,' Matthew replied. 'My wife and I have taken the cottage for a month.'

'A
month?'
She stared at him in bewilderment. 'But I don't understand. She never said she was going away.'

'Unfortunately I can't help you. We dealt directly with the agents.'

'They might know something, Matthew,' Jessica called from the sofa. 'What was their name—Bayliss?'

'Oh, I don't want to bother anyone,' their visitor said hastily. 'It's just that it's awkward, not knowing how long I've got. She's always told me before, so I can fill in if I want to, while she's away. There are always ladies asking.' Seeing Matthew's blank expression, she added, 'I clean for her, you see, two mornings a week.'

His face cleared. 'Then you're just the person we're looking for. Could we take you over? Come inside for a moment and we can discuss it.' He stepped aside and she came diffidently into the room. Matthew said easily, 'Our name is Selby, and you're—?'

'Speight, Carrie Speight.' She smiled shyly at Jessica, and her eyes rested briefly on the plastered leg. She'd a pleasant face, Jessica thought, almost pretty when she smiled, with large, gentle eyes and a childishly full mouth. Her hair looked youthful too, caught back in the nape of her neck. At Matthew's gesture, she perched on the edge of a chair.

'As you see,' he continued, 'my wife isn't able to look after us at the moment.' He made it sound, thought Jessica, amused, as if she normally spent her life scrubbing floors. 'How much time could you spare us?'

'Well, sir, like I said, I come to Mrs Cowley two mornings, Tuesdays and Fridays.'

'It's Tuesday today.'

'Yes, sir. That's why I was wondering. I could stay now, if you like.'

'Please, but we really need more than two mornings.'

Carrie turned to Jessica. She was used to dealing with the mistress of the house, and Matthew's command of the interview flustered her.

'You see, mum, I go to Mrs Markham in Upper Westridge Mondays and Thursdays, and to The Willows all day Wednesday.'

'The Willows?'

'The Nursing Home. Well, Residential, they call it. Old people, like. I help there at weekends, too.'

'You lead a busy life, Miss Speight,' Matthew said drily.

'I could cook your supper, though, if that would help, and dinner too, on the mornings I'm here.'

'That's very good of you,'
Jessica said in her husky voice. 'Probably after a week or so, I'll be able to do more myself.'

'Yes, mum.' Carrie glanced uncertainly at Matthew, and when he remained silent, stood up. 'Well, I'll make a start, then.' She bestowed her shy smile on them and turned towards the kitchen, more at home in the cottage than they were themselves.

'I didn't ask about references,' Matthew said in a low voice, 'but she must be well-known in the village. I imagine she's honest enough.'

'I'm sure she is, and she's putting herself out for us. You'll be generous, won't you, darling?'

'Of course. Well, since that's satisfactorily settled, I'll get down to a bit of work, if you'll excuse me. Would you like to sit in the garden?'

'Not just yet. I see the paper's come; I'll glance at that first.'

'Then I'll retire to the study.' He bent and kissed her, his eyes already absent-minded, planning his day. Jessica felt a touch of envy, but things could be a great deal worse. At least they had now acquired Carrie Speight.

Nor was it the last time that day she congratulated herself on their acquisition. Having cycled up the hill for provisions, Carrie proved herself both a competent cook and pleasant enough company. Matthew had not emerged from his study, from which an occasional burst of typing erupted, and Jessica, unused to being alone, was glad of someone to talk to. Sitting in the kitchen while Carrie prepared lunch, she questioned her about the village.

'Well, I don't know that a great deal
happens,''
Carrie answered doubtfully. 'I mean, there are concerts at the school and Harvest Supper and cricket matches, but not what you're used to in London, I expect.'

The supreme understatement. 'But what do you do in your spare time?'

Carrie smiled. 'I don't have very much. I like to keep busy. Mostly I just go for walks. But the gentlemen go to the pub—there are three in the village—or to the Cricket Club, and a lot of the ladies play tennis and squash, though I suppose that's not much use to you.'

'Not at the moment, certainly.'

Carrie continued deftly chopping onions. 'How did you hurt your leg?' she asked conversationally.

'I fell down some rocks on holiday. Silly, wasn't it? I spent the rest of the time in hospital, and had to go to another in London when we got back.'

'So you're here for a rest, while it gets better?'

'Not exactly. My husband's writing a history of the Sandon family, and will be using their library for his research. Also, of course, he'll have to interview them and so on, as he collects his information.'

'Oh,' said Carrie, impressed. 'He writes books, does he, your husband?'

'That's right.' Jessica accepted that her own name, if mentioned, would arouse no more recognition than Matthew's. She seldom appeared on television, and Carrie Speight was unlikely to be
au fait
with names from the West End stage. 'You said you worked at the nursing home,' she went on, reverting to village topics. 'Is that the house we can see from here?'

'That's right, mum. Very nice it is, too. They've got their own furniture, so it really is like home for them, poor old souls. And Matron's such a kind lady.'

Matthew was extracted from the study for lunch, which he and Jessica ate in the living-room. Carrie, who had volunteered to stay and wash the dishes—'to save the gentleman bothering—' had, at Jessica's insistence, shared the meal, though she ate in the kitchen.

'Wasn't it incredible,' Jessica said, sampling the fluffy omelette, 'that she should arrive on the doorstep like that, just when we needed her?'

'Yes, it was very lucky.' Matthew's tone was abstracted and she realized that for him the meal was an interruption, and he was anxious to return to work. Her impression was confirmed when, as soon as he'd finished eating, he excused himself. 'Get Miss Speight to settle you in the garden before she goes. The fresh air will do you good.'

Another task the admirable Miss Speight could relieve him of, Jessica thought, and was ashamed of her bitterness. She must accept that Matthew was as much obsessed by his work as she by hers. She wouldn't care for interruptions if she were rehearsing or learning her lines—which latter task, she reminded herself, she could usefully undertake.

It was therefore in Carrie's company, not her husband's, that she saw the garden for the first time. It was triangular in shape with the house at its apex, and less private than she'd appreciated. To the right, an open fence was all that separated it from a field, while another field lay beyond the wall at the far end. Jessica could see cows grazing there. Unlike the profusion of flowers at the front, here it was mostly grass—little different, in fact, from the land which surrounded it. A lacy conifer stood in the centre, with a rockery at its foot. Three wide, shallow steps led from the back path down to the grass and these, with Carrie hovering anxiousiy beside her, Jessica carefully negotiated.

'There's not much privacy, is there?'

Carrie smiled. 'It doesn't stop Mrs Cowley sunbathing. "If they want to look, let them!" she says. There are chairs in the garage, and they have footrests. You should be quite comfortable.'

While Carrie went in search of one, Jessica beat the bounds of her temporary home. It took her only a moment to see that in fact there was no privacy at all. The whole garden lay exposed to anyone either in the adjacent field or walking along the road beside it. Momentarily the fact disturbed her. Working as she did in the constant glare of spotlights, her desire for privacy offstage bordered on the neurotic. Still, they'd only be here a month. She must simply echo the garden's owner. 'They see—what see they? Let them see!' she misquoted wryly.

A decorative wrought-iron gate separated the cottage from the garage and gave access to the front. Through this Carrie was now struggling with two folded deckchairs. Perhaps she thought Matthew would be coming out, too. And perhaps, later, he might.

'I'll put it near the fence, out of the shade of the house,' Carrie said, and Jessica bit back an instinctive protest. Yet why skulk behind the house? She was only going to sit and read, after all. Carrie settled her comfortably with her books.

'I'll be back at six to cook your supper,' she promised. Jessica watched her return through the gate, collect her bicycle which was propped against the side of the house, and disappear from sight.

With a sigh, she leant back and closed her eyes. Moving about was such an effort that she was permanently tired at the moment, and the hot sun flowed comfortingly over her. She drifted into sleep, dimly aware of the unaccustomed sounds of the country about her, the bleating of a sheep, surprisingly close at hand, the distant barking of a dog. Once a tractor, rattling along the road, jerked her briefly awake, but the driver, coming from the village, had his back to her, and she slid back into sleep.

When some time later she came awake again, there was a light flashing in her face and, screening her eyes with her hand, she struggled into a more upright position. The sun had moved round and was now behind her shoulder. It must have been shining on a window on the higher road. Jessica's eyes moved along the backs of the houses, the large one which she now knew to be The Willows Residential Home, and the smaller, private houses on either side. She frowned. None of their windows was reflecting the sun— but she suddenly saw what was. Between the houses, in a gap in the hedge on the top road, she caught the flash again. Then, even as she watched, it moved and was gone.

Her heart began a rapid uneven beat. Binoculars? Was that the explanation? Was someone up there spying on her? But why?