The Scold's Bridle (24 page)

DS Cooper's car had barely drawn to a halt in Mill House driveway later that evening when Jack wrenched open the passenger door and folded himself on to the seat. "Do me a favour, old son, reverse out slowly with as little noise as possible and drive me a mile or two down the road." He nodded approval as Cooper eased into gear. "And next time, phone first, there's a good chap."

Cooper, apparently unconcerned by this somewhat disrespectful behaviour towards an officer of the law, manoeuvred backwards through the gate, pulling the wheel gently to avoid crunching the gravel. "Doesn't she trust me?" he asked, changing to first gear and driving off in the direction of Fontwell.

"Not you personally. The police. There's a lay-by about half a mile ahead on the right. Pull in there and I'll walk back."

"Has she said anything?"

Jack didn't answer and Cooper flicked him a sideways glance. His face looked drawn in the reflected light from the headlamps, but it was too dark to read his expression. "You're obliged by law to assist the police in their enquiries, Mr. Blakeney."

"It's Jack," he said. "What's your name, Sergeant?"

"Just what you'd expect," said Cooper dryly. "Thomas. Good old Tommy Cooper."

Jack's teeth gleamed in a smile. "Rough."

"Rough is right. People expect me to be a comedian. Where's this lay-by of yours?"

"A hundred yards or so." He peered through the windscreen. "Coming up on your right now."

Cooper drew across the road and brought the car to a halt, placing a restraining hand on Jack's arm as he switched off the engine and killed the lights. "Five minutes," he said. "I really do need to ask you some questions."

Jack let go of the door handle. "All right, but I warn you there is very little I can tell you except that Ruth is scared out of her wits and extremely reluctant to have anything more to do with the police."

"She may not be given a choice. We may decide to prosecute."

"For what? Stealing from a member of her family who didn't even bother to report the few trinkets that were taken? You can't prosecute Ruth for that, Tommy. And anyway, Sarah as legatee would insist on any charges being dropped. Her position's delicate enough without forcing a criminal record on the child she's effectively disinherited."

Cooper sighed. "Call me Cooper," he said. "Most people do. Tommy's more of an embarrassment than a name." He took out a cigarette. "Why do you call Miss Lascelles a child? She's a young woman, Jack. Seventeen years old and legally responsible for her actions. If she's prosecuted she will be dealt with in an adult court. You really shouldn't allow sentiment to cloud your judgement. We're not talking just trinkets here. She took her grandmother for five hundred pounds a month ago and didn't bat an eyelid while she was doing it. And on the day of the murder she stole some earrings worth two thousand pounds."

"Did Mathilda report the money stolen?"

"No," Cooper admitted.

"Then Sarah certainly won't."

Cooper sighed again. "I guess you've been talking to a lawyer, told you to keep your mouths shut, I suppose, and never mind what Hughes does to anyone else." He struck a match and held it to the tip of his cigarette, watching Jack in the flaring light. Anger showed itself in every line of the other man's face, in the aggressive jut of his jaw, in the compressed lips and the narrowed eyes. He seemed to be exercising enormous self-control just to hold himself in. With a flick of his thumbnail Cooper extinguished the match and plunged the car into darkness again. Only the glow of burning tobacco remained. "Hughes is working to a pattern," he said. "I explained as much of it as we have been able to find out to your wife this morning. In essence-"

"She told me," Jack cut in. "I know what he's doing."

"Okay," said Cooper easily, "then you'll know how important it is to stop him. There'll be other Ruths, make no mistake about that, and whatever he's doing to these girls to force them to work for him will get more extreme as time goes by. That's the nature of the beast." He drew on his cigarette. "He does force them, doesn't he?"

"You're the policeman, Cooper. Arrest the sod and ask him."

"That's exactly what we're planning to do. Tomorrow. But we'll have a much stronger hand if we know what to ask him
about
. We're stumbling around in the dark at the moment."

Jack didn't say anything.

"I could get a warrant for Miss Lascelles's arrest and take her down to the station. How would she stand up to the psychological thumbscrews, do you think? You might not have realized it but she's different from the other girls Hughes has used. She doesn't have parents she can rely on to protect her."

"Sarah and I will do it," Jack said curtly. "We're in loco parentis at the moment."

"But you've no legal standing. We could insist that her mother was present during questioning and if it's of any interest to you the only thing Mrs. Lascelles was concerned about last night was whether her daughter's expulsion had anything to do with Mrs. Gillespie's murder. She'd break Ruth for us if she thought it would help her get her hands on the old lady's money."

Jack gave a faint laugh. "You're all piss and wind, Cooper. You're too damn nice to do anything like that, and we both know it. Take it from me, you'd have it on your conscience for life if you added to the damage that's already been done to that poor kid."

"It's bad then."

"I'd say that was a fair assumption, yes."

"You must tell me, Jack. We won't get anywhere with Hughes if you don't tell me."

"I can't. I've given my word to Ruth."

"Break it."

Jack shook his head. "No. In my book a word, once given, cannot be taken back." He thought for a moment. "There's one thing I could do, though. You deliver him to me and I'll deliver him to you. How does that grab you as an idea?"

Cooper sounded genuinely regretful. "It's known as aiding and abetting. I'd be kissing goodbye to my pension."

Jack gave a low laugh. "Think about it," he said, reaching for the handle and thrusting open the door. "It's my best offer." The smoke from Cooper's cigarette eddied after him as he got out. "All I need is an address, Tommy. When you're ready, phone it through." He slammed the door and loped off into the darkness.

Violet Orloff tiptoed into her husband's bedroom and frowned anxiously at him. He was swathed in yards of paisley dressing-gown and reclined like a fat old Buddha against his pillows, a mug of cocoa in one hand, a cheese sandwich in the other, the
Daily Telegraph
crossword on his knees. "She's crying again."

Duncan peered at her over his bifocals. "It's not our business, dear," he said firmly.

"But I can
hear
her. She's sobbing her heart out."

"It's not our business."

"Except I keep thinking, suppose we'd
done
something when we heard Mathilda crying, would she be dead now? I feel very badly about that, Duncan."

He sighed. "I refuse to feel guilty because Mathilda's cruelties to her family, imagined or real, provoked one of them into killing her. There was nothing we could have done to prevent it then, and as you keep reminding me, there is nothing we can do now to bring her back. We have alerted the police to possible motive. I think we should leave it there."

"But, Duncan," Violet wailed, "if we
know
it was Joanna or Ruth, then we must tell the police."

He frowned. "Don't be silly, Violet. We don't know who did it, nor, frankly, are we interested. Logic says it had to be someone with a key or someone she trusted enough to let into the house, and the police don't need me to tell them that." The frown deepened. "Why do you keep pushing me into meddling, anyway? It's almost as if you want Joanna and Ruth to be arrested."

"Not
both
of them. They didn't do it together, did they?" She grimaced horribly, screwing her face into an absurd caricature. "But Joanna is crying again, and I think we should do something. Mathilda always said the house was full of ghosts. Perhaps she's come back."

Duncan stared at her with open alarm. "You're not ill, are you?"

"Of course I'm not ill," she said crossly. "I think I'll pop round, see if she's all right, talk to her. You never know, she might decide to
confide
in me." With an arch wave she tiptoed off again, and moments later he heard the sound of the front door opening.

Duncan shook his head in perplexity as he returned to his crossword.
Was
this the beginnings of senility? Violet was either very brave or very foolish to interfere with an emotionally disturbed woman who had, quite clearly, loathed her mother enough to murder her. He could only imagine what Joanna's reaction would be to his wife's naive assertions that she knew more than she'd told the police. The thought worried him enough to force him out of his warm bed and into his slippers, before padding downstairs in her wake.

But whatever had upset Joanna Lascelles was destined to remain a mystery to the Orloffs that night. She refused to open the door to Violet's ringing and it wasn't until the Sunday at church that they heard rumours about Jack Blakeney returning to his wife and Ruth being so afraid to go home to Cedar House and her mother that she had chosen to live with the Blakeneys. Southcliffe, it was said, had asked her to leave because of the scandal that was about to break around the Lascelles family. This time the furiously wagging tongues centred their suspicion on Joanna.

If Cooper was honest with himself, he could see Dave Hughes's attraction for young middle-class girls. He was a personable "bit of rough," handsome, tall, with the clean, muscular looks of a Chippendale, dark shoulder-length hair, bright blue eyes and an engaging smile. Unthreatening was the word that leapt immediately to mind, and it was only gradually in the confined atmosphere of a Bournemouth police interview room that the teeth began to show behind the smile. What you saw, Cooper realized, was very professional packaging. What lay beneath the surface was anyone's guess.

Detective Chief Inspector Charlie Jones was another where the packaging obscured the real man. It amused Cooper to see how seriously Hughes underestimated the sad Pekinese face that regarded him with such mild-mannered apology. Charlie took the chair on the other side of the table from Hughes and sifted rather helplessly through his briefcase. "It was good of you to come in," he said. "I realize time's precious. We're grateful for your co-operation, Mr. Hughes."

Hughes shrugged amiably. "If I'd known I had a choice, I probably wouldn't've come. What's this about then?"

Charlie isolated a piece of crumpled paper and spread it out on the table. "Miss Ruth Lascelles. She says you're her lover."

Hughes shrugged again. "Sure. I know Ruth. She's seventeen. Since when was sex with a seventeen-year-old a crime?"

"It's not."

"What's the hassle then?"

"Theft. She's been stealing."

Hughes looked suitably surprised but didn't say anything.

"Did you know she was stealing?"

He shook his head. "She always told me her granny gave her money. I believed her. The old bitch was rolling in it."

"Was? You know she's dead then."

"Sure. Ruth told me she killed herself."

Charlie ran his finger down the page. "Ruth says you told her to steal silver-backed hair brushes, jewellery and valuable first editions from Mrs. Gillespie's library. Similar items, in fact, to what Miss Julia Sefton claims you told her to steal from her parents. Small bits and pieces that wouldn't be missed but could be disposed of very easily for ready cash. Who sold them, Mr. Hughes? You or Ruth?"

"Do me a favour, Inspector. Do I look the sort of mug who'd act as a fence for an over-privileged, middle-class tart who'd drop me in it quick as winking the minute she was rumbled? Jesus," he said with disgust, "give me some credit for common sense. They only take up with me because they're bored out of their tiny minds with the jerks their parents approve of. And that should tell you something about the sort of girls they are. They call them slags where I come from, and thieving's in their blood along with the whoring. If Ruth says I set her up to it, then she's lying to get herself off the hook. It's so bloody easy, isn't it? I'm just scum from a frigging squat and she's Miss Lascelles from Southcliffe girls' school. Who's going to believe me?"

Charlie smiled his lugubrious smile. "Ah, well," he murmured, "belief isn't really the issue, is it? We both know you're lying and that Ruth is telling the truth, but the question is can we persuade her to stand up in court and tell the
whole
truth? You made a bad choice there, Mr. Hughes. She doesn't have a father, you see, only a mother, and you probably know as well as I do that women are far harder on their daughters than men ever could be. Mrs. Lascelles won't protect Ruth the way Julia's father protected
her
. Apart from anything else, she positively loathes the girl. It would have been different, I suspect, if Mrs. Gillespie were still alive, she would probably have hushed it up for the sake of the family's reputation, but as she isn't I can't see anybody championing Ruth."

Hughes grinned. "Well, go ahead then. Prosecute the thieving little bitch. It's no skin off my nose."

It was Charlie's turn to look surprised. "You don't like her?"