The Scold's Bridle (41 page)

Her eyes brimmed again. "I don't mind about what you said. I was thinking-if only-you said you wished your children had had my opportunities-do you remember?"

He nodded. He had indeed said that, he thought with chagrin.

"Well, I was just thinking-I wish"-she gave him a watery smile-"I wish I'd had theirs. I hope they appreciate you, Sergeant Cooper." She took a letter from hei pocket and gave it to him. "It's Granny's," she said. "1 didn't throw it away, but I couldn't show it to you because she talks about my stealing." A tear splashed on to her hand. "I really did love her, you know, but she died thinking I didn't, and that's almost worse than everything else."

"Yes," he said gently, "I'm sure it is, because there's nothing you can do to mend it."

"Not ever."

"Well, as to ever-that I couldn't say. In this life, the best any of us can do is learn from our mistakes and try not to make them again. We're none of us infallible, Ruth, but we owe it to ourselves and to those around us to act with whatever wisdom we possess. Otherwise, how will mankind ever improve?"

She pressed her lips together to hold back the tears. "And you think it would be wise for me to have an abortion?"

"Yes," he said with absolute honesty, "I do." He placed his broad palm against her stomach. "At the moment you're not quite old enough or tough enough to be a mother and father to another human being, and you're too riddled by guilt over your grandmother, and what you see as your betrayal of her, to give this baby away to someone else." He smiled rather shyly. "That's not to say I expect you to agree with me or that I'll turn my back on you if you decide to have your baby. Dr. Blakeney's quite right when she says it's your choice. But I'd rather see you pregnant when you've lived a little and found a man you can love who loves you, too. Then your babies will be wanted and you'll be free to be the kind of mother you want to be."

She tried to thank him, but the words wouldn't come, so Cooper took her in his arms instead and held her tight. Behind them, Sarah turned a tear-streaked face to Jack. "Remind me of this," she whispered, "whenever I get complacent. I've just learnt how little I really know."

My dear Ruth [Mathilda had written], Your mother and I have fallen out over a letter written by my uncle Gerald Cavendish shortly before he died, making Joanna his heir. She is threatening to take me to court over it because she believes she can use it to overturn my father's will. She won't succeed, but I have been unable to convince her of that. She feels understandably aggrieved and wants to punish me. I realize now there has been too much secrecy within this family and so I am writing to you now to acquaint you with the knowledge she already has, because I do not want you to learn about it from her. She will not, I think, tell you kindly. James Gillespie was not your mother's father. Gerald Cavendish was. I realize how shocked you will be by this information but I urge you to do what I have done all these years and see it as something that happened which should not be regretted. You may find this hard to believe but, despite everything, I have always been fond of your mother, as indeed I have been fond of you.

I am faced now with a difficult choice. I am aware, my dear, that you have been stealing from me for some months. I am aware, too, that your mother has given up on life and prefers the twilight world of drug dependency and the casual relationships that give her the illusion of being loved without the ties of responsibility. You are both allowing yourselves to be abused by men and, in view of my own history, I find that deeply disheartening. I realize I have failed you, and have decided, therefore, to set you both free to make your own decisions about your futures.

My intention is to make over a lump sum to you and your mother on your eighteenth birthday, the amount to be apportioned in the ratio 2:1, with your mother receiving double your share. Perhaps it is something I should have done a long time ago, but I was reluctant to give up what I have worked so hard for in the Cavendish name. As things are now, I see that a name is nothing unless the individuals who bear it stand above their peers, for it is not the accident of our births that makes us great but our individual characters. By setting you and your mother free to lead your lives as you choose, I hope to give you the chance to prove yourselves, just as others-those less fortunate-have already done.

In conclusion, should anything happen to me and you find yourself in need of a friend, then I urge you to talk to Dr. Sarah Blakeney, my GP, who will give you nothing but good advice whatever the situation you find yourself in. With love, Granny.

Cooper placed the letter in front of Detective Chief Inspector Jones. "I've been asking myself where she was going to get the money from to give lump sums to Mrs. and Miss Lascelles if she'd already made a will giving everything to Dr. Blakeney."

Charlie scanned the page rapidly. "Did you come up with an answer?"

"I reckon it's on the video, if we'd only known what to look for. Do you remember when she was talking to Ruth towards the end and she mentioned her promise to leave the girl Cedar House before Ruth's behaviour of the last six months had persuaded her to change her mind? Okay, well immediately after that she went on to say something like: 'You'd have had the choice either to sell up or stay but you'd have sold because the house would have lost its charms for you once the estate was approved.' Or words to that effect."

Charlie nodded.

"I assumed the phrase 'once the estate was approved' referred to the goods and chattels being handed over to Joanna as part of her share."

"Go on."

"I think now she was talking about an estate of houses. She was planning to sell off the garden for development. How else could she raise a lump sum for the Lascelles women and still be able to leave Cedar House and its contents to Dr. Blakeney? Just imagine the impact that would have had on Duncan Orloff. A man who can't bear the thought of noisy children next door sure as hell isn't going to sit tamely by and watch his garden turned into a building site."

"Prove it," said Duncan placidly. "Name the developer. Explain why there's no correspondence with this mythical company. Good grief, man, she wouldn't even have got planning permission for such an enterprise. The days of unravelling the green belt are long gone. They're knitting it back together now just as fast as they can. There's electoral mileage in the environmental vote and none at all in speculative vandalism."

All of which, thought Charlie gloomily, was true. It was left to Cooper to bring a dose of common sense to the situation.

The following morning, after lengthy consultations with the local borough planning officer, he presented himself at Howard & Sons, building contractors of Learmouth since 1972. A middle-aged secretary, agog with curiosity at this unexpected appearance of a plainclothes policeman in their midst, ushered him with some ceremony into the office of Mr. Howard Snr.

Mr. Howard, a thickset elderly man with a scattering of grizzled grey hairs, looked up from a set of plans with a frown. "Well, Sergeant? What can I do for you?"

"I understand your company was responsible for the Cedar Estate development in Fontwell. It was built ten years ago. Do you recall it?"

"I do," barked the other. "What of it? Who's complaining?"

"No one, as far as I know," said Cooper placidly.

He waved to a chair. "Sit down, man. You can't be too sure about anything these days. It's a dog-eat-dog world where litigation's the name of the game and the only people who get fat are the solicitors. I had a letter this morning from a tight-fisted bastard who's refusing to pay what he owes because he says we're in breach of contract by putting in one less electric socket than the plans called for. It makes you sick." He beetled ferocious eyebrows. "So what's your interest in Cedar Estate?"

"You bought the land for it from a Mrs. Mathilda Gillespie of Cedar House, Fontwell."

"I did. Blood-sucking old bitch she is, too. Paid far more for it than I should have done."

"Was," Cooper corrected him. "She's dead."

Howard eyed him with sudden interest. "Is that so? Ah, well," he murmured without regret, "it comes to us all in the end."

"In her case rather prematurely. She was murdered."

There was a short silence. "And what does that have to do with the Cedar Estate?"

"We're having difficulty establishing a motive. One idea that suggests itself," he declared ponderously, "is that she was planning to continue her successful venture with you by selling off the rest of her garden for development. From consultations I've had with the planning department, I understand some sort of second phase has always been on the cards, but this would have made her very unpopular in certain quarters and might have inspired the murder." He hadn't missed the gleam of interest in the sharp old eyes opposite. "Have you had any recent correspondence with her on the subject, Mr. Howard?"

"Only negative."

Cooper frowned. "Could you explain that?"

"She approached us with a view to going forward. We made an offer. She rejected it." He grunted with annoyance. "Like I told you, she was a blood-sucking old bitch. Wanted far more for the land than it's worth. The building trade's been through the worst recession in its history and prices have plummeted. I wouldn't mind so much if it wasn't down to us in the first place that she was even in a position to develop the damn thing." He glared at Cooper as if Cooper were responsible for Mathilda's rejection. "It was us who established the sodding outline permission on her garden ten years ago which is why we left access space on the southeast boundary. First refusal on the second phase if she decided to go ahead was part of the original contract and she had the gall to turn us down."

"When was this? Can you remember?"

"The day she turned us down? Bonfire night, November the fifth." He chuckled suddenly. "I told her to stick a rocket up her arse and she hung up on me. Mind, I'd said many worse things first time round-I don't mind my Ps and Qs for anyone-and she always came back."

"You saw her in person?"

"Telephone. She meant it, though, wrote a couple of days later confirming. Claimed she was in no hurry and was prepared to wait for the prices to go back up again. It's in the file, along with a copy of our offer." The gleam of interest was back in his eyes. "Still, if she's dead, her heirs might be interested, eh? It's a fair offer. They won't get better from anyone else."

"Her will's being contested," said Cooper apologetically. "I imagine it will be some time before ownership of the property is proved. May I see her letter?"

"Don't see why not." He pressed the intercom and demanded the Gillespie file. "So who killed her then?"

"No one's been charged as yet."

"Well, they do say planning disputes bring out the worst in people. Bit extreme to murder someone over it though. Eh?"

"Any murder's extreme," said Cooper.

"A few houses more or less. It's hardly a motive."

"People fear the unexpected," said Cooper phlegmatically. "I sometimes think that's the root cause of all murders." He looked towards the door as the secretary popped in with an orange folder. "The boat rocks and the only solution is to kill the person who's rocking it."

Howard opened the file and selected a sheet from the top. "There you are." He handed it across.

Cooper examined it carefully. It was dated Saturday. November 6th, and typed. As Howard had said, it confirmed her refusal to proceed until prices improved "When did you say you got this?"

"Couple of days after the phone call."

"That would have been a Sunday."

"The Monday then, or maybe the Tuesday. We don't work weekends, not in the office at least."

"Did she always type her letters?"

"Don't remember her ever doing it before." He looked back through the file. "Copper-plate script every time."

Cooper thought of her letter to Ruth. That had been written in a beautiful hand. "Have you any other letters from her? I'd like to compare the signatures."

Howard licked a finger and flicked over the pages, removing several more sheets. "You think someone else wrote it?"

"It's a possibility. There's no typewriter in her house and she was dead by the Saturday night. When could she have had it done?" He placed the pages side by side on the desk and squinted at the subscriptions. "Well, well," he said with satisfaction, "the best laid schemes-you've been very helpful, Mr. Howard. May I take these with me?"

"I'll want photocopies for my records." He was consumed with curiosity. "Never occurred to me it wasn't kosher. What's wrong with it then?"

Cooper placed a finger on the typed letter's signature. "For a start, he's dotted his Ts"-he pointed to the others-"and she hasn't. His 'M' is too upright and the 'G' runs on to the following 'i.'" He chuckled. "The experts are going to have a field day on this. All in all it's a very cack-handed effort."

"Bit of a fool, is he?"

"Arrogant, I'd say. Forgery is an art like any other. It takes years of practice to be any good."

"I've a forensic team sifting through a dustbin full of Violet's old cinders," Charlie told Cooper when he returned to the nick, "and they tell me they've found the diaries. Or what's left of them at least. There's the odd scrap of paper but several quite substantial pieces of what they say is the calf-skin binding. They're still looking. They're confident of finding at least one scrap with her writing on it." He rubbed his hands together.

"They might look for scraps of typed paper while they're about it, preferably with a Howard & Sons imprint," said Cooper, producing his sheaf of letters. "They made her a formal offer for her land on the first of November, and we certainly didn't find it when we went through her papers. The chances are Orloff swiped an entire file. Howard Snr has a stack of correspondence relating to Cedar Estate, and there wasn't a damn thing on the subject anywhere in the house. If there had been we might have twigged a bit sooner."