A Death in Two Parts (16 page)

“Oh, Patience!” Mary reached out a hand to take hers. “I am so sorry.” And then: “You might have died down there in your cellar, you know. On your own, you might have fallen, knocked yourself out. Who would have known you were there?”

“No one.” They faced it together, soberly, eating pizza without tasting it.

“I hate to go.” Mary looked at the clock and finished her coffee. “If only there was a way I could get in touch with Mark.”

“But there isn't.” They had been through this already. “I'll be all right, Mary, I truly will.”

“And you do promise to go to the police if anything else happens?”

“Yes, cross my heart and hope to die.” They smiled at each other, remembering childhood, and Mary reached out impulsively to kiss Patience on the cheek. “I'm so glad I came,” she said. “I'll ring the minute I get back. Your love to Mark?”

“Why not?” The quick kiss had stirred something in Patience. “Drive carefully.”

“I do.”

“Well, that's a change. Oh, I do thank you for coming, Mary. It's been too long.”

“Soon again.” She was off, walking briskly down the street towards her car, and Patience shut the door behind her and faced her house, which felt empty for the first time. She rather wished there was something to be done in the kitchen, but Mary had insisted on washing up. Instead,
she would go down to the ironmonger and buy white spirit to clean up that sinister pool of blood red paint. The house would feel better after that. Making light to Mary about the intruder in her garden, she had almost convinced herself that this act of vandalism had been merely a childish revenge for the bolted garden door. But, “Not a very nice child,” Mary had said.

The white spirit and the scraper that the friendly ironmonger sold her were heavier than Patience had expected. The light was beginning to fade by the time she started home and she paused at the wicket gate that led into the graveyard. The path across it was both quicker and prettier than the main road and the gates were never locked until full dark. Idiotic to blench at taking it. She pushed open the gate and started up the gently sloping path between ancient gravestones. She usually paused to notice a name here, an odd epitaph there, but today she found herself instinctively hurrying.

She paused at last, breathless, to look back at the view of the river. Turning, she was aware of flurried movement. Someone was there, too close behind her, unheard because of traffic noise. A child? A woman? One arm raised. Patience reached out her own free hand and grabbed it.

“Flour!” she exclaimed as the open bag fell and burst on the ground. “What a disgusting trick!” Amazing to find herself instinctively remembering the defence techniques she had learned at college all those years ago. “Don't try to get away,” she told the savagely writhing figure. “Or I'll really hurt you. That's better.” Her captive had stopped struggling and was still, swearing under her breath. She
smelled, Patience noticed with distaste. “Not a child,” she said. “So, no excuses.”

“Look who's talking.” The voice was a surprise: Queen's English with a slight west country burr and the faintest hint of an asthmatic wheeze. “What excuse is there for you, Mrs bloody Crankshaw?”

“What do you mean?” She used her strong grip to pull her opponent nearer to the light at the top of the graveyard, and saw that despite her foul language she was not much more than a child, skeleton thin, a gypsy-like creature in the trailing skirts Mary had described.

“You killed my mother!” It was spat at her rather than spoken.

“I beg your pardon!” Patience put the ironmonger's heavy bag down on the bench by the graveyard gate and pulled the girl round to face her. She did not think she was drugged; perhaps she was mad. It seemed the only explanation. “I've never seen you in my life before and I've no more idea who your mother is than the man in the moon.”

“Not is. Was. I told you, you killed her.” Another stream of curses followed.

“And I tell you that's nonsense.” Soon, now, the man would come to lock the gate. “You may know me but I most certainly don't know you.”

“Oh yes you do. I'm Veronica.”

“I'm none the wiser. Veronica who?”

“Crankshaw, it should be!”

“What? I don't understand.” But was she beginning to?

“Oh yes you bloody do. You're just pretending. You knew all the time and didn't give a damn. Dad always said you were a selfish cow.”

“Dad?” Her grip tightened on the thin wrist.

“Your handsome husband. My fine father. The man who would be Prime Minister if he could only get into Parliament. I really believed it all when I was a kid. All that talk. Mustn't say a word; mustn't do a thing to spoil his precious career. But he'd look after us; no need to worry; everything under control – safe as houses—”

She was working up towards hysteria when a man's voice interrupted. “Excuse me, ma'am, closing time.”

“Oh, yes, thank you.” Patience, mentally reeling, took an instant decision. She let go of the hand she had held so tight. “You'd better come home with me,” she said. “When did you last eat?”

“Home? To your house?” But she had not turned to run.

“Well, yes. Better than sleeping rough, surely? And it does seem as if we have something to talk about, you and I.” She picked up the ironmonger's bag. “You must believe that I knew nothing about you.” Her eyes met defiant grey ones.

“I almost do.” They had left the graveyard now and were walking down the lane, side by side, presenting a picture of amity to the puzzled groundsman. “I've been watching you.”

“I know,” said Patience quietly. “And telephoning.”

“Yes. You're not like he said. Not at all.”

“I don't suppose I am. But at least you knew about me!” She had been living with more lies than she had imagined and it was amazing how it hurt. Questions seethed in her mind, but not yet.

“Only because Mum saw his picture in the paper. With you. At a dinner. Mr and Mrs. She was a loving fool, was Mum, but not such a fool he could lie his way out of that.”

“Oh dear,” said Patience inadequately. “Here, take this bag while I find my key. You won't bash me with it, will you?”

“No, honest to God I won't. I should have had more sense than to believe him. No brighter than poor Mum after all.” They were in the hall now, and she looked about her with quick, nervous glances. “This is the bit I couldn't see. I like your house. That's when I began to wonder a bit. About you. But by then I couldn't stop. It was being so angry kept me going.”

“You found the back door in the wall.” It was hardly a question.

“I figured there had to be one. I've been sleeping in the shed. I've done no damage. Not yet.” It hung ominously in the air between them.

Except for a little matter of red paint in the cellar. But the girl was shivering. With cold, with shock – with fright? And now that Patience could see her, there was no mistaking the likeness to Geoffrey Crankshaw. “You're my stepdaughter,” she said slowly, taking it in. “How very strange. Which would you like first, Veronica, a meal or a bath?”

“Oh, a bath, please!” It broke the last bastion of resistance and she dissolved into tears.

She was frighteningly thin inside the drooping clothes, and Patience, silently considering her own neat, elderly wardrobe, remembered a light wool caftan she had seldom worn. Handing this to her surprise guest along with a new pair of Marks and Spencer knickers, she showed her to the bathroom and turned on the taps. “My bra would be far too big, but I don't suppose you need one. Lots of bath stuff; don't hurry; I'll be making soup. Oh, dump your
things outside the door and I'll put them in the machine. Bit of luck they'll be dry by morning. You'll be all right? Don't lock the door, just in case. Oh—” She hesitated in the doorway. “You're not a vegetarian or anything, are you?”

“No.” It got her an attempt at a laugh. “Do I look like one? It's this gear I borrowed, I reckon.” And then, with difficulty: “Thanks.”

Slicing onions for soup, Patience made herself concentrate on the matter in hand: stock from the deep freeze, vegetables, a potato to thicken it. When it was simmering on the back burner she went quietly upstairs to put a hot pad in the spare room bed, glad that she had decided to make one up, just in case. Then back down to set the table with wholemeal bread, cold tongue from a tin, cheese and fruit, dressing for a salad. Best not give the child wine. How old was she? As she worked, the questions battered at her mind. Her whole past had turned upside down. Geoffrey had never wanted children, afraid that they would interfere with his career. It was one of the many things she had not learned about him until too late. Much too late. Her child would have been in its forties now. His forties? Her forties?

Her hand shook as she poured the soup into the blender. When it was safely back on the stove to simmer she went out into the hall to listen and was glad to hear the bathroom door open. “Supper's ready when you are,” she called up the stairs. “But don't hurry; it'll keep.”

“I can't wait! I can smell it. It's killing me.” Veronica had washed her hair and it clung pale and damp around the face that was so like Geoffrey's. Grey eyes met Patience's. “I don't know what to say.”

“Then don't try.” Patience was pouring soup into bowls. “And don't eat too fast; it might make you sick.”

“Not this, it wouldn't.” But she paused to take the bread Patience passed her and crumble it into the thick soup. “It's ace,” she said after a few more mouthfuls. “You didn't buy this from Tesco.”

“No, I made it. Have some more.”

“Please.” She passed over her empty bowl, and they ate for a while in silence, Patience battening down the questions until the time was right.

“I've been off my head.” Veronica put down her spoon and looked across the table. “Round the bend. Nuts. Like it all happened so fast, when Mum got ill. After he died. Then the money stopped coming.” Her words were beginning to slur.

“If you've been trying to sleep in that shed you must be dead on your feet,” Patience told her. “That's probably enough to eat for now, and bed's what you need. Come along, Veronica, things will look better in the morning.”

“You're not going to throw me out? Call the cops?”

“Good God, no. What an idea! Come along now, your bed's all ready.” She had to help Veronica to her feet and up the stairs, and wondered whether she should send for the doctor. But every instinct was against it. Young Dr Findlayson, like his father before him, was a very important link in the friendly chain of gossip that held Leyning together. Before he saw Veronica Crankshaw, they must have their story ready for him. “Sleep as long as you can.” She smiled from the doorway. “We'll talk in the morning.”

The doorbell rang while Patience was finishing the supper
dishes. Well, this time there was likely to be someone there, and she had a pretty good idea who it would be. She took off her apron and made her leisurely way to the door. She was right. It was Mrs Vansittart, who lived across the road.

“Oh, what a relief,” she said at the sight
of
Patience. “Forgive the intrusion, my dear, but to tell you the truth I was a little anxious about you. I happened to see you come back earlier on with a very odd-looking young person I'd seen hanging around. I really thought I ought to come and make sure you were all right.”

“How very kind of you, Mrs Vansittart. And brave too, in the dark. I'm really grateful. But it's quite all right, thank you. It's a young friend of mine who has been having a bit of a bad time. Her mother died suddenly, and she seems to have gone off the rails a bit. I am so glad I ran into her; she's resting now. I expect I'll hear all about it when she feels better. Boyfriend problems, too, I imagine. You know how they are, the young.”

“Oh dear me, yes. Always in one kind of trouble or other. How nice you have made the little house.” She was peering brightly round the hall. “Do you still have the drawing room upstairs?”

“Yes, but I'm afraid I mustn't take you up to see it tonight. I've just got Veronica off to bed and I don't want to disturb her.”

“Veronica. What a pretty name. And you are washing her clothes for her!” The machine had just gone into a new cycle. “Such a good hostess. I'm so very glad to find it is all for the best, my dear. You must come and see me very soon and tell me all about the poor young thing. Or bring her?”

“How very kind of you.” Patience had learned over the
years the technique of the gentle irrevocable movement towards the front door. “It was really good of you to come.” She meant it. It might have been inquisitive of the old lady, but it had also been brave.

It was still only nine o'clock when the washing machine fell silent and Patience could hang the sad clothes on the airer in the utility room. There was no warmth in the shabby cotton skirt and shirt and the long grey cardigan was not much better. How in the world had Veronica managed to sleep at all in the shed? And how long had she been camping there? On the thought, she took a flashlight and went down the garden to look for signs of the secret occupation, half afraid of the sordid, smelly scene she might find.

Nothing of the sort. The poor child must have been going clear down to the public loos at the station … How odd to be thinking of the unknown menace who had haunted her as a poor child. But that was clearly what she was. “Go very carefully,” Patience warned herself, wishing she had more experience of the young.

She stood for a moment, looking up at the stars, finding her garden friendly again, the unknown threat gone. But inevitably her thoughts moved on to Geoffrey and what she had learned about him. He had deceived her, basically, consistently and successfully. For how long?