An Air That Kills (19 page)

‘He's desperate to get home, poor man, and really he's in no state to manage by himself yet. I gather that – ah – professional help is out of the question. Besides, I think he's feeling very fragile. You're the only person he can call on.'

‘Are you sure he wants me? Did he say—'

‘Of course he wants you. He
needs
you.'

‘But we're far too busy here. It's the middle of term.' Antonia hesitated, aware that her voice was sounding breathless. ‘I wouldn't be able to get the time off.'

‘Oh, I don't think that would be a problem,' Charlotte said, as implacable now as she had been as a girl. ‘It's a family emergency, after all. And it's not as if you're a businessman running a company or something.' A laugh set the telephone's earpiece vibrating. ‘Don't worry, Antonia, let me have a word with the warden. I'm sure Miss Plimfield will understand.'

‘You know her?'

‘I've met her once or twice at Red Cross meetings. Is she there?'

‘No, she's having lunch.' Antonia picked up the piece of Spam and laid it on her plate. ‘But anyway, it's quite out of the question.'

Chapter Five

‘In Lydmouth,' Williamson said, waving his fork for emphasis, ‘there's no such thing as a coincidence. Or rather, it's
all
coincidence. Everyone knows everyone else. Pass the sauce.'

Thornhill pushed the bottle across the table. ‘But the fact that Mrs Meague once worked for them is still a common factor between Mrs Halleran and Mr Masterman.'

‘Doesn't mean it's significant.' Williamson picked up the sauce and added, to Thornhill's surprise, ‘Thank you.'

‘Also, we know that Meague may need money, if there's any truth in this Carn business. And finally, Charlie Meague's up to something, I'm sure. He was
relieved
when we went.'

Williamson upended the bottle of brown sauce over his mixed grill and hammered the palm of his hand on to the base. ‘As if he was expecting you to ask him about something else?'

‘Yes. Or as if he wasn't sure what we knew or what we could prove. And by the end he seemed almost pleasantly surprised.'

With a soft, squelching noise, a dollop of sauce shot out of the bottle and landed on Williamson's lamb chop. ‘Could be something or nothing. He's the type who'd act guilty anyway, who probably
is
guilty of something or other.'

For a moment they ate in silence with the clatter of the police canteen around them. So far, the meal had been an unexpectedly amicable affair. Williamson, mellowed by the food, ate quickly and efficiently as though against the clock. He finished in first place by at least a dozen mouthfuls. He sat back, wiped his mouth surreptitiously on the back of his hand and started to assemble his smoking equipment.

‘Do a damn good mixed grill here,' he said. ‘About the only thing they can do. You know that woman?'

‘Which one?'

‘The one at the briefing, of course. Little Miss What's-her-name.'

‘Jill Francis. She's staying with the Wemyss-Browns – I met her the evening before last.'

‘Good-looker. Wemyss-Brown told me she is a journalist from London. Might be the start of national interest in that Rushwick business.' The superintendent's eyes gleamed. ‘Could need careful handling. Leave her to me, all right?'

‘Yes, sir. But I don't think she was working.'

‘Journalists are always working. If you hear anything about her, I'd like to know. Try and sound out Wemyss-Brown if you see him.' Williamson scowled, his memory drifting back to the press briefing. ‘That bastard Fuggle.'

‘Is he always like that?' Thornhill said, with real sympathy.

‘Sometimes he's worse. That reminds me. Young Porter had a word with Harcutt about the accident this morning. On the surface it seems quite straightforward. But I had a look at the report from the local constable at Edge Hill. There was a witness. A Mrs Veale, some sort of neighbour. No love lost between her and Harcutt. The interesting thing is, she says she saw someone talking to him just before he was knocked down.'

‘Who?'

Williamson shrugged. ‘How do I know? Lorry driver didn't see anyone. Harcutt didn't mention it to Porter either. But Mrs Veale reckons they were having some sort of quarrel. She says the dog was barking its head off. Then the man rode off on a bike and the dog chased across the road after him.'

‘So that's what caused the accident?'

‘If Mrs Veale can be believed.'

‘Where was the man going? Towards Edge Hill church?'

‘There's a lane goes off by the church. You can get back to town that way. So what's Harcutt up to?'

Thornhill pushed his plate away and frowned. He watched Williamson who was fiddling with the poppy in his buttonhole. The poppy reminded Thornhill of his interview with Harcutt and reminded him how the old man had knocked the tray of poppies to the floor. That in turn reminded him of another niggle. Thornhill had registered it in passing during his visit to Chandos Lodge the previous day – an unexplained piece of knowledge, tiny and perhaps not mysterious at all. It certainly wasn't substantial enough to share, least of all with a man like Williamson.

‘There's no obvious sense to it,' Thornhill murmured. ‘Unless Porter didn't give him the opportunity to mention the man on the bike.'

‘He says he specifically asked Harcutt whether he'd seen anyone just before the accident. Apparently there may be some question about insurance – the lorry skidded into a wall.'

‘I suppose he could just be covering up a quarrel or something – it's not necessarily suspicious. Maybe Harcutt found the whole thing embarrassing. Maybe he simply forgot.'

‘Then why don't you jog his memory?' Williamson said.

Chapter Six

Miss Plimfield and Charlotte Wemyss-Brown arranged it between them; Antonia had nothing to do with it. Antonia thought that the two older women enjoyed showing how kind and helpful they were. The fact that their kindness and their help were a form of bullying escaped them entirely.

‘You must stay as long as he needs you,' Miss Plimfield announced after she had talked to Charlotte. ‘After all, who better than a daughter to look after a father?'

‘But the work – who'll do it?' Antonia asked, wondering whether Miss Plimfield were trying to get rid of her.

‘Don't worry about that. We'll cope. No one's indispensable.' Miss Plimfield gave a trill of laughter and added without conviction, ‘Even me.'

Antonia knew from experience that no one else would do the work in her absence. When she had been forced to take ten days off with flu the previous year, she had returned to find her filing system reduced to chaos, her appointments diary missing and herself held directly to blame for Miss Plimfield's inability to organise herself and the school.

‘Mrs Wemyss-Brown will collect you at three thirty, Antonia. You've plenty of time to pack a suitcase. Off you go.'

With the exception of Miss Plimfield, the staff slept on the top floor in what had been the servants' bedrooms when Dampier Hall was a private house. Antonia had a small, north-facing room with a sloping ceiling and a dormer window overlooking the kitchen garden. She lifted her suitcase down from the top of the wardrobe and packed, swiftly and efficiently.

The rooms of her colleagues were full of personal touches – pictures, photographs, ornaments, books, bedspreads and rugs – but Antonia kept hers as bare as she could. Sometimes she would sit on her bed and look slowly round the room, relishing its secure impersonality; a stranger could have learned nothing about her from her surroundings. The room was like a layer of insulation guarding her privacy. At one time she had been attracted to the idea of becoming a nun. But in the end she had decided that her inability to believe in God would present an insuperable obstacle.

She was ready before three o'clock, which gave her time to set her desk in order and leave a note for Miss Plimfield. By a quarter past three Antonia had settled down to wait among the clutter of wheelchairs in the hall. Charlotte might be early. It would never do to keep her waiting.

Just before three thirty, she heard an engine outside. She picked up her case and opened the heavy front door. A navy-blue car rolled to a halt. A slim, elegant woman got out. Puzzled, Antonia stared at her, trying to fit what she saw with her memory of Charlotte Wemyss.

‘Hello, are you Antonia Harcutt?'

Antonia nodded; she put down her case on the step as though preparing herself for battle.

‘My name's Jill Francis. I'm a friend of Charlotte's. She asked me to collect you.'

Antonia held out her hand. She felt hot and she knew that an ugly, dark-red blush would be spreading like a guilty stain over her face. She was aware that Jill was saying something and had to ask her to repeat it.

‘Your father discharged himself from hospital just after lunch, which took everyone by surprise. He took a taxi back to Chandos Lodge. Luckily the hospital phoned his GP and he phoned Charlotte.'

The implications rushed over Antonia – first and foremost, that she would see her father in an hour or two.

Jill explained that they had tried to phone Dampier Hall but hadn't been able to get through; it must have been while Antonia was packing. In the end Charlotte had decided to go to Chandos Lodge while Jill fetched Antonia.

‘I understand the house is in a bit of a mess,' Jill said. ‘Charlotte thought she'd see if she could do something before you came.'

‘It's awfully kind of you. I'm afraid I'm causing a lot of trouble.'

‘Not at all. It's a lovely drive down from Lydmouth.' Jill put the suitcase in the back of the car. ‘Shall we go?'

Antonia lingered. ‘Is he – is he all right?'

‘Your father? I haven't actually seen him since the accident, but Charlotte said he just seemed a bit bruised and shaken. But he must feel all right if he's discharged himself.'

Antonia gave an awkward little laugh. ‘Couldn't wait to get back to his home comforts.'

They got into the car. Jill started the engine and glanced at Antonia.

‘I'm sorry about your dog.'

‘There's no need. My father gave it to me. But I couldn't keep a pet here, even if I'd wanted. It's always been his dog really.'

Soon they were driving down to Newport. Jill asked about the school and what had led her towards teaching the disabled.

‘Oh I don't teach. I'm only a secretary. It was just an accident, really, I did a secretarial course, and when I'd finished I started applying for jobs.' The awkward laugh slipped out again. ‘This was the first one I was offered.'

‘How long ago was that?'

‘Nearly five years.'

‘So they seem to like you.'

‘Not many secretaries will take a residential job for the salary the school pays.'

For a few miles they drove in silence. Antonia sat straight-backed in the front passenger seat, gripping the strap of her handbag with both hands. Jill wasn't wearing a wedding ring, she noticed, which was surprising because Antonia thought that men would find her attractive.

After Newport they took the road north.

‘Look at the trees,' Jill said. ‘Don't they look wonderful in the autumn? I don't know how anyone can bear to live in London.'

‘Is that where you live?'

Jill nodded. ‘I'm a journalist. Do you know Charlotte's husband, Philip? We used to work on the same paper.'

‘It sounds very glamorous.'

‘It's not all it's cracked up to be.'

The journey to Lydmouth was shorter than Antonia had expected. As they drew closer, Antonia's hands tightened round the strap of the handbag. It had been nearly two years since she had seen her father. He had turned up at the school just before Christmas and it had been hideously embarrassing.

During one of the lulls in the conversation, Antonia wished, not for the first time in her life, that a lorry would come roaring round one of the bends ahead on the wrong side of the road. She wouldn't have time to realise what was happening. In an instant she would be dead, just like Milly, and she would never have to go to Lydmouth again. Why should the dog have all the luck?

They had reached the outskirts of Lydmouth already. The town looked shabby, and everything seemed to have shrunk since Antonia had last lived here before the war. They drove through the town centre and out to Edge Hill. Instead of turning into the drive of Chandos Lodge, Jill parked the car on the green. Antonia got out and stared at the rusting gates and the discoloured and decaying house at the end of the drive.

‘It looks like a ruin,' she said. ‘What's happened to it?'

Jill glanced at her. ‘Old age, I think. These old places need a lot of looking after. When were you here last?'

‘A few years ago. It was summer then. Somehow it didn't seem so bad.'

They crossed the road and walked up the drive. The door was unlocked. In the hall it was colder than it had been outside. Antonia noticed the dog's blanket and the tarnished soup tureen at the foot of the stairs. The place looked and smelled filthy. She felt deeply ashamed that someone like Jill, someone so neat, clean and organised, should see the house in this condition.

‘It's disgusting.' she muttered. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘Don't be sorry,' Jill said, her voice suddenly sharp. ‘It's not your fault.'

Antonia shrugged. ‘It feels like it.'

She led the way down the corridor to what, in the old days, had been the housekeeper's room. The door was ajar and a woman was talking inside about the importance of getting another dog. Antonia glanced at Jill who smiled encouragingly at her. She pushed open the door.