An Air That Kills (24 page)

Harcutt shook his head, as though hoping to shake away what he had seen. The man pointed to himself and then in the general direction of the back door. His message was unmistakable: ‘Let me in.'

‘Go away!' the major snarled.

The face vanished. Harcutt poured himself a couple of inches of whisky and drank it in two mouthfuls. He put the bottle and glass back in their hiding place and relocked the bureau.

As he was moving back to his chair, he heard footsteps in the corridor. The door opened and Meague swaggered into the room.

‘What are you doing here?' Harcutt demanded, clinging to the back of the sofa.

‘Just come to see how you are.' The voice was soft, almost pleading.

‘Who said you could come in?'

‘Wasn't that what you said just then? When I tapped on the glass?' Charlie Meague smiled, a flash of white teeth in a dark, unshaven face. ‘Anyway, the back door was open.'

‘I don't want you here. Go away or I shall call the police.'

‘How?' Meague asked, moving closer. ‘You still haven't got a phone in this place.' His eyes flicked round the room. ‘Not what it was before the war, is it? You've let things go to seed.'

Harcutt knew that the one thing he mustn't do was mention Tony. It was a nightmare. He longed for rescue, but he prayed that the man would be gone by the time she got back. His fingers tightened on the back of the sofa until shafts of pain shot up his forearms.

Meague sauntered to the fireplace and picked up the photograph of Harcutt with his dead wife and living daughter. He stared at it for a few seconds, put it down and turned his attention to the Second Empire clock. ‘Mind you,' he said, hefting the clock in his hand, ‘you've still got some valuable stuff here, haven't you? I've got contacts in the antique trade, you know. I could get you a fair price for something like this.'

‘When I tell the police, you'll—'

‘
Shut up, you old fool
,' Charlie Meague shouted. Then he smiled, and when he next spoke his voice was as gentle and insinuating as before. ‘You're not going to tell the police. You daren't. You haven't told them about seeing me the other night. I know why. You know why. Ah,' he looked down at the seat of the sofa where the
Gazette
was lying open at the Templefields article, ‘you've seen the paper, too. Interesting, isn't it?'

Harcutt felt the sweat breaking out on his forehead and trickling down his spine.

Meague tossed the clock a few inches into the air and caught it. ‘I had a look in the shed the other day.'

‘It was you they saw?'

‘Mrs Windbag and her friend? Yes. The box is gone.'

‘What box?'

‘Let's make it a thousand, shall we? Nice round sum.'

‘Don't be ridiculous.' To his shame, Harcutt discovered that he was shaking with rage and fear. There was a buzzing in his head.

‘I'll make it pounds, not guineas, for old times' sake.'

‘I don't have that sort of money. And even if I did—'

‘You can do it, easy.' Charlie Meague tossed the clock into the air once more and caught it. ‘If you want, I'll even help you raise it. Act as your agent, eh? All above board. I'll charge you a commission.'

‘Go away.'

Still holding the clock, Meague slowly advanced round the sofa. The closer he came, the larger and stronger and more malevolent he seemed. Harcutt realised it was possible that this man was going to hurt him, even kill him. People would wait years to get their own back. Revenge, they said, was a dish best eaten cold.

Charlie Meague waggled his finger at the major. ‘I know what's on your mind: you're wondering where it will all end, aren't you? Well, you needn't worry. I'm a reasonable man. One thousand pounds, that's all I ask. OK? I won't be back.'

‘You must have gone off your head,' Harcutt said, and humiliatingly his voice emerged as a whisper.

‘Not me, chum. I leave that sort of thing to you.'

Charlie Meague turned and paced back to the fireplace. He walked slowly and deliberately, as if he had every right to be where he was. He tossed the clock into the air again, high above the tiled hearth. This time he didn't bother to catch it.

Chapter Three

The phone rang just as Thornhill was about to go out to lunch with Sergeant Kirby.

‘Thornhill,' said Superintendent Williamson. ‘Hoped I'd catch you. What happened with Harcutt last night?'

On the other end of the line, there were raised voices, perhaps from the wireless. Williamson was at home.

‘He denied talking to anyone before the dog was killed,' Thornhill said. ‘He claimed Mrs Veale was a short-sighted, senile old woman out to make trouble.'

‘And he could be right. Alternatively he was so drunk he can't remember.'

From the background chatter at the other end of the line there emerged a louder, clearer voice: ‘Ray! It's on the table. It's getting cold.'

‘But the odds are it doesn't matter,' Williamson said. ‘Let it ride.'

‘Yes, sir.' Thornhill had already reached the same conclusion. ‘There's something else: we've found Carn.'

‘What's he up to, then?'

‘Not sure. I saw him having a drink in the Bathurst Arms with Charlie Meague last night. He's grown a beard, by the way. Meague was very drunk.'

‘Do we know where he's staying?'

‘Sergeant Kirby got a positive identification at the Bull Hotel. He's been staying there since Wednesday.'

‘Not short of a bob or two if he's at the Bull. Assuming he deigns to pay his bill. What name's he using?'

‘Mr James.'

‘Go and frighten him, will you? Do it first thing after lunch. I want him off my patch.'

‘Apparently he's gone to Gloucester for the day, to look at the cathedral.'

‘Bloody hell. Well, see him this evening instead.'

Chapter Four

On the dark, polished wood of the chest, the poppies looked like spots of blood. Jill brought out a second handful of flowers from the other pocket of her raincoat and let them trickle on to the chest.

‘What on earth have you been doing?' Philip asked as he shut the front door. ‘Embezzling from the Earl Haig Fund? Don't tell me you've betrayed your sacred trust?'

Jill smiled at him. ‘I paid good money for these. Nearly a pound in assorted change.'

‘But why so many? Isn't it a little ostentatious? Most people make do with one or two.'

Charlotte came into the hall of Troy House, her eyebrows arching in surprise at the sight of the poppies.

‘We only sold about six,' Jill explained. ‘So I thought I'd better make a bulk purchase just before we got back to Chandos Lodge.'

‘How's Jack?' Charlotte asked. There was something in her voice that suggested that she did not care for Philip to exchange badinage – especially, perhaps, with Jill.

‘Rather glum,' Jill said. ‘A lot of unsold poppies would have made him even more depressed. Anyway, it's all in a good cause.'

Philip hung up her raincoat. He smelled of beer and exuded cheerfulness. ‘Like a drink before lunch?'

Apart from the soup, the food was cold. While they ate, Charlotte questioned Jill about Chandos Lodge and its inhabitants.

‘Did you mention the job?'

‘Yes.' Jill hesitated. ‘She's not too keen, actually.'

‘Whyever not? It's made for her.'

‘I don't think she likes the idea of living at home.'

‘Can't blame her,' Philip said. ‘I wouldn't want to live with Jack Harcutt in that barn of a house either.'

‘But it's her duty, Philip,' Charlotte said firmly. ‘He's her father. Blood's thicker than water.'

‘You can't make her if she doesn't want to.'

Charlotte dabbed her lips with her napkin. ‘It's not a matter of making her. We need to persuade her to understand what's
right
.' She abandoned the subject for the time being and turned back to Jill. ‘We thought we might make a little excursion this afternoon. I mentioned you were here to Chrissie Newton. She was at St John's this morning. She said, why didn't we all come to tea, and before we actually have tea, Giles could show us the house. Sir Anthony's away.'

‘Giles is the agent for the Ruispidge Estate,' Philip explained to Jill. ‘They're nice people. They—'

‘Of course they're nice people. Philip,' Charlotte said. ‘They're our friends.'

‘And the house is interesting, too,' he went on. ‘You like these old places, don't you?'

‘It sounds lovely,' Jill said, wishing a polite refusal were possible. She suspected that Philip and Charlotte were plotting behind her back to keep her cheerfully occupied.

The telephone began to ring. They heard Susan crossing the hall to answer it.

‘Of course the house isn't what it was before the war,' Charlotte said. ‘Such a shame, the way these old places are going downhill, just because of the
punitive
levels of taxation. I simply can't understand why the government doesn't realise—'

The door opened a few inches and Susan put her head into the room.

‘It's for you, dear,' she said to Jill.

Jill put down her napkin. Everything, it seemed to her, was happening at about two-thirds its normal speed. She knew who the caller must be. She knew, too, that Philip and Charlotte were looking at her and trying not to make their concern and curiosity obvious. There was even time to look out of the window and see the leafless branches of an ash tree outlined against the grey sky, and time to tell herself once again that November was a depressing month which was no doubt making everything worse.

She went out of the dining room, closing the door behind her. Susan gave her a smile which Jill thought contained an element of complicity and padded away on her slippered feet. Jill picked up the handset, praying for a miracle, and said hello in a voice which wasn't much louder than a whisper.

‘Jill. How are you?'

‘Oliver,' she said wearily, ‘I don't want to talk to you. I thought I'd made that clear last night.'

‘Well, I want to talk to you. You can't just walk out on everything and everyone like this.'

‘You mean I can't just walk out on you, don't you? Well, I can. I have. And there's nothing you can do about it.'

‘Look. You've had a lot to cope with lately. Perhaps I haven't been as sensitive as I should have been. But can't we just sit down together and talk about this like two rational adults?'

‘This has got nothing to do with being rational. I'm going to put the phone down.'

‘If you put the phone down, I'll be standing on your doorstep in about five minutes.'

Suddenly Jill felt cold. ‘What do you mean?'

‘What I say. I'm at the Bull Hotel. I've got your address.'

‘You can't just force your way in like that.'

‘I warn you – I mean it. I've got to see you.'

‘I don't want you here.'

‘Then the simplest thing to do would be for you to come here. Come and have dinner with me, Jill. Please.'

Chapter Five

For lunch Antonia heated a tin of soup. Afterwards her father went to sleep in front of the fire. He snored and snuffled in his armchair with his legs apart and his flies unbuttoned. The remains of the clock, which he had somehow managed to drop while she was out with Jill, lay on the hearth, but she could not be bothered to clear them up now. Even one more moment in her father's company would be one too many. She could not bear to stay with him, though there was no heating in any of the other rooms. She carried Friday's
Gazette
upstairs with her, took off her shoes and climbed into bed.

Despite her tiredness, she was too tense to sleep. She made the effort to read the article about the Rose in Hand, partly to discover whether her father had in fact contributed anything of value to it, partly because the subject held a morbid fascination for her, and partly to keep her mind off the monstrous suspicion that everyone was conspiring to get her back to Chandos Lodge to be her father's nurse-housekeeper.

A few words caught her eyes. With a jerk, she sat up in bed. But it's quite ridiculous, she thought; people just don't
do
that sort of thing. She draped the eiderdown round her shoulders and read the article more carefully. Her mouth was dry and her heart was beating louder and faster than was comfortable. She read the descriptions of the box and the brooch for the third time. If only there were photographs, she thought. The possibilities oppressed her. She had thought that nothing could make her life worse than it already was, and now she knew she had been wrong.

Certainty, Antonia told herself, is always better than uncertainty. She got out of bed and, still with the eiderdown draped like a mantle across her shoulders, crossed the landing and went into the large, chilly bedroom which had been her mother's. Even on grey days it was full of light because of the huge bay window overlooking the lawn and the summerhouse. Antonia hated the room. She sat down at the dressing table and stared at her reflection in the dusty mirror.

‘How could you do this to me?' she asked her mother across the years. ‘Can you hear me? I hate you.'

She opened the drawers one by one and spilled their contents on to the floor. She found decaying underwear, yellowing letters tied with ribbon, a photograph of her father, much younger and in uniform, perfume bottles, face powder, brushes, tweezers, scissors, spiders, silk scarves and long gloves for evening wear. But she did not find what she was looking for.