Apportionment of Blame (11 page)

“Your mum mentioned her name.”

“Ilse Chambers.”

“Yes.”

“And no one's ever heard of her.”

We continued to eat.

“How long ago did this happen?”

“You mean the will?”

“Yes.”

“A few weeks ago. Just before Helen died.”

“I found a letter in Helen's room, from a solicitor, saying he was unable to divulge the name of the beneficiary. That suggests that Helen was trying to discover who it is.”

“Do you think this has any connection with her death?”

“I can't see how or why. But it's all a bit mysterious. And if Helen was asking questions - with a lot of money involved - it's possible.”

We ate on in silent thought for a while.

After the meal, I went home to think things through. Who was the mysterious beneficiary? Why had she inherited? Had Helen discovered who she was? Is that why she was killed? Why should anyone kill her anyway? Was the inheritance a red herring? Was it Stuart after all? Or Gemma? Or someone else entirely?

The more I thought about it, the more I could see no other motive for Helen's death. It was either the rage of a frustrated lover, or jealousy, or money. Three of the classic motives. But which one?
If it was Stuart, how could I break his convincing denials?

If it was Gemma, how could I break her down? If it was the inheritance, why the secrecy from Helen's grandmother? What was in her past that she wanted hidden? And who was it who attacked Joyce in London, and why? That must be connected somehow. But how?

I decided to work some more on the inheritance, and tried what I often did when faced with a mysterious name. I turned to the phone book and looked up Chambers. There were several columns of them, and quite a few listed as I. Chambers. The only way to discover if one of them was Ilse, would be to call them all.

But that was assuming she lived locally. Surely that was unlikely. She could be anywhere.

If Helen's granny had moved from her home area to be near her family, the secret, whatever it was, would be where she came from. Wouldn't it?

I decided to call all the I. Chambers in the book, and it took the best part of half an hour. None of them was Ilse. At least none of them was saying they were Ilse.

Could I trust what they said? It was so easy in this business to develop conspiracy theories. Not to trust anyone. Which detective was it who said “Believe no one”? Following that philosophy to the letter would make investigation very difficult.

As I was closing my notebook, I noticed the list of names I had made when I spoke to people near the site of Helen's accident. On the spur of the moment I decided to change tack, and turned my attention back to them.

There wasn't a Chambers in the list, then, of course, there wouldn't be, if not in the phone book. None of the names meant anything to me.

I thought again of the threats in London. The source had to be one of those people, always assuming it wasn't Stuart or another of Helen's friends from the pub. But which one? Or Gemma? And if there was a link between the will and Helen's death, and I had spoken to a person involved without realising it, that might have caused them to panic. Hence the threats.

Was it possible Ilse was using an assumed name? More probable than possible, I thought, if she wanted to keep herself secret, so I went back to the phone book and looked up all the surnames from the list in my notebook in turn, running my finger down the addresses of each in search of Monks Colne, where Helen had died.

There it was. I. Lamont, Orchard Cottages, Monks Colne. Could it be a coincidence? Is there really such a thing, I asked myself.

It could be Ian perhaps, or Ingrid? I had to find out.

I called Joyce and asked her her grandmother's name.

“Glenn,” she said. “Annie Glenn. Why?”

“Oh, I just had an idea, but it doesn't seem to mean anything.”

“What was the idea?”

“I was trying to tie together several things; those threats at the office, the will, and the place where Helen died. But I can't seem to find any common element. I'm sorry to bother you again. I'll be in touch again soon.”

I rang off. So much for that idea. Now where was I?

If the will led to a dead end, at least I could try to follow up the threats. I decided to return to Monks Colne and talk once again to people who lived near the lane.

The big house on the corner looked like a smallholding. There was an enormous front garden and a drive skirted the house to the left towards a collection of low buildings. I rang the bell and a very flustered looking woman opened the door, shouting to a dog which appeared intent on disobedience, for as the door opened, it flung itself upon me with great enthusiasm.

“Monty, come,” the woman shouted, to no avail.

“I'm so sorry,” she said, as I tried to retain my balance despite the legs which had been determinedly placed on my shoulders, pushing me away from the doorway.

She followed, pulling on the dog's collar, trying to threaten or cajole the creature into obedience. Neither worked.

Suddenly a male voice from the corner of the house yelled the dog's name, and all interest in me was lost as Monty sped away in search of his master.

“I'm so sorry,” the woman said again as I tried to readjust my clothes.

She was middle aged and had on one of those head squares which cover the top of the head and are then tied behind on the neck. Below her neck was a long, floppy T-shirt and a rather unflattering pair of slacks.

“He's still only a puppy at heart.” She had turned and was watching him disappear round the corner.

My intention of making a professional impression was totally lost as I straightened my tie and shrugged my jacket back onto my shoulders.

She turned back to face me.

“Oh, it's you.”

“Yes. I'm sorry to trouble you again, but I wondered if you had thought of anything else which happened on the night of the accident.”

“No,” she said. “As I told you last week, we were only aware of a problem when the police came to the door and told us.”

“You didn't see anyone or anything unusual.”

“No. We wouldn't, you see. For one thing it was dark, and for another we live at the back of the house.”

“But the back of your house faces towards the spot where the accident happened.”

She paused to consider.

“Yes, I suppose it does,” she said, “but there are too many trees for us to see anything. And it was dark,” she reminded me.

“Yes, of course. I just wondered. Thank you.”

I turned and walked back to the road feeling foolish and inadequate. The darkness, in this part of rural Essex, was complete at night. No one would have seen a thing, except the murderer, if there was a murderer.

Crossing the road, I nearly walked into a small child who was playing on a scooter.

“Hello,” I said, but received no reply.

This child had been well taught not to speak to strangers.

“Where do you live?” I tried.

After a certain amount of thought the child turned and pointed at a cottage.

“Is your mummy at home?” I tried again.

At that moment I saw a flash and heard a loud rumble of thunder. The child winced and looked up.

“Sam,” a woman's voice called with considerable urgency. “Sam. Where are you? It's going to rain.”

The child looked towards his mother and began to run, almost too fast for his scooter which was pulled off its wheels. I followed at a walking pace, not wishing him to think I was chasing.

“Come inside. I've told you before about playing in the road.”

How many children had heard that over the years?

“Excuse me,” I said, reaching the gate as Sam sped up towards the house.

The woman looked harassed and not in the mood for a quiet chat.

“I wonder if..”

“No. I told you before, and I haven't the time. I've got to get in.”

And with that she followed her son up to the house. I would have to get used to this sort of reaction, I thought.

Her house was one of a pair of brick built cottages; probably tied cottages originally. Perhaps they still were.

I looked up and there was the name, high on the wall in the centre of the building: Orchard Cottages.

Rain had begun to fall, but the person I wanted was either the overwrought mother or someone next door, and I had to find out which it was. So I decided to try the other house.

The gate was old and in need of wood filler and paint. It opened onto a brick footpath through a garden of dense flowers, or what had been flowers before the autumn had taken its toll.

They were dripping wet and hanging over the path, so I picked my way towards the house with care, trying to dodge spots of rain at the same time.

My knock at the front door seemed to echo through the whole building and it was quite a while before anyone responded. By this time the rain was pouring down, and as I had no hat, my hair was plastered to my head and rain was dripping from my coat to the bricks underfoot. I began to feel like the dog no one would send out in those conditions.

When the door opened a woman peered round it very cautiously. The French would have described her as ‘of a certain age'. She was quite tall, very slim, and, not having the politesse of the French, I judged her to be about fifty, or possibly even older. She stood half hidden by the door, as she had only opened it a fraction, and she seemed to be using it for protection against either the rain or me.

Focussing through damp eyelashes, I realised that I remembered her, and it was mainly because of her rather bizarre clothing. Bright colours which didn't seem to match. But what did I know? Perhaps it was the height of fashion.

“Yes?” she said.

“I'm sorry to bother you again.”

“Oh, it's you,” she replied immediately. I supposed I would eventually get used to hearing that.

“Mrs Lamont, isn't it?”

“Miss Lamont,” she said sternly.

“Sorry.” Another good impression lost, as if the way I looked wasn't bad enough.

“I was wondering if there was anything you remembered about the accident at the railway.”

“No. I told you,” she said determinedly.

I just stood there, feeling the rain running down my face, under my collar and into my shoes.

“I wonder,” I asked cautiously, “if I might come inside. It's not very comfortable standing out here.”

She had to think about it, but eventually opened the door and stood back to let me in.

“Thank you. I won't go any further and drip everywhere.”

She closed the door, probably against the rain, and stood in the hall with her arms crossed. I just felt a fool.

“Well?” she challenged me.

If she was I. Lamont, I needed to know if she was Ilse. Not much chance, I thought, but it would be useful to know if she was. I decided to play for time.

“Do you think I could trouble you for a towel?” I asked.

Her eyes were boring into mine, but I saw them lift to take in the state of my hair, and she appeared to relent.

“Oh, all right,” she said. “Wait there.”

I wasn't going anywhere. Small pools were forming around each of my shoes and I moved to pull the hair off my forehead where it had become plastered.

Looking round the hall, everything seemed bare. No pictures on the walls and no furniture save a half-moon console table, pushed against the side of the staircase.

She returned, from what I took to be the kitchen, and gave me a rather elderly, thin towel. Better than nothing.

I began to rub at my head and immediately I could feel the moisture coming straight through the towel to my hands.

“Come into the kitchen,” she said unexpectedly. “It's warmer there.”

I thanked her again and followed her along the hall and into the kitchen. It wasn't much warmer, and it appeared to be stuck in a 50s time warp. There was a Belfast sink with two taps high above it, just below the window sill. An aged gas cooker stood alongside it, and then there was one of those wooden kitchen cabinets with patterned glass fronted doors and a pull down hatch to form a work surface. It would have been the height of modernity soon after the war.

A plastic cloth covered the table under which two chairs faced each other.

“Sit down, if you want to.”

There was something about the way she said “down” which struck me as unusual, but I couldn't place it for the moment.

“Thanks, but I'd rather stand. It will be more comfortable.”

I didn't want to stay long with my clothes so wet.