Jigsaw (14 page)

‘And what was the reply to that?' Rona asked.

‘That he'd not expected to be arrested, and was intending to replace it in the drawer before it was missed.' Catherine sighed. ‘But of course, even without that question mark, he was the prime suspect.'

‘And he's still in prison?'

‘Yes, for the next umpteen years.'

‘What happened to the family?'

‘Mrs Spencer and the boys are still there, and as I said, the boys go to BC. I used to see her around town. She had a hunted look, poor woman, but I suppose she's no option but to keep going.'

Rona said tentatively, ‘Were there any rumours circulating about that time?'

Catherine gave a brief laugh. ‘My dear, Buckford, like most small towns, is a hotbed of rumour. What had you in mind?'

‘I'm not sure. An illicit romance, I suppose.'

Catherine Bishop raised an eyebrow. ‘And where did you get wind of that?'

Rona smiled shamefacedly. ‘From Miss Rosebury, actually. She seems to have seen something – or thought she did.'

‘Oh, if she says she saw something, you can take it that she did. She's as sharp as a pin, that one.'

‘But that's just it – unfortunately she's not, just at the moment. Nuala's worried about her.'

‘Oh? Why?'

‘She's becoming forgetful, and when I was with her, she thought at first I was her friend, who died ten years ago.'

‘Maisie Farrell? That doesn't sound good. What did she say?'

Rona hesitated. ‘I felt I was there under false pretences. She was asking Maisie for advice.'

‘Too late for that, I'm afraid.'

Nuala hadn't asked her not to mention the interview – and, thought Rona with a chill, someone else already knew about it. It could do no harm to repeat it to Catherine Bishop, who might well have the solution to the riddle.

‘She referred to a scandal, and said she'd seen a couple together several times. Apparently she walks around the town at night.'

Catherine nodded. It seemed this was common knowledge. ‘But why should a couple of unknown lovers interest you? I presume they
are
unknown?'

‘Miss Rosebury knew them, but she didn't mention names. What interested me was that she thought she ought to report them to the police.'

‘The
police
?'

‘She said they'd appealed for information, however unimportant it might seem. But Miss Rosebury decided against it, because “his poor wife” had suffered enough, and because of “the child”. I'd assumed she was referring to an illegitimate baby, but when I played it back to Nuala, she thought it might be Charlotte, since the police
had
made a television appeal after the murder of the car driver.'

Catherine said slowly, ‘To have had even remote relevance, a Spencer or a Pollard must have been involved.'

‘That's what I thought.'

‘Well, I've no knowledge of the Pollards – they didn't live in Buckford – but it's hard to imagine either of the Spencers kicking over the traces.' Her brow creased. ‘And Mr Pollard had just got divorced – it was one of the mitigating circumstances in his defence – so why should Edna or anyone else care if he was seeing someone?' She shook her head. ‘I think she made the right decision; it couldn't possibly have any bearing on the case.'

‘Perhaps Pollard was killed not because he ran over Charlotte, but for some other reason? Suppose he crossed someone while he was in prison – one of the other inmates, who arranged to have him killed?'

‘And planted the Spencers' knife in the Spencers' garage?'

Rona lifted her shoulders, conceding the invalidity of the suggestion. She glanced at her watch and reached forward to switch off the recorder. ‘Enough theorizing – I must be going. Thank you so much for all your help.'

Catherine rose with her. ‘Now the interview's over, may I say how much I enjoy your biographies? I think I've read them all.'

Rona flushed with pleasure. ‘That's very kind of you.'

‘Have you any more on the stocks?'

‘No, I – ran into some trouble with the last one, so I'm having a short break.'

‘Of course – I remember now. I'm so sorry. Come inside, then, and I'll unearth those scrapbooks for you.'

Rona snapped her fingers at Gus, sleeping peacefully under the table, and he obediently came trotting after her. Catherine Bishop opened the top drawer of a Queen Anne bureau and extracted three bound volumes, one considerably thicker than the others.

‘Use anything you like,' she offered, handing them to Rona. ‘Or nothing, if they're not suitable. There's no hurry to return them, and if there's anything else you'd like to ask, please get in touch.'

Catherine walked to the gate with them, gave Gus a farewell pat, and waited until Rona's car had rounded the bend. A very interesting young woman, she thought, as she went back into the house.

The previous evening, Rona had found a silk scarf down the side of a chair, and recognized it as Dinah's. Instead of phoning her, she decided to drop in to
Chiltern Life
, update Barnie on her progress, and enquire after Melissa. Accordingly after her interview with Catherine Bishop, she deposited the books safely in her study, put the car away and set off with Gus along Dean's Crescent.

A strange girl was behind Polly's desk, so Rona had no choice but to take Gus, tightly leashed, up the stairs with her. Receiving only a grunt in response to her knock, she opened the door to find Barnie sitting at his desk, his head in his hands. He looked up sharply, ready to bark at whoever entered, but his face softened when he saw Rona.

‘Hi,' he said dully.

‘Barnie, what's wrong?' Anxiety sharpened her voice, and Gus raised his head to look at her.

‘More complications with Mel,' he answered heavily. ‘Dinah flew out yesterday.'

‘I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do?'

‘Nothing anybody can do. That's the trouble.'

‘For you, I meant.'

He gave her a tired smile. ‘Thanks, honey, but no. The work will keep me going.'

She opened her bag and took out the vibrant silk scarf. ‘Dinah left this last Friday. I've been away, so I've only just found it.'

He nodded his thanks as she laid it on his desk. ‘Been making a start on your project?'

‘Yes. I don't think there'll be any shortage of material.'

‘That's good.' But his tone was abstracted, and Rona decided against going into any details. Gus, however, was not yet ready to leave, and, pushing round the corner of the desk, laid his head on Barnie's lap and regarded him soulfully.

Barnie scratched his ears, a smile touching his mouth. ‘Hi, ole fellow. How are things?'

‘He's not forgiven me for leaving him with Max,' Rona told him, glad to lighten the atmosphere. ‘He's been shadowing me ever since I came back. Seriously, Barnie, if you'd like a meal, or even a drink and a chat—'

‘Bless you, but Dinah left me a freezer full of one-portion meals. She'll skin me if I don't get through them.'

‘Right. Well, love to her and Mel when she phones.'

‘Sure. I'll be in touch.'

Rona tugged gently on Gus's lead and they left Barnie to his worries. As he'd said, there was nothing they could do.

Lindsey phoned that evening. ‘I don't like it when you're away,' she complained.

‘I'm still at the end of a phone.'

‘It's not the same.'

‘Lunch tomorrow, then?'

‘Can't, I'm tied up with a client. And I'm leaving straight from work to drive to Stokely for the weekend.'

‘Hugh-avoidance tactics?'

‘Got it in one.'

‘Have you heard from him?'

‘No, but it's only been five days. This weekend will be the crux: will he or won't he come up as usual?'

‘If you're not here, you'll never find out.'

‘That's the drawback; I need to know if he's still intent on moving back here.'

‘Who are you seeing in Stokely?'

‘Keith and Patsy. I've a standing invitation, and never taken them up on it. Are you swanning up to Buckford again next week?'

‘'Fraid so, but we could meet on Thursday.'

‘Right, I'll hold you to that. Perhaps there'll be some news on the Hugh front by then.'

The next phone call was from Tom. ‘I was wondering how you got on with Mrs Bishop?' he asked diffidently.

‘Fine, she was most helpful. Thanks so much for fixing it, Pops. She's lent me three scrapbooks she's done on schools up there.'

‘Sounds useful. And what did you think of her?'

‘That she wasn't as unassuming as you'd led me to suppose!'

He laughed. ‘She didn't come over all school-marmy, I hope?'

‘No, no, nothing like that. I liked her; we got on really well.'

‘Good. I'm glad she could help. And how was the frozen north?'

‘As hot as the sunny south. Unbearably so, in fact.' She paused. ‘We're not expected for Sunday lunch, are we?'

‘Not as far as I know.'

‘Right. No offence, but with being away half the week, I've masses of things to do.'

‘That's fine, we quite understand. See you soon, love.'

‘What do we “quite understand”?' Avril asked sourly, coming into the room as he put down the phone.

‘That Rona's busy this weekend.'

Avril sniffed. ‘She's always busy. Seeing her parents is obviously low on her list of priorities.'

‘It's just that with being up in Buckford she has things to catch up on,' Tom said placatingly.

‘Nevertheless, I think we're due a bit of consideration, after all we've done for her – and Lindsey too, for that matter. I invited her for this Sunday, since for once Hugh's not coming up, but no, she's dashing off to see friends in Stokely.'

‘It might help if you were more welcoming.'

Immediately he'd spoken, he realized his mistake and braced himself for the inevitable. It was not long in coming.

‘And exactly what do you mean by that?'

Tom juggled with the need to explain himself without causing further upset. ‘Well, these days you seem to spend more time criticizing the girls for not coming often enough, than being glad to see them when they do.'

‘I might know it's my fault.'

‘I'm not saying that, love, but they have their own lives to lead. Surely it's better that they should come because they want to, rather than from a sense of duty?'

‘Oh, you! You're always making excuses for them,' Avril retorted, and slammed out of the room.

With a sigh, Tom picked up his newspaper.

The next morning Rona carried Catherine Bishop's books outside, laid them on the patio table and, shaded by the umbrella, seated herself beside them. The scent of herbs reached her from the trough near the door; a fall of campanula cloaked the far wall in purple, and the low murmur of bees sounded among the riot of flowers in the containers. She could hardly ask for a more perfect work place, she thought contentedly.

Her mood was broken by the sound of a sash window being thrown up in the house next door. From where she sat, Rona could see none of her neighbours, nor they her. If, however, she walked to the end of the patio – some twenty-five feet away – she could look up at the back walls of the houses on either side.

She and Max barely knew their neighbours. The house on their right was owned by a family with three teenaged children, while that on their left belonged to a couple who spent most of their time abroad, and was therefore occupied by a succession of relatively short-term tenants. It was from this last that she'd heard the window raised, and a minute later a woman's voice called down to someone presumably in their garden.

‘I've ordered the taxi for two o'clock,' she said.

‘Right,' answered a nearer male voice, just beyond Rona's wall. ‘Are the bags all packed?'

‘I'm just finishing the last one. Have you confirmed the time of the flight?'

‘No, I'll come and do it now.'

There came the sound of the back door being opened and closed, and a minute later the window came down.

Off on their holidays, Rona thought. Or perhaps leaving for good. And she still hadn't the faintest idea what they looked like. Smiling to herself at this omission, she reached for the book on St Stephen's and settled down to read it.

An hour or so later, she had learned, among other things, that the school had been founded in 1871, on its present site and under the auspices of the nearby church. What really interested her, though, was the imaginative way in which its history was recounted. At the beginning of the book the children had pasted in a series of pictures of Victorian classrooms – rather blurred in this photocopied edition, but she could make out little boys in wing collars and girls in pinafores, while on the facing pages were brief accounts, in copperplate, of what was happening in the larger world – the passing of the Trade Union Act, the publication of George Eliot's
Middlemarch
, the foundation of the Rugby Union – a layout that was maintained throughout the book. Poems, laboriously copied out in childish hands, recounted events that had taken place over the years, providing not only a history of the school but of the times through which it had existed.

There were sepia photographs of school groups, even harder to distinguish, members of staff in voluminous sleeves seated stiffly on chairs while the children knelt on the grass in front of them. The grass might have gone, but the outline of the building behind them was recognizable as that which Rona had glimpsed across Market Square. There were also sections on recreation, home life, hobbies and fashion. Newspaper cuttings, yellow even in reproduction, advertised a variety of objects from carpet sweepers to leghorn hats, and a Ladies' Help Agency offered parlour maids of the highest diligence and respectability.