Jigsaw (28 page)

Rona glanced over her shoulder, but Max had taken Gus to get the morning paper.

‘I didn't know you were having them round, or I'd have warned you,' she began.

‘
Warned
me?'

‘I went to dinner at the Ridgeways' on Thursday, and on the way there, I saw Pops and Mrs Bishop walking along the road.'

‘Mrs Bishop?'

‘You know, the—'

‘I know who she is, for God's sake. What was she doing walking with Pops?
Where
were they walking?'

‘Near the park in Barrington Road.' Rona paused, added heavily, ‘Just round the corner from her house.'

‘My – God!' Lindsey said, slowly and with emphasis. Then, ‘She's not even attractive.'

‘Look, Linz, don't let's jump to conclusions.'

‘But the conclusion's already been reached, hasn't it? I mean, your seeing him with Mrs What's-her-name is one thing, and my sensing an atmosphere between him and Mum is another. But put them together . . . God, Ro, what are we going to do?'

‘I think Pops knows I saw them. I'm waiting to see if he says anything.'

‘And if he doesn't?'

‘I haven't worked that out yet.'

‘Well, when you have, let me know,' Lindsey said, and rang off.

Rona had wondered if Max would refer to Adele Yarborough over the weekend, comment, perhaps, on how she'd seemed at the Wednesday class, and whether or not she'd mentioned meeting her.

But he didn't raise the subject, and Rona found herself unaccountably reluctant to do so. The last time they'd discussed her, they'd come perilously close to a row.

On the Sunday afternoon, when they returned from walking Gus in Furze Hill Park, the light on the answering machine was flashing, and Max flicked the switch as he passed. To Rona's dismay, Dave Lampeter's voice filled the hall.

‘Hi, Rona, Dave here. Sorry, I've had a mental blip: is it tomorrow or Tuesday you're going to the Sports Day? I'd be grateful for a buzz. Thanks. Bye now.'

Max had come to a halt at the top of the basement stairs.

‘What the hell was that all about?' he demanded, and, as Rona floundered helplessly, his voice grew angry. ‘Dave Lampeter, was it? Since when does he have to know where you're going?'

‘He's – been doing some work for me,' she said unwillingly.

‘What kind of work? And why don't I know about it?'

‘I was going to—'

‘When, exactly?' he broke in, his voice now dangerously calm. ‘How long has this been going on?'

‘Max, for pity's sake! You make it sound as if we're having an affair!'

‘Are you?'

She stared at him, stupefied. ‘Thanks all the same, but I'm not in need of a toy boy.'

‘Then what is this work he's doing?'

Gus, aware of raised voices, whined softly and Rona abstractedly reached down to him. ‘It looked at one time as though I might be in a rather dodgy position.'

‘Dangerous, you mean?'

‘Possibly. Then I bumped into Dave in the street, and you'd told me he was at a loose end, so it seemed a good idea to ask him to – watch my back.'

‘Without my knowing?'

‘I didn't want you to worry.'

‘Suppose I'd met him myself, would he have mentioned it?' His eyes narrowed. ‘Or had you told him not to?'

‘I didn't want to worry you,' she repeated. Anger suddenly came to her aid. ‘Look, I don't know what you're being so high and mighty about. You did exactly the same to me, if you remember – employed him to follow me without my knowing.'

‘That was different,' Max said, but his voice was calmer.

‘No, it wasn't.
You
didn't tell me you'd employed a bodyguard in case it worried me;
I
didn't tell you for the same reason.'

‘You didn't tell me,' he said astutely, ‘in case I put a spoke in your wheel.'

She gave him a tentative smile. ‘Touché,' she said.

She waited, still on edge, until he returned her smile, then went quickly to him, feeling his arm enclose her. Their rows were not infrequent – storms that blew up as suddenly as this one – but they tended to be of short duration, usually ending in shamefaced laughter.

‘
Were
you in danger?' he asked, his mouth on her hair.

‘No, though I thought I was.'

‘Suppose you come clean over a cup of tea?'

She let out her breath in a long sigh. ‘It's a deal,' she said.

‘W
ell, you needn't worry any more about Max knowing of our arrangement,' Rona told Dave when she returned his call the next morning. ‘Your voice came over loud and clear when we played back our messages.'

‘Oh God, was that your home number? Rona, I'm sorry! I must have pressed the wrong one – they're underneath each other on the menu. Did he blow his top?'

‘Briefly, but as it happens, I'm glad he knows. I don't like secrets.'

‘Did you tell him about the prison visit?'

‘I – glossed over it a bit, but yes.'

‘And I bet you also “glossed over” your doubts about Spencer's guilt?'

She laughed reluctantly. ‘Right, but there was no need to go into all that; it's pure speculation, after all. Anyway, you asked about Sports Day; it's this afternoon, starting at two. Beth Spencer's collecting me at one thirty.'

‘What's her car like?'

‘I've no idea, but honestly, Dave, I don't think it matters any more. Clive will be in clink by now, and he wouldn't have harmed me anyway.'

‘I'm being paid to protect you and that's what I'll do,' Dave said stubbornly. ‘Spencer's guilt or innocence might be speculative to you, but if he's
not
the murderer, it won't be to the real one, and you
are
dabbling in murky waters. I'll wait outside Parsonage Place till she collects you, and follow you from there. If I can get on to the sports field I will, if not, I'll wait till you come out again. How about this morning?'

‘No doubt it'll be the library again,' she said resignedly.

As Rona lifted her case out of the car, she heard her name called, and, slamming down the boot, spied Lois Breen the other side of the wall.

‘We must stop meeting like this!' Rona said with a smile, walking over to join her.

‘I have to confess I was looking out for you.'

‘Oh?' Rona put down her case and regarded her questioningly.

Lois hesitated. ‘Are you about to dash off somewhere?'

‘Only the library,
faute de mieux
, but there's no hurry.'

‘This is your last visit, isn't it?'

‘For the moment, yes.'

‘You did say you'd be interested to see my sculpture?'

Rona brightened. ‘Oh yes, I should.'

‘How about coming over now?' Lois suggested, not quite meeting her eyes.

Rona had the impression that she wanted to speak to her, and the sculpture was simply a means to that end.

‘Sure; I'll just leave my things and clock in with Nuala. Ten minutes?'

‘Fine. I'll put the kettle on.'

‘You won't forget it's late supper tonight?' Nuala reminded her, as they met in the hall.

‘I won't. Is there any news of Clive?'

‘He's been charged with burglary and other offences. I hope they'll be lenient, considering he gave himself up and people got their things back.'

‘Only some of them,' Rona pointed out.

Nuala nodded absently, her mind elsewhere.

‘How are you feeling?' Rona asked gently.

Nuala shrugged and gave her a wan smile. ‘I miss Aunt Edna,' she said simply. ‘Sunday afternoons are the worst; for years she's been coming here for tea. And it's creepy, really: every time I go into the square, I automatically glance at her window, to see if she's there.' She bit her lip and added in a low voice, ‘Frank Jeffries says that apart from a bequest to the Sunday school, she's left everything to me.'

She looked up, meeting Rona's sympathetic eyes. ‘Thanks again for Thursday, Rona. It was good of you to help.'

‘I was glad to be there. Is there anything else I can do?'

Nuala shook her head. ‘I'm steeling myself to go over this afternoon, and start sorting through her things. Perhaps once that's done, I'll begin to come to terms with it.'

The vicarage was as homely and comfortably untidy as Rona remembered, and Lois herself seemed a part of it. She was wearing what appeared to be an oversized man's shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal brown, muscular arms, and a pair of faded corduroy trousers. Her short hair went its own way unmolested and her face, bronzed from her work in the garden, was innocent of make-up. Both she and the house seemed to be saying ‘Take us as you find us', and Rona was glad to do so.

‘You've something you want to say, haven't you?' Rona prompted, as the coffee was poured.

Lois smiled. ‘And I thought I was being so subtle!' She handed Rona a mug. ‘Yes, there is something, but it's up to you whether or not you take any notice.'

‘So what is it?'

Lois seated herself and met Rona's eye. ‘I'm becoming increasingly uneasy, my dear. Frankly, you seem to be stirring up things that are better left alone.'

Rona frowned. ‘What kind of things?'

‘Well, Beth is telling all and sundry that you're convinced Alan's innocent, and as a result people are starting to talk about the murder again.'

Rona said slowly, ‘If he
is
innocent, surely that's a good thing?'

‘It's raising false hopes,' Lois said simply, ‘both for Beth and possibly, to a lesser degree, for Alan, too. It's even come to the ears of the police, and I gather Ed Barrett, who headed the original inquiry, is less than happy.'

‘He would be,' Rona said grimly. ‘He gave me short shrift over Miss Rosebury's death.'

Lois glanced at her in surprise. ‘When you went with Nuala to the hospital? Why should that have annoyed him?'

Rona flushed. ‘I thought she might have been murdered,' she said.

‘
Edna?
For pity's sake, why?'

‘I'd – had an interview with her. She made various statements that I thought might be significant, and then the tape went missing.'

‘And you thought she'd been silenced?' Lois's lips twitched. ‘Forgive me, my dear, but it sounds more like Chicago than sleepy old Buckford.'

‘I know – it seems ridiculous now, but I was really worried at the time.'

Lois leant forward, hands clasped between her knees. ‘Do you see, that's just what I mean? It's another example of your – overreacting, seeing possibilities that don't exist. Don't you think it would be better for everyone if you stepped back from this – campaign, however good a story it might make? Alan wasn't convicted by a kangaroo court, you know; he had a fair trial.'

Rona held on to her temper. ‘Do
you
think he did it?' she challenged.

Lois held her eyes for a long moment, then slowly nodded. ‘I wish I didn't, my dear, but to be truthful, yes, I do. So please think carefully before you get in any deeper. Remember that you'll soon be back in Marsborough, and it's we who'll be left with the unpleasant aftertaste. Now –' she sat back – ‘I've said my piece and we won't mention it again; so if you've finished your coffee, come and have a look at my studio.'

As they walked over the scorched grass, Rona was still resentful. She'd not cared for the suggestion, however tactfully phrased, that her main interest in Alan Spencer lay in making copy out of him, the more so since she wondered, in her inner heart, if there might be a germ of truth in it. But as soon as Lois unlocked the wooden door and they stepped into the studio, anger dissolved in interest.

The floor was deep in wood shavings, the scent of them sweet and clean. There were a couple of workbenches and a bewildering array of implements – planes, chisels, knives of all shapes and sizes, and other tools Rona couldn't name. Work in progress stood about in various stages of completion, and the shelves that lined the room contained dozens of finished carvings in a wide range of subjects.

‘As I told you, wood's my thing,' Lois reminded her. ‘No angels or cherubim, either – they're Gordon's territory. In my opinion, marble is for tombstones and statues to dead heroes; wood's a living medium, and it's the living that interests me – people, animals, flowers – you name it, I'll carve it. Mostly I work to please myself – flowers in spring, berries in autumn – but my bread and butter is models of people's pets, and the gift shop in the mall's a regular customer.'

‘I think you're being modest,' Rona commented, moving along the shelves. ‘Your husband said you exhibit in London, and I'm not surprised – these are really exquisite. May I touch them?'

‘Of course; pick them up, stroke them, get the feel of them. That's what sculpture's all about.'

Rona lifted a slender column some eight inches high, round which had been carved a swathe of leaves and berries, each stem and vein intricately detailed.

‘It feels almost warm,' she said, ‘and I love its paleness. What wood is it?'

‘That one's lime. Grinling Gibbons is my hero, and it's what he used. I can't always get hold of it, though.'

Rona replaced the column and, moving on, gave a sudden exclamation as she came to a model of a long-haired retriever. ‘Just look at this! My dog could have modelled for it!'

‘Have it!' Lois said promptly.

Rona turned to her. ‘Is it for sale?'

‘No, it's a gift. If you'd like it, it's yours.'

‘But I couldn't possibly—'

‘Nonsense!' Lois retorted briskly. ‘Don't argue, just take it.'

A peace offering, perhaps, after earlier criticism? ‘Then thank you – very much.'