Motive for Murder (21 page)

He straightened. ‘Ah, good morning. I'm glad you had a good sleep.' His eyes met mine steadily. ‘I must apologise for last night, Emily. I'm sure you'll appreciate that by that stage I hardly knew what I was doing.'

I drew in my breath sharply.

Also ...' a wry little smile touched his mouth – ‘you looked very fetching in your night attire!'

My face burned, but I was incapable of making any comment.

‘So now we can both forget it,' he finished briskly. ‘I wonder if you'd give me a hand with these papers? As you know, I kept other documents in the desk as well. I hope the insurance policies at least are reasonably intact.'

I moved stiffly towards him. So much for all those castles in the air. It was, after all, a very plausible explanation: exhausted and dispirited, his home damaged and, as he thought, the work of several months lost, he had suddenly learned that, after all, the book was safe. His reaction was simply the reverse of shooting the bearer of bad news.

Now, he was being eminently fair and letting me know straight away that it had meant nothing. One couldn't, after all, let tinpot little typists – the phrase echoed in my mind, throbbing with an earlier hurt – get the wrong idea.

But the way he'd looked at me ...

I reached out shaking hands to take the sheaf he was holding. As our fingers touched, I felt his swift recoil. Did he think I'd done it deliberately? I didn't care what he thought. Blindly, mechanically, I started to sort through the wreckage.

It was a job that required great patience and infinite care. Some sheets were transparently thin, and crumbled at a touch like disintegrating butterflies. They reminded me of Linda's letter, red-veined in the kitchen fire.

Hastily dismissing the thought, I began with the most badly damaged. Those papers which were beyond recovery, I dropped in the waste-paper basket. Next, I moved on to the singed sheets, some of which had a corner missing or parts scorched into illegibility. These papers would have been in the left-hand set of drawers, farthest from the source of the fire, and fortunately the insurance policies were among them.

‘Here they are,' I said dully. I made no move to hand them to him.

‘Oh, well done.' Matthew picked them up and leafed through them. ‘Thank goodness for that, at least. By the way, did I dream it, or have you really got all your notebooks?'

‘I've got them.'

‘That's fantastic!' He waited for a comment but I'd none to offer, and, mistaking my silence, he went on, ‘Still, I can't expect you to type it all again. Perhaps we could send –'

‘I'll do it,' I said. After all, it was my job, wasn't it?

* * *

I hardly saw Matthew during the next few days, and for that I was thankful. It gave me time to collect the tattered shreds of my dignity. Also, I'd plenty to do, for, as I'd told him, virtually the whole book was there waiting to be transcribed again, with only the first two chapters, which Linda had worked on, missing.

But that transcription was for the most part automatic, leaving me at the mercy of my thoughts. They were not pleasant company; on that traumatic evening, after hurting Mike more than I'd realised, I had twice thrown myself into Matthew's arms, making a complete fool of myself, and no amount of wishing could alter either fact.

Matthew at least hadn't been hurt by my behaviour. In fact, after our brief exchange the next morning, he'd had the relieved air of someone who has managed to extricate himself with the least possible unpleasantness from an embarrassing and distasteful situation.

Mike, on the other hand, had been since my arrival a good friend and an attractive, amusing companion. It wasn't his fault that I was stupid and wayward enough to fall for Matthew. I spent hours worrying about how I could make it up to him and at least restore the status quo, but no answer presented itself.

Meanwhile, Matthew was sorting out the insurance and supervising the reinstatement of the library. After the forensic team and the assessors, the decorators moved in, and the insidious smell of paint hung in the air. The fire was found to have started in the waste-paper basket, as I'd suspected. I had myself seen Matthew toss still-burning matches into it; I was pretty sure he never would again.

Gradually, as things began to fall into place, he spent more time with me and our relationship teetered back to what could pass for normal. In all that time I had not heard from Mike, nor found any excuse for approaching him myself. But the theories he had so convincingly put forward on our drive to Trevenna haunted my thoughts waking and sleeping. I would sit watching Matthew bent over his work, and imagine those strong, capable hands holding Linda's head under water or tampering with Kate's car. It was too bizarre to believe, and yet ... The little thrill of fear eased my battered heart, even if it didn't change one iota the force of my love for him.

‘It's the Chapelcombe Show on Saturday,' he said one day. ‘Is Mike taking you?'

‘I don't think so.'

He looked at me sharply. ‘Have you two had a row?'

‘No,' I said, stonily.

‘It seems a long time since you were out together.'

I hadn't, in fact, been out of the house at all for the last eight days. The weather had been stormy with gale winds, and I had not bothered to make the effort. However, there were now some things I needed, so that afternoon I caught the two-fifteen bus down to the town.

The breeze was still strong, and beyond the shelter of the headland the white-topped waves reared and foamed, hurtling against the base of the cliffs in a fountain of angry spray. The dull thunder of their self-destruction filled the afternoon.

The wind caught me as I left the bus, billowing the skirt of my coat and whipping my hair blindingly across my face. I stood for a moment, my hands deep in my pockets, breathing in the rich salt air with something like exaltation. Above me, the clouds raced dizzily over the pale sky and swarms of leaves, torn ruthlessly from the trees, eddied and swirled in their graceful descent to the pavement.

I walked slowly down into the town, savouring my freedom after being shut in too long with the smell of burnt paper and new paint. Here, the scents were very different, for the wind found its way into the various shops and ferreted out their odours, filling the street with a host of different fragrances – coffee, cheese, soaps, and newly baked bread.

Keeping my eyes on the pavement, I amused myself by identifying by my nose alone the shop I was passing: a strong, smoky smell of kippers, the scent of polish and new leather, the rich opulence of cigars ...

It was pure chance that I happened to glance into the tobacconist's at the exact moment that Mike, pocketing his change, was turning from the counter. He halted abruptly. So did I. Then he came out of the shop and joined me on the pavement.

He said tonelessly, ‘Hello, Emily.'

He was wearing blue dungarees and high boots, spattered with mud. It was the first time I had seen him in his working clothes.

He gestured down at them apologetically. ‘I've just delivered some livestock at the station. I wasn't expecting to meet anyone.'

I was surprised how glad I was to see him. Although the constraint of our last meeting had been overshadowed by my feelings for Matthew, it had contributed to my general unhappiness, and I didn't want to lose a chance of putting it right. Even if I couldn't love him, we could surely still be friends.

‘Have you time for a cup of tea?' I asked tentatively.

‘I couldn't – not in these clothes. Anyway, I really must get back – we're getting things ready for the Show.'

‘Oh yes, the Show.'

He looked at me oddly and seemed to hesitate. ‘Did I by any chance offer to take you?'

I thought back to that day on the beach. At that stage, an invitation had not seemed necessary.

‘No,' I said steadily, ‘you didn't.'

He said suddenly, ‘Are you really in love with Matthew?'

The directness of it took my breath away, but I managed to say, reasonably calmly, ‘Let's leave Matthew out of it, shall we? That's purely a working relationship.'

‘Which doesn't answer my question. Oh well, never mind. I've missed you, Emily.'

‘I've missed you too.'

He seemed suddenly to make up his mind, and the sullen look left his mouth. ‘Would you like to come to the Show?'

‘I'd love to.'

‘It's held in a field not far from the farm. They're putting up the marquees now – I hope they won't all blow down before Saturday.'

‘There's no point in your trailing over to collect me then; you'll have plenty to do without that. Suppose I call for you instead?'

‘That would be a help, if you don't mind.'

‘What time?'

‘Well, it goes on all day, of course, but since someone has to be at the farm, the men usually go along in the morning, and when they get back I go myself.'

‘Shall I come after lunch then? About two?'

‘That'd be fine.' He smiled, but his eyes were still reserved. He hadn't quite forgiven me. ‘See you, then.'

I nodded. ‘Goodbye, Mike.'

He went up the road and crossed to the station, where the great lorry was waiting to be driven home. I watched him for a moment then, remembering my shopping-list, turned into the draper's. A partial truce, anyway. I didn't want him to love me, but I very much hoped he still liked me.

The next morning there was a letter from Gilbert. It was to let me know that he had to go to Scotland on business and would not be able to come down as he'd hoped. He trusted all was well and would contact me as soon as he got back, so we could fix a definite plan. Dear Gil, it was as well he didn't know the state I was in.

As I seated myself at my desk, Matthew looked up from the table he was using pending the delivery of his new desk. About the Show,' he said abruptly. ‘It would be a shame to miss it. It finishes with everyone doing the Floral Dance down the hill into Chapelcombe.'

‘Oh I met Mike yesterday,' I said airily. ‘He's taking me after all.'

‘That's all right, then.' He pushed some papers out of his way with sudden impatience. ‘Come over here, will you, and witness my signature on this thing.'

I went over and leaned on the table, watching him sign his full name. ‘ “Charles”,' I commented. ‘Does that run in the family?'

He handed me his pen and switched the paper round to face me. ‘Not that I know of. Why?'

‘Just that it's one of Mike's names, too.' I signed my own.

‘Mike's? No, his isn't Charles – it's something Scottish, after his father.'

‘Oh? I thought he said –' And it was then that my eye fell on the book lying on the table. ‘Is that Peter Bullock's latest novel? I've still not managed to get hold of it. May I –' I reached out for it, then recoiled as Matthew snatched it out of my hand.

‘Give it to me!'

I stared at him in bewilderment, and after a moment he laid it back on the table. I saw that his hands were shaking.

‘Sorry,' he said awkwardly. ‘I didn't mean to shout. It's just that – well, I've only just got it back and – oh hell, Emily, don't look at me like that. The point is, it's a book I lent Linda. Her mother found it among her things, and as it has my name on the flyleaf, she posted it back to me. There's a note from her inside. I – didn't want it to upset you again, that's all.'

‘“Drown Her Remembrance”,' I read aloud. The blood was thrumming in my temples.

‘I know,' Matthew said shortly. ‘A gruesome coincidence, isn't it?'

He pushed back his chair, went over to the fire and flung on a log which had been piled in the hearth. The new wood hissed and spluttered as the greedy flames licked round it, and a shower of sparks shot up. Suddenly, grotesquely, everything seemed to fall into place: Matthew had read a book about drowning – Linda herself had asked to borrow it. A coincidence, he had said.

‘Or perhaps not,' I whispered.

‘What?' He turned from watching the fire and his eyes met mine. I saw them flicker, take in my words, grow wary. ‘What do you mean”?'

I put a hand on the table to steady myself, and could feel the bevelled edge bite into my palm.

‘Emily!' He took two strides towards me and gripped my arm, shaking it roughly. ‘What the devil do you mean? You're not – you can't be –'

I said weakly, ‘I didn't mean anything – it was just a remark.'

A damn strange one, in the circumstances.' His eyes bored into mine. Then he said very softly, ‘Why the hell should I drown Linda?'

I shook my head, but his fingers tightened pitilessly on my arm.

‘Come on, you've said too much to stop there.'

The fluttering was back in my throat, beating birds' wings of panic. A tighter grip.

‘Well?'

‘She was having a baby.' My voice was scarcely audible, but it reached him. He let me go suddenly and I fell back against the table.

‘Ah – h!' It was a long-drawn out breath. ‘Et tu, Brute! And when –' his voice was gathering strength after the initial shock – ‘did you dream up this charming little fantasy?'

‘I didn't – not really, I –'

‘Then it was Mike? A brain-child of my dear cousin?' His voice was tightly reined, but there was some strong emotion just beneath the surface. I didn't dare imagine what it was. My mind wasn't functioning at all. I simply leant where I had stumbled, and his eyes pinned me down like a butterfly on a display card.

‘Well now, even if you've decided the child was mine, there's no reason for me to kill her, is there? Or has some subtlety escaped me?'

‘Kate,' I whispered miserably.

‘Kate!
Ah yes. You told her I wanted her back, I believe. Really, Emily, you have a most unfortunate habit of interfering in what doesn't concern you.' The words were a whiplash.