Sunday Best (23 page)

‘It's none of her business,' Emily couldn't help saying.

‘But she's his mother,' Mrs Jumble said, and returned to her lettuce-stuffing.

‘Go to a church, my son,' his wretched mother was saying with her hat. ‘And whatever you have done, confess it. The Lord will give you comfort. Ask His forgiveness, George. His mercy is infinite.'

‘Piss off,' Emily said under her breath. Her mother's speech was a death-cell send-off. There was no question in that woman's mind that her son was a compulsive murderer. ‘Confess, confess,' she droned on, as she had over the years in her weekly purple.

‘Poor woman,' Mrs Jumble said again, still lettuce-stuffing, but with her eye firmly on the box. ‘He's probably done away with himself by now anyway. You can see she's praying for his soul.'

And well she might, Emily thought, because George Verrey Smith can be no more.

The camera pulled out once again, to show them both together, the two bereaved women with absolutely nothing in common but their loss. And then they dissolved into a picture of herself, the same passport photograph that they had circulated earlier on in the week. Emily drank her tea, trying to shade her face with her mug. She thought she felt Mrs Jumble looking at her, so she risked putting her tea down. She had to declare that she was hiding nothing. But it was a bad moment; Mrs Jumble's staring, and the voice of the terrible refrain from the box to get in touch with your nearest police-station.

‘He's probably left the country,' Emily said, because she simply had to say something.

Mrs Jumble poured more tea, but Emily still felt her stare. Mrs Jumble's lack of reaction to the Verrey Smith disappearance, her near indifference to the whole story, even though he had been reported in Brighton, troubled Emily deeply. She could better have coped with Mrs Jumble's curiosity, some prognosis of the case. But her silence was a possible indication of suspicion, and Emily wondered whether the time had come for her to leave. But the promise of trying on Mrs Jumble's dresses was strong enough to detain her and Mrs Jumble in fact suggested there and then to sort out the clothes. So they went upstairs the two of them, and Emily waited in her room. She wanted to make a show of starting to undress in
preparation for the try-on, but she realized that there was really not one article of clothing that she could safely take off, except perhaps, the shoes. So she decided to wait until Mrs Jumble came in and then make a show of taking them off. She opened her door so that Mrs Jumble would have no suspicions. Emily was increasingly uneasy. For a moment she thought that Mrs Jumble might be telephoning the police and in a panic she rushed from her room. In the corridor she met a walking mountain of dresses, with Mrs Jumble's little feet propelling them along, and Emily's relief was so great that she hugged her companion through the bundle, and Mrs Jumble, had she had any suspicions hitherto, would certainly have had them dispersed by that gesture.

Together they entered Emily's room. Mrs Jumble laid the clothes on the bed, and Emily sat down and discreetly loosened one shoe. Mrs Jumble watched her and made no move to leave. Emily started on the second shoe, and when that was off, and Mrs Jumble still stood there, she stood up to examine the clothes.

‘Try them on,' Mrs Jumble said. ‘See if they fit.' She stood there still, her arms folded, waiting.

‘I know,' said Emily, suddenly inspired, ‘you wait in your bedroom, and I'll come inside and model them. I've always wanted to be a model,' she giggled.

‘Don't you want any help in zipping them?' Mrs Jumble asked.

‘No, let me surprise you,' Emily said, trying with her giggling to reduce it all to a game, so that Mrs Jumble would have shown herself to be a spoil-sport if she did not agree.

‘All right,' she said, turning to go. ‘I'll go downstairs and turn off the television.'

The telephone was downstairs, and Emily panicked again. She had to dress quickly to interrupt any investigation Mrs Jumble would pursue. She was more disturbed, and the prospect of staying on at Mrs Jumble's, despite the clothes, and the meals and the roof over her head, was less and less favourable. She picked out a red dress from the pile. It was chiffon, and in spite of her growing fears, she could still be stirred by the caress of the material. It was a flowing dress, and it took her some time to outline the neck and to lay it on the bed ready for trying on. Then she took off her clothes, leaving only her underwear, transparently revealing what was left of George Verrey Smith. She threw the dress over her head, shutting her
eyes. It was a habit she'd acquired since Emily had overtaken her, the need to see nothing until fully revealed in the mirror. Screwing her eyes tight, she fumbled for the neck opening and slipped it over her head. Then the sleeve openings, and finally she pulled the dress down, shaping it over her body. Then she opened her eyes.

There in the doorway stood Mrs Jumble, smiling. Emily had not heard her come in. If it was only in the last two or three seconds, when her transparency had been covered, then she was in the clear. But how was she to know that she had not arrived while she, Emily, was blindly fumbling with the neckline, while below the bulges, where they should not have been, and the planes where they should, proclaimed a certain freak of nature. And what was Mrs Jumble smiling about? Was it a smile of discovery, a playing along, or was it simply a smile of affection? Emily would never be sure, but she knew it was now too much of a risk to stay to find out.

‘That's very pretty,' Mrs Jumble was saying. ‘Red's your colour. I prefer it to your black, if you don't mind my saying so. Keep it on. It looks lovely. I'll go down and clear the table. Then let's have a game or two of rummy.'

She was quickly out of the door, and again Emily feared the telephone. It was obvious that she could not go on at such risk. She tore the dress off and replaced it with her well worn black. Even in that she felt safer. She closed her case down, took off her shoes and crept down the stairs. The clatter of the dishes in the kitchen, and the television, which in the end Mrs Jumble hadn't switched off, masked her leaving. She shut the front door behind her, put on her shoes and crept out of the gate. She looked back and gave a silent farewell to Mrs Jumble. If she hadn't cottoned on, then indeed Emily was doing her an act of great discourtesy. If she had, then she was asking for it. Either way, for what she had already done for her, she merited her thanks and farewell.

It was dark outside, and the sound of the sea was offensive. Nevertheless, she moved towards it. It was safer than the lamplit streets. She crossed over the promenade and down on to the beach. There were a few rocks and the tide was low. Dragging her suitcase, she climbed. She didn't know what to do, and she felt it didn't matter any more. She had come to the end of her own resources. Something was bound to happen, good or bad, to change things. All she knew was that she was
past participating in any change. She was weary and depressed, and what strength she had left was channelled into fear. So the sea would do for all that, and this time, she almost welcomed it.

She reached a flat part of the rock, high above the sea, and she sat down, her case between her knees. The sea was calm, and she wondered why, on leaving Mrs Jumble's house, she had heard it roar. She thought perhaps she was hearing only an echo of all the sounds within her, and that, as she had walked to the beach, her waning hopes and gradual abdication had anaesthetized her. She sat there numb, feeling nothing. Even her fear had drained. She was neither Emily Price, nor George Verrey Smith. She was nothing.

Over on the promenade, the Superintendent, with his not so trusted lieutenant, was taking the night air. All day, the Superintendent had cruised around in a car looking for clues to the whereabouts of Emily Price. Now he needed to stretch himself and, in a brisk walk, to shed the depression that had accumulated during his fruitless day. They stopped and leaned over the railings of the promenade. They were silent, partly because the sight of the sea is a silence-inducing business, but mainly because they had little to say to each other.

The Superintendent scanned the tide-line on the shingle. ‘We aren't getting anywhere,' he said, almost to himself.

The lieutenant said nothing. There was nothing he could say to deny it.

‘Well,' the Superintendent took his hands off the rails. ‘Perhaps something will turn up tomorrow,' he said.

As he raised his eyes from the shingle, he saw the rock and the shape on top of it. ‘Coverley,' he said. ‘Is that a person out there, or is it a rock shadow?'

‘I can't make it out,' Coverley said, following the Superintendent's pointed finger. ‘Shall I investigate?'

‘I'll come with you,' the Superintendent said. He smelt a find. If it was a person, then that was a find in itself, at this time of night, a person alone on a rock. Not normal. And it just might not be any person. He scrambled down on to the beach, and Coverley followed him. Slowly they climbed the rocks that stretched into the sea. It was very quiet, and the Superintendent motioned Coverley to take off his shoes as he himself was doing. He was now close enough to know that it was no
rock that was sitting there. He had seen it move, and his nostrils flared. His eye, a zoom lens, focused into his target, slowly, gently and with utter precision. He felt in his pocket for his torch. He would use it only at the last moment. He was within a few feet of the figure, and he waited to give it time to turn around.

Emily had heard their footsteps, but she had reached a plane of total indifference to everything. She was not even afraid any more. She knew that there was someone behind her, but inertia had conquered all curiosity. She sensed a torch light over her shoulder, and then obliquely in her face. She squinted a little, and heard a man's voice.

‘Anything wrong, Madam? What are you doing out here?' He couldn't imagine why anyone should make such a journey to sit on a rock jutting out to sea unless there were something radically wrong.

Emily didn't answer. The light caught her face once more.

‘What's your name, Madam?'

‘Emily Price.' She knew it as an innocent enough name that betrayed nothing.

The Superintendent slipped on the rock. He felt he had walked into a copse where a calm fox sat waiting. He couldn't believe his good fortune, and he wanted to savour it a little to make it last. ‘Pardon?' he said.

‘Emily Price.' Loud and clear.

‘Mrs or Miss?'

‘Mrs,' she said. ‘I am a widow.'

Better and better. He took out his notebook. ‘I've been looking for you,' he said as casually as he could.

And then fear melted her, wondering by what misfortune she had chosen a name that was on the wanted list, and for what crime she was being sought.

‘Emily Price,' the Superintendent was saying, and it echoed over the sea, magnifying whatever the crime was she was wanted for. Coverley, who by now had tardily reached his chief, gasped in astonishment. Emily shivered. But she was less frightened now. She knew that George Verrey Smith was wanted for murder. Emily Price could be wanted for no worse. She possibly had a double murder on her head, and if her mother had anything to say in the matter, a triple. And in all that, even the latter, she felt totally innocent. She smiled a little, at the ridiculous complexity of the situation. She had
brought it about, it was true, but now it was out of her hands.

‘I would like you to accompany us to the station,' the Superintendent said.

‘Why?' she asked automatically, though she was only faintly curious about the nature of the charge.

‘I would like to question you in connection with the disappearance of George Verrey Smith,' he said.

She got up as if summoned, and picked up her case.

‘You need not say anything at the moment,' the Superintendent said gently. He could afford kindness now. Wearing her down would come later. ‘Let me carry that for you,' he said. He'd taken it from her hand before she could protest, and with it her incriminating alibi. Coverley helped her over the rocks. They both behaved like gentlemen, and when they reached the promenade, they discreetly hemmed her in on either side. To the odd passer-by they were three middle-aged residents, taking the evening air. One actually acknowledged them. ‘Fine night,' he said, in passing, and the Superintendent readily agreed. He had not had a finer night in years.

When they reached the station, they sat her down with her case in front of her. They made no move to open it. It was, as yet, none of their business. They offered her a cup of coffee, and the Superintendent sent Coverley away. He asked for a clerk to come in and take whatever statement would be forthcoming. Then he sat down opposite her and lit a cigarette. He waited for her to finish her coffee, then he leaned forward, smiling. ‘Mrs Price,' he said. ‘I want you to tell me everything. George Verrey Smith is wanted by the police in connection with the murder of Samuel Parsons in London a week ago. We know that he is in Brighton, and that you have been with him. It is in your interest to tell us everything you know. You yourself are not a suspect, unless of course you continue to harbour one. I want you to tell me everything for your own sake.' He leaned back, satisfied that it was a good beginning.

She said nothing, but he was prepared to wait. Waiting was part of the game. It was a basic rule in police investigation. You were more likely to get the truth after a period of contemplation, than in an immediate gush of compulsive confession. So he waited, twiddling his thumbs, and looking at her.

‘I don't know,' she said at last. ‘I've never heard of Mr Smith. I read about it in the papers, that's all.'

‘You telephoned his wife about a week ago.' The Superintendent came to the point. ‘You told her he was with you. I have a tape of your conversation.'

‘Emily Price is a common enough name,' she rallied. ‘It could have been another one.'