The Ten Commandments (22 page)

Which was a comment she couldn't reciprocate. There was a brief pause, then Hannah said hurriedly, 'Well, I won't disturb you, I'll just collect –'

'No, Hannah, wait. I – think we need to talk.'

The professor took charge. 'You ladies would find this easier if I weren't with you. Miss James, I was just saying to Gwendoline that I hoped you would join us for dinner this evening; perhaps I might extend the invitation in person?'

Hannah, completely at a loss – who
was
this man? – murmured confusedly, 'Well, that's very kind of you –'

'Shall we say seven-thirty at my hotel, the King's Head on Gloucester Circus?' He had the usual North American difficulty with the name. 'I'll wait for you in the foyer.'

He turned to Gwen, tongue-tied beside him. 'I'll call you later, my dear.' And with an old-fashioned little bow, he left them, disappearing round the corner of the building.

Hannah said forcefully, 'Gwen, what on earth's going on?'

'Oh Hannah, I'm sorry. I've handled everything very badly, but Bruce's arrival was totally unexpected, I swear. He rang me from Heathrow on Saturday, the day after your supper party. I did try to phone you yesterday, but there was no reply.'

'But who
is
he? You've never mentioned him.'

'There was no reason to. I didn't – Look, let's walk, shall we? I'm too restless to sit still, and it might make things easier.'

Hannah fell into step beside her, her mind spinning.

'Firstly, I really am sorry I blurted out about the headship offer on Friday. I should have told you first. Put it down to that excellent wine you gave us.'

'It doesn't matter.' Hannah brushed aside the subject which had loomed over her for the last few days, in her impatience to return to Bruce Cameron.

'But I didn't keep this from you, honestly. There was – simply nothing to tell. I met Bruce at a drinks party soon after I arrived in Canada. He lectures at Macmillan University and is a specialist on medieval law.'

'That must come in handy.'

Gwen smiled fleetingly. 'I liked him at once. I learned that his wife had died three years ago, that he was interested in music and walking and sketching –'

'In fact,' Hannah interrupted drily, 'all things that interest you.'

'Yes, exactly. So we saw quite a lot of each other over the next months. But Hannah – I must emphasize this – it was totally platonic.'

'And you didn't want it to be?'

She was remembering their conversation the evening after Gwen's return from Canada. Gwen had asked if she'd ever regretted not marrying, and when Hannah had handed back the question, she'd admitted to not being sure. And, Hannah remembered with embarrassment, she'd teased her about falling for a Mountie.

'I don't know what I wanted,' Gwen was answering frankly. 'I'd long ago given up all thoughts of marriage, convinced myself that my career fulfilled all my needs. There's never been a man in my life, Hannah, you know that. I'm aware that there is in yours; if you remember, you confided in me a few years ago, when you were having problems. But I've no idea who he is, and I don't want to know. I'm just glad for you.'

Hannah took her arm and squeezed it.

'So I was dismayed when I found myself thinking more and more about Bruce, and dreading the time when I'd have to leave. Then, out of the blue, came the offer of the headship at Layton High. In one sense it seemed the answer to my prayers, but in another it was impossible. Although I enjoyed Bruce's company, I was becoming increasingly nervous of betraying my feelings for him, and he'd never so much as hinted at any for me.'

They came to a halt, gazing out across the playing fields to the junior school against the far wall of the grounds.

'So I told them I'd consider the offer, shook hands with Bruce, said it had been nice knowing him, and came home. Since when,' she added honestly, 'I've been thoroughly miserable.'

'I knew something was wrong,' Hannah said softly. 'So what brought the professor over?'

'It seems he told a close friend of his feelings for me, and as luck would have it, the wife of this friend thought she'd detected signs that I cared for him. They both persuaded him to come over and – try his luck.'

'He didn't waste much time; you've only been back two weeks.' She looked sideways at her friend's rapt face, gazing into the distance with eyes narrowed against the sun.

'Dare I ask what happened when he arrived?'

Gwen smiled. 'After a certain amount of preamble, he told me that he – he loved me, and asked me to marry him.'

'Oh, Gwen! And of course you said yes?'

Gwen turned impulsively towards her. 'Was it wrong of me, Hannah? Is it selfish, at my age, to give up everything I have here and fly off without a backward glance, like a – a GI bride? You saw how delighted Mother was to be home again; how can I tell her – or Bea – that I won't be there much longer?'

'Of course it's not selfish,' Hannah said roundly. 'And your mother was perfectly happy with Beatrice. The fact that John's a doctor is a positive advantage, with her eyesight not too good. I'm sure
they
wouldn't mind the arrangement being permanent.'

And perhaps not too permanent, Hannah thought privately; Mrs Rutherford was in her late eighties and her health was failing.

'Look,' she went on positively, 'this couldn't be more perfect. You're not even being asked to give up your career. You have a brand-new challenge out there in Canada, and you'll have a husband who's also in education to help and advise you. What could be better?'

When Gwen didn't reply, she added, 'When and where are you getting married?'

'Here, as soon as possible. We want a quiet wedding – only a few close friends. We're hoping Bruce's will fly over.'

'Then what?'

'Well, the vacancy won't be for a year, as I told you, and in any case I have to give twelve months' notice myself. So he'll arrange a sabbatical and stay over here with me, and I'll continue at Ashbourne till the end of next summer term. After which, if the gods are good, it will pass to you.'

'Gwen, I'm so happy for you. And I look forward to getting to know your Bruce better over dinner this evening.'

By common consent, they turned and started to walk back towards the main building.

WPC Julie Dean, in shorts, T-shirt and flip-flops, rang the bell of number seven Sheep Street, an eye on the notice in the window.

The door was opened by a motherly-looking woman in an apron. 'Yes, dear?'

'I see you have a vacancy,' Julie said.

The woman looked her up and down. 'For yourself, is it?'

'Yes. It would only be for a few days; I've come over to see a friend, but she can't put me up.'

'I think that would be all right. Would you like to see the room?'

'Please.'

'My name's Mrs Kershaw,' the woman said as she went up the stairs ahead of Julie. 'And yours?'

'Julie Dean.'

'Well, Julie, the rule is no visitors in the bedrooms. There's a parlour downstairs where you can entertain friends.'

'That's fine by me.'

They had reached the square landing. Mrs Kershaw opened the door on to a small bedroom, only just large enough to accommodate single bed, wardrobe and dressing table. It would, Julie felt, have been difficult to entertain anyone here, even if it had been allowed.

'This'll be fine,' she said. At least it was clean, and the bed looked comfortable. 'Is anyone else staying here?' she asked.

'Yes, I've a long-term lodger, Mr Blake. Ever such a nice gentleman, very quiet.'

'How long is long-term?' Julie inquired smilingly.

'Oh, he's been with me a couple of years now. What I meant to say is that this room, being on the small side, is for occasional short-term visitors, though of course, if you need to stay on, there'd be no problem.'

They went back down the stairs and, apparently having accepted Julie as one of the family, Mrs Kershaw offered her a cup of coffee. She accepted with alacrity and followed her new landlady into the kitchen.

'What does Mr Blake do?' she asked idly, taking the chair indicated at the table.

'He's a librarian,' Mrs Kershaw told her, her voice full of respect, 'but he also works for Mr Mace – you know, the writer.'

'The man who was mugged recently?'

'That's right, dear. Terrible business, I must say.'

'It must have been a shock for Mr Blake.'

'Yes,' Mrs Kershaw agreed, placing two mugs of coffee on the table, 'specially coming right on top of his own accident.'

Julie looked up, policewoman's ears pricked. 'He had an accident?'

'That he did, the same night. Came back in a right state, I can tell you.'

'He was mugged too?' She fixed wide, innocent eyes on her landlady.

'Oh no, nothing like that. Slipped and fell on his way home. Nasty graze on his arm, and he was quite shaken.'

Which, thought WPC Dean, would certainly be of interest to the governor.

In Oxbury, the investigation into the death of Trevor Philpott was proceeding with dogged determination but not much joy. It wasn't that those questioned refused to cooperate; most of them were only too ready to repeat what they'd said in their original statements six years before – in many cases, almost word for word. No doubt their stories had been retold to friends and acquaintances so often over the years that the tellers knew them almost by heart. At any rate, nothing new emerged.

At Ward and Johnson, the estate agent's where Philpott had worked, the story of his happy marriage still prevailed, and despite intensive questioning, those who had known him maintained they'd never heard anything to make them doubt it.

And then, just when it seemed to the police that stalemate had been reached, their luck finally changed, with a phone call from DCI Horn in Broadminster.

'Good news, Ted!' he greeted Ferris. 'That couple you wanted us to contact, the Hartwells: we got their holiday address from their neighbours – they're up in the wilds of Scotland – and the local bobby's been round to see them.'

Ferris leant forward, gripping the phone. 'Did Philpott name the women?'

'He apparently reeled off half a dozen, but Hartwell only remembers one, because he knew her. It was the landlady of the local pub, the Stag – Mrs Vera Chadwick.'

Ferris leaned back in his chair, letting out his held breath. 'Foggy, I owe you one. With luck, this could be just what we're looking for.'

He pushed back his chair and strode into the outer office. 'Come on, Rob,' he told his startled sergeant, 'we're off for a pub lunch in Oxbury.'

The Stag was crowded with lunchtime drinkers and the two detectives, having ordered a couple of pints and two ploughman's, were content to position themselves at a table opposite the bar and watch the couple serving behind it, whose identity had already been established by the bantering comments of the locals.

The woman was, Ferris estimated, in her early forties. Her face was flushed, both from the heat of the room and from her steady and unremitting work, but she kept up a cheerful stream of chat as she took the orders and served her thirsty customers.

Ferris studied her critically, trying to see her as Philpott had. Yes, she'd got something going for her; the hair which stuck to her damp forehead was blonde and curling, her face roundly pretty, her eyes wide and blue. More pertinently, some of the looks she flashed at those leaning on the bar were what Ferris's dad would have described as 'come-hither', and her chat, from what he caught of it, was decidedly on the risqué side. He was willing to bet she hadn't wanted for consolation when Trevor Philpott died.

Munching on a pickled onion, he turned his attention to her husband. Dick Chadwick was large in every way – tall, broad, with a huge stomach which presumably went with the job. He seemed a jovial man, his face as red and shining as his wife's, his hair thinning on top but still bushy at the sides. Did he, Ferris wondered, know of his wife's carryings on, and if so, did he care? He certainly didn't look like a murderer, but unfortunately that was nothing to go by.

The two men sat on until the crowd had thinned and dispersed to return to farm, shop or office and the day's work. Then, Ferris slid out from behind the table and strolled over to the bar.

'Mrs Vera Chadwick?' he asked, producing his warrant card, and saw her eyes widen. 'DCI Ferris from Erlesborough. I wonder if I could have a word?'

'My goodness!' She gave a gasping little laugh. 'What have I done this time?'

She flashed a look at her husband, busy wiping glasses further down the bar. 'Can you hold the fort, Dick, while I speak to these gentlemen?'

He nodded without even looking round – possibly used to such a request. Vera Chadwick lifted the counter and came round the bar, then, beckoning to the policemen, led them down a tiled passageway to a small snug at the back of the building. It was dark in there, the window being overgrown with honeysuckle which almost obscured the glass.

'Right, gents, what can I do for you?'

At close quarters, there was an undeniable animal attraction about her. Her blouse clung to her hot body, outlining full breasts, and her bare brown legs were thrust into none too clean sandals, but the scent of warm flesh which she exuded was by no means unpleasant.

Ferris cleared his throat. 'We'd like to ask you about Mr Trevor Philpott.'

She blinked, her lashes, sticky with mascara, screening her eyes for a moment. Then, looking up at him, she said, 'Again? I've already told your chaps. He only came in from time to time – he wasn't a regular.'

'He was something else, though, wasn't he, Mrs Chadwick?'

She gnawed briefly on her lip, then, abandoning dissemblance, flashed him a conspiratorial smile. 'Well, you're a big boy. Chief Inspector, you know how things are.'

Ferris was aware of his sergeant's twitching mouth, and to his annoyance felt his colour rise.

'You were having an affair with him?' he demanded.

'If you want to put it that way. We'd a thing going, yes.'

'What about your husband? Did he know about it?'

'No, no one did, which was what made it special.'