Thorn (29 page)

After that she might go north. She might even drive up to the border; there were dozens of border legends and folk songs and she would see what could be garnered. She might cross the border into Scotland and go across to Skye. Over the sea to Skye . . . Didn't everyone want to visit Skye at some time in their lives? But she was going to look on this project as a working holiday; they were not to expect too much contact with her. She would phone in from time to time, but she would have a little time by herself as well.

The aunts thought it all sounded very interesting indeed, although Dilys maintained that what Thalia was really doing was leaving London to escape the memories, and Rosa talked about delayed reaction and said mark her words, this was the reckoning. Cousin Elspeth said the mercy was that Thalia had held up as long as she had. ‘But thankfully for long enough to see us through that terrible time. Yes, I
know
we said we would never refer to it again, and I haven't, truly I haven't, Rosa. George will tell you that. But now with poor Dr Shilling's trial – well, who knows what might come out? I think it's very sensible of Thalia to leave London, in fact I think we all ought to do the same. I mean, if one's in the Grand Canaries or somewhere, one can't be reached by Scotland Yard. Or can one?'

‘Yes, one can,' said Rosa grimly. ‘Stay put, Elspeth, unless you want to stir up Inspector Mackenzie's suspicions. No, it isn't wicked of us, none of us has actually committed any crime. Shilling was the one who did that.' She put the phone down and went off to tell Dilys that they should have put Elspeth out of the room when all this started. She was only annoyed with herself for not thinking of it at the time, said Rosa, and repeated this to Flora who had been invited to Battersea for Sunday lunch.

‘Elspeth won't let us down,' said Flora, eating the very good roast beef that Dilys had cooked because dearest Flora always enjoyed her food. ‘George will see to that. He'll be thinking about the scandal for Ingram's – he won't want any publicity there, I'll be bound. He likes his creature comforts too much, does George. Did you know he's got a woman in Maida Vale?'

‘So would I have in George's place,' observed Rosa.

‘That's what Juliette says. But he's quite discreet, which is more than you can say for Juliette. She's been dining at Langan's with that good-looking writer who was at Edmund's funeral, in fact I think she did more than dine with him, because Diana Lorrimer saw them going off in a taxi to Juliette's flat afterwards.'

‘How did she know where they were going?'

‘She heard Juliette give the address.'

‘Naughty girl,' said Dilys indulgently. She and Rosa loved hearing about Juliette's adventures. Juliette would tell them all about this new development when next she visited Battersea.

‘John Shilling won't stir up any scandal either,' said Flora. ‘He's definitely going to plead guilty to the manslaughter charge, you know.'

‘So I should hope,' rejoined Rosa. ‘No one else would have given Eloise chloral hydrate – well, I don't imagine anyone else could have got hold of the stuff. Even if we knew what it was, which I don't suppose we do.'

‘I've never even heard of it,' said Dilys.

‘Of course it was Shilling,' said Rosa, firmly. ‘The tragedy is that Imogen's been so damaged because of it.'

‘Oh yes, but she'll recover, Rosa. You know we agreed that she'd recover. And you quite took to Dr Sterne when we went along to meet him that afternoon.'

Rosa said tartly that Dilys had always been gullibility itself when a handsome face was involved. ‘Handsome is as handsome does, Mother always said.'

‘But you said yourself you thought we could trust him to look after Imogen,' responded Dilys with spirit.

Flora said, ‘Never mind Leo Sterne. Listen, if Shilling's the villain of the piece how did he stage the fake blood?'

‘They said at the inquest it was sheep's blood.' Dilys shuddered, because this was not a nice thing to discuss while people were eating their lunch.

‘That's precisely my point,' said Flora at once. ‘Sheep's blood – any kind of blood – surely isn't something you just happen to have lying in your medical bag in case it might come in handy. Anyway, what was his motive?'

‘Revenge? Because Eloise – hum – turned him down?' suggested the romantically inclined Dilys.

‘Don't talk rubbish, Dilys. And carve Flora some more beef.'

Flora accepted the beef and then said, ‘I've been wondering—'

‘Yes?'

‘You don't suppose Imogen really did kill Eloise after all, and John Shilling's been trying to protect her?'

The three ladies considered this, and Dilys said doubtfully that Dr Shilling was going to rather extreme lengths if so.

‘Yes, but he might be doing it for Eloise's sake. You know how dotty he was about Eloise.'

‘Oh, I see.'

Dilys helped everyone to more potatoes, and Rosa said, ‘Then why didn't he hide the knife we found in Imogen's room?'

‘Perhaps he didn't see it,' said Dilys. ‘If he thought Imogen had stolen his chloral hydrate and poisoned Eloise with it, he wouldn't be looking for knives at all. He wouldn't be thinking about knives.'

‘Juliette thinks he's mad – I mean clinically mad,' said Flora. ‘She thinks that explains the whole thing. But I'm not so sure it's as simple as that.'

‘Why not?'

‘I'm not so sure that it was Shilling. There's a – a
calculated
feel about all this. As if someone's plotting in secret somewhere. The knife planted by Imogen's bed, and the false blood – that was premeditated.'

There was a silence. ‘That's rather an unpleasant idea,' said Rosa at last.

‘I don't believe it,' put in Dilys. ‘Flora, I really don't believe anyone's plotting in secret or premeditating murders. It was Dr Shilling who did it – either because he was mad or because he was drinking too much. And it's all dreadful and tragic, but Imogen will recover – I refuse to think anything else – and Shilling will go to prison, or be rehabilitated or something, and everything will be all right.'

‘George says Shilling ought to be strung up,' remarked Rosa.

‘Yes, but then he offered to help with the legal fees when Shilling was arrested,' said Flora. ‘And he stood bail. He's as soft as butter really, George.'

‘Did Shilling accept?' Rosa wanted to know.

‘He accepted the bail but he said he'd better pay his own legal fees, and anyway they wouldn't be very high because he wasn't offering any defence. But he said it mustn't appear as if there'd been any jiggery-pokery. Collusion, that's the word I want.'

Dilys opened her mouth to say that there had been quite a lot of jiggery-pokery, and then thought better of it.

Rosa asked if anyone knew where Thalia was going. ‘And Dilys, pass Flora the horseradish sauce.'

‘She thought of starting in the Midlands, I think,' said Flora. ‘Somebody said something about Warwickshire. But I daresay she'll move about a good deal. Is that some of your homemade horseradish sauce, Dilys? In that case I'll certainly have some.'

‘If Thalia's going to Warwickshire, she could have borrowed George and Elspeth's house in Stratford,' said Dilys. ‘Couldn't she, Rosa? It's in a very nice part, and she could have used it as a base. I'm sure George and Elspeth wouldn't have minded.'

‘George probably said it wasn't available because he wanted to take his floozie there.'

‘Where
do
you get your expressions, Flora?'

‘Don't they call them floozies any more?'

‘Not since about nineteen twenty, I shouldn't think.'

‘What a pity,' said Dilys. ‘Such a lovely word. Treacle pudding, everyone?'

It had amused Thalia to lay a false trail and it had pleased her to see them all accept what she told them without question.

They had all nodded solemnly, their sheep faces heavy and serious with sympathy, and Thalia had wanted to laugh aloud because it was so easy to fool them.

She had laid her plans with infinite care and everything was working out as if she was being given divine guidance.

She was not going to Thornacre itself, but she was going very near to it. There were a number of corollary villages spidering out from Thornacre, and it had been simplicity itself to phone the two or three house agents listed in the directory and inquire about the leasing of a house for a while. Perhaps six months, was that possible? she had asked. She was not familiar with these procedures. Her husband had always dealt with business matters, and since he and her son had died . . . But she had in mind somewhere secluded and peaceful, and somewhere with a garden where she could enjoy pottering. She liked to dabble a little in photography, so if there could be some kind of outbuilding, or even better a good, dry cellar that might be used as a studio and dark-room? She gave the impression of a bewildered widow, rather charmingly helpless, bravely trying to piece together a shattered life.

The agents were instantly responsive and immediately sympathetic, and several sets of details describing suitable properties were sent to her. She used her real name for the arrangements, because there would be a tenancy agreement to be signed and a cheque to be written for the rent, but all the correspondence went to the service flat. It was not very likely that some small office in Northumberland would connect her with Ingram's or the Hampstead manslaughter case when eventually it came to court, and it did not really matter if they did. It did not really matter if the family found out where she was either, because they would assume that it was part of her roving commission. But it would be preferable to preserve as much anonymity as possible.

From the sheaf of holiday houses available on long autumn and winter lets, she chose the four-square, greystone October House in Blackmere, a village five or six miles from Thornacre. It had been built around the turn of the century, and the rooms were described as spacious. Thalia thought estate agents had to comply with a fairly stringent code of practice nowadays, so spacious probably meant exactly what it suggested. So far so good. There was a large garden and no other properties nearby. The village centre was a couple of miles down the road, where there was a small general store, a pub and a garage. A church, doctor and dentist and a small supermarket were in Thornacre village.

October House was fully furnished down to bed linen and crockery. There was a modern cooker, freezer, fridge and washing machine, and the agent had added a note explaining that there was someone in the village who would come up twice a week if required, for cleaning and some cooking. The charge for this was amazingly low in comparison with London charges. Best of all, the house was owned by a man who baked pots and ceramics for tourists and designed original china for the pottery manufacturers in the Midlands. He had recently left for America on a six-month lecture tour, which was why the house was available. The old coach house at the rear had been converted to a pottery where the man normally worked, and there was a kiln and a couple of firing ovens; providing certain safeguards and restrictions were agreed to, the tenant could have the use of the coach house. The agent knew the house fairly well – they had let it a couple of times before under similar circumstances – and he thought that the coach house would do very well for a photographic studio.

Thalia signed a six-month lease by post and left for Blackmere village and October House ten days later. It sounded a remote district, but in the later stages of her plan remoteness would be very necessary indeed.

The house was absolutely right.

It stood in grounds of about an acre and it was shielded from the road by tall old trees. There was a long drive, fringed with laurel and laburnum, and a gravel turning circle in front of the house. Even though there was probably a fair bit of traffic, the house was so far back from the road that you would never hear it. You wouldn't see cars or passers-by, and they would not see you.

There were two large, high-ceilinged sitting rooms, one on each side of the hall, both with deep bay windows overlooking the front gardens. At the back of the house was a small breakfast room and a kitchen. The kitchen still had the original stone flags and a built-in range and ceiling rafters, but the potter had brought it up to date with modern cooking facilities and a central work counter with a cool ceramic surface. There was a microwave cooker as well, and a large fridge. In one corner stood a large deepfreeze, switched on and purring. Thalia smiled and stood for a moment with her eyes on it.

The potter's studio was at the rear; the drive led all the way round, and it was on the left, partly hidden by more laburnum bushes: a long low building, not built of greystone like the house, but of old red brick, mellow with age. It was possible to see the ghost shape of the old coach-house door and make out where it had been bricked up to make a conventional door.

She saw at once the room that would be Edmund's, and she spent a great many hours there. It was the largest bedroom, and it would have been the master bedroom in the days when October House had a master. The potter probably used it when he was at home, and he, or someone else, had papered it in cool blue and green, with chintz curtains and a matching, chintz-covered window seat. There was a huge oak wardrobe and chest of drawers, fragrant with the scent of old, well-polished wood. The windows were latticed and there was a pear tree outside. In autumn the ripening pears would perfume the room, and in spring there would be a froth of blossom. Edmund should sleep in here, with the scent of the pears and the rose-perfumed sheets. There would be a bowl of dried lavender on the rosewood table beneath the window, and the morning sun would slant through the panes, showing up the spill of melted honey on the pillow that was Edmund's hair. This room would be the shrine, and the coach house would be the temple that would see his renaissance. Renaissance meant the rebirth and resurgence of art and literature and learning under the influence of classical models. The use of the word like this, in connection with Edmund, pleased her.