Authors: Anthony Price
A thief, no doubt about that.
The thought was painful to Frances, but the pain helped to concentrate her mind on the job just when she’d been in danger of letting sympathy cloud her judgement.
‘Don’t worry, Nannie.’ She touched Nannie’s arm reassuringly. Just a touch—a Judas touch; a pat would have been too much. ‘It won’t happen again, we’ll see to that.’
Nannie looked down at the slender hand, then up at Frances.
‘You know, I think we probably have friends in common,’ said Frances, testing the bridge cautiously. ‘Isn’t the Colonel one of Cathy Audley’s godfathers—David Audley’s little daughter?’
Nannie regarded her for the first time with something approaching recognition.
‘David Audley is another of my bosses.’ Frances smiled. ‘And I know his wife too.
Have you met them—the Audleys?’
Nannie blinked, and her nose seemed less aggressive. ‘You know Dr Audley, Miss Fitzgibbon?’
‘One of my bosses—my first, actually … Though I’m assigned to the Colonel at the moment. Which is why I’m here now, of course.’ Frances nodded encouragingly. The bridge—a totally false structure, but built with convenient pieces of genuine truth—was beginning to feel solid beneath her. It even occurred to her that she was building better than she had intended: if Colonel Butler himself didn’t altogether approve of David Audley—at least if Paul Mitchell was to be believed—it looked as though Nannie differed from that view; and that coincided with her own observation, that while Audley was generally rather rude to his equals, who were usually male, he was unfailingly courteous to women.
(The first time she’d encountered David Audley he’d been having a blazing row with Hugh Roskill, who hated his guts, when she’d been Hugh’s secretary; and he—David—had apologised to her next day (but not to Hugh!) with a big box of After Eights.) But she was losing momentum with Nannie now—and she only needed another few steps to be over the Bridge of Lies. Already she was so far over and committed to the crossing that the last worst lying truth, the truest lie, was no longer too outrageous to use.
‘It’s “Mrs”, not “Miss”, Nannie … actually.’
‘”Mrs”?’ Nannie frowned, yet somehow more at herself than at Frances. ‘Oh … I’m sorry, Mrs Fitzgibbon…’
‘Yes?’ Frances hooked on to Nannie’s uncertainty. One way or another she had to fish the right cue out of her. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t quite catch what the constable said when he introduced you…’
Nannie wriggled on the hook.
That wasn’t the right cue. But it also wasn’t what was really in Nannie’s mind, Frances sensed. There was something else.
‘Yes?’ Frances jerked at the line. Given time she would have played Nannie gently, that was the whole essence of the art of interrogation, even with a hard-shell/soft-centre subject like this one. But time was what she hadn’t been given, this time.
She looked down at her wrist-watch, and as she raised her eyes again she saw that Nannie was staring in the same direction.
She looked down again: Nannie couldn’t be interested in the time; Colonel Butler’s girls—
my girls
—didn’t get home until 6.20, they did their two preps at school after tea, just as she had done once upon a time, a thousand years ago.
Nannie had looked down at the same angle—nose at the same angle—a few moments before, at the hand on her arm.
At the hand.
Frances looked at her hands. There was nothing to catch Nannie’s interest, or her disapproval either (yesterday morning Marilyn’s unspeakable Rose Glory red would have aroused that, but now the talons were trimmed and clear-varnished—now the hands were hers again).
Nothing—they were simply hands and fingers, unadorned.
Nothing!
Oh, beautiful!
thought Frances—like the mention of David Audley, it was better than she had designed, the ultimate true-lie handed to her—
handed
indeed!—on a plate, steaming hot. and appetising!
She ought to have spotted it more quickly, the thing that she always looked for in other women. But now she mustn’t spoil her good fortune by looking up from her third finger in triumph: and to get the right expression all she had to remember was what a dirty, despicable, millstone-round-the-neck unforgiveable lie she was about to tell.
The lie twisted under her breasts as she met Nannie’s eyes.
‘No wedding ring, you mean?’ She spread the empty hand eloquently without looking down at it again. ‘No wedding ring?’
She clenched the fingers into a small fist as soon as she was sure that Nannie was looking at them.
‘The ring is with my husband. He was killed in Ulster three years ago. Three years and six months and a week. He was with the SAS at the time, but he was a Green jacket really. And we were married for seven months and four days.’ Frances plucked all the years and months and days out of the air for effect: she might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, and lies that couldn’t be checked ought always to be fully-grown and vigorous, and hard-working.
Now there was pain in Nannie’s eyes, and that was good.
So … it was time for a little more truth.
‘I was a secretary in the department—‘ Hugh was on good terms with Butler, as near a friend as the Colonel had among his colleagues ‘—Group-Captain Roskill’s secretary.
Do you know Group-Captain Roskill, Nannie?’
Nannie knew Hugh Roskill, she could see that. And since Hugh was also no slouch with women, young or old (though not in the David Audley class), that was good too.
In fact, she was home and dry now: Nannie knew enough to make all the necessary connections and deductions from the Fitzgibbon saga. Which was a merciful deliverance from the need to use the ultimate weapon, the last truth that was itself a deliverance of a sort; the little Robert, or little Frances, who hadn’t made the grade, accident (or too much gin) cancelling out accident.
That wasn’t even in the records, anyway, it was one of the few private things left, and she’d given enough by now to expect to collect on her investment.
‘Your husband served with the Colonel, didn’t he?’ Frances changed the subject unashamedly, as of right. It was Army widow to Army widow now, sister to sister in misfortune although separated very nearly grand-daughter-grandmother in years.
Nannie nodded. ‘Yes, he did.’
‘I thought so.’ Frances let the answer appear to confirm what might have been an intelligent guess, it would never do to reveal how much she knew about RSM Hooker and his lady, from the Butler file.
Unfortunately, Nannie didn’t seem disposed to enlarge on the relationship. It was depressing to find that even the home-and-dry ground was still hard going.
‘In the Lancashire Rifles?’ There was no way Nannie could let that misapprehension go by, she had to correct it.
‘No, dear –‘
No, dear!
That ‘dear’ had been dearly bought, even haggled over, but she had it at last.
‘No, dear. Mr Hooker was a Mendip—the Royal Mendip Borderers. The Colonel came to us in Korea,
from
the Rifles.’ The nose moved elliptically between then, half correcting and half confirming. ‘And he was a captain then, of course, when he came to us.’
(To us. It was still
us
after more than a quarter of a century, the family
us
of RSM Hooker’s long-time widow; it could have been
us
with the Widow Fitzgibbon just as easily, if she’d indicated the need; they would probably have found her another subaltern if she’d indicated the need—probably given the poor sod his courting orders, they were old-fashioned that way; even as it was there was often something waiting for her in the accumulated post at the cottage, like the regimental newsletter, and always a Christmas card.)
(Even Nannie here in front of her was a proof of the durability of the system: all those years after Korea—
us i
n Korea,
when Nannie had never been within five thousand miles of the place—Butler had remembered the widow of the RSM of his adopted regiment when he’d needed someone for his girls.)
‘Of course—I understand now.’ Frances nodded wisely, and decided to change the subject again. She had the vague memory, from one of Robbie’s attempts to explain how the army had been reorganised—massacred—in 1970, that the Mendips had been swallowed up in the Somerset and Cornwall Light Infantry. But it really was a vague memory, and it wouldn’t do at all to exhibit a lack of military knowledge in such an area, when there was nothing more to be gained there.
She glanced around her. She could ask about this library, which had more books in it than ever Colonel Butler could have read. But that question would sound too obviously chatty, even though she genuinely wanted a quick answer to it; and she could get the answer easily enough for herself, though not so quickly, simply by looking at those books—always providing she remembered how completely Paul had mis-read the ones by her own fireside.
Better to get down to business, that was something Nannie would accept without suspicion.
‘Now, Nannie … what I have to do—is to decide what sort of break-in this has been.
This is because … of the kind of work the Colonel does.’ She gave Nannie half a smile.
‘It’s a precaution, that’s all—a sort of double protection, in addition to what the Police provide.’
As soon as she’d said it, she wished she hadn’t, because in the circumstances of those open drawers and missing christening mugs it was gobbledygook, and from the slight lift of the eyebrows, over those grey eyes it was quite clear that Nannie knew it was, too.
Then the eyebrows went back to normal, and the half-smile was returned.
‘Yes, dear—I understand that,’ said Nannie. ‘The Colonel has been through the routine with me. You don’t need to explain. If it’s all right you sign a form and give it to me, and the Police carry on a normal investigation.’ She nodded helpfully.
It occurred to Frances that she hadn’t got a release with her. Maybe Detective-Sergeant Geddes had one—maybe he had a whole pocket full of them. But it really didn’t matter now that Nannie was on her side.
It didn’t seem to matter much to Nannie either, suddenly; she had her sang-froid back, though it was a subtly-altered coolness, now a benevolent neutrality more concerned with Frances than herself, even to the extent of accepting that garbage about double-protection without irritation.
Just as suddenly Frances felt ashamed of what she’d done, what she’d had to do. It wasn’t lying about Robbie—the ring, that little circle of white gold, wasn’t with him, it was in the bag on her shoulder, to be used as necessary; she simply hadn’t bothered to put it on today, it hadn’t been important—if there was deceit there, it didn’t matter because it betrayed nothing of value. But deceiving Nannie was something different.
‘And it
is
all right, dear,’ said Nannie solicitously. ‘You don’t need to worry. Because this is just … an ordinary robbery, the constable said so.’ She nodded. ‘He said there have been two others just like it this morning.
‘But of course … of course, you have your job to do, and so you must talk to the constable for yourself, dear. But I’ve been all over the house with him—the constable thought the burglar didn’t have very long in the house, because Mr Rodgers was cutting up the elm in the home pasture, and he came back to the workshop to get the bushman-saw at 9.15—the constable thinks the burglar saw him coming, and that scared him off…’
Nannie piled non-event on non-event in an attempt to reassure the young Widow Fitzgibbon that there really was nothing to worry about in Brookside House, banking up the coals-of-fire on the widow’s head.
‘Thank you, Nannie.’
‘The Colonel
could
come back tonight. He does try to be here as often as possible, you know … though as tomorrow is the llth he’ll be off early if he does come—‘
The telephone on the desk pealed out, cutting her off in mid-flow to Frances’s overwhelming relief.
‘I’ll take it—‘ Frances was halfway to the desk before Nannie could react.
She lifted the receiver.
‘Is that you, Bessie?’ said a voice quickly.
Frances glanced down at the number. ‘Wilton Green 326.’
‘Sally?’ The voice sounded surprised. ‘Is that Sally?’
Sally?
Sally
equals
Sarah
—equals
Sarah Butler, bom 1961.
‘Hold on a moment.’ Frances looked at Nannie. ‘I think it’s for you, Nannie … Who is that speaking, please?’
‘Hullo?’ The voice, which had been excited before it had become surprised, now became dauntingly well-bred. ‘This is the Matron of the Charlotte Tyson Nursing Home.
If that is Wilton Green 326—3-2-6—may I speak with Mrs Elizabeth Hooker, please?’
All that was a far cry from
Is that you, Bes
sie?
But it was the right cry, nevertheless.
‘It’s the Matron of the Charlotte Tyson Nursing Home, Nannie.’
‘Oh … yes.’ Nannie took the receiver from her. ‘Don’t go, dear—it’s a friend of mine.’
Frances estimated the distance between the desk and the door and the phone in the hall, and the time needed to get from one to the other.
‘I’ll wait outside, Nannie.’
As Nannie put the phone to her ear she stepped out smartly towards the door.
‘Don’t go—there’s no need to go—‘
She reached the door, and then turned back to Nannie. ‘It’s all right—I’ll come back when you’ve finished.’
That was five seconds gained—and add another five seconds for Nannie’s embarrassment. Then, close the door and subtract five seconds for the time it took to reach the table at the foot of the staircase.
Click.
Frances found herself looking at herself in the mirror at the bottom of the stairs as she lifted the phone.
Would Nannie know what that
click
signified?
‘Are you there, Muriel—hullo?’
The mirror at the bottom of the stairs.
‘Bessie—hullo, is that you, Bessie?’
* * *
I heard him stop at the bottom of the stairs, as though he was thinking
—
or as though he was
looking at himself in the mirror there
—