An Accidental Shroud Page 11

  Callaghan had made himself some tea after the police had gone, and drank it standing in front of his big window, looking out at the distant hills, warming his hands round the mug. Standing here, the double glazing deadening any sound, he felt cut off, as if in a capsule that isolated him from any sensation outside himself, from anything other than the pain which walked beside him like his familiar, the incubus which had sat on his shoulder ever since Judy had died.

  He'd known it would never go away until Nigel Fontenoy was dead, but now that he was, he saw how he'd fooled himself. The knowledge that his child had died, unnecessarily and before her time, would always be with him; it would be better if he, too, were dead. Yet the impulse to live was strong. Callaghan knew that he would never have the guts to take that way out. He wanted to live – and to live his life in the way he chose. Which was not being locked up for the rest of it for killing Nigel Fontenoy.

  Had it been a mistake to assume he could trust Claire Denton? To assume he needed her to lie for him? Even if he'd been alone with no alibi, what would that prove?

  When it came to the crunch, it was every man, or woman, for themselves, and Claire was no exception; if pressure was put on her...

  Well, he was more than capable of dealing with her or with anyone else who might see fit to put a spoke in his wheel.

  15

  George Fontenoy tried to shut his ears to the noise of the chainsaw and the shouts of the workmen demolishing what was left of the cedar. He kept away from the window, refusing to watch, or to give the crowd of sightseers a glimpse of himself, just something else to gawp at. Instead, he began to potter around, trying to do something about the residual mess left in his shop after the departure of the police Forensic team. Dust had infiltrated everywhere, even into the glass-topped counters; sooner or later they would have to be thoroughly cleaned out, but meanwhile, he saw no reason to endure the whitish, greasy fingerprint powder on his precious gems any longer. He began to work systematically on each piece with a camel-hair brush and a soft cloth, but his heart wasn't in it.

  He was, by sheer effort of will, gradually accustoming himself to being where Nigel had been killed, since there was no question of closing down the shop for good, but for the moment he kept away from the office with its square of carpet missing from the centre.

  He could have reopened now, had he been so inclined, but he'd decided to stay shut for the present, until he'd settled on a permanent course of action, although deep down, he knew what the end must be, that the decision had already been made for him. At his age, he probably had no choice but to continue along the path Nigel had begun, and sell out to Jermyn's, though the idea broke him up when he thought of it.

  He dusted and rearranged a group of scent bottles, pretty glass trifles with jewelled stoppers, then stared into mid-air, the duster still clutched in one hand. Selling out? The idea was preposterous!

  Picking up an elegant diamond brooch of the belle époque, he cradled it tenderly in the palm of his hand, working the soft brush expertly between the crevices, finishing off with a chamois leather to give it an extra lustre before laying it back on the dark blue velvet. It glittered expensively back at him, a confident, establishment piece, solidly encrusted; yet diamonds had never been his passion. Cold things, in his opinion, they lacked the warmth and depth of a fine ruby or emerald, or even the infinite variations of the semiprecious gemstones: milky striated moonstones, garnets and dragonfly-blue lapis, jade in all its variations, translucent chalcedonies, bloodstones green as seaweed, flecked with red ... Their names formed a litany, a golden thread that had run throughout his life.

  He'd always hoped that it would be Matthew who would continue the family succession – but Matthew had reacted violently to the suggestion implicit in Nigel's legacy to him, that he would take over where Nigel himself had left off. It had been a vain hope, George admitted now, both he and Nigel had been deluding themselves – though who could have predicted Nigel's untimely end, coming as it did before Matthew had had time to mature and settle down? As it was, he would certainly want to sell his share and squander everything on those damned cars he was so crazy about. Maybe it was better so. He'd no love or feel for the business, had only agreed to work here to cock a snook at his father.

  Swallowing disappointment as bitter as bile, George lifted an Edwardian pendant, similar to the one which had disappeared, only of much better quality, a fine peridot in a platinum and diamond setting. He let it swing from his finger on its slender chain, gazing into its pale green fire, again puzzled as to why anyone should have taken the other, of less value, and in disrepair into the bargain. That, and the box.

  Disaster and ill-luck had always seemed to hang over that box. Considering its provenance, that wasn't surprising. Why hadn't Nigel got rid of it, years ago, for what he could get?

  The plain answer was that he'd been too avaricious, holding on too long, watching it accrue in value. An old failing that had cost them dear, more than once. George realized he wasn't being entirely fair to Nigel. Hadn't it simply been that he couldn't bear to part with it, incomplete as it was? He had loved beauty in all its forms. He had also been a perfectionist.

  George had known, ever since that first moment when he had opened his eyes and seen the felled cedar lying on the ground, that what remained of his life would never be the same again. He'd been filled with a sense of fatalistic dread, which had never left him since. The tree's demise had been symbolic of the whole shambles left behind after Nigel's death. No longer was he going to be able to hide behind a pretence of not knowing what was going on.

  Now, everything would be dragged out into the open. No facet of anybody's private life was considered private enough nowadays to be kept from the public gaze, especially when it involved murder. George was under no delusions that Nigel's death had its causes in his own actions. He had loved Nigel, but hadn't been blind to his faults. How much he'd been wounded over the years by the man his son had become, nobody but himself had known.

  It was too much to ask of an old man. If he could have avoided the coming interview this afternoon with the young policewoman with the red hair. Inspector Moon, he would have done so. She was young, yes, but not inexperienced. She had clear, hazel eyes, and a direct look, which he tried to avoid without being too obvious about it. He had a feeling she saw too much.

  George thought he might easily become very ill, if he allowed himself to be. Nigel, in the end, had paid the price, and for him, it was finished. It was the living who had to go on paying.

  A new eating place had opened in Sheep Street. Once an old-fashioned shoe shop, then empty for a while, later taken over by Oxfam for a further period, it now called itself the Granary and had been refurbished, complete with Welsh dressers full of copper kitchen utensils and colourful plates, and corn dollies not looking as dusty yet as they soon would.

  Abigail had arranged to meet Nan Randall there for coffee. 'And scones,' Nan requested, with a deep, throaty chuckle. 'Have to look after my figure, dear.'

  Nan Randall, Mrs Herbert Petheridge in private life, would have been better advised to have left the scones alone. She was at least three stones overweight, bouncy as a rubber ball, but always impeccably and expensively dressed. Abigail had admired the eye-catching outfit she was wearing, which couldn't do much to minimize curves of that size, but gave her a definite pzazz. 'Thank you, love, though it should be my dressmaker you're admiring. Prezzie from my old man, when we went to our youngest's degree ceremony.'

  Randy Nan, she'd been irreverently christened in her younger days, perhaps unfairly, perhaps not; but she'd put all that behind her long since, and married an extremely rich, amenable husband and now had three grown-up sons, hunky, rugby-playing extroverts all three. She was an extrovert herself, had worked for the Advertiser for thirty years, stopping only long enough to give birth. She was talkative, good-natured, very popular, had a long, journalistic memory, and a facility for getting people to talk to her.

  'They're trying h
ere. I'll give them that,' she said, looking around appraisingly as she tucked into excellent scones, noting the full tables with an approving nod. 'I'd have given them three months before I saw it, but maybe they'll stay the course. Yes, love, I covered that case. Harrowing, absolutely harrowing! I'd known Judy, you see ... well, my Jason did – that's the one who has, by some amazing fluke, pulled off his degree. He used to bring her home, she was one of the gang he went around with, though when I say knew her, that's a figure of speech. She was so quiet you forgot she was there until you bumped into her. I was shocked, naturally, when she walked under that bus, but it's always the quiet ones, isn't it?'

  'Do you know her father?'

  Nan raised expressive eyebrows. 'Tom Callaghan? Only to salaam to, nowadays, when I meet him around town. Everybody's idol at the moment, isn't he?'

  'Not mine,' Abigail said, sampling a scone before they all disappeared. 'And not yours, either, I'd guess.'

  Nan contemplated the last scone, then pushed away her plate. 'I'd better not. I'm interviewing a captain of industry later on and he's giving me lunch afterwards. They know how to do themselves well, these tycoons, it'll be more than a plate of pasta at Gino's! No,' she added, spooning sugar heavily into her second cup of coffee, 'I don't like Callaghan. First met him when he came to work at the Advertiser, yonks ago, but I wouldn't say I knew him well, even then – or that anybody ever would. A deep one, that. Maybe where Judy got it from.'

  'It must have been rotten for him, all the same, his daughter dying like that.'

  'He was shattered! Well, both of them were, he and his wife. I hear she's left him, at last. They never got on, but she may've been pushed into going at last by Judy's death. They both doted on her, Callaghan especially. There didn't seem to be any reason for it, you know, she was doing all right at school, she was shy but she'd plenty of friends ...'

  'The verdict was accidental death, wasn't it?'

  Nan gave her an old-fashioned look. 'One of the other girls in the gang, her best friend, told me afterwards that she'd had some sort of crush on an older man, but that didn't seem to be enough reason for her to have deliberately put herself in the way of being killed. All the same, when I heard dear Nigel had been murdered, it rang several bells. You never know what relevance these things have, do you?'

  'What d'you mean by that – "dear Nigel"?'

  Nan shrugged.

  'Come on, tell me what you know about him.' Nan, for once, seemed reluctant, and Abigail pressed: 'He never married, did he?'

  'No, but he wasn't gay, love, if that's what you're hinting.' Nan hesitated. 'Oh, what's it matter, he's dead ... He liked women, yes, and the younger the better. No, not quite under age, but young enough. He was pathetic. It was all right when he was young, too, but he got older and never had a girlfriend over seventeen as far as I know.'

  'Go on.'

  'That's why I straight away believed young Sharon when she told me about Judy having a crush on him. I couldn't see him exactly discouraging her.'

  Above the cornflower-and poppy-strewn café-style curtains two female heads appeared. Two pairs of eyes stared, embarrassingly close to the table where Abigail and Nan sat. Nan picked up the plate with the last scone and offered it. The two women looked indignant and moved away. Nan laughed.

  'What do you know about Fontenoy's – the firm, that is?' Abigail asked.

  'Oh, very OK, if you want expensive antique jewellery. Lovely things they have there. You pay for it, mind. They did once go in for modern stuff, custom designed, ages ago, just after we were married, I think, but it never seemed to get off the ground, though the girl who made it was pretty good. She'd won prizes, that sort of thing. I have a silver brooch somewhere,' Nan added carelessly. 'I'd have liked more, but when I inquired, she'd gone, and neither of the Fontenoys knew where to. Bertie bought me something else instead, so I didn't bother to follow it up. After she left, they went back to selling what they know best. Very wise.'

  'Disappeared, did she? What was her name?'

  'I don't know about disappeared – just left, I suppose.' Nan frowned in an effort to remember the name, last heard twenty-five years ago, mortified when it eluded her. Not being able to recall it instantly was a slur on her reputation as the longest memory on the Advertiser. 'Never mind, I'll remember it before the day's out and let you know. Or Ben will,' she added, gathering her things together. 'Hope I haven't said too much, it's a failing of mine. This one looks as though it might turn up some very nasty things and that touches all of us. I happen to be very fond of this town and I wouldn't want ... Oh well, you know what I mean.'

  She gave a slightly embarrassed laugh and sailed towards the door, Abigail in her wake. When they were parting to go their different ways, she said, 'Talking of Ben ... I should make the most of him, if I were you; there's not enough on the Advertiser to keep him here long.'

  There were worse towns to live in, Abigail supposed, thinking of what Nan Randall had said about Lavenstock, though having been born not far away, being so familiar with it, she'd largely taken it for granted, until as a policewoman she began to know it better, to know its darker side as well, its trouble spots, its depressed areas.

  A market town of ancient lineage, with a minor public school, many fine old buildings, several venerable churches, and a swift river running through its lower reaches, it had a lot going for it. Surrounded by as yet unspoilt countryside, it encompassed within its boundaries some of the worst areas created during the Industrial Revolution, now sanitized beyond recognition. It had expanded to include numerous quiet villages on the outskirts. It had a bit of everything, really. Except an efficient one-way system, the present one being diabolical, and a regular subject of infuriated letters to the local paper.

  'Thanks, but I need the exercise, it's good for the soul,' she'd said, refusing a lift from Pete Deeley across to Cedar House Antiques, where she was to meet Mayo. They'd lunched together in the Saracen's Head, using the time to discuss what her meeting with Nan Randall had revealed, and the substantial ploughman's lunch, one of their specials, plus the scone she'd eaten with Nan, needed to be worked off.

  She walked briskly now from the lower town, the sun low in a greenish sky. It would be cold tomorrow. Only ten weeks to Christmas, proclaimed a toy shop window, already decorated with cotton wool snow and glitter that would be tatty weeks before then. They were putting up coloured lights at the entrance to the modern shopping precinct, too, which couldn't harm it and might even be an improvement. The precinct resembled the Taj Mahal on the outside, and inside had the same chain stores, stocking the same goods, to be found in every other precinct the length and breadth of the British Isles. Flanking the entrance was the new office development – half of the units still unlet – and the golden-windowed block where Wilding Enterprises hung out.

  She'd still been thinking about Callaghan and this new aspect of his relationship with Fontenoy which had come up, but now, seeing Wilding's office, Jake Wilding's connections with the Fontenoys again occurred to her as she waited to cross at the traffic lights. Was there a link between Wilding as a suspect, and that missing box? Supposing the box to have contained papers, as Christine Wilding had suggested, and supposing them to have been incriminating to Jake ...

  But Nigel had taken the box to London, and inquiries about the train he had caught, the duration of his visit to Macaudle, and the time of his return to Lavenstock, suggested he'd had little time to go anywhere but Jermyn's, which had started one or two ideas of her own, none of them featuring the box being filled with papers, which Macaudle, when he returned, might be able to confirm.

  The big clock on the ornate, newly restored, green-painted and gilded Victorian tower, standing cheerfully incongruous between the new hi-tech offices and the old, depressed library buildings, boomed the half hour. She crossed when the lights changed and took the short cut by the back of the parish church to Cedar House.

  16

  'Tea?' George asked, pooh-poohing the suggestion that it
would be too much trouble. He served Earl Grey in beautiful, thin china cups which, however, owing to the shakiness of his hands, ended up with rather less than their full measure inside and too much outside in the saucer. Abigail thought he would have been wiser to have stayed with the Wildings at Ham Lane for the present. But no, he insisted, when she tactfully inquired, he was better back here in his own house, where he could be looked after by Mrs Anderson, his daily cleaning woman for over twenty years.

  George, for his part, was relieved they didn't immediately start with the sort of questions he'd both anticipated, and dreaded. Having expected only the young woman, he was thrown off balance by the presence of her superior officer, though Mayo was keeping himself in the background, seemingly content to let her do the talking. He soon found it was himself who was doing the talking, however, though he was willing enough if it would put off the questioning. She had got him talking about the business, how the firm had started and how they operated. 'I'm surprised there's enough call in Lavenstock to support a family concern like yours,' the inspector had remarked. 'You're very specialized, aren't you?'

  'In my grandfather's day, when he started the business, he didn't specialize at all, he simply sold fine jewellery, old or new. But there's too much rubbish sold nowadays – you don't generally find the quality you used to. But certainly we don't depend on local trade. We work through our catalogue and often with dealers.'

  After that, launched into his favourite subject, the world he knew best, and his special interest in the Art Nouveau and belle époque styles, from the late nineteenth century to the Edwardian period just before the First World War, there was no stopping George. He even heard himself insisting they went through into the shop, to illustrate the points he was making.

  Mayo, who had met George only briefly before, thought it wouldn't do to underestimate him: the flow of words, he guessed, was a smokescreen for something as yet not apparent. He was impressed, too, by the way he'd come to terms with his son's death; it seemed to Mayo that the old man was facing his bereavement with courage and dignity as well as practical common sense, not easy in any circumstances, let alone murder. He had tidied up the shop and already a new carpet covered the floor of the office where the bloodstained square had been cut out for forensic examination. Mayo's thrifty Yorkshire soul hoped that someone had remembered to tell him he could be compensated.