Читать книгу Cold Light of Day - Emma Page - Страница 7

CHAPTER 3

Sunday morning continued mild with a slight breeze. The air was very clear today with a brilliant, sparkling quality. In the garden at Claremont the birds darted about with manic frenzy, calling, challenging, swooping and dipping, snatching up broken twigs, old grass, downy feathers.

Inside the house activity was a good deal less frenetic. Howard and Judith were both up – it was almost eleven – and were making a languorous onslaught on the debris of last night’s dinner-party; Judith had made a start on the washing-up.

Howard was in the drawing-room. He confined his assistance to emptying ashtrays, plumping up cushions, picking up scattered petals from flowers that had failed to survive the evening. He paused by a window to twitch the long brocade curtains into place. Sunlight illumined distant stretches of farmland, wooded tracts still winter-dark. But he scarcely glanced at the view he had seen all his life.

He went along to the kitchen, fragrant now with the smell of freshly-made coffee. Judith was at the sink, rinsing a stack of plates under the tap. Howard poured the coffee, strong and reviving. Judith pulled off her rubber gloves and took an invigorating mouthful.

On a shelf near the kitchen door the telephone rang suddenly. Howard crossed the room and lifted the receiver. ‘Oh – hello,’ he said after a moment. ‘How are you now? Feeling better?’ He put a hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Aunt Harriet,’ he said. Judith set down her cup. ‘That’s good,’ Howard said into the phone. ‘Yes, Judith’s here, I’ll hand you over.’

Aunt Harriet – Mrs Fiske – was Judith’s godmother, aunt merely by courtesy title. She lived in a village some sixty miles to the north of Cannonbridge; she was the widow of a wine importer. In a few days she would be celebrating her seventieth birthday. She had intended to give a dinner-party in honour of the occasion but two or three weeks ago she had taken to her bed with ‘flu, she had been very unwell. She had been forced to cancel the dinner-party, but now it seemed it was on again.

‘Yes, of course we’ll come,’ Judith told her. ‘We’ll be delighted.’ Howard pulled a face. ‘I’ll come over a day or two earlier,’ Judith added. ‘If that’s all right with you. Thursday morning?’ The dinner-party was on Saturday. ‘Howard can drive over after work on Friday.’ She glanced up at him and he moved his shoulders to signify grudging acquiescence.

By Tuesday evening it was beginning to turn cold again. The forecast was for overnight frost and an easterly wind in the morning. Gavin sat opposite Charlotte Neale in the well-appointed dining room of the Caprice, a restaurant renowned for its cooking, situated half a mile out of Cannonbridge.

‘Do have something else,’ Gavin urged her when she had finished a rich creamy dessert. ‘Some cheese? Fruit?’

She shook her head. ‘No, thanks, just some coffee.’ She glanced up at the clock. ‘I don’t want to be much later.’

As they drank their coffee she chatted about the friend she was going to stay with in Switzerland. She was looking forward to some skiing. ‘There’s still plenty of good snow,’ she said, smiling with pleased anticipation. She showed not the slightest sign that she would miss him.

He stirred his coffee, feeling a little melancholy. Don’t rush it, he warned himself again, don’t spoil it before it starts. He looked at her across the table; the lovely heart shaped face; thick flaxen hair, taken up this evening into a casual knot on top of her head; peach skin; eyes the soft deep blue of lobelias.

But it wasn’t just her looks, it was her attitude, her whole approach to life. Open and direct, no come-ons or put-offs, no airs and graces, no coquettish nonsense. No past, no complications.

He raised his cup to his lips. At the back of his throat he could feel an unpleasant roughness. He knew the feeling of old. Oh hell, he thought, I believe I’m getting Mrs Cutler’s cold. She had appeared at Eastwood as usual that morning but she had looked flushed and unwell. ‘I do feel pretty rotten,’ she said when he questioned her. ‘If I don’t come tomorrow it’ll mean I’ve decided to have a day or two in bed. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’ As he’d left for work he’d heard her coughing and blowing her nose.

The air was sharp as he drove Charlotte back to Berrowhill. ‘I won’t ask you in,’ she said as she got out of the car. ‘They’ll only start talking to you, and I want to get to bed.’ The sky was thickly clustered with stars. From the stables came the stir of horses, the voice of a stable lad.

Gavin walked with her to the door. ‘Write to me,’ he said. ‘Let me know how you get on.’

She made a little face. ‘I hate writing letters.’

‘You could phone.’

She moved her shoulders.

‘Don’t forget me,’ he said. As he bent his head to give her a light kiss he gave a sudden violent sneeze. She jumped back.

‘I’d rather you didn’t kiss me,’ she said with energy. ‘I don’t want to start my holiday with a streaming cold.’

By Friday morning Gavin’s cold was turning feverish. Mrs Cutler hadn’t shown her face at Eastwood since Tuesday, she was presumably nursing herself at home in her cottage.

It was a raw, chilly morning. Gavin shivered as he came out of the house and walked to the garage, although he had wrapped himself up with care. I’ll be glad when today’s over, he thought as he drove into Cannonbridge. Not only was there the usual list of appointments in the morning and the weekly meeting in the afternoon, but, worst of all, he had to attend a dinner in the evening over at the Northgrove Hotel. Northgrove was a small township which stood at the apex of a triangle with Cannonbridge and Martleigh at either end of the base line; it was roughly equidistant from both places.

The dinner was being given by the Northgrove Chamber of Commerce and was typical of many functions Gavin attended in the course of a year. In the ordinary way he didn’t dislike these occasions; sometimes they were quite enjoyable. But to sit through one feeling as he did now – not a cheerful prospect.

He walked slowly up the front steps of Elliott Gilmore and into the building. His head felt woolly and his legs far from steady. It was beginning to seem a good deal more like ’flu than a cold. He had breakfasted on black coffee and aspirin and he intended to repeat the dose throughout the morning. The thing is to buckle down to work and forget about how you feel, he told himself bracingly as he went into his office. With luck the aspirins would have some effect and by evening he would be feeling less like death warmed up.

By midday, when he terminated his last appointment as speedily as he could without overt rudeness, he was feeling very poorly indeed. ‘You don’t look at all well,’ Miss Tapsell said with concern as she removed yet another empty coffee cup from his desk. ‘I really think you should give in and go home to bed.’ He began to shake his head. ‘I’ll phone Mr Howard and Mr Roche,’ she said with resolution. ‘I’ll explain that you’re not well, you’ve had to go home, there won’t be a meeting this afternoon. They won’t mind. There’s nothing urgent on the agenda, it can all stand over till next week.’

He looked up at her. ‘It’s this dinner at Northgrove. If I go to bed now I’ll never be able to force myself to get up again this evening.’ At the thought of having to struggle into a dinner-jacket and drive over to Northgrove, sit through an interminable meal and endless speeches, he could have dropped his head into his hands and groaned. ‘I can’t cry off at such short notice.’

‘I shouldn’t let that worry you,’ Miss Tapsell said robustly. ‘Either Mr Howard or Mr Roche will go in your place, I’m sure of it.’

‘I know Howard can’t go,’ Gavin said. ‘He’s going away for the weekend. He’s joining his wife at her godmother’s, he’s driving over there this evening, it’s all arranged. He mentioned it on the phone yesterday.’

‘Then you can ask Mr Roche, I’m sure he’ll go. Shall I ring him now?’

‘I’d better speak to him myself.’ He was beginning to feel a great surge of relief at the prospect of deliverance.

Roche was, as always, ready to be flexible. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said when the matter had been explained. ‘I don’t mind in the least.’

‘It’s very good of you,’ Gavin said. ‘Particularly at such short notice.’

‘It’s no trouble. Tomorrow’s my turn on duty, I’ll stop over here tonight.’ Roche and the head clerk at Martleigh took it in turns to go into the office on Saturday mornings.

‘I’ll get off home then,’ Gavin said. ‘Thanks again.’

‘Look after yourself,’ Roche told him. ‘There are some pretty nasty bugs going around.’

‘Whisky and lemon, that’s the thing,’ Gavin said. ‘I’ll stop by for another bottle on the way home, I finished every drop in the house last night.’

‘Don’t worry about Mr Howard,’ Miss Tapsell said when Gavin had replaced the receiver. ‘I’ll ring him, I’ll explain about the meeting.’ She was already shepherding Gavin towards the door. ‘I’ll see to everything here, don’t worry about any of it.’ She looked up at him. ‘Would you like me to get someone to run you home? Are you sure you feel like driving?’

‘Oh, I’ll be all right, thanks,’ he said. ‘I’m quite capable of getting home. I’ll sweat it out over the weekend, I’ll be as right as rain on Monday.’

With the extra time at his disposal because of the cancelled meeting, Roche was able to get through a good deal of work during the afternoon. At a quarter to five his secretary came in with a pile of letters to be signed. He came suddenly out of his absorption.

‘Good heavens,’ he said. ‘Is that the time?’ He reached for the phone. ‘I must ring my wife and tell her I won’t be home this evening. I meant to do it earlier.’

On Monday morning Mrs Cutler returned to work at Eastwood. She didn’t yet feel one hundred per cent her old sprightly self but she felt just about well enough, and it did you no good to stay moping round the house once you were anything at all like fit to get back to work.

She pulled on a thick knitted cap and wound a long woolly scarf round her neck and shoulders, securing it with a large safety-pin against unwinding while she was pedalling along. She was early, as usual on a Monday morning. She always liked to get the week off to a good start, particularly so today, when she hadn’t been into Eastwood to clean since last Tuesday. The house would be in a fine old state by now. Mr Elliott was the last person to think of picking up a duster or running the cleaner over a carpet, let alone applying a flick of polish anywhere, not even if she were to stay away weeks instead of days. Not that she thought any the less of him for that. There was man’s work and there was woman’s work, and she had never seen good reason to depart from that principle.

She hoisted herself up on to her antiquated bicycle and began to pedal along at a good steady pace. The weekend had been dry, very bright and cold, but this morning was dark and overcast, with a biting wind. Not a morning to tempt folk out unnecessarily. She met no one as she covered the three-quarters of a mile, only a car or two drove past her on its way to Cannonbridge.

She reached Eastwood and got stiffly down to open the gate. She kept her head lowered against the chill blast as she pushed the bicycle along the drive and round to the rear of the house. She stowed the bike away in its usual place inside the shed and went over to the back door. She turned the handle but the door refused to yield. She tried again, without result. Mr Elliott must have forgotten to unlock it for her. He probably hadn’t expected her back so soon, it would be a nice surprise for him. She put a finger on the bell and pressed it, glancing about the garden as she waited. A few yards away a fly-catcher darted about, gathering material for his minuscule nest. In a nearby flowerbed a robin tugged at a worm.

Still no sound from inside the house. She pressed the bell again. ‘Oh, come on!’ she said aloud. ‘Get a move on!’ She began to stamp her feet to keep the circulation going. Still no sign of Mr Elliott coming down. She abandoned restraint, she put her finger forcefully on the bell and kept it there for several seconds. It was certainly ringing, she could hear it clearly, loud and insistent, he must surely hear it too, wherever he was – but maybe not if he was in the bathroom with the door closed. Or he could have overslept, he might have taken a drink or two over the odds last night, he might still be in bed. She stuck her finger on the bell yet again. She was growing tired of standing out here in the cold.

And then a thought struck her. Maybe he wasn’t in the house at all, maybe he’d already gone off to work. He could have had a specially busy day ahead, he could have decided he’d make an early start, he might even have had to go somewhere out of town – he did sometimes have to do that. He wasn’t to know she’d be returning to work this morning, he didn’t have second sight. She gave a loud noisy sigh at the thought, for it meant she would have had a wasted journey, she’d have to cycle back home again with nothing accomplished, in a bad mood for the rest of the day.

She made a determined movement of her head. She would soon see if her guess was right. She walked across to the garage to find out if his car was gone. The upper sections of the garage doors were glazed. She pressed her forehead against the glass and peered in. The car was there – so he must still be in the house.

She turned away from the garage, frowning. A feeling of bafflement, a stir of disquiet, rose inside her. She stood for a moment thinking what to do next. It wasn’t very likely that any of the other doors to Eastwood would be open but she might as well try them, just in case.

There were three other doors to the house, two side doors and the front door. She walked round the back to the side door that faced towards Manor Cottage but she had no luck there. Then she tried the front door, again without success. She stepped back and surveyed the house. The downstairs curtains were drawn back, and the upstairs curtains too – except for the main bedroom, Mr Elliott’s bedroom; those were still closed.

But if he was still in the house why didn’t he answer her ring? A horrible feeling began to build up inside her head, her heart began to bump and lurch.

She went unsteadily round the side of the house towards the last remaining door. She tried the handle, though now without any hope that it would yield. Then she turned her head and her gaze fell on a window to the left of the door, a little further along; a kitchen window. She stood arrested, staring at it. It was a casement window composed of a number of small panes, and was normally secured from the inside by a lever-type handle. One of the panes had been neatly removed so that it was now possible for a hand to be slipped inside and the lever operated.

Her heart pounded violently, she began to feel very unwell. She went close up to the window and peered into the kitchen; it seemed much as usual. She stood staring in, trying to decide what to do, then she suddenly turned and set off down the drive towards Manor Cottage.

She was out of breath by the time she reached the front door. She stood for a moment with her head lowered and her hand pressed to her side, trying to recover herself before raising the knocker. Before she had time to get her breath back the door swung suddenly open to reveal Emily Picton gazing out at her with sharp interest.

‘Is your father in?’ Mrs Cutler managed to say.

‘Yes.’ Emily maintained her unsmiling stare.

‘Would you fetch him?’ Mrs Cutler said. She was getting her breath back now, thank heavens.

Emily didn’t move. ‘Why do you want him?’ she asked.

Mrs Cutler felt like giving her a good slap. ‘If you would just fetch your father,’ she said. Too clever by half, that young lady, so sharp she’d cut herself one of these days, and that certainly wouldn’t grieve Mrs Cutler.

‘What is it, dear?’ The voice of Mrs Picton floated into the hall from the direction of the kitchen. Emily all but closed the front door, then she turned and ran back along the passage. The rude little madam, Mrs Cutler thought with heat. She slid the door a little further open and put her ear against the aperture. She could hear a low-pitched exchange of voices and then the sound of Emily running up the stairs, followed by a pause, and then Emily and her father coming down.

At last the door was thrown open and Mr Picton was standing on the threshold with Emily beside him. ‘You needn’t concern yourself with this,’ he said sharply to Emily and she took herself reluctantly off. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said to Mrs Cutler. ‘Is there something I can do for you?’ She began telling him in a garbled rush – for she suddenly felt shaky and tearful – about the window, the curtains, the car, how she couldn’t get in, couldn’t make Mr Elliott answer.

‘I’d better come along and see,’ he said as soon as he got the gist of it. ‘Just hang on a moment.’ He vanished inside and came hurrying back again a few moments later. ‘Don’t agitate yourself,’ he said as they went off together down the path to the gate. ‘There’s probably some perfectly simple explanation.’

She couldn’t keep up with his pace. ‘You’d better go on and leave me,’ she said after a minute or two. ‘I’ll follow on.’ He gave a nod and set off at a run. He flung open the gate of Eastwood and ran up the drive.

As she followed him through the gate she heard a sound from the cottage. She glanced over and saw the lower sash of a bedroom window being raised, a window overlooking the Eastwood drive. Emily put her head out and gave her a level, unabashed stare, then she turned her head and craned out after her father’s speeding figure.

Mrs Cutler followed Mr Picton as quickly as she could but she had to keep stopping to relieve an unpleasant feeling of tightness across her chest. She saw Mr Picton go round the side of the house towards the broken window. As she reached the house the front door opened and Mr Picton stood on the step. He was very pale.

‘What is it?’ she cried.

He gave her a long look. ‘I’m afraid it’s pretty bad.’

‘What is it?’ she cried again. ‘What’s happened?’

He drew a long breath. ‘He’s in the house, upstairs. I’m afraid he’s dead.’

She gave a sharp cry and put a hand up to her head. Then all at once she made a rush at the steps, pushing past him into the house.

He clutched at her arm. ‘Don’t go up,’ he said urgently. But she shook off his grasp and made for the stairs. ‘Don’t touch anything!’ he called after her. ‘I’m phoning the police.’ She turned along the landing towards the front bedroom. Downstairs in the hall she could hear Mr Picton dialling.

The bedroom door was open and the lights were on. She stood on the threshold, staring in, looking across at the bed. She felt as if at any moment she would faint clean away but she forced herself to stand there and look. Downstairs she could hear Mr Picton’s voice, rapid and urgent.

The bedclothes had been pulled back and something had been thrown down across them, a dark coat or raincoat; that too had been thrown back.

Mr Elliott lay on his right side, facing away from her, his head bent down towards his chest, his left arm over his face, the hand resting on the pillow. She could see the back of his head, the thick dark hair.

The jacket of his pyjamas had been raised, exposing his back. Sticking out from between his shoulder-blades was the long handle of a knife.