'It's not definite she
was
murdered,' she said mildly.
Edna sniffed derisively. "Course she was murdered, Miss Claire, and no wonder, neither, the way she carried on. I said as much to Mrs Davis. "You tell your Sandra to watch her step," I said, "or she might finish up the same way.'" Edna pushed her glasses up, nodding to herself with grim satisfaction. 'Well, I can't stand here chatting all day,' she added accusingly, 'I've my bedrooms to see to.' And to Claire's relief she lifted the vacuum cleaner and stumped from the room.
Claire followed her as far as the hall and turned into the sitting-room, where she glanced undecidedly at the clock. She really ought to be going—she'd promised to stand in for Daphne. Sally Polsom was holding the fort, but she couldn't do so indefinitely. The trouble, as Claire admitted to herself, was that she felt apprehensive about approaching Bernard. But if she didn't, she'd be worrying about him all day. Just a very brief call, then, to make sure—
A familiar rattling and roaring outside sent her hurrying to the window, and her face lit up. The Hesperus, battered but unbowed, had turned into the driveway and Simon was getting out. Claire ran to the front door.
'Darling! What a lovely surprise! Have you a day's leave?'
He returned her hug, glancing towards the house next door. 'Let's go inside, Mum, and I'll explain.'
'Nothing's wrong, is it?' Claire asked in quick alarm.
'No, no. Everything's OK.'
As they went through the front door, Edna appeared at the top of the stairs. 'Nice to see you, Master Simon,' she called down. 'We was just wondering if you've caught that killer yet.'
'What killer would that be, Edna?'
'The one that did the French girl in, of course.' Even Edna, Claire reflected, would not have been so tactless had she known of Simon's connection with Arlette.
He was answering gravely, 'She fell, Edna. No one was near her when she died.'
'Is that true, Simon?' Claire cut in. 'Well, thank God. It doesn't alter the fact that she's dead, but at least no one's under suspicion.'
Simon closed the sitting-room door. 'This isn't leave, Mum,' he said quietly, 'it's semi-official. About Bernard.'
Claire went cold. 'What about him?'
'You know Beryl's gone?'
'Yes, but how
do
you?'
'And that Bernard and Arlette's mother knew each other years ago?' Claire nodded. It might be her son who was speaking, but he was doing so in an official capacity, representing the law of the land, and she felt oddly ambivalent.
'Well, apparently he's been making a nuisance of himself, ringing her up all the time and so on.'
'But they're going to get married,' Claire protested. 'That's why Beryl left.'
'He told her that?'
'You mean it's not true?' She was staring at him in bewilderment.
'Not a word of it. She's no intention of leaving her husband.'
'Then why did he send Beryl away?'
Simon shrugged. He was standing with his back to the empty grate. He looked young and earnest and much as he'd always done, but there was a patina of authority laid over his youth that was at the same time touching and impressive. 'How does he seem? In himself?'
'Distinctly odd,' Claire said with a shiver, and it was to the policeman that she replied. She wouldn't have dreamed of discussing her friends with her children. 'I woke one night about a week ago and went to the window for some air. Bernard was out in his garden, standing quite still. I watched him for several minutes, and he never moved. And when they came to dinner the next evening, his behaviour was most peculiar. Beryl was very worried about him.'
'That would be when he'd just met Madame.'
'Of course. I never thought of that.'
'What exactly did Beryl say before she left?'
'That Bernard was marrying Madame Picard.'
'Did it come as a shock?'
'Well, yes, though not totally out of the blue. She'd told me earlier that he didn't love her.' 'When was that? Recently?'
'Yes, last Sunday. I called round when I got back from Melbray.' She hesitated, then unwillingly related the episode of the breadknife. To her relief, Simon didn't comment on it.
'But the bit about Madame Picard must have surprised you,' he said.
'Well, actually, no. Daphne Farlow saw them together. I hadn't mentioned it to Beryl, though.' 'Was she very upset about going?'
'I think she'd accepted it. She said Bernard seemed in a daze and didn't hear when she spoke to him. She thinks he's mentally ill.'
'But she hasn't called anyone in?'
'He wouldn't let her.'
'I see his car's there. Have you anything I could take round, as an excuse for calling? A cake, or something like that?'
'There are some drop-scones I made yesterday. I know he likes them.' 'Perfect.'
She said tentatively, 'Don't—harass him, darling. I promised Beryl I'd keep an eye on him.'
'Don't worry, Mum, I'll go very carefully.'
*
Bernard saw Simon's wreck of a car arrive next door. The long arm of the law, he thought, and laughed aloud. He had woken that morning with a feeling of elation. He was free! Beryl had gone with the minimum of fuss and Cecile, his love, was within his reach at last.
He'd no lectures that day, and had decided to work at home. There'd be no interruptions with unwanted tea or coffee—but no lunch, either. He remembered the unappetizing plates he'd found last night, and wrinkled his nose in distaste. Yet if cold fish was the only mess left at the break-up of a marriage, he'd no cause to complain.
But, with the day stretching ahead of him, he was unable to settle. He yearned for Cecile, ached to hold her again. Surely he'd been patient long enough? He accepted her reluctance to hurt Gaston, but he was himself entitled to some consideration. Perhaps he should go to the hotel again, persuade her to bring matters to a head.
As he reached that decision the doorbell chimed, and he answered it to find young Simon on the step. Alarm bells rang in his head. Never, in the four years he'd lived here, had the boy called before. What brought him now? The bag of scones he self-consciously held didn't deceive Bernard for a moment. He must watch his words, let nothing slip. Smiling, he held the door wide.
'Simon! What a delightful surprise! Come in, boy, come in. Have you got the day off?'
'Not entirely. I'm on my way to Maybury Street, but I took the chance to call on Mum. She sent these scones, by the way.' He held them out awkwardly. 'How are you, Bernard?' He always felt embarrassed addressing the austere professor by his first name, but Beryl had pressed these on himself and Sarah when the Warwicks first arrived.
'Never better, my boy, never better.' He sobered briefly. 'That's very thoughtful of your mother. You'll have heard that Beryl's left me?'
'Yes. I'm sorry.'
'Oh, don't be, don't be. We were always ill-matched, I'm afraid. This had been brewing for a long time; we're better apart. But we mustn't stand talking in the hall. Come to the kitchen arid I'll make some coffee.'
'I don't want to disturb you,' Simon said warily, following him as requested. He was baffled by Bernard's affability and unsure what he was supposed to be looking for. The Governor had been vague—'Play it by ear and report back,' he'd said.
He asked tentatively, 'Will you stay on here alone?'
Bernard smiled, plugging in the coffee machine. 'I shan't be alone, Simon. I'll be marrying again, as soon as circumstances allow. Have you met Madame Picard?'
'I—er, no, I haven't. But I knew her daughter.'
'Ah yes. A very sad business.' But it had brought him Cecile. Because of that, he found it hard to regret Arlette's death. He mourned her only on Cecile's behalf.
'You'll be marrying Madame Picard?' Simon pursued valiandy.
'Yes, indeed. We should have done so years ago, when we were young.'
'So she's getting a divorce too?'
Bernard frowned fleetingly. 'Of course.'
Simon swallowed hard. 'She has agreed to marry you?'
He feared a strong reprimand at his persistence, but Bernard laughed. 'Never been in love, Simon? If you had, you wouldn't need to ask such questions.'
Which was no answer at all. Yet short of downright rudeness, he could pursue it no further. DI Ledbetter could take it from here.
Having done his duty to the best of his ability, Simon thankfully slipped off his mental uniform and relaxed. Bernard noted the change, and smiled to himself. Did they suspect him of doing away with Beryl? Think her body might be buried in the garden? If so, they were welcome to look. He'd considered killing her, true, but only academically. He couldn't be tried for that. And in the event she'd gon
e surprisingly quietly. Gaston P
icard was the only obstacle that remained.
When Simon left, Bernard waited for a while, keeping an eye on the frightful green car. Ten minutes later, the boy and his mother emerged from the next-door house, got into their respective cars and drove away. As soon as they were out of sight, Bernard did likewise, and made his way to the White Swan car park. For no other reason than it was the nearest entrance, he went into the building the back way, walked past the kitchens and deserted bars and emerged in the foyer by the reception desk.
Alerted by Simon's visit, he spotted the plain-clothes man at once. He was facing away from Bernard, towards the lifts and staircase, and Bernard himself had not been seen. He moved swiftly back into the corridor to review the position. Whoever the man was watching for, it was clear that no one could go either up or downstairs without being seen. Except, thought Bernard, with growing excitement, by the back stairs which he'd just passed. He lingered a while longer, frustrated by being so near Cecile but unable to approach her discreetly. And as he hesitated, one of the lift doors opened and Cecile herself stepped out.
Now—would she be followed? Bernard waited with held breath, but the man remained engrossed in his newspaper, and Cecile, apparently unaware of him, walked purposefully across the foyer and through the swing doors to the street. Bernard was tempted to follow her, but a more daring plan was taking shape. He could approach Gaston direct, discover how far Cecile had prepared him for their imminent parting.
Careful not to attract the detective's attention, he slipped back the way he had come and crossed the road to a phone-box. His request to speak to Monsieur Picard was not questioned; had it been, he'd have identified himself as a police officer. The bell sounded for several minutes before the phone was lifted.
'All
o?'
Bernard's fingers were slippery with sweat. 'Good day, monsieur,' he said in French. 'This is Professor Warwick. We met at the railway station.'
'Of course. Good day, Professor.'
'I wonder if it would be possible for us to meet?'
'We should be honoured. When my wife returns, I—'
'No, monsieur, I wish to see you alone.' And as the man hesitated, weak fool that he was, Bernard added, 'It concerns your daughter.'
'Arlette?' The voice cracked.
'Arlette. Will you see me?'
'But naturally. You must forgive me,
monsieur le professeur,
I do not know the town. I—'
Bernard said rapidly, 'I suggest you leave by the back stairs. This is important. Someone is watching the hallway.'
'Someone—? I don't understand.'
'I'll explain when I see you. Go down the back stairs and out through the door at the foot of them. It leads to the hotel car park. I'll meet you there.'
'Very well. At what time do you wish to see me?'
'Now. Immediately.' There was no knowing how long Cecile would be.
'D'accord,'
Picard said again. 'I will come straight down.'
Bernard pushed his way out of the kiosk and ran back to his car. Moments later, the back door of the hotel opened and Picard emerged, looking vaguely about him. Bernard went to meet him. The man looked thin and frail, the fine bone structure very near the surface of the skin. His large, poet's eyes were mournful, with purple shadows beneath them, but he gave a perfunctory smile of recognition and took the hand Bernard held out. Bernard settled him in the car as swiftly as possible and, driving rapidly out of the car park, turned on to Gloucester Road.
'You wish to speak of Arlette, monsieur?'
'Actually, no. It is Cecile we must discuss.'