‘She’s just an innocent bystander who’s unfortunately involved,’ said Patrick shortly. ‘And how’s little Cathy?’
Colin blushed to the roots of his carroty hair.
‘Oh, very well,’ he mumbled.
It was Colin’s visits to see Cathy Ludlow while she was up at Oxford that had caused him and Patrick to renew their acquaintance. Catherine had come down that summer with a respectable second.
‘What’s she doing now? Working in London?’
‘She’s in Paris. But she’ll be home for Christmas.’
‘Well, Paris isn’t far away. I expect you’ve kept in touch,’ Patrick remarked.
‘She must see the world a bit,’ Colin said. ‘She’s still pretty young.’
‘Don’t risk losing her, though,’ Patrick said, suddenly serious. ‘A second chance doesn’t always come one’s way.’
‘No. I’ll remember that,’ Colin said, looking embarrassed.
Patrick had not revealed to Colin that he had any particular interest in Ellen; she was just a character in a puzzling drama that he felt certain was unfolding. He had told Colin that he suspected David Bruce of having an affair outside his marriage, but he had not said with whom; however, if they watched David Bruce, as now they might after the discovery of the pie, the police would very soon find out. His heart felt heavy, but she had to be extracted somehow from this mire.
‘If we’d had the pie, and not your amateur chum, and if we’d had a tidy slice of it, we’d have been able to find out if it was homemade, or made of frozen pastry, or sold ready-made,’ Colin said.
‘Do I detect a reproof?’ Patrick asked. ‘I stole it anyway, from the Bruces’ dustbin. Whoever put it there might have decided to pluck it back and burn it, and if much had gone, could have noticed someone had had a go at it.’
‘That’s true. Perhaps you did right,’ Colin said. ‘But do be careful, Patrick. You’ll be breaking and entering next.’
‘I’ve done that too,’ said Patrick, with calm. ‘At least, I didn’t have to break, either time, but I’ve entered. And I wasn’t caught.’ He described his visit to the shed at Mulberry Cottage and his theft of the photograph album, and last night’s quick visit to Abbot’s Lodge.
Colin listened without interrupting.
‘That’s very interesting, but it’s not enough for us to act on,’ he said at last. ‘And we can’t use this analysis as an excuse. If someone means to get Carol, they’ll do it. It sounds to me as if they’re just trying to scare her off – small accidents about the place – the death of the dog. An ill-wisher could have slipped out of the Bradshaws’ party and let down the tyre of her car. Someone wants her to go. Maybe David wants her to leave him. He’d have his weekends in peace with Ellen then, wouldn’t he? You say she uses the cottage.’
‘I never told you—’ Patrick began to protest.
‘No, but I get hunches too,’ Colin said, and as he spoke the telephone rang.
He answered it, listened, and covering the mouthpiece with his hand said to Patrick, ‘It’s Surrey.’
Patrick sat there while Colin said: ‘Yes, I see. No, don’t do any more yet, thanks,’ and rang off. He then made a great business of putting away his biro and straightening the papers in front of him.
‘Well, come on. What’s happened?’ Patrick demanded.
‘We’ve been forestalled,’ Colin said. ‘A young woman collected a volume of Cicero early this morning. A Miss Ellen Brinton.’
After he left Colin, Patrick went to the British Museum, where he stood looking at the caryatid again and wishing she were placed somewhere with a comfortable chair in front of her instead of in a cramped space filled by a column. Then he had a ham roll and some coffee in the refreshment room and after that he soothed himself by contemplating some illuminated manuscripts. Then, by arrangement, he returned to New Scotland Yard to see if Colin had found out anything else; his researcher at Somerset House must, by now, have unearthed some dates, if nothing else. Colin was out, so once again he had to wait. He always carried some small volume or other in his pocket to while away any idle hours he might meet with, and was immersed in the work of an obscure modern poet when Colin at last appeared.
‘Sorry, Patrick. Have you been waiting long?’ Colin hung up his raincoat, gave a few commands to the sergeant who had followed him into his office, and then turned to his visitor.
‘Not really. You’ve found something?’ Patrick said.
‘Yes. Some details about David Bruce.’ Colin told him what they were.
Patrick drove home by way of Ellen’s flat. She was out, and though he waited for some time she did not return. It was Friday. She must have left London for the weekend. Perhaps she had never come back after her visit to Surrey.
He gave up. By the time he got back to Oxford it was much too late to dine, so he scrambled himself some eggs which he ate while listening to Bach on his record player. At ten o’clock, Jane rang up.
‘I’ve been looking through that old Slade House photograph album you stole,’ she said. ‘I’ve recognised someone. I think you’d better come over.’
‘I’ll be there in half-an-hour,’ said Patrick.
Jane was in her dressing-gown sitting on the floor by the fire. She had washed her hair, and it hung on her shoulders, soft and silky. Her face had filled out a little and she looked serene. However, when Patrick came in, bringing with him an aura of the crisp, frosty night, her expression was alert enough.
‘Michael’s out at a village meeting. He won’t be long,’ she said. ‘I was just browsing through the album while I dried my hair. Here.’ She handed it to him.
Patrick, still wearing his overcoat, sat down facing her.
‘I’ve put a marker in the page,’ she said.
Patrick opened the volume at the place indicated. There were groups of girls in gym tunics, and several of girls in costume, dressed for a performance of
She Stoops to Conquer,
according to the legend below. Patrick studied them all carefully.
‘Ah! Here!’ he exclaimed, his finger on the image of one girl.
‘That’s right.’ Jane looked at him. ‘It’s the hair that’s so different,’ she said. ‘I was amusing myself going through the album trying to imagine them all much older now, and with different hair. I suddenly saw it.’
‘You knew who you were looking for,’ Patrick said.
‘No, I didn’t,’ Jane protested. ‘Nor did you, or you’d have said so and we’d have looked through the album accordingly.’
‘I’ve been looking for the link with Slade House all the time, and now you’ve found it,’ Patrick said.
‘Winifred Kent made no secret of having been at Slade House,’ Jane said.
Patrick looked at the photograph of a slim girl dressed as a man in regency style, and wearing a full-bottomed wig.
‘She told you when you were alone upstairs?’ Patrick asked. ‘No one else heard?’
‘No,’ Jane said.
‘After we’d gone, they may have talked about us. Valerie had mentioned the books. It’s no secret that I was in Athens when Miss Amelia died,’ Patrick said. ‘I wonder if she said it again.’ He took a penknife from his pocket and very gently prised the edges of the photograph away from its mount. It came free quite easily, pasted in only at the corners. In faded ink on the back were written the names of the girls. He handed it silently to Jane.
‘We should have thought of looking on the backs,’ he said.
‘But with the married name – we wouldn’t have realised,’ Jane said.
‘We could have checked them all,’ Patrick said.
‘But now we know this, does it make any difference?’Jane asked.
‘Indeed it does,’ said Patrick.
‘I don’t see why. The two who might have recognised her are dead.’
‘And why are they dead? Because she didn’t want to be recognised,’ said Patrick.
‘You mean Miss Forrest was somehow pushed down those stairs ? You’ve always thought that, haven’t you?’
‘I mean Miss Forrest was pushed, and also Miss Amelia. That youth who jostled her did it on purpose.’
‘But how? Who? A hired yobo?’
‘No. It was much more subtle,’ said Patrick. ‘But I don’t know if I can prove it.’ He looked at Jane. ‘You said that Miss Amelia wouldn’t forgive a past pupil who trespassed against her code. If she met such a pupil in later life she might feel it her duty to expose to anyone closely involved the past misdeeds of that girl.’
‘If she’d made a new life – a good marriage . . .’ Jane’s voice trailed off. ‘Would she be so cruel?’
‘We can’t know. She might watch and wait. But the girl – woman – would never feel safe.’
He stood up.
‘I’ve got to get down there, Jane. Someone else may be in terrible danger.’
‘What, now? In the middle of the night?’
‘Yes.’ In his mind was the thought of Ellen; she had collected the missing
Cicero
that day. Why had it been missing? Would someone else be after it too?
‘I’d better ring Colin before I go – that is, if I can find him,’ he said, but as he finished speaking the telephone rang.
Jane rose somewhat ponderously to her feet and went out to the hall to answer it. She was back in less than a minute.
‘Telepathy,’ she said. ‘It’s Colin for you. He tried Mark’s, and when you weren’t there, thought of us.’
But Patrick had not waited to hear her sentence end.
She heard him say, ‘Oh God,’ to something Colin said, and then, ‘What happened?’ There was silence for a few moments while Colin spoke, and then Patrick told him about the photograph. After that a few more remarks were exchanged and Patrick came back into the sitting-room.
‘What is it?’Jane scarcely dared to ask.
‘It’s Madge Bradshaw. She’s been killed,’ he said. ‘Her body was found in the church this afternoon. It seems something was dropped on her head from above.’
‘Oh no!’
‘The church has got a spy-hole in the belfry so that the bell-ringers can see when to start ringing the wedding peal. Our villain was waiting for her up there and dropped a great stone on her as she passed below. And in case she’d only been stunned, she’d been cracked a few times on the skull with a huge brass candlestick.’
‘But why was she in the church at all?’
‘She helped a lot with church affairs, remember? She’d been cleaning some of the brass – taken bits home to clean, it seems, and was returning it. I’m going over there, Jane.’
‘But it’s happened – it’s awful – but surely—?’ Jane stopped talking as she saw his stricken face.
‘Colin heard about this because he’d got on to the local police down there and asked to be told if anything unusual came in about Meldsmead or that area. The local C.I.D. have been pretty efficient. They say the body lay face downwards on the floor of the church and the head had been smashed in.’
‘But it’s—it’s maniacal,’ Jane said.
‘Yes,’ Patrick agreed. ‘I’m afraid we’re dealing with a maniac, and it’s become a desperate situation.’
‘Can’t the police—?’ Jane looked at him fearfully.
‘They’ve done all their stuff so far – carted off the body, made enquiries in the village, closed the church up till tomorrow. Colin’s going down there right away to tell them what we know. It’s not a Yard matter yet, but I suppose it may become one. We’ve got to have proof, you see and here’s a part of it.’ He put the photograph carefully in his wallet. ‘I’m off now, Jane. I’ll be in touch.’
She heard his car racing up through the gears as he tore out of the village without any regard for the speed limit, and she knew there was no way at all for her to help him.
Patrick’s car burnt up the miles to Meldsmead. It was another fine, dry night; a fresh breeze was blowing, keeping the clouds away, and the sky was studded with stars. Driving conditions were good and there was little traffic once he left the main roads behind. He tried to calm himself by reasoning that the murderer was most unlikely to strike again that night; the plans had all been laid long ago, the despatch of Miss Amelia carefully arranged. But Miss Forrest had been killed, he was sure, on some impulse; and now Madge Bradshaw’s death had shown a loss of nerve.
Colin was going down to Meldsmead with the knowledge and consent of his chief; unless the Yard was called in, the investigation would be dealt with by the local force, and tactful co-operation would be needed. He had assured Patrick on the telephone that it was impossible for anything more to happen during the hours of darkness, but Patrick did not share this view. Something had been overlooked; someone was in danger, and swifter action might have saved Madge. Colin had promised to come and find him in the village as soon as he had finished with the local Superintendent.
‘I’ll know where to look for you,’ he’d added grimly.
Patrick approached the village from the north-east, the direction he had taken with Jane and Michael only the evening before. He drove fast along the lanes, trusting to be warned by the headlights of any approaching car. As long as it’s not our Valerie, he thought; but she would be back by now, if she was spending tonight in the village. She’d said at the Kents’ house the night before that she was going to the office as usual today.
He paused at the turning where the lane joined the main village street; the church lay on the left. Everything seemed quiet. Patrick pulled the car round so that the headlights illuminated the little green in front of the church; beside it was the graveyard. There seemed to be no police guard. He got out of the car and walked up to the church gate. A big padlock and chain secured it; he supposed the door into the church itself would be locked too. He turned back towards the car, sniffing: there was the smell of an autumn bonfire in the air; someone had been burning their garden rubbish. Suddenly Patrick knew that this was no ordinary bonfire. He leaped back into the car and accelerated up the lane, past the darkened houses. No one seemed to be about. He supposed the police had made enquiries about Madge’s last known movements at every house. The body had been found by the vicar at four o’clock.
He turned into the lane leading to Abbot’s Lodge and drove down it as fast as he dared; then he stopped outside Mulberry Cottage, automatically switching off his headlights. At first glance everything seemed normal as he opened the gate and strode up the path. He saw at once that the curtains were drawn across the windows, unlike the night when he had found the photograph album. Someone was inside, and it was not Valerie, for there was no sign of her car.