Motive for Murder (17 page)

‘It looks like it, but we can't complain this year.'

‘That's true. Are you on holiday?'

‘No, I work here.'

‘Well, I don't envy you. Lovely in the summer, of course, but when the mists come in and the winds get up, it's a different matter.'

‘Do you live here?'

‘No, I'm just down for a long weekend – I go back tomorrow. But I was here earlier on, in July. Very different it was then – a bit of life about it.'

The waitress brought my tea and scone. I was glad enough of another girl to talk to, even briefly. It was something I had missed during my stay in Cornwall. My companion passed me the sugar. ‘Where do you work, then? I shouldn't have thought there was much scope down here. At the Bank, are you?'

‘No, I'm with Matthew Haig, the writer. He lives here.'

She looked up in surprise. ‘I thought his secretary was a tall, blonde girl?'

I felt myself go hot. ‘She – left. Did you know her?'

‘Not well. I used to see her at the Baths in Mevacombe.'

My heart stumbled before I realised why, then it started a slow, laborious pumping. I heard myself say, ‘I think you must be mistaken; Linda couldn't swim.'

The girl laughed. ‘That's what they all thought, wasn't it? Her boyfriend used to tease her, so she wanted to surprise him. She certainly surprised her instructor; he found she'd a natural gift for it. She'd reached the life-saving course when I met her.'

I could feel a pulse beating in my throat. She leant across the table and put a hand on my arm. ‘What's the matter? You look as if you've seen a ghost!'

I moistened my lips. ‘Are you quite sure we're speaking of the same person?'

‘I should think so. Tall, pretty girl – lovely figure. She told me she worked for an author in Chapelcombe. Linda something, like you he said. Look, you're not going to pass out, are you?'

I shook my head. ‘Who was her instructor – at the Baths?'

‘Curly-haired chap, name of Bill. Rather fancied her, I thought.'

‘I must see him.'

‘Oh, he's gone. He was about to emigrate to Australia and just filling in time before his ship sailed. But why do you want to see him?'

I owed it to her to tell her. ‘Linda Harvey was drowned in the bay.'

‘
Drowned
?' She withdrew her hand sharply from my arm. ‘But – that's impossible.'

‘It happened.'

‘Well, all I can say is, it must have been a very heavy sea to have drowned Linda. I tell you she could swim like a fish!'

‘It was a calm day.'

Her eyes widened, and in them now was a reflection of my own unease. ‘I don't understand how that could have happened,' she said flatly.

‘Cramp?' There was desperation in the suggestion.

‘It's possible, I suppose.' I could see she wasn't convinced. Somehow, neither was I.

I tried to marshal my whirling thoughts. ‘Could you – would you mind telling me your name?'

She looked surprised. ‘Jane Birch. Why?'

‘I'm Emily Barton. Look, would you be prepared to repeat all this – to someone in authority, if need be?'

‘The police, you mean? Oh, now look here, I'm not getting mixed up in anything like that! Not on your life! Anyway, I'm going home tomorrow.'

‘But it might be important.'

‘You mean it might not have been an accident?'

I hadn't yet formulated it into words, even to myself, and the direct question made me flinch. ‘Possibly.'

‘Well, I'm taking no chances, thank you very much. If I go blabbing to the police, I might get my own head bashed in!'

I said sharply, ‘I didn't mean –'

‘Look, dear, I don't care what you meant.' She was fumbling in her purse for some money. ‘I'm sorry I ever mentioned it. Now forget it, will you? Don't try to drag me in, I'll deny I ever met her.' She stood up. ‘And if you take my advice, you'll do nothing about it either. In this world, it's Number One that you have to look out for.'

She went hurriedly over to the cash desk. At the door, she glanced back over her shoulder, and seemed relieved that I had not moved. Then she was gone. I sat alone, staring at her empty chair. Linda could swim. She couldn't have drowned in a calm sea – unless somebody held her head under water.

* * *

Mike said, ‘Look, honey, something's the matter, I can see that. Tell Uncle Mike what it is. Are you still upset about Kate?'

I shook my head.

‘What, then?'

‘Linda.'

‘
Linda?
But I thought we got that sorted out ages ago.'

I had to tell someone. I couldn't take the sole responsibility of possibly ‘withholding evidence'. Quickly, with my hands knotted in my lap, I told him about the girl in the café.

When I'd finished speaking we sat in silence for a long time. Then Mike said, very softly, ‘My God!'

I twisted round to face him. ‘It must have been cramp.'

‘Must it?'

‘Oh for God's sake, Mike, what else? Who could have wanted to harm Linda?'

‘Or Kate?' asked Mike gently. ‘Or you, for that matter?'

My skin prickled and I moved sharply. ‘Emily, what are you going to do?'

‘I was hoping you would tell me.'

‘Quite honestly, I don't see what you
can
do. It's a pretty thin story, without any confirmation. The instructor has conveniently gone to Australia, and Jane isn't going to back you up. All it would do is create more unpleasantness for Matthew, and I think he's had as much as he can take.'

‘I know.'

‘Of course, if you feel you should –'

‘No, no!' I shook my head several times. ‘I just wanted to talk it over with someone, that's all.'

‘Poor love, what a time you're having down here! Emily – promise me something.'

‘Yes?'

‘Take care of yourself. I mean that. Take very good care of yourself. It might be better not to mention to Matthew that you met this girl.'

I didn't think it necessary to tell him that I had no intention of doing so.

It was Saturday again, a mild, golden October day. Sarah was spending the day with a school friend. People had rallied round very kindly after her mother's death, and her time was fully occupied. I was glad for her sake, though I missed her company, and my free afternoons were sometimes unbearably long.

Matthew had already left for the pub and I was sorting through some papers when there was a tapping on the French window and Mike stood smiling at me. I went across and let him in.

‘How's my girl today?'

‘Not too bad.'

‘Ready for some exercise?'

‘Exercise?' I repeated cautiously.

‘I thought we might go for a walk this afternoon, along the coast, and if you're free this evening, we needn't hurry back.

‘That would be lovely.'

‘Good. I've jobs to finish off, so meet me at the gate at half-past three. I'll ask Mrs Trehearn to pack up a picnic.'

‘I'll look forward to it.' I went back to my desk and continued sorting out the top copies from the carbons, knocking them gently on the flat surface to shape them into neat piles. Then I carried them over to Matthew's desk.

‘The morning's work?' Mike enquired, watching me.

‘Yes; he likes to read them through before we start on the next lot.'

I opened the lower right-hand desk drawer where the completed pages lay, and dropped the new ones neatly on top.

‘
Fait accompli!
' I said.

He put his hands on my shoulders and studied my face. I looked steadily back at him. His eyes were more blue than grey today, reflecting his sports shirt. What had Kate said? ‘He's too good-looking by half. It ensures that he always gets his own way.'

‘A penny for your thoughts!'

I moved under his hands and he dropped them. ‘I was just thinking,' I replied with a touch of asperity, ‘that you're the answer to a maiden's prayer!' And wondering, my mind added, why all your gentle, practised love-making doesn't move me half as much as Matthew's single passionate and irritable kiss. The tail end of the thought caught me by surprise – I was schooling myself not to think about Matthew – and the colour rushed to my face as though I'd spoken aloud.

Mike laughed, naturally attributing the blush to my comment. ‘Any maiden in particular?' he asked.

‘All of them, I've no doubt.'

‘Well, this is the one I have my sights on!' He flicked thumb and finger gently against my cheek and the gong sounded for lunch. ‘See you later, sweetheart.'

We set off as planned at three-thirty, down the path towards the sea and across the road on to the springy turf. Directly opposite we could see the ‘Danger' notice barring the usual way down to the bay. We turned left and walked more slowly, the salt-encrusted wind in our faces, our hands linked. My mind was still on the morning's work. The book was coming along well now and today, at last, Matthew had seemed to be more in the swing of it than at any time since Kate's arrival at Touchstone.

‘Mike,' I said idly, ‘what would make you murder someone?'

As I spoke he stumbled at my side and swore, bending down to rub his ankle.

‘Have you sprained it?' I asked anxiously.

‘I don't think so. Some goddamned rabbit hole.' His face had whitened.

‘Sit down for a while and rest it,' I urged. ‘We're not in any hurry.' Cautiously he lowered himself to the grass and I began to rub his ankle with gentle fingers.

‘What were you saying before I tripped?'

I smiled apologetically. ‘I asked what would make you commit murder.'

‘Does that pass nowadays for small talk?'

‘Suppose there's a wealthy old man living alone. You decide to murder him. You go along to his flat and hit him over the head with an ornament. Now, the million dollar question is,
why?
He reached down suddenly, pushing his hand off his ankle, and looking up in surprise, I saw his face was livid. ‘Oh, I'm sorry!' I exclaimed. ‘Am I making it worse? Wait here while I run back and phone for a taxi to take you home.'

'I'm all right. You pressed on a tender spot, that's all.'

‘But it might be badly sprained. We'll have to abandon the walk.'

‘Nonsense, it will ease in a minute or two. It'll only stiffen if I don't use it.' He gave me a crooked smile. ‘You were asking why I murdered someone.'

‘Oh yes. Was it love, fear, jealousy – but hardly, an old man! – greed, or revenge?'

‘You said he was wealthy; surely it would be for gain?'

‘You'd think so,' I agreed, frowning, ‘but he wasn't robbed.'

‘So this isn't a hypothetical case?'

‘Oh no, it really happened.'

'And you're playing detective? Well, the only other thing I can think of is that one was blackmailing the other.'

‘That's a possibility, I suppose.'

He looked at me with a quizzical smile. Are you going to explain this extraordinary conversation?'

‘Oh I'm sorry – didn't I say? It's Matthew's novel.'

‘Matthew's – novel!' He started to laugh, and I looked at him in surprise. ‘Well,' he said, ‘that's a relief! I was beginning to think you had me on a murder rap!'

I smiled. ‘No wonder you were looking worried!'

‘Just a minute, though; you said this really happened?'

‘The old man was actually killed, yes, but that's only the starting point. Matthew's invented a cast of characters and given them all different motives, to try to work out who might have done it.'

‘But who did in real life?'

‘We don't know; the murderer hasn't been found.'

‘Well, without being obtuse, how will Matthew know when he hits on the right motive?'

I considered for a moment. ‘I don't suppose he will.'

‘Then it strikes me as rather a pointless exercise.'

‘But it's a
novel,
Mike; he's not interested in
who
did it so much as
why.
He's not a policeman, after all,' I added, remembering Matthew's comment to Mrs Statton.

Mike made a move to get up, and I put my hand under his arm to help him. Gingerly he stood, putting all his weight on the uninjured foot. Then he lowered the other, testing it. After a moment he straightened and smiled at me.

‘There you are, what did I tell you? As good as new.'

‘But you mustn't walk on it – not today.'

‘Nonsense. Come on, now, we've wasted enough time.' He took my arm and, not wanting to keep protesting, I fell into step beside him. He was limping slightly, but his colour had come back and I began to accept he'd made the right decision.

A little farther on we came to some steps, and went down them on to the hard, wet sand, ribbed in brown and gold from the receding tide.

On our left the cliffs towered, jagged against the bright sky and haloed by wheeling gulls, while under their skirts lay the twisting caves which bored back into the rock, harbouring cool shaded pools where horny shrimps and angular starfish, stranded by the tide, floated in the shallow water.

Instinctively I moved away from their dank, resounding tunnels to the openness of the beach. The ridges in the sand hurt the soles of my feet and to Mike's amusement I walked cat-like between them. Pebbles and shells rimed the sand where the tide had reached, their jagged uneven line glinting like a broken necklace. I had been collecting pebbles when Matthew had dragged me, protesting, out of the water. Matthew, who had been with Linda the afternoon she drowned: Linda, who could swim.

I shivered and suddenly the deserted beach was no longer a friendly place. Mike glanced at me. ‘A cup of hot tea will warm you up. Let's go back on to the soft sand.'