Rotten Apples (22 page)

Mrs Rusham had not been at all put out by the prospect of having two extra people in the house for an unspecified length of time, and had announced that Ms Fydgett would have the spare room and her nephew the sofabed in Mr Tom's study. Disliking the idea, Willow had eventually admitted that it was the only possible place for him to sleep and went to lock away her husband's papers while Mrs Rusham made up the bed in the spare room.

Tom was a tidy man and so there had been little for Willow to do. She found the keys to his desk hanging in their usual place on the window frame, unlocked the top drawer to put his few loose papers in and was confronted with a packet of letters topped with a photograph of herself, which she had never seen before.

It must, she had decided, have been one of a batch he had taken on one of their holidays. She hated almost all the photographs anyone had ever taken of her, but this one was really not too bad. Tom had caught an aspect of her that she had always thought was completely private, even from him. Sitting under a canopy of vines with her elbows on a marble table, she was ostensibly reading, but in fact her eyes were unfocused, staring well beyond the book. Sunlight was dappling through the leaves on her red hair and she looked quite unprotected.

‘I'm giving him the red towels,' Mrs Rusham said from the doorway. ‘Is that all right?'

‘Whatever you say, Mrs Rusham,' said Willow, wiping her eyes as unobtrusively as possible. She had turned to see her housekeeper standing with a pile of linen and a thick duvet in her arms. ‘He's going to be a bit hot under that, isn't he?'

‘He can kick it off or turn it sideways.'

‘So he can. Do you need any help?'

Mrs Rusham had looked so surprised that Willow nearly blushed for her past behaviour.

‘I don't think your hands are up to pulling up mattresses.'

‘Nor they are. As always, you're quite right. There's the telephone. I'll go and deal with that while you're busy in here.'

When the fydgetts arrived late in the afternoon, Mrs Rusham asked Robert to help her carry the suitcases upstairs. Watching them go, Serena said, ‘We must sort out something about money. I can't possibly sponge off you.'

‘Don't be silly. It'll be a positive help having you here so that I don't prowl about the house thinking of Tom all the time.'

‘No, no. I must. I…'

Willow, who had recovered some of her carapace of pretended toughness, looked at Serena and took a chance. ‘If you really want to repay me, you could always give the police your alibi for the fire.'

Serena frowned and asked in a withdrawn voice: ‘Was that why you invited us here?'

‘Certainly not,' said Willow. ‘You were in need, and I've got the space, and the help to make it easy. But you seem to want to hand over a quid pro quo. Your alibi would help, whereas a few pounds of rent would only complicate my tax position.'

‘Actually they wouldn't,' said Serena, laughing. ‘Don't you know that you're now allowed a certain amount free of tax for renting a room in your own home?'

‘Even so, no amount of rent—tax-free or otherwise—is going to do nearly as much for me as knowing that the arsonist is in gaol.' Willow hoped that Serena's amusement meant that she was going to be co-operative. ‘And your exercising your right to silence is holding up the police investigation. I can—just—understand why you've been doing it, but quite frankly I think it's irresponsible—and it's prolonging all my terrors of another fire.'

Serena turned away. ‘Is there somewhere I can wash?' she asked.

‘Yes, of course,' said Willow, concealing her impatience. ‘There's a bathroom next to your bedroom. I'll take you up.'

Showing her guest up to the spare bedroom, which was furnished with an old blue silk Chinese carpet, Chinese Chippendale furniture and a row of blue-and-white porcelain jars on the chimneypiece, Willow wanted to shake her. Instead, she smiled politely and said that Mrs Rusham would have tea ready in the drawing room within about ten minutes.

As she went downstairs again, asking herself whether she had made a stupid mistake—or two of them—Willow heard the sound of Mrs Rusham's voice through the kitchen door, saying: ‘I've seen a lot worse, you know. What d'you use on them?'

There was an indistinct, deep-toned mumble, which must have come from Rob. Willow paused, eavesdropping shamelessly.

‘I don't much fancy those elaborate lotions,' Mrs Rusham said when the mumble stopped. ‘If I were you, I'd stick to good old-fashioned soap and water. There are some sorts of soap that don't have any perfume or colouring and are specially made for faces. I'll pick up a tablet when I'm shopping next. If you use that, rinse it off well and eat plenty of vegetables, they should start to clear up.'

There was another buzz of sound from Rob. Willow leaned over the banisters, and made out some of the words: ‘…called them “shag spots”, and said that I must have been, you know, um…to get such bad ones.'

Mrs Rusham's clear tones were unmistakable as she said indignantly: ‘That sounds most unfair and silly. Spots are a product of your age and what your hormones are doing to your whole body. There's nothing you could have done to prevent them. But soap and water will soon dry them up. Don't you worry yourself. There's lots more in the world to trouble you than a few pimples. And take care shaving. Nicking the top off just doesn't help, does it?'

Touched by Mrs Rusham's robust care for the boy, and the fact that he was so worried about his spots, Willow walked as quietly as possible to the drawing room to wait for Serena. She came in only a few minutes later, looking less tense. Mrs Rusham followed her almost at once, carrying a tray loaded with small neat sandwiches, minute strawberry tarts and part of a Dundee cake.

‘Should you mind if Robert has his tea in the kitchen with me? I think he feels a bit daunted by all this.' She waved her hand towards the antique furniture, the paintings, the elegant silver-grey sofas with their load of multi-coloured silk cushions, and all the vases full of exquisitely arranged flowers.

‘Not at all, Mrs Rusham,' said Serena. ‘I hope he's not in your way.'

‘On the contrary. He's going to peel the potatoes for dinner. He'll be a big help to me.'

When Mrs Rusham had gone back to her new charge, Serena said, ‘Are you sure that's all right?'

‘It seems ideal,' said Willow. ‘They were talking about spots when I came downstairs and it sounded as though they were getting on like a house on fire. Oh God! Sorry. I can't stop those sorts of images popping out. I'd have thought that if Mrs R. can get through to him, it might help.'

‘It certainly wouldn't hurt if he opened up to someone.'

Willow looked at her without saying anything.

‘I know, I know,' said Serena. ‘You think the same about me. But why the hell should I tell the police all about my private life? There are a lot of perfectly good reasons why I don't want to pass on what I was doing that evening.'

‘But it won't go any further than them.'

Serena raised an eyebrow in the kind of elegant gesture Willow had always envied. ‘You don't really believe that, do you?'

‘Actually, yes, I do.'

‘Well, it takes all sorts.'

‘Look, what about if you just told me and I told them I knew where you'd been and made them leave it at that?' Willow kicked herself for not thinking up something a little more convincing than that.

‘Don't be naive. However much you think they trust you because you're a colleague's wife, they're hardly likely to accept my alibi on your
ipse dixit.
'

Willow slowly shook her head, more in sorrow at Serena's lawyerly tendency to slide into Latin than in anything else.

‘I was with the man in my life. He's married. He has a public position. He's—'

‘Not the Minister for Rights and Charters?' said Willow, wondering whether she had at last stumbled on the answer to all her questions. Then she remembered the mysterious Miss Andrea Salderton and quickly said, ‘Sorry. Silly of me.'

‘No, not the minister,' said Serena coldly, without giving Willow any help.

‘Is his the sort of public position that would be respected by the police?'

‘I doubt it, but anyway that still wouldn't mean that I'd trust them with the information.'

‘No, but couldn't he speak to Chief Inspector Harness direct?' suggested Willow, assuming that Serena's lover must be a High Court judge at least, if not a Lord of Appeal. ‘Then you'd be wiped off the list of suspects. They'd get a move on and find out who really did it. They'd lay off Rob. And we could all relax.'

‘That does make sense of a sort,' said Serena after a long pause. She smiled and suddenly looked much more human. ‘But, you see, quite apart from his wife, I'm particularly anxious that Rob shouldn't get to hear about my… um, romance. I've got a feeling that some of Fiona's more florid affairs have worried him a lot. I sort of needled him about them one weekend when I was in a bit of a state about her, and he blew up at me.'

Her face twisted and for no very good reason Willow suddenly felt a rush of affection for her. Then she began to consider the implications of what Serena had just said and asked herself what kind of ‘state'she had meant. Had she been miserable about Fiona's death that weekend, or was it something else? Could she have been feeling guilty? Or even jealous of one particular conquest? Was it possible that the lovely and apparently promiscuous Fiona had pinched her sister's own lover?

You've no evidence for any such thing, said a stern voice in Willow's mind. It was almost as though Tom himself had spoken. Then a real voice distracted her as Serena said, ‘You see, I don't want him growing up thinking that all women carry on as Fiona did.'

Willow nodded as though she understood and poured out two cups of tea. ‘As I said, you're a good aunt. Have some of Mrs Rusham's sandwiches. They're usually pretty good. What do you mean by “blew up”?'

Serena took a crab sandwich and sat holding it. Her eyes looked unhappy, almost ashamed. ‘Oh, he shouted a bit, you know the sort of thing. Just made it clear that he'd loathed it when she thrust the affairs in his face. The sort of thing any fifteen-year-old might feel. I used to be vilely embarrassed by my parents at that age and they never did anything remotely indiscreet. Weren't you?'

Willow, whose parents were so detached that she could not remember feeling anything for or about them, shook her head. Veering away from her suspicions of Serena, she was forced back into wondering how far Rob's loathing of his mother's love affairs might have made him go. If he had harmed her in some way, might not his guilt have made him want to atone by taking revenge on someone else who had hurt her? Len Scoffer, for example?

‘You're right,' said Serena apparently unaware of Willow's racing thoughts. ‘This is a wonderful sandwich.'

They changed the subject then, and talked of nothing but trivialities, both of them obviously keeping at least half their minds on their own thoughts, until Serena asked: ‘What were you saying to the plumber just before he left?'

‘I wondered if you'd heard,' said Willow, feeling her cheeks warming up. She hoped they were not as flushed as they felt. ‘Like your sister, he was a victim of Len Scoffer. That's how I had his name and address so handy. I want to find out how he was treated—from his point of view—before I write my report for the minister.'

‘Did he tell you anything useful?'

‘No, but sodden as he was, he clearly did not feel much like chatting. We've an appointment tomorrow morning at his place of work.'

‘Ah.'

‘Talking of appointments,' said Willow, looking down at her watch, ‘I haven't been to see Tom yet today.'

‘Oh lord! You haven't had your hands redressed either.'

‘Nor I have. They've stopped oozing though, and they don't hurt nearly as much as they did.'

‘God, I do feel conscience-stricken! Rob and I have hi-jacked your whole day. Shall I drive you to the hospital?'

‘I'll be fine. Driving doesn't seem to hurt them too much. I'll nip off now and do both at once. See you for dinner. Mrs Rusham never stays to serve it. She just leaves something in the fridge or oven, so we can have it at any time. Okay?'

‘Wonderful! I wish I had someone like her in my life.'

‘There isn't anyone else like her,' said Willow, smiling over her shoulder as she opened the drawing room door. ‘She's unique.'

THE FOLLOWING MORNING Willow woke up ashamed of her suspicions of Serena and Rob. She decided that, along with vagueness and an inability to concentrate, the combination of Tom's condition and the fire had left her prey to wholly irrational anxieties. She mentally apologised to them both, got up, dressed and left the house at seven in order to be at Joe Wraggeley's office before he started his working day.

He had taken over a defunct panel-beater's premises in the depths of Battersea and converted it. There were two white vans parked inside a pair of high iron gates, which he was unlocking just as Willow drove up. He waved her in and pointed to a neatly marked space beyond the vans.

‘Morning,' he said, wiping his hands down the thighs of his overalls as she got out of the car. ‘Somehow I didn't think you'd make it this early.'

‘God forbid that I should keep you from fee paying customers,' answered Willow cheerfully, locking her car.

He led her into his office, proudly pointing out his computer.

‘They did me a good turn in the end, those tax buggers,' he said. ‘It's all on there now. Second-hand, you know, but it works a treat. Took a bit of getting used to, but it seems to impress the punters to have typed estimates with reference numbers and bills and that. And the work's rolling in; I'll even having to register for VAT now. I've got a brew going. Like a cup?'