An Accidental Shroud (15 page)

She walked briskly now from the lower town, the sun low in a greenish sky. It would be cold tomorrow. Only ten weeks to Christmas, proclaimed a toy shop window, already decorated with cotton wool snow and glitter that would be tatty weeks before then. They were putting up coloured lights at the entrance to the modern shopping precinct, too, which couldn't harm it and might even be an improvement. The precinct resembled the Taj Mahal on the outside, and inside had the same chain stores, stocking the same goods, to be found in every other precinct the length and breadth of the British Isles. Flanking the entrance was the new office development – half of the units still unlet – and the golden-windowed block where Wilding Enterprises hung out.

She'd still been thinking about Callaghan and this new aspect of his relationship with Fontenoy which had come up, but now, seeing Wilding's office, Jake Wilding's connections with the Fontenoys again occurred to her as she waited to cross at the traffic lights. Was there a link between Wilding as a suspect, and that missing box? Supposing the box to have contained papers, as Christine Wilding had suggested, and supposing them to have been incriminating to Jake ...

But Nigel had taken the box to London, and inquiries about the train he had caught, the duration of his visit to Macaudle, and the time of his return to Lavenstock, suggested he'd had little time to go anywhere but Jermyn's, which had started one or two ideas of her own, none of them featuring the box being filled with papers, which Macaudle, when he returned, might be able to confirm.

The big clock on the ornate, newly restored, green-painted and gilded Victorian tower, standing cheerfully incongruous between the new hi-tech offices and the old, depressed library buildings, boomed the half hour. She crossed when the lights changed and took the short cut by the back of the parish church to Cedar House.

'Tea?' George asked, pooh-poohing the suggestion that it would be too much trouble. He served Earl Grey in beautiful, thin china cups which, however, owing to the shakiness of his hands, ended up with rather less than their full measure inside and too much outside in the saucer. Abigail thought he would have been wiser to have stayed with the Wildings at Ham Lane for the present. But no, he insisted, when she tactfully inquired, he was better back here in his own house, where he could be looked after by Mrs Anderson, his daily cleaning woman for over twenty years.

George, for his part, was relieved they didn't immediately start with the sort of questions he'd both anticipated, and dreaded. Having expected only the young woman, he was thrown off balance by the presence of her superior officer, though Mayo was keeping himself in the background, seemingly content to let her do the talking. He soon found it was himself who was doing the talking, however, though he was willing enough if it would put off the questioning. She had got him talking about the business, how the firm had started and how they operated. 'I'm surprised there's enough call in Lavenstock to support a family concern like yours,' the inspector had remarked. 'You're very specialized, aren't you?'

'In my grandfather's day, when he started the business, he didn't specialize at all, he simply sold fine jewellery, old or new. But there's too much rubbish sold nowadays – you don't generally find the quality you used to. But certainly we don't depend on local trade. We work through our catalogue and often with dealers.'

After that, launched into his favourite subject, the world he knew best, and his special interest in the Art Nouveau and
belle époque
styles, from the late nineteenth century to the Edwardian period just before the First World War, there was no stopping George. He even heard himself insisting they went through into the shop, to illustrate the points he was making.

Mayo, who had met George only briefly before, thought it wouldn't do to underestimate him: the flow of words, he guessed, was a smokescreen for something as yet not apparent. He was impressed, too, by the way he'd come to terms with his son's death; it seemed to Mayo that the old man was facing his bereavement with courage and dignity as well as practical common sense, not easy in any circumstances, let alone murder. He had tidied up the shop and already a new carpet covered the floor of the office where the bloodstained square had been cut out for forensic examination. Mayo's thrifty Yorkshire soul hoped that someone had remembered to tell him he could be compensated.

Wonderful period for designers, George was enthusing: Cartier, Boucheron, Tiffany, though none of them, in his opinion, was worthy to be mentioned in the same breath as Fabergé. Court jeweller to the Imperial Court of Russia before the terrible events of the revolution, he had worked in enamels and gold, precious and semi-precious stones, excelling in the creation of enamelled and gem-studded objects of vertu of the most delicate kind, restrained and elegant. Not to mention a whole series of marvellously carved hardstone animals, now fetching incredible prices.

'Oh yes, those beautiful jewelled eggs!' Abigail said.

'The Imperial Easter Eggs – you know about them?'

'There was an exhibition I saw ... I remember one egg with a mechanical bird inside. Intriguing.'

'Oh, certainly. Most of them were designed as gifts from Tsar Nicholas II to the Tsarina Alexandra, and from Nicholas to his mother. But beautiful?' George's eyebrows lifted. 'Many of them were, yes. And the craftsmanship of them all is incomparable – but frankly, unlike his other pieces, some of them were hideously vulgar. One marvels at the expertise,' he remarked with a wry smile, 'but not the taste. If you want to see his most exquisite creations– ' He stopped, pulling himself up short. 'Never let an old man talk about his ruling passions!'

'Why not? I find it fascinating.' Abigail smiled, speaking with perfect truth. 'I've always admired that sort of thing – and Victorian jewellery.'

'I think you did once sell more modern stuff, though, individually designed?' Mayo put in, taking the cue.

George became at once very still. After a moment, he sat down on one of two chairs reserved for visitors and gestured to the other. Mayo nodded to Abigail to take it, and remained standing, arms folded, in the way he had, which perhaps he didn't know was forbidding. Yes, George admitted presently, they had, but it had been a mistake, and shut his mouth with an air of finality.

Mayo's expression warned Abigail to wait. They sat without speaking and a little clock somewhere ticked away several seconds before George gave in. 'It was a venture that didn't come off, unfortunately,' he said at last, with a small sigh. 'Nigel had the idea that selling original jewellery, taking individual commissions, would be a good idea.' The girl who made it, he added, was very young, but had had talent of a truly original sort, though that had been the trouble ... Lavenstock wasn't ready for that sort of innovation. Or ready to pay the price, which had, perhaps, been more to the point. They understood and were willing to pay for a good diamond or sapphire which would keep its value, but not for experimental work which might date. The whole idea had been a disaster.

George spoke guardedly. He'd been led into this and was afraid of inadvertently revealing more than he should of what he had kept pushed down into the depths of his mind, until the murder had forced it to the surface. Since then, he'd been able to think of little else except that last terrible quarrel, of coming into the shop to intervene, standing in the doorway unobserved, and seeing Nigel with his hands round that delicate young throat. Nigel had seen him then and pushed the whimpering girl away and George had backed out, to his everlasting shame. The next morning, Nigel told him she'd left. For years George had had nightmares, wondering if he'd murdered her.

Just for a moment, he was strongly tempted to tell everything, but what would be gained by it? 'Who was she?' he asked, repeating the question that he realized Mayo had just put to him. Then, not being able to think of a reason for withholding that at least, he told them. The name meant nothing to either of them, yet.

'Why did she leave, Mr Fontenoy?' Mayo asked.

But George, deciding he'd said enough, took refuge in prevarication. 'Oh, I don't know, why do girls of that age do anything? No sense of purpose, no loyalty.'

'Was there a quarrel?'

The old man hum-ed and ha-ed and cleared his throat, looked anywhere but at his questioners, which Mayo took to mean yes.

'What was it about?'

'Bit of a misunderstanding, that's all, would've all blown over if she'd stayed. But no, they throw everything up the minute there's trouble, nowadays.'

'Mr Fontenoy, what was this quarrel about?'

'I don't know. Can't be expected to remember so far back, at my age ...' Suddenly he clutched his chest, a contorted expression crossing his face. 'M'pills,' he gasped. 'Glass of water, please.'

You old rogue! Abigail thought as she rushed into the kitchen to get the water, you damned old rogue ... Just when we were getting to the crunch. But don't you dare die on us yet, George! Because somebody knew the answers – some of them at any rate, and she'd bet she wasn't far out in thinking that could be George Fontenoy.

He recovered, as she'd known he would, with amazing rapidity, but they stayed with him until they were sure it was safe to leave him in the care of Mrs Anderson, summoned by telephone from her house round the corner. There was no question of any further interrogation.

Abigail gave a last frustrated look at Cedar Antiques as she got into Mayo's car. He negotiated it into the stream of traffic, then, when they were clear, he asked soberly, 'Why am I getting such a sense of urgency about this case? A feeling that somebody has left some unfinished business?'

It was as near to admitting a premonition as she'd ever known from Mayo, and it struck chill in her heart. The implication that an undiscovered killer might still be at large, might even be prepared to kill again, wasn't something to contemplate with comfort.

'Should he be left alone there? Wouldn't he be better back with the Wildings?' she asked, and then felt a further chill as, simultaneously, the thought occurred to her that the old man might not, in fact, be much safer there. If the murder had originated from one of the suspects living at Ham Lane, it would be a simple matter, supposing George to represent any threat, to get rid of him, to stage an accident. To push him so that he pitched headlong down a flight of stairs, say, and broke his neck. She shivered.

'Oh, that's all right. I had a word with Mrs Anderson in the kitchen. It seems her son's a full-back with Lavenstock Lions, and she's promised to get him to sleep in until further notice.'

Why didn't I think of that? wondered Abigail. And, having stirred up her apprehensions, why did he now make her feel as though she was being foolishly over-cautious?

She wasn't to know that Mayo's thoughts had been momentarily distracted by catching a glimpse, as they passed the end of the street, of the interior decorating shop belonging to Alex's sister, Lois French, closed while she was away. She was looking for a new partner and finding it difficult to settle on anyone since the one she really wanted was Alex, to which end she'd been pursuing a relentlessly wearing-down process for some time now. Alex wasn't a person easy to wear down, as Mayo knew to his cost, but Lois had had plenty of opportunity while they'd been away together, while Alex was in a very vulnerable state. His hands tightened on the wheel and then he put his private life firmly back in its own compartment.

Since that shocking day when her best friend had walked under a bus, when they were both sixteen, still at school and going around in a gang, Sharon Wallace had done some growing up. Now a smooth and sophisticated twenty-one, she worked in PR at the nearby television centre, had her own flat, drove a red Fiesta and had her straight, short hair tinted a rich mahogany, sculpted and cut to curve under at the ends and fall across one eye.

Jenny Platt had been detailed to interview her and had made an appointment to meet her at home, after work. Arriving a little early, she sat in her car outside the block of flats until she saw a young woman drive up, guessed who she was and waited until she'd had time to get indoors before following and ringing her bell.

Sharon had slipped off her shoes, but hadn't yet had time to change and was still wearing the white suit and emerald shirt she'd worn to work. She poured gin and tonic on to ice for herself, the same for Jenny, without the gin. Not a young woman to lack confidence on the face of things, she was, for some reason, very nervous.

'Why do you want to talk about Judy? She's been dead six years!'

'It could have a bearing on some other inquiries we're making. We thought you'd remember her death and might help us.'

Sharon's eyes clouded. 'How could I ever forget? She was my best friend, we did everything together! Of course I'll help. I've put flowers on the railings near the spot where she died every year since then.'

'That's nice,' smiled Jenny, whose own 'best friend' days were not too far behind. 'But there must have been some things you didn't share. One or two secrets.'

'None that matter, now.'

'You told Nan Randall – Mrs Petheridge – you thought she was seeing an older man,' Jenny prompted. 'Did Judy tell you who it was?'

The ice-cubes clinked against the sides of her glass as Sharon swirled it around. The wing of her hair fell forward, obscuring her face as she bent her head. She had pale skin and wore a lot of dark lipstick. When she looked up, her lower lip was trembling and her big brown eyes were full of tears.

'I told her she was playing with fire. She wouldn't say who it was, not in so many words.'

'What gave you the idea it was Nigel Fontenoy?'

'Nigel Fontenoy?' Sharon veered like a startled horse, then met the sympathetic yet adamant face of the young policewoman. She hesitated. After a moment, she said, 'Well, she came to the school dance, wearing what she said was an antique bracelet ... I mean, you had to believe it was the real thing, sparkly stuff and little pearls and everything, not the sort of jewellery any of us could afford, even if we'd wanted it. I thought maybe it was her mother's, that she'd lent it to her, but she said no and went all mysterious. After that, I just sort of put two and two together and guessed who'd given it to her – which turned out to be a big mistake.'