Rosie (63 page)

‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’ Seth asked cheekily once he was right inside her room. ‘I’ve had a long drive.’ He was somewhat stunned by the squalor. He’d frequently lived in worse, but the way Miss Marks spoke and her haughty manner had given him the idea she would live graciously. There were piles of old newspapers, dust and grime everywhere, and even her recently vacated bed looked as grubby as many he’d slept in. He didn’t want tea or to stay here for a moment longer than necessary, but at the same time he didn’t want to appear too hasty in case she became alarmed.

‘Let me see the address first, then I’ll put the kettle on,’ Freda said. She was not only thrown by this unexpected visit, embarrassed by him seeing where she lived, but also very wary of being tricked by him. She wouldn’t put it past him to give her a false address.

‘She’s in Sussex. In a place called The Grange,’ Seth said, pulling the scrap of paper out of his pocket. ‘Sounds a bit posh. Maybe it’s another nursing home.’

Freda gasped. The Grange was the home of Mr and Mrs Cook. She felt a surge of white-hot anger at herself for not considering earlier that Rosie might have gone to them.

Seth saw her reaction and was puzzled by it. ‘You know that address, don’t you?’ he said.

‘Well, yes,’ she admitted. ‘I’m just surprised to find Rosie didn’t tell me or anyone else that she was going there to work.’

‘Well, the deal’s still the same whether you knew the address or not,’ Seth said quickly. ‘And it took a bit of persuasion to get it out of Miss Pemberton too.’

‘Let me make the tea,’ Freda said quickly. As she turned to go out into the kitchen, she picked up her handbag and took it with her. She knew she had less than three pounds in there, but she didn’t trust Seth not to riffle through it the moment her back was turned. ‘Sit down. I won’t be long.’

She filled the kettle and put it on the gas, then glancing back into the other room to make sure Seth was still sitting down by the window, she bent down and groped under the cooker for the tin box where she kept all her personal papers and cash. It took only a couple of seconds to pull out the notes from a bundle. She put them in her handbag and, putting the address in the box, replaced it under the cooker.

‘Do you take sugar?’ she called out a couple of minutes later, relieved she’d managed this sleight of hand without him seeing anything.

‘Yes, two please,’ Seth replied, and slid his hands into his leather gloves. He was shaking with fear now. It was broad daylight outside, more and more people were out on the streets going to work, and he’d heard someone moving about in the flat above. He had to do what he’d come for and get out quickly.

He heard her turn the tap on again. He stood up, unbuttoned his overalls, took the hammer from his belt, and walked stealthily across the room towards the kitchen. She was bending over the sink swilling round the teapot as he looked in. Lifting the hammer above his head, Seth clenched his teeth and lunged at her, hitting her with full force on the back of the neck.

Freda Barnes didn’t call out. She just slumped forward over the sink, the teapot falling to the floor and shattering.

Seth hit her again, even harder, then, heaving her back on to the floor, he checked her. Her eyes had rolled right back into her head, her mouth was hanging open. She was dead.

He looked down at her in disgust. Her dressing-gown had come loose and he could see down the front of her nightdress. Her tits were huge and flabby and her stomach bulged out beneath them. He kicked her hard in the side for good measure, then reached for her handbag.

As soon as he saw the notes folded just inside it, he knew she must have got them from somewhere out here in the kitchen. It took him only a few minutes to find her box hidden under the cooker and the wad of notes concealed in it, along with the address he’d just given her. He smiled with pure delight; judging by the thickness there was over five hundred pounds. He was glad he’d come.

Seth paused before letting himself out, looking around him one last time. He’d found a few nice pieces of jewellery in a drawer, which, together with the cash she had, puzzled him. Why was she living in such a grim place? More important, however, was why was she so anxious to find Rosie. The two things seemed to be connected, but he couldn’t see how or why.

Chapter Seventeen

Mrs Underwood looked speculatively at the two bottles of milk in the porch as she waited for Miss Pemberton to answer the door. She thought one of the bottles must be from the day before as it was separating, yet her neighbour’s downstairs curtains were still drawn and it was after ten in the morning.

Una Underwood was the seventy-year-old, stick-thin, wizened widow who lived next door to Violet Pemberton. They had a friendly but not close relationship. The social worker often went out early in the morning and returned late at night, so sometimes they didn’t see each other for days on end. But Violet always asked Una to feed her cat if she was going to be away overnight.

Una was puzzled. She had called round as the big tabby had been mewing hungrily around her door earlier. Then she’d noticed Violet’s car was still in its usual parking place just up the road. Walking round the back of the cottage, Una tried the back door. It was locked. The living-room curtains at the back were drawn, so she couldn’t see in. She thought that was very odd too. Violet never drew them in the summer, she always said she liked to watch the sun go down. Even if she had gone off early in the morning by train and forgotten the cat and the milk, somehow she couldn’t imagine her tidy-minded neighbour not pulling back the curtains before she left. Una decided she must get another neighbour with a telephone to ring the welfare office in Bridgwater to find out if Violet was away on business.

An hour later PC Hargreaves, the local policeman, rode up the lane on his bike as Una was polishing her brass door knocker.

‘Morning, Mrs Underwood,’ he called out cheerfully. Resting his bike against her hedge, he took off his helmet and wiped his brow. ‘Whew! It’s hot today. I hear you’re a bit worried about your neighbour.’

‘I’m probably being a terrible fusspot,’ Una said anxiously. She didn’t like people to think she spent all her time watching her neighbour’s comings and goings. She explained about the car, the milk, the drawn curtains and the cat. ‘I got another neighbour to telephone her work, but they haven’t seen or heard from her either for two days. She does get called away on cases sometimes, but it’s not like her to forget to ask me to feed her cat, or to phone in to her office. I’m afraid she might be in there, too ill to answer the door.’

‘Well, let’s put your mind at rest,’ he said soothingly, patting the old lady’s thin shoulder. ‘Would you like to come round there with me? I might have to break a window to get in.’

Una looked even more worried then. ‘I hope she won’t be cross with me,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t want anyone breaking my windows.’

‘I’m sure she’ll be pleased that you cared enough to watch out for her,’ he said. ‘And if she is ill, she’ll be very grateful.’

They walked round to the back of Violet’s together.

‘Well, that’s a bit of luck,’ the policeman said with a smile as he saw there was a small window open by the back door. ‘I’m always telling people to shut their windows when they go out, but all the same it’s handy to find an open one in an emergency.’

He put his arm in and turned the key in the back door. Una went to follow him in. ‘No, you stay there, Mrs Underwood,’ he said. ‘I’ll just take a look round on my own first.’

Una knew by his gasp a couple of seconds later that he’d found something wrong, and despite what he’d said she darted in.

She wished she hadn’t.

It didn’t look like Violet at all. It was more like seeing a sack of bloody offal lying on the floor. There were flies all over her and a horrible, sickly sweet smell. The room was strewn with papers. It was the most terrible thing she’d ever seen and her legs just gave way under her.

It was the early evening of the same day, and Rosie, Donald, Thomas and Frank Cook were all sitting out on the terrace just outside the kitchen, drinking tea. Norah was inside, joining in the conversation through the open windows and doors as she prepared the evening meal. They were all laughing as Donald told them about getting Thomas home today. Thomas, it seemed, had got carried away in his enthusiasm to help out with the gardening, and by the end of the afternoon his leg was hurting badly. Donald had forced him into the wheelbarrow and trundled him home in it. Apparently they had been seen by quite a few neighbours and Thomas had made it even funnier by giving regal waves as he passed them.

When they heard the six o’clock pips on the wireless, Frank called out to Norah to turn it up so they could listen to the news. Donald immediately got up and went off down the garden. Rosie stood up tentatively. Her knees were stiff and sore, but she thought a little walk might help them.

‘A middle-aged woman was found brutally murdered today in her cottage in the village of Chilton Trinity in Somerset.’

Rosie stopped short at hearing the name of a village she knew.

‘The victim has been identified as Miss Violet Pemberton, a social worker. It is believed she was killed when she interrupted a burglary in her home. The Somerset police are conducting a house-to-house search as the killer is thought to be a local man.’

‘Violet!’ Thomas gasped, rising out of his seat. ‘Did I hear right? They did say Violet Pemberton?’

Frank nodded and Rosie sat down again with a bump, too astonished and horrified to speak.

Norah stuck her head through the window. ‘Did you hear that?’ she asked. ‘Poor woman!’ On seeing Thomas and Rosie’s stricken faces, she quickly withdrew from the window and came out on to the terrace, drying her hands on a tea towel. ‘You don’t know her, do you?’

Thomas nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak. He wanted to reach out for Rosie to comfort her, but he was unable to move a muscle.

Norah just stood looking at them both for a moment, and suddenly she remembered who they both knew who lived in Somerset. ‘It’s not your friend, is it? The lady we met at Carrington Hall?’

Thomas managed to pull himself together enough to confirm it was.

Frank was slower to catch on about who and what they were referring to. ‘What a ghastly thing! And to hear it just like that on the wireless!’ he said in a voice which seemed to boom right round the garden. ‘I thought they didn’t announce a victim’s name until all relatives had been informed?’ he added in some indignation.

‘She didn’t have any relatives,’ Thomas said in a small croaky voice.

Frank and Norah were both speaking at once, but Rosie felt as if all her blood was draining away. She couldn’t move, speak or even hear what was being said. All she could feel was an intense anger welling up inside her that someone, some louse of a thief, had taken the life of a woman who was so precious to her. She gripped the arms of her chair and the anger she felt rose up and spewed out in a bellow of outrage.

‘Rosie!’ Norah gasped, shocked still more by this primitive outburst than she was by the news. ‘Rosie, what is it?’

Thomas was out of his chair and over to Rosie in a flash. He caught hold of her firmly and shook her gently to stop the screaming. ‘She’s in shock. Violet meant a great deal to her,’ he said, enfolding the girl in his arms. ‘Could you get her some brandy?’

Later that evening when Rosie had calmed down enough to reason again, she wondered how she would have coped without Thomas. He had taken her into the sitting-room, away from the others, and held her in his arms. He let her cry and shared her grief because he fully understood the significance Violet had held in her life. The woman not only knew the full horror of all that had happened at May Cottage, but had helped Rosie put aside her shame and rebuild her life. Thomas knew Violet had never seen Rosie as just one of her ‘cases’, but had been aunt, friend and adviser. Had she lived, Thomas had no doubt this often brusque but caring woman would have been at Rosie’s wedding, godmother to her children. It was a terrible, wicked loss.

Thomas cried along with Rosie. He too had a great deal of affection for Violet. Along with organizing his nephew’s happy new life, supporting and advising him throughout the subsequent adoption, she had also become a friend.

Rosie knew the Cooks couldn’t be expected to comprehend her enormous sense of loss. All they really knew about Miss Pemberton was her active role in getting Matron thrown out of Carrington Hall. Even though they were aware Rosie had continued to correspond with her over the last two years, the Cooks had never had any reason to suppose that these were anything more than duty letters, occasional progress reports because the woman was interested in her.

She wished she could tell them the whole story now, if only so they could understand.

‘Should I tell them everything?’ she asked Thomas.

‘I don’t know,’ he said truthfully, his brown eyes soft with concern for her. ‘I did think when you first came here that it would be better for you to make a clean breast of it all and be done with it, but so much time has elapsed now and they care so deeply for you. But to be suddenly faced with such news might put a strain on your relationship with them. And what good would it do telling them now, Rosie? It might help them to understand your grief about Violet, but that’s all.’

She shamefacedly admitted then that she’d never told Gareth either.

Thomas sighed deeply and hugged her tightly. ‘Oh Rosie! How could you possibly plan to marry a man without telling him something so important? I always assumed you’d told him right at the start.’

‘There never was a right moment,’ she said in a small voice, her eyes downcast.

When Rosie went into Donald’s room later to say goodnight to him, he was sitting up in bed as always reading a comic, but instead of giving her his usual welcoming smile he looked at her reproachfully.

‘Why have you been crying and talking to Thomas all evening?’

Rosie wasn’t sure how to answer. He was adult in many respects, but there were large areas in which he was still a child and as such they all avoided discussing distressing things in his hearing. ‘Because the lady who we heard about on the news was an old friend of mine, and of Thomas’s. I couldn’t talk to you in the same way about her because you didn’t know her,’ she said eventually.