The Crow Trap (33 page)

Rachael and Anne arrived in late afternoon. It was very hot. In the distance there was the buzz of traffic, but the courtyard was deserted.

There was no noise from the grey stone houses.

Then a door opened and a small middle-aged woman emerged. She wore a striped shirt and jacket and held a shiny black handbag under her chin as she used both hands to pull to the heavy warped door and lock it.

She hurried across the cobbles, stiletto heels clattering.

“Excuse me!” Anne shouted.

She stopped, turned on her heels, looked at her watch in annoyance.

“Yes?”

“We’re looking for the warden.”

“You’ve found her but I can’t stop. There’s a trustee meeting and I’m late already.”

“We were hoping to speak to Nancy Deakin.”

“What do you want with her?”

“A chat, that’s all. She doesn’t get many visitors, does she?”

“That’s not my fault.” The warden was immediately defensive. “We’ve all tried but she’s hardly sociable.”

“Has anyone been to see her lately?”

“I haven’t seen anyone and she hasn’t said. But then she wouldn’t.

You’re welcome to have a go. Number four. Don’t drink the tea.” She turned and teetered on.

It was very bright in the courtyard and when the front door of the cottage was opened a crack, at first they couldn’t make out the shadowy figure inside.

“Miss. Deakin?” Anne asked. “Nancy?”

The door shut again. Anne banged on it with her fist.

“Perhaps we should go.” Rachael was embarrassed. She imagined people staring from the blank net-covered windows. Anne took no notice and hit the door again. “We’re friends of Grace’s,” she shouted. “Nancy, can you hear me?”

The door opened. Nancy Deakin was very old and here, inside this house, with its latticed windows and steep roof she looked like a witch in a children’s picture book. She wore a long woollen skirt and a black cardigan with holes in the elbows. She glared at them, then spoke in a series of splutters and coughs which neither woman could understand.

“Can we come in?” Throughout the visit Anne Preece took the lead.

Rachael thought the business at Baikie’s had mellowed her. At one time she would have refused to do Vera Stanhope’s dirty work, but here she was, her foot against the door so the old woman couldn’t shut it on them again.

Nancy felt in the pocket of her cardigan and brought out a pair of enormous false teeth, covered in black fluff. She put them into her mouth and bared the teeth like a caged animal.

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

She turned and led them down a passage into a small, cluttered room haphazardly furnished by junk. It seemed that she slept and lived in this room though there was no evidence that the house was shared by another occupant. A narrow divan was covered by a blanket of different coloured knitted squares. On a frayed wicker chair was a crumpled pile of clothes topped by a black felt hat. By the window, blocking out most of the light, was a birdcage on a stand. The door of the cage was open and a blue budgie flew over their heads and came to rest on the mantelpiece.

“Grace is dead,” the old lady said, more distinctly. It was as if talking was something she had to get used to.

“You know about it.” Anne sat on the divan. “We wanted to make sure.”

Nancy pushed the pile of clothes from the chair and sat on it. She leant back, her eyes half closed. Rachael stood for a moment just inside the door then felt conspicuous and sat on the floor with her back to the wall.

“What do you want?” Nancy demanded.

“Just that. To know you’d heard. We thought you’d want to be told.

Grace mentioned you.”

“When?”

“We worked together. Out at Black Law Fell.”

“Near to the Hall then.”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t suppose they invited her round. I don’t suppose Lady bloody high and mighty Olivia cooked her tea.”

“No,” Anne replied. “I don’t think they even knew she was there.”

“The ferret will always get the rat,” Nancy said cryptically. “If it’s got an empty belly.”

Anne and Rachael looked at each other. Sunlight slanted through the latticed window and through the bars of the birdcage, spotlighting the floating specks of dusk, an elaborate cobweb in the empty grate, the faded colours of a proggie mat.

“How did you know Grace was dead?” Anne asked.

There was another pause. Nancy looked at them, weighing them up.

“Ed comes to see me,” she said at last. “He’s the only one of them who does. The only one I’d let in.” “The warden said you’d not had any visitors recently.”

“Huh. What would that one know? Money and meetings. That’s all her job’s about. And chasing after her fancy man.”

“What about Grace? Did she ever visit?”

“She’s been away a lot. University. Walking. Sometimes Ed brought her.”

“Lately?”

The old woman shook her head crossly. “I didn’t expect it. She was young. She had her own life to lead. But she’s always written.

Wherever she’s lived she’s written me letters. And Edmund would read them when he came to visit. My eyes are bad. I can’t see to read no more.” She glared at them, defying them to contradict this explanation.

“Did you keep the letters?”

“Why?”

“Grace was a friend. We don’t have much to remember her by. If we could just have the letters for a while … It would be like talking to her, wouldn’t it? We’d bring them back.”

“I don’t throw much away,” the woman conceded.

“So we would be able to look at them?”

“I don’t know. I’ll think about it.”

She crashed the teeth together awkwardly and looked at them again, maliciously aware that they were frustrated by her indecision, challenging Anne to push the point.

But Anne asked, “When did Mr. Fulwell come to tell you that Grace was dead?”

“The day after it happened. He said he didn’t want me to hear about it on the news, though I wouldn’t because I always switch off when the news comes on the wireless. I only like the old tunes. But it was kind. He’s always been like that. He don’t own a car so his friend brought him.”

“Which friend? Mr. Owen?”

“Don’t know. Didn’t see. Didn’t ask him in. Only Ed.”

“Did you see the car?”

“Not from here.” Which was true, because all they could see through the window was the courtyard and an elderly man in stockinged feet who had pulled a kitchen chair onto his doorstep so he could sit in the sun.

“Did Edmund give you any details of what had happened?”

Nancy breathed down through her nose, pulling her lips back from her gums. “Of course not. He was upset, wasn’t he? And I didn’t ask.”

“Do you have any ideas?”

“What do you mean?”

“About who might have killed her.”

“No … ” She hesitated but decided not to continue.

“How did Edmund seem when he was here?”

“How do you think?” She paused again. “He was angry.”

“Did he think he knew who’d strangled her?”

“You’ll have to ask him that. Not that it’s any of your business.” She held out a long finger for the budgie to perch on. Anne leant over to stroke it.

“Could we see those letters?” she asked.

“No.” Nancy’s voice was firm.

“We’d like to find out a bit more about her.”

“Why?”

“I said. We were friends. We miss her. And they’re a valuable record of her life.”

“They’re in a box upstairs. I don’t manage the stairs very well these days.”

“I’ll get them.” Anne got up from the divan.

“No.” With a surprising agility Nancy stood up and moved to block the door. “I don’t want you nebbing round my things. You wait here. I’ll fetch them.”

They heard her banging about in the room above them. She seemed to be muttering to herself. Then a door shut and they heard her move heavily down the stairs. They went out into the passage to wait for her there.

She held in her hand not a pile of letters but one white envelope.

“This was all I could find.” She grinned so they would know she was lying.

“That’s very kind.” Anne took the letter and added, “Do you know where Edmund Fulwell is?”

“Home, I suppose.”

“No. No one’s seen him for days.”

“He’s always been a bit wild.” “If he gets in touch,” Anne said, ‘ should tell the police. They’re worried about him.”

“No need to be worried. He can look after himself that one.”

She opened the front door to let them out. Upstairs there was a movement, a noise. They stood still, startled, and stared up the gloomy stairwell. From the shadows the budgerigar flew over the banister straight towards them. It circled as if to make its escape through the open door then landed on Nancy’s shoulder. She stroked its beak and cooed.

Chapter Forty-One.

The letter from Grace was dated two years previously. The address was a small town in south-west Scotland. In the envelope along with the letter was a picture postcard showing the scene of a river and meadows with a church tower in the distance. Nothing was written on the blank side of the card but the picture was marked with a cross and Grace had written over it in biro, “This is where I camped last night.”

Rachael was moved by the picture and the scribbled note. Grace had been so odd in her last few weeks that Rachael had thought of her as a wraith moving among them causing disturbance and upset. This made her human, real. It was the sort of thing Rachael might have sent to Edie to keep her off her back.

Vera was there as they passed the card between them. She must have been waiting for their return because they had just lit the gas to make tea when they heard her thump on the kitchen door. She came in without waiting to be asked.

“Why did the old bat choose this one to give you?” she demanded.

Rachael had expected the inspector to be grateful because they’d returned with a trophy but she seemed more bad-tempered than she’d been since the beginning of the investigation. According to Edie she’d been in Kimmerston all afternoon.

“She probably chose a letter at random just to get rid of us,” Anne said. “She won’t admit it but I don’t think she can read.”

Vera, in truculent mood, had to contradict even this. “I don’t think so. Surely she’d keep them in some sort of chronological order and just take the one on the top. There must have been one since this.

Grace might even have written from here. Did she ever write letters?”

“I never saw her but how would we know?”

“Not much of a letter, is it?” Vera held up the single sheet between her thumb and finger. “Why do you think she bothered?”

“She probably thought of Nancy almost as family,” Edie said. “Perhaps she saw it as a duty, like writing thank-you letters to grandparents.”

“Go on then.” Vera dropped the letter on the table in front of Anne.

“Read it out.”

Anne looked round to make sure she had their attention and began to read, like a mother telling a bedtime story.

“Dear Nan, I went for a walk today to look for signs of otter and it reminded me of the walks you used to take me on when I was a little girl. I’m employed on contract here by the Wildlife Trust. They offered to find me somewhere to stay but I prefer to be on my own so I brought a tent and I’m camping in the field marked on the card. It’s a lovely spot. The Trust had a student doing the same work before me but he left suddenly and I haven’t been at all impressed by his results.

There was too much guessing and not enough counting so far as I was concerned. So that means I have to walk the parts of river he’s supposed to have surveyed to check his results. It would he a lot easier if everyone followed the rules. If you’ve been properly trained it’s not difficult. I hope you’re continuing to be well and you’re still enjoying living in Kimmerston. Perhaps when I’m next in the area I’ll come with Dad to visit.” Anne looked up. “It’s just signed Grace. Not love, or best wishes, or anything.” “Hardly riveting stuff,” Vera said. “And what’s the point of her writing if the old woman can’t read?”

“Edmund read it to her.”

“When did she last see him?”

“He went to tell her Grace was dead. He didn’t want her to hear from anyone else.”

“It sounds as if he was pretty rational then, at least.” Vera looked up at Anne. “Did you ask her where he was?”

“Of course. She claimed not to know.”

“Did you believe her?”

Anne shrugged. “She enjoys making mischief. I wouldn’t put it past her to lie.”

Vera pushed the letter away from her in disgust. “Well, that doesn’t tell us much, does it?”

“I’m not sure,” Rachael said reluctantly.

“What?” Vera growled. “Spit it out.”

“Anne and I have always been surprised by the results of the otter counts Grace took on the rivers in the survey area. It’s never been systematically studied before but counts in similar bits of the county have never come up with anything like her figures. Since she died we’ve retraced some of her walks. It looks as if the counts are wildly exaggerated. There was a possibility she’d made a mistake, but this letter suggests that she was aware of the danger of over-estimation so that doesn’t seem very likely.”