The Crow Trap (37 page)

“What about?”

“How on earth would I know?”

“He must be a suspect.”

“Perhaps. But Vera disappeared again this afternoon and Joe Ashworth wouldn’t tell me anything.”

“Neville was in the pub in Langholme at lunchtime with Godfrey Waugh.

Reporting back to his lord and master, I suppose.”

“Was he?” Anne seemed flushed and jumpy and Rachael wasn’t sure what to make of the information. At one time she would have been excited by this evidence of Neville’s perfidy. Now she was confused. She didn’t like the thought of Neville obeying Waugh’s orders. She pictured him suddenly on the hill working the sheep with a dog and found that image more pleasing. “It’s possible he won’t be working for Slateburn Quarries for much longer.”

“What do you mean?”

“He was talking about coming back to Black Law to farm.”

“Has he actually handed in his notice?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I bet he hasn’t. You weren’t taken in by that, were you?” She was pacing up and down, practically ranting. “It’s a knack he has. He tells people what they want to hear and then they trust him.”

“How do you know?”

Anne was still for a moment. “I’ve met other people who’ve come under the Neville Furness spell. Do you think Vera would drag him out here if he weren’t involved in the murder?”

They stared at each other. Rachael was embarrassed by her impulse to rush to Neville Furness’s defence. In the garden there was a burst of birdsong. Upstairs a cistern was flushed and they heard Edie’s footsteps in the bathroom, water running, tuneless singing.

“He’s asked me to dinner,” Rachael said. She could feel herself blushing.

“You didn’t say you’d go!”

Rachael didn’t reply.

“But you blame him for Bella’s suicide!” Anne cried.

“I know.”

“Well then. Are you crazy?”

“Perhaps I was wrong about Neville having put pressure on Bella. She told him and Dougie about her conviction years ago, before they were married.”

“And perhaps you’re deluding yourself.”

“No. Why would Neville drag the information up after all this time?”

“I don’t know. Because of the quarry. Because he wants to get his hands on the farm. Anyway, you only have his word for what Bella told him. Dougie’s hardly in a position to contradict. How can you know he’s telling you the truth?”

Anne had come up to the table and was leaning on it, her face very close to Rachael’s. Rachael turned away.

“I believed him. I didn’t want to, but I did.”

The effort of keeping calm made Anne’s voice shake. “Look, you’re contemplating going out on a date with a murder suspect.”

“It’s not like that. Not a date. It’s just to talk, to finish the conversation we started this morning.”

“Have you told Edie? I expect she’ll have something to say about it.

So will Vera, for that matter.”

“What’s that about Vera?” The voice resonant as a foghorn, made them turn. The Inspector must have been moving even more quietly than usual, or they were engrossed in their discussion, because she had appeared suddenly at the French windows like a character in a Whitehall farce. Her bulky form blocked out the last of the light. Rachael wondered how long she had been listening, then how many other conversations in this house had been overheard.

“Well?” Vera said jauntily. She looked tired but more cheerful. “Was somebody taking my name in vain?” She opened the door wide, but remained outside, leaning on the frame. She was wearing one of her shapeless floral frocks, with a bottle-green fleece jacket over the top. The jacket was zipped tight and the dress was pulled over her knees. Anne turned to her, demanding support.

“Neville Furness has invited Rachael out for dinner tomorrow night.

She’s agreed to go. I thought you might have something to say about it.”

Vera shrugged. “None of my business, is it?”

“But he’s probably mixed up in this murder.”

“Tut, tut … You can’t go about saying things like that. It’s speculation. He’s been helping us with our inquiries, that’s all. No question of any charge. He can see who he likes.” Vera nodded towards Rachael. “And so can she. She’s a consenting adult.”

“You’re deliberately putting her into a position of danger.”

“Don’t be daft. Whatever position she gets in, she’ll have put herself there. And she’ll not be in much danger when we all know who she’s with and where she’s going. Just because you don’t like the lad … “

Rachael listened to the argument conducted over her head. Again she felt she was part of a drama played out for the benefit of other people. Vera was clearly delighted by the development.

Rachael thought, It’s just what she wanted. Neville’s the crow and I’m the decoy. And Anne seems too passionate to be entirely objective.

Perhaps Neville’s been one of her conquests. She didn’t want to linger on that thought and broke into their conversation. “I’ve already said I’ll go.” “Why not?” Vera said jubilantly. “He can afford to buy you a good dinner.”

“He’s cooking at home.”

“Is he?” Vera gave a huge wink. She disengaged herself from the door frame, came into the room and shut the door. “You and me had better have a bit of a chat.”

“What about?”

“Your after-dinner conversation. I talked to Mr. Furness today but he didn’t give much away. Pleasant enough but very cagey. Find out if he knows anything about Edmund. He’s still probably in with the Fulwells, they might have told him something.”

“Why should I do your dirty work?”

“You won’t be,” Vera spat back. “You’ll be doing your own. You’re the one that started playing detective.”

“We’re leaving.” Rachael felt like a defiant child.

“Next weekend. At the latest. We’ll have finished our work by then.”

“Will you? So will we, I hope.” She left, almost noiselessly, the way she had come.

Rachael stood in the garden. Anne had gone to bed but Rachael seemed to have been infected by her febrile mood and didn’t think she would sleep.

The grass was damp. There was a lake of mist over the flat land by the burn but the sky was clear. She heard a noise behind her and turned, startled. “Christ, Edie, don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“You shouldn’t be out here on your own.”

“It’s a bit late to go all protective on me.”

“Perhaps.” Edie was wearing a cream wool kaftan, a garment she had used as a dressing gown for as long as Rachael could remember. With the mist in the background she looked like a character in a low-budget horror movie a priestess perhaps at a ritual sacrifice.

She stood at Rachael’s side.

“I heard you give Vera an ultimatum.” Christ, Rachael thought, is everyone in this house ear wigging

“I thought she should know what was happening. Our work will be finished by the end of the week. There’ll be no point in our staying.”

“I wonder if it’ll all be over by then. The investigation, I mean.”

“She seems to think so.”

“That’s what she’d like us to think.” “But you don’t?” Rachael asked. “I couldn’t stand it if he were never caught.”

“Why? Is revenge so important?” Edie’s voice was detached. She could have been undertaking academic research.

“No. Not revenge. But not to know … Don’t you feel the same?”

“I never met Grace. That makes a difference.” They stood for a moment in silence then Edie said, “In some ways I’ll be sorry to leave.”

“Before we leave-‘ Rachael came to an abrupt stop.

“Yes?”

“I need to find out about my father.”

“Another ultimatum?”

“If you like. No. A request, that’s all. Tell me about him.”

She expected the usual refusal, the party line. What do a few genes matter? Do you really need a father figure to give you an identity?

Why get taken in by the patriarchal conspiracy?

“Is it really important?” Edie asked gently. Another question in her survey of moral attitudes.

“Not knowing’s important. That’s what I meant about Grace. And it gets between you and me.”

“I didn’t realize,” Edie said. “I’ve been stupid. Obviously.”

“You did what you thought was best.” “No. I did what I thought was easiest.” She paused. “It’ll come as an anticlimax, you know. No great drama. Recently that’s what prevented me from telling you.”

“All the same.”

“I have been working up to it. It was finding out about Bella, I suppose. Wondering if you imagined your father as a murderer.”

“Is he?”

“Not so far as I know.” She smiled, put her arm around Rachael’s shoulder. Rachael didn’t pull away as she usually would have done. It would have been churlish when Edie was prepared to make concessions.

“If we’re going to talk, shouldn’t we go inside?” Edie asked. “It’s getting cold.”

Perhaps it was the word ” invested with all Edie’s special meaning? Perhaps it was the arm round the shoulder? But Rachael suddenly got cold feet. “You don’t have to tell me now. As I said, before we leave … “

Edie pulled away from her daughter, looked at her. “I was thinking it might be easier if I wrote it down,” she said. “That way I’d have my facts straight and you’d have something to keep.”

“Yes.” Rachael was grateful. She couldn’t face an emotional scene tonight. “Yes, I’d like that.”

They went into the cottage together. Edie closed the French windows behind them and pushed in the bolt. Halfway up the stairs she stopped.

“Tomorrow you’ll have to tell me all about Neville Furness,” she said.

“I want to know what he’s like.”

Chapter Forty-Six.

Neville Furness collected Rachael from the Riverside Terrace house in Kimmerston and Edie was there to see her off. This arrangement was agreed by Rachael but had been decided by Vera and Edie who were closeted together in the farmhouse for most of the morning.

Neville arrived exactly on time. Edie opened the door to him. Rachael had been flustered in her preparations, even more confused than she had been the day before. Did she want to attract this man or repel him? In the end she chose thin cotton trousers and a loose silk shirt. She brushed out her hair and stole mascara and eyeliner from her mother’s room. Edie invited Neville in and they stood together in the hall making polite conversation until Rachael hurried down the stairs. There was something very old-fashioned in the scene below her. Edie was wearing one of her long, drop-wasted skirts and Neville, dressed in black jeans and a white collarless shirt, with his bushy beard, could have been a character from Thomas Hardy. He should have been clasping a hat under his arm. And he greeted Rachael with suitable formality, standing at a distance from her, holding out his hand. The words he directed to Edie:

“I’ll make sure she gets home safely, Mrs. Lambert. This must be a worrying time for you.”

“Miss. Lambert,” she said automatically, but she smiled at him like a fond Victorian mamma, and stood at the top of the steps to wave them off. Rachael couldn’t tell whether or not the friendliness was an act.

Edie hadn’t confided the subject of her conference with Vera and Rachael had refused to be a part of it. Alerted by Edie’s threat that she wanted to know all about Neville, Rachael had avoided serious discussion even when they had driven together into Kimmerston. The conversation about her father hadn’t been mentioned again.

She was surprised by Neville’s home, which was modest, a terraced house close to the almshouses where Nancy Deakin lived. The houses fronted onto gardens, then a paved narrow path which separated the row from another similar terrace. Children were playing there and women sat in doorways watching them and shouting to each other.

There were deserted doll’s prams and roller skates. At the back of the row was an alley with dustbins, where he parked. There was a gate in a high brick wall into a yard, then a door into the kitchen. The walls of the yard had been whitewashed. It contained tubs of flowers and a wrought iron table and chairs.

The house was very tidy and she sensed it was always like that. It hadn’t been prepared specially for her visit. It was furnished with the simplicity of a ship’s cabin with fitted wooden storage boxes and drawers.

“A drink?” he asked. He seemed nervous too.

“White wine.”

In the living room a table had been set for two. There were candles and red linen napkins.

“Perhaps you would have preferred to go to a restaurant,” he said.

“No, of course not.”

“I thought it might be easier to talk here.” She was reminded of Edie, stifled a desire to giggle, felt gauche and graceless.

He left the room for a moment and returned with a jeweller’s cardboard box packed with cotton wool.

“I was looking for something of Bella’s. I thought you might like this.” He pulled out a silver locket on a chain. The locket was unusual, shaped like an old threepenny piece, engraved with tiny flowers and leaves. “It’s not very valuable. Victorian probably. She said it belonged to her grandmother.” He opened it to reveal the sepia photograph of a woman with the face of a donkey and dark, swept-back hair.