[Wexford 01] From Doon & Death (9 page)

'
I
know
you
have
set
your
heart
on
this,
Minna,
and
I was
so
happy
when
I
went
to
Foyle's
and
found
it
waiting for
me.
Joyeux
Noel,
Doon,
Christmas,
1950
’

The next book was even more splendid, red watered silk and black leather. '
Let’s
have a look at number three,' Wexford said.
"The
Poems
of
Christina
Rossetti.
Very nice, gilt lettering and all.
What’
s Doon got to say this time?
An
un-birthday
present,
Minna
dear,
from Doon
who
wishes
you
happy
for
ever
and
ever.
June
1950.
I wonder if Mrs P. bought the lot cheap from this Minna.'

‘I
suppose Minna could
be
Mrs P., a sort of nickname.'

It had just crossed my mind,' Wexford said sarcastically. They're such good books, Mike, not the sort of things anyone would give to a church sale, and church sales seem to have been about Mrs Parsons' mark. Look at
this
lot
Omar
Khayyam;
Whitman’s
Leav
es of Grass;
William Morris. Unless
‘I
’m much
mistaken that
Omar
Khayya
m
cost three or four pounds. And there's another one here, the
Verses of Walter Savage Landor.
If s an old-fashioned kind of book and the leaves haven't even been cut' He read the message on the fly-leaf aloud:

I
promise
to
bring
back
with
me

What
thou
with
transport
will
receive.

The
only
proper
gift
far
thee.

Of
which
no
mortal
shall
bereave.

'Rather
apt,
don't
you
think,
Minna?
Love
from
Doon. March
21st,
1951
’

It wasn't very apt, was it? And Minna, whoever she is, didn't receive it with transport. She didn't even cut the pages. I'm going to have another word with Parsons, Mike, and then we're going to have all this lot carted down to the station. This attic is giving me the creeps.'

But Parsons didn't know who Minna was and he looked surprised when Wexford mentioned the date, March 21st.

‘I
never heard anyone call her Minna,' he said distastefully, as if the name was an insult to her memory.
‘M
y wife never spoke about a friend called Doon. I've never even seen those books properly. Margaret and I lived in the house her aunt left her till we moved here and those books have always been in the trunk. We just brought them with us with the furniture. I can't make it out about the date -Margaret's birthday was March 21st'

It could mean nothing, it could mean everything,' Wexford said w
hen they were out in the car. ‘D
oon talks about Foyle's, and Foyle's, in case you don't know, my provincial friend, is in London in the Charing Cross Road
’

'But Mrs P. was sixteen in 1949 and she stayed two years in Flagford. She must have been living only about five miles from here when Doon gave her those books.'

True. He could have lived here too and gone up to London for the day. I wonder why he printed the messages, Mike. Why didn't he write
them
? And why did Mrs P. hide the books as if she was ashamed of
them
?'

They'd make a better impression on the casual caller than
The
Brides
in
the
Bath
or whatever it is,' Burden said. "This Doon was certainly gone on her.'

Wexford took Mrs Parsons' photograph out of his pocket. Incredible that this woman had ever inspired a passion or fired a line of verse!

'Happy for ever and ever,' he said softly. 'But love isn't what the rose is. I wonder if love could be a dark and tangled wood, a cord twisted and pulled tighter on a meek neck?'

'A cord?' Burden said. 'Why not a scarf, that pink nylon thing? If s not in the house.'

'Could be. You can bet your life that scarf is with the purse and the key. Plenty of women have been strangled with a nylon stocking, Mike. Why not a nylon scarf?'

He had brought the Swinburne and the Christina Rossetti with him. It wasn't much to go on. Burden reflected, a bundle of old books and an elusive boy. Doon, he thought, Doon. If Minna was anything to go by Doon was bound to be a pseudonym too. Doon wouldn't be a boy any more but a man of thirty or thirty-five, a married man with children, perhaps, who had forgotten all about his old love. Burden wondered where Doon was now. Lost, a
bsorbed perhaps into the great la
byrinth of London, or still living a mile or two away... His heart sank when he recalled the new factory estate at Stowerton, the mazy lanes of Pomfret with a solitary cottage every two hundred
yards, and to the norm, Sewing
bury, where road after road of post-war detached houses pushed outwards like rays from the nucleus of the ancient town. Apart from these, there was Kingmarkham itself and the daughter villages, Flagford, Forby
...

‘I
don't suppose that Missal bloke could be Doon
’
he said hopefully.

If he is
’
Wexford said; lie's changed one hell of a lot
’

The river of my years has been sluggish, Minna, flowing slowly to a sea of peace. Ah, long ago how -I yearned for the torrent of life!

Then yesternight, yestere'en, Minna, I saw you. Not as I have so often in my dreams, but in life. I followed you, looking for lilies where you trod
...
I
saw the gold band on your finger, the shackle of an importunate love, and I cried aloud in my heart, I, I, too have known the terrors of the night!

But withal my feast has ever been the feast of the spirit and to that other dweller in my gates my flesh has been as an unlit candle in a fast-sealed casket. The light in my soul has guttered, shrinking in the harsh wind. But though the casket be atrophied and the flame past resuscitation, yet the wick of the spirit cries, hungering for the hand that holds the taper of companionship, the torch of sweet confidence, the spark of friends reunited.

I shall see you tomorrow and we shall ride together along the silver streets of our youth. Fear not, for reason shall sit upon my bridle and gentle moderation within my reins. Will all not be well, Minna, will all not be pleasant as the warm sun on the faces of little children?

Chapter 7

When she shall unwind

All those wiles she wound about me
...

Francis Thompson,

The
Mistress
of
Vision

A black Jaguar, not new but well tended, was parked outside the Missals' house when Wexford and Burden turned in at the gate at seven o'clock. The wheels only were soiled, their hub-caps spattered with dried mud.

‘I
know that car,' Wexford said.
‘I
know it but I can't place it Must be getting old.'

‘F
riends for cocktails
’
Burden said sententiously.

‘I
could do with a spot of gracious living myself
’
Wexford grumbled. He rang the ship's bell.

Perhaps Mrs Missal had forgotten they were coming or Inge hadn't been primed. She looked s
urprised yet spitefully pleased,
like her employer's, her hair was done up on top of her head, but with less success. In her left hand she held a canister of paprika.

'All are in,' she said. Two come for dinner. What a man! I tell you it is a waste to have men like him buried in the English countryside. Mrs Missal say, "Inge, you must make lasagna." All will be Italian, paprika, pasta, pimentoes
...
Ach, it is just a game!' 'All right. Miss Wolff. We'd like to see Mrs Missal
’
‘I
show you.' She giggled, opened the drawingroom door and announced with some serendipity, 'Here are the policemen!'

Four people were sitting in the flowered armchairs and there were four glasses of pale dry sherry on the coffee-table. For a moment nobody moved or said anything, but Helen Missal flushed deeply. Then she turned to the man who sat between her and her husband, parted her lips and closed them again.

So
that’s
the character Inge was going on about in the hall. Burden thought Quadrant! No wonder Wexford recognized the car.

'Good evening, Mr Quadrant,' Wexford said, indicating by a slight edge to his voice that he was surprised to see him in this company.

'Good evening. Chief Inspector, Inspector Burden.'

Burden had long known him as a solicitor he often saw in Kingsmarkham magistrates' court, long known and inexplicably disliked. He nodded to Quadrant and to the woman, presumably Quadrant's wife, who occupied the fourth armchair. They were somewhat alike, these two, both thin and dark with straight noses and curved red lips. Quadrant had the features of a grandee in an El Greco portrait, a grandee or a monk, but as far as Burden knew he was an Englishman. The Latin lips might have first drawn breath in a Cornish town and Quadrant be the descendant of an Armada mariner. His wife was beautifully dressed with the careless elegance of the very rich. Burden thought she made Helen Missal's blue shift look like something from a chain-store sa
le. Her fingers were heavily be
ringed, vulgarly so, if the stones were false, but Burden didn't think they were false.

'I'm afraid we're intruding again, sir,' Wexford said to Missal, his eyes lingering on Quadrant 'I'd just like to have a talk with your wife, if you don't mind.'

Missal stood up, his face working with impotent rage. In his light-weight silver-grey suit he looked fatter than ever. Then Quadrant did a strange thing. He took a cigarette out of the box on the table, put it in his mouth and lit the cork tip. Fascinated, Burden watched him choke and drop the cigarette into an ashtray.

‘I’m
sick and tired of all this
’
Missal shouted. 'We can't even have a quiet evening with our friends without being hounded. I'm sick of it My wife has given you her explanation and that ought to be enough.'

This is a murder enquiry, sir
’
Wexford said.

'We were just going to have dinner
’
Helen Missal spoke sulkily. She smoothed her blue skirt and fidgeted with a string of ivory beads.
‘I
suppose we'd better go into your study, Pete. Ihge'll be in and out of the dining-room. God! God damn it all, why can't you leave me in peace?' She turned to Quadrant's wife and said: 'Will you excuse me a moment, Fabia, darling? That is, if you can bear to stay and eat with the criminal classes.'

'You're sure you don't want Douglas to go with you?' Fabia Quadrant sounded amused, and Burden wondered if the Missals had warned them of the impending visit, suggested perhaps that this was to enquire into some parking offence. 'As your solicitor, I mean
’
she said. But Wexford had mentioned murder and when he lit that cigarette Quadrant had been frightened.

‘D
on't be long,' Missal said.

They went into the study and Wexford closed the door.

‘I
want my lipstick back,' Helen Missal said, 'and I want my dinner.' Unmoved, Wexford said, 'And I want to know who you went out with when you lost your lipstick, madam
’

It was just a friend
’
she said. She looked coyly up at Wexford, whining like a little girl asking permission to have a playmate to tea. 'Aren't I allowed to have any friends?'

'Mrs Missal, if you continue to refuse to tell me this man's name I shall have no alternative but to question your husband.'

Burden was becoming used to her sudden changes of mood, but still he was not quite prepared for this burst of violence.

'You nasty low-down bastard!' she said.