Motive for Murder (7 page)

With an effort I pushed him away and sat up. ‘Really, Mike, I must go.'

He folded the rug while I pulled on shorts and shirt. Then he slung his own shirt over one shoulder and, with his hand under my elbow, we set off up the stone steps.

At the gate of Touchstone, he handed over the rug. ‘You're on your own now, sweetheart. There's an invisible notice on this gate which reads “No hawkers, vagabonds or Staceys”.'

I opened my mouth to ask when I'd see him again, but prudence came to my aid. He kissed me lightly on the nose, raised a hand in salute, and continued up the sheep track to the moorland and the farm.

I turned into the drive and as I did so, caught a movement at the sitting-room window. Matthew had been watching us.

He was waiting for me in the library when I reached it, rather breathlessly, at ten past five.

‘I'm sorry I'm late,' I murmured.

‘You've recovered, I see. No doubt you had more congenial company after I left.'

I did not reply.

‘Miss Barton, I might be repeating myself, but I do feel I should warn you –'

‘Not to take Mike too seriously? And if I, too, may repeat myself, I can take care of myself.'

He held my eyes for a minute, then looked irritably away. As long as you know what you're doing,' he said shortly, and without further preamble launched straight into dictation.

As my pencil skimmed over the pages, I wondered what had caused their mutual dislike, leading each to caution me about the other – and felt a chill of apprehension before I knew why. Then I remembered that Mike's warning had been altogether more sinister:
I shouldn't make a habit of going swimming with Matthew.
Well, I did not intend to; my experience with him in the water was not one I wanted to repeat.

Determinedly blotting out such speculations, I forced myself to concentrate on the work in hand.

The sunshine was still with us the next morning, and this time my spirits were in keeping with the day. And it was Monday, I reflected as I finished my breakfast. If only all Monday mornings could be like this! It was amazing to think that this time last week, as I was driving to Paddington with Gil, I'd never even met Mike or Sarah – or Derek and Sandra.

As I came out of my bedroom, the letter­box rattled in the hall below and some envelopes fell on to the carpet. Perhaps there'd be a letter from home.

I ran downstairs and picked them up. Then I stiffened, staring down at the top envelope until the words swam into each other. Miss Linda Harvey ...

I'm not sure why I reacted so strongly; it was quite possible that some of Linda's friends didn't know she'd left Touchstone. But I'd been hoping to see my own name, and to read hers instead was an eerie sensation. For this letter was addressed to Matthew Haig's secretary, and for a moment it was as though I, Emily Barton, did not exist – almost as though I myself were Linda Harvey.

I shook myself impatiently. Behind me, the grandfather clock struck nine, and I slipped the envelope into my pocket. Now they'd have to tell me her address, so I could forward it. I might even, I thought defiantly, deliver it personally.

The two letters addressed to Matthew I took into the library. ‘The post has come, Mr Haig.'

‘Thank you. I trust you slept well.' The sardonic tone was reflected in the raised eyebrow.

‘Excellently, thank you.'

We started work, but I remained very conscious of Linda's letter in my pocket. Would he know her address? He must have a record of it from her original application. How long had she been here? It was ridiculous, I thought impatiently, to know so little about her. This time they would have to answer me.

The coffee came, and, half an hour later, was taken away untasted, with a reproachful look from Mrs Johnson. Matthew raced on, and my hand ached from gripping the pencil, but pride prevented me from asking him to slow down. Grimly, I concentrated on keeping up with him.

At five to twelve, he sighed and leant back in his chair. ‘That was a good morning's work. Did you get it all down?'

‘Yes, thank you.' I flexed my cramped fingers. Now was the moment, before he went for his pre-lunch drink. I stood up as though to return to my desk.

‘Oh, Mr Haig,' – my voice was studiedly casual – ‘I wonder if you could let me have Miss Harvey's address?'

The effect of my words was more dramatic than I could have hoped. About to rise, Matthew halted, both hands on the arms of his chair and head lowered. Then, slowly, he sat down again and looked up at me. His eyes burned into mine. ‘
What
did you say?'

My mouth was suddenly dry, and I moistened my lips. ‘Miss Harvey's address; could I have it, please? A – a letter has come for her.'

He let out a long-held breath. ‘Well, you'd better tear it up; it won't be any use to her now.'

My eyes widened. ‘I can't do that! Surely she –'

‘What do you know of Linda Harvey?' he interrupted harshly. ‘Who's been speaking to you about her?'

‘No one, that's the point. But surely she only left because – because ...' I stumbled to a halt.

He was staring at me, his eyes narrowed and keen as gimlets. ‘Well, since you're obviously riddled with curiosity,' he said at last, with an edge to his voice, ‘I might as well tell you that Linda Harvey is dead. She was drowned in the bay four weeks ago.'

Outside on the path a dog barked suddenly. From the passage I could hear Mrs Johnson busy with the vacuum cleaner. My hand went slowly to my throat as a feeling of nausea spread over me, and I remembered Matthew dragging me, kicking and struggling, out of the sea.

I whispered, ‘So that was why – you thought ...'

‘Yes, that's why I dragged you so unceremoniously out of the water.' His voice was more gentle, as though he realized the shock he had given me.

‘And I was flippant and silly,' I said quietly, ‘I'm sorry.' What had I said?
Secretaries must be hard to find.
My face flamed.

Matthew had risen. ‘I should have broken it more gently. I'm sorry. Sit down for a minute.' He went to the corner cabinet, poured a tot of what I assumed was brandy, and came back to me.

‘Drink this.' I had started to shake, and he had to hold the glass for me. ‘You didn't know her,' he commented, watching me curiously. ‘Why has it upset you so much?'

‘Because nobody told me she was dead.' I looked up at him. ‘
Why
didn't they?'

His eyes slid away. ‘I didn't want to make an issue of it. It might have frightened you.'

‘Frightened me?'

He made an impatient movement. ‘Put you off staying, I mean.'

But Mike hadn't wanted me to know either; did
he
think I'd be frightened? And – oh God – what had he said?
Don't make a habit of swimming with Matthew.
He hadn't meant – he couldn't have meant – that was ridiculous. I forced myself to say, ‘How did it happen?'

Matthew turned away and stood staring out of the window, his hands driven deep in his pockets. ‘As far as we can gather, she fell asleep on a lilo and drifted out to sea. She couldn't swim.'

‘How dreadful,' I whispered. ‘Who – found her?'

‘I did.' The tone precluded any further questioning. Poor, dead Linda. I thought of the happy girl in the snapshot and imagined her drowned beauty, blonde hair entangled with the seaweed – a floating Ophelia. I swallowed the rest of the liquid hastily and gasped as it seared my throat.

Matthew turned back to the room.

‘Feeling better?'

I nodded.

‘Right, then I'll go.' He could hardly leave fast enough.

But as the door closed behind him, I knew I was not sufficiently ‘better' to stay alone in the room where his words still lingered. I would willingly sacrifice the afternoon to transcribe my notes, but for the moment I had to have company.

I opened the library door as the front door shut behind Matthew, waited until I heard his car start up, then walked down the passage and into the kitchen.

Mrs Johnson, busy at the sink, turned in surprise. ‘Can I get you something, miss?'

‘No, thank you.' I was still trembling.

She dried her hands on her apron. ‘What is it, miss? You look – here, sit you down by the fire.' The kitchen grate glowed cheerfully in defiance of the hot sun outside.

Gratefully I sat in the comfortable old arm chair, ‘I've just heard about Miss Harvey,' I said.

‘Ah. Very sad, it were. Very sad indeed. A lovely young lady.'

‘Yes,' I said stupidly, hoping she would go on. That was the first unsolicited remark I'd ever heard about Linda. I put my hand in my pocket and drew out the letter. I stared at it for a moment and it shook in my hand.

‘There now miss, don't 'ee fret,' Mrs Johnson said soothingly. ‘ 'Tis all over now, and mayhap for the best. They say her father was a parson, and a rare strict man.'

I raised my head, puzzled by the irrelevancy of the remark. ‘Her father?'

‘Yes. He'd never have forgiven her, likely.'

‘I – don't understand.'

‘I thought they told 'ee?'

‘Only that – she was drowned.'

‘Well now, she was expecting a baby, you see. So it would never have done.'

I'd been partly right after all. I said urgently, ‘Who ...?'

‘Why, we don't know, do we, miss? Only the poor lady herself could have told we.'

Another thought struck me with the force of a sledgehammer. ‘Then you think she – she might have ...?'

The woman suddenly looked frightened. ‘Oh Lord love us, no, miss, that was not my meaning at all! I'm not saying as how the poor young lady did anything a -
purpose
'. Such a happy creature she was, right up to the end. No thought of drowning herself, I'd stake my life. Dear me no!'

The good soul looked horrified and I abandoned the supposition stillborn. Nevertheless, that would have been a more feasible reason for not telling me and there was, after all, someone besides Linda who knew who the father was.

Slowly I leant forward and tossed the unopened envelope into the heart of the fire. It browned at the edges like an autumn leaf, darkened, slowly curled, flamed briefly, became transparent. And still the cramped handwriting was weirdly legible, like a letter to a ghost. Mrs Johnson moved to the fire and the breeze of her movement wafted it up the wide chimney. Perhaps Linda would get her letter after all.

I shivered, and Mrs Johnson clucked sympathetically. ‘Not a nice thing to hear, miss; I'm surprised Mr Haig told you. I was ordered very particular not to mention Miss Linda, which was why I was a mite startled when you spoke of her that morning.'

‘Why?' I asked sharply. ‘Why wasn't I to be told?'

‘Well,' Mrs Johnson replied with logic, ‘mayhap he foresaw how the news would affect 'ee.'

‘One last thing, Mrs Johnson. There was an inquest, I suppose?'

‘Yes, indeed, a nasty affair. Poor Mr Haig was in a fair pother.'

‘And – what was the verdict?'

‘Why, death by misadventure, miss, what else?' Mrs Johnson replied serenely.

* * *

The Monday which had dawned so brightly was spoilt for me, and even Mike's phone-call at lunch time did not lift my sense of depression.

‘How's my girl today?'

‘So-so.' I kept my voice low and my eyes on the dining-room door, through which I had hurried to take the call.

‘What's wrong, honey?'

‘I've just heard about Linda.'

There was a silence. Then he said, ‘What have you heard?'

‘I can hardly tell you over the phone.'

‘Look, I was ringing to say I'm tied up today, and how about tomorrow? But if you're upset, I could manage half an hour around four o'clock. How would that be?'

‘Oh Mike, could you? I've some typing to do first, but if we could have a cup of tea together ...'

‘Right. Try not to worry, and I'll call for you at four.'

I was waiting at the gate when he drove up. The dear old car had been standing in the sunshine, and as I leant back in the seat the warm leather came round my shoulders like an embrace.

Mike leaned over and kissed my cheek. ‘There's a café in town I use sometimes. Shouldn't be too busy on a Monday – we can talk there.' He was more serious than I'd seen him, and I was glad. I was not in the mood for flirting today.

The Tudor Café was oak-beamed, with shining brass and copper, and delph racks on the wall. Mike led me down the length of it to the table by the wide brick fireplace, now screened with an arrangement of chrysanthemums and dahlias. Their bitter­sweet perfume overlaid the scent of floor polish and hot buttered toast. There were only one or two people there, all at the other end of the room.

‘Now.' Mike settled forward, his arms on the table. ‘Who exactly told you what?'

Falteringly, I repeated the events of the morning, it's true, isn't it?'

‘As far as it goes, I suppose.'

‘Mike –' I clenched my hands. I had to ask this. ‘What did you mean about not making a habit of swimming with Matthew?'

He frowned. ‘I shouldn't have said that.'

‘But what did you mean?'

He shrugged. ‘Only that he wasn't much help to Linda.'

‘I don't understand.'

‘He was with her that afternoon. Didn't he tell you that bit?'

I went cold. ‘He told me he had
found
her.'

‘That too – later. Of course, at the inquest he said he'd left her half an hour earlier.'

‘And you didn't believe him?' My palms were clammy with sweat.

‘I don't know what to believe. No doubt he'd have saved her if he could.'

We were silent while the waitress brought the tea. Automatically, I poured it.