The inquest on Claire Margaret Holroyd was set down for eleven o’clock on Thursday morning. Shortly after ten a uniformed constable from the team that had dealt with house-to-house inquiries after the death of Harry Lingard came along to Chief Inspector Kelsey’s office, wishing to speak to him.
The constable was currently engaged in making return calls on households where it was deemed necessary. One such call yesterday evening was to a Mrs Locke, an elderly widow living close to the council estate where Harry Lingard had lived. Mrs Locke had a lodger, a steady young man of twenty in regular work; he had been fully cleared on the constable’s first visit.
But this lodger had a friend – or, more correctly, a casual acquaintance met at a disco – of about the same age. He had spun a hard-luck story and the lodger had persuaded Mrs Locke to let him stay at the house for a few days around the middle of November. He had left Mrs Locke’s on the morning of Saturday, November 17; neither Mrs Locke nor her lodger knew his home address or precisely where he was bound when he left the house. He had told them he would be back again before long. Mrs Locke had thought him a decent enough lad, she had told him she could always find him a bed if he was stuck another time. There was no reason to believe he had been in any way involved in Harry Lingard’s death but a return visit must be made in every such instance. When the constable called again yesterday evening Mrs Locke told him the lad hadn’t so far shown up or got in touch.
But the reason the constable wished now to speak to the Chief had nothing to do with the vanishing young man, it had to do with Mrs Locke. At the end of the constable’s visit yesterday evening she had spoken to him with some distress about the second murder, the discovery of Claire Holroyd’s body. ‘It turns out,’ the constable said, ‘Mrs Locke worked for the Holroyd family for years, she knew them all well. I thought I’d mention it in case you felt it might be worth having a word with her.’
Five minutes later Sergeant Lambert found himself snatched from his desk and despatched to Mrs Locke’s. The morning was wet and blowy, raw blasts assailed him as he got out of the car and ran up the front steps to press the doorbell.
When he told Mrs Locke who he was her lined face broke into a smile. ‘I’m glad you’ve called,’ she declared. ‘It’ll save me a trip to the police station.’ She peered out at the boisterous morning. ‘Come in, come in,’ she bade him. ‘You look as if you could do with a good hot cup of tea.’ Lambert offered no resistance. She ushered him into a warm kitchen, bustled about with kettle and teapot, produced a tin of her own dark gingerbread, sticky and delicious.
‘We had a postcard this morning from the young man the constable was asking about,’ she told Lambert. ‘He’s coming back here on Monday for a few days. I’ll see he calls in at the station – I’ll go along with him myself to make sure.’ Now that that was satisfactorily out of the way she began without prompting to talk about the murder of Claire Holroyd. ‘Her poor husband,’ she said. ‘It must be terrible for him. I did wonder if I should call round to see how he is, if there’s anything I can do, but then I thought better not, it might seem like an intrusion.’ She needed no encouragement to launch into a nostalgic account of her long connection with the Holroyd family.
She had gone to work at Fairbourne – for Edgar’s grandmother – as a general domestic, as soon as she left school. She had worked there, on and off, full-time or part-time, through all the years of her growing-up, her marriage, the birth of her children, her widowhood, until a few years ago when she had finally decided to call it a day. ‘Edgar had just got married,’ she said. ‘His wife was sure she’d be able to manage without help, so I didn’t feel I’d be leaving them in the lurch.’
Edgar had always treated her with every consideration. ‘A real gentleman,’ she pronounced him. ‘Takes after his father. Now Lester, he takes after his mother’s side. Lovely-looking woman, she was, she died the day after Lester was born. She wasn’t a young woman by that time, and she’d never been strong. Her poor husband took it very hard, though he never talked about it. Folk that didn’t know him might think he hadn’t cared for her, but I knew different. Still waters, that’s the type he was. Edgar’s just the same.
‘I did my share of mothering Lester – I’d got to be cook-housekeeper by then. Edgar could hardly take it in his mother was dead, he’d been that fond of her. He was always a sensitive boy, very serious, always thoughtful and helpful. He’d often give me a hand round the house, he got to be quite useful. After their father died, Edgar brought Lester up himself, he thought the world of that boy, always nursed him when he was ill, as good as any woman. I always fancied he saw it as a kind of trust from his mother, to look after the baby she’d died bringing into the world.
‘Lester’s a very different nature from Edgar, always high-spirited and adventurous. And he knew how to get his own way, he could charm the birds off the trees when he’d a mind to. He always had a quick temper, quickly up and quickly over. Now Edgar, I never once knew him to lose his temper, he was like his father in that. Very fond of exercise, Edgar, that’s another way he took after his father. He went right through school as fit as a flea, never once missed a day through illness. Lester was a strong, sturdy little lad but he took pretty near every childish ailment you could mention – not that he took any of them badly.’ The clock on the mantelshelf struck the half-hour. Lambert pushed back his chair. Time to be off, back to the station, the Chief would shortly be thinking about getting along to the inquest.
Mrs Locke didn’t interrupt her flow as she walked with him to the front door. ‘I was ever so pleased when Edgar got married. I’d thought for sure he’d stay single all his days, he never had a ladyfriend before, to my certain knowledge.’ She shook her head sorrowfully. ‘And now this dreadful thing to happen. I doubt he’ll ever get over it.’
The court proceedings were as brief and formal as in the case of Harry Lingard. Edgar Holroyd looked pale and strained when he arrived at the courthouse, even more pale and strained when he left. On the way out the Chief told him he would be glad of another word; they followed Edgar’s estate car back to Fairbourne. ‘Would there be any objection to my going back to work tomorrow?’ Edgar asked the Chief as he let them into the house. ‘I find it very difficult being here by myself all day. No one comes near me. I can understand well enough. They don’t know what to say.’
‘What about your brother and sister-in-law?’ Kelsey put in. ‘Have they been in touch?’
Edgar shook his head. ‘I saw Diane at the inquest just now but she was gone before I had a chance to speak to her. I hadn’t seen her since the Acorn dinner-dance, when she was there with Lester. Neither of them came near Claire or me all evening.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘They’re young, it must be difficult for them to know how to handle the situation.’
He put up a hand and pressed his forehead. ‘I do my best to keep occupied but I can’t stop going over it all in my mind, trying to work out what could have happened, who could have done it.’ His face was haggard. ‘It’s wearing me out.’ He had seen his doctor, he had been prescribed pills for day and night. ‘But that’s not the answer,’ he said with distaste. ‘All they do is make me feel like a zombie. I’d be better if I could get back to work.’
‘We’ve no objection,’ the Chief assured him.
‘That’s good,’ Edgar exclaimed with marked relief.
The Chief brought up the matter of the boots Claire had ordered at York House. Yes, Edgar remembered them. He took the Chief upstairs to the spacious front bedroom. The room had a deserted look, the twin beds had been stripped, the tops of the dressing table and chest of drawers were bare. Not a single personal oddment was anywhere in evidence. No trace now of perfume, only the mingled scents of air freshener, polish, household cleaner.
Edgar saw the Chief’s ranging glance. ‘I’ve moved into the room across the landing,’ he said flatly. He went to a cupboard and took out a large plastic carrier bag bearing the name of York House. Inside was a cardboard box; inside that, wrapped in layers of tissue paper, a pair of elegant boots in fine suède, a subtle shade of light brown. On top of the boots was a folded receipt dated November 24.
‘I thought it best to pick them up,’ Edgar said as he restored the boots to the box, the box to the bag. He was about to replace the bag in the cupboard when it appeared to hit him that there was now no need for that, Claire would never be coming home again, would never go to the cupboard to take out the boots, her eyes bright with pleasure.
He stood frozen, holding the bag, looking utterly stricken. Then he rallied himself, set the bag down on the floor without a word and led the way out of the room and downstairs again.
The Chief asked if there had been any similar matters Edgar had had to attend to, matters Claire had forgotten or overlooked.
Edgar was steadier now. Yes, there was the hairdresser, he had rung the salon on the Saturday morning to cancel Claire’s next appointment. And he had looked out her library books and returned them. He had learned those two lessons the first time Claire had taken herself off; there had been a hairdresser’s bill to pay for a missed appointment, library fines on overdue books.
The Chief turned to another matter. He asked if Claire had owned a garnet ring.
‘Yes, she did,’ Edgar replied at once. ‘Her godmother left her some pieces of Victorian jewellery, one of them was a garnet ring, set with little diamonds and garnets in a heart shape. No great value but very pretty.’
‘Would you mind looking through her jewel box to see if the ring is there?’ the Chief asked.
Edgar left the room and came back with the box. He set it down on a table, lifted out the trays, subjected the contents to scrutiny. ‘It doesn’t seem to be here,’ he said at last. ‘She must have been wearing it.’ A thought seemed to strike him with the force of a blow. He flashed a distraught look at the Chief. ‘Why are you asking about the ring? How did you know she had a garnet ring? Have you found it?’
The Chief raised a calming hand. ‘Take it easy. You’re going much too fast.’ Edgar drew a deep breath, tried to steady himself.
‘Perhaps you could sketch the ring for us,’ the Chief suggested.
Edgar was ready to try. He went to a drawer and took out a pen and paper, he set about his task with concentration. When he had finished he surveyed his efforts. ‘I don’t think that’s too far out,’ he said as he handed over the drawing. The Chief studied it; a very workmanlike sketch. There could be little doubt; it was either the ring Jill Lingard had shown him or its identical twin. Again he changed tack. ‘One other thing: are you acquainted with a Mr Robert Ashworth?’
Edgar showed no surprise. ‘I’ve never met him but I know who he is. Claire was very friendly with him years ago, when she worked at Hartley’s.’
‘Are you aware that Ashworth recently returned to Cannonbridge?’
Edgar nodded. ‘I saw a paragraph about it in the local paper.’
‘Did you mention the paragraph to your wife?’
‘Certainly not!’ Edgar said with a return of energy. ‘Ashworth belonged to the past. Claire had put all that behind her. It was Claire who broke off the relationship, not Ashworth.’
‘Did you know your wife met Ashworth for lunch not long after he came back to Cannonbridge?’
Edgar gaped at him. ‘That’s not true!’ he declared with force. ‘I don’t know where you got such a tale.’
‘We got it from Robert Ashworth,’ the Chief informed him. ‘Yesterday evening.’ Edgar made no reply. ‘Your wife made no mention to you of any meeting?’ the Chief pursued. Edgar shook his head in silence. ‘According to Ashworth,’ the Chief added, ‘there was just the one meeting. It was by way of laying the past to rest.’
That seemed to bring a measure of comfort to Edgar. ‘In the circumstances,’ he said heavily, ‘I suppose it was the sensible thing to do.’ He looked at the Chief. ‘And not telling me about it, I think I can understand that. Claire wouldn’t want to upset me in any way.’