TEN
Sir Charles Talbot leaned forward attentively to the woman across the table. It was lunchtime on Monday and they were in the Criterion on Piccadilly. Under the influence of a bottle of hock, faultless service and excellent food, served amongst marble pillars under the ornate gold mosaic ceiling, the editor of the Beau Monde, Miss Rowena Holt was becoming confidential.
‘So you’re thinking of starting a new magazine,’ she said, finishing the last of her chicken pie. ‘It’s not the right time, you know, what with the price of pulp paper and the war soaking up all the really decent staff. We keep going, but we’re a well-known name.’
‘A household name,’ murmured Sir Charles.
She smiled at the compliment. ‘You could say that, I suppose. What you’ve got to be certain of is your intended audience. Who are your readers?’
Sir Charles was ready with the answer. ‘Ladies of some wealth and standing, ladies who, despite wanting to do the very best, both for their homes and their country, still have enough means, leisure and inclination to want to dress and live smartly in accordance with the prevailing modes.’
Miss Holt digested this, together with the chicken pie, as the waiter deftly cleared the plates. ‘Hmm. The same readership as the Beau Monde, in fact.’
‘Exactly,’ said Sir Charles smoothly. ‘Which is why, of course, I’ve come to you.’
Miss Rowena Holt, he thought, didn’t look as he imagined the editor of an expensive journal for the upper classes would. She certainly didn’t emulate the languid beauties who adorned the pages of the Beau Monde. She was short – dumpy in fact – and businesslike, with a sensible, well-worn grey alpaca coat and what were referred to as walking shoes.
‘Well, you could do worse than talk to me,’ she granted. ‘At least I’ll tell you the real facts and not some flannery. You say this American wants to extend his press to England?’
This was the story Sir Charles had worked out. He had presented himself at the offices of the Beau Monde in the guise of a scout for a New York newspaper magnate, and managed to charm Miss Holt out to lunch. He nodded in response to her question.
‘I wouldn’t mind knowing who it is,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Mr Sherston would be interested. I don’t suppose . . .?’ She saw his expression.
‘He would like to remain anonymous for the present,’ said Sir Charles regretfully.
‘Well, he’s probably well-advised at this stage,’ she agreed. ‘To be honest, I’d tell him to find another readership. What about factory girls? They’ve got quite a bit of money to throw around nowadays, what with munitions and so on. The top end is very crowded, you know. Vogue is the one to beat, but there’s plenty of competition. We hold our own, I’m glad to say. Pudding? Oh, thank you. Perhaps one of those strawberry tarts. They looked delicious and marvellously early as well. The thing is, Mr Hargreaves –’ Sir Charles had dropped his name and title for the purposes of the interview – ‘every magazine needs its own personality, something that will draw the readers back time after time.’
‘You’ve got “Frankie’s Letter”, haven’t you?’
She laughed and reached for the cream jug. ‘You’ve put your finger on it. Frankie is the talk of London. She goes everywhere and knows everyone and there’s always that little frisson when you think you might have talked to her. There’s been lots of guesses who she is, but no one’s managed to pin her down.’
‘It must be very difficult to keep a secret like that,’ said Sir Charles with a smile. ‘You must have been tempted to let the cat out of the bag more than once. It must be nearly unendurable to see Frankie at work and be the only one in the room to know who she is.’
‘But I don’t know,’ said Miss Holt, meeting his eyes. Sir Charles looked startled. ‘No, honestly,’ she said, sprinkling sugar on her tart. ‘I grumbled at first, as you can imagine, when Mr Sherston first proposed the idea, but he said it was a condition of Frankie, whoever she is, doing the “Letter” at all. I was very dubious, as it’s one thing to make a newspaper stunt out of secrecy and quite another to really mean it. I nearly refused to run the first “Letter”, because of the conditions. I’m not allowed to edit them, you know.’ Sir Charles’s eyes widened. ‘I’ve got to print them as they are. Still,’ she added with a shrug, ‘it’s the first page everyone turns to and the copy’s always good, so if that’s what Mr Sherston wants, that’s what Mr Sherston gets.’
‘So it was Mr Sherston’s own idea?’
Miss Holt nodded vigorously. ‘Yes. He takes a great interest in the content of his magazines.’
‘But how does Frankie get paid? Surely she doesn’t work for nothing?’
Miss Holt laughed. ‘I wouldn’t have thought so, but I don’t know who pays her. Mr Sherston himself, at a guess. There was some talk that it might be a lady-friend he wanted to oblige, but I scotched that right away. Mr Sherston isn’t that sort, and I’ve seen enough to know. No, I’ve got a fairly good idea about Frankie, but if Mr Sherston wants to keep it to himself, that’s his business.’
‘A member of his household?’ asked Sir Charles quietly.
‘You didn’t hear me say any such thing,’ said Miss Holt stiffly, then laughed once more. ‘It’s a good guess, but why spoil the fun? After all, it’s not a state secret, is it? Yes, coffee would be very nice, thank you.’
Agnes Prenderville, senior assistant at Hampson and Quinns, the gentlemen’s outfitters, walked through the entrance to Southampton Row tram station and down the steep stairs to the gloomy underground platform. The platform was crowded, as it always was at six o’clock, but she jostled her way through until she found a foot-square space relatively free from bags, umbrellas and elbows.
Mondays always seemed longer than other days, for some reason, and she’d been run off her feet today. The place had been crowded out, full of people who’d come to gawp at the German Town being built for some newspaper stunt. They’d had some awkward customers today, too. Honestly, that woman who complained about her husband’s socks! On and on, as if it was Agnes’ fault they’d shrunk in the wash. Well, they were the right size when we sold them to you, madam. No, that hadn’t gone down well. It was dark, under the gloomy subterranean archways of the tram station and, despite the crowd, Agnes felt her eyes closing. She pulled herself together with a start and glanced at her watch.
Ten past six. She had a few minutes yet before the number 31 was due. The watch had been a present from Steve, a pretty thing with numbers picked out in gold. He was on good money now, what with the war and everything. Yes, she’d made the right choice with Steve. Even if the army said he wasn’t fit for them, he’d do for her. Steve was a steady worker who could keep a job. Mum said that was important and she was right. Even if there were better-looking men, looks weren’t everything. Take the bloke in front of her, now . . .
Partly to keep her eyes from closing again and partly from natural curiosity, Agnes studied the man standing to one side and slightly in front of her, summing up his clothes with a practised eye. The stick he carried was a gentleman’s cane of blackthorn topped with a silver handle. The overcoat slung over his arm was a fine wool that must have cost anywhere between seven and eight guineas, and his suit was another cool five or six guineas worth, topped off by a very smart soft hat.
She wished Steve would make more of an effort. Not at those prices, of course, but he could look like a real gent if he wanted to. This bloke was a real gent, of course. Agnes recognized the upright, arrogant stance, the air of one who gave commands, not took them. Good looking though, with fair hair and sharp cheekbones.
A tram – a number 35, not hers – clanked into the station and he turned his face to look at it. She didn’t like his mouth. No, she didn’t like his mouth, she thought with a sudden chill. It was sharp with a cruel twist to it, not kindly like Steve’s. Agnes had a faint sense of something wrong. Although the man was looking at the tram keenly, he didn’t seem to want to board it. He didn’t straighten his shoulders, readjust the coat over his arm and shuffle forward in the crowd. No; instead he stepped back, watching. That was it. Watching.
The crowd heaved round her, shuffling slowly forward towards the waiting tram. The man walked forward, not towards the tram, but diagonally across the platform. It was as if he was trying to catch up with a friend, but his face wasn’t friendly. He shouldered his way through to stand behind a bloke in a bowler hat and paused. Agnes half-expected him to tap the bloke on the shoulder, but he didn’t.
She saw his eyes narrow and focus, his lips flatten out to a thin line, then the arm carrying the coat raised up and, so quickly she couldn’t work out what was happening, there was a sharp crack.
The gent dropped his arm, turned away, back through the crowd and towards the steps leading up to the street. The bloke in the bowler seemed to stagger and jump forward, clutching at the woman in front of him, his arms round the shoulders of her navy blue coat. She screamed in fright, trying to free herself, to shake off the clutching arms. The crowd heaved and eddied and there was a swell of excited noise as a space appeared around her and the man in the bowler fell to the floor.
The conductor on the tram leaned forward on the lighted landing stage, his voice carrying over the din. ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded. ‘Here, stand clear of the car, will you,’ he added, getting down from the tram and pushing his way through the passengers. ‘What’s that lady screaming about?’
‘A geezer attacked her,’ said an eager-looking man in a cloth cap, over a rolling torrent of explanations. The woman continued to scream. ‘Disgraceful, I call it. Grabbed hold of her, he did. I seen it. Bold as brass.’
‘He’s been took ill,’ said a headscarfed woman. ‘’E collapsed. ’E must’ve had a stroke. Takes ’em like that, it does.’
The woman who had screamed was standing at the centre of a small circle, a man sprawled out on the platform in front of her. His hat, a bowler, was still jammed tight on his head, but Agnes caught a glimpse of an odd dark stain on the back of his neck.
The conductor broke through into the little circle and knelt on the ground. ‘Be hushed, mum,’ he said with rough sympathy to the woman who screamed. She was standing with her hand crammed to her mouth. ‘No harm done.’ He reached out, tentatively shook the fallen man, gasped and drew his hand away.
His voice broke. ‘Bloody hell! That’s blood. There’s blood all over his collar.’ He took his cap off and wiped his forehead with a trembling hand. ‘He’s been shot.’
Sir Charles was standing at the entrance to the Fennel Street mortuary when Anthony arrived. Anthony knew the Fennel Street mortuary from his time at the School of Tropical Medicine, an unobtrusive building tucked behind the imposing frontages of Gower Street. It was nearly three hours after the murder at Kingsway tram station.
‘I got your message,’ he said quickly. ‘What’s happened?’
‘You know you said we’d hear from Warren’s killer again? I think we have.’ Sir Charles quickly recounted what had happened on the tram platform. ‘I’m waiting for Superintendent Rothley. The description of the murderer matched Warren’s killer, so Scotland Yard got in touch with me right away.’
He looked up as a solid, well-scrubbed man holding a black briefcase, who looked, thought Anthony, every inch a plain-clothes policeman, approached. ‘Here he is now.’
The mortuary attendant led them into the clean, cold, depressing reception room. ‘This is the most peculiar murder I’ve ever come across, Mr Monks,’ said Superintendent Rothley lugubriously, putting the briefcase down on the table. ‘Can you really credit one man would shoot another in that way? It wasn’t a chance affair, either. We’ve got a very sharp-eyed young woman who swears our gunman was looking out for his victim. She was sure the killer was a gent. The real thing, I mean. She described him as a toff by the way he was dressed.’
Sir Charles and Anthony swapped glances. ‘A toff, eh?’ repeated Anthony. ‘A gentleman, you mean?’
Rothley nodded. ‘We can take her word for it. Gent’s clothes is something she knows about because she works in Hampson and Quinns, the gentlemen’s outfitters. I couldn’t shake her. She’ll be a good witness, which is just as well, because otherwise it beggars belief.’
‘How come no one tried to stop the killer getting away?’ asked Anthony.
Rothley gave a depressed shrug. ‘No one realized what had happened. I mean, I ask you! People were jammed on that platform like sardines in a tin. You don’t expect them to start shooting each other. Our witness, Miss Prenderville, saw what she saw, but she didn’t believe it. I don’t blame her, either. We’ve identified the dead man. His name was Cedric Chapman. I don’t suppose that means anything to you, gentlemen?’
Both Sir Charles and Anthony shook their heads.
‘Ah well. It was just a thought. Anyway, Chapman seemed to fling himself forward and make a grab at a woman, a Mrs Ollerenshaw, who screamed fit to bust. She thought she was being assaulted and so did a good few others. When he collapsed, everyone thought he’d been taken ill, Mrs Ollerenshaw wouldn’t stop screaming, the conductor was bellowing at everyone to clear the car and the platform and so on and, what with one thing and another, our man calmly turned on his heel and walked away without anyone lifting a finger to stop him. I’ve never come across anything like it. If he really is the same bloke who killed your Lieutenant Warren, the sooner we get our hands on him the better, but it’s going to be hard.’
‘Why?’ asked Anthony. ‘Why should it be especially hard, I mean?’
Superintendent Rothley looked at him morosely. ‘Think about it, sir. A man who can stand on a tram platform, gun down another and stroll away as cool as kiss-your-hand isn’t going to go shouting his mouth off in the pub about it or come and own up, which is how we usually get on the right track.’
The superintendent pulled a long face. ‘Add to that, I presume, because you gentlemen are involved, there’s something hush-hush about the whole affair.’ He tapped the briefcase. ‘I’ve brought all the evidence with me, as you requested. Do you want to look at it now?’
‘I’d rather see the body first,’ said Sir Charles.
‘Just as you like, Mr Monks.’
The attendant ushered them into the mortuary. They were silent as the sheet was pulled back from the body on the slab, then Anthony gave a gasp of surprise. ‘Good Lord, it’s the Weasel.’
Sir Charles looked at him sharply. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Certain.’
The bullet had gone through the back of his head but the face was unharmed. Anthony stared at the dead man. The jaw had fallen open and the upper lip curled away from his teeth in a weaselly snarl. He was unmistakable.
‘So you recognize him, Colonel?’ asked the superintendent, brightening.
‘He broke into my rooms.’
The superintendent nodded. ‘That ties in. He was a thief, all right, a real pro. He had a record as long as your arm.’ He stared at the figure on the slab. ‘I don’t know why he was mixed up with the likes of Lieutenant Warren’s killer. I wouldn’t have thought that was his cup of tea at all. He’s been found in possession of a firearm before now, but he’s never used one, to the best of our knowledge. Like most professional crooks, he avoided violence if he could.’
‘A lovable rogue, Superintendent?’ asked Anthony with a lift of his eyebrows.
Superintendent Rothley gave a snort of disagreement. ‘There was nothing lovable about Chapman, sir. Not on your life. He avoided violence because he was a sight too fond of his own skin. He’d do down a pal if he thought he’d get something out of it. He’s no great loss, that’s for sure.’
They went back into the anti room where they pulled up chairs to the table. The superintendent opened his briefcase and handed a cardboard folder to Sir Charles. ‘That’s a copy of Chapman’s record, sir, with a note of his last known address and associates.’
‘Did he have anything on him?’ Anthony asked. ‘Money, papers, that sort of thing?’
‘He had a few bits and pieces, including a watch, a box of matches and a packet of Woodbines and nearly five pounds in notes and loose change. That wasn’t much to shout about, but this was a bit out of the way.’ The superintendent reached in the briefcase once more and took out a cardboard-backed envelope.
Sir Charles opened it, took a photograph from the envelope. He stared at the photograph for a moment, then handed it to Anthony.
Anthony felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he recognized the photo.
It was a studio portrait of a little girl about five years old, the same child whose picture they’d found in Veronica O’Bryan’s room. Then she’d been holding a toy cat; now she had a doll. Anthony took the photograph and once again looked into the child’s solemn eyes. As before, an adult had written across the bottom of the picture. ‘To Mummy’.
‘Veronica O’Bryan,’ said Sir Charles softly. ‘It’s a link to Veronica O’Bryan.’
Superintendent Rothley looked at him enquiringly but Sir Charles didn’t explain. ‘It’s a puzzler, isn’t it?’ he said, putting the photograph back in the envelope. ‘I couldn’t figure out why Chapman had it on him. It was in that envelope in his breast pocket and it’s obviously fairly new. There’s no photographer’s name on it, worse luck, so we can’t trace it that way. Chapman didn’t have any family and besides that, I’d say that little girl was a different class altogether from Chapman and his sort.’ He looked hopefully at Sir Charles. ‘You can’t give me a hint, Mr Monks? It obviously means something to you.’
Sir Charles clicked his tongue in irritation. ‘You’re quite right, Superintendent. It means something but I don’t know what.’
‘Well, sir, I know better than to ask too many questions, but if it does start making sense, perhaps you could let us know,’ said Rothley, standing up.
‘I will, Superintendent,’ said Sir Charles absently. He shook himself and got to his feet. ‘Thank you for your cooperation. It’s saved a great deal of unnecessary work. I’m much obliged.’
They all left the mortuary together. As Superintendent Rothley departed down the street, Sir Charles tucked the cardboard folder under his arm and fell into step with Anthony as they rounded the corner of Fennel Street.
‘What the devil,’ said Anthony, as soon as they were alone, ‘was Chapman doing with a photograph of that kid?’
‘Blackmail, perhaps?’ said Sir Charles. ‘Maybe Veronica O’Bryan was blackmailed into cooperating.’
Anthony drew his breath in. ‘That’s a filthy trick.’ He scratched his ear thoughtfully. ‘Can it be blackmail, though? Mrs O’Bryan didn’t seem an unwilling partner.’
‘Maybe it isn’t blackmail,’ said Sir Charles with a shrug. ‘Maybe they, whoever they are, are looking after the child and send Mrs O’Bryan photos of her from time to time to keep her sweet. That’d fit the facts. What I’d like to know is why Chapman was killed. We can take it as read that Warren and Chapman were killed by the same man, but why kill Chapman? Was he threatening to blow the gaff, as they say, about Warren’s murder? Chapman might have drawn the line there. Most thieves are squeamish about murder.’
‘I don’t think Chapman was squeamish,’ said Anthony, remembering that weaselly face. ‘As the superintendent said, as long as he could get away with it, I don’t think there’s much he’d have blinked at. I think Chapman tried to pinch the diamonds but it didn’t come off. It seems as if this organization won’t tolerate failure.’
‘My God,’ breathed Sir Charles. ‘We have to get to the bottom of this. I’d give a dickens of a lot to haul Sherston over the coals, but I can’t.’
He paused, sunk in thought. ‘Miss Holt, the editor of the Beau Monde, thinks Frankie’s a member of Sherston’s household, so, for the time being, I’m going to work on the premise that Veronica O’Bryan is Frankie, with or without Sherston’s knowledge. I think there’s a good chance she’ll get in touch with someone at Starhanger. It might be her daughter or it might be Sherston. If Sherston is involved, he’ll want to know what’s going on. If he comes back to town, I’ll make sure he’s kept under observation but I want you at Starhanger.’
‘How do I get myself invited back to Starhanger?’ asked Anthony.
‘You’d better telephone. You can ask to speak to Tara O’Bryan.’ A slightly cynical smile curved Sir Charles’s mouth. ‘You made quite an impression on her, if I’m not mistaken.’
Anthony was about to deny it, then, with a little jolt, realized that Sir Charles might be right. All sorts of little pointers fell into place, such as the way she had sought him out in the garden and the easy familiarity with which she’d talked to him. Yes, she probably did like him, the poor kid. The idea made him uncomfortable and he tried to pass it off with a dismissive laugh. ‘I don’t think so, Talbot.’
Sir Charles raised his eyebrows disbelievingly. ‘Have it your own way,’ he muttered. ‘Anyway, you can express your concern and so on, and ask if you can come back and help search for her mother. Unless I’m much mistaken, she’ll invite you like a shot.’
Like a shot? That was an unhappy choice of phrase.
Anthony liked Tara O’Bryan. He felt a tender protectiveness towards her, an elder brotherly sort of feeling. He loathed the idea of using her, of pretending to be a friend because – he couldn’t pretend otherwise – there was no happy ending for Tara.
Her mother had vanished without trace. Either she would stay lost or be found. If she stayed lost, Tara would never be really at peace again. If she was found, those papers in her room were enough to strap Veronica O’Bryan blindfolded to a wooden Windsor chair in the Tower of London where she would be executed. Shot.
That was the brutal simplicity of war. If Sherston was part of the conspiracy, Tara would lose her home as well. She was innocent and she was going to suffer. He didn’t want to be part of it. And then there was Josette . . . The thought of her haunted him and the only cure he could see was to stay away.
Sir Charles looked at him. ‘You have to go,’ he said with unexpected sympathy. ‘We’ve had too many deaths, Brooke. We have to get to the truth before the fourteenth of June. There’s something very nasty planned and we’ve got to stop it.’
Anthony braced himself. ‘If you say so,’ he said unhappily.
The next morning, Tara O’Bryan met Anthony on the little platform of Swayling Halt. It was unexpectedly touching to see her there, in her pretty green jacket and green and white hat.
At a guess, she had dressed with especial care to defy the anxiety she so clearly felt. She was putting, thought Anthony as he stepped off the train, a very consciously brave face on it all. The look of relief she gave, as he hefted his bag and stepped down from the train, hurt. After all, he was her mother’s enemy and she thought he was a friend.
She stretched out her hand to him. ‘I’m so glad you came back, Colonel.’ She paused, then added, her voice cracking, ‘I’m trying to bear up, but I’m off my head with worry.’
And that, thought Anthony, as he looked at her strained face and the shadows under her eyes, was true. ‘Kindred’s outside with the pony and trap,’ she said, in an attempt at her usual manner.
To see Tara, who was so courageous and – well, so downright sensible – so close to tears, moved Anthony more than he could say. He didn’t think Veronica O’Bryan had been a very kind or loving mother, but she was the only mother the girl had.
He was about to reply, but the train huffed, sending a whoosh of sooty smoke into the clear air. There was a slamming of doors and shouts of, ‘Dover train! Foxley Heath next stop!’ which made conversation impossible.
The train gave a deafening whistle and chugged out of the station. The sound of clanking wheels and snorting steam gradually died away.
There was one other passenger who had alighted at Swayling Halt, a stout woman in a pepper-and-salt tweed coat and a hat with berries on it. She was fussing with her bags and looked round impatiently for the porter. Her eyes lit up as she saw Tara and Anthony.
‘Good morning, Tara, my dear,’ she said cheerfully.
It was Mrs Moulton, who Anthony had sat beside at dinner on Friday night. ‘I didn’t realize we were fellow-passengers, Colonel,’ she added. ‘I’ve been away for a few days, visiting Cynthia,’ she went on chattily, looking at Tara. ‘My married daughter,’ she explained in an aside to Anthony. ‘She lives in London. I should have come back last night, but the trains are so bad she persuaded me to stop another night. I’m glad I did, too. Did you see this awful news in the paper this morning about the poor man murdered at the tram station? It’s not safe to be out any more. It’s the war that’s done it. It’s unsettled everyone so. Cynthia asked after you, Tara. She’d love to have you to stay.’ She looked at Tara critically. ‘Why don’t you consider it, my dear? You’re looking a bit peaky. A little holiday might do you good.’
‘Haven’t you heard the news, Mrs Moulton?’ blurted out Tara. ‘About my mother, I mean?’
Mrs Moulton stood riveted to the spot as Tara told her about Veronica O’Bryan’s disappearance. ‘We’ve searched the entire Slough,’ said Tara, despairingly, ‘and there’s no trace. We’ve gone over every inch of the ground between here and Carson’s Water, but no one’s seen her.’
‘You poor child,’ said Mrs Moulton, deeply moved. She glared at Anthony. ‘What are you doing about it?
‘I don’t . . .’ began Anthony.
‘You should do something,’ said Mrs Moulton firmly. ‘You’re a man! When did she disappear, Tara? Saturday? Saturday evening?’ Her face fell with disappointment. ‘I saw your mother on Saturday afternoon, but I don’t suppose that’s much use.’
Anthony felt his pulse quicken. ‘You saw her?’ he demanded. ‘When? Where?’
‘Wait a minute, young man. Let me get my thoughts in order.’ She looked at Tara and her face softened. ‘I’m sure it’ll be all right, my dear. Now let me see, when did I see your mother last?’ Her face cleared. ‘I know. I was on my way to catch the ten past three to London, so it would be about twenty to three. Ralph brought the trap round and we were on our way down the hill, when I saw your mother on the other side of the road. She was on horseback. I didn’t have a chance to speak to her.’
‘She was on Station Hill?’ asked Tara, puzzled. ‘But she said she was going to Carson’s Water. Whatever was she doing there?’
Mrs Moulton shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but she was there.’
‘Which is Station Hill?’ asked Anthony.
For an answer, Mrs Moulton pointed over the platform fence. ‘There.’
Station Hill was a long, steep road, dusty white with chalk, leading out of Swayling. The village made a start up the hill then straggled to a halt, leaving the road to run on between fields and woods. There was a substantial wood which cloaked the crown of the slope, and, at the very top, a distant gleam of white from the walls of a house.
‘That’s my house,’ added Mrs Moulton with a wry smile. ‘Right on the edge of Ticker’s Wood. It’s quite a pull up. That’s where I saw your mother, Tara. It’s one of her favourite rides. I’ve seen her go into the woods a few times.’
‘The horse was found near the Slough,’ said Anthony. ‘Is it possible to get to the Slough from Ticker’s Wood?’
Mrs Moulton pulled a face. ‘It’s possible,’ she admitted reluctantly, ‘but the path through the woods is very boggy and neglected and there’s a couple of fields to cross.’
‘It’s a way back to Starhanger, though,’ said Tara. She clutched at Anthony’s arm. ‘That must be it. We’ve been looking in the wrong place. Can we go? Can we go and look now?’
They walked into Ticker’s Wood. The path was nothing more than a dirt track, the surface churned up by horses’ hooves and thrown into deep ruts by cartwheels. Mrs Moulton’s house, a little gem of a Georgian building, stood behind them, just visible through the trees.
Anthony had sent his bag back to Starhanger with Kindred and he and Tara accepted a lift up the hill from Mrs Moulton in the trap driven by her handyman, Ralph.
Anthony was glad Mrs Moulton hadn’t come into the woods. Tara was jumping with nerves. She could only, he thought, stand so much of Mrs Moulton’s rather clumsy kindness.
It was a walk Anthony would have usually enjoyed, with the sun glancing through the rustling delicate green of the young beech leaves, picking out clumps of purple violets and yellow dandelions, but Tara was so keyed-up she seemed on the point of panic. She was almost, Anthony thought, what the Scots called fey.
‘Something awful’s happened,’ she said, her voice so low Anthony could hardly hear her. He tried to say something comforting but he couldn’t find the words.
Tara turned on him suddenly, her eyes studying his face. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Miss O’Bryan—’ he began but she cut him off.
‘You’re not real! You don’t really care. You’re pretending, aren’t you? You’re not a friend.’
Profoundly uncomfortable, Anthony glanced away, unable to meet her intense stare, and there, amongst the scrubby undergrowth, he saw a flower – an odd flower – of shining black, nearly covered by harebells. It was rounded and regular. Tara picked it up with a little cry. It was a lady’s riding hat.
‘Look,’ she said in a choked voice. ‘It’s my mother’s.’
With the hat in her hand she stopped, looking round intently. The rustling shade of the woods seemed suddenly sinister, a closed-in green world.
Anthony saw it first, a bundle of brown huddled up beside a moss-covered fallen trunk. The trunk was rotten with decay and loaded with fungus. Anthony had never liked fungus.
‘Stay here,’ he said, suddenly desperate to save her from seeing the worst, but Tara hardly heard him.
She walked towards the trunk like someone in a trance. The fungus had been broken, leaving clumps of black slime.
Anthony looked acutely at the rough bark of the trunk, the lichen, the moss and the fungus. He knew what the brown bundle was and was putting off facing it.
Tara still hadn’t caught on. Anthony gritted his teeth and turned it over. It wasn’t nice. It wouldn’t have been anyway, but two days in warm, damp woodland hadn’t helped.
Tara screamed.
They’d found Veronica O’Bryan all right. She’d been shot.