‘It’s very good of you,’ Gavin said. ‘Particularly at such short notice.’
‘It’s no trouble. Tomorrow’s my turn on duty, I’ll stop over here tonight.’ Roche and the head clerk at Martleigh took it in turns to go into the office on Saturday mornings.
‘I’ll get off home then,’ Gavin said. ‘Thanks again.’
‘Look after yourself,’ Roche told him. ‘There are some pretty nasty bugs going around.’
‘Whisky and lemon, that’s the thing,’ Gavin said. ‘I’ll stop by for another bottle on the way home, I finished every drop in the house last night.’
‘Don’t worry about Mr Howard,’ Miss Tapsell said when Gavin had replaced the receiver. ‘I’ll ring him, I’ll explain about the meeting.’ She was already shepherding Gavin towards the door. ‘I’ll see to everything here, don’t worry about any of it.’ She looked up at him. ‘Would you like me to get someone to run you home? Are you sure you feel like driving?’
‘Oh, I’ll be all right, thanks,’ he said. ‘I’m quite capable of getting home. I’ll sweat it out over the weekend, I’ll be as right as rain on Monday.’
With the extra time at his disposal because of the cancelled meeting, Roche was able to get through a good deal of work during the afternoon. At a quarter to five his secretary came in with a pile of letters to be signed. He came suddenly out of his absorption.
‘Good heavens,’ he said. ‘Is that the time?’ He reached for the phone. ‘I must ring my wife and tell her I won’t be home this evening. I meant to do it earlier.’
On Monday morning Mrs Cutler returned to work at Eastwood. She didn’t yet feel one hundred per cent her old sprightly self but she felt just about well enough, and it did you no good to stay moping round the house once you were anything at all like fit to get back to work.
She pulled on a thick knitted cap and wound a long woolly scarf round her neck and shoulders, securing it with a large safety-pin against unwinding while she was pedalling along. She was early, as usual on a Monday morning. She always liked to get the week off to a good start, particularly so today, when she hadn’t been into Eastwood to clean since last Tuesday. The house would be in a fine old state by now. Mr Elliott was the last person to think of picking up a duster or running the cleaner over a carpet, let alone applying a flick of polish anywhere, not even if she were to stay away weeks instead of days. Not that she thought any the less of him for that. There was man’s work and there was woman’s work, and she had never seen good reason to depart from that principle.
She hoisted herself up on to her antiquated bicycle and began to pedal along at a good steady pace. The weekend had been dry, very bright and cold, but this morning was dark and overcast, with a biting wind. Not a morning to tempt folk out unnecessarily. She met no one as she covered the three-quarters of a mile, only a car or two drove past her on its way to Cannonbridge.
She reached Eastwood and got stiffly down to open the gate. She kept her head lowered against the chill blast as she pushed the bicycle along the drive and round to the rear of the house. She stowed the bike away in its usual place inside the shed and went over to the back door. She turned the handle but the door refused to yield. She tried again, without result. Mr Elliott must have forgotten to unlock it for her. He probably hadn’t expected her back so soon, it would be a nice surprise for him. She put a finger on the bell and pressed it, glancing about the garden as she waited. A few yards away a fly-catcher darted about, gathering material for his minuscule nest. In a nearby flowerbed a robin tugged at a worm.
Still no sound from inside the house. She pressed the bell again. ‘Oh, come on!’ she said aloud. ‘Get a move on!’ She began to stamp her feet to keep the circulation going. Still no sign of Mr Elliott coming down. She abandoned restraint, she put her finger forcefully on the bell and kept it there for several seconds. It was certainly ringing, she could hear it clearly, loud and insistent, he must surely hear it too, wherever he was – but maybe not if he was in the bathroom with the door closed. Or he could have overslept, he might have taken a drink or two over the odds last night, he might still be in bed. She stuck her finger on the bell yet again. She was growing tired of standing out here in the cold.
And then a thought struck her. Maybe he wasn’t in the house at all, maybe he’d already gone off to work. He could have had a specially busy day ahead, he could have decided he’d make an early start, he might even have had to go somewhere out of town – he did sometimes have to do that. He wasn’t to know she’d be returning to work this morning, he didn’t have second sight. She gave a loud noisy sigh at the thought, for it meant she would have had a wasted journey, she’d have to cycle back home again with nothing accomplished, in a bad mood for the rest of the day.
She made a determined movement of her head. She would soon see if her guess was right. She walked across to the garage to find out if his car was gone. The upper sections of the garage doors were glazed. She pressed her forehead against the glass and peered in. The car was there – so he must still be in the house.
She turned away from the garage, frowning. A feeling of bafflement, a stir of disquiet, rose inside her. She stood for a moment thinking what to do next. It wasn’t very likely that any of the other doors to Eastwood would be open but she might as well try them, just in case.
There were three other doors to the house, two side doors and the front door. She walked round the back to the side door that faced towards Manor Cottage but she had no luck there. Then she tried the front door, again without success. She stepped back and surveyed the house. The downstairs curtains were drawn back, and the upstairs curtains too – except for the main bedroom, Mr Elliott’s bedroom; those were still closed.
But if he was still in the house why didn’t he answer her ring? A horrible feeling began to build up inside her head, her heart began to bump and lurch.
She went unsteadily round the side of the house towards the last remaining door. She tried the handle, though now without any hope that it would yield. Then she turned her head and her gaze fell on a window to the left of the door, a little further along; a kitchen window. She stood arrested, staring at it. It was a casement window composed of a number of small panes, and was normally secured from the inside by a lever-type handle. One of the panes had been neatly removed so that it was now possible for a hand to be slipped inside and the lever operated.
Her heart pounded violently, she began to feel very unwell. She went close up to the window and peered into the kitchen; it seemed much as usual. She stood staring in, trying to decide what to do, then she suddenly turned and set off down the drive towards Manor Cottage.
She was out of breath by the time she reached the front door. She stood for a moment with her head lowered and her hand pressed to her side, trying to recover herself before raising the knocker. Before she had time to get her breath back the door swung suddenly open to reveal Emily Picton gazing out at her with sharp interest.
‘Is your father in?’ Mrs Cutler managed to say.
‘Yes.’ Emily maintained her unsmiling stare.
‘Would you fetch him?’ Mrs Cutler said. She was getting her breath back now, thank heavens.
Emily didn’t move. ‘Why do you want him?’ she asked.
Mrs Cutler felt like giving her a good slap. ‘If you would just fetch your father,’ she said. Too clever by half, that young lady, so sharp she’d cut herself one of these days, and that certainly wouldn’t grieve Mrs Cutler.
‘What is it, dear?’ The voice of Mrs Picton floated into the hall from the direction of the kitchen. Emily all but closed the front door, then she turned and ran back along the passage. The rude little madam, Mrs Cutler thought with heat. She slid the door a little further open and put her ear against the aperture. She could hear a low-pitched exchange of voices and then the sound of Emily running up the stairs, followed by a pause, and then Emily and her father coming down.
At