‘It’s a wonderful idea! I’ll be delighted to come.’
Nearly a fortnight passed before Eva started to be anxious about Janet’s absence. Once or twice before, she had gone away on assignments for the newspaper without saying that she was going: secretly Eva suspected she did it to make her work seem more glamorous — the sudden flight to an undisclosed destination on a mission so delicate that it could not be whispered to a friend. But this time the Sunday Telegraph called to ask why Janet had not been seen at the office for over a week.
When they called again a day or two later, and Eva still had no news, she decided she had no choice but to make a search of Janet’s room for some clues as to her whereabouts. At least she would see which clothes Janet had taken — whether she had packed for a fortnight’s absence. With luck she might find a note of the flight number.
The room was in its usual disorder, as if Janet had just gone for a shower and would sweep in at any moment in her white Dior bathrobe. By the phone, Eva found the calendar Janet used to jot down appointments. There was no entry for the last fortnight. On the dressing table was her passport. The suitcase she always took on trips of a week or more was still on top of the wardrobe.
Janet was not the sort of person you worried over, but this was becoming a mystery. Eva systematically searched the room, and found no clue. She phoned the Sunday Telegraph and told them she was sorry she could not help. As she put down the phone, her attention was taken by the letters beside it. She had put them there herself, the dozen or so items of mail that had arrived for Janet.
Opening someone else’s private correspondence was a step up from searching their room, and she hesitated. What right had she to do such a thing? She could tell by the envelopes that two were from the Inland Revenue, and she put them back by the phone. Then she noticed one addressed by hand. It was postmarked Edgecombe, Dorset.
Her meeting with the friendly Californian named John Smith had been pushed to the edge of her memory by more immediate matters, and it took a few moments’ thought to recall the significance of Edgecombe. Even then, she was baffled. Janet had told her that Edgecombe was a dead end. She had checked it at the Society of Genealogists. It had no parish register because there was no church there. They had agreed to drop their plan to help John Smith trace his ancestors.
But why should Janet receive a letter from Edgecombe?
Eva decided to open it.
The address on the headed notepaper was The Vicarage, Edgecombe, Dorset.
Dear Miss Murdoch,
I must apologise for the delay in replying to your letter. I fear that this may arrive after you have left for Dorset. However, it is only to confirm that I shall be pleased to show you the entries in our register pertaining to your family, although I doubt if we have anything you have not seen at the Society of Genealogists.
Yours sincerely,
A dead end? No church in Edgecombe?
Eva decided to go there herself.
The Vicar of Edgecombe had no difficulty in remembering Janet’s visit. ‘Yes, Miss Murdoch called on a Saturday afternoon. At the time, I was conducting a baptism, but they waited until it was over and I took them to the vicarage for a cup of tea.’
‘She had someone with her?’
‘Her cousin.’
‘Cousin?’
‘Well, I gather he was not a first cousin, but they were related in some way. He was from America, and his name was John Smith. He was very appreciative of everything I showed him. You see, his father and his grandfather were born here, so I was able to look up their baptisms and their marriages in the register. It goes back to the sixteenth century. We’re very proud of our register.’
‘I’m sure you must be. Tell me, did Janet — Miss Murdoch — claim to be related to the Smiths of Edgecombe?’
‘Certainly. Her great-grandfather, Matthew Smith, is buried in the churchyard. He was the brother of the American gentleman’s grandfather, if I have it right.’
Eva felt the anger like a kick in the stomach. Not only had Janet Murdoch deceived her. She had committed an appalling fraud on a sweet-natured man. And Eva herself had passed on the information that enabled her to do it. She would never forgive her for this.
‘That’s the only Smith grave we have in the churchyard,’ the Vicar continued. ‘When I first got Miss Murdoch’s letter, I had hopes of locating the stones of the two John Smiths, the father and grandfather of our American visitor, but it was not to be. They were buried elsewhere.’
Something in the Vicar’s tone made Eva ask, ‘Do you know where they were buried?’
‘Yes, indeed. I got it from Mr Harper, the Sexton. He’s been here much longer than I.’
There was a pause.
‘Is it confidential?’ Eva asked.
‘Not really.’ The Vicar eased a finger round his collar, as if it were uncomfortable. ‘It was information that I decided in the circumstances not to volunteer to Miss Murdoch and Mr Smith. You are not one of the family yourself?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Then I might as well tell you. It appears that the first John Smith developed some form of insanity. He was given to fits of violence and became quite dangerous. He was committed to a private asylum in London and died there a year or two later. His only son, the second John Smith, also ended his life in distressing circumstances. He was convicted of murdering two local girls by strangulation, and there was believed to have been a third, but the charge was never brought. He was found guilty but insane, and sent to Broadmoor. To compound the tragedy, he had a wife and baby son. They went to America after the trial.’ The Vicar gave a shrug. ‘Who knows whether the child was ever told the truth about his father, or his grandfather, for that matter? Perhaps you can understand why I was silent on the matter when Mr Smith and Miss Murdoch were here. I may be old-fashioned, but I think the pyschiatrists make too much of heredity, don’t you? If you took it seriously, you’d think no woman was safe with Mr Smith.’
From the vicarage, Eva went straight to the house of the Edgecombe police constable and told her story.
The officer listened patiently. When Eva had finished, he said, ‘Right, miss. I’ll certainly look into it. Just for the record: this American — what did he say his name was?’
Fall-Out
‘I need an axe.’
Everyone in the garden shop turned to look at the man who needed an axe. He was not dressed like the other customers in blue and beige gabardine jackets and creased trousers. He was in a string vest and faded jeans. His long, blond hair was drawn back and fixed behind his neck with a leather bootlace. He had a silver earring. And around his neck a string of wooden beads.
Mr Padmore, the shop owner, believed in giving all his customers the same courteous service. He had not served the man before, but he had sometimes seen him passing up the street. ‘An axe, sir?’ I think you’ll find a good selection here. The size you have depends on the job you need it for.’
‘How much is that one?’
‘The big one? Beautiful to handle, and razor sharp. Twenty-one fifty.’
The man picked it up and felt the weight. He put his two hands on the shaft and raised it. For one petrifying moment, Mr Padmore thought he was about to bring it crashing down on a display of ornamental plaster animals. Instead he let the length of the shaft slip through his hands and examined the head.