His responses were as predictable as hers. "If you've been at it again since the missus died, I'll fling you out," he threatened. "I don't care how senile you are, I'm not losing my home because you can't keep your fingers to yourself."
"Wouldn't need to worry if we owned it, would we? A real man would have bought his own place."
He thumped his fist on the table. "Watch your mouth."
"Half a man, that's all you are, Bob Dawson. Tough as iron in public. Limp as jelly in bed."
"Shut up."
"Won't."
"Do you want the back of my hand?" he demanded angrily.
He expected her to cower away as usual, but instead a sly smile crept into her eyes.
Oh, good God! He should have known threats alone wouldn't work. He surged to his feet, sending his chair crashing to the floor. "I warned you," he shouted. "Keep away from him, I said. Where is he? Is he here? Is that why we've got gypsies in the Copse?"
"None of your business," she spat. "You can't tell me who I can talk to. I've got rights."
He slapped her hard across the face. "Where is he?" he snarled.
She hunched away from him, hate and malice blazing in her eyes. "He'll get you first. You see if he doesn't. You're an old man. He's not afraid of you. He's not afraid of anyone."
Bob reached for his jacket on a hook beside the sink. "More fool him," was all he said, before going out and slamming the door behind him.
They were fine words, but the reality of the night made a mockery of them. The westerly wind had covered the moon with cloud, and without a torch Bob was virtually blind. He turned toward the Manor, intending to use the drawing-room lights as a guide, and he had time to be surprised that the Manor was in darkness before a hammer hit his skull and the black night engulfed him.
23
DS Monroe was tired of middle-aged women pleading ignorance. He crossed his legs and stared around the room, listening to Eleanor Bartlett huff and puff her outrage at his suggestion that she knew anything about an intruder at Prue's. The village was full of travelers, and everyone knew that travelers were thieves. As for a hate campaign, that was a gross misrepresentation of one or two phone calls advising the Colonel that his secrets were out. Presumably the police knew the nature of the accusations?
It was a rhetorical question. She didn't wait for an answer but listed James's crimes against his daughter in salacious detail, as much for Julian's benefit, Monroe decided, as for his own. She was seeking to justify herself by creating a monster out of the Colonel, and it seemed to be working if Julian's thoughtful expression was anything to go by. "Also, Henry wasn't James's dog," she finished heatedly, "he was Ailsa's dog… and if anyone killed him, it was probably James himself. He's a very cruel man."
Monroe brought his attention back to her. "Can you prove any of these allegations?"
"Of course I can. They were told to me by Elizabeth. Are you suggesting she'd lie about a thing like that?"
"Someone seems to be lying. According to Mrs. Weldon, Colonel Lockyer-Fox was abroad when the baby was conceived."
More huffing and puffing. It was a piece of gossip that Prue had picked up-half heard and certainly wrongly reported. If the sergeant knew Prue as well as Eleanor did, he'd know that she never got anything right, and, in any case, Prue had changed her mind as soon as Eleanor relayed the details of what Elizabeth had said. "You should be questioning James about murder and child abuse," she snapped, "not intimidating me because I've been doing your job for you." She drew breath. "Of course we all know why you're not… you're hand in glove with him."
The sergeant stared her down. "I won't dignify that with a response, Mrs. Bartlett."
Her mouth curled disdainfully. "But it's true. You never investigated Ailsa's death properly. It was swept under the carpet to avoid scandal for James."
He shrugged. "If you believe that, you'll believe anything, and I shall have to assume that nothing you say can be relied on… including these allegations against the Colonel."
She launched into further justification. Of course they could be relied on. If not, why had James allowed them to continue? It wasn't as if Eleanor had hidden her identity, unlike Prue, who was a coward. If James had bothered to come around and explain his side of the story, Eleanor would have listened. The truth was the only thing she was interested in. Ailsa was her friend, and there was no doubt that both James's children believed him guilty of murdering her. It had traumatized Eleanor to think of Ailsa suffering at the hands of a violent husband… particularly after hearing what Elizabeth claimed had happened to her as a child. If the police had asked the right questions, they would have discovered all this for themselves.
Monroe let her run on, more interested in comparing her "sitting room" with the dilapidated "drawing room" at the Manor. Everything in Eleanor's room was new and spotless. Cream furniture on a luscious shag-pile carpet. Chocolate walls to add vibrancy. Pastel curtains, draped in Austrian style, to lend a "romantic" feel to the high-ceilinged Victorian room.
It was very "designer" and very expensive, and it said nothing at all about the people who lived there. Except that they were flashy and wealthy. There were no paintings on the walls, no heirlooms, no homely litter that spoke of the inhabitants feeling comfortable in their surroundings. Give him the Manor drawing room any day, he thought, where the tastes of different centuries vied for attention, and a hundred personalities, and generations of dogs, had left their marks on the scuffed leather sofas and threadbare Persian rugs.
Every so often his eyes came to rest on the woman's sharp face. She made him think of an aging American film star who showed too many teeth because the last facelift was a facelift too far in the desperate attempt to cling to youth. He wondered who Eleanor's competition was-certainly not Mrs. Weldon-and he suspected it was the husband, with his dyed hair and tight-fitting jeans. What sort of relationship did they have where image was more important than comfort? Or was each afraid of losing the other?
He let a silence develop when she came to a halt, refusing to give her a moral victory by defending police actions in the matter of Ailsa's death. "When did you move here?" he asked Julian.
The man was staring at his wife as if she'd grown horns. "Four years ago from London."
"Before the housing boom, then?"
Eleanor looked irritated as if missing the boom by a whisker still rankled. "It didn't really affect us," she said grandly. "We lived in Chelsea. Property there has always been expensive."
Monroe nodded. "I was in the Met until a year and a half ago," he said in a conversational tone. "The value of our house went up by twenty percent in twelve months."
Julian shrugged. "It's the only time inflation will work in your favor. The London economy is booming, the West Country's isn't. Simple as that. You won't be able to afford to go back to London if Dorset starts to pall."
Monroe smiled slightly. "You neither, I suppose?"
Julian steepled his fingers under his chin and continued to stare at Eleanor. "Not unless we're prepared to trade down. We certainly wouldn't get a Shenstead House in Chelsea… probably not even a 1970s box on the outskirts anymore. Unfortunately, my wife doesn't seem to have considered the financial implications of one-way inflation."
The "anymore" wasn't lost on Monroe. "What brought you down here?"
"Redun-"
Eleanor broke in sharply. "My husband was a director in a construction company," she said. "He was offered a generous retirement package, and we decided to take it. It's always been our ambition to live in the country."