“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”
She turned and led them down a passage into a small, cluttered room haphazardly furnished by junk. It seemed that she slept and lived in this room though there was no evidence that the house was shared by another occupant. A narrow divan was covered by a blanket of different coloured knitted squares. On a frayed wicker chair was a crumpled pile of clothes topped by a black felt hat. By the window, blocking out most of the light, was a birdcage on a stand. The door of the cage was open and a blue budgie flew over their heads and came to rest on the mantelpiece.
“Grace is dead,” the old lady said, more distinctly. It was as if talking was something she had to get used to.
“You know about it.” Anne sat on the divan. “We wanted to make sure.”
Nancy pushed the pile of clothes from the chair and sat on it. She leant back, her eyes half closed. Rachael stood for a moment just inside the door then felt conspicuous and sat on the floor with her back to the wall.
“What do you want?” Nancy demanded.
“Just that. To know you’d heard. We thought you’d want to be told.
Grace mentioned you.”
“When?”
“We worked together. Out at Black Law Fell.”
“Near to the Hall then.”
“That’s right.”
“I don’t suppose they invited her round. I don’t suppose Lady bloody high and mighty Olivia cooked her tea.”
“No,” Anne replied. “I don’t think they even knew she was there.”
“The ferret will always get the rat,” Nancy said cryptically. “If it’s got an empty belly.”
Anne and Rachael looked at each other. Sunlight slanted through the latticed window and through the bars of the birdcage, spotlighting the floating specks of dusk, an elaborate cobweb in the empty grate, the faded colours of a proggie mat.
“How did you know Grace was dead?” Anne asked.
There was another pause. Nancy looked at them, weighing them up.
“Ed comes to see me,” she said at last. “He’s the only one of them who does. The only one I’d let in.” “The warden said you’d not had any visitors recently.”
“Huh. What would that one know? Money and meetings. That’s all her job’s about. And chasing after her fancy man.”
“What about Grace? Did she ever visit?”
“She’s been away a lot. University. Walking. Sometimes Ed brought her.”
“Lately?”
The old woman shook her head crossly. “I didn’t expect it. She was young. She had her own life to lead. But she’s always written.
Wherever she’s lived she’s written me letters. And Edmund would read them when he came to visit. My eyes are bad. I can’t see to read no more.” She glared at them, defying them to contradict this explanation.
“Did you keep the letters?”
“Why?”
“Grace was a friend. We don’t have much to remember her by. If we could just have the letters for a while… It would be like talking to her, wouldn’t it? We’d bring them back.”
“I don’t throw much away,” the woman conceded.
“So we would be able to look at them?”
“I don’t know. I’ll think about it.”
She crashed the teeth together awkwardly and looked at them again, maliciously aware that they were frustrated by her indecision, challenging Anne to push the point.
But Anne asked, “When did Mr. Fulwell come to tell you that Grace was dead?”
“The day after it happened. He said he didn’t want me to hear about it on the news, though I wouldn’t because I always switch off when the news comes on the wireless. I only like the old tunes. But it was kind. He’s always been like that. He don’t own a car so his friend brought him.”
“Which friend? Mr. Owen?”
“Don’t know. Didn’t see. Didn’t ask him in. Only Ed.”
“Did you see the car?”
“Not from here.” Which was true, because all they could see through the window was the courtyard and an elderly man in stockinged feet who had pulled a kitchen chair onto his doorstep so he could sit in the sun.
“Did Edmund give you any details of what had happened?”
Nancy breathed down through her nose, pulling her lips back from her gums. “Of course not. He was upset, wasn’t he? And I didn’t ask.”
“Do you have any ideas?”
“What do you mean?”
“About who might have killed her.”
“No… ” She hesitated but decided not to continue.
“How did Edmund seem when he was here?”
“How do you think?” She paused again. “He was angry.”
“Did he think he knew who’d strangled her?”
“You’ll have to ask him that. Not that it’s any of your business.” She held out a long finger for the budgie to perch on. Anne leant over to stroke it.
“Could we see those letters?” she asked.
“No.” Nancy’s voice was firm.
“We’d like to find out a bit more about her.”
“Why?”
“I said. We were friends. We miss her. And they’re a valuable record of her life.”
“They’re in a box upstairs. I don’t manage the stairs very well these days.”
“I’ll get them.” Anne got up from the divan.
“No.” With a surprising agility Nancy stood up and moved to block the door. “I don’t want you nebbing round my things. You wait here. I’ll fetch them.”
They heard her banging about in the room above them. She seemed to be muttering to herself. Then a door shut and they heard her move heavily down the stairs. They went out into the passage to wait for her there.
She held in her hand not a pile of letters but one white envelope.
“This was all I could find.” She grinned so they would know she was lying.
“That’s very kind.” Anne took the letter and added, “Do you know where Edmund Fulwell is?”
“Home, I suppose.”
“No. No one’s seen him for days.”
“He’s always been a bit wild.” “If he gets in touch,” Anne said, ‘ should tell the police. They’re worried about him.”
“No need to be worried. He can look after himself that one.”
She opened the front door to let them out. Upstairs there was a movement, a noise. They stood still, startled, and stared up the gloomy stairwell. From the shadows the budgerigar flew over the banister straight towards them. It circled as if to make its escape through the open door then landed on Nancy’s shoulder. She stroked its beak and cooed.
Chapter Forty-One.
The letter from Grace was dated two years previously. The address was a small town in south-west Scotland. In the envelope along with the letter was a picture postcard showing the scene of a river and meadows with a church tower in the distance. Nothing was written on the blank side of the card but the picture was marked with a cross and Grace had written over it in biro, “This is where I camped last night.”
Rachael was moved by the picture and the scribbled note. Grace had been so odd in her last few weeks that Rachael had thought of her as a wraith moving among them causing disturbance and upset. This made her human, real. It was the sort of thing Rachael might have sent to Edie to keep her off her back.
Vera was there as they passed the card between them. She must have been waiting for their return because they had just lit the gas to make tea when they heard her thump on the kitchen door. She came in without waiting to be asked.
“Why did the old bat choose this one to give you?” she demanded.
Rachael had expected the inspector to be grateful because they’d returned with a trophy but she seemed more bad-tempered than she’d been since the beginning of the investigation. According to Edie she’d been in Kimmerston all afternoon.
“She probably chose a letter at random just to get rid of us,” Anne said. “She won’t admit it but I don’t think she can read.”
Vera, in truculent mood, had to contradict even this. “I don’t think so. Surely she’d keep them in some sort of chronological order and just take the one on the top. There must have been one since this.