Final Moments

It seemed highly probable that Venetia had died very shortly after Roy drove away from the cottage with the children on Friday afternoon and the preliminary medical examination tended to support this impression. A short distance from the cottage, on the common, they had found a spot on a small rise, beneath the overhanging branches of a hawthorn, where the grass had recently been flattened. Someone standing under the branches could look down unobserved on the cottage and garden.

Chief Inspector Kelsey had asked Franklin if he had ever before seen the silky brown scarf that had been stuffed down Venetia’s throat but Franklin had shaken his head.

The Chief Inspector stood now looking down at Franklin as he sat at the table with his head on his arms. ‘Have you no idea where your wife–your ex-wife–might have been intending to spend the weekend?’ he asked suddenly.

Franklin raised his head and sat slowly up. His face was flushed, he had an air of immense fatigue. ‘No idea at all. She never used to say where she was going when I went to collect the children. She never even used to tell the children where she was going.’ Making sure they would be in no position to reveal information about her private life, Kelsey reflected, however skilfully Roy or Jane might try to pump them.

‘Can you tell me about any men friends she may have had?’ he asked. ‘Do you know if she was thinking of marrying again?’

Again Franklin shook his head. ‘I’m sure she did have men friends but she never mentioned them to me. I wouldn’t have expected her to. She certainly never said anything about marrying again.’

‘Did you ever make any attempt to find out about men friends?’

He frowned. ‘I certainly did not. It was none of my business.’ The divorce had come about because of his own infidelity, not that of his wife. He had never been jealous of her, had never been given cause to be jealous during their marriage, he didn’t consider himself a jealous man.

‘Would you have objected to her marrying again?’

He began to look angry. ‘No, of course I would not. Why on earth should I object? I married again myself, I’m very happily married.’

‘Did Venetia bear you any resentment over the divorce?’

‘She did not,’ Franklin said brusquely. ‘We were on good terms. She was never a trouble-maker, she was always easy-going, never aggressive, never the sort to make unnecessary difficulties.’

The Chief asked if Venetia had had any kind of job.

‘No,’ Franklin told him. ‘She never worked after we were married. She wasn’t the type to want a career.’

‘Do you know of any close women friends?’

‘I’m afraid not.’ He supplied the Chief with patchy details of various women Venetia had been friendly with during their marriage but the friendships had never been close. ‘I’ve no idea if she still saw any of them,’ he added. He had been able to identify the picture postcard in the hall at the cottage–sent from Italy on holiday–as being from a married couple they had both known slightly during their marriage; he hadn’t seen anything of them since the divorce.

‘What about her family?’

Franklin looked thunderstruck. ‘Her mother! I’d forgotten about her. I’ll have to tell her.’ He looked appalled at the notion. ‘She’s a widow,’ he told Kelsey. ‘Venetia’s father died some years ago, not long after we were married. Her mother sold the house and went back to Wychford, that was where she’d lived as a girl.’ Wychford was a small town ten miles to the west of Cannonbridge. ‘She can’t get about much, she suffers badly from arthritis. She moved into sheltered accommodation a few years ago, one of those places with a warden. I haven’t seen her since the divorce.’ He grimaced. ‘She was pretty upset about all that–even though she’d never thought me good enough for her daughter.’ Venetia had been an only child and he knew of no other relatives.

He looked uneasily up at Kelsey. ‘I’ll have to go over to see Mrs Stacey–Venetia’s mother. I can’t very well tell her over the phone.’ He pushed back his chair. ‘I’d better get cracking.’

‘We can tell her if you like,’ Kelsey offered. ‘We’ll have to see her anyway.’

Detective Sergeant Lambert drove the chief over to Wychford. When they reached the apartment block Kelsey sought out the warden and explained his errand. She took them along to Mrs Stacey’s flat, going in first to prepare the ground, and staying in the room while the Chief broke the news.

Mrs Stacey was a small, slight woman in her late sixties, looking several years older. Her habitual manner appeared withdrawn and self-absorbed; she had a faded, desiccated air, a resigned and melancholy expression.

It seemed to Sergeant Lambert that she bore the news with a good deal more fortitude and self-control than might have been expected. As if she were walled off in her little flat from the happenings of the larger life outside and what filtered through to her restricted world could have no very profound or lasting effect on the small routines of her daily existence.

The warden brought in a tray of tea and waited till Mrs Stacey felt able to answer questions. When the door had finally closed behind the warden Kelsey began by asking Mrs Stacey if she had any idea where her daughter had intended going for the weekend.

‘No idea at all,’ she told him. ‘But then I wouldn’t expect to know.’ She spoke without any sign of emotion, she might have been talking of some chance acquaintance.

She hadn’t seen much of Venetia since she’d moved back to Wychford, she had seen even less of her after the divorce. ‘She brought the children over to see me once in a way. For my birthday or at Christmastime.’ She gestured with a knobby hand. ‘She had her own life. We were never close, I was almost forty when she was born. She was always a lot closer to her father.’

Kelsey asked when she had last seen her daughter. ‘The best part of two months ago,’ she said. ‘It was a Sunday, early in March, a beautiful sunny day. She just put the children in the car and brought them over. She could be like that sometimes, acted on impulse.’ She looked at Kelsey with no expression on her lined, withered face. ‘She didn’t let me know they were coming. I don’t have my own phone here but people can ring the warden.’ Her hands drooped in her lap. ‘I was having a nap after lunch when they came . . .’ Her voice trailed away. It’s beginning to get to her, Sergeant Lambert thought.

‘Did you notice anything in particular about her state of mind?’ Kelsey asked. ‘Did she appear worried in any way? Did she mention any difficulties?’

‘Do you mean difficulties about money? As far as I knew, she was all right for money. She never complained of being short and she always seemed able to afford what she wanted. She never discussed her financial affairs with me.’

‘Did she mention any other kind of worries? Of a personal kind, perhaps?’

She shook her head slowly. ‘She seemed perfectly all right, just as usual.’

‘Do you know of any men friends?’

‘She had men friends, of course. She was never short of boyfriends, right from when she was at school.’ She glanced across at a photograph of Venetia as a girl of sixteen or seventeen. It stood with a dozen others on a Victorian whatnot in the corner. She gave a long trembling sigh and fell silent.

‘Can you tell me the names of any of her men friends?’ Kelsey prompted when she showed no sign of continuing.

She shook her head again. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know any names. She’d just say something in passing, she’d been to a show or out to dinner, but she never mentioned any names.’

‘Do you know if she had any intention of marrying again?’

‘She did say once or twice that she’d never marry again, once was more than enough. She said it as if she meant it–but then another time she’d say something half-joking, as if she did think of marrying again.’ She paused and then added, ‘One day last year she said: “Do you remember how you always wanted me to marry someone respectable? A professional man of standing in the community?” She glanced up at Kelsey. ‘She was teasing me when she said that, of course. Years ago, when she was a girl, I used to say that sort of thing to her sometimes, that she mustn’t throw herself away on the first man that asked her, she ought to marry someone of substance.’ She drew a little sighing breath. ‘She laughed–this was that day last year–and said: “You never know, I might surprise you after all one of these days and do just that.”’

‘Do you think she had some particular man in mind when she said that?’

‘I’ve no idea. You never knew when to take her seriously.’ She closed her eyes and lowered her head. After a moment she fumbled in her pocket with her twisted fingers and took out a handkerchief; she dabbed clumsily at her eyes.

‘She was only eighteen when she got married,’ she said as she put the handkerchief away again. ‘Roy was five or six years older. I was against it, I thought she was much too young. But her father never could stand out against her for long. And he thought Roy had a lot of go about him, he thought he’d do well in life.’ She sighed again and shook her head. ‘So I hoped for the best, I hoped it would work out all right.’ She moved a hand. ‘I can’t say I was very surprised when it ended in divorce, I never thought they were really suited.’

‘Were you surprised at the way the divorce came about?’

‘You mean that it was Roy who found someone else and not Venetia? No, not really. After a year or two, when the honeymoon days were over, Roy started going on at Venetia, finding fault with her. He thought she was extravagant, she should help in the business. He wanted her to serve in the shop–she used to work in a shop before she was married but it was a very different place from Franklin’s, very high-class. Youngjohn’s, the china and gift shop, I expect you know it. They have such lovely things there and of course Venetia always liked beautiful things, she had very good taste.’ Tears threatened again but she made a determined effort to blink them away. ‘She never paid much attention to Roy’s grumbles, she just went on in her own way. She used to laugh at him, say he took things too seriously, there was more to life than working every hour God sends.’

‘What kind of terms was she on with Roy and his second wife?’

“Very good,’ she said at once. ‘There was never anything spiteful about Venetia.’

‘Do you know of any particular woman friend? Someone she might have confided in?’

‘She wasn’t the kind to have close women friends.’ She pondered. ‘There’s Megan, Megan Brewster, I suppose she might have talked to her, though she hadn’t seen her for years until about six months ago. Megan was the nearest she ever had to a sister when they were young.’ The Brewsters had lived next door to them in Cannonbridge. The two girls were the same age, went to school together, sat next to each other in class. ‘They were really very different,’ Mrs Stacey said. ‘I suppose it was the attraction of opposites.’ She nodded over at the whatnot. ‘Megan’s in one of those photographs, with Venetia. On the second shelf.’

Kelsey went over and picked up the photograph. Venetia, eleven or twelve years old, very pretty in a short-sleeved cotton frock, her long curly fair hair tied up in a pony tail; she was smiling, posing theatrically for the camera. And Megan beside her, taller and thinner, with short, straight, black hair cut in a fringe. She stood erect and poised, her hands at her sides, her dark eyes looking squarely and unself-consciously out at the camera, her expression serious and thoughtful.

‘The Brewsters left Cannonbridge when Megan was fourteen,’ Mrs Stacey said as Kelsey sat down again. ‘Mr Brewster was transferred to the West Country. The girls wrote to each other at first but after a while they stopped. And then one day just before Christmas last year, when Venetia came over here with the children to see me, she told me she’d had a phone call from Megan. She was really pleased to hear from her again. Megan’s still single, she’s a real career girl. She works for a department store.’ She mentioned the name of a nationwide chain. ‘She’d been moved to the Martleigh branch.’ Martleigh was a good deal smaller than Cannonbridge and lay some twenty-two miles to the north-east of that town.

‘I know Venetia went over to Martleigh more than once to see Megan.’ Mrs Stacey broke off and put a hand up to her face. ‘Of course–Megan won’t know about Venetia. How dreadful–she’ll probably hear it on the radio or see it in the papers.’ All at once she began to cry, terribly and painfully, her head bent, her misshapen hands covering her face.

Kelsey waited in silence until she was again in command of herself. She sat up and gave him a level look from her faded blue eyes. ‘If you’ve any more questions to ask,’ she said, ‘don’t worry about me. Go right ahead and ask. I’ll be all right.’

‘Just two more points,’ Kelsey said gently. ‘Do you feel you can shed any kind of light on what’s happened?’

‘Living in that cottage,’ she said at once, with certainty. ‘It’s far too isolated. I never liked her living there alone, just with the children, after the divorce. I suggested to her more than once that she might think of moving into town but she said she liked it out at Foxwell, it was quiet and private. But I never thought it wise. So many unbalanced people about these days, people who’ll stop at nothing. A young woman on her own like that, unprotected, it seemed to me to be asking for trouble.’

‘I’m afraid this is going to be an ordeal for you,’ Kelsey said as he took out the brown scarf folded into its plastic wrapping. He did his best to prepare Mrs Stacey, to lessen the shock before he asked her if she would look at the scarf to see if she could recognize it. She braced herself and looked down with careful concentration at the silky material with its subdued, paisley-type pattern. The scarf was not of good quality and was far from new. She studied it for several moments before she shook her head decisively. She was quite certain she had never seen the scarf before. ‘I would be very surprised indeed if it had belonged to Venetia,’ she said with conviction. ‘It’s not at all the kind of thing she would wear.’

CHAPTER 3

The results of the post mortem were expected around the middle of Tuesday morning. Before that there was the Press to deal with, the local radio station, a conference, briefings.

Shortly after eleven Chief Inspector Kelsey came down the hospital steps. There had been no sign of any sexual assault on Venetia Franklin. She had been struck a savage blow on the chin, powerful enough to break her jaw. The back of her skull had also been fractured, probably as the result of a fall caused by the blow to the chin. Death had followed swiftly upon the ramming of the scarf down her throat. The stomach contents revealed that she had died very soon after a light meal of tea and cake, such as she had eaten with the children just before Franklin arrived.

Sergeant Lambert followed the Chief across the hospital car park. Kelsey looked at his watch. ‘We’ve time to call in at Venetia’s bank before we go over to see Megan Brewster,’ he told Lambert. He had spoken to Megan on the phone, had arranged to see her at twelve-thirty. And he had fixed an appointment with Venetia’s solicitor for tomorrow afternoon. The solicitor couldn’t see him before then, he would be in court the whole of today and tomorrow morning.

Venetia’s account was with the Allied Bank, the oldest established bank in Cannonbridge. It was housed in a handsome period building in Broad Street, close to the town centre; it had an atmosphere of great calm and substance.

The assistant manager was at the counter when the two policemen crossed the marble floor of the spacious hall. ‘I’m afraid Mr Colborn’s not in,’ he told the Chief. ‘You’ve just missed him. He has an appointment with a business customer, he’ll probably be with him for the rest of the morning.’ But the assistant would be happy to furnish the Chief with any information he might require.

He took the two men into an office. ‘Mrs Franklin opened an account with us after her divorce,’ he told them. Before that she had had a joint account with her husband at another bank in the town. The last contact Allied had had with her was last Friday afternoon when she had looked in for a moment to say she had decided after all not to sell some shares she held. She had spoken to the assistant; she had seemed much as usual, in good spirits.

He went through the records of her account with the Chief. All very straightforward and unremarkable. Her income came from three sources, two of them deriving from her ex-husband. The first was a fixed monthly payment of a size which seemed to the Chief of the order of what might be expected in the way of alimony from a man in Franklin’s position. In addition Franklin paid into her account every quarter a sum which varied up or down but was always fairly substantial. Venetia had lived comfortably within her income and from time to time she had, on the bank’s advice, invested the surplus that arose. The dividends from these investments provided her third source of income, very small in relation to the other two. She had never paid in any money, cash or cheques, from any other source.

When the two men left the bank they went straight over to Martleigh, to the store where Megan Brewster worked as knitwear buyer. They took a lift to her office on the top floor.

She was a tall, very slim, very elegant young woman with dark, shrewdly intelligent eyes, shining black hair fashionably cut. She was still recognizably the girl in Mrs Stacey’s photograph; she had the same direct look, the same disciplined air.

She answered the Chief Inspector’s questions readily, in a straightforward manner. She had been appalled at the news of the crime, at the brutality of the killing, but after the initial shock she couldn’t, in all honesty, say that she was totally surprised. Venetia had talked to her about visiting singles clubs and bars and Megan had thought this very unwise, had tried to warn her against it. She made a face of distaste as she spoke. She had told Venetia she believed such places acted as a magnet for every kind of undesirable. But Venetia had laughed, brushing her objections aside as prudish and old-fashioned. She was sure many of these clubs were highly respectable, providing relaxed, comfortable meeting-places for ordinary decent citizens on their own for perfectly valid reasons.

No, Megan couldn’t supply the name of any particular bar or club Venetia had visited. She couldn’t even say for certain that Venetia had actually visited any at all. She hadn’t seen Venetia for five or six weeks. ‘I’ve been in Europe on a buying trip,’ she explained. She had been away for a month, had returned a few days ago. She had last seen Venetia ten days before she left for Europe. Venetia had driven over to the store, had spent the morning shopping there, had lunched with Megan, as she had done three or four times since Megan had got in touch with her again. On this last occasion she had asked Megan to help her pick out a couple of dresses. ‘She wanted them to be high-fashion, youthful,’ Megan said. She had heard nothing from Venetia since that day. Nor had she any idea where Venetia might have intended going last weekend.

Venetia hadn’t discussed her personal affairs with her in any detail. She had given Megan a brief, sketchy account of her marriage and divorce but had shown little inclination to dwell on the past. ‘She seemed to be just beginning to realize she was free,’ Megan said. ‘That she could live her life to suit herself. She felt all kinds of exciting possibilities were opening up.’

Megan didn’t know of any close woman friend Venetia might have had. ‘She didn’t seem to have many friends of any kind,’ she told them. ‘It can be difficult after a divorce.’

Kelsey asked if Venetia had appeared to have any problems, if she had spoken of any worries, but Megan shook her head. ‘Far from it. She seemed very pleased at the way her life was opening out. And she certainly didn’t seem short of money, she seemed able to buy what she wanted when she came over here. That last time, when I helped her to pick out the dresses, she never even looked at the price tag till she’d decided what she was having. Pretty expensive dresses they were too, but she didn’t turn a hair.’

The Chief showed her the scarf but she didn’t recognize it. She said at once that she couldn’t imagine Venetia owning or wearing it.

Venetia hadn’t discussed her relationship with her ex-husband and his second wife but from passing references Megan had gathered that the relationship was amicable enough. Venetia did once mention the way in which her marriage had ended. ‘She said Roy had grown more and more critical and pernickety but she didn’t let it bother her.’ Then one day, purely by chance, she had caught him out in a lie about where he’d been the evening before when he was supposed to be on a business call. She challenged him about it half-jokingly. He hesitated and then to her astonishment suddenly told her there was someone else and he wanted a divorce. As soon as Venetia got her breath back she told him that provided he could make acceptable arrangements for herself and the children she would offer no objection. ‘She burst out laughing when she was telling me about it,’ Megan added. ‘She said she couldn’t get the divorce fast enough–though she didn’t go out of her way to make that plain to Roy.’

‘Do you know if she thought of remarrying?’

Megan shook her head. ‘I’m certain it was the last thing in her mind.’

‘Do you know of any particular man friend?’

‘I’m sure she wasn’t in love with anyone. She did once mention someone, one day over lunch, some man who was keen to marry her. I gathered she’d been having an affair with him, it had started soon after the divorce. She wasn’t serious about him, she’d plunged into the affair without much thought, a reaction from the divorce. She was cooling off by the time she spoke to me about it. He was getting too possessive. She said she hadn’t cut herself free from one set of chains to let herself be tied up in another. She wanted fun and a good time, not dog-like devotion.’

‘Did she mention his name? Or anything else about him?’

‘She certainly never mentioned his name.’ She pondered. ‘The only thing I can remember her saying–and I don’t really think it meant anything–was when she stood up at the end of lunch to go over and get her coat. She pulled a face and said: “Could you really imagine me being married to a bank manager?” I didn’t get the impression he actually was a bank manager, I think she said that to give me an idea of the kind of person he was, the sort of life he led, conventional and respectable.’

‘She didn’t enlarge?’

‘No. She came back with her coat, said goodbye and went off home. She never talked about him again.’

‘Did you get the impression that she’d finished with him?’

Again she pondered. ‘No, I don’t believe she had. I think she saw him from time to time. I remember her saying he still had his uses.’

It was two-fifteen when the two men again walked in through the massive mahogany doors of the Allied Bank. Mr Colborn had still not returned. ‘He probably stayed late with the client,’ the assistant manager told them, ‘and then went out to lunch with him. If I can be of any further assistance . . .’

Kelsey asked if the bank had records of any payments Mrs Franklin might have made in recent weeks to clubs, bars, dating agencies, singles organizations and the like. A few minutes later the assistant told him that the account showed a payment made about a month ago to a singles club, and another payment a day or two later to a travel agent. Both these concerns were in Strettisham, a small town five miles away. As if, Kelsey reflected, Venetia had chosen to begin her forays at some little distance from her own doorstep.

When they left the bank the Chief told Lambert to drive to Springfield House on the chance that Colborn might have nipped off home after leaving his client, might have seized the chance to put his feet up for half an hour.

The Chief had never set foot inside Springfield House but he had been aware of its existence since his childhood. On his way to the library on Saturday mornings as a schoolboy he used to pass the house with its tall gates firmly closed, the drive rank with weeds, grass thrusting up through the circle of gravel before the house. The place had always seemed to him to have an air of mystery and romance, past grandeurs and faded splendours.