drew out the garment and unfolded it. He saw that it wasn’t an item of underwear but a drawstring bag, handmade from almost identical ivory-white, silky material, edged with a lace ruffle. It was beautifully sewn with tiny stitches.
He loosened the drawstring. Inside the bag were some folded papers, a small, round, gilt and enamel pillbox, a lady’s handkerchief of finest lawn with entwined initials embroidered in one corner. A pair of ornamental hairslides for a child, exquisitely fashioned from tortoiseshell and silver, shaped like butterflies. And two withered flower sprays: a carnation for the lapel, an arrangement for the corsage.
He sprang open the lid of the pillbox, revealing a screw of pink tissue paper. He lifted it out on to his palm, fingered open the tissue. Inside was a platinum wedding ring, almost new.
He raised his head in recollection, looking back at yesterday evening, Anna lying in the bath. There had definitely been a wedding ring sunk into the waterlogged flesh of her left hand, third finger, he was certain of it.
He returned his attention to the contents of the bag. He withdrew the folded papers, opened them out. A yellowed cutting from a provincial newspaper, giving an account of a local amateur theatrical production, an inset photograph of a handsome, middle-aged woman. A caption underneath supplied her name: MRS NORMA JEFFORD. He looked again at the embroidered handkerchief. The entwined initials clearly N.J. Norma Jefford?
He unfolded the two remaining papers. A birth certificate in the shortened form, recording name, date, place of birth; no address, no names of parents. The name of the child: ANNA MARIE NEWBY.
The second paper was also a certificate. Recording a marriage some eighteen months ago in Ribbenford, a town fifty miles away, both parties giving Ribbenford addresses.
The bride: ANNA MARIE NEWBY, spinster. Occupation: waitress. Age: 18. The bridegroom: WALTER HENRY REARDON, bachelor. Occupation: retired plumber. Age: 61.
In the sitting room Conway appeared to have slipped into a doze. He stirred and opened his eyes at the sound of their return.
The Chief made no mention of anything they had come across in the bedroom and Conway asked no questions. He put a hand up to his mouth, suppressing a yawn. He shook his head to clear it, blinked his eyes wide open.
Kelsey asked in a casual manner if Conway could put his hand on a copy of his marriage certificate.
‘Yes, of course.’ Conway stood up and went to a bureau. He came back with the certificate and handed it over.
The Chief ran his eye over the details: DAVID MALCOLM CONWAY, bachelor, an address in Northcott. Occupation: sales representative. Age: 30. ANNA MARIE REARDON, widow, an address in Whitbourn, a town fifteen miles from Northcott. Occupation: housewife. Age: 19. The ceremony had taken place in Whitbourn.
The Chief read aloud the entry relating to Anna. As he spoke the word widow he permitted his voice to take on a note of surprise. He glanced inquiringly at Conway.
‘That’s right,’ Conway confirmed.
‘Did you know her first husband?’
Conway shook his head. ‘I never met him. Anna was a widow when I met her. I didn’t know her all that long before we were married.’
‘Can you tell us anything about this first husband – Walter Reardon?’
Conway shook his head again. ‘I’m afraid not, I know nothing at all about him. Anna never talked about him. I didn’t press her, it seemed to upset her.’
‘Do you know how or when Reardon died?’
Again he shook his head. ‘All I know is that she’d been widowed about three months when I met her.’
‘When did you meet her? And where?’
‘I met her in Whitbourn, last November, almost a year ago now. I often went to Whitbourn on business when I worked at Ackroyd’s. I was over there one morning, driving into the town, and I almost knocked Anna down. She stepped out into the road without any warning, not looking where she was going. I had to swerve to avoid her, I missed her by inches. She was pretty shaken. It shook me, too, I can tell you.
‘I drove her home – she was living in a rented flat, not far away. She’d moved to Whitbourn after her husband died. I asked her if there was some friend or neighbour who could come in but she said there wasn’t anyone.
‘I made her some tea. She was still very shaky so I stayed and talked to her. I was concerned for her, she seemed so young to be widowed, all alone. I was in the town again a few days later and I called to see how she was. She’d got over her shock, she seemed pleased to see me. I asked her if she’d like to come out for a meal that evening, after I’d finished work.’
He spread his hands. ‘We were married three months later. We moved here, into Ferndale, at the beginning of March. I’d already fixed myself up with the job at Zodiac, I started work there the week after we moved in here.’
‘Did Anna have a job when you first met her?’
‘She had a part-time job. She worked in a woolshop in the afternoons.’
‘Was that her regular work? Shop assistant?’
‘I don’t think so. I know she worked in a café before she married Reardon, she mentioned it once. She did say the name of the café but I can’t remember what it was.’
A brief silence descended on the room. Conway suddenly blurted out: ‘I can’t help feeling I’m to blame for Anna’s death. I ought to have realized what was going on inside her head.’
His words came out in a rush. ‘I should never have brought her to this house, it’s far too lonely and isolated. Anna told me she wanted somewhere quiet and peaceful, in the countryside. I thought Ferndale would be ideal, but I see now it was no good at all for her. She’d never lived in the country, she had no idea what it would be like, on her own all day, with me out at work.
‘I thought she’d soon make friends but she seemed to find that difficult. Then, when she wasn’t well, she found it harder than ever, she couldn’t face going out among strangers.’
His voice broke. ‘I should never have allowed myself to be talked into persuading her to go away for a holiday on her own. I’ll never forgive myself for that.’ Tears glittered in his eyes. ‘It was far too much to expect of her, I can see that now as clear as day, I can’t understand how I could have been so blind to it before.’
He shook his head helplessly. ‘One of the last things I said to her was about going shopping tomorrow afternoon. We were going to buy her clothes for the cruise.’ His face was drained and haggard. ‘The state she must have been in, that would have been just about the last straw.’
Eight o’clock on Wednesday morning found Chief Inspector Kelsey and Sergeant Lambert setting out for Whitbourn, a workaday town of no great size or beauty.
Anna’s address in Whitbourn, at the time of her marriage to Conway, turned out to be the middle flat of three in a converted Edwardian house in a respectable suburb.
When
