and best enemy through the garden hedge and was screaming in fury.
Mary Anneck concluded that the dogs would get no regular exercise until the dog-walker, Jim Marsh, had recovered his balance. He must be having quite a time with the police too, poor boy.
Like Kay Zeman she was worried about him. Life could be so unfair. She thought he’d had enough. He always looked so frail physically too, with those narrow bones and that thin face, but of course, he couldn’t be, because he walked all the dogs and handled them beautifully. She must try and feed him up, she was a great believer in red meat and none of this vegetarian business that his mother Clare had gone in for. Anorexic she’d been in Mary’s opinion and her death no disaster to anyone once they’d got over the shock.
It was a mystery why Clare had killed herself, but by all account she’d made one or two earlier attempts. Perhaps she just didn’t like being a milkman’s wife. And that was no joke, thought Mary Anneck, because Clare had almost certainly started out life with different ideas. Philosophy at Oxford, hadn’t it been?
Then to her surprise, she heard the bell ringing from the Darbyshires’ back door, which must mean that Jumbo (their little disaster of a dog was called Jumbo, although he was the smallest, shortest Jack Russell imaginable) was going out on his walk. And since Philippa Darbyshire had broken her ankle, and her Harold hated the dog even more than Jumbo hated him, it must mean that Jim Marsh was on the job. With any luck he would come for Edie next.
Philippa Darbyshire limped back to her chair from her bell-ringing exercise, thankful to see the back of Jumbo for a bit. With plenty of exercise you could just be in the same room with him; without a lot he was unbearable. He was always unbearable, Harold said, but that was unkind. Jumbo had defended Philippa from a mugger once, and although it had been a task after his own heart, and the mugger had felt desexed by his wounds for some months and had considered claiming damages, it had ensured Jumbo a longer life than might otherwise have been expected, taking his ferocious habits into account.
Philippa herself was still shaken from the death of Anna Mary. Since no payment was asked she had tutored the girl in extra mathematics for her computer studies out of love of the subject and sympathy with the girl, so ambitious, so pretty, so badly taught elsewhere. Harold had helped here too.
She had been questioned by the police and so too had Harold. She hadn’t liked the idea of that interrogation, because that was what it had been judging by Harold’s face afterwards, cross and white. What had Harold got to do with the death of this girl he hardly knew? He only saw her when she came to the house for tutorials.
The boys would be back from Scotland tomorrow, when no doubt the police would want to interview them too. They had been friendly enough with Anna, close even, she knew it and no doubt that smooth policeman Inspector Younger knew it too. They had not been in London the night she was killed. Presumably you called t-hat an alibi.
She might have a talk with Valerie Humbertson about it, Val was about her closest friend, but she thought that Val had troubles of her own.
Stella Pinero could be more helpful, she knew how to give advice. Had been through the mill herself. Many a time and oft, as she had once said with feeling. Stella was not a close friend, but an admired one, and the girl’s mother had worked for her. Still did, probably, if she was up to working for anyone now. Mrs Kinver had worked for Philippa herself once, but when the offer of a job at the theatre had come up, she had been unable to resist it. Philippa had understood, she was stage-struck herself.
It was a horrible business, but the police would soon sort it out.
On this hopeful note, she awaited the arrival of Jim Marsh to exercise old Jumbo.
Two days, three days, a week. Unease was still oiling itself all over Leathergate with Spinnergate feeling it too. The discomfort, quite physical for some people like the Kinvers, husband and wife, reached even St Luke’s Theatre Workshop where the company directed by Stella Pinero had embarked on advance preparation for its most ambitious production so far.
They needed something popular so they were going to do Cavalcade, using local actors for part of the huge cast. Not that their cast was going to be Drury Lane big. Stella had pruned sternly.
Using local talent was a wise political gesture (low cunning, some said) since the theatre received a grant on condition it hired graduates from the Drama Department of the new Dockside University. Using amateurs fulfilled the spirit of the thing, Stella maintained, with the advantage they did not have to be paid. She was always short of ready cash. Lætitia Bingham, her ultimate controller, kept them on a rolling budget.
Hopefuls were flooding in for audition, their arrivals organized by several amateur acting societies and the Theatre Club in which Mary Anneck and Philippa Darbyshire were prominent. But with this flood came also a spate of rumours and anxieties about the murder of Anna Mary.
She was surprised how guilty many felt. Guilt and alarm seemed spread about the community. Somehow it was their fault, they were a bad lot in Leathergate and getting no better.
John Coffin came in for a drink that evening, one full week after the discovery of Anna Mary’s body in Rope Walk, bringing Tiddles with him. Tiddles liked a sweet sherry in a saucer.
‘Any news?’ She stirred a cocktail, she was learning to make them now, they were the smart thing, and anyway she wanted to get into the Coward mood.
‘Don’t make that thing too sweet, will you?’ Coffin stared at what she was doing disapprovingly. ‘I can’t bear sweet drinks. About the murder? No, nothing much.’
‘This brew will be as bitter as hell.’ Stella handed over the drink.
He had seen all the usual reports, of course, forensic, technical, photographic, made a point of it, so his comment was not strictly true, but there was no news that counted. Not what she meant. No strong suspect in sight.
‘I miss Mrs Kinver. She came in to work today, but she wasn’t really with us, I sent her back home.’
‘She might have been better working.’
‘I thought of that, of course, but her husband turned up, was walking up and down outside, frightened to let her out of his sight. That worried her. Worried me, too. He’s in a bad way, John, taking it worse than the mother, really, although you can never be sure what’s going on inside.’
Coffin frowned and sipped his drink. Repulsive, he thought, and looked for somewhere to pour it away. ‘He needs help. I can probably get him some. We have a psychiatrist on the Force who specializes in helping victims of violence.’
‘Is he good?’
‘I think so. He helped me.’
Stella gave Coffin a surprised look, but he did not explain his words.
‘I think Kinver’d like to kill someone,’ she said. ‘Anyone, but preferably the murderer of his girl.’
‘Is that what his wife thinks?’
‘I bet it is.’
‘Then she needs help too.’
The telephone rang.
He managed to slip his drink into Tiddles’s saucer while Stella’s attention was diverted. Tiddles took a sip, then looked at him with a baleful green stare. Poisoning me, are you? the stare said. Well, I know what to
