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.’
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
