A Slightly Bitter Taste Page 6

  Neil Ford said testily, “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Very probably. I wouldn’t profess to know what a woman does when she quarrels with her husband. I’ve never been married.”

  “How do you know they quarrelled?”

  “Who’s being ridiculous now? Don’t all married people quarrel? It’s called the War of the Sexes. Making a man and a woman live together in the same house day after day is like putting a lion and a tiger in the same cage.”

  Quinn was watching Carole and he saw a shadow settle on her face. At the back of his mind he remembered a parcel of freshly-laundered shirts and underwear and pyjamas in the cottage near Basingstoke.

  Carole said, “It’s a good job we know you too well to take you seriously. Think I’d better switch the light on. It’s getting quite dark. Wish the rain would come.” She sounded restless and on edge.

  Through the windows facing south, lightning glowed on the horizon. It lit up Ariadne’s plump face and Quinn saw that she was smiling. There was a cruel look in her eyes as she watched Carole walk to the switch by the door.

  Upstairs he could hear Irene Ford moving around, her heels tapping across a stretch of bare parquet floor. Then there came a muffled thump — thump — thump — thump as she walked over a carpet. She turned on a tap, turned it off again almost immediately. Water made a gurgling noise in a waste pipe.

  Something clattered in the wash basin. The tap ran again briefly. All the little sounds were very distinct and he knew she must have left the bathroom door open.

  Then Carole switched on the light. She said, “That’s better. I always get a tingling feeling when there’s electricity in the air. I can remember as a child having to get out of the bed during a thunderstorm because the mattress seemed to prickle.”

  In a deep mocking voice, Ariadne said, “Shows how different two people can be. I like it when there’s lightning about. Makes me feel vital and alive all over. I get a thrill out of the noise of a storm, especially when it crashes right overhead. Do you think it’s because” — she gave Quinn another sleepy look — “because I’m the seventh child of a seventh child?”

  Quinn said, “Could be. Perhaps your parents knew what they were doing when they called you Ariadne.”

  She laughed her high-pitched laugh with both hands thrown up. Then she said, “How about that? I’ve often thought I was born three hundred years too late. I should’ve been a witch …”

  She went on talking with a brittle air, glancing at each of them in turn to see their response to her forced wit. Quinn told himself she was determined to be funny if it killed them. After a while he shut his mind to her chatter and listened only just enough to know when to make the right noises.

  Neil Ford said hardly anything. Carole spoke no more often than was absolutely necessary. Several times she looked at her watch and then glanced through the window at the elm trees towering against the overcast sky.

  As time passed, Neil Ford became increasingly restless. He moved about, picked up an ornament and put it down again, and seemed unable to remain still.

  Ariadne Wilkinson must have noticed it but she made no comment. She was too busy giving Quinn facetious pen-pictures of the people of Castle Lammering.

  Eventually Ford went over to the bar and poured himself a drink. When he put it down again after barely tasting it, Carole asked, “Aren’t you hungry?”

  “No. We had afternoon tea rather late and I’m not in the mood for eating right now. I’ll have a bite when Irene comes down.”

  In a disgruntled tone, he added, “That’ll probably be in time for breakfast. She takes longer to wash her face and comb her hair and put on a spot of make-up than any woman I know.”

  Miss Wilkinson said, “Oh, I’d forgotten about your wife. Of course, she’s here, isn’t she? I can’t imagine what made me think you’d come on your own. Anyhow —”

  She stopped and held up one finger, her mouth pursed, her eyes flitting birdlike from face to face. In a peculiarly hushed voice, she said, “Isn’t that a car? Seems I was wrong, doesn’t it? Adele must’ve been on the later bus, after all. That’ll be Michael bringing his little wifie home to the bosom of her family.”

  Quinn saw the elms silhouetted by the lights of a car as it climbed the road from the village. He told himself it could hardly be Michael Parry returning from Blandford.

  … Unless the bus got in early … and he drove like hell all the way back. His wife must be mad to travel with him at all. If he’s ever stopped by the police and given a test for alcohol the breathalyser will change through all the colours in the rainbow and go off with a bang …

  Ariadne Wilkinson said, “If that’s Adele I hope she knows what I came for because I’ve completely forgotten … although I don’t see how it can be her. The bus doesn’t get to Blandford before eight-fifty and it’s just turned five minutes to nine now. I know Michael drives like a maniac but this is ridiculous.”

  The car swung round in front of the house and pulled up smoothly outside the door. It wasn’t Michael Parry’s Rover 2000.

  Through the tall window Quinn saw a man get out, look up at the sky, and then hurry into the porch. As the bell chimed, the first heavy drops of rain streaked the window. Before it rang again trees and car and pebbled drive were almost blotted out by a cloudburst that came down in solid sheets.

  Ariadne Wilkinson said, “How about that? I knew Michael couldn’t have got back so soon. That’s Dr. Bossard’s car. Is somebody ill … or is this a social call?”

  Carole said crisply, “I’m glad there’s something you don’t know. I was beginning to think —”

  “Better keep it till later. Poor Dr. Bossard will be half-drowned if you don’t let him in.”

  She flicked a glance at Quinn and he caught the same look in her eyes that he’d seen once before when she was watching Carole. She said, “Isn’t this rain delicious? Listen to it … just listen to it. If I were at home right now I’d be tempted to take off all my clothes and walk through the garden, quite naked, and let myself be washed clean and wholesome and innocent like a child — like we all were in the beginning. Don’t you ever feel that way?”

  He wanted to tell her if he did he’d have himself certified. While he was thinking of something more politic to say, Carole opened the door and let Dr. Bossard in.

  “… Good evening, Doctor. You got here just in time. Shocking, isn’t it?”

  Bossard said, “Yes. But the farmers will be pleased … if they’re ever pleased at anything. A good soaking will do their root crops all the good in the world …”

  He was a slim-built man with good features and a well-shaped head. Quinn got the impression he was the ex-army type — clipped moustache, keen eyes, hair greying slightly at the temples.

  He looked superior and yet approachable — the kind of man who would be part of the atmosphere of the bar in any four-star hotel. His eyes crinkled in a smile when he shook hands with Quinn and he gave Neil Ford a pleasant nod.

  “… Nice to see you again. How’s Mrs. Ford?”

  Ariadne Wilkinson said, “Don’t answer that or you’ll get a bill at the end of the month.”

  Bossard gave Quinn a wry look and said, “One of the drawbacks of my job, Mr. Quinn, is that people make me the target of the same old jokes, year in and year out. What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m with the Morning Post”

  “Oh, that’s quite a novelty. We’ve had all sorts and conditions of men visiting Castle Lammering from time to time but I think you’re the first newspaper man I’ve met here. Wouldn’t you” — he smiled at Carole — “wouldn’t you agree?”

  Before she could answer, Miss Wilkinson said, “Well, how about that? A real live journalist. You and Michael Parry should have quite a lot to talk about.”

  There was no mistaking the sting in her voice as she added, “He’s a writer, too, you know. Can’t tell you what sort of stuff he writes because I’ve never read any of it, but it certainly keeps him busy. I’m sur
e one of these days he’ll startle all of us.”

  The downpour had slackened. Quinn could still hear the intermittent rumble of thunder but now it came from a long way off. The storm was moving north.

  He said, “Mr. Parry’s vocation and mine are poles apart. I’ve never deluded myself that I could write a book. Of course, I don’t suppose he could do my job, either.”

  Ariadne Wilkinson gave another high-pitched laugh. She said, “The former may be put down to modesty, but I’m sure there’s no doubt about the latter.”

  The she turned to Bossard and asked, “Is this a personal or professional visit, Doctor?”

  “Oh, personal … at least, I hope so. Mrs. Parry invited me to come round this evening.”

  “But she’s not here. I popped in, too, because I wanted to see her but she’s not back yet.”

  “I didn’t know she’d been away,” Bossard said.

  “Oh, yes. She should’ve been on the eight-ten bus at Blandford but it seems —”

  The phone bell rang. Like a man standing apart from the others in his own web of reality, Quinn looked from Carole to Ford to Miss Wilkinson to Dr. Bossard and asked himself how he came to be there.

  It had been a mistake — a very big mistake. These were not his people, this was not the kind of place where he could be himself. He still thought Carole was cute but even Carole had a fence round her now …

  The bell went on ringing. Neil Ford said, “I’ll take it. Might be from Adele to say she’s —”

  He picked up the receiver. Dr. Bossard walked quietly across to Carole Stewart and began talking to her in an undertone. Miss Wilkinson watched them, her hazel eyes bright and predatory. More than ever, Quinn felt he didn’t belong. He was on the outside looking in.

  Neil Ford said, “Hallo … no, not yet. We haven’t heard anything since you rang before … yes, it is. Most peculiar. Have you spoken to the bus people? They might —”

  He stood pulling at his ear while he listened, his womanish mouth drawn down in fretful lines. Then he said, “I don’t know what to suggest … yes, naturally you’re getting worried. Best thing you can do is to come back here. Won’t serve any purpose to stick around in Blandford in the rain … m-m-m … m-m-m … quite possibly, but damned inconsiderate of her, all the same. If you like I’ll phone Wood Lake and ask them —”

  The look on his face changed. He said stiffly, “Oh, all right, if you prefer to do it yourself. I just thought it would save time … no, why should anything be wrong? We’ll find there’s a perfectly innocent explanation for the whole thing. Maybe she asked somebody to ring you and the person forgot … O.K. See you soon.”

  He hung up and looked at Carole and spread out his hands aimlessly. He said, “Adele wasn’t on the eight-fifty bus, either. Michael’s getting himself into quite a lather. He’s imagining all sorts of things.”

  Ford turned to Bossard and asked, “Did you get the impression, Doctor, when Mrs. Parry invited you here this evening, that she expected to be home late?”

  Dr. Bossard said, “No. As I was saying a minute ago I didn’t know she intended to go away.”

  Carole said nothing. Her eyes followed Bossard as he walked over to a settee and sat down and clasped his hands behind his head.

  Ariadne Wilkinson moved closer to Quinn and murmured, “Perhaps there’s a story here for you: Rich and Beautiful Woman Disappears. How about that?”

  “You’ve got the wrong idea of the way newspapers work,” Quinn said. “People aren’t presumed to have disappeared just because they return home a little later than expected. Could even be that her husband got the time or the date wrong. Such things have been known.”

  “Especially with Michael Parry,” Miss Wilkinson said.

  In the same deep whisper, she added, “Was he the worse for wear when you got here?”

  She made Quinn feel like a fellow-conspirator and he resented the feeling. He had no wish to become involved in the scandal-mongering of a woman with a poisonous tongue.

  He said, “I saw nothing wrong with Mr. Parry. He was very pleasant, very hospitable. We spent only a few minutes together but in that time he made me thoroughly at home. I like him.”

  Carole said, “Good for you.”

  The look in her eyes reminded him of that moment when she’d stooped to kiss him. Now it didn’t mean very much … if anything at all. He had no hope of competing with, for instance, someone like Dr. Bossard.

  … Good-looking fellow. Grooming, education, the grand manner: he had everything …

  Men like Bossard never failed to give Quinn a sense of inferiority. It had been like that all his life. Journalism gave him professional status but it was one of the fringe professions — not like Bossard.

  … He was trying to make conversation with Carole while Ford was on the telephone but she didn’t seem very responsive. Wonder how long they’ve known each other? Seems a nice fellow … the balanced type that doesn’t suffer from inhibitions. Not like Parry or Neil Ford or this waspish wench Ariadne. When she told me she should’ve been a witch I nearly asked her if she spelled it with a B …

  Part of his mind heard Bossard say that maybe in the circumstances he should leave. When Mrs. Parry got back she wouldn’t want to be bothered with stray visitors when she had weekend guests.

  “… Perhaps somebody would give me a ring to-morrow and let me know if everything ended up O.K.”

  Although he didn’t look at anyone in particular he was talking to Carole. Quinn knew that with certainty. She was Bossard’s real reason for calling at Elm Lodge.

  … Yet she doesn’t seem to fancy him. Wonder why? I’d have thought he was more than eligible … unless he’s married, of course. Not, when I come to think of it, that she’d let that stand in her way. She as good as admitted she’d been living with a man at her cottage …

  It was a pity she’d told him. He never liked to know that sort of thing about a woman. Somehow it spoiled the image he always created in his own mind.

  … What image? She’s a slim dark little girl with a cute smile and grave dark eyes that look at you innocently. Says she’s a TV producer. Says the cottage near Basingstoke belongs to her. How d’you know what she is or what she owns? She might be a high-class tart or a low-class liar …

  Carole could be playing the eligible Dr. Bossard on a long line. The hard-to-get technique often did the trick.

  … He’s sweet on her all right. Get a helluva shock if I told him everything I’m wearing except my shoes and the suit I’ve got on belongs to the man she was sleeping with until he walked out without bothering to take his laundry …

  Bossard had hesitated as though waiting for someone to ask him to stay. But Neil Ford merely nodded and Carole stared down at her hands.

  So the doctor stood up and smiled at Miss Wilkinson and asked, “Can I give you a lift?”

  With a look of surprise, she said, “Oh, that’s very kind of you … but Miss Stewart has already offered to run me home and I wouldn’t want —”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Carole said. “So long as it won’t be taking Dr. Bossard out of his way …”

  Bossard said, “Not at all. Besides it wouldn’t matter if it did on a night like this.”

  There was no concealing the disappointment in Miss Wilkinson’s eyes. She said, “How about that?”

  From under her stubby eyelashes she gave Quinn a sardonic look. “See what happens when you’re past your youth and unwanted? Not that I don’t appreciate dear Dr. Bossard’s offer. I think it’s uncommonly handsome of him to —”

  Somewhere on the floor above a woman screamed — a wild and frantic scream that shocked Miss Wilkinson into silence. With her mouth pointed like a narrow funnel she stood motionless, her hands clasped tightly together.

  For a long moment the others didn’t move. Then Neil Ford said huskily, “What the devil’s happened?”

  Upstairs there were running footsteps that skittered on a bare stretch of floor. Quinn saw Irene Ford at the top of t
he staircase. Her eyes were wild and she was gasping for breath.

  In a broken voice, she said, “My God … oh my God! It’s Adele. She’s in the nursery. Please do something … please …”

  Dr. Bossard rushed towards the stairs. As he ran, he called out, “It’s all right, Mrs. Ford, it’s all right. Stay there.”

  She didn’t seem to hear him. Before he reached the foot of the staircase she began to sway, her eyes as lifeless as the eyes of a wax dummy. Then her knees gave way and she collapsed on the floor close to the edge of the top step.

  4

  Quinn was close behind Bossard and Ford as they ran upstairs. When they stopped to attend to Mrs. Ford he squeezed past and carried on along the semi-circular corridor overlooking the floor below.

  The two rooms nearest the head of the staircase were bedrooms. In one the light was on and he saw an open suitcase resting on a chair. It was the case that Neil Ford had brought in from his car.

  The next room was larger and it had twin beds and slightly more ornate furniture. One of the beds looked as though it had been lain on. The other was badly disarranged, bedspread half pulled off and trailing down almost to the floor.

  Next door there was a well-appointed bathroom … then another room with the door wide open. In there the light was on, too.

  It was a white-walled room with scenes from fairy tales painted on the dado: Mother Goose … the Pied Piper … Jack and the Beanstalk … the Sleeping Beauty … and many more.

  There was a playpen, a rocking horse, a large Teddy-bear, a table on which stood a lamp with a shade that had coloured pictures of the Seven Dwarfs. All the furniture was white-enamelled and three-quarter adult size — except the bed standing just behind the wide open door.

  On the bed lay the most beautiful woman that Quinn had ever seen. She had red hair, dark eyelashes, and a smooth, flawless skin. She was fully dressed except for her shoes which stood neatly together, half under the foot of the bed.