Of course, Janet had never been the same since Iris died, Angela mused. Not that it worried her much – she knew that for all her daughter’s insistence that the wretched girl had been her best friend, Janet hadn’t really been fond of Iris, not deep down, of that Angela was positive. So her loss would cause her beloved daughter no serious harm.
But then David Finch had been found hanging in the Dewberry farm, and somehow, something had changed. But she wasn’t sure exactly what had changed, and that worried her. Angela was used to knowing everything about her daughter – what she was thinking, what she was feeling, what she might be planning, where she was and what she was doing. Angela had always prided herself on being a good mother. Having no husband to help her, she’d always made sure that Janet came first. Unlike some modern mothers, who seemed to think their children could raise themselves!
But there was no denying it. Ever since David Finch had died, something subtle, but something persistent, had been occupying her daughter’s waking moments, and she felt a chill begin to creep up her spine at the thought of what that might be.
Angela’s fists clenched in a mixture of fear and fury as she gave a muffled cry of apprehension and frustration.
Where is she?
Whilst Angela Baines paced her home, watching the sun begin to slowly set and becoming more and more frantic, Mortimer Crowley sat in his comfortable study, lounging back in his favourite chair with a black Bakelite telephone receiver pressed to his ear.
He was trying to keep his patience, but it was costing him. ‘No, Reggie, I’m telling you, I’m not holding any more parties until things settle down a bit here,’ he repeated. ‘And it’s no use whinging about it …’
He sighed, letting the upper-class accent moan on in his ear. The Right Hon. Reggie Arbington-Smythe, he suspected, spent his every waking moment half-cut, and today was obviously no exception. His words were so slurred he could almost swear that he could smell the booze on his breath over the telephone wire!
Which meant you simply just had to wait until he ran down a bit and then forcefully yell whatever information you wanted to impart into his ear, over and over again until you were sure it stuck.
Of all his ‘special’ friends, he was really only worried about Reggie, and maybe that old reprobate Welshman. Reggie, because he was capable of almost any indiscretion when he was really blotto, and Rhys because he had no damned sense of self-preservation at all. To him, the world was one big joke and he couldn’t care tuppence about anything except his own pleasures.
Unfortunately he hadn’t yet been able to reach Rhys, but Reggie had been easy enough to track down to one of his favoured Soho haunts.
‘Listen Reggie, you need to keep your mouth shut, all right?’ Mortimer said loudly, once he’d got the chance to get a word in edgeways.
‘Shut, ol’ boy? Can’t do that – can’t drink port with a shut mouth …’ The gratingly upper-class accent made Mortimer wince as the other man began to snigger.
‘I mean about the parties,’ Mortimer persisted grimly. ‘And about that girl, Iris, in particular.’
‘Iris? Iris – oh pretty little Iris the country milkmaid …’
‘Yes, her,’ Mortimer hissed, pushing back his mounting sense of fury. ‘If anyone comes asking about her, anyone at all, you know nothing about … our party games. All right?’
‘Ssshhhh,’ the Right Hon. hissed down the line like a demented snake, and Mortimer could almost picture his silly face, a finger pressed up against his lips. ‘Got you, ol’ boy. No mention of pretty Iris.’
‘Promise me Reggie?’ Mortimer pressed.
‘Scout’s honour, ol’ boy,’ the furry voice came back, and then, without so much as a goodbye, the phone was hung up. Probably the bartender at the club had offered to refill his glass, Mortimer thought sourly, and Reggie had promptly forgotten all about him.
He sighed and hung up. Well, he’d done his best. Not that he seriously expected the coppers to get onto him. From what he could tell keeping his ear to the ground, the police were content to lay the blame on the dead boyfriend. Poor sap. Not that he was complaining about that. The sooner they signed off on the case, the happier he’d be.
He and his ‘special friends’ made a habit of being very discreet indeed, but it would still be a relief when he could be sure that the whole May Queen murder fiasco was finally put to bed. He’d broken out in a cold sweat every time he saw a newspaper reporter slouching through the village, snuffling for titbits. But so far, they’d found nothing to cause him any real alarm.
But that could change in an instant.
He hung up, then redialled the Welshman’s number. Still no answer. Damn! He sighed. He’d have to keep trying. He listened to the unanswered burring in his ear, and stared out at the darkening garden, his thoughts on Iris Carmody and the last time he’d seen her. What a body that girl had. A face like a Victorian rose and no more morals than …
Realising where his thoughts were leading him, he broke off abruptly with a dry laugh. Who was he to criticise anyone else’s morals? One thing he wasn’t, was a hypocrite.
He sighed heavily.
Poor Iris. Poor greedy little Iris …
Mortimer Crowley was not the only one watching the sun set. Walking alongside a field of green, happily growing barley, Ronnie Dewberry paused to watch a pair of linnets busy nesting in the blackthorn hedges. Off somewhere in the distance, some peewits were calling plaintively. Yellow brimstone butterflies sought out their last sip of nectar of the day from the dandelions growing in the grass verges, whilst the sky slowly turned pink all around them.
Not that his mind was focused on the beauty of the natural world all around him. Instead his
