The Paying Guests(115)
The knock came at five to eight, as Frances was pulling on a skirt, and just as she’d begun to wonder whether it was ever going to come at all. There could be no mistaking it for the postman’s brisk double rap. It was heavy, ominous: the sound of bad news. With her heart like lead in her chest, and her torn muscles seeming to tear again at every step, she made her way downstairs.
She found her mother in the hall, just emerging from her own room.
‘Are you expecting any sort of delivery, Frances?’
She shook her head.
The small gesture felt false. Her leaden heart stirred unpleasantly. Then she opened the door, and the sight of the policeman, tall and bulky in his mackintosh cape, nearly took the strength right out of her.
But the man was one they knew slightly from having seen him make his rounds: a Constable Hardy, rather young, and new to the job. She saw his Adam’s apple moving in a boyish way as he swallowed. He said, ‘Miss Wray, I think?’
She nodded. ‘Is something the matter?’
‘Well, I’m afraid to say something is.’
Her mother came forward. ‘What is it, Frances?’
He addressed himself to her then, swallowing again before he spoke. ‘I understand that a Mr Leonard Barber normally resides in the house. Is that correct?’
‘Yes. Yes, it is. He has rooms upstairs with his wife. But he’ll have left for work by now. At least – Did he leave today, Frances? I don’t know that I heard him. Has something happened, Constable? Come in, will you, out of the porch.’
He came forward, taking trouble over wiping his feet. When the door was closed behind him he said, ‘I’m afraid there’s reason to believe that Mr Barber has been injured.’
Frances’s mother put a hand to her throat. ‘Injured? On his way to work, you mean?’
He hesitated, then looked over at the staircase. ‘Is Mrs Barber at home?’
Frances touched her mother’s arm. ‘I’ll fetch her. Wait here.’
Her heart had calmed, but her manner still felt strained and artificial, and her aching legs, as she began to climb, seemed not quite under control. She meant to go right to the top and call to Lilian from there; but Lilian, of course, had heard the knock, had heard the constable’s voice. She was out of her room already, still in her nightdress and dressing-gown but with a shawl over her shoulders, and looking so pale, so hunched, so worn – so ill – that Frances’s knees almost buckled completely. She spoke from the turn of the stairs, horribly conscious that Constable Hardy and her mother were watching as she did it.
‘Don’t be frightened, Lilian. But a policeman’s here. He’s saying that something’ – her mouth felt tacky – ‘that something has happened to Leonard. I don’t understand. Has Leonard left for work already?’
Lilian stared at her. She had heard the oddness in her voice, and it had made her afraid. She mustn’t be afraid! Frances swallowed, and spoke less stickily. ‘Is Leonard here?’
Finally, Lilian came forward. ‘No. No, he isn’t here.’
‘Has he gone to work?’
‘He hasn’t come home. I – I don’t know where he is.’
She followed Frances down the staircase, and when she caught sight of the policeman she faltered, just as Frances had, and reached for the banister. But that was all right, Frances thought; that was natural. Wasn’t it? She took hold of her hand to help her down the last few stairs, trying to will strength and confidence into her grip. The constable said again that he was sorry, but he had something very grave to say, and perhaps Mrs Barber would like to sit down? So they all went into the drawing-room, Frances going quickly to the windows to open the curtains. Lilian sat at the end of the sofa; Frances’s mother took the place beside her, put a hand on her arm. Constable Hardy removed his helmet and came gingerly forward, doing his best to avoid the carpet; he was concerned about the rainwater dripping from his cape.
With his Adam’s apple jerking more wildly than ever, he told them that a man’s body had been discovered in the lane at the back of the garden, and that he had reason to believe, from items in the man’s possession, that the body was that of Mr Leonard Barber. Could Mrs Barber confirm that her husband was absent from the house?
Lilian said nothing for a moment. It was Frances’s mother who cried out. Constable Hardy looked more awkward than ever.
‘If Mrs Barber could just confirm —’
‘Yes,’ said Lilian at last. Then: ‘No. I don’t know. I don’t know where Len is. He didn’t come home last night. Oh, but it can’t be him! Can it?’
There was fear in her voice. Was it the right sort of fear, or the wrong? Frances couldn’t tell. She went swiftly around the sofa and put a hand on her shoulder. Be calm. Be brave. I’m here. I love you.
Constable Hardy had got out his notebook and now began to take down the details of the case. Could Mrs Barber tell him when she had last seen her husband? What had his movements been yesterday? He had gone to work? Where was that? And afterwards? When had she first missed him?
In a wavering tone Lilian gave him the address of the Pearl headquarters, then told him about Leonard’s plans to meet up with Charlie Wismuth. He made a careful note of the name in a laborious, schoolboy hand, his helmet tucked awkwardly under his elbow as he wrote. Then he turned to Frances and her mother. They hadn’t seen Mr Barber?