The Vanishing Woman Page 14

  George pushed Douglas away with unexpected gentleness. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Jennings,” he said, and Gabriel knew he meant it. “What baby?”

  Douglas attempted to fly at George again, but George got hold of both his wrists this time and forced him back against the wall. “You pervert! I know what you did to her!” shouted Douglas, struggling like a man possessed. “No one was supposed to know! I wasn’t supposed to know, but she woke up screaming in the night: ‘My baby! My baby!’ You brought her down here, didn’t you? It’s perfect; no one would ever have known what you were doing!”

  “Don’t be a bloody fool, Jennings! I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  Gabriel stepped between them, gesturing at George to let go of Douglas. “Gentlemen, perhaps we should take this argument somewhere else. You are standing exactly in the place a woman died.”

  If anything, the Jennings’ cottage felt even less welcoming than on the first occasion Gabriel had entered. In Agnes’ absence, the house had become untidy. The drawing room, into which Douglas marched them unceremoniously, was littered with piles of papers and books, and Gabriel noticed empty and half-empty glasses cluttering up the various surfaces. “Please forgive the state of the place,” said Douglas unapologetically. “I’m in the process of sorting out my mother’s things. Not a pleasant task under the circumstances.”

  “I quite understand,” said Gabriel, hesitating before finding himself a seat. “How did your mother leave her affairs?”

  “That’s absolutely none of your business,” Douglas retorted, sitting down himself without inviting George to do so. George shrugged, then sat on the sofa next to Gabriel, as though determining him to be an ally. “My mother was an extremely particular woman, and I doubted she would have left her affairs in anything other than perfect order. Which, of course, she did. Does that answer your question?”

  “Thank you,” said Gabriel. He noted that Douglas was making a point of not offering any refreshment to either of them, but his anger was directed entirely at George. Gabriel endeavoured to create a distraction and held out the penknife. “I found this down there.”

  Douglas looked at him in surprise before snatching the knife out of his hands. “I had assumed it was at the bottom of the river. What is the meaning of all this?”

  “It means,” Gabriel explained, “that your sister was telling the truth and was in her right mind all along. Someone lay in wait and pulled your mother into that bunker at the precise second Agnes was attending to the kettle. It would not have taken long at all for her to disappear, and it may have been completely coincidental that she vanished at exactly the moment Agnes was not looking. In fact, my suspicion is that whoever did it had not expected there to be anyone at home.”

  “Then who did it?” demanded Douglas, placing the penknife in his lap, unable to bring himself to put it away. “Tell me which man is responsible for this!”

  “I didn’t say it was a man,” Gabriel corrected him, “and as yet, I’m afraid I cannot answer your question. However, I am coming to the belief that your mother may have died shortly before she could be murdered.”

  Douglas looked at Gabriel as though the man were speaking gibberish. “What are you talking about? Was my mother murdered, or wasn’t she?”

  Gabriel hesitated. In his uncertainty, he knew he was taking another gamble, but he also knew that if he were right, the results of the postmortem would reveal the truth before long anyway. “I’m beginning to suspect that whoever dragged your mother into the chamber had every intention of killing her. There were signs of a struggle down there, and your mother had time to reach for the penknife and begin to open it, almost certainly to defend herself. However, there were no bloodstains on the ground or on that knife, so I doubt if she got beyond the process of opening the thing.”

  Douglas stood up abruptly and made for the door. “I don’t have to listen to any of this nonsense. I’m calling the police.”

  “I suggest you do that,” said Gabriel, ignoring George’s obvious agitation beside him. “If nothing else, the revelations of this evening should help your sister’s case.”

  “Father, please!” George began. “We need to find out who else knew about the bunker. If we can’t come out with any plausible names, the police will arrest me in a trice.”

  Douglas glanced back at George with a look of contempt on his face that reminded Gabriel horribly of the way his dead mother had looked at Pamela. “I have every intention of ensuring they do, Smithson. I know it was you. You’re the one who forced yourself on my sister; you’re the only one who knew about that bunker. Did my mother find out that you were the father and confront you?”

  “No—”

  “It’s just the sort of thing she would have done. It wouldn’t occur to her she might get hurt. How did she find out it was you?”

  George rose to his feet with an air of weary frustration. “For pity’s sake, Jennings, I had nothing to do with any baby. I had no idea Agnes had had a baby until you were indiscreet enough to say so.”

  “I think there may have been a misunderstanding here, gentlemen,” Gabriel put in, standing between the two men yet again, though there was a good deal more space between them now. “What do you mean by a baby?”

  “Why not ask him, Father?” demanded Douglas, jabbing a finger in George’s chest. George did not move. “Why not ask him to confess?”

  “Jennings, I did nothing of the sort to your sister,” said George quietly, but he looked as shocked as Gabriel. “You must believe me. I never touched her. I had no idea there was a child.”

  “There isn’t,” answered Douglas coldly. “The baby died, born too early. I was away at the time. I had no idea she had ever been pregnant until I overheard that nightmare. Mother said that Agnes had nearly died, and if she ever found out who had done such a terrible thing to her daughter, she would expose him. She would make him pay, whoever he was.”

  George sank back into the sofa. “I’m so sorry, old man, but I truly had no idea. I did have an encounter with Agnes, but only when she was a child, and I swear on my life I never violated her. Even if you imagine me capable of such a crime, do you think it likely I would have chanced it when I could not risk being noticed by anyone?”

  Douglas did not soften in the least, but Gabriel could see the beginnings of doubt creeping over him. “There’s a certain sort of man who thinks he can take what he pleases,” answered Douglas. “I came across a few of those among our own. I don’t know what you’re capable of, Smithson, but I don’t believe in anyone’s innocence anymore.”

  Gabriel indicated for George to sit down again and turned to Douglas. “I think you should call the constabulary and let Applegate know that we have discovered the place where your mother died and how her body came to be washed up at Port Shaston. But it seems to be quite clear now that there is a great deal more to this than we realised. I cannot vouch for Mr Smithson here, but I think it would be unwise to jump to any conclusions.”

  “What about this baby?” asked George, tersely. “Do we inform Applegate? I dare say he would prefer to know.”

  Gabriel noticed Douglas flushing red at the accusatory reference. As a lawyer used to dealing with delicate, confidential situations, he had realised his terrible lapse in judgement if Smithson truly knew nothing about Agnes’ baby. “If it’s all the same to you, Mr Smithson,” Gabriel suggested, “I think we should refrain from mentioning anything about this story, since none of us can prove it happened. If Agnes has never spoken of it, we have no right to spread gossip.”

  “It is hardly spreading gossip to furnish the police with the facts,” George objected, “especially if we are to assume that it was a factor in Enid Jennings’ murder.”

  “The words ‘pot’, ‘kettle’ and ‘black’ spring to mind,” answered Gabriel, more angrily than he had intended, but he was beginning to wonder what George was playing at. “The considerably more important information you withheld was damaging only to you
rself. I insist that we do not speak of this unless Agnes herself chooses to do so. If she did indeed lose a baby, she has the right to keep this to herself if she so chooses.”

  “I agree,” said Douglas, a little too readily. “I should never have broached the subject in the first place. I was just so sure Smithson here was involved.” Douglas got up to make the phone call, but lingered in the doorway again. “Before I ring the constabulary, Father, perhaps you could tell us what you discovered today? You seem very sure that my mother died in that spot. May I ask why?”

  Gabriel was aware of the two men scrutinising his every move and faltered under the weight of his own common sense. He did not know who was responsible, and therefore everyone to whom he spoke might be the guilty party, including these two men who had both been trained to kill and might both have had the means or motive to do so. Gabriel mentally held his most precious cards to his chest and cleared his throat: “Well, it is quite obvious to me that she died in that chamber, thanks to all those footprints, which suggests a struggle. Frankly, it is hard to imagine any self-respecting person going down into such a place willingly. The presence of the penknife painted the picture of a person who knew she was in mortal danger and was attempting to defend herself but never had the chance.”

  “It would have been a clumsy weapon even in expert hands,” Douglas commented, “even if she had had the time to draw the thing.”

  “Indeed, but in a moment of desperation it may have been all she could have thought of,” Gabriel responded. “The other detail I noticed, of course, was the odd pattern of dust further down. The way it appeared to have been swept up clearly demonstrated to me that she died in situ and her body was dragged the length of the tunnel. She had a graze on her heel, which could have been caused by her being dragged along the riverbed or along a stone surface. I suspect that a search along the tunnel might reveal the missing shoe. Her long coat and skirt would have had the effect of brushing the path clean of dust, and any dust that accumulated on her clothing would have washed away in the river.”

  “I see,” answered Douglas, looking down into the corner of the room. Gabriel wondered what the man could be feeling. It had been impossible from the start for him to pretend he had felt any great affection for his mother, but in the end, he was still the son of a dead woman being told the exact location of her death, being told that she had almost certainly died frightened and fully aware that she was about to meet a violent end. “But who could have done such a thing? I mean, who would go to such bizarre lengths to kill a woman? There are so many easier ways it could have been done.”

  “I think it goes without saying that we are looking at an extremely intelligent person,” commented Gabriel, hoping to look as transparent as possible when he was going out of his way to reveal as little of importance as he could. “A patient person.”

  “Patient?”

  “You know the old saying: beware the wrath of a patient man—or woman? It seems very clear to me that whoever carried out this act planned it very carefully indeed. Whoever did it wanted to make absolutely certain that he would never be found out. There are indeed many other ways to murder a woman, but in a small town there are not quite as many hiding places as one would imagine. The trouble is that the best-laid plans have a tendency to go awry when they involve third parties who are unaware of their part. Enid Jennings was not supposed to die where she did. Who would drag a dead body such a distance when it would be just as easy to force her to walk that way and then kill her at the other end? And why risk there being a witness unless the person concerned knew that Agnes could be discredited or implicated?”

  George got up abruptly, signalling to Gabriel to do the same. “Look here, Father, I think we have imposed quite long enough on this gentleman’s time. He needs to speak to the inspector, and we both need to get home. I’m sure Fr Foley will be wondering where on earth you are.”

  Gabriel had a sinking feeling Fr Foley would certainly want to know where he had been since before lunch, and he did not fancy much having to make his explanations. He could not help wanting to leave Douglas Jennings’ sullen company for the safety of the presbytery, but he was curious as to why George was so keen to break up the meeting. He played along. “You are quite right, Mr Smithson. It is getting late, and I promised Father I would be home in good time to dinner.” He nodded in Douglas’ direction. “Please pass on my best wishes to your sister,” he said. “If you would like me to go and see her again—”

  “I really don’t think that will be necessary, Father,” answered Douglas quickly. “If Applegate can be persuaded to leave her alone, I will get her out of that place directly. In the morning, if possible.”

  Thank the Lord for small mercies then, thought Gabriel, as he walked in silence next to George Smithson up the hill. If I can do no more than persuade the inspector that Agnes is innocent of any blame, it will be enough. “Thank you for your assistance,” he said to George when they reached a parting of ways without having exchanged a single word in the darkness. George simply nodded in acknowledgement and walked away in the opposite direction without offering his companion a word of explanation.

  There were one or two other details Gabriel had not seen fit to share with the two men, but which he suspected might prove more damning than any other piece of evidence. Whoever had pulled Enid Jennings down into that cavern had gone to some lengths to avoid hurting her. It was no mean feat to drag a grown woman down a steep flight of stairs without causing her any harm, and her body had shown no sign of a violent struggle. It was virtually beyond doubt, as far as Gabriel was concerned, that the person responsible had planned murder and yet had somehow hesitated when it came to it, long enough for Enid Jennings to reach into her handbag and pull out the penknife. A gentle murderer? Gabriel walked along the quiet streets, wishing good evening to the few people he passed, but he could not fight off the overwhelming sense of fear that was overtaking him. O God, send me home, he prayed, please send me home. Gabriel had felt lonely many times before, but it was a long time since he had felt quite so afraid.

  12

  “Holy Mother, you look as though you’ve been body snatching!” exclaimed an incredulous voice when Gabriel tiptoed into the house, praying that Fr Foley might be out. Fr Foley was very much in, staring across the room at him as he removed his filthy coat. “Where in heaven’s name have you been all day? You’re supposed to be assisting a poorly old man. I had to take your catechism class.”

  Gabriel threw his head into his hands. “Father, I am so sorry. I’m so sorry, I clean forgot. I had to return to the abbey urgently. I should have sent a message to you. One thing led to another . . .”

  Fr Foley shook his head, sending off waves of invisible reproach. It was the first time Gabriel had had the sense that he was trying the old man’s patience. “I cannot imagine that you went to the abbey on an errand of mercy. Now what have you been up to?”

  Gabriel looked at his coat as he hung it carefully on the coat stand; even the dim light of the hall failed to disguise how dirty it was, covered with dust and cobwebs. To complement the effect, his shoes were encrusted with mud, but almost more incriminating were the leather gloves he had neglected to return to George Smithson, which completed the image of a burglar on his way back from a job. All he needed was a large sack labelled swag. “I’m afraid I’ve had rather a frightful afternoon,” said Gabriel quietly, playing for sympathy, which he doubted he deserved. “I discovered the place where Enid Jennings died—”

  “I thought she had died in the river,” Fr Foley interrupted. “You don’t look as though you’ve been fishing.”

  “She didn’t die anywhere near the river,” said Gabriel. “It was horrible, like discovering that a person has been buried alive. I know she was a disagreeable woman, but I can’t bear the thought of her dying frightened and trapped like that. I’m afraid I don’t think I shall sleep very well tonight.”

  Fr Foley’s look of disapproval softened almost immediately, and he gesture
d to the kitchen table, where their dinners had evidently just been laid out. Gabriel saw the steam floating off plates and smelt hot pastry wafting in his direction. “Is that really a Cornish pasty?” asked Gabriel, salivating at the sight of that bulging semicircle of golden pastry on the plate, promising minced beef and onions and other delights, except that he knew perfectly well it would contain no such luxuries.

  “Apparently,” answered Fr Foley, “just don’t spoil the evening by asking what’s actually in them. The mashed potato is real enough, though.” Gabriel sat down gratefully and bowed his head as Fr Foley said grace before sitting down opposite him. “It seems to me that you haven’t been sleeping well for a few nights now, son. Would you like me to give you one of my sedatives?”

  “Is that allowed?” asked Gabriel, but a moment later he was in ersatz Cornish pasty–flavoured heaven and could not have cared if Fr Foley had laced his tea with laudanum. There was clearly no beef or onions in the pasty, but he could taste lightly salted vegetables and a delicate splash of gravy to complement the soft bits of potato.

  “They’re perfectly safe if they’re being given to a man with a dicky ticker like mine,” promised Fr Foley, tucking into his own dinner with a little less enthusiasm. “Where did she die?”

  “Just yards away from her own home. The whole thing is the stuff of nightmares. First time I have felt afraid since . . .” He stared at his plate, thrown by an unfamiliar sensation prickling his eyes. He endeavoured to stop himself from blinking until the moist, heavy feeling had left his eyelids. He was aware of Fr Foley watching him solicitously and of the need to break the silence before it became any more suspicious. “Father, if you don’t mind my asking, when did you enter seminary?”