The Vanishing Woman Page 9

  “But the mystery has thickened.”

  Dr Whitehead studied the road ahead. “The mystery of what happened to Enid Jennings, perhaps, but if we go by the premise that Agnes was mistaken when she looked out of the window, the whole situation feels a little more straightforward. Mrs Jennings made a decision to go somewhere else after she had spent time with her sister. Perhaps she had arranged to meet someone. I can’t think of anyone offhand, but a woman that age would not necessarily choose to share her plans with her children. She was fiercely independent. Exactly where she went or what happened next we do not know as yet, but at least there might be some sanity to the whole incident.”

  But I can’t accept the premise, thought Gabriel glumly. I shall be written off as a madman, but I know Agnes saw something . . .

  Next morning, Gabriel was woken by his alarm clock to find his bedroom in complete darkness. When he pulled back the curtains, he was greeted by a misty haze on the other side of the pane of glass, so thick and impenetrable that he could see nothing at all out the window. He was used to the way in which fog could roll down across the fields unpredictably, spreading confusion amongst all those who were forced to go out and find their way whatever the weather, but he also knew it was likely to lift very quickly before much of the morning was gone. He closed the curtains and began the daily ritual of washing and dressing, reciting briefly at the foot of the bed: “O Jesus, through the most pure Heart of Mary, I offer thee the prayers, work, sufferings and joys of this day, for all the intentions of thy Divine Heart in the Holy Mass.”

  Gabriel wandered downstairs to find Fr Foley hanging up his coat and hat, having just returned from saying the early morning Mass. “I found this hand-delivered note addressed to you on the doormat,” said Fr Foley as he handed Gabriel an envelope.

  “Someone was out early,” Gabriel said, tearing it open without going in search of his paper knife.

  “Or very late,” suggested Fr Foley. “But it would have had to be very late indeed. I’m afraid I was a little restless in the hour or two after I retired, and I came downstairs. There was certainly no note there then.”

  “It’s from Douglas Jennings,” Gabriel explained. “I suspect he did put it through the door very late; he’s a night owl at the best of times. I doubt if he even went home last night. Probably slept on someone’s sofa rather than face that house. And Agnes is still staying with the Whiteheads. . . He writes that he wants me to visit him at his office at eight o’clock, before anyone else arrives. Is that all right?”

  “You don’t need my permission,” said Fr Foley, but his normally jocular face had adopted a more serious expression than Gabriel was used to seeing. “Are you sure you want to go alone?”

  Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “Do you think I oughtn’t?”

  “No, of course not. I’m sorry, please ignore a mad old man. Douglas Jennings is a decent sort. I suppose this whole business has been rather distressing, that’s all. They say people are locking their doors at night. Never thought I’d see that here.”

  “It’s quite all right, Father,” said Gabriel, tearing up the letter and turning away to throw it in the bin. “He may know that I went to view the body with Dr Whitehead and want some information without risking anyone else overhearing. I can quite understand that.”

  “I daresay.”

  “Well, you know what it’s like. The silence after a disaster like this is almost the worst. No arrests, no leads, no certainty at all as to what actually happened, and the police homing in on the one person who is least likely to have anything to do with it.”

  Fr Foley gave him a wistful look. “Dom Gabriel, you’re a fool if you convince yourself that anyone is innocent in all this. Both of those Jennings children had reason enough to do away with her, and half the town would have cheered them on.”

  “That’s a dreadful thing to say!” Gabriel retorted. Fr Foley used a mockingly formal tone with him only when he was being deadly serious, and Gabriel felt a misdirected sense of betrayal. The old man ought to see things the same way as Gabriel, even if no one else did.

  “Don’t take it the wrong way,” Fr Foley protested, aware of how callous he had sounded. “You know how I feel about the taking of innocent life. But you know, it’s a very sad state of affairs when a woman dies under suspicious circumstances and not one person, not one offers Mass for her or even expresses regret at her passing. I can’t think of another occasion in the long, long years I have served this parish when a person was quite so hated that there was no one, even in his own family, who was sorry to see him go.”

  “There’s her sister,” suggested Gabriel desperately.

  “Possibly,” Fr Foley conceded, “but she has hardly rushed to the assistance of her niece and nephew, has she? I doubt you’ll see any sign of her, except perhaps at the trial. Assuming there ever is a trial.”

  The sight of the light shining from Douglas Jennings’ office window reassured Gabriel as he walked the last few yards through the soupy darkness towards Mr Pitman’s solicitors’ office. The fog was so bad that no one was out who could avoid it and those who were out did not acknowledge him, the need to concentrate on moving safely and slowly being stronger than courtesy. Any place that gave a little heat and light at this time of year felt safe and welcoming on such a miserable morning.

  Gabriel had to wait several minutes at the door whilst Douglas came down the stairs to let him in, and, when he did, Gabriel found the interior of Douglas’ office almost as impenetrably smoky as the outside. “Fumigating your conscience, are you?” coughed Gabriel. He could already feel his eyes stinging as he found his way to a chair. “How long have you been here?”

  “Since five, Father,” announced Douglas, sitting back in his seat. The smoke had begun to dissipate as soon as the door was opened, and Gabriel looked intently at the dispiriting sight before him: Douglas sat with his shoulders drooped and his head slumped forward, looking every bit like a convicted criminal awaiting the footsteps of the hangman. “All right, Father, as you can see, I have been here all night. I couldn’t face going home to an empty house, and when Dr Whitehead’s lovely wife offered me a bed for the night yesterday evening, I was too ashamed to accept. I couldn’t have her thinking I needed coddling as well.”

  “You should not have refused her kindness,” said Gabriel. “It might have done you good to be under the same roof as Agnes. You might have got yourself a halfway decent night’s sleep for a start. You look terrible.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Terrible” was putting it mildly. Douglas was a wreck, and he doubted anyone else would fail to notice. His clothes wore the crumpled look one might expect on the body of a man who has not changed or washed in well over twenty-four hours; he was not a swarthy man, but his face showed an obvious need for a shave; his eyes—always the clearest indicator of a man’s state—bore the ravages of sleep deprivation, smoking and far too much to drink. “You’d better tidy yourself up a little before anyone else arrives,” suggested Gabriel. “You’re in no fit state to see your clients.”

  “It’s quite all right, Father,” said Douglas dismissively. “It shan’t be the first time I have had to stay in the office overnight. I have a sponge bag in the cloakroom for just such an emergency.” He inhaled the acrid air without enthusiasm. “Now, I don’t have much time, and I need to talk to you.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m having Agnes committed to an asylum.”

  Gabriel took a moment to register what he had said, and his shocked response was so delayed that it caused Douglas to jump to his feet as though he expected a fight. “What? On what grounds? She’s no danger to anyone; she’s just very upset!”

  “Father, it’s for her own safety! Dr Whitehead telephoned me yesterday to say that the police had turned up again.”

  “I know. I saw Applegate there.”

  “The very same. He was so desperate to take Agnes in for questioning that when Dr Whitehead told them yesterday afternoon that she would
be out for the count for at least eight hours, they took him at his word. Applegate turned up with a constable at exactly nine o’clock at night.” Gabriel groaned; he could just imagine Applegate being as pedantic as that, all the more so if he felt aggrieved at having been sent on his way earlier by an officious member of the medical profession. “Fortunately, she was so bleary and it was so late that Dr Whitehead was able to persuade them that it was unfair to take her in then. Well, he was quite right, of course. She would have been in no fit state to be interviewed, and I would not have allowed her to speak with the police without the presence of a solicitor. Myself, if necessary.”

  “I see.” Gabriel shifted in his chair. “You know I can’t stop you, and I understand that you want to protect your sister, but it seems a rather drastic step to have her locked up.”

  “It’s all right, Father,” said Douglas defensively. “It’s not one of these ghastly Victorian asylums: it’s a perfectly nice private clinic not very far from here. Greenford’s. It has only recently opened. You know, that place that used to belong to the Malmesbury family.” Gabriel shook his head. It was yet another part of the local geography he had failed to notice. “It is a perfectly respectable place, lots of lovely gardens, and the rooms are clean and—and Dr Whitehead spoke very highly of the doctors. To be frank, he’s arranging everything.”

  “Was it his idea?” asked Gabriel quietly.

  “No, as a matter of fact. It was mine, but I knew he would be able to help with all his contacts. It won’t even be for very long. Just long enough for everything to blow over.” Gabriel could see Douglas out of the corner of his eye, struggling desperately with the temptation to pick up his cigarette case. “Dr Whitehead told me about what he saw at the mortuary,” he continued. “If he’s right, it may be that there was no crime at all. In which case, life may settle down quite soon.”

  “Couldn’t she stay on with the Whiteheads? They seem perfectly happy to have her.”

  Douglas sighed. “They are very decent people, but Dr Whitehead is a busy man, and his wife is busy running his surgery and looking after her own family. Even if it weren’t for the police breathing down her neck, Agnes needs someone who can keep a close eye on her. She may do something desperate.”

  Gabriel sat in silence, pondering what Douglas had said. It was certainly true that Agnes was in a dangerous state, distressed, frightened, requiring frequent sedation, and a well-run clinic would take care of her needs better than anyone else. However, he had a natural discomfort about establishments like that. He had seen so many young men after the first war committed to institutions simply because there was nowhere else for them to go and no one who really knew how to take care of these nervy, angry, depressed former soldiers. Gabriel knew that it was all too easy for a person to be admitted to one of these places for the convenience of others and never leave. He might become so accustomed to institutional life that he would be unable to cope after a while with the uncertainties and fluidity of the outside world, or he might simply be forgotten. Relatives could live their lives in peace and comfort themselves with the thought that their loved one was well cared for, ignoring the nagging feeling that they had got a problem off their hands by telling themselves over and over that it was the best possible solution.

  “I will not lie to you and say I entirely agree with this,” said Gabriel at last, “but you have clearly made your decision, and I trust Dr Whitehead’s judgement that he will not allow her to fester there unnecessarily. What was the real reason you called me this morning?”

  Douglas threw open his hands in mock surprise. “I wanted to discuss my sister’s welfare, Father. Is there anything wrong with that?”

  “No, there isn’t. But there was never anything to discuss. You have already made plans, and you simply wanted my support—which I cannot honestly give. What was the real reason you called for me this morning?”

  Douglas leant back in his chair, raising his eyes to heaven. The repeated question at least had the effect of waking him up a little. “Very well, Father. I wanted to see you because Dr Whitehead told me that he had given you a list of my mother’s personal effects. I wondered if I might look at it or if you could remember what was listed there.”

  Gabriel smiled and held up the folded paper. “As a matter of fact, I was rather hoping to ask you about this myself. What is your reason for wanting the list?”

  Douglas shook his head a little too readily. “It wasn’t morbid curiosity, if that is what you think. It’s just that she always carried a penknife on her. It was my father’s. It was found in his pocket after he died, and she treated it almost like a relic. If they recovered it, I should like to have it if at all possible, once the case is closed . . .” he trailed off. “Look here, it may seem a petty detail under the circumstances, but I have very few mementoes of my father. My mother destroyed virtually everything after he died.”

  “Why would she do that?” asked Gabriel automatically, but his mind was preoccupied by a more pressing question.

  “She wasn’t thinking; it happens. I had rescued quite a few bits and pieces she had wanted to throw away. I kept them under my bed mostly, but one day she found them and became very angry. I always thought she felt jealous of how important to me he had been. She smashed absolutely everything, tore up photographs. I think she regretted it afterwards, which is why she hung on to the penknife so religiously. She could not put all those things back together again.”

  Gabriel dropped the list onto the desk between them like a token of goodwill. “It seems to me, Douglas, that on the rare occasions your mother lost control of herself, she was exceptionally dangerous.”

  “Terrifying, Father.”

  “Dangerous enough perhaps to cause another person to fear for his safety.”

  Douglas narrowed his eyes, sensing that he was being taken down a path he did not wish to walk. “You may surmise that much from what happened to Agnes. Yes. I could imagine being frightened enough of her to lash out, if that is what you mean.” Douglas snatched up the list and opened it quickly.

  “I’m very sorry, Douglas,” said Gabriel gently, noting his deepening frown, “but I’m afraid there is no penknife listed there. Are you absolutely sure she left with it?”

  Douglas nodded, visibly deflated. “She would not have left without it, and I would have found it in the house by now if she had. I daresay it must have fallen out somewhere. It was heavier than the other things she carried.”

  Gabriel glanced at Douglas, who really did look like a despondent little boy who had lost some imagined treasure. “I’m so sorry to ask this of you, Douglas,” he said warily, “but there was something I wanted to ask you quite urgently. It’s about Agnes. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it might help her.”

  Douglas shook his head, pushing away the paper as though it had personally let him down. “No need to apologise. What is it?”

  “Could you cast your mind back, please, to the day Agnes went missing.”

  Douglas gave a groan of exasperation. “Oh Father, it was years ago! Why do you keep going back to that? Agnes turned up safe and sound. It’s all very mysterious, but she wasn’t hurt, by whatever happened anyway. My mother contributed that part of it.”

  “Are you sure she wasn’t hurt?” Gabriel pressed him. “Was she very dirty, for example?”

  Douglas shook his head absently. “No, not that I recall. I would have remembered. Dishevelled yes, and I dare say she’d been cleaner, but I don’t remember that she was dirty. Why?”

  “Only a theory you’ve exploded, that’s all,” Gabriel smiled, “but it’s best to rule out all possibilities. Besides being dishevelled, though, are you sure she didn’t have any injuries? You know, grazes, for example? Anything that might suggest a fall?”

  Douglas threw him a withering look. “If she had, my mother destroyed all the evidence fairly quickly. You’ve no idea what a child looks like when she’s been attacked like that; she looked as though she’d been flayed alive. If she’d hurt he
rself before . . .”

  “Yes?” Gabriel knew that Douglas was weighing up an idea in his mind, without quite knowing whether to share it. “It’s all right, say it even if it doesn’t appear to make any sense.”

  “It’s not that, Father, it was just rather a small thing really,” Douglas explained. “Well, if I remember rightly, when Dr Whitehead was cleaning her up, he pointed to some bruises on her arms. I remember him asking where they’d come from and thinking it was such a stupid question. She’d just been beaten to within an inch of her life. Where else could she have got them? I think I said so. ‘Same place as everything else, Doctor,’ or something regrettable like that.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “I think he said, ‘I very much doubt it’ or something. After that, the conversation took a different turn, and that was the end of it.”

  Gabriel was suddenly animated, which had the effect of unnerving Douglas. He actually backed away a couple of steps. “It’s all right, Douglas, but this is important. The bruises, you said they were on her arms. Could you demonstrate?”

  “Well . . .” Douglas splayed the fingers of one hand and pressed them across the opposite arm, just above the elbow. “About here, I suppose.”

  “Both sides?”

  “I don’t know, she was lying down, I couldn’t see her other arm from where I was standing.” Douglas looked searchingly Gabriel. “If the bruises were already there, my mother didn’t put them there. It would have been too soon. You knew there was something there, didn’t you? That’s the sort of trick a barrister would play, only asking the question when he knows the answer.”

  “I wasn’t trying to trick you, Douglas, I promise,” Gabriel assured him, “but I did have a suspicion. And I’m sorry about that penknife. Who knows? It may still turn up.”