Fruiting Bodies Page 10

  ‘Not the jealous sort, you mean?’

  ‘No. And there’s no need to look like that, Willow.’

  Willow had not realised that her expression had changed or shown any of her instant suspicion.

  ‘I know you and the way your mind works,’ said Serena grimly. ‘I also happen to know that George Roguely was out of the country on the night Ringstead died. He’s a decent man as well as sophisticated.’

  ‘How do you know? Not that I’m doubting you. I’m just curious.’

  ‘So I see. As it happens, I’d invited the Roguelys to dinner last Saturday and they declined because he had to be abroad.’

  ‘Oh, so they do still go out together?’

  ‘Good Lord, yes. They’re very fond of each other. It’s just that he’s often busy. She’s susceptible to charming, witty, lonely, high-achieving, sexy men and when her own one is otherwise occupied she finds a substitute.’

  ‘Sounds like a marriage made in heaven,’ said Willow, lying. She realised that she could not be at all emotionally sophisticated in Serena’s terms and asked herself whether anyone, if he or she were honest, could really not be hurt by such a betrayal. ‘Do they have children?’

  ‘No. I’m not sure why not. Perhaps they couldn’t.’

  ‘Then d’you think Ringstead’s work could have been part of his charm for her?’

  ‘I think that’s a bit far-fetched. After all, he wasn’t short of more obvious sorts of charm.’ Serena looked at her watch and said that she had to go and work on her brief for the following day’s case.

  ‘Before you go,’ said Willow, ‘where do they live, the Roguelys?’

  ‘Kensington. One of those big white houses near the park. Why?’

  ‘Oh, I was just curious.’

  ‘He was in the States,’ said Serena firmly, ‘so it couldn’t have been he who drowned Ringstead; and poor Mary-Jane adored him and so it couldn’t possibly have been her either, even if she hasn’t got an alibi. Don’t go getting fantastic ideas about either of them. They’re good people.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. But do you happen to have any idea where she was that night?’

  ‘I’d never realised that you, of all people, could look winsome. It’s vile.’

  ‘Sorry, Serena. Well?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Pity.’ Willow tried not to look either threatening or winsome. Winsome, she said to herself in disgust. Clearly maternity really was doing dreadful things to her old standards of self-control.

  ‘I’d better be on my way.’ Serena handed the shawl-wrapped baby back to her mother. ‘Good to see you and the tadpole. I hope you’ll feel better soon. I’m sure you will.’

  ‘What?’ Willow’s eyes focused properly and she shook her head slightly, smiling at Serena. ‘Thank you, and thank you for the lovely flowers. It was angelic of you.’

  ‘Pure pleasure. And George Roguely is a thoroughly good chap. Don’t forget that.’

  ‘No, I won’t,’ Willow promised in farewell.

  She was searching the ward for the telephone trolley ten minutes later when she looked back and saw Mrs Rusham standing at the foot of her bed, patiently waiting for her. There was yet another insulated picnic box at Mrs Rusham’s feet and a tightly wrapped bunch of red carnations in her hand. Willow waved from the far end of the ward and walked back as quickly as her mending body would allow.

  ‘Lucinda is looking well,’ said Mrs Rusham.

  ‘Isn’t she? She has lost a bit of weight, but the midwife tells me it’s normal.’

  ‘She’ll regain it within a few days,’ said Mrs Rusham, sounding even more confident than the nurses. ‘All babies lose some in their first week.’ Remembering Mrs Rusham’s experience and unassailable competence, Willow began to feel a little less nervous about the idea of taking Lucinda home.

  ‘Come and sit down and have something from one of your wonderful picnics. They really have kept me going. I don’t know what I’d have done without them.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ said Mrs Rusham gruffly.

  ‘And Rob Fydgett has made great inroads whenever he comes. He says he’s always hungry.’

  ‘He’s a good boy. I hope he’s not working too hard.’ Mrs Rusham’s harsh face looked more cheerful, as it always did when she spoke about Rob.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Willow. ‘Whenever I worry that he’s here too much, he reminds me that his exams aren’t for more than a year.’

  ‘Not much more than a year. And he was looking tired and worried when he came to the house yesterday.’

  ‘Was he?’ Willow felt guiltily that it was probably her mishandling of his attempt at illegal surveillance that had made him seem troubled.

  ‘Yes. But Mr Tom soon sorted him out. He looked much better as I left. They were going out to have a pizza together for supper.’

  ‘Oh, good,’ said Willow and then, to her complete surprise, she told Mrs Rusham everything that had happened between her and Rob, what Tom had thought about it, and how bad she herself felt for having involved the boy. She also told her everything that she had discovered about the death of Alexander Ringstead.

  Mrs Rusham listened in silence until Willow had finished and then she said: ‘Robert didn’t come to any harm, and, from what you say, it sounds as though he couldn’t have heard anything germane even if he had used this scanning machine. I don’t think you should start worrying about him. As far as I can see, you’ve done him nothing but good ever since he first came to the house.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Rusham,’ said Willow, feeling yet more unsheddable tears rising in her eyes. It’s only the fluctuating hormones whizzing about in me, she said to herself and tried hard to believe it.

  ‘In any case, it does sound as though someone ought to find out whether your obstetrician’s suspicions of the ambulance-drivers were justified,’ said Mrs Rusham. ‘Do the police know about them?’

  ‘I imagine they must, but I don’t really know.’

  ‘Because they do sound the likeliest of the suspects you’ve described. They’re the only people who have been doing anything criminal at all. What does Mr Tom say?’

  ‘“Leave it to the police”.’

  ‘Well, there you are.’ Mrs Rusham brushed some invisible crumbs from her skirt and stood up. ‘He’ll have dealt with it. After all, he’ll know what’s best to do in this situation.’

  ‘Mrs Rusham, you’re not going to go sexist on me at this late stage, are you?’ said Willow, sounding shaken.

  ‘Certainly not. But as a senior member of the Metropolitan Police Force, he can do far more than you to find out about these ambulance-drivers. And someone should do it quickly. It’s outrageous that people being brought into hospital should have to fear burglary as well as ill health.’

  ‘You’re so sensible,’ said Willow, smiling up at her. ‘You do me good.’

  Mrs Rusham reddened and started to pull the previous day’s picnic box out from under Willow’s bed.

  ‘I expect by the next time I see you, you’ll have settled the whole nasty business,’ she said as she straightened up. ‘You’ve done it often enough before, after all.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, but they’re sending me home tomorrow and I probably won’t have found out anything before then.’

  ‘I’ll make sure the house is ready for you and Lucinda then,’ said Mrs Rusham before she left.

  It was not until the following morning that Willow managed to get hold of one of the telephone trolleys. Then, having pulled her curtains for privacy, she put in some money and dialled the number given for Mary-Jane Roguely in the fundraising brochure. She thought that the least she could do to justify Mrs Rusham’s faith in her was to remove a few of the unlikeliest suspects from her list. To her annoyance she was answered by a machine that said: ‘This is the Friends of Dowting’s Hospital. Please state your name, address and telephone number, the event you wish to attend, and the number of tickets you require. We will get back to you as soon as possible.’
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  Directory Enquiries were equally frustrating, telling her that the Roguelys’telephone number was unlisted. Later Willow asked for the number of Thoms and Timpson, which she was given with no trouble at all. She dialled it and asked to speak to George Roguely himself.

  ‘I’ll put you through,’ said the telephonist, but it was a woman’s voice that answered, an efficient but off-putting voice.

  ‘Sir George Roguely’s office. How may I help you?’

  ‘I wondered if I could speak to him,’ said Willow calmly. ‘My name is King. Willow King.’

  ‘He’s extremely busy just at the moment, Mrs King. What is it in connection with?’

  ‘It’s a personal matter,’ said Willow, feeling all the usual irritation at being cross-examined by a secretary. She knew that all efficient assistants have to learn to protect their employers from time-wasting calls, but, even so, it infuriated her. The fact that the secretary had assumed that she was married and using her husband’s name did not annoy her nearly as much, even though she was mildly surprised not to be addressed with the much easier compromise of ‘Ms’.

  ‘I am his confidential personal assistant,’ said the woman, sounding quite as irritated as Willow felt. ‘If you will tell me what it is you want, then I’m sure that I shall be able to help you without bothering Sir George.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Willow, suppressing an inclination to slam down the receiver and swear, ‘but I really wanted to talk to him personally about the fundraising for Dowting’s Hospital.’

  ‘Sir George has nothing to do with that,’ said the secretary with a snap.

  ‘In that case perhaps you could give me a telephone number where I could reach Lady Roguely. I understand that she has a considerable amount to do with it.’

  The secretary smartly dictated the number that Willow recognised from the fundraising brochure.

  ‘Ah, but I actually wanted to speak directly to someone,’ said Willow. ‘That number is answered only by a machine, which is why I thought I had better speak to Sir George himself.’

  ‘I’m afraid that I cannot help you with that,’ said the secretary, sounding as though she were managing to hang on to her patience with great difficulty. ‘As I said, Sir George is a very busy man and he has no time to spare for his wife’s charities. Good bye.’ She cut the connection without waiting for Willow to say anything more.

  Her interest in the investigation gingered up by her frustration, Willow picked up the muddily photocopied list of fundraising activities that Mark Durdle had given her and looked for something she might be able to attend in the near future. The thought of evening activities was daunting; she knew that she would need to go to bed each night at almost the same time as Lucinda if she were to have any chance of retaining her sanity through the broken nights that lay in store.

  There was a bridge lunch in five days’ time. She thought she might be able to manage that, even if she did not last the whole afternoon. An early departure might be tiresome for the rest of her table, but Willow decided that all was fair in childbirth and detection.

  She dialled the number of the fundraising office and left a message ordering a single ticket for the bridge lunch, dictated details of her Access card to pay for it and then gave her home address.

  Chapter Eight

  Back in her own house on the fringes of Belgravia, Willow was surprised to feel more rather than less confident than she had in hospital. Lucinda did not cry any more than usual; she woke no more often during her first night at home; and she continued to feed without difficulty.

  ‘And,’ said Willow to Tom as they finished their second breakfast together at the small round table by the window in their sunny bedroom, ‘she hasn’t sprouted green whiskers or anything like that.’

  He laughed. ‘Look, I’m going to have to go in a minute. You will ring me if you need me, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course I will. But don’t worry. The health visitor will be coming in later today – and Mrs Rusham knows about babies, so even if green whiskers do appear I won’t have to face them on my own.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Tom cheerfully. ‘There is that. Take care of yourself. I’ll try and nip back for lunch to see how you are. And ring me if you need anything.’

  ‘We’ll be fine.’

  ‘Can I get you anything before I go?’

  ‘The newspapers?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He returned only a couple of minutes later with the three newspapers they regularly took and a couple of magazines.

  ‘That should keep you busy. Oh, I sent a notice about Lucinda to The Times. It should be in today. I just said: “To Willow King and Tom Worth, a daughter, Lucinda.” I hope that was all right.’

  Recognising how hard he was working to keep his normal patriarchal – and domineering – instincts in check, Willow put her hands on either side of his face and kissed him.

  ‘“Willow King”. Thank you, Tom. But you know, I wouldn’t have minded being Mrs Worth for that announcement …’ She was about to add ‘and we could have discussed it,’ but she did not want to spoil their peace.

  ‘No,’ he agreed and kissed her vigorously. ‘At least, I didn’t think you would, but it seemed important just at this juncture for you to be the independent kind of you. At one moment I even thought of calling you Cressida Woodruffe, but then I decided it would just be muddling and might upset fans, who’d wonder what their favourite novelist is doing with some bloke called Worth.’

  ‘I think you were probably right about that. People get confused enough as it is about who I am and which combination of names is the real one. Thank you, Tom.’

  She did not think that there had been anything in her voice but gratitude, but after a moment Tom said: ‘Yes, I see that I should have told you what I was thinking of doing.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Willow sincerely. ‘We chose her name together; the rest is just admin. I hadn’t meant to sound however I did sound.’

  Tom’s face lightened. ‘Slightly detached. It’s always a sign that I’ve said something you don’t like. Sometimes I can’t work out what it was at all; this time it was pretty obvious once I’d started to think. I’m sorry, Will.’

  She kissed him again, hoping that she put as much effort into decoding his moods as he had just done for her.

  ‘You’d better be off or you’ll be late,’ she said and watched him go, with her trust in her feelings for him surfacing like a dependably solid rock in the receding ocean of doubts that had been threatening to drown her since Lucinda’s birth.

  It was an enormous pleasure to fill the big bath and wallow in her own hot water for as long as she liked without worrying about anyone else wanting to use the bathroom. Lucinda’s routine, too, was more satisfying than it had ever been in hospital.

  Willow had had a nursery made out of what had once been the spare bedroom and she was glad to discover that everything she needed was to hand and that the room seemed to suit the character that she sometimes thought Lucinda was beginning to reveal.

  The walls were simply painted in a soft, powdery, darkish blue. The woodwork was white; the cot and curtains, a sunny yellow. A thick Spanish rug woven in blue, white and yellow softened the practical linoleum floor. Rob’s mobile hung over the cot and another, which Willow had bought before Lucinda’s birth, hung over the changing-table.

  There was a big built-in basin to the left of the table, and on the other side were white-painted shelves with carefully chosen toys awaiting the moment when Lucinda was ready for them. An antique nursing-chair stood under the window, with a new loose cover of thick white cotton damask over its original upholstery. On the blue wall hung a painting of the sea. Willow knew that Lucinda would not be able to appreciate it for years to come, but she herself loved it for its peace and colour.

  When the baby was washed, dried, powdered, changed and dressed in a fresh nightgown, Willow took her back into her own bed, which Mrs Rusham had already made up with clean linen s
heets. Lucinda seemed quite happy to lie on her back, chewing wetly at her left thumb while Willow browsed through the newspapers. She and Tom took the Independent and The Times, and also the Daily Mercury because one of their friends, Jane Cleverholme, was its features editor.

  Skimming through the news until she reached the pages for which Jane had responsibility, Willow paused at the gossip column and was intrigued to see a photograph of Mary-Jane Roguely in a glamorous long dress. She was standing beside a distinguished-looking man in white tie with some order or other suspended from a ribbon around his neck. The caption identified him as the Italian ambassador, the guest of honour at a gala performance of Tosca in aid of the Friends of Dowting’s Hospital.

  Lady Roguely looked, Willow thought, as though she might be in her late thirties, although it was hard to be certain. She could have been as young as twenty-seven or, with a rigorous fitness programme and a careful diet, as much as fifty. Her hair was blondish and plainly styled around an amused-looking, attractive face. Her dark dress was low cut, and with it she wore a magnificent triple-strand pearl choker with a diamond clasp in the front.

  Staring at the photograph, Willow wished that she had asked Serena how long the Roguelys had been married. It would be useful to know whether they had grown up together or whether Mary-Jane was the kind of trophy-wife her clothes and looks suggested. If so, Roguely might genuinely not have minded what she did, provided she fulfilled her side of the bargain with glamour, visible sex-appeal, and good publicity.

  Willow thought she could see exactly why a man like Alexander Ringstead, working with tired and anxious pregnant women, might have been attracted to Mary-Jane Roguely. It was less clear what she could have wanted from him. Remembering Serena’s description of Mary-Jane’s feelings for him, Willow thought they did not fit with the photograph, in which she looked dauntlessly cheerful.

  Willow longed to ring up Jane Cleverholme and ask directly for everything she knew about both the Roguelys and Mr Ringstead, but Jane had been showing signs of resistance to being used as a private database, and Willow thought she would have to be a little more subtle than usual. It was possible that Jane might come to visit her, in which case all the questions could be slipped into an ordinary conversation quite discreetly.