ground the day after Stella went missing, sir. The Friday, it was. It poured with rain all the previous night and it was raining hard when we were here. The whole of this area was a sea of mud. I don’t reckon you could have guessed the cistern slabs were there.”
“I think we’ll go and have a word with Mrs. Fenn.” She was a small fair woman, anxious to help, appalled at the discovery which had been made less than a quarter of a mile from her home.
“She was the most promising pupil I had,” she said in a quiet voice with an edge of horror to it. “I used to boast about her to my friends. Stella Rivers, I used to say - er Stella Swan, you never knew which was her right name - Stella Rivers will be a first-class show jumper one day. She won’t, will she? God, it’s so awful. I’ll never forgive myself for letting her go off on her own that day. I should have phoned Mr. Swan. I knew he was a bit absent-minded. That wasn’t the first time he’d let her down and forgotten to come.”
“You mustn’t blame yourself,” said Wexford. “Tell me, did you know those fountains had cisterns? If you knew, it means other local people would know.”
“Of course I knew.” Mrs. Fenn looked puzzled. “Oh you mean they get overgrown in summer?” Her brow cleared. “I often ride up there in dry weather and take my guests for walks or on picnics. I know I’ve pointed out the fountains to people because the statues are so pretty, aren’t they?” With a little tremor in her voice she said, “I shan’t feel like going there ever again?’ She shook her head with a kind of shudder. “After heavy rain the slabs might get covered, especially if a lot of earth got washed down from the side of the house.”
They were carrying the slab out to the waiting van now. It would go to the lab for extensive tests.
“If he left any prints,” said Wexford, “all the mud and water will have got rid of them. The weather was on his side, wasn’t it? What’s the matter? Had an idea?”
“I’m afraid not.” Burden contemplated the quiet lane and the surrounding meadows. He didn’t look back at the house but he felt its blind empty eyes on him. “I was wondering about Mrs. Lawrence’ he said. “I mean, ought I to go and . . .”
Wexford snapped off the sentence in his scissors voice. “Martin’s been. I sent him to Fontaine Road as soon as we heard what you’d found. It wouldn’t do for her to hear we’d found a body and not know whose.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“So you needn’t bother with her tonight. She won’t want coppers hanging around her place all the time. Let her have a bit of peace. Besides, she said she’d got a friend corning down from London.”
He needn’t bother with her tonight . . . Burden wondered who the friend was. Man or woman? Actress? Artist? Maybe someone who would listen avidly while Gemma told her about the kiss she had received from a sex-starved policeman. No, he needn’t go there again tonight or any other night come to that. The Stella Rivers case would take up all his time and it would be better that way. Far better, said Burden firmly to himself.
The national press had arrived in force on Sunday evening, and Wexford, most unwillingly, had held a conference. He didn’t like reporters, but they had their uses. On the whole, he supposed, the publicity they gave to pain and horror did more good than harm. Their stories would be inaccurate, with most of the names spelt wrong - a national daily had once repeatedly referred to him as Police Chief Waterford - but the public would be alerted, someone might come up with something helpful. Certainly there would be hundreds of phone calls and, no doubt, more anonymous letters of the kind that this morning had sent Martin, Gates and Loring to keep a date in Cheriton Forest.
Wexford had left home before his morning paper arrived, and now, at nine, he entered
“I think we’ll go and have a word with Mrs. Fenn.” She was a small fair woman, anxious to help, appalled at the discovery which had been made less than a quarter of a mile from her home.
“She was the most promising pupil I had,” she said in a quiet voice with an edge of horror to it. “I used to boast about her to my friends. Stella Rivers, I used to say - er Stella Swan, you never knew which was her right name - Stella Rivers will be a first-class show jumper one day. She won’t, will she? God, it’s so awful. I’ll never forgive myself for letting her go off on her own that day. I should have phoned Mr. Swan. I knew he was a bit absent-minded. That wasn’t the first time he’d let her down and forgotten to come.”
“You mustn’t blame yourself,” said Wexford. “Tell me, did you know those fountains had cisterns? If you knew, it means other local people would know.”
“Of course I knew.” Mrs. Fenn looked puzzled. “Oh you mean they get overgrown in summer?” Her brow cleared. “I often ride up there in dry weather and take my guests for walks or on picnics. I know I’ve pointed out the fountains to people because the statues are so pretty, aren’t they?” With a little tremor in her voice she said, “I shan’t feel like going there ever again?’ She shook her head with a kind of shudder. “After heavy rain the slabs might get covered, especially if a lot of earth got washed down from the side of the house.”
They were carrying the slab out to the waiting van now. It would go to the lab for extensive tests.
“If he left any prints,” said Wexford, “all the mud and water will have got rid of them. The weather was on his side, wasn’t it? What’s the matter? Had an idea?”
“I’m afraid not.” Burden contemplated the quiet lane and the surrounding meadows. He didn’t look back at the house but he felt its blind empty eyes on him. “I was wondering about Mrs. Lawrence’ he said. “I mean, ought I to go and . . .”
Wexford snapped off the sentence in his scissors voice. “Martin’s been. I sent him to Fontaine Road as soon as we heard what you’d found. It wouldn’t do for her to hear we’d found a body and not know whose.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“So you needn’t bother with her tonight. She won’t want coppers hanging around her place all the time. Let her have a bit of peace. Besides, she said she’d got a friend corning down from London.”
He needn’t bother with her tonight . . . Burden wondered who the friend was. Man or woman? Actress? Artist? Maybe someone who would listen avidly while Gemma told her about the kiss she had received from a sex-starved policeman. No, he needn’t go there again tonight or any other night come to that. The Stella Rivers case would take up all his time and it would be better that way. Far better, said Burden firmly to himself.
The national press had arrived in force on Sunday evening, and Wexford, most unwillingly, had held a conference. He didn’t like reporters, but they had their uses. On the whole, he supposed, the publicity they gave to pain and horror did more good than harm. Their stories would be inaccurate, with most of the names spelt wrong - a national daily had once repeatedly referred to him as Police Chief Waterford - but the public would be alerted, someone might come up with something helpful. Certainly there would be hundreds of phone calls and, no doubt, more anonymous letters of the kind that this morning had sent Martin, Gates and Loring to keep a date in Cheriton Forest.
Wexford had left home before his morning paper arrived, and now, at nine, he entered
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