A Deadly Marriage Page 5

  “Right, sir.”

  McWatt left the room. Cathart looked at his watch. If he were to get home in reasonable time, he must leave now. The promotion forms weren’t completed, but they could wait. There was nothing more to be done in the Cabbot case for the moment. All outstanding crime was being dealt with, and the divisional superintendent had gone home earlier on so he wouldn’t be shouting for something in a hurry.

  Cathart stood up and yawned. The Cabbot case looked promising. It wasn’t every day of the week that someone claimed to have been telephoned by a total stranger with a request for a meeting on a very important and confidential matter, that the stranger was said to have turned up and explained it was all a mistake, had had a cocktail snack and a drink, and had then died a little later in extreme agony.

  Catalina Plesence lay in bed and said “Rabbits”. On the last day of each month the last word she said aloud was “Hares” and on the first day of each month the first word she said aloud was “Rabbits”. It was supposed to ensure good luck for the coming month. Sometimes it didn’t work. It hadn’t worked last month.

  She began to sob. Life had been cruel to her, incredibly cruel. She had been singled out for all the unhappiness in the world. David had abandoned her. In her mind, she saw David with the Brakes woman, caressing her overblown breasts. Patricia Brakes was a smug hypocrite, acting in front of others as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth and then when alone with David becoming nothing more than a whore. David was a fool. He was also a swine. He’d ruined the marriage. Worse than that, if he hadn’t misled her during the voyage, lied to her by remaining silent, she’d never have married him. He’d had a cabin on the promenade deck which meant he’d paid plenty for it, he’d splashed his money around and she’d naturally believed him to be rich. That was a lie. The shock of finding he was not rich and wouldn’t even spend the little money he had had been a terrible shock. Then he’d been so brutally stubborn. If he’d sold his stupid little business he would at least have been able to give her a part of the life she needed. But he was a miser.

  She turned over and stared at the far wall. He was with that bitch of a woman now, but he’d pay for his stupidity. He’d pay for it. Her solicitor had said that alimony would be heavy. When the court gave her the judicial separation, she’d laugh in David’s face, knowing how desperately he wanted a divorce. That was going to be a moment to treasure. He’d offered her a thousand pounds, then three thousand, if she’d divorce him. Did he really think he could buy her for so paltry a sum? Revenge was going to be very, very sweet. It would teach him to shuffle after a milk-and-water Englishwoman. Patricia Brakes wasn’t pretty. She looked like a potato picker. Her breasts were huge, pendulous. Her bottom was like all Englishwomen’s bottoms, enormous, an ugly steatopygia. Her only reasonable feature was her teeth and in an effort to show them off she was always smiling. She’d be useless in bed. All Englishwomen were useless in bed, everyone knew that. So what had captured him? How could he have preferred a woman like that? Catalina wept a few more tears.

  Sunlight, coming through a chink in the curtains, began to cut across the end of the bed. She looked at the time. It was just after ten and soon she ought, perhaps, to start thinking about getting up. The flat was a nice one, if not luxurious. It overlooked the river and was far enough away from any of the main roads to escape the worst of the traffic. Thank God she was living in a town once more, even if it was Borisham, deadly, provincial, where the most exciting thing that happened was the weekly Bingo session. The flat cost a fair bit of money and David would have to pay the bill. That was perfect. He must have money tucked away somewhere and this would force it out of him. He was a fool: worse, a dull fool. He lived out in the country, content to suffer the company of cows. How many times had she begged him to take her away to somewhere where there was life, but he was always full of excuses? He was a bucolic rustic, fit only for the company of cows. He’d got himself a cow now, all right, and although the cow wasn’t good for anything else, she’d make a good milker.

  Catalina thought about what she’d do once the courts had given her all the money they were going to. Should she return to Chile where the sun shone, the wine was cheap and good, and the country clubs catered for the right kind of people? Or America, where money could buy you anything? Egypt, where the sun was hot and the educated men still liked the company of a decent white woman? Monaco, that had become too popular by far, but still retained a little of its old exclusiveness?...The world would be her oyster. She was still attractive and she’d have no difficulty in meeting a man who’d been brought up to know how to treat a woman. She’d always met the right kind of person in the past, so she’d do it again. She was a little more mature now, but maturity had its own appeal. Whatever happened, at the first opportunity she’d leave the cold shores of England, a country where men preferred cows to women.

  She got out of bed and crossed to the wall mirror. She stared at her reflection. She didn’t begin to look her age, even without her make-up. She had the kind of body that the poets wrote about. Her breasts were shapely pomegranates, not elongated marrows. She pulled off her nightdress. There they were, half moons of delight — not wobbling blancmanges.

  She dressed. She would go to Paris and get some decent clothes from Dior, Cardin, or even Courreges. Life would be wonderful. Frenchmen knew how to treat a woman and one of the happiest times in her life had been with a hat maker from Lyons.

  David had done everything in his power to humiliate her. No woman had ever suffered as much as she had and she’d been a saint to put up with it for as long as she had.

  She went through to the kitchen and on the way she picked up the morning newspaper that had been pushed through the letter-box.

  She took a tin of orange juice from the refrigerator and poured herself out a glassful, put two slices from a cut loaf in the toaster, and then laid the newspaper on the draining-board. She read the strips and the gossip column. The toast popped up. She buttered two pieces, carried them and the paper over to the table, sat down, and began to eat.

  She turned back to the front page and saw there was a sterling crisis. There was always a sterling crisis. Bored, she looked down the other columns and very soon saw the small paragraph which described the sudden death of a man called Cabbot.

  She whimpered, a strange, animal-like sound. For a second she thought she was going to faint.

  CHAPTER V

  Satisfied he had done all that for the moment could be done, Detective Sergeant McWatt left the small jewellers in north Borisham, broken into during the night, and drove in the C.I.D. Austin out to Frogsfeet Hall. He parked in the drive and climbed out. The house looked all right, but given the choice he’d always go for a really modern split-level bungalow. Antiquity bored him. He knocked on the front door and a middle-aged woman let him into the house and showed him into a sitting-room that had some old furniture and carpets in it, and a four piece suite in leather that really did catch the eye. His wife would have liked something like that.

  David came into the room. “’Morning. You’re just in time before I go off to work.”

  “Shan’t keep you very long, sir. I’ve really come for a word with your wife.”

  “With...with my wife?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m sorry, but you can’t.”

  “Is there any particular reason why not?”

  “She’s not here.”

  “When will she be back?”

  David spoke tightly. “She won’t. We’re living apart.”

  “I see. Then perhaps you’ll give me her new address?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know it.”

  “Could you suggest someone who might? Her solicitors?”

  “I suppose they must know it. Padlow and Co.”

  “Thanks very much, Mr. Plesence.”

  McWatt left and returned to his car. He drove back into Borisham and managed to park at the end of Rotten Road, an exceedingly apt name said the town’s c
ynics since a number of solicitors and estate agents had their offices in this road.

  Padlow and Company was a small family firm with three partners, a managing clerk, and several typists. McWatt spoke to John Padlow, the son of the senior partner.

  “You want Mrs. Plesence’s address?” said Padlow. “In connection with what?”

  “We’re investigating the death of a man who visited the Plesences’ house and we’d like a word with her, sir. I’ve just seen her husband, but he says he doesn’t know what her address is.”

  Padlow looked quickly at McWatt. “No, he wouldn’t.”

  “Obviously, they’re not the happiest married couple in the country?”

  Padlow fiddled with a pencil. “I’m in a bit of a quandary as to how much help I should offer you at this stage — not that there’s much I can tell you in any case. What’s the cause of the man’s death — accident, suicide?”

  “We’re trying to find out.”

  Padlow quickly made up his mind. “She’s living at Flat One, Riverfront Place. You’ll know it — down by the river and just beyond the green.”

  “Yeah, I know it. Flat One?” McWatt wrote the address down in his notebook. “I presume they’re separated for a coming divorce?”

  “It’s a case of judicial separation. He wants a divorce.”

  “And she won’t give it to him?”

  “No. Have you met her?”

  “Never.”

  “She’s Chilean, of Scottish extraction, rather highly strung, and inclined to be vindictive. A divorce would clearly be by far the best thing, but she won’t have it however much I try to persuade her. I hate seeing people battle with each other even after the marriage has completely blown up.”

  McWatt was uninterested in other people’s worries. “Another woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “D’you know her name, sir?”

  “Mrs. Patricia Brakes.”

  “And her address?”

  “Marshboume Farm, Thornton Lees.”

  McWatt wrote quickly. He looked up. “Thanks a lot, Mr. Padlow. You may have been very helpful, one way and another.”

  “I read about the man, Cabbot, in the paper and saw you’re asking for any information about him. Have you learned anything?”

  “Nothing worth anything.”

  “It sounds as if he died very quickly?”

  “He did, but the pathologist said it’s unlikely he found it very quick.” McWatt stood up. “Good-bye, sir. Be seeing you in court, no doubt.”

  Padlow smiled. “I’ll try to remember not to be too rude the next time I cross-examine you.”

  McWatt left the office and walked back down the road to his car. He sat down and lit a cigarette. The signs were beginning to show: a sudden death, probably from poisoning, a husband who wanted a divorce but was being baulked, a cast-off wife who did the baulking, another woman. The only thing that didn’t fit into the rapidly forming picture was Cabbot. He’d appeared out of the blue and died, when obviously one would have expected the wife to die.

  The desk sergeant in Borisham central police station leaned his elbows on the counter and his chin on the palms of his hands. He had been on a mild pub crawl the previous night with his brother-in-law and quite unexpectedly he was now suffering a hangover. This was not only painful, it was also galling. Previously, a full night out with the rugger crowd had had no effect on him the following day. He must be getting old.

  “Pardon me, officer.”

  He started, looked up, and was surprised to see a woman on the other side of the counter. She was tall, rather angular, with a tight face, thin lips, and a very severe hair style. Her eyes were red and it was obvious she had been crying recently.

  “Yes, Madam?”

  “I’d like to speak to someone.”

  Her accent was American, so broad at times that he had some difficulty in understanding what she was saying. “Would you tell me what about?”

  “I’m Mrs. Cabbot.”

  She said that as if it should immediately mean something. He tried to force his muddled brain to work properly and quite suddenly the facts clicked into line.

  She licked her lips. “I...I read the papers.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said formally.

  “Are you quite sure it’s George?”

  “Would you be kind enough to wait one moment? Sit down over there, Mis. Cabbot.”

  She crossed to the benches against the far wall and sat down. The sergeant telephoned C.I.D. and spoke to Cathart, who said he would come right down.

  Cathart introduced himself to Mrs. Cabbot, checked with the desk sergeant that one of the interview rooms was empty, and escorted Mrs. Cabbot into the nearer one. Shortly afterwards, a woman P.C. joined them.

  “You are married to George Cabbot?” said Cathart, in a quiet, friendly voice. Although of a hard and driving nature, he had the ability of being able genuinely to sympathise with grief.

  She was about to speak, but could not. Tears rolled down her cheeks and grief made her normally stem face look ugly. “Was it George who...who died, like the papers said? Are you sure? I was waiting and waiting and he never called. Then this morning I read the paper and...and it said a man called Cabbot had died.”

  “We only know his name was Cabbot. Do you have a photo of him with you?”

  “I...I guess so.” She opened her handbag, took out a photograph, stared at it, looked across the table at the D.I., looked back at the photograph and shivered. “It’s our wedding day. It was so cold and something was wrong with the heating in the church.” Suddenly, and with such force that she almost threw the photograph across, she passed it over. She gripped her lower lip between her teeth. She looked away from the detective, unable to watch him.

  Cathart studied the photograph. A man and woman, she was holding a large posy of flowers, were standing together at the back of a church. On the extreme right was another woman, looking bitter and angry. The bride was the woman now in front of him and the man was the dead Cabbot.

  “Is it?” Her voice rose. “Is it?”

  “I’m afraid so,” he answered.

  “I...It can’t.” She began to cry, with a series of convulsive sobs that shook her body. She made no attempt to hide her grief.

  Cathart looked across at the woman P.C. “Call the doctor.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She left the room. “Mrs. Cabbot,” he said gently, “could friends come and pick you up? Or have you anywhere in this town you could go and rest awhile?”

  She did not answer. She lowered her head, opened her handbag with fumbling hands, and brought out a handkerchief. She wiped her eyes.

  “Have you friends who’d help you or else somewhere to go?”

  She shook her head. “We’ve been staying in a hotel,” she murmured, in a voice that shook.

  “And no friends nearby?”

  “No.”

  “Could you take a room at a hotel? Have you enough money?”

  She nodded.

  The woman P.C. returned to the interview room. “Doctor Yorker is on his way.”

  “Good. Mrs. Cabbot had better go and lie down somewhere until the doctor comes. D’you know anything about the hotels in this place and whether they’re likely to be booked up?”

  “The Majestic won’t be full, sir.”

  “We’d best try something a little less classy, I reckon.” He stood up. “I’ll see what I can fix.” He went out of the room and into the corridor. He was a man of considerable imagination and every time he came face to face with grief like this he could not suppress the icy question of what he would feel if it ever happened to him, if someone spoke as kindly as possible to him and said that Jean had had an accident or that one of the kids had been run over.

  He went down the corridor, past the door to the cells, and into the information room. He spoke to the desk sergeant. “Telephone hotels and find one with a room, not too expensive. Tell ’em we’ve a woman here who’s met very bad news and needs c
omplete rest, but make certain they don’t think she’s ill or they’ll refuse to have her in.”

  “Right, sir.”

  Cathart’s mind switched tracks. He wondered how long it would be before Mrs. Cabbot could begin to answer the questions?

  Friday, June the 2nd., was a warm day with little cloud in the sky and a forecast that promised a fine week-end. Traffic was already heavy by nine o’clock and the jams began to increase in number and severity.

  Away from the mounting road chaos, the close heat, the noise, and the fumes, Frogsfeet Hall stood in bright sunshine, one wall dappled with the shadow of tall chestnut trees said to have been planted to mark the silver jubilee of Queen Victoria’s accession to the throne. The clock in the clockhouse struck the hour. From over on the right came the repeated bellows of a cow that was bulling.

  David, eating breakfast, heard a car come up the drive. He looked through the window and saw the red post office van. The van stopped and the postman in summer uniform climbed out and walked round to the back door. David left the breakfast-room and went through the kitchen to the back door.

  “’Morning, sir,” said the postman, who seemed to remain cheerful, no matter what. “Three ordinary and one registered to-day. Real good weather, isn’t it?”

  “Wonderful. Thanks.” David took the letters and the small registered slip, signed this latter and handed it back.

  He returned to the breakfast-room and poured himself out another cup of coffee. Two of the envelopes obviously contained bills and the third letter was from an old aunt who was half dotty in a pleasant way. He opened the registered letter and brought out a double sheet of foolscap paper, folded in four. On the face was typed, “The High

  Court of Justice, Probate, Divorce and Admiralty Division.” Farther down, he saw Plesence v Plesence. There were also some numbers and the address of the solicitors. There were other papers still in the envelope and he looked through these: they were forms, some in duplicate, which he was called upon to sign and return.

  He added sugar to the coffee, drank, and lit a cigarette. Then, more in a state of idle curiosity than any other, he opened up the main foolscap sheet and began to read. Catalina Mary Magdalene Plesence was lawfully married to Reginald Plesence on such and such a date at such and such a place and after their marriage they lived and cohabitated at divers addresses and Frogsfeet Hall, there weren’t any children of the marriage, the petitioner now lived at Flat 1, Riverfront Place, there had not been any previous proceedings, the respondent had frequently committed adultery with Patricia Brakes in divers places, and the respondent owned a house, a factory, stocks, shares, etc., of a value unknown to the petitioner. The petitioner prayed the court would dissolve the marriage, grant her alimony pending suit, maintenance and a secured provision, condemn the respondent in costs, and such further and other relief as was just. The petition was signed by counsel.