فصل 73

73

HELEN

Helen had no idea why Erin Morgan was wandering about Patrick’s house as though she owned it, but for the moment she was more concerned with the blood on the floor. Patrick liked a clean house. She fetched a cloth from the kitchen and began to wipe it up, only for more to spill from the deep cut across her palm.

“I was chopping onions,” she said to the detective by way of an explanation. “You startled me.”

This wasn’t exactly true, because she’d stopped chopping onions when she’d seen the car pull up. With the knife in her hand she’d stood stock-still while Erin knocked, and then had watched her wander over to Patrick’s place. She knew that he was out, so she’d assumed the detective would just leave. But then she remembered that when she’d left that morning, she hadn’t locked the front door. So, knife still in hand, she walked across the courtyard to check.

“It’s quite deep,” Erin said. “You need to clean and bandage that properly.” Erin had come downstairs and was standing over Helen, watching her wipe the floor. Standing there in Patrick’s house as though she had every right to be there.

“He’ll be livid if he sees this,” Helen said. “He likes a clean house. Always has.”

“And you . . . keep house for him, do you?”

Helen gave Erin a sharp look. “I help out. He does most things himself, but he’s getting on. And he likes things to be just so. His late wife,” she said, looking up at Erin, “was a slattern. His word. An old-fashioned word. You’re not allowed to say slut any longer, are you? It’s politically incorrect.”

She stood up, facing Erin, holding the bloody cloth in front of her. The pain in her hand felt hot and bright, like a burn almost, with the same cauterizing effect. She was no longer sure who to be afraid of, or what exactly to feel guilty for, but she felt that she ought to keep Erin here, to find out what she wanted. To detain her for a while, hopefully until Patrick got back, because she was sure that he’d want to talk to her.

Helen wiped the knife handle with the cloth. “Would you like a cup of tea, Detective?” she asked.

“Lovely,” Erin replied, her cheery smile fading as she watched Helen lock the front door and slip the key into her pocket before continuing on into the kitchen.

“Mrs. Townsend—” Erin started.

“Do you take sugar?” Helen interrupted.

• • •

THE WAY TO DEAL with situations like this was to throw the other person off their game. Helen knew this from years of public-sector politics. Don’t do what people expect you to do, it puts them on the back foot right away, and if nothing else, it buys you time. So instead of being angry, outraged that this woman had come into their home without permission, Helen was polite.

“Have you found him?” she asked Erin as she handed her the mug of tea. “Mark Henderson? Has he turned up yet?”

“No,” Erin replied, “not yet.”

“His car left on the cliff and no sign of him anywhere.” She sighed. “A suicide can be an admission of guilt, can’t it? It’s certainly going to look that way. What a mess.” Erin nodded. She was nervous, Helen could tell, she kept glancing back at the door, fiddling around in her pocket. “It’ll be terrible for the school, for our reputation. The reputation of this entire place, tarnished again.”

“Is that why you disliked Nel Abbott so much?” Erin asked. “Because she tarnished the reputation of Beckford with her work?”

Helen frowned. “Well, it’s one of the reasons. She was a bad parent, as I told you; she was disrespectful to me and to the traditions and rules of the school.”

“Was she a slut?” Erin asked.

Helen laughed in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

“I was just wondering if, to use your politically incorrect term, you thought Nel Abbott was a slut? I’ve heard she had affairs with some of the men in town . . .”

“I don’t know anything about that,” Helen said, but her face was hot and she felt that she had lost the upper hand. She got to her feet, crossed over to the counter and retrieved her paring knife. Standing at the sink, she washed her blood from its blade.

“I don’t profess to know anything about Nel Abbott’s private life,” she said quietly. She could feel the detective’s eyes on her, watching her face, her hands. She could feel her blush spread to her neck, to her chest, her body betraying her. She tried to keep her voice light. “Though I’d hardly be surprised if she were promiscuous. She was an attention-seeker.”

She wanted this conversation to end. She wanted the detective to leave their home; she wanted Sean to be there, and Patrick. She had an urge to lay everything on the table, to confess to her own sins and demand they confess to theirs. Mistakes had been made, admittedly, but the Townsends were a good family. They were good people. They had nothing to fear. She turned to face the detective, her chin raised and with as haughty an expression as she could muster, but her hands were trembling so badly she thought she might drop the knife. Surely she had nothing to fear?