All Passion Spent - Bergotte (pdf e book reader .txt) 📗

PRELUDE

Saturday October 21: evening

“Hello,” said Isabella, anxiously. “I haven’t seen her yet and it’s well past quarter to eight now. In fact it’s just coming up to eight o’clock. ” She gripped her mobile phone more tightly as she listened to the measured tones of the voice on the other end trying to reassure her. She shivered. The autumn nights were becoming cold and a sharp October breeze blew leaves along the path where she was standing. “She was due to be here at quarter to eight!” continued Isabella.
“That’s very strange, she’s always early for everything, your mother. Where are you exactly?”
“Exactly where I said I’d be, at the main entrance to the park, next to the museum.”
“Well, give her till quarter past. I’ll start on my way to meet you. I’m only five minutes away down the road.”
“Okay, but don’t let her see you if she comes.”
“Right you are. Bye.”

On the other side of the park, in her top floor apartment, an old lady sat down heavily in her armchair. Earlier in the day she had been out shopping in the town. She had suffered from arthritis for more years than she cared to remember and had found it hard going to walk for much of the afternoon, so she was glad of a rest when she met an old friend who invited her to have a cup of tea. They sat together in the little teashop and talked of times gone by.

It was gone five o’clock when she bade goodbye to her friend and got into the taxi that the waitress in the little teashop had kindly called for her. On arriving home in the early evening she struggled up the stairs and sat down heavily when she reached her chair. She had always been lively and energetic, but this arthritis will be the death of me, she thought. She looked at the TV for a while and dozed off for an hour or so. When she woke up it was already dark. She went over to close the curtains. She had been gazing out of the window when she heard the sudden screech of brakes and the scream of tyres. She looked down at the road and then moved slowly to the door and went downstairs to see what help was needed.

“What do you remember exactly, Mrs Phelps?” a kindly policewoman was to ask, a few days later. Mrs Phelps was rather confused and found it difficult to answer the simple questions being put to her. She was quite clear at the time that she had witnessed an accident and then realised later that she had only witnessed the aftermath of an accident. This unnerving experience set in train a series of doubts so that after the few days she wondered whether she had witnessed anything significant at all. It was very difficult explaining all this to the young policewoman, though she was very friendly. She did remember the time the event took place. She had looked at the clock on the mantelpiece before going downstairs – seven thirty four, definitely.

Half an hour later, Isabella met up with her accomplice. She was in a fluster because mother had not turned up at all. She had not answered her phone at home or the mobile she had learned to carry with her at all times. Isabella had told her on many occasions, “You must keep your phone with you and keep it switched on.” Her friend saw that Isabella was clearly annoyed. “Her phone’s switched off,” she hissed, as they ate together in a little restaurant. “There’s probably a perfectly rational explanation for it,” said her companion, “perhaps she’s in the library.” “Mother never goes in a library. Anyway libraries closed hours ago.” “Or visiting someone in hospital,” suggested the friend. “She was supposed to be visiting me!” said Bella, the colour rising in her cheeks. “I will have to phone the police,” she said dramatically. “What are you going to say to them?” asked her companion. “I shall tell them what has happened and that mother might have been in an accident or something.” “I can’t see that it’s going to do any good.” “Well, I can’t just do nothing,” replied Isabella firmly, “when I get home I will phone the hospitals and the police.” “Okay, I’ll walk you back to your car when we’ve finished our meal.” “Good, I don’t want to be late getting back home.”

When Isabella sat in the car ready to drive away she felt a mixture of emotions. She wished that her companion had hugged her before he had left her with only a chaste kiss on the cheek. He had been kind, compassionate, full of tact and understanding. This she appreciated. However, she wanted more than that; she wanted some passion, to feel that she was loved. She thought she had been quite daring to be out on a Saturday night with the freedom to make her own decisions. She had never liked being told what to do. And this thought led straight to her thinking of the person who had had most to do with telling her what to do, her mother. Mother had been a great friend and confidante to Isabella, but she often felt smothered and troubled by this maternal friendship. The trouble was that Isabella felt she was being talked down to all the time. She was after all, a woman of twenty-two not a young girl of seven. The other trouble was that she could not articulate her feelings to her mother. She had never been in a position to explain. Conversations would end in an unhelpful silence.

It had been very different with her father. She felt at ease in talking to him, partly because she knew that she could get round him quite easily, if needs be. Her father thought his feather-brained girl of a daughter was wonderful, much more wonderful than her twin sister, Margherita. Isabella liked being the favourite of the two daughters but she did feel sorry for Rita on occasions, who tried so hard to please her father, but whatever she did she invariably seemed to disappoint the man somehow. This set in train the feelings of intense jealousy that she did not attempt to hide from Isabella. “He loves you much more than he loves me,” she would say to Isabella, “so I’ll leave you alone with him.”

Isabella turned on the engine, put the car in gear and made an awkward turn in the road. She drove home slowly, deep in thought, wondering what kind of reception she would get when she arrived home. She hoped that Paul would take her in his arms and hold her close to him. She wanted to snuggle up to him in bed without having to explain herself and without having to listen to his explanations. She dreaded the sound of raised voices, bickering, argumentative, with an undertone of condemnation. A persistent thought hovered at the back of her mind that something terrible had happened to her mother. It did not matter that mother had not been able to keep the appointment, but why did she not get in touch with Isabella and postpone or cancel the meeting? It was so unlike her. She was an efficient businesswoman who thought of every eventuality, made careful plans, never left anything to chance.

Two days later, at nine o’clock on a bright October morning, in a park a middle-aged woman was found under a pile of leaves. She was quite dead. It looked to the two people who found her as if she had been brutally murdered.


CHAPTER ONE

Monday, October 23: morning

From the Abbey in the centre of the City of Bath it is a short walk to the River Avon and the famous bridge over that river – Pultney Bridge. The road then opens into a much broader thoroughfare, the equally famous Great Pultney Street. In high summer, tourists from all over Europe, China and America come to wander up and down this street. They are to be seen looking wistfully at the water playing in the fountain in Laura Place, nearby, and taking photographs of each other on the bridge.

Some perhaps, close their eyes momentarily and imagine themselves to be there in the time of Jane Austen. They hear horse-drawn carriages making their clip-clop way along the cobblestones, taking their passengers to the Pump Room. They see elegant ladies in sumptuous gowns, and glittering jewels being borne by sedan chair to the coffee-houses or to one of the magnificent balls held almost daily at the Assemby Rooms. Here the aged Beau Nash, resplendent in brushed waistcoat, black wig and tall white hat would keep order, fulfilling his self-appointed role of promoting society and good manners.

But now, this street on a fine autumnal day in late October is not so crowded. The wind is chill that blows in the faces of the few pedestrians on their way towards the Holburne Museum of Costume at its end. This imposing edifice faces down Pultney Street in the manner that Nelson peers from his column down Pall Mall, in London. A man pulls his coat closely about him as he hurries purposefully towards his destination. He has no time to admire his surroundings. Another avoids a car trying to park in Laura Place and sets his face towards the museum, which seems to beckon these people like a beacon. A lady reaches for her hat, perched precariously on her head, clamping it down firmly with the palm of her gloved hand.

The visitor turning left at the end of Pultney Street may notice that the traffic travelling east in front of the museum comes to an abrupt halt as it edges its way towards the only other bridge over the river for many miles. The museum backs on to a park, known as Sydney Gardens, its main entrance looking up the road towards the fire and ambulance station and that other bridge - Cleveland Bridge. The roads that flank Sydney Gardens meet at its rear to form the main A36 road to Trowbridge and Warminster, some ten miles distant. This road passes by the village of Bathampton with its toll bridge over the river Avon. Local people have learned to avoid this route; they resent having to pay a fee for crossing a river in twenty-first century England.


Just inside the main entrance, to the left, lies a pair of tennis courts. The main path continues slightly uphill through grassy open spaces and poorly maintained park benches to arrive at a rather imposing Bath Stone building, which is no more than an elegant shelter from the elements. From there the path passes over the main railway line that between Bristol, Bath and London. A few steps later on it forms another footbridge, this time over the Kennet Avon canal that joins the river, several locks and a few hundred yards further on. The path then leads past a second pair of tennis courts to a small entrance at the top of the gardens and out on to the main road to Warminster. What is most noticeable to the visitor on any weekday in Sydney Gardens is the remarkable sense of peace and tranquillity one has so close to a busy city.

Shortly after nine o’clock on the morning of the twenty-third of October, the emergency services were alerted to the fact that the body of a middle-aged woman had been found in