Read Online Some Lie and Some Die by Ruth Rendell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ruth Rendell
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stains didn’t show up except as a great stiff patch on the bodice.
The girl whitened and compressed her lips. ‘May I touch it?’ she said faintly.
‘Yes.’
Rather tremulously, she fingered the neck opening and looked at the label. ‘This is only a size twelve,’ she said. ‘Dawn was quite a big girl. She took a fourteen.’
‘But she was wearing this dress.’
‘It wasn’t hers and it must have been quite a tight fit on her.’ Abruptly she turned away and shivered. ‘Look, perhaps you don’t know much about fashion, but that dress is old, seven or eight years out of date, maybe more. Dawn was very fashion-conscious.’
Wexford led her back to his office. She sat down and the colour returned to her cheeks. He waited a little, marvellingat the friend’s distress, the mother’s indifference, and then he said, ‘Miss Miall, will you try to give me a sort of character sketch of Dawn? What sort of girl she was, whom she knew and how she reacted to other people?’
‘I’ll try,’ said Joan Miall.
‘I don’t want to give you the impression,’ the girl began, ‘that she wasn’t a nice person. She was. But there were some—well, rather peculiar things about her.’ She lifted her head and looked at him earnestly, almost aggressively.
‘I’m not asking for a character
reference
, you know. And what you say will be between us. I shan’t broadcast it about.’
‘No, of course not. But she’s dead and I have sort of old-fashioned ideas about not speaking ill of the dead. I expect you’ll think that a doll who serves drinks in a club hasn’t any right to get all upstage, sort of disapprove of other people’s behaviour?’
Wexford didn’t answer. He smiled gently and shook his head.
‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I didn’t exactly disapprove of Dawn. It was just that—well, it’s not always easy living with a compulsive liar. You don’t know where you are with people like that. You don’t know
them
and the relationship is sort of unreal. I know someone said that even a really bad liar tells more truth than lies, but you still can’t tell what are lies and what truth, can you?’
It was on the tip of Wexford’s tongue to ask what an intelligent girl like Joan Miall was doing at the Townsman Club, but he checked the impulse.
‘So Dawn was a liar?’ he said instead, reflecting that this wasn’t going to make his task easier. He looked into the frank, clear eyes of the girl opposite him, a girl he was sure would be transparently truthful. ‘What did she lie about?’
‘Well, it was boasting and name-dropping really. She’d had an awful childhood. Her father used to knock her about, and her mother sort of knocked her about mentally. She’d tell her she was immoral and no good in one breath and then in thenext she’d say how she missed her and begged her to come home and marry and settle down. Mrs Stonor was always telling her they were—what was the phrase?—Oh, yes, “Just ordinary folk”, and Dawn had no business giving herself airs. Then she’d say the work she did was no better than being a tart.
‘It made her want to prove herself. Sorry if I’m talking like an amateur psychiatrist but I’m interested in that sort of thing. I tried to find out what made Dawn tick. When we first lived together I thought she really did know a lot of famous people. One day she brought a dog home and said she was going to look after it for a fortnight while its owner was away. She said the owner was a famous actor, a household word more or less. He’s always on television.
‘Then, after the dog had gone back, we were both in the club one night and this actor came in. Some member brought him as his guest. Of course I recognised him. He didn’t even know Dawn. It wasn’t that they’d quarrelled and weren’t speaking. You could tell he just didn’t know her.’ Joan shrugged. She put her cigarettes into her bag and closed the bag decisively. ‘She used to look through the evening paper
The girl whitened and compressed her lips. ‘May I touch it?’ she said faintly.
‘Yes.’
Rather tremulously, she fingered the neck opening and looked at the label. ‘This is only a size twelve,’ she said. ‘Dawn was quite a big girl. She took a fourteen.’
‘But she was wearing this dress.’
‘It wasn’t hers and it must have been quite a tight fit on her.’ Abruptly she turned away and shivered. ‘Look, perhaps you don’t know much about fashion, but that dress is old, seven or eight years out of date, maybe more. Dawn was very fashion-conscious.’
Wexford led her back to his office. She sat down and the colour returned to her cheeks. He waited a little, marvellingat the friend’s distress, the mother’s indifference, and then he said, ‘Miss Miall, will you try to give me a sort of character sketch of Dawn? What sort of girl she was, whom she knew and how she reacted to other people?’
‘I’ll try,’ said Joan Miall.
‘I don’t want to give you the impression,’ the girl began, ‘that she wasn’t a nice person. She was. But there were some—well, rather peculiar things about her.’ She lifted her head and looked at him earnestly, almost aggressively.
‘I’m not asking for a character
reference
, you know. And what you say will be between us. I shan’t broadcast it about.’
‘No, of course not. But she’s dead and I have sort of old-fashioned ideas about not speaking ill of the dead. I expect you’ll think that a doll who serves drinks in a club hasn’t any right to get all upstage, sort of disapprove of other people’s behaviour?’
Wexford didn’t answer. He smiled gently and shook his head.
‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I didn’t exactly disapprove of Dawn. It was just that—well, it’s not always easy living with a compulsive liar. You don’t know where you are with people like that. You don’t know
them
and the relationship is sort of unreal. I know someone said that even a really bad liar tells more truth than lies, but you still can’t tell what are lies and what truth, can you?’
It was on the tip of Wexford’s tongue to ask what an intelligent girl like Joan Miall was doing at the Townsman Club, but he checked the impulse.
‘So Dawn was a liar?’ he said instead, reflecting that this wasn’t going to make his task easier. He looked into the frank, clear eyes of the girl opposite him, a girl he was sure would be transparently truthful. ‘What did she lie about?’
‘Well, it was boasting and name-dropping really. She’d had an awful childhood. Her father used to knock her about, and her mother sort of knocked her about mentally. She’d tell her she was immoral and no good in one breath and then in thenext she’d say how she missed her and begged her to come home and marry and settle down. Mrs Stonor was always telling her they were—what was the phrase?—Oh, yes, “Just ordinary folk”, and Dawn had no business giving herself airs. Then she’d say the work she did was no better than being a tart.
‘It made her want to prove herself. Sorry if I’m talking like an amateur psychiatrist but I’m interested in that sort of thing. I tried to find out what made Dawn tick. When we first lived together I thought she really did know a lot of famous people. One day she brought a dog home and said she was going to look after it for a fortnight while its owner was away. She said the owner was a famous actor, a household word more or less. He’s always on television.
‘Then, after the dog had gone back, we were both in the club one night and this actor came in. Some member brought him as his guest. Of course I recognised him. He didn’t even know Dawn. It wasn’t that they’d quarrelled and weren’t speaking. You could tell he just didn’t know her.’ Joan shrugged. She put her cigarettes into her bag and closed the bag decisively. ‘She used to look through the evening paper
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