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Read Online [Wexford 01] From Doon & Death by Ruth Rendell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ruth Rendell
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think so.'
'A tall good-looking woman with red hair. Lives in a house opposite The Olive and Dove. Her husband's a car dealer. Big bloke with a big green car.'
'We don't ... we didn't know anyone like that' His face twisted and he put up a hand to hide his eyes. They're a lot of snobs round here. We didn't belong and we should never have come.' His voice died to a whisper. If we'd stayed in London,' he said, 'she might still be alive.'
'Why did you come, Mr Parsons?'
If s cheaper living in the country, or you think if s cheaper till you try it'
'So your coming here didn't have anything to do with the fact that your wife once lived in Flagford?'
'Margaret didn't want to come here, but the job came up. Beggars can't be choosers. She had to Work when we were in London. I thought she'd find some peace here ’ He coughed and the sound tailed away into a sob. 'And she did, didn't she?'
‘I believe there are some books in your attic, Mr Parsons. I'd like to have a good look through them ’
'You can have them,' Parsons said. 'I never want to see another book as long as I live. But there's nothing in them . She never looked at them ’
The dark staircases were familiar now and with familiarity they had lost much of that sinister quality Burden had felt on his first visit. The sun showed up the new dust and in its gentle light the house seemed no longer like the scene of a crime but just a shabby relic. It was very close and Wexford opened the attic window. He blew a film of dust from the surface of the bigger trunk and opened its lid. It was crammed with books and he took the top ones out. They were novels: two by Rhoda Broughton, Evelina in the Everyman's Library and Mrs Craik's John Halifax, Gentleman. Their fly-leaves were bare and nothing fluttered from the pages when he shook them. Underneath were two bundles of school stories, among them what looked like the complete works of Angela Brazil. Wexford dumped them on the floor and lifted out a stack of expensive-looking volumes, some bound in suede, others in scented leather or watered silk.
The first one he opened was covered in pale green suede, its pages edged with gold. On the fly-leaf someone had printed carefully in ink:
If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf, Our lives would grow together In sad or singing weather ...
And underneath:
Rather sentimental, Minna, but you know what I mean. Happy, happy birthday. All my love, Doon. March 21st, 1950.
Burden looked over Wexford's shoulder. 'Who's Minna?'
'Well have to ask Parsons ’ Wexford said. 'Could be second-hand. It looks expensive. I wonder why she didn't keep it downstairs. God knows, this place. needs brightening up.'
'And who's Doon?' Burden asked.
'You're supposed to be a detective. Well, detect.' He put the book on t he floor and picked up the next one. This was the Oxford Book of Victorian Verse, still in its black and pearl-grey jacket, and Doon had printed another message inside. Wexford read it aloud in an unemotional voice.
' I know you have set your heart on this, Minna, and I was so happy when I went to Foyle's and found it waiting for me. Joyeux Noel, Doon, Christmas, 1950 ’
The next book was even more splendid, red watered silk and black leather. ' Let’s have a look at number three,' Wexford said. "The Poems of Christina Rossetti. Very nice, gilt lettering and all. What’ s Doon got to say this time? An un-birthday present, Minna dear, from Doon who wishes you happy for ever and ever. June 1950. I wonder if Mrs P. bought the lot cheap from this Minna.'
‘I suppose Minna could be Mrs P., a sort of nickname.'
It had just crossed my mind,' Wexford said sarcastically. They're such good books, Mike, not the sort of things anyone would give to a church sale, and church sales seem to have been about Mrs Parsons' mark. Look at this lot Omar Khayyam; Whitman’s Leav es of Grass; William Morris. Unless ‘I ’m much mistaken that Omar Khayya m cost three or four pounds. And
'A tall good-looking woman with red hair. Lives in a house opposite The Olive and Dove. Her husband's a car dealer. Big bloke with a big green car.'
'We don't ... we didn't know anyone like that' His face twisted and he put up a hand to hide his eyes. They're a lot of snobs round here. We didn't belong and we should never have come.' His voice died to a whisper. If we'd stayed in London,' he said, 'she might still be alive.'
'Why did you come, Mr Parsons?'
If s cheaper living in the country, or you think if s cheaper till you try it'
'So your coming here didn't have anything to do with the fact that your wife once lived in Flagford?'
'Margaret didn't want to come here, but the job came up. Beggars can't be choosers. She had to Work when we were in London. I thought she'd find some peace here ’ He coughed and the sound tailed away into a sob. 'And she did, didn't she?'
‘I believe there are some books in your attic, Mr Parsons. I'd like to have a good look through them ’
'You can have them,' Parsons said. 'I never want to see another book as long as I live. But there's nothing in them . She never looked at them ’
The dark staircases were familiar now and with familiarity they had lost much of that sinister quality Burden had felt on his first visit. The sun showed up the new dust and in its gentle light the house seemed no longer like the scene of a crime but just a shabby relic. It was very close and Wexford opened the attic window. He blew a film of dust from the surface of the bigger trunk and opened its lid. It was crammed with books and he took the top ones out. They were novels: two by Rhoda Broughton, Evelina in the Everyman's Library and Mrs Craik's John Halifax, Gentleman. Their fly-leaves were bare and nothing fluttered from the pages when he shook them. Underneath were two bundles of school stories, among them what looked like the complete works of Angela Brazil. Wexford dumped them on the floor and lifted out a stack of expensive-looking volumes, some bound in suede, others in scented leather or watered silk.
The first one he opened was covered in pale green suede, its pages edged with gold. On the fly-leaf someone had printed carefully in ink:
If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf, Our lives would grow together In sad or singing weather ...
And underneath:
Rather sentimental, Minna, but you know what I mean. Happy, happy birthday. All my love, Doon. March 21st, 1950.
Burden looked over Wexford's shoulder. 'Who's Minna?'
'Well have to ask Parsons ’ Wexford said. 'Could be second-hand. It looks expensive. I wonder why she didn't keep it downstairs. God knows, this place. needs brightening up.'
'And who's Doon?' Burden asked.
'You're supposed to be a detective. Well, detect.' He put the book on t he floor and picked up the next one. This was the Oxford Book of Victorian Verse, still in its black and pearl-grey jacket, and Doon had printed another message inside. Wexford read it aloud in an unemotional voice.
' I know you have set your heart on this, Minna, and I was so happy when I went to Foyle's and found it waiting for me. Joyeux Noel, Doon, Christmas, 1950 ’
The next book was even more splendid, red watered silk and black leather. ' Let’s have a look at number three,' Wexford said. "The Poems of Christina Rossetti. Very nice, gilt lettering and all. What’ s Doon got to say this time? An un-birthday present, Minna dear, from Doon who wishes you happy for ever and ever. June 1950. I wonder if Mrs P. bought the lot cheap from this Minna.'
‘I suppose Minna could be Mrs P., a sort of nickname.'
It had just crossed my mind,' Wexford said sarcastically. They're such good books, Mike, not the sort of things anyone would give to a church sale, and church sales seem to have been about Mrs Parsons' mark. Look at this lot Omar Khayyam; Whitman’s Leav es of Grass; William Morris. Unless ‘I ’m much mistaken that Omar Khayya m cost three or four pounds. And
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