Some Lie and Some Die by Ruth Rendell Page A

Dawn’s killer having lived on the outskirts of Stowerton, a house-to-house investigation had begun on Tuesday afternoon of the whole district. No one had seen Dawn; no one had seen a girl in mauve alone or with a man. Only two wives had been absentfrom home on the evening in question, one with her husband and one leaving him behind to mind their four children. No wife had been away for the whole night and no wife had missed a red dress. Wexford’s men searched the fields for the trouser suit and the food. It was dreary work, for the rain fell heavily and there were fears that the river would flood.
    Mrs Clarke and Mrs Peveril remained the only people who had seen Dawn after five-twenty, Mrs Peveril the last person—except her killer—to have seen her alive. Wexford concentrated on these two women, questioning them exhaustively, and it wasn’t long before he found something odd in their evidence. It had not previously occurred to him that they might know each other, and it was only when, sitting in Mrs Clarke’s living room, listening to her answer the phone, that the thought occurred to him.
    ‘I can’t talk now, Margaret. I’ll ring you later. I hope Edward soon feels better.’
    She didn’t say who had been at the other end of the line. Why should she? She sat down with a bright, insincere smile. ‘So sorry. You were saying?’
    Wexford said sharply, ‘Were you talking to Mrs Peveril?’
    ‘How
could
you know? I was, as a matter of fact.’
    ‘Then I imagine you are the one person she claims acquaintance with in this district?’
    ‘Poor Margaret. She’s so neurotic and she has an awful time with Edward. I suppose I am her only friend. She doesn’t make friends easily.’
    ‘Mrs Clarke, you were first questioned about Dawn Stonor last Sunday evening, I think? We questioned people on this side of the estate first.’
    ‘Well, you ought to know that better than me.’
    She looked a little offended, bored, but not at all frightened. Wexford considered carefully. Burden and Martin and Gates had begun their questions here at seven, not reaching The Pathway till nine. ‘Did you phone Mrs Peveril on Sunday evening before nine?’ Her glance became wary, defensive. ‘I see you did. You told her you’d been questioned and, moreover,that you’d been able to help. It was only natural for you to talk to your friend about it. I expect you described the girl to her and told her which way you’d seen her go.’
    ‘Is there anything wrong in that?’
    ‘Discretion would have been wiser. Never mind. Describe Dawn Stonor to me again now, please.’
    ‘But I’ve done it hundreds of times,’ cried Mrs Clarke with exasperated exaggeration. ‘I’ve told you over and over again.’
    ‘Once more, for the last time.’
    ‘I was coming along to get the bus into Kingsmarkham. I saw her get off the bus that went the other way. She crossed the road and went into The Pathway.’ Mrs Clarke spoke slowly and deliberately as might a parent explaining for the dozenth time to a not very bright child the point of a simple story. ‘She had fair hair, she was in her twenties, and she wore a lilac-coloured trouser suit and mauve shoes.’
    ‘That was what you told Mrs Peveril?’
    ‘Yes, and you and all your other people. I couldn’t say any more because I don’t know any more.’
    ‘You didn’t, for instance, notice her large mauve bag with a gilt buckle or that there was a darker edging to the suit?’
    ‘No, I didn’t. I didn’t notice that and you saying it doesn’t bring it back to me or anything. I’m sorry but I’ve told you everything I know.’
    He shook his head, not in denial of her statement, but at his own bewilderment. At first, briefly, when she put the phone down he had suddenly been certain that Mrs Peveril had never seen Dawn at all, that the news from her friend had sparked off an urge for sensationalism, giving her an opportunity to make herself important. He remembered how, although she said she