Wexford 14 - The Veiled One by Ruth Rendell Read Free Book Online

absurdly well-dressed for a weekend of mourning in the country with one’s recently bereaved uncle. She introduced herself, explained that she had not waited until the prearranged time for her visit but had come on Friday morning.
       ‘My uncle’s upstairs,’ she said. ‘He’s lying down. The doctor came and said he was to get as much rest as he could.’
       ‘That’s all right, Miss Arbel. We’d like to talk to you too.’
       ‘Me? But I don’t know anything about it. I was in London.’
       ‘You know about your aunt. You can tell us something of what sort of a person she was, better than your uncle can.’
       She said in a rather pernickety way. ‘That’s right, he’s my real uncle. I mean, my mother was his sister; she was my aunt because she married him.’
       Wexford nodded, aware that his impatience showed. Mentally he cautioned himself against deciding too soon that a witness was irredeemably stupid. She took them into the Robsons’ brightly furnished living room where a conflict of textile patterns dazzled Wexford - flowers on the carpet, flowers of a more formal design on the curtains, trees and fruits on the wallpaper, a rug with a sunburst pattern. The flames of a gas fire licked indestructible coals. The girl sat down and her own face smiled over her shoulder out of a silver frame. His question astonished her.
       ‘These curtain, are they new?’
       ‘Pardon?’
       ‘Let me rephrase it. Were there ever different curtains at these windows?’
       ‘I think Auntie Gwen once had red curtain, yes. Why do you want to know?’
       Wexford made no answer but watched her while Burden asked about the telephone call her uncle had made to her on Thursday evening. Her clothes were remarkable, somehow evoking the unreal elegance of actresses in Hollywood comedies of the thirties, as sleek and as unsuitable for the wear and tear of living. A bunch of gold chains that looked too heavy for comfort hung against her cream silk shirt between the lapels of the coffee-coloured silk jacket. Crimson-nailed hands lay in her lap and she lifted one to her face, touching her cheek as she replied to his questions.
       ‘You intended coming down for the weekend of Saturday as you often did?’
       She nodded.
       ‘But your uncle phoned you himself on Thursday evening and told you what had happened?’
       ‘He phoned me on Thursday, on Thursday night. I wanted to come then, but he wouldn’t have that. He had one of the neighbours, a Mrs Whitton, with him so I thought he’d be all right.’ She looked from one to the other of them. ‘You said you wanted me to talk about Auntie Gwen.’
       ‘In a moment, Miss Arbel,’ Burden said. ‘Would you mind telling me what you were doing yourself on Thursday after noon?’
       ‘What do you want to know for?’ She was more than astounded; her manner was affronted as if she had encountered insolence. Her long elegant legs, the feet encased in high-heeled cream leather pumps, drew close together, were pressed together. ‘Why ever do you want to know that?’
       Perhaps it was pure innocence.
       Burden said blandly, ‘Routine questions, Miss Arbel. In a murder enquiry, it’s necessary to know people’s whereabouts.’ He attempted to help her along. ‘I expect you were at work, weren’t you?’
       ‘I went home early on Thursday, I wasn’t very well. Don’t you want me to tell you about Auntie Gwen?’
    ‘In a moment. You went home early because you weren’t well. You had a cold, did you?’
       A vacuous stare was turned on Burden, but perhaps not entirely vacuous for it seemed to contain an element of earnestness. ‘It was my PMT, wasn’t it?’ she said as if she were famous for this disorder, as if all the world was aware of it. Wexford doubted if Burden even knew what those initials stood for, and now the girl seemed equally dubious. Frowning, she leaned towards Burden. ‘I always have PMT and there’s