Dangerous to Know Read online

  All the characters and events, and most of the places in this story, are fictional. Resemblance to real people is coincidental.

  Dangerous To Know

  Margaret Yorke

  Copyright © 1993, Margaret Yorke

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  About the Author

  1

  Walter Brown sat in the train and unfolded his evening paper. His neighbour across the aisle was a woman reading a book. He saw trim black-stockinged legs with neat ankles and small feet. He liked small feet. Walter caught a glimpse of long dark hair drawn back into a knot at the nape of the woman’s neck. He wished he could see her face, but it could have been a disappointment: she might be old and ugly; Hermione, after all, had small feet, and though not yet old, was very plain. She had once had long hair, too, but recently had cut it off.

  He sighed, and turned to the financial pages. Shares he had bought in a property company were falling; the recession had hit all such firms hard. Still, things might be picking up; there had been more people about in the West End tonight than when he last went there a few weeks ago. He had sensed bustle and interest in the air; or perhaps it was simply his own sense of anticipation that made him optimistic.

  A male voice spoke from the seat beyond the one opposite him. He heard, uttered loudly, a crude comment on the female legs and ankles only a few feet from him and which he had already admired. A second voice, also male, speculated on what lay beneath the black skirt covering the woman’s knees, and the first voice hazarded various possibilities. Walter noticed the black legs twitch slightly, then one shin was twined round the other and immediately further obscene comments came from the unseen taunters.

  Not a soul in the coach stirred or spoke as anatomical probabilities were discussed, and a third man, who sat facing the other two, leaned round the back of the seat opposite Walter to leer at the woman before joining in the debate.

  Listening, Walter stirred uncomfortably. No woman should have to put up with these insulting observations, and, contemplating intervention, he tried to catch the eye of a man sitting opposite the victim, but he studiously held his paper up before his face, intently reading. A woman next to him had closed her eyes, probably in self-defence lest she become the next target, although the high back of the seat concealed her from the three foul-mouthed passengers.

  Solo action might be hazardous, Walter judged, but briefly he considered pulling the communication cord and complaining to the guard. That could mean giving his name. There might be consequences, visits from note-taking officialdom, even a statement required, any of which would be most unwelcome. Meanwhile, the woman herself was showing no distress, no longer twitching, reading on as if she could not hear what was being said.

  Perhaps she couldn’t. Perhaps she was deaf.

  This was a comforting theory and it explained her calm, but she had, at the outset, shown some reaction. She could always move, he thought, for there were spare seats further down the carriage, but if she did this the men might follow her, aware that they had scored. She was probably wise to remain where she was, with himself and the other male passenger at hand.

  Walter should have been on an earlier train, though Hermione never knew what time he would be home; he liked to keep her alert, but he was rarely as late as this. His evening’s activities had given him an appetite, and instead of going to the tube he had wandered down various streets until he came to a restaurant whose dim interior attracted him: there were candles on the tables, red plush hangings. He had gone in and had lingered over an excellent steak served with a wine sauce, and half a bottle of good claret. He had enjoyed his meal and felt soothed, almost benign, his day well rounded off as he boarded the train. Now this unpleasant display by three inebriated oafs threatened his mood.

  While he still pondered on what action to take, he was spared further indecision – an emotion rare for him – because the train was stopping and the targeted woman was getting out. This was Stappenford, and Walter noted that she walked along the platform towards the footbridge; she was not merely escaping to another coach.

  The men went on talking about her after she had gone, but the game had lost its appeal and after a while their remarks became general rather than particular.

  Walter was reprieved.

  He had not seen the woman’s face, nor she his.

  Hermione heard him come in.

  When he was not home by ten o’clock, she had turned off the oven in which his dinner was keeping hot on a plate placed over a shallow dish of water – a method which delayed the drying-up process – but she did not throw it away. He might demand it at midnight or whenever he chose to arrive. He would not hesitate to wake her and order her to prepare something fresh for him if he deemed it by now inedible; this had happened before, though rarely.

  They had no microwave oven. He would not permit it, declaring they were an extravagance of whose safety he was not convinced. It was her duty, he added, to prepare food at times to suit him, not her.

  Dinner was supposed to be at half-past seven, earlier when he had a village meeting, which was frequently, as he was on almost every committee. When the girls were at home he had been more punctual, but since they left things had become increasingly difficult and his movements less predictable. Then, Hermione had a reason to keep to a time-table and their presence in the house provided a buffer of sorts between their father and herself; now that was gone, and Hermione welcomed every meeting, every late return from town; anything that kept them apart was a boon to her.

  There had been a time, while the girls were young, when she had taken him to the station in the morning and met him again at night. In those years she had needed the car to take the girls to school and their other activities, and Walter kept regular hours or telephoned if he missed his usual train. Now, though, he said that she had no use for it and he took it each day to Freston station where it sat awaiting his return. Hermione was restricted to places she could reach on Sarah’s old bicycle and, once a week or so, a shopping trip by bus.

  Her days were spent rigorously cleaning the house so thoroughly that it was always ready for an inspection by Walter, who would become incandescent with rage if he found a smear of grease or a speck of dust anywhere. She also helped deliver meals on wheels in the village, cleaned the church, and carried out other voluntary duties, but never in more than a subservient role.

  ‘Hermione will do that,’ people said, and when she was asked, she did.

  Because they had grown up with it, Hermione’s daughters, Jane and Sarah, took her servitude for granted. By the time they began to see what a prisoner she had become, they were planning their own escape, and after they left, taking away the limited protection their presence had given her, Hermione’s few pleasures and compensations vanished too. She was now very lonely, and Walter’s persecution, hitherto often veiled, grew more overt. She began to wonder if there was a way out for her, or some means by which she could improve her life, but she had
no money of her own and had never trained for a career. She was the daughter of a schoolmaster and her mother had died when she was only ten. Housekeepers had looked after them both at first, and Hermione planned to take care of her father when she had finished her own education, but he died suddenly just after her A-level examinations.

  Alone, bereft and frightened, she had been staying with a school friend when she met Walter at the friend’s local tennis club. In her vulnerable state, it was easy for him to cast himself in the role of knight on a white charger and carry her off in triumph to his castle, at that time a flat in Coventry. His conquest assuaged Walter’s wounded pride because an older girl – one of a series – had recently turned him down. It also, by means of Hermione’s inheritance from her father, soon enabled him to live without a mortgage in a comfortable house bought with money from the sale of what had been her home.

  Hermione thought about this as she lay in the darkness wondering when Walter would return. She had lost everything that had been rightfully hers, for the succession of houses into and out of which they had moved had all been bought with the proceeds from that first Victorian semi-detached villa in the Midlands. She had let him deflect her from the university where she had been promised a place if her A-level grades were good enough, which they were, not listening to her aunt’s suggestion that she wait and marry after she had her degree. At that early stage in her life she had taken a wrong turning and she would never cease to pay for her mistake.

  So many years lay ahead. Walter was only fifty-one. How could she endure another twenty, maybe more, like the past? And things were getting worse. He had not hit her until the girls left home; since then, it had happened several times.

  What could she do to change things? Wondering, devising and discarding impossible schemes, at last she drifted off to sleep and when he came home, though he made a lot of noise, switching on the bedroom light and moving heavily about the room, both of them maintained the fiction that he had not disturbed her.

  He woke her in the small hours, asserting his rights. He had taught her what they were on their honeymoon in Torquay, and he punished her whenever she failed in obedience. Before they married, he had seemed so loving and protective; where had all that feeling gone? Hermione was convinced that its loss was her fault. Because of her inexperience, she had failed him in every aspect of their life together from the intimate to the domestic, and so he had ceased to love her. She strove to improve, to gain housewifely skills, and did so, but he never acknowledged any accomplishment, always looking for and finding something to criticise.

  For a long time she blamed herself for failing to provide him with a son; after the two girls were born in the first two years of their marriage she managed only several miscarriages before a necessary hysterectomy.

  It was Hermione’s daughter Sarah who told her that the sex of an embryo was determined by its father. Hermione was not sure that she believed this comforting theory. She sometimes thought about it while she endured Walter’s embrace, if it could be called that. Tonight she smelled some sort of scent on him, a musky odour. Turning her head away, biting her lip until it was over, she decided it must be her imagination.

  2

  Mrs Fisher looked about for a vacant table and could not see one. Primmy’s, the large department store on the outskirts of Creddington, was popular for many reasons, not least its modernised cafeteria which was comfortable and served delicious, low-priced meals. Because it was so pleasant, many shoppers timed their visits to include lunch or tea there. When her daughter had suggested a day’s shopping to buy Christmas presents, Mrs Fisher had been pleased. It would be an outing, a small escape from routine. The store was on the edge of town and meant a short drive; there were varied faces around to watch, and the merchandise was of high quality and well displayed. Mrs Fisher planned to buy Wendy a rose-coloured cashmere sweater for Christmas; as a child, Wendy had looked well in deep pinks and reds, and they would become her now. Even as she formed the intention, she knew that her daughter would exchange a rose sweater for something in grey or beige; still, the attempt would have been made and a sweater bought.

  Mrs Fisher knew that she was lucky to live with her daughter and not in some retirement home, but she stifled feelings of envy when she received letters from her few surviving contemporary friends who still lived in their own houses and maintained their independence and freedom. Wendy allowed her little of either, and she would be angry if Mrs Fisher failed to find a well-placed table for them now. Having chosen a baked potato with cheese, Mrs Fisher had left her daughter waiting in line to pay for their food. There were a lot of people ahead of her and the delay would be considerable. Looking around, Mrs Fisher saw a table for four where just one woman sat; she might finish by the time Wendy arrived.

  Mrs Fisher walked towards her. The woman was half-way through a bowl of sustaining soup; she seemed unalarming, even agreeable, but then Mrs Fisher liked most of the human race. She asked the woman if she might join her.

  Hermione Brown looked up and saw a pretty old woman with pink cheeks and fluffy white hair, well dressed in a navy wool jacket and a pleated tweed skirt. A red silk scarf was tied around her thin neck. Blue eyes smiled down at Hermione, who agreed that the other seats were free.

  ‘My daughter and I have been doing our Christmas shopping. We like to begin in good time,’ said Mrs Fisher. ‘Let me show you what we’ve found.’

  She extracted from her carrier bag, marked with Primmy’s name printed in green on a yellow ground, a figured silk purse, a child’s colouring book, bath lotion, and other small packages; the recipients would be people with whom Wendy, a remedial teacher, worked. Hermione admired everything and asked whereabouts in the store each could be found; she would have to buy presents for the few people Walter thought should receive gifts, though he begrudged spending money on his colleagues at work. Last year he had bought nothing for them, but had been given a box of peppermint creams, a tiny pot of exotic mustard, and, by the director, a half-bottle of Chivas Regal whisky, which Walter knew had been bought at the duty-free shop on a fund-raising trip to Geneva.

  ‘My daughter helps care for children,’ Mrs Fisher said. ‘But she has Wednesdays free so she brought me shopping today. Such fun, isn’t it? I love coming here.’ Her bright eyes looked into Hermione’s and she seemed to be sharing a secret. ‘My daughter’s very good at picking out the best things to buy.’

  It seemed to be true. Hermione recognised the trophies of a skilful shopper. How nice for the mother and daughter to have a day out together, she thought; you often saw such pairs, easily recognisable, and she used to bring the girls here when there was any money to spare. From time to time she sold one or more of her father’s old books to raise enough to finance some treat or even an essential expense. Walter was not interested in books and never noticed if any vanished from the study shelves.

  The two were still eagerly chatting, Hermione’s soup cooling as she made enthusiastic responses to her companion, when a figure loomed above them. A very large woman set a tray down on the table. Hermione was ready to smile at her new friend’s daughter, but when she looked up she saw one of the ugliest women she had ever beheld in her life. Towering above them, Mrs Fisher’s daughter looked almost older than her mother. She had iron-grey hair arranged in a sausagelike roll around her head. She was sallow, with froglike pouches beneath her small brown eyes, and she had several pendulous chins. Her large, undivided bust, revealed when she removed her fawn raincoat and draped it over the spare chair, was shrouded in bile-green acrylic. Hermione did not look further down as she tried to mask her surprise, glancing across at the old lady whose demeanour had entirely changed as she helped unload the tray. The daughter did not speak, and Hermione returned her own gaze to her plate after one swift look at those blue eyes which no longer looked bright and full of laughter. How could such a hideous woman be that pretty old lady’s daughter? How could nature play such a trick? Or was she adopted?

  Thoughts of this
kind ran through Hermione’s head as, in silence, she swiftly finished her own meal. The newcomer was now complaining about having to wait so long in the queue. People couldn’t make up their minds, she said, and the service was slow. The mother said nothing, concentrating on her potato, eating it with very small mouthfuls. When Hermione rose to go, pausing to put on her coat, which she had pushed over the back of her chair, she smiled at the old woman and silently mouthed ‘Goodbye’ before leaving.

  She could not get them out of her mind as she went to the hardware department to buy a new washing-up bowl and a few other things which Walter had agreed might be replaced at the lowest possible price for quality goods. There was no hardware store in Freston, their nearest town; it was Primmy’s or nothing, she had told him, though not in such positive terms.

  That ugly woman had once been a baby, Hermione reminded herself, and must have been pretty then, or at least a warm, appealing bundle. You had no control over the genes you passed on to your children, though you tended to blame yourself for their shortcomings, or she did; Walter added that her poor upbringing of their daughters had rendered them both disappointments to him.

  They were not to Hermione, however; she loved them fiercely, had tried to shelter them from their father’s angry, strict rule, and was glad they had managed to get away. Now they each stood a chance of being happy.

  She carefully preserved the invoices relating to her purchases; they were entered on the charge card. She had the use of very little cash, and she had to account for every penny she spent.

  Sometimes she wondered what she would do when she had sold all her father’s books. Luckily some of them were rare, sought-after editions and she had found an antiquarian bookseller in Creddington who was interested in anything she took for his inspection.

  Walter’s severity was, Hermione felt, due to his own upbringing. His father was an army sergeant who gained his commission, and he had expected Walter to follow a military career, but he had not secured a commission. After doing his National Service – Walter was just old enough to be conscripted – and gaining his corporal’s stripes, he joined the Territorials and did well there, enjoying the activities they engaged in, the camps and manoeuvres and the regular meetings; most of all, he liked wearing the uniform. Happy with army rules, he applied similar regimentation to life at home, and Hermione and the girls had no choice but to obey his decrees. During the years, Walter had changed his job several times. When he married he was with a firm making electrical goods, but it had been bought out and during the subsequent reorganisation his job went. He had sold cars – he was a skilled mechanic, thanks partly to his father and partly his army years – and had worked for an insurance company until again he was made redundant. Now he worked for a small charity which at the moment was based in a building destined for eventual demolition under a redevelopment plan; the rent was low because of the uncertainty of the lease. Funds were raised for research into a rare disease. Walter was efficient at accounting and coordination; he had scant interest in the actual cause. He and the director were paid; the rest of the staff were volunteers.