A Dark and Stormy Night (15 page)

The fluid in the cup this time was neat whiskey. If this was Pat's usual technique with reluctant witnesses, I could believe her claim of never losing a case.

‘So anyway, we start to look. Kinda sneaky-like, y'know? Dave, he figures there might be a tunnel or somethin' under the river, like they used for smugglers way back when.'

Way back where, too, I thought. Branston was in the heart of Kent and miles from any coast. Smugglers would have had to build an awfully long tunnel. But Julie's geography was apparently a trifle vague.

‘So we figured, if the tunnel came out in the house, it'd be in the basement somewheres, so we went down to poke around. But there was nothin' much down there but a lot of wine in one part, and the furnace in the other. Nice and clean, it was, I'll have to say that for 'em. Course, if you've got tons of money like them, you can get somebody else to do all the work. Must cost a fortune to run this house. I wouldn' mind a li'l bit o' that money, myself.'

Julie held out her cup for another round. Pat and I exchanged glances. At this rate, she'd pass out before she told us anything useful. This time Pat made the mixture mostly tea. Julie didn't appear to notice.

‘So where was I? Oh, yeah, we're tryin' to find the way out, but there wasn't nothin' in the house, not that we could find, anyways. So Dave says, maybe it came out in one of those other buildings, the garage or somethin'. Well, I told him, I says, dummy, I says, they didn't have garages back then. But he says, hey, brain, they had horses, didn't they? And where they kept the horses, now they keep cars. Dave could be smart sometimes, when he wasn't being dumb.' She sniffed. ‘Maybe he wasn't the best husband in the world, but he had ideas, all right.' She sniffed again, and I feared she had reached the weepy stage of her rake's progress, but she took another drink, and it seemed to buck her up.

‘So we headed for the garage, and when we was almost there, Dave stopped so sudden I ran into him, and he says, there's somebody out here. Then I heard 'em, too, a couple of guys talkin'. So Dave tells me to keep still.' Julie put her finger to her lips in exaggerated pantomime. ‘Ooh! He told me to keep on keepin' my trap shut, and here I've been shootin' my mouth off to you.' She opened her mouth again to finish off the contents of her tea cup, and then shut it firmly, an owlish look in her somewhat bleary eyes.

Oops. Was this all we were going to get?

I had reckoned without Pat. ‘Quite right,' she said, putting the flask back in her pocket with a gesture that could have been seen from the third balcony. I wondered if she had ever acted when she was at Oxford, in OUDS, perhaps? ‘You wouldn't want to say anything foolish. Dave knew best, I'm sure, so if he told you to shut up, you'd better not say anything he wouldn't like.'

‘Whaddya mean, Dave knew best? I'm the brains of this operation!
I
was the one told
him
he'd better do somethin' quick when that Upshawe guy was gonna blab about— never mind what.
I
was the one told
him
to follow Upshawe and tell him he'd better keep his lip buttoned, or else.
I
was the one had the sense not to go with him, in case there was trouble.' She paused and hiccuped. ‘And there was!' she said with a wail, and began to sob.

‘That's all she wrote,' I whispered, and Pat nodded. She got out the flask and put it on the table, and we went downstairs, leaving Julie to her alcoholic blues.

SIXTEEN

‘
F
rustrating,' was my comment when we were back down in the library. ‘We're no closer to knowing what happened in the encounter between the two men. And I was so sure she could tell us!'

‘It's still possible that she could, if she would. I think we've got all we can out of her for the moment, but I wonder if she's the sort to respond to a séance. Do you think, if the egregious Dave came back and told her to tell all, she's credulous enough to believe, and talk?' asked Pat thoughtfully.

‘Hmm. She's not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but she's shrewd in her own way. I suppose, perhaps, if we could work it out so that she could see some self-interest in the proceedings – but we're talking nonsense. I wouldn't have the slightest idea how to stage a séance, and anyway that sort of thing went out with the thirties, surely.'

‘We're trapped in the thirties, hadn't you noticed? That wasn't just a storm we experienced, it was a time warp. I expect at any moment to hear someone cranking up a gramophone to play Rudy Vallee records.'

‘You've been reading too much, is what's the matter with you. What did you make of her ramblings, though? Was there anything of use?'

‘Well, we know she and Dave overheard Upshawe's confession, and that it upset them. I couldn't quite follow why.'

‘I think I know. When we first got here— goodness, was it only three days ago? Feels like several lifetimes. Anyway, the Andersons had been here a day or two already and had had far too much time to get acquainted with Dave and Julie. They told us, Alan and me, that Dave had some scheme to tear this house down—'

Pat uttered a horrified shriek.

‘—and build some sort of resort. He seemed to want to go into partnership with Jim. Yes, I know, it was an obscene idea, and impossible with a listed building, anyway. But that would explain why Dave went off after Laurence.'

‘It would? Oh, sure! What a ninny I am. Your hypothetical situation. If Laurence's father killed the heir, then he couldn't inherit, et cetera, et cetera. And if Jim didn't own the house, he couldn't sell it to Dave, and all the scheming was for naught.'

‘Exactly. So Dave had a motive for silencing Laurence.'

‘Not a very strong one, though.' Pat frowned. ‘You and I talked this out. There are so many ifs, the threat to Jim and Joyce's claim is practically non-existent.'

‘Yes, but would a Dave Harrison realize that? I would say that logical thinking was never his strong point, and he was not only drunk at the time, but in the grip of a monomania. He had convinced himself that Jim was going to buy into his plan, that this house was as good as his— oh!'

‘Sudden pain?'

‘Sudden idea, and . . . rats! It's gone again. Something I said triggered . . . it was right on the tip of my mind . . .'

‘Stop thinking about it. Those things are like cats. They only run away and hide if you chase them, but if you ignore them, they come out and beg for attention. So you think Dave followed Laurence and tried to push him in the river, but ended up getting pushed in himself.'

‘Or falling in, more likely. He was bound to have been pretty unsteady on his feet at that point.'

‘I don't know. Julie was still conscious and more or less coherent when we left her, and I'd poured the best part of a pint of whiskey into her. I think Dave must have had a formidable capacity.'

‘Years of practice, probably.' I shook my head. ‘How on earth did a sister of Joyce's find such a useless specimen to marry?'

‘Just lucky, I guess.'

The vicar surprised us by coming down to lunch. He had retired to Laurence's room as soon as the church service was over, and we hadn't expected to see him the rest of the day, except perhaps to fetch a tray. We all wanted to know about his patient.

‘He seems to me to be quite a bit better. He's breathing more easily and looks as if he's sleeping, rather than unconscious. At least his eyes move now and then, beneath the lids.'

‘REM sleep,' someone said. ‘They say that means he's dreaming.'

‘I shouldn't think the dreams would be pleasant,' said Alan.

‘He has made little noises today,' the vicar acknowledged. ‘Sounds of discomfort, as I interpret them. Moans, I suppose one could call them if they were better defined. Actually, they sound like nothing so much as the little whines produced by a dreaming dog.'

‘He hasn't tried to speak? Or open his eyes?' Alan tried to sound casual, but I could hear the sharpened awareness in his voice.

‘His eyelids fluttered once, but never opened. And there's been nothing that sounded like words. Still, I am encouraged by his progress, and thought I might venture to take a few minutes away from him.'

‘I should think so,' I said warmly. ‘You've done nothing but look after him for days.'

‘Less than two days, Mrs Martin. We found him Friday evening, remember. It seems longer, I agree. Many things have happened in those two days.'

I think we all tried not to think about Mike.

‘Look here, sir,' said Alan. ‘Suppose I take the duty for a few hours, and let you get some rest. I have a bit of basic medical training. I think I could serve.'

Mr Leatherbury smiled a little. ‘I'm sure you know more than I about nursing. My concern is the cure of souls, not bodies. As I could be of next to no help anywhere else, I chose to sit with poor Laurence in case he took a turn for the worse and needed a priest. But I admit I'm not as young as I used to be, and trying to keep alert all this time has been a bit exhausting. If you truly don't mind . . .'

‘Not a bit.'

Pat spoke up at that moment. ‘Paul, Alan. I'm of no earthly use to anybody, just sitting around. I don't know a thing about medicine, but I know how to keep my eyes and ears open. Let me take the next shift.'

I was gaining more respect for Pat with each passing hour. It was agreed: Pat went off to sit with the victim, or the chief suspect, depending on how you looked at it, and Alan returned to his work in the cloister.

‘I expect you're badly in need of a nap,' I commented to the vicar.

‘No, I need fresh air more than anything, I believe. I intend to take a walk.'

‘It isn't very nice out there,' I said. ‘I went out this morning, to look at the river, and . . .' The lump in my throat stopped me.

‘Yes. That poor young man. It was a gallant gesture, no matter how ill-advised. Perhaps, Mrs Martin, you would care to walk a little way with me? The rain will keep away for another hour or so, I believe, and you can wrap up well. I'd be grateful for the company.'

What he meant, I suspected, was that he thought I needed some comfort. He was right about that, certainly. I found my coat and hat and borrowed some wellies, and we set out.

Mr Leatherbury was silent, a companionable silence, waiting for me to choose a topic. I didn't want to talk about tragedy. I was weary of disaster, frustrated by our inability to do anything about – anything. At least Jim and Alan and the other men were doing something constructive, clearing away the worst of the messes and beginning repairs. I could find nothing useful to do or say.

But the thought of repairs reminded me of what, centuries ago, I had wanted to ask the vicar. ‘Mr Leatherbury, Joyce or Laurence or somebody told me you knew a lot about the history of this house. All I know is the brief outline Laurence gave us at dinner that first night. Can you tell me more?'

His face lit up. ‘Ah. You've hit on my passion. I warn you, I can talk about this house until you're begging for mercy. What specifically did you want to know?'

I laughed. ‘I know too little even to ask. But I suppose I'm most interested in the ghosts – if you as a clergyman concede their existence.'

He chuckled. ‘Not officially, but I'll tell you some of the stories, and you can judge for yourself. The oldest ghost who is purported to haunt these premises is, as one might expect, a monk who resented being turned out. The story has it that he fought King Henry's men, against the express orders of his abbot, who had commanded them all to go peacefully. So not only was he – Brother David – killed in the scuffle, but his abbot refused him absolution.'

‘So he has no home in heaven and must walk the earth,' I finished. ‘That's rather a creepy story. Would an abbot actually do such a thing?'

‘That's hard to tell. It was a long time ago, and such stories are notoriously unreliable. On the other hand, Abbot Benedict – it was a Benedictine house, and he had chosen the name of the founder – was by all contemporary accounts a tough old bird, harsh with the men under his jurisdiction. And Brother David, as one would expect, was a Welshman, with the fiery temper of his race.'

‘What was a Welshman doing way over here in Kent?'

‘That,' said the vicar, negotiating a stretch of lawn that was especially littered with storm debris, and giving me his arm for support, ‘is one of the details that make the story somewhat suspect.'

‘Have you ever seen him? Brother David, I mean?'

‘Certainly not.' It was said with a twinkle that left me unsure of whether he was speaking the literal truth or taking the official line that ghosts didn't exist.

‘So you said he's the oldest of them. There are more, then?'

‘Legions. The usual spurned lovers and bereft maidens. An early Branston, around 1650, who was said to have drowned in one of the garden ponds, is reputed to go about with a fish in his pocket, slapping it in one's face.'

‘Ugh!' I shuddered. ‘A real goldfish in the face would be bad enough, but a long-dead one – no, thank you! Are there no really romantic legends about the house? Alan had a temporary appointment at Bramshill once, and they had a marvellous ghost story, about a bride who was, with her guests, playing hide and seek on her wedding night. I'd have thought she'd have had better things to do, but anyway, she hid in a chest, it locked itself, and she wasn't found for years.'

The vicar laughed. ‘Oh, that one's been around for a long time, at various locations. Hiding on one's wedding night appears to have been a popular pastime. But no, there aren't any like that here. The house has seen its usual share of tragedy, as one might imagine. From the time the monastery was established in 1042, people have lived here. That's a long time. Wars have taken their toll, as have diseases. The household was not immune to the Black Plague, nor to the influenza epidemic in the early twentieth century. Several of the Upshawes fell to the flu, which explains why there was no closer heir than a cousin when old Charles died.'