A Dark and Stormy Night (20 page)

‘Well, love, I can't give orders to any of these people, much as I'd like to.'

Only to me, I thought but didn't say.

‘I can only advise them, strongly, that there is someone very dangerous among us, and we need to take sensible steps for self-protection.'

Thus began our siege. I wondered what the single people in our party would do, and then decided not to wonder. Laurence Upshawe was still under the care – or guardianship – of the vicar, Paul Leatherbury. Jim and Joyce had each other, Tom and Lynn, the Bateses. And if Pat Heseltine and Ed Walinski decided that sharing a room was less lonely and frightening, good luck to them. I certainly didn't intend to poke my nose into their activities. I had Alan, after all.

Or I would have, when he returned from his commissary duties. I wished, the minute he had left, that I had remembered to ask him for some books. I can endure almost any period of enforced inactivity if I have enough to read. There were books in the room. Joyce was too good a hostess not to see to that. But the ones I hadn't already read didn't interest me. I thought about taking a nap, but I was too tense to sleep. I wanted to
do
something, find some way out of this nightmare.

I started counting casualties. Two recent deaths, three if Julie had met the fate we all suspected. Two much older deaths, the skeleton and the mummy. (I shuddered at the thought of her and forced my mind to move on quickly.) Laurence injured. Mr Bates shocked into a faint.

Seven. Seven human beings killed or injured in this house.
By
this house?

No. That was too fanciful, too much like Rose Bates's terrors. This wasn't Hill House, with its evil, ghostly inhabitants. But there seemed to be an evil, malevolent presence here, all the same. Only it was human.

Which one? Which of the inhabitants of this house had killed, and killed again, and again?

I went to the lovely little writing desk in the corner and opened the top drawer. Sure enough, there was a small cache of stationery, paper, envelopes, even stamps. The paper was thick and lovely, meant for invitations, thank-yous, gracious correspondence. I had nothing else to use for a list. I pulled out several sheets and the pen, also thoughtfully provided, and headed the top one ‘Events'.

The first listing there was obviously the skeleton. I was about to write it in when I had another thought. Really the first odd thing to happen was Dave Harrison's conversation with Julie, that first night, and then his drunken outburst just before dinner.

Julie had shut him up on that occasion. Why? What had he said, exactly, that she wanted to cut off?

I headed a second sheet ‘Queries' and wrote that one in, and then went back to the skeleton.

There were plenty of questions about him. It seemed likely that the first question, his identity, had been answered. But assuming he was Harry Upshawe, who killed him? Why? When? And another one that just occurred to me: why had the pilot of that aircraft not tried to contact Harry when he didn't show up for the planned trip?

Maybe someone had called the pilot, someone pretending to be Harry, saying he couldn't make it after all. That could be important, a lead . . .

And then I realized it was only another dead end. We couldn't question the pilot; he had gone down somewhere near São Miguel.

Nevertheless, I wrote the question down. There might be some way to check fifty-year-old flight plans. I doubted it, but Alan might know.

Lots of questions. No answers. I went back to my Events page.

The next things, in the order they had happened, not when I learned about them, were the complicated series of events involving Laurence, the vicar and the Harrisons. I began to note them down with some care.

The first was Laurence's conversation with the vicar. I wrote down the gist of it, as best I remembered. Alan, who had a policeman's memory for detail, could correct me. Then Laurence had started on his walk.

Meanwhile, Dave and Julie, in their irrational state, had decided to try to get away. They heard Laurence's – confession was too strong a word – his narrative. Julie, somewhat surprisingly, was bright enough to realize the implications and warn Dave – who then went off after Laurence.

And then what? Julie could have told us. Julie had disappeared. Laurence could have told us. Laurence had received a blow to the head that wiped out his memory.

At this stage of my unproductive exercise, Alan rapped on the door, and I let him in. He carried not only a large crate of food, but – bless him – a canvas bag full of books.

‘Sorry I was so long, love. Tom and I delivered everyone else's first.'

‘How are they all holding up?'

‘As one might expect. The Bateses are inclined to be a bit resentful; I am abrogating their responsibilities, after all. Mr Bates is testy; his wife is defensive but more inclined to cooperate.' He took a box of cereal out of his crate, and a couple of cans of peaches.

‘I suspect Mr Bates is still feeling a bit poorly, after that faint. It was only yesterday, wasn't it? Time is behaving very oddly.'

‘It does. Yes, it was yesterday, and Mr Bates is obviously feeling “poorly”, as you put it. The rest are bearing up, though Jim and Joyce are desperately worried, and feeling guilty.'

‘That's ridiculous. Nothing they did caused any of the awfulness.'

‘They assembled the house party. And of course we're just assuming that—'

‘Alan!'

‘I like them, too, but I think like a policeman, love. I can't help it. Where were Jim and Joyce when Harrison met his death?'

I tried to think back through the eternity that had passed since last Friday. ‘Napping! A bunch of people did that afternoon, remember? None of us had had much sleep.'

‘Exactly. And presumably they'll vouch for each other. As evidence, it's useless.'

‘Well, but what about . . .' I paused to think about the other victims. Laurence's story was allied with Dave's. Julie had run off to hide, the first time and possibly this time, too. Mike, poor idiot, had gone his own ill-advised way. But . . .

‘The skeleton! And the mummy! Jim and Joyce couldn't have had anything to do with them.'

‘Probably not. But we're assuming that both old deaths took place longer than two years ago. Until we get a forensics expert in here, that's not a proven fact.'

‘Harry Upshawe died fifty years ago!'

‘Probably, but we have not yet proven –
proven
, I said – that the skeleton belonged to Harry, nor indeed that Harry is dead, rather than living in happy senility in America somewhere. I have to put Jim and Joyce in the category of suspects. Unlikely, I agree, but not impossible.'

‘We've eaten their salt!' I was beginning to be very angry indeed at my husband's stubbornness.

‘Nevertheless.'

Ever since I was a child, I've wept when I was furious. I hated it then; I appeared to be full of misery when I was in fact full of rage. And I hated it now. I felt the tears start and turned my head so Alan wouldn't see. We almost never quarrelled, and maybe there was some misery involved with my tears, after all. I fumbled blindly for a book and took it to the farthest corner of the room.

He knows me rather well. He said nothing, but continued unpacking the groceries and stowing them away as best he could.

‘Sandwich?' he offered when he had put all the food away.

‘Thank you, no.' I was starving, but unwilling to let go of my anger. I turned another page I hadn't read. In sudden dismay, I glanced at the book to make sure I wasn't holding it upside down. It was right side up, but it was a book of Victorian sermons. Probably Alan had brought it so we could laugh over it together.

Another tear squeezed out and rolled down my cheek.

It was Alan who patched it up. He must have heard my stomach growl; I was really very hungry. He came over to me, gently took my book away, and said, ‘I imagine your head and stomach would be happier with tea than a glass of wine, my dear. Darjeeling, perhaps? And a chocolate biscuit or two?'

My stomach spoke again. I swallowed. ‘Yes, please.' There were still tears in my voice.

Alan sat down next to me. ‘Dorothy. I'm exceedingly sorry. You married a stubborn man, my dear.'

‘And you a stubborn woman.'

‘And we're both still convinced we're right, but we can't . . . Dorothy, I never want anything that trivial to come between us again.'

‘Trivial? A question of murder?'

‘A difference of opinion. I fully concede that I've been wrong before, particularly when it came to my opinion about a suspect versus yours, and I may be wrong this time. Now, may I make you some tea?'

I took his hand. ‘And several sandwiches. I was ready to eat those sermons.'

TWENTY-TWO

I
t had grown dark by the time we finished our tea/supper. Alan lit the lantern and a soft glow permeated the room. If I sat close to the light, I thought I might be able to read, for a while, at least.

‘I'll trade you the sermons for something a little more frivolous,' I said.

‘Agatha Christie?'

I shuddered. ‘No. Too topical. There wouldn't be any P.G. Wodehouse?'

He rooted in the box and handed me a large volume of Jeeves stories.

‘Perfect. I can't read more than one or two at a sitting – it's like consuming too many desserts – but one will certainly lighten the gloom. Where are you going?'

For Alan had put on his coat and hat.

‘To fetch some wood, for a start. The fire's nearly dead, and it's getting distinctly chilly now that the sun's gone down. We'll need more tea presently, and I don't think I could boil water over those embers. Then I thought I'd get Jim to help, and try again.'

‘Flares?'

He nodded. ‘Maybe three volleys, if the supply will hold up. Most of Jim's stash is more spectacular stuff, not terribly suitable for the purpose, but we'll try.'

I could have made a remark about collaborating with a murder suspect. I didn't. The sore spot was still tender. Leave it alone. I contented myself with a caution. ‘Be careful with those things. I'd simply hate to have you blinded, or worse. And come back soon, love. It's . . . creepy in here without you.'

And cold. When I had locked the door behind him, I put on my coat and hat, moved the lantern to a table near the dying fire, and settled back close to both, trying to pretend I was warm.

I found I couldn't concentrate on ‘Jeeves Takes Charge' with much more success than I'd had with the Reverend Entwhistle's sermons. I knew the Wodehouse text almost by heart; perhaps that had something to do with it. I did wish Alan would come back with the wood. Arthritic hands never turn pages easily. Cold arthritic hands have a really hard time. I dropped the book twice, the second time on my foot. Thirty-four stories in one book pack a punch. I gave it up, carried the lantern over to the bedside table, and climbed in, clothes and all, bringing my earlier lists with me.

Studying them by the soft lantern-light, I saw that they weren't very useful. The questions had no answers, or none that I could find. The events made no sense, individually or collectively. I picked up a third sheet of expensive stationery and headed it ‘People'.

Begin with Jim and Joyce. What did I know about them?
Know
– not surmise.

I thought about ruling some columns and decided the paper wasn't big enough for that, and anyway, my mind doesn't work that neatly. I think in narrative.

So I wrote down their ages: fifty or so, both of them, at a guess. Americans. Lived at Branston Abbey for about two-and-a-half years. Extremely wealthy. Jim was retired – no, I was assuming that, I didn't know for sure. Tom and Lynn would know. They would also know where he had worked, or was still working, and where they had lived before coming here. Not in America for quite a while, I was guessing. Or . . . wait. Had Tom or Lynn said something about the Moynihans moving here to get away from the Harrisons? I couldn't remember for sure.

I needed to talk to them. Surely Alan would rule
them
out as suspects? Well, whether he did or not, I was going to invite them to come share our food and our fire, and pick their brains.

What else did I know about Jim and Joyce? They loved England. They loved trees and beautiful gardens and old houses. They had excellent taste in furniture and food, and enjoyed tradition – witness the planned Guy Fawkes celebration. They were cordial and thoughtful hosts, trying to make the best of a well-nigh unbearable situation.

They were childless. Did I know that, for sure? I wracked my brains, but couldn't remember being told that. Maybe I only surmised it; I had seen no family photos. I added another query to the list I needed to ask Tom and Lynn and lay back, dissatisfied.

So far there wasn't a thing known about the Moynihans that could clearly exonerate them from any except the oldest deaths, and those did not, necessarily, have anything to do with the modern ones.

‘Bosh!' I said out loud. My instincts were usually reliable about this sort of thing. The house and its troubled history was at the root of the whole conundrum. I was as sure of that as . . . well, I was sure.

Tom and Lynn, Alan and I. Well, I knew I hadn't murdered anybody, and I would go to my death swearing Alan hadn't. And Tom and Lynn didn't know the Moynihans well, or the house at all. They were in their early sixties, and hadn't moved to England until about thirty years ago. So even if they'd had motive, which was a ludicrous idea, they couldn't have disposed of the skeleton. For I was utterly convinced that the skeleton was Harry Upshawe's, and that meant it had been under that oak tree for fifty years.