A Dark and Stormy Night (30 page)

‘If you can.' He sounded even more dubious. ‘It's very dirty; the catch may be corroded.'

With very great care, I manipulated the locket, through the thin plastic of its container. Getting a fingernail in the crack between the two halves, I pressed the catch.

It opened, showing itself quite clean on the inside. The tiny gold ovals on either side framed two pictures. One showed a young girl with flowing blond hair pulled back with a blue ribbon. She was beautiful, with a classic profile, lovely bones, a gracefully shaped head held high, proudly. She wore small gold hoop earrings and a locket around her neck. The other was of a man a good deal older than she, handsome in a weather-beaten sort of way. He had a stern, unsmiling face.

‘Thank you,' I said, and handed the bag back. I didn't close the locket. Let that be remembered in my favour when St Peter reckons up the score.

THIRTY-THREE

N
ow I knew what I had to do. I didn't like it at all, and I had no idea how to go about it, except that I must do it alone.

I would have liked a little quiet time in the cloister, but the men were out there working. I peeked out from Julie's old room that had such a splendid view. I could hear the braying of saws, could see, through the holes in the roof, Ed and Mr Bates manhandling a branch of oak here, Jim hauling away a pile of debris there, Tom and Alan setting up a sawhorse, even Laurence and the vicar gathering up broken glass with gloved hands.

No possibilities there.

I went to my room, put my coat on, and went outside by the kitchen hallway. Savoury smells were coming from the kitchen, and I heard Rose humming as she worked. I felt slightly sick.

The sun was bright, but not warm. Winter was coming. The grass, even after all the rain, was becoming dry and brittle. Leaves on the few trees still standing were fading from their autumn grandeur to winter brown or gray, or falling from their living branches to lie in melancholy silence on the dying earth.

I walked south to the water meadows. Here the mud lay thick, a fetid brown slime covering all the vegetation. A dead fish, stranded by the receding waters, stared at me with its dull eye. A boat was pulled far up on the shore, its sides mud-splattered, heavy footprints all around testifying to the unloading of provisions.

Walking was treacherous. I had foolishly not worn wellies, nor had I brought my cane. I turned back. There was no respite here, either.

My head was throbbing. The pain hadn't yet begun, but the pounding was growing stronger.

So unfocused was my mind that the helicopter was in sight before I recognized the sound for what it was, and then it was too late to hide. Whether the arrivals were more police, or the media again, I didn't want to talk to them. I didn't want to talk to anybody except Alan. Alan the forbidden confidant, Alan the one person I must not even be near lest I say too much.

But the person who stepped out of the helicopter, who was helped out of the helicopter by a man with a microphone, hobbling on crutches and smiling broadly, was Michael Leonev, aka Mike Leonard.

I rubbed my eyes and looked again. It was still Mike.

He struck a pose, using one crutch like a royal staff. ‘Hail the conquering hero comes!' he shouted. ‘Or rather, not so terribly heroic, and not the conqueror of anything in particular – but definitely, my dear, I have arrived!'

He snapped me out of my daze. I knew everyone in the house would be out here in seconds. I ran to him, faster than I knew I could move, and pulled his head down so I could make myself heard over the rotors and the clamour of the reporters.

‘Mike, listen! I'm terribly glad to see you, but all that has to wait. Can you keep everyone occupied for fifteen minutes, at least? Longer if possible, but fifteen minimum? And
in the house!
As far away from the kitchen, and from the back windows, as you can manage.'

‘Dear lady! Mine not to question why, mine but to . . . yes, my dears! This thy son was dead and is alive! Kill the fatted calf! But do let's save felicitations until we're inside and I can sit down, or better yet lie down. I confess to a trifling fatigue.'

The women, being nearest, had arrived first and clustered around Mike, chattering and laughing and questioning – and being questioned by the eager media. I slipped away unnoticed and lay in wait for my quarry.

As I had half-expected, he was the last out of the cloister, walking slowly, as if reluctant to leave the work even to welcome back one we had believed dead. I cut him off from the rest.

‘Mr Bates, there's something urgent in the kitchen. Can you spare a moment?'

He smiled at me, that movie-star smile, that heartbreaking smile so like the smile in the locket, and gestured for me to precede him.

When we were safely inside, I saw the last of the house party vanish up the stairs in Mike's wake. Two of the men were carrying him, to the accompaniment of great hilarity. Only then did I began to speak, very quietly, in case any policemen were within earshot.

‘John, I know all about it. I know the whole story, what you did and why, but I'm not going to tell anyone just yet. You must leave, you and Rose, you must leave
now
! Take your friend's boat and go.'

‘Madam, what are you talking about?' He clung to the Jeeves persona. I admired his nerve, but I could have shaken him.

‘Don't waste time!' I hissed. ‘There are still police in the house. They'll figure it out soon, and then it will be too late for you. You have two options: stay and be arrested for the murder of Dave Harrison, or leave this place and save yourselves.'

He had a third option, but I hoped he wouldn't think of it. We were alone in that part of the house, and he still carried the hammer he had been using in the cloister. If he kept his nerve—

But he didn't. He saw the certainty in my face and broke.

‘I— it wasn't murder! I swear it. I never meant— Rose, tell her!'

We had arrived in the kitchen, where Rose was stirring a heavenly-smelling pot. She looked from one of us to the other, turned pale, and dropped the spoon. It clattered to the floor.

She started to speak, but I held up a hand. ‘Rose, listen. I know everything. John's family story, his love for this house, everything. And because I have a good deal of sympathy for both of you, I'm giving you this chance to get away. If you don't take it, it means a long prison term for John, and maybe for you, too, if you're convicted as an accessory.
Please
listen!' I was near tears of desperation. ‘You only have a few minutes before everyone will come back downstairs, and they may come to the kitchen. You don't have time to decide, or explain, or pack up. Just
go
!'

John put his arm around Rose. She leaned close to him as he cleared his throat. ‘It's very good of you, madam, but life away from this house would have little meaning for me. I will not leave.' Jeeves was back in perfect command of himself. ‘But I cannot allow you to believe that I am a murderer. I must explain what happened. There is no great hurry. If you would come with me?'

I followed him to the part of the kitchen wing I had never seen, the Bateses' private quarters. The cozy sitting room had no fire in the fireplace – no dry wood, I remembered – but it was beautifully warm. On the mantel above the cold hearth were pictures, among them a large copy of the tiny photo I had seen in the locket.

‘She was my grandmother,' said John, following my gaze. ‘You probably knew that. But do please sit down, Mrs Martin.'

‘I thought she must be. Did she die in childbirth?'

‘She died,' said John with precision, ‘
of
childbirth, but not in the process. She killed herself when she realized the father of the child was not going to marry her, as he had promised.'

‘The father being Harry Upshawe.'

John nodded.

‘But John, who raised the child, then? The child who became your mother?'

‘The child was a boy, who became my father. He was raised by the man who gave him his name, the man who should have been my grandfather, Samuel Bates.'

And the last little piece clicked neatly into place. ‘They were engaged, then?'

‘They were before that devil from hell came along. Annie Watkins was parlourmaid here then. There was still lots of money, and they had a large staff. Not what it had been before the wars, but big enough. It provided a lot of employment hereabouts, did Branston Abbey. Annie lived here, and that was the death of her. She fell in love with “the young master”.'

His tone of voice splashed the phrase with vitriol.

‘She was sure he would marry her. He was full of charm, so they say, and full of promises. But he wanted to make sure, he said, that the baby was a boy. He wanted an heir, and though the village was littered with his bastards, they all happened to be girls.

‘So Annie turned down Samuel Bates and waited for Prince Charming to walk her down the aisle.'

‘And instead he told her he was going to America,' I said sadly.

‘He didn't even have the courtesy to tell her. She found out from one of the other servants. And then, as my grandfather – as Samuel Bates told the story, she dressed herself in her best black, kissed her baby, and took a bottle of sleeping pills.'

‘And Samuel Bates went to have it out with Harry Upshawe. Samuel worked on the estate, too, I presume?'

‘Head gardener. He meant to beat Harry within an inch of his life, but . . .'

‘But he went that extra inch too far, and so Harry had to be buried under the oak tree. It would be easy for a gardener to disguise the digging. And your grandmother, a suicide, couldn't be buried in consecrated ground, so Samuel walled her up in that bedroom – for spite, I suppose. But wasn't there talk, in the village and on the estate? Questions about what had become of her body?'

‘There was. Samuel was a large, powerful man, and he had a temper when he'd taken a pint too much. Nobody much crossed him. And Samuel never told anyone what he had done, not even my father or me. He simply said he'd taken good care of Annie, and he hoped she'd haunt the Upshawes to the end of their days. That was why—'

I heard voices and laughter. The hungry crowds were assembling for lunch. We had very little time.

‘And . . . Dave Harrison?'

‘Mr Harrison,' said John, again in that cold, precise tone, ‘was an arrogant fool. He thought he could push ahead his scheme about some sort of holiday camp. It would never have happened – this is a Grade One listed building – but he was about to kill Laurence Upshawe to keep him from talking about Harry. I have no great love for Upshawes, but he was of the estate. My claim as heir is better than his. I am the son of Harry Upshawe's only son. But the present Mr Upshawe did inherit, according to the law. I stopped Mr Upshawe being killed, but Harrison had already struck him with that stone. We struggled. Harrison slipped and fell in the river. He couldn't swim. I reached out a branch to him, but it was too short.'

‘And you led the searchers to Laurence, so he could be found and cared for.'

‘I should have taken them there sooner, but I was afraid everyone would think what you did think. I bear the guilt for that, if Mr Upshawe suffers any permanent damage. But Rose bears no blame. She knew nothing about it until yesterday. I thought it as well to tell her, with police in the house. She will carry on here until I can return.' He kissed her, then straightened his back. ‘May I ask you to excuse me, madam? I must go to find a police officer.'

THIRTY-FOUR

‘
T
here was talk in the village, of course, even years later when I was old enough to understand.' Pat held the floor as we sat in the drawing room over postprandial drinks. It was our last such gathering. With a mummy, a skeleton, a recent body, and a limping dancer to transport, not to mention various pieces of evidence and, of lesser importance, a good many house guests, the police had commandeered workers from every available source to clear the drive and put a temporary bridge in place. Tomorrow we could all go home.

The media had come again, and gone again. The police had gone, taking John Bates with them. They promised to release Julie in the morning and bring her back here. I didn't envy Jim and Joyce having to deal with her.

‘No one knew for certain what had become of Annie Watkins,' Pat went on. ‘Some said old Samuel had disposed of her body in the convenient river. Some doubted she was dead at all, said she'd fled to cousins in Canada.'

‘Not to her parents?' asked Lynn.

‘She was an orphan. That's one reason she lived at the Abbey.'

‘And Samuel never told anyone?' Alan asked.

‘Old Samuel could be an offensive fellow in his cups. John Bates holds him in high esteem, as well he might, but the villagers didn't like him much. There were even those who said he'd walled Annie up in the Abbey alive.'

‘Not so very far from the truth,' I said with a shudder.

Pat nodded. ‘At any rate, I gather there began to be an odd feeling about the Abbey in the sixties, talk of ghosts and so on.'

‘Was that why it was so hard to sell? I'm a bit surprised Laurence stuck it out as long as he did.'

‘Perhaps there were other attractions in the neighbourhood,' I said, for her ears only.

She took a long pull at her drink and said nothing.

‘What I don't see, Dorothy, is how you figured it all out.' That was Lynn again.

‘It was the mummy, really, the mummy and Mr Bates's reaction to it. He's not a fainting man. Annie wasn't a pleasant sight, but neither was the skeleton, and Mr Bates dealt with it with his usual aplomb. So when he fainted at the sight of Annie, I thought it must be because he knew who she was, and had some association with her. He was far too young to have put her there, and anyway he would scarcely have showed her to us if he knew she was there. So I went about working out what the relationship might be, and . . . Bob's your uncle.'