âTurned his head,' said Meredith.
âYes. He'd never had to overcome any kind of obstacle or adjust his thinking to anyone else's needs. I believe he felt that by putting an obstacle in his path, I was behaving unfairly by him.'
She heaved a deep sigh and sat back in her chair.
âHow,' Markby asked her, âdid you know â or what led you to suspect â the bones belonged to Simon Hastings? I assume that by the time he disappeared, you'd already been out of touch with him for years. He lived and worked in London. Why should he turn up in Stovey Woods?'
She poured another sherry which she picked up with a trembling hand. âYou're right. I hadn't seen him for years, not
until August, 1978. I was by then thirty-five, unmarried, teaching English. It was the summer vacation and I came here to Lower Stovey to visit my father. I was worried about him. My mother had died six months earlier. He was a very unworldly man and had always depended on her. She did everything, not only ran his house but ran his parish affairs, kept his diary. She was a sort of general factotum in our house. She was very capable, you see, and he wasn't. So when she died, he was lost. He couldn't keep his own diary. He kept forgetting to turn up at PCC meetings or for baptisms or even weddings. There was a frightful hoohah on one occasion when he had to be fetched from his study while the poor bride waited at the church door! Her father was most upset and wrote to the bishop. The bishop got in touch with me. He thought perhaps my father was in need of rest and recuperation. He suggested he go on retreat and sent me the address of a convent where they made a speciality of running restorative breaks for harassed clergy.'
Ruth made a gesture of resignation. âI knew what was wrong with my father and that it would take more than a week in secluded surroundings with meditation and plain cooking to repair it. It wasn't something that could be repaired. I knew he could never manage alone. I made the mistake of expressing my doubts to the bishop and that got me another letter, hinting that it might be the answer if I could find it in my heart to return home, give up my teaching career, and stay here as my father's housekeeper.'
Ruth smiled. âHester talked me out of that. She said it was a Victorian idea. She pointed out, quite rightly, that if I agreed, within weeks I'd be in need of rest and recuperation myself. I'd
probably have a nervous breakdown. So there I was, not knowing quite what to do, staying with my father while I tried to find a solution which would suit us both. He, poor dear, was oblivious of any problem. I had to stop him wearing odd socks.'
Ruth broke off and in a sudden change of subject asked, âYou won't have eaten dinner, will you? Would you like something? I could do us all scrambled eggs on toast.'
âI'll do it later,' Meredith said. âWhen you've finished.' She thought Alan gave her a slightly apprehensive look. She wasn't noted for her culinary expertise. Still, she ought to be able to manage scrambled eggs.
âIt was late summer,' Ruth began her story again. âThe weather was very hot, I remember. My father was calmer now I was there but still getting muddled. He sometimes called me Mary, my mother's name. He'd had a terrible upset in addition to her death. There had been some attacks on women in the area of Stovey Woods and the old drovers' way. Really vicious attacks, rapes. The police had been to the village asking everyone questions and they'd come to visit my father and ask him if there was anyone who'd been acting strangely or anything he'd noticed or been told that was odd. My father assured them it was out of the question that anyone living in Lower Stovey could have anything to do with it. He thought the police accepted his word but he was badly shaken.'
âI'm the officer who spoke to him,' Alan said. âI remember our conversation. I'm sorry if he was upset by my visit, but it's the nature of police enquiries to upset people. It wasn't a question of accepting his word. I'd no doubt he quite genuinely believed no local man was involved. He may even have been right. But we didn't know that and we still don't.'
âWas it you? How odd,' Ruth said. âIt is a small world, isn't it? Just like they say.'
âFor what it's worth,' Markby added, âI found your father a little eccentric but coherent. He defended his parishioners with great energy.'
âYou didn't know him as well I as did. You couldn't be expected to notice the deterioration. After your visit â I'm not blaming you, please don't think that, but it sort of tipped him over the edge. After that, it was downhill all the way, I'm afraid. He got worse and worse. Despite everything Hester had said, I began to think I would have no choice but to stay on. My father had a dog, a labrador, which had been my mother's pet. That afternoon when it happenedâ' Ruth paused again.
Markby prompted, âThe afternoon Simon Hastings disappeared.'
She flushed then gave a rueful grimace. âYou're ahead of me, aren't you? There's me trying to explain and I dare say you half know what I'm going to tell you. I wanted to get out of the vicarage for a while, give myself some space to think. I took the dog and walked up towards Stovey Woods. I knew about the attacks but I didn't intend to go into the woods, just amble round the perimeter across Mr Jones's fields. But the dog ran ahead. She ran into the woods and I had to chase after her. I'd called her until I was blue in the face and she took not a bit of notice. Poor dog, I think she was so delighted to be out and running around. My father never remembered to walk her.
âSo I followed her into the woods and after a few minutes I heard someone talking to her, a man. There, ahead of me, was someone sitting on a fallen trunk, a rucksack by his feet. The dog was standing in front of him and he was scratching her
head. One of the hikers who walk the old drovers' way, I thought, and I called out a greeting. It never occurred to me it might be the rapist, in case you're wondering, because it was so obviously a hiker. He looked up and I saw it was Simon. For a moment we just stood there, staring at one another. The dog stood between us, panting. It sounded so loud, I remember. Then Simon said, “Ruth? What are you doing here?”
âI told him my father lived nearby. He said he was walking the old way. He'd got a business in London making natural beauty products from plants and was doing very well. He was looking around in the woods for ideas for new preparations. He was a botanist by training. Eventually â after he'd talked extensively about himself â he remembered to ask what I was doing. I told him I was teaching. I waited for him to ask about our child but he said nothing. So then I got angry and asked him, “Don't you want to know about the baby?” He said, “Baby?” in a blank way which really riled me.
â“Yes, baby. I had him adopted,” I told him. And do you know what he said? He said, “Oh, that's all right, then.”
âAnd then,' said Ruth. âI really lost my temper.'
âI'm not surprised,' Meredith couldn't prevent herself commenting.
âIt surprised him,' Ruth told her. âHe stood there while I ranted and raved at him. I can see his face now. He looked stunned, foolish, even a bit frightened. I can't remember all I shouted. “Don't you want to know what happened to your son?” was one of the things I yelled. “Don't you even remember he'll be twelve years old now?” Eventually I ran out of steam, turned and fled. I just couldn't bear looking at his face with that stupid, gawping expression. I think he might have called
after me but he didn't run after me. He let me go. I went running on until I was out of puff and found myself way out in the middle of Jones's fields with a surprised-looking horse staring at me. The dog was running alongside me, jumping up and trying to get my attention because she could see I was unhappy. It was almost funny in a grotesque way. There I was in the middle of nowhere with a worried dog and a puzzled horse for company. I found I was crying, tears of rage, running down my face. There was a stream running along the edge of the field so I made my way there, knelt down and splashed my face and tried to repair the damage. The dog and the horse followed me. The dog, being a labrador and loving water, jumped in and began to swim about. Eventually, I got up and said to the horseâ'
Ruth broke off and added apologetically, âI know this sounds quite mad, but that's what I did. Perhaps I had gone just a little mad for a while. So I said, “I'm all right now.” And the horse gave a little snicker as if he understood. I called the dog and we started to walk home. I prayed we wouldn't meet anyone but of all people, we met old Billy Twelvetrees, only he wasn't so old then. He worked for Mr Jones. He asked me if there was anything wrong and I said very sniffily, “No, of course not!” He gave me a knowing sort of look and said, “That right, then?” So, to make an excuse for my red face and puffy eyes, I told him I'd been thinking about my mother. He said he'd been very sorry to hear about Miss Mary's death. Miss Mary was what he and all the villagers called my mother. He made a little speech saying she'd been a proper lady of the old school and presented me with his condolences, very formally. I said, “Thank you, Mr Twelvetrees,” and then I went home.'
Ruth sat back exhausted. âI now know I was the last person to see Simon alive.'
An icy finger ran down Meredith's spine. Could Alan be right to include Ruth on his âlist of possibles'? In this same room Ruth had told her she had been the last person to see Hester alive. In Ruth's case, lightning would seem to have struck twice in the same place. Or was it simply bad luck? Had Ruth in her own words âgone a little mad for a while' and, in her anger, struck out at Simon? Had he slipped and struck his head on the tree trunk on which he'd been sitting? She tried to force these thoughts away, saying, âI'll go and make those scrambled eggs now, shall I?'
She made her way into the kitchen and began to look around for the necessary utensils and plates. Ruth called out to ask if she needed help and she called back that she didn't. After a moment she could hear Ruth and Alan talking again. The door stood open and their voices floated through.
âWhy?' Alan was asking. âWhy did you tell me you thought you'd committed a criminal offence?'
âBecause shortly after that, Simon went missing. Well, he went missing that day, didn't he, the twenty-fourth? It was in the local press and on the news. I should have come forward and told the police I'd seen him, but I didn't want to. I was afraid I'd have to make explanations. Anyway, I told myself, it wouldn't have helped.' There was a pause. Ruth added, âWould it?'
âIt might have done. We should have been able to pinpoint the exact spot he was last seen and narrowed our search to that area. Is that what you meant by your criminal offence?'
âIt's half of it. When the bones were found, I had another
chance to come forward and tell about that day, but I still didn't. There was an outside chance you wouldn't be able to establish whose bones they were. So instead of coming forward, I burned his letters, destroying evidence, if you like. I hoped and prayed you wouldn't identify him. But you did find out who he was.'
âIt was by the purest good fortune,' Markby interrupted. âBecause he'd had distinctive dental work and the jaw was one of the bones found.'
âSee? It was meant. So then I knew I really ought to come forward because what I knew was relevant to the inquest. But I didn't want to testify at the inquest. I just couldn't do it. Later, when I met his mother in that café and heard her talking about him, I felt so guilty. Poor woman, all those years wondering what had happened. Perhaps I could have shortened her agony if I'd come forward years ago. Morally, I shouldn't have withheld my evidence and in practical terms I probably broke the law, did I?'
Meredith heard Alan say soothingly, âI'm not going to arrest you! I think you should have spoken up when he disappeared and we were appealing for any sightings of him. But as we didn't then, nor have we now, evidence that any crime had been committed connected with his disappearance, you weren't technically withholding evidence in a criminal matter. You were being unhelpful, that's all, and possibly caused some waste of police time as the wrong areas were searched. I'm not saying we would have found Simon, mind you, had you given us your information. We don't know the circumstances in which he died. The inquest is a little different. Strictly speaking, a lawyer would argue your evidence wasn't relevant since the identity of
the bones wasn't in dispute. We had forensic evidence they belonged to Simon Hastings. The fact that you saw Simon in the woods is circumstantial. It wouldn't, in itself, have meant the bones were his, though it would've raised the possibility. But given the forensic report, we didn't need it. In any case, don't worry about it. Nothing you say now adds significantly to what we already knew, that he was walking the old way when he disappeared.'
Meredith heard Ruth heave a sigh of relief. âThank you. I've been so worried and my conscience has been troubling me.'
It was at that point Meredith realised that the eggs were sticking to the bottom of the pan. Her eavesdropping had distracted her from attending to stirring. She scraped the mixture off as best she could, leaving the brown burnt bits. The toast popped up obligingly from the toaster. She set it all out on the kitchen table and went to call the others.