âDo you now?' she said dully. She made a visible effort to pull herself together. âI wouldn't know about that.'
Markby leaned forward, resting his clasped hands on the edge of the table. âYou know, it's a funny thing,' he said conversationally. âBut many a witness doesn't come forward because he or she believes what he or she knows isn't important. Or that he or she knows nothing. Yet when we do find these people and talk to them, it's amazing what they start to remember.'
Linda Jones made no reply and he went on. âI'm not seeking to stir up old pain, Mrs Jones. I'm not seeking to make anything public. But I believe he's still here in Lower Stovey and I mean to have him yet.'
Something in his voice, a touch of steel, had frightened her and she looked up, shying her head away from him like a nervous beast.
âDon't be alarmed,' he urged. âI told you, I don't mean to make anything public. Just now, you said you wished you'd spoken to Hester Millar when you passed her. It might have made a difference, you said, or it might not. But you did right to tell the police about it. Because whether it makes a difference is something the investigating officers will decide. So many witnesses,' Markby added with a pleasant smile, âtry to second-guess us. They tell us what they think we want to know and leave out things they fancy aren't important.'
She said very quietly, âIf there were other women who were attacked by that man, women who haven't come forward ever, it will be because they have spent more than twenty years burying that memory. They wouldn't be able to tell you anything. None of them saw his face. All they heard was a footstep, a breath and then that horrible earthy-smelling sackâ' She put her hands over her face and, after a moment, took them away.
âMr Markby,' she said, her voice shaking a little but still filled with resolve, âI can't tell you anything. I â I wish you weren't still looking for him and I can't say I hope you find him. All it will do is stir up old trouble, memories no one wants recalled. Those women who didn't come forward, they had their reasons. They were maybe going steady with a young man and were afraid that he might not want them any more, if they were dirtied in that way.'
He hadn't meant to interrupt at this moment when she'd at last begun to speak, but he couldn't prevent himself exclaiming, âIt wasn't their fault. The women themselves had done nothing wrong.'
âDoes that matter?' she asked simply. âThe result's the same. They might have been told by their families not to go near the
woods, it wasn't safe. They might have gone there anyway and then been afraid to own up. They'd be blamed because they disobeyed. The family would say, the girl had brought it on herself.' Her gaze met his briefly, âThere's no way out,' she said. âNot living in a small place like this. Clever people living in towns might say differently. But here, well, certainly twenty-two years ago, we all knew each other so well. We all had to live cheek by jowl. No one wanted to believe there was something â someone â so evil here, in Lower Stovey, so they had to believe it was somehow the victim's fault, do you see?'
He did see. After a moment, Markby said, âThe young man, the girl's boyfriend, you spoke of, he might have guessed what had happened?'
She gave a faint travesty of a smile. âOh yes, he might have guessed. And he might have said, so long as no one knew, he'd not speak of it again and I â the girl wouldn't speak of it and it'd be forgotten.'
âAnd has it been forgotten?'
âNo,' she said quietly. âThe knowledge is like some kind of growth, like a fungus that you get on rotten wood. It gets bigger and smells fouler and you can't do anything about it because you've agreed to pretend it's not there. After a while, you can't speak of it but you're aware of it, oh, you're aware of it there at your shoulder all right. I can't speak of it, Superintendent, I'll never speak of it.'
Markby's gaze drifted to the birthday cake.
âOh yes,' she said. âIt's possible, but I don't know, no more does Kevin. You see, we were courting at the time and we â well, we were going to get married anyway when I was eighteen so we sort of jumped the gun, if you like.'
âSo that's another thing between you that you never speak of?'
She gave that sad smile again. âHow can we, now?'
Markby got to his feet. âI'm truly sorry to have bothered you.' He hesitated. âIt's just, I've been remembering the Potato Man for over twenty years, too. He's never left me. I failed to find him. That matters to me. Because I failed to find him after the first reported attack, on Mavis Cotter, other women became his victims. It is, if you like, on my conscience. It's the thing at my shoulder which doesn't go away. I'll follow up any small clue, even now. Goodbye, Mrs Jones.'
As he reached the door he thought he heard a muffled sound behind him, as if she'd spoken, and he looked back.
She had taken sausage meat from a bowl and was rolling it into a long snake.
Without looking up at him, she said, âHe had a working man's hands.'
âYou're sure of that?'
âOh yes. And they weren't young hands, if you see what I mean. They'd calluses on them from years of work.'
Old Martin Jones was still in the barn as Markby passed by but he didn't look in. He'd no wish to buy a conveyance. He got in his car and drove slowly down the track to where it joined the road. There, instead of turning left up towards the village, he turned right and drove the remaining two hundred yards to where the road terminated and the woods began.
Switching off the engine, Markby sat back and stared through the windscreen at the dark mass of the woods, shivering in the wind. Meredith would be at Ruth's by now and they'd be waiting for him. He didn't want to be involved in tea, cake and
chatter. He had to come here again. The woods drew him to them, the woods and their secret. He was right. He'd begun to work it out on the day of Hester's death, the conviction growing ever stronger, just the details blurred. But what he hadn't got was any kind of proof. And would he ever get it? Which was worse? Not knowing? Or believing he knew and not being able to prove it? And why Hester? If anyone had died, should it not have been Ruth Pattinson Aston, the local girl?
Markby got out of the car, slammed the door and made for the stile. He climbed over it and jumped down on the damp earth. He sniffed, able to smell the rain. The noise made by the wind in the trees was so loud now, it sounded like the angry roaring of some creature roaming in there. He had to force away the idea, remembering with a wry grimace his words to Meredith, that whatever lurked in the woods had only ever been entirely human. Markby turned up the collar of his jacket and set off down the narrow track between the trees.
When Alan's car had disappeared from sight, Meredith turned in under the lych-gate and walked towards the church door. It was unlocked. Ruth had been here today. Ruth had courage. Before she went into the porch Meredith turned her head and glanced back at the Fitzroy Arms. No one stood in its doorway now but she fancied something moved behind one of the windows. She didn't doubt she was being observed and another black mark being put down against her.
She opened the wire door and went down the few steps into the old church. It was cool and smelled a little musty, the odour of dust in old fabric hangings and piled up in nooks and crannies where Ruth's duster couldn't reach. By the place where
Hester had been found someone had put flowers in a vase. Hester's story would become part of the story of this church, related to visitors in years to come.
The Fitzroy monuments in their splendour looked forlorn, forgotten, out of their time and their place. In their boastfulness of a lost grandeur, they put Meredith in mind of Shelley's âOzymandias'. Nothing lasts for ever, she thought, not a great name nor great wealth nor a social system which put the squire securely at the top of the local heap. She tried to imagine Sir Rufus in his periwig, proceeding majestically to his appointed seat between obsequious rows of other worshippers, the majority of whom would've depended on him for their livelihoods. Or, to go further back, wicked old Sir Hubert, wheeling and dealing with the bishop, offering a church for a pardon. âI can't say better than that, your grace, now, can I?' And the bishop, knowing he'd got Hubert on the run, insisting that the new church must be large, splendid, well-appointed. Seen in the context of all the past, Hester's murder was just one more event to be absorbed by St Barnabas and relegated in time, like the others, to history.
Outside the church again, the wind ruffled her hair and the uncut grass growing long on the untended graves swayed like a hayfield. Meredith walked around to the south side and stared up at the carving of the Green Man. There was a look of malign mischief on his face still, even though the stone was weatherworn. Meredith shivered, perhaps because of the carving, perhaps because the wind pierced the thin fabric of her shirt. Then she heard behind her a sound which wasn't the wind or the rustling grass, a heavy, laboured breathing.
The hairs on her neck prickled. Meredith turned slowly and
looked around her. The churchyard appeared empty. But she could still hear that eerie breathing. It came from the direction of a mossy tomb. For a few seconds she froze in pure panic. What was in there, trying to get out? Then, pulling herself together, she told herself firmly that it was in the middle of a Saturday afternoon and whatever was making its presence known in this deserted place, it was of this world and no other. Of course the sound didn't come
from
the tomb. It came from
behind
it. Cautiously she picked her way towards the spot.
Behind the tomb, slumped on the ground, his back to the monument, was Old Billy Twelvetrees. His stick lay on the ground beside him. When his eyes fixed on her, he opened his mouth, but then abandoned the attempt to speak, merely pointing feebly at his chest.
He suffered from angina, Meredith remembered Ruth telling her so. She stooped over him, âDon't worry, Mr Twelvetrees. I'll get help. I've got my mobile and I'll call an ambulance.'
Alarm crossed his face. He waved his hand in a gesture of negation. His mouth opened again and he wheezed, so quietly she had to stoop right down beside him to catch the words, âI don't want â to go to â no hospital.'
âYou can't stay here, Mr Twelvetrees.'
âI â got â my pills. All I want â are â my pills.' His hand dropped to his side and he tapped the pocket of his jacket.
âAre they in your pocket?' Meredith hunkered down and prepared to search his jacket pocket. She didn't particularly relish pushing her hand down among the fluff and bits of sticky rubbish but there was a small bottle. She pulled it out and held it up. âThese?'
He nodded.
Meredith scanned the wording on the bottle, opened it and tapped out a small white pill on her palm. âJust open your mouth a bit, can you?'
She pushed the pill through his withered lips.
The muscles of his face moved as he sucked on the pill. After a bit he wheezed, âI can get up now if youâ' Another wave of his hand.
âI'll help you. Look, here's your stick and you can brace yourself against this tomb.'
Somehow she got him upright. A flush of colour had returned to his cheeks. He said, more clearly than before, âI get took sometimes like it. I just sat down for a minute because it come on bad.'
âPerhaps we can get you home, Mr Twelvetrees, and then I can phone your doctor.'
âI got pills,' he repeated stubbornly.
âYes, I know, but I still think â let's get you home first, shall we?'
With his stick to support him on one side and leaning heavily on her arm on the other, he progressed slowly to the path and down it, under the lych-gate, out into the street.
âI live along there,' he gasped, indicating the left hand row of cottages.
At that moment, Evie appeared in the pub doorway. âSummat wrong with you, then, Uncle Billy?' Her round face wrinkled in alarm.
âHe's had an angina attack,' Meredith called to her. âDo you know his doctor?'
Evie gaped at her. âOh, it'll be Dr Stewart.'
âCan I bring your uncle inside?'
Evie dithered and then stood back as if to allow them into the pub. But Old Billy gasped, âI can get to my house.'
âIf you're sure,' Meredith told him doubtfully. To Evie she called, âHe wants to go to his house. Can you call Dr Stewart's surgery and tell them what's happened? I think someone should call on Mr Twelvetrees today.'
Evie blinked at her, then turned and went inside, with luck to ring the doctor.
She and Billy made an ungainly progress to his ramshackle cottage. Meredith propped him against the wall by the door and rapped the fox's head knocker as loudly as she could. No one came.
Old Billy said, âDilys will be about somewhere. You can leave me here.'
âNo, I can't, Mr Twelvetrees. Haven't you got a key?'