âIt's over now. I'll take care of it,' he said and she felt the panic seep out of her.
He held out his hand. Meredith passed him the knife, remembering belatedly to hold it by the tip of the blade, and watched him take his handkerchief and carefully wrap it round the handle.
âRight, Dilys,' he said to the figure on the ground. âIf Mrs Scott will kindly call Roger to heel, you can get up. Then we can all go back to Lower Stovey and have a word with your father.'
The short journey back to Lower Stovey in Alan's car had to be the strangest Meredith had ever made. Unable to fit in Roger, Muriel Scott had set off to walk him back home. After a brief discussion Meredith declared herself recovered enough from her fear to drive, at a snail's pace, the short distance to Lower Stovey. She was all too aware of Markby sitting in the back seat alongside a silent Dilys Twelvetrees. The woman's face was
impassive now. Her workworn hands lay folded on her knees. She stared straight ahead. Markby had phoned Dave Pearce and told him to meet them at the Twelvetrees' cottage but it would be at least twenty-five minutes before he got there.
At the cottage, Markby drew up, and they all decanted themselves into the street.
âAlanâ' Meredith touched his sleeve. âBefore I came down to the woods, the old man had a bad attack of angina. I helped him home. He mightn't be fit enough to answer questions.'
He nodded. âWe'll see. Key?' he asked Dilys.
Sullenly she pulled it from her jacket pocket.
âOpen up, then, please.'
Dilys obeyed grudgingly.
âGo in first, if you would. Tell your father I'd like a word.'
Dilys glared at him and, still silent, went into the cottage. They followed her and waited in the narrow hall.
Dilys had gone into the parlour. They heard her say, âDad?' There was no reply and after a pause they heard her coming back.
Alan swore softly under his breath and put out a hand to throw back the parlour door.
Their line of sight was blocked by the solid form of Dilys, standing before them, something of the look of triumph back on her face.
âYou won't be talking to him,' she said. âNot now, not never.' Her eyes gleamed mockingly.
Markby pushed past her. Old Billy still sat in the chair where Meredith had left him. His stick was propped against his knees and his right arm hung over the chair. Beneath his dangling hand, the little medicine bottle lay on the carpet, the pills were
scattered across it. His eyelids drooped over glazed eyes.
Markby drew in a sharp breath. To the end the Potato Man had eluded him.
Behind him, Dilys, quietly exultant, said, âSee? I told you. You ain't never going to get him now.'
At that moment they were all startled by the unexpected sound of someone clearing his throat behind them.
A youngish man in a sports jacket was standing in the doorway. He was carrying a medical bag.
âDr Stewart,' he introduced himself. âCome to see Mr Twelvetrees.'
âYour patient is in here,' Markby told him. âBut I'm afraid you're a little too late.'
As they all were.
Stewart uttered an exclamation and hurried past him into the parlour.
As he passed Dilys, she spoke for the first time. âNo use hurrying yourself, doctor. He'll wait for you.'
Her voice was swallowed up in the noise of a car drawing up. Pearce's voice could be heard calling, âSuperintendent? Are you in there?'
Markby went into the hall and found Pearce just ducking his head beneath the low lintel to enter. Behind him stood Ginny Holding and, in the background, a uniformed man.
âWhere's the woman?' Pearce asked bluntly.
Markby jerked his head towards the parlour. âIn there with her father who's just died. You'll have to tread carefully, but I think we can be sure we've got the murderer of Hester Millar. As to why, I'm sure we can work that one out now.'
Meredith came out of the parlour, pale-faced. âI feel dreadful. I should never have left the poor old chap alone. He insisted. He said his daughter would be coming in soon. I'd told the woman at the pub to call Dr Stewart and I â well, I was desperate to find you and tell you about the things in the kitchen. Are they still there?'
âDamn!' Markby muttered. He ran down the hall and into the kitchen. The table was bare. He swore loudly and forcefully.
Meredith appeared at his elbow. She glanced at the bare table-top and observed, âI really screwed this up, didn't I? I should have stayed here until I could get you on my mobile, kept an eye on Billy and made sure the box of oddments wasn't moved. Sorry.'
He hunched his shoulders. âDon't apologize. You reacted naturally given the shock you'd had. Either Dilys before she set off after you or the old man himself before he collapsed hid the evidence. Let's hope it was the old man. He couldn't have moved far and it's probably still on the premises. Dilys, on the other hand, might have got rid of it anywhere between here and Stovey Woods. It's easy to guess what happened. She came home moments after you left her father, heard from him that you'd brought him home and you'd gained entry to the cottage via the back door and the kitchen. She knew you couldn't have missed his box of trophies and you were bound to tell me about them. She set out after you,
determined to reach you before you reached me.'
âShe nearly did,' Meredith said with a shudder.
âYes.' Soberly he added, âI should have thought of that. I'd been putting it together in my head slowly for the past week, but after I'd spoken to Linda Jones I was sure. Old Billy Twelvetrees was the Potato Man of twenty-two years ago. I should also have realised that Dilys must know and have known for years.'
âAnd have kept silent?' she stared at him incredulously.
âWould you have spoken up in her situation? She lives in this village. She has nowhere else to go. Besides, twenty-two years is a long time ago. She'd believed it buried and forgotten.'
He shook his head and added, âYou know, the problem with meeting for the first time people who are already very old, is that it's hard to imagine them younger and even more difficult to imagine them involved in violence. You knew Twelvetrees only as an old fellow, lame and using a walking stick, wheezing with breathing problems. How could he ever have been a threat? Even to suspect him of anything must seem uncharitable. I or someone else must have interviewed him years ago when we talked to all the village men, but he was so changed that even I saw him as a totally different person, a new acquaintance. I only recognised Martin Jones because I saw him in his own stables. Out of his familiar environment, who knows, I probably shouldn't have recognised him, either!
âI see now I made a mistake too, back then and again now. I was assuming that rape would be the crime of a much younger man, someone in his twenties. Yet Ruth had tipped us off, had we had ears to hear. She told us, if you recall, that running from Stovey Woods where she'd encountered Simon Hastings,
she almost ran into Twelvetrees. But, as she pointed out to us, he was a lot younger then, not “old” at all, only in his late fifties, hale and hearty. He worked for Martin Jones right by Stovey Woods. No one would ever give a second thought to seeing him around there. Ruth didn't. It was where he was supposed to be.'
âRuth!' exclaimed Meredith. âShe must be wondering where on earth we are!'
As they hurried out of the house they passed Dilys being ushered into a police car by Sergeant Holding.
âTell the inspector we've gone to see Mrs Aston,' Markby ordered her.
Dilys looked up and for the first time some emotion other than the maniacal triumph entered her flat features. Genuine regret touched them before she shook her head and resignation replaced it.
âYou tell Mrs Aston,' she said to Meredith. âThat I'm sorry. But it couldn't be helped. She'd seen what you saw.'
âYou mean, Hester Millar saw your father's box of trophies,' Markby said. âWhere is it now, Dilys?'
âI don't know. Maybe,' her glance at Markby was both mocking and vindictive, âmaybe you should ask Dad?'
Meredith saw a nerve jump in his jaw but he returned calmly, âWhy did Miss Millar come to the cottage that morning?'
âBrought us some jam,' said Dilys with a sniff. âShe was always making the stuff.'
âJam!' exclaimed Ruth. âThat was it. That was what Hester was holding in her hand when she came to tell me she was leaving. A pot of jam. It was such an ordinary thing I didn't pay any
attention. I clean forgot about it but now you tell me, I can see her standing there, holding it. She didn't say she was going to Old Billy's cottage but she must have been. It was my ideaâ'
Ruth broke off and after a moment added quietly, âSo I did kill her, didn't I? Morally, anyway. It was my idea she take the jam to the old man in person. Because she did that, she walked in on the old wretch gloating over his box of trophies.'
âShe wouldn't necessarily have known what they were,' Meredith objected. âThey were just a jumble, a string of beads, a man's signet ring and so on.'
âA man's?' Markby asked her with a frown.
âYes, I realised straight away it was the odd item in the group. All the other things he'd taken from women, beads, earring, hairslide. But this ring was a big heavy thing, definitely a man'sâ' Meredith looked nervously at Ruth. âIt had the initials SH on it.' To Markby she added, âI was going to tell you about that. I hadn't got round to it.'
âI gave that ring to Simon,' Ruth said quietly. âI showed it to Hester before I gave it to him. She would have recognised it. She knew bones had been found in the woods. I'd told her about meeting Simon there that day. She knew the ring must have come from him and she must have let it be seen that she knew.'
âBut she didn't know how it got to be in that box,' Markby took up the story as Ruth fell silent. âOld Billy had got the ring in the woods, for sure. But had he taken it from a man he'd found dead? Or a man he'd killed? She went to the church and knelt in the pew, seeking guidance. She knew she'd have to tell you, Ruth. And she knew that you and she should tell the
police. It was going to take a lot of courage on your part. The story of your child would become known. She'd protected you before, all those years ago when you were pregnant. But she couldn't see a way of protecting you now.
âDilys had followed her to the church. Hester might have glanced up as Dilys came in, we don't know, but she wouldn't have feared Dilys, even in the circumstances. She knew her too well. She might even have thought that Dilys didn't know where her father had got the ring.'
Ruth stirred on the sofa where she'd been sunk in thought as Markby was speaking. âI still find it hard to believe,' she said now. âBut perhaps I shouldn't. The Twelvetrees family was always beyond the pale in Lower Stovey. It's funny, isn't it? Every village has one family which is tolerated but disapproved of.'
âProbably for good reason, even if it was the sort of reason no one spoke of. Perhaps Old Billy was the local drunk?'
âHe certainly drank but whether more than the other men, I don't know.' Ruth bit her lip. âBut looking back, I can see he was violent, even then. Domestic violence they'd call it now. Back then they probably just said he knocked his wife and kids about. Mrs Twelvetrees cleaned for my mother. She often had bruises. The girls had them, too, when they came to school. But they weren't badly marked enough for a teacher to start making enquiries. I suppose that if they ever were, they were kept home until the bruises had faded. There were days when Dilys didn't turn up. When she came back she always said she'd had a cold, but I never saw her sniffing.'
âAt school,' Markby mused. âDilys and Sandra Twelvetrees, two little red-haired girls.'
âYes,' Ruth said in surprise. âThey did have red hair. Dilys still touches hers up with hair-colourant because she started to go white quite early.' She raised her eyebrows. âHow did you know?' she asked.
âGuessed,' he said enigmatically, thinking of family photographs on the Twelvetrees mantelshelf. Three small children, all red-haired, and the later picture of Sandra née Twelvetrees posing for the camera in Disneyland, the sun setting fire to her auburn curls.
The duty solicitor, a pale-faced and earnest young man, looked unhappy. âMy client wishes to answer your questions frankly and freely. Nevertheless, I shall point out to her when she is not obliged to do so.'
âFair enough,' Pearce told him shortly. The tooth was beginning to nag again. He explored it with the tip of his tongue and winced. Beside him, Ginny Holding gave him a knowing look.
Pearce forced his mind from the tooth and concentrated on matters in hand. âRight, Dilys. Let's start at the beginning. When did you realise your father was the rapist of twenty-two years ago?'
âYou don't need to answer that!' said the solicitor immediately to Dilys. To Pearce he said, âYou have no evidence the late Mr Twelvetrees was responsible for the attacks. Why should my client think that he was?'
âThe box,' growled Pearce.
âWhat box might this be? It seems to have disappeared. It was, by the description, if it ever existedâ' The duty solicitor allowed himself a smirk. âMerely a collection of
objets trouvés.
The old gentleman might have picked the things up anywhere, lying on the ground, things lost in the woods.'
Pearce gave a faint groan. It was going to be one of those days. Again.
But Dilys chose to ignore her legal adviser. âI didn't realise nothing. I always knew it. It was when my mother was bedridden it began. She couldn't do a thing, not wash herself, hardly feed herself. She got enormous and Dad, he hated her for it. He's stand in the bedroom doorway and call her filthy names. But he never got any further than the doorway, I saw to that. I'd come back home to live because my husband had left me. He went away with a barmaid, brassy floozy who worked at the pub in the village. Good luck to her, I say, and good riddance to him. I had nowhere to go so I had to go home. Ma had taken to her bed, anyway. Someone had to look after her and him, the old blighter. In that way, it sort of worked out. But that's when he started that caper in the woods.'
âMrs Pullen â¦' pleaded the solicitor. âThis is very unwise and unnecessary.'
âHow did you feel about your father, Dilys?' Ginny Holding asked in her soft voice.
âHe was an old devil. And when he was young he was a young devil. We were all terrified of him, all us kids. You only had to catch his eye and it got you a clip round the ear. When he came home from the pub in drink, he'd come upstairs and pull us out of bed to thrash us.'
âIs that all he did, Dilys? When he came up to your bedroom?' Ginny asked softly.
Dilys glared. âWasn't it enough? Ma would be hanging on his arm, begging him to leave us be, and he'd turn and smash
his fist into her face. My brother William, the one they call Young Billy, he cleared off at seventeen and went to sea, got out of it. My sister, she married a soldier and went off to live in Germany. But me, I drew the short straw, it seems.' Dilys's gaze, as hard as marbles, met Pearce's. âThat kind of fear doesn't wear off when you get older. I might have been too big for him to wallop me but I was still scared of him. See, he had another weapon. I needed to live there. I had no place to go. I had to put up with all his nonsense.'
Dilys's voice sank and her gaze moved to her hands, resting on the table-top. âI knew when he'd been out fooling with those girls. I could smell it on him when he come home. I smelled it on his clothes when I did the laundry, I saw the stains. He showed me those things he took from them. He liked to see the look on my face. He liked knowing that he could tell me and I couldn't do a thing about it. He was a nasty old bugger and that's a fact. But my concern was for Ma, that she shouldn't learn about it. He'd led her a dog's life. She was just worn right out and she couldn't do with any more trouble. I didn't have time to worry about those girls.'