Everything to Gain and a Secret Affair (31 page)

I stood at the mullioned window in the library, looking out toward the moors, thinking that perhaps I ought to take a walk later.

I had not been able to go out much since I had arrived almost five weeks ago. Within the first few days I had
fallen sick, felled by a bad bout of flu, and I had spent over ten days in bed.

Diana, Parky, and Hilary had nursed me through it, done the best they could to make me better. But I had been a bad patient, not very cooperative at all; I had refused almost all of the medicines they had offered me and done little to speed my recovery, hoping to catch pneumonia and die. I had not. But then neither had I been very well; I was slow to get up on my feet and about. When I first arrived I had been exhausted and undernourished, and the aftermath of the flu virus left me feeling even weaker. This physical debilitation combined with my mental apathy to make me more listless and enervated than I had been at Indian Meadows.

Although I was here in Andrew's childhood home, I continued to face dreary empty days and sleepless nights, and that awful nothingness was ever-present.

Not even Diana could cheer me up very much when she came back to Yorkshire on the weekends, after working at her shop in London all week. How right my mother had been when she had told me that you don't leave your troubles behind you when you go to another place.

“Pain and heartache travel well,” she had said to me the day she took me to Kennedy to catch my plane to London. And indeed they did.

Yet I did feel closer to Andrew here at Kilgram Chase, as I had believed I would. My memories of him and my children now came back to me unbidden, and their well-loved faces were clear, distinctive in my mind's eye once again. Very regularly my thoughts turned inward, and I was able to live with them within myself, in my imagination.

The days passed quietly, uneventfully. I did very little. I read occasionally, watched television; sometimes I listened
to music, but for the most part I sat in front of the fire in the library, lost in my own world, oblivious to everyone most of the time. Of course Diana made her presence felt when she was here and tried to rouse me from my lethargy. I really made an effort, tried to perk up, but I wasn't very successful. I had no one and nothing to live for. I simply existed. I had even lost the will to kill myself.

Now, moving away from the window, I crossed to the fireplace and piled more logs on top of those already crackling and burning up the chimney. Then lifting the tray with the coffee things on it, I took it back to the kitchen.

Parky looked up as I came in and exclaimed, “Nay, Mrs. Mal, you needn't have bothered with that! I would have sent Hilary or Joe for it later.”

“It's no trouble, Parky, and thank you, it was a lovely cup of coffee. Just what I needed.”

“You didn't eat much lunch, Mrs. Mal,” she said, her eyes filled with worry. “Picking at your food is no way to improve your health and get your strength up.”

“I know. I do try, Parky. And what I did eat I really enjoyed. The grilled plaice and chips were delicious.”

She went on rolling out the pastry on the big slab of marble, saying, “It's a right bonny afternoon. Too bonny to stay cooped up in that there library, if you don't mind me saying so. You should get out, have a good blow on the moors. It'll do you good, that it will, Mrs. Mal.”

“I was just thinking about taking a walk, actually, Parky.”

She smiled at me, nodded her approval, and continued. “Mrs. Keswick will be arriving a bit earlier than usual this weekend. About four-thirty, or thereabouts. In time for tea,” she said.

“That's nice,” I answered. “Parky, can I ask you something?”

“Of course you can, Mrs. Mal.”

“I've been wondering why you and Joe and Hilary and the gardeners call me that? For ten years I've been Mrs. Andrew to you all. But since I came back in January, it's been Mrs. Mal. Why?”

She stared at me, flushing slightly and looking discomfited. “It's just that . . . that . . . well, we didn't want to upset you further,” she began haltingly. “We thought that to keep mentioning Mr. Andrew's name would be . . . well, painful.”

“No, Parky,” I interrupted softly. “It wouldn't. I
am
Mrs. Andrew, and I really would prefer you to keep on calling me that.”

“I'm sorry if we've upset you,” she said, sounding concerned. “We'd never do anything to hurt you. We were only trying to be mindful of your feelings.”

“I know you were, and honestly, I do appreciate that, and I am grateful to you for the kindness you've shown me these last few weeks.”

“You were in such a bad way when you got here, and we didn't want to distress you anymore than you already were. We felt we had to be careful. It was like . . . like walking on eggs.”

“I'm sorry, Parky.”

“Oh, there's no need to apologize, Mrs. Mal, I mean Mrs. Andrew. We understand. We loved Mr. Andrew and the wee bairns—” Her mouth began to tremble and her eyes filled, but she took a deep breath and finished. “Such a tragedy, so hard to live with . . .”

“Yes, it is.” I coughed behind my hand, trying to control myself. I knew I might easily break down if I didn't keep a tight grip on my emotions. My grief was never very far below the surface.

Parky said quietly, almost to herself, “Like my own child, he was,” and then she put down the rolling pin
and hurried into the adjoining pantry. “Got to find that big pie dish for the steak-and-kidney pie,” she called to me in a muffled voice without looking around.

“I shall go for a walk,” I said, and went out of the kitchen swiftly, knowing it was wiser to leave her by herself to recoup. Otherwise we'd both be in a flood of tears.

I headed in the direction of the mudroom. Once there, I took off my penny loafers, pulled a pair of Wellingtons on over my jeans, and struggled into one of Diana's old harbours. Wrapping a scarf around my head, I went outside.

It was a clear day, crisp but not really cold, and there was the lightest of breezes rustling through the trees, making the new leaves flutter and dance. I dug my hands into the pockets of the barbour and struck out toward the pond down near the woods. Behind the pond there was a narrow path, which the gardeners had cut through the dense mass of trees some years ago, and this led up to the lower moors.

The grounds were deserted, I noticed as I walked.

Usually Ben and Wilf were somewhere or other, digging, planting, and pruning, or burning leaves. This afternoon they were nowhere in sight.

But by the time I got closer to the pond, I saw Wilf pushing a wheelbarrow along the path that led from the orchard up to the house. When we drew level with each other, he stopped and touched his cap. “Afternoon, Mrs. Mal.”

“Hello, Wilf.”

“You're not going up on yon moors?”

“Yes, I was thinking about it,” I answered.

“Aye, no, don't be doing that.” He turned his head, shaded his eyes with his hand, and peered toward the hills silhouetted against the distant horizon.

“B'ain't wise. Weather's right dicey up on yon moors
this time o'year. Sunny for a bit, like now, but then t'clouds roll in and t'rain comes down in torrents. Blows in from yon North Sea, it does that.”

“Thanks for telling me, Wilf,” I murmured and hurried on down the path, thinking what an old fool he was, gormless, as Andrew had always said. It was as clear as a bell today; the sky was blue and without a single cloud.

But something about his words must have registered at the back of my mind, because in the end I avoided the moors. It was such a long, steep climb, anyway. Instead, I went for a more leisurely walk through the woods, and a half hour later I came back and circled the pond, before taking the wide stone path that cut through the lawns. I had been out long enough today. I already felt tired. Obviously I was out of shape and still quite weak.

As I approached the house, I saw Hilary coming toward me, waving and beckoning.

I increased my pace, and when we met in the middle of the stone path, she said, “There's a phone call for you, Mrs. Andrew. From New York. It's Mr. Nelson.”

“Thanks, Hilary.”

Together we went around the side of the house to the back door, and as we hurried in, I said to her, “Would you tell him I'll be there in a moment, please. I just want to get my Wellies off.”

“Yes, Mrs. Andrew,” she answered, disappearing down the back hallway.

A few seconds later I was picking up the phone on the long refectory table in the library. “Hello, David, how are you?”

“Good, Mal, and you?”

“I've finally recovered from the flu. There's nothing wrong, is there? My mother's all right, isn't she?”

“Yes, she is, and everything's fine. She worries about you, of course, and keeps talking about coming over to
see you. She wants us to take a trip to England, if you're planning on staying in Yorkshire for a while.”

“Why don't you come? Is that the reason you're calling, David?”

“No, it isn't. I have some news for you, Mal.”

I caught the change in his voice, the tension. My chest tightened. I gripped the receiver harder as I said, “From DeMarco?”

“Yes. There's been a break in the case. He just called me about fifteen minutes ago. Luckily, I wasn't in court today.”

“Have they caught the killer? The gunman?” I asked in a tight voice.

“No, but they will, and very soon, Mal. This is what happened. Twenty-four hours ago, Johnson and DeMarco arrested a small-time narcotics dealer who operates in that neighborhood. Those arches under the elevated train tracks are part of his territory. Anyway, he's trying to strike a deal, to plea-bargain. He says he knows who shot Andrew and the children. Four local youths who hang out together, one of whom has talked about it. He's given their names and addresses to DeMarco, and he and Johnson hope to take them into custody today, bring them into the Twenty-fifth Precinct for questioning immediately. DeMarco's got a strong feeling that those unidentified fingerprints found on Andrew's Mercedes will match up with theirs. He's banking on it.”

My legs suddenly felt weak, and I sat down heavily on the cut-velvet chair. I could hardly speak, but finally I managed to say, “If the fingerprints do match, what happens then?”

“The perpetrators will be taken down to Central Booking in Police Plaza and booked on charges of murder in the second degree. And all four of them will be booked, Mal, you see—”

“I thought there was only one gunman?” I cut in.

“That's what DeMarco believes, yes. But a person doesn't have to pull the trigger to be booked or found guilty of murder. Just being there, just standing there when the crime is committed, is enough to convict,” David explained. “It's called
acting in concert.
If there's enough evidence, within seventy-two hours they'll go in front of a grand jury in criminal court downtown. And if they're indicted in the grand jury hearing, they'll go on trial.”

“When would that be?”

“I'm not sure. It could take several months. Not only to get on the docket, but the assistant district attorney will want to be sure he has every scrap of evidence he can get, that he has a watertight case. DeMarco and Johnson will have to work their butts off on this one, and they will, I've no doubt. The prosecutor wants a guilty verdict, not an acquittal, and so do they.”

“And if the youths
are
found guilty?”

“There's no death penalty in New York State, Mal. They'll get twenty-five or thirty years to life. No parole.”

“I see. Could they—” I paused, took a deep breath, and asked, “Could they get off?”

“No way. DeMarco and Johnson are convinced they've struck pay dirt with the drug dealer, that they'll turn up all the evidence they need for a conviction.”

“I hope so.”

“They will. It's a personal crusade with them, especially DeMarco. Also, I know the judicial system inside out, and the judge will go for the maximum, trust me on this. The killers will never see daylight again; they'll never get out.”

“Should I call DeMarco, David? What do you think?”

“You don't have to, Mal. He asked me to pass the news on to you. Anyway, I doubt that you'd get him right now. He's on the investigation full blast. Now that he's got this lead, he wants results fast. He wants to put these . . . animals away. He wants them under lock and key. Today.”

“I understand. And thank you, David, for everything.”

“I'm always here for you, Mal. Give Diana my best.”

“I will. Oh, does Mom know about the break in the case?”

“Yes. I told her before I called you. She sends her love.”

“Give her mine.”

“I'll be in touch as soon as I have more information from DeMarco.”

“When you speak to him, thank him for me.”

“I will, honey. Bye.”

“Bye, David.”

After we hung up I sat with my hand resting on the phone, pondering everything David had told me. I felt nothing, only emptiness inside. Knowing the killers of my family were about to be arrested did not relieve my pain and grief. And it would not bring them back.

Gazing out of the mullioned window, I drifted with my thoughts for a while. But at one moment the sky darkened, and I lifted my eyes. The garden was still filled with sunlight, but on the moors the blue sky had turned, was curdled and gray. Ominous dark clouds were blowing in, and up there it had started to rain, just as old Wilf had predicted. Shivering involuntarily, feeling suddenly cold, I walked over to the fire and sat down on the sofa to get warm. And to wait for Diana.

I must have fallen asleep, for I woke up with a start when I heard her voice. She was coming into the library with Hilary in her wake carrying the tea tray.

“Hello, darling,” Diana said, hurrying forward. “Are you feeling a bit better today?”