Help the Poor Struggler (23 page)

Probably because she was “edgy,” Sara started humming to herself, and then singing while she sliced the bread. She must have thought ghosts and vampires and werewolves ran away when they heard old Irish tunes. Jess glanced up when she heard “. . .
when she was dead, and laid in grave
 . . .” “That's ‘Barbara Allan.' ”

Sara looked stricken. “Oh, I'm sorry. Really. I suppose it's because I hear so much about your mother —” She stopped, staring toward the kitchen door, the one that led out to the courtyard. “There
is
a noise out there.”

This time Jess heard it too. A sort of scraping sound. But the wind was getting higher, and one of the stable doors
banged; the sound could have been anything. “It's just the horses.” She really wished Sara weren't such a mouse about things. It was just like the wife in
Rebecca.
She thrust that thought from her mind.

Sara went back to cutting the bread, and just as suddenly stopped. “It sounds like footsteps.” She listened intently, shook her head, went back to the bread.

Well, it
had
sounded like footsteps, but Jess refused to give in. “It's just Henry; sometimes he scrapes his paw in his sleep.” Henry never moved
anything
in his sleep, as Jess knew perfectly well.

She went on looking at the cars. Daimlers, Rollers, Ferraris . . . next page, another Daimler and some cheaper cars, but still collector's items. Beside the black Daimler was a little Morris Minor, vintage.

The Daimler . . . she kept her eyes averted because they were filling with tears. Her father James had been taken to the cemetery in a Daimler. And once again the graveyard scene sprang up, as if it were yesterday, and she saw herself standing beside the grave. The mourners — thick-veiled women, black-suited men. Her uncle had been the only spot of light in that dark-shrouded world.

That Daimler had had a
Y
registration. Jess blushed from remembering having noticed, even in her grief, the registration on the funereal Daimler. And then her skin went cold.

She turned back to the page before. Morris Minor. Black.
R
registration. Jess's thoughts stopped suddenly, braking. It must be what an animal feels, maybe even Henry. The thoughts stop. Senses take over. You see, you hear, you feel fright. . . .

What she heard, and Sara, too, given the knife had stopped slicing bread, was the creaking in the kitchen entry. Sara's face was pale, looking toward the door that, when Jess had nerved herself to look around, was opening.

Molly Singer stood there in her silvery cape, white-faced,
black-haired. In her fright, Jess almost thought she
was
seeing a ghost.

Except that this ghost was holding a gun in her black-gloved hand.

Despite all of this, the only thing that Jess could see in her mind's eye was a black Daimler and a Morris Minor.
R
registration. Not vintage.

She stared at Molly Singer and then back at the kitchen table, where an entire loaf of bread lay sliced, and wondered, what had Sara Millar's car been doing at her father's funeral?

Five miles away in the Help the Poor Struggler, Macalvie was still arguing that Ashcroft had gone about the whole interviewing business in a damned peculiar way.

Melrose Plant was drinking Old Peculier and smoking. And wondering about Robert Ashcroft's “interviews.”

“He could have left that play
deliberately
so he'd establish that he'd been in London. How many people walk out on Vanessa?” asked Macalvie.

Wiggins said, “The cloakroom attendant recognized the picture immediately. No luck yet though with the car lots. But we've only had a few hours.” He made a bit of a production of unzipping a box of lozenges to call the divisional commander's attention to the fact that Macalvie was smoking. Again.

“And why didn't he call home? Gone for five days and not a word back to his beloved niece,” Macalvie went on, looking from Plant to Jury, irritated that he seemed to be arguing without an opponent.

“It was coincidence that the note to Jessica went under the rug. A coincidence with wretched consequences, unfortunately. Wasn't it the same thing Angel Clare did?” asked Jury.

“Who the hell's Angel Clare?” asked Macalvie.

Melrose Plant looked at him. “Commander, if you were hiring a tutor, you'd damned well make sure he or she was extremely well read, wouldn't you?”

Macalvie gave him an especially magical Macalvie-smile. “If you need a tutor, Plant, I'm sorry I don't come up to your standards.”

“Ah, but you do. Superintendent Jury told me the pre-Raphaelites held for you no horrors. Nor did
Jane Eyre.
What about Hester and Chillingworth?”

Macalvie cadged a cigar and looked at Plant as if he'd gone mad “What the hell is this? A literary quiz?”

“In a way.”

“
The Scarlet Letter
. So what?”

Plant shrugged. “I'd just think any tutor would —”

“Tess of the D'Urbervilles,”
said Jury, absently. He looked very pale and was getting out of his chair. “My God, all of this time and we forgot —”

He made for the telephone in the middle of the heartrending voice of Elvis singing “Heartbreak Hotel.”

It was one of the last songs Elvis Presley had sung.

At first, when Molly Singer said the name, Jess thought she was talking to her. But then she said it again.

“Let her go, Tess.”

Jessie knew what real fear was as the arm tightened around her shoulders and the knife nearly bit into her throat. Sara — but was that her real name? — whispered, “Get out!
Who are you?”

“Mary.”

The arm moved up, nearly cutting off Jessica's wind. She wanted to cry but she couldn't. Where, where, was everybody?
She heard Henry whine. Henry knew she was in trouble.

The flat, now unfamiliar voice of the young woman choking her was saying, “I don't know you. I don't know you.”

“But I know you, Tess.” Molly's voice wavered, but the gun-hand didn't. “I took some pictures. Of the Marine Parade. I had one of them blown up because there was something familiar about the girl in the picture. It might be years since I've seen you, but I'd know you anywhere, anywhere. You always looked like Mum, even when you were little.”

It was as though Sara didn't hear her. “Put down the gun or I'll cut her up right now, right here. I was waiting for him to come back, damn him and all the Ashcrofts. It has to be here in the kitchen. I'll write him a message in her blood. . . .
He killed Mum, don't you realize that?
They were there in the house together. And then I came down in the morning . . .”

This was coming out in gasps, and Jess felt tears on the top of her head, on her hair. But the knife was still there, sharply honed, edge now against her chest. “So you've got to put down the gun, Mary.”

Jess could see the gun shake in the hand of Molly Singer.
Don't let her have it, please, please.
She would have cried it out, but the arm was like a steel band around her shoulders. And then, in despair, she watched Molly drop the gun. The sound when it hit the floor flooded Jess with terror.

Sara was shoving Jess toward the kitchen table, whispering to her, or to Molly, that it was just the sacrifice, you see, of Isaac. It had to be done. Like the others. “Only I didn't have to cut the others up.”

“And you're not going to do it to Jessica, either.”

It was another voice, a man's.

Jess felt the knife move away from her, the obstructing arm torn from her shoulders and the voice saying,
Run, Jess.

She ran toward the little hall.

But then she remembered Henry. Jess ran back, bunched
him in her arms, and flew out the door into the shielding darkness of the night.

 • • • 

The rage of Teresa Mulvanney made her faster than either of them. She was out of his grasp and sliding across the floor to grab at the gun before Molly's hand could get to it.

Tess Mulvanney whipped the gun around, and from where she lay on the floor she shot Sam Waterhouse.

Molly opened her mouth to scream. But she didn't. Instead, she tried to inch her way to the table where lay the knife and the load of cut-up bread. She tried to talk to her sister, while tears slid down her face. “Tess. That's Sammy. Don't you remember? You loved him —”

Teresa's eyes widened. “It's not.” As she closed her eyes, as if in an effort of remembrance, Molly took another step nearer the table. “They put him away. I read about the trial a year ago. When I got out of hospital. Everybody lied —
don't touch that!
”

Molly had almost had her hand on the knife when her sister grabbed it up. She raised the gun and slowly lowered it again. The look of rage turned to emotions confused and more gentle. “Mary.” Tears ran down her face. “Don't you understand that I should've saved her? I should've saved Mum. If only I'd been brave enough to stab him, but I didn't know what —” She looked at the knife in her hand and let it fall on the floor. Tess ran the hand holding the gun across her wet forehead, but when Molly edged toward her, she steadied the hand again and shook her head violently. “Good-bye, Mary.”

And she was out the door, the same one Jess had run through carrying Henry.

Molly knelt by Sam. The bullet had caught him in the side. His eyes were closed and she was terrified. But then he came round. Blood was seeping through his fingers. “I'm okay. But for God's sakes, get Teresa. Or she'll be back —” Sam passed out.

Molly could see, through the kitchen window, a path of light cut by a torch. Then she heard a car door slam.

Teresa couldn't afford to stop to look for Jessie out there in the dark; Robert Ashcroft could come driving up at any moment —

And then she remembered the Lamborghini.

Molly ran through the house, out the front door, down the drive toward her car. She heard, way off behind her, the distant sound of another car starting up.

There was only one way out of Ashcroft.

“Heartbreak Hall,” said Jury. “That's what you called it.” Jury had his coat on.

Macalvie stared at him and got up. So did Plant and Wiggins.

It was the first time Divisional Commander Macalvie had looked ashen and unsure of himself. Or was at a loss for words. But he finally found them as the four men headed for the door. “God, Jury. Not
Teresa Mulvanney
. I forgot to check out Tess —”

“
We
forgot, Brian. The forgotten little girl. You told me about Mary Mulvanney coming into your office. She said she couldn't stand to go back there again. According to Harbrick Hall, Teresa Mulvanney appeared to be coming out of it, like someone coming out of a fugue state. That was six years ago. Over the next year her improvement was miraculous. They gave her jobs to do. She did them well. She was articulate, well-behaved, calm. And it was a Lady Pembroke, charitable old dame, who told them she'd take over the care of Teresa Mulvanney.”

“Let's get the hell out of here. Macalvie turned to Melrose. “You mind if we use your car, pal? Mine won't go from zero to ten in under an hour.”

There was an apprehensive glance from Wiggins when
Melrose handed the keys over. “This one will go a little faster.”

 • • • 

That was an understatement, or so Macalvie proved it to be. Wiggins was hunched down as far as possible in the back seat. The narrow road, the occasional thick hedges, the night, the murderous moor-mist, all contrived to make driving nearly impossible.

Macalvie didn't seem to notice as he careened the Rolls around a turn. “How did she know? How on earth could she hand-pick her victims like that?”

“Pitifully simple. As I said to Mr. Mack, a will that's been probated is in the public domain. Sara Millar-Teresa Mulvanney simply looked at the heirs to the Ashcroft fortune. As far as George Thorne was concerned, well, she might have thought of him as — who knows, a conspirator. And there was also the simple matter of geography. The final object was Jessica. The others she killed . . . on the way.” Jury felt sick.

Macalvie scraped the left-hand fender cutting the curve of a stone wall too sharply. “Sorry, friend.”

Melrose, smoking calmly in the back seat, said, “I can always get parts.”

He hit the steering wheel again and again with the heel of his hand. “But goddamnit, Jury! They were kids! Why the hell didn't she just go after Ashcroft if he's the one who murdered Rose Mulvanney?”

“She couldn't.”

Macalvie took his eyes off the road for a crucial second and the fender got it again. “What the hell do you mean?”

“He was already dead.”

It was a long driveway, a drive like a tunnel, and Molly could hear the car, which must have been coming round the side of the house. She didn't yet see the headlamps.

She started to switch on the Lamborghini's lights, and paused. Tess could easily think it was Robert Ashcroft returning and head right into him. Molly found she had at least a little interest in living, which surprised her. There might be a way to stop Teresa without actually killing herself.

Something to take her by surprise, make her veer off into the thick trees, maybe an accident, but not a fatal one. The camera equipment. Flashbulbs? Not enough bulbs, not enough time. And now when she looked up she saw, at the end of the tunnel, far off, the headlamps of Tess's car.

The light at the end of the tunnel / Is the light of an oncoming train.
 . . . The lines of Lowell suddenly came back to her. She snatched the unipod from the rear seat, smashed out the right-hand headlamp, tossed the thing in the back and got in. Was there anything more disconcerting to a driver than to see only one light coming toward him rather than two? What was it? Car? Motorbike? And the moment of confusion —