Cleo told herself she couldn’t have heard properly, above the din Hermione was making, those despairing words she thought Miss Lockett had cried out.
Dorrie swallowed a mouthful of the sherry she’d asked Sam to pour for her, refusing to accept his advice that brandy would be better. The thick, sweet liquid seemed to soothe her, and she kept her fingers curled round the stem of the glass, the other hand resting on the lid of the coffer, which now sat on newspapers on the kitchen table.
Farrar sat stiffly on a kitchen chair with his back to the window, uncharacteristically shaken, trying hard not to show it. Sam and Cleo sat on either side of Dorrie at the table.
‘I don’t suppose it matters now, after all,’ she said.
‘What doesn’t matter, Miss Lockett?’ asked Farrar, far too sharply, pulling himself together but earning himself unfriendly looks from the other two.
‘Whether I leave this house or not,’ Dorrie answered. ‘I couldn’t go before, you see, not while my baby was lying here,
but now that her resting place has been disturbed, it doesn’t matter, does it?’
The hairs rose on the back of Cleo’s neck. She couldn’t mean baby – as in
baby.
Could she? No, that was ridiculous! She swallowed and reached out to put her arm around Dorrie’s shoulders. ‘Won’t you let us put that box back where it was, Miss Lockett, as though it had never been disturbed?’ she asked gently.
‘You can’t do that!’ Farrar intervened, outraged. He reminded himself he was an officer of the law, it was his duty to take charge of the situation, at least until he’d satisfied himself what was in the box, and that he hadn’t really heard what he thought he’d heard when that stone rolled down the bank.
For a moment, it seemed as though Dorrie had failed to hear what Cleo said, or wasn’t going to respond, but then, with a scarcely heard sigh, she smiled at the girl and shook her head. ‘No, dear. It’s time someone else knew, in any case. I want this box laid to rest with me, you see,’ she said. She put her other hand on the lid of the box.
Sam had felt colder surrounded by a million tons of frozen ice, but not much. Cleo sat transfixed, and Farrar was almost as still. The box looked evil, Sam thought, gave off an aura of corruption, or was that only his imagination? Copper, or bronze, worth a fortune probably. Where in heaven’s name had it come from? he wondered, trying to think of anything but what was in it. Most probably simply found amongst the extraordinary accumulation of stuff, junk and otherwise, that had gathered dust for years in this old house.
At first, the lid wouldn’t respond, and as he watched her try, it was all Sam could do not to stop her. ‘Dorrie, must you do this?’
She gave him that extraordinarily sweet smile. ‘It’s all right, my dear,’ she said as the lid eventually yielded with a metallic scrape that set the teeth on edge.
There was an involuntary backward movement from everyone, even Farrar, but no one took their eyes from Dorrie as she plunged her hands into the box. Half expecting to see a bundle of dry bones, a small skeleton, the shock was no less when Dorrie lifted out a small figure clothed in long yellowed
cotton and pillowed on a delicately crocheted shawl, fine as a cobweb.
A doll. Only a doll.
‘I’ve had her since I was three. I used to call her Marietta.’ Dorrie laid the doll tenderly on the table, its face winsome, chubby-cheeked, rosebud-mouthed, with long-lashed, blue glass eyes, its synthetic, glued-on hair gone bald and tufty.
‘Dear God,’ said Sam.
Dorrie stared at him for a long moment. Finally, she said softly, ‘Yes, my dear, that was what I said when I put her there. Dear God, keep my baby safe. They wouldn’t let me keep her, you see, my own baby I was dreadfully ill when she was born, and she died. They took her away before I’d even held her. My father said it was a judgement on me. But he had a stroke soon after, and was bedridden for years, which I thought was a judgement on him.’ She touched the doll’s smooth, cold, still-pink cheek, her hands caressed the broderie anglaise cotton of the small gown. ‘This was to have been my baby’s christening robe, it was the only thing I had to remind me of her. I couldn’t believe she was really dead, I’d never seen her grave, so I buried my dolly in place of her. That way I could always keep her near me,’ she said simply.
It was true what they said about her, she
was
mad, thought Farrar. Not just eccentric, but seriously off her trolley. Though not, thank God, as he had feared, someone who’d committed infanticide. A doll in a box. That was all it was.
And yet, it represented a ruined life, though it was an all too familiar story. Dorrie, an unworldly young woman, taken in by a man already married and with children, who’d disappeared when he found out she was pregnant. Sent away by her father to have the baby in obscurity, away from wagging tongues. Small towns had not been so non-judgemental then, as now. After the difficult birth, after the baby’s tragic death and her own slow recovery, there hadn’t seemed anything left to do but come back home. And make that garden.
‘The wretched man seems to have won, even from the grave,’ she said into the silence that followed the ending of her story. No one thought she was talking about her father now.
Farrar, unusually, restrained himself from pointing out that Wetherby was not yet in his grave, a remark he wouldn’t have
hesitated to make not so long ago, for even he had not been left unmoved by the story. He had already resolved not to say another word about all the fuss and palaver Sandra was making over her pregnancy.
After he’d left, Dorrie carefully smoothed down the yellowed cotton christening robe, and then put the doll back in the box. ‘That’s that, then,’ she said practically, then paused. ‘I know people like that detective think I’m crazy, and they’re probably right. They’ll say I could just as well have kept my baby’s clothes in a drawer to remind me, but without a grave I could put flowers on, she’d never have seemed really dead to me, do you see?’
‘Yes, of course, I do see,’ Cleo said, and thought she did. Dorrie reached out and patted her hand. She picked the box up and walked to the door. ‘Come and see me again, Cleo, will you? And bring your mother.’
The door shut behind her and Sam said into the silence that followed, ‘She’s not crazy, you know. In spite of evidence to the contrary.’
‘It’s not crazy to my way of thinking. Everyone has their own ways of coping.’
At last, Sam was able to smile. ‘You’re a nice girl. Will you do as she asks and look in on her occasionally, when I’m gone?’
‘I’d love to, but it might be difficult. I may be going away myself shortly, to London.’ Surreptitiously, she crossed her fingers. ‘But I know someone who would, and that’s my mother. I’m sure she’d be delighted.’
The smile that was the reflection of his aunt’s lit his face. ‘That would be really kind, if she wouldn’t mind? London?’ He looked enquiringly at her, but she willed herself to say nothing, though she was bursting to tell him. It would be tempting fate to say anything more, yet, and she merely nodded.
‘We can see something of each other, then. I shall be teaching at UCL. OK?’
Who could resist that smile, that honest, open friendliness?
‘OK by me,’ she said.
Farrar had recovered most of his assurance by the time he got back to the nick. He could almost persuade himself that he
hadn’t for a moment been unnerved by the sight of that box, and the batty old woman.
‘I had a word with the old bloke, Frank Ryman, along the street before I left,’ he reported back to Mayo. ‘I couldn’t see him being much use, ditch-clearing, but he seems to have been going through the motions, along with Leadbetter. Fair chuffed, he was. Nobody’s asked him to do anything useful for years, not since he was put out to grass, as he says.’
‘He confirmed the time?’
‘More or less … though the words might’ve been put into his mouth. I reckon Leadbetter had been there before me. What Ryman actually said was,’ said Farrar, reading from his notebook, ‘“I didn’t take much account of the time, but Sam says we were there until two, and if he says so, we were. I’ve known him since he was that high, and he wouldn’t lie.”’
No wonder Vera didn’t want to be seen in public was Abigail’s first thought when she saw her on her arrival at Covert Farm, late that afternoon. Neither dark glasses nor make-up would hide the purple swelling round her eye, her swollen lip and the dark, ugly bruise along her jawline.
But, battered though Vera’s face might be, she was a changed woman. The incubus that had made her life a nightmare for the last twenty years had at last been removed from her and even her voice had gained strength. She looked years younger, and if not happy, at least less browbeaten, no longer wrapped in the subservience of a flowered overall, but wearing a sweater and trousers, with her hair newly washed, revealing pretty golden lights among the auburn.
She had baked scones and prepared tea, and set it on one end of the big, scrubbed working table in the middle of the welcoming room which Abigail had glimpsed on her previous visit, where lamps were lit as the afternoon darkened. Another collie, not the black and white one, but an old dog with a grey muzzle, lay at Jared’s feet with one eye open. The kitchen was big, a proper farmhouse one which had developed naturally over the years into a general-purpose living-room, with an old-fashioned stove and shabby old chairs around a blazing fire in an inglenook fireplace.
Vera removed a cat from one of the chairs, brushed the hairs off with her hand and offered the seat to Abigail, who perched on the edge, fearful that the warm fire and the sagging comfort of the chair might prove too much for her concentration.
As they sipped their tea Vera, prompted by Abigail, gradually came round to telling her why she wanted to speak to her. ‘I’ve been thinking …’ She looked to Jared for encouragement. She was the sort of woman who would always need to defer to a man, she would never be independent-minded, either by her own nature or because it had been knocked out of her; but Jared Bysouth was a different proposition altogether from his brother,
an honest man who would, as he had promised, look after her.
He nodded now and she swallowed, then went on: ‘It was that car you asked after. Yes, I did see it, three times in all. I should have told you the truth before.’ Having brought herself to say this, her glance slid away, as if it had all been too much for her.
‘What kind of car was it?’ Abigail asked and got the answer she half expected.
‘I’m not much good with cars. I can’t tell you the make but it was blue, and an S registration, or maybe it was R. But I do remember the rest of the numberplate.’
‘That’s a bonus!’
Vera brightened.
‘Well, you see, the letters were my initials, VMB, Vera Margaret Bysouth. I noticed that right away, well, you would, wouldn’t you? Then, after seeing it there three times I thought, well, that’s a bit funny, and I memorised the numbers as well. 52 … Let me think, 529, yes that was it, 529.’
‘You didn’t assume it might belong to a customer of Mrs Osborne’s?’ asked Abigail, writing it down.
‘Not when she didn’t get out of the car! I saw her arrive, and drive off, each time. She stayed about half an hour. You see –’
She broke off and looked to Jared for encouragement. He gave her a small nod. She sighed, and when she resumed, her voice had lost its assurance and was again almost a whisper. ‘Whatever else, Reuben’s never been one for other women, so what I thought was, she might’ve been waiting to see him, over – well, some business he didn’t want anybody else to know about. But I didn’t like to say this to you. I could’ve been mistaken.’
‘She means he was never up to any good, Inspector,’ Jared interrupted. ‘But if you knew what was best for you, you kept your head down when Reuben was up to his tricks, right Vera?’ Excusing Vera by including himself, giving her a smile. Away from the constraints of the police station, here in his own home, he was much more relaxed and at ease.
Encouraged by his support, Vera agreed. ‘Jared’s right. That’s why I didn’t mention it to him, I didn’t want to cause trouble between him and Reuben. Jared hadn’t seen the car himself, he
was busy elsewhere about the farm each time. And I suppose Reuben had his reasons for keeping out of the way.’
‘Better if you had mentioned it to me, though, Vera. See, I’d warned that brother of mine, right from when he first came to live here, that he’d have to watch his Ps and Qs, he’d have to play it straight, from then on.’ He paused. The dog at his feet stirred and snored in its sleep and Jared leaned down and stroked its head. ‘You won’t have come here without knowing what I mean by that.’
‘We’re talking of his record.’
He nodded, but added fairly, ‘As far as I was aware, he’d kept his promise. I couldn’t have sworn he had, of course, but if he’d been up to anything dodgy, he had the sense to keep it from me, otherwise he’d have been out on his ear. I’ve too much to lose to take any risks. I’m committed to this organic pig-rearing, and this farm’s taken me half a lifetime to build up, from just having my own smallholding, and now plus Iris’s acres.’
‘Well, anyway, I’m glad I got that off my chest,’ Vera volunteered suddenly into the silence that followed this, then looked shy. ‘I hope it’s been helpful.’
‘More than you know, now we have the numberplate.’ Abigail thought she might try another question, though she wasn’t hopeful of the answer. ‘I don’t suppose you can recall the exact dates you saw the car?’
‘Not exactly – each time it was a weekday.’
‘Great!’ And so it was, for even though Vera couldn’t add anything to the delivery man’s description of the woman who was driving it, their recollections tallied in every respect. ‘But don’t worry, it won’t take long to trace her.’ Abigail shut her notebook and prepared to leave. ‘Thank you for the tea, and the scones. By the way, does the name Angela Hunnicliffe mean anything to either of you?’
Jared shrugged his big shoulders. ‘Can’t say as it does.’
Vera bent over the fire and poked it, threw another few lumps on to the already ferocious blaze. Her face was flushed with the heat when she turned back, shaking her head, her expression equally mystified.
‘She was an American, and she’s been identified as the woman who was found down there in the Kyne. We think she was put into the river at the time Mrs Osborne’s cottage was flooded.’
The old dog, as if sensing a change in the atmosphere, lumbered to its feet and padded to the door, where it stood, turning its head mutely back. Vera went to let it out.
‘What you’re saying,’ Jared said slowly, ‘is that she was the woman in the lane? That Reuben killed her, put her in the river and got rid of her car? That’s what you’re trying to prove?’
‘We’re not at the stage of proving anything yet, but I have to tell you it’s a possibility we can’t overlook.’
‘He wouldn’t! Not even Reuben!’ Vera burst out, unwilling, even now, to believe that. ‘He’s handy with his fists, but he’d never use a gun!’
His brother looked at her. ‘He might, Vera, if he was paid enough.’
Vera’s eyes fell.
‘Did he ever mention a man called Charles Wetherby?’ Abigail asked. For if Jared believed Reuben capable of killing Angela for money, then why not Wetherby also? If someone had paid Reuben to kill, no wonder he’d been so willing, when the excuse had presented itself, to make himself scarce. Pity that Jared had no idea of this so-called friend of Reuben’s in Ireland, but finding him probably wasn’t insurmountable.
‘Wetherby?’ Jared was shaking his head. ‘Not that I ever heard. Isn’t that the name of the bloke from Lavenstock College? Him that’s been murdered?’
‘Yes.’ Abigail looked out of the window to where her car was parked in the dip, beside Wych Cottage. ‘Would the day Mrs Osborne was flooded out be one of the days the car was there by any chance, Vera?’
‘I didn’t see it, but I was helping the men that day. It was terrible weather and they were having some bother with the stock.’
‘Pigs are very sensitive to atmosphere, easy upset, they are,’ Jared explained. ‘They were over-excited and it took all three of us to deal with’em.’
‘But you still found time to help Mrs Osborne get her furniture upstairs.’ And maybe for Reuben to get rid of that gun, slip it into a drawer until it was safe to retrieve it. ‘It must be a comfort to her, having such good neighbours, living out here alone.’
‘Oh, I’ve known old Iris for yonks, we do what we can – not that she needs or asks for much help. And I’d like to meet the
intruder that got past her! Anybody trying anything like that and she’d like as not see’em off with a backside full of shot! I’ve seen that happen afore now. She’s not frightened of anybody, Iris, never was.’
‘Air rifles?’ Abigail asked carefully. Mindful of several things, of how Mrs Osborne had said she wouldn’t even know how to load one, for instance.
‘And shotguns. But that was in her younger days. She was reckoned a crack shot, then, with a rabbit or a hare. She doesn’t see all that well, nowadays, though she wouldn’t admit it, of course.’
But that wouldn’t have mattered. Marksmanship would not have been a point at issue when either victim was shot. The killer had been near enough in both cases to have shot at point blank range. He could hardly have missed.
Abigail said absently, while her mind went into overdrive at this new aspect of Mrs Osborne, ‘I can’t say I think it’s a good idea, living alone surrounded by all that valuable stuff.’
‘Well, she’s a game old bird, but I’ll admit she was fair hopping in case any of her precious antiques got damaged when the water came down.’
‘So would you be, Jared, if you were depending on it for keeping you in your old age!’ Vera said.
‘If old Iris never makes another penny and lives to be a hundred, she won’t starve. She’s got plenty stashed away in her old stocking, you can depend on it – or she should have, the price she wrung out of me for this farm! Don’t blame her for that, though. You have to look out for yourself. But she’s never been too particular how she makes a bob or two.’
The sun was just below the horizon, the darker part of twilight, with the soft, diffused light of the ending of a beautiful spring day by the time Abigail left the farm. The reeds stood blackly in the flat wet fields and she shivered, feeling a coldness that was not entirely due to having just left the warmth of the farmhouse kitchen. All the same, she felt a sudden unease, a sense of inexplicable urgency that made her decide, as she walked back to her car, that she couldn’t pass up the opportunity to call on old Mrs Osborne again while she was here.
But Wych Cottage was in darkness, its windows like blank eyes under the frowning, low-tiled roof, making it a much less attractive proposition than it had seemed on the sunny, bright morning when she’d first seen it. There was no reply when she knocked on the door, and although she stood and waited in the porch for some time, no one came. Like the house itself, the porch was cluttered, stacked with umbrellas and walking sticks and the sort of protective clothing which is a necessity for anyone living in the depths of the country: she counted two waterproofs, a man’s tweed hat, a Barbour jacket and a hooded anorak, three pairs of gumboots – one large, two small. Iris obviously believed in being prepared for the worst, even for visitors, and after what had recently happened in the way of weather, who could blame her?
After knocking once more and still receiving no answer, she left the cottage, not without some reluctance. Before she started the car, she switched on the interior light to log both calls in her notebook, and to make certain she hadn’t missed anything of vital importance. She was a careful note-taker, never relying too much on memory, since she knew how unreliable this could often be. She was about to close the book when her eye lit on a name she’d previously written down.
Speaking to Eileen Totterbridge hadn’t so far been high on her list of priorities, since she hadn’t held out much hope of what it might bring forth. But now, remembering that it was Carmody who’d suggested it, she decided she could fit in a call to Mrs Totterbridge on her way back to the station. The sergeant’s phlegmatic Scouse temperament didn’t lead him. to flights of imagination or going off at tangents, he wouldn’t have suggested it if he hadn’t had good reason to think a bit of backstairs gossip might be productive. Even if she only picked up some snippet of information that might reveal more about Hannah Wetherby’s character than had so far become apparent, it could be useful. Hannah was still something of an enigma, and the road where Mrs Totterbridge lived wasn’t too far out of Abigail’s way back to the station.
After the initial surprise, followed by a general wariness, Eileen Totterbridge reverted to the state of comfortable friendliness
Abigail soon saw was as natural to her as breathing. ‘Come in then, lovey, and sit by the fire, though I don’t know what I can tell you I’m sure. Joe, turn that telly off and put the kettle on. I can’t get about yet as quick as I used to,’ she told Abigail, ‘though I never thought I’d be on my feet this soon after the op, I’m sure.’
Joe Totterbridge, with a look that could have killed at fifty metres, prised himself away from a riveting programme showing spiny anteaters tearing a termites’ nest to pieces and devouring the inmates, switched off and shambled into the kitchen, where he could be heard dangerously clattering teacups in protest.
A lingering smell of cooking had issued from the kitchen when he opened the door. ‘I hope I’m not interrupting your evening meal,’ Abigail said, annoyed at the lack of forethought that: had made her drop in, unannounced, at what might be an inconvenient time.