Hollow Vengeance

by Anne Morice

  ‘Yes, but, Tessa, how could the old cow have guessed what we were going to use the photographs for? Even blabby old Diane didn’t know that. At least . . . you didn’t tell her, did you?’

  ‘No, certainly not, and it’s a safe bet that it would never have occurred to her what their real purpose was, but I’m also willing to bet that at some point, while they were all giggling and gossiping in the tea shop, one of them took the photographs out and they all had a look. Now, if you remember, we’d put each set into a separate envelope? Yours, which you took from Geoffrey’s files, were labelled Before and my new ones went into the After envelope. That might not have suggested anything in particular to the Parkinson gang, but don’t you agree that when Mrs Trelawney heard about it she’d have caught on in a flash? From there, but a step, as they say, to figuring out how we intended to use them.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Millie said gloomily. ‘She’s no fool, I do realise. Not clever in any sort of way that matters, but definitely cunning. So what do we do now?’

  ‘We could try some of the other local papers, I daresay, but I doubt if there’d be much point. The Mercury is the quality one in these parts and probably has the biggest circulation, but I don’t suppose Mrs Trelawney was taking any chances. She’s probably delivered her ultimatum to every editor for miles around. Still, we won’t accept defeat yet, will we? There must be some other way to get our message across. I might consult Toby on that. He can be very cunning too, in his way. In the meantime, Millie, let’s take a proper look at the photographs and decide which arrangement makes the most telling effect.’

  Elsa joined us while we were laying them out on the table like patience cards, except that it turned out to bear more resemblance to a hand of piquet, because Millie had ten cards in her envelope, whereas mine contained only seven.

  I stared at them for a moment, then counted again to make absolutely sure.

  ‘Now what’s the matter?’ Elsa asked.

  ‘One missing. There were eight left on the roll and I used it all up.’

  ‘How mysterious!’

  ‘Baffling, I’d call it.’

  ‘Which one is it?’ Millie asked.

  ‘How would I know, when it’s not there to tell me?’

  ‘Do you suppose one of them pinched it?’

  ‘Presumably; but why, for God’s sake? They were all photographs of the tree and the only variations were in distances and angles. So what would be the point of taking just one? Why not the lot?’

  ‘Because then you’d have just gone out and taken eight more.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true; whereas they thought I might not notice if only one were missing. Clever Millie! Only it still doesn’t explain anything really. What earthly use would one photograph be to anyone?’

  ‘Some form of counter-attack, maybe? To prove that you were trespassing?’

  ‘Only we weren’t, were we? We never set foot outside Geoffrey’s garden.’

  ‘One way and another,’ Elsa remarked, ‘you don’t seem to be making much headway with this enterprise. Perhaps you had better call it off and try something else?’

  Millie sighed. ‘Isn’t that just typical? One set-back and you’re ready to drop everything!’

  ‘Besides,’ I added, ‘we have at least succeeded in drawing the enemy’s fire and that can’t be nothing. It probably indicates that we’re moving in the right direction.’

  ‘And where does the right direction lead you next?’ Elsa asked, a trifle smugly.

  Which, I was bound to admit, was the big question.

  WEDNESDAY P.M.

  In the hope of gathering some information which might provide at least part of the answer, I set forth at about three o’clock that afternoon for a personal inspection of the Trelawney headquarters, which, despite the fact that the name had now been officially changed to Sowerley Manor, was still known throughout the neighbourhood as Pettits Farm.

  Millie was engaged to take part in an anti-nuclear protest rally on the steps of Dedley Town Hall the following morning and was required to spend the whole of Wednesday afternoon helping her group to assemble the banners and run through their chants, and Elsa, for whom the dictates of conscience were wrapped in a different sort of package, had left soon after lunch to dole out jelly and buns at the monthly gathering of the Darby and Joan club. Since I had a particular and personal curiosity concerning Mrs Trelawney, in addition to the general one, this seemed to be the ideal opportunity to indulge it.

  Unwilling to risk my car in the danger zone, after its recent narrow squeak, I walked along the lane in the opposite direction from the village until I came to the mud and grass track known as Pettits Row. This in fact provided access only to the Big House, some fifty yards ahead, after which it narrowed into a footpath and short cut to a nearby village, and I saw that there was now a brand new notice board standing squarely on each side of the entrance. One stated that there was No Through Road, the other that Trespassers Would Be Prosecuted.

  Presumably, Mrs Trelawney had been restrained from actually declaring it to be private property, but no stranger to the neighbourhood could have guessed that it had been a public right-of-way for about a thousand years and remained so to this day.

  Not being one myself, I proceeded on to the house and, once the shock of confronting the new wall had subsided a little, my first thought was that Elsa had understated the case. It was even higher then I had visualised it and the bricks were not so much bright red as purplish liver coloured. It was hard to believe that any sane person could have erected such a barrier between herself and the world, or could have remained so after living behind it for more than a few days.

  About half way along this wall there was a high, wide, but far from handsome wrought iron gate, arch shaped and fringed at the top with long spikes. There was a padlock attached to it by a heavy iron chain, although this, surprisingly, was unfastened, and I stood for a few minutes, peering through the tiny gaps in the bars and curlicues at the scene beyond.

  It was not an edifying one. The house, which lay straight ahead, at the end of a short tarmac drive, had been painted white and the ancient supporting beams, formerly a warm light brown in colour, had been picked out in black varnish. The roof had also been brought up to date and the old, mellow looking tiles replaced by grey slate.

  Nailed to the gate was yet another notice board, this one warning me to Beware of the Dog, and the big white car stood facing me at the side of the house. I could almost believe that it was sneering and snorting at me with personal malevolence, but on the other hand I could not hear or see any dog and, managing to convince myself that not even this car was capable of roaring down the drive and running me over, without human guidance, I turned the heavy iron ring and walked slowly up towards this vulgar and pretentious fortress.

  The reason for the slow pace was partly to give myself time to work out the next move, partly in the confident hope of attracting the attention of someone inside, so that the initiative would be taken out of my hands. This gambit did not come off, however, and, contrary to expectations, nothing and no one interfered with my progress to the front door.

  It was a particularly hideous and inappropriate one, being made of thick, opaque, ribbed glass, set into a modern wood frame. I pushed the bell button and heard the chimes jingling through the house and, in a matter of seconds, the door was opened, though only by a foot or so, by a faded little middle-aged woman, who, being so patently not Mrs Trelawney, was presumably Sue Baldwin’s mother. She had evidently been on the point of going out, because she wore a scarf round her head and was holding a large brown bag.

  ‘Is Mrs Trelawney in?’

  ‘Yes . . . I believe so, but I’m sorry . . . You’re not from the Council, are you?’

  It was tempting to claim that I was, but I could see that ultimately this would only add another hurdle to those which lay ahead, so I said, ‘No, this is just a social call.’

  ‘Then I’m sorry, Miss, but she won’t see you. Mrs Trel
awney never sees anyone without they have an appointment.’

  I was debating whether to tell her I had one, when my quarry appeared in person, a tall, gaunt looking woman, who loomed up in the background and then, roughly pushing her minion aside, flung the door wide open and said in a loud voice, which still retained traces of an Australian accent, ‘Who’s there, Alice, and what do they want?’

  ‘Beg pardon, Ma’am, but I don’t know who it is. Some young lady, as you see. I opened the door, seeing as you were expecting someone from the Council. . . .’

  ‘Yes, all right, I’ll deal with it. You can get off home now. And don’t forget to leave the gate unlocked. Mr David will see to it later.’

  Then, turning to me, she barked, ‘If you’re not from the Council, who are you and what do you want?’

  ‘To see you, if you can spare me a few minutes?’

  ‘Nothing doing. I don’t see anyone unless they’ve been invited. Didn’t Alice tell you that?’

  ‘Yes, she did, but the fact is that you have seen me now, so I don’t see what difference another two minutes could make.’

  ‘You can let me be the judge of that, if you don’t mind. I don’t have any truck with strangers and if you’re selling something the answer is no, I don’t want it.’

  ‘I’m not selling anything and I’m not quite a stranger. We have met before, as it happens.’

  ‘That so?’ she asked, peering at me more closely. ‘Not as I recall, young lady.’

  ‘Well, it was some time ago. In Stratford, Ontario.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘I had a walk-on and understudy in School for Scandal. You were called Mrs Carew in those days and you were a lot more hospitable too. You gave a party for the whole cast, on the evening before we left. It was a very good party, as a matter of fact, very lavish.’

  ‘Thanks. What’s your name?’

  ‘Theresa Crichton.’

  ‘Yes, got it now. Reason being you wrote me a letter. Straight out of the book of etiquette, I remember. Oh well, come in, if you must, but only for a minute or two, mind! I’m a very busy woman.’

  ‘So I hear,’ I told her, getting a sharp look in return. She did not comment, however, but marched ahead of me into a room leading off the hall, which managed to look both ostentatious and austere in the same breath. The old sash windows had been replaced by the modern, single pane variety, there was an electric fire, with plastic logs in the inglenook fireplace, a sunburst clock over the brick chimney piece and the upholstery and curtains were putty coloured throughout, with carpet and cushions to tone. The single bright spot was an enlarged colour photograph, which had a place to itself on a table between two of the windows. It showed my hostess standing with arms linked between a fair-haired young man and a dark, good-looking girl, wearing jodhpurs and a crimson jersey. All three were beaming at the camera and even Mrs Trelawney looked amiable. It provided a much needed human touch.

  ‘What are you up to now?’ she enquired, busying herself with a glass cigarette box and a Wedgwood table lighter the size of a football. ‘Still acting?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied in a pained voice.

  The unspoken reproach was not lost on her and she said, ‘Oh, don’t mind me, I wouldn’t know about such things. Never go inside a theatre nowadays, if I can avoid it. It was Mr Carew, my late husband, who was stage struck. He’d have dragged me there every night during the season, if he’d had his way. Shaw, Shakespeare, you name it! I used to be nearly crying with boredom half the time. Still, your little effort wasn’t as bad as some of them, I seem to remember. And I expect you get a big kick out of showing off like that, night after night, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, if you put it like that, I suppose I do.’

  ‘Don’t know what other way you could put it. Still, that’s neither here nor there. What I want to know is what you think you’re doing here now? You haven’t come to thank me all over again for a party I gave four years ago, that’s for sure!’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why, then?’

  ‘Mainly curiosity, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be . . . Still, at least that’s honest, I suppose. What, may I ask, did you want to know?’

  ‘When you nearly knocked me and my car off the road this morning I recognised you as someone I’d met, although at the time I couldn’t place it. In fact, I didn’t try very hard, I had other things on my mind. Then soon afterwards I learnt that you were the famous, or infamous, Mrs Trelawney, which didn’t seem to connect, so I thought perhaps I’d been mistaken.’

  ‘I remarried soon after Mr Carew died. Must have been not long after you were over there that time.’

  ‘And Mr Trelawney is also now dead, I understand?’

  ‘Divorced, as it happens, although I don’t know what business it is of yours?’

  ‘None whatever, but from the moment I arrived here I’ve been hearing these tales about the eccentric and mischievous behaviour of Mrs Trelawney and, when I found out that she was you, I was puzzled. Somehow I couldn’t easily reconcile all that senseless destruction with the woman I thought I’d recognised in the car. Of course, I’d only met you on that one occasion in Ontario, but I still found it hard to accept the idea that I’d been mistaken, because one clear memory I had about the one in Canada was her Australian accent. It was probably much more noticeable there than in this country, where we’ve all grown accustomed to it. Anyway, the plain truth is that I couldn’t wait to find out whether you were the same person or not.’

  ‘Is that so? Well, at least you’ve been frank about it, which is more than you can say for most of the crowd round here. Satisfied now?’

  ‘Not absolutely. I’d still be interested to know why you picked an out of the way place like this to come and live in, where you had no roots and no friends.’

  ‘Oh, you would, would you? And I’d be interested to know how long it’ll be before I tell you to mind your own business. Still, if you must know, I didn’t exactly pick it, it kind of picked me.’

  ‘Did it really?’

  ‘Yes, really. Five or six years ago it would be. My late husband had an honorary degree conferred on him by one of those Oxford colleges. He was dead chuffed about it and we decided to stay over for an extra few days and explore the countryside. This part of the world was on our route and it sort of grabbed me. Love at first sight, you might say. I’ve had cause to regret it once or twice since.’

  I could believe this, and also that either the late husband had been at the wheel during most of this excursion, or that her style of driving had deteriorated considerably since those days, if she had really been able to focus attention on her surroundings sufficiently to have retained these affectionate memories.

  Aloud I said, ‘Well, one final question, if you’ll bear with me? Why then, having returned here and turned the dream into reality, did you promptly set about doing everything in your power to ruin it, thereby causing havoc and misery to a number of people who’ve lived in these parts for donkey’s years and have never done you the slightest harm?’

  ‘So that’s the story, is it? Well, you may as well know, girl, that you’ve been led up the garden. The truth is that I tried like fury to be friendly when I first came here. It had stuck in my mind as the kind of nice, peaceful place where I’d be happy to end my days, and maybe do a bit of good into the bargain. I knew I had to tread carefully though. Just throwing money around wouldn’t get me anywhere. But there was a lot needed doing, I could see that, and a lot of the power had got into the wrong hands. All those rural preservation societies and what-have-you, for a start. Lot of old fuddy-duddies, with not a new idea between them. I did my best to shake them up a bit, inject some new life, I really flogged myself to death over it, and what happened? Turned up their noses and made it clear they didn’t want to know, that’s what! They’d been pottering along like this for a couple of centuries and that was good enough for them. No winds of change to blow round here, if you don’t mind! There now, I don’t su
ppose you’ve been allowed to see it from the other side, have you? Well, no skin off my nose and I can’t imagine what right you think you have to come barging into a person’s private property and asking them to account for themselves. This place belongs to me now and I can do as I choose with it. The sooner that’s understood the better.’

  ‘I am sure it is understood, but I still think it could land you in trouble. You know what they say about no man being an island?’

  ‘No, I don’t know what they say, Miss Clever, and I don’t care. Now, are you going to pick yourself up off that chair and get out of here, or aren’t you?’

  ‘Right away,’ I told her, getting up, ‘and I’m sorry to have annoyed you. That really wasn’t my intention.’

  ‘Don’t you worry! Pinpricks like this don’t annoy me. And you can go back and tell all those snooty friends of yours, who I take it sent you up here to threaten or plead, whichever it was, that they’ll have to get up a bit earlier in the morning to catch me napping.’

  ‘You’re mistaken. No one sent me. It was entirely my own idea.’

  ‘And not a very bright one, in my opinion. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got someone coming to see me.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ I said, moving towards the door. ‘Someone from the Council, I believe? I hope he gets a warmer reception than I did.’

  ‘Oh, I shan’t stand any nonsense from him, don’t fret!’

  ‘No, I won’t. In fact, if anyone needs to be fretted about, I’d say it was you. You’re the one I feel sorry for,’ I told her grandly, taking care to shoot out of the room before she could cap it.