Hollow Vengeance

by Anne Morice

  There was only one way out that I could see and that was to force or provoke the murderer into some spontaneous indiscretion, whereby he would betray himself beyond the point of retreat, and, after everyone had gone to bed on Monday night, I lay awake for several hours, wondering how this was to be done.

  Sleeplessness produced no positive results whatever and all I got for my pains was a slight headache and a tendency to yawn my way through breakfast on Tuesday morning. A stroll in the fresh air, followed by a period of meditation on the ridge overlooking the sad remains of the oak tree proved equally fruitless and by Tuesday evening only Elsa’s compassionate, faintly amused expression whenever she glanced my way stopped me from caving in and admitting defeat.

  By Wednesday morning I had made up my mind that there was nothing for it but to take action, since any action, however ill-conceived, must be preferable to mooning about and waiting for something to happen. So, as soon as Elsa had left for the Parish Hall, to discuss plans and preparations for the Harvest Supper, I set forth to put myself in the lion’s den and see what reaction I got, the den in this case being a ramshackle old barn which had been converted into a pottery.

  There was always the chance, of course, that the lion would not be at home, or, equally frustrating, that there would be a cub or two around as well, but I considered myself reasonably safe from both these hazards. Marigold’s inquest, with its highly predictable verdict, had taken place on the previous day and the local schools had now reopened for the Autumn term. So it was difficult to see how even Diane could justify further absenteeism. Whereas, faced with this gaping emptiness, both figurative and real, I guessed that James Hearne’s instinct, if he were typical of craftsmen in general, would prompt him to seek solace in a stint of hard work.

  Also to be taken into account was the risk of being recognised, but I did not take this very seriously either. Nothing I had heard about them indicated that any of the Hearne family took a lively interest in the performing arts and I also knew that they did not possess a television set. I had picked up this item from Millie, who, in a particularly caustic mood, had told me that one of the things that had put such a strain on Marc’s relationship with Diane had been her extreme reluctance to go for moonlight drives, or listen to records in his room, preferring to sit hand in hand with him on the drawing room sofa, watching television; this, as she frequently explained, being such a rare treat for her.

  A green, slightly sagging fence surrounded the small front garden and on either side of the gate was a small notice board, with stencilled lettering and pinioned to the ground by a wooden peg. The one on the right said Orchard House and the other, which also had a left pointing arrow painted on it, Sowerley Potteries.

  I pushed the gate open, which was not easy to do, since it had come half way off its hinges and had to be held up with both hands to prevent it scraping along the ground, walked up the path, lifted the tongue shaped iron knocker and beat a tattoo on the front door.

  To my relief, three or four minutes went by without any kind of response and, having eliminated the first hazard, I walked round to the back of the house, peering through windows into deserted rooms as I passed.

  The garden here was much larger and open on all sides, but set in such sharply downward sloping land that it was not altogether surprising that no one had recently shown much enthusiasm for mowing the grass. There was an empty, scrubby looking meadow to the right of this erstwhile lawn, with the orchard over on the other side, and, standing with my back to the house, I could see right down into the hollow and up again to Geoffrey’s cottage on the far side, and thus was able to verify a point which had been bothering me ever since the night time assault on the oak tree.

  Beyond the gnarled, neglected looking apple and pear trees on my left I could see what I took to be the barn which housed the pottery works but, not being greatly attracted to the idea of approaching it by way of the orchard, I went round to the front of the house again and through a side gate in the fence until I came to the muddy yard surrounding the barn. This was empty, except for an ancient looking kiln and a huge mound of broken and rejected pottery.

  There was no one in sight, but a light was on inside the barn and I could hear a man’s voice, which was bad news, unless Mr Hearne made a habit of talking to himself. I had no reason to suppose he did not, but nevertheless felt tempted, at this point, to content myself with the one new fact, or rather confirmation of a fact which I had already gleaned, and slink away to the car. However, before I had quite succumbed, a man appeared in the open doorway, which was straight ahead of me, at a distance of about twenty yards.

  ‘Ha!’ he announced in ringing tones. ‘So my senses did not deceive me! I felt a presence hovering just beyond my orbit and lo! You are looking for someone!’

  For some reason, which I found hard to pin down, everything I had heard about James Hearne had conspired to create a picture in my imagination of a small, ineffectual and unassertive man, probably with a wispy, unkempt beard and pale, watery eyes. Now that the real one had stood up, I realised that the only part of this identikit, which still applied was the beard and this, too, was much more shaggy and bold looking than I had visualised it.

  He was a tall, once good-looking man, broad shouldered and with powerful hands and piercing, slightly demented blue eyes. He was dressed like a labourer and his face was criss-crossed with deeply grooved lines, which looked as though they had been etched in with pen and ink, although, judging by his finger nails, this too could have been merely honest grime.

  ‘You are looking for someone!’ he said again. ‘You need help!’

  They were statements, not questions, and I understood instantly that he did not suppose me to have lost my way and to be in need of directions, but that the help I sought sprang from some anguish of the soul and, unable to resist the histrionic impulse to respond in kind, I took two steps forward.

  ‘Yes! Yes . . .’ I said, then dried completely, for it had been a most treacherous impulse.

  During the preceding year or two I must have read not less than half a dozen novels and seen as many movies in which at least one character was crying out for help, in some form or other, but the ludicrous thing was that I was now quite unable to recall a single example of what they had needed it for. The only feeble idea that came to mind was to tell him that I wanted to find myself, but as this was quite untrue I doubted if I could put much conviction into it and stood gaping at him, like a fish whose only requirement was help in getting off the hook. He was probably used to it though, because it did not bother him in the least and he came up close, put an arm round my shoulders, which was really quite unpleasant, and propelled me towards the barn.

  Despite the door and windows being wide open, the interior was dank and dusty and so chaotically untidy that it was hard to see how anything of value could be constructed there. However, when he took me on a guided tour, explaining the various processes of his work and finally into the section where the painting was done, I realised that he was not only a prolific, but also a highly talented craftsman.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, when I had expressed my admiration. ‘You have a discerning eye, which is as I had expected. So now you know everything that is important about me, and how about you? What is perplexing you and what did you want to ask me?’

  He seemed a harmless enough man, despite his odd manner and farouche appearance and I have a weakness for artists who make things with their hands, so I took a chance and said, ‘I suppose I really wanted to ask you about a murder.’

  He was not fazed for a second and answered as readily as though we had been discussing a cricket match. ‘Yes, I rather thought so, and that is a pity.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it is one of the few subjects on which I can be of no help to you. I consider such judgements are best left to God and I advise you to seek help from Him.’

  I knew then that I was wasting my time. He was either putting on a marvellous act, or else was quite as do
tty as first appearances had suggested. Either way, there was never any blood to be got out of this stone and the only consolation was that, if he had said nothing to confirm my theory, he had certainly said nothing to refute it either.

  I had started to thank him for his advice and to say goodbye, when he put a finger to his mouth, enjoining me to be silent. ‘Hush! Another presence has come amongst us! I can sense it!’

  We were standing right over at the far end of the barn by then and I could neither see, hear, nor sense anything of this new presence, but he went striding over towards the door, full of glad confidence. I followed more slowly, not being so accustomed to picking my way through the layers of rubble which littered the floor. When I joined him he was standing squarely in the doorway, gazing out at an empty void.

  ‘Gone before I could reach out to it,’ he announced.

  ‘Or perhaps you were mistaken?’

  ‘No I am never mistaken. She was here and she has gone.’

  ‘She? How do you know it was a she, if you never saw it?’

  ‘Quite simple; it was a female presence. My daughter, as it happens,’ he added, in a matter of fact voice.

  ‘Your daughter?’ I repeated nervously.

  ‘My eldest daughter. She should be at her work today, but she wanted to stay at home and look after me. Quite unnecessary, of course, I am more than capable of attending to my few meagre wants, but the truth is that we’ve had a great sorrow in our family, and I believe the poor child feels unequal to facing her employers and colleagues just at present.’

  ‘But you are sure she was here?’

  ‘Quite sure. She has a very strong aura, like yours. I always know when she is close at hand.’

  I believed him and I did not know whether to feel sorry, or glad, or merely slightly uneasy.

  I had expected them to act fast and, for practical purposes, this suited me well, my deadline being then only twenty-four hours away, but I had seriously underestimated both their ingenuity and the degree of desperation to which their actions had brought them and, as a result, was very nearly caught, quite literally, on the wrong foot. Also, although it was all over months ago now, I still occasionally have waking nightmares, remembering how close this state of unpreparedness brought Marc and Millie to the edge of danger as well.

  On Wednesday afternoon, while still unsure how far my cat had got in among the pigeons, I had suggested to Marc, who had already shown signs of possessing a strong nostalgic streak, that it might be fun for the three of us to take a picnic to our old haunt, up on the ridge at the edge of the woods, as we had done so often in our carefree youth.

  He and Millie had been all in favour of the plan and Elsa had also thrown herself into it with great verve, concocting a picnic tea of hard boiled eggs, marmite sandwiches and plum cake, which had been the regular fare on those earlier occasions.

  Unfortunately, however, the cart had gone before the horse this time, in that our destination had been chosen for its own sake and not, as previously, because the afternoon was so hot and airless as to make the cool breeze blowing across our hilltop seem particularly inviting. On that Wednesday afternoon the breeze which whistled through the garden was sharp enough to be unpleasant and up on the ridge it had stiffened to something approaching gale force.

  ‘This won’t do,’ Millie said gloomily. ‘We’d better go back into the woods a little way.’

  Afterwards I wished we had taken her advice, but Marc’s passion for tradition went deeper than I had bargained for and he rounded on her contemptuously. ‘Don’t be such a pathetic, silly clot! How can we go back into the woods when all we’ll see there are a lot of trees? What about our view? Don’t you remember that the view was the whole point?’

  I let them fight it out between themselves, which was quite a treat for them, and it ended in an amicable compromise. By keeping to the edge of the wood for another fifty yard or so and then dropping down about twice that distance towards the hollow, we had our backs to the wind, shelter all around and almost, although not quite, the old authentic view. The difference was that instead of having a sideways view of Geoffrey’s cottage, we were now looking up towards it and it was partially hidden by what remained of the oak tree.

  There was to be another upset in our normal placid programme too, and this one was far more serious. It did not occur until we were half way through our picnic and the first intimation came from the unmistakable sound of a tractor engine coming from somewhere above and behind us. Swivelling round, we saw that there was not only a tractor, but that it had a trailer of some kind attached to it, somewhat resembling a huge iron bedstead, with spikes underneath. It had obviously come from one of the new barns and, on reaching the narrow, flat strip of ground at the top of the field, it turned away at right angles and moved slowly off in the direction of Orchard House and the Macadams.

  Marc and Millie applied themselves to their boiled eggs and sandwiches once more, but some sixth sense, which I was forever afterwards so grateful to know I possessed, impelled me to keep watching.

  ‘Any more tea in that thermos?’ Millie asked, but I ignored her because it seemed to me that the tractor driver had now either changed his mind, or more likely, seeing how precariously he had positioned himself, had lost control of the steering. The trailer was still horizontal, but the front wheels of the tractor had made a half turn and had started to dip downwards.

  Totally fascinated, I continued to watch, as the wheels continued to turn and descend. Then, with a huge lurch, the trailer also started to twist sideways, the whole contraption gathered speed and I realised in a blinding flash what was about to happen.

  Springing up, I shouted, ‘On your feet, both of you! And start running! Don’t turn round and don’t stop! Just keep running!’

  There was nothing wrong with their reflexes and, struggling against the wind, we reached the edge of the wood, panting for breath, in a dead heat. It was none too soon either, because when we did turn and look down there were two wide grey parallel strips along the rug, where the wheels had passed over it, with the picnic basket, curiously enough, quite untouched and sitting sedately between them.

  The tractor was by this time genuinely out of control, careering faster every second as the slope grew steeper and heading straight for the oak tree, which stood inexorably in its path, like some proud and battered Nemesis. We waited in horror and fascination for the inevitable and fatal collision.

  ‘He’s mad!’ Millie muttered. ‘Did you see his face? I did look round for a second, although you said not to, and he was coming at us like that on purpose.’

  ‘I know. An uncontrollable impulse, I imagine.’

  ‘Utterly, raving mad!’ she repeated.

  ‘As you were the first to point out,’ I reminded her.

  THURSDAY

  ‘It was the handkerchief that clinched it,’ I told my assembled audience. ‘You said it was too old a trick, Toby, and you were right. In this case, it was also a very misguided one, although fairly typical of that snapper up of unconsidered trifles, who probably pinched the idea from the incident all those years ago at the New Year’s Eve party.’

  ‘Do you mean he planted it himself?’ Elsa asked.

  ‘Oh yes, but only after their plans had gone wrong and they were getting desperate. It didn’t figure in the original script and therefore was too hastily conceived and carried out. I mean, just think of it! How could one of Tim’s handkerchiefs have found its way into the Trelawneys’ washing machine by accident? One theory was that the police had overlooked it because, by the time they arrived on the scene, it had already gone into the kitchen laundry bin, but that’s not very plausible, is it? One can hardly imagine Tim putting it there himself and, when David came back that evening and discovered his grandmother’s corpse, he would presumably have had other things on his mind than tidying away stray handkerchiefs.’

  Marc had now returned to London, swapping over with Robin, who, giving as his reason that he could not rely on me to keep my
promise to release him from the bondage of fish fingers until he had personally seen me off the premises, was spending the night at the Grange, and who now said, ‘I suppose your reference to their plans having gone wrong implied that, much to their fury and disappointment, Marc was not already in custody and awaiting trial?’

  ‘Oh, don’t!’ Elsa begged. ‘It still makes me shudder to think that anyone could be so wicked.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s true, all the same,’ I told her. ‘You see, they obviously realised that their carefully laid plan to make it look like an ordinary break in, which for some reason had gone wrong and turned violent, might not hold up and that if the police should be bright enough to see through it, then negative evidence alone would not be enough to keep them out of trouble and they would need a scapegoat. He had all the opportunity that anyone could need, but no apparent motive; whereas Diane had a perfectly genuine alibi, that trip to Bexhill having been timed to coincide with the Darby and Joan tea party and the rehearsal for Millie’s protest march. That left a clear field for him to come here and borrow Marc’s car for a couple of hours. The object of that, need I tell you, being to ensure that Alice would get a clear view of it when she left at four o’clock and later give a description to the police? So that left poor old Marc, ostensibly with the perfect opportunity, plus a motive which he had been loudly trumpeting around for months past to all and sundry. They must really have believed that, between them, they had contrived a trap which could never be sprung.’

  ‘You know what, though?’ Millie said. ‘Marc didn’t really have much of a motive, in fact hardly any at all, once Diane had broken off her engagement and he no longer had to play Sir Galahad. I wonder what made her do it?’