‘I’m surprised Rebecca didn’t notice that herself,’ I said slowly. ‘It sounds so obvious.’
‘As I said, even slightly older children always seemed to take Eleanor at face value. She just looked so much the part—the cute-little-sister type, tiny, all curls and freckles and gappy teeth. And she certainly pulled out all the stops to get in with Rebecca. She was Dennis Fisher’s daughter, her mother drove her to school in a brand-new sports car—Eleanor sucked up to her like a gold-digger with a rich man. Probably with much the same aims in mind.’ Lucy sighed. ‘I never really talked to Rebecca, but I always thought she seemed a nice girl—well-behaved, not a bit spoilt as far as I could tell. She was always on her own, whenever I saw her. Until she met Eleanor, anyway. After that, they were together all the time.
‘I thought she was making a bad mistake, falling in with that horrible little thing. Ironic, really, that I thought Eleanor was the threat to her. When I heard that Rebecca had killed her, I couldn’t believe my ears…’
Silence again. I felt shell-shocked. In the space of perhaps twenty minutes, my perceptions of the case had changed out of all recognition; the tragic victim became the villain of the piece, the ostensible villain more enigmatic than ever. ‘Eleanor only wanted Rebecca for what she could get out of her,’ Lucy went on. ‘She just got more than she bargained for, in the end.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
WHEN I’D FIRST met Petra on my second day at Reading University, I’d known for a fact that we’d never be any more than casual acquaintances. She was my opposite in every conceivable way, first glimpsed in the centre of a big, noisy group who appeared to have become lifelong friends in less than twenty-four hours. All of them had the same air about them, but she had it more strongly than the others—the unthinking ebullience of well-loved puppies finally let off the leash, the future extending before them in a giddy whirl of Fresher’s Balls and Student Union events and coming back at night whenever they liked. A freedom that was wonderful precisely because they were permanently anchored to a secure, unchanging home; there’d always be a heartfelt welcome for them when they went back. They’d never feel, as I did, that they’d finally outgrown their stay in a place where they’d never belonged.
Sitting in the car outside Wareham station and seeing her emerge at last, I remembered that time very clearly. As often before, the circumstances that had led to our friendship struck me as profoundly and almost grotesquely ironic. It had been the very worst of bad times, but had led to something more than positive: the delight of seeing her again for the first time in months, feeling as if we’d met up for a chat only yesterday. Looking round, she spotted me behind the wheel and hurried over, got into the passenger seat.
‘Hello, stranger—great to see you again!’ She hugged me impulsively. ‘I’ve really missed you. How have you been?’
It was something about me that would never change, my awkwardness with most spontaneous displays of affection—I felt relieved as she sat back. ‘Not bad, thanks,’ I said. ‘How was your journey?’
‘A nightmare from start to finish. There weren’t any window seats, and I was stuck next to the family from hell. They were still there when I got off, and they’d been screaming at each other all the way from Reading.’ Smiling, I started the engine, and we set off. ‘It was such a relief to get out,’ she went on blithely, ‘I thought they were going to start beating each other up any second.’
We talked about this and that and nothing in particular for maybe ten minutes before the picturesque, sunny countryside began to replace dull buildings and residential streets. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her peering out of the window, entranced.
‘God, it’s idyllic,’ she said, as we turned off the side-road and started up Ploughman’s Lane. ‘I want to move here myself. It’s a whole different world, like something out of a Beatrix Potter book.’
‘Well, we’re almost home now.’ We crested the hill and I slowed slightly as we began the descent, feeling more than a little like a tour guide. ‘That’s us, there on the right.’
‘Oh, wow, Anna. It’s just beautiful—it’s miles bigger than I expected.’
‘It’s only half ours,’ I said hastily, ‘it’s been knocked into two, but it’s still more than big enough. Our next-door neighbour’s nice, too. For all the noise she makes, we could be on our own here.’ As we drew rapidly closer, I noticed that the powder-blue Fiat wasn’t there. ‘I’d introduce you now,’ I said, ‘but it looks like she’s at work. Carl’s out, too—he’s gone to take his car in for a service, should be back in an hour or so.’
Once inside, Petra wanted to see everything. It felt odd showing her round this place as its chatelaine; the rooms around me felt cooler and stranger than ever, not like mine at all. I walked beside her like an estate agent who secretly hated the property, trying to mirror her ecstatic response to various rooms. ‘It’s gorgeous,’ she said, as we went upstairs. ‘I’m mad about those oak beams. I’m so jealous, I just want to move here—Reading’s never going to look the same again.’
‘I suppose it is nice.’ Suddenly, I found myself unable to feign real enthusiasm, and heard myself speaking frankly. ‘I don’t know, though…it can feel strange, at times. Too quiet. You know.’
‘Oh, you’re just spoilt. You’ve got used to it.’ We entered the spare room, and she gravitated to the window behind the computer-desk. ‘My God, what a view—it looks like there’s nobody for miles. No wonder you’ve started writing in here. Or is the office stuff so Carl can work from home?’
I shook my head. ‘My writing room—well, sort of. I haven’t started the actual writing, yet.’
‘I’ve been meaning to ask you all the way here.’ Petra flung her overnight bag down on the bed, and the cheerful home-at-last gesture made the springs squeak alarmingly. ‘How’s your new book going? You haven’t said a word about it so far.’
‘Well…’ It was an immense relief to hear her bring the subject up herself as if I’d all but forgotten about it in the joy of reunion, as if it hadn’t been itching in the back of my mind throughout our drive from Wareham station. ‘To be honest, some strange things have been happening with it. I don’t know what you’re going to make of them. You’ll probably think I’m just being silly.’
‘I bet I won’t.’ She sat down on the bed to another creak of springs, while I took the office chair in front of the computer, swivelling it round to face her. ‘Tell me everything—what’s been going on?’
‘Well…you know I didn’t have any ideas for a new book before we moved here?’ She nodded slightly impatiently, obviously keen for the real story to begin. ‘It carried on that way for weeks. Then, I found something out from this old lady in the village. You know Rebecca Fisher?’
‘Not personally, but I know who she is. She killed her best friend in the Sixties, didn’t she? Why, what about her?’
‘She used to live here,’ I said quietly. ‘We bought this house from her.’
Petra stared at me for long seconds, round-eyed. ‘You’re kidding.’
‘Seriously. We didn’t know who she was at the time, of course, but when I talked to some people round here, the whole story came out. Someone had found out she was Rebecca, started sending her death threats. More than that, as well. Apparently, they smashed all her windows while she was at work—and, soon afterwards, they killed her dog.’ I took a deep breath. ‘That was when she put this house on the market. Obviously, she wanted to get out as quickly as she could—it was why we got the place so cheaply.’
‘Every cloud has a silver lining,’ Petra said, but the callous flippancy wasn’t hers at all; I could see it quite clearly for what it was, a knee-jerk reaction to mask deep shock. ‘Jesus, Anna, thanks for giving me nightmares—I’m going to have a really good night’s sleep here, after hearing that.’
‘Sorry, but I haven’t told you all of it. Anywhere near all of it.’ I’d been alone with my secrets for so long, I had no idea how they’d look to someone else, but
, bracing myself for any number of possible reactions, I ploughed on. ‘This is going to sound bloody awful, I know, but when I heard that, it gave me the best idea for a new book. Come on, you don’t have to look at me like that. I’m still feeling pretty guilty about it myself.’
‘I’m not looking at you like anything.’ But she had done, for a second, as if I’d just cheerfully announced my membership of the BNP. ‘Come on, I’m on tenterhooks here—what’s next?’
There was nothing else for it—I told her about my idea, my confrontation with Mr Wheeler, Socks’ injury, Socks’ death. ‘I know how stupid it sounds,’ I finished, ‘to think he might have something to do with those things. I’m sure he’s a perfectly nice man, he just flared up at me because he thought I was being ghoulish, exploitative. It doesn’t make sense for me to worry about him—does it?’
The silence seemed to go on for ever before Petra spoke at last. ‘Well,’ she said cautiously, ‘I suppose not.’
Looking at her, I experienced a moment of profound unease. I’d been convinced that she’d be reassuringly dismissive of my fears, that she’d even laugh at them, leaving me feeling sheepish and embarrassed and relieved. But her tone and expression betrayed wariness, as if I’d told her I’d found a lump in my breast three weeks ago and it wasn’t going away.
‘What do you mean, you suppose not?’ I demanded, forcing myself to laugh. ‘He’d have had to be hiding in the woods back there in the dead of night. I heard that noise past midnight, and I found Socks first thing in the morning. Can you really imagine him on stakeout for hours, lurking behind a tree?’
I’d intended it as a purely rhetorical question, but she didn’t seem to take it as one—if anything, her concern intensified. ‘I don’t know, Anna. He was friends with Rebecca Fisher. If he’d get on with someone like that—’
‘She was just an ordinary woman when she showed us round here. There wasn’t anything frightening about her.’ With an inexplicable feeling of urgency, I found myself taking on the role I’d been reserving for Petra: fearless, rational, contemptuous of guessed-at horrors. I’d expected her to give me the reassurance I so desperately needed, and realised I’d have to provide it myself. ‘And if you’d seen him for yourself, you’d know that he’d never do any such thing. He’s a bloody vet, Petra, not a serial killer.’
‘I know. Still, it sounds a bit…’ I could see her biting back words that had haunted my mind for weeks: odd, disturbing, ominous. ‘What’s Carl got to say about it all?’
‘He doesn’t know. And he’s not going to.’ Her surprise was palpable, and I hurried on for dear life. ‘One thing just led to another—I didn’t want to tell him about Mr Wheeler to begin with, and I couldn’t go back later and admit that I’d lied. There’s no point, anyway. Even if Mr Wheeler did do all that, it’s over now—he’s had his revenge, and that’s the end of it. Carl doesn’t need to know a thing.’
Thank God, she seemed to understand, and wasn’t drawing Carl’s instant parallels with that nightmare fresher term; everything in her eyes grudgingly conceded it makes sense. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I suppose it’s for the best. But if anything else does happen—not that I think it will—you’ll tell him then, won’t you?’
‘Of course.’ The two words came out with a certainty I was far from sure I really felt; I was just relieved to draw a line under this worrying conversation, marking it off clearly as finished business. From outside came the escalating sound of a car engine. ‘Speak of the devil,’ I said, ‘I think that’s him now.’
It was. Effusive greetings in the hallway led to coffee in the kitchen, ajar back door leading into dazzling rural summer. If Petra still had misgivings about our recent conversation, she’d tucked them discreetly away out of sight.
‘Suppose you’ve heard what we’ve got in store this evening?’ Carl asked her cheerfully, then, seeing her blank expression, ‘You’ve got a real treat ahead of you. A Women’s Institute bake sale in a church hall, no less.’
‘We won’t have to stay long,’ I hurried to assure her. ‘The lady next door asked if we’d like to come, and I said we’d put in a showing. You never know, it might even be fun.’
‘Stranger things have happened, I suppose,’ said Carl dubiously. ‘I’m sure I read something about an exploding cow, once…’ We all laughed. Finishing our coffees, the three of us went for a long, aimless, chatty walk round the village, and talked about Reading, and the handful of people we all knew, and how glad Carl and I were that we’d moved here.
At five to five, Carl pulled up in the little open-air car park on the outskirts of Wareham town centre, and we got out and started walking towards the church hall. The golden sunlight had a slightly faded, sepia edge, and the streets were very quiet. ‘That’s it, there,’ I said to Petra as we approached, ‘just past the library, on the left.’
Once there, colourful handwritten signs directed us down a narrow alley that led round the back of the church; propped-open double doors led onto a scene profoundly evocative of childhood, school fêtes and harvest festivals and jumble sales arranged by the PTA. The same air of well-meaning amateurishness hung over everything: the few hastily-set-up stalls, the elderly lady presiding over the side table laden with tiny beakers of red and white wine. The hall seemed to primarily exist as a Sunday school—pairs of crudely drawn animals had been cut out with some care and mounted on thick card beneath a sign reading Noah’s Ark in a carefully legible grown-up hand. As a setting, it was slightly but obviously too big for the two dozen or so people in attendance. As far as I could tell, all of them were well over forty and, at first, I couldn’t see a single face I knew. Scanning the room, I was relieved to see Liz behind one of the cake stalls, talking with Helen and Muriel. ‘There she is,’ I said, then, to Petra, ‘That’s my next-door neighbour, the one with the brown hair. Let’s go over and say hi, shall we?’
Helen and Muriel’s presence led to an intricacy of introductions; it seemed everyone was shaking hands and smiling at each other at once. ‘I do hope you’re enjoying your stay here, Petra,’ Muriel said, ‘and I must say, it’s very nice to meet you, Carl. I’m quite surprised we haven’t seen you around sooner.’
‘Well, I suppose you’re working most of the time,’ Liz said to him comfortably. ‘I feel I’m meeting you for the first time myself, as it happens. Do help yourself to a slice of cake, won’t you? I made it at home this morning, and if I say so myself, it’s very nice.’
We all took bits, thanking her. Standing behind the stall, she spoke again to Carl. ‘Of course, I’ve heard a lot about you from Anna—all good, needless to say. We see quite a lot of each other in the daytime—we’re always stopping for a nice chat.’
‘Shame on you.’ Petra’s voice was loud, cheerful and entirely unexpected. I realised she was both talking to me and indirectly addressing our audience. ‘Is this when you’re supposed to be hard at work on your research? Well, I can’t say I blame you—I’d need a few breaks from Rebecca Fisher myself.’
Horror descended, and I felt the slow landslide of confusion beginning around me—Muriel and Liz looked politely puzzled, Helen chillier and more suspicious than ever, Petra obviously wondering what she’d said wrong. Carl knowing, but not really understanding at all. Seconds crawled past without any of them saying a word; all eyes were on me, and I knew I had no option but to confess the truth. ‘I’m researching a sort of thriller,’ I said quickly, ‘based on the Rebecca Fisher case. I got the idea after I moved here—after, you know, I found out about her.’
I couldn’t have sounded guiltier if I’d been confessing to the ritual murder of ten small children. Still nobody spoke, and I began to wish the dusty-looking wooden floorboards would creak apart and swallow me whole. From the corner of my eye, I could see Petra’s combined uncertainty and guilt, a clear desire to get me off the hot seat with a swift change of subject.
‘Well, it should be great when you’ve finished,’ she said reassuringly, then, turning to Liz, Helen and Muriel, ‘she�
�s a brilliant writer. Have you read A Deeper Darkness yet? Isn’t it fantastic?’
When you’re in a hole, stop digging—but Petra had no idea that she was, or rather, that she’d put me in one. For the second time in as many minutes, I knew I’d have to explain. ‘I had a novel published last year,’ I said lamely. ‘It’s a sort of thriller, too. I’d have told you about it before, but…’
Extraordinarily, Liz rescued me with a cheerful smile, as if she heard similar revelations from her neighbours every day. ‘Well, that is good news, dear—well done. I’ll look out for a copy when I’m in the library next. What did you say it was called again?’
‘A Deeper Darkness,’ I said. ‘I write as Anna Jeffreys. But I don’t expect you’ll have it in stock—it didn’t get an awful lot of distribution, to be honest.’
‘That’s a shame…well, we can always put it on order. And I’m sure it’s early days for you yet.’ Her voice extended to address all five of us. ‘Anyway, do have some more cake, if you want some—there’s no need to be shy. It’ll only go to waste, otherwise.’
The conversation moved on to other, general things. I felt a mixture of amazement and deep gratitude, realising that Liz had rescued the situation effortlessly. Still, more than once, I noticed Helen looking at me with an unnervingly distant, watchful expression, reminding me how odd it must seem to them that I hadn’t said a word about my writing before. I suddenly felt too awkward and self-conscious to take the conversational lead with a faux-casual glance at my watch and a God, is that the time?; I hung sheepishly round the edges of chitchat until, finally, Carl did it for me. ‘Sorry to rush off, but we’d really better be going,’ he said, with what sounded like genuine regret. ‘We’re supposed to be going out for dinner this evening. It’s been very nice to meet you two—and to meet you properly, Liz. Thanks a lot for the cake.’
‘Oh, it’s nothing. Have a lovely time, all of you. I’m sure I’ll see you soon, Anna, dear.’
In the Spider's House Page 19
