by Gwen Moffat
He blundered out, forgetting to say goodbye to Miss Pink and when he’d gone Lucy came back to the fire shaking her head in amusement. ‘I suppose he’d pass in London but he’s a bit exotic for Sandale.’
‘I’m afraid I’m to blame for that faux pas; I told him most particularly not to mention Jackson Wren.’
‘In that case he’s to blame—and I’m not having a stranger sitting here drinking my tea and preening himself just because Mossop has told him I’m the local tart and who my current lovers are.’
‘You did say you were interested in the lichenologist.’
Lucy grimaced. ‘Double standards. I can say what I like about myself but I won’t allow the same liberties to other people. Yes, I am interested in this chap tonight, and I was interested in Jackson, and I like your friend and, as I said about spending money while I can enjoy it, the same applies to men. I dread the night I go to bed alone and realise I’m indifferent to the fact. Do I shock you?’
‘Not at all, but—I’m echoing Cole—what about Denis Noble?’
‘Yes indeed, what about the workers, such as they are? You’ve met him, Miss Pink; he’s everything a girl should want: rich—well, with access to money, handsome, attentive, solid.’
‘Yes?’
‘And pedestrian. We’re like an old married couple. When I go to Zermatt, I go to ski, not to bumble about on the lower slopes. I have to drive his Rover over the passes for him; I want to share the driving with a fellow in a Berlinetta Boxer—before it’s too late. Can you see Denis in a Ferrari?’
‘He’s very fond of you.’
‘Oh damn, you would make it hard.’
‘Perhaps, if you were a little more discreet. . . .’
‘When was I not discreet? Are you a catalyst? You’re the only person who’s come here in years who I can talk to. Do you think Sandale is my Shangri La? Do you know why I stay here? I can live anywhere: the Canaries, Bermuda, Geneva. I’ve tried them all and none of them’s got anything more than this place. I don’t stay in the Lake District because I have a feeling for it but because I’ve got no feeling for anywhere else. London’s all right, but overwhelming after a while; you get bloated with rich food and chatter, and you’ve seen all the plays and the operas and the ballets. You come home to recharge, and go back when the shows have changed and there’s a new season’s collections to look over. It’s the same with men.’
‘What did you do before you married?’
‘I was an actress, not a good one; I was always second-rate. I’m the girl who never got any farther than the rung next to the top.’
‘Who’s responsible for that?’
‘Myself, of course. I’m not an opportunist and I’ve got no sense of application. I’m lazy, you see, like Peta and Jackson.’ She grinned engagingly. ‘I like men though; you might say I’ve made them my career. My husband and I were quite happy, at least, he was.’
‘I can believe that,’ Miss Pink said, rising.
‘Would you like to hear this talk on lichens? I’m sure you’d be interested.’
‘I would, but I have an engagement tonight. Another time perhaps. There is one thing before I go. Could Wren have written those letters? You didn’t see the others, of course, but what about the one you had?’
Lucy’s eyes were matt, two-dimensional; it was a moment caught in time like a fly in amber and Miss Pink thought that she would remember it for a long while. Then the other woman moved and sighed. ‘When you come right down to basics, he’s a worthless devil if anybody is, and he can’t be hanged.’ She drew another deep breath. ‘Yes, he knew Peta and yes, he could have done it—all of it; he has the necessary streak of viciousness—and violence comes very easily to that type.’
Chapter Thirteen
Rumney was milking and Miss Pink closed the door of the cow-house gently behind her, not wishing to alarm the cows. The farmer turned his head. ‘Learn anything?’
‘I don’t like to talk here.’
‘But no one would listen outside the door!’ She said nothing. ‘Where’s the dog?’ he asked.
‘I haven’t seen a dog.’
He rose smoothly, removing the bucket and stool. Putting them down behind the cow, he went to the half-door and whistled. After a moment he said quietly to the darkness: ‘Watch!’ then resumed his place. ‘The dog will give warning if anyone’s about. Now you can talk.’
She told him what she’d learned about Peta’s murderer and the blackmailer, telling it on the premise that they were the same person. She said nothing about the most important development. She’d decided not to tell Rumney; the immediate motive for confiding in him would be that danger was involved in delivering the ransom, but if there were danger to Miss Pink because the kidnapping was genuine, then the danger was as great for Caroline. Rumney would insist on accompanying his guest, or he would tell the police; he wouldn’t stake one life against another, whereas she was prepared to gamble. On the other hand, if—as had crossed her mind fleetingly—there was a chance that Caroline had turned on her father and was conspiring to rob him of fifty thousand pounds, then Caroline’s life was not in danger but then neither was Miss Pink’s (or so she argued). She confined the kidnapping in a compartment of her mind and shut the door on it, quickly, because if Wren killed Peta, he could kill Caroline—and Miss Pink did not think that Caroline was involved in a conspiracy to rob her father.
Rumney was not surprised that Sarah was being blackmailed. The conversation at breakfast and Miss Pink’s constraint at lunch-time had prepared him. What did astound him was Mossop’s revelation to the man Cole that Peta had been stealing from the tills at Storms.
‘But even that ties in,’ he pointed out. ‘Mossop was bound to find out, so she was murdered before she talked.’
‘Mossop knew,’ she corrected, ‘unless he discovered why she was stealing money only after her death.’
A Land Rover came up the street and stopped outside the cow-house.
‘That will be Arabella,’ Rumney said. ‘She went to town for some folk concert.’
The girl appeared at the half-door. ‘The river’s awfully high, Uncle Zeke; it’s a good thing you moved those sheep from Quentin’s land. I stopped in the Throat and it’s almost up to the road.’
‘You shouldn’t stop in the Throat, girl; not after the rain we’ve had. There’s always rocks coming down in the wet.’
‘There are rocks on the road now; it’s terrifying. But the rain’s stopped.’
‘For the moment; the forecast is more rain. Was the concert good?’
‘Fabulous. Uncle Zeke, Jackson’s van is in the big car park in Carnthorpe.’
‘Is it?’ Miss Pink exclaimed, her mind racing.
‘Why, I didn’t see you, Miss Pink; it’s so dark. Yes, it’s his van; I went over and looked.’
‘Was there an attendant in the car park?’
‘Not on a Sunday. I’m going in again tomorrow and I’ll ask him when Jackson left it if you like, but it looks as if you’re right; he’s gone off with Caroline. I guess he’ll hitch back from London, or wherever they went. It’s starting to rain again; are you coming in for tea, Miss Pink?’
‘I’m coming now.’ She hesitated, then said casually, ‘I’m going to see Harper this evening, Zeke, and then I may run into Carnthorpe to hear a lecture at the field society’s place.’
‘I don’t know that that’s wise; if there’s a landslide in the Throat you may not be able to get back.’
‘I’ll manage somehow.’
In her room at Sandale House she stood at the window and thought about her position. A number of people held a piece of the puzzle and some, including Jackson Wren, held more than they’d divulged, or had been ascertained about them, but she alone held the bulk of it. But for the latest terrible development, it was now the time to go to the police; yet that was the last thing she could do. She knew all the arguments ranged against private negotiations with kidnappers but always one returned to the incontrovertible fact: that tryi
ng to trap the criminal endangered the life of his victim. Neither could she inform the police after she dropped the ransom money; it was essential to wait for Caroline’s release. She knew that if it were her own daughter she would negotiate, so why should she put Harper’s daughter in a lesser league?
There was a possibility that Caroline was already dead; that was a risk which had to be taken but—and here she was implacable—if she were dead, then the people responsible would be found. It crossed her mind that this sudden surge of ruthlessness was what the police felt when they were so adamantly opposed to private negotiation: justice not at all costs, but at cost. It was comparatively easy for the public to give the authorities moral support when a gang held hostages and made outrageous demands, but when the threat came home and you had talked to the victim on the other side of a fire two nights ago, and when you could see the light in the house of the second victim now, justice was nothing more than a word. She dropped the curtain and turned back to her room. The die cast, she was only a courier; there was nothing more that she could do. She was sorry for Harper; she was suddenly appalled to realise that she was far more sorry for him than she was for Caroline.
*
She went to Burblethwaite at seven o’clock. When she’d last seen him a few hours ago he’d been drained of vitality; now he looked like an old man. They sat over an electric heater and drank tea which she made, having brought milk across from the farm; he was beyond any domestic activity. What on earth could they talk about while they waited for the telephone call? Agonisingly, for her, he started to talk about Caroline and when she got over her initial shock she realised he was telling her what Caroline thought of New York, Tokyo, Cairo. He rambled on about the girl’s friends among airline pilots and travelling executives. He was very proud of her social life. But at length his reminiscences ran out and he fell silent. Miss Pink tried to make conversation about the cottage, the dale, television. He wasn’t listening. He asked, with a flicker of hope: ‘How soon will they release her?’
She made an effort to be practical. ‘The person who picks up the money will have to contact the one who’s holding Caroline. If they communicate by phone, then she could call you as soon as she’s free.’
‘Yes.’ He was expressionless. ‘She’d do that.’
Fear held their minds and through the closed window they heard the sound of the flooded beck. Miss Pink hoped that there’d be no landslide in the Throat—for surely it was quite impossible that the drop would be in Sandale. That was too near home.
They talked desultorily of a dozen subjects, Miss Pink initiating them and words emerging from Harper’s mouth like drips from a faulty tap until she asked suddenly: ‘Why don’t we start making a list of the numbers on those banknotes, then you can go to the police when Caroline’s safe, and they can try to catch the gang by way of the money?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
His face flushed with anger. ‘Because I say so.’
‘It’s hot money,’ Miss Pink said.
The silence stretched. His face was no longer hopeless but hard and stubborn.
‘Did you rob a bank?’
He looked at her without fear but with no sign of capitulation. ‘It’s money,’ he said. ‘It’s the price of my girl’s life.’ She nodded agreement. ‘I’ll tell you something, miss.’ He leaned forward. ‘No one died for that money; you’re not having to handle stuff with blood on it, don’t worry.’ He was bitter.
‘I’m not thinking about myself. I was wondering if we could get some clue to the kidnapper by way of the money; obviously he knew you’d got it.’
‘He didn’t know. He guessed. The police are keeping an eye on me. Race tracks, you see; they watch everybody.’
‘The local police?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘I see. So you think the information leaked down to Wren by way of the local bobby?’
‘That looks like the score.’ He’d sunk back into apathy. Suddenly the telephone rang, startling them. It was only seven-thirty. After the first shock Miss Pink thought that it was logical that the criminals wouldn’t keep to schedule.
This time she didn’t go to the phone but waited, concentrating her forces, trying to eliminate everything from her mind but the job in hand: to obey instructions and absorb every associated detail—like the timbre of a voice.
‘He wants to speak to you.’ Harper’s voice was toneless. He was holding out the receiver. She stood up.
The instrument was slightly damp. ‘Miss Pink here.’
‘You’ve got the money?’
‘Yes.’
‘Go to Carnthorpe and take the road to the pass under Whirl Howe. Got that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Turn round at the car park at the top of the pass and come back the same way. At the second gate on the left, turn into the forestry and drive on the main track about half a mile—don’t turn off nowhere—till you come to a shed in a big space. There’s a row of fire beaters. Leave the money under the beaters, turn round and go home. Repeat that.’
She did so.
‘You’ll be under surveillance at intervals. If you see any cars, don’t trouble remembering the number plates; they’re false. And don’t make a slip. Harper stays at home. Got that?’
‘Yes.’
‘You got your car with you now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Leave right away.’ The line clicked and the dialling tone began.
‘Give me a pencil,’ Miss Pink said, holding a scratch pad and looking round.
‘There’s one by the directory. What did he say? Where are you going?’
She wrote down the instructions. ‘I’m leaving this here. It’s up to you to tell the police if anything goes wrong. If I can’t get back for any reason then I’ll ring you.’ She wrote his number on the pad and tore off the page. ‘Let’s get the case in my car and I’ll be off.’
*
She drove down the track and across the bridge. There were no lights anywhere except behind her in Burblethwaite; others were hidden by barns or thick curtains. She started down the lane, her windscreen wipers clacking busily.
As she drove she wondered where the waiting cars would be—or was that a blind? She thought that where this kind of activity was concerned, as few people as possible would be involved. The Lindbergh kidnapping had been the work of one man, and only two had been convicted in the McKay case. She remembered grimly that those victims had died. She was glad she hadn’t asked the caller to furnish proof that Caroline was still alive. Harper had only that hope to sustain him.
She passed the entrance to Storms’ drive and changed down for the bend. Drops from the trees drummed on the roof. After High Hollins’ gate there was water across the road and she took it carefully, praying.
For the next few hundred yards the road ran straight, with the meadows on the left which must be flooded; several inches had seeped through the wall to cover the tarmac. In her lights the long raised footway with its wooden railing gleamed wetly, then the rock wall of the Throat showed naked above the road and the tarmac was clear again.
The gorge was about a mile in length and the road curved tortuously. There were fallen stones on it, as Arabella had said, and as she came over incipient brows and the headlights dipped and swung on the right-hand bends, they showed her the river, seemingly on the same level as the highway, but it was no longer a river; it was a plunging mass of white water, shocking in its elemental power. You felt the very earth couldn’t stand against it; that at any moment the whole gorge—crags, banks and hanging woods—would collapse like sand and slip into this tearing flood.
Suddenly she was calm. She changed gear carefully on the bends, never getting into top, not hearing the changes and the acceleration because the world held no other sound but the roar of water. And then she came to several big rocks in the road and could not pass. She stopped, put her handbrake on hard and, leaving the engine running, got out.
She had on an anorak but
no waterproofs. She’d put up her hood but it was wrenched back immediately by the wind. Spray and rain came in waves and her spectacles streamed. There was one moment of stupefaction engendered by the noise and then she disregarded it, wiping her thumbs over her glasses to see her way to the rocks.
She had the pattern of them clear. If she moved one on the left, the river side, she could squeeze past; if she cleared the way on the safer side, she had more work to do. The headlights shone on water, wet tarmac and the rock.
It was too big to lift. She bent and got both hands underneath. It rolled over and she followed, shuffling. The camber of the road favoured her. It rolled again and stopped. She wiped her glasses and paused, listening to other rolling sounds under the sound of water: it was boulders being battered down the river bed by the current.
She gave another heave, putting all her weight behind it, and the rock toppled over and vanished without splash or sound into the foam.
She sat in the car breathing hard and drying her spectacles on her handkerchief. Then she put the car in gear and, with her offside wheels grazing the remaining rocks, crept through the gap, her body pressed against her door in an ineffectual but instinctive cringe away from the deep.
At the end of the gorge there was more water across the road but then it took a slightly higher line and she had a clear run to Carnthorpe, passing the occasional light in cottage windows. It was curious to think of people sitting behind the curtains reading, sewing, watching television, knowing nothing of the bizarre business of the little car whose engine they heard going past their windows. But who did speculate on the horror that might exist on the other side of a glass screen?
Carnthorpe gleamed wet and empty and the lights served only to emphasise the abandonment of the streets to the rain. Somewhere at this moment the naturalists would be listening to the lichenologist. Somewhere Caroline was—waiting? Somewhere Caroline was. And somewhere: in a stationary car between street lights, in a dark yard, in the back of an empty car park, were eyes watching her pass? How did they know her car? Wren would have told them, she chided herself; she was fabricating bogies.
