‘For one thing, if he were in love with Jane, why shouldn't he get on and do something about it? There's nothing to stop him is there?’
‘Unless Jane herself has stopped him. Or perhaps he just doesn't like the idea of trekking across the Sahara on a camel, or perhaps next time it will be the Gobi desert, and he isn't sure he'll be able to keep her quietly in Raneswood, and is just plain scared.’
‘Do you really think she'll be off on her travels again then?’
‘Isn't it probable?’
‘Perhaps. But you don't think I'm right that he cares about Avril?’
‘I hadn't thought about it, but perhaps you are. But what d'you make of Avril's feelings? Is she going to divorce Peter, or stick to him?’
‘I don't know if he's ever given her any grounds for divorce.’
‘Can't that be done more or less by mutual agreement nowadays? I don't know quite how it works, but I know it's a lot easier than it was when we were young.’
‘Suppose he wouldn't agree.’
‘Which he probably wouldn't. I think he's a fairly possessive character.’
‘Then they'd just have to follow the example of our Fred Dyer and Sharon, and live together, which reminds me, Malcolm
‘Yes?’
‘Oh, I was just going to ask you what you thought of Brian's belief that Fred is really someone called Jack Benyon, and that he's probably murdered three girls. But I'm not sure that I really want to talk about that at this time of night. It might give one nightmares.’
‘I'm sure he's right that Fred's the man he used to see occasionally in Edgewater,’ Malcolm said. ‘It was so obvious when they saw each other that Fred recognized Brian. But Brian isn't sure about the murders, is he?’
‘I think he is, you know, although he doesn't admit it.’
‘Perhaps you're right. Well, sleep well.’
‘Good night.’
‘Good night.’
I fell asleep almost at once and did not dream of Fred, or murders, or divorces, but of crossing a wide open space on a bicycle which someone had informed me was usually called the Gobi desert, but that if I went on for long enough I would find out its real name, which was a very important thing to do and would win me a gold cup. However, I got lost in the desert and found myself cycling along Piccadilly to meet a famous film star, and I woke up before I found her.
Next morning, looking out of an upstairs window, I saw Avril leave for London in their BMW, and Mrs Henderson arrive punctually as usual at nine o'clock to do the Loxleys’ cleaning. Soon after breakfast, Malcolm and Brian set off together for one of their long walks on the Downs. I began working on a chicken casserole for our lunch, then got out my shopping trolley and started off for the village, where there was a store that stocked nearly everything and made frequent trips into Otterswell unnecessary.
Raneswood is one of those long, straggling villages with only a few byroads leading off the main road that runs through it. Our village hall was at one of the bends in the road, with ample parking space round it. It was a fairly new acquisition in the village and we were all rather proud of it. It had a hall big enough for a badminton court, with a stage at one end of it, so that it could easily be converted into a theatre, and a small lending library, cared for on a voluntary basis by two or three old people who lived in a retirement home nearby and had nothing else to do. There was also a small kitchen so that it was easy to serve coffee or even more ambitious refreshments when one of the village societies held a meeting there. It was there, of course, that the dramatic society was due to meet that evening for our first rehearsal.
I passed it and went on to the store, where I filled my trolley with fruit and vegetables, cheese, tea, and various kinds of tinned food, besides two bottles of Tio Pepe, which was about all that it would hold, and I was just leaving when I met Jane Kerwood coming in. It was at her suggestion that as soon as she had done her shopping, which she said would take only a minute, we should cross the road to the Green Man and have coffee together. The Green Man was a comfortable old pub which had recently taken to serving coffee as well as alcoholic drinks, and where it was possible to have a reasonably good lunch, or to pick up a takeaway meal. Jane did her shopping, then the two of us crossed the road, went into the pub, found a pleasant corner in the bar, which was almost empty at that time, then ordered our coffee and settled down for a chat.
I asked her if she was thinking of some more travelling and writing another book.
She answered, ‘I might write the book, but I haven't any more travelling in view. For one thing, I don't think I could afford it. It comes quite expensive.’
‘What would the book be about then?’ I asked.
‘About all the things I didn't write about in the last one,’ she said. ‘But I don't suppose I shall really do it.’
‘What made you do it last time?’
She hesitated, then with a curious change of expression on her friendly, gentle face, almost as if she had suddenly decided to be a different person for the moment, she said, ‘I thought it might cure a broken heart.’
I did not believe she was serious, because she was smiling, so I felt it safe to ask, ‘And did it work?’
‘I'm not sure,’ she said. ‘What I really think it taught me was that I hadn't a heart to break. To think of some of the things that I've seen, and then think of how comfortably I live in Raneswood, suggests that this thing throbbing away inside me is just a muscular pump.’
‘If you could get under the surface, even here in Raneswood,’ I said, ‘you might find that a lot of the muscular pumps give their owners plenty of pain,’
Her soft brown eyes studied me thoughtfully and after a moment she said, ‘Have you anyone special in mind?’
‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘I'm just generalizing about the human condition.’
As if she knew that I was not being entirely truthful, she gave a little shake of her head.
‘I could name several, I think, but perhaps it would be wiser not to,’ she said. ‘It's one of the reasons I can't make up my mind to start another book. I enjoyed writing the last one, and it added very pleasantly to my income, but if I wrote another, I think I'd find myself going into things quite differently from last time, going under the surface of all sorts of things I only wrote about as an almost casual observer. And I don't think I've got the courage to do that. My real reason for setting out on that journey, for instance. When I started, I hadn't any intention of writing about it. I just very badly wanted to get away. The book was a sort of bonus that I hadn't expected.’
‘So you meant what you said about trying to cure a broken heart?’
It might have been a cruel thing to say, only I had a feeling that she wanted to talk about it. However, I seemed to be wrong, for she laughed and said, ‘Oh, don't take me so seriously. I'm one of the people who was born with a broken heart. You've probably never seen me in one of my bad moods, but it was in one of them that I set out on my travels. I'd just emerged from what seemed a never-ending depression and I was terrified of slipping into another, so off I went to take a look at people who were more miserable than I was. I expect that sounds very cold-blooded, but on the whole it worked.’
I did not really believe that she was telling me the truth. I felt that she was in a mood of wanting to confide something far more personal, but that the lack of courage of which she had spoken made her draw back every time she came near to doing so. There was no reason, however, why I should press her to do more than she wanted.
To change the subject, I asked, ‘By the way, what do you think of our Romeo? He's a strange young man and I've started wondering if we made a mistake in choosing him.’
‘I hardly know him,’ she answered. ‘I do rather wonder how we'll feel about hearing Shakespeare spoken in that accent of his.’
‘That accent can miraculously disappear when he's in the mood for it,’ I said. ‘Anyway, we'll hear how it goes this evening. If it's too bad we might be able to get him to give up the par
t, and find someone else to do it.’
‘And whom do you suggest should take it over? Not Kevin!’
‘I doubt if Kevin would want to do it.’
‘Oh, he'd do it if Lucille got to work on him, so if you want him, get to work on Lucille.’
‘D'you think he'd really be suitable with that little pug-dog face of his?’
‘Is there any reason why people with pug-dog faces shouldn't fall passionately in love?’
I wanted to tell her the story that Brian had told us about Fred Dyer's past and see if she felt that someone with such a shadow hanging over them should be our Romeo, but a certain doubt of the story that I felt made me change the subject again. Presently, we finished our coffee and parted at the door of the Green Man, going in opposite directions to our homes, each of us trailing her shopping trolley behind her.
It was nearly twelve o'clock when we set off, and by the time that I reached our gate, it was exactly twelve, and there, as I approached it, punctual to the minute as she always was, both in arriving and leaving, I saw Mrs Henderson emerging from the Loxleys’ door and starting down the path to their gate.
I also saw something else that somewhat surprised me. Fred Dyer was standing at their gate, looking as if he was intending to go in, but was for some reason hesitating to do so. This was surprising for several reasons. One was that when he came to work in the Loxleys’ garden or in ours, he always arrived in the van that contained his tools, but now there was no sign of it. He must have walked up from the flat in the old vicarage where he lived with Sharon. Another thing was that twelve o'clock was an unusual time for him to come. It was too late for a morning's work and too early for an afternoon's. It made me wonder for a moment if actually he was just leaving, but I saw him put a hand on the latch of the gate and push it open. Also, it was obvious that he had heard me coming, for he looked round at me, but then, instead of his usual smile and somewhat aloof greeting, he turned away quickly as if he did not want to have to speak to me. I said, ‘Good morning, Fred,’ and he grunted something in reply, but did not look round at me again.
Starting up the path to the house, he came face to face with Mrs Henderson. So far as I knew, he and she were on good terms, but today he simply strode past her and went straight to the side door of the house which I knew was rarely locked and let himself in. A wild barking of dogs greeted him. It reminded me that Avril was not there that morning. She had gone to London to have lunch with her famous cousin. The dogs were in Peter's charge and were always more restless and nervous than when Avril was there.
Mrs Henderson saw me and hurried along the path as if she wanted to speak to me, so I waited before going in at our gate.
‘Well! Did you see that?’ she asked as she came up to me.
‘See what?’ I asked.
‘He cut me dead,’ she said. ‘Didn't even look at me, didn't answer when I said “Hello!” And what's he doing here at this time of day? He isn't even expected today; I know that because I spoke to Mr Loxley. I said, “This kitchen tap is dripping worse, you did ought to get it seen to.” And he said, “We'll see if Fred can fix it for us one day,” but he didn't say anything about today, as he would have done, wouldn't he, if he thought he could get hold of him today?’
‘Perhaps he did manage to get hold of him,’ I said. ‘Miss Sawyer's got a telephone. He might have rung up and been lucky and got Fred.’
‘And you think Fred's fed up at being dragged out when he usually takes Saturdays off, and that's why he wouldn't even say, “Hello!” to me? It don't seem likely somehow. He's in a bad temper or something all right, but why should he be rude to me? He's a queer young fellow, that's my opinion. I'm not sure if I'd have him around the place if it was for me to decide. And this living with a girlfriend — well, I know it's all the thing nowadays, but it doesn't feel right to me. If Miss Sawyer was my daughter, I wouldn't be too happy about it. Not that I'm criticizing anybody. Live and let live. But he didn't ought to have cut me dead like that, now did he?’
‘I shouldn't worry too much about it,’ I said. Yet I had a feeling, like Mrs Henderson, that there had been something oddly wrong, something out of character about Fred's behaviour. ‘Something's probably upset him. He may have gone in to see Mr Loxley to see if he could give him some advice about some trouble that's come up, or something like that.’
The dogs were still barking as hard as ever. They did not seem to have welcomed Fred in a particularly friendly fashion.
‘That's right,’ Mrs Henderson said. ‘Yes, I'm sure you're right, Mrs Chance. He's upset. But still, I don't really see why he should be rude to me. Young people nowadays, I don't understand them. Well, goodbye then.’
‘Goodbye.’
She set off down the lane to the village, and I went up the path to our door.
Malcolm and Brian had not yet got back from their walk. The house was empty. I went into the kitchen and unpacked my trolley, then I started preparing some vegetables to go with the chicken casserole that I had left in the oven, and making a fresh fruit salad. It was while I was doing that that a strange thing happened.
I heard a shot.
What now seems to me the strangest thing about it was that at the time I took almost no notice of it. Someone, I thought, was shooting at rabbits that had got into his vegetable garden. They had a way of getting into some of our gardens from the woods behind us, and one or two of our neighbours, I knew, had a way of trying to scare them away by shooting. In a moment, I had forgotten about it. Malcolm and Brian came in and we settled down to drinking sherry before I dished up the chicken casserole. They had had a very good walk and Brian could hardly find words to describe the beauties of the Downs on a spring morning of the kind that we were having. The sky was a pale, fresh blue, the sunshine glittering. He exclaimed at the distance that they had been able to see across the gently rolling green hills and said that I ought to have been with them.
I replied that I could go on the walk that they had taken any day of the week, and that I was sure that they were happy to be able to walk at their own pace, instead of having to slow down for me, and talk as much shop as they liked. I told them that I had had coffee with Jane Kerwood, but did not choose to tell them all the things that we had talked about, though I had a feeling that something had happened that might have interested them, though for some reason I could not think what it was.
We had more sherry, then our lunch, then Brian said he felt like a sleep and went to lie down in his room and Malcolm went to his study to try to do a little work on his autobiography.
I suspected that he actually fell asleep as soundly as Brian, for I heard no sound from his typewriter, and I fell asleep myself for a while in a chair in the sitting room, then, when I woke, picked up my copy of Romeo and Juliet and started studying my part. I had had a good memory when I was young and could have learnt my lines in no time, but it was going to take some hard work, I recognized, to do it now. About half-past four, I made some tea and called the two men down to it.
It was at about five o'clock, when we were still sitting round the tea-table, that the doorbell rang.
Whoever was ringing kept their finger on the bell for so long that it had a sound of excitement about it, of impatience and perhaps of distress. Then, before Malcolm could reach the door, the ringing stopped and our doorknocker was violently pounded. He opened the door and Avril took a swift step inside, then almost fell into his arms. If he had not caught her it looked as if she would have fallen. Her face was dead white and her eyes were wide and staring.
‘Oh, Malcolm, help me!’ she gasped. ‘I can't go in there again all by myself. It's too awful!’
He led her forward into the sitting room.
‘What is it, Avril?’ he asked.
‘He's dead, he's stone dead!’ she cried. ‘Peter — lying on the floor in the hall. There's a gun beside him — his gun — and there's blood all over his face. And half of his face isn't there. Oh, please help me. Tell me what I ought to do!’
Malcolm took charge. He could always be relied on to take charge in a time of serious crisis, just as certainly as he would avoid having anything to do with the minor crises that occur continuously in domestic life. When the boys’ wing at Granborough had gone on fire one night, due to some child's practical joke that had gone wrong, he had taken control with grave-faced equanimity, got all the boys out into the quad, directed the school fire brigade until the fire brigade from Edgewater arrived, and had given no sign of the anxiety that he was feeling internally. But if his pyjamas did not come back from the laundry, or if we ran out of sherry, it was for me to put the matter right. What we had on our hands at the moment was a very serious crisis, and as a matter of course, he took charge.
‘I'll go over and Brian will come with me,’ he said. ‘You stay here with Frances, Avril. Can we get into the house? Is the door unlocked?’
He had handed Avril on to me by then. I had her in my arms and felt her violent shuddering. She clung to me for a moment, then jerked herself away.
‘Yes, it's unlocked, but I've got to go over with you,’ she said. ‘I must.’
‘No, no, you must stay here,’ Malcolm said. ‘If a doctor's needed, we'll phone for Redfield, and if it looks as if we've got to get the police. We'll phone the people in Otterswell. But there's no need to inflict all that on you.’
‘Of course it's the police you'll need,’ Avril said, her voice unnaturally shrill. Her face was colourless, but her eyes looked unusually large and luminous, with a shine that might have come from fear. ‘But I've got to go back with you. The dogs are shut up in the kitchen and they're going crazy. They know something terrible's happened, though they can't know what, and they're making a fearful noise and trying to break the door down. I don't know why they're shut up in the kitchen. Peter wouldn't have put them there like that. I suppose the — the murderer did it, but I don't know how he managed it. They never obey anyone but Peter and me.’
Seeing is Believing Page 4
