by Faith Martin
So, back to Briar’s Hall one last time to tell the squire it was all over, Trudy thought grimly. It all felt so unfinished, and so deeply unsatisfactory.
‘That poor boy’s parents,’ she burst out, as the coroner turned the key in the ignition and slipped the car into gear. ‘How can we look them in the eye ever again?’
Clement shook his head a shade helplessly. ‘If you live long enough, WPC Loveday, I’m afraid you’ll discover for yourself that you really can’t win them all. At some point, life’s going to slap you down hard. You just have to learn to take it, pick yourself up, dust yourself down, and get on with things.’
It was one of the hardest lessons that every youngster had to learn, Clement knew. But it was one that he’d never been able to accept with any grace. He glanced across at her and felt his heart constrict at her bafflement and helpless anger.
‘Come on, let’s get it over with,’ he said flatly.
Chapter 36
It was just gone half past four when they drove through the village. To Trudy, who caught sight of the church clock, it felt as if hours must have passed since they’d last been here. But a quick check of her own watch showed her that it was right. Although in a farming community a nine-to-five existence wasn’t really the norm, the place had the feel of slowly beginning to wind down for the day. The village shop was doing last-minute business, and the children were piling out of school. No doubt soon, weary and hungry farmworkers would start to appear for their tea.
At the Hall, they parked in the front drive, but Mrs Roper was very happy to give them the news that the squire wasn’t in, but was out and about on the estate somewhere. A tree had fallen down across a stream that was the main source of water for one of the farms, and he was seeing to it.
Clement thanked her, but as usual, her only response was to slam the door quickly in their faces, her own face shuttered and grim.
‘I’ll bet she’s always known that the old lady did something to her daughter-in-law’s horse,’ Trudy muttered bitterly.
‘I think you’ll find that’s slander,’ Clement rebuked her mildly. ‘Which, last time I checked, is a crime. And you an officer of the law too.’
But not even his attempt at teasing could improve her mood.
Just then, they noticed the head gardener crossing the lawn towards them. He was wheeling a barrow full of something green and slimy that must have come from one of the ornamental ponds and his hands and arms were a light shade of lime green up to his elbows.
‘You back again then?’ Leonard Cricklade said with a smile. ‘Don’t know what’s going on today – everything seems to be up in the air.’
‘Oh?’ Clement enquired mildly, but it was all the invitation the old gardener needed to stop for a gossip.
‘First of all, the squire has to go and sort out something up at Danesway Farm, then Lallie goes missing, just when I need him to tie up some clematis plants. Now some big black important-looking car has arrived and taken Mr Oliver away. That’ll be for some big conflab in London, I ’spect,’ he added sounding proud, as if somehow the achievement was his. ‘Mrs Sylvia’s been tramping about all day with a face like thunder and rushing hither and yon doing who knows what, and now we get a visit from yourselves,’ the old man said, with a smile to take the sting out of his final words.
‘Some days are like that,’ Clement said mildly. ‘I don’t suppose you know when the squire’s due back?’
‘I expect he’ll be back by six,’ the old man said. ‘They have their supper at seven up at the Hall,’ the gardener said, shaking his head slightly at such eccentricity. ‘Funny time to have it, I reckon. Half-five on the dot me and the missus always eat.’
Clement looked at Trudy. ‘Well, we can go back to town and try again later, or hang around. What do you want to do?’
Trudy sighed. ‘Seems a waste of petrol to make two journeys,’ she pointed out pragmatically. ‘Do you mind if we take a walk through the gardens, Mr Cricklade?’
‘’Course not, that’s what they’re there for,’ the old man pointed out with unanswerable logic. ‘The tulips and forsythia are making a nice show in the west garden about now. And I’ve just cleaned out the pond over there.’
He pointed out a section of large clipped yew. ‘Head for that and follow it around, and you’ll find an entrance into the knot garden. Go on past the old sundial, and you’ll find another exit that’ll take you straight there. There’s a bench where you can sit, if you like.’
‘Thank you,’ Trudy said. The old man nodded happily and set out for the compost heaps, whistling an old Glen Miller tune.
Trudy and Clement set off slowly towards the yew hedge. ‘So what exactly are we going to tell the squire when he comes back?’ she asked listlessly.
‘The truth,’ Clement said flatly. ‘What else.’
‘Are you going to tell him that we were pulled off the case by his cousin’s government minders?’ she challenged.
‘And give them even more reason to be at loggerheads?’ Clement asked. ‘I can’t see the point, can you? Besides, it won’t be something Eddie’s father will want to hear, will it? He’ll want to be reassured that we did our best.’
Trudy sighed. ‘You’re right. I’m just feeling mean-spirited. It’s not nice,’ she conceded. ‘It’s just that I feel so… So…’
‘Hello, isn’t that Lallie?’ Clement said, trying to distract her. They were just about to pass through the gap in the yew into the knot garden beyond, when the coroner caught sight of the big, shambling gardener, moving among the bushes on the far side of a large herbaceous border.
‘I think so. Why?’ Trudy said, disinterestedly.
‘Didn’t the head gardener just say he’d gone AWOL?’
Trudy shrugged. ‘I expect he just wanted to skive off for a while. Everybody does it now and then.’
‘Come on, let’s go and tell him his boss is looking for him,’ Clement said, determined to find something to do to jog her out of her apathy.
‘I don’t expect he’ll thank us,’ Trudy warned, but was willing enough to forgo hanging about on a garden bench for an hour or more.
When they got to the shrubbery, however, the gardener was nowhere in sight.
‘He probably went back to his gazebo,’ Clement said. ‘Time for tea? Come on.’
Listlessly, Trudy followed him. Soon they could see the shimmering silver line of the lake through the trees, and relying on memory, they finally found Lallie’s picturesque if modest home.
But a quick tap on the door brought only silence.
Then, just as he was turning away, Clement noticed another, more ramshackle wooden building a little further in, closer to the edge of the lake, and had an idea. ‘Come on, we might as well walk around the lake to pass the time. It’s going to be a lovely evening.’
Trudy nodded. He was probably right. The sun was getting lower in the sky and starting to accumulate that more mellow light that presaged a lovely sunset. A few early mayflies danced their dance along the fringes of the lake, whilst a moorhen, startled by their presence, set off for the middle of the lake, screeching in panic.
But before they emerged onto the edge of the water, a noise just off to their left, made them both pause. It sounded like a door slamming against something, which was distinctly odd, given the bucolic scene around them.
‘It must have come from that shed,’ Clement mused.
‘What shed?’ Trudy demanded.
‘The one over there,’ Clement said, pointing. ‘You know, Constable, you really should develop your observational skills more.’
‘Oh, shut up,’ Trudy grumbled under her breath, but followed him obediently as he set off through the laurels and rhododendrons towards a large, wooden shed.
As expected, the door was open, and even as they watched, the breeze took it and slammed it shut, only for it to ricochet open again, proving it to be the source of the sound.
Meaning only to secure it, Trudy stepped forward, but as she did so, noticed movement inside.
It surprised, but didn’t alarm her. She pulled open the door more slowly and looked inside, and saw Lallie standing with his back to her.
A scythe, hoe, a regular rake and a wide-pronged leaf rake hung on various nails on one wall. On some rough-hewn shelves were stacked some tins of peaches, tobacco, and a can of cocoa. Beside her by the door, a large, nearly full sack of what looked like potatoes sent their musty scent into the air. Clearly, this was part garden shed and part storeroom, which made sense. The shed was only a few steps away from the gazebo, which would make it a convenient place for Lallie to keep some things.
She opened her mouth to speak, then noticed that Lallie was intent on some activity, his large bulk bent slightly over something resting on a large wooden packing crate, which was clearly being used as a table. She took a step inside, then noticed for the first time exactly what it was that he was holding in his hands.
The sight of it made her go as still as a statue, for her subconscious mind had expected him to be doing something vaguely horticultural – like pricking out seedlings or transferring mulch into flowerpots. But nothing as incongruous as what he was actually doing.
For the gardener was holding a vast amount of money in his hands. Reams and reams of large white pound notes – a small fortune, in fact. Even as she watched, he thrust them into a large brown paper bag that was already well stuffed with pound notes. On the crate in front of him was an open battered brown leather suitcase, containing some clothes and a shaving kit, and he thrust the bag of money inside this, closed and latched it, and started to turn around.
‘Lallie?’ Trudy said uncertainly.
And suddenly, and completely without warning, everything changed.
Chapter 37
At the sound of her voice, the gardener swung around. He moved surprisingly fast, but then, she supposed, anyone startled moves more quickly than normal.
But the look on his face wasn’t anything like normal. Gone was the placid, mild, slightly dreamy look that she associated with him, and instead she was looking at someone she’d never seen before.
His eyes were sharp, bright, and hard. His jaw was tight and clenched, and his skin was pale with fury.
Trudy tried to take a step back, but unfortunately Dr Ryder was right behind her, and his bulk brought her up short. It had taken her eyes a few precious seconds to adjust from the sunlight to the dim interior and she knew that her friend wasn’t yet aware of the situation they were facing.
Trudy, herself, still wasn’t really processing it fully. She’d barely had time to register the change in the normally easy-going Lallie Clark, when he began to move. She watched as his right hand reached out towards the wall, and felt a moment of total puzzlement.
She’d assumed he’d been going to reach down and pick up his suitcase, the one with all the money in it. She’d even, subconsciously, been bracing herself for him to charge her, trying to knock her out of the way before running off.
But in the next instant, she saw that no such thought was in his mind. She watched, in total and sheer disbelief, as his fingers scrabbled along the wall and found the hand of the scythe.
Trudy remembered her granddad handling a scythe. She’d only been a toddler, but she remembered him using it to cut back the grass on his allotment paths. He belonged to a generation that had no use for new-fangled lawnmowers, and she could remember watching in fascination as his old but supple body, bent at the waist, swished the curved blade backwards and forwards, in a sort of hypnotic rhythm.
She remembered too, that it had always been exciting to watch, because her granddad had insisted that she always stay several feet away.
‘This ’ere blade is sharp, young’un – it could cut you and not know the difference,’ he’d warned her.
Later he’d shown her how he’d kept it razor sharp by honing it on a pumice stone – both sides, so that it swept through the grass without catching. Every now and then, whilst cutting the grass he’d stop and hone it again. And when he’d finished, he always gave it a final sharpening, so that it would be ready to go next time.
And if her granddad did that, then she was fairly sure that Mr Leonard Cricklade – who was nearly of the same generation – would also insist that his own staff kept their tools in tip-top, ready-to-use shape.
She felt her mouth go dry as Lallie lifted the scythe from its wooden peg with a slight ‘snick’ sound.
She felt her stomach clench in sudden nausea as she watched his fingers curl around the handle, the knuckles of his hand going slightly white as they got a firm grip.
Her mind, for a terrifying amount of unfathomable time went totally blank, even as her eyes dropped to watch the gardener’s feet turn to face her full on.
Then the moment of blankness went away with a cold hard wave of complete fear, as her eyes went back up to his and saw the darkness in them.
He started to swivel at the waist and hips.
She noticed his shoulders were swinging around.
She noticed his right arm, which had been fully extended, began to bend at the elbow.
And her brain, no longer held in that weird, momentary blackness of paralysis, interpreted it all for her.
This man was getting ready to swing that scythe. He was going to bring that razor-sharp, semi-circular, strong blade right down and across the space that she was currently occupying.
And if he did that, he would kill her.
Trudy felt her mouth fall open comically.
She was going to die.
She could hear the remnants of the slight grunt Clement Ryder had given, when she’d stepped back and bumped into him. She could hear her own gasping breath, and smell the scent of the shed – a mixture of dust and potatoes and some kind of oil.
And she could feel herself moving, for without being aware of it, her subconscious mind must have been giving her right arm the order to move – to reach for her truncheon.
But she couldn’t move back because her friend was still in the doorway, blocking her.
So she needed to duck down – it was the only option left open to her.
She began to drop to her knees.
At the same time, she wondered if Clement had even seen Lallie yet, or what he held and what he intended to do, and knew she had to warn him. Once Lallie had dealt with her, Clement would be next.
‘Watch out!’ she heard herself scream. At the same time, because she was beginning to fold in on herself, her truncheon, which had been slipping easily from her belt, caught at her waist, because her own crouching body was pinioning it, making it harder to withdraw.
She felt her knees hit the hard wooden floor of the shed with a lance of pain that she barely noticed.
She looked up, and the sunlight – feeble though it was coming in through the small, filthy window – caught the flash of the blade. In a weird sort of way, it was almost beautiful.
She heard a sound, and realised it was another sob. It was coming from her, of course, and was one of total frustration and despair, because she knew she wasn’t going to be able to get her truncheon out in time.
Already Lallie’s momentum was reaching its height. Soon, the trajectory of the blade, now at its zenith, would start to swing down, inevitably going faster and faster as it gained more power and momentum on its downward swing.
And even if she could get her truncheon free, would she have time to raise it over her body for protection?
But even if she did manage it, the blade of a scythe was curved. Suppose its middle section struck and was caught by the truncheon – the curved end could still… What?
Take her eye out? Slice through her cheek, disfiguring her? Or puncture her neck, where there were so many vulnerable arteries?
She heard a roaring sound behind her. She knew it was her friend, screaming out something. She knew he’d finally seen and comprehended what was happening, and in the formless roar she could hear so much – shock, denial, and a rage to match Lallie’s own, murderous fury. And despair – and fear too.
Some of the icy coldness that had fallen over her, almost unnoticed, melted away.
She only hoped that Clement would be able to get away from Lallie once he turned his attentions to her friend. But somehow, she felt sure that he would. She didn’t know why, but she had confidence in the old vulture. He was smarter than Lallie, and he’d be forewarned. The murderous gardener wouldn’t find Dr Clement Ryder such easy prey.
The blade must be getting closer. Its arching sweep would soon be within reach of her vulnerable flesh.
But she was damned if she was going to make it easy for the bastard!
A chill ran up her spine.
Where would the tip of that scythe-shaped blade land?
She felt her flesh actually contract, as if it could already feel the cold, sharp blade slicing through it.
She closed her eyes.
She began to pray.
She was going to die.
She wasn’t ready.
What could she say to God? What…
She heard Lallie shout, she heard Clement swear and grunt, and then felt the coroner’s knees bang into her side, almost knocking her over.
She felt something hit her – something hard, rounded. Then again, something hit her on the back of her neck. What the hell was that?
She opened her eyes, not lifting her head, but looking to one side.
And suddenly, potatoes were raining down over her.
For a moment, her brain gave up. This was just too much. It had been preparing her to meet her maker, and now this.
Trudy, for some reason, found herself back in Marjorie Chandler’s flat, looking at the weird surrealist paintings. And she felt, insanely, like laughing. Although she hadn’t really understood Clement’s lecture about surrealism, it now felt as if she was part of such a painting herself.
It was raining potatoes!
And then time snapped back, and she felt herself painfully knocked fully over. She could hear grunting and swearing, and sensed feet trampling perilously near to her and suddenly she realised that Clement and Lallie were grappling together, knocking against her as she crouched on the floor.
