Echoes of Darkness

by SIMS, MAYNARD

  "Yes," I said sleepily. "I do know." And then I slept. Never have I felt so relaxed.

  Thursday.

  Sophie's gone. She left a note.

  Dear Tom,

  I'm so sorry we fought last night. I had no right to question you when you got back from your day with Hester. I realise now that Hester means more to you than I ever could, and I accept that. I shall go back to London to start life afresh.

  Don't think badly of me. I know that I am nothing but a silly, spoilt child and a man like yourself needs a much more mature love than I could ever hope to give you. Just put me out of your mind, forget I ever existed, and have a wonderful life with Hester. She can give you everything that I, in my immaturity, could not.

  Love

  S.

  The argument with Sophie last night was bitter and violent. Even though I explained the reason for my being out all day she was petulant and totally unreasonable. I told her how much Hester's company means to me but, instead of accepting it, she flew into a rage, accusing me of coming home drunk, of not knowing my own mind. She said “that Hester woman” had poisoned me against her. She actually used those words. Then went on to say some terrible, terrible things about her.

  I'm afraid I hit her. That was so out of character, I'm not a violent man. It was just a slap, but she held her cheek and looked at me as though I had plunged a dagger into her heart. Then she ran upstairs and slammed the door. I could hear her crying long into the evening. And then suddenly it stopped.

  I slept down here in the lounge. A long and peaceful sleep, dreamless and dark, like the sleep I had in the cave yesterday afternoon.

  I shall see Hester later and tell her about Sophie's extraordinary behaviour last night, though I won't mention the dreadful things Sophie said about her. I'm sure Hester will agree that Sophie going was the best thing that could have happened to me. She was nothing more than a child, and like a child she threw a spiteful tantrum just because events did not turn out as she would have liked. I'm glad she's gone. The house seems peaceful again. Perhaps Hester will accept an invitation to tea today.

  Thursday (later).

  Hester came to tea and we had the most wonderful time. I opened up the french-doors of the dining room so Benson could play in the garden, (funny, but he doesn't seem to have a problem with the house now), and I set the dining table with all sorts of sandwiches and cakes.

  She says she'd like to paint my portrait. Nothing formal, you understand, just a study of me, at the table writing in my journal. I can see her out of the corner of my eye, sitting across the room from me, one leg crossed over the other, pad resting on her knee, Benson curled up asleep under her chair. I can hear the scratch of charcoal on paper. Preliminary sketches, she says.

  She asked me earlier if I missed Sophie, indeed if I missed anything about my life before I came here. After some moment's thought I told her no, I missed nothing, for nothing has ever come close to the happiness and contentment I feel now. I realise now that my life before was nothing but a shallow existence, filled with hypocrisy and lies, bathed in the spotlight of the public gaze, adjusting and re-adjusting my views, beliefs and attitudes to be in harmony with current popular taste.

  Here, with Hester, I can be myself. She will not tolerate any pretence, any deceit, as her husband, Eric found to his cost. Oh, yes she told be about Eric and that slut of a postmistress he was having an affair with, and I can quite understand why Hester acted as she did. After all those loyal years she had given him he deserved it.

  When she has finished sketching I will go down to the cellar and bring up the last bottles of wine and a bottle of gin, (Hester likes a "nip" every now and then), and we shall spend a pleasant evening by the fire, mulling over the past and planning the future.

  Hester put it so succinctly when she arrived earlier. She walked in through the door and looked all about her, then went from room to room, stroking remembered pieces of furniture, gazing out of the windows at familiar views. At last she gave a long and heartfelt sigh and turned to me with tear-filled eyes. "You know, I think I could stay here forever," she said. "I feel I belong here now, I really do. It’s just like coming home."

  I laughed and held her close to me, stroking her hair. And then we kissed.

  From the office of Chief Constable Phillip Hills (Dorset Constabulary) to Benjamin Silverman - Solicitor acting for William Black.

  Dear Mr Silverman,

  Thank you for your letter of the 19th and its enclosures. They have certainly thrown some light on this tragic case.

  I should like you to point out to your client, Mr William Black, that withholding evidence and, moreover, removing evidence from the scene of a crime, is a criminal offence, liable to result in prosecution.

  However, after due consideration, we will not be proceeding with criminal charges. It is felt that while it was quite wrong in law to do so, it is appreciated that Mr Black removed the documents in order that no further damage was done to Thomas Rydell's already tarnished reputation. The action of handing over Rydell's journal, Ms Sophie Westall's diary, and associated papers to the appropriate authorities, while not exonerating him, shows that he had no criminal intent in mind when he removed them in the first place.

  I would, however, ask you to point out to your client the serious nature of his actions and inform him that had there not been mitigating circumstances we would have had no choice but to start proceedings against him.

  Yours sincerely,

  P.H.Hills (Chief Constable)

  Page 2

  Ben,

  That's the official part of the letter out of the way.

  What do you make of all this? You've read Rydell's journal and the other bits and pieces. Did it leave you scratching your head as it did me? The references to Hester Brice are especially puzzling considering she disappeared off the face of the earth over twenty years ago. You probably remember the case. Eric Brice and his lover, Betty Stow, the local post-mistress were found dead in bed at Brice's home, (now Black's place), their throats cut from ear to ear. It made the national papers as well as dominating the locals for more than a month.

  At the time suspicion fell on Hester Brice. She had been away for a few days prior to the murders, but on the day itself, a local taxi-driver remembers picking Hester up from the station and driving her to her home. This was about nine in the evening.

  After that she was never seen again. Despite extensive investigations she was never found and as there were no other suspects the case remains open.

  Puzzling eh?

  The other mystery is Sophie Westall's goodbye note to Rydell. The post-mortem gives Ms Westall's time of death at approximately 11pm Wednesday evening, yet the letter appears to have been written on the Thursday, and what's more the handwriting on the letter does not match with Sophie Westall's handwriting in her diary. Nor does it match Rydell's.

  The general thinking here up until now has been that, after an argument Rydell killed Westall by cutting her throat then, overcome by remorse went down to the cellar and drank himself to death, (the post-mortem on Rydell shows he died from alcohol poisoning - in fact he had enough booze in his system to push him about five times over the legal driving limit). The letter that was supposedly written by Sophie Westall indicates that a third party was involved. Are we now to believe that the third party was in fact Hester Brice? Doubtful. If she were alive today she'd be an old woman.

  So you see the problem. Perhaps you could give it some thought and we'll talk about it when I next see you. How about a round of golf on Saturday?

  Best wishes

  Phil.

  Extract from a report in the Dorchester Echo. November 25th.

  A Dorset beach was the centre of much police activity on Friday when the remains of a woman and a dog were found in a cave. Forensic experts believe that the remains have been in the cave for about twenty years. The police will not confirm that the remains might belong to Mrs Hester Brice who disappeared from her nearby home at about that tim
e, and who was wanted by police in connection with the death of her husband Eric Brice and Miss Elizabeth Stow, a local post-mistress.

  Investigations are continuing.

  .

  MALLORY'S FARM

  There was the harsh chill of discontent in the air as I entered the drawing room. Lucy was sitting at the desk, furiously scribbling letters to our creditors; Anne was flicking through last year's accounts with a sour expression on her face; and Mother was knitting, the needles clicking out morse-code messages of irritation at the financial plight of the publishing company the family had built and sustained for over thirty years.

  I poured myself a large scotch, and flopped down into a high-backed armchair in front of the fireplace. I felt all eyes on the room upon me, so I closed my own and sipped my whisky, delaying the inevitable cross-examination. The carriage clock on the mantelpiece ticked off ten seconds before one of my sisters spoke.

  "Well? What did Geoffery say?" Anne's tone was shrewish.

  Geoffery Salisbury was the company's accountant, and I had spent the best part of the morning ensconced in his dreary London office, going over facts and figures, and gradually getting more and more depressed. "He say's that, as things stand at the moment, we should accept Uncle Willy's offer," I said blandly.

  My sisters sighed in unison. They were twins, and did most things simultaneously. My mother clicked her tongue, a sharp counterpoint to the clattering needles. She was knitting squares for the Third World; a charitable sop to the conscience of a most uncharitable woman.

  "Just as we thought," Lucy said, and swung her long legs out from under the desk, going across to the drinks cabinet and pouring herself a large sherry. She didn't offer her mother or sister one.

  "You're going to have to face facts, Phillip. It's the only way." This from Anne, who was watching Lucy with ill-concealed contempt. Anne had been teetotal for a year now, since discovering religion at an evangelical meeting at Earls Court. The meeting had come just a few weeks after our father had upped sticks and run away to Dorset with a girl younger than my sisters. Religion had filled the hole left by his going. Lucy was attempting to fill the same hole with sherry. My mother was attacking charitable causes with a vigour that bordered on the psychotic and I...well I was cheering him on every inch of the way.

  I was a late child in the marriage of Russell and Isobel Scotney. The twins were born ten years before me, and I had been planned to shore up the crumbling ruins of a relationship gone stale. My father christened me Phillip. Phillip Scotney, or PS as my father would have it. PS, like a bright optimistic post-script to a long and arduous letter.

  "I still think there has to be another way," I said.

  "Oh, stop burying your head in the sand, Phillip," Lucy said.

  "Geoffery Salisbury knows this company inside out," Anne said. "He knows how much it means to the family, but the man's no fool. He knows that Uncle Willy's offer is about the only option we have left. Without an injection of cash from him, we are going to go under. We have printers' bills to pay, our overdraft at the bank is about to be suspended, and we owe most of our authors at least two year's royalty payments."

  "But he wants a controlling interest," I argued. "He's been trying to get his foot in the door for years. It's always irked him that he's been shut out of the company."

  The clicking needles fell still, and we waited in expectant silence for Mother to speak. She looked at each of us in turn, annoyance barely disguised on her thin, pinched face. She sighed deeply and spoke. "We will accept Willy's offer," she said flatly.

  "Oh, for God's sake!" I said. Mother looked at me coldly. She was no fool when it came to business, and she would have known what the outcome of my meeting with Salisbury would be before I even left the house this morning.

  I made a last ditch attempt to stave off the inevitable. "Father will never relinquish control of the company," I said. "Especially to Uncle Willy, and before you all get carried away, let's not forget that Father is the majority share-holder."

  Mother raised a hand for silence. The decision had been made, and she had no intention of getting into a long debate about it. "Your father will have to be made to see reason. I'm quite aware that the relationship between him and my brother has always been strained, but your father is going to have to swallow his pride, and accept the life-line Willy is holding out to us."

  I said, "But.."

  Mother rose to her feet impatiently, her knitting sliding to the floor. "Oh, for pity's sake face facts, Phillip. It's either hand control to Willy and take his money, or lose everything. This house, the villa in Italy, everything." She shook her head slowly and said very quietly, "Everything." I swear I saw her eyes fill with tears, though she blinked them away rapidly. "No, I have worked too hard, and sacrificed too much to see this company go under. For once in your life, Phillip, you are going to have to face up to your responsibilities and not run away from them like your father has. As you are the only one in contact with your father, it is up to you to make him agree to the offer. You owe your sisters and me that much."

  I swore under my breath. I had tried to keep my regular meetings with my father a secret from the rest of them. Obviously I had not tried hard enough. I attempted to avoid the piercing gaze from three pairs of female eyes, but they skewered me, fixing me like a butterfly on a pin.

  "But how can I convince him that Uncle Willy's offer is a fair one, if I don't believe it myself?"

  "That's your problem," Mother said. "Don't let your sisters, or me, carry on believing that all the men in this family are spineless. You can leave for Dorset in the morning."

  "I can't, not tomorrow. I have that charity cricket match."

  "Charity begins at home," she snapped, flattening my objection in her customary manner, and left the room, slamming the door shut behind her. A crashing full stop to a one-sided discussion. My sisters looked at me smugly. I shrugged and finished my whisky.

  The woman who had so completely captured my father's heart, and thrown our family into turmoil was Gillian Carter. I first met her on a blisteringly hot day the previous May, when my father invited me for afternoon tea at the Savoy. I was running late that day, and in a rush as I pushed through the revolving doors, and hurried through the imposing marble-clad foyer of the illustrious hotel. I spotted my father seated at a table, close to a raised dais where a pianist played a discreet selection of standards. I didn't recognise the young woman with whom my father was sharing the table, but they appeared to know each other well. They were deep in conversation, and only noticed me when I drew alongside. My father looked up, smiled, and made the introductions.

  I was at once struck by Gillian's natural beauty. Her complexion was flawless and deeply tanned, her hair a lustrous chestnut brown. Her eyes were almond-shaped, so dark they were almost black, but they shone with humour and warmth. She rose to greet me.

  "I've just commissioned Gillian to write a children’s' book for us," my father said.

  That threw me completely. Scotney's had never published childrens’ books before. Poetry, military history, literary fiction and biography were the areas in which we had made our reputation. Although the company was going through a lean spell, I couldn't see how such a radical departure would benefit us. I sat down heavily in my seat and poured myself a cup of tea.

  "She also illustrates," Father continued, his enthusiasm undimmed by my lack of reaction. "Show Phillip some of your work, Gillian."

  "Do you really think he wants to see it, Russell?" At least she was perceptive.

  "Of course he wants to see it. As our marketing director he will be the one with the responsibility for selling your book. Show him."

  She reached into a large folio-case at the side of her chair, and produced a few of her paintings, passing them across the table to me. "Some of them are still quite rough, but they'll give you some idea of what I'm trying to do."

  I leafed through the paintings, and had to admit they were very good. Her style was assured, her use of colou
r vibrant. They were mostly woodland scenes, containing stylised animals and birds, and she had contrived to make the settings as magical as possible. I could see how the pictures would appeal to children, both young and old, but I still had reservations. "They're very good," I said guardedly.

  "Very good!" my father said. "Very good? They're brilliant, man. Brilliant."

  It was rare for my father to be this enthusiastic about anything, so I guessed then that there was a lot more to this relationship than just author/publisher. My suspicions were confirmed when, later, Gillian went to the ladies' room, leaving us alone to talk.

  "Well, what do you think of her?" Father leaned forward in his seat expectantly.

  "She seems very pleasant," I said. "Young though, younger than the twins."

  "Actually she's just two years older than you. Does that bother you?"

  "Why should it bother me? We have younger authors than that on our books."

  He stared hard at me. "Don't be so bloody coy. You know what I'm driving at."

  A waiter appeared at his shoulder and replenished a plate of sandwiches. The pianist was taking a break, and a murmur of conversation filled the tearoom, business being discussed, pleasant reunions, minor celebrations. The maitre d' flitted from table to table, checking everything was running like a Swiss watch. He hovered at our table, until Father shooed him away like an irritating fly. "I'm waiting," Father said to me.

  "Does Mother know?"

  "She knows. She also knows I'm leaving at the end of the month."

  "It's serious then, with Gillian?"

  "About as serious as it gets. I love her, Phillip."

  I searched his eyes, looking for the lie, or at least an exaggeration. At that point Gillian entered the room, and his gaze switched from me to her. The look he gave her told me everything there was to know. "Then I hope you'll both be very happy," I said.