The Spinster Wife

by Christina McKenna

  Know when to speak, for many times it brings danger. The fearful are caught as often as the bold.

  Rita-Mae was on a mission.

  On a mission to get justice.

  The Glackens would not drive her out. She’d stand her ground. She’d fight.

  The boy needed to be taught a lesson. Made an example of. The sooner he learned, the better.

  She pulled on her coat and stepped out the back with purpose.

  Crossed the lane and opened their gate. Marched up to the back-door and rapped loudly on the glass.

  Waited. Counting down the seconds to the beat of her heart.

  Heartbeats quickening with fury, not fear. She was through with being afraid.

  A minute passed.

  No one answered.

  Not to be thwarted, she went round to the front.

  Rang the doorbell. Rapped again.

  Waited some more.

  The curtains on the windows were drawn upstairs and down. Perhaps mother and son were asleep.

  She checked her watch. It had just gone 7 a.m.

  Of course they’d still be in bed. It was far too early. In her haste to confront them she’d lost sight of the hour.

  Not to worry, she’d call back later.

  She retraced her steps to the rear of the house. Scanned the upper windows. The curtains were drawn.

  Felt let down that her plan of action had been derailed by a slip in time.

  Reluctant to leave with nothing accomplished, she scoped the back-yard. There must be something she could do.

  Then she spotted it – the ball.

  The ball – the football that had brought her so much grief – was lying under a wheelbarrow. The red plastic bucket he’d used to carry the pebbles was sitting alongside it. Ball and bucket: the weapons he’d used against her. Well, he wouldn’t get the chance again.

  There was one way to frustrate his little games and get her revenge at the same time.

  She picked up the bucket. Threw the ball into it. She’d take them with her.

  She tiptoed out of the yard, mindful that the theft must go unnoticed, and quietly bolted the gate.

  The sound of a window shutting behind her made her start.

  She turned. Scanned the upper storey again.

  Nothing stirred.

  The curtains remained drawn, giving no evidence – a pull on the fabric, a gap of light – that they’d recently been disturbed.

  She was good at that. Observing the details. Eyesight perfect. Always had been. But the curtains were drawn exactly as before. Orange ones on the larger window drawn properly together. Blue ones on the smaller window – the boy’s room – pulled carelessly, one overlapping the other.

  Had she imagined it then? The sound?

  She let her gaze travel over the roof, slowly, carefully, like a searchlight over a prison yard.

  Stopped.

  There was something she hadn’t noticed before – something glinting. A skylight. How come she’d missed it? But it was flush with the roof tiles and hard to see.

  The Glacken house was the only dwelling that had one.

  Was that the window that had just been shut? The window in the attic?

  Was someone watching from that window?

  Please, Rita, they’re dangerous people. Stay well away!

  She heard the landlord’s voice. Saw his shocked face. The alarm in his eyes. Why had he said that? They were hardly dangerous – a little boy and his stupid mother. So what had he meant by that?

  Suddenly her courage was on the wane. She felt the urge to flee, and quickly.

  She hid the bucket and ball under her coat, hurried back across the lane to the safety of her own place.

  Back in the lounge she surveyed the remains of the breakfast table, so hastily abandoned just a few minutes earlier. Wondered what Bram Hilditch was doing. What impression was he carrying of her as he drove back home? Whom would he be telling about her outburst? His mother most likely: the woman who’d been so rude to her for no good reason.

  Well, she didn’t much care whom he told. She owed them nothing. Had paid her rent in advance and so deserved to be left in peace without meddling from either of them.

  The breakfast things would wait.

  There was no time to clear up. It was against her principles to leave things untidy, but there simply was no time to squander. She needed to get rid of the ball and bucket before Mrs Glacken came a-calling. The minute the boy found them missing the finger of blame would point at her.

  Well, he’d have to apologize to her, before he’d get them back.

  She found a binbag and stuffed the items into it. Found her handbag and rummaged for the car keys.

  But . . . but the keys were not in her bag.

  The car. They’ll be in the car.

  She unlocked the back-door. Stepped outside.

  But there was no car.

  Had someone stolen it in the night?

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  Frantic now. Without the car she’d be lost.

  She paced the room, restless, thoughts spinning out of control.

  Went out the back, checked again.

  Vroom . . . vroom vroom . . . vroom.

  Someone was coming.

  She dashed round to the front. Couldn’t believe her eyes. Someone was driving her car.

  She touched the flick-knife in her coat pocket.

  The car thief cut the ignition and got out.

  She waited. Knife at the ready.

  Then it dawned on her. Madden. Dan Madden. It was him! The man who’d followed her into the wood. The man who . . .

  “What are you doing driving my car?”

  He removed the baseball cap. Fixed her with a harsh look.

  “What? That’s a nice way tae thank me for gettin’ yeh a new set of tyres and fixin’ yer spare, Miss Ruttle.”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about, Mister Madden!”

  “Yeh don’t. Did Bram not tell yeh? I tolt him tae tell yeh I needed the extra day or two for tae get them from Donnelly in the town. Seein’ as you wuz sick and in the bed I didn’t think yeh’d be needin’ a car till yeh were better anyway.”

  Now she remembered. The flat tyre. The flat spare. She leaving him at the roadside and walking home in the rain because she wouldn’t get into his van. Wouldn’t get into his van because she didn’t trust him. Didn’t believe he was telling the truth.

  “I see,” she said, sharply.

  Something didn’t add up.

  “How did you know I was well again? That I’d be up?” She checked her watch. “It’s twenty past seven.”

  “Saw Bram’s car leavin’ yer house, so I did.”

  “Oh, so you waited till he left. Till I was alone. Why was that? Do you watch my every move, Mister Madden?”

  She watched a series of contortions pull at his features. He scuffed the ground. Stared at her.

  “Why would I be doin’ the like of that? I was only tryin’ tae help yeh out.”

  “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  “Beats me what yer gettin’ at, Miss Ruttle,” he said, all innocent. “It’ll be twenty-five pounds by the way . . . that’s for the tyres. I’ll not charge yeh for me time.”

  That was big of him. Playing the I’m-decent-like-that tactic to get her on board again. He was clever, this one. A manipulator of the first order. She didn’t have that kind of money to spare.

  “Yes, well . . . I’ll pay you when . . . when I get to the bank.”

  “Aye . . . r-right . . . right yeh be, no worries,” he said, preparing to go.

  She thought of something.

  “Oh, by the way, Mr Madden . . . ”

  “Aye.”

  “Bram Hilditch knows all about why I was merely protecting myself with the knife on the day of Maud’s break-in. So you don’t have to hold that petty threat over me any more, d’you hear?”

  He didn’t answer. Just shook his head, gestured with both hands and walked a
way.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Bram was in a pickle.

  Rita’s outburst was the last thing he’d expected. Ordering him out like that! He’d never have dreamed she could behave in such a way.

  He drove back home, hoping against hope that she wouldn’t go over to the Glacken house. God knows what Lenny the Enforcer might do. Perhaps his parting words about how dangerous the family were would make her think twice.

  The sight of the Enforcer reared up: the bulging biceps, the spider tattoos, dead eyes and clenched mouth. The essence of evil darkening the small room where Bram had had the great misfortune to run across him. His painful shoulder a sorry reminder of their encounter.

  It was imperative now that he get Rita out of there. That outing to Portaluce he’d mentioned to her seemed the best solution. Far enough away for her to be safe. And far enough away for him to fulfil an obligation to Vivian O’Meara, which now seemed more urgent than ever.

  How could he persuade her? That was the question. The Ryan incident and her confinement to bed had caused a major setback in their friendship.

  He’d give her time to calm down then go back and try again.

  He eased the car round the back of Lucerne House, exiting the vehicle as quietly as possible, just to be on the safe side.

  Quietly let himself in by the kitchen-door.

  Her Grace had no idea that he’d spent the last three nights at Willow Close. He’d slipped out well after eleven when she was asleep and was back before she awoke at eight.

  One thing he could count on with the mother was her sleep pattern. Nine hours every night. You could set your watch by her. Never troubled by insomnia. She’d sleep through an earthquake, as his father used to say.

  He stood in the quiet of the hallway, thinking.

  All the things happening at Willow Close and the nightmares about Vivian-Bernadette O’Meara pointed to the fact that he needed finally to close at least part of a chapter concerning her.

  It would not be easy sharing her secret, but he needed to act. He knew the very man he could trust.

  He went into the study. Found Father Moriarty’s number and dialled the parochial house.

  Rita made her way past the stone circle and followed a path that cut deep into Crocus Wood. In her hand: the binbag containing the Glacken boy’s “toys”.

  There was an urgency now to get the job done. Finish what she’d started. She needed to find a good hiding-place. Somewhere the items wouldn’t be discovered. Even though she doubted the boy ever made it out this far, she needed to conceal them well. There was always the possibility of Dan Madden coming across them, returning them to Ryan, and the little brat’s tyranny of her would start all over again.

  No, that would definitely not be happening. She’d make sure of it.

  She followed the small path, her passage muted by a carpet of moss and bracken, savouring how pleasant the wood was at that hour of the morning. The air: light with spring and heavy with bird-song. The sun: making a valiant effort through the leaf-choked trees and mist.

  She tramped on, feeling good that she was putting paid to things, and safe because she carried the knife in her pocket – a necessary precaution against the unexpected. Now more than ever she needed to protect herself.

  She let her gaze shift from the path, surveying the way ahead. Noticed how, some two hundred yards farther along, the track veered sharply and disappeared.

  The stone circle was her guide. She could not afford to lose sight of it or she’d get hopelessly lost. The last thing she needed to happen.

  She set the bag down. Turned, scanning through the wall of trees.

  Yes, there they were! Just barely visible, shining like bits of broken china, bone-white in the distance.

  Better not go any farther. She’d have to find someplace here.

  She turned round again. Reached down for the bag—

  Schklikt, klikt.

  She froze at the sound of a shotgun being racked for action.

  Fell to her knees, terrified.

  Oh, Christ, he’s found me! He’s trying to kill me!

  She clamped a hand to her mouth to stifle a scream.

  Bam!

  A dead pigeon fell like a stone right in front of her.

  Oh, Jesus!

  She scrambled to her feet.

  Ran into the bushes.

  Her right shoe flew off. No way could she stop to retrieve it.

  Hide the bag, she told herself. Hide the bag and go.

  In her mind’s eye she saw Ryan’s smug little face, laughing at her. It was as if he and the bird and the stalker – the stalker that lived in their attic – were in it together.

  She quested frantically about. Spotted a tree-stump not too far into the thicket.

  It would have to do.

  She hopped across. Parted the bracken. Stuffed the bag behind it, pushed it out of sight and ran like a sprinter back the way she’d come, bloodied foot and all.

  “Bram . . . good to see you,” Father Moriarty said. “Come in, come in.”

  “So sorry to impose at this hour, Father, but—” He saw him eye the sling. “Nothing serious, just a sprain. Could be worse.”

  The priest – a tall, pale man in his mid-seventies – waved a hand.

  “That’s good to hear, and always good to see you, Bram . . . more than ever these days since you’re not in the guise of undertaker. I’m sure you’re glad to have that grave business all behind you.”

  He chuckled at his own witticism and led the way through to the sitting-room – a gloomy, green room full of sombre furniture, redolent of the cloister. A fire was crackling in the grate.

  “I’d offer you tea, but Marjorie doesn’t turn up till nine.”

  “That’s all right,” Bram said, sitting down nervously in an armchair. “Alas, it’s not a social call, Father. Oh that it were!”

  “Yes, you said on the phone. Mother okay?”

  He took the chair opposite.

  “No, nothing like that. She’s doing fine. Had a little fall recently, but nothing too serious. Improving well, I’m glad to say, and looking forward to the royal wedding.”

  The priest grinned. “Like a good many ladies up and down the country I dare say.”

  “Indeed . . . ”

  Bram cleared his throat and stared at the floor, wondering how he was going to confide the secret he could carry no longer.

  “I need to tell you something, Father . . . something I haven’t been able to tell anyone up to now, because . . . well . . . ”

  The priest said nothing, adopting what Bram imagined was his persona Christi role.

  Then: “Do you wish to make a confession?”

  Bram was not prepared for such a question. The last time he’d engaged in that archaic ritual – the Sacrament of Penance – was during his schooldays when it was obligatory. His mother didn’t go in for the protocols of Catholicism, thankfully. She made an effort at Christmastime and Easter, as did his father. Undertaking meant that the Church was a constant feature in their lives, so avoiding it outside the business whenever they could seemed eminently sensible.

  “Not so much a confession, Father. It’s just that I haven’t been able to confide in anyone, least of all my mother about . . . about my last tenant—”

  “Vivian O’Meara?”

  He nodded.

  “Has she been found?”

  “Alas, no . . . it’s just that I’m having strange dreams about her of late . . . terrible dreams. It’s . . . well, it’s as if she’s trying to tell me something and I believe I know what it might be . . . ”

  Bram stopped, wondering how he was going to continue. Father Moriarty, conscious of his predicament, filled the pause.

  “Poor Vivian . . . such a strange affair! A harmless soul . . . she used to visit the church and just sit for hours in contemplation you know. I tried to talk to her on a few occasions, but she seemed very withdrawn.” He shook his head. “Perhaps I should have tried harder, but you can
’t really help someone if they’re not willing to accept the hand of friendship. So really, Bram, you can’t blame yourself for her disappearance.”

  “Her disappearance isn’t the full story, Father.”

  “No?”

  “It’s not . . . not that she didn’t want help, Father. It’s just that she was too ashamed you see.”

  “Ashamed? I don’t understand.”

  “She was . . . she was pregnant I’m afraid.”

  “What!” The priest was aghast. “What on earth are you saying?”

  Bram knew what he was thinking.

  “N-No, it wasn’t me, Father. I had no idea either. She wore those long clothes to conceal it. And she concealed it well.”

  “So how do you know all this? Did she tell you?”

  Bram shook his head ruefully. “Sadly, no . . . she told me nothing. I found out in the most awful way imaginable.”

  “Go on.”

  “She stopped answering the door you see . . . and all the window-blinds were drawn. Her aunt lives in Sligo, so naturally . . . naturally, I assumed she’d gone to visit her. Then, after three weeks I thought it odd she hadn’t contacted me, so I . . . so I let myself in. That’s . . . that’s when the smell hit me.”

  “Dear . . . God!”

  “I know. I was in shock naturally, because . . . because I thought I was going to discover her corpse upstairs, but . . . in the box-room I found . . . found the remains of the little one . . . just lying in a corner under a blanket. I . . . I couldn’t even tell if it was a boy or a girl. The smell was overpowering. Even though I replaced the carpet, it had seeped through the floorboards . . . and it can still be detected, that foul odour, even . . . even after all this time.”

  The priest was dumbstruck. The cackling and hissing fire standing in for the words he couldn’t articulate.

  “I had to bury it, Father. So I . . . so I . . . I had a little casket. A beautiful piece my grandfather had made . . . the finest rosewood, inlaid with mother of pearl. A very precious piece . . . and I placed the remains in it. It was the least I could do. Then . . . under cover of darkness I interred it in the back garden of Willow Close. There’s a stone cherub that marks the spot.”

  Father Moriarty sighed heavily. “Dear God! I had no idea . . . no idea she was in such difficulty. That’s so terrible. So terrible altogether.”