The Embroidered Sunset

by Joan Aiken

  “Switchboard. Superintendent, there’s a Mr. Benovek on the line, calling from Coulsham, Surrey, who wants to speak to somebody about a Miss Culpepper—could you take the call?”

  “Benovek?” Adnan looked up, startled. “He’s ringing about Miss Culpepper?”

  “Hello?” said Nottall. “Kirby police here. Can I help you?”

  He sat listening. His blank expression intensified. Presently he said, “And what value did this expert place on the picture? I beg your pardon? And you say you have reason to believe the old lady has been missing for several hours?”

  Adnan looked at him sharply.

  “The niece has gone after her and has not returned? Are you aware, Mr. Benovek, that this old lady was reported missing once before, and that time it turned out that she had simply gone to sleep in someone’s car—yes, yes, very well, we’ll look into it. I’m afraid we’re short-staffed at the moment, though—we’ve been having exceptionally heavy rain here and several roads are flooded—yes, we’ll do what we can and ring you back as soon as possible.”

  He wrote down a number.

  “Old Miss Culpepper’s missing?” said Adnan.

  “Wandered off again, it seems, and the niece has gone after her. Why this Benovek rings from Surrey to tell me this, I’m not quite clear. I’ll just get someone to call Wildfell and check that she hasn’t returned in the meantime.” He did so. While they waited, Adnan said, “I had better get back to Wildfell Hall without delay. If the old lady has been wandering for long in this weather it will be a miracle if she survives. And little Lucy is not a strong girl.” He glanced at his watch.

  “Have to go the long way round to Appleby,” Nottall said. “There’s been a sudden outflow of water halfway down Cleg Hill; report just came in. It sounds like underground seepage from the reservoir. Worrying, that is, with the extra weight of water there must be up top right now; if it comes out in one place it might somewhere else. Anyhow, part of the Appleby road’s washed away, you’ll have to go round through Strinton-le-Dale.”

  “Then I shall be off.” Adnan got briskly to his feet.

  A sergeant came in.

  “I’ve been on the line to the old people’s home, superintendent; neither Miss Culpepper nor her niece are back yet.”

  “Like to go up there, Sergeant, and see what’s happening? Want to go in the police car, Doctor?”

  “Thanks, but I prefer to go in my own car. I know how reckless your police drivers can be!”

  Lucy leaned against Colonel Linton’s doorpost and pressed the bell.

  Supposing he’s out? Or suppose he remembers me and is still mad?

  Presently the door flew open. Colonel Linton appeared, swaying slightly, and peered at Lucy with bloodshot eyes.

  “Who are you?” he said truculently. “Third girl who’s come pestering me in the last three weeks—first some stranger, then my own granddaughter, now you—what is this, some kind of Mass Observation stunt?”

  “Could you come and help me, please,” Lucy said. “I’ve got old Miss Culpepper on the other side of the wall at the top of your garden, and I can’t get her over; she’s wet and cold and very faint.”

  “Old Miss Culpepper? Thought she died. Sure it’s not her ghost?”

  “No, but it soon will be if she’s left there much longer. Please come!” Lucy grabbed his hand; he came reluctantly.

  A dry-stone wall divided the untended garden from the tree-hung cliff beyond, and a flight of protruding stone slabs had been set in the wall for steps. On the far side of the wall, on the bottom step, sat Aunt Fennel.

  “God bless me heart, that’s old Daff! Or is it Dilly? Never could be certain which was which after we all passed our mid-eighties. Whatever are you doing there, midear? Come down from High Beck by the cliff path—flighty sort of thing to do at your age? Why not use the bridge? Not much farther? Well, never mind. Here, you give us a hand, gel; I’ll shove her up to you, you steady her there, that’s the ticket?”

  Colonel Linton clambered over the wall and, showing unexpected strength and dexterity, hoisted Aunt Fennel up to Lucy, assisting her on her way with a powerful waft of Highland Bluebell. Then he clambered back, and Lucy tipped Aunt Fennel down into his arms; puffing a good deal, purple-faced, but triumphant, he carried her into the house. Lucy, following, was relieved to find that he had taken her to the warm kitchen and placed her on a deep, high-backed settle.

  “Never expected to be doing that, Daff midear—or is it Dill?” he said, panting. “Good as a honeymoon, hey?”

  Aunt Fennel’s eyes had been closed; she opened them briefly and gave a faint smile.

  “Edward—fancy . . .”

  “Now, if you have some blankets, Colonel Linton—and a tot of your egg-and-whisky mixture—not a Highland Bluebell—”

  “Anything you say, midear.”

  He produced eggs, and some rather moth-eaten blankets, then tactfully retired while Lucy peeled off a layer or two of Aunt Fennel’s numerous garments, discovering with relief that the rain had not penetrated beyond her petticoat.

  While she was being wrapped in blankets a large tabby cat stalked in and lay down on the rag mat in front of the stove.

  “There!” exclaimed Lucy. “That’s the cat I saw at High Beck.”

  “That? That’s not Taffypuss,” said Aunt Fennel, much disappointed. “Not a bit like. Much bigger.”

  “Not Taffypuss? I should think not,” said Colonel Linton, returning. “Don’t you remember I buried poor old Taffy three-four years ago? Fox got him.”

  “Colonel Linton, are you on the phone by any chance?” Lucy asked.

  “‘Fraid not, midear.”

  “Oh well, then I’ll walk down and phone from the post office in a moment,” said Lucy, leaning against the kitchen table. The room swayed, then settled. She felt as if she were still manhandling Aunt Fennel along that greasy, nightmarish little path, tippily overhanging the rock-filled gully. “I can get my car at the same time.”

  “As you wish; as you wish,” said the colonel vaguely. He sat down by Aunt Fennel. “Now, Dill, midear, how are you feeling? Had your tot? Bit better, eh?”

  “Yes thank you, Edward,” she said faintly. “It seems quite homely to be here again. But I am disappointed about Taffypuss.”

  Lucy looked at her great-aunt in affectionate exasperation. Then she caught sight of the kitchen clock.

  “Is that the right time, Colonel Linton? My watch seems to have stopped. And do you have a radio?”

  “You filling in one of these BBC Listener Research forms?” he said suspiciously.

  “No, it was just something I wanted to listen to.”

  “Oh, that’s different! Test score, was it? In the dining-room, midear. Help yourself,” he said, busily tucking up Aunt Fennel more comfortably in her fusty blankets.

  Lucy wandered weakly into the dining-room and found a radio on the windowsill—a gigantic period piece with art-nouveau arabesques of fretwork all over the front, about eighteen different knobs, and a list of stations including National, Regional, and Droitwich. Mercifully it was already tuned to BBC band four; she switched it on and left it to warm, which it did at the speed of the tundra in the arctic spring. I ought to warm up too, Lucy thought, wrap in a blanket like Aunt Fennel; too tired just at this moment, I’ll listen to Max first. Those two old things are perfectly happy in there having a lovely gossip.

  She could hear the gentle counterpoint of voices from the kitchen; she sat down, facing Aunt Fennel’s pictures across the huge expanse of dusty mahogany, and propped her chin on her hands. If only my head didn’t ache so, and if I didn’t have this curious pain as if my chest were jammed inside a square bracket, I’d be able to think; I’ve got to try and work out why those two men were chasing Wilbie, what was going on. So as to phone police about it. Phone Fiona about Aunt Fennel. Phone Max.

  Sh
e looked up at the row of pictures. Jacob and Esau, Rachel and Leah, Saul and David, Moses and Aaron.

  Curious, I never noticed before that each of Aunt Fennel’s pictures was in fact double, one image superimposed on another. Like the cottage that day. Those two brothers now—Jacob is Wilbie, why didn’t I notice that before? Scheming and smiling, planning to come out on top one way or another. And Rachel could be Aunt Fennel when she was young. David playing to Saul—he looks like somebody familiar—wonder who? I wonder if Aunt Fennel knows about this? That sunset, with the four figures, that is really something much more complex and mysterious—

  They were all mysterious. She let her eyes drift along, from one enigma to the next, each more profound, subtle, and beautiful than the last. But I can almost understand them, if I had just a little more energy . . .

  Dear Max, I can’t wait for you to see them. If anything could put you back on your feet again, I believe they could. Dear Max . . .

  “. . . Six o’clock,” said the announcer. “And now we have a recorded programme of the celebrated pianist Max Benovek playing Bach’s Goldberg Variations . . .”

  The orderly, jewelled music began to move out into the room.

  More enigmas, Lucy thought. Hieroglyphics. No, a maze, a wonderfully worked-out maze in which every compartment leads logically to the next and yet you feel it is only one of an infinite number of possibilities . . . Soon I shall be able to see the whole pattern, which is in fact the same as Aunt Fennel’s embroidered sunset. How extraordinary that is; I believe I’ve discovered something really fundamental. If this pain would ease up a little I could understand the whole thing . . .

  Her eyes closed.

  How can I get rid of Russ, Wilbie thought, letting his detestable son drive him through the maze of Kirby’s back streets. It was lighting-up time; orange sodium flickered and dripped through the deluge. Police loud-speaker vans toured the town, bawling some announcement.

  “What are they saying?”

  “Can’t catch. The accent’s so thick in these parts. Power-cut, maybe? Or warning that there’s an escaped convict in the region.”

  “He’s thought to be in London,” Wilbie muttered.

  “Here we are.” Russ pulled up by the first-aid post, but Wilbie, irritable with agony, said, “No—no. Go into the car park, Russ. This is a no-parking zone, we don’t want the cops towing the van away. I can walk fifty yards, for God’s sake!”

  “Proper little hero,” Russ said, spinning the wheel, running the Land-Rover down the slope. A red-and-white barrier arm rose to let them in and Russ found a space at the back.

  “This inconspicuous enough for you? Come on then; better get you fixed up before gangrene sets in.”

  The sister at the first-aid post was horrified.

  “Really you ought to go to hospital and have it X-rayed. All I can do is clean it up for you.”

  “No time to go to hospital,” Wilbie said. “We’re hoping to catch a plane in Liverpool.”

  “Mind you get it seen to as soon as you can. How ever did you do it?”

  “Motor-mower jammed; tried to free it.”

  “Horrible, dangerous things!” The sister launched happily into a series of blood-curdling anecdotes about crushed feet and severed toes which saw her nicely through Wilbie’s cleansing and dressing.

  “You’re abandoning the rest of the pictures, then?” said Russ, outside.

  “Only for the moment. With Harbin and Goetz out of the way it’ll be all right to come back soon.” With Russ out of the way, too, he thought. And there’s still Linda. But I can deal with her.

  “What about the old lady? Did you see her? Identify her?”

  “Never did. I guess she was cut off in the cottage with Lucy. Maybe they’ll be rescued.”

  “Or maybe they won’t, you hope?”

  Wilbie did not answer. Russ started up.

  It was at this moment that the weight of water, which had been forcing its way down from the reservoir through a fault in the limestone hill beyond Kirby, suddenly split the last two feet of concrete and burst out through the rear wall of the underground car park. Russ, glancing to his right before driving off, saw the wall beside him open like a dolphin’s jaws and spew out water. Instinctively he jabbed down the accelerator, and the Land-Rover bounded forward.

  “Christ, Russ, what happened?”

  “I dunno, but we’ve got to get out quick.”

  Other people had the same idea. The water was up to their axles and more coming at a frightening rate. Russ made for a narrow opening between two other cars, both converging on the exit. There was not enough room; they all three jammed.

  “Reverse, you fool!” yelled Wilbie.

  “I’m trying to!” Russ battled with the gear-shift. Then he gave it up, jumped down, up to his waist in muddy, oily water, and ran.

  “Russ! Wait for me!”

  Wilbie cast an agonized look back at the load of pictures. All those wonderful treasures. Wilbie famous. Wilbie celebrated. Wilbie justified. No time. Have to leave them. He scrambled down, sobbing and cursing. “Russ! God rot you! Wait for me!” He was shorter than Russ; the water came up to his chest. He could see Russ ahead of him, a long way ahead, making for the heaving, hooting, churning tangle of cars that blocked both exit and entrance.

  Wilbie pushed someone aside, tried to climb over a bonnet, slipped, started toiling forward again.

  But it was already too late.

  “Miss Culpepper hasn’t come back since we rang you?” the police sergeant asked.

  Fiona shook her head. “No, she hasn’t. No message, nothing.”

  Adnan, standing behind the sergeant, saw Mrs. Marsham come out of her office and give them a strange, panicky glance.

  “Police checking Miss Culpepper’s disappearance,” Fiona said.

  Mrs. Marsham seemed to relax a little. But she was pale and strained, her glasses crooked, hair untidy. “You’ve no news of her?” she asked.

  “Not yet, matron. We’re just going along to inquire in the village.”

  “Can I hitch a lift with you?” Fiona said. “Time I was getting back to my baby. Mrs. T.’s Ann will be here in twenty minutes,” she told Mrs. Marsham. “And I’ve cut all the bread-and-butter for supper, and Emma Chiddock’s waiting to help you.”

  Mrs. Marsham nodded tiredly. Fiona climbed into Dr. Adnan’s Alfa.

  “I don’t much like that woman, but she’s in a bad way, poor thing,” she said to Adnan. “Don’t you think you ought to go back presently and give her a tranquillizer or something?”

  “Yes, I will do this,” he said. “Let us hope we find Lucy and the aunt at the cottage. Then I will go back with them and look after all three.”

  At the foot of High Beck Lane the sergeant’s attention was attracted by a large white towel tied in an ostentatious manner to the parsonage gatepost.

  “Who lives there?” he asked, pulling up.

  “Colonel Linton.”

  “Seems as if he wanted to attract attention. I’ll just inquire.”

  They watched him ring the bell and Colonel Linton open the door and talk. The sergeant turned and beckoned. Adnan joined him; Fiona followed inquisitively.

  “The hunt is over; they are here,” Adnan said.

  “Here? Why hasn’t Lucy phoned then? Where is she? What happened?”

  Colonel Linton had embarked on a long and complicated explanation.

  “Broken bridge . . . cliff path . . . amazing old lady, ninety-two if she’s a day—or was it ninety-three . . . and my own little granddaughter Cathy . . . horrible sad about her . . . proper Linton . . .”

  “Where’s Lucy?” Fiona demanded again. They were all standing in the flagged front hall; Adnan moved into the dining-room.

  From the kitchen they could hear Aunt Fennel’s voice:

  “It’s been a ni
ce visit, Edward, but I’m a little tired; think I’d better be getting back to that place, have a bit of supper and off to bed. Must be nearly supper-time. Where’s my Lucy child?”

  “That’s why she didn’t phone,” Adnan said.

  Lucy was sitting at the table, apparently resting, with her head pillowed on her arms.

  “Just the way I found her an hour ago, with Record Rendezvous turned on full blast,” Colonel Linton was explaining wretchedly to the sergeant. “Thought I’d best leave her so. But turned off the radio.”

  “She’s not—she’s not—dead?”

  “I’m afraid so.” Adnan touched her wrist. “It was her heart, without doubt. Silly, silly girl. She always would do more than she ought.” As he looked down at her his dark mussel-plum eyes glistened with tears; he said very crossly, “And now I suppose I shall have to be the one to telephone this Max Benovek, and God knows what damage that is going to do if he had the same feeling for her that she had for him. Besides which there is this poor old lady; you will have to take charge of her,” he said to Fiona.

  “Yes; all right.” Without more ado Fiona turned on her heel and walked into the kitchen.

  “Aunt Fennel,” she said, “I’ve got a piece of dreadful news for you, I’m afraid.”

  “What, dearie?”

  “It’s about Lucy. She’s had a heart attack. I’m afraid she’s dead.”

  Aunt Fennel looked up at Fiona, moving her head slowly. She took out her hearing aid, stared at it, and returned it to her ear. “Dead?” she repeated. “Lucy? Dead?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

  There was a longish pause. The sergeant had gone back to the police car and was radioing for an ambulance; Colonel Linton gloomily shook up a whisky and methylated cocktail in a jam-jar, gazed at it, and poured it down the sink; Adnan gently checked the old lady’s pulse and breathing.

  She suffered this unresisting, almost unnoticing; presently she murmured as if to herself,

  “Dead? Quite peaceful and happy then. Like Dill. Like Taffypuss. All right.”

  She looked up triumphantly at Adnan.

  “All right?” he said. “Dear me, yes. And you’re all right too. All set for a hundred, I should judge. You are a marvellous old lady, aren’t you. What is your secret?”