by Rebecca Tope
‘And what did you tell them?’
‘That’s what’s so foul about it all. I turned into a complete jelly – told them everything. All that stuff about Guy’s first wife – finding the mucky clothes – everything. I feel sick at myself now. I thought I had more guts. I was scared. I just wanted them to think what a co-operative chap I was. Above suspicion. They seemed to be hung up on my driving round there so quickly the other morning, which I hadn’t expected. As if shots and screams were normal country sounds, not worth bothering with …’
Lilah knew she mustn’t eavesdrop any more. Deliberately she scuffed her sandal on the stone patio, and then clapped her hands foolishly at the dog. ‘Hello, Roxanne!’ she chirped. ‘Jonathan? Cappy? Anybody in?’
‘In here,’ Cappy called. ‘Is that you, Lil?’ As she entered the room, both the Mabberleys stood up to greet her, which felt oddly rebuffing. Ranged side by side, they presented a united front, which made her falter and pause only a few inches inside the threshold. But she spoke up boldly.
‘I came to see if Jonathan’s all right. Den phoned this afternoon and he told me you’d taken the clothes in.’ As in her conversation with Den, she bit off the urge to tell them more, to share everything that the policeman had told her.
She was looking brightly from one to the other, covering up the peculiar hot shudders that were surging through her at having heard them talking about her family. It struck her that every household in the village might be discussing, gossiping, surmising about every detail of their lives. She wished then that she had tiptoed away again, to think over what she’d heard before having to speak to them.
‘Den?’ said Cappy. ‘Who’s Den?’
‘One of the policemen. I knew him at school, sort of. I see him sometimes, since Daddy died.’ She shrugged awkwardly, wondering how she was sounding. The couple seemed to be looking at her with something like anger. Cappy had lines around her mouth which were new, and Jonathan was far from his normal self. It was as if the sheen had been wiped off them, revealing the pale flesh beneath. Something unhealthy hung in the air. Even the dog was subdued and glum.
‘So?’ pursued Lilah, with a sense of having little left to lose. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘Oh, well—’ Jonathan flipped a hand, in one of his old gestures. ‘You know. You’ve seen it all on the telly. You sit one side of a table, and they sit the other, and they ask about a hundred daft questions, and make you sign something and then you can go. All a great waste of time and taxpayers’ money.’
‘I feel sort of responsible for you being hassled. If you didn’t live next door to a family that keeps getting itself murdered, none of this would have happened.’
‘True,’ said Jonathan, rapidly recovering his normal urbane composure. ‘We’d never have let you buy the place if we’d known what it would be like.’
‘You didn’t own it before us, did you? Nobody ever told me that.’
‘Well, it was no secret. You were just too young to be interested. It was all done through agents, and we’d never lived there. It was more of a technicality than anything. My dad bought it from an old chap in 1940, and never farmed it himself. There were tenants before you.’
‘But Daddy never once mentioned it. That’s really strange.’
‘Well, it isn’t important,’ Cappy interrupted. ‘Have they still got poor old Amos locked up?’
Lilah and Jonathan looked at each other, each expecting the other to answer. Then both shrugged. ‘Don’t know,’ said Lilah. She’d forgotten Amos since Den’s phonecall. The implication had been that he was no longer a prime suspect, but Den hadn’t actually said as much. She wanted to tell the Mabberleys that the clothes had belonged to a woman, that the police were now giving this most of their attention. But Cappy was a woman, and Cappy was deeply unknowable. Lilah hesitated, and tried to think.
It was more than possible that her neighbours already knew that they were female clothes. But if they’d been Cappy’s it made no sense whatsoever that she’d have allowed Jonathan to take them to the police. And it made even less sense to imagine the restrained and immaculate Cappy Mabberley wallowing in a slurry pit. Even so, Lilah kept the information to herself. She had come to glean, not to divulge.
The silence grew awkward, all three standing stiffly, tense with unspoken ideas and suspicions. Then Cappy swung her arms, as if limbering up for a race. ‘Tell you what,’ she said. ‘I’ve got something to show you.’
Jonathan darted a quick glance of warning at her. ‘Err,’ he said.
‘Oh, it’s all right,’ Cappy laughed, purpose shining from her. ‘There’s no reason to keep it secret from Lilah.’
‘What?’ The girl was intrigued, even excited.
‘Come with me,’ Cappy beckoned, heading past Lilah to the French windows. ‘It’s still light enough, but we can’t waste any time.’
‘Can I come?’ asked Jonathan.
Cappy looked back at him, considering. ‘No. You stay here.’
‘Well, be careful. If you see anyone, you’re to come right back. Especially if Lilah’s with you.’
‘Phooey,’ was all Cappy replied. ‘Come on, Lil.’
Nobody else called her ‘Lil’. It was strangely affectionate. She followed the woman past the bird sheds, down a deep, ancient lane, between high Devon hedges; the official entrance drive to the Mabberley farm. After a quarter of a mile, covered at a brisk walk, they turned through an open gateway into a field of lush grass, apparently destined for hay. ‘Are you making hay this year?’ Lilah queried. ‘That’s unusual.’
‘Jonathan’s getting someone in to do it, I think. There’s another couple of fields like this, over there.’ She waved a vague arm. ‘We’ll soon be there.’
The whole walk took fifteen minutes, and ended in the Mabberley woods, criss-crossed by paths and open to anyone in search of sylvan encounters. Off the paths it was dense with bracken, brambles, hawthorn and holly, as well as the larger, older trees, and thus almost impossible to traverse. ‘Nothing like the woods of my childhood,’ Cappy remarked, in a low voice. ‘It’s all bare between the trees where I grew up, and none of this endless stinging and scratching stuff.’ Nonetheless, she plunged off the path they’d taken, striding confidently over snaking brambles, and sidestepping horribly reminiscent clumps of nettles. ‘Tread where I do,’ she instructed Lilah.
‘Why are we whispering?’ asked Lilah.
‘We’re going to a secret place. In a minute we mustn’t talk at all, not even in whispers.’ They plunged on, making some noise in the evening quiet. Lilah wondered who there might be to hear them. She had never taken much interest in these woods, preferring open fields and hedgerows. The presence of holidaymakers had always been off-putting to her, with their loud laughter and silly picnics.
Without warning, Cappy stopped and pointed. ‘There,’ she sighed. ‘By the witch’s tree.’
Lilah could see nothing remarkable. A mountain ash grew straggly beside a broad, green sweep of bracken. It was a relatively light spot, with no large trees to blot out the sun, and it seemed to be clear of brambles. In fact, the ground underfoot was mossy and springy. She peered in the direction of Cappy’s pointing finger, but soon gave up. ‘Where?’ she said. ‘What witch’s tree?’
The woman indicated the rowan. ‘I’ll explain later,’ she mouthed, close to Lilah’s ear. ‘Now follow me carefully.’
She led Lilah straight towards the bracken, and then began to skirt round it to an area that had been out of sight to them. Lilah began to notice signs of human interference. A circular ring of stones contained a scattering of wood ash and singed ground. There was a visible path leading directly into the bracken. Following it, she realised that it ended in a shelter, formed from bracken and young ash and elder limbs. So cleverly was it made that it took her some time to recognise it for what it was. There was a smell about it, too, of sweat and smoke and something sweet. Dope, she thought suddenly.
Cappy watched her, and then spoke in a normal v
oice. ‘Clever, isn’t it. There are some things hidden away, too. Drinking cups, and a blanket.’
‘How on earth did you find it?’
‘Oh, well, I thought I saw someone coming down here one day, and being a nosy cow, I kept a lookout. And – well, I know Jonathan doesn’t care who uses the woods, but they are ours, after all. I do feel we should know what’s going on in here.’
‘Smoking dope, by the smell of it,’ said Lilah. ‘It’s lovely, though. Like a fairytale.’
‘Don’t you feel it’s a bit sinister?’
Lilah considered. ‘Not really. But perhaps I’m not very sensitive to atmospheres. They probably don’t use it much. Have you ever seen them properly? Who are they?’
Cappy shook her head. ‘I just saw a man, and then only from the back. Youngish.’
‘And you haven’t said anything to the police? After all—’
‘You think it’s got something to do with the murders? Well, yes, that’s why I showed it to you. But it isn’t much, really, is it? Probably just some local lad coming to get away from it all. I mean, that’s what these woods are for.’ She seemed defensive and somehow frustrated. Lilah wondered whether she had been expected to react differently.
‘But don’t you think they’d want to know about it?’ she persisted. The failure to tell the police struck her as quite seriously neglectful.
‘I have a good reason,’ Cappy replied evasively. ‘It’s growing about three hundred yards away, but I’m not telling you where.’
Lilah blinked, and then understood. ‘Oh, Cappy!’ she laughed. ‘How brave of you!’
‘Purely for personal use,’ the woman said primly. ‘But it wouldn’t be funny at all if I got caught, now would it. It’s well hidden, but even so, no sense in asking for trouble. Besides, I’ve never actually told Jonathan.’
‘Well, thanks for showing me the hideout, and trusting me with your secret. I’d never be able to find it again on my own. Hadn’t we better go before it gets really dark?’
Cappy nodded and turned to lead the way back. Lilah couldn’t even work out where they’d come from, or where the paths were: without her guide, she’d be completely lost. ‘How many acres are these woods?’ she asked.
‘Fifty or so, altogether. That’s quite a size, by English standards.’
‘You can say that again. I had no idea they were so big. Stupid, when I’ve lived next door for most of my life. It never occurred to me to wonder before.’
‘Hush!’ The sound came sharp, aggressive. Lilah stopped still, and caught the sounds of swishing that meant someone was ploughing through undergrowth, much as they were. Too late, she thought. Our voices must have carried far enough to be heard.
Cappy surprised her by suddenly crouching down behind a small, dense holly tree, flapping at Lilah to do the same. Feeling rather foolish, she squatted where she was, assuming she wouldn’t be noticed in the fading light.
The sounds came closer, obviously made by a single person, treading confidently along a known route. Why are we hiding? Lilah wondered. What on earth is this all about?
A woman came into view. Her face was a pale disc, framed with long, untidy black hair. Two distinct facts were immediately obvious to Lilah. Firstly, this was Elvira, the simple girl from the village, Phoebe Winnicombe’s daughter. Elvira, who had travelled the daily school bus with Lilah and Den and all the others of their generation.
Secondly, this was the female half of the copulating couple she had seen in the field after the Mabberleys’ barbecue. How this became such a certainty to Lilah was unclear. The swinging black hair, the broad, round hips, were the only physical pointers. But Lilah was sure. And it seemed suddenly very important to find the identity of the man who’d been with her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
She let Jonathan drive her home, without any argument. He dropped her at the farmyard gate, turning round and leaving her without saying more than a muted goodnight. Cappy’s revelation of the lair in the woods had only made Lilah more obsessed with her own preoccupations. ‘I must get home,’ was all Lilah had said, once they’d got safely back to the Mabberleys’ house.
As she let herself into the Redstone kitchen, she was greeted by a fevered Roddy. ‘Where have you been?’ he demanded, as soon as he saw her.
‘Why? What’s the matter?’
‘We left Particular out of the milking. She’s hurt her leg, and didn’t come in with the others. Now she’s bawling her head off because she needs to be milked. Her udder’s bursting. Mum was up in the orchard and heard her. We went to try and get her in, but she’s too lame to walk.’
‘We’ll have to milk her by hand.’
‘Can you do that?’
‘If I have to. Remember that little course I did when I was seventeen?’ Roddy looked blank. ‘Never mind,’ she said impatiently. ‘The point is, I was quite good at it, compared to some. She won’t like it, though. And it’s dark, Rod. What a bugger.’
‘Well, it’s your fault. If you hadn’t stayed out so long, we could have got it sorted by now. Where were you?’
‘At Jonathan’s. I told you.’
‘You didn’t.’
‘Roddy, I did. You can’t have been listening.’
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter. I just want to go to bed, but I suppose I’ll have to come with you, hold a torch or something.’
‘Why isn’t Mum doing something?’
‘She was going to phone somebody to come and help, when someone phoned her first. I don’t know who, but she must still be talking.’
‘If Particular’s leg’s that bad, we ought to get the vet out.’
‘I don’t think she’s too bothered about the leg – except when she tries to walk. Just the udder.’
‘Did she come in this morning?’
‘I don’t remember. The order did seem to go wrong near the end. No wonder she’s bawling if she’s missed two milkings.’
With a deep sigh, Lilah took charge. The cow was approached, soothed, milked by hand just enough to ease the worst of the pressure, and her leg deemed sufficiently non-urgent to wait until morning. Before this was accomplished, Miranda joined them, hovering and making suggestions until Lilah sent her back to the house. The rhythm of the hand milking would have been quite pleasant if it hadn’t been such a strain on the unaccustomed muscles. Soon both hands were aching unbearably, and one teat still hadn’t been touched. Milk spread across the ground in a widening pool, somehow horrible in the torchlight. As the torch battery faded, the silvery light of a half-moon made the milk shine weirdly against the dark grass.
At last, it was done. The two stumbled back across the fields, exhausted and resentful. Lilah felt giddy with the relentless succession of crises overwhelming her. But she was grateful to Roddy for staying with her and told him so.
‘That’s okay,’ he mumbled. ‘She’s stopped bawling, anyway, so we must have done something right.’
‘It’s funny I didn’t hear her from the Mabberleys’. I was outside most of the time – you’d think it would have carried.’
‘What were you doing there, anyway?’
‘I didn’t go for anything special, but Cappy showed me a secret camp, out in their woods. I’m not sure what to make of it.’
‘Why would she show it to you? Whose is it?’
‘Well – I probably shouldn’t tell you that part just yet. I need to have a think first. Okay?’
He slashed the stick he carried across the tops of some young nettles, and both were reminded of Sam.
Miranda was in her pyjamas when they got back, a pan of hot milk keeping warm on the Aga for them. ‘Pyjamas, Mum?’ smirked Roddy. ‘Aren’t they Dad’s?’
She hugged herself and wriggled into the brushed cotton. ‘They feel wonderful,’ she said. ‘I want to wear them all the time.’
Lilah was beyond speech. She took her mug and started up the stairs. ‘Oh—’ Miranda stopped her. ‘You’ll never guess who phoned.’ Neither of her children responded. ‘Barbara!�
� she announced, with a dramatic flourish. ‘You know – Guy’s first wife. Barbara Beardon, that wrote the letter. She phoned. I told her I wanted to go and see her, and she said fine. So I am. She sounds nice.’
‘Great, Mum,’ said Lilah, wearily. ‘Can we talk about it tomorrow? I think I’ll die if I don’t go to bed this minute.’
* * *
When she woke, her hands still ached. They felt big and hot. When she rolled out of bed and started to pull on her jeans, her fingers worked stiffly. It was worrying to be so disabled and she envisaged a day of pain and incompetence. Particular’s troubles were not yet over, either: if she wasn’t properly milked out, the supply would dry up and they’d lose the yield of one of their best milkers, only a month into her lactation. Not until she was in the kitchen did she remember Miranda’s announcement about the first Mrs Beardon.
Initially her reaction was one of exasperation that her mother could seriously consider leaving the farm when they were so obviously under huge pressure. It was unthinkable that she and Roddy could be left to do everything on their own. Even if they abandoned everything except the cows and young stock, it would be too much for them. At the prospect ahead, she almost gave up and crawled back into bed to nurse her throbbing hands. Instead she poured two mugs of tea and went to the bottom of the stairs to call Roddy. A muffled response assured her that he had woken up.
Getting through the morning milking gave them no chance to talk to each other. Miranda came out when they’d started and intercepted some milk for the younger calves who were already calling for their breakfast across the yard. What semblance of routine there was had to be patched together as they were forced to put the tasks in order of priority. All three realised that the only way to manage was to begin early in the day, working all morning, and give themselves at least part of the afternoon to pause for rest and reflection. Lilah knew they were achieving the impossible, out of a sort of lucky ignorance, which couldn’t last. None of them knew how to maintain the milking machine, how to operate some of the implements or even keep the tractor in proper order. Lilah was fairly familiar with the basics, but there were serious limitations to her knowledge, in spite of her experience. Thinking about it now, she realised what poor use she had made of her opportunities, and how Guy had conspired to prevent her from genuinely sharing in any decision-making.
