by Rebecca Tope
As she shut off the milking machine and went to put the equipment in to soak, her mind sought tirelessly for some escape, a way out of their intolerable position. It kept coming back to the cows. Everything else could be shelved or sold. Even the calves could go to market at a few days’ notice, distressing though it might be. But the cows were too important for that. Many of them were very dear to her. She had known them all their lives, knew how they were related, and which had been difficult to feed as new calves, or which had been slow to take to the rigours of twice-daily milking after nearly two years’ freedom out in the fields. She had seen markets – the callous men with their sticks and loud voices, and the great bulging eyes of the animals showing their panic. She knew how established herds behaved towards a newcomer – worse than children in a primary school playground. Not the cows, repeated a small voice inside her. Please don’t let us have to sell the cows. This fear, perhaps, was the single factor which kept her going through the hot June morning with its dust and flies and grass seeds. Miranda might make remarks like, ‘When this lot’s sold …’ or ‘Roll on market day’, but she wouldn’t do anything about it. There didn’t seem to be time to pick up the phone to summon the cattle truck or consult the auctioneer. There were too many aspects to selling which she didn’t understand. Somewhere, they all hoped there would be an expert on hand to help them. Perhaps if they waited long enough, this rescuer would turn up in the yard in a glossy white Land Rover.
Lilah continued to feel Guy’s presence at every turn. In the hot June sunshine, with heavy black shadows in the corners and the background buzz of insects, she regularly thought she saw him, heard his voice. He would be just out of sight, behind the barn door, or calling her from one of the fields. The cuckoo didn’t help. More than once she was convinced it was her father’s distant voice, calling ‘Li-lah!’ needing her for some urgent task.
Had the person who killed Guy and Sam understood what he was doing? That he was destroying Redstone, forcing the surviving family out into the unknown? Had that been the purpose, all along? If so, where was that person now, and how did he hope to gain from what he had done?
He or she, Lilah corrected herself. It might have been a woman. A woman who had a score to settle with Guy. That much was just credible. But Sam? Who could possibly have any grudge against poor Sam? The theory about Sylvia hardly extended that far, surely? What difference would Sam’s existence have made to her plan? She wouldn’t inherit his share of the farm. Rather than being any sort of impediment, wasn’t he a vital element of the farm, his contribution ensuring that it remained viable?
The morning passed, with feeding and cleaning and automatic release of the cows back into the same field they’d occupied for weeks. Miranda phoned the vet for Particular’s bad leg, which looked worse in daylight, and then lent a brief hand, before disappearing into the house and eventually calling Lilah in to lunch at twelve. The girl fell on it voraciously.
‘Thank goodness it’s summer,’ said Miranda, as she watched her. ‘Otherwise you’d still have the mucking out to do.’
‘If it wasn’t summer, we’d have given up by now,’ said Lilah. ‘Or the RSPCA would have forcibly closed us down.’
‘We’ll have to get someone to help us. We should have done it before. There must be at least one person out of work in the village. Preferably a man who understands machinery. It’s stupid to struggle on like this. Something will blow up because we haven’t oiled it, or the milk will be rejected because it’s got something nasty in it. And if I go to Nottingham, there’ll obviously have to be someone.’
‘Yes, but who? Have sense, Mum. You can’t possibly be serious about going off now.’
‘I won’t just abandon you. I’ll ask Sylvia to come and do the things that I’ve been doing. Let’s face it, she’s far more competent than I am.’
Lilah sighed. Too many disjointed thoughts were whirling around in her head, and she felt exhausted with the strain of it all. ‘I forgot to tell you what Cappy showed me last night,’ she said. ‘It was all very peculiar.’ Having engaged her mother’s attention, she told her briefly about the hideaway in the woods. She also described seeing Elvira making her way back to it, although there was a strong feeling of anxiety attached to that part of her revelations. Her words sounded inconsequential in her own ears as she related the scene, and yet she knew it was important.
‘Elvira was always rather fey,’ said Miranda. ‘It’s the sort of thing she would do.’
‘I know. Cappy said there was a witch’s tree.’
‘A rowan? Fancy her knowing about that.’
‘Fancy you knowing,’ said Lilah. ‘I’ve never heard them called that.’
‘I thought everybody knew about rowan trees,’ said Miranda in surprise.
Lilah pressed on doggedly. ‘I do get the feeling that there’s something wrong about her being there, especially if she’s with a boy. Phoebe can’t be very happy about it.’
‘If she knows. It’s a wise mother that knows everything her daughter gets up to.’ She pulled a silly face. ‘Anyway, don’t get yourself in a state about it. You’re living on your nerves as it is, if I’m any judge. You’re all keyed up. Your imagination’s working overtime. It’s all beginning to look much clearer to me. Some stranger – it might even be Elvira’s boyfriend, I suppose – pushed Guy into the slurry, maybe because he shouted at him or abused him – you know what he was like with that sort of person. So, then he went off to try and burgle the Grimms, and laid about with a crowbar in the process. Then he came back here – don’t criminals always return to the scene, to check they didn’t leave any clues? Well, Sam must have seen him, and got himself shot. Awful. Horrific. But not a conspiracy, or anybody we know. Isn’t that the most likely explanation?’
Lilah folded her arms tightly around herself. ‘I’d really like to think so,’ she said, with a faint smile. ‘But somehow I can’t believe it’s as simple as that.’
‘Well, leave it for now. Maybe this will cheer you up. Look, I’ve found an advert in one of Guy’s magazines for a relief milking agency. I’ll get onto them. You two can’t go on like this. I’ll try to get someone to do the mornings, at least.’
‘Mum! Have you any idea how much these agencies cost? You can’t do that.’
‘I don’t care. We can always apply to the Council for a house, and the state for some money. Or live in a caravan. Or I could get work as a live-in housekeeper somewhere.’
Lilah guffawed unkindly. ‘You, Mother, are the last person in the world to find work as a housekeeper. Who’s going to provide you with references?’
Miranda gave her daughter a half-hearted slap. ‘I’ll fake them,’ she said.
‘We don’t know for sure we’re selling up. Wait before phoning the agency. Why don’t I try the college? There might be an agriculture student looking for work. I should have thought of that ages ago. We just need another pair of hands.’
‘That’s not a bad idea. But I’ll phone, not you.’
Lilah was suspicious of her mother’s helpfulness. ‘Is this all because you’re so keen to get to meet that woman?’
‘Lilah! What a nasty thing to say. It’s not true at all – just that last night’s phone call was the spur I needed. It sort of brought me to my senses, I suppose.’
‘I still don’t see what the attraction is.’
Miranda pouted and said nothing. Lilah knew she’d have to let it go at that.
Sylvia came back that afternoon, when Miranda and Lilah were sitting outside with cups of tea, barely awake in the warm sunshine.
‘Only me!’ she called, the moment she cycled into the yard. Miranda waved a brief welcome. Lilah sighed.
The visitor came and stood in front of them, hands on her hips. ‘This isn’t what I expected to see,’ she commented. ‘You’re supposed to be rushed off your feet.’
‘We are,’ said Lilah. ‘You see us collapsed from exhaustion.’
‘It’s all go at my place, too. The goat’s kidde
d already, and one of the cats looks as if it’ll die any minute. It ought to be knocked on the head, really. And everyone else seems to be rushing about, too – crazy on a day like this. I passed young Tim just now, driving much too fast for these lanes. The Wing Commander’s taken Mrs out for a spin, as well. They are funny. More of a menace than Tim, if anything. She can’t sit up properly any more, and he rams her into the front seat like a doll. Then he drives with one hand supporting her. This whole village is a madhouse these days. Redstone seems quite a haven, by comparison.’
Miranda gave a grunt of derision. ‘Yes, we must be. We’ve just got muck and murder and—’
‘Misery,’ finished Lilah. ‘Which reminds me – I haven’t phoned the vet about poor Particular yet.’ She went to get up.
‘I did that,’ said Miranda. ‘He ought to have been here by now. Sorry, I forgot to tell you.’
‘What’s wrong with her?’ asked Sylvia, and the whole story was recounted to her. ‘Poor thing,’ was her brief response. ‘Now, surely there are things I could be doing?’
‘Just talk to us,’ said Miranda. ‘Just at this moment finding work for you is almost as exhausting as doing it ourselves – eh, Li?’
Her daughter looked at her in surprise. ‘Yes,’ she agreed. Miranda was exactly right. Finding work for Sylvia felt wrong, in a number of ways. Her mother’s friend’s role was as confidante and consoler, not farm worker. Until the vet arrived, everything could wait. She sipped again at her tea and thought about the things she and Roddy had said about Sylvia. Now the woman herself was here, it all seemed sillier than any game; the product of fevered imaginations and too much horror.
‘Oh, and I forgot the biggest news of all,’ Sylvia continued. ‘They’ve released poor old Amos. I saw him being driven home in a police car. Looked rather green, I thought. Somebody should go and see that he’s all right.’
‘Well, it isn’t going to be me,’ said Miranda. ‘I’ve a feeling he’s been nursing some sort of crush on me, ever since we moved here. Though don’t tell anybody I said so.’
‘And it isn’t going to be me, either,’ said Lilah. ‘I nominate the vicar.’ Their laughter brought Roddy from the house to stare at them in disgust.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Amos had very mixed feelings about being returned home, especially as he had been forced to promise not to leave the immediate area of the village without police permission. ‘You still think I did it then?’ he said bitterly. ‘Just can’t find enough proof, I suppose.’ He had grown bolder during his days in custody. It seemed to him that there was less and less to lose, as time went on.
His house was different again. There had been a renewed police examination, since he had become implicated in the Redstone murders. Silvery powder marks showed where they had taken fingerprints, and his bed was not at all as he had left it. ‘Don’t suppose you found anything,’ he said. The policeman wouldn’t meet his gaze.
‘Will you be all right, sir?’ he asked, for form’s sake. Amos felt like telling him no, of course he wouldn’t be all right. There was no food in the house; he had the ghost of Isaac on one hand and the threat of Phoebe on the other; and that murdering thug somewhere out there, planning God knows what. He just nodded, with a surly scowl, and shut the door firmly behind the constable.
He had no idea of the date, and wasn’t even sure what day it was. His old van, which he and Isaac had used for their infrequent journeys further afield than the village, was very unlikely to start, which meant he’d have to walk to the local shop for groceries. With something like yearning, he gazed down at Redstone from his bedroom window. They’d have milk to spare. He had a passion for hot chocolate made with full-cream milk, and more than anything, that was what he craved now. Something sweet and warm, to assuage all the pain and confusion of the past weeks. They’d given it to him in hospital, though watery and tepid, but at the police station all he’d been offered was tea.
What would it be like down at Redstone now? he wondered. With Sam Carter dead, they’d be struggling. He could go and offer them some help. But he remembered that he was suspected of killing Sam, and possibly Guy Beardon too. Miranda would look at him with suspicion, perhaps even revulsion. He wouldn’t be able to abide that.
But neither could he abide hanging about here, scared of every sound, shaking with the fear of unknown attackers. And known ones. Someone had come into his house and clubbed his brother to death. That was real, although he still couldn’t fully believe it. His own head had been broken, too. Slowly, standing there at his upstairs window, watching the sweep of fields down to Redstone, and then up again beyond, to woodlands and moors in the far distance, his fear turned to rage. What had Isaac ever done to deserve that? What had either of them ever done? His conscience was clear as a bell. Neither of them had ever hurt a fly without good reason.
There was no movement in the picture he contemplated, beyond the swirl of a group of birds on the edge of the far woods. Amos had excellent eyesight and the light was good. A pigeon on the roof of Redstone was clearly visible to him. Pity he hadn’t been standing here that morning when Guy Beardon was pushed into the slurry.
With a sigh, he turned away and restlessly paced the room, trying to think what to do next. Something had to be done to settle this murder business once and for all. None of it made sense to him, except that there was a natural urge for revenge taking root in his mind. There didn’t seem to be much prospect of the police catching anybody. Their daft questions had shown how lost they were. Well, then, he’d have to get out there and see what he could find out for himself. Rather than continuing to be scared of Phoebe and her mad ways, he decided to tackle her head on. She had to be at the back of it all somehow. Why else would she turn up after all these years and take over his house? He thought again of those eyes, glaring at him through the grey woollen slit of the balaclava. Was it possible that it had been Phoebe herself and not a man at all? How could he be sure of his description, when he’d been woozy with sleep and terror and bewilderment? If Isaac hadn’t been dead, Amos could easily have convinced himself now that the whole thing had been nothing more than a dream.
And yet he could not imagine why Phoebe should want him and Isaac dead. Nor could he credit the idea that she had somehow induced a young vagrant to do the deed for her. Even Phoebe Winnicombe would need a powerful reason for such an act and Amos knew of nothing in the world to account for such a theory.
Just the same, she had said and done enough crazy things in the past days to warrant his going to see her. If he didn’t do so, he thought the questions pounding at his head would drive him mad.
He went to the top drawer of his tallboy where he’d always kept a stack of cash, and pulled it open, half expecting it to have gone. But it was all there, in the pink plastic bags that the bank had given him. Five-pound notes were rolled up tightly together and secured with an elastic band. Deftly Amos took three from the roll, and replaced the rest. Then he took down his canvas shopping bag from its hook on the kitchen. Amos had a deep aversion to plastic carrier bags and would never accept one with his shopping.
There were a few lettuces in the garden, just starting to bolt. He pulled one up and shook it clean. Discarding a few outer leaves, he began to eat it, there in the garden, until it was all gone. It had a refreshing effect, but did little for his nagging hunger. Without bothering to lock the door, he set off towards the village, the shop and Phoebe’s cottage.
She had lived here all her life, just as Amos and Isaac had always done. Thinking back, as he walked, Amos could remember the first time he’d noticed her. He had been twenty-five and she was ten or twelve. A smiling child, with skin like honey and long black hair. She had always been loud, shouting orders at the village boys, arguing, complaining. Her parents had been half-gypsy, though seemingly not inclined to travel. She had not been trained in any of the usual conventions; the cottage had no hot water, no bathroom, no heating. It stood high on a bank, halfway up a stony track beside the churchyard whi
ch led nowhere. The cob walls were always stained with damp, the window frames ragged with rot. Phoebe had had a young sister, who died one winter, as everyone watched helplessly. That had all been forty years ago, but only the superficial things had really changed.
Phoebe had done poorly at school, like Amos. Nobody cared, at that secondary modern, whether they stayed at home to help with digging potatoes or carting hay. They had grasped the basics of reading, and could write neatly when required to do so. But even now, in a world gone mad with writing and reading, there was precious little necessity for it in their daily lives.
The cottage was in a better state now. In the long, slow years of her life, Phoebe had enjoyed some success and made herself some money by being an expert in more than one field. Nothing so obvious as basket making or herbal concoctions, with the inevitable twee stalls at craft fairs calling for gingham decorations and fancy labels. Phoebe was, or had been, the best thatcher in the area. She could also lay a hedge as fast and straight as anyone in the county. Such skills were rare, and the payments for them high. Her cottage now had a new damp course, weatherproofing and central heating.
Amos had been taken with the young Phoebe, and watched her grow, year by year. He heard her pour scorn on men and their ways, and announce to the world that she would never marry. That suited him nicely; his mother had decreed that he should never marry, either. He had Isaac to care for. That was his child, his family. He had submitted with little sense of outrage or deprivation.
