by Rebecca Tope
So it was that he and Phoebe had a history, and as he came close to her cottage, knowing somehow for sure that she was in, waiting for him, it seemed that he must finally confront her with it, and take hold at last of the consequences.
He had no need to knock. The door stood open, the weak sun, obscured by a layer of cloud, casting a soft shadow across the threshold. He stepped into the living room, which lay immediately beyond the door, paused, and cleared his throat. ‘Hello?’ he said, in a normal tone. ‘You there?’
He braced himself for the worst – a sudden leap from behind the door, a knife poised to stab him; a torrent of cruel abuse and contempt; tears; insanity. There was movement in the room beyond the one he now stood in. He heard a voice whispering. ‘Phoebe,’ he said. ‘It’s me.’
Some scuffling and another spate of whispering preceding a flurry of female bodies, and then there were two of them standing side by side, across the room, looking at him without expression. One of them nudged the other, who grinned foolishly. Then she said, ‘Hello, Daddy.’
He had, of course, come across Elvira from time to time, over the years. She had never seemed to be any of his business. Like her mother in appearance, although much heavier, with a wide, pale face, she trudged around the lanes, her gaze mostly downcast. She appeared always to be in a world of her own, often intent on some incomprehensible matter of her own, sometimes muttering to herself. She carried a basket, and gathered berries and mushrooms. As far as anyone knew, Phoebe was a satisfactory mother, keeping the girl clean and fed in somewhat better fashion than her own experience had been. Nobody had the slightest idea who Elvira’s father might be.
Amos stared stupidly at the two women. Something crumbled inside him, some walled-up knowledge that he had not so much struggled to deny, as simply forgotten about. Elvira must be somewhere over twenty by this time, he supposed, though an exact calculation was beyond him. The years were all so alike, there was nothing he could find to pin down dates with any accuracy. The girl’s simple mind was forever fixed in childhood, so that it made little sense to count the years. He had known, in a vague way, that he could technically be her father. And the knowledge meant scarcely anything to him. A pang of shame, a tweak of pity would perhaps grip him on a wakeful night when the thought of a wife and child came warm and inviting to his lonely bed. To be followed all too swiftly by the awareness that only one person in the world could ever be that wife, and she had vowed never to marry. But though she remained steadfastly single, Phoebe would never have permitted Amos to marry another woman. This he knew for certain, without ever needing to be told.
‘Wh-what?’ he stuttered. ‘What did you say?’
‘She’s your girl, Amos,’ Phoebe clarified, her voice like broken glass. ‘And ’tis time you confessed it.’
He stood up taller, the anger slowly returning. ‘When have I had a chance of that?’ he demanded. ‘Confess, is it! Seems I’m to spend my days confessing, just now.’
The words were muddled, but the feeling was clear. All his life, this woman had played with him, spoilt everything for him. She had taunted Isaac in their younger days, whilst having her own daft girl, even worse in the head, some might say.
‘I am not in your debt,’ he said. ‘Too late now, Phoebe, to try to make out that I am.’
‘Time has no meaning in this,’ she said, taking her daughter’s arm. ‘This is your rightful child. And you’ve always known it to be so.’
‘She could have been once,’ he said, suddenly sad and soft, thinking of the might-have-beens. ‘But you kept her for your own. You, Phoebe Winnicombe, always so strong and proud. People said you’d found her in the churchyard or stolen her from a pram. Or that you got her from some passing stranger who never knew what he’d done. If you say it was me, then that’s just words now. The time has long gone when I could have cared about her.’
‘No! All you ever cared for was that useless brother. Now he’s gone, and Elvira’s to take his place. I’m decided.’
Amos felt a derisive laugh struggling to burst out. But he dared not laugh at Phoebe. Something was becoming clear in his mind, a terrible thing, which he did not want to face. He struggled against it, insisting to himself that he must be wrong. Whatever she might say, however harshly she might say it, he still would not believe that she had had Isaac killed.
He remembered again the murdering figure with the mask across his face, swinging the crowbar. There had been nothing familiar about him, in his youth and the blaze of his dark eyes. It had been a look of purpose, an intentness to finish an unpleasant job.
And yet. Whereas before there had been no motive as to why Isaac should die, now something was forming in his mind as he observed his one-time lover and her daughter standing there before him, and it changed everything.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The vicar had private business which was causing him profound anxiety. Since Guy Beardon died, things were getting worse. The first wife had somehow got hold of his address and had been contacting him by letter and phone more and more in the last week or so. Yet he still wasn’t sure what she wanted. What had begun as a bit of minor mischief, a sense of putting one over on the arrogant Guy, by knowing unsuspected details of his early life, had turned into something much darker and more dangerous.
Guy had died a dirty, disgusting death, and Father Edmund was still unable to feel any personal sorrow for this fact. He had been much more affected by the killing of Sam Carter, in spite of his profound disapproval of the man’s ungodliness. It had been with motives of genuine concern that he had visited Redstone that afternoon; hearing those children talking about him so disaparagingly in the office had come as a very unpleasant shock. Any sympathy he might have been fostering had evaporated in seconds. How in God’s name was he supposed to care about heathens and pagans like them? Running half-wild all their lives, not understanding the normal constraints of modern existence, they were barely the same species as others of their generation. There was nothing at all he could do for them, and it was futile even to try.
And yet he had tried, in a feeble way, to divert the tidal wave of trouble they were facing. And, heaven help him, he was still trying – though since Sam’s death, he had realised that he was groping more blindly than he’d believed at first. There was some substantial piece of the jigsaw that he was missing, and it was an attempt to grasp this which preoccupied him now.
Sylvia Westerby seemed to him to be a good place to start. Living next door, she and he had struck up a workable relationship, which Father Edmund found oddly satisfying. He enjoyed her directness, her easy strength. Although she never came to church, she would sometimes lend a hand at garden parties and bring and buys. A good-natured woman was a precious thing, in his opinion, and he made a special effort not to alienate her.
The boundary between the two properties comprised a substantial hedge, reinforced with a wire netting fence, to prevent Sylvia’s livestock from straying. But at the upper end, adjacent to the road running into the village centre, there was only a fence, leaving a clear view of each other’s front doors. If Sylvia’s door stood open, it meant she was at home. He went to look. Not only was the door open, but her bicycle was propped against the wall of the house. ‘Hello!’ he called, standing just outside the threshold. ‘Are you there?’
She came through from one of the main rooms, appearing slowly, her expression neutral. ‘I’m here,’ she said and waited. He felt her silence as hostile, almost aggressive. Serves her right for leaving the door open, he thought.
‘Ah, yes,’ he began, clasping his hands together in front of his stomach. ‘I just thought I should come and ask you how things are at Redstone. I did call in, but Mrs Beardon was out, and the children – well, I didn’t get much sense out of them.’
‘They’re not children, vicar,’ she corrected him sternly. Then her tone mellowed. ‘They’re all very shocked. Obviously.’ She leant a shoulder against the doorway, and seemed in no hurry to be rid of him – but neither wa
s she inviting him in. Obstinacy kept him there; he was intent on seeing this through.
‘They can’t manage the farm now, surely? I thought perhaps we could find someone to help them. Rally the community.’
Sylvia laughed a little, a chuckle of muted scorn. But her words were friendly. ‘Yes, I had the same idea myself. I have been going over every day myself, but they seem too disorganised to be able to help, if you see what I mean. It’s difficult to know how to be of any assistance. And who is there in the village who’s not already as busy as can be?’
‘There must be people. Youngsters. Retired …’
‘Don’t suggest Wing Commander Stradling, whatever you do. We’ve already considered him.’ She laughed again, and Father Edmund allowed himself to join in fleetingly.
‘There’s Phoebe and Elvira. They’d be ideal.’ He felt a rare sense of inspiration. Where had that idea come from? He cocked his head pensively, looking at the thought again. Surely it was brilliant.
Sylvia pursed her lips and widened her eyes. ‘My goodness,’ she said. ‘I would never have thought of them. They don’t know much about farming, surely?’
‘We could ask them,’ he said. And that matter seemed to be closed. After all, the farm work had not been his main worry.
‘The police—’ he went on. ‘Are they still examining the place for clues?’
‘Oh, no, I don’t think so. I gather it’s all being done from their offices, now. Laboratories – whatever. I have no idea what it is they’re doing.’
‘I saw the car here—’ he paused delicately.
‘That’s right. They asked me some questions, as well. Didn’t you get a visit?’
He shook his head. ‘Not since Sam died, no. I was interviewed after the Grimsdale death, as was everyone else, so far as I know. They didn’t seem to think I had anything useful to contribute.’
She looked at him sharply. ‘And were they right?’ she asked.
Father Edmund put his head back, and breathed deeply. ‘They were indeed,’ he said stiffly. Something had gone wrong with the conversation. He hadn’t expected to be put on the defensive like this. He had come to elicit information, and only now did he realise how incompetently he was going about it.
He breathed again, steadying himself. ‘Well, as I say, I am very concerned about that poor family. Perhaps you would convey my sentiments to them. I would willingly help in any way I can. It’s hard to imagine how it is for them, with so much tragedy falling upon them. Murder is a terrible thing.’ Words were coming more easily now. ‘Just think what hatred there must have been. Something must have been desperately wrong up there, for this to happen.’
Sylvia said nothing. When he looked into her face again, there were tears in her eyes, gathering heavily on her lower lids, trembling on the brink before spilling over. Father Edmund was appalled.
‘Well,’ he flustered. ‘I won’t keep you any longer. I’m sorry to have intruded. Sorry to … er …’ She blinked, and scraped a forefinger from each hand harshly across each cheek. She seemed angry, but still she said nothing.
He left, knocking glancingly against the bike as he went. Typical, he thought furiously, as he regained his own property. Wretched women, retreating into tears just when you thought you might get something out of them.
He made himself tea and laid two homemade ginger biscuits on a small plate. One of the few perks of this job was the never-ending stream of good food provided by the church ladies. A bachelor vicar was a magnet for such things, and it was a lean day when some little tin or jar or packet of cake, jam, or biscuits did not appear in his porch as if by magic.
He reviewed his plan as he crunched, torn between wishing himself completely removed from the whole business, and excitement at the special nature of his involvement. The first Mrs Beardon had asked him for help, and he could not easily refuse it. She was keen to meet Miranda, and to ascertain the precise legal position regarding Guy’s estate, without alerting either Miranda’s children or the police. This had seemed innocent enough to Father Edmund. He had his doubts as to whether she could be entitled to any property, and had told her as much, already. But he supposed that she had a much more emotional motive, namely sheer curiosity as to how Guy’s life had turned out after he’d left her. This he could understand. This, he told himself, was why he was willing to assist her. After all, she had only requested that he keep her informed as to whether it appeared possible for Miranda to leave Redstone for a visit to Nottingham. Barbara did not seem much interested in the murders, presumably under the impression that some inscrutible local feud lay behind them. People, as Father Edmund well knew, had strange ideas about life in the deep countryside.
Fortified, he washed his teacup, and stepped outside once again. This time he would need the car. There was an element to this mystery that he had so far overlooked, despite its nagging presence at the back of his mind. That all three deaths were connected seemed both obvious and impossible. The paradox had apparently struck most people in the same way, and had the same effect. The murder of Isaac Grimsdale had been so incomprehensible that scarcely anyone even had a theory about it. And without a theory, they had been rendered wordless on the subject. ‘Poor old Isaac,’ they said, shrugging helplessly.
This would not do. At the very least, Amos must be in need of succour. Another non-churchgoer, he was barely known to the vicar. But this was not a good reason for neglecting him. There were pastoral duties to perform, as well as a rich vein for amateur sleuthing. Besides, Isaac had not yet been buried. The Council would take charge at this rate, bundling him off to the crematorium early one morning with none of the due ritual. Perhaps Amos simply needed a helping hand, to guide him through the process. Father Edmund was more than satisfied with this excuse for a visit.
The track to the Grimsdale farmhouse was overgrown and bumpy. It ran between high hedges, beyond which was land which had long belonged to Redstone on one side, and a different farm entirely on the other. Father Edmund was only dimly aware of the history of land ownership in the area, although the church ladies had been more than happy to explain it to him, many a time. Rounding a sudden sharp bend, he found himself in a large rutted yard outside the house, which was set on high ground. Automatically he stared at the view falling away to his right, sweeping down to the hollow where Redstone and all its outbuildings clustered, and then up the far side to the Mabberley woods. It was splendid, he acknowledged; more than splendid. How odd that nobody had ever mentioned it to him! The Grimsdales’ house must have the finest vista in the whole area. It did him good just to stand for a moment and appreciate it.
When he turned back, remembering the reason for his visit, Amos was standing in the doorway, at the front of the house, staring at him. ‘Good God!’ he said, thickly.
‘My dear fellow, how are you?’ Father Edmund gushed nervously. ‘I’m afraid this visit is badly overdue. I’ve come to offer my condolences over your brother.’
Amos went on staring. Father Edmund could see the wound on his head; it looked as if it ought to be covered with a dressing. Had the man’s brains been addled? he wondered. Wasn’t there mental trouble in the family, anyway?
‘I’m glad to see you,’ said Amos, then. ‘It’s like magic.’
‘Pardon?’
‘I was – in a way – praying for someone like you to come. I need help, you see.’
To the best of his recollection, Father Edmund had never been the answer to anyone’s prayer before. It was a highly disturbing feeling. Warily, he smiled. ‘Then you must tell me all about it,’ he said. ‘Shall we go in?’
The inside of the house was astonishingly tidy. He realised that he had expected a hovel, full of animal hair, mud, unwashed crockery. He gazed about him, and then looked questioningly at Amos. ‘Do I detect the hand of a woman?’ he said, with a knowing smirk.
Amos shuddered at that, and almost ran into the living room. Father Edmund followed, noting that this room was equally pristine. Amos threw himself down on a la
rge armchair and gestured his visitor to find a seat. Then a long silence ensued, with the vicar unable to find a safe opening to a conversation he could not begin to predict.
At last, Amos spoke. ‘A woman,’ he said. ‘That’s it, all right.’ And he began to tell a strange, disjointed story, full of ancient grievances and present day terrors. The vicar listened, uncomprehending at first, but afraid to interrupt with questions, in case some tenuous thread be lost.
At the end, he sat back, and stared hard at the unnervingly clean ceiling. The woman even washed his ceiling, he thought, irrelevantly. ‘I think we’ll have to go to the police,’ he said at last. ‘If I’ve understood you correctly, they’ll be most anxious to hear everything that you’ve just told me.’
Amos nodded resignedly, almost mournfully. Father Edmund felt something flutter inside him, and his head hummed strangely. What could this sensation be? he wondered. Suddenly he understood. It was sadness. Pure overwhelming sadness, for the things that could happen in the world.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
While Amos was unburdening himself to the vicar, Miranda was doing something similar to Dave, the young police sergeant. He had been detailed to interview her one more time, with a view to confirming the facts about her relationship with Sam, as well as eliciting any other information which might be ‘pertinent’. ‘We’d like to know a little more about Mr Carter’s background,’ he began. ‘It strikes us as rather … well, thin. A few discrepancies seem to be showing up, too.’
Miranda fought down a surge of irritation. Talking about Sam’s ‘background’ seemed pure irrelevance to her. She waited restlessly for the questions to start.
‘Basically,’ said the man, with a small smile, ‘we can’t seem to get hold of any motive for his killing. None of the people we’ve spoken to can suggest any reason at all why Mr Carter should be murdered. Here we have someone turning up on your farm in the early hours of the morning, having presumably taken your husband’s gun from Mr Carter’s room on a previous occasion, and then shooting him in the back with it. No sign of a disturbance, nobody reporting a fight or even an argument. That does seem to suggest that the killer was quietly waiting for his chance – that this was all carefully planned. Would you agree?’
