As she lay there in the darkness she realised she had been unfair on the child. She’d been so wrapped up in her own misery that she’d ignored her daughter’s pain, had pushed her away and isolated herself in her own feeling of helplessness. Of course Catriona had needed her. Of course she was in pain after losing her da. How could she, her mother have been so blind? Now her lovely girl had turned into a little virago and it was all her fault.
Velda bit her lip. She had failed Catriona, had failed in her role as a mother. Why had she allowed herself to be drawn into the twilight world her nightly drink offered? It made her thoughts sluggish, her perception dull and blurred her focus on what was happening around her. She threw back the sheet and clambered out of bed. She would go and see Catriona and try to put things right and make amends for her neglect.
The long passageway was dark. The electricity had failed right at the beginning of the rain storms and because the generator had run out of oil, they’d had to rely on candles, the old wood-burning cooking range and kerosene lamps. Velda hesitated, then decided not to light a candle, she could see well enough and Catriona’s room was only a short walk to the end of the corridor.
Her bare feet made little noise on the floorboards, her slight weight not even making them creak. She approached Catriona’s door and was pleased to see a light glimmering beneath it. She was still awake.
Velda was about to reach for the handle when she heard a noise on the other side of the door. She stilled, the hairs on the back of her neck lifting as she heard it again, tried to deny it and finally realised she’d not been mistaken. With her heart thudding against her ribs and her fingers trembling on the handle, she quietly opened the door.
The scene before her was captured in all its horror by the light from the lantern which stood on the chest of drawers. Velda froze.
Catriona was naked, her eyes tightly shut, the tears squeezing between the lids. Her sobs were muffled by the large hand that was over her mouth. Kane was on top of her, his shadow rising and falling on the wall beside him as the bed-springs creaked their ghastly rhythm.
Velda felt the blood drain from her face as she gasped at the sheer horror of what she was seeing.
Catriona opened her eyes and fixed her pain-filled gaze on her mother in silent, desperate entreaty.
As Kane continued to rape her daughter, Velda moved without thought. She snatched up the heavy candlestick on the bedside table.
Kane finally heard her and lifted his head.
He wasn’t quick enough and Velda swung the candlestick with all the strength her hatred gave her and dealt him a glancing blow to the temple. As he slumped over her daughter’s naked body and his blood spattered over the sheets, Catriona began to scream.
Velda was blinded by a red haze of rage and vengeance. She wanted him dead. He was worse than any animal. Filthy, filthy, dirty, disgusting. He had to die – had to be smashed to a pulp and made to pay for what he was and what he was doing.
Catriona screamed as she lay trapped beneath him. She screamed until the sound rang through the house and blotted out the thunder of rain. The high, terrified release of all her fears echoed again and again as her mother’s arm rose and fell with unrelenting fury. His blood drenched the sheets and stuck to her flesh. His face was smashed to a bloody gore that was soon unrecognisably human.
Velda’s hatred kept her going. Her daughter’s screams were reverberating in her skull as she smashed the life out of the animal that had abused her baby. She swung the candlestick into his ribs, his legs, his back – wanting to leave her hatred in every mark she left on his flesh.
Catriona scrambled from beneath him and cringed against the brass bed-head as the blood flew and the dull thud of the candlestick continued. She screamed as she tried to smear away his gore from her body. Screamed for the carnage to stop. He was dead. He couldn’t harm her any more.
But Velda was like the grim reaper. Catriona could see the bones beneath the flesh of her face, the dark sockets of her wild, crazed eyes. She hadn’t realised Velda possessed such strength, or that she was capable of so much hate.
Velda finally emerged from the scarlet haze and dropped the candlestick. With one swift step she gathered up her daughter in her arms and carried her out of the room. Then, with the door shut behind them she sank to the hall floor. She held Catriona with all the strength she had left, sobbing and pleading with her to forgive her for not listening, for not seeing what had been happening over the past weeks. Her voice was broken as she rocked her child in her arms and soothed the screams to sobs. Held her as the trembling stilled and when the child was calmer, she carried her to the bathroom. The water was cold, but with gentle, loving hands she washed away the blood before wrapping her in a big towel and taking her to her own bed.
They lay huddled together beneath the blankets, holding tightly to one another as they shivered and trembled with the shock of what had happened that night. Yet neither of them could shake off the image of Kane’s battered and bloody corpse in the other room.
Velda lay there staring into the darkness, overwhelmed by the sheer ferocity and power she’d been capable of. Yet the knowledge of what she’d done – and the brutality with which she’d punished him – had brought her to the very edge of reason. Almost bankrupt of spirit she struggled to fight off the rip-tide of emotion that was surging through her. She had to remain coldly detached, had to keep strong and determined for Catriona’s sake. For the body must be moved, must be hidden.
Catriona eventually quietened, her breathing becoming deeper and more even as sleep took her over. Velda eased her arm from beneath her and edged out of the bed. Standing in the gloom she shivered despite the all-pervasive humidity. The night’s work was far from over.
She pulled on a thick sweater over her bloodied nightgown and shoved her feet into an old pair of shoes. With a glance across to the bed, she hoped Catriona would remain asleep until it was over. Then, tiptoeing to the door she quickly left the room.
The lamp was still alight and the flickering shadows made the scene even more macabre. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then, before she could give herself time to think about what she was doing, she covered him in the blanket and wound him in the bloodied sheets. It was easier now she couldn’t see him, but as she grasped hold of his feet and tugged, he hit the floor with a sickening, wet thud. She gagged at the smell of blood and had to stop a moment to regain her icy composure. She had to do this – had to finish what she’d started.
She was panting now, the cold sweat soaking her nightdress as she dragged the burden across the room. It would take the rest of the night to get him downstairs and out into the garden. Did she have the strength? Would the tenuous hold on reality remain with her long enough for her to bury him? She didn’t know. All she could do was keep going.
‘Let me help, Mam.’ Catriona was standing beside her in a thick skirt and sweater she’d taken from Velda’s wardrobe. Her face was ashen, her expression set in cold determination.
Velda gave a sharp cry of distress. ‘Go back to bed,’ she ordered. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’
Catriona shook her head and silently grasped two corners of the sheet and wound them into a knot. ‘Take his feet,’ she commanded softly. ‘It’ll be easier with two of us.’
Velda looked at her daughter and saw the strength of spirit in her and the maturity that her ordeal had given her. She nodded and they struggled with the dead weight of their burden and slowly descended the stairs. The silence of the hotel seemed to close in on them as they reached the grand hall and made their way to the front door. They rested for a moment, their rapid breaths sharp in the stillness.
‘We’ll have to bury him,’ said Catriona as she stared down at the bundle. ‘Demetri’s shed’s the best place. No one ever goes there.’
Velda shivered as she nodded. Catriona seemed to have taken charge with a maturity way beyond her tender years, and although it didn’t feel right, she was glad to have someone else make the decis
ions. She was rapidly losing all sense of reality, and as the nightmare continued she wondered how long it would be before she gave in to madness.
They struggled outside, the dead-weight between them growing heavier as the rain hammered down and the gravel slipped and slid beneath their feet. The lawn was sodden, the mud clinging to their shoes as they tripped and stumbled to the far corner of the garden where the shed loomed darkly amongst the trees. The sky was lightening, but dawn was masked in black clouds that hung thickly in the grey sky.
Having found the key beneath the rock, Catriona opened the door and they dragged the body inside. She lit the lamp. ‘I’ll have to go to the gardener’s shed and get a spade,’ she said.
‘Don’t leave me,’ cried Velda, her voice high with fear.
‘I have to, Mam.’ Catriona was so calm – too calm – her voice level and without emotion. ‘Move the desk and clear a space over in that corner. I’ll be back before you know it.’
Velda watched her run out into the rain. She sniffed back the tears, and ignoring the gruesome bundle on the floor began to clear a space.
Catriona returned with two spades and they began to dig. The earth was solid, flattened down over the years by trampling feet and heavy machinery. The sweat was cold on their skin as they worked in silence, their breath coming in sharp puffs of agony as the earth slowly gave in to their efforts. As they finally dropped their spades and stood at the side of the deep hole, the sky had lightened to a watery grey and the torrent of rain had become a soft fall.
Catriona looked at her mother, and together they rolled the body into the hole. She moved to the shelves where Demetri kept his bottles and selected the one that was marked NITRO HYDROCHLORIC ACID. Twisting off the stopper, she poured it over the shrouded remains. There was a hiss and the stench of burning flesh as the acid set to work. Her face showed no emotion and her hand was steady as she calmly replaced the stopper and returned the bottle to the shelf.
They covered the body in the earth, tamping it down with the backs of the spades until it was as flat as the rest. With the desk once more in place, the shed look undisturbed. They closed the door and Catriona locked it, returning the key to its hiding place. She put the spades back in the gardener’s shed and arm in arm with Velda, they splashed their way to the house.
*
As the rain continued to fall and the house remained isolated on the tablelands, Catriona realised Kane had been right about Velda. She was indeed a tortured soul, the events of that night pushing her very close to the edge of reason. There had been a madness in her eyes as she’d bludgeoned Kane that had frightened Catriona, and now, as they waited in that echoing mansion for the rains to peter out, the same madness showed itself in her manic energy. It was as if by working in feverish silence she could blank out what had happened here. She refused to talk to Catriona about him – asked no questions or showed the slightest inclination to know how long the abuse had lasted. She had become a silent, driven stranger, and Catriona could only watch as Velda cleaned and polished and washed, scrubbing the floor in the bedroom until her nails were broken and her hands were raw from the lye soap.
Catriona’s emotions were running high as well. She had helped to kill a man – had helped to bury him. She needed her mother’s love, her consolation, her reassurance that everything would be all right and that they could once again share a loving relationship. But after those few hours of closeness Velda single-mindedly refused to give in to what she saw as weakness. She became hellbent on erasing all signs of Kane – almost manic in her desire to wash away the memories of what had happened so she could pretend it never had. And yet Catriona had seen her running down to the shed every day, had watched as she unlocked the door and stood on the threshold staring at the place they had buried him. It was as if she had to reassure herself it hadn’t been a bad dream – that the murder was real – and then she would return to the house and spend long minutes washing and scrubbing at her hands.
Kane’s room had been stripped bare. His stash of money was tucked away in Velda’s case along with his cuff-links, gold watch and chain, the gold nugget that had once topped his cane, and the ruby ring which had dropped from his finger during the attack. The rest of his belongings were burned in the great hearth of the hall fireplace, and Catriona watched the flames with little emotion. Kane was dead. He would never hurt her again. Yet the nightmares still haunted her – and the memories would remain with her for as long as Velda refused to acknowledge what had happened here.
Chapter Nine
Edith had read Demetri’s letter so many times the folds had worn and the paper was in danger of disintegrating. Although it had been written in Kane’s flourishing hand, Demetri’s words had kept her company through the long days and nights, for in the silence of her little cottage she could almost hear his voice. Despite the cough that wouldn’t go away, she had been comfortable during the deluge, for the larder was well stocked and the hotel gardener had made sure she had plenty of chopped wood for the fire. Yet she was impatient to return to the hotel, for Demetri had charged her with its care, and she couldn’t bear the thought of Kane and his woman living there and perhaps making changes.
The rains petered out and the work-crews began the mammoth task of clearing fallen trees, replacing telegraph poles and shoring up the landslides. At last the track was open. Edith took her bicycle out of the woodshed and headed off to the hotel. The track was still muddy, rough with stones that had been washed down from the hills and, fearing a puncture, she walked most of the way. Out of breath and exhausted from the long journey and nagging cough, she at last reached the impressive iron gates.
As she wheeled her bicycle along the driveway, she noted the weeds that had sprung up in the earth where the gravel had been washed away. Several of the larger shrubs on either side had been broken by a falling palm tree, and the sodden grass was overgrown and littered with branches and leaves. The stone lions which stood proudly guarding the imposing front door were already patched with lichen and the flower-beds had been hammered into submission by the sheer force of the rain. She clucked in despair. It didn’t take long in the tropics for the work of men to be undone. Nature was already trying to reclaim its foothold on Demetri’s dream.
She left her bicycle at the kitchen door as she had always done, and went in. The kitchen smelled musty and the range was cold. There were dirty plates and cups and cutlery in the sink and the whole room had an air of disuse about it. She walked through into the hall. The silence reproached her and she stood for a moment and listened. Nothing moved and the only sound was the sigh and creak of the great house. She eyed the fireplace and saw the ashes, but they too were cold. A layer of dust dulled the reception desk and table and the flowers were dead in the vases.
‘Hello,’ she called. Her voice echoed in the walls and up into the rafters. There was no reply and she frowned. She called again, louder this time, her shout terminated abruptly by a fit of coughing. Still there was no answer. Hurrying through the downstairs rooms she saw yet more evidence of neglect. The beautiful carpets hadn’t been cleaned for weeks and there was already evidence of mould on the curtains and tapestries. Dust covered everything in a thick layer and as she went from room to room she felt a rising anger. Kane and his woman had lived out the Wet in indolence. It would take an army of servants and weeks of labour to get the hotel back into shape.
She climbed the stairs, calling as she went. The sound of her voice echoed back, almost mocking her as she checked all the guest bedrooms and finally reached the servants’ landing. These rooms were empty too, and judging by the musty smell, had been for some time. She checked the drawers and cupboards but there was no sign of Kane, the woman or the brat. She stood on the landing and gnawed her thumb. Instead of feeling elated that she had the hotel to herself, something about their disappearance bothered her. Returning to the downstairs rooms she quickly discovered what it was.
Demetri’s apartment appeared undisturbed, but as she wandered through th
e rooms she began to notice the gaps. A pair of silver candlesticks was missing, along with three of his little gold snuff boxes and the silver-backed hairbrushes from the dressing table. As she took a more careful tour around the public rooms she saw that a small painting had been taken from the wall, and several silver salvers were missing from the sideboard in the dining room.
She felt the anger rise further and her footsteps rang out on the marble floor as she hurried back to her little office behind the kitchen. The account books were nowhere to be seen, but that was hardly surprising – Kane would have destroyed them the minute she’d left the house. Yet, as she opened up the wall-safe, she was in for a surprise. For there, wrapped in sacking was the picture, the hairbrushes and two of the silver salvers. None of it made any sense, and Edith sat there in her office for a long while before coming to a decision. Pulling on her coat, she returned to her bicycle and headed back down the driveway. Harold Bradley must be informed immediately.
*
Harold Bradley tidied up his desk, then stood with his back to the blazing fire and warmed his broad behind. He was a contented man. He had a good job in the police force that didn’t involve a great deal of detective work, for crime was a rarity amongst these hard-working farming people and when the occasional skirmish broke out in the pub on a Saturday night a few hours in the lockup was all that was needed to sober the offender up and send him packing. There was a little cottage that went with the job, and his wife was a cheerful woman who had given him a son and three daughters. All in all, he counted himself lucky. He rocked back and forth, the squeak of his police issue boots a pleasant accompaniment to the crackle of the fire. Taking his pipe from his pocket he began to fill it with tobacco.
The knock on the door startled him. ‘Come in.’
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