Which was true, of course, and what struck Irene was that she’d never realised it herself. It was simply all she had known. Her well-to-do upbringing, her passable education and finishing, and her parents, who had never shown anything more than a detached interest in their daughter – their only requirements ever having been that she comport herself as she ought, look the part and marry well. She’d had friends, of course, with the same goals and ideas as herself; she’d been to all the right places, and known the right people; and she’d fallen wildly in love with Fin, with all the terrified joy that had brought. But, during none of it, now she thought back, had she been particularly happy. With a jolt, she found herself at a loss to think why she was in such a hurry to return to that life – a life bound to be far worse, and far lonelier, since the end of the affair. Now, watching as her mother sat down stiffly, glancing around at the furnishings and the clientele as though she were on a different planet and keen to rise above the rusticity of the locals, Irene saw clearly how life would be, back beneath her parents’ roof. The constant reminders of her disgrace, her flawed judgement, her failings. The search for a new husband with whom to pack her off into semi-respectability, which she knew would commence immediately upon her return. It was an exhausting thought. Their coffee arrived; Isadora took a sip and jerked up her eyebrows in response.
‘What is it, Mother? Is something wrong with the coffee?’ said Irene, sharply. Isadora trained her stony eyes on her daughter.
‘It’s perfectly delicious,’ she said.
‘Good. I’m glad to hear it. You’ve not once commiserated with me over Alistair’s death, you know. You’ve not once said that you’re sorry about it.’
‘Well, I am sorry, of course, and I’m sure it must have been a dreadful shock. But it’s not as though you loved the man. Let’s not make-believe, Irene.’
‘No. You never were keen on playing games, even when I was tiny. And I didn’t love him, it’s true. But I … liked him. And I miss him.’
‘What are you driving at, dear?’
‘Am I “dear”? I’ve never felt it. Perhaps I might have come to love Alistair – we were married for four months, after all. Did you ever think of that? That perhaps I might have come to love him?’
‘The last time we spoke of love, you told me in no uncertain terms that you would love Finlay Campbell, and none but him, until the day you died,’ Isadora pointed out, to which Irene had no answer, since it was true. It was the fact of not being asked that bothered her, the fact of her feelings not even being considered.
‘But then,’ she murmured, ‘you and Father have always simply ignored what you didn’t want to see.’
‘What was that? Please don’t mumble and mutter. I see your manners haven’t improved, during your … time away, Irene. But then,’ she cast her eyes around, ‘I suppose this isn’t exactly Paris.’
They sat in silence for a while, and Irene remembered all the times she had sat in silence with her parents before. At parties, at mealtimes, playing cards. Sitting up straight, minding her manners, saying next to nothing and not even really noticing as much, because she’d had nothing to say. She thought of Pudding’s ready chatter, and guessed that mealtimes at Spring Cottage had been rather different. She wondered what it might have been like to have a big brother to play with, even one who teased, and parents who gave hugs and kisses, and baked cakes, and read to one another. She could hardly picture such a place, and how wonderful it might have been to grow up in. Before Donny had been injured in the war, of course; before Mrs Cartwright had begun to lose her faculties, and Donny had been arrested. Suddenly, she understood Pudding’s need to talk, her need to act, even more clearly. She felt a flash of impatience to be wasting time, and not helping.
‘A terrible thing has happened here, Mother,’ she said, as she finished her lemon slice.
‘Not terrible enough to curb your appetite, I see,’ said Isadora, in an attempt at levity that fell entirely flat.
‘I find that eating helps me to sleep, which helps me to cope,’ said Irene, levelly.
‘Well, finding a new husband will be harder work, if you let your figure thicken.’
‘I’ve no wish to find a new husband.’
‘Oh, don’t talk nonsense, Irene. What else are you going to do with yourself?’
‘I’m needed here, in fact.’
‘Needed? By whom?’
‘Those of us dealing with the terrible thing that has happened, Mother. Nancy Hadleigh, and the Cartwrights.’
‘The aunt? And who are the Cartwrights – retainers? I thought you were desperate to be away from here – to come back to London, to us, and to society.’ Her mother sounded wrong-footed, almost disappointed, as though she had a load of arguments marshalled against it that she wouldn’t get the chance to use.
‘I hadn’t thought it through,’ said Irene. ‘But I see it clearly, now. I’m quite finished with London.’
‘Well!’ said Isadora, her eyes going wide and a breath staying high in her chest, ready to say more. But, as if she couldn’t choose which to select, none of the words got spoken. ‘Are you, indeed,’ she said, in the end, somewhat weakly, and Irene saw that – for the first time in her life – she’d stolen the wind from her mother’s sails.
‘What time is your train back to London? I’m sure you have one in mind,’ said Irene, and had the sad satisfaction of seeing her mother yet further taken aback.
Hilarius took her back to Manor Farm in silence, not seeming in the least bit curious about the change of plan. Only once they’d arrived back in the yard did he climb down, with remarkable nimbleness, and offer to hand her down. He’d never made such a gesture before.
‘Thank you, Hilarius,’ said Irene, taken aback. The touch of his hand caused a strange ache in her own. He nodded minutely.
‘Ma’am,’ he said, with a nod. Then all of his attention returned to the horse, as was more usual. Irene listened to the now-familiar rumble of the mill, and the reeling of swifts, the chipping of sparrows, the fussing of the hens and pigs. She stood in the yard and turned her hat in her hands, letting the sun dry her damp hairline, and felt curiously free, almost at ease. She asked Clara for a cold drink as she went through the house and out onto the rear terrace, to sit and think. The wooden slats of the seat were warm through her skirt. She saw Nancy down in the churchyard, sitting on the bench from which, Irene knew, she would be able to see the Hadleigh family plot; she saw Jem standing in the orchard, gently wrestling one of his ferrets free from a length of twine in which it had got tangled. The ferret twisted and kicked, objecting to the process. Then she saw Pudding Cartwright, struggling up the hill towards the back gate in a fast gait that was not quite a run, her face puce and her long legs and arms apparently at war with her.
Irene sat up and shaded her eyes to see better. The girl had a book in one hand, the pages flapping whitely. By the time Pudding made it to the orchard gate, Irene could hear her gasping for breath. She waved her free hand when she saw Irene, then waved the book as well, and tried to say something.
‘Pudding! Sit down – get your breath. What is it?’ said Irene, but Pudding, reaching the table, shook her head, bending over and dragging at the air.
‘I’ve found it,’ she said, eventually, still breathless. ‘It came to me all in a flash – something Ma Tanner said, and Hilarius too.’
‘Found what, Pudding? I can hardly understand you. What did Ma Tanner say?’ asked Irene, and Pudding shook her head again. There was sweat running down her face and Irene forced her to sit and cool down and have a sip of lemonade before she said anything else. Pudding did as she was told, though impatience made her restless and jumpy. ‘Now tell me,’ said Irene, some minutes later. Pudding looked across at her with a wild expression, an electric mingling of hope and horror.
‘Hilarius said to me to look at the roots of things – at the deeply buried why of Alistair being killed, but I couldn’t think of a thing. Then I went to see Ma Tanner and she said more or le
ss the same thing – that there would be a reason, and it’d be something in the past, or something like that. I went away and still couldn’t think of a thing. But she said that even the most foul things – or especially the most foul things – happened for a reason, or something, and then I remembered!’ She held out the book she’d been carrying, and Irene took it and read the title. Murder Most Foul – true stories of dark deeds in Wiltshire. A chill passed over her skin. She glanced up, thinking that the weather had changed, but it hadn’t.
‘Pudding, what can you mean?’ she said.
‘It’s “The Maid of the Mill”, all over again! Turn to page ninety-six.’ Irene did as she was told, and found a chapter with just that heading. Pudding couldn’t wait for her to read it, though, and interrupted. ‘I’d read it before – before any of this happened. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner. I’m such a dunce! Years and years ago, last century, a young girl called Sarah something-or-other was murdered right here, in Slaughterford!’
‘But … Pudding, what can that possibly have to do with anything?’
‘You have to read it, but I’ll tell you – she was murdered in just the same place as Alistair, in the same way as him – hit with a shovel – and …’ Pudding paused to make sure Irene was listening, ‘it happened fifty years to the day before Alistair was killed!’
‘There was another murder at the mill?’ said Irene, dimly, as a creeping dread breathed onto the back of her neck. Pudding nodded.
‘A girl not much older than me, killed on the seventeenth of July, 1872. Exactly fifty years before Alistair! In the same place, and by the same means. It’s not a coincidence. It can’t be! It has to be the same killer – don’t you see? It has to be! And Donny wasn’t even born then!’ Pudding finished triumphantly, and though Irene could see her mad relief and excitement, all she herself could feel was the same shift in things – the same point of before and after being reached – as she’d felt when she’d picked up the doll on the day it had fallen out of the chimney in her writing room. She closed her eyes, and tried to see.
8
Deeper Still
The police house in Ford was empty, so Pudding asked around and was told, in the shop, that Constable Dempsey was out in the fields, helping his father bind and stack the last of the oats. She was hot from the walk through the water meadows to Ford, but she carried on northwards, propelled by purpose, up a steep, wooded lane to the field where a row of men were all toiling together. Shirt collars open, sleeves rolled up, big boots up over their calves that must have been roasting. They were covered in sweat and chaff; their hands and arms were scratched, and when Pudding went across to Pete Dempsey, his colour deepened, caught off guard.
‘What are you doing here, Pudding?’ he said. Pudding had to squint up at him, and had the peculiar sense of there being two of him – the big, snub-nosed boy, three years her senior, who’d once eaten frogspawn and laughed at her when she’d got stuck in the manger at the Sunday School picnic, and this grown man with solid shoulders and a crop of brown hair on his chest peeping out at the neck of his shirt. He cast a surreptitious look at his workmates, some of whom grinned, and Pudding felt conspicuous, laughed at anew. She shook it off, although it made her notice how damp she was all over, and how strongly the smell of horse lingered on her clothes.
‘I’ve new evidence in the case of the murder of Alistair Hadleigh,’ she said, trying to sound serious and not like an overexcited child.
‘You’ve what?’ said Pete.
‘I’ve new—’
‘Yes, I heard you, I just …’ He shook his head. ‘The case against your brother is pretty well closed, Pudding. Superintendent Blackman’s not even considering Mrs Hadleigh any more.’
‘Well, of course not – she wasn’t in the least bit involved. But what I’ve found out is completely different and it proves my brother is innocent!’
‘But you were the one to accuse her!’
‘I know that, but I was wrong, Will you just listen, Pete? I mean, Constable Demps—’
‘You can call me Pete. As long as the boss isn’t about.’
‘Well. All right.’ She wrestled the book of Wiltshire murders out of her satchel. ‘I found it in this book – I’d read it before but I’d forgotten, but it’s all here in black and white. Alistair Hadleigh’s murder is an exact replication of a murder that happened fifty years ago. An exact replica. A local girl called Sarah Martock was killed – Donny couldn’t possibly have done that one, could he? Just like he can’t have murdered Alistair. This proves it!’
Pete Dempsey took the book from her and frowned down at the page, while Pudding looked on, impatiently. She was finding it hard to keep her hands still, so she clenched and unclenched them. Her thoughts danced about, as though her brain were too hot for them.
‘Are we readin’ psalms or fetching in the oats, lad?’ called Pete’s father, Cyril. He was on foot, leading the team of four that pulled the three-ton haywain onto which the men were pitching the oat sheaves. It was a massive, hoop-raved wagon, made for Cyril by the current wheelwright’s father and as solid now as it had been then; it was painted blue with the wheels done in scarlet, and Pudding had been given rides in it when she was little. The team of gentle hairy shires pulling it were sweating into their collars, and she had the sudden memory of Donny riding one of them, barelegged in his shorts, and getting so covered in horsehair that he came running after Pudding and her friends pretending to be a werewolf – with much growling and gnashing of teeth – and sent them squealing off across the field.
‘Coming, Dad,’ Pete called. He passed the book back to Pudding with an apologetic look. ‘I can’t stop and read it now, Pudding. Miss Cartwright. Pudding.’ He pressed his lips together. ‘I’m all sweat and mess, anyway. Can you … do you want to meet me after? And tell me about it then?’
‘Well yes, I suppose so. But isn’t this an official police matter? I’d far rather—’
‘Meet me after,’ he insisted. ‘Down at the pub, about six?’
‘At the pub?’ Pudding had never been before – not in the evening, when it was full of men. ‘Er. That won’t do – I’ve to get home for supper.’
‘Well, we could always … We might … Well, all right. Eight, then,’ he said, taking a breath as though the exchange had been strenuous. Pudding nodded and marched away, ignoring the half-formed comments from the others that followed her. The golden stubble whisked beneath her feet, and the ground was crumbly, studded with chunks of limestone. She walked with purpose even though, she realised, she had nowhere in particular to go.
She wondered about going back to talk to Irene again. She’d had one of her feelings when Pudding had told her about the story in the murder book – Pudding had actually seen it happen this time, since she’d been right there. Irene’s face had turned almost fearful – the kind of fearful you got when you were out by yourself after dark, and thought you saw a figure moving beside you, hidden in the trees. A figure you couldn’t quite see. She’d kept staring at the murder book with that look on her face, and had seemed relieved when Pudding had suggested she go at once and show it to Pete. And try as she had, Pudding hadn’t been able to get Irene to say anything specific about what she felt, or what she thought; just that she agreed that the first murder was probably significant. So in the end, and with a good deal of willpower since she felt like she might burst if she didn’t talk about it again soon, Pudding decided to give Irene time to digest, and went home instead.
When Pudding told her mother where she was going that evening, Louise smiled.
‘What, with Cyril Dempsey’s boy? There’s a turn-up. But at least I know you’re safe enough, I suppose, in the arms of the law,’ she said. Still, Pudding wrote a note for her dad, in case her mum forgot before he got home from the call he’d answered. She had a bath and, having no idea what she ought to wear to a pub where she would stick out like a sore thumb in any case, she put on a plain skirt and a clean shirt, and did her best to coa
x her hair into a sensible shape. It didn’t matter, anyway – she’d be flushed and clammy again by the time she got to Ford. There was no option but to walk since it was far too steep for her to bicycle. She put her satchel diagonally over her shoulder and set off. In the waning yellow light the river looked syrupy; a heron stood on its stilts on the far bank, idly preening its grey and white feathers, and a little brown and white dipper barely disturbed the surface as it fished. Towards Ford the sound of the mill died away, and Pudding heard the far-off fretting of sheep, and the whisper of the breeze in the long grasses; the swish of them as they tickled her calves. Along the final stretch of the meadow the knotweed was in flower, creating a swathe of waving pink tufts, impossibly pretty. Pudding could hardly believe such ugly things as had happened were possible, in this place of apparent innocence. She felt cheated.
The White Hart was housed in an ancient stone building that straddled the river. The By Brook ran through a leat beneath its rooms to the mill alongside, which had once turned grist and made paper before it went out of use. The pub was busy, with a hubbub of male voices inside, and warm light in the windows, and the door thumping as drinkers went in and out, releasing a belch of tobacco smoke each time they did. Women didn’t usually go in in the evening – the odd one or two, of dubious reputation. Most bought a jug of whatever they fancied from a hatch in the wall, and took it home with them. There was absolutely no hard or fast rule saying Pudding shouldn’t go in, she told herself. But there was convention and family law – and the throng of strange men – and her courage failed her. She perched on one of the benches outside, and waited for Pete Dempsey there. She was anxious, on edge; she’d expected her discovery to cause a wave of instant revelation, just like the one she’d experienced when she’d remembered the older murder. She’d expected Donny to be released – if not at once, then soon. But even though Irene had reacted appropriately it hadn’t translated into any action, as yet; and Nancy Hadleigh hadn’t reacted at all, other than to stare at Pudding from somewhere deep inside herself, without blinking. And then Pete Dempsey had just gone back to the harvest, and if she didn’t manage to convince him, that evening, to take it seriously, then she’d have to take it directly to Superintendent Blackman in Chippenham. A frightening idea, but she would do it.
The Hiding Places Page 28
