The Hiding Places

by Katherine Webb

  If she could say Isaac then she wouldn’t need to say Tanner, which was good, since the letter t was one of the worst with which to start a word; if she could say rob then she wouldn’t have to say attacked; if she could say guilty, revenge, money and I heard, then she wouldn’t have to say Eli, innocent or threatened. The phrase she came up with, though the thought of actually having to say it was exhausting before she’d even started, was: I heard Isaac say he would rob Mr Hadleigh; he is the guilty one. If she was believed then more questions would be asked, and she could answer yes or no; then surely the police would have to take Isaac away, and then perhaps the Tanner clan would have the courage to speak out against him, and keep him locked up for good. And word would get out, and Eli would come back, and when he knew what she had done he would understand her whole plan, and then they would wed, and she would bring him to Weavern Farm and they would not be turned away. Clemmie shut her eyes and thought through this chain of events so many times that it started to seem less unlikely, less fly-away, and began to seem like it could actually happen. Like it would happen – because it had to. Clemmie could think of no alternative, since she could not live where Eli was, and he could not live where she was. And there was the chance – just a slight chance, that she didn’t dwell upon – that he would not let her live apart from him. She began to practise the words, and she started with Isaac.

  * * *

  Superintendent Blackman was driven up to Spring Cottage in the black car by a young constable; the car’s roof was folded back so that both men had a fair dusting from the lanes. Blackman was polishing the lenses of his spectacles when Pudding rushed out to find out what was new, and to invite him inside, but Blackman held up a hand to forestall her. He took off his hat and patted the dust from it as Dr Cartwright came out to stand beside his daughter.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Cartwright, Dr Cartwright, but I’ll not be stopping long enough for tea today,’ he said. ‘I only wanted to let you know that I have interviewed Mr Tanner again, and not only has he a firm alibi for the time of Mr Hadleigh’s death, he has no reason at all to have harmed him.’

  ‘But what about the doll, and the grave where he laid the flowers – the one with the year 1872 on it, the year of the first murder?’

  ‘Mr Tanner denies being the one who laid those flowers; he claims not to know to whom that particular grave might belong, and he looked mystified when I mentioned the doll Mrs Hadleigh found at Manor Farm. And given that there is not a scrap of evidence—’

  ‘He’s lying!’

  ‘And given that there is not a scrap of evidence that he was involved, please, let that be an end to it, Miss Cartwright. I understand you will be disappointed at the termination of this new line of enquiry, but I beg you not to seek a fresh one. Make no more accusations, Miss Cartwright.’

  ‘Pudding?’ said Dr Cartwright. ‘What new line of enquiry is this?’

  ‘But … what about all the things he said to Irene, in the churchyard?’ said Pudding to Blackman, ignoring her father. ‘He’s lying about the grave – I just have to find out who’s buried there. There has to be a connection – Tanner is old enough to have killed them both. It has to be him!’ Pudding felt breathless with the need to be heard, to be believed. She felt it all slipping away from her – the chance that she could bring Donny home, and the strength that had come with that. Without it, she didn’t know what she would do. How she would carry on. ‘The Tanners are thieves and liars and killers! Everybody knows that!’

  ‘Pudding, that’s enough,’ said the doctor firmly, putting his hand on her shoulder. Frustration filled her eyes with tears, but she was sick of crying.

  ‘Casting a wide net of aspersions won’t help your brother, Miss Cartwright,’ said Blackman. ‘I’ve already spent more time following up your theories than I ought to have.’

  ‘Well, what will help Donny?’ Pudding demanded. The superintendent looked at her gravely.

  ‘Addressing himself to his conscience, as best he can, and remaining calm tomorrow, in front of the magistrates,’ he said. ‘I’ve come to talk to you in person, Miss Cartwright, to tell you that it’s time to let things stand. The investigation is closed.’ He put his hat back on and turned to climb back into the car.

  ‘It’s not closed,’ Pudding murmured, staring at Blackman as his constable inched the car forwards and began, jerkily, to turn it around. At the last moment, Blackman opened his mouth as though he might say something else, but in the end he didn’t. Pudding wondered if he looked as wholly convinced as his words sounded, but then, that might just have been wishful thinking, and wishful thinking had yet to get her anywhere.

  The car chugged away and left a cloud of dust that the low sun turned golden. The first mad green of summer had passed, Pudding realised; it was the tenth of August and the land was drying out, ripening, going over. Pudding put up her hand to shield her eyes, squinting as the breeze swirled the dust around her and her father. They both stood where they were until the sound of the car’s engine had completely disappeared, and only the tinkling of the spring into its trough remained. With no patients to see, Dr Cartwright didn’t seem to know what to do with himself. And if she had no leads to chase, then Pudding didn’t know what to do with herself, either. A black and white cat appeared from nowhere and wound around her shins, but when she reached down to stroke it, it dodged away. Laughter drifted up from the potato field behind the mill, where youngsters were picking the tubers from the turned dark furrows.

  ‘Well,’ said Dr Cartwright. ‘Come along inside, Pudding, and let’s think about some supper, shall we?’

  ‘I’m not terribly hungry, Dad.’

  ‘No. Well. Nevertheless, you must eat. We’ve a big day tomorrow.’ Pudding looked at her father and he gave her a sad smile. He didn’t need to say it might be a terrible day; one of the worst. The day of Donny’s hearing in Devizes.

  ‘I really didn’t think it would come to this, Dad,’ she said. ‘I really thought I’d find out who truly killed Alistair, and that tomorrow they’d let Donny come home.’

  ‘They may yet; they may yet. I know you’ve done your best. We all know you’ve done your best.’ He took his watch out of its pocket and buffed the surface against his waistcoat, peering down at it. ‘Five o’clock,’ he said, though Pudding hadn’t asked. ‘Some tea, at least,’ he said, absently. ‘I’m sure your mother would love a cup.’ He patted her shoulder again before going inside, and Pudding realised that he had given up completely. Given up on the idea that Donny would ever be released. She stood a while in his absence, fighting against the similar death of her own hopes. Without them, the world was a bleak and empty place.

  Louise Cartwright insisted on coming with them to Devizes the following day, and wouldn’t be persuaded otherwise. Pudding and her father exchanged a long look. The thought of her confusion when they got to the New Bridewell and she saw Donny with his hands cuffed and his head stitched, in his prison clothes and as pale as he’d become, was awful. But in the end they couldn’t refuse her.

  ‘Tell me a good reason why I oughtn’t to see my son?’ she said, quite firmly, and neither of them could.

  ‘I’ll come too,’ said Ruth, frowning. ‘I needn’t come inside, but I can wait in case you need … any help with anything.’

  ‘Thank you, Ruth,’ said Dr Cartwright. Pudding put on her smartest clothes, with the nagging feeling that it somehow might help Donny’s case. She wore a sky-blue skirt that came to the middle of her calves, and a white voile blouse embroidered with dobby spots. Her mother usually watched her like a hawk when she wore it, just waiting for her to spill something down it, or lean against something grubby. But the triumph of arriving in Devizes still pristine, after a bus ride to Chippenham and two trains, was very much muted. Louise smiled politely at the prison guards as they were led through to the sad, cold room where visits were permitted, but none of the guards smiled back. They sat themselves down on one side of a long, unadorned table, and Donny was brought in to them, lo
oking hollow, hunched and vacant.

  ‘Oh,’ said Louise, her eyes fearful. Pudding took her hand and squeezed it tight. Pudding had seen Donny every week of his month-long incarceration, and his steady decline had been obvious each time. To Louise, seeing him for the first time since his arrest, the change was clearly shocking. He was so much thinner, and his skin had a yellowish pallor; a sore on his lip was crusted and weeping; the bruising around his head wound had deepened to an alarming crimson; but worst of all was the look of lost exhaustion in his eyes. ‘Oh, my boy,’ she said. ‘What’s happened? What’s happened to him?’ she demanded of her husband.

  ‘There, there, my dear. I am sure they’re looking after him. He took a bit of a knock on the head, but he was seen by a doctor. It’s really only the want of a bit of sunshine and a few home comforts that ails him.’ The doctor didn’t sound at all convincing.

  ‘Hello, Mum, Dad. Hello, Puddy,’ said Donny, looking at each of them in turn.

  ‘Hello, Donny,’ said Pudding, reaching for his hand and smiling.

  ‘Oh!’ said Louise, and started to cry.

  ‘I should like to come home now,’ said Donny, and Pudding did her level best not to start crying too.

  They were only allowed to sit with him for twenty minutes, and in that time Dr Cartwright did his best to explain to Donny what was going to happen during the hearing, even though the lawyer had already done so. Donny just nodded now and then, when prompted, and didn’t seem interested. He looked like half the person he had been before, and that person had been only half of the one who’d gone off to the war. Pudding didn’t like to think how much more halving her brother could survive. She felt numb, and a kind of sickness crept up on her, which thickened her throat and made it hard to talk. It felt like her heart was struggling to beat, and when she followed her parents out of the prison and over to the courthouse to wait in the public gallery, she felt as though half of her had gone missing as well. Louise Cartwright turned glassy and faint, and Ruth went with her to catch an earlier train home.

  ‘You go too, Pudding. You look done in, and there’s no need for you to stay – Donny will see that I’m here, and he’ll know you—’

  ‘I’m staying, Dad,’ she said. Dr Cartwright nodded wanly, and pushed his spectacles up his nose.

  ‘We must prepare ourselves to be stalwart in the face of … of fear and distress, Pudding,’ he said. Pudding didn’t think she could, and didn’t like to lie, but she nodded, for his sake. And then Donny’s case was called, and they brought him in and he confirmed his name and address, with some prompting, and a thudding in Pudding’s ears meant she could hardly hear him.

  Donny pleaded not guilty to wilful murder, and not guilty to manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility. The prosecution lawyer spoke, and none of their witness statements were contested by the defence. The defence lawyer spoke last, and asked Donny to describe what he had seen and done on the morning of Alistair’s death, but since Donny was better at answering exactly what he was asked than he was at expanding or volunteering information, he didn’t say a great deal, and seemed uncooperative. More uncontested statements, mostly about Donny’s good character and his head injuries, were submitted, and the magistrate, who had a face like a rook’s – all beak and bright eyes – sifted through them. And then he expressed a heavy heart, given Donny’s service in the war, and sent him to stand trial before the crown at the next Wiltshire assizes, for the crime of wilful murder. Due to the nature of the crime, and to continued incidences of violence whilst he had been in custody, no bail was set. And Pudding was entirely powerless to do anything about it.

  Afterwards, Pudding and the doctor stood on the platform in silence, waiting for their train back to Chippenham. The breeze rolled and rustled an old news-sheet along the tracks; pink and white fleabane crowded the rails, and sparrows hopped around, picking up crumbs from people’s sandwiches. One of Pudding’s earliest memories was of being on a train, when she was no more than four. She didn’t remember where they’d been going – the destination wasn’t half as exciting as the ride there. She remembered Donny, twelve or thirteen, leaning out of the window as they rounded each bend, trying to catch a glimpse of the engine in full steam, then turning back to them with smuts in his teeth, his hair on end and a grin from ear to ear. Pudding took a sharp breath and tried to banish the image, which only seemed to make it worse. Wherever she stood, she couldn’t seem to get away from a cloud of pipe smoke wafting from an elderly man along the platform. It stung her eyes and made her throat itch, and was as distracting as a cloud of midges.

  ‘Please stop fidgeting, Pudding,’ her father snapped, shooting her a harried look before returning to staring at the ground.

  ‘What should we do next, Dad?’

  ‘Do?’ The doctor looked at her as though she wasn’t speaking sense. ‘Do? There’s nothing more we can do, Pudding.’

  ‘But oughtn’t we to … appeal against there being no bail, at least? Donny should be at home until the trial, where we can look after him. The other men might pick on him … or goad him into doing something. I’ve got until the trial to find out a way to save him, so—’

  ‘Enough, Pudding!’ Her father’s sudden shout stunned Pudding to silence. She couldn’t remember when she had last heard him raise his voice. The man with the pipe, and several others, glanced in their direction. ‘Just … stop it. Please. Stop talking about “finding something out to save Donny”. Stop trying to think of ways to bring him home.’

  ‘But … you mustn’t give up, Dad!’ Pudding’s throat ached as she spoke, and her voice came out strangled. ‘You mustn’t. Donny’s innocent, and I—’

  ‘No, Pudding! No!’ Dr Cartwright shook his head, and wouldn’t look at her.

  ‘You can’t mean to say … that you think Donny did it? You can’t mean that.’

  ‘Donald is my son.’ The doctor spoke so quietly that Pudding could hardly hear him. ‘He’s my son, and God knows that I love him. But he … the war changed him. And now he has done this thing. And it can’t be undone, Pudding. However much we wish it.’

  ‘No, Dad – Donny didn’t do it. I know he didn’t – Irene knows it too!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I’m not going to give up. I’m going to find a way to bring him home, Dad, I promise.’

  ‘No, you won’t, Pudding! You must stop this! It … it does no good. It does no good at all! We have … we have lost your brother. However hard it is, it is the truth. And we must strive to … We must endeavour to …’ The doctor trailed into silence, shaking his head. He sounded faint, and far away.

  The train squealed and hissed to a halt beside them. Dr Cartwright climbed aboard without ushering Pudding ahead of him, or waiting to see if she were following. As though he’d forgotten she was even there. For a second, Pudding imagined it was true. She imagined that Donny had killed Alistair, and would now be hanged for it. It turned her cold all over, and exhausted. It felt like being lost in the middle of the night, all alone, and knowing that she could never go home. She shuddered, and refused to think it, silently reiterating her belief in Donny’s innocence. But the lost feeling wouldn’t go, because they were going to hang him anyway.

  * * *

  A letter from Fin. Irene stared at it on the breakfast table and couldn’t decide what to feel. After so many weeks, after so much had happened, and after he had told her to stop writing, he had written to her. Nancy cleared her throat as Irene came into the room, dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin and got up to go without a word.

  ‘Nancy, please,’ said Irene. ‘Can’t we declare peace? I’m sorry if I … ran roughshod over you. But it was important.’

  ‘Was it indeed.’ Nancy’s face was as immovable as ever, but there were shadows under her eyes and the whites were shot pink with blood.

  ‘It was. Won’t you forgive us for going in there?’

  ‘It’s yours now, of course. All of it’s yours. You may go where you wish, and do ju
st as you please, without my blessing.’

  ‘But I don’t plan to do just as I please at all. Really, I don’t. It’s only fair that Pudding be allowed to … to try all she can to reach a peace with what’s happened. And to help her brother. Don’t you agree?’ As she spoke, Nancy’s spine softened just a fraction. It did every time Irene reminded her that whatever Pudding did, she did for her brother.

  ‘I suppose so,’ she said, with a sigh. ‘You and Pudding are certainly thick these days. But a young friend is better than none, I suppose. Aren’t you going to open that?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Irene. ‘Though I can’t for the life of me think what he might have to say.’

  ‘Well, if you’re still in one piece afterwards, come and find me in the top skillings, if you’d like. The new curly-coat pigs are arriving.’ Nancy took a final sip of her coffee before leaving the room.