The Hiding Places

by Katherine Webb

  Irene drank some coffee and ate some toast and marmalade, still unsure how she was feeling. Then she took a deep breath and opened Fin’s letter. It wasn’t long – his spidery writing barely filled one side of the paper. He had only recently heard about Alistair, and sent his condolences. They had been out of the country. He was now back in London on business, though Serena had stayed away. He asked if she was in town. He asked if she wanted to meet with him, discreetly, of course, perhaps at a location between London and the west – at a hotel, for example. Irene read it twice more until she was quite sure he was suggesting what she thought he was suggesting. The hurt of it was there, and her love for him as well – still there, beneath the surface, like a bruise. But that was it, she realised – it was like a bruise now, deeper beneath the surface and far less like an open wound or a broken bone. The pain was no longer crippling. She remembered standing beneath the station clock at King’s Cross; she remembered her clothes blowing down the street after Serena had thrown her case from the steps – Finlay in the house behind her, overhearing the scene, doing nothing. She thought about replying to his letter and using the word Pudding had used – worm. But in the end she simply tore it into two neat halves, tucked it into the bucket of kindling by the fire, and went out after Nancy.

  * * *

  Clemmie risked a visit to Mrs Tanner. For two hours, she waited in the shade of the Friends’ chapel halfway up the hill, sitting on a mossy gravestone, watching Thatch Cottage to be sure Isaac Tanner was not inside. Only when she was certain did she pick her way down to the yard. There were raised voices from within; both were female, but since Clemmie didn’t recognise one of them, she lurked beneath a window and waited.

  ‘Well, it’s good and ruined now, isn’t it? By my reckoning, you owe me a new ’un!’ said the voice she didn’t know.

  ‘How’s it ruined, then, Dot? It’ll still keep the rain off you. Working fine, by my reckoning.’

  ‘That’ll be the last and final time I lend you a thing, Annie Tanner, make no mistake!’

  ‘Well, then, it’ll be the last time I let you pay me in favours,’ said Mrs Tanner, calmly. There was some more grumbling, in lower tones, then a skinny woman with brown rats’ tails for hair stomped out and marched away towards the lane, carrying a black and white umbrella. Cautiously, Clemmie slipped into the open doorway.

  ‘Clemmie! What in hell are you doing here? Come in, come in,’ said Mrs Tanner, looking surprised and confused to see her. ‘There’s tea just brewed. Dotty didn’t stay in the end.’ She gave a chuckle, and Clemmie tipped her head curiously. ‘Silly mare. She lent me her umbrella and now she says I’ve spoilt it. We gave it to the old man upstairs to hold while we whitewashed his ceiling – he can’t get up, see, and he don’t like to be moved. Now it’s got a pattern of spots on it and she’s not happy.’ She gave Clemmie a quick hug then sat her down at the table, her eyes searching. ‘Never mind that. What are you doing here? Where’s Eli?’

  Clemmie heaved a wobbling sigh, and since she couldn’t say, and the weight of it was so great, she started to cry. She pictured Eli there with her, as he had been the last time; fetching out the special doll for his little brother, and stroking the boy’s hair. The thought of him supposing she didn’t want to be with him was becoming intolerable. Mrs Tanner watched her carefully for a while. ‘Eli’s not back with you, then? Did something happen to him?’ she said, and Clemmie shook her head. ‘That’s a mercy – that he’s well and that he’s away. Isaac’s been going wild over him running off – he calls it disloyalty, and he never would stand for that.’ For a moment Mrs Tanner’s face was heavy, and careworn. ‘Best Eli stays away a goodly while yet, and lets the dust settle. The baby – you’ve still got it?’ Clemmie nodded again, and Mrs Tanner patted her hand, relieved. ‘So, what then? You’ve left him?’ At this Clemmie’s face crumpled. But she had to nod. Mrs Tanner nodded too, and thought for a while. She leaned towards Clemmie and looked her deep in the eyes. ‘You love my Eli, don’t you?’ she said, and Clemmie nodded urgently, grasping at Mrs Tanner’s hands. ‘Did he raise his hand to you?’ she asked, flatly. Clemmie shook her head, and Mrs Tanner thought some more. ‘Then … you missed your home too badly?’ Sorrowfully, Clemmie nodded, and Mrs Tanner sighed. ‘Ar, well. I don’t know what he was thinking, trying to take you off to live in the city. What with you as natural as the day you was born.’ She shook her head.

  They sat for a while with their tea, listening to Eli’s grandmother snoring by the stove. She stirred and muttered at a sudden flurry of noise as a knot of children ran in, dodged about, arguing, then ran out again. There was an angry thumping from upstairs, and Mrs Tanner rolled her eyes. ‘I shan’t bother to answer him; he’ll nod off again soon enough,’ she said, to nobody in particular. ‘Well, Clem, my girl. What’s to do?’ she said. Clemmie wiped her streaming nose and wet chin on the backs of her hands. ‘He’ll know where you are, of course, even if you didn’t tell him. I hope to God he doesn’t come looking for you just yet. Did he have work? Good. That might hold him there a bit. Have you thought about what you’ll do?’ Clemmie thought for a moment, then nodded. Mrs Tanner studied her serious expression. ‘Something’s afoot with you, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘By God, if I could feed you a herb that’d bring you to speak, then believe me, I would.’ She sighed again and looked away, and Clemmie felt exhausted with everything she was carrying, and all the unspoken words that had been building up; she felt like a dam about to burst; a bridge about to crack. She shut her eyes and concentrated, and as her heart began to thud she gripped the edge of the table, gouging her fingernails into it.

  ‘I,’ she said. ‘I … I …’ She took another breath, and her tongue stuck to the roof of her dry mouth. ‘I … Isaac,’ she said. Eli’s mother stared at her, dumbstruck.

  * * *

  When Pudding got to the stables the following day, Irene came at once to ask what had happened at the hearing, and then clearly didn’t know what else to say. There was nothing to say, Pudding supposed. Hilarius came across from the barn, hands in his pockets, when he saw her tying up Bally Girl out on the yard. He nodded as she set about the mare with a dandy brush.

  ‘Good girl,’ he said, shortly. ‘’Tis the only way.’

  ‘Is it?’ said Pudding, but she had no stomach for any kind of argument. She had no stomach for anything. Hilarius watched for a long time. When Pudding glanced at him she saw his eyes following her every move, until she couldn’t stand it any more. ‘What is it, Hilarius?’ But the old man simply looked away and worked his jaw behind his closed lips, chewing on whatever he wasn’t saying. In the end he took her copy of Murder Most Foul from his coat pocket, and handed it back to her.

  ‘Plenty o’ truths in there,’ he said. ‘And all of ’em bitter.’

  ‘Yes, well,’ said Pudding, putting the book on the cobwebby window sill of Bally Girl’s stable. ‘It’s a book about violent crime. It would be bitter.’

  ‘You’re not looking deep enough, girl,’ he muttered.

  ‘I am!’ Pudding snapped. ‘I did! And I know that whoever killed that girl fifty years ago killed Alistair. But it doesn’t do any good because I can’t prove it and Donny has been sent to trial and won’t be let home … and none of it does any good!’ she cried. Bally Girl turned her head and blew softly at Pudding in consternation.

  ‘It weren’t the same person. No,’ said Hilarius, with a shake of his head. ‘I do doubt that.’

  ‘Well, unless you can tell me more than who it wasn’t, please …’ She took a steadying breath. ‘Please just leave me alone.’

  At lunchtime she couldn’t face going into the farmhouse, or going home. At home they were walking on eggshells around one another, waiting to see who would crack first. Her father, who had been turning inwards on himself ever since Donny’s arrest, now seemed all but oblivious to the rest of them. Her mother was agitated, even when she couldn’t quite remember what was upsetting her. She was clumsy and tearful and Pudding didn’t have the whe
rewithal to soothe her just then. Ruth had been left to hold the household together, which she did by scowling, berating them for moping, and cajoling them through their daily routine. Pudding flip-flopped between resenting her and being grateful to have her there.

  ‘Not all days’ll be like these days,’ she’d said to Pudding at breakfast that morning.

  ‘No. Some’ll be worse,’ said Pudding, thinking of the long wait until Donny’s trial; the trial and how it was likely to go; Donny being moved to Cornhill Prison in Shepton Mallet, where Thomas Pierrepoint was said to be able to hang a man with such precision that death was instant and painless. Pudding knew that was a good thing, of sorts, but it felt like nothing of the kind.

  ‘Want to just lie down and die, then, do you?’ Ruth had said, thrusting out her chin belligerently. ‘Then chop-chop and get on with it. Or buck up, and pass me those plates. It ain’t over till it’s over.’

  Swallowing past the ever-present ache in her throat, Pudding wandered away from Manor Farm towards the churchyard. She missed Alistair almost as much as she missed Donny, and knew that if he’d been there he would have got everything sorted out somehow, in his calm and gentle way. Which was ridiculous since, had he been there, Donny would have been too, and there’d be nothing to sort. It had been a long time since she’d been to his grave, and though it wasn’t even nearly the same as seeing him, she couldn’t think where else to go. She went around to the 1872 headstone that Irene had found, but the forget-me-nots were shrivelled and spread about, their colour quite gone, and they hadn’t been renewed. She ran her fingers over the weathered stone, with its pattern of silver and orange lichen, but the inscription was no clearer to her than it had been to Irene. Wearily, she remembered that she hadn’t got around to finding out whose grave it was. It didn’t seem to matter much, anyway. It wouldn’t help Donny, and she had no curiosity left for anything else. Alistair’s grave was immaculate and only too fresh in comparison. The turves that had been lain over the mound were crisping at the edges in the sun, and needed watering. Did one water a grave? She could make almost no connection between the sight of it and the memory of the man she’d loved. Alistair seemed a million miles away, somewhere else altogether. She spent a while there, and thought about telling him out loud what was going on, but it seemed every bit as pointless as everything else. She left the churchyard and went down into the village, and only realised where she was going when she was almost there.

  She paused for a moment at the gateway to Thatch Cottage. She knew she wasn’t welcome there, but somehow she wasn’t afraid any more. She couldn’t care less, in fact. She wanted them to know that their deeds and their lies had put a noose around Donny’s neck, and even if they weren’t sorry she could at least hope that it would gnaw at them, somewhere deep inside. Either way, she wanted them to know. She regretted it as soon as she stepped into the yard, though. She saw movement behind the cottage, near the outhouse, and a woman’s frightened face as she turned and hurried away, and then Tanner himself, glowering blackly at her. Pudding froze in shock. Tanner came striding towards her, his arms loose at his sides, hands curled into fists.

  ‘You,’ he said, jabbing a finger at her. Pudding took a step back and thought about running, but that wouldn’t do. She was there for Donny, so she stood up straighter and met the man’s eye. ‘You brought the police to my door! You and that chit of a thing from up the farm.’ He stood close enough for her to feel the heat of his breath, and smell the animal scent of his skin and hair and unwashed clothes.

  ‘Yes, we did. I did,’ she said. Her mouth had gone dry but she felt oddly calm.

  ‘We don’t talk to the bloody police, here. You send ’em round again and I’ll—’

  ‘You’ll what? Kill me like you killed Alistair Hadleigh? Like you killed Sarah Martock fifty years ago?’ Quick as a flash, Tanner dealt her a slap to the side of her face with the back of his hand; it was light, it barely hurt, and she knew he could have hit her far harder, but the shock of it left her speechless and tears flooded her eyes.

  ‘Watch your bloody tongue, or I’ll have it out,’ said Tanner, but there was no weight behind the words. They sounded like a habit, and his eyes had gone wide and he had paled, and he seemed startled by something she’d said. He was silent for a moment, his eyes searching the distant trees for something. ‘Watch your bloody tongue,’ he repeated, quietly this time, almost absently. Pudding wondered if he were drunk again, but for once alcohol wasn’t part of his smell.

  ‘Do what you like,’ she said, tremulously. ‘I know you lied – I know your alibi was a lie! I know you killed Alistair! Why – because he was going to sack you from the mill for good? It was no better than you deserved! I saw you asleep in the coal heap, hugging an empty bottle! I saw you! And for that, you killed him? Or did he find out something about Sarah Martock? And now you’re three times a killer, because they’re going to hang my brother for it – did you know that? They’ve sent him to be tried for wilful murder, and the case is closed, and they’ll hang him for it! So I hope you’re happy with yourself! I hope you can live with yourself. No – I hope you can’t!’ she cried, and turned on her heel. Tanner caught her arm; she looked back, alarmed, and though her vision was a blur his expression was not what she’d expected. His face was twisted up in some emotion, but it wasn’t anger or cruelty; it looked more like pain, and it turned his wrinkled eyes to slits so that only a sliver of blue showed through. ‘Let go!’ Pudding shouted. ‘Let go of me!’

  Tanner kept up his grip on her arm and there was no hope of breaking it. In spite of his age he was all bone and sinew; his hands were long and strong.

  ‘I never …’ he said. He shook his head but didn’t finish the sentence, and Pudding thought she saw a glimmer in his eyes. But that couldn’t be right. Tanner didn’t cry. Tanner was a monster and a drunk, who terrorised his family and everyone he met. And he was a killer. ‘Is that true, girl? ’Bout your brother?’ he said eventually.

  ‘Of course it’s true! Why would anyone make something like that up? I’m surprised you haven’t heard – everyone’s gossiping about it; everyone has their opinion about it, and none of them seem to care a damn for the fact that Donny didn’t do it!’ She wrenched her arm again and this time Tanner let her go. He was scowling and silent; eyes downcast. ‘Get gone,’ he said, gruffly. ‘And don’t come round here again.’

  ‘Why would I want to?’ Pudding shouted. ‘Why would I want to be anywhere near you?’ And with that she walked away, more slowly than she would have liked but it was hard to see, and she couldn’t get her breath for the sobs hitching in her chest. Her arm throbbed where Tanner had held it, and her cheek stung where he’d hit it, and she knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was the guilty one. He was the one who deserved to be punished. The thought sent a tingle right through her. Her footsteps slowed, then stopped.

  * * *

  Irene stood at the kitchen window and looked out at the woman with the pale, unruly hair, who was waiting by the back gate to the apple orchard. The woman walked slowly away down the hill at one point, but stopped halfway to the church, put her hands on her hips, twitched her head and turned back again, seeming to be in an agony of indecision. When she noticed Irene at the window their eyes locked, and Irene found she couldn’t look away. She went out onto the terrace at the back of the house.

  ‘Hello,’ she called, and gave a small wave. The woman simply stared, frozen in place, as the warm breeze pushed locks of fluffy hair into her eyes. Irene wondered whether to invite her inside, but her clothes were a mess and she looked half-wild, so she thought better of it. She was just about to go across and try to speak to her when Nancy appeared beside her.

  ‘She’s here again, I see,’ said Nancy. Irene turned to her.

  ‘You know her? I’ve seen her outside here before, too.’

  ‘She lives out on one of the farms.’ Nancy raised a hand to shield her eyes, and beneath it her mouth was thin and lipless.

  ‘It looks as
though she has something she wants to say,’ said Irene.

  ‘Oh, she never says anything. She just lurks.’

  ‘What do you think she wants?’

  ‘Who knows?’ Nancy dropped her hand and folded her arms, and Irene was wondering whether to call out again when Nancy stepped down from the terrace and walked towards the woman at the gate. She’d gone only three paces, however, when the stranger stiffened, gave Irene one last glance and set off across the field towards the church. Nancy stopped and watched for a while, then returned to the terrace with a grunt. ‘See? Odd creature,’ she said, and went back inside. Irene waited in case the woman turned back again, but she had soon disappeared behind St Nicholas’.

  The day felt odd, to Irene. It had since the moment she’d woken from a frightening dream that had vanished in an instant; as though, again, the world were holding its breath for something – had cut itself and was waiting for the pain. She paced from room to room, seeing nothing amiss, and then retreated into the cool, clammy quiet of her writing room. She’d yet to write a thing in it apart from letters; there was a film of dust on each key of her typewriter, since Florence was too worried about damaging it to clean it. Tense, Irene sat down on the edge of her chair and stared at the fireplace with its brand new marble surround. Then she looked around the room slowly, remembering the way Alistair had wanted her to make it her home. Instead, she had recreated a corner of her parents’ house. Nothing looked right – all the expensive things she’d chosen, close together in this one room, looked garish and smug. The opposite of comfortable. She would ask Nancy about swapping a few of her things with others from the house. Her eyes came back to rest on the fireplace, which leaked a steady draught of air that might have been warm when it had entered the chimney pot at the top, but was cool and reeked of smuts by the bottom. Just as Nancy had warned it would. She thought back to the day it was opened – the day Verney Blunt and the young Tanner boy had broken off the boards and let the slew of soot and mess carry a lost, bedraggled doll out into the room.