The Bloody Wood

by Michael Innes

  ‘Perhaps the problem isn’t an immediate one. Perhaps we shall be asked to stay.’

  ‘My dear Lady Appleby, what an odd idea! Bobby and Martine, I imagine, will want the house – or should one say an arena? – to themselves.’

  ‘No doubt. I certainly don’t suppose that they will be very pressing. I was thinking of the police.’

  ‘The police!’ Mrs Gillingham was startled. ‘Do you mean Sir John?’

  ‘Of course I don’t. I mean the Chief Constable, who appears to have arrived at dawn. It’s true that John has seen him. I have no details, and don’t seek any. But it appears there is some new doubt about the manner of Grace’s death. She may have met with foul play.’

  ‘Then that explains the absence of Friary. The Chief Constable has produced a pair of handcuffs and hauled the unhappy man off to gaol. I wonder whether they gave him time to put on that very superior dust-coat.’

  It was Judith’s turn to be startled. She helped herself to coffee, and sat down.

  ‘I really don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Why should Friary be suspected of anything?’

  ‘Because he had earned Grace’s displeasure. Not that that is other than a very mild way to put it. To speak seriously, Lady Appleby, there is something that I would like your husband to know.’

  ‘The police, I think, would be–’

  ‘No doubt. But I have been put in rather an awkward position, and I am anxious that Sir John should be the first to know about it. He may judge the whole incident to be irrelevant. So may I trespass on your kindness? Tell him briefly what I have to say. If he thinks it important, he must speak to me.’

  ‘Very well.’ Judith felt that she could not do other than agree. But she was not wholly pleased. ‘Why should there be an awkwardness?’ she asked.

  ‘I find I cannot acquit myself of a charge of eavesdropping. Or rather of spying, since little was audible to me.’

  ‘I see,’ Judith didn’t, in fact, see why Mrs Gillingham should think the vindication of nice feelings of particular importance in face of what had happened at Charne. ‘When did this occur?’

  ‘Yesterday afternoon. But I ought to say, first, that since my arrival at Charne on this occasion I have been conscious of a peculiar atmosphere, and of this as somehow particularly affecting myself. Martine’s manner to me has been very peculiar.’

  ‘Martine believed that Grace was planning that you should marry Charles.’ Judith wasn’t sure why she came out roundly with this. Perhaps it was merely to startle the decidedly cool Barbara Gillingham. She hoped that it was prompted by a more reputable feeling that, in the present circumstances, there was a strong case for candour all round. ‘And I think Bobby,’ she went on, ‘may have had the same notion.’

  That Mrs Gillingham was indeed startled it would have been impossible to deny. Perhaps – it suddenly came to Judith – Grace’s supposed plan had veritably been Mrs Gillingham’s own plan. Perhaps, at least, she had not been without a thought of Charles Martineau in his approaching widowerhood. But she certainly hadn’t supposed such a project to be lurking in any other head. Now she spoke with gravity and dignity.

  ‘Had Grace formed such a wish,’ she said, ‘she would have told me. We were old friends enough.’

  ‘I am sure that is true. And Grace had no such wish.’

  ‘You know that positively?’ This time it was with a sudden sharpness that Mrs Gillingham spoke.

  ‘I think I can say that.’ Judith had come rather abruptly to a point at which candour had better stop off. To speak about Grace’s strangely revealed thought of Martine as a possible successor seemed unnecessary and meddlesome. ‘But what is the relevance of this to what we were speaking of?’

  ‘Ah, Friary. I had been made slightly uneasy about feeling towards me here – that is what I was saying – and this may have made me act a little oddly. It was yesterday afternoon, and Grace was sitting by herself in the orangery. I was about to join her from the terrace, when I saw that she was extremely agitated. I ought to have gone to her at once, since it would have been the intimate and kindly thing to do. But for some reason I hesitated. Then I saw her pick up the telephone – you know how Charles had these things put all through the house for her – and summon somebody. I withdrew to the little recessed seat – you must know it – at the corner of the terrace. One of the parlourmaids came, and Grace spoke to her very briefly. I think the maid – it was the one called Evans – was surprised by her mistress’ condition. She went away, and then Friary came instead.’

  ‘You continued watching?’

  ‘Yes. I ought, of course, to have moved away. One’s friend’s dealings with their servants are decidedly not one’s affair.’

  ‘I’m sure that is a very good rule. And then?’

  ‘Grace upbraided him. It was a most painful scene.’

  ‘It couldn’t just have been over some domestic negligence?’

  ‘No, indeed. That could not be the explanation. The thing had quite a different quality.’

  ‘Very sick people–’

  ‘That is true. I understand what you mean. But no. Not that.’

  Judith was silent. She had no disposition to think that Mrs Gillingham was talking nonsense.

  ‘And that is all,’ Mrs Gillingham said.

  ‘Of course nobody else saw this?’

  ‘Naturally not.’

  ‘But how did it end?’

  ‘Friary simply came away. He came out into the open air – which was odd in itself – and walked down the terrace and round to the back of the house.’

  ‘Without seeing you?’

  ‘Certainly without seeing me. For the moment, he was past seeing anything. He looked very pale. I am bound to say that I thought he looked very evil as well.’

  After this curious interview with Mrs Gillingham, Judith obeyed an impulse to get into the open air. As soon as she stepped out on the terrace she ran into Martine Rivière. And Martine stopped and spoke abruptly.

  ‘Judith – have you heard the news?’

  ‘I’ve heard of a possibility the police now feel they must investigate.’ Judith looked curiously at Martine. She was no longer the composed young woman that she had appeared to remain the night before. ‘I don’t know that we do much good speculating about it ourselves.’

  ‘But that’s nonsense. If there is such an incredible suspicion, we can scarcely be expected to keep our minds on other things and make suitable small-talk when we meet.’

  ‘That is true. But we must remember that, when a thing like this happens, it becomes the duty of the police to consider every possible interpretation. So we don’t want to start talking about it on the basis of supposing the worst. To do so might be to inflict wounds that would prove hard to heal.’

  ‘They say there were marks on Aunt Grace’s body! it’s incredible.’

  ‘Nearly incredible – which is just my point.’

  ‘Yesterday – quite suddenly – there was something between Aunt Grace and Uncle Charles.’ Martine had gone on unheeding. ‘That’s one thing that makes it too awful.’

  ‘You mean they had some dispute or estrangement?’

  ‘It seemed like that. And it can only have been about that woman.’

  ‘I think it may have been about a woman. But of what woman are you thinking?’

  ‘What woman?’ Martine looked at Judith queerly. ‘Barbara Gillingham, of course.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Once more, Judith was suddenly prompted to clear at least one further area of confusion. ‘But what is in your mind, Martine?’

  ‘My aunt had decided that Uncle Charles must marry the woman.’

  ‘It isn’t so – although both you and Bobby may be convinced of it. Your aunt had decided that your Uncle Charles should marry you.’

  ‘I don’t bel
ieve it!’ The words came from Martine like a cry, and she had gone very pale.

  ‘I’m sorry. But I think it is something that should be known – at least to yourself. And you mustn’t be too shocked. Grace thought the world of you. She wanted children at Charne. And she believed – I suppose rightly – that there was no legal or moral impediment. I can see that the idea is bound to offend you. It must have offended your uncle, if it was really communicated to him. But you must remember, as I’m sure he would have done, that a dying person can see things very strangely.’

  ‘She didn’t like Bobby. Uncle Charles did.’ Martine came out with this as if inconsequently. And then she paused, with an effect of gathering in its relevance. ‘Of course you know that Uncle Charles had a match-making plan of his own. He wanted me to marry Bobby – which would be something perfectly suitable and proper in itself, I suppose. With that in his head, he could hardly have received Aunt Grace’s idea as other than a joke. The more one thinks of it all, the more grotesque it seems. Old people ought not to be ambitious to arrange marriages. They just don’t know what’s absurd.’

  ‘I’m sure you are right, Martine. If I ever feel the ambition myself, I shall restrain it.’

  ‘Diana too, you know.’

  ‘Diana?’

  ‘Yes – Aunt Grace’s notion again, this time. She thought of Diana for Bobby. She thought that Diana would do for Bobby.’

  ‘You mean–?’

  ‘Yes – that Diana would be quite good enough for him. It wasn’t a very good basis upon which to promote a match. And it was hardly kind to Diana.’

  ‘Not if she let Diana know that she looked at it in just that way.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure Aunt Grace would not do that.’ Martine seemed really shocked. ‘Certainly not intentionally. And Aunt Grace was too sensitive, surely, to let such a thing slip in an inadvertent way. But at least she must be said to have put ideas in Diana’s head.’

  ‘And to no purpose? It wouldn’t be something Bobby himself would think of?’

  ‘Bobby might think of anything. He is unaccountable. I don’t understand him.’ Martine said this abruptly, and for a moment seemed to be about to break off the conversation. Then she thought better of this. ‘But you know how Bobby and Diana are always sparring at each other? Aunt Grace was struck by it. She seems to have taken it as a sort of technique of courtship.’

  ‘I’d say that it is that, in a way. Or at least it is on Diana’s side.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Martine was suddenly contemptuous. ‘Diana has been after him, and my poor aunt is to blame. I think – although I don’t really know – that Diana is a mess.’

  ‘But surely you and Diana are close friends?’

  ‘Yes. Or that’s the idea. Or we were.’ Martine was frowning in some obscure perplexity. ‘Everything has been all wrong. And out of it, somehow, there has come this horror. Policemen saying that Aunt Grace has been murdered. Perhaps, by this time, they are saying the same thing about Uncle Charles as well.’

  ‘Martine, I must insist that the police are not even saying anything of the sort about your aunt. They have only a suspicion. I’m a little surprised, actually, that they seem to have let it get around.’

  ‘Oh, that must be Sir John, you know.’

  ‘John?’ Judith was sharply angry. ‘That is nonsense.’

  ‘I don’t think so. He is the expert, after all. And he wants to rattle us.’ Martine paused. It was impossible to tell whether she believed what she was saying. ‘His first success has been with Diana. Diana is terrified.’

  16

  It was only a few minutes later that Martine Rivière’s last statement was borne out somewhat dramatically – almost, indeed, to the effect of another sudden death at Charne. Judith Appleby going in search of her husband, and rounding a corner of the house in some absence of mind, was recalled to her surroundings by a screech of brakes in her ears and the appearance of a car bonnet pretty well under her nose. Automatically she had taken evasive action; now she stepped back a further pace and took stock of what had happened. The car – small, by no means old, but carrying the suggestion of being miscellaneously battered – was Diana’s. Diana was at the wheel, and she seemed to be aware that she had been behaving dangerously. But, although she contrived to produce some sort of apology, she didn’t switch off her engine.

  ‘Heavens, Diana – you do seem in a hurry! Where are you off to?’ The question wasn’t really necessary. The back of the little car was piled with suitcases and a heap of loose clothes.

  ‘I have to leave. I’ve been called away. Isn’t it a frightful bore? But it can’t be helped.’ Diana’s manner was as wild as her driving had been. She was confused, frightened, and obeying a simple impulse to bolt.

  ‘That seems a great pity.’ Judith walked up to the car, and put a hand on one of its doors. ‘Have you told people?’

  ‘Yes…no. There hasn’t been time. It’s illness in my family, and terribly urgent. Goodbye.’

  ‘Diana – that isn’t quite true, is it? You just want to go away because things here have been distressing you? I don’t think you should. Not without talking to somebody.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk to anybody. I talked to Mrs Martineau. And you see what happened.’

  ‘Diana, whatever do you mean by that?’

  ‘Nothing. I didn’t mean to say anything. That’s what I’m saying, isn’t it? So leave me alone. Let me drive on.’

  ‘If you want to, then of course.’ Judith took her hand from the door of the car, and stepped back a pace. ‘But it won’t be any good. I think I ought to tell you that.’

  ‘What do you mean – it won’t be any good?’ Diana sounded uncertain. ‘You’re trying to frighten me.’

  ‘That isn’t so, Diana. You are frightened already – and you’ll go on being frightened till you face up to things. When I say it’s no good bolting, I mean simply that you will be visited wherever you go, and asked questions. And that isn’t unreasonable. You see, it’s just possible a crime may have been committed at Charne–’

  ‘Of course a crime has been committed.’ Diana’s voice had risen in panic. ‘I just don’t want to get killed too.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s at all likely.’

  ‘Yes, it is. He may kill anybody.’

  ‘Diana, what do you mean? Who may kill anybody?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Let me go.’ Diana Page was now reduced to a condition of childish incoherence. It wasn’t easy to see her as other than rather a rubbishing little person, and Judith reflected that Grace Martineau’s estimate of her nephew Bobby’s worth must have been decidedly low if she had really felt that in Diana Page he would find a suitable wife. This didn’t mean that Diana must be harshly treated now. The child was desperately in need of support – and in need, too, of somebody to confess to. This last impression had been with Judith for some time. But now, if Diana was not talking utterly at random, there seemed a real need to extract sense out of her. Judith tried a fresh line.

  ‘Diana,’ she asked, ‘does Bobby know how upset you are?’

  ‘Bobby? Bobby wouldn’t ever know anything. He wouldn’t ever notice anything – except his own beastly silly cleverness!’ Diana was now in tears – tears that were angry and unbeautiful. ‘And she seemed so clever – so clever and wise and kind. I believed her. Don’t you see?’

  Judith did see, and her feeling of compassion for Diana grew.

  ‘She was,’ she said. ‘Or she used to be. But I think, Diana, that her illness clouded her judgement. Her illness and some other wishes that she had.’

  ‘Other wishes! What other wishes?’

  ‘Never mind that now. And I am so sorry. You were terribly disappointed when Bobby turned out not to be interested after all?’

  ‘I could have taken it.�
� Diana had raised her chin, so that a tiny flicker of spirit seemed to appear in her. ‘But he had his fun with me.’

  Judith said nothing. It wasn’t a point at which to make a mistake.

  ‘I’ve put that stupidly. He didn’t shove me into bed. Perhaps he just hasn’t got what it takes.’ Diana was suddenly vicious.

  ‘He flirted with you, you mean?’

  ‘What a funny word. You make it sound like something in a novel. But yes, I suppose so. He chatted me up. He could get me all excited without touching me. And then he’d go away laughing.’

  ‘I see.’ Judith found that this picture of Bobby Angrave as a pretty average young cad failed to surprise her. ‘And then you rather lost your head?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Diana looked straight at Judith in sudden defiance. ‘In fact I lost more than that.’

  There was a moment’s silence. Judith had a sense of Diana’s last words as not, somehow, ringing quite true. In a witness box Diana would cut an unimpressive figure. Was she a vicious child, or a child who had been gravely wronged? A jury would resent not being able to make up their mind about her.

  ‘And so, you see, it has all been my fault.’ Diana’s tone had suddenly changed again. ‘I didn’t mean to do anything wrong. In fact, I thought for once that I was doing what was entirely right. But it was a mistake, wasn’t it? Because Mrs Martineau was murdered. And perhaps Mr Martineau was murdered too. I wasn’t, because he thought I’d be too scared to speak. But now I am speaking. And I suppose I’ll have to go on.’

  ‘Yes, I think you will.’ Judith felt a sudden enhanced sympathy for Diana, who seemed really to be on the way to overcoming some vivid, if irrational, fear. ‘You have said things that make it certain the police will want to take a statement from you. So I think–’

  ‘Couldn’t I tell Sir John?’

  ‘Yes, I think you could. At first, at least – if you would prefer it that way. Shall I ask him? I’m going to look for him now.’