by Joan Smith
For a moment Loretta thought Clara was going to argue; then, with a heavy sigh, she gave in.
‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘Sure you can deal with this? You don’t want me to stay?’
Robert refused the offer and Here gathered together the party that was to return to Flitwell. Ellie hugged Clara briefly, then she, Here and Gilbert stepped out into the night. As the door closed behind them, the women gathered at the foot of the stairs.
‘Off you go,’ Robert said encouragingly. ‘You’re quite safe. I’ll wait here till they arrive.’
Climbing the stairs, Loretta realized she was trembling very slightly. The attack on the house, so sudden and intimidating, had left her feeling weak and empty. The image of Clara on the doorstep, what looked like blood soaking into the hem of her dress, was more real to her than the brightly lit staircase and landing. At the top of the stairs she turned and said a subdued goodnight to Clara, Imo and Peggy, then started down the long corridor to the study.
‘Loretta – I’m so sorry.’ Clara’s voice followed her down the corridor, her attempt at a normal tone underlining how shaken she had been by the incident.
Loretta turned again, forcing a smile. Inside the study, the door firmly shut, she undressed slowly, folding her clothes in a neat pile and absently brushing dust off her grey shoes. But there was no disguising the taste of bile in her throat as she curled up on the chaise-longue with the pretty Victorian quilt drawn up to her ears.
Chapter 2
She didn’t wake with a start, as sometimes happens in a strange place. She was in no doubt about where she was, and at no point did she experience the gut-wrenching stab of fear that hurls the sleeper across the boundary from dream to consciousness after a particularly vivid nightmare. It was more that she gradually became aware of voices, and the fact that she could still hear them now that she was fully awake. It was difficult to make out what they were saying, and she had to strain even to catch one or two phrases. When she did, she had to dismiss her initial assumption, which was that the police had finally arrived and were talking to Robert Herrin in the hall below. For one thing there are too many voices; for another the vocabulary was all wrong.
‘–brother was always penny-pinching but it did not occur to me that even he –’
‘God be thanked that his poor dear sister is not alive to hear such words.’
‘His own flesh and blood –’
‘Poor, poor Cousin Maude.’
Loretta sat up and peered into the darkness. Where were the voices coming from? They seemed to be in the room with her, but she had no sense of their direction, perhaps because the drawn curtains and closed shutters had combined to produce an impenetrable darkness. Now completely awake, she sat up on one elbow and listened carefully. What were these people talking about? She caught more phrases.
‘To think that the scion of so noble a family could sink to such depths of depravity.’
‘Not just depraved, Lord Brownshaw; unnatural.’
“Tis a final and most bitter bequest.’
They were speaking in shocked, subdued tones, and a scene flashed into Loretta’s head: a group of people, middle-aged to elderly, dressed in sombre and old-fashioned clothes, sitting in a dark parlour discussing the newly revealed contents of a will. But there was something stagy about the set-up, something not quite right; it was as though she was listening to a bad play on Radio Four.
Of course – someone in a nearby room was listening to the radio. Sound travels in old houses, she told herself, speculating that the wall between the study and the room next door might be unusually thin. But what a time to choose. Then she realized that she had no idea what hour it was. She threw back the quilt, swung her feet to the floor, and took careful steps across the room to the mantelpiece where she had left her watch. Pushing a curtain to one side, she read the time by moonlight: twenty past one. Who on earth could be listening to the radio at that hour? She remembered that Peggy was sleeping in the spare room next door, and felt even more perplexed; the play, if that was what it was, hardly seemed the sort of thing that would interest Peggy. In any case, surely Radio Four would be off the air by now? Even so, there was presumably some sort of local radio station in the area – maybe it was running a drama series for insomniacs? The obvious thing was to go next door and ask. Loretta let go of the curtain, drawing in her breath as the room was plunged again into darkness, and began to feel her way towards the door. As she did so she heard a sudden click, and the voices ceased. So it had been a radio, she thought, relieved that she’d been spared the task of asking Peggy to turn it down. And who could blame the girl for her wakefulness – she had seen the peace camp and Clara’s house attacked on consecutive nights. Loretta put out a hand to her left, felt for the edge of the chaise-longue, and slipped back under the quilt. Before long she had drifted back to sleep as though the radio incident had never happened.
The second time she woke up with a start. She must have been sleeping much more lightly, for she actually heard the click before the voices began again. As before, Loretta lay very still, straining to make out what they were saying; it took a couple of minutes to realize that something very odd was happening.
‘God be thanked that his poor dear sister is not alive to hear such words.’
‘His own flesh and blood –’
‘Poor, poor Cousin Maude.’
Not only the voices, but what they were saying, were an exact repeat of last time. Loretta’s first thought was to wonder what on earth Peggy was up to. The voices obviously weren’t coming from a radio; even a local station wouldn’t broadcast the same play twice in one night. A tape recorder? To sit up half the night listening to a second-rate play twice over was eccentricity of a high order. Why would Peggy do such a thing?
‘Not just depraved, Lord Brownshaw; unnatural.’
“Tis a final and most bitter bequest.’
Loretta felt herself getting angry. As if she hadn’t had enough to put up with for one night! The last thing she wanted was a row with Clara’s other guest. And yet, if she was going to get any sleep at all, it seemed she had little choice. With an impatient sigh she slid her legs out from under the quilt for the second time, stood up, and started to move in the direction of the door. As she reached it she heard an abrupt click. The voices ceased at exactly the same point as they had earlier. Loretta waited for a moment in darkness to make sure the silence wasn’t temporary. Then, as it stretched into minutes, she felt her way back to the chaise-longue and lay down to sleep for the third time.
A persistent knocking woke Loretta next morning and she realized someone was at the door of her room.
‘Come in,’ she called, rubbing her eyes and wondering what time it was.
The door opened to reveal Clara, who was wearing a blue dressing-gown and carrying a cup and saucer.
‘Brought you some tea. Were you asleep? Sorry, it’s just that I’m nearly ready for church. How did you sleep? After that terrible paint business, I mean.’ She perched on the end of the chaise-longue as Loretta tasted her tea.
‘Oh, that,’ said Loretta, surprised to find that the events of the previous evening had rather faded from her mind. ‘I was so tired when I came to bed, I went out like a light. What did bother me, to tell you the truth, was the radio next door. At least, it sounded like a radio – what’s the matter?’
Clara was leaning forward with an air of suppressed excitement.
‘A radio? Tell me what you heard.’
Loretta was slightly unnerved by the intensity of Clara’s stare.
‘Well, there isn’t much to tell... I mean – I was woken up by voices, I assume from next door, and it sounded as if someone was listening to a play on the radio. Then it went off, and a bit later I heard it again. It was just – voices.’
‘What were they saying? What sort of voices?’
‘Quiet, sort of subdued. They seemed to be talking about a will–’
‘And Cousin Maude? Did they men
tion Cousin Maude?’
‘Well, yes, they did. What is all this?’
Clara sat back, her lips drawn together in a thin line.
‘So I’m not going mad. Thank God. I was beginning to wonder.’
‘Clara, what’s this about?’
Loretta put her empty cup on the floor and moved closer to her hostess.
‘It starts with a click, as though a radio’s been turned on,’ Clara said slowly. ‘First you think it’s a play, Radio Four or something. Then it stops. And after a while you hear it again, the same piece of dialogue. So you think it’s a tape recorder. In here or next door. So you turn the place upside down looking for it. And that’s the point. There’s nothing in here and nothing next door. Not a thing. So where’s it coming from?’
Loretta shivered.
‘You mean you’ve heard it often? But surely–’
‘Oh yes, I quite agree. There must be some rational explanation. But if you can tell me what it is I’ll be very grateful.’
‘How long has this been going on?’ Loretta was at a loss and, unwilling to countenance explanations of a supernatural nature, took refuge in seeking facts.
‘Two weeks,’ Clara said without hesitation. ‘I wrote it in my diary. Not straight away. The first time it happened I was inclined to doubt my sanity. After all, I’m fifty-one, and I haven’t shown any previous signs of behaving like Joan of Arc. You know what people say about the menopause. But then, when the first letter arrived a couple of days later – well, I thought the two things might be connected. I don’t know how. It’s one thing to write disgusting letters, anyone can do that. But this –’ She stopped and gestured in the air.
‘What sort of letters?’
‘Anonymous. I’m sure you can guess. “Why don’t you get those whores off your land, you dirty lesbian bitch?” That sort of thing. That’s not all, I’ve had phone calls as well. Though I suspect I have someone else to thank for those, they display an altogether more inventive turn of mind. No obscenities. Mostly it’s just silence. But someone read part of the burial service to me once. I suppose I’d have got the whole thing if I hadn’t put the phone down. And there was another one where I could hear a woman being tortured.’ Clara saw Loretta’s face and patted her hand. ‘Don’t worry, Loretta, I’m sure it wasn’t real. Anyone could rent a horror film and tape the nastiest bit of the soundtrack. I don’t think for a moment she was really being murdered. But the voices – how are they being done?’
Loretta suddenly remembered Clara’s eagerness for her to move into the cottage; had it been connected with this? She had gathered the previous evening that Imo was in her second year at Sussex – it would hardly be surprising if Clara had felt the need of a neighbour she could trust in her present predicament. Even so, it would have been nice to be consulted: Loretta wasn’t very happy about the way in which she had been allowed to walk all unknowing into this deeply disturbing situation.
‘What do the police say?’ she asked, a trifle coldly.
‘I haven’t told them.’
‘You haven’t–’
‘Wait a minute, there is a reason. Think about it. The police don’t like the peace camp – oh, it’s not political, I’m sure. They have enough to cope with, and the camp is one more problem they could do without. I’ve had Collins, he’s the local superintendent, round here for a quiet word – we sympathize, it’s a free country, but can’t you turn them off? If I told them about the voices and the phone calls, there’s no proof that I’m telling the truth. Even the letters, I could have written those myself. And you know how gossip gets round. The police are human like the rest of us. I’ve got enough enemies around here as it is without people saying I’m batty as well as a communist.’ Clara smiled slightly. ‘I’m biding my time, building up a – well, a dossier is too strong a word. I’ve been keeping notes in my diary – all the phone calls, the dates of the letters, when I’ve heard the voices. Now there’s been these attacks, and you’ve heard the voices ... All I need is for someone else to hear some of the phone calls – you or Peggy, say. Then I’ll go public on it.’
‘Who else knows?’ Loretta asked. ‘What about Imo?’
‘She knows about the letters. Not the voices. You’re the only one who knows about those. And you must keep quiet, Loretta. For the time being. Please.’
A new thought struck Loretta. ‘Is that why you put me in here last night? To see if I’d hear the voices?’
Clara looked slightly shame-faced. ‘Well, it did cross my mind ... But really, when you think about it, I had no choice. I could hardly put Peggy in here, could I? Not when she’d had that bang on the head. It wouldn’t have been fair.’
‘Are they always at night?’
‘So far. I’ve been sleeping in here a lot lately.’ Clara’s cheeks reddened, and Loretta wondered why. ‘It’s always been at midnight or later. Heavens, look at the time! I must fly or I’ll be late for church. Help yourself to breakfast – there’s bread in the crock, eggs, bacon, the usual things. Lunch at one. See you later.’
The door closed and Loretta was alone. She lowered herself back on to the pillow and lay with her hands clasped behind her head. Common sense told her this was no place for someone recuperating from even a mild illness; she should pack her things and be ready to leave when Clara returned from church. Loretta swung her legs to the floor, went to stand up, then hesitated. How would she feel if she washed her hands of the whole business and left Clara to get on with it? Was Clara really asking so much? Loretta had often been to Greenham; she had been moved by the dedication of the women who braved appalling weather conditions and constant evictions in pursuit of a cause she, too, believed in. All Clara was asking for was a bit of sisterly support, and for Loretta to act as a witness. How deep was Loretta’s commitment if she wasn’t even prepared to do that? She sighed, the impossibility of running out on Clara impressing her forcibly. She had made her bed, she thought, running her hand over the worn surface of the patchwork quilt, and she would have to lie on it.
Half an hour later, dressed and ready for breakfast, Loretta made her way downstairs. Clara’s work table was still in the hall, empty and waiting to be transported upstairs. She skirted round it and paused by the front door, looking for traces of the previous night’s attack. Apart from a darkening of the cement in the cracks between the floor tiles, there was remarkably little damage. She opened the kitchen door, wondering if Peggy or Imo were up, but the room was empty apart from the grey cat who strolled over to meet her. Loretta bent to scratch his head, was rewarded with a loud purr, and set about making tea and toast. Having consumed both she looked at the clock; it was quarter past eleven, and she wondered how to pass the time until Clara returned. Judging by the potatoes sitting in a pan of water on the kitchen table, preparations for lunch were well under way – she could indulge herself with a clear conscience. Picking up that morning’s Observer, which was lying unopened on a chair, she crossed the hall, went through the untidy conservatory, and found herself on a small paved area adjoining the house. It was a sunny spot, and several chairs and a low wooden table had been placed there to take advantage of this fact. Loretta sat down and began to leaf through the paper; finding nothing much of interest, she took it back to the kitchen and ran lightly up the stairs to Clara’s study. A couple of minutes later she returned to her seat outside, this time armed with an early novel by Margaret Atwood that she hadn’t had time to look at before. It was easy reading, and it didn’t take long for Loretta to become temporarily oblivious of her surroundings. She was not aware that she was no longer alone until her light was suddenly blocked and she looked up to find a man standing in front of her.
‘Hello.’ His tone was suspicious and far from friendly. ‘Is Clara in?’
Another neighbour? Loretta wondered. ‘Not at the moment,’ she said briskly, ignoring his hostility. ‘She went to church, oh’ – she looked at her watch – ‘about an hour and a half ago. She should be back soon. Or would you like me to give her
a message?’
The man looked blank.
‘No thanks, I live here. And who are you?’
For a moment, Loretta was lost for words. She stared at the new arrival, trying to work out who he might be. Some sort of relative, she guessed, taking in his dark hair – like Imo’s – and pale skin. Clara’s son? Much too old; he looked to be in his early forties, although his receding hair could be deceptive. A younger brother? That seemed more likely. But in that case, why was he living at Baldwin’s? Loretta realized the man was still waiting for her reply, and hastily introduced herself. He shook her outstretched hand perfunctorily.
‘Jeremy Frere,’ he announced. ‘I’m Clara’s husband. You say you’re a friend of hers? I don’t think I’ve heard her mention you.’
‘More a friend of a friend,’ Loretta admitted, still engaged in the process of revising her picture of Clara’s domestic arrangements. Why hadn’t Clara mentioned the fact that she had a husband? It was hardly the sort of thing that could have slipped her mind. Loretta realized she had simply assumed that Clara was divorced or widowed. But surely this chap Jeremy – what had he said his surname was? Loretta had been so taken aback by his revelation of his relationship to Clara that she hadn’t taken it in – wasn’t Imo’s father? She examined him covertly, taking in his bright blue eyes and unlined skin. If it wasn’t for the hair, he might easily pass for thirty-five. Of one thing she was certain: Jeremy was definitely his wife’s junior, and by some years. She realized he was speaking to her, and his tone was less unfriendly now they’d been introduced.
‘I’d completely forgotten about this church business. Only started a couple of weeks ago.’ He laughed, looking back across the valley with absent-minded admiration for the view. ‘Clara never went near a church till she found the vicar was on her side about this Libyan business.’ He moved towards the conservatory. ‘Drink? I’m going to have a lager. I’ve just driven down from London and my throat’s like sandpaper.’
Loretta said she’d like an orange juice. Jeremy returned a couple of minutes later and handed her a half-full glass. ‘We seem to be running out. I expect Clara forgot to do the shopping again. You here for the weekend?’ He settled into a chair next to hers.
