Why Aren't They Screaming?

by Joan Smith

  ‘I suppose you’re hungry,’ she said, putting the cake down on the table. ‘Well, you’ll just have to wait – what on earth?’

  She was looking at something on the table, and a prickling sensation ran down the back of her neck. She put out a hand, pulled it back, and turned to make sure she’d closed the front door. She looked nervously round the room straining her ears for the slightest indication that she wasn’t alone in the cottage. The cat miaowed impatiently; she bent and picked him up, stroking his head and telling him to be quiet. She looked back to the front door again, checking there was no sign of a forced entry. But, if there had been, she would have noticed it on her way in. She walked silently into the bathroom, where everything was just as she’d left it. Still holding Bertie, she climbed the spiral staircase to the bedroom. Suddenly the cat started and leapt from her arms; she glanced anxiously round the room but, seeing nothing untoward, went back down the stairs.

  Someone had been inside the cottage in her absence, in spite of all the evidence to the contrary: how else had that single sheet of paper come to be lying on the table? She drew closer to it, taking in that the words on it were few and printed in neat writing she didn’t recognize. Jeremy’s? That had been her first thought on seeing the piece of paper lying so neatly positioned in the centre of the table. She rejected the possibility now, just as she had unconsciously a minute before; she was sure that Clara had given her all the keys to the cottage, and she certainly hadn’t returned any of them to Jeremy since the murder.

  She was now close enough to read the writing, which began with her name; underneath this was another, one which meant nothing to her: Fanny Fudge. The next line was simply the name and address of a church, St Michael’s, Church Lane, Steeple Barford. Finally there was a time, eight fifteen, followed by the word ‘tonight’, heavily underlined.

  Scrutinizing this enigmatic document in the vain hope that its meaning would suddenly be made clear to her, Loretta felt with one hand for the back of a chair and sat down. The woman’s name, Fanny Fudge, sounded made up; was it some sort of joke? Yet who would bother gaining entry to the cottage in so professional a fashion if the object of the visit was merely to play a prank? Presumably she was supposed to set off for this place, Steeple Barford, in time for the rendezvous in – she looked at her watch – forty minutes’ time. And there she would meet – who? Clara’s killer? That seemed the obvious inference. But if the letter was a trap, a ruse to lure her to some deserted place where she could be disposed of, why go to all this trouble? Since the person who delivered the note had access to the cottage, why not simply wait in the bathroom for her return and beat her over the head? The cottage was relatively isolated; she could think of few safer locations in which to commit a second murder. She shivered, got up, and went to the fridge, taking out an opened tin of cat food in an attempt to banish this unpleasant reflection. She scraped the remaining food on to a saucer and put it down for the now ecstatic cat.

  But if the note wasn’t from the killer, who else might be its author? Loretta sat down, picked up the sheet of paper with the tips of her fingers, and turned it over. The other side was blank. She put it down, unwilling to prolong her contact with it. A new theory came to her, and her heart beat more rapidly. As far as she knew, Peggy was still missing – was the note in some way linked with her? But why would Peggy use this melodramatic means of communicating with her? Unless Peggy knew the police suspected her at least of being an accomplice in Clara’s murder, and was afraid to use her own name? Loretta looked at her watch again. She had never heard of Steeple Barford, and time was getting short. She went warily out to her car and felt in one of the door pockets for a map of the area. She went back indoors, taking care to shut the front door behind her, and spread the map on the table. She quickly located Steeple Barford, a small hamlet about ten miles north-west of Flitwell. She folded up the map, picked up her bag, and left the cottage. She would need to phone Robert to let him know she had to go out; it crossed her mind to tell him about the note, to ask him to accompany her even, but she decided against it. Whoever was waiting for her might be scared off if she didn’t appear alone.

  She drove quickly to the phone box she’d used earlier in the day, stepped inside and dialled Robert’s number. It rang and rang, but there was no reply. Loretta let out an ‘oh’ of impatience, and wondered if there was time to make a detour into Flitwell and leave a note at his house. There wasn’t; she would just have to hope he’d wait outside the cottage or return home where she could reach him later.

  She set off, driving along unfamiliar country lanes, her body becoming more and more tense as the small white car covered the miles to Steeple Barford. A bit to her left the sky was streaked with pink; soon she needed her lights on. It occurred to her that she hadn’t brought any sort of weapon, but then she remembered Robert’s unheeded warning to Clara about the gun and decided it was just as well.

  Steeple Barford turned out to be no more than a dozen stone houses straggling along a winding lane: Loretta would have missed the left turning to the church if it hadn’t been signposted. She drove slowly down a gentle slope, the banks on either side becoming higher and more overgrown by the minute. At the bottom of the hill the lane curved suddenly to the right, while a second sign to the church pointed along what was little more than a cart track to her left. She paused, checked that the track was wide enough for the car, and began to drive carefully along it. To her right was an untidy hedge and fields; to her left was a drystone wall and behind it, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun, a low, wide church. She stopped the car beside a five-barred gate and took in the scene. Instead of the steeple she’d expected, the church boasted a squat, crenellated tower. On its far side, stretching for a couple of hundred yards, Loretta could see the tumbled gravestones of an ancient churchyard. It was a scene of bucolic splendour, reminiscent of various fragments of poetry; Loretta could hardly believe someone had summoned her here with any sinister purpose. And yet – she sat on in the car, reluctant to get out in spite of the fact that she was already a few minutes late.

  What was she supposed to do? Hers was the only vehicle in sight, and it crossed her mind that the whole thing was a hoax. And, if it wasn’t, what should be her next move? Should she go into the church? She felt a prickle of fear at the thought of leaving the open air for the gloomy interior of the building. Stand outside and shout that ridiculous name, Fanny Fudge? Perhaps her unknown correspondent had never intended to meet her here but had concealed a message – where? It was a daunting prospect. Loretta decided she was achieving nothing by staying where she was, and opened the car door purposefully, just in case anyone was watching; she was determined not to show she was afraid. Glancing round, she saw no sign of movement and turned to lock the door. Then she stopped, thinking she might need to make a quick getaway. Leaving the car unlocked she unhooked the catch of the gate, lifting it away from the post just far enough to squeeze through. The dark porch of the church was to her left; she walked unhurriedly towards it, doing her best to conceal her fear as she stepped into its unwelcoming shadows. She turned the heavy iron ring set into the wooden door, realizing at once that the church was locked. So – whoever or whatever she was looking for was not to be found inside. She saw a noticeboard on the wall to the right of the door and paused to study it, wishing she had brought a torch; she could make out nothing more sinister than the names and addresses of the churchwardens, an appeal for famine relief in Ethiopia, and that month’s flower rota. She moved gratefully into the twilight again and turned to look back. There were no obvious hiding places to the exterior of the building, and she began to walk in the direction of the graveyard.

  Apart from a small area to her right, close to the gate, where half a dozen fresh graves had been heaped with flowers, the headstones were worn and the burials in disrepair. Several had fallen to the ground; directly in front of her a headless angel, its hands streaked with birdlime, presided over a stone table tomb whose horizontal surface h
ad buckled under a concealing shroud of ivy. She shivered, reminded no longer of Gray’s Elegy but of the late-night horror films she avoided unless there was someone present to hold her hand. She moved on, stopping before an unadorned stone slab with four or five names carved into it. Edgar Elijah Bliss, she read, 1782–1844. The second name was that of a woman, Bertha Bliss. Presumably his wife, Loretta thought, though this information did not follow the woman’s dates. Then a new idea struck her. Bertha Bliss, Fanny Fudge – she was supposed to be looking for a headstone. Thinking that whoever had written the note possessed a very odd sense of humour, Loretta began to pick her way along the row with a new sense of purpose. Rankine, Moore, Littlejohn, Nicolson – she came to the end and doubled back on herself. When she found the grave, what then? Would she discover a second note, this time attached to the headstone in some way, or nestling at its foot? She hoped she wasn’t about to be faced with further instructions, as though she was taking part in a macabre treasure hunt. She reached the end of the row, again without luck, and started the next.

  It wasn’t easy work; the light was failing fast and in this part of the churchyard the ground was choked with weeds, the inscriptions hard to decipher. But she kept going, assuring herself that the author of the note must have played fair to the extent of picking a headstone that was at least legible. Soon she was down in the far corner, with a tangle of bushes beyond the graves leading to the bottom of a valley where she guessed there was a stream. A high hedge marked the side of the churchyard, making this part of it seem gloomier and more confined than the rest. She picked her way along the last set of graves, a row of nineteenth-century burials, wishing again that she’d brought a torch, and all of a sudden there it was: Fanny Fudge, 1815–1845, Her Soul Is With The Lord.

  Loretta knelt down, a mixture of excitement and relief making her pulse race. Then she sat back on her heels, puzzled. There was no note, no sign that anyone had visited this grave in the last twenty years. She glanced up, uneasily aware of how quickly the graveyard was being swallowed up in darkness. A little to her right the sun had gone down, leaving only a vivid red glow along the horizon as a reminder of its presence; she had to fight off the idea that the sky itself was smouldering, about to burst into flame. She turned her head a little further, and saw that the church had become a secret, shadowy mass against the thick blue of the night sky. And there was silence, an absence of noise so profound that, when a twig suddenly cracked behind her, she knew without a shadow of doubt that someone was approaching.

  For a second she remained where she was, crouching at the foot of the grave, rooted to the spot with horror. Was this why she had been lured to this desolate place, to fall victim to a cowardly attack from the shadows by an unseen assailant? Well, she wouldn’t give up without a fight. In a single swift movement she was up on her feet facing the dark figure advancing unhurriedly towards her up the slight slope, her terror increasing as she realized how tall he was. Her only hope – assuming he didn’t have a knife or a gun – was surprise: if she ducked under the first blow, she might be able to wind him long enough to make a run for the car – thank God she’d left the door unlocked. She balanced herself on the balls of her feet, her eyes fixed on the stranger’s hands–

  ‘Thirty.’ He came to a halt before her, hunching his shoulders and digging his hands deep into the pockets of his quilted bomber jacket. ‘Thirty don’t seem so old these days.’

  ‘What?’ Loretta was so astounded by his words and laconic delivery that she took a step backwards, colliding with the stone edging around the grave of Fanny Fudge.

  ‘Careful,’ the stranger said, putting out a gloved hand to steady her and withdrawing it when she flinched away. ‘I was just remarking about that lady – the one whose remains you’re standing on – that she only got to thirty. Seems pretty young these days. I guess you’re hoping to do better?’

  ‘Who are you?’ Her voice was hoarse, afraid; his cropped hair and light American accent had already suggested an answer to her question.

  The stranger shifted his weight from one foot to the other in the manner of a man comfortably aware of his own strength.

  ‘Let’s forget the introductions. You’ve been asking questions – I’ve got the answers, some of them. Fire away.’

  ‘What questions?’ Her voice was stronger now; if he was going to kill her, surely he’d have done it by now?

  ‘Don’t mess around. I know a whole lot about you, Ms Lawson – Dr Lawson, I should say. Laura Anne Lawson, known as Loretta. Like the singer, huh? And you’re a bit more than thirty, though I don’t like to mention a lady’s age.’

  ‘How did you ...?’ She stopped, chilled by his knowledge of her. It was frightening confirmation of her earlier hypothesis, that he had some sort of intelligence connection. But why had he summoned her here? She glanced sideways across the churchyard, trying to estimate the distance to her car.

  ‘Don’t try it!’ He had seen the movement of her head. ‘We’ve got things to talk about.’

  ‘So you’re responsible for the tape?’ she asked. It was a shot in the dark; she couldn’t think of any other reason why he’d be interested in her.

  ‘Not me personally. I knew nothing about it till you started asking questions today. We’re talking unauthorized operations here.’ He paused. ‘Turns out I’ve got a couple of cowboys on my team, couple of guys who just got moved out of Managua. They don’t know the difference between operating here and what we do in hostile territory.’ He pronounced it hostel, Loretta noticed. They’ve been trying to throw a scare into your friend in the big house, trying to make her sell up and move on out.’ He paused again.

  ‘And when she didn’t ... they killed her?’ Loretta was surprised to find her voice was steady, in spite of the audacity of the question.

  ‘No, they did not.’ For the first time his tone had ceased to be conversational, matter-of-fact; the dark hollows of his eye sockets mesmerized Loretta. She felt threatened, menaced, but stood her ground.

  ‘You expect me to believe that? When you’ve admitted bugging the house, all that nonsense with the tape recorder?’

  ‘Not me, I just told you –’

  She interrupted him, reckless now. ‘So why did they call it off before she was killed – tell me that! They did, didn’t they? They got into my cottage on Sunday night and removed the evidence, then they –’

  ‘Because they got scared! All that stuff going on at the camp, those guys firing the trailer Friday night, it got too hot.’

  ‘Oh, come on–’

  ‘Look, this is a friendly country. We don’t mess with murder. You better believe it – if you don’t want to end up like Fanny down there.’ He nodded towards the grave behind her.

  Loretta felt a shiver run down her spine and decided it wasn’t the moment to point out the inconsistency in the American’s last speech.

  ‘How did they do it?’ she asked, trying to sound merely curious. The voices, I mean. You might as well tell me.’

  He appeared to consider for a while, then shrugged his shoulders. ‘OK. Tape recorder in the shack in the garden, place where the American lived. Speakers hidden in the house, miniature ones with receivers in back of them. Kids’ stuff.’

  ‘So they’re still there, the speakers?’ As soon as it was out Loretta regretted the remark; she’d been thinking aloud, pouncing on the chance to find more evidence of the plot against Clara.

  The American laughed. ‘You’re not so bright after all. I thought you’d spotted that as well. Or didn’t she tell you?’

  ‘Tell me what? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Guy turns up, says he wants to buy the house. Gets inside, has a look round. Smartest bit of the operation, and it’s down to your guys, not mine.’

  Loretta stared at him open-mouthed, remembering one of her conversations with Clara. ‘You mean he was...?’

  ‘You got it.’

  There was silence. The man’s gaze wandered across the dark churchy
ard, then returned to Loretta. ‘Any more questions?’

  ‘Yes.’ She took a deep breath, more afraid now than at any time in the last fifteen minutes. ‘What happens now?’

  ‘Now ... we do a deal.’

  ‘A deal?’

  He nodded, slowly and emphatically. ‘You hand over the tape, and you go home. The calls, the voices, they never happened. You forget the whole thing.’

  ‘And if I don’t go along with this deal?’

  He lifted a hand and drew it sideways across his neck. ‘What do you think?’

  Loretta swallowed. ‘What if I haven’t got the tape with me?’

  ‘But you do, don’t you? After all those break-ins at that place you’re living in, there’s no way you’d leave it behind. Hand it over.’

  ‘Can I ask one last question?’

  ‘Make it quick.’

  ‘You say your men had nothing to do with the murder – all right, I believe you!’ She felt him relax again. ‘But – do you know who did do it?’

  ‘Nope.’ He shook his head.

  ‘And you don’t know what’s happened to Peggy – the woman from the peace camp?’

  ‘No. That’s two questions. The tape.’ He held out a gloved hand.

  Loretta reached reluctantly into her bag. She took out the cassette and dropped it into his hand, taking care not to touch even his glove.

  Thank you.’ The tape disappeared into a pocket. ‘Now walk. You’re going to get into your little car and drive away. You say nothing, got it?’

  Loretta nodded.

  ‘OK. Walk.’

  Her eyes fixed on his face, trying to memorize at least the shape of his head, Loretta began moving sideways towards the church.

  ‘Faster. Move!’

  She turned and walked as quickly as she could, given the rough ground and darkness. Every muscle in her body tensed as she tried to fight off the notion that a bullet was about to rip through her back. She tripped once and, panting, looked back to where she had left the American. He raised one arm in a threatening gesture and she forced herself up and on. She fumbled with the heavy gate, letting it slip from her grasp. Too afraid to go back and shut it, she threw herself into her car and turned the key in the ignition, pressing the accelerator so hard that it roared into sudden life. Then she swung the car round to face the road, without lights, desperate not to present a target; the brakes squealed as she took off much too fast for the dusty surface.