Eventually, and most unwillingly, I took myself to Laurence’s room, where I found almost the entire household gathered to hear what the poor man had to say. Only Julie was absent. She was probably still huddled in her room, stuck fast in whatever terror, or just confusion, held her there.
Someone had made Laurence a pot of tea, and Joyce was making sure he drank it. It was doubtless loaded with enough sugar to loosen every tooth in his head, but he needed sustenance, after nearly three days without eating.
‘So, go on,’ said Alan. ‘You talked to the vicar and then went for a walk.’
‘Yes. I needed to think. I . . . well, there was a decision I needed to make, whether—’
‘Yes,’ Alan interrupted. ‘I know about that. Then what happened?’
‘I don’t remember very well. I think I walked toward the river . . . the river to the south, I mean. The water meadows. It was . . . the destruction was . . . may I have a little more tea, please?’
‘I’ll make fresh,’ said Joyce, putting her hand to the pot’s cheek. ‘This is cold.’ Rose Bates moved to take it from her, but Laurence shook his head.
‘That’ll do just as well. My mouth is a bit dry. Cold is fine.’
I gave Alan a worried look. He shook his head, ever so slightly. ‘You must be hungry, as well,’ he said gently. ‘Shall I have Mrs Bates boil an egg or two for you?’
‘I’m not very hungry. My head aches a bit.’
‘Well, she’ll boil the eggs, and if you don’t want them, I’m sure someone else will. Now, sir, can you tell me anything at all that happened as you walked toward the river?’
He shook his head, winced, and closed his eyes. ‘I remember seeing the ruined gardens, and Mr Bates getting fresh wood for the fires. And there’s something . . . I heard something . . . but I can’t remember.’
‘Alan, don’t you think—’ I said at the same time that the vicar said, ‘Really, Mr Nesbitt—’
We cancelled each other out, but Alan nodded. ‘Yes. It’s time he rested. Mr Upshawe, we’re all very glad you’re feeling better. Now . . . oh, yes, here are some ibuprofen tablets to wash down with some of that cold tea. We’ll talk again after you’ve had a nice sleep.’
He shooed us all out, all but the vicar. I saw the two of them hold a brief conversation, but I couldn’t hear what they said. Then Alan closed the door – and to my astonishment, locked it behind him.
‘The vicar has the other key,’ he said. ‘He can get out if he needs to, but I’ve told him to stay until he’s relieved. By me. And to wedge the door and respond only to a coded knock.’
And then I saw, and smacked my forehead, and immediately regretted it. ‘What he heard,’ I said, when the waves of pain receded. ‘You don’t want anyone to get to him before he’s had a chance to finish about what he heard.’
‘Yes. And anything else he might have seen. Anything, in short, that he hasn’t yet told us.’
‘So that’s why you had everyone else in the room. And I noticed you didn’t let him talk about his conversation with the vicar.’
‘He did try, before you came in, but the vicar and I managed between us to suggest that the conversation dealt with private spiritual matters.’
‘Which, in a way, it did.’
‘Yes, but I didn’t want the details revealed at this point. I did want to make the point, very publicly, that he had told us all he knew. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out quite that way. So until he can talk to us again, I want him guarded. I wish I had several stout constables to take the duty, instead of one elderly vicar and one elderly retiree, but I must make do as best I can.’
I sighed. ‘No reply from the mainland, then?’
He snorted. ‘You’re in your Agatha Christie mode again, aren’t you? No, they’ve all been told to ignore any signals from— what was the name of the island?’
‘Indian Island. Ten Little Indians, remember – the other title.’
‘Yes. Well, to answer your question properly, no, we’ve heard nothing. Though how could we hear anything? The village is too far away for a loud-hailer, even if they possess such a thing. No phone, no email—’ He held up his hands in frustration. ‘If anyone saw, if anyone understood, we’ll know only when they come to us, and that can’t be until the roads are clear. Hence the melodramatics with locked doors and so on. And Dorothy –’ he turned a very serious look on me – ‘I want you to be very, very careful. Don’t go anywhere alone. Everyone knows you’re trying to puzzle this thing out. You’re in danger, my girl, or you could be.’
‘That’s the trouble!’ I said fiercely. ‘Everything is . . . is misty, amorphous. I could be in danger. Or maybe not. Maybe Dave Harrison was murdered. Or maybe not. And if he was, maybe it was Laurence who did it. Or maybe the other way around. And there’s the skeleton and the mummy and Mike – and Julie – and I did want to see the fireworks!’
And I burst into tears.
Alan gathered me into his warm, safe arms and let me cry. When I had reached the stage of hiccuping little sobs, he pulled out his handkerchief, mopped my face, and said ‘Blow.’
‘That was really a big help, wasn’t it?’ I said mournfully. ‘All you need on your plate right now is a weepy woman.’
‘All I ever need is this particular woman,’ he said, which nearly sent me over the edge again. ‘You’re still feeling a bit fragile, I suspect.’ He pronounced the last syllable to rhyme with mile, and it summed up exactly how I felt. ‘Suppose you go back to that bed I dragged you out of, and sleep it off. Don’t forget to lock the door, though. I’ll knock like this.’ He tapped a pattern on my sleeve. ‘And, Dorothy, if you feel afraid or worried about anything – no matter if you think it’s foolish – scream like the devil’s after you, and I’ll be there. Promise?’
I nodded, feeling foolish already, and trudged back to our room.
TWENTY
I woke from one of those dreams, the complicated kind that go on and on and plunge one deeper and deeper into the labyrinth. I was just about to find the way out, nearly there, but someone kept hitting croquet balls into my path. Tock. Tock. Tock-tock. I wished whoever it was would stop, but they kept coming. Tock. Tock. Tock-tock.
‘Dorothy. Dorothy, are you awake?’
‘I am now,’ I said, and got up to let Alan in. ‘I thought you were playing croquet. But I was just about to figure it all out.’
He grinned. ‘Have a nice nap?’
‘I feel better, anyway. Alan, if I’m ever tempted to drink that much again, stop me. I had dreams . . . well, nightmares, really.’
‘Where did the croquet come in?’
I yawned. ‘I can’t remember anymore. But it was all very vivid at the time. And speaking of remembering . . .’
Alan shook his head. ‘Nothing very useful. He thought he heard something – perhaps a footstep – behind him as he walked down to the river. But it was still windy, as you recall, not a gale but a steady wind, and between the whistle of the wind itself and the sound of debris being blown about, he can’t be sure what he heard. And of the scene at the river he remembers nothing.’
I gave a great sigh. ‘Is he telling the truth?’
‘I think so, and I’ve had some opportunity of judging. You know a head injury often wipes out the memory of preceding events.’
‘Sometimes the memories come back.’
‘But not always, by any means.’
‘Have you told him Harrison is dead?’
‘No,’ said Alan, ‘and I’ve told the vicar not to say anything. At this point that’s my one hope of triggering his memory. If I tell him the right way, it might be enough of a shock to bring back . . . whatever happened.’
I began to pace. ‘Another maybe. Another misty thing. Alan, I think I’m going to go talk to Julie again.’
‘Not alone.’
‘No. Anyway, I don’t think I’d get anything out of her by myself. And she’s afraid of you, for some reason. Oh!’
‘Yes, I thought about that myself, but
I never pursued it. Why is she afraid of me? I’ve never harmed the woman; I scarcely know her.’
‘She’s afraid,’ I said slowly, ‘because you’re a policeman.’
‘I was a policeman.’
‘Yes, but she may not know the difference. I hate to say it of Joyce’s sister, but Julie’s none too bright. Probably comes of living with Dave all those years. And I’m sure she’s heard stories about the omniscience of the English police.’
‘All true,’ said Alan smugly.
‘Right. But if she believes that you know everything, and she’s afraid of you, that means she has something to hide.’
Alan gave me that grave look again. ‘I’m not sure I want you to talk to her.’
For once I didn’t give him a flippant answer. ‘I know. And I agree, in principle. If Julie Harrison has done something criminal, I want nothing to do with her, to be honest. But if she has, somebody has to talk to her. Somebody has to worm it out of her. We’ve agreed you can’t be the one. Who else, besides me and Pat?’
‘She talked before to the vicar.’
‘She was in a state of hypothermia and exhaustion. Now she’s fine, except she’s terrified of something – or someone. It isn’t just you, but she hasn’t given me the slightest clue about who or what it might be. No, it’s probably not the vicar, but would he know the right questions to ask? And would he pass along the answers? You know that tender conscience of his. And you have to remember, too, that she talked pretty freely to Pat. Which seems to exonerate Pat of . . . whatever it is that worries Julie so.’
‘I’m not sure your logic holds up there. I wish I could do it myself.’
‘So do I. But you can’t. So it has to be Pat and me.’
‘All right, I suppose. But I intend to be right outside the door. And it can wait until after lunch. I assume you can eat something now?’
‘So long as it doesn’t have much taste, or any smell at all.’
I stayed out of the kitchen. Alan brought me some very mild cheese and rather tasteless crackers, and had thoughtfully made a glass of iced tea for my strange American tastes (apparently the freezer was still cold), and reported as I nibbled that the Bateses were back at work and apparently feeling quite normal, except that Mr Bates wasn’t quite as urbanely courteous as usual, and his wife was rather quiet.
‘Embarrassed, I suspect,’ he concluded. ‘A big man like that doesn’t care to remember that he fainted at the sight of . . . that he fainted, and in front of a lot of people.’
‘I would have, too, only I couldn’t see very clearly. He was right in front of that . . . thing.’ I shuddered and put down my glass. ‘I really think that’s all I can manage for now. And if I don’t go talk to Julie soon, I’ll lose my nerve. I don’t think I can face kitchen smells, though. Could you find Pat for me and ask if she’s willing to act as prosecuting attorney again?’
‘Counsel for the Crown,’ he murmured, and left the room.
Pat was more than willing. She was, in fact, hovering in that uncertain state between boredom and nervous excitement that makes it impossible to settle to anything. ‘I feel like Kipling’s rhinoceros,’ she said as she walked in the door, giving an impatient wriggle of that magnificent body.
‘Cake crumbs under your skin?’
‘Exactly. I want something to happen, but I’m afraid of what it might be. I understand you want me to tackle Jovial Julie again.’
‘I’m hoping that she may be chafing enough under her self-imposed restraints to open up a little more. Especially if you provide some further . . . um . . . lubrication.’
Pat held up the bottle she had thoughtfully brought along, an unopened litre of a premium bourbon. ‘Will this do the trick, do you suppose?’
‘Yipes! That’s way too good for the purpose. I do hate to see that stuff poured down an unappreciative gullet.’
‘Perhaps you’d like a taste first?’ asked Pat with a wicked smile.
‘Ouch! No, I won’t have a hair of the dog, thank you very much. If somebody’s going to get a splitting head from that stuff, better her than me. Excelsior.’
We headed down to the far end of the wing, Alan right behind us. He had obtained the key from Rose, assuming that Julie was still barricading herself. I couldn’t say I blamed her. If I hadn’t had Alan to sustain me, I would have locked myself up, too.
‘Dorothy, look.’ Pat pointed with the bottle.
Near the end of the long corridor, a lighter area showed, as if a door was open, letting in, not direct sunlight, since that side of the house faced north, but the glow of reflected light.
Julie’s door was open, and a glance told us she wasn’t in the room.
‘Bathroom, probably,’ said Pat.
‘There’s an en suite bath for every bedroom, remember? Every one that’s in regular use, anyway.’
‘Then she’s gone in search of something to eat.’
‘I’m sure Mrs Bates brings her food. Something to drink, more likely,’ I said, by way of calling the kettle black.
‘She’ll be back soon, anyway. Should we close the door so she won’t know she has a reception committee?’
‘Not when she left it open,’ Alan put in sensibly. ‘Leave everything as it was, but stay out of sight of the doorway.’
Feeling as if I’d walked into an Inspector Clouseau movie, I took a position against the wall beside the hinge side of the door (hoping Julie wouldn’t bang it into my nose when she returned). Pat stepped into a corner, easily visible but not until one was in the room. And Alan, who was there simply as guard dog, stepped into the unoccupied room across the hall.
We waited, scarcely daring to breath. The hall was carpeted with heavy Oriental runners and the floors, though very old, were very solid. Julie’s footfalls wouldn’t make much noise, and we didn’t want to be caught off guard.
I began to get a cramp in the calf of my left leg. I tried to wiggle it out, but it only got worse. In agony, I had to walk it out. ‘Cramp,’ I mouthed, pointing to my leg, when Pat glared at me. I walked as quietly as I could and returned to my post as soon as the cramp eased itself.
Pat’s nose began to twitch. At first I thought she smelled something peculiar, so I sniffed myself, but could detect nothing but the slightly stale aroma of a room that had been shut up for too long with someone who hadn’t bathed for a while. Then Pat sneezed, a sneeze that was all the more explosive for being suppressed.
We both waited anxiously for the sound of footsteps running the other way. Nothing.
I sighed, inaudibly I hoped, and settled down in silence again, changing feet now and then to avoid cramp.
I don’t know how long we stood there before it dawned on us that Julie had gone farther afield than the kitchen or the library liquor cabinet. At any rate, I was the first to give it up.
‘This is pure farce,’ I said aloud, slumping away from my rigid pose beside the wall. ‘Julie’s up to something, and I think we’d do better trying to find her and figure out what it is.’
Pat agreed. ‘My skin was beginning to crawl in earnest. I don’t think of myself as a fidget, but when one can’t move, one instantly wants to.’
‘Well, let’s get Alan and decide what to do.’
Alan, hearing us talking, left his lair and joined us. ‘The bird has flown?’
‘Hopped away, more likely,’ I replied. ‘I doubt she’s gone far, but we’d better find her.’
‘Yes. Why don’t I take up my surveillance from across the way again, and you two check the rest of the bedrooms. And bathrooms. Because on past form . . .’
He didn’t need to finish the thought. If Julie had managed to get hold of another bottle, she might well have found another comfortable bathtub.
It would be tedious to detail our search. It was slow and thorough. We looked in every bedroom, occupied or not (in a couple of cases waking nappers), and their adjacent bathrooms and sitting rooms. We checked two linen closets and found nothing but sheets and towels. We even peered down the sha
ft of the dumbwaiter.
No Julie.
‘She could be keeping one step ahead of us, you know,’ said Pat as we sank down on the canopy bed in the last vacant bedroom. ‘One could play that game forever in a house this size.’
‘Yes, but why? I can’t think why she’d want to hide, not from us. In fact, I can’t think why she’d leave her bedroom at all, not for any length of time. She only had to ring for anything she wanted, and she’s been so scared of whatever-it-is.’
‘Cabin fever. She got fed up with being by herself.’
‘Maybe,’ I said dubiously. ‘Or else . . .’
Pat sighed. ‘Yes. I was hoping we could avoid that speculation. Or else, you’re thinking, she didn’t leave her room willingly.’
‘I think Alan’s had that idea for some time.’
So we trooped back to where Alan was keeping his futile watch. ‘No luck?’ he asked. But he knew the answer.
‘What now, boss?’ That was Pat. I was rapidly becoming too worried to be cheeky.
‘Where have you looked?’
We told him. Pat summarized, ‘She isn’t anywhere on this floor. We’ve exhausted all the possibilities. And ourselves,’ she added.
‘Did you study her room at all?’
I took that question to myself. ‘No. I thought you’d rather do that. At a quick glance, I didn’t see anything to show whether she left of her own accord or . . . not. But you’ll know better than I what to look for.’
‘First,’ said Alan, ‘we need to determine that she is not still somewhere in the house.’
‘Yes, we’ll—’
I never got to finish the sentence. ‘I hope that you, my dear, will have nothing to do with this search. You’ve done your part. Please, I want you to go to our room, lock yourself in and stay there. Do I need to spell out why?’
No, he didn’t. Nor was I, for once, disposed to argue. With Julie’s disappearance the nightmare had overshadowed us completely. There was no more question of pushing it out of our minds, pretending that all the horrors were in and of the past.
We were now living in fear, genuine, unadulterated fear.
‘Alan . . . you won’t do anything silly?’
A Dark and Stormy Night Page 14
