Tom and Lynn, Alan and I. Well, I knew I hadn’t murdered anybody, and I would go to my death swearing Alan hadn’t. And Tom and Lynn didn’t know the Moynihans well, or the house at all. They were in their early sixties, and hadn’t moved to England until about thirty years ago. So even if they’d had motive, which was a ludicrous idea, they couldn’t have disposed of the skeleton. For I was utterly convinced that the skeleton was Harry Upshawe’s, and that meant it had been under that oak tree for fifty years.
Scratch Tom and Lynn. Not that I’d ever had the slightest notion they’d done any of these things, but I was trying to adopt Alan’s skepticism. Without a great deal of success, I realized. My partiality was not to be squelched.
All right. Let’s list the rest, just for something to do. Mike Leonard, alias Michael Leonev. Dancer extraordinaire. Gay or giving an excellent impersonation. Funny, quirky. Had reason to be angry with Julie, and maybe with Dave by extension. Older than he tried to appear – nearing forty, at a guess – but still far too young to have been responsible for the skeleton. No known motive for attacking Laurence, with whom, indeed, he was reported to have been flirting. But – any possible suspicion attaching to him (and there wasn’t much, in my opinion) was destroyed by his own actions. He had given his life in an effort to bring us help.
Or . . . oh, for heaven’s sake! Had he committed suicide because he had killed Harrison?
I had to admit that if Mike had planned suicide, he would have wanted to do it in some highly spectacular fashion. It could be. It just could be. He could have killed Harrison. He was strong and fit, and Dave had been flabby and, moreover, probably drunk at the time.
A variation: he killed Harrison and was trying to escape, but drowned in the attempt.
But for what possible reason? Julie had grossly affronted him, and he would have had every right to be angry. But angry enough to kill? That seemed out of character. I thought Mike might have been capable of deep feeling. If he had fallen in love, he would have fallen hard, and he might have done almost anything to protect someone he loved. If he had loved Laurence, he might have been incensed enough to attack Laurence’s attacker – if that was the way the riverbank scene had played out. But I didn’t think, from his actions in the very few hours I had known him, that he had been in love with Laurence. That left pique with Julie as a motive, and it just wasn’t enough.
People have been known to kill for what seem to reasonable people to be woefully inadequate motives, said Alan’s voice in my head.
Still – it was possible. Not probable, but possible. I left Mike’s name on the list, reluctantly, and somewhat pointlessly. There is little satisfaction in discovering that a recently dead man is a murderer. Except that it exonerates others. With a sigh, I pressed on.
Ed Walinski. I knew almost nothing about him, really, except that he was a great artist, a hard worker – I’d watched him working with the others at repairs to the house and grounds – and an inveterate punster. Oh, and he had punched Dave Harrison in the nose. That, I suspect, simply proved that he was a sensible human being. If I’d been of an age and physique to do any punching, I might well have done the same thing. Really, John Donne to the contrary notwithstanding, Harrison’s death seemed to be a blessing to mankind.
Except for the destruction that followed in its wake, I reminded myself.
Anyway, I’d not known Ed to lose his temper on any other occasion. And was he a sly enough character to shove Dave in the river and then spend the rest of the weekend cheerfully turning his hand to whatever might help?
Boom! Boom! Boom! The reports startled me considerably. I had forgotten about the flares. And hadn’t Alan planned to bring firewood in first? I looked out the window in time to see the second volley, spaced a few seconds apart, and then the third one in rapid fire. They let about a minute elapse, and then did it again. And yet again.
The booms died away, and though I opened the window and strained my ears, I could hear no answering thunder.
I closed the window with cold, stiff fingers, and hurried back into bed. I wouldn’t do any more with my lists until Alan brought the firewood. I was too cold, and I wasn’t getting anywhere anyway.
It was only a few minutes before Alan’s knock came at the door. I opened it wide, and he came in – empty-handed.
‘Jim is bringing the wood?’ I said, shivering and hurrying back under the covers.
‘There is no more dry wood.’ Alan divested himself of his outer clothing and his shoes. ‘It’s all been burnt. Tomorrow when it’s light Jim’s going to investigate the attics and see if there’s any valueless old furniture up there that can be cut up and burned. Meanwhile, bed is going to be the only warm place.’ He turned the lantern down until the flame wavered and died. ‘Move over, love.’
TWENTY-THREE
We found an agreeable way to keep warm and at the same time patch up the last shreds of our quarrel. I fell asleep in his arms.
We had gone to bed very early, so I woke long before the chill November dawn. My arm had fallen asleep; I pulled it out from under Alan to shake it into feeling again, and then got up to go to the bathroom.
Something about the house was odd. I couldn’t put my finger on it until my stocking-clad feet hit the bathroom tiles.
I wasn’t cold.
I used the toilet and then turned on the hot water tap. It wasn’t too long before the stream became warm, and then hot.
I hightailed it back into the bedroom. ‘Alan! Someone’s found a way to get the Aga going, and I think even the furnace! There’s hot water, and the house is warm!’
Alan wakes all of a piece, the result, I suppose, of years of irregular hours as a policeman. He threw back the covers and raised his head, rather like a cat sniffing the air before venturing forth. He cocked his head to one side. ‘The central heating is certainly on. I wonder . . .’ He put out a hand to the bedside lamp and turned the switch.
‘Light!’ I’m not sure God on that first day found the light any more wonderful than I did at that moment. ‘Alan, that means we have power again! And oh, dear heaven, you don’t suppose – a telephone?’
I picked up the one on the bedside table while Alan found his mobile.
‘Nothing here,’ I said. ‘Yours?’
He shook his head and began pulling off the remainder of the clothes we’d worn to bed. ‘I,’ he said, ‘am going to take a bath.’
I let him go first, and then I basked in a hot tub. What bliss to be clean and warm again! One doesn’t fully appreciate the benefits of civilization until they’re missing for a while.
We had to put on clothes that were considerably less than fresh, but we could soon wash everything. Calloo, callay – electricity!
We forgot that we were supposed to be isolating ourselves. We forgot, for a little while, that there was a murderer among us. I collected all our dirty clothes except for the ones we had on and headed downstairs, recklessly turning on lights as I went, in search of Joyce’s washing machine. Alan was right behind me, singing a little tune in which the word ‘coffee’ featured largely.
The kitchen was brightly lit when we got there, and savory smells filled the air. I didn’t know what Rose Bates was preparing for breakfast, but my mouth watered. She beamed at us. ‘Isn’t it wonderful? You’re the first ones down, but I know all the rest will be here soon. Breakfast is nearly ready. I’ll serve it up in a minute – in the dining room – but first, shall I take those things to the laundry for you, Mrs Martin?’
‘Just point me in the right direction. I’d hate to take you away from whatever concoctions you have brewing.’
‘Through that door. I washed towels the minute I got up, so the machine is ready for you. I knew all the guests would be dying to use it.’ Then she heard what she’d said, and her smile wavered a little.
I hurried to the laundry and tried to ignore the thoughts she’d conjured up.
We did full justice to that wonderful breakfast. Rose had created a sort of breakfast pudding,
an airy combination of eggs and ground ham and I don’t know what else that tasted like food for angels. There were sausages, not the bland, cereal-filled ones that desecrate so many English breakfast tables, but real bangers, browned to a turn and bursting merrily when pierced by a fork. There was bacon, both the English and the American variety, perfectly cooked. There were grilled mushrooms, and some sort of fish soufflé, and baked apples with cream, and toast and marmalade and coffee and tea and orange juice. I ate as much as I could hold and wished I could eat more.
A bright blue sky contributed to the holiday mood. There was literally not a cloud in sight, and though the air was cold, it was still. Our dark and stormy weather appeared to be at an end.
It was Alan who, regretfully, reminded us that the situational climate was not so serene. When we had all eaten our fill, and Rose had come in to clear, he stood and tapped in his coffee cup.
‘That was a magnificent meal, Mrs Bates, and we all owe you our most hearty thanks.’ There were cries of ‘Hear, hear!’ and a little round of applause. ‘I’m all the more sorry, then, to introduce a discordant note, but I must remind you that the restoration of electricity, though welcome, hasn’t materially changed our circumstances. A number of serious incidents remain unexplained, and until we can sort them out, I must urge you, once more, to be on your guard. We hope that help may arrive soon, but there’s no guarantee of when that might happen.’
‘You’re not going to confine us to quarters again, are you, darling?’
That was Pat, naturally. I was growing used to her style and tried to take the ‘darling’ in my stride.
‘I have no authority to do that, and I doubt you’d pay attention to me even if I tried to ‘confine’ you. I will ask – I will plead – that none of you go wandering off by yourself. I’ve no desire at all to cope with yet another disappearance, or worse.’
That sobered even Pat. ‘Well, Ed,’ she said with a grimace, ‘do you want to read in the library, or shall I follow you about as you take some pictures? It’s a fine day, at last.’
I didn’t wait to see which alternative they chose. The sparkle had gone out of the day. Rather drearily, I followed Alan to the lovely little panelled den where the Moynihans had installed an anachronistic television set. ‘Will anything be on the air?’ I asked, without much hope.
‘We can but try. I should think it’s quite possible. Auntie is quite a power in the land, you know.’
‘Auntie’ being a quasi-affectionate term for the BBC, I had to agree.
Alan unearthed the remote, turned on the set, and found the news – ‘. . . power restored to much of the south-east this morning. Work continues on the mobile transmission masts and it is expected that most, if not all, will be back on service by this afternoon. Fixed lines will create more difficulties, since it takes time to determine the exact location of downed wires.
‘In other news, looting in outlying areas of London has been largely contained, as the restoration of electricity has reinforced police efforts. The Metropolitan Police say that there are still some isolated problems in parts of Brixton and Lambeth, but police response has been restrained and little violence has ensued.’
The announcer went on talking, but I had stopped paying attention. ‘Phones, Alan! Communication!’
‘And not a moment too soon,’ he said heavily. He turned off the TV and stared into space.
‘Dorothy,’ he said at last, ‘when the police do get here, I’m going to feel like the world’s prize ass. Bodies to the left of me, bodies to the right of me, and I haven’t a clue who’s responsible for any of them. Not to mention two persons missing, presumed dead. If I hadn’t already retired, I’d probably be sacked.’
‘Well, you’re not alone,’ I retorted. ‘I haven’t figured anything out, either. I’ve been making lists, but . . .’ I raised my eyes to the ceiling.
Unexpectedly, Alan laughed. ‘Lists, eh? Then I know you’re functioning normally. I’d like to take a look at those lists of yours, but first, how would you like to go for a walk? Knees up to a longish stroll around the grounds?’
‘Pining for the exercise,’ I said gratefully. ‘And if I get tired I can always turn back.’
‘Not without an escort, my girl. Don’t forget—’
‘Yes, I know. There’s a murderer walking around loose somewhere. Do you have any idea how tired I am of remembering that?’
‘No more than I am of saying it.’
‘I suppose that’s why we’re going for our nice little stroll. To try to find Julie, right?’
‘I didn’t marry a dunce, did I? But keep quiet about it when anyone else is around, just in case.’
‘Aye, aye, sir. Fire when ready, Gridley.’
It was actually a beautiful day, the first we’d had in a long, long time. The air was very mild for early November, the sky that shade of pale aquamarine that I associate with Paris, almost never seen in America and seldom in England. When it’s punctuated with a few fluffy clouds Alan and I call it a ‘French Impressionist’ sky – life imitating art again. There was no wind at all.
We did not, however, have a pleasant walk. I had to lean on my cane and on Alan’s arm much more heavily than I would have liked, because the ground was still spongy from more than a month of solid rain. It was also littered with obstacles. Leaves and twigs, larger branches, bushes torn out by their roots covered what had once been the beautifully smooth lawn. Near the house there were slates, broken glass, unidentifiable bits of masonry. I soldiered on, unwilling to let my slight disability force Alan to turn back.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked. For we were not wandering aimlessly; Alan, though moving slowly in consideration of my knees, was clearly making for some destination. ‘Where do you think she might be?’
‘She might be anywhere, dead or alive. I’ve given some thought to the question however, and my idea is that she’s alive and hiding.’
‘That was exactly my conclusion!’ I said triumphantly.
‘I would be interested to hear your reasoning.’
‘That door was locked, always. She was scared to death of someone. She wouldn’t have just taken a fancy to leave her room, not when she could ring for anything she needed and be sure who was at the door before she opened it.
‘Now. There is another key to her room, the one kept in the kitchen for the Bateses to use. Suppose she realized that anyone could take that key and get into her room. She’s not a terribly intelligent woman, but she has a certain amount of cunning, and even if she’s been drinking, she could have worked that one out.’
‘That could be what happened. Someone took the key and dragged her away.’
‘It could. But I can’t see it. For one thing, she would have screamed the house down.’
‘Not if she was drugged,’ Alan pointed out. ‘Someone could have slipped something into her glass.’
‘But then they would have had to drag her, literally, and as you’re in a good position to know, she’s not a light weight. No, if I were someone who had wanted to get Julie out of her room, to . . . to kill her, or do her harm, I would have tried to entice her out. But she wouldn’t have enticed all that easily – or at all, if the person she was afraid of were trying it. I think she decided in that muddled mind of hers that she was more vulnerable in the house than out of it, and left for another hiding place. But where that place might be, I have no idea at all.’
‘I agree with your reasoning. That’s the way I worked it out, too, except I do have a little idea about her hiding place.’ He tapped his temple.
‘Little grey cells functioning, are they? OK, tell me.’
‘I have an unfair advantage, you see. I’ve covered more of the estate than you, most of it searching for someone. I seem, indeed to have spent most of the weekend searching for someone!’
‘You poor dear. And this was supposed to be fun.’
‘Yes, well. I began to ponder the Harrisons’ idea of tunnels.’
‘But Alan, we’re much too f
ar from the sea for smuggling to have been practical.’
‘That isn’t the only use to which tunnels were put, you know. Think about it, Dorothy. The house is, according to Jim and Mr Bates, riddled with secret rooms and so on . . .’ He paused suggestively.
‘Priest’s holes – oh, how utterly stupid of me! Escape tunnels!’
‘Or passageways to a church. Remember Mr Leatherbury commented about the High Church tendencies of the Upshawes? I asked him, while you were off somewhere the other day, whether there was a good deal of Anglo-Catholic sentiment in the parish. He said it had died out a bit now, but that according to parish records most of the communicants were, in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, very Catholic-minded. And that implies to me—’
‘That they were actually Roman Catholic!’
‘Or had been at one time. They – the brave souls who professed that faith – would have had to hide it, naturally. Hence the priest’s holes. Now, often a Catholic household would have, somewhere in the house, a chapel, or at least a place where Mass could be said. But the vicar said he had never heard of a chapel here at the Abbey.’
I giggled. ‘A secular bunch of monks, they must have been.’
‘Now, now. Obviously there was a church here when the Abbey was functioning as such. But it was apparently destroyed when Henry shut the place down, leaving only the cloisters of the old religious establishment.’
‘And the papists, later on, wouldn’t have dared use any place that was so obvious for their clandestine Masses.’
‘Naturally not. So the vicar’s best guess is that they used the parish church itself, but approached secretly by dark of night. Hence a tunnel.’
TWENTY-FOUR
‘Oof.’ I tripped over a root and grabbed Alan’s arm. ‘Could we slow down a little? I’m fine, really, but I wouldn’t mind sitting for a bit. If there’s any place to sit.’
‘Sorry, love. You should have said something.’
A Dark and Stormy Night Page 16
