She rose from bed propelled in part by an idea she knew to be odd. Yet it also fit with her desire to face the macabre and learn from it; she wanted to see the place where the tramp had died. She had heard about the discovery of his body, of course. Although the police had yet to announce an official cause of his death, the talk in the village was that the old man had died of some natural cause, a bad heart or consumption, or merely the ravages of age. Yet more interesting—and ghoulish—was the story that had been put about the village that the man had once, long ago, been a farmhand on the Tigue farm at the time of the mess with the O’Hare suicide.
Lilly had gone to bed with her clothes on, certain that she would rise before the night was out. She grabbed a battery-powered torch and set out, moving past the darkened church and cemetery to the edge of the wood, by the path that led into the village. A misty rain fell, though the air remained warm. The night was dark, the sky cloudy and moonless, and the wood darker still. She stood on the footpath, took a deep breath, counted to three, then moved into the wood. The low, wet leaves of the undergrowth touched her ankles and bare calves, putting her in mind of the tongues of an unseen creature licking her as she passed. Once past the fringe and in among the trees, she switched on the torch, finding the rough trail the tramp had trod to and from his lean-to over the past several months.
The darkness of the wood, the dripping trees, and the proximity of the place where the tramp’s dead body had so recently lain frightened her in a way she hadn’t expected, and she found herself hesitating. But she countered this by quite firmly telling herself that she had nothing to fear from wet leaves and mere darkness. And she reminded herself that she did not believe in ghosts. Such inspirations, combined with a keen curiosity, urged her forward, and she continued along the rough path, pushing the low branches of young trees out of her way, until the beam of her torch caught a small clearing and the outline of a sad-looking lean-to. Although the structure remained, the police seemed to have removed from it all of the tramp’s possessions. She had expected the place to feel eerie—and it did, sort of, though not to the extent that she had imagined it would. Mostly the spot seemed empty, almost as if it had been sanitized and she soon realized, to her disappointment, that the spot held little, if anything, of interest to a budding crime novelist.
A drop of water from a sodden leaf struck the top of her head, causing her to utter a muffled sound of surprise. Instinctively, she put her hand on her mouth to calm herself. She suddenly became aware of noises in the wood—small, mysterious sounds of movement, of leaves rustling and twigs cracking. But the same feeling of restlessness that had awakened her—the same keen curiosity—spurred her forward, toward Miss Wheatley’s cottage. She had no idea what she might find there, but decided that she was not yet ready to return to the quiet, lonely house.
With the light of her torch she found the path that led to Miss Wheatley’s place. She emerged from the wood behind the cottage, which she found to be dark and silent. By then, the misting rain had ceased. As she moved into the meadow, she saw the flash of a torch beam ahead and glimpsed a dark figure moving toward her, out of the wood, from the direction of Lawrence Tigue’s house. She turned off her torch and jumped off the path, squatting and sheltering in the brush and remaining as still as she could. She heard the slightly labored breathing of the figure as it approached. Instinctively, she held her breath.
The figure, slender and slightly bent, moved past her with a sense of purpose.
Mr. Tigue. She could not mistake him.
He passed quickly—and just as quickly Lilly decided that she would follow him. She allowed him to get a bit farther down the trail—a safe distance—then emerged from the brush and followed the glow of his torch, which she could see just ahead.
When they reached the O’Hare house, Tigue left the trail and entered the house by the rear door, as she and Lamb and Vera had done earlier that day. She settled in the brush by the trail and watched. She soon saw the faint light of Tigue’s torch through the window of the sitting room; the light appeared only for a few seconds before it went out again. Less than a minute later, the beam suddenly pierced the darkness at the side of the house, as Tigue appeared again and walked back onto the main trail. He’d stayed in the house only a minute.
Tigue followed the trail to the lay-by, where he halted and extinguished his torch. Lilly stopped perhaps fifteen meters behind him and again concealed herself in the low brush. From her hiding place, she could see the dark outline of Lawrence Tigue’s figure standing at the edge of the road. He seemed to look up the road, as if he were expecting someone to come from that direction, then began pacing from one edge of the brief clearing to another. Lilly watched him for what she reckoned was four or five minutes. All the while, Tigue paced, his movements to and fro as regular as a metronome’s.
Lilly heard what she thought was movement behind her; the sound startled her and she turned toward it quickly, expecting to see whomever Tigue seemed to be awaiting bearing down on her. Instead she saw nothing. Her heart began to beat rapidly; she made herself be still and listened for the sound of another step, though none came. Then the murmur of low voices—male voices—came from the direction of the road, drawing her attention back to the lay-by.
A second man had joined Tigue in the clearing. Lilly had not seen from which direction the other man had arrived, though she was certain that he had not come up the path. She’d heard no car arrive. Tigue and the other man stood just apart, facing each other.
She heard the other man say, “Do you have them?” His voice was a deep, authoritative one that Lilly didn’t recognize. She watched as Tigue handed something small and compact to the man. In turn, the man handed Tigue something that Lilly could not quite see, though it was small enough for Tigue to stash into the inner pocket of his jacket.
“This will be it,” the other man said. “There’s far too much going on now.”
“I don’t care if it continues,” Tigue said. “I only want what was promised me.”
“Well, that will have to wait, too.”
“What?” Tigue said. His voice seemed to rise an entire octave in surprise. “What do you mean it will have to wait? We have an agreement.”
“For God’s sake man, you must know that this mess changes everything. The police are everywhere now, looking under every rock.”
“But we had an agreement.”
“Well, it’s bloody off,” the man said with obvious irritation.
“But I’m ready. I’ve spent a good amount of time and effort preparing to go now.”
“Well, I can’t help that can I?”
“You could help it. Appeal to them. There’s no danger from anything happening here. None of it has anything to do with that.”
“She told me you were a strange little bird, but I hadn’t realized how strange. She found you pathetic, mate—but I’m sure you figured that out long ago. For all I know, you killed her because of that, or maybe just because you got nervous.”
“Me? I didn’t kill her! I’d no reason to.”
“You’ll just have to wait until they’re comfortable again. My advice is to keep your mouth shut and be happy with what you’ve got. If you stumble, they’ll make you pay. I can’t protect you, and I’m of no mind to in any case.” He paused, then added, “If you did kill her, then I might come after you myself one day.”
“But you must do something. We have an agreement. And I can’t wait. I must go now! Everything is set.”
“Sod off. You don’t give orders, you take them.”
“Bastard!” Tigue hissed.
The other man moved very suddenly; he cocked his right fist and hit Tigue squarely in the face, sending Tigue reeling backward and into the mud of the lay-by. As Tigue lay moaning, the other man stood over him. “No one calls me a bastard,” he said. “If I didn’t have better things to do I’d kill you here and now. Consider yourself warned.” The man spit on Tigue, then abruptly turned and disappeared into the darkness up t
he road.
Tigue lay in the mud for nearly a full minute, emitting a kind of low whimper. Finally, he stood and turned back toward the path. He passed Lilly’s hiding place, walking very quickly, his right hand held against his injured face. Lilly considered following him, though the violence of what she’d just witnessed made her hesitate. The other man had accused Tigue of killing a woman. She. Was she the woman whose body had been found in the cemetery? Or was it Alba Tigue?
Again, the sound of movement just behind Lilly startled her. She turned, heart in mouth, expecting to see Tigue, believing that he’d known that she’d been watching him all along and now, somehow, had managed to quietly double back on her, intending to silence her forever. But a large, round figure—clearly not Lawrence Tigue—moved toward her through the dark. Lilly put her hand to her chest and worried that she would faint and that the dark figure would be the last thing she would ever see.
“Lilly!” the figure whispered.
Lilly gave an involuntary yelp of terror. A second later, the figure was on her and clamped a beefy hand over her mouth. “Quiet!” the figure hissed. “He’ll hear you.”
In that instant Lilly realized that the hand over her mouth belonged to Miss Wheatley; she was flooded with a combination of shock and relief. Miss Wheatley took her hand away and put her finger to her own lips. Lilly drew in a deep breath, feeling as if she’d nearly drowned.
“Are you all right, my dear?” Miss Wheatley said.
“Yes.” Still mildly shocked, Lilly wasn’t quite sure what else to say.
“I won’t ask you what you’re doing out here in the middle of the night, though I think I know. But you heard everything?”
“Yes.”
“He’s up to something, just as I have always said, and I intend to find out what it is once and for all.” She nodded at the O’Hare house. “The first thing we must do is search the house to find whatever contraband he’s hidden there.”
Lilly wasn’t certain that she wanted to ally herself with Miss Wheatley, who was loony. But in this case, Miss Wheatley seemed to be right. Lawrence Tigue clearly was up to something. “He killed someone—maybe his wife,” Lilly said. “The other man all but said so.”
Miss Wheatley looked down the trail toward Tigue’s cottage. “I’m not certain he’s capable of murder.”
“But what if he finds us?” Lilly said.
“He won’t if we’re careful,” Miss Wheatley said. Lilly noticed a shotgun lying on the ground next to Miss Wheatley’s squatting figure. “Now, come,” she said, picking up the gun and resting it in the crook of her right arm. “We’ve got to see what he’s up to so we can report it to the captain.”
Lilly found herself getting to her feet and following Miss Wheatley toward the rear door of the O’Hare house. She’d never even considered entering the house after dark. Miss Wheatley produced a torch and played it on the small, rickety porch and the back door. She stepped onto the porch, which creaked under her weight, and pushed open the door. Lilly followed.
Miss Wheatley immediately went into the room in which Claire O’Hare had hung herself. She seemed utterly without fear, or even trepidation, Lilly thought. “Now then,” she said, speaking to herself aloud. “What have you hidden in here? I intend to search every nook and cranny until I find it.”
Lilly remained silent. Although she was as anxious as anyone to know what Mr. Tigue was on about with his nocturnal wanderings, following Miss Wheatley around the O’Hare house in the dark made her uneasy. She glanced up at the roof beam from which Claire O’Hare had hung herself and found herself wondering if, perhaps, ghosts did exist.
Miss Wheatley crept about the room, breathing heavily, and playing the torch in the corners and along the walls. Lilly worried that if Mr. Tigue had for some reason decided to return to the house, he would see them—catch them out. Something about the way Tigue had lain in the mud whimpering, then in the hurried, angry way in which he’d retreated from that defeat, had frightened her.
“Damn,” Miss Wheatley said under her breath. “I can find nothing.”
Lilly thought she heard a motorcar approaching; she froze and reached for Miss Wheatley’s arm in an almost unconscious gesture to reassure herself that she was not alone in the spooky house.
“What is it, my dear?” Miss Wheatley whispered.
“A motorcar,” Lilly said. “Listen.”
They stood together in the middle of the dark room. Miss Wheatley also heard the approaching car. They expected it to pass and enter the village. But to their surprise it seemed to pull into the lay-by, its tires crunching twigs and gravel. Miss Wheatley now reached for Lilly in the dark. “Follow me,” she said and headed for the back door, toting the bird gun, which still lay opened in the crook of her arm. Lilly followed her into the yard and then behind the large oak tree from which the tire swing hung. They moved just beyond the tree into the brush, where they crouched.
“Has he come back?” Lilly whispered. She worried that Lawrence Tigue actually had seen them earlier—that he’d pretended that he hadn’t and now was returning in his motorcar, perhaps with a gun.
But Miss Wheatley did not answer. She was staring intently through the darkness toward the narrow path that led past the side of the house and the window that looked onto the sitting room. Lilly settled in behind her and waited, suddenly conscious that her heart was beating very rapidly.
A minute later, a tall male figure appeared in the darkness, moving along the narrow path. The man stopped at the window and appeared to peer into the sitting room. Lilly could tell from the man’s height that he was not Lawrence Tigue. The beam of a torch snapped on; the figure played the torch around the interior of the room for at least a half-minute. He then switched off the torch and began to walk toward the swing. Lilly feared that the man somehow had discovered her and Miss Wheatley’s hiding place. She held her breath and felt Miss Wheatley stiffen.
The man stopped at the swing and seemed to examine it. He touched the tire and set it rocking. He then abruptly turned from the swing, mounted the back porch, and entered the house through the back door. Lilly saw the faint light of his torch coming from the window of the sitting room. The light ebbed and brightened, depending on which way the man turned and walked.
“Is that the same man Mr. Tigue was arguing with?” Lilly whispered.
“No—it’s Algernon Tigue,” Miss Wheatley said.
“What?”
“I’d know him anywhere.”
“Mr. Tigue’s brother?”
“Yes.”
“But why …”
Miss Wheatley put up her hand to silence Lilly.
The figure was exiting the house. He stood on the porch for a moment, then began to play the torch around the backyard. The beam swept past the tire swing and oak tree. Instinctively, Lilly pressed herself lower into the brush.
The man switched off the light. He stood for another moment on the porch, lit a cigarette, and took a long drag from it. Lilly saw the orange tip glow brighter. The man seemed to be in no hurry, she thought. Neither did the dark, spooky surroundings seem to cause him any anxiety. He walked off the porch into the backyard and stood there for another couple of minutes, finishing his cigarette. He dropped the butt, ground it beneath the tip of his shoe, then headed back along the narrow path to the front of the house.
“I’m going to follow him,” Miss Wheatley said.
Before Lilly could object, Miss Wheatley had risen and was making her way toward the trail. Lilly hesitated only for a second before following. As she rose and made her way through the brush, she told herself that she must be brave—that she must not give into the natural desire to run from danger.
Miss Wheatley moved with what Lilly found to be shocking nimbleness through the dark and the undergrowth to the side trail, where she stopped very suddenly and yet again raised her hand; Lilly nearly ran into Miss Wheatley as she, too, abruptly halted. She looked around Miss Wheatley toward the main trail that led from the road in the d
irection of Miss Wheatley’s cottage. She saw the man stop there for an instant and snap on his torch again. He then disappeared into the darkness down the main trail, toward Miss Wheatley’s place.
Without turning to look at Lilly, Miss Wheatley whispered, “Come,” and gestured for her to follow. They moved away from the house onto the main trail, staying close to the verge on their left. Lilly saw the beam of the man’s torch bouncing ahead of them, about thirty meters distant. She figured that if the man was Algernon Tigue, then he must be heading toward his brother’s house, and she wondered why he didn’t drive there. She was surprised then when, at a point just opposite Miss Wheatley’s cottage, he turned abruptly to the left, toward the wood and the trail that led to Albert Clemmons’s lean-to, the same trail that Lilly had followed in the opposite direction less than an hour earlier.
Miss Wheatley’s gait quickened, and Lilly sped up to keep pace. Lilly saw the beam of the man’s torch play on the trees of the wood as he moved onto the trail.
“Albert,” Miss Wheatley whispered under her breath. In April, shortly after Albert Clemmons had taken up residence in the wood behind her house, she had encountered Algernon Tigue in a shop on the High Street, where he was buying a packet of cigarettes. She had assumed that he had come to the village to visit his brother, though she hadn’t asked. She had never really liked the Tigues as boys; she’d found Lawrence aloof and sullen and Algernon arrogant and self-centered, rather too full of himself. He had shown himself to be quite gifted at maths at an early age, and Miss Wheatley had concluded then that this had gone to his head and made him vain. Even so, she had told Algernon that Albert Clemmons had returned to Winstead and was living in a lean-to in the wood behind her house, essentially a tramp. She had hoped that Algernon, who was a bachelor and had done quite well for himself, might have outgrown his youthful haughtiness and seen fit to lend Clemmons a hand. But so far as she knew, Algernon had failed to lift even a finger to assist Albert.
The Wages of Desire Page 20
