“It had come up, I suppose, when people were talking about us?”
“Yes, it had: ‘Has anyone been round to Calverley Row?’—that kind of thing.”
“Was it dark by now?”
“No. Just the beginning of twilight. Carmen was walking near this house, but she was kind of irresolute. I disappeared into the garage and bought a torch, thinking it might come in useful after dark. When I came out, she was back on the main road and walking towards Calverley, but obviously just to kill time. I knew she’d be coming back. I came along Calverley Row, went into the field and waited as it got dark. As twilight fell, someone turned on the lights in the house here and pulled the curtains.”
“That would be Annie. She never left the curtains open when the lights were on. And eventually Carmen came back?”
“Yes. She was trying to walk softly, which didn’t come easy to her. It was almost dark, and I was in the field just behind the garage of this house. She came quietly through the gate and went up to the living room window. She went along it, looking for a chink in the curtains.”
“We always made sure there wasn’t, once we knew she was spying on us.”
Auntie Connie nodded.
“Annie was a clever little housewife, even then. Carmen swore and went round the back. I came into the front garden and followed her round. When I got to the corner she was bent down at the kitchen window. The curtains there were old and had shrunk. There was a band at the bottom where she could see into the kitchen. There was no light on, but there was in the hall, so she knew she’d be able to see if anyone came to get anything. She was obviously hoping it would be Dermot, and she could see if the rumours were true. She was terrified, obviously, about what he might give away. That was behind everything she’d done since your mother’s death. She had to know about your father, what frame of mind he was in, how he felt about her and what she’d done. Anyway, once in the back garden and knowing she had a view into the house, she settled down to wait, and I did the same. After a time there was movement inside the house, and lights went on upstairs.”
“That would be Annie putting Greg to bed.”
“I realise that now. Carmen strained forward to see, and I kept my eyes on her. Then it happened.”
“What?”
“I dropped my torch. It was plastic and didn’t make any great clatter, but before I could even decide whether to run for it, Carmen was on top of me, had grabbed my arm and was hauling me over to the kitchen window to see who it was. When she saw she said, ‘Christ—I could kill you!’ And I said, ‘Like you did your mother?’ ”
Matthew was leaning forward, caught by the terror of the scene.
“What happened?”
Auntie Connie shook her head, her face twisted at the memory of it.
“She went berserk. She threw me against the wall, her hands went to my throat and she began to throttle me. I don’t know to this day whether she was in earnest or whether it was just to frighten me. Probably she didn’t know, herself. But she had no self-control, and I really do think—I’m not saying this to excuse myself—that she would have gone on. I couldn’t breathe. I felt I was bursting, and then out of the corner of my eye I saw that knife, a kitchen knife.”
“I’d been using it in the garden.”
“I suppose you could say it saved my life. My hands were free. I grabbed it and I stabbed her, first in the side, then when she cried out and started to fall, in the chest, again and again. If it started as self-defence, me saving my own life, it went on as . . . as something more. I wanted to kill her. I wanted to kill a woman who was so wicked she could have her own mother burnt to death. All my old hatred of her welled up with double force. I can’t excuse myself, Matthew. It was murder.”
“Maybe that’s not for us to judge, now.”
“Yes, it’s God’s mercy I’ll be needing soon.”
“What did you do?”
“Carmen slumped to the ground, and I stood there for a moment, looking at what I had done. Then I just turned and ran. It was sheer panic. I’d killed someone. Me—a simple, homely body from County Clare—I’d killed someone. I ran down the path, out into the street, and started running back the way I’d come—wildly, feeling like screaming in my fear and panic. How I got across the Ring Road I can’t imagine. It’s a miracle no one reported a madwoman. When I got back to Rob’s house, it was quiet. He was still at the darts match. I went upstairs, got into my bed and lay there, sobbing, shivering and thinking what to do.”
“Did you consider going to the police?”
“Yes. But I didn’t do it. I’m a wicked, lying woman, I know that.”
“Perhaps you were meant for something else.”
She shook her head vigorously.
“I decided not to go to the police, Matthew. It wasn’t God’s work, it was mine. I couldn’t face it—the shame, the shame for Rob, prison, what people at St Joseph’s would say, what my neighbours back in Ireland would say. And once I’d decided not to go to the police, I had to be prepared to brazen it out.”
“I suppose you expected the police on Rob’s doorstep the next morning?”
“I did. I got up, listened to the local news on the radio, and there was no mention of a woman’s body being found. Rob came down to breakfast and said Carmen hadn’t been home the previous night. He was concerned, but when I suggested he go to the police, he laughed. Carmen wouldn’t thank him for that, he said.”
“It wasn’t the first time, was it?”
“No. He told me that later on. I pretended to be very shocked, but knowing what I knew about Carmen by then nothing could shock me. And I’d always had a fair idea what sort of life she led while Rob was away.”
“But what did you think as time went by and her body still didn’t turn up?”
“Well, after a time obviously I couldn’t go on thinking that nobody here had been round to the back garden. I thought your father must have discovered it and buried it. I’d worked out he probably had some connection with Rose Morley’s death. I thought when he found the body he was afraid the police would work out the link between him and Carmen if she was found in his garden, and somehow or other he’d got rid of her.”
“That makes sense.”
“Yes, it seemed to. So for a while I didn’t believe the stories that were going round about him being out of his mind. Then I met Annie at the Irish Club, and something—I couldn’t put my finger on it—aroused my suspicion. I think Annie’s just not a good liar, thank the Lord.”
“I was always better,” said Matthew. “But she convinced most people.”
“Perhaps there was something inside me that told me there was another possible explanation for the disappearance of Carmen’s body. Eventually I had to be sure. I baked a cake and brought it round here. You were all playing noisily in the back garden. I came into the kitchen. There was a noise upstairs. Your father’s door was open, and I think he gave some sort of groan or sob. I called up. There was no reply. I went up and—you know what I found. As soon as I saw him, I knew he couldn’t have got rid of Carmen’s body. So I knew that you must have done it—probably you and Annie. I decided at once that you had to be saved. That was how I saw it. You’d become trapped in a world of lies and deceit, and I had to restore your childhood to you. It was a penance: I would stop in England and give you normality again.”
The voice tailed away. She looked so tired she could fade into nothingness.
“The rest I know, don’t I?” said Matthew.
“Yes, the rest you know. Do what you think best about it, Matthew. Your judgment is better than an ignorant old woman’s. If you think it’s better kept quiet, so be it. But remember Rob and Grace.”
“Yes, I’ll remember them.”
“I’m sad I’ll never see you married, with children of your own.”
Matthew shook his head.
“It’s not something I’ve ever wanted. . . . I’m thinking of entering the church, Auntie.”
“The church?”
/>
“Studying for the priesthood, or whatever I’m up to doing. I’m not sure I have the brains for it, but I think I want to try.”
She looked at him, bewildered.
“But why, Matthew?”
“I don’t know. It seems somehow . . . logical. Almost like a sort of thanks. I suppose that means thanks for you, thanks for being saved. It’s difficult to explain. It seems what my whole life has been leading to.”
She shook her head.
“I’m a wicked woman to say it, and I never could if Father were here, but it seems like a waste.”
“If I thought that, I wouldn’t want to go on living,” said Matthew, his mouth set in a determined line, as her own had been a minute or two before. “Don’t worry your head about it. Try to get some sleep.”
“I think I could now.”
Matthew bent over and kissed her.
“Sleep well. We should have talked about this long ago, Auntie.”
“I never could. You were always so straight. I almost thought you’d have insisted I go and tell the police.”
“That’s nonsense about my being straight. I was the biggest liar of the lot.”
“For others. And I think you hate lies now.”
“Because I had too much of them all that while ago. Sleep now.”
“Remember—lots of laughter.”
But when he got outside the room, he found the others assembled downstairs in the hall.
“What took you so long?” Greg asked, frowning. “What was there to talk about?”
“Something I’ve known a long time but never really understood. I’ll tell you about it later.”
“Does it affect us?”
“Not now.”
“We thought we ought to go and see Dad,” said Annie with obvious reluctance. Matthew nodded.
“I suppose so.”
Jamie shuffled a bit, then turned.
“You’ve got to be prepared for a shock,” he said as they started up the stairs. “He’s got a whole lot worse these last few months. There’s no alternative to an institution now. Even if I wasn’t going to live with Annie, I couldn’t cope on my own.”
They paused outside the door. Then Jamie opened it, and they confronted the horror of the little room.
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
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A Fatal Attachment
A Scandal in Belgravia
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Death of a Salesperson
Death and the Chaste Apprentice
At Death’s Door
The Skeleton in the Grass
The Cherry Blossom Corpse
Bodies
Political Suicide
Fete Fatale
Out of the Blackout
Corpse in a Gilded Cage
School for Murder
The Case of the Missing Bronte
A Little Local Murder
Death and the Princess
Death by Sheer Torture
Death in a Cold Climate
Death of a Perfect Mother
Death of a Literary Widow
Death of a Mystery Writer
Blood Brotherhood
Death on the High C’s
Death of an Old Goat
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Copyright © 1994 by Robert Barnard
All rights reserved including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Barnard, Robert.
The masters of the house/Robert Barnard.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-684-19728-6
I. Title.
PS3563.A728M37 1994
813’.54—dc20 94-5853
ISBN 0-684-19728-6
eISBN 978-1-4767-3717-1
Masters of the House Page 19
