I ignored him. Shielding my face with my free arm against the heat, I took another two paces closer to the box. This must have been where the fire had started. I poked one end of the stick inside. A rectangular shape emerged from the debris, scattering ashes and sparks.
‘David –?’
The object slithered down the stick and settled on the base of the box again, sending up another puff of ash. I retreated quickly to Toby.
‘What is it? What did you find?’
In the space of a few seconds, the possibilities chased through my mind. I could say I did not know what it was. I could let someone else make the connection. I could say nothing to Toby but go and find Vanessa. Or I could say nothing to Toby or Vanessa, but instead phone the police. Or I could go back to the Vicarage and see if there was any damage there. Most of all, I wished that it was not I who had to deal with this.
‘I’m pretty sure that’s the tin box that contained the Youlgreave papers. It was in our house. If I’m right, someone must have broken in and stolen it. James left a can of petrol in the garage this afternoon, and I think they must have stolen that as well.’
Toby whistled. ‘Vanessa – what’s she going to say?’
‘It depends if the papers were still in the box.’
‘No point if they weren’t. Anyway, something was inside. What a mess.’
He was right. Less than half an hour earlier, Joanna and I had been in bed together, and everything had seemed so simple. Not easy, but simple. Now, standing beside a burning tree with rain falling steadily on my head and shoulders, I felt as though nothing would ever be simple and straightforward again.
‘We’d better phone the police.’
‘Come this way.’ Toby pointed the torch beam across the field to another part of the fence between it and the garden. ‘We can go through the stables. Less chance of meeting people, and we’ll get less wet.’
He took me through the darkened stables and into a yard in the shadow of the back of the house. Soon we were in the kitchen where I had last seen Joanna. He led me along the corridor to the office by the front door. The room was empty. On the table was a wooden box, with its lid open. I saw books inside, neatly stacked. Toby shut the door behind us and put the torch on the table.
‘You’d better phone. They’ll take more notice of you.’
He found me the number of the police station. When I got through, I talked to a desk sergeant who was reluctant to believe that anything was seriously amiss. We argued to and fro for several minutes.
‘Look,’ the man said at last. ‘It’s Saturday night and we’re already overstretched. From what you’ve told me, it sounds like a bit of fun that got out of hand. But there’s no real damage done, is there? Still, I’ll make sure someone’s round first thing in the morning.’
‘Isn’t burglary and the destruction of property serious any longer?’
‘Of course they are, sir.’ The policeman’s good humour seemed unruffled. ‘I tell you what: why don’t you go home and see if there’s any evidence of a break-in? Maybe it wasn’t your box, after all. No harm in checking. If you have had a break-in, of course, you give us a ring. I’ll make a note of your call.’
That was the end of my attempt to fetch the police. Toby, who had been leaning against the door smoking a cigarette, straightened up and smiled at me.
‘The boys in blue not being too helpful?’
‘You probably gathered what they said.’
‘I’ll drive you down to the Vicarage if you want.’
‘I’d better have a word with Vanessa first. Break the news.’ I hesitated. ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t mention the box to anyone else until we’ve told her.’
We left the office and walked along the corridor towards the sitting room. Little had changed in our absence. The Potter women were still beside the head of the family, as he snored quietly in the armchair. James and Mary, supported by a dedicated band of helpers, were working their way methodically through the remaining contents of the bar. Rosemary had returned and was surrounded by three youths who were vying for her attention by the fireplace. Joanna wasn’t there; nor were Vanessa and Audrey.
‘Seen Vanessa?’ Toby asked.
‘Thought she went out with you and David,’ James said. ‘Did you catch our arsonist?’
‘No sign of anyone. Just a burning tree.’
‘Sounds like your province, David. Isn’t there something in the Bible about a burning bush and the angel of the Lord?’
‘Exodus. Chapter three.’
I went to the nearest French window, with Toby behind me. The rain was no longer a shower but a downpour. Reflected light from the sitting room sparkled in the puddles on the terrace.
‘Maybe she’s sheltering by the pool,’ Toby suggested. ‘Shall I fetch an umbrella? There’s one in the Jag.’
‘One of the boys will get it,’ James said. ‘Brian! Toby’s got a job for you.’
Brian slipped through the crowd. For once Michael was not with him. I felt a stirring of unease. If he was still outside, he would be soaked.
Toby gave Brian the car key. ‘The car’s just outside the front door, under the canopy. There’s a brolly on the back seat.’
The boy ran off, glad to have a job to do, wanting to show off his speed and efficiency. Too late, I wished I had asked him where Michael was.
‘Vanessa?’ I called. ‘Vanessa?’
I waited for an answer. Beside me, Toby was silent. I stared across the lawn, a pale-grey smudge in the darkness.
Suddenly Brian was in the doorway of the sitting room. ‘There are two men outside,’ he gasped. ‘They’ve broken into your car.’
There was a moment’s silence.
Then Toby said, ‘Shit!’ and ran past Brian, pushing him out of the way. Brian and I followed, with at least a dozen others trailing behind us. Rosemary was just behind me.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked in a low voice.
She did not answer. The current of people carried us side by side down the corridor into the hall. The front door was standing open. Rain gusted into the house, and a pool of water covered the tiles near the door. Framed in the doorway were two men in sodden raincoats, their bare heads wet with rain. Behind them was Toby’s car under the shelter of the canopy. The driver’s door was hanging open, and the panel shielding the door and window mechanisms had been removed.
‘Mr Clifford?’ said the taller of the two, a man with a broad face and eyes that slanted down at the outer corners. ‘Mr Toby Clifford?’
‘Yes,’ Toby said. ‘Who are you?’
‘Police.’ For an instant the man held out what might have been a warrant card. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Field, and this is Detective Constable Ingram. We’d like to ask you some questions, sir.’
‘What are you doing with my car? Have you broken into it?’
‘It was unlocked. We –’
‘You’re lying. It was locked.’
‘Perhaps in the circumstances it would be better if you accompanied us to the station, sir. We wouldn’t want to upset your guests, would we?’
Toby didn’t answer. He was staring at the other man, who was holding what looked like a small brown parcel.
‘I should tell you that you’re not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so,’ Field was saying, ‘but what you say may be put into writing and given in evidence.’
Someone behind me gasped.
Toby swung round, turning his back on the police officers. His face was so pale it was almost green. His eyes searched the little crowd of his guests.
‘You,’ he said, pointing at Rosemary. ‘You tight-arsed, screwed-up little bitch, you frigid little fucked-up cow.’
He lunged at her. Automatically I stepped in front of Rosemary and he cannoned against me. Then the two policemen grabbed his arms from behind.
‘Party’s over,’ Field said.
But it was not over. Toby was handcuffed and led to the car. While Field radioed for assistance, Ingram began to
take our names and addresses. He began with me. When he realized I was a clergyman, his eyebrows rose, making me feel like a naughty child caught out.
‘What about Miss Clifford?’ he asked me. ‘Where’s she?’
‘I don’t know.’
He moved on to James, who was looking almost sober again. I glanced round the crowded hall. Almost everyone was there, apart from the Potters, Joanna, Audrey, Vanessa and Michael.
And Rosemary, too, I suddenly realized: she had been there a moment ago, but now she had slipped away.
There was a light under the office door. Perhaps Vanessa had returned to pore over Francis Youlgreave’s books, oblivious of the commotion. I opened the door. No one was there. The books and the torch were still on the table. So was the telephone.
‘Officer?’ I called to Ingram. ‘Do you mind if I try phoning the Vicarage to see if my family’s gone back home?’
Ingram nodded, and went back to Mary Vintner, who was still nursing a large gin.
I dialled the Vicarage number. The phone rang on and on.
‘I bet they’re all down at the pool,’ James said at my shoulder. ‘Probably sheltering in that little hut. I expect Joanna’s there as well.’
‘We’d better go and see. If the police let us.’
Ingram raised no objection, so James and I walked back to the sitting room; James brought the torch. We went out on the terrace.
‘Vanessa?’ I shouted. ‘Audrey? Michael?’
‘Joanna!’ yelled James a few inches away from my left ear.
There was no reply. Just the steady rustle of the rain.
‘Damn it,’ James said. ‘We’ll have to go down there and get soaked.’
Then someone began to scream.
It was a high, gasping sound in two parts, with the stress on the first. It sounded completely inhuman, like the cry of a seabird. But the screams made a word, repeated over and over again.
David. David. David.
I ran down the steps to the lawn towards the source of the scream. James flicked on the torch and followed. We pounded in the direction of the pool. My feet skidded on the wet grass. Rain ran down my cheeks and filled my eyes. The beam danced like a will-o’-the-wisp in front of us. I stumbled and almost fell down the short flight of steps from the lawn.
Rain speckled the surface of the water. The torchlight swooped from one side of the pool to another. It picked out Audrey in the shallow end, her hair hanging wet and loose on her shoulders, and the skirt of her dress floating around her on the water. She was standing with her arms upraised, her mouth wide open and her head thrown back as if she were addressing a deity only she could see.
David. David. David.
The beam danced on. It showed a woman in Vanessa’s dress, lying on her belly in the water, with Vanessa’s hair floating like black seaweed beside Audrey’s ballooning skirt.
The light skipped onwards. The water was no longer merely blue: reds and pinks swirled like clouds on a dawn sky. Its surface was pockmarked with a shifting pattern of raindrops.
David. David. David.
The wind soughed in the branches of the trees beyond the pool, and the leaves of the copper beech rustled. The beam danced back, light as a feather, first to Audrey and then to Vanessa. All the while the baying continued.
David. David. David.
36
Only one thing could have been worse than Vanessa dead.
I had few memories of the rest of the night after we found her floating in the swimming pool, and they were little better than a succession of snapshots. Even their sequence was uncertain. In my mind I shuffled them to and fro, trying to put them into order, trying to make sense out of nonsense. Coherence is a weapon against chaos, against fear, against evil. I made myself believe that.
First in the sequence came the stench of chlorine filling my nostrils. The water was cold, almost icy. It slapped and patted me like a hostile masseuse. It did not want me to reach Vanessa.
David. David. David.
I was aware of an obstacle, of something clinging to me, hindering me from reaching Vanessa. I made an effort and threw it aside. Did I hit it? Not it: her. Audrey.
Vanessa lay in the water like a log – a thing not a person. I pawed at her, trying to get a grip. Her dress ripped. Tendrils of hair coiled around my wrist. I thought again: yes, how like seaweed. I hooked my arms under her armpits and pulled the top half of her body out of the water. Even with the water partly supporting her lower half, she was so heavy I could hardly raise her. She might have been made of iron. A dead weight.
I hauled her up. Her head lolled against my shoulder. I held her, squeezing her against my chest as, less than an hour earlier, I had held Joanna. Slowly I staggered towards the side of the pool. It was as if I were fighting my way through chilly treacle. A torch flashed like a spotlight across my face. A man was shouting but I did not have the energy to listen to the words.
David. David. David.
There was a splash. The water rocked in the pool and drops of it spattered on my face. James was beside me.
‘Give her to me,’ he ordered.
I shook my head. She was my burden.
He took no notice. He prised one of my arms free and between us we half carried, half dragged Vanessa towards the ladder at the shallow end.
A little later, she lay on her back beside the pool and around her spread dark stains of blood and water. James crouched over her like an animal over its prey. Was he hitting her? Kissing her? I tried to stop him but someone held me back. Later still, perhaps, James issued orders. Blankets, bandages, hot-water bottles, ambulances. He sent people here, demanded things from there. How odd, I thought – a moment ago he was drunk, but now he seems perfectly sober.
Around us in the darkness people gathered. I heard a siren. I saw a flashing light, barely visible through the bushes of the shrubbery.
‘No, no, no,’ someone was saying; and I did not realize it was myself until Mary Vintner wrapped a blanket round my shoulders and told me to be quiet.
‘The boys,’ I muttered to her. ‘The boys mustn’t see this. Where are they?’
‘Don’t worry,’ Mary said. ‘They’re safe. We’ll look after them.’
‘And Rosemary?’
‘Don’t worry.’
There were police cars in the drive as well as an ambulance. In the ambulance, they made me lie down. I could not see what they were doing to Vanessa. The ride was very bumpy.
‘Drive more carefully,’ I said. ‘You mustn’t shake her up.’
Nobody heard me; I was not even sure that I had spoken aloud.
At the hospital, they put me in a chair. Somebody gave me a cup of tea. People talked to me and I talked back to them. What I remember most clearly, however, was a cracked tile above a washbasin in a room where they took Vanessa. The crack had a curve to it. I stared at it for what seemed like hours. The longer I stared, the more I was convinced that the line the crack described was identical to the curve of Joanna’s cheek from eye socket to chin. It was clearly a sign. But I could not interpret its significance.
I saw two hands before me: one palm upwards, holding two white tablets, and the other with a glass of water between forefinger and thumb.
‘Not heroin,’ I said, perhaps aloud. ‘Not heroin.’
‘These will help you relax,’ a woman’s voice said with such authority that I knew that she was telling the truth. ‘Swallow them.’
There was also a policeman. Before or afterwards? Or both? He wore a uniform. As he talked, he turned his cap round and round in his hands. His fingernails were chewed to the quick, and there were bright orange nicotine stains on the fingers. His voice was ugly. I did not hear what he said.
I must have slept because I remember waking. When I woke, it was as though I had climbed out of a pit of darkness into a world I had never seen before, into a bleak, featureless landscape which stretched, flat as a table, all around for as far as I could see; and above my head was the vast hemisphere of the
sky; a Fen landscape, such as had surrounded me at Rosington. It was silent, apart from a faint beating of wings which might have been no more than the pulsing of my own heart.
Janet – oh Janet. Something was wrong, worse than wrong. Not Janet. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong woman. Vanessa? Joanna?
I remembered the pills on the woman’s hand – barbiturates? – before I remembered what had happened to Vanessa. I turned my head on the pillow. The first thing I saw was another uniformed policeman. This one had the face of a child. His scared eyes met mine. Why was he afraid of me? I stared at him.
‘How – how are you feeling?’
He didn’t wait for an answer. He stood up, opened the door and murmured something to a person I could not see.
‘My wife,’ I said; my voice sounded weak and strained. ‘How is she?’
‘Detective Inspector Jeevons will be here in a moment,’ the constable said. ‘He’ll probably be able to tell you.’
‘Surely you know?’
‘Me? No one tells me anything.’
‘But is she alive?’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said, his hand on the door, eager to be gone. ‘I just don’t know.’
It was nearly an hour before I saw the inspector. In the meantime a nurse brought me tea.
‘My wife?’
‘Still unconscious. But she’s pulled through the night.’
While I drank the tea, I sat in a pair of borrowed pyjamas in an armchair by the window, looking down on a hospital car park where people with sad, intent faces passed to and fro. I assumed that someone had taken away the clothes I had been wearing last night to dry them – and possibly for examination, as well. I found blood encrusted under my fingernails and washed my hands over and over again. I tried to pray but I could not find words. After a while I simply sat there and watched the car park. At last there was a tap on the door.
Sergeant Clough sidled into the room after Detective Inspector Jeevons. Clough was more subdued than I had seen him before. He kept his brown, bald head bowed and did not speak unless Jeevons asked him to. Jeevons was younger – a man in his early forties with a dark, cadaverous face, coarse skin and black hair; he had long sideburns that reached to the bottom of his ears.
The Judgement of Strangers Page 29
