Blood on the Wood

by Gillian Linscott

  It was beginning to fall into place. Lady Fieldfare was one of our solidly useful workers, younger sister of a notorious firebrand called Maud, in her late sixties but always causing rows in committees because things weren’t moving fast enough for her liking. Bobbie apparently took after her aunt.

  ‘So what are we going to do with Bessie Broadbeam now I’ve got her here?’

  ‘Um?’

  She gave the parcel a little slap. ‘I had a look at her on the journey. Reminded me of one of my aunt’s brood mares.’

  ‘You unwrapped it in a railway carriage?’

  ‘I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. I suppose we take it up to the old man and go back with the real one. Is there a cab?’

  Worse and worse. If this did go wrong, she’d now provided us with a carriageful of witnesses, plus train driver and guard.

  ‘Don’t worry about a cab,’ I said. ‘Thank you for bringing the picture. If you go over to the other platform you’ve got plenty of time to catch the next train back.’

  She didn’t move. ‘She’s quite heavy. I’ll help you with her wherever you’re going.’

  I told her I could manage, but seeing the picture again I was disconcerted by the size of it. Already we were attracting the hopeful attention of porters. I compromised.

  ‘If the local train gets in before the London express, you can help me get it into the carriage, that’s all.’

  The local train arrived about half an hour later. Fortunately there were only two people waiting for it besides ourselves and they looked like farmers’ wives too deep in gossip to take much notice. I got in and Bobbie helped manoeuvre the picture after me. We settled it against the seat. I thanked her, wished her a good journey back and slammed the door. More doors slammed. As the train slowly drew away from the platform I thought I was in for it now: no taking the thing tamely back to London and admitting failure. That must have distracted me because I wasn’t aware of a person moving through the compartment until somebody was standing beside me. Guilty conscience made me jump then:

  ‘You!’ I said.

  Bobbie Fieldfare was swaying as the train got up speed, looking a bit abashed.

  ‘I’ve been thinking…’

  ‘You’re not supposed to be thinking, you’re supposed to be going back to London. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I got on at the other end. I thought I could see you to where you’re going at any rate.’

  She sat down on the seat opposite. I felt like pitching her out of the train but that might have attracted attention so I ignored her until we stopped at the local halt. When the train went on its way there were just three of us on the wooden planks of the platform, Bobbie, Bessie Broadbeam and me. By then I’d managed to get over some of my annoyance and admit that Bobbie might have her uses in a limited way. It was around half-past six, less than two hours of daylight left. With her help I could use the time to get the picture stowed in the Venns’ summerhouse and still, with luck, send her back to London on a late train.

  Bobbie stared round at the fields and copses and remarked that it looked like quite good hunting country. I pointed out the Venn house, half hidden by trees.

  ‘That’s where we’re going, over the fields.’

  The cheerful way she accepted this put her up a point in my estimation. We each grasped one side of the picture, getting a good grip on the knobbly frame through the wrappings, and carried it along the road, up the cart track and into a stubble field. The farmworkers had gone to their tea, so there was nobody to see us except a couple of pheasants getting plump on harvest gleanings. A copper glow was on the birds and the stubble and the horizontal light threw our grotesque shadow across the field, like a rectangular beast with two sets of unmatched legs. We went slowly across two more fields, stopping now and then to change our grip on the frame or massage aching wrists and fingers. Although I wouldn’t admit it to Bobbie and discouraged her attempts to chat and ask questions, I wasn’t altogether sorry to have help and worried even more about how I’d manage getting the real Bessie back over the same ground in the dark on my own. She’d be every bit as awkward and heavy and so much more valuable that an accident with a toe or tree branch would be a disaster.

  At one point on our uphill journey we stopped for a rest only a field’s width away from the road and heard hooves and wheels coming down it from the direction of the Venns’. I took Bobbie by the shoulder and pressed us and the picture into the hedge. On the road, the Venns’ gig came past at a brisk walk, the oil lamps on the front already lit and glowing like pale lemon sweets in the evening light. A man sat in the driving seat on his own, staring straight ahead. Although I couldn’t be sure from across the field in the dim light I was pretty sure it was Adam Venn; the figure looked too respectable for Daniel and too active for Oliver.

  ‘Is that one of them?’ Bobbie said when he’d gone past.

  ‘Yes.’

  My heart was beating faster than I liked. Daniel’s view of the operation seemed over-optimistic to me now that action was getting closer. At any rate, I didn’t want to be the one to lead this infant any further astray.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I can manage now. If you cut across to the road then down to the railway you should be able to get the late train back to the junction.’

  ‘I’m not going back.’

  ‘Oh yes you are. You’ve delivered Bessie, and I’m very grateful. That’s your job done. Back to the envelopes.’

  ‘I’m sure I’d be a lot better at burglary.’

  ‘Who said anything about burglary?’

  I certainly hadn’t in my letter. As far as anyone at Clement’s Inn knew, this was simple exchange, all above board.

  ‘We’re going in the back way and you’re as twitchy as a filly her first time out. So we’re leaving this picture and snitching the real one. Good idea.’

  ‘I am not twitchy.’ I was so annoyed I practically shouted it. Here was this fledgling, probably around ten years younger than I was, questioning my nerve. ‘Now will you go, please.’

  ‘You’ll need somebody to keep a lookout. And how are you going to break in? There’s a trick with treacle and brown paper for taking out window panes quietly. My brother taught me.’

  ‘So does everybody’s brother. Firstly we haven’t got any treacle and secondly it doesn’t work anyway.’

  I’d no intention of telling her that two of the Venns were part of the plot.

  ‘At least let me help you get it up to the house.’

  Her tone was so submissive that I was idiot enough to give in.

  ‘All right, but no further.’

  As we walked on I wondered where Adam was heading and guessed it would have something to do with the Daniel and Daisy problem. We came to a farm gate with a rickety barn on the far side of it, old dry hay sticking out from gaps in the timbers. At that point only one small field separated us from the back of the Venns’ house. We went slowly over tussocky pasture, keeping in the shadow of a tall hedge to our left then round the corner towards the small garden gate, the wall protecting us against being seen from the house. When we reached the gate I propped the picture up and told Bobbie to wait. With Adam away, and Felicia probably too miserable to care, the only person I had to worry about was Oliver Venn, and some caution was needed from now on in case he happened to be out for an evening stroll in the garden. I had my hand on the latch of the gate when it happened.

  * * *

  A single gunshot. It came from the garden at the back of the Venns’ house and was loud enough to set the drowsy blackbirds into a flurry of alarm calls and make orange and brown butterflies rise up from the bramble flowers. A sharp, stinging sound. Then, after it, a sound of human distress, like a strangled sob. It took a second for my brain to register. I looked at Bobbie and after that comment about my supposed twitchiness was pleased to see that she was as shocked as I was.

  ‘It sounded like—’

  ‘Stay there.’

  I left her with the picture
and went through the gate into the garden. My first panicked thought was Oliver shooting at us, but the sound had come from away to the right, towards the summerhouse. I pushed my way towards it through archways sagging with vegetation, purple cardoon flowers flopping across the path, nettles shoulder-high, white convolvulus looped between bushes with stems as tough as parcel string. The summerhouse was in the angle between the wall and the unkempt yew hedge, artistically built with knobbly timbers and trelliswork, but neglected now. A woman in a white blouse and a skirt with a pattern of peacock feathers was standing just inside the trellis, staring out at me. Felicia Foster. Her brown hair was tangled and scattered with bits of leaves. Her face was creamy pale, damp with sweat and tears, eyes scared. The hand by her skirt, pale against the purple and turquoise swirls of the pattern, was weighed down by something heavier than feathers. A gun. A revolver. I raised my eyes from it, back to her face.

  ‘What’s happened? Are you all right?’

  There was a change in Felicia’s eyes, recognising not me in particular but the fact that somebody was there.

  ‘I … I found this. Under there.’

  Her right hand lifted slowly as if coming up from deep water, bringing the gun with it, pointing at a blanket on the bench in the corner of the summerhouse. A ball of twine lay beside the blanket, matches and a paraffin lamp.

  I stepped forward and held my hand out for the gun. She hesitated for a moment then let me take it. The barrel was still warm and it reeked of powder and hot oil.

  ‘I heard a shot,’ I said, ‘a few minutes ago.’

  ‘It went off. It was under the blanket. I picked it up and it went off. I didn’t mean…’

  Her empty hand was shaking against the skirt.

  ‘I’ll take you back to the house,’ I said.

  ‘Flissie. Flissie, are you there?’ Carol Venn’s distant voice calling from the house, high and anxious.

  ‘It’s all right, Carol. I’m here.’

  It was a brave try. From where I was standing I could hear the tremor in Felicia’s voice, but Carol probably couldn’t.

  ‘Is it the boys shooting rabbits again?’

  ‘I don’t know. Wait there, I’ll come in.’

  She stepped out of the summerhouse and looked at me.

  ‘Go to her,’ I said.

  Slowly she walked in the direction of the house. Carol was family – she’d manage better than I could. After a while I heard Carol’s voice again, asking ‘Are you all right, Flissie?’ If there was a reply I didn’t hear it.

  I looked at the gun, pointing it at the ground in case of accidents. I’d never taken much interest in the things but a cousin who went into the army had been knowledgeable about them and I remembered him saying that revolvers didn’t usually go off accidentally. At any rate, with a shot just fired the chamber would be empty so it was safe for carrying. I slipped it into the pocket of my jacket and went back to Bobbie. She was waiting more or less where I’d left her. I now had three things on my hands I wanted to get rid of: the revolver, the picture and her.

  ‘What was happening?’

  ‘Nobody’s hurt. But I think we’d better leave the picture in the barn down there for now. I’ll come back for it later.’

  We went back down the field with the picture, the hedge shadow now dissolved into dusk. The barn door was open. We edged the picture inside and propped it against a pile of hay. Then, as bad luck would have it, the revolver fell out of my pocket. They never make them strong enough in women’s clothes. Bobbie’s eyes widened.

  ‘Is that yours?’

  ‘No.’ I picked it up and shoved it in the other pocket, glaring at her to show that further questions weren’t welcome. ‘That’s it, then. Off you go to the train.’

  She didn’t move. ‘Are you staying here?’

  ‘No, I’ve got things to do. The picture will be safe here for an hour or two.’

  Daniel would be paying his evening visit to Daisy at the Scipian camp. I had to see him and tell him that the substitution was on for tonight. That and something else.

  ‘You can’t leave Bessie Broadbeam on her own. She’ll be a lot safer if I stay here and keep an eye on her.’

  I gave in. Arguing would take too long. Also, against my will, I was beginning to have some respect for Bobbie. She’d been uncomplaining in carrying the picture around and hadn’t panicked at all about the gun.

  ‘It will be a long time, probably midnight,’ I warned her.

  ‘That’s all right. I suppose you wouldn’t care to leave that gun with me? I could amuse myself shooting rats.’

  No, I told her, I would not. As I walked fast downhill towards the camp the wretched thing hung heavy in my pocket, banging against my thigh.

  * * *

  I didn’t join the Scipians, not wanting to face questions from Max. Instead I walked up and down the field at the back of the old schoolhouse, watching for Daniel. He came loping along the path at around ten o’clock, a darker figure against the darkness, whistling a sad little tune I hadn’t heard before. I came up behind him.

  ‘Mr Venn.’

  He spun round. ‘Have you got it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tonight’s the night, then. Can you give me a couple of hours? I want to talk to Daisy, then I’ll go back and see to things. I’ll make sure the studio door’s unlocked. Uncle Oily will be snoring by the time I get back so I’ll unhook the picture from the wall for you. You remember where his study is? Left at the top of the stairs and along to the end of the corridor.’

  ‘I saw your brother going out in the gig. Won’t it be embarrassing for him if he comes back late and bumps into me?’

  ‘He’ll be back by now. He was only going to see a friend in the village.’ He seemed to sense some reservation on my part. ‘You’re not going off the idea, are you?’

  ‘No. But there’s something you should know. Did you hear a gunshot in your garden this evening, just as it was getting dark?’

  ‘No, I was playing the piano. But Carol and Uncle Oily were going on at dinner about boys shooting rabbits.’

  ‘Was Miss Foster at dinner?’

  ‘No. Felicia had a headache and they sent something up to her on a tray. To be honest, I think she’s avoiding me.’

  He said it with that hurt little boy air, as if she were being unreasonable.

  ‘It wasn’t a boy shooting rabbits. It was Miss Foster with this.’

  I took the revolver out of my pocket. With only starlight to see by he had to bend his head close to it.

  ‘Oh God, it looks like…’ I let him take it from me and got out my bicycle lamp to give him a better look at it. ‘I think it’s Aunt Philly’s.’

  ‘Your aunt had a revolver?’

  I thought of Philomena in her old-fashioned bonnet and black lace gloves.

  ‘A Smith and Wesson .38 calibre. A friend brought it back for her from California. She’d play with Adam and me, shooting lemonade bottles off the wall. She was a pretty good shot, as a matter of fact.’ He broke open the gun and signed to me to bring the lamp closer. ‘It’s a five shot. Looks as if two of them have been fired.’

  ‘I only heard one. Did your aunt give it to Miss Foster?’

  ‘Of course she didn’t. What would Felicia want with a thing like this?’

  ‘She was in the summerhouse at the back of the garden, holding it. I heard the shot and went running to see what the matter was. She said she’d found it under the blanket you left for me, picked it up and it went off. She’d been crying.’

  A long silence.

  ‘Did you put it under the blanket?’ I asked him.

  ‘Of course not. Why should I do that?’

  I hoped I wouldn’t have to say anything else and in the end he got there.

  ‘You don’t believe her, do you?’

  ‘I think there’s another possible explanation.’

  ‘She gets Aunt Philly’s gun, goes to the summerhouse and … oh God.’

  ‘Tries to kill herself?
Yes, I think so.’

  Chapter Eight

  I LEFT THE GUN WITH HIM, but the idea of it was still weighing me down as I went back up the field in the dark. Poor Felicia. Poor Daisy. Even poor Daniel. Stupid, yes, but well meaning. Come to think of it, there’s probably more damage done in the world by well-meaning stupidity than calculating malice. He’d behaved like a boy, thrilled with his power to alter lives. Then suddenly and belatedly he’d looked at the gun and had to grow up. Goodness knows where it would end, but that wasn’t my problem. By the time it got light, I should be on the milk train back to London with the picture and that would be my last contact with the Venns. Sooner or later, perhaps, I’d hear which one he’d married. No point in even thinking about it. Stick to what you’ve come for. But, trudging in the dark, I started to hate what I was doing. What did a picture or money matter when lives were being torn apart? I had to conjure up Emmeline to give me a talking to about battles to fight, not everybody’s duties being pleasant, not letting down the cause. Yes, Emmeline, I know, I know. But if you’d seen … All right, I’m doing it, aren’t I?

  * * *

  I went quietly, keeping to the hedges, avoiding the pale smudges in the dark that were sleeping sheep. But Bobbie Fieldfare must have had good hearing. She was outside the barn waiting for me.

  ‘Are we ready? I’ll get Bessie.’

  ‘Give it another hour.’ I wanted to give Daniel a chance to get back to the house and make his small contribution by checking the door and unhooking the picture. ‘Have you been all right here?’

  ‘Pretty well,’ Bobbie said. ‘I had to scare off a drunk tramp, but he was no trouble.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Just after it got dark. I was sitting here wishing I had a cigar to pass the time, then there were these footsteps outside and somebody shambling round whistling. Then he came to the doorway and mumbled something. I told him to clear out and he went.’