As the black, shiny motorcade makes its dignified way through the pressing crowds, a dainty gloved hand can be seen raised at the window of the second car. Some people give the occasional small shout of appreciation, but most are mute and waiting, watchful, for this is a tense and dramatic moment. Will Mrs Peacock be all right after this period of incarceration? Will she agree to come out? Will The Queen actually get out of the car and go and knock on her door, or will a hireling do it for her? Communal anxiety stirs. And what will happen to poor Mrs Peacock if she consents to be released? Will they haul her off to hospital like an astronaut returning to earth, for medical tests? And mental ones? And what if she should fail either?
At this, his proudest moment, the Mayor of Swallowbridge stands before the entrance of Albany Buildings resplendent in his golden chain. His wife made him wear white gloves, fearing The Queen might be concerned about picking up germs, as she herself is. The rest of the Council dignitaries have been advised to stay away, as it was their policies which caused the furore in the first place, and the security people are concerned that nothing should inflame the unpredictable crowd at this most sensitive stage. The few men beside the Mayor are either policemen or involved in Palace security.
The cars draw to a halt. Someone with experience steps forward and opens the door of the Queen’s car. She climbs out, her handbag on her arm, and surveys the scene with a mild look of interest. Journalists jabber over their phones and television cameramen jostle for position for this is quite unprecedented. Accompanied by two officials—one is a doctor in disguise—she walks calmly and purposefully towards the entrance of Albany Buildings and disappears inside.
The crowd leans forward and holds its breath; it hasn’t long to wait. In less than five minutes the Queen is on her way back, arm-in-arm with a wildish-looking Mrs Peacock. So she hadn’t stayed for a cup of tea. The Queen stands by as Mrs Peacock, her hair all over the place and stains down her cardigan, is helped into the limo and then She gets in beside her. The bullet-proof window on the crowd’s side rolls slowly down and out comes the stick with a hound’s-head handle which is waved triumphantly at all her loyal supporters.
A sigh passes over the people like a sharp shudder of wind in a wheatfield before cheers begin to break out and catch on until there’s a great roaring of approval. Flags, hidden away up jumpers just in case things should go wrong, come out and are waved energetically. Somebody cares. Somebody cares enough to go to the rescue of poor Mrs Peacock and take sides against the faceless men at the top. And that somebody is their Queen and Sovereign, the very spirit of the nation. Nobody cares much about the motive; all must be well because The Queen Herself has answered their prayers.
Mrs Peacock, and anyone else of that respectful, cap-doffing generation, would be the very last person to divulge what was said in that short journey by Daimler, so the press clamour for her secrets in vain. She has agreed to go to live at a very luxurious Home for the Elderly near Clitheroe, purchased by The Queen herself, to be run by a Trust along with several other large country houses planned for the same purpose. Here, the vulnerable elderly will be allowed to behave as eccentrically as they wish, to smoke, to drink, to dance, to sing, to make merry, to keep as many pets as they like—and good luck to them. Nobody will mention Meals-on-Wheels, nobody will mention Bingo, no schoolchildren will sing there at Christmas-time and no blanket squares will be allowed over the threshold. It is whispered that The Queen is planning to send some of her own elderly relatives there, but this could well be nothing more than gossip and rumour.
EPILOGUE
ANYWAY.
Here we are then, bidding a final farewell to them all as our little company save one, RIP, trip along to their next encounter, promenading, circling and quickstepping across that embarrassing, slippery and overcrowded dance-floor of life. The next time we see the small, trim, unassuming person of Miss Benson will be on our television screens six months hence when she is called in to speak on behalf of Animal Aid, or raising funds in the short slot before the news on a Sunday. Still something of a national celebrity after her handling of the Swallowbridge Siege, and greatly praised for her managerial skills, she is in her element, organising, encouraging, beavering away on behalf of the animals she loves. Nobody is afraid of her and that is how she achieves so much. Nobody bothers to raise their defences while in Miss Benson’s unthreatening company and that is their undoing. She has found her rightful niche in life. She was born to be a moral crusader.
No more cautious shopping at C&A for Miss Benson, whose salary has risen a hundredfold since her straitened years with the vet. She would now be the envy of poor Joy Marsh, had she lived. But some people don’t care what they look like. Miss Benson could choose to buy her clothes from any boutique in London, and indeed she has a flat there, but her interests do not lie in self-promotion. A country girl at heart, she has her eye on a cottage with fifty acres on the Somerset border, a cottage with barns she can turn into cosy homes for animals in distress.
Of course she invited her friend, Mrs Peacock, to move there with her, should she go ahead with the deal, but Miss Benson already guessed the old lady would turn her down. However, an interesting approach has been made to her, completely out of the blue, by the probation services dealing with Jody Middleton. A Mr Jerome Tigley contacted her by letter after reading an article about Miss Benson in the Mail on Sunday Magazine.
I have heard so much about you, this letter read, as has my client who followed with interest and admiration all your activities during the summer.
As you might already know, the charge of rape was dropped against him after the girl in question admitted that no coercion had been involved.
In fact, poor Janice Plunket, threatened by her father that she would no longer be allowed to live at the Centre away from home, confided in Mrs Maddison, a part-time worker at the Centre, that if only Jody was set free she would be willing to marry him straight away.
‘Marry him, Janice, dear?’ exclaimed that good woman. ‘How could you possibly agree to marry such an animal, after everything he did to you?’
Perhaps Janice was not as clever as was suspected on her various reports.
Janice sobbed, knowing that life at home would be constricted and dull, no freedom allowed, not even a trip to the shop. After the rape Daddy was naturally even more protective of her than normal. ‘But he didn’t do anything I didn’t want him to do,’ she cried, wiping her nose on her cardigan sleeve, ‘and I could have followed him home only I didn’t want to.’
‘But you never said this to anyone, Janice, not the police, not the counsellors, not the social workers,’ said a bewildered Mrs Maddison, wanting to shake the girl hard, ‘and you must have known, Janice, the trouble Jody was in.’
‘I wanted him to be in trouble,’ the girl snuffled on.
‘But why on earth would you want that, dear?’
‘Because I knew he didn’t really love me.’
‘Well, causing him all this harassment was hardly the way to change that, was it, Janice, surely?’ Mrs Maddison could hardly believe her ears. Janice’s surprise confession was so awful she was in two minds as to whether to pass it on, but eventually common decency got the better of her and she reported Janice’s last-minute retraction to the friendly Constable on the beat.
The lovelorn lass was interviewed at the Centre rather than at the station, the thinking being that at the Centre with all its primary colours she would be under less stress. Another change in circumstance was that, this time when she gave her statement, her intimidating father was not present and so she felt able to tell something closer to the truth. If the victim was no longer a victim, nothing could be done and the charge of rape was reluctantly dropped.
Jody the murderer, angry and frightened in his cell, broke down completely when he heard the news and was instantly persuaded to sue for colossal damages by his surprised solicitor. His mother, Babs, was over the moon. ‘I knew it!’ she cried triumphantly. ‘I always knew it. Jody
could never do a thing like that.’
The probation officer’s letter went on, Much has happened to Jody since all this started, and it is now looking increasingly as if he was innocent of both crimes with which he was originally charged.
The murder case, at first so successfully solved, was unravelling bit by bit. The first man to throw in a cog was Constable Ryan Bodie, who happened to come upon an innocuous roll of black dustbin liners under Vernon Marsh’s sink. These dustbin liners came on a long, industrial roll from B&Q, and had yellow draw-string handles—the very same kind of liner which was wrapped round the body in the well.
‘Funny,’ said the detective in charge. ‘Funny,’ as he scratched his head. Why would young Middleton be carrying such a dustbin liner around with him in the first place? There were no such rolls at his parents’ house and that was the last place he visited.
Another concern was that no weapon had yet been discovered although the area had been combed. But even more confusingly, the weapon in question was believed to be an ordinary household iron because the imprints left on parts of the skin were of a rounded triangle shape that perfectly resembled the bottom of a Tefal lightweight 20S steam, along with the pattern of holes that were found on the body here and there. The iron in Vernon’s house, albeit the same brand and not new, was ever so slightly different.
‘So where would the wretched Middleton get his hands on a steam iron somewhere in the middle of Dartmoor?’ the detective in charge was forced to enquire, though much against his will.
There were far too many loose ends to proceed with the charges, but not enough, unfortunately, to point them firmly in Vernon’s direction. This case was clearly not as open and shut as had first appeared. It would take time and careful investigation, further questions and more statements—and that meant more men and less financial resources left for the already fully stretched Devon and Cornwall Force.
In these complicated circumstances it is difficult to know the best course to take with Jody’s immediate welfare in mind after his release. The publicity used against him has been so unfairly damning. This is a young man who, through fear and trauma, has suffered greatly and does not feel ready to take up his university place yet.
Miss Benson, so concerned with justice for all, had read on with interest. Apparently the traumatised Jody, so badly done to like her own dear mother, needed a quiet and private place to go well away from the public eye, and he himself, having read the article in the Mail on Sunday, and having seen the place on which Miss Benson had her eye, suggested he might go and work for her. ‘If she’ll have me.’ It is always heartening to be able to help the needy.
Miss Benson, in her thorough way, went to visit his parents still residing in their lovely old house in Preston.
‘No, I understand that he can’t come home for a while, not until things have died down, and now our purchase has fallen through we are going to have to think again. It would be very kind of you, Miss Benson, if you would agree to take Jody on in the meantime. There are always the few vicious people out there who will continue to believe my son to be guilty no matter what happens.’ Thus Babs Middleton conveniently ignored the fact that in the end, when the pressures seemed too great to bear, torn by doubt, she too, had faltered. ‘Because this is what they want to believe.’
The two Middleton daughters sat on the sofa in silence.
And Babs, who can afford to open her eyes again now that her wounded cub is about to be freed, at dear last gets up off the sofa and hugs her two damaged daughters as she hasn’t managed to hug them in months. Their mingled tears are not for Jody, at last they are for each other. Some new understanding is born as Miss Benson sits there feeling as gratified as a guardian angel, and smiles.
Emily Benson’s one concession to her new and advantaged lifestyle is that she shops for food at Marks & Spencer, although still with her tartan shopping trolley. Naturally, as a person who likes to keep her finger on the pulse, she takes a keen interest in the other newsworthy event that was taking place at the same time as the Siege of Swallowbridge. She picks up a glossy magazine from the newsagents on the way home and reads avidly about the fate of the new Princess of the Royal House.
Such a scandal. And so remarkable how her little story had linked to that which rocked the nation.
They couldn’t have done it without the Queen and that was Mrs Peacock’s idea, bless her.
The last time Emily visited, she was escorted by the pleasant receptionist in the hall into a sumptuous room on the ground floor which opened out onto the grounds of The Grange. The only nuisance was the kilted piper marching up and down on the terrace outside. There, holding court as usual beside her own log fire and surrounded by her many little treasures, was her friend Mrs Peacock, sipping a gin and tonic and smoking a cheroot, before preparing to go into the wood-panelled dining room for smoked salmon and duck and lemon meringue pie. No mince or cauliflower cheese here, or soft ice cream with tinned peaches, unless specifically requested, of course.
Flat 1, Albany Buildings is up for sale again.
The mortified Frankie had invited her mother to move in with her and the children. This request, at one time so impossible, proved to be simple in the end, extraordinarily so, and the children, Poppy and Angus, after their uncomfortable persecution experiences, were quite in accord. Their grandmother was a star, after all. But Mrs Peacock kindly refused—and who wouldn’t, given a chance to live at The Grange with all its luxuries and all the interesting people there. But mother and daughter were reunited, however, and Miss Benson was happy to see they were both more comfortable in each other’s presence than she had ever seen them before. The battling of these two generations had ceased at dear last.
The Queen herself takes an interest in the progress of the newly named Royal Grange, putting an exalted Civil Servant, a previous aide to Prince James himself, in charge. Quite a violent career change for Sir Hugh, although not quite so humiliating as being parked in a Palace corridor or behind the counter in the Palace gift shop all summer long like the hapless Dougal. Grace and Favour. Sir Hugh Mountjoy and his wife live quietly in the lodge in the grounds, although there is talk that Lady Constance is seldom there; she prefers the London high-life. Sir Hugh goes for long walks alone, and fishes for hours in the river, and is often seen and even heard talking to himself in the strangely formal and mostly indecipherable language of his kind.
The magazines and journals so fascinating to Emily Benson (she would pass them on to the residents of the Royal Grange except they have them all delivered on the day of publication) leave nothing out in their telling of the progress of the new Royal couple. Princess Peaches, as the media insist on calling her, resides stubbornly in a Knightsbridge flat with her friends and is leading the life of Riley. The birth is now imminent and it remains to be seen if the profligate Prince can win back his blossoming wife in time.
There is nothing he will not do to woo her, and the fickle public are now right behind him, happy to see the mighty humbled and the straying sheep returned to the fold. He has even attempted to improve his mind by going to concerts and ballets, by giving up all those childish sports and enrolling part-time in a university course, reading Psychology and Sociology. He was last spotted with a group of friends coming out of a fathers-to-be session run by one of his own charities, and the rat-pack discovered that the recalcitrant Prince had put his name down for all five one-hourly workshops.
The nation’s heart was instantly warmed.
But will she have him? Is there a faint renewal of hope? Nobody knows. Only time will tell.
Oh, it’s all so fascinating, following the fortunes of the rich and the famous. Belinda Hutchins, the Supermodel who once lived at The Grange and now shares a flat with her Royal friend, is involved in good works down the East End, helping to run a Centre for down-and-outs and piss-heads, one of whom appears to be Jacy, the has-been singer from Sugarshack, who made a feeble come-back before flopping gutlessly back to the shadows with his two dub
ious friends. Apparently they turn up from time to time at the Centre, when it’s cold or when it’s raining or when they have been turned out of their squat. The little trio play sad songs to the men and women who huddle over the plastic tables in the canteen, adding a little warmth to the patched overcoats and the sweet teas. Sometimes the more vigorous join in with the words and it sounds like wolves howling in some desperate night.
But it is reassuring for the public to know that the new Princess is cohabiting with the caring.
The only character in the chain whose fortunes evade Miss Benson is the husband of the murdered woman, Vernon Marsh. She would be sorry to hear that the bank foreclosed on Vernon Marsh after giving him adequate time to mourn the tragic loss of his wife. The bank foreclosed and Joyvern was immediately put up for auction. He ended up with a few thousand pounds and moved, with only one shabby suitcase, into a bedsit in Plymouth.
‘Come to us, Dad,’ urged his polite daughter Suzie, speaking on behalf of herself and her lover. Vernon knew she didn’t mean it.
Tom didn’t even ask.
And anyway, after a life struggling with Joy, Vernon would rather be his own man. What’s more, he’s nervous, horrified to hear that the police in their wisdom have finally let Jody go without telling him why. They ought to have told him why. Hell, he is as much the victim as poor Joy herself. Vernon believes Jody did it—well, he couldn’t have done such a thing himself. Not him. Not gentle Vernon. Could he?
And they won’t leave him alone, either. Irritating detectives keep calling, cornering him, asking questions, seeking answers, buzzing round him like blowflies on bacon, and the single bulb in his room gives no hiding place. His self-control is threatened. His inward terror flourishes. For consolation he has taken to spending his evenings down at the local, an unprepossessing place where drunks and the lonely keep company at the long wooden bar. But at least he can lie in bed in the mornings and trace pictures across the broken ceiling. He doesn’t have to get up and head for Marsh Electronics in that damn depressing arcade in the rain.
Chain Reaction Page 39
