by Ann Cleeves
“Who did Tom bring to stay?”
“Rob Earl came most often, and there was a schoolboy who stayed a couple, of times.”
“Adam Anderson?”
“I can’t remember his name. He was very quiet.”
“Are there any other twitchers who were friends of yours, anyone you know at all well?”
Molly noticed a sudden tension, as if for a moment the panic had taken over. She thought that Sally would be unable to answer but the sensation passed so swiftly that Molly wondered if she had imagined it. Sally was replying calmly:
“No, just acquaintances I had met through Tom.”
“How did Tom get on with the other staff in the hotel?” She shrugged.
“I think that they thought he was mad. But most people think that twitchers are mad. He used to go drinking with one of the chefs called Dennis. He wasn’t specially friendly with any of them.”
“Do you know anything about his conviction for possession of cannabis?”
There was a slight hesitation before she shook her head.
“No, he never talked about it.”
It was obvious then that she wanted them to go. She began to talk about Barnaby’s bedtime and to collect together the tea things.
George stayed, refusing to take these hints, even when Barnaby began to cry in a tired, bad-tempered way. He felt oddly dissatisfied. He knew that there was an important question still to be asked, but the essence of it eluded him. He had come close to it at one point, but his attention had wandered, so that he could not focus on it, could not form it precisely. Yet, still he could not take the decision to go. Molly finally dragged him away. He felt like a stubborn, ill-tempered child as she said goodbye to Sally. She almost seemed to be apologizing for his churlish behaviour. In the car he could sense her anger.
“What’s the matter, my dear?” he asked in a voice which was meant to sound conciliatory, but sounded only tired and a little pompous.
“Why did you treat her like that? You treated her like a suspect.”
“She is a suspect.”
“But the anonymous letters … Surely they clear her of suspicion.”
“Do they? It seems odd that the first letter arrived on the day of Tom’s death. Nobody but Sally knew that he planned to be on the marsh early. It was unusual for him to go birdwatching before work and he doesn’t seem to have discussed it with anyone else. If the letter was conjured out of the same sense of hatred as the murder, then the person who committed both acts must have had the gift of second sight. I’d guess that the letter was posted on the Thursday before he died. The postmark was blurred, but it only had a second-class stamp. I doubt if Tom himself knew on Thursday that he would go out to the marsh on Saturday.”
“Are you suggesting that Sally sent the letters to herself? Because she wouldn’t have known either. He didn’t phone her until Friday night. Anyway, why should she draw attention to herself?”
“In the hope that people would react in just the way that you’ve done.”
George carefully took her hand.
“I liked her too,” he said. He paused, and for the first time that afternoon his thoughts cleared. “Unless the letter-writer guessed that Tom would be out on the marsh early Saturday morning—and someone who knew him well and had seen the weather forecast could have guessed—the letters and the murder must be completely separate. That is possible, but it would be a very strange coincidence.”
Chapter Five
Throughout the afternoon George Palmer-Jones had felt depression and lethargy settle upon him like a fine dust. He felt tainted and constricted by it, and he could not shake it off. He recognized the mood and knew that it would pass, but that did not help. It had not helped him to control the interview with Sally. His refusal to give an expression of unconditional belief in her had given the wrong impression. Now she would not trust him, and it had been important to retain her trust, because he knew that she was hiding something. He was conscious too of a deeper sense of failure that had nothing to do with the investigation. She was a beautiful woman, and he had not impressed her at all. She could not believe in him, and his pride was hurt. He was taunted by the certainty that he had missed an essential point; there had been some word or inflection or insinuation which should have been followed up. He had handled the whole meeting with abysmal incompetence.
He did not speak as he drove from Fenquay, through Rushy village, past the track which led to the marsh, to the White Lodge hotel. Molly knew better than to try to speak to him.
The hotel was set well back from the road in several acres of well-kept park, with cropped grass and some mature oaks. It had once been a pleasant country house, white and solid, a country gentleman’s house with stables, dogs and a well-stocked working garden. Now it was clean, bland, a replica of many other hotels owned by the same large company. There was the same expensive lack of comfort, the same absence of staff. They almost had the place to themselves. Only one other couple sat in the restaurant for dinner.
The food was indifferent—the garden had been superseded by the freezer—it was badly served and George’s depression deepened, turned to anger. Molly made no attempt to intrude. She had already forgiven his lack of tact with Sally. She too recognized his mood. They finished a tiny cup of lukewarm coffee and in a futile gesture of anger he got noisily to his feet. With more purpose than he had shown all day, he made for the bar. Molly stopped him:
“Not yet.”
He looked at her. She became, briefly, the focus of his temper.
“It’s too early to start drinking yet. Especially in that mood. I want to go to see Ella and Jack. You know that they’ll be offended if they hear that we’ve been staying in Rushy and haven’t called.”
Passive still, he allowed himself to be led to the bedroom to change back into his old, comfortable, birdwatching clothes. They left the hotel by a double door at the end of the reception area. This was a square room, furnished with low, impractical chairs in an unpleasant shade of orange. Another double door led to the dining room and bar. By the side of the receptionist’s desk was a door marked “ Staff Only” which appeared to lead from the main building to an annexe presumably housing the kitchens and staff accommodation. A bored, middle-aged woman sat behind the desk and discreetly read a magazine. She smiled brightly and dutifully as they walked past.
“Tom French must have left this way the morning he was killed,” Molly said as she walked out on to the gravelled drive. They both knew that she was trying to stimulate his interest, to lift his mood. “According to your report the last person to see him alive was the night porter, and surely be would be sitting at the reception desk. Which way would he have gone from here?”
George considered, involved despite himself. “Towards the marsh, I should think. Most birders usually start at the marsh. So he would go straight along the drive to the road, and then left towards the village.”
“Where do you think that he was killed?”
“I just don’t know. I don’t think that the police know. It’s a very large area for them to search properly. It was so foggy that he could have been murdered right by the side of the road without too much risk. I’m more interested in the problem of moving the body to the marsh. I wonder why it was moved. Perhaps because it was in a place where it would be immediately seen once the fog lifted.”
They had already left the hotel behind them. They took the path which Tom must have taken, along the drive with its avenue of trees, towards the road. It was still hot but the heat was oppressive and over the sea there was a mountain of thunder clouds.
“Mister. Hey, Mister.”
Even from the call they knew that the man who followed them was not quite normal. It was a wild voice, childishly excited. They turned to see a tall, uncoordinated man of indeterminate age, who was running. His feet scattered the gravel on the path, his loose jacket flapped open. As he reached them he grinned intimately. His teeth were grey and badly spaced.
“Hello, I�
�m Terry.” He held out a large hand to them, then dropped it uncertainly when there was no immediate response.
“Hello Terry,” said Molly kindly. He rewarded her with another grin.
“Nice lady,” he said. He patted her arm, then turned to George and asked automatically:
“Are you my friend?”
“I don’t think that I know you well enough to be your friend.” George was irritable. He felt that the situation was ridiculous and that he needed to assert his control.
“Don’t be so pompous, George. Of course he’s your friend, Terry.”
Molly smiled again at the man, who had turned hurt from George, understanding the tone if not the words.
“I haven’t got no friends here any more. Not since they killed Tommy.”
“Terry,” George said quickly before the man could walk away, “was Tommy your friend?” He spoke kindly, as he would have done to a child.
The man nodded and shuffled uncomfortably. In his transparent face they saw grief, but they only had time to see and to respond to this before it disappeared and his mood changed.
“Have you got any fags?” he asked hopefully, then, with a leer at Molly: “Are you going to buy me a present?”
“Did Tommy buy you presents?” George asked.
Terry shook his head in disappointment. “He never bought Terry presents. He never took me out neither. He used to go to the bar with Dennis, but they never asked me. And I was Tom’s friend.”
“Was Dennis a friend of Tom’s?”
Terry made a movement with his head as if he did not understand.
“We were Tommy’s friends too, Terry,” George said carefully. He did not want to frighten the man into a change of mood. “ If you talk to me about Tommy we’ll buy you a present. We’ll give you lots of cigarettes.”
“What do you want to know?” Terry was suspicious, but overeager to give the right information, to tell the man what he wanted to hear. As he waited for the reply, George realized that it was almost dark. The trees were black silhouettes against a colourless sky. Then, like a child who knows the answer to a test, Terry waved his arm excitedly. He turned his face towards them, and even in the fading light they could see that it glowed with pride and achievement.
“I know,” he said. “I know. You want me to tell you about seeing him dead that morning.”
“That’s right, Terry,” said Molly very gently. “ That’s just what we want to know. How clever of you to guess. Will you tell us about it?”
“About seeing Tom going down the marsh track?”
“No, Terry.” Molly could sense George’s impatience, and put her hand on his arm to stop him interrupting. “About seeing Tom dead.”
“That’s right,” said the man, nodding his head vigorously. “Dead. Going down the marsh track. In the fog.”
“Why don’t you tell me all about it, Terry? Start from the beginning. Where did you first see him? Was anybody with him?”
They could see that he wanted to tell them. He was fighting to form the words to tell his story, frustrated because he was so inarticulate. He nodded his head in answer to the last question. Then a car drove along the road and swung into the drive of the hotel. Terry was caught in the beam of the headlight, like an actor in a spotlight. The light had startled him, as an animal or a very small baby is frightened by a sudden noise. Before they realized what he was going to do he had run away, across the lawn and into the darkness. They called after him, but he did not seem to hear them.
George helplessly watched him go, confused by his story, but relieved that at last they had found someone who claimed to know a little about Tom’s death. He felt old and tired and knew that they could not follow him.
“I presume that he works in the hotel,” he said, “so we’ll have the opportunity to speak to him tomorrow. Do you think he knew something, or was he just making it up to please us?”
Molly considered, trying to compare Terry with former clients with the same degree of disability.
“He was certainly trying to please us, but I think that there must have been at least some basis of truth.”
“Why do you think that he hasn’t said before that he saw the body? The police interviewed everyone in the hotel.”
“Perhaps they only asked very specific questions and didn’t give him the chance to tell them. Or perhaps they confused him and didn’t understand him. I wonder where he lives.”
“Ella will know.”
They walked in silence to the village. Ella’s cottage was the first house they came to, opposite the Blue Anchor. It was a short walk. There was a moon, but the hot weather had turned to thunder, and it was covered quite often by heavy storm clouds. The wind seemed to blow the dark shadows and the moonlight across the marsh. The strange light and their encounter with the peculiar Terry gave the evening a dream-like quality, which heightened the imagination. Molly found herself conjuring a thick fog and a dead man moving, ghostly and magical, towards the shingle. George was attempting to visualize in a more rational way what Terry could have seen.
Ella was in the kitchen. The curtains were not drawn and they could see her from the road. She was asleep in front of the Aga, her legs stretched in front of her, one strand of her long, dark hair falling across her forehead. Jack was standing at the table, his back to them. He was skinning a rabbit, deftly moving the sharp knife between skin and flesh. Beside him, leaning against the heavy dresser, was a gun. He turned to take the jointed rabbit and the mess of skin and guts into the scullery, and saw them. He smiled a welcome, and beckoned them to open the door to enter, while he went to wash his hands.
The door opened straight into the kitchen. The warmth and the light dazed them, and the smell of dogs and apples and strong tobacco. The noise of their entry wakened Ella. She stood up quickly, wondering how long they had been there, hurriedly tidying her dress and her hair, using the uncurtained window as a mirror. She sat them in the two comfortable chairs, apologizing because there was no fire in the lounge, and after putting the kettle on the range, she perched on a little wooden stool. Jack came back from the scullery with tumblers and a bottle of whisky. He was a tall, thin, angular man. He was still a little in awe of his wife, proud of her beauty, and he was content to let her do most of the talking.
She was talking now, amusing them with a story of a young twitcher who had offended her by questioning the validity of a piece of information she had passed to him. Silently Jack poured out large drinks, passed them round. He caught George’s eye and smiled.
“Well now, Ella,” he said slowly. “Why don’t you shut up and let George ask you some questions.”
Shut up she did, without taking offence. She turned to George, smiling expectantly, full of curiosity.
“I thought this was a social visit. I didn’t know you wanted to ask questions. I thought all that would be secret.”
“It is a social visit, but you know everyone in Rushy so well that I thought you might be able to help. You’re friendly with the birders and the locals, and so, I suppose, was Tom.”
“Well,” she breathed, leaning forward, her elbows on her strong, shapely knees, her eyes gleaming with excitement, “ what do you want to know?”
“We’ve just met a rather strange individual in the hotel grounds. He says that his name is Terry. Do you know him?”
“Of course,” she said. She was a little disappointed. She had been expecting some dramatic revelation. “But he’s harmless, you know. He can’t be the one you’re looking for.”
“Oh?”
This was all she needed to provide them with a full life history.
“He came from the big hospital over towards Skeffingham. That must have been about ten years ago. The Lodge was a different place then, I can tell you. The major and his wife still ran it, and we had a lovely class of guest. I used to go in sometimes as a chambermaid if they were busy. They only had local staff then. The hospital asked the hotel to give Terry a job. The major took him on a month’s trial to
do the dirty work in the kitchen, then said that he could stay. But he wouldn’t let Terry live in. He felt that he couldn’t take the responsibility with all the elderly guests, so the hospital looked for lodgings in the village.
“They asked Mrs. Black if he could stay with her. They explained that he’d be working long hours, so she wouldn’t see a lot of him. She wasn’t at all sure what to do. She needed the money because her husband Billy had just ran away with the barmaid from the Dragon at Fenquay. We talked about it and agreed that she ought to take him in. She’s never regretted it. I think she’s fond of him now, though she wouldn’t want to admit it, because folks would laugh. We’ve never had any trouble with Terry. The village is used to him now.”
“Has he ever been violent?”
“No.” She laughed sadly. “The village lads used to bully him and tease him. He’s bigger than any of them but he never had the guts to fight back.”
“Does he tell the truth? Can you rely on what he tells you, or does he make things up?”
“No,” she answered uncertainly. “ He doesn’t exactly tell stories, but sometimes he gets a bit confused.” She looked at George anxiously. “He wouldn’t have hurt Tom. Tom was the only person in that hotel who was kind to him.”
George cupped the glass of whisky in his hands, before looking directly at Ella. “As I understand it,” he said, “everyone seems to have liked Tom. Except perhaps Bernard Cranshaw.”
“Ah.” She seemed slightly embarrassed. “ You’ll have heard about the letter, then.”
George nodded. “Was it common knowledge in the village?”
“Oh yes. There were six or seven children who went to Tom and asked him to take them birdwatching. The parents of all those kids got letters from Bernard about Tom.”
“How did the parents react?”
“It made me so cross.”
She relived her anger at the memory of battles fought on Tom’s behalf with neighbours and customers.
“A lot of them believed it and stopped their kids from going out on the marsh with Tom. You see, Bernard was born and brought up in the village and Tom was an incomer …”
