by Ann Cleeves
“What?” He still seemed preoccupied. “ No, after the doctor came, she seemed to be comfortable. I always go out on Saturday mornings.”
“What time would that have been?”
There was no suggestion that this was an interrogation. It was polite and courteous interest.
“I can’t remember that. How should I know?” the man replied sharply.
“Did you go out as soon as the doctor left?”
“Eh?” He had gone too far. Cranshaw’s attention was jerked back to the present. Only now did he seem to realize what they were talking about.
“I don’t know. What the hell’s this about anyway?”
Luckily he seemed not to expect an answer, and when George began to talk about the film he joined in, explaining in quite an interesting way how some of the shots had been taken. He left soon after, and Molly heard him say to Ella that his mother would be expecting him home. He seemed genuinely sorry that he had to leave early.
Rob and Peter were getting cheerfully drunk. Rob Earl had decided to accept the job in Bristol and he was talking about the places he would be visiting through work. He seemed to have thrown off his earlier irritation, but there was something forced about his laughter. Peter was giggling gently. Tina drank little, but appeared unoffended by the men’s behaviour. Molly felt that her instinct about Tina and Adam had been right and experienced a maternal sympathy for the girl, who seemed lost and lonely.
Molly watched her husband skillfully separate Peter from the others and move with him out of earshot of Rob and Tina. Peter did not notice what was happening.
George made no attempt to conceal the purpose of the conversation.
“I understand that you were in Rushy the weekend that Tom died. Is that true?”
He appeared to talk quite naturally, but his voice was pitched so low that no one else could hear what he was saying.
Peter had been pulling faces at two of Sandra’s children who were confined to the kitchen, but who had been peeping round the door, their curiosity stronger than their fear of their mother. He stopped. Palmer-Jones’s voice demanded full attention and a serious answer.
“I was in London for most of the weekend. I just came to Rushy for the day. I didn’t know that Tom was dead until I met you at Trekewick. I must have left Rushy before they found his body. I didn’t think that the fog would clear and I left at about four.”
“When we saw you at Trekewick you gave the impression that you had only recently left St. Agnes. Certainly you didn’t get in touch with any of your friends. Why was that?”
Peter said nothing. George thought for a while that he was going to refuse to answer, but he seemed to be making a real effort to be accurate.
“I needed time to sort myself out. I was in quite a state. I might not have seemed upset about what happened on Scilly, but I felt—damaged. I wasn’t ready to talk to anyone about it. That’s why I didn’t go into the Windmill that Saturday. I didn’t want to see anyone I knew.”
“How did you get to Rushy? What time did you arrive?”
“I’d hired a car for the whole weekend. I arrived at about nine and parked on the other side of the village. I don’t know why I came, really. I felt silly creeping about in the fog trying to avoid people. But the weather forecast was so good that I couldn’t stay away. How did you know I was there?”
“A young birder saw you. Why have you never told anyone that you were here that day?”
“It just seemed easier. I couldn’t face having to explain what I’d been doing. And I hadn’t seen anything so what was the point?”
He turned away, but smiled to show that he was not angry, took another glass of wine and went back to Tina and Rob.
Sally had been intimidated by the first crowd of guests and had hidden in the kitchen, refilling empty plates, cutting warm sausage rolls into what Ella had described as a size fit for sophisticated mouths. With a feeling of envy at other people’s self-confidence, she listened to the guests beyond the open door, to the conversation and the laughter. She could hear Ella, already a little loud with wine and the triumph of her success. And then she heard another voice, a voice she recognized. The words which she heard contained a certain, a specific meaning for her and she felt certain she knew who had killed Tom French.
George took Sally home. Ella had found her in the kitchen looking pale and shaken. Sally claimed to have been sick. She certainly looked ill, George thought, as they drove towards Fenquay, but her defensive explanation of the illness, the almost hysterical insistence that she leave the Windmill by the back door, seemed to suggest a different reason for her desire to leave the party. When asked, gently, if she had received any further anonymous letters, she answered in an off-hand way, as if she had forgotten all about them. Then she refused to talk to him, and when he dropped her outside her cottage she did not invite him in. He offered to see her safely inside, but she ignored him and was out of the car before he had finished speaking. There was nothing to do but to drive back to Rushy.
The smell of her terror seemed to linger in the car. It accused him, telling him that he had been too detached, not committed, not strong enough in his search for the killer. Her fear had been wild and irrational. So was murder. He would not find his answers through reason and intellect. This was no crossword to be solved by a gentleman in an armchair. Murder was mad and unreasonable and gentlemen had no part in it.
He parked his car as usual next to the windmill in the car park. It had started to rain, a soft, sea-mist drizzle, but there was no wind. When he first heard the noise he thought that a sudden gust must have caused the wood in the windmill to twist and creak, but there had been no wind. Again there was a faint call like a cat or a gull. He almost ignored it, put it down to his imagination and went on in to join the party, which had become louder since his absence. There was music now and the sound had, perhaps, been part of a record. The lights and the music were very attractive.
But he heard the noise again and it seemed to come from below him. It was a sound of pain. In his car was a torch and, as he shone it around the windmill, he noticed first a mark on the soft, damp wood of one of the uprights, as if it had been cut horizontally, then saw that the rotten planks covering the well had split and shattered. With concentrated panic, he tore the splintered planks away and shone the torch down the well. A long way down he saw a white face, the eyes huge in the sudden light. Adam Anderson was crouched like a hunted animal on a metal grille which only half covered the black, stinking water.
Chapter Nine
As they pulled him out through the wooden supports of the windmill he could have been ten years younger. His fear had shrivelled him, so that he looked smaller. George almost expected him to cry, but he was dry-eyed and white, shivering, as frightened and wary of his rescuers as he was of the well. It had taken little time to get him out of the shaft. Tina had run to the coastguard cottage. The men there were still awake, they had ropes and knew about climbing. George shouted reassurance down to him and explained what was happening, but Adam did not say a word. In the glare of car headlights the coastguards worked efficiently and light-heartedly, including Adam in their jokes. He did not reply.
Ella had tried to clear the place of anyone who could be of no use, but people were reluctant to go until Adam was safely out of the well. They gathered in small groups, watching, wanting to be a part of the rescue. Yet the rain grew more persistent and the coastguards’ attitude dispelled any sense of drama. Common sense overcame curiosity. They had a good story to tell at parties and did not need to be present at the actual outcome. Car engines were started, there were subdued calls of farewell and the place emptied. Ella, Rob and Peter went inside to begin to clear up; Molly was talking on the telephone to Clive Anderson.
When Adam was pulled free only George Palmer-Jones and Tina were there to see. Tina had mud on the hem of her dress and on her face. She said nothing to Adam, but waited and watched him, apparently hoping that he would turn to her for comfort. When he
did not respond she bent to help the men to clear their equipment, to coil their ropes, and allowed herself a few tears of relief and disappointment.
They all left George to deal with Adam. They stood quite close together. It was as though they were alone.
“I’d better call an ambulance,” George said, “ to make sure that nothing’s broken.”
Adam spoke for the first time.
“No.” The sudden sound was explosive, startling. “No fuss. I don’t need an ambulance.”
“Who pushed you?” George asked.
“I don’t know.” Then with sudden panic: “ No one. No one pushed me. I fell in. It was all my fault. I wanted to see how deep it was and I fell in.”
“You must tell me. And tell the police. Tell them what really happened. They’ll send somebody to look after you. They’ll make sure that it doesn’t happen again.”
Then the boy did begin to cry. With frightened and hysterical sobs, he begged George to believe that it was an accident, not to tell the police. George put his arm round Adam, held him very tight, tried to calm him. Tina watched the intimacy with pain, turned away and walked into the building.
George felt that the physical contact gave him some of the status of fatherhood. He felt privileged and responsible.
“You must tell me,” he repeated. “You know that you can trust me. You must let me help you.”
But the white face turned up to him, beseeching him not to ask any more. George was helpless and angry, but could not direct his anger towards the boy.
They walked together towards the Windmill kitchen where there was hot strong tea and whisky. Tina sat next to him and tried to take his hand, but Adam still ignored her. There were no more questions. Ella presided over the teapot and made concerned and comforting noises. The others sat quietly, shocked and sympathetic.
Slowly, with great control, Adam told his story. He had been out on the marsh. He had seen very little and, not knowing that the Windmill had closed for the day, went there to see if anything had been seen elsewhere in the district. When he found it was shut he had waited, hoping to see other birders. He had heard stories about the well and had tried to lift the planks covering the shaft to see how deep it was. He had lost his balance and slipped. He was sorry to have caused so much trouble. He seemed very tired, and spoke as if he were making a great effort.
Molly too had accepted responsibility for Adam. She had told Mr. Anderson that they would find him a bed for the night and that they would take care of him. Finally, it was Ella who looked after him. When she saw that he was exhausted she wrapped him in a blanket, sat him in her car and drove him back to the cottage. She did not ask him questions or expect him to tell her what had happened. The room she gave him was small and safe, like his room at home, and he slept without dreaming.
George had told Ella that he would lock up. He was not tired. They sat in the kitchen surrounded by the debris of the party. Molly made another pot of tea. They had finished the scotch.
“Did anyone see Adam today?”
There had been lazy, companionable gossip at the table. They were enjoying the safe outcome of the drama. The question broke through the gentle conversation with a rudeness and authority which Rob resented immediately.
“Why? Should we have wiped his nose, taken his hand and told him to find somewhere safer to play?”
“No. But you might have seen who pushed him.”
“But he said that he fell by accident.”
“Yes. He said that he fell.”
“But you think that he was pushed.”
Tina interrupted aggressively:
“Who do you think pushed him? What makes you think that it wasn’t an accident?”
George was irritated by their questions. There was no time for polite explanation.
“Just accept that I need to know if anyone saw him. Perhaps you could all tell me what you were doing this afternoon.”
But they had no sense of urgency and began to speculate about Adam’s story and the possibility that he was telling the truth.
“He could have fallen,” Peter said. “Those planks were really rotten.”
“Why does he say that he fell if he was pushed?” Tina asked.
Molly answered before George had a chance to speak:
“Because he’s frightened. He’s so frightened that he can’t think clearly, and he can’t trust anyone enough to tell them what really happened.” She saw that she had hurt Tina and went on quickly, “He’s the sort of person who can’t confide easily. It doesn’t mean that he doesn’t want to.”
Peter was continuing his own line of thought.
“It seemed strange that he was so vague about the time he fell,” he said. “I know that he didn’t have a watch, but I would have thought he could have made a rough guess.”
“He did say that he had been in the well for some time when the cars arrived for the party,” Rob reminded him. “ He says that he shouted but no one heard him. That’s not surprising. Everyone arrived at the same time and there was a lot of noise.”
“It must have been horrible,” Tina said. “ To be there in the dark, to know that people were so close to you, and not to be able to make them hear.”
Peter was still trying to fix the time of the incident.
“If he was telling the truth about hearing the cars at the party, he fell or was pushed some time in the late afternoon or early evening. I was here at about four o’clock.” After this announcement he went on to answer George’s question, smiling as if to apologize, that it had taken so long to come to the point.
“I stayed in the cottage all morning, then met Rob as I’d arranged in the hide, at about two thirty. Tina was with him. Tina and Rob went off on their own, Tina first. They both headed for the Windmill, but I saw Rob on the shingle bank soon after. I went for a walk on the marsh, then did the coastguard garden and came back past the Windmill. I didn’t go in. I thought that Ella might rope me in to make sandwiches. I went straight back to the cottage and it was half past four when I arrived home.”
“Did you see anyone on the marsh?”
“No one at all. I didn’t even see Ella. I just presumed that she was there.”
There was a short silence and then Tina started to speak. She talked abruptly, defensively, and Molly thought that she was blushing.
“If you must know, I was looking for Adam. We’d been talking at Scarsea. He asked me to look out for a copy of the Handbook for him. Someone at the university bird club has one for sale. I wanted to let him know.”
“What made you think that he would be at Rushy today?”
She shrugged. “He always seems to be here. And I thought he might be at the film.”
“Where did you look for him?”
“I went past the Windmill on to the shingle bank. I didn’t see him or anyone else. If he’d been on the marsh I would have seen him from there. Then I went to look at that patch of cover between the Windmill and the coastguards. We’ve been thinking of building a Heligoland trap over it and I wanted to work out how much wood and wire netting we’d need.”
“What did you do then?”
“I went back to Peter’s cottage to get ready for the party. I got back soon after five, I should think.”
Rob repeated his movements of the afternoon.
“So you walked straight along the beach towards Skeffingham. Did you see anyone?”
“A few fishermen and bait diggers.”
“Which way did you come home?”
“I walked straight back along the track past the Windmill.”
“What time did you get back?”
“About six o’clock.”
“Have we got any idea what Adam was doing earlier in the day?” Peter asked.
George looked with a question at Molly. She shook her head.
“He left home quite early, just after the postman had been, his father says. But no one knows where he went. That’s not unusual apparently, but his father says that he hadn’t go
ne birdwatching—he’d left his binoculars and telescope at home.”
“No,” Rob said definitely. “That can’t be right. He wouldn’t have come to Rushy without his optical gear. If his father’s telling the truth, he can’t have planned to come to Rushy.”
“If he left home soon after the postman had called at the house, could he have had a letter,” Tina asked tentatively, “ arranging to meet him?”
“That wouldn’t have stopped him bringing his binoculars.”
There was no more tea and they were starting to feel cold. George drove them all back to the cottage. There Peter gave up his room for George and Molly, and placed his sleeping bag next to Rob and Tina on the living-room floor. George did not go to bed, and was astonished that Molly could lie in the big, shapeless bed in an undisturbed slumber. The sense that the person who had inspired such terror in Adam and in Sally was beyond logic, beyond reason, remained with him. The routine of arranging the details of time and place seemed futile, irrelevant. He felt that he was hiding his weakness behind a pretence of efficiency. But still he was compelled to do it, to ignore his urge for some kind of unspecific, irrational action. He could not sleep.
Once more he read through his notes, intending to add to them the details of the information gained that evening. As he sat at the small table in Peter’s bedroom he could hear the young people talking in the room below him and realized that they too would go without sleep. He read the cramped, precise writing of the notes, looked at the plans he had made, then set the paper aside with dissatisfaction. All the facts were important, but he felt, now, that he knew them by heart. He was sure that he was missing something vital, some connection, something which would give a new perspective on the major characters involved. Because he was sure now that he had met all the major characters. He had talked to the murderer.
He was sure that the person who had killed Tom and who had tried to kill Adam was someone he knew. But the details of time and place and opportunity had not helped. All the people he was considering as possible suspects had the opportunity of attacking Adam, and all except Cranshaw could have killed Tom French. Even the exclusion of Cranshaw depended only on Jack’s inconclusive evidence. He took a fresh sheet of paper and made a list of the people he meant to see the next day. He must see Terry. If Terry persisted with his story that he had seen nothing, George must talk to his landlady in the hope that she could get the truth from him. It was ludicrous that they had an eye witness but no information. He must talk to Bernard Cranshaw, whose instability was obvious, and who knew, George thought, more than he was telling. That evening, at the Windmill, George had felt that Cranshaw was hiding something. He would talk to Ella, to anyone who might have been out on the marsh, who might have seen Adam. And he would talk to Adam himself. He dreaded that interview and did not expect much from it. By now the boy would have had time to perfect his story.
