Murder by Numbers

by Eric Brown

  He was, she thought, truly insane.

  He looked up, tears spilling from his eyes. ‘And together, Maria, we did it. One by one, we killed my father’s tormentors.’

  Pamela came around the folly and stopped dead in her tracks, staring at the revolver gripped in the young man’s hand. He looked up when he saw her, and smiled.

  ‘And you are?’

  The young woman froze. She clutched the cheap red handbag hanging from her shoulder, her face white as she stared from Maria to the poet.

  She murmured her name.

  ‘Well, Pamela, you’re just in time.’

  Maria glanced down at the Grange. There was no sign of the officers.

  Proudfoot saw the direction of her glance and peered down at the house.

  ‘Stand up,’ he said to Maria.

  She rose to her feet, aware that she was shaking. She expected him to raise the revolver and shoot her, but the weapon remained on his lap, gripped in his cold, raw, bony hand.

  Pamela said, ‘The police … they’re joining us at any minute. If I were you, Mr Proudfoot, I’d put the gun down—’

  ‘Be quiet,’ Proudfoot said, smiling. ‘I had no intention of shooting Maria here; it was not at all what we had planned. And if the police are really coming … Shall we go for a little walk?’ He gestured with the gun. ‘Maria, join Pamela and walk down the hill, away from the house.’

  Maria stepped away from the folly and stood next to Pamela, who reached out instinctively and gripped her hand.

  ‘Now move,’ Proudfoot said, ‘down the hillside towards the copse in the valley. Walk, don’t run, or we will be forced to shoot you in the back. We shall be right behind you, all the way.’

  They set off. Maria prayed that one of the officers might be watching, and, seeing them disappear from sight, would decide to follow.

  But she knew it was a forlorn hope.

  If only the conscientious Sergeant Sheppard had still been on duty …

  Squeezing Maria’s hand, Pamela called out to the poet, ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Beyond the Devil’s Bridge,’ Proudfoot replied. ‘Did you read about the bridge, back at the Grange? There’s a piece about it in a frame beside the door. How appropriate, we thought.’

  Pamela murmured to Maria, ‘We?’

  Maria could not bring herself to formulate a coherent reply.

  They continued down the hillside, towards the line of denuded trees. A bitterly cold wind sprang up, blowing along the valley and freezing Maria as she walked.

  ‘Follow the path through the trees,’ Proudfoot said.

  They left the grass and moved through the woodland, the ground still frozen underfoot. Somewhere nearby, a magpie cawed, the sound ugly in the stillness of the afternoon. She heard the chuckling of a small stream before she saw its silver sparkle beyond the undergrowth.

  As they walked, Maria considered her options and came to a decision.

  In an undertone, she said, ‘I’m going to rush at him, before he …’ She paused. ‘When we’re facing him again, I’ll squeeze your hand. Drop to the ground and I’ll rush him—’

  ‘No!’ Pamela hissed. ‘No, don’t do anything. Leave it to—’

  Behind them, Proudfoot snarled, ‘Quiet!’

  They reached the stream and Maria made out, ten yards to their right, a small, humpbacked stone bridge spanning the water.

  ‘Towards the bridge,’ Proudfoot said.

  They walked on until the poet called out for them to stop.

  ‘There’s a local legend,’ Proudfoot said, ‘all about the Devil’s Bridge. Four hundred years ago, the lord of the manor was one Percival Dearborn, an evil man and a fornicator. One day, as he was walking through his estate, he came to the bridge and halted. On the far side of the stream was the Devil who was playing a small golden flute, and the Devil beckoned him and said that if he crossed the bridge, he could take the flute, for it was magical and would bring great wealth to those who possessed it. Dearborn crossed the bridge and reached out for the flute, and the Devil smote the man dead, then laughed and danced away with Dearborn’s soul, playing a merry tune on his flute. And from that day to this, locals have it that anyone who crosses the bridge and does not retrace their steps back across it shall die a painful death.’

  Pamela hissed, ‘He’s mad!’

  Maria could only bring herself to nod and squeeze the girl’s hand.

  Proudfoot said, ‘When we read about the Devil’s Bridge, Maria, we knew – we knew that we should come here. Now cross the bridge.’

  Maria stepped forward, her feet pushing through a litter of elm and sycamore leaves, and as she reached the highpoint of the small bridge, she heard the first of the sirens. Her heart kicked with hope. The siren sounded, muffled by the surrounding hills but growing louder; it was joined by a second, seemingly coming from the opposite direction, closing in …

  They crossed the bridge and came to a small clearing in the trees on the far side of the stream.

  Proudfoot seemed unperturbed by the approaching sirens. ‘Now turn around slowly,’ he commanded.

  They did so, still hand in hand, and faced the young man.

  Proudfoot stood before the bridge, clutching the revolver in both hands, aiming it directly at Maria’s chest.

  The sirens shrilled in the freezing winter air. One cut out, while the other wailed on, drawing ever closer.

  ‘When we spoke with your husband yesterday, Maria,’ Proudfoot said, ‘he was kind enough to instruct us how to use the revolver. Until then, you see, we had intended to dispatch you as we had Holly Beckwith – with a carving knife. But how ironic, we thought, to employ the revolver that Mr Langham had so kindly shown us how to use.’

  ‘You’re sick!’ Pamela cried out.

  The second siren stopped suddenly, and the silence in its aftermath was profound. A breathless quiet hung in the air, broken not even by birdsong.

  ‘We had intended to kill only Maria,’ Proudfoot said, ‘but as you have aligned yourself with evil, Pamela’ – he shrugged – ‘then we shall have to kill you, too.’

  ‘I’ll dive at him,’ Maria began.

  ‘You won’t!’ Pamela hissed in a tone that brooked no argument.

  Was she imagining it, or could she hear distant shouts – men’s voices calling repeatedly through the cold afternoon? If he heard the voices, Proudfoot gave no sign of heeding them. She peered past the poet and through the trees, but saw no one. She almost wept with despair.

  He said, ‘Do you regret now what you did to my father, all those years ago, Maria?’

  She stared at him, at the thin, desperate face above the shaking hands. If she dived at the poet, would he be quick enough to adjust his aim and hit her before she reached him?

  ‘Well?’ Proudfoot barked.

  ‘You don’t understand what he tried to do to me!’ she began.

  She heard a sudden cry and peered through the trees. High above them, on the crest of the hill beside the distant folly, she made out the tiny dark figure of a man, and beside him a smaller figure, and beyond them others in uniform.

  Donald and Ralph? Her heart surged at the thought.

  She dropped her gaze to the poet.

  With his left hand he dug into the pocket of his greatcoat. He pulled something out, something startlingly ginger in the grey of the surrounding terrain – and reached up and placed it, askew, on his head. The effect of the ginger wig atop his pale, twitching face was part comical, part shocking, and for some strange reason made Maria want to weep.

  He reached into his pocket for something else; as he felt for it, his expression became suddenly desperate.

  ‘Where is it?’ he cried. ‘We … we always use it. Every time!’ He reached up with his left hand and touched his lips. ‘Crimson, the colour of blood. We always …’

  Pamela stepped forward, staring at the young man. ‘Lipstick? You … you can use mine, if you like?’

  Beyond Proudfoot, through the trees, Maria saw Donald an
d Ralph running down the hillside, and heard their voices calling out in desperation.

  Proudfoot raised his weapon and aimed at Maria, and with his left hand reached out to the approaching girl.

  Pamela took another step towards the poet, opening her handbag and reaching into it as she did so.

  Proudfoot held out a hand, weeping now, his expression pathetic and at the same time desperately grateful as Pamela pulled something from the handbag and directed it at the young man.

  Maria saw the shocked expression on his face as he registered what Pamela was holding – then she heard the shattering explosion as the girl pulled the trigger of the revolver she gripped in her right hand.

  Proudfoot cried out and fired his own weapon, and Maria heard the bullet thud into the bole of a tree behind her. Proudfoot fell to the ground, clutching his right shoulder and sobbing with pain, the ginger wig hanging grotesquely from his head. Pamela strode towards him and stamped on his gun hand, then kicked the revolver into the undergrowth.

  Maria looked up. Her vision swimming, she made out half a dozen men running through the trees on the far side of the stream. One of them was Donald, and she would never forget the look of stunned relief on his face as he came towards her.

  Walking very slowly now, Maria stepped across the Devil’s Bridge and into his arms.

  EPILOGUE

  Langham kicked his heels in the hallway, reading about Lord Dearborn and the Devil’s Bridge while he waited for Maria to fetch her coat. It was a spine-tingling tale, all the more so after what Maria had told him about Crispin Proudfoot’s desire to carry out her murder at the bridge.

  What, he asked himself, if Proudfoot had never read about Lord Dearborn and his meeting with the Devil? Would the poet have elected to shoot Maria at the folly before Pamela arrived at the scene? The notion made him feel sick.

  He considered Proudfoot and how the young man would have the rest of his life, confined to a mental institution, to dwell on his crimes. The previous day Mallory had brought him up to speed with the case: the poet’s defence lawyers were to plead insanity, and the inspector was sure that they would win the day.

  He heard the click of a door closing and Maria’s footsteps on the ancient, creaking floorboards of the gallery. She appeared at the top of the staircase and the sight of her took his breath away, radiant in her bright red raincoat and cloche hat.

  He recalled sprinting down the hillside two days earlier, sickened at the sight of Proudfoot aiming his weapon at Maria. He had fumbled with his own revolver, all too aware that he was not within range of the killer.

  Then he had heard a gunshot, quickly followed by a second, and expected to see Maria fall to the ground.

  Instead, Proudfoot had fallen, and it had seemed incredible to Langham that both Maria and Pamela had survived.

  ‘All set?’ Maria said, tapping down the steps.

  ‘Are you sure …?’ he began.

  ‘Donald, I told you. I want to do this. I need to …’

  ‘Lay the ghost.’

  ‘Ah, oui. Lay the ghost. I want my memories of the Grange to be pleasant ones, of you and me here – not of Proudfoot and what he tried to do.’

  ‘Come on, then.’ He proffered his arm and she took it.

  They left the house and walked up the hill to the folly.

  It was a brilliantly bright, cold winter’s day, ten days before Christmas. On Saturday they were due to have a second viewing of Yew Tree Cottage, and they had decided to stay at the Grange for a few days until then. At first, Langham had been unsure that remaining here was a good idea, but Maria would have none of it when he suggested they return to London. She wished to lay the ghost.

  They came to the folly and halted, taking in the view.

  The land on every side was very still, sealed silver with lingering frost and hazy. In the distance he made out a solitary tractor, drawing black parallel lines through a field of stubble. Rooks took off from woodland at the foot of the valley, cawing as they rose en masse.

  They sat side by side in the folly and Maria gripped his hand.

  She said quietly, ‘Now I know how Ralph feels, Donald.’

  He looked at her, frowning. ‘Ralph?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He is tied to you.’

  Langham opened his mouth in a silent ‘Ah’ of comprehension.

  ‘When someone saves your life,’ she said, ‘something happens between you. It is not a debt – nothing as simplistic as that. It is a kind of gratitude that goes beyond words and ties you to that person.’ She smiled. ‘I cannot even begin to describe what I feel for the girl. Had Pamela not done what she did, had she not been given the gun by Ralph’ – she shook her head – ‘I would be dead, Donald.’

  He gripped her hand. ‘The very thought …’ he murmured.

  ‘And I am glad that she did not kill Proudfoot,’ she said.

  Langham nodded. ‘Me, too.’

  She stared down at his hand in hers, then said, ‘He tried to make me feel guilty. Proudfoot said that what I did to Fenton, that my hitting him over the head … that that was the start of his troubles—’

  ‘What utter rubbish!’

  ‘I know it is. That’s what I was about to say. Maxwell Fenton was as he was long before I met him. What he told his son about me and all the others … He was lying in order to make Proudfoot think better of him. And look what it led to – the deaths of five innocent people.’

  ‘And all along I thought Fenton the insane one.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, staring off into the distance, ‘how I wish I had never met Maxwell Fenton!’

  She jumped up suddenly, startling him, and strode off a few yards. She stopped, staring down at the Grange, her back to him. She hung her head, and only then – by the movements of her shoulders – did he realize that she was crying.

  He jumped to his feet. ‘Maria?’

  She turned, staring at him with tears streaming down her cheeks.

  ‘I lied, Donald!’

  He reached out for her, tried to pull her to him, but she resisted.

  She shook her head. ‘I lied!’ she said, staring at him.

  ‘Lied? I don’t … About what?’

  She pressed her knuckles to her lips, half turned and stared into the distance.

  ‘You’ll hate me, Donald, but I must tell you. I lied to you, because … because I didn’t want you to know, in case you would think less of me. But I must tell you the truth, and if you hate me for that, and want to … to leave—’

  He reached out, took her by the shoulders and gently shook her. He smiled, oddly relieved at her words. ‘I love you, Maria, and what you did when you were eighteen, a mere girl …’ He shook his head. ‘How could what you did then – manipulated as you were by a scheming egotist – how could that stop me loving the person you are now?’

  She stared at him with wide eyes. ‘You know?’

  ‘I think I suspected when I saw Fenton’s portrait of Hermione Goudge at her apartment. There was something in her eyes, a certain look … And it was the same look as you had in your eyes in the painting I saw at Winterfield.’

  Maria shook her head, staring at him, her expression frozen with fear.

  He reached out and stroked her cheek. ‘So what if you were smitten with him and had an affair?’ He shrugged. ‘You were eighteen, Maria, a child, and you shouldn’t suffer for what you did then – or what he did to you.’

  ‘Oh!’ She gave a sob and embraced him. ‘I thought you’d hate me – hate me for what I did then, and for lying to you now.’

  He stroked a strand of hair from her forehead. ‘Two days ago, down at the bridge when I saw that you were unharmed … I’d expected the worst – all the way to the Grange, I feared you were already dead. And what I felt for you as I came over the bridge …’ He held her at arm’s length and stared into her eyes, squeezing her shoulders. ‘I understand why you didn’t tell me what happened all those years ago, and believe me when I say that it doesn’t matter one jot, all ri
ght?’

  She rested her head on his shoulder and wept with relief.

  Later, they walked arm in arm down the hill and through the woods to the Devil’s Bridge.

  They crossed the bridge and turned, and Langham stood in silence as Maria stared across to where Crispin Proudfoot had confronted her and Pamela.

  He watched her. She compressed her lips, her eyes hard as she relived the moment. Then she nodded to herself and, in silence, she took his hand and they made their way back across the Devil’s Bridge to the Grange.