Belinda knew where the missing fragment of paper was and what writing it contained.
The torn portion she had taken from Rosemary’s dead hand and hidden behind the watercolour in the long room at the cottage. It bore the missing name – Michelangelo.
Hardly had Belinda’s car turned out of one end of the street when Mark’s car appeared at the other. It sped to a halt outside his house and Mark flung open the door and ran up the short path to the front entrance.
He clattered into the empty hall and stood at the door of the study. An open book on the desk illuminated by the desk lamp told him all he needed to know. His arms dropped in a thwarted gesture to his side.
Belinda had discovered the letters.
***
Fourteen
The two pieces of paper fitted together like a well-constructed jigsaw puzzle.
“I hope I am not in error to desire a diminutive canvas from a …”
Belinda slid the triangular fragment of paper against the torn edge.
“a diminutive canvas from a … Michelangelo.”
Belinda’s hands shook as she dropped the incriminating letters onto the table.
‘It was Mark.’
A chill of horror engulfed her as the reality of Mark’s involvement in Rosemary’s murder sank into her consciousness. Mark had stabbed Rosemary with the ice pick and wrenched the letter from her fingers. The triangular particle had torn along the crease and remained in Rosemary’s hand.
Belinda dropped onto the sofa, icy perspiration coating her brow. She felt ill with the thought that she had dined with Mark and had actually cleaned his house. She shivered in the damp night air. Restlessly she rose and paced back and forth across the narrow room like a caged and frightened animal.
‘I’ve got to tell the police.’ Belinda ran towards the door. ‘I’ve got to tell Jacob.’
The door handle was cold and clammy in her hand as she wrenched the huge door open. The ferocious rain engulfed her.
Out of the liquid shroud a hand grasped her tightly.
Belinda screamed of fright as the black nightmare shape thrust itself against her, engulfing her in its watery arms.
Belinda felt herself propelled back against the wall. She heard the creature call her name and felt the stinging blow across her face as its claw struck her cheek.
Belinda gulped and caught her breath. She opened her eyes. The night-monster was Mark, his eyes alight with excitement. He grasped her shoulders and shook her violently.
‘Belinda. Be quiet.’ He shook her again.
‘You killed her!’
Belinda backed away from Mark. His strong hands reached out for her and she hit out at them.
‘No.’ Mark’s voice was harsh, desperate.
‘Yes. You killed her and took the letters.’
Belinda reached the door of the long room and flung herself in, searching the room for some means of defence.
‘Shut up, you stupid bitch, and listen to me.’
Mark hurled her down onto the sofa. Belinda struggled but he held her firm.
‘Listen to me. She was dead when I got here.’
Belinda squirmed to be free of his grip.
‘You’re lying. You came here to get the letters and you killed her.’
She glared into his angry face. His fingers bit into her arm.
‘I didn’t know about the letters. Why would I come looking for them here?’
‘You knew about the garden plan.’
‘Of course I did, but not about the letters. I came here to talk to you. The door was open and I thought the house was empty. I came in, thinking I could find the plan. Then I saw Rosemary’s body in the kitchen. She had some papers in her hand. I thought it was what I was looking for. The garden plan. I reached out and took hold of them. As I pulled them away a piece tore off. Then I panicked. I realised that if anyone found me there they would think I had killed her. Later, when I got home, I realised that the letters were written to and by Capability Brown and were connected with the design for your garden.’
Both of them gasped for breath.
‘Do you believe me?’ Mark’s voice vibrated with anxiety.
Belinda ran a cold eye over him. ‘Why should I?’
Mark gave an exasperated growl. ‘Look, I freely admit I wanted the plans and I had every intention of stealing them if I could. I admit that I tried everything I could to get you to sell the property, and I would have profited from the sale. I admit all that. But murder was not – definitely not – part of my scheme.’
Belinda struggled upright as a new thought struck her.
‘Then where did the letters come from?’
Mark shrugged his shoulders and, brushing his wet hair off his forehead, sank down on his haunches.
‘Weren’t they here in the house?’
Belinda shook her head violently. ‘I’ve never seen them before tonight.’ She felt as though she was going mad. Where would Rosemary have found them?
‘But she was in this house, it must have been here that she discovered them.’
‘No!’ cried Belinda, vehemently. ‘She rang me from her cottage. I was working at Mrs Mainwaring’s.’ She leaned forward as she recalled Rosemary’s telephone call. ‘She sounded distracted, as though she was guilty about something.’
‘What did she say? Did she mention the letters?’
‘No. She didn’t really say anything. She just said she wanted to tell me something – no – to show me something.’
‘The letters. She wanted to show them to you.’
Belinda scowled at Mark, irritated by his statement of the obvious. ‘Of course she did. But I still can’t figure out where she got them. It wasn’t here, I’m sure.’
‘Then what was she doing in the kitchen?’
‘I suggested that we meet here. She was to wait for me and I told her to make a cup of tea. But Mark, she already had the letters before she rang, I’m certain.’
Mark rose shivering in his damp clothes.
‘Well, she can’t tell you now what happened. But perhaps he can.’
Belinda looked up at Mark in bewilderment.
‘Who?’
Mark nodded in the direction of Jacob’s cottage.
‘Your neighbour. He must know what her movements were that day.’
‘But Jacob wasn’t here. He was over at Westbury quoting on a job.’
Mark’s lips curled into a derisive smile. ‘You’re rather fond of him aren’t you?’
Belinda leapt to her feet and stood before Mark, her jaw set. ‘And what if I am? Does that offend your masculine pride?’
Mark shrugged. ‘I find it just a waste, that’s all.’
‘And I find it a waste of time standing here talking to you, Mark. You’d better go. I’m sure you know the way out.’
Mark stood for a moment as though about to reply, then strode to the door.
‘Of course, Mark, you’ll tell the police all that you’ve told me tonight? If you don’t – I will.’
Mark paused at the doorway. ‘You needn’t worry.’ His precise voice was taut with resentment. ‘I’ll go to the police station first thing in the morning.’
The roar of the rain filled the void as their angry voices ceased. Mark stepped into the hall and Belinda flinched as the front door slammed shut. She let her breath out in a rush and gasped, for she had hardly inhaled in the last few minutes.
With a shock she realised that she now had not only the valuable garden plan but also the letters. In haste Belinda withdrew the plan from its hiding place, which she now felt to be insecure. Folding the letters within it she mounted the stairs to the bedroom.
Above the bed was the oval photograph of aunt Jane. Dressed in white as a young debutante, she sat on an ornate chair clutching a bouquet of white roses. Her monochrome eyes seemed to approve Belinda’s actions as she clambered onto the bed.
Taking the photograph from the wall and brushing away years of dust and cobwebs, Belinda slid the papers be
hind the photograph and replaced the oval frame on the wall. Straightening the picture she gave a conspiratorial smile to the image of her aunt as though including her in the secret.
A flash of light from the distant headlights of a car swept over the photograph, and Belinda realised that the curtains were not drawn. Fearing that someone had seen her hide the papers, Belinda rushed to the window but the headlights of the car were vanishing past the pub. Nevertheless, she pulled the heavy drapes closed.
But her uncertainty over Mark’s innocence or guilt plagued her.
Was he telling the truth?
Or was he a clever murderer biding his time?
Should she go to the police?
Question after question whirled around her brain.
Pulling on a dry coat and snatching up an umbrella, Belinda hurried out into the deluge. Fighting against the barrier of rain, she made her way slowly up the hill to Jacob’s cottage.
‘I’ve got to talk to someone sane, or I’ll go mad myself.’ thought Belinda, as she reached the gate. The cottage was in darkness. A sense of foreboding, almost tangible, rose up and enveloped her.
***
Fifteen
The kitchen, long unheated, was cold and damp. Belinda fumbled for the light switch and the feeble glow of the solitary bulb barely revealed the table and chairs, the walls merging into a dark encompassing cavity.
‘Jacob. Are you there?’
Belinda’s voice sounded shrill in the frigid isolation of the cottage, and she sensed there would be no reply. She sank down at the table to think.
‘If Mark is correct, and the letters were in my house, how did Rosemary get hold of them? But if I’m right, and they were not in my house, where did she find them?’
Her eyes swept over the tabletop. A pile of unopened letters and a gardening magazine lay beside a loaf of stale bread. Beneath the envelopes she could see a small notepad. Reaching out, she withdrew the book from its hiding place.
‘It’s Jacob’s notebook.’
She spoke aloud, finding comfort in the sound of her own voice in the eerie emptiness of the still house.
Idly Belinda flipped through the tattered pages. She came upon the notes Jacob had made the day she asked for a quote to redevelop the garden. How long ago that seemed and with it, the joy she had felt at the prospect of exploring her new home and the challenge of renovating the garden.
Belinda flipped through further pages. On each dated page were notes, reminders and requirements, for work to be done on various gardens in numerous villages and addresses. A surge of curiosity overtook Belinda and she flicked the pages back to the date of Rosemary’s murder.
‘That’s odd,’ she said, her voice barely audible above the noise of the incessant rain. She went back over the pencilled dates.
‘He says nothing about the job at Westbury. He was there when Rosemary was murdered. Why didn’t he jot it down in his book? Unless he forgot, or unless …’
‘Unless I wasn’t there.’
Belinda leapt to her feet in fright.
Jacob stood at the shadowy foot of the stairs.
‘Jacob! You scared me to death. I thought you were still away.’
‘So you thought you’d come and snoop through my things,’ said Jacob coldly, as he moved into the thin light. He looked bloodless and edgy, his eyes wide and staring.
‘Don’t be silly, Jacob. I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to ask if Rosemary had told you about some letters she’d found.’
‘Letters?’
Jacob edged closer to the table. His hands grasped the back of a chair tightly and the veins in his arms stood out like thin black vines.
‘You mean the old lady’s letter?’ Before Belinda could reply he went on. ‘Rosie had made friends with the old girl. Baked her scones and cakes and things. It was tough going. She didn’t respond easily.’
Belinda shook her head in confusion. ‘Jacob, what are you talking about?’
‘I wanted the garden.’ Jacob’s voice hardened and grew intense. ‘I wanted to recreate Capability Brown’s concept. Gradually we got under the old lady’s guard. She started to let us do things for her. Some shopping, post her mail, things like that. We went to her one day and found her dead, sprawled out at the bottom of the stairs. We agreed that we would say nothing about it because there was a chance that we could get the cottage and the garden if the property was auctioned. But then Rosie mailed the letter the old lady had given her the night before she died. I told her not to send it, to destroy it, but Rosie sent it without telling me. And then we heard that she had willed you the cottage.’ The bitterness in his voice increased.
‘So that’s how it was posted after she died.’ Belinda took in this information, then shook her head.
‘But that’s not the letter I’m talking about. I mean the letter that was written to Capability Brown. About designing a small garden in this village.’
Jacob dropped his head onto his chest. His voice was hoarse and a shiver caused his shoulders to tremble.
‘Rosie found them.’
‘Where? In my house?’
Jacob shook his head. ‘No. In my room.’
Belinda’s brow creased in puzzlement. ‘How did they get there?’
Jacob slowly raised his head until he was looking directly at Belinda. He spoke in a listless manner but his eyes held her firmly in his gaze.
‘I got them from the old lady’s house. She must have found them. I searched one day while Rosie kept her busy outside. I was looking for the garden plan. For years there’s been rumours that the plan existed but no one knew where or which property had the remains of the garden, but it was clear to me that it was your aunt’s. I knew she’d got wind of it, and she used to ask me questions about it. If the plan existed it had to be in her cottage. I found the letters that proved I was right, but not the plan. I’m not certain even your aunt knew where that was. Rosie didn’t realise I’d got the letters, but I knew they would prove that it was your property that Capability had designed the garden for.’ He glanced around distractedly.
‘Rosie had them in her hand when she died … and I ran.’ His voice grew husky. ‘Ran and ran and ran.’ He looked earnestly at Belinda. ‘Rosie must have found them in my room and was going to give them back to you. What she didn’t know was that I was waiting in your cottage.’
‘In my cottage? But … what were you doing there?’
There was a short silence and then Jacob spoke softly but distinctly.
‘I killed Rosemary. I took the ice pick and drove it into her skull.’
Belinda felt a terrible numbness invade her body.
‘You killed your sister?’ she breathed in horrified disbelief.
Jacob nodded slowly.
‘Oh, Jacob, why?’
A flush of colour tinged Jacob’s gaunt cheeks.
‘You don’t think I meant to kill Rosie, do you?’ He gave a slight, odd laugh. ‘I mean, how could you think I’d plan to kill my sister? I heard her in the kitchen, and it seemed like the only thing to do.’ He looked at Belinda earnestly.
‘I took up the ice-pick and when she leant out the kitchen door, I … killed her.’
‘But you said you didn’t mean to kill Rosie.’
Jacob leant forward across the table, his voice gentle as though explaining to a backward child.
‘Of course not. I meant to kill you.’
To Belinda it seemed as though her heart had stopped beating. Instinctively she took a step backwards towards the door.
Jacob edged around the table. He seemed like a small boy attempting to explain a mindless diversion to a disbelieving and sceptical adult.
‘You see, if you were dead, there was a chance for me to buy the cottage. I thought first of marrying you, so that as your husband I would own the land.’ He stopped and frowned. ‘But that would have meant leaving Rosie, and I couldn’t do that. Not after all she’d done for me. So I decided that if you were dead I could buy your land when it came up for auc
tion.’
Belinda’s hand closed over the door handle. Her only thought was to escape, to get away from this madman.
Jacob continued talking pedantically, as though rehearsing a speech.
‘I went to your cottage to wait for you to come home. I heard someone in the kitchen. I thought it was you. But it was Rosie. And I …’ Jacob paused, tears sprang into his eyes and he roughly wiped them away.
‘After I killed her, I ran. I told people I was in Westbury on a job. I thought I’d go mad.’
‘Did you think you’d go mad when you killed my aunt?’
Jacob stared at her in innocent disbelief.
‘Oh, no. I didn’t kill her. She fell down the stairs. It was an accident. You must believe me, I didn’t kill her. Just ask Rosie.’
He gasped as the words left his mouth and he whimpered his dead sister’s name.
‘I don’t believe you.’
Belinda turned the handle and pulled the door open.
The rain swept over her like a curtain as she ran into the intense storm.
A glance over her shoulder showed Jacob silhouetted against the door as he gave chase.
His voice challenged the tormented elements.
‘I want that garden,..’ he shouted, his voice strident and full of bitterness.
Hardly able to breathe, Belinda reached her gate and pushed the heavy door open. It gave easily and she felt herself fall and land heavily on the garden path.
The key to the front door of the cottage flew from her hand and disappeared into the mud and rotting foliage.
Jacob’s heavy footsteps crashed closer as she hauled herself to her feet. Her only hope was to find a hiding place somewhere in the garden until either Jacob gave up or morning light permitted escape.
Slipping and sliding in the mud, Belinda headed down the hill just as Jacob reached the gate. He saw her blurred figure disappear into the wall of rain and continued his furious pursuit.
She clung to the trunk of a tree for support, drawing herself into its concealing shadow. Her hope was that Jacob would bypass her and she could then retrace her steps to the gate and seek help.
The torrent of rain drowned out any chance she had of hearing Jacob approach. Uncertain now where he was in the garden, she tentatively peered around the tree trunk. She could see no more than a foot or two before her.
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