River of Destiny

by Barbara Erskine

  It was a long time later that he heard the bell clanging frantically from the small belfry on the end of the church. Someone had found the body and was summoning help.

  In the barn Amanda lay staring up at the ceiling of their bedroom. She had been intensely disappointed to find it was a comparatively ordinary room at the back of the building. It had a no doubt beautiful view, but from what she could see in the moonlight, it faced across the fields. There was no sign of the river. It had been very late when the party had at last broken up and Rosemary and Steve had made their way out into a night, suddenly illuminated by the cold white lights clicking on beneath the eaves, floodlighting the lawns. It had been fun in the end, Zoë’s weird turn neutralised by the liberal doses which Ken had poured of their expensive brandy. She frowned in irritation as John beside her let out a particularly resonant snore. Alcohol always did that to him. However tired she was she was not going to sleep now. She sat up and swung her feet to the floor, grabbing her dressing gown.

  The landing was in darkness. She felt her way towards the staircase and began to make her way down. The great room was warm from the fire in the woodburner. The glass doors showed a deep glow. She could still smell the range of

  smells from the evening; the faint residue of cooking, the warm pungency of Ken’s wine, the sharper notes of the brandy, the light traces of the women’s scent. At the bottom of the stairs she paused and stared round, her eyes becoming used to the faint light from the fire, and soundlessly she subsided to sit down on the lowest step, her bare feet on the wood floor, her hand on the turned oak post at the base of the banisters. Quietly she began to try to still her thoughts, to tune in to whatever unhappy spirit haunted this place. She had been extremely miffed to find she had sensed nothing of the turmoil which had obviously left its mark here. Why had she not picked up on it? She prided herself on her sensitivity.

  She waited, her eyes fixed on the stove, watching the flickering fire behind the glass. A log slipped slightly and banged against the doors and she jumped. Her attention wavered a little towards the table over by the far wall and she debated the idea of going to pour herself another small libation from the brandy bottle. It was a tempting thought but she didn’t move. Her sleepiness was beginning to overwhelm her. Her head nodded and just for a moment she rested it in the cradle of her arms on her knees.

  They cut Dan’s body down and laid him in the straw. Then they dispatched Robert up to the Hall, riding on one of the Suffolks, the harness bouncing loose on the horse’s fat rump as it trotted heavily up the drive. While George and John the cowman waited with the body, Ben stayed outside in the sun. He had stopped sobbing now and sat, a small frozen figure, arms hugging his thin body, on an upturned bucket near the pump. The two men debated urgently what to do about Susan. ‘She has to know,’ George said firmly. ‘Poor woman can’t be left in ignorance.’ Both men glanced towards the open door and the forge on the far side of the yard.

  John breathed out heavily between his teeth. ‘Reckon your missus will be with her. You go and have a word and see what she thinks.’

  George nodded. ‘Should we cover him, do you think?’

  John went over to the stall where Bella had been stabled, and gathered up the old horse blanket which had been thrown over the wooden partition. He laid it gently over their friend and pulled it up over the face, shaking his head sadly as George walked slowly over to the cottage behind the forge.

  It was a long time before he returned. When he did he was alone. He laid his hand gently on the boy’s head as he passed him, then he went into the barn and grimaced at John. ‘The baby is on its way. Betsy said not to say a word. She’s calling for him and we’ve had to say he’s been sent off to town. Poor Susan.’ He shook his head. ‘Betsy says it’s not looking good. Baby’s breached. Jessie is there and they’ve sent for Mother Bartle.’

  The men shook their heads soberly. Mary Bartle, down in the village, combined the role of midwife with that of laying out the dead.

  ‘No word from the Hall?’ George went on.

  ‘Nothing yet.’ John groped in his pocket for his pipe. ‘I reckon I might take the boy back to his mum. You’ll watch him?’ He meant Dan. George nodded.

  It was a while before the squire arrived riding the cob; not far behind him Sam was driving the squire’s valet, William Mayhew, and Robert in the dog cart. The men walked into the barn.

  ‘Dear God! What happened?’ Squire Crosby stood looking down at the blanket. George pulled it back. ‘We reckon someone killed him,’ he said succinctly.

  Henry Crosby looked at him sharply. ‘Nonsense. Who would do such a thing?’ He studied Dan’s face. ‘Surely, the man hanged himself.’

  ‘He didn’t hang,’ George said quietly. ‘Someone cut his throat. Look at all the blood. Besides, his feet were on the ground.’

  Henry Crosby moved a step forward. His own face had darkened to a deep shade of red. ‘Nonsense I said! He’s hanged himself. Look at the noose, the rope round the beam. Did he leave a note?’

  George looked uncomfortable. ‘Not that I can see.’

  ‘Search his pockets, man. It’s obvious what he’s done. He couldn’t live with the crime he had committed.’ He glared round. The men behind him all looked at the ground. John shuffled his feet. It was George who reluctantly pulled the blanket back further and gingerly inserted his hand into Dan’s pockets one by one. The note was in the pocket of his leather jerkin. He drew it out with two fingers and held it up reluctantly.

  ‘Give it to me.’ Henry Crosby was sweating.

  George held it out to him. All the men were watching intently as the squire unfolded it. ‘“I can’t go on”,’ he read. “What I did was a crime I can’t live with. I pray that God will forgive me.”’ He snorted with disgust and screwed up the note, throwing it down on the ground. ‘I hope God will do so, but I doubt it,’ he said firmly. ‘So, what to do with him?’

  ‘Shall I go for the police, sir?’ George asked.

  The squire shook his head. ‘No need for that. We can clearly see what happened. We’ll sort this out ourselves. How is his wife?’ He looked round at the men.

  ‘Not good, sir. My missus and Mrs Turtill are with her and they’ve sent for Mother Bartle. Susan is very poorly,’ George replied.

  ‘Then for her sake we will sort this out ourselves. As Justice of the Peace I will authorise his burial. As a suicide he cannot rest in consecrated ground so we will bury him ourselves.’ Henry Crosby’s face was hard and his voice firm. ‘You men will dig the grave. The sooner the matter is dealt with the better for everyone, particularly his wife. See to it tonight.’

  ‘But, sir –’ George and Robert protested with one voice.

  ‘Enough! Deal with it quickly and discreetly. You understand what that means? No one must ever hear about this. For his wife’s sake. Tell her there was an accident, or that he has run away and deserted her. She will have to leave the cottage, but I will allow her to remain until she is churched. She can think herself lucky for that.’ He turned to Mayhew, who was standing behind the others, his face as white as a sheet. ‘See to it that they deal with this quickly. And you, Sam, help to arrange it. Put him in the spinney in Dead Man’s Field.’ He gave a sharp snort of laughter. ‘That seems appropriate. This matter will never be mentioned again, do you understand? I do not wish my wife to come to hear about it from anyone but me. Is that clearly understood?’ He looked at each man in turn, then he walked out of the barn.

  The men looked at each other. ‘The callous bastard,’ Sam said softly. They stood in silence watching as the squire swung himself up onto his horse and trotted across the yard and up the track towards the Hall.

  ‘What do we do?’ Robert asked.

  ‘We do as we’re told,’ Sam replied. ‘What choice have we got?’

  Amanda awoke to find herself sitting at the foot of the stairs in the dark. She had an agonisingly stiff neck and she was very cold. The fire still glowed in the woodburner but the heat was less inten
se now. Outside the window the moon was high in the sky; the lights were off and the garden lit by an ethereal gauzy moonlight. She hauled herself to her feet and stood for a moment clinging to the newel post, staring round. She had been dreaming but the dream had gone. Staggering slightly from stiffness she walked across to the window and stared out. It was unbelievably beautiful out there, magical even. She could see the great trees down on the far side of the lawns, the milky mist lying over the water and there drifting up-river a huge square-rigged sail. It didn’t occur to her until much later to wonder why the sail billowed as if before a strong wind, when the night outside was so still the dew was turning drop by drop into the first sparkling frost of autumn.

  Jade was sitting at Leo’s table next morning when he came down for breakfast. ‘I thought I told you to give me all your keys.’

  She assumed a look of outraged innocence. ‘I forgot I had another one. Sorry.’

  He held out his hand. ‘Give it here.’ At this rate he would have to change the locks, like the Lloyds.

  She shook her head. ‘You still owe me.’ She had helped herself to a bowl of muesli and drowned it in milk. ‘This tastes shitty. Like cardboard.’

  ‘And I suppose you are going to chuck it out and waste it.’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m hungry.’

  ‘Will wonders never cease. Is Jackson not feeding you?’

  She grinned. ‘I keep out of his way. He’s busy.’

  ‘That’s a frightening thought. Busy with what?’

  ‘Plans. The footpath woman is going to have another meeting tomorrow out in the field.’ It had been so easy to find out it was pathetic. The woman talked about it incessantly and loudly on the phone, and the phone was near the window. She didn’t even use her mobile so she could walk about. She had rung all her troublemaking friends and discussed it with each one of them, planning it as though it was a war campaign instead of a silly little walk.

  ‘And what is Jackson going to do?’

  ‘Mike’s dad is ploughing it up today. That’ll piss them off, big time. We’re going to watch.’

  ‘Just watch?’

  ‘Yeah. What else?’

  ‘It sounds a bit too passive for you lot.’

  She took a huge mouthful of cereal and found herself unable to talk for several seconds. Chewing hard, she watched Leo fill the kettle. ‘We reckon,’ she said at last, ‘that she will call the police again.’

  ‘Or Bill Turtill will. It is his field, after all.’

  ‘Whatever.’ She took another mouthful. He had a feeling that she was actually enjoying the stuff, but he wisely said nothing.

  ‘Did you know your girlfriend has guests over at the Old Barn?’ Jade went on. ‘I watched them last night. They had a dinner party. All posh with candles and loads of knives and forks and glasses and stuff. It smelled really nice.’

  Leo shook his head. ‘So you poor little soul pressed your nose to the windows and watched the rich people eat? Don’t give me that one, Jade. Your mum and dad could buy the Lloyds out ten times over and still have too much change to count.’

  Jade grinned at him and he realised too late he should have denied the girlfriend tag at once. He decided to leave it. What was the point? She knew what was happening. ‘So, what were the friends like?’ he asked, curious in spite of himself.

  ‘Nice. John and Amanda.’ She pronounced the names with exaggerated care. ‘They bought them loads of bottles of plonk. And later, after they had all gone to bed,’ Jade glanced at him archly, ‘Amanda came downstairs and sat on the bottom step all by herself in the dark. Do you reckon she’s in love with Ken?’

  He glanced at her, suspicious at the look of bland innocence on her face as she took another mouthful of his muesli. ‘I have no idea,’ he said. He hoped his tone was repressive enough to deter further speculation.

  ‘She just sat there for a long time in the dark, then she walked across to the window and stared out at the moonlight all dreamily.’

  ‘Moonlight can be very beautiful, Jade.’ She had obviously found a way to circumnavigate their damn floodlights. He should warn Zoë that their every move was being spied on. ‘Do you never just stand and stare up at the moon and dream?’

  She shook her head. ‘Why would I?’

  ‘Why indeed.’ He smiled tolerantly.

  ‘As she’s busy,’ Jade went on suddenly, ‘you could take me out on your boat.’

  He was tempted. He wondered if he could by any means possible instil even a small amount of poetic soul into the child. ‘Have you learned to swim?’

  ‘Yes.’ She looked him in the eye.

  He knew she must be lying. ‘Would you wear a life jacket the whole time and do as you’re told?’

  Her whole face was lighting up with excitement as he spoke. ‘I promise!’ For the first time in a long time there was a genuine ring of sincerity in her voice. He noted it carefully. It would be useful to remember it for future use.

  ‘You will have to get Jackson’s approval. He is in charge of you, isn’t he? Officially.’

  ‘I’ll get him to write a note for you.’ She abandoned her bowl and spoon and was dancing round him.

  He realised at once the scope for loopholes. ‘I will need to speak to him on the phone.’ Forgery was probably one of her specialities.

  Her face fell. ‘He’s gone out.’

  ‘He’s got a mobile.’

  She scowled.

  ‘No call, no trip.’

  It was surprisingly easy. The voice on the end of the phone was undoubtedly Jackson. He was distracted and somewhere noisy – Ipswich, at a guess. He had no time for niceties. ‘Try not to drown her, yeah?’ was his response before he ended the call.

  Leo gazed at the phone helplessly as he replaced it on the table. ‘It sounds as though it’s OK,’ he said.

  To his astonishment she did as she was told and proved to be a natural sailor. She was used to the river in her father’s large motor boat, but the silence and the sensitivity of travelling under sail enchanted her. She had no qualms about the weather. There was a brisk wind blowing and the Curlew heeled over as they beat down-river, the slap of the waves against the prow and the spray in their faces. He was tempted to take the boat out beyond the bar into the sea, but in the end he resisted. He could see the white-topped rollers in the distance; he would have to insist she wear a safety line and instinctively he knew that would spoil it all for her. Hauling the boat round he put the helm up and headed back up-river. ‘Enjoying yourself?’ he asked at last.

  She nodded, her eyes sparkling. ‘I’m a better sailor than her,’ she said.

  He groaned inwardly. ‘You’re a better sailor than a lot of people I know. You should ask your dad if he would get you a dinghy – a little Topper or something – and you could have some lessons up at the club. Then you could sail on your own.’

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘You like sailing alone best?’

  He nodded. ‘I’m afraid I do. I like my own company. I like to watch the weather and the birds and the water. The river is endlessly fascinating.’

  This time she didn’t scoff. She frowned as though trying to understand. ‘Because it’s different colours all the time.’

  Yes! He almost punched the air in delight. ‘And different textures, different moods. Like a woman.’ He grinned.

  ‘Because of the weather.’ She was being very literal, concentrating.

  ‘Indeed. And the tide and the season.’

  ‘Did you tell her all this?’

  He sighed. ‘Zoë understands about the tides and the winds. She is used to sailing.’

  ‘Then why is she scared?’

  Leo frowned. How did she know that? Had he told her? ‘Because Ken likes racing. He likes pushing the boat to the limit. He sometimes does dangerous things.’

  She was silent for a while. ‘I would never be scared,’ she said at last.

  ‘No, I don’t suppose you would. That is why I think you should learn to sail properly. Next summer
holidays perhaps. You should ask your mum and dad.’

  He adjusted the main sheet. The wind was dropping and they were moving more slowly, feeling the pull of the tide against them. He glanced behind and felt himself grow cold. A thick wall of mist was drifting towards them up the main channel.

  ‘See here,’ George glanced up at Fred Turtill as they stooped together over Dan’s body. ‘Under the rope. His throat’s been cut.’

  Fred nodded slowly. ‘Nobody ever bled to death by hanging,’ he said quietly. ‘Poor lad.’

  ‘Reckon that bitch of a wife of his was behind it?’ Robert had walked up behind them. He was carrying two horse blankets. They all knew who he meant.

  ‘Molly said the mistress told gov’nor that she’d been raped,’ Sam put in.

  ‘That’s a lie!’

  ‘We all know it was a lie. But who would have done this?’ They stood in silence for a while.

  ‘Squire went to Ipswich last week. A few days after I sent Zeph packing for beating that horse to death,’ Sam said at last. His voice was very quiet. ‘My son Walt works as a carter in Ipswich. He saw Zeph catch a lift back to Woodbridge yesterday.’

  The men looked at each other.

  ‘Well, if it was him, he’ll be long gone over the fields. I’ll put word out and see what happens,’ Fred put in. ‘In the meantime, lads, we’ve no alternative but to do what the governor wants, I reckon. Put old Dan in Dead Man’s Field, and we’ll say a prayer over him ourselves.’

  There was a sound behind them and they all turned. It was Betsy. She was looking at the blanket-covered figure on the ground. She shook her head. ‘Poor soul,’ she said. There were tears in her eyes. ‘The babe is dead,’ she went on softly. ‘He never lived to open his eyes. Maybe he should go in with his da’.’

  ‘And Susan?’

  ‘I’ve not told her. She’s beyond hearing. I doubt if she will last the day.’