There’s no going back now. For the briefest moment, Hugh thought about turning around and heading back to Much Killham, but thoughts of Vera and their lost chance of happiness sparked a flare of anger. He used that spark to fuel his courage, easily blaming Margaret for his lifetime of misery. Walking through the living room, Hugh took in the chairs and the small writing desk. He rifled through it quickly. Nothing. The heels of his boots clicked on the wooden floor as he walked to the bedroom. Heart pounding, he began to search, noticing right away there was no evidence of Margaret’s lover, no shaving kit, no men’s slippers. Interesting that Margaret had driven him away so quickly.
Margaret had always been lazy about picking up her things. Her cruel nature made it difficult for her to keep a maid, and after a number of years, Margaret had given up and learned to live with her own squalor. Hugh surveyed the familiar disarray of the room, clothing everywhere, cosmetics strewn across the dressing table, piles of clothes stacked on the only chair, the chaos a metaphor for their relationship. Opening the door to the wardrobe, Hugh went through it inch by inch. He searched each individual shoe, looked in all the hat boxes, and checked the pockets of the clothes that remained on hangers. Nothing. After rummaging through the clothes scattered about the room and stacked on the chair, he still hadn’t found Martin’s money. Surely Margaret hadn’t spent it already? Put it in a bank? No. Margaret wouldn’t do that. Not only did she not like banks, she liked the actual feel and smell of the bank notes. Slowly turning around, his eyes settled on the top of the wardrobe. Standing on the vanity stool, he ran his hand over the dusty top, giving a quiet cry of glee when he felt a thick envelope.
Stepping down, he opened it, surprised once again at how much money there was. Feeling smug at his success, Hugh pushed the wad of notes deep in his pocket but stopped in his tracks when the front door opened and then slammed shut.
Panicked, he hurried to the window only to discover that it was painted shut.
‘Damn,’ he said.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Margaret stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, red-cheeked with fury.
‘I’ve come to tell you I’ve got the chalice,’ Hugh said.
When her eyes widened in surprise, Hugh felt a moment of triumph.
She thrust out her hip and gave him that sultry smile that up until now never failed to arouse him. ‘Clever you. How did you do it?’
‘I’ve been following you. I watched in the woods while you and your lover broke into that man’s house. After you buried what you stole – stupid idea by the way – I simply dug it up. I’m finished, Margaret. Finished with you, with your schemes. I’m taking the chalice to the police, so they can return it to the rightful owner. After they prosecute you, of course.’
Margaret jeered at him. ‘It will be your word against mine.’
‘And who do you think they’ll believe? My family has standing and respect. You—’
‘Oh, stop. I am so tired of your family. Face it, Hugh. You can’t prove anything.’
‘Maybe not. But I can certainly return the money you blackmailed from Martin, along with the letter from him that you were stupid enough to leave behind.’
At the mention of the money, Margaret’s eyes darted from the top of the wardrobe, to the vanity stool.
‘You’re bluffing,’ she said.
‘No. I’m not.’ Hugh moved to the door. ‘Goodbye, Margaret.’
The hairs on the back of Hugh’s neck stood up when Margaret screamed, a primordial wail that breached the stillness of the cottage and – in all likelihood – the entire village. Certain one of the neighbours would now fetch the police, Hugh became anxious. Time to get out of here. Before he had a chance to rush out, Margaret pounced, biting, kicking and clawing at him. He felt the sting of her fingernails along the side of his cheek, followed by the wet damp of his blood as it dripped down his face. With tight fists, she tried to box his ears, but Hugh was tall and she couldn’t quite reach. She kicked his shins. He covered his groin and stepped sideways just in time. When the toe of her shoe connected with the long muscle in his thigh he cried out in pain. There was nothing to be done but wait. Although this was the most violent tantrum Hugh had ever seen, it was not the first. Finally – as had happened so many times before – Margaret stopped, her temper spent. She stood before Hugh, teeth bared, breathing heavily. Dark mascara ran in tracks down her pale cheeks. Her hair had come loose from its pins giving her the crazed look of a madwoman.
‘Don’t. Look. At. Me.’
Hugh took an involuntary step back. During the course of their marriage, Hugh had seen his wife angry, defiant and reckless. But this woman, this version of Margaret, was something altogether new. For the first time in his life, Hugh was frightened of his wife.
‘You bastard,’ she hissed.
Hugh ran for the door. Margaret launched herself at him once more. This time she jumped on his back, wrapping her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck in a choke hold. He felt a jolt of pain as her teeth bit into his earlobe. When he backed into the wall, throwing all his weight into it, Margaret yelped and loosened her hold enough for him to push her onto the bed. She lay there on her back, her eyes full of fury. Hugh felt the blood gush from his torn earlobe.
‘Martin Shoreham was a fool. He’s been trying to get me to be his lover for years. You and Hermione were too stupid to realise it,’ she called after him.
‘We’re finished.’ As he turned to walk out of the room, he picked up a white silk blouse from the pile of clothes on the chair and used it to staunch the blood from his dripping earlobe. When he stepped out into the cold autumn air, he took a deep, cleansing breath and realised he no longer cared about his wife, nor about the social constraints forced upon him by his family. His future was in Much Killham, in the humble cottage next door to Vera Hinks. For the first time in his life, Hugh Bettencourt was free.
***
Hugh hurried home from the bus stop in the dark, his hands and feet getting colder by the minute. His ear throbbed where Margaret had bitten it. The passengers on the bus had given him strange looks as he stumbled to his seat, one hand holding the silk blouse to his still bleeding ear, the other resting on the envelope of cash in his coat pocket. By the time he disembarked, the blouse was soaked through. Who knew ears could bleed so much? He tossed the blouse in the first rubbish bin he came across and trudged home, not caring that his only coat was becoming sodden with the blood that still dripped from his ear. He hurried past his own house, choosing instead to go right to Vera. Her cottage was dark, with the exception of one light in the kitchen. Passing the front door, he went around to the side. Knocking twice to announce himself before he opened the door and stepped into the warmth and good smells of Vera’s kitchen.
Vera sat at the kitchen table, a dismantled handgun in front of her, tears running down her face. Without thinking, he hurried over to her.
‘What’s wrong? Why’ve you got a gun?’
She wiped her tears. ‘Don’t mind me. There’s a fox around the hen house. I’ve had a rotten day.’ She looked up at him, her eyes immediately travelling to his bloody ear and stained coat. ‘What have you done to your ear? Sit down before you bleed all over the place. Here, take my chair. I’ll get supplies.’ Cabinet doors opened and closed. Soon she returned with a first-aid kit full of bandages and potions. The unguent she dabbed on his ear stung, but Hugh bit back his cry, enjoying the closeness of her. ‘This may require stitches. If I can’t stop the bleeding, we’ll have to fetch the doctor.’
‘I’ve got the money to return to Hermione.’
‘And it looks like you and Margaret had it out. Did she bite you?’
‘She went mad. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.’ Hugh shook his head. ‘I think she needs a doctor.’ He put his hand over Vera’s and turned to face her. ‘I hate to admit it, but she scared me. She would have killed me if she could.’ He shivered. Vera squeezed his shoulder and kept tending to his ear. When she fin
ished, she poured them both a generous dollop of brandy and sat down across from him.
‘Tell me about your awful day. Why’ve you been crying?’
Vera nodded before she bowed her head. Her hair fell forward revealing the vulnerable skin and the knobby vertebrae at the back of her neck. A stillness overtook her. A knot of fear formed in Hugh’s stomach. He placed a gentle hand on her arm. ‘Vera, please. Tell me. Let me help you.’ His eyes ran over the gun, the cloth she used to clean it, finally coming to rest on the box of bullets.
‘The police were here. My husband was involved with that poor girl who was murdered in Rivenby, the one who was in the newspapers. He was a suspect in her murder and the murder of her unborn child.’
‘Was a suspect?’
Vera nodded. ‘Apparently they’ve found evidence that exonerates him. They’ve been holding him in jail. Now he’s being released. I’m to fetch him tomorrow morning.’
‘Surely you’re not going to let him come here.’ Hugh heard the indignation in his voice and regretted it. He had no rights here, no business telling Vera what she could or couldn’t do.
‘I’ve no choice,’ Vera said. ‘And I know better than to make any major decision while I’m so upset. I’m to pick him up tomorrow morning.’
‘We’re in a mess, aren’t we?’ He whispered into her ear, taking in the earthy scent of her, so different from his wife who always reeked of money and deceit. They stayed like that, sitting in those uncomfortable chairs, leaning on each other for comfort and support. ‘I’ve decided to stay here in Much Killham. I know we can never be more than friends, Vera. I don’t care. I just want to be near you. Being friends doesn’t bother me. Neither does being poor. We could give George my cottage and I could move in here,’ Hugh said.
Vera pushed away and met his eyes. As the absurdity of Hugh’s suggestion sunk in, Vera smiled. Suddenly she burst into laughter, uncontrollable and tinged with a hint of hysteria. Soon Hugh was laughing with her, rollicking laughter that caused tears of mirth to stream down his cheeks. The moment passed. They sat quiet in Vera’s kitchen, the gun on the table before them, cleansed by their hysteria. Just as Hugh resolved to be content with Vera’s friendship, she took his hand and led him to her bed.
Chapter 19
Using his brand-new Carl Zeiss binoculars, Alex watched the back of the cottage he shared with Margaret from his secluded hiding place in the woods. As he sat in the cover of darkness, he thought that he would pay a princely sum for an orange. He wondered when the war would end and thought about the ways men killed each other to resolve their differences and how stupid it all was. Alex knew he was risking his life running away from Michael Grenville, especially after failing to provide the stolen chalice. But Alex accepted the risks of walking away. If he could hide from his nemesis, if he could escape the bombs of London, a life of sweet freedom awaited him.
He zoomed in on the scene in the cottage, not surprised to discover Margaret Bettencourt waging a full-scale internal war of her own. Alex had watched her fight with her husband, had seen the poor man leave the house, blood gushing from his earlobe where Margaret had bitten him. The blood had seeped through the white fabric of Margaret’s blouse, forming deep red peonies in the pristine silk. Now, as Margaret spun through the cottage like a tornado, throwing lamps, figurines and anything else she could get her hands on, he felt validated in his decision to turn her into the authorities. Margaret needed help. Alex had taken subtle steps to ensure she would get it.
Through his binoculars he could see her lips move as clearly as if he were in the room with her. He pitied Margaret, but hadn’t known what to do as he watched her grow more and more unstable and erratic by the day. Certain she now posed a danger to herself and all those in her destructive path, Alex had formulated a plan.
Alex – much like Timmer – lived by a very rigid code of ethics. The code provided rules and boundaries in a business that functioned on lawlessness. In his line of work, straying from this code could mean capture by the police or death. Never had he thrown anyone to the wolves. Never had he attempted to manipulate or control another human being’s life. Alex had an aunt who had similar behaviour patterns to Margaret. She was exciting and fun. But as Alex grew older, he overheard his parents whisper about the poor woman’s mental condition, saddened when his uncle had her committed. After much deliberation, Alex had decided on a course of action intended to keep Margaret’s brother safe and provide an opportunity for Margaret to get the psychiatric help she so desperately needed.
He watched through his binoculars as Margaret moved from their bedroom into the kitchen. Alex had left a very fine bottle of one-hundred-year-old brandy behind. She picked it up and started to splash some in a teacup, then had second thoughts and drank directly from the bottle. Cradling the bottle to her chest like a babe in arms, she danced around the tiny kitchen before she moved back to the bedroom and changed into her black trousers and sweater. Just as the sun went down, Margaret slipped out of the house. There had been many times Alex had witnessed Margaret slip out late at night and return exhausted and smelling of sweat in the early morning hours. He had no idea where she went or what she did while she was away. Would she go for her brother tonight? If so, he needed to hurry. He felt in his pocket for Lady Trevelyan’s brooch. As soon as Margaret slipped out of the house and into the shadows, he scurried to the back door and let himself in.
***
Thomas watched as Cat lay on her back – her arm flung over her head, her mouth hanging open, snoring like a drunken sailor – and loved her all the more. Usually Thomas didn’t mind Cat’s night noises. As a matter of fact, he found them endearing. But the snoring, coupled with worries over his sister, had kept him awake. At 3 a.m., he had given up on sleep all together and had ended up spending the night in his study, sitting in the chair before the fire drinking endless cups of tea. Like a warrior waiting for battle, Thomas – usually a patient man – found the waiting enervating. Every now and again he would patrol the house and check the windows, triple checking everything was appropriately locked. He wished his sister would just come for him, so he could confront her and be done with it.
After the long night passed without incident, Thomas took a tray of tea and toast up to Cat. The autumn chill had settled into the bedroom. He tried to stay quiet as he stoked the fire, creating what appeared to be a cosy atmosphere.
‘Good morning.’ He felt Cat’s eyes on him as he fussed around the bedroom they shared.
‘You’re worried,’ she said. ‘Is it about Margaret?’
‘I suppose. In truth, I’ll feel better once she’s shown her face. At least then I’ll know what I’m dealing with.’ Thomas poured out tea for both of them before he sat in one of the chairs before the fire. ‘And then there’s Lucy Bardwell’s murder and, of course, worries over Michael Grenville.’
‘Are you questioning whether or not you should continue working for DCI Kent?’
Startled, Thomas met Cat’s eyes. ‘I swear, woman, you must be a witch.’
She came to him and snuggled on his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck. ‘I’m not a witch, darling. I just know you. So much of your sense of worth is wrapped up in your ability to protect others, especially me.’ She smiled. ‘Wouldn’t it be ironic if I wound up being the one to save you?’
He kissed her. ‘You already have, love.’
She kissed his nose and stood. ‘Tell me what you’re going to do today?’
‘See what I can do to help locate and neutralise Michael Grenville, after which I will turn my attention to finding out who killed Lucy Bardwell.’
Cat’s face became serious for a moment. ‘You will find out who killed her, won’t you?’
‘You know I can’t make promises like that.’
‘I also know you’ll never forgive yourself if the case goes unsolved,’ Cat said. ‘I wonder if her brother has any of her diaries or letters. Young girls tend to keep those things. I know I did. Have you asked Ambrose?’
‘No,’ Thomas said. ‘But I’ll mention your suggestion to DCI Kent.’
‘Don’t tell him it was my idea. He’ll dismiss it categorically.’
Thomas laughed. ‘Good point. I must go. What will you do today?’
‘Write letters. I’m going to plead with Lydia to come to us. You’re still amenable to her staying here?’
‘Of course.’ Thomas kissed Cat’s cheek and left her to it.
They didn’t speak of the relentless bombing in London, but reminders of it showed up every day in the newspapers. The mail was slow now, and Cat had not heard from her Aunt Lydia – a successful artist who thwarted social convention for a more Bohemian lifestyle – in weeks. She was worried and had good reason to be. Not that they didn’t have bombs in the North. They did. But they hadn’t suffered like the Londoners. According to the newspapers, the bombing wasn’t as relentless as it was a year ago, when the Luftwaffe had done their best to decimate the City of London, along with all the major railways and shipping areas, but there was always the risk of bombs. Thomas was surprised Aunt Lydia had remained in London for as long as she had. Although she didn’t express it, Thomas knew Cat feared for her aunt’s safety. The idea of free-spirited Lydia Paxton mingling with the villagers of Rivenby put a smile on Thomas’s face. She’d certainly give them something to talk about.
***
Exhaustion caught up with Thomas just as he arrived at work, where constables loitered, huddled in groups, talking earnestly. Some sat at desks and reviewed reports, somehow able to tune out the buzz of energy surrounding them. Some huddled around a large chalkboard studying the list of assignments.
Thomas found DCI Kent in his office, hunched over a big cup of dark tea. He stared at Thomas with puffy, red-rimmed eyes. ‘Good morning, Tom.’
‘Sir. What news of Michael Grenville?’
‘We got him,’ DCI Kent grumbled into his tea. ‘Mrs Carlisle’s assumption was correct. He came back in the middle of the night and was right surprised to see us there, let me tell you. Put up quite a fight. Broke one lad’s nose. Took two men to subdue him. On the way to the car, he broke loose and took off running. They gave chase through the woods. The man who finally got him had to punch him hard enough to knock him out. We put him in a cell, and when he woke up he raised holy hell. Scotland Yard can have him. Good riddance, I say.’
House of Lies Page 19