A Friend of the Family

by Marcia Willett

  She shivered and then gasped. Out of the white landscape a figure loomed beyond the snow-covered wall. Polly’s heart gave a leap upwards. Could Michael possibly have . . . ? She hurried out of the porch, wading and kicking her way through the snow and calling to the figure who was still partially obscured by the falling snow.

  ‘Hi! Hello!’ she called. ‘Can you find the gate? How did you get here?’

  The figure remained quite still.

  At this point she reached up against the barrier of the gate and found herself looking at a man who was certainly not Michael. ‘Oh,’ she said, nonplussed and feeling rather foolish. ‘I thought you were Michael.’

  He was staring at her, too, as if in amazement and then, as realisation dawned, her face cleared and she laughed.

  ‘Of course!’ she cried, relief flooding through her. ‘You’re cousin Jon and you’re wondering who on earth I am. Michael’s taken Harriet in to have the baby and he can’t get back because of the snow. They’ve got another boy. I’m Hugh’s godmother, Polly Wickam. We’ve never met because you’ve always been abroad but I’ve been expecting you. I’m delighted to see you. I’m all on my own with Hugh, and a three-year-old isn’t exactly a comfort in these conditions. For heaven’s sake, climb over the wall and come in.’

  After a moment, the man did as she suggested and followed her back to the cottage.

  ‘Goodness,’ she said, as they stood in the porch together. ‘You’re soaked. Have you walked miles? Take off that coat and your shoes and get into the warm. I suppose you’ve had to abandon your car and your luggage. Never mind, Michael’s got loads of stuff.’

  He took off his coat and, with some difficulty, prised his soaking shoes from his frozen feet. The lower legs of his trousers were caked in snow. He was as tall and as dark as Michael but there any resemblance ended. He was pale and in need of a shave and he looked desperately tired.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Polly, overcome with remorse at her garrulity. ‘You must be exhausted and I’m rattling on at you. The thing is, we’re totally cut off. No electricity. No telephone. And the relief of seeing another human being was too much.’ She held out her hand. ‘In case you didn’t grasp it all before, I’m an old friend of Harriet’s and Hugh’s godmother, Polly Wickam, and you’re Michael’s cousin, Jon. How d’you do?’

  After a moment, Jon put his hand in hers. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m a bit punch-drunk. I seem to have been walking for hours.’

  Flis voice was husky with weariness and Polly opened the inner door. ‘Come in and get some dry clothes on while I heat up some soup,’ she said, ‘and then you can meet Hugh and Max and Ozzy.’

  He hesitated, frowning. ‘Max and who?’

  Ozzy. You know? Michael’s Newfoundland dogs? I’m sure you’ve heard about Max and Ozzy.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Jon shut the door behind him. ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Clothes first,’ said Polly briskly. ‘I’ll show you where everything is and then I’ll get some soup on the go. Would you like a bath?’

  ‘You can’t possibly imagine how wonderful that would be,’ said Jon.

  ‘OK, then,’ said Polly. ‘Follow me.’

  TOM CAME INTO THE kitchen and regarded his sons with irritation. Flis trousers were tucked into thick socks and he wore the superior air of one who was busy whilst those around him remained idle.

  ‘Good grief!’ he exclaimed. ‘Aren’t you finished yet? It’ll be lunch time before you two even finish breakfast.’ He pushed the kettle on to the hotplate. ‘We’ve got to dig a path to the woodshed or we shall be out of logs. I’ve made a start but I don’t see why I should do all the hard work when there are two able-bodied young men around. Although I suppose it’s a triumph of hope over experience to imagine that you two will do anything useful while I’m here to do it for you!’

  Saul rolled his eyes ceilingwards and Oliver sniffed the air with loud deliberation. He leaned towards Saul. ‘Do I smell a martyr burning?’ he suggested.

  ‘Oh, very funny!’ said Tom, making himself some coffee.

  ‘What’s funny?’ asked Cass, coming into the kitchen. ‘It doesn’t seem to be getting any better, does it? Has anyone seen a weather forecast?’

  Tom was understood to say that he’d been far too busy to watch television but the other three ignored him.

  ‘I’ll go and see if there’s anything on,’ said Oliver, pushing back his chair and thereby neatly avoiding the washing-up.

  ‘And then come on out!’ Tom shouted after him. ‘Don’t think you’re going to lounge in there watching the box while I work!’

  Saul sighed and began to pile the plates together. He had just finished when Oliver reappeared looking, for Oliver, rather ruffled.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ said Cass at once. ‘Have vou seen a forecast?’

  ‘Not as such,’ said Olher. He glanced at Saul and back at Cass.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Saul, surprised at Oliver’s reticence. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘There’s been a breakout from Princetown,’ said Oliver. ‘A prisoner escaped last night.’

  The other three stared at him in silence.

  ‘Oh, God!’ Saul burst out. ‘And Polly’s all on her own.’ He plunged out into the hall and everyone started to speak at once.

  ‘He won’t get far in this weather, the police will soon bring him back . . . ’

  ‘Polly will be terrified . . . ’

  ‘Listen. Before Saul gets back . . . ’

  But Saul was already back, brandishing Cass’s address book. He looked quite wild, his hair on end and his eyes wide with anxiety.

  ‘What’s Harriet’s surname?’ he cried. ‘1 can’t remember her bloody surname.’

  ‘Wait!’ said Tom. His voice was quiet but years of authority in the Navy gave it a quality that made the others turn to look at him. ‘Let’s be calm, shall we?’ he said. ‘A prisoner has escaped. It’s a well-known fact that any prisoner escaping from the moor has very little chance unless it’s a set-up job with help from outside.’ He turned to Oliver. ‘Was any mention made of that?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Oliver. ‘The spokesman said that it was, without question, set up with outside help.’

  ‘Right,’ said Tom. ‘That means that a car with clothes in it will have been left at a prearranged spot and, in normal conditions, the prisoner would be well away from the moor in no time. Obviously, the snow will probably put a stop to that. But if he broke out last night, he might have got some distance before he ran into trouble.’ Here, Oliver opened his mouth as if to speak but closed it again. Tom raised his eyebrows. Oliver shook his head. ‘I think that we can safely assume that he’s at least well away from Princetown and, therefore, from Polly. But, even if he weren’t, there’s no point at all in telephoning her and frightening her to death. There was no mention of the escape on the television last night so there’s every chance that she knows nothing about it. In fact, I’m perfectly certain that if she’d heard anything she’d have been on to us like a shot.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s true,’ agreed Cass. ‘Tom’s quite right. You mustn’t frighten her, Saul.’

  ‘By all means phone and have a chat with her,’ said Tom. ‘But keep calm. She’s got Max and Ozzy, after all.’

  ‘Oh, the Newfies!’ said Saul contemptuously.

  ‘Yes. The Newfies.’ Tom nodded at Saul. ‘We may all know them as lazy great bundles. But to anyone who doesn’t know them, they’re bloody big brutes and, what’s more, very protective when it comes to Hugh.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Cass again. ‘They’re very wary of strangers around Hugh. Go and get dressed, Saul, and then we’ll phone Polly and see how she is. Go on,’ she said firmly as Saul hesitated, ‘a few minutes won’t make any difference and you’re beginning to shiver.’

  Saul went, reluctantly, and Cass, waiting until she heard him reach the top of the stairs, pushed the kitchen door to and turned to Oliver.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘What haven’t you tol
d us?’

  Oliver grimaced. ‘In the first place,’ he said, ‘the man’s a murderer. And in the second they had the snowploughs out this morning and found what they believe to be his escape car. It seems he ran off the road near Merrivale quarry.’

  There was a complete silence.

  ‘That’s only a few miles from Lower Barton,’ said Cass at last.

  ‘Quite,’ said Oliver.

  ‘It still means nothing,’ said Tom. ‘The last thing that escaped prisoners want is to go straight back inside. They stay away from human habitation for as long as possible. It would be different if he’d been on the loose for days in these conditions and was starving and frozen.’

  ‘That’s all very well,’ said Oliver, ‘but which way would he go? He’d probably want to get away from the road and he’d want to get as far from the prison as he could. What happens if you go up behind the quarry?’

  ‘Well. There’s a bridlepath from the quarry that leads straight past Michael’s place as it happens,’ said Tom, rather reluctantly, ‘but it would be covered by snow and not that obvious.’

  ‘Oh, Tom. A murderer!’ Cass looked frightened. ‘I wish one of you had stayed with her.’

  With great restraint, Tom refrained from pointing out that he’d offered to do just that. The situation was too serious for cheap victory. He put an arm round Cass’s shoulder and looked at Oliver. ‘Did they say what sort . . .’ he began but stopped as they heard Saul on the stairs. ‘When he’s phoned Polly,’ he said, quietly but urgently, ‘get him out digging and I’ll phone the police to tell them that Polly’s on her own. I don’t want any silly mercy dashes so that we have to rescue him as well.’

  The door opened. ΌΚ,’ said Saul. ‘What’s the number, Ma?’ Cass and he went out into the hall.

  ‘What sort of murderer?’ asked Tom.

  ‘Killed his wife,’ said Oliver succinctly. ‘She neglected their kid or something and it died so he did her in. I didn’t get it all. Apparently, ever since, he’s had a grudge against women.’

  ‘That’s all we need,’ said Tom, and turned as Cass and Saul reappeared.

  ‘Oh, Tom,’ said Cass. ‘There’s no reply.’

  ‘Did you give her time to answer?’ asked Oliver.

  ‘She doesn’t mean that,’ said Saul. He rubbed his face with his hands and gazed round rather desperately. ‘There’s just silence. No ringing tone. Nothing. I think their phone has been cut off.’

  There was a long silence and then Cass looked at Tom.

  ‘Do you think we ought to telephone the police, just to warn them that Polly’s all on her own?’ she asked.

  Tom nodded. He went into the hall but returned almost immediately.

  ‘Bloody marvellous!’ he said. ‘The phone’s dead! We’re cut off, too!’

  ‘GEORGE.’ THEA PUT HER head round the sitting-room door where George was watching television, hoping to catch a forecast. ‘I can’t make the telephone work and I’m still trying . . . ’

  She broke off as the announcer’s words caught her attention and moved to stand behind the sofa, staring at the photograph on the screen of the prisoner who had broken out of Dartmoor the night before. His name, it seemed, was John Middleton, he was an astrophysicist and a murderer and now he was at large on the moor.

  ‘Now don’t get worked up,’ said George, wishing that he’d heard her coming so that he could have switched the television off. ‘They’ll have him back inside in no time. He hasn’t got a hope.’

  ‘Oh, George. Polly will be mad with terror. She’ll die of fright. Oh, can’t we possibly get to her?’

  ‘Now darling, you simply must be sensible.’ George hauled himself out of the armchair, went to her and took her hands in his. ‘It’s not going to do Polly any good if we all set off and get stuck in a snowdrift. For all we know Michael’s back by now. She’ll be OK.’

  Thea sighed, her heart heavv. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ she said. ‘We couldn’t both go, anyway. I couldn’t take Amelia.’

  ‘Of course not.’ He drew her close and kissed her. ‘Now stop worrying. At least Mother’s all right. She’s got plenty of food in and Mr Ellis was going round clearing paths and things.’ George had telephoned Esme as soon as he had got up and seen the snow. ‘To be honest I think she was enjoying it.’

  Thea smiled a little. ‘She probably is. I wish I could think Polly is, too.’

  ‘Now, now. No good dwelling on it. Let’s think about lunch. I think I can hear Amelia. Go and bring her down and we’ll have a drink.’

  Thea nodded and he hugged her tightly before she went away to fetch Amelia.

  ‘George.’ Her voice floated back to him. ‘Try the telephone, will you? It’s making a funny noise. I’d like to be able to speak to Polly and find out if Michael’s back.’

  George rubbed his hand thoughtfully over his jaw. He had already guessed from Thea’s earlier remark that the lines were down and the telephone cut off but he had hoped to divert her by talking of lunch and Amelia. It would take Thea two seconds to realise that if they were cut off then so was Polly, and probably more than just by the telephone. George swore softly to himself and went into the kitchen. He could probably bluff a little longer; say that he’d spoken to the engineers about a fault and so on. He poured himself a drink and, hearing Thea approaching, arranged his face in an appropriate expression for lying.

  Twenty-seven

  FREDDIE POTTERED HAPPILY IN his kitchen, talking quietly to the dogs. Up early, as was his habit, he had already dug a way through to the kennels, dealt with the dogs and made his breakfast porridge. He sat down, wondering what conditions up on the main road were like. He had no doubt that the snowploughs would be out so it should be quite possible to get into Tavistock. The snow had taken him by surprise and his provisions were low. He was looking forward to trying out his new Fourtrak, justifying the expenditure with the excuse that he might be called out to the outlying farms in any weather, night or day, and it was the sensible vehicle to have.

  As he ate, he thought—as he generally did in his idle moments—of Polly. He longed for the courage to throw caution to the winds and tell her of his love. He was still uncertain as to the exact state of her marriage. She always made light of Paul’s obsession with his work and had never shown Freddie the least encouragement. She seemed pleased to see him, was easy and relaxed with him, always parted from him with an affectionate hug, but at no time in the past two years had she ever stepped over the line of friendship.

  He got up and went to switch the kettle on. The sensible thing would be to make a comprehensive shopping list just in case the conditions got worse. He pushed the thoughts of Polly away and had been scribbling away for some time on the back of an old envelope before it was borne in on his consciousness that the kettle wasn’t boiling. He touched the kettle, which was still cold, and fiddled with the plug. Everything seemed in order. An idea occurred to him and he pressed the light switch up and down a few times.

  ‘Power cut,’ said Freddie to himself. ‘Damn and blast.’

  He rooted round for the telephone which lived on the kitchen table under a pile of miscellaneous odds and ends. ‘And the telephone lines are down,’ he muttered to himself, having pressed the rest up and down a few times. ‘I must try to get into Tavistock if I can.’

  Charlie Custard watched him, alert, sensing that something was wrong, but Freddie shook his head at him. ‘Not this time, old chap. If I get stuck I don’t want you with me.’

  He gathered up his belongings, shut the dog in the kitchen and went out. He felt confident that he could get up to the main road in the tracks of the tractor that had passed along earlier and, having cleared a path to the garage, he backed cautiously into the lane and set off. White walls of snow showed the passing of a snowplough on the Okehampton road but the surface was icy and, as he approached Kelly College, he saw that a car had skidded nose first into a bank of snow and the driver was standing helplessly beside it. Freddie slowed and the man waved grate
fully. The Fourtrak stopped and Freddie leaned over and opened the passenger door.

  ‘Good of you to stop.’ The tall dark man smiled in at him. ‘I just lost control and in she went. I was about to start walking. I don’t think we can do much about it, do you?’

  Leaving the engine running, Freddie climbed down and, walking carefully, went round to look at the situation.

  ‘Not a chance, I’m afraid. But I can give you a lift into Tavistock. Any good?’

  ‘To tell you the truth, I’m not too sure where I am,’ said the man. ‘It was a hell of a trip down. I’m not supposed to be on this road but it was the only possibility.’

  Freddie smiled and held out his hand. ‘I’m Freddie Spenlow,’ he said. ‘You’re just outside Peter Tavy on the Okehampton road not far from Tavistock. Does that mean anything to you?’

  ‘Not a thing!’ said the man cheerfully. ‘My name’s Jonathan Thompson. I’m on my way to visit my cousin near Merrivale. His name’s Michael Barrett-Thompson.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Does that mean anything to you?’

  ‘It certainly does!’ cried Freddie. ‘How amazing. I know Michael and Harriet very well. They’ve got two of my dogs.’

  Jon shook his head disbelievingly. ‘Definitely my lucky day. Am I anywhere near them?’

  ‘Not too far. Get your stuff in here and I’ll take you into Tavistock. We’ll see how things are looking.’

  The roads were clearer in the town, although here and there cars had been abandoned. People with shovels were clearing the pavements and council workers were heaving the snow into lorries to be taken and tipped out of the way. There was a general air of camaraderie and bustle.

  Freddie pulled up outside the Bedford Hotel. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘I’ve got to do some shopping. You could book in here or, when I’ve finished, we could take a little trip.’