Six Proud Walkers

by Anthea Fraser

  He’d also emptied and rinsed the milk bottle and cleaned out the fridge. The dahlias on the hearth, just beginning to droop, had been ruthlessly tipped into the bin and the vase washed. Windows were secured throughout the house, which he’d gone round in rubber gloves from the kitchen, wiping all the surfaces he’d touched.

  ‘Upstairs and downstairs and in my lady’s chamber!’ That gave him an idea and he laughed aloud in the still house. Returning to the typewriter, he inserted a fresh sheet of paper and punched out a few lines. Not easy in rubber gloves, but he managed it. He read through what he had written, smiling to himself:

  Here comes a candle to light you to bed,

  And here comes a chopper to chop — off — your — head.

  He ripped it out of the machine and, fumbling open the black bag, stuffed it into the pocket of her dress. Wonder what they’d make of that, if and when she was found.

  Her car still stood in the drive, the keys on the kitchen table where she’d dropped them. Useful, that. Restlessly he checked the house again. The stage was set. The bedroom, with its crisp sheets and neat counterpane, looked innocent of all violence, all terror, pain and fear. There was nothing anywhere to arouse suspicion.

  Nodding with satisfaction, he went downstairs for the last time and, holding his breath, opened the front door. It was raining, a hissing torrent of silver needles glinting in the light from the street lamp. Swearing, he lifted the mackintosh from the suitcase and, shaking it out, draped it hood-like over his head and shoulders. He was ready to go.

  * * *

  Carrie lay on her back in the darkness, listening to the rain sluicing and drumming outside. She imagined the familiar garden, alien by night, with rivulets coursing along the paths, and trees bowed down by the torrent. She hadn’t put the deckchair away, either. Its seat would be a miniature pool, the ancient canvas, faded with the suns of uncounted summers, sagging under the weight of water.

  Her imagination moved from the confines of the garden to the village beyond its walls. The waterfall near The Orange Tree must be a foaming Niagara by now and the roads snaking zig-zag fashion down the hillside, treacherous streams of water. She hoped Mrs Cowley was having better weather, wherever she was.

  Carrie frowned in the darkness, her tongue exploring the throbbing tooth whose pain had woken her. It was odd, her going off like that without telling anyone. She hadn’t mentioned it on Tuesday — or perhaps she had. Carrie’d been in no state to remember much, after her visit to the dentist. And Mrs Cowley’d been so kind, running her home in the car and even coming in with her, to make sure she had aspirins. If she had mentioned going away, Carrie accepted that she wouldn’t have registered it.

  It was no good, she’d have to go down for some more pills. Softly, in her bare feet, she padded down the stairs and through the kitchen to the bathroom extension beyond. Her face in the mirror over the basin was gaunt and pale, eyes dark-circled with pain. She shook two tablets into her palm, bent her mouth to the tap and drank the tepid water, shuddering. One thing, at least she could sleep in. Tomorrow was her day for Hinckley’s, but with Mrs Cowley away she could indulge herself.

  Cautiously, standing on the cold linoleum, Carrie prodded her tooth again. Its deep-seated throbbing shot pain up the side of her jaw and behind her ear. She liked going to Hinckley’s, though. Mrs Cowley had such pretty things, it was a pleasure to dust them.

  No one in the village remembered who ‘Hinckley’ had been. Possibly the builder or original owner of the cottage, which had stood in its patch of garden for nearly two hundred years. But Westridge didn’t believe in change, and no matter who the present owner, Hinckley’s retained its name. In the same way, the post office was known as Miller’s, though Fred Miller had been in his grave ten years.

  She sighed, snapped off the light and made her way back through the dark kitchen and up the stairs, wincing as the top one creaked beneath her weight.

  ‘Carrie?’

  ‘It’s all right — I went down for some aspirins.’

  She snuggled back into bed, drawing the sheet up to her chin. The psychological effect of the pills was swifter than their therapeutic value and already she was drifting into sleep. Her last waking thought was that perhaps there’d be a postcard from Mrs Cowley in a day or so, letting them know when to expect her back.

  * * *

  Jessica Selby leant her head against the back of the seat and closed her eyes. The two-hour drive from London had tired her more than she’d admitted and her leg, encased in plaster and laid along the back seat, ached intolerably.

  Matthew’s voice roused her. ‘All right, darling?’

  She smiled at him in the mirror. ‘I shall be.’

  ‘Not bumped about too much? It’s rougher going, now we’re off the motorway.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she lied. What a way to end a honeymoon, swathed in bandages in a Swiss hospital!

  ‘Poor love, this couldn’t be worse timing, could it? You should be recuperating in comfort at home, instead of being whisked to the back of beyond like this. But the deadline can’t be extended, and I’m selfish enough to want you with me.

  ‘So I should think. We’ve hardly had time to get to know each other yet!’

  Matthew laughed as she’d intended, but she realised with a jolt that she’d spoken the truth. Eight weeks ago, they’d not even met. They didn’t actually know each other at all. Admittedly they knew about each other, but that was hardly the same. She was aware, for instance, that Matthew was a successful biographer, with several bestsellers to his name; that he’d previously been married for fourteen years and divorced for two, and had a son and daughter, whose existence she preferred to ignore. And for his part he knew her to be an actress, also with a broken marriage behind her, though thankfully no children. It was a shaky enough basis on which to bind themselves to each other.

  Her eyes returned to his reflected face, unsmiling now as he concentrated on his driving. But perhaps because of her tiredness, the focus of her gaze shifted, and for the fraction of a second she seemed to be looking at a stranger. Then his eyes met hers again and he smiled, dissolving her incipient panic, and she silently scolded herself. Over-dramatizing, as usual. Keep your histrionics for the stage, my girl, they’re too wearing to live with!

  ‘Is it a pretty village, this Westridge?’ she asked.

  ‘I was more struck by its convenience, with the Hall only ten minutes away. But yes, I suppose it’s pretty. It’s built on several levels, running along the ridge of a hill. From the top road, you look down on the houses and gardens below, and beyond them to the farms on the floor of the valley. But when I say it’s convenient, I’m speaking personally. It won’t be for you, my love, though since you’re not mobile anyway, it shouldn’t make much difference. And the cottage has a garden, so at least you can relax and learn your lines in peace.’

  Jessica was silent. A Londoner born and bred, she suspected that a month in the country would bore her to distraction, even with two good legs to get about on. The idea of being stuck in a cottage garden day after day didn’t appeal at all. Still, if Matthew had to be up here for his research, she’d no option but to come too and make the best of it.

  ‘I hope the house is suitable,’ she said after a moment.

  ‘It sounds perfect. It has the requisite cloakroom downstairs, so you need only go up and down stairs once a day, and there’s a room which I can use as a study.’

  ‘Lucky it should come on the market just as we needed it.’

  ‘Fate!’ he said with a laugh. ‘I realised when I was up last week that the village would be perfect for us, but the agents had nothing on their books. Which is why I snapped this up as soon as they phoned, without even seeing it.’

  ‘And the agent’s meeting us at the pub, you said?’

  ‘That’s right. We’ll have to go through the inventory.’

  They turned off the main road and Jessica, reading the signpost, leant forward.

  ‘We’ve a fair way t
o go yet,’ Matthew warned her.

  The road on which they found themselves was narrow and winding, with passing places. For a while there were no buildings on their right, and they had an uninterrupted view across the valley to the multi-coloured woods on the opposite slopes. On their left, cottages were built against the hillside, the base of their garden walls at shoulder height. By craning her head, Jessica could see steep paths leading up to porched doorways, many of them overhung with flaming curtains of Virginia creeper. Flowers of all colours abounded, both in the gardens and along the verges of the road.

  The descent became steeper, with houses on their right now, larger and more modern than the earlier cottages. At intervals short, steep roads led down to the next level, but Matthew followed the one they were on until it forked at the end of its descent. The left-hand turning, he informed her, led through woods to Sandon Hall.

  ‘And,’ he added, following the right-hand curve, ‘here we are at last.’

  He turned off the road beside a handsome old building and followed the arrow to the inn car park. A large sign, depicting a stylized tree dotted with red blobs, announced it to be The Orange Tree.

  ‘Just in time for lunch,’ Matthew commented with satisfaction.

  The young man who was waiting for them was stocky and red-haired, with bright hazel eyes. He came forward with his hand out.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Selby? Julian Bayliss, J. R. Bayliss and Son.’

  ‘Are you pressed for time, Mr Bayliss? If not, I suggest we have lunch before going to the house. As you see, my wife is convalescing and the drive has been a strain for her.’ He turned to Jessica. ‘And I’d further suggest, darling, that when we’ve eaten, you relax here with coffee while we get the inventory business out of the way. You’re in need of a rest, I’m sure.’

  She was more than happy to comply. The thought of going through an entire house, however small, item by item, exhausted her.

  After lunch, therefore, Matthew procured for her the privacy of the inn parlour and, relaxing luxuriously on the comfortable old sofa, she surprised herself by falling soundly asleep.

  It was after three when he returned alone. ‘All set, sweetheart. Hinckley Cottage is ours for the next four weeks. Let’s go and take possession.’

  As they turned right out of the driveway, Jessica saw they were driving back the way they had come, but along the lower road. The houses they’d passed that morning rose above them against the skyline. Then Matthew turned into a narrow driveway and switched off the engine. Silence rushed in on her, not the fleeting absence of sound you might experience in London, but the deep, rushing silence of the country, penetrating mind and body, and seeming even to silence one’s heartbeat. Matthew swivelled in his seat and smiled at her.

  ‘Welcome home, my sweet!’ he said.

  Ten minutes later, after a brief inspection of the ground floor, she had been settled on another sofa, this time in the main room into which the front door opened directly. Two other rooms led off it, one a blessedly up-to-date kitchen with the promised cloakroom in its back porch, and the other a dining-room-cum-study, which Matthew proposed to take over.

  ‘Look, there’s even a typewriter!’ he’d said. ‘If I’d known that, I shouldn’t have had to hump my own beast from home.’

  The living-room itself was prettily decorated in keeping with its age, even if there was, for Jessica’s taste, an over-preponderance of pink. Lovely old wood gleamed richly in the afternoon sun, and the ancient fireplace was screened by an ornamental vase. She could fill it with flowers from the garden. On either side of the chimney-breast were shelved alcoves, and from where she sat, some of the ornaments displayed appeared to be Meissen. A trusting owner, to leave them to their fate with unknown tenants.

  Her eyes came to rest on the steep flight of stairs in the corner of the room. Certainly she’d be incapable of tackling those alone. When Matthew was out, she’d be confined to the ground floor.

  ‘Now,’ he said, coming in with the cases and dumping them at the foot of the stairs, ‘having been instructed in the workings of the cooker, I shall make you a cup of tea.’

  She made to rise, but he stopped her.

  ‘But darling, that at least is something I can do!’

  ‘Not today, and probably not for the rest of the week. Doctor’s orders, remember: “Thou shalt not wash dishes, nor yet feed the swine.” We’ll find someone in the village to cook and clean for us.’

  He disappeared into the kitchen, whistling as he filled the kettle and set out cups and saucers. Jessica watched him as he came back and positioned a low table within her reach, trying to see him dispassionately, rather than with the eyes of love. He was, after all, just a man — slightly above average height, with a lean build and fair hair already receding. Self-mockingly, she pursued her inventory: wide bony forehead, slightly lined; prominent cheekbones; intelligent, impatient eyes. Why, in the name of all that was wonderful, was he so important to her? She only knew he was.

  She said softly, ‘Matthew Selby, I love you very much.’

  He bent to kiss her. ‘And I you. Never forget that.’ He straightened and patted his pockets. “Damn, I’m out of cigarettes. When we’ve had tea I’ll go and get some, and order a daily paper at the same time. We mustn’t lose touch with the outside world.’

  * * *

  Kathy Markham paused, wooden spoon in hand, as she heard the front door close. ‘That you, darling?’

  ‘Who else are you expecting?’ Her husband came into the kitchen, and she lifted her face for his kiss.

  ‘It could have been William. He went fishing with the Rowe twins, but he should be back by now.’

  ‘I saw him coming up Green Lane as I passed. He won’t be long.’

  ‘You might have given him a lift.’

  ‘In that condition? Not on your life. I’d advise you to make him strip on the back step.’ Guy stood at the kitchen window, staring down his sloping garden to the lower road and the cottages that crouched there. ‘Had a good day?’

  ‘So-so. Angie’s a bit fraught about that French she was set, but it’s her own fault. She shouldn’t have left it till the last minute, as I’ve been telling her the whole holiday.’

  ‘Baudelaire, isn’t it? Pretty heavy going.’

  ‘That’s hardly the point.’ Kathy sampled the casserole and shook in some more salt. ‘By the way, there’s a new man in the village. He came into Miller’s while I was buying stamps. From what I heard, he and his wife will be at Hinckley’s for the next month or so.’

  ‘I didn’t know Freda took in lodgers. At least, not with their wives!’

  ‘But Freda’s not there. Apparently she’s gone off somewhere, and left instructions for the place to be let.’

  ‘Bit sudden, wasn’t it? She never mentioned it when we saw her last week.’

  ‘Well, you know Freda. She’s probably got herself a new man and gone waltzing off with him. I do wish she’d pull herself together. It’s two years now since Bruce left her. She can’t go on like this indefinitely.’

  ‘Who says she can’t? Several devoted husbands round here avail themselves of her services.’

  Kathy stared at him. ‘You are joking, aren’t you?’

  ‘Indeed I’m not.’

  ‘But that’s awful! Who are they?’

  ‘Ah, that’d be telling! Anyway, it’s only hearsay, and highly slanderous.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Guy! Now you’ve gone that far, you might as well finish it.’

  ‘All I’m saying is, she could run quite a lucrative line in blackmail, if she’d a mind to.’

  ‘But you —’ She broke off as a small figure materialized beyond the frosted glass of the back door. ‘See to William, will you, darling? Make sure he takes his boots off before he comes in — Carrie washed this floor today.’

  And as the concerns of her family took precedence, Freda Cowley and her affairs were pushed temporarily from Kathy’s mind.

  * * *

  At The Willows R
esidential Home on the top road, old Mrs Southern was being difficult again.

  ‘She wouldn’t touch her supper,’ Nurse Ironside reported to Cook, exasperation in her voice. ‘And she’s still got this bee in her bonnet about it being Christmas.’

  Cook clucked disapprovingly and tipped the contents of the plate into the slops bucket. ‘Waste of good food, that is. I don’t make my cheese pies for Carrie Speight’s hens. Christmas, indeed! If she thinks I’m cooking turkey at the beginning of September, she can think again. What started her on that, anyway?’

  ‘Who ever knows what starts Mrs Southern off?’ The nurse paused, ashamed of her outburst. ‘Oh, she’s a nice enough old thing, plummy voice and all, but as stubborn as they’re made. Once she’s got something into her head, there’s no way of shifting it. But when I asked why she thought it was Christmas, that cunning look came over her face and she wouldn’t tell me. Just kept saying, “Aren’t there any presents for me? I’ve not even had a card this year.” She was quite upset about it.’

  Cook tutted resignedly. ‘Going round the twist, if you ask me. We’ll have her as daft as Miss Sampson, you mark my words.’

  Pammy Ironside shook her head. No, you’re wrong there. She gets some odd ideas now and then but she’s bright enough. Reads everything we give her, and without glasses, too, for all she’s well past eighty. Eyes like a hawk.’ Pammy giggled. ‘She caused quite an upset with Ivy yesterday, insisting there was dust on the dresser. She was right, too — there was! It’s tragic, really, her being paralysed like that. Like being a prisoner inside her own body.’

  ‘Give over — you make my hair stand on end, the way you talk!’ Cook hesitated, then said gruffly, ‘Think she’d get some bread and milk down, if I did some for her?’