The scents of the room were both domestic and animal. Her wandering imagination, which had lit first on the image of a submarine, dwelt next on the notion of a fox in its lair: William must not be made to feel at bay. With the image of a fox prancing through her mind, her hands curled around the mug and she remembered Mrs Blundell's fingers, thought of her predators, human and animal. She looked at the hulk of William sitting beside her on the makeshift bed, talking as if there were no tomorrow, benign, amiable, dangerous.
Ì keep my tools in here,' he was saying, eager to display anything and everything there was.
`Do you, now? And did you make the cupboard?'
`Yes, of course.'
`Why do you need so many tools?'
`For making things, of course.' He threw her a look of condescension reserved by males for silly females.
`What things? Can I see them?'
A sigh of exaggerated, completely hypocritical impatience, 'Oh, all right, then, I'spose you can . . . You won't tell?'
`Why on earth would I tell?'
`Don't know, but you might. They'd laugh.'
Ì promise I won't tell. And I shan't laugh, either.'
ÒK.' It had been enough to stroke William's burning impatience to show off his handiwork. He opened the crooked homemade compartments of the cupboard, showing his collection of polystyrene figures, recognizably human but odd. 'I don't do these any more,'
William remarked in passing. Then he revealed things carved in wood; then rings, bangles, and strings of strange glass beads spilled into Helen's hands. 'I like these things best,' he said simply in explanation for their existence. The shelf below this treasure chest held a hand drill, hammer, pliers, mallet, and the dull gleam of a blade.
Helen dragged her gaze to the glitter he held out for her inspection, and even while murmuring in genuine amazement, Òh, William, what's that?' or 'How on earth did you make this?' let her eyes go back to the knife on that shelf, an old horn handle and the pristine blade of a single-edge working knife, settled as comfortably as a carving knife in a kitchen. She admired William's possessions, silently remembering courtroom descriptions of wounds to the throat made by a single-edge knife that was never found. Oh, don't be silly, the world is full of knives. And throats cut within a half-mile of this shed?
William's sharper instincts caught her second glance at the weapon. He reached into the cupboard with the swiftness of a snake and pushed the thing to the back, looked at her in doubtful trust, withdrew it again. 'I saw you looking,' he remarked. 'You may as well see.
Nice, isn't it?'
`Lovely,' said Helen. 'Only I don't like knives much. They frighten me.'
`They don't frighten me,' said William. 'I know what to do with them.'
`What do you do with them?'
Òh, carve things most of the time. And kill people.' This was a boastful shout.
Ì don't see why anyone would want to do that,' said Helen. Ì did,' said William, puffing out his chest.
Òh, put the knife away, William. I like the jewels better. Show me some more.' He did as he was asked, anxious again to please, his memory as short as the moment.
Against her will she was impressed and frightened. 'Perhaps you could make things for a living, William. I mean, you could learn how to do all sorts of work . . . oh, I don't know, carpentry, making pretty things like these. You'd be earning your own money. Wouldn't that be nice? Would you like that?'
Òh, I would, I would.' He looked so vulnerable, like a bull terrier puppy, all pale snout and clumsy power, musclebound brain, confused reactions of confused strength.
`Perhaps you could talk to your dad about that.'
`Perhaps,' he said gruffly. 'But I don't talk to Dad much.' `Why not?'
Èvie said not to. She says when I talk I always talk too much, and if I talk too much she won't come here any more, not even on Sundays. Besides, I don't like talking to Dad. I'm no good at it.'
`You need more practice. Then you'd make more sense. You get better at everything if you practise.'
He was not insulted. 'Practice? You mean like I got better at making things by doing it all the time? That's funny. Talking to Dad's not like that.' He laughed, a yelping, snorting sound, unnaturally loud, and she laughed with him.
`No,' she said, 'talking isn't quite like that. But the idea's the same.' Dear God, Bailey, where are you?
But the laughter had stopped, William fallen into a dreadful stillness as sudden and complete as a paralysis. He grabbed her arm, fingers digging into her wrist, face paler than a ghost.
`What is it, William? What is it?'
`Shhh.'
From above their heads there was a whisper of movement, then a silence unnervingly complete. Into the silence crept the sounds of the gathering night, the faint and distant noise of wind in the trees, the tiny whisper of an aeroplane overhead, nothing suggesting an intruder. William loosened his grip on Helen's arm, the puzzled look still stuck to his features, mouth open, eyes wide and clownish, softening into repose. "S'all right,' he said in a whisper.
`Mices, I think. Keep quiet, though.'
She sat silent and obedient, relaxing slowly, recognizing in him antennae that she did not have and a wariness she could not share. Then, as William opened his slack mouth to speak, there was a flurry of steps, a grunt of effort, the expulsion of breath in one great gasp.
Over their heads the trapdoor slammed into place, knocking aside the ladder and filling the cellar with choking dust and debris. Both of them gasped, retreating to the farthest corner of the room, she upsetting and extinguishing the lamp in the process, he turning off the hiss of the gas in one swoop, actions felt rather than seen in a darkness that seemed total.
Then silence fell again for one pregnant and endless minute, full of the sound of breathing. In that long interval her eyes adjusted, sharpened by overpowering claustrophobia, until she could see the cracks between the wooden slats of the trapdoor and the shape of the trapdoor itself. She stuffed her fist into her mouth to prevent herself from screaming, choked on her fingers, and grabbed for William's arm, anything to touch. As she groped for him, he hugged her with one paw and wrapped the other around her neck. He placed his hand over her mouth, gently, but brooking no argument.
Silence followed the thunder upstairs. Then a sensuous scraping as if an animal or a human had lain across the trapdoor. There was a long, contrived sigh, an adjustment of clothes, then the sound of humming.
Èvie,' William screamed. Èvie!'
A muffled sob, then heels drumming on the trapdoor, stopping as the voice began, petulant, seductive, and slow. 'You told, William Featherstone, you told. Crybaby, telltale. You told.'
The voice was hardly recognizable as Evie's, a droning monotonous adult whine.
Ì didn't, I didn't.' A responding shriek from William. 'I didn't, no I didn't.'
`Did, did, did.'
Helen struggled briefly against William's grip. His bitter-tasting palm remained clamped over her lips, forcing her to be silent.
`What did I tell? Who? When?' Another shout, irritation mingling with fear in his voice.
`What'm I supposed to have told?' This he repeated on a rising note of hysteria. Fumbling in the dark, Helen shuffled closer to the trapdoor, one arm feeling for William's shoulder, leading him in a single step, smelling the stale, earthbound smell of him, sensed the beginning of his tears.
The figure moved on the slats of the trapdoor, face pressed to the wood, voice more composed, louder, but still an insistent drone, monotonous, childish. 'You told, William, didn't you?'
`No, Evie, I didn't. Open the door, stupid.'
`Don't call me stupid.'
A silence of great length, William controlling his breathing, Helen standing absolutely still. Then, peculiarly, Evie sobbing, lying on the dirty door above and whimpering, whether in rage or in grief it was impossible to determine.
Ì can't let you out, William. They'll be looking for you, all of them, I thought you'd be safe, but yo
u aren't. I know you've told about us, and you'll tell the rest. So soft you are, William. You can stay here now, in the dark. Then you'll know better.'
`No, Evie, please.'
"S'all right William, I'll be back.'
There was scuffling, shuffling, thudding, a dragging of something heavy across the floor, sounds of more effort from Evelyn. William screamed again. 'Come back! Don't go, Evie. I'll tell them whatever you want. I'll tell them I did everything if you like, everything.'
`Did everything what, William?' Evelyn's voice was sharp and normal now, but fatigued and impatient.
He hesitated before answering in quieter tones, sinking to a mutter. 'Don't know.
Everything.'
There was a tut-tutting of annoyance while Evie digested this and Helen stiffened. 'No,' said the upstairs voice, leaden with despair. `That isn't what you were supposed to say at all, is it?
You can stay here now until you remember what you should tell them if you're daft enough ever to say anything. That way people will leave me alone. So if you want to say anything, you can tell them you saw Mummy's boyfriend kill her, which is just what happened, isn't it? But you're useless. You've got to stay here now.'
The object she had pushed and pulled across the floor was shoved once more, falling on to one side against the slats. Liquid began to trickle through the wood in a steady stream, striking their upturned faces, hitting hair and clothes until William dragged Helen back out of reach, his hand still clamped on her mouth. Evelyn's quick footsteps died away; the door of the summerhouse banged into silence. William released his hand, slumped on the mattresses, began to sniff, while Helen felt the strongest urge yet to scream into the darkness, a reaction suppressed only by the more pressing need to cough and choke. He recovered, banged her back, unaffected by the smell that filled the place.
`Silly,' he muttered, an adult attempt at bravery, taking strength in the act of patting her, 'very silly, it'll be all right, you wait. Not to worry, missus, I can get out of here easy.
When I can see,' he added, shuffling around on the floor, then standing and feeling in his pockets.
`What do you want, William? What are you looking for?'
`Matches,' he answered. Àh, found them.' Somewhere beyond his head, the liquid was still dripping, hitting the stone slab on the floor where the ladder had rested. Helen grabbed at his arm. "S'all right,' he said again. 'I can get out of here easy, once I've found the lamp.'
`William, do not light a match, don't, whatever you do.' `Why?'
`Because,' she said, speaking slowly and carefully, enunciating each syllable, 'because Evelyn just poured this stuff all over us. You must not light a match, William; we are covered with paraffin.'
She could hear the rattle of the matchbox as he dropped it to the floor. 'Oh,' he said. 'I see.'
CHAPTER TWELVE
Bailey disliked the exterior of this pretentious house and took particular exception to the gravel outside the front door, placed there for the sole purpose of making a sound of satisfying richness. Nouvelle richesse, in Blundell's case, no worse than any other kind, simply more offensive. The snobbery of it appealed to Bailey's own subdued inversion of snobbery, which had prompted him to allow Amanda Scott to deal with this man and his neighbours instead of doing the job himself.
Bailey knew he had no right to his prejudices. Some people chose houses that advertised their wealth, but they bled and suffered the same as those who had failed to make such conspicuous improvement in their lives. Still, the gravel irritated his soul. So had Blundell on their first meeting, when he had been diffident, sedulous, and crawling to please in a man-to-man kind of way, even when reporting the absence of a wife. 'Sorry to bother you, old man,' he had said.
For God's sake.
Whatever resentment Bailey felt then would be reciprocated now. No man enjoyed visits from the police at eleven-thirty at night unless he was in pain or truly desperate for company. Only the form Blundell's resentment would take remained to be seen. PC Bowles, large and uniformed in the car outside the gate, could lend an air of officialdom if necessary, but Bailey hoped not.
He knew the purpose of his visit to be tenuous, knew his pocket should contain a search warrant, and had already rehearsed the alternative approach, an example of the kind of benign trickery he had often used: 'If you won't let me in to look at your house, sir, I'm sure you won't mind waiting with this officer here while I go and wake up a magistrate to supply me with the piece of paper that will force you to comply. Up to you, sir.'
Ànd why do you want to search my house, Mr Bailey?'
`Well, I don't rightly know. There are questions lingering here.' `Get out, Mr Bailey.'
He tried the garage first. Open and empty, nothing to steal apart from a bicycle — old, battered, hidden by a tarpaulin. Clearly labelled in Bailey's mind were two preoccupations: letters, and the gleam of gold. Letters taken from Antony Sumner's desk, the ones Amanda had failed to secure so sure was she of their irrelevance. Perhaps other, similar letters she had failed to discover here. And maybe the jewellery worn by the dead woman, the bracelet, earrings, and necklace that Blundell had described so uncannily well, as if he had seen them very recently.
Bailey could not rid himself of the conviction that they were still in this house.
Certainly the man was mean enough to keep them and claim his insurance, but Bailey doubted if that was all he'd been up to. He was clever enough, or maybe simply rich enough, to deflect dear Miss Scott. Ànd every time she shouted "fire," the people answered, "Little liar".' Bailey recited the old rhyme to himself, stopping to survey the front door, trying to decide upon the most appropriate pleasantries for the occupants. Sometimes he managed the most sophisticated approach of all, making himself think and feel like an ordinary visitor, imagining himself with an invitation and sure of a welcome.
People allowed extraordinary privileges to their guests, showed them the sanctum of their own lives, displayed everything from the beams to the contents of the bathroom cabinet without turning a hair. If Bailey could think of Blundell as his host, he might influence events.
Then again, he might not. He could not imagine John Blundell offering him a drink, and the thought reminded him not only of the taste of whisky but of how difficult he would find it to refuse. A whisky would be nectar.
But within feet of the front door, he knew the house was empty, giving off from itself the scent of vacancy. He had spent enough of his life approaching doors and windows unbidden, in the dark, in daylight, in the eyes of storms, and instinct told him immediately when human life was absent. He had learned in the bitter experience of failure how to avoid the pitfalls, and how and where a man could hide indefinitely, learned to sense emptiness and its opposite.
He had sat in a room for two hours on guard, uncomfortable, but unaware of the one silent Indian hidden behind a wardrobe two feet from his own back and still carrying a knife.
Now he knew when to turn, when to look, when to ignore logic and obey his instincts. There was nothing live in this house; he was sure of it. But for all that, the place was lit up like a Christmas tree. Blundell, it seemed, was losing his grip: door unlocked, lights on, not a soul to be seen, like the Marie Celeste. When Blundell left, he had believed his castle to be still occupied.
Bailey shouted into the empty hall and was relieved by the answering silence. Acutely aware, if only for a second, of the dubious legality of his presence, he began to walk from room to room. Kitchen empty and tidy, heart of a heartless house, two glasses on the table.
Living rooms and handsome stairs muffled by carpet and soft beneath the feet. Calling
'Anyone at home?' he trod heavily up the stairs, moved along the hall and into the largest room, being deliberately noisy, both as a warning to others and as a sop to his conscience.
He was indifferent to the fact that this exercise could blight his career, a consideration that had persuaded him to leave Bowles behind to avoid tarring him with the same brush of disgrace for
so flagrant a breach of the rules. Bailey forgot the professional madness of his illicit search as soon as he stepped into what was obviously Blundell's room. Handsome mirrored wardrobes lined one whole wall. Wealth consumed by vanity, thought Bailey, opening the first door.
Good God. A row of shredded garments hanging from padded hangers like streamers, resembling tired flags ripped by a malicious wind long after the celebration. Another door revealed more of the same, rags replaced neatly as if the creases of them still mattered; zips gaping like wounds, sleeves in shreds. He was stunned, closed the doors with something like reverence, furious with Amanda Scott, his mind jangling with possibilities, entertaining the thought of Blundell as murderer. Then he put the thoughts back into order, stored the vision of this graveyard of clothing for future reference, went back to the first purpose of his trespassing, left the room, and went to the next.
An unpromising door, bolted from the inside, light from the interior colouring the dark floor in a brilliant band. He had quickly identified the remainder of the upstairs rooms; this door was the only one left for the daughter of the house. Evelyn, darling child, whose writing on a shopping list seen in John Blundell's office bore such a striking resemblance to that on juvenile love letters to a teacher currently in prison. He did not know what was in his own mind other than writing, the gleam of gold, and a familiar feeling under his skin.
Bailey put his shoulder to the door, felt the breeze from the open window beyond as the softest splintering of wood shrugged off a cheap bolt, clumsily constructed as a barrier against a world that had never wanted entry in the first place. More a symbol, this bolt, effective only because it was completely respected. On the other side of the door, a room so Spartan it almost defied occupation: small bed, tacky wardrobe, cheap wooden desk bought for a child, spitefully at odds with the luxury of the rest of the house. A plastic skeleton hanging from cupboard and a hoard of books, tidily placed.
Thin curtains moved in the breeze, flagging the presence of Evelyn Blundell's own back door. A small transistor radio was playing quietly but insistently. He sat in the childish chair by the desk and began to open the drawers. Somewhere out there, walking the streets in the quasi-countryside of this artificial part of the world, looking at the better life, was darling child, a malevolent, determined, and beautiful presence, perhaps protecting a murderer.
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