by Rebecca Tope
She wanted them gone for her own selfish reasons. Yet now that she knew that one of the campers was Elvira, she was also anxious for the girl’s welfare. She had to do something now, this morning, before the turmoil inside her became unbearable, although doing it would in the short run only create more turmoil. With a deep sigh, she stood up, and carefully trod the zigzag route back to the main path through the woods.
It was a mile and a half to the village, where she now had to go. Taking the car would wake Jonathan, so she would walk. She was still too early, anyway. The path came out onto a stretch of road leading to the village, past the northern boundary of Redstone’s land. The Redstone buildings could not be seen from there, but the Grimsdales’ house could, on the crest of the opposite hill. There was no high hedge on either side of this road, it having been widened in recent years, and the great banks bulldozed away, to be replaced by an ugly fence of posts and wire. Nobody, it seemed, had been willing to pay for a new hedge to be laid. Not Guy and not the Council. Pity, thought Cappy, not for the first time. It would have been several useful months’ work for Phoebe.
It was still twenty minutes or so short of seven o’clock when she reached her destination. The door of the cottage, high on its bank, was firmly closed, and there was no sign of life. No whistling kettle or mumbling radio. She tried the door, confident that it would not be locked.
Inside the living room, she walked to a door in the corner, and unlatched it. It opened onto a flight of stairs, steep and uncarpeted. She went up, not caring that she made a noise.
Phoebe was asleep under a great heavy eiderdown, surely far too hot for a June night. Her badger-striped hair was all that Cappy could see. There was a sour smell, tinged with something offensive: rotting meat, thought Cappy, glancing round the room for some clue as to its origin. She went to the bed, and laid a hand on the woman’s shoulder, under the bedcover.
‘Phoebe. I want you to come with me,’ she said.
The woman turned over, her eyes immediately locking onto Cappy’s. She showed no surprise. ‘What did you say?’ she grumbled.
‘I want you to come and get Elvira. She’s not safe where she is.’
Phoebe sighed, and sat up, in a great heaving motion like a walrus bursting out of the sea. She was naked, and Cappy suddenly found the source of the smell. Phoebe’s right breast was at least twice the size of its partner, ulcerated and discoloured. ‘Oh God,’ said Cappy.
Phoebe glanced down at herself, and gave a little shrug. ‘Yes. It’s going to get me pretty soon now, the bloody thing. That’s why—’ She stopped abruptly, staring suspiciously at her visitor. ‘And don’t say it. Just don’t.’
‘You underestimate me,’ replied Cappy quietly. ‘I’d do exactly the same in your position.’
‘Ah. I might have known.’ She swung herself out of bed, stomach flat, legs muscular and lean. Cappy felt a pang of admiration. And sorrow. She couldn’t remember when she last felt such sorrow, and it made her angry.
‘Come on,’ she urged, brusquely. ‘You still have to think about Elvira.’
‘Don’t I always think of Elvira,’ said Phoebe, suddenly savage. ‘It’s all I ever fucking think about. What’s her trouble now?’
‘I’ll have to show you. Have you got something we can drive?’
‘I’ve got the van. Can’t promise it’ll start, though.’ She pulled on a pair of jeans, and then turned away to bind her swollen breast in a kind of modified bra, which kept it close against her body. She sprayed herself with something perfumed, which struck Cappy as grotesquely incongruous, then a T-shirt followed, and a baggy sweatshirt, and Cappy could see why nobody would guess at Phoebe’s cancer.
The old van started first try, and Phoebe drove it jerkily down her rutted track, and out into the road leading through the village square. Nobody was about. Cappy directed her to the edge of the woods, next to the opening used by picnicking tourists, and ordered her to turn off the engine. ‘We have to walk from here,’ she said.
Phoebe sighed. ‘Trouble, is it?’ she said, sounding achingly tired. ‘Can’t pretend I didn’t know it’d come in the end. Though nobody can say I didn’t do my best. Lead on, then.’
Amos hadn’t slept well that night, running again and again over the kaleidoscope of events of the previous day. The vicar had taken charge, driving him to the police station, standing over him while he explained about Phoebe and his suspicions concerning her and Elvira. They had written some of it down, nodding and shaking their heads, sucking their pens, exchanging glances.
‘I hope you’re taking this seriously,’ the vicar had said to them, sternly. ‘This is extremely important information – you do realise that.’
‘It could be, sir,’ they said. ‘But we’ll have to take care how we approach it. It isn’t as if you’ve produced any hard evidence here, is it?’
‘Motive, man!’ Father Edmund had shouted. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t realised there is now a motive.’
‘I’m not quite sure I follow you, sir,’ said one of the detectives. Amos had been amused by the vicar’s exasperation. It hardly mattered to him now, whether the police believed him or not. He knew in his own mind what this whole miserable business had been about, and that was all that really mattered.
The vicar had spelt it out. ‘Phoebe and Amos are Elvira’s natural parents. She always rebuffed any approaches from Amos in the early years, until he assumed that she wanted nothing from him – if he was indeed the girl’s father, which he often doubted. Now, when Elvira is too much trouble, and she thinks an easier life might be nice, Phoebe suddenly remembers that Amos has money in the bank, and wants it for her girl. She told him as much – didn’t she, Amos?’
He nodded slowly. ‘Sort of,’ he agreed.
‘So,’ went on Father Edmund, ‘she had to arrange that Isaac was put out of the way, so Elvira could take his place, and live with Amos, as housekeeper and acknowledged daughter.’ He faltered, realising that his imagination was running away with him. He caught the look of amused contempt on the policeman’s face.
‘Are you telling me, sir, that Phoebe Winnicombe killed Isaac Grimsdale?’
‘No, ’twasn’t her,’ said Amos more firmly than he felt. ‘But could be she put someone up to it.’ He stared at the wall, trying to convince himself that this was the case. ‘But he tried to kill me, as well,’ he pointed out. ‘That’s a facer, now isn’t it?’
The conversation had become increasingly disjointed after that, the police repeatedly trying to glean some hard facts and the vicar shouting one minute, and stammering over some silly notion the next. In the end, he’d been taken home again. They told him that the new information had been ‘very useful’, but they’d have to process it first before taking any action.
Now, on this early morning, with the pigeons having long, burbling conversations right outside his window, and from somewhere the annoying sound of a returning cat mewling for food, Amos abandoned any further attempt to sleep and got out of bed.
As always, he went to his window, and looked out to check the weather. There wasn’t a single cloud to be seen, just a thin haze above the Mabberley woods opposite. A fine day, then. A good day for getting back to something like normal, checking on the neglected beasts and deciding on how to proceed from here. If one of Isaac’s cats had escaped from its new home and come back, perhaps that was not such a terrible thing, after all. It could at least catch a few mice.
Then a movement in the distance caught his eye. Someone was walking along the road, below the woods, alongside the new fence. A tiny figure, moving at a comfortable walking pace. It seemed to him it must be a woman. And whoever it was, he knew for certain that it meant trouble, and another day of chaos, vexation and fear.
He could think of no suitable action, other than a continued vigil at the window. Scanning Redstone, he could see no movement at all. The pale-yellow cows were slowly beginning to cluster at the gate of their field, away to the right, but it would be half an hour or more befo
re anybody got up to milk them. His mind reran, yet again, the whole course of events since Isaac had died. Then he went back to the killing of Sam Carter and his own subsequent arrest. And something new occurred to him; something which gave him a momentary sense of gladness.
Sam had been in the barn tinkering with some machinery when Amos had gone down to Redstone. He hadn’t been very friendly, Amos remembered; so that when Amos had accidentally kicked over a shotgun left carelessly propped against the barn wall with a pull-through rag next to it, he’d quickly stood it up again without saying anything. It had all been over in a second, and Sam hadn’t even seen what happened.
He wiped a hand across his brow, lingering over the lump on his temple, which was still tender. The blow had affected his memory; he was sure of that now. The days before Isaac’s death were a blur to him. And, so it would seem, some of the things that happened since then were also slipping about in his head, loose from their moorings. Hadn’t something strange happened to him in hospital one night, for example? Or had that just been a dream? An old woman crawling about on the floor did not seem very probable.
He sat there, forgetting where he was; forgetting the time of day, watching a succession of images from his memory and imagination; a waking nightmare in which he lost all sense of his immediate surroundings.
But his eye was alert for activity outside. A van went speeding along that same woodside road, and Amos thought he knew whose it was. The colour was distinctive: a light mustard hue which had been in his own yard not many days before. It brought him out of his reverie. If he was right, and Phoebe was driving around the countryside at this hour, then perhaps things really were finally coming to a head.
The van slowed, just at the point where his view was obscured by a high old hedge, and passed out of sight. Perhaps, after he’d had some breakfast, and attended to that persistent cat, he’d walk over there, towards the Mabberley place, and see if he could discover what might be going on.
Jonathan was not at first alarmed when he woke to find Cappy’s side of the bed deserted. She did this often, and would usually appear at about seven with a cup of tea for him. It was only seven fifteen now. No reason to be concerned.
But as he lay there, he realised that there was no sound of movement from downstairs, which was unusual. He got out of bed and went to the top of the stairs to listen more carefully. Nothing.
It hit him then that she had gone back to that camp in the woods. And something must have happened there, because she would not have stayed out so long, knowing he’d worry.
Okay, he admitted to himself. I’m worried. Now what do I do? He realised that although she had told him about the camp, he had no idea where it actually was. If he went looking for her, he could spend all day searching and still not cover more than half the whole area of woodland. Unless there were some helpful noises, like gunshots or screams.
‘Damn it!’ he said aloud. ‘This is getting beyond a joke.’
With a strong sense of doing the wrong thing, he lifted the telephone receiver and pushed the 9 button twice. Then he quickly put it down again. No, that very definitely wasn’t right. He should find the number of the local station and call them direct. That would be better. Why hadn’t those stupid men given him a card with the number on it? He flipped through the directory, peripherally aware that his sight was now bad enough to need glasses for something like this. He had to hold the book at arm’s length to read the ‘Police’ entry.
A tired-sounding woman answered. ‘Could I speak to someone dealing with the Redstone murders,’ he said urgently.
‘What?’
‘Surely you’ve heard about it? Two men killed on their own farm.’
‘Oh. Right.’ She woke up a bit. ‘Hold on, sir.’
A long silence ensued. Finally a man spoke, warily. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ he said.
Jonathan tried to be brief, yet urgent, although it took a while to establish his identity to the man’s satisfaction. ‘I think my wife could be in danger. There are people hiding in our woods. She found a sort of camp there, a few days ago.’
‘But never reported it, is that right sir?’
‘Yes, yes. Now I think she’s gone there, and might be – well – in danger.’
‘Can you show us this secret camp, sir?’
Jonathan cleared his throat. ‘Well, not precisely. But if you’d send someone, we might start a search.’
Another silence. ‘All right, sir. Someone will be with you shortly. Where should we meet you?’
‘At the entrance to the woods, on the village road. The one they widened. There’s a parking area that the tourists use.’
‘Right, sir. We’ll see you there.’
As she led the cows down into the milking yard, Lilah heard a car speeding along the road below the woods. It was going unusually fast and she tutted to herself. A few minutes later, another one followed, just as quickly. Something’s happening, she thought.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Cappy and Phoebe arrived just as the occupant of the bracken hideaway was stirring. Perhaps they had been less than silent during their approach. In any case, Phoebe gave no time for assessment or gentle awakenings.
‘You bloody girl!’ she cried. ‘Come out of there!’
A rounded backside emerged slowly, as Elvira reversed into the open on all fours. Something pathetically childlike in the clumsy crawling struck Cappy painfully, and renewed her sense of sadness at what was happening. She opened her mouth to caution Phoebe to be gentle with her daughter, but closed it again. What did she know about it? Standing there, watching these two bizarre countrywomen, she felt more alien than at any time since arriving in England, ten years ago.
Before Elvira could stand up, Phoebe had seized hold of her and pulled her upwards. ‘Mum!’ squawked the girl. ‘Leave me alone.’ Then she turned to face her mother and Cappy saw a look of pure malice fix itself on her features. ‘Why don’t you leave me alone?’ she repeated. ‘Why’d you come chasing after me?’
Phoebe released her hold and looked at Cappy. ‘This lady said you weren’t safe here.’
Elvira laughed harshly, maniacally. The sound rang through the woods, silencing the birds. Cappy wanted to cover her ears; she had never heard such an inhuman sound. The girl was obviously not merely backward; she was seriously deranged.
‘Well?’ Elvira demanded. ‘What’re you going to do now?’ She spoke thickly, as if her tongue were too big for her mouth. Phoebe looked to Cappy for assistance, an anxious, doubtful look coming into her eyes.
‘You ought not to be here,’ she told her daughter. ‘It’s trespassing.’
‘I’m not hurting anyone.’ Elvira was defiant.
‘Come on, girl,’ said Phoebe. ‘Remember what we talked about. Remember yesterday, when he came to see us? There’s no need to live out here, like some animal, when you can have a lovely new home. Remember?’ She spoke soothingly, almost hypnotically, but Cappy knew that she was being careful not to give anything away. She seemed unsure as to whether Elvira would understand her. Her face was tense and desperate.
The girl narrowed her eyes, so they almost disappeared in her plump cheeks. ‘Don’t need a new home,’ she replied. ‘Getting married, I am.’ She laughed again. ‘Yeah, I am. Really and truly getting married.’
‘What do you mean?’ Phoebe’s voice was high with shock. ‘Who’s been getting at you? Who’s been out here with you? I heard stories of you being with some man. What’s been going on?’
Before she could reply, Elvira’s attention was drawn by the sound of heavy footsteps crashing through the undergrowth. All three of them turned towards the noise.
‘Here they are!’ came a man’s voice. ‘Over here!’
In no time there were three policemen – one of them alarmingly tall – confronting them, standing with their arms held out from their sides as if ready to head off escaping animals. Cappy took a deep breath to steady her pounding heart, then walked towards them.
�
�It’s all right,’ she said. ‘Nobody’s been hurt. I’m Mrs Mabberley. My husband owns these woods.’
‘And your husband is very worried about you,’ said one of the men. ‘He asked us to come and make a search for you. Is there anybody else here?’ He looked round, eyes darting here and there, but Cappy shook her head.
‘And who are these ladies?’ the man pursued.
Like a hostess, Cappy introduced them. ‘Phoebe Winnicombe and her daughter, Elvira.’
Phoebe threw an accusing look at Cappy before reaching out a hand to Elvira. ‘We were just going home. Weren’t we, love?’
Elvira nodded very slightly, and bent to pick up the canvas bag which was lying beside the mouth of the bracken cave.
‘Has someone been sleeping here?’ pursued the man. ‘Would you mind showing us?’
Elvira shrugged and flapped an arm briefly towards her hideout. She said nothing.
Slowly, the policemen seemed to come to the conclusion that they had been directed to something important. They became mutedly excited, glancing at each other, muttering briefly, as they examined the area. The women stood passively watching, although Cappy was anxious to move away. At last she said, almost pleading, ‘Am I free to go home now?’
‘Well,’ said the man doubtfully, ‘I think, in the circumstances, I’ll have to ask all of you to come with us for questioning.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’ Cappy spoke stridently. ‘We haven’t done anything to justify that. You don’t mean to say you’re arresting us, surely? I’ve made no complaint against Elvira.’