A Dark Devotion

by Clare Francis

  The disaster of ’53 had woven itself through my childhood landscape for as long as I could remember. People would refer to The Storm, as if there had never been anything even close to it in the intervening twenty years. But it was Will who could point out where the defences had been breached, just as he could show you where the avocets were nesting, or tell you how the old dredger had got to be wrecked on the sand bar at the mouth of the estuary. He knew which homes had been flooded and which had escaped, which fields were slowly being cleansed of the brine, and which had been abandoned to the salt for ever.

  The north wind. One winter—it must have been years later—we had walked out to the dunes in the teeth of a northerly gale. The further we tramped along the embankment path and the closer we got to the sea, the louder the thunder had grown, a dull rumble that rose over the dunes like a warning. Climbing to the top of the dunes, bracing ourselves against the onslaught of the wind, it was like reaching the very edge of the world: the spume and spray, the eerie haze, the crashing of the waves that seemed to make the sand tremble beneath our feet. We laughed as we leaned into the wind, we shouted with excitement as wind-tears were torn from our eyes, we spread our arms like gliders and felt the lift. And when the euphoria had passed we just stood and stared, stilled by the spread and sound of the sea.

  Looking at the haze now, hearing the wind, I knew the scene beyond the dunes would be the same, I knew the sea would be a wall of thunder.

  I found reasons to put off my call to Paul—the bad reception, the need to get some clothes on before I froze, the breakfast Maggie would be preparing downstairs—but the truth was that I preferred to wait until he got to the office, where we could stick to business.

  Maggie had made strong Italian coffee and toast, and prepared two halves of an Ogen melon. As soon as I was sitting down, she stated with an element of rehearsal, ‘What I said before, Alex…don’t misunderstand me. I meant that happiness is something very…individual Yes? Sometimes it is impossible to understand what makes someone else happy. Or unhappy. You know what I am saying?’

  I nodded tentatively.

  ‘Grace, she may have had moments when she was not so happy, but she never showed it. Nothing more.’

  I nodded again, more definitely.

  She watched me a little longer, to be sure I’d understood what she was saying, before sitting back in her seat with a small sigh. She turned her ear to the storm and murmured, ‘What a climate, Alex.’ Spreading her clawlike hands against her chest, lifting her bony shoulders, she gave a small defiant smile.

  I drank a second cup of coffee and we talked about Charlie and art classes and schools. When I kissed her goodbye, her cheek was dry and papery against my lips.

  Outside, the wind came sweeping around the corner of the cottage and blew my hair into my eyes. The car was covered in a soft white film of salt. Pursued by needles of rain and rushing leaves, I drove slowly up Salterns Lane towards the main road. After a hundred yards or so I came to a pair of cottages huddled behind a tangled hedge, and twenty yards further on I saw Barry Holland’s smart four-wheel drive beside a house I barely recognized. A run-down cottage when I had last seen it, the place had been renovated and extended to at least double the size, with new pointing and clean brickwork and a conservatory at the far corner. Paving had been laid around the house, and on the walls young climbers, their labels fluttering in panic, clung desperately to their restraining wires. Festoon curtains hung in the upstairs windows and a chimney released a stream of wood smoke which was instantly shredded and dispersed by the wind. The place stood on rising ground; on a clear day it would have wide uninterrupted views of the marshes and, at that height, probably the sea as well. It was a solid house, well renovated, though I wondered why Barry Holland should have wanted to come back to a place that must have held mixed memories for him. A need to prove that he had overcome his past perhaps, or a simple nostalgia that managed to outweigh the negative associations of his youth; or a wish to stay in touch with friends and family, though I seemed to remember that his family, such as it was, had drifted away from the neighbourhood.

  Once out of Salterns Lane and onto the main coastal road there was barely time to get up speed before slowing down for the turning to Marsh House. Taking this route, along the eastern loop of Quay Lane, one did not pass Sedge-comb House and my father’s old surgery but descended a single-track lane with the occasional cottage hidden behind dense trees and tall hedges. The vegetal screen was so effective that the occupants must have had a poor view of passing traffic. It was no wonder that Grace had driven by unnoticed on her return from Maggie’s that last evening, no wonder that she had reached Marsh House unseen.

  Nearing the quay, the sky became increasingly blurred, the wind more belligerent until the car trembled in the full force of the gale. Before turning along the track to Marsh House, I glanced to the left, down the length of the quay.

  I stared, I braked, a dull dread rose in my stomach. At the far end of the quay some vehicles were gathered, and one was an emergency vehicle with a flashing blue light and fluorescent red panels on the sides.

  A single thought filled my brain: they had found Grace.

  Preparing for the worst, rehearsing the moves ahead, I drove towards the flashing light. Eventually I made out the shape of an ambulance, its back doors open, its interior brightly lit. Close by were two cars, one of them occupied by a driver who turned his face towards me as I drew up. When I walked across and bent down to speak to him, he wound the window down a couple of inches.

  ‘What’s happened?’ I had to raise my voice.

  ‘It’s old Mrs Betteney. Being evacuated.’

  It was a moment before it sank in. ‘The flood warning?’

  He nodded. ‘They’re taking her to the old people’s home for a couple of days.’

  The relief must have done something strange to my face because he gave me an odd look and abruptly raised the window again. Driving back along the quay, I realized that, relieved or not, I was resigned to the fact that Grace wasn’t going to be found alive.

  I had another surprise, almost as unpleasant, when I saw Ramsey’s car parked in front of Marsh House. I swore loudly.

  I gave the front bell a long impatient ring, and even as Will opened the door I was asking, ‘Has something happened? Is there news? Why’s he here?’

  ‘I don’t know why he’s here!’ He looked terrible this morning, ashen-skinned with bleak eyes.

  ‘But what’s he up to?’ I demanded. ‘Has he been asking you questions?’

  Catching my anxiety, Will threw out his hands. ‘Not so far.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  He tipped his head towards the sitting room. ‘But cool down, for heaven’s sake. What’s the problem?’

  ‘The problem is that he’s not playing by the rules. We were due to meet at ten. It’s barely nine.’

  Will gave a loud sigh, as though he could have done without these machinations, and followed me into the room.

  Ramsey was standing by the fireplace in a suit that was too tight for him, one plump hand splayed out towards the grate, as if to draw warmth from last night’s ashes, while a sturdy woman with cropped hair whom I took to be DC Smith was sitting on a high-backed chair against a wall. A third officer, young and fresh faced, was settled in a corner of the sofa, looking very much at home, one hand dangling over the side of the arm, legs crossed. Seeing me, he pulled himself languidly to his feet.

  I went up to Ramsey. ‘I was under the impression we had arranged to meet at ten o’clock.’

  ‘We thought Mr Dearden would be glad of an early update on the television appeal.’

  I contained my indignation with difficulty. ‘Surely a phone call wouldn’t have been too much to ask? As a matter of basic courtesy? Either to Mr Dearden or to myself. Quite apart from the inconvenience to Mr Dearden of your arriving unannounced on his doorstep, and the considerable alarm it must have caused.’

  Ramsey put on a show of bafflement. ‘Ala
rm? I don’t think Mr Dearden was alarmed at seeing us.’ He glanced enquiringly at Will and back at me without waiting for an answer. ‘He certainly hasn’t been alarmed by any of our previous visits.’

  ‘Anyone in this situation would be alarmed at an unannounced visits’ I insisted coldly. ‘And there’s the child to consider.’

  ‘The child has left for school, Mrs O’Neill, a fact we were well aware of.’

  Retrieving my dignity, I stated, ‘Nevertheless, may I ask that you phone and let us know another time?’

  ‘As I’m sure you’ll appreciate, Mrs O’Neill, it’s not always possible to call. But…’ He made a show of considering the idea. ‘We’ll do what we can.’

  I hadn’t expected much more, but at least I’d made my point. As my Somers Town clients would have it, I was not to be messed about.

  For a moment everyone was still, held in an uncertain tableau. Offering a less fearsome face, I asked, ‘So, what have you had from the appeal?’

  ‘Not too encouraging, I’m afraid,’ Ramsey said, without surprise. ‘Excluding obvious cranks and non-starters, just twelve calls as of this morning, and none too promising.’

  ‘Anything local?’

  ‘Possibly. Possibly.’ He turned to Will, who was standing with his arms crossed, frowning deeply. ‘In fact, there’s one matter which has been brought to our notice which we would like to discuss with you, Mr Dearden.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ Will agreed immediately. As an afterthought he looked to me for approval, and I nodded because there wasn’t much else I could do.

  I suggested we move into the dining room, where the formality would be more likely to keep Will on his guard.

  The five of us sat in a semicircle around one end of the table, beneath the murky gaze of the landscapes. I took a chair beside Will, with Ramsey and Barbara Smith opposite, while the young officer whose name appeared to be Wilson lounged in the carver at the end. Both the junior officers took out notebooks and pens. It was much quieter at the side of the house; but for the occasional rattle of the sash window and the whisper of the wind in the chimney the storm might have belonged to another day.

  ‘Mr Dearden,’ Ramsey said, settling his forearms on the table, ‘could you possibly take us through your movements on Wednesday the eighteenth of February once again?’

  Will’s eyes darkened, he made a gesture of incredulity. ‘What—everything?’

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘From when I got up?’

  ‘Please.’

  Will exhaled loudly. ‘Okay…I got up at the usual time, at six. At about six fifteen I went to help Ken with the cattle—’

  ‘Ken who?’

  ‘Ken Wicks.’

  ‘Your farmhand?’

  ‘I share him. With my neighbour.’

  ‘And the cattle, they’re at your other farm, is that right?’

  ‘It’s not another farm,’ Will explained patiently. ‘It’s only called Upper Farm because it’s on higher land, on the other side of the coast road. It’s all one farm.’

  ‘Right. Do go on.’

  ‘Yes…’ Will tried to pick up his thread again. ‘I was back by seven fifteen, when I took a shower and changed. I woke my son at seven thirty then went down to cook him breakfast. At quarter past eight I drove my son up to the main road to meet the parent doing the school run. Then at about nine I left for Norwich—’

  ‘And your wife…?’ Ramsey interrupted, like a prompter returning Will to the script.

  ‘My wife got up at about quarter to eight. When I left she was having a cup of coffee.’

  ‘When you left for Norwich, that is?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And was that the last time you saw her?’

  Will dropped his eyes and tightened his mouth. ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, how did you pass your time in Norwich, Mr Dearden?’

  Will eyed Ramsey speculatively. ‘I rather assumed you’d checked all this out.’

  With exemplary politeness, Ramsey asked, ‘If you wouldn’t mind going through it once more, Mr Dearden.’

  Will glanced at me, and raised a brief eyebrow that only I could see. ‘I got to the Fergusson dealers some time after ten,’ he recounted to Ramsey, ‘and stayed an hour or so. Then at about twelve I went to Allen’s the seed merchants and stayed there for half an hour. Then I went into the middle of town and did some shopping. At two thirty I went to a meeting with my bank manager…’

  Watching Will, I had the strange sense of watching two different people. I saw the person who was my client, doing well under difficult circumstances; and I saw the person whom I knew from another life, someone who, in revealing himself to Ramsey, was also revealing himself to me, familiar yet increasingly elusive.

  ‘…I dropped in at a computer shop to look at some software,’ Will continued. ‘Then at four—no, it was after four, at about four fifteen, four twenty, I suppose—I went and visited a friend in hospital, in the Royal Norfolk.’

  ‘And that was Mr Jim McDonald?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How long did you stay?’

  ‘I’m not absolutely sure. Until five fifteen? Something like that. He’d probably have a better idea. Did you ask him?’

  Dead-eyed, Ramsey conceded, ‘We have been in contact with Mr McDonald, yes.’

  ‘Well, he’ll tell you. I think I left at five fifteen, but it may have been later.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I started for home. But then my mother called me on my mobile to say there was trouble with a sluice. So—’

  ‘What time was it when she called you?’

  ‘Well…I’d just left the hospital so it must have been half past five, something like that.’

  Ramsey absorbed this slowly, with concentration. Wilson sat with his elbows on the table, watching Will from above an arch of clasped fingers, while Barbara Smith was taking assiduous notes.

  ‘And what did you do then?’ Ramsey prompted.

  ‘I drove to the marshes to deal with the sluice.’

  ‘When you say you drove to the marshes, where exactly are we talking about?’

  ‘The Gun Marsh. The western side.’

  ‘And which route did you take to get there?’

  ‘There’s only one route. Down Salterns Lane, past my mother’s place.’

  ‘Your mother lives close to the marsh?’

  ‘Yes,’ Will said in the tone of someone going over old ground. ‘A few yards away. Her cottage is the closest you can get to it by road.’

  ‘So just to get it straight, once you knew there was a problem with the sluice, you went directly to the Gun Marsh to deal with it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You didn’t go home first?’

  Will gave Ramsey a curious look, as though the question were new to the itinerary and he couldn’t see the point of it. ‘It would only have wasted time. From what my mother had said, water was pouring onto the meadows. I had to get there quickly.’

  ‘But you phoned home to Marsh House?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I told you—the machine was on.’

  ‘Didn’t you think that was strange?’

  ‘No. Grace could have been in the bath…anything. Just because someone leaves the machine on…’

  ‘You didn’t worry?’

  ‘No. There was absolutely no reason to. Be-sides, all I was thinking about at the time was the broken sluice and what it was doing to my land.’

  ‘You didn’t try to call again?’

  ‘I’d left a message, there was no point.’ He looked mildly baffled at having to explain such an obvious matter.

  ‘What did you say in your message?’

  ‘God…’ He had to think. ‘Umm, that I was going to the Gun to sort out a sluice, going straight there. Something like that.’

  Ramsey’s small eyes did not leave Will’s face. ‘Go on, Mr Dearden.’

  Will rubbed his forehead. ‘Yes, so…I got to the marsh
and—’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘Six thirty, I suppose. But I wasn’t really looking at the time…it could have been ten minutes either way.’

  ‘Could it have been more than ten minutes either way?’

  Will had to put his mind to this. ‘No, no…It was no earlier than six twenty, at the very most. And later? No, I don’t think so. No, ten minutes either way, no more.’

  Ramsey waited for him to go on.

  ‘So…then I went to look at the sluice.’

  ‘Could you describe the exact location of the sluice for us?’

  ‘It’s on the western embankment of the Gun Marsh,’ he replied slowly. ‘The first sluice.’

  ‘And to reach it?’

  ‘I explained…’

  ‘Just so we get it clear.’

  Will’s mouth twitched slightly, a first show of nerves. ‘You drive past my mother’s place and over some grass till you reach the embankment. Then you have to walk. Unless you’re on a tractor…which I wasn’t.’

  ‘Did you see anyone on the way?’

  ‘What? No.’

  ‘Not your mother?’

  ‘Not until she came out later. No, I drove straight past the cottage. I tooted the horn and went straight on.’

  ‘What about the handle? Isn’t there a handle you need to operate the sluice?’

  ‘It was already out there. They’d already tried to close the sluice—’

  ‘They?’

  An infinitesimal pause, no longer than a heartbeat. ‘I meant, my mother had already tried to close the sluice.’

  Ramsey creased up his podgy cheeks in a show of surprise. ‘Your mother had tried to close the sluice? Would she have been able to do that? She doesn’t seem a very strong lady.’

  ‘Well, she’s managed it before. Mainly when she was younger, of course. But…In fact, it’s not that difficult so long as the sluice is properly maintained.’

  ‘And was it properly maintained?’

  Looking wary now, Will gave a small nod.

  Ramsey assumed his puzzled expression again. ‘But in this instance it was in fact broken, so she couldn’t shift it. Is that what you’re saying?’