by Mark McShane
Mrs. Finch was aghast. ‘Oh no. Not at all. You’re very welcome I’m sure. But you will stop and have a cup of tea, won’t you? Oh, of course you will.’
Myra moved round to the telephone. ‘Well, I can only stay a minute or two.’
‘I’ll put the kettle on right away,’ the woman said, closing the door quickly. ‘It’ll be ready in no time.’ She turned and hurried down the hall with her arms raised and waving ring-throttled fingers in the air close to her head.
Myra lifted the receiver and carefully dialled. She heard the call signal, and glanced over her shoulder, and was pleased to see that the kitchen door was ajar. The phone clicked and a female voice said, ‘The Clayton residence.’
‘I would like to speak to either Mr. or Mrs. Clayton, if you please. This is Myra Savage calling.’
‘Yes. Would you please hold on.’
There was a short silence before a gruff voice said, ‘Good morning, Mrs. Savage. Charles Clayton speaking.’
‘Good morning. I do not know how you will respond to what I have to say, Mr. Clayton, since you did not seem to be very interested in my gifts the last time we spoke together. And …’
‘Mrs. Savage,’ the man said impatiently. ‘I’m afraid I must ask you to please come to the point. We’re expecting, or at least hoping for, an important phone call.’
Myra thought that Clayton’s voice wasn’t as strong and vibrant as when she had seen him in Barnet; it had a new, hurried weakness about it and the diction was poor. She said, ‘Very good. This morning I had what I call a vision, a sort of waking dream.’
Clayton sighed, and said, ‘Yes?’
‘It concerned your daughter. I think I know where she can be found.’
‘Yes.’ The voice didn’t sound too impressed.
‘She is surrounded by trees, many many trees, and is close to one that is lying on the ground uprooted. This tree is very long and its roots are reddish. I am sure she is in danger. She is dressed in a long white gown that is far too large for her. She is lying quite still and probably sleeping. I did not actually see her, I just sensed she was there. All I saw was the white gown and the red roots of the tree. And I felt there were several people moving around her, some of them quite young, almost children.’
‘Well, what precisely does all this mean, Mrs. Savage?’
‘Much of it may be symbolic, such as the colour of the roots, meaning danger, but I am sure that the large number of trees can be taken as actual. I also got the impression that close by there was a collection of waste, refuse. I do not know what that signifies, but perhaps it will help narrow the search for the right spot. I would suggest you try Burnham Beeches. It is more or less on your side of London.’
Clayton sighed. ‘I can’t see how this helps me. I can’t go tearing off to every wooded area around the city.’
‘You could simply tell the police. They will check.’
‘Oh, really now, Mrs. Savage. How could I possibly tell the police a story like that.’
‘I really think you ought to. After all, you know, there is …’
‘Mrs. Savage,’ he cut in. ‘I’m very sorry, but I’m afraid I’ll have to ring off now. I want to keep the line free.’
‘I would like to speak to your wife,’ Myra said, making her tone stern.
‘My wife’s resting. I’m sorry. Good day.’
‘But I think you are being …’
‘Good day.’ The phone went dead.
Myra shrugged, and smiled faintly as she put the receiver down. She thought that at least she had been able to get to Clayton before he was told of his child’s death; it was better than nothing, and in future he would not be so sceptical. She put the receiver back to her face and dialled the other number she had memorized; the number of a national newspaper. She got a busy signal, and dialled again, changing the last digit. A male voice said, ‘Good morning. Daily Star.’
Myra said, ‘I would like to talk to someone who is connected with the Clayton kidnapping.’
‘Oh, is it about the body in Epping Forest?’
Myra hesitated, then said, ‘Yes. That is right.’
‘Well, thanks all the same, but we already know. We’ve had several calls about it. Our men are on their way there now. But we don’t know yet for sure that it is the Clayton girl. Do you know for sure?’
Myra said, ‘No, not really.’ She decided there was no point in telling the story of the vision.
‘Okay. Thanks for calling. ’Bye.’
‘Good day.’ She set the receiver back in its cradle, and turned and called, ‘Mrs. Finch!’
The kitchen door swung open at once and the woman’s white face looked out. ‘Oh, are you finished?’
‘Yes, thank you. But I just want to ring the exchange and find out how much I owe you for the calls.’
‘Oh please, my dear. I wouldn’t dream.’ She wafted the air, as though pushing the idea away. ‘Now come into the kitchen. The kettle’s almost boiling.’
‘Well,’ Myra said, walking down the hall, ‘one of the calls might be quite expensive. It was to Barnet. To the Claytons, you know. About their little girl who was kidnapped.’
‘No!’
Bill had tucked his atomizer safely down beside the deep seat-cushion of his chair, and was now dozing lightly, a faint smile on his lips and a worried slant to his eyebrows. His breathing was slow and measured, and sometimes his head quivered at the end of an inhale, but it was accompanied by only one thin squeak.
A sound broke gradually into his dreamless doze, and stopped just as he came fully awake. He blinked widely, trying to think what the noise had been. Then his mouth twisted in a little yawn and he closed his eyes again. Slowly the worried slant of his eyebrows deepened into a severe frown, and he opened his eyes and stared at the mantelshelf.
Not having to think too much about his breathing now, his mind had returned to his troubles and he was sinking quickly into his former misery. And added was the new fear of having been seen in the forest. He shuddered, and raised his hands to his face.
He heard again the noise that had woke him; it was a light thud, and seemed to be coming from upstairs. He jerked forward to the edge of the seat and put his head on one side to listen. It sounded again.
He rose quickly to his feet; it was coming from upstairs.
Footsteps. Undoubtedly footsteps. His top lip rose, his scalp tingled, and he strained to hear, counting the thuds. One … two … three …
They were light and muffled, but distinct; definitely coming from above, but at the same time having an echo of distance; nonchalant, but relentless. He clenched his fists and stared at the ceiling.
A door opened; he heard the hinge wail. His head shook in a sudden convulsion. Thud, thud, thud. He realized with a shiver of hope that it could be his wife, come home while he slept, and he shouted, ‘Myra!’ No answer. He shouted again, as loud as he could, ‘MYRA!’ No answer.
One … two … three … it was coming downstairs … four … five … six … with a harsh cry he whirled to face the hall door … seven … eight … nine … his brain refused to think of what it might be, could be … ten.…
He scrambled across the room and flung himself at the door and gripped the handle tightly. He’d have given anything for a strong bolt; or even a weak one.
Silence. He strained to listen, holding his precious breath and popping his eyes. The thuds had stopped; he could hear nothing other than the crepitation in his own ears. But he didn’t ease his weight off the door.
There was another sound. This time coming from outside. Someone was coughing. He twisted his head and looked out of the window. Standing on the pavement, near the front of a car, was a man; portly, middle-aged, red-faced and white-headed. He was looking at the house next door.
With a melting sag of his body Bill realized that the footsteps had been coming from the other house, made by a prospective buyer who’d been looking it over and clumping around on the bare boards. He gazed with dreamy exhaustion out of
the window and lifted a hand to his burning brow, and found it wet with sweat.
The man outside turned, caught his eye and waved. Bill blinked for a moment, surprised, then weakly returned the wave. The man swung fully about and started walking down toward the end of the street, obviously coming to the house.
Bill used his handkerchief to wipe his hands and face before going slowly into the hall. He was unable to resist shooting a glance to the top of the stairs, and looked back again as he opened the front door.
The man was leaning on the gatepost and staring solemnly into the garage. He turned his head quickly, and smiled. ‘Ah, good day, sir.’
‘Good day.’ Bill went out on to the step. He was about to say he didn’t know anything about the house next door when the man said:
‘I was here yesterday, having a chat to your wife. I’m Detective-Sergeant Beedle.’
‘Oh. Er—how do you do.’
‘Howjado, Mr. Savage. Nice and fresh today.’
‘Yes, it is. Er—was there something?’
‘Well, we got a complaint at the station that some kids had been playing around the empty house there, so we got the key from the agent and came to have a look. Everything seems all right. I just wondered if you’d seen or heard any kids about.’
Bill shook his head. He knew for certain that never during the time the house had been vacant had any children been playing anywhere near it. He began to feel cold inside.
The detective smiled. ‘Ah well. Probably a false alarm. Some people call the station if it rains.’
Bill tried to answer the smile, but didn’t do too well. He nodded.
‘But I wanted to have a chat with you, Mr. Savage, so it’s not been a wasted journey.’
‘Oh?’
‘Nothing really. Just routine checking on that Clayton kidnapping.’
‘Ah.’
‘I wonder if you can remember where you were on Monday afternoon?’
Bill had to restrain himself from answering too quickly. He asked, ‘Monday afternoon?’
‘Yes. It was the seventeenth.’
‘I remember. I was here. I didn’t go out at all that day.’
‘Ah. Anyone call?’
‘Er—no. I don’t think so. No.’
‘It’s just to verify that you were at home, you know.’
‘Well, no, no one called.’
Beedle smiled. ‘Oh, don’t worry about it, Mr. Savage. We ask everyone these questions.’
‘Of course. It’s an awful thing, this kidnapping.’
‘It is indeed.’
‘Er—anything new?’
‘No, I don’t think there’s been any new developments.’ He turned his head as he spoke. Bill followed his gaze and saw a constable leaving the house next door. The constable shook his head at the detective, and went to the car and climbed in.
‘Found nothing, apparently,’ Beedle said, then glanced into the garage. ‘Your wife tells me you were out for a bit of fresh air yesterday, Mr. Savage. Go far, did you?’
‘No. I—er—just went for a spin.’
‘Out for the day?’
‘No, I was back for, ah, just before noon.’
Beedle smiled at the bike. ‘She’s seen better days.’
‘Yes.’
‘Had her out today?’
Bill didn’t know how to answer. For ten seconds he just stared at the detective, then quickly, to delay, started to cough deeply, turning his face to the side.
‘Bit chesty?’
‘Asthma,’ Bill gasped. ‘Very bad today.’
‘Oh, you won’t have been out then.’
Bill shook his head, now struggling with a real cough, brought on by the pretended one.
‘Well, I won’t keep you, Mr. Savage. It’s chilly stood about.’ He glanced in again at the bike, and turned away. ‘Good day, sir. Thank you for your time.’
Bill nodded, and moved to the gatepost and leaned on it to finish coughing. When he straightened up, his eyes streaming from his effort and the agony in his lungs, he saw the police car turning the corner at the top of the street. A moment later Myra appeared from around the same corner, looking back over her shoulder. Bill walked slowly into the house. He sat down, used his atomizer, and leaned forward with his elbows on the chair arms and his shoulders hunched.
Myra came in, slamming the doors behind her, and crossed quickly to the hearth. She said, ‘Was that the police?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mr. Laughing Beedle?’
Bill nodded, and told her the gist of the conversation. She listened carefully, and began taking off her coat. She said, ‘I do not think there is anything to worry about.’
He blinked at her. ‘But they’re suspicious. Very suspicious.’
‘Because of the empty house there? It is very likely that they did get a complaint. You know what people are for calling the police.’
‘And the bike. He kept looking at the bike.’
‘That does not mean anything. It has not been seen anywhere. Barnet, London or Epping. Has it?’
‘Well … no.’
‘They might realize that the tracks in the field at Barnet could have been made by a motor-cycle. But that is not proof.’
‘But Epping. They saw me in the helmet and everything.’
‘Even so, there must be half a million cyclists in and around London, and most of the helmets are white.’
Bill sighed and shook his head. ‘He was suspicious. I could tell.’
‘Well of course the police are suspicious. They are of everybody. That is their job. But suspicion is not proof.’ She sat down in her chair. ‘There is no way they can connect us with the Clayton child. You left no fingerprints in the car. You cannot be identified by Clayton or the chauffeur because of your disguise. All evidence that the child was ever here has been destroyed. The sheet and nightdress cannot be traced. And if they make inquiries about our activities of late they will find that they were quite normal. We bought the plywood, but now there is no longer anyone to describe the bedroom, that will not mean a thing. The chloroform we had had for years, and now that has been disposed of. Is there anything else?’
Bill stared miserably at the fire, and moved his head slowly and uncertainly from side to side.
Myra frowned at him and said, ‘Tell me what happened in the woods.’
He told her about the three small Scouts, and the big one with whom he’d struggled, and the man who’d glanced up from his rubbish burning.
She said, ‘That does not seem too bad. You had your goggles on all the time. I do not think we have anything to worry about. If the police were really suspicious they would have arrested us long ago and put us through a rigorous interrogation.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Of course they would.’ She rose and moved away from the hearth. ‘I will make you a nice cup of tea.’ Going into the kitchen she filled the kettle and set it on the stove, and began to hum softly. She wasn’t too perturbed by the visit of the detective—she had implicit faith in her dream of immunity—and thought that under the circumstances things were going as well as could be expected. Also her talk with Mrs. Finch had rekindled the memory of her accomplishment at the séance the night before, lifting her spirits above their normal steady level.
Bill stared into the heart of the fire. He was filled with a strong foreboding of disaster.
Myra said, ‘It is raining.’ She was kneeling on the couch, her forearms laid on its back and her chin on her clasped hands.
Bill, in his chair, nodded. Then, realizing she couldn’t see the nod, said, ‘Yes.’
‘How is your chest?’
‘Easier, thanks.’
‘Sure you do not want anything to eat?’
‘Yes, quite sure.’
‘It is nearly four o’clock you know, and you had no breakfast.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
Myra sighed. At any other time they would be eagerly discussing her latest supranormal experience. But Bill had ha
rdly spoken all day, and then only if spoken to. She wondered how long it would take him to recover from the shock of the girl’s death. He could not possibly be more despondent, she thought, if the child had been his own.
She turned her head and looked at his chair. ‘I do wish you would try and pull yourself together. I fail to see why you should grieve so over someone else’s child.’
Bill frowned, and shook his head slightly.
She asked, ‘What did you say?’
‘Nothing.’
She turned away, exasperated, and saw through the rain-streaked window that a car was splashing its way down the street. She said, ‘There is a car coming.’
Bill eased tautly forward to the edge of the chair, turning his head to the side and waiting.
Myra said, ‘It is coming here.’
Bill’s hand rose to his throat, then to his mouth.
The car stopped at the gate. Myra put her face closer to the window, and said, ‘It is a police car,’ adding, as the car door opened and a man got out, ‘and Detective-Sergeant Beedle.’
Bill twisted round, his face stricken. Myra looked at him sharply as she backed off from the couch. ‘For God’s sake, take hold of yourself. You look like a trapped animal.’ But she felt uneasy herself as she went into the hall to answer the policeman’s knock. She swung the door wide, smiling politely. ‘Well, good day, Mr. Beedle.’
‘Hello, Mrs. Savage. Here I am to trouble you again.’
‘Please come in. Awful weather.’
‘Thanks.’ He stepped inside, running a hand over his glistening white hair. ‘But we could do with a drop of rain.’
‘I dare say.’
He said, smiling as usual, ‘Well, I’ve come with a rather unusual request, sent on ahead as a sort of newsbreaker. Is your husband in?’
Myra frowned. ‘Yes. Is it he you wished to speak to?’
‘Not really, but I suppose I’d better explain the situation to you both.’
She opened the living-room door. ‘This way, please.’
Bill rose slowly from his chair as they entered, hiding his trembling hands in his jacket pockets. He nodded at the detective, who asked, ‘How’s the old chest, Mr. Savage?’