‘But they must have tried at Manor Farm as well. And been turned away. Did the Hadleighs feel guilty – is that why they took the boy in afterwards?’
‘Who knows? But he’s loyal to that family, make no mistake on it. He owes them what life he’s had, and he’d not speak out willingly. Not unless you ask him the right questions. But he’ll not lie – have you noticed that? He says little enough, but what he does say, he means, and it’s always the truth.’
‘What questions? What should I ask?’ said Pudding, still befuddled by the incredible thing she’d been told. Annie Tanner settled back into her chair, staring resentfully at her bedridden husband, and Pudding thought it through. ‘Irene has never warmed to him, you know. To Hilarius,’ she said, in the end. ‘She says she can see a darkness around him, or something like that. A shadow – something unnatural.’ At this, Annie’s eyes came sharply into focus. ‘He read about Clemmie’s death in my murder book, when I left it up in the tack room, and he asked to read it a second time, and yet he never said a word about the two murders being the same. He must have realised it though, surely? He was here in Slaughterford for both of them, after all,’ she said.
‘Sounds to me as that city girl has a touch o’ the sight,’ said Ma, and then wouldn’t say another word about it.
* * *
They found Hilarius applying a poultice to the hoof of one of the shires. It had pierced the sole of its foot on a sharp stone; a stinking puddle of black pus, which Hilarius had drained from the abscess, was on the cobbles, and the horse had a shiver to its skin and sweat on its shoulders. Irene blenched at the smell, and held her nose. She drew breath to speak but Pudding took her arm, and shook her head. They waited until the sticky dressing – kaolin clay, ash, certain herbs – was bandaged tight to the hoof, and Hilarius had let go of the horse’s leg and straightened up. The shire rested its toe gingerly on the ground, and looked miserable.
‘Will she be all right?’ said Pudding, as Hilarius wiped his hands on a rag and kicked straw over the pus, on which flies were attempting to land. He shrugged with his eyebrows.
‘If the fever is less by tomorrow, we’ll know.’
‘Could we perhaps go outside?’ said Irene, still struggling with the stench. Once they were in sunshine and relative fresh air, Irene looked at Pudding, and Pudding looked at Irene, and the old man looked at both of them.
‘Out with it,’ he said, gruffly.
‘Hilarius,’ Pudding began, ‘I went to see Ma Tanner.’
‘Ar. And how is the hag?’ he said, without rancour.
‘Well enough. Upset about her son, of course,’ said Pudding. ‘Angry with her husband.’ Hilarius nodded.
‘Isaac Tanner were a scourge, back when he had the strength to be.’
‘Yes. Well. She told me … she told me how you came to be here at Manor Farm, Hilarius. Your story is in my murder book, isn’t it? Is that what you meant when you said there were plenty of truths in it?’
Hilarius fiddled with some clay on his fingers, frowning down at them, and Irene realised that the darkness she had always sensed around him had indeed been the shadow of death – the deaths of his parents and his sister, who died with their arms clamped tight around him, bodies pressing in, hardening as they froze. How could such a thing not leave a stain? And he had been inside Manor Farm – the morning afterwards, when he was found and brought into the warm. ‘Do you … do you remember your parents?’ Pudding asked, her fascination for the story getting the better of her.
‘Pudding,’ Irene checked her. She felt strongly that the old man’s grief ought not to be touched.
‘Not a lot,’ said Hilarius, still not looking at them. ‘My sister’s name was Ilsa, and she had hair the colour of a copper pan. I remember the night they all died. The wind was a shriek, and full o’ knives, but I felt warm.’ He fell silent, though Pudding’s face was rapt, and she would clearly have loved to hear more.
‘It must be terrible to think about,’ said Irene, to head Pudding off. ‘Ma Tanner said something else, in fact,’ she said, and Pudding nodded.
‘Yes. She told me … how loyal to the Hadleighs you are,’ she said, at which Hilarius’s head came up, and unease filled his narrow eyes. ‘She told me how they took you in, and that you owed them an awful lot, and wouldn’t betray them willingly.’ In the pause chickens hectored one another, and the mill rumbled. When it became clear that Hilarius wasn’t going to elucidate, Irene took a breath.
‘There’s still a mystery, you see, about how the girl’s doll came to be hidden here at the farm – Sarah Matlock’s doll. Her family are sure she had it with her when she was killed, and Eli Tanner recognised it at once, when he saw it. Somebody put it up the chimney in the schoolroom, but it can’t have been Alistair senior, whatever Eli thinks. The Hadleighs were all away at his wedding when it happened.’ Irene waited, and Pudding fidgeted, but Hilarius still said nothing.
‘Hilarius, do you know?’ Pudding burst out. ‘Ma said I’d have to ask you the right questions … Do you know who hid it in the chimney?’
‘No. I don’t know,’ said the old man, and Pudding deflated.
‘But you suspect?’ said Irene, and got no reply. ‘Was it you?’ she pressed, to more silence. Pudding chewed her lip, and Irene felt the nagging threads of something, just out of her grasp.
‘The day Alistair died, you said to me that he had gone a long way towards lighting the darkness here, or something like that,’ said Pudding. She glanced apologetically at Irene. ‘I only just remembered,’ she said. ‘What did you mean, Hilarius?’ There was a long pause.
‘You got to be certain o’ what you think is fact,’ said the old man, at last. He shook his head, and turned to go.
‘What does that mean?’ said Pudding.
‘Which part have we got wrong?’ said Irene, catching on. Hilarius glanced back, and gave her a shrewd nod.
‘Think along them lines.’
Pudding heaved a frustrated sigh, but Irene held up a hand to forestall her. She raked back through everything they had just said, looking for a fact that might be wrong. And then she thought of the unseasonal fire she’d found, smouldering in the grate in the back sitting room, weeks ago, before Alistair had died – the overheated fug in the room, and the tantalising scraps of blue in the ashes. Blue, like the dress Clemmie’s doll had worn. The empty drawer where she knew she’d stowed it. She gave Pudding a startled look, and turned at once for the house.
‘What is it, Irene?’ Pudding called, hurrying after her. Irene went straight to Alistair’s study, where his parents’ wedding photo hung on the wall, framed in ebony, overshadowed by the vast family portraits. She stared at it, then took it off its nail and over to the window for more light. ‘What is it?’ Pudding repeated, but Irene didn’t answer her until she was sure. She handed the photograph to Pudding.
‘Look. It’s Alistair’s parents’ wedding party. Alistair and Tabitha’s wedding party. The whole wedding party, in New York, in July 1872.’ Pudding stared at it for a moment – the old-fashioned bouffant hairstyles, the tailcoats and hooped skirts and corsets.
‘So what? What should I see?’ she said.
‘Where’s Nancy?’ said Irene. Pudding frowned and looked again. She tipped the photo to the light. The moment stretched, the air seemed to grow heavy. Then she looked up at Irene, bewildered.
‘She’s not there.’
‘She’s not there,’ Irene echoed. ‘Come on.’
They went back out to the yard and found Hilarius simply standing in the barn, as if he’d been waiting for them to return. His arms were loose at his sides, his face hung sadly, and he seemed awkward, as though he didn’t know what to do or how to behave. He nodded as they approached.
‘Hilarius … did Nancy go to her brother’s wedding, back in 1872?’ asked Irene. Hilarius took a deep, slow breath and let it go, and Irene thought she saw relief in his eyes.
‘Couldn’t stand to,’ he replied, shortly. ‘Said somebody needed to sto
p here and oversee, but the truth of it were, she couldn’t bear to watch.’ Irene remembered the hints Cora McKinley had dropped, about Nancy being all too close to her twin brother.
‘Do you remember when the fireplace in the old schoolroom was blocked up? Was it that summer?’ she asked. Hilarius gave a single nod, his unhappiness and reluctance all too plain. Pudding had gone silent and still, and Irene had to remind herself that the girl had known – and respected – Nancy Hadleigh all her life. She steeled herself, dry-mouthed and recoiling already from what she knew was coming. ‘Hilarius, did Nancy ask for the fireplace to be blocked up?’ she said.
‘Who else?’ he said.
‘Did you … see her, the day Clemmie Matlock was killed? Did you see anything … untoward?’ Hilarius stared at Irene for a long time, until she understood how long he had known, and how heavy the knowledge had been, and yet how loath he was to give it up now. Then he nodded.
* * *
Alistair Hadleigh’s office door banged against the wood panelling as it opened, and Clemmie jumped around in fright. Nancy Hadleigh’s face was ashy white, and the red patches on her cheeks looked too bright in comparison; her dark hair shone in its elaborate braids. She slammed the door behind her, walked three smart paces into the room, kicking up her hem, then stopped in front of Clemmie with her fists at her sides. Clemmie stayed still, rooted by shock.
‘You … you thief!’ Nancy hissed at her. Clemmie shook her head, confused by the accusation. ‘I heard you – I heard what you’re trying to say! All this time he’s been teaching you to talk, out of goodness, and yet you’ll use your first words to defame him, will you? Is that gratitude, you wretch?’ She swept her eyes over Clemmie, curling her lip in disgust as she took in the curve of her midriff, and the doll clasped in her hands. ‘How dare you?’ she ground out, through her teeth. ‘You little trollop, how dare you?’ Clemmie didn’t understand what she was being accused of; she didn’t have the words to defend herself. She tried to dodge around Nancy and get away, but Alistair’s sister stepped in front of her. She was slight, but her body was hard with anger. She put her face too close to Clemmie’s as she spoke. ‘He’s been … he’s lain with you, I know. You aren’t the only one – don’t go fooling yourself that he loves you!’ Clemmie shook her head. ‘You won’t get a thing from us for that bastard you’re carrying – I won’t let you ruin this for him. For us. I won’t let you, do you understand? I demand your word you won’t name him. I want your word!’ she snapped.
Horrified by Nancy’s inexplicable rage, Clemmie whimpered, twisting on the spot. Then she took flight, barging past Nancy and sending her reeling back, making for the door. Nancy made an incoherent sound of fury. Clemmie had the door knob in her grasp. Her hands were shaking so badly that she couldn’t turn it far enough; she yanked at it but the door wouldn’t open. Then a fire blazed through her head, and the world turned itself upside down; she had the taste of the woollen rug on her lips, the smell of iron in her nose, and a stabbing pain inside her that made her more afraid than she had ever been. Eli, come to get me! she thought, wildly, desperately. Then she sank down into darkness.
* * *
Irene requested a tea tray from Clara and took Pudding into her writing room – the old schoolroom – to think before they acted. She spoke a great deal, but Pudding took in very little of it. Paper birds were taking flight again – stories from books were coming to life; the ground was made of clouds and the sky of stone. She didn’t know what to do, or say, or think; she didn’t trust her own memories any more, or any of the things she thought she knew. It felt as though someone had picked up her brain and shaken it until nothing was in its right place. She was profoundly grateful to have Irene there, who seemed to have gone very calm – though it might have been shock. Pudding hoped she would eventually tell her what they should do, because she herself had no clue.
‘Well, what do you think?’ said Irene, looking right at her with those smudged, dark eyes.
‘What?’ said Pudding, helplessly. Irene blinked.
‘Right. Pudding, I think you should go home. Go home, and I’ll … I’ll talk to Nancy myself,’ she said. ‘There’s really no need for you to be … involved.’
‘No,’ said Pudding, stirring herself. Part of her wanted nothing more than to go home and be hugged by her father, to see her mother’s vague smile, and Donny waiting patiently at the table for his tea. But in spite of that she knew she couldn’t go until things were finished. ‘I’ll stay,’ she said, after thinking for a time. ‘You might … you might need me.’
Irene nodded.
‘The footprint they found in the blood, in 1872 – the footprint in Clemmie’s blood,’ said Pudding, muzzily.
‘What about it?’
‘They discounted it as a clue. Pete said they decided it couldn’t be a footprint because it was too small,’ said Pudding. They both went silent for a while, picturing Nancy’s tiny feet.
Nancy wasn’t anywhere in the house, and without needing to think Irene led Pudding out of the farm, and down across the field to the churchyard. There they found her, sitting on the bench all dressed in black, staring at the grave plot that contained her parents, her brother and her nephew. She didn’t look up as they approached, and they stood awkwardly in front of her, blocking her view. Nancy’s face was closed off; her mouth was a straight line, cheeks hollow, hands clasped in her lap.
‘There’s really nothing you can tell me that I don’t already know,’ she said, stiffly. Pudding stared at her and tried to believe what she was having to – that Nancy had killed Clemmie Matlock, fifty years before. It was unreal. It was berserk.
‘Berserk,’ she said, then bit her tongue to keep quiet.
‘Yes,’ said Nancy. ‘I suppose I was a bit, that summer.’ Now she looked up at Pudding, her eyes crystalline. ‘You of all people ought to understand, Pudding,’ she said.
‘Me?’ said Pudding, shocked. ‘Why me?’
‘You’d do anything for that brother of yours. Well, so would I have.’ She looked away. ‘So I did,’ she said, more quietly.
‘But why, Nancy? Why on earth did you do such a thing?’ said Irene. For a long time, Nancy didn’t reply. Her eyes, her face, were blank.
‘She was going to ruin everything. Tabitha was devout. Everything depended on the marriage – our whole life here depended on it. Everything!’
‘You thought Clemmie’s baby was your brother’s? And that would jeopardise his marriage?’ said Irene.
‘But it wasn’t!’ Pudding cried. ‘It was Eli Tanner’s baby! They were going to get married.’ Again, Nancy said nothing. Irene shook her head.
‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘The wedding was already going ahead – it had already gone ahead, two days before. There was no way Tabitha could have found out about any … indiscretion … beforehand, and called it off.’
‘It would have made things difficult,’ said Nancy, tonelessly. ‘I did what I had to do to keep my family together. To keep our good name. As I have always done.’
‘You can’t be talking about the bloody Hadleigh standard, surely?’ Irene shook her head again, thinking hard. ‘No. It wasn’t that, was it? What could possibly have made you angry enough with her to kill her?’
A soft breeze tugged at them, and made the flowers on Alistair’s grave bob their heads prettily. Nancy gritted her teeth, working the muscles beneath the skin at the corners of her jaw. Otherwise, she didn’t react. Pudding felt at a complete loss.
‘No,’ said Irene again, her eyes locked on Nancy, her face tense as she thought it through, and worked it out. ‘It was Alistair you were angry with, wasn’t it? It was him, not her. You were angry with your brother for getting married, and leaving you.’
‘He had no choice,’ said Nancy, stonily. ‘Her money was the only thing that could keep us here.’
‘Because he had gambled it all away!’ said Irene. ‘It was all his fault. But you couldn’t take it out on him. You loved him too much. You had
to move away when Tabitha came here, didn’t you? Was that one of her conditions, or could you just not stand to be around them – around her?’ Nancy showed no sign of having heard. Irene fell silent for a while, a frown of concentration putting a crease between her eyebrows. ‘Were you … were you jealous of Clemmie? When you thought she and your brother had …’ At this, Nancy’s head turned sharply.
‘Don’t be disgusting!’ she said
‘Is that why you took the doll? I can’t work out why you’d do that – take something so incriminating from her. But perhaps it was a symbol of … of … I don’t know.’ Irene thought again. ‘A symbol of the child she carried? Or rather, the one you thought she was carrying? A symbol of your brother’s child?’ Irene was relentless, and Pudding began to feel exhausted. So tired she might be sick, or just lie down there, on the grass. But no – she didn’t want to be near Nancy. She wanted to be nowhere near her.
‘Let’s just go, Irene,’ she mumbled, but Irene didn’t seem to hear her.
‘That dumb wretch,’ said Nancy, quietly. ‘Why should she have had anything of his?’ And then she shuddered, as if the warm breeze had turned suddenly chill. After it she seemed somehow smaller than before, and less alive.
Pudding took Irene’s arm, and tried to tug her away.
‘Let’s just go,’ she said again. Irene looked round at her, and nodded. They turned to leave, but Nancy’s voice called them back.
‘Well,’ she said, her glass edges beginning to fracture, giving them a glimpse of the fear inside her. ‘What will you do?’
‘Hilarius saw you come back from the mill, carrying the doll and with your clothes all bloodied. He heard you telling the laundress the dogs had killed a sheep. He remembers you asking that the schoolroom chimney be boarded up, with the doll inside it,’ Irene told her.
‘What doll?’
‘I saw it, before you burned it. Several Tanners did too; Verney Blunt, and Pudding here. And I saw the remains of it in the grate.’
The Hiding Places Page 38