Admit…? Mark tried to keep the anxiety out of his voice. "Well, they're right about one thing," he said. "These allegations are easily disproved with a DNA test. Maybe the best strategy would be to make a tactful approach to Captain Smith. If she's prepared to cooperate then you could take these tapes to the police. Whatever the reason for the calls, there's no question they constitute menace."
James held his gaze for a moment before his eyes slid away. "There's no tactful way of doing it," he said. "I'm not stupid, you know, I have thought about it."
Why this tiresome defense of his faculties? "We needn't involve her at all. I could ask her mother for a sample of hair from her bedroom. She must have left something behind that will give a reading. It's not illegal, James… not at the moment, anyway. There are companies on the Internet who specialize in giving DNA analysis in questions over paternity."
"No."
"It's my best advice. Either that, or inform the police. A temporary solution might be to change your phone number and go ex-directory…but if Leo's behind it, he'll soon find out the new one. You can't let it go unchecked. Apart from the fact that you'll be dead of exhaustion in another month, the gossips will talk and mud will stick if you don't challenge these allegations."
James opened a drawer in his desk and took out a file. "Read this," he said, "then give me one good reason why I should turn this child's life into a nightmare. If one thing is certain, Mark, she neither chose-nor is responsible for-the man who fathered her."
Dear Captain Smith, My solicitor informs me that if I attempt to contact you, you will sue…"
An hour later, telling James he needed a walk to clear his mind, Mark crossed the vegetable garden and made his way to Manor Lodge. But if he expected enlightenment from Vera Dawson, he didn't get it. Indeed he was shocked by how much her brain had deteriorated since August. She kept him at the door, her old mouth sucking and working through her resentments, and he was less surprised than he had been that the Manor was filthy. He asked her where Bob was.
"Out."
"Do you know where? Is he in the garden?"
A pleased smile flickered in her rheumy eyes. "Said he'd be gone eight hours. That's usually fishing."
"Even on Christmas Day?"
The smile vanished. "He wouldn't spend it with me, would he? Only good for work, that's all I am. You get up there and clean for the Colonel, he says, never mind there's mornings I can hardly rise from my bed."
Mark smiled uncomfortably. "Well, could you ask Bob to come up to the house for a chat? Later this evening, perhaps, or tomorrow? If you have a pen and paper, I'll write him a note in case you forget."
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "There's nothing wrong with my memory. I've still got my marbles."
It might have been James talking. "Sorry. I thought it might help."
"What do you want to talk to him about?"
"Nothing in particular. Just general things."
"Don't you go talking about me," she hissed angrily. "I've got rights, same as everyone else. It wasn't me stole the Missus's rings. It was the boy. You tell the Colonel that, you hear. Bloody old bugger-it was him murdered her." She slammed the door.
7
SHENSTEAD VILLAGE
BOXING DAY, 2001
After a fruitless attempt to contact his solicitor- the office answerphone advised callers that the partnership was on holiday until January 2-Dick Weldon gritted his teeth and dialed Shenstead Manor. If anyone had a lawyer on tap, it would be James Lockyer-Fox. The man was in permanent danger of arrest if Dick's wife, Prue, was to be believed. "You'll see," she kept saying, "it's only a matter of time before the police are forced to act." More to the point, as the only other property-owner with a boundary on the Copse, James would be involved in the discussion sooner or later, and it might as well be now. Nevertheless, it wasn't a call that Dick wanted to make.
There had been no communication between Shenstead Farm and the Manor since Prue had told police of the row she'd heard the night Ailsa died. She always said it was fate that intervened to turn her into an eavesdropper. In three years she had never felt the need to walk the dogs through the Copse in the dark, so why that night? She had been on her way home from a visit to their daughter in Bournemouth and one of the Labradors started to whine halfway across the valley. By the time she reached the Copse, the agitation in the back of the estate was intense and, with a groan, she pulled onto the mud track and let the two dogs free.
It should have been a brief lavatory stop, but the bitch, untroubled by her bowels, got wind of a scent and vanished into the woodland. Damned if she was going after it without a torch. Prue reached inside the car for the dog whistle on the dashboard. As she straightened again an angry argument broke out somewhere to her left. Her first assumption was that the Labrador had caused it, but one of the voices was clearly Ailsa Lockyer-Fox's and curiosity kept Prue from blowing her whistle.
She had an ambivalent attitude toward the Lockyer-Foxes. The social climber in her wanted to become a frequent visitor to the Manor, to count them among her friends and drop their name into casual conversation. But the fact that she and Dick had been invited only once since their arrival in Shenstead three years ago-and then only for a drink-annoyed her, particularly as her reciprocal invitations to dinner at the farm had all been politely declined. Dick couldn't see what the fuss was about. They're not comfortable with formal socializing, he said. Go and talk to them in their kitchen. That's what everyone else does.
So Prue had turned up a few times, only for Ailsa to give the impression that she had more important things to do than hang around the kitchen gossiping. After that, their encounters were confined to brief exchanges in the road if they chanced to meet, and irregular appearances by Ailsa in Prue's kitchen when she was looking for donations to her many charities. Prue's private view was that Ailsa and James looked down on her, and she wasn't above a little muckraking to find something that would give her an edge.
It was rumored-principally by Eleanor Bartlett, who claimed to have heard them in full flow one time-that the Lockyer-Foxes had vicious tempers, despite the reserve they showed in public. Prue had never seen any evidence of this, but she'd always thought it likely. James, in particular, appeared incapable of showing emotion, and in Prue's experience such rigid repression had to break out somewhere. Every so often one of their children announced a visit, but neither parent showed much enthusiasm at the prospect. There were stories of skeletons in cupboards, mostly to do with Elizabeth's reputation for being sex-mad, but the Lockyer-Foxes were as close-lipped about that as they were about everything.
To Prue, such restraint was unnatural and she was always pestering Dick to dig out the dirt. The tenant farmers must know something, she would say. Why don't you ask them what these skeletons are? People say the son's a thief and a gambler, and the daughter was awarded a pittance from her divorce because she'd had so many affairs. But Dick, being a man, wasn't interested, and his advice to Prue was to keep her mouth shut if she didn't want a reputation as a gossip. The community was too small to make an enemy of the oldest family there, he warned.
Now, with Ailsa's rapidly rising voice carrying on the night air, Prue greedily turned her head to listen. Some of the words were swallowed by the wind but the gist was unmistakable. "No, James… won't put up with it anymore!… it was you destroyed Elizabeth… such cruelty! It's a sickness… had my way… seen a doctor a long time ago…"
Prue cupped a hand to her ear to make out the man's voice. Even if Ailsa hadn't addressed him as James, she would have recognized the clipped baritone as the Colonel's, but none of the words were audible and she guessed he was facing the other way.
"…money's mine… no question of giving in… rather die than let you have it… Oh, for God's sake… No, don't! Please… DON'T!"
The last word was a shout, followed by the sound of a punch and James's grunted: "Bitch!"
Somewhat alarmed, Prue took a step forward, wondering if she should go to the oth
er woman's aid, but Ailsa spoke again almost immediately. "You're insane… I'll never forgive you… should have got rid of you years ago." A second or two later, a door slammed.
It was five minutes before Prue thought it safe to put the dog whistle to her lips and blow for the Labrador. The whistles were advertised as silent to the human ear, but they rarely were, and her curiosity had given way to embarrassment as her menopausal system flushed overtime in sympathy with Ailsa's imagined shame if she ever learned there had been a witness to her abuse. What a dreadful man James was, she thought over and over again in amazement. How could anyone be so holier-than-thou in public and so monstrous in private?
As she gathered the dogs back into the car, her mind was busy filling in the gaps in the conversation, and by the time she reached home to find her husband already asleep it had become a lucid whole. She was shocked but not surprised, therefore, when Dick returned from the village the following morning full of news that Ailsa was dead and James was being questioned by the police about bloodstains found near the body.
"It's my fault," she said in distress, telling him what had happened. "They were arguing about money. She said he was insane and should see a doctor, so he called her a bitch and hit her. I should have done something, Dick. Why didn't I do something?"
Dick was appalled. "Are you sure it was them?" he asked. "Perhaps it was one of the couples from the rented cottages."
"Of course I'm sure. I could make out most of what she said, and she called him James at one point. The only thing I heard him say was 'bitch' but it was definitely his voice. What do you think I should do?"
"Call the police," said Dick unhappily. "What else can you do?"
Since then, the coroner's verdict and James's continued freedom from arrest had led to a prolonged whispering campaign. Some of it-speculation about the existence of untraceable poisons, freemasonry membership, even black-magic sacrifices of animals with James as chief warlock-Dick dismissed as patently absurd. The rest-the man's refusal to leave his house and grounds, his ducking out of sight on the one occasion when Dick happened to see him near his gate, his children's cold-shouldering of him at the funeral, his rumored abandonment of Ailsa's charities and friends with the door being slammed in the faces of well-wishers-all suggested the mental disorder of which Ailsa, and by dint of overhearing their final altercation, Prue, had accused him.
The phone was answered after the second ring. "Shenstead Manor."
"James? It's Dick Weldon." He waited for an acknowledgment that never came. "Look… er… this isn't easy… and I wouldn't be ringing if it wasn't urgent. I realize it's not what you want to hear on Boxing Day morning, but we have a problem at the Copse. I've spoken to the police but they've passed the buck to the local authority-some woman called Sally Macey. I've had a word with her but she's not prepared to do anything till we give her the name of the owner. I told her there wasn't one… pretty damn stupid of me, I know… so now we need a solicitor… and mine's on holiday. It's likely to impact on you as much as anyone-these bastards are right on your doorstep…" He wallowed to a halt, intimidated by the silence at the other end. "I wondered if we could use your man."
"This isn't James, Mr. Weldon. I can ask him to come to the phone if you like, but it sounds as if I'm the person you want. My name's Mark Ankerton. I'm James's solicitor."
Dick was taken aback. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize."
"I know. Voices can be confusing"-a slight pause-"words, too, particularly when taken out of context."
It was an ironic reference to Prue, but it passed Dick by. Instead he stared at the wall, remembering the familiar tone of the traveler. He still hadn't worked out who he was. "You should have said," he answered lamely.
"I was curious to know what you wanted before I bothered James. Few calls to this house are as civil as yours, Mr. Weldon. The usual mode of address is 'you murdering bastard'-or words to that effect."
Dick was shocked. Such a possibility had never occurred to him. "Who would do a thing like that?"
"I can supply you with a list if you're interested. Your number features on it regularly."
"It can't do," Dick protested. "I haven't phoned James for months."
"Then I suggest you take it up with British Telecom," said the other dispassionately. "Dialing 1471 has produced your number on ten separate occasions. All the calls are being taped, and the contents noted. Nobody speaks from your number-" his voice grew very dry-"but there's a great deal of unpleasant panting. The police would say they're more in the nature of heavy-breathing calls, although I don't understand the sexual element as the only recipient is a man in his eighties. The most recent was on Christmas Eve. You realize, of course, that it's a criminal offense to make abusive or threatening telephone calls?"
God! Who the hell could have been so stupid? Prue?
"You mentioned you had a problem at the Copse," Mark went on when there was no response. "I'm afraid I didn't follow the rest so would you like to go through it again? When I have it straight in my mind, I'll discuss it with James… though I can't guarantee he'll come back to you."
Dick accepted the change of tack with relief. He was a straightforward man who found the idea of his wife panting down a telephone line both alarming and distasteful. "James is going to be the worst affected," he said. "There are six busloads of travelers parked about two hundred yards from the Manor terrace. As a matter of fact, I'm surprised you haven't heard them. There was a bit of argy-bargy when I went down there earlier."
There was a short pause as if the man at the other end had taken his ear away from the receiver. "Obviously sound doesn't carry as well as your wife claims it does, Mr. Weldon."
Dick wasn't trained to think on his feet. The nature of his business was to assess problems slowly and carefully, and make long-term plans to carry the farm through glut and famine as profitably as possible. Instead of ignoring the remark-the wiser option-he tried to override it. "This isn't about Prue," he said. "It's about an invasion of this village. We need to pull together… not snipe at each other. I don't think you appreciate how serious the situation is."
There was a small laugh at the other end. "You might like to reflect on that statement, Mr. Weldon. In my opinion, James has a case against your wife for slander… so it's naive to suggest I don't understand the seriousness of the situation."
Riled by the man's patronizing tone, Dick piled in again. "Prue knows what she heard," he said aggressively. "She'd have spoken to Ailsa in private if the poor soul had been alive the next morning-neither of us agrees with hitting women-but Ailsa was dead. So what would you have done in Prue's place? Pretended it hadn't happened? Swept it under the carpet? Tell me that."
The cool voice came back immediately. "I'd have asked myself what I knew of James Lockyer-Fox… I'd have asked myself why the postmortem showed no evidence of bruising… I'd have asked myself why an intelligent and wealthy woman would remain married to a wife-beater for forty years when she was intellectually and financially able to leave… I'd certainly have questioned whether my own passion for gossip had led me to embroider what I heard in order to make myself interesting to my neighbors."
"That's offensive," said Dick angrily.
"Not as offensive as accusing a loving husband of murder and inciting other people to do the same."
"I'll have you for slander if you say things like that. All Prue ever did was tell the police what she heard. You can't blame her if idiots draw their own conclusions."
"I suggest you talk to your wife before you sue me, Mr. Weldon. You might end up with a very expensive legal bill." There was the sound of a voice in the background. "Hang on a moment." The line was muted for several seconds. "James has come into the room. If you want to go over this business of the travelers again, I'll put you on loudspeaker so we can both hear it. I'll call you back with a decision after we've discussed it… though I wouldn't hold your breath for a favorable one."
Dick had had a lousy morning, and his volatile temper explode
d. "I couldn't give a damn what you decide. It isn't my problem. The only reason I phoned is because Julian Bartlett didn't have the guts to deal with it himself and the police aren't interested. You and James can sort it yourselves. Why should I care? My house is half a mile away. I'm out of it." He thumped the phone down and went in search of Prue.
Mark replaced the handset as the line went dead. "I was merely giving him some facts of life," he explained, in belated response to James's agitated reaction when he entered the room and heard Mark talking about incitement to slander. "Mrs. Weldon's a menace. I don't understand why you're so reluctant to do something about her."
James moved to the window and peered out over the terrace, his head bent forward as if he couldn't see very well. They'd been through this the day before. "I have to live here," he said, repeating the same arguments he'd used then. "Why stir up a hornet's nest unnecessarily? It'll blow over as soon as the women get bored."
Mark's eyes strayed to the answerphone on the desk. "I can't agree," he said bluntly. "There were five calls last night, and none of them was from a woman. Do you want to listen to them?"
"No."
Mark wasn't surprised. There was nothing new. They were simply repeat liturgies of the information that was on the stack of tapes he'd worked through the previous day, but the anonymous voice, distorted electronically, rasped on the listener's nerves like a dentist's drill. He turned his chair to address the elderly man directly. "You know as well as I that this won't go away of its own accord," he said gently. "Whoever it is knows he's being recorded and he'll just keep on with it until you agree to involve the police. That's what he's angling for. He wants them to hear what he's saying."
Fox Evil Page 7