‘Strange little thing, isn’t she?’ Charlotte murmured. ‘Thanks for all you’ve done. She seemed to take to you, I thought. But all this can’t be much fun for you on your holiday.’
‘That’s all right,’ Jill said. There was a bang to their right, somewhere in the depths of the overgrown garden. ‘What was that?’
Both women stopped. There was a gap in the trees at this point and they peered across what had once been a lawn to a high stone wall with more trees growing along it.
‘Sounded like a door banging,’ Charlotte said.
‘Is that some sort of shed over there?’
‘Yes, I think it is.’
From the same direction came the tinkle of breaking glass.
‘It might be the wind,’ Jill said.
‘Either that or someone’s over there. We’d better go and see.’ Charlotte swung her handbag in the direction of a faintly shimmering ribbon of grey which lay diagonally across the grass. ‘That’s a path, I think, so we needn’t get our feet wet.’
Jill almost laughed: both the casual, unthinking courage and the concern to avoid wet feet were typical of Charlotte. She herself was aware of a strong reluctance to investigate, a reluctance that grew even more pronounced as they left the drive. The path was paved and the stones were slippery after the rain.
‘No point in telling the Harcutts,’ Charlotte muttered. ‘It would only delay things.’
With every step they took, the light seemed to fade from the sky. They continued until they had almost reached the belt of trees. Charlotte laid her hand on the sleeve of Jill’s coat.
‘Look – there’s the shed. In fact I think it’s some sort of summerhouse.’
It was about thirty yards away from them, its outlines blurring into the trees around it. Above the roof, the branches swayed to and fro like dervishes in the dusk. In front of it was a little verandah with a door in the centre flanked by a pair of windows.
There was another bang, louder than the first. Even Charlotte gasped. The wind had snatched the door and thrown it with surprising force against the wall.
‘At least it’s only the door,’ Jill said, relieved that nature, not man, was responsible for the disturbance. ‘That’s probably how the window got—’
Charlotte clutched her arm, forcing her to be quiet. Standing in the doorway was the figure of a man. If they could see him, Jill realised with a shock of fear, he must be able to see them. He broke into a run – away from them, mercifully, following the line of the wall.
‘Stop!’ Charlotte called. ‘Do you hear me? Come here at once!’
The man ran on, of course, a dark shadow against the gathering darkness. He disappeared through an archway near the back of the house. Jill realised that she was trembling.
Charlotte snorted. ‘Someone was up to no good. Just as well we came along.’
She strode towards the summerhouse and cautiously mounted the three steps to the verandah. Jill followed. The window to the right of the door was broken. Charlotte opened her handbag and took out a small torch. The beam danced around the verandah and the little room behind it.
‘Nothing worth stealing, you’d think.’
‘Perhaps the man didn’t know that.’
‘Odd, though. Would you like a look?’
Jill took the torch from Charlotte and peered into the interior of the summerhouse. The air was dry and almost warm in comparison with the chill of the wind outside. A broad shelf ran the full length of the back wall: it was covered with a jumble of rotting seed trays, empty flowerpots and rusting tools. Two deck chairs had been propped against the wall to the left next to a wheelbarrow without a wheel. Everything was covered with dust.
Charlotte sniffed. ‘Of course for all we know he did take something.’
Jill remembered the running figure. ‘In that case it must have been something pretty small.’
She held the torch while Charlotte refastened the door. They walked back across the lawn. The windows on this side of the house were in darkness.
‘Should we tell the Harcutts?’ Jill said, just before they reached the drive.
‘Oh, lord. If we do, they’ll get into a panic.’ Charlotte stopped abruptly. ‘What’s that?’
‘What?’
Jill listened. Footsteps were coming up the drive. As intrepid as ever, Charlotte plunged forward and switched on the torch.
‘Good evening,’ said Inspector Thornhill.
Chapter Nine
Already, by Charlie’s second visit, the hospital had acquired a familiarity which made it no longer intimidating. In a sense he felt privileged because, owing to the seriousness of his mother’s condition, he had been given permission to visit her outside normal visiting hours. Her illness gave him a vicarious self-importance.
He left his bicycle in the rack provided for visitors and went into the reception area. The clerk on duty ticked off his name on a list.
‘How’s Mr Harcutt, by the way?’ he said casually. ‘Ward Eleven.’
‘Major Harcutt?’ There was a faint emphasis on the rank, as well as a sudden coolness in the voice. ‘He went home just after lunch.’
‘Oh. He’s OK, now?’
‘I really couldn’t say.’ The coolness became frosty. ‘I understand he discharged himself.’
In Ward Eight, the curtains were drawn around his mother’s bed. The presence of so many women and the absence of other men made Charlie feel out of place; he feared that all the women were staring at him, which in these circumstances was not an agreeable sensation.
The nurse said to him in an undertone, ‘She’s very poorly, I’m afraid, and she gets tired very quickly. I’ll just give you five minutes.’
Margaret Meague was propped up against a heap of pillows inside the oxygen tent. ‘All this dust,’ she gasped, ‘all this dust. I’ll never get it done in time.’
‘You don’t have to do it, dear,’ the nurse said. ‘Here’s your son Charlie to see you.’
Another patient called for the nurse; she slipped through the gap in the curtains, leaving Charlie alone with his mother. A woman was sobbing softly in the neighbouring bed.
‘Charlie?’
‘Yes, it’s me.’ He couldn’t think what to say. He wished the other woman would stop crying.
‘Did you get your tea?’
‘Yes.’
In and out went her laboured breathing, and each word she managed to say was a triumph of will over infirmity. The other women had flowers and cards and chocolates on their bedside tables; she had none. He wished he had brought her something.
‘You’ll be better soon,’ he said.
‘You’re a good boy.’
‘Ma – you remember the Harcutts at Edge Hill?’
The fingers picked at the blanket. He noticed with surprise that the hands were very clean and that the nails had been trimmed. She began to cough. Her eyes bulged. Seconds became minutes. He thought that she had not registered the question, that she would never stop coughing again.
There was a lull. She wrenched the words out of herself: ‘Old bastard give you the sack.’
‘That’s him.’
‘Said money was missing.’
‘Bloody lie, too. You remember Tony?’
‘Miss Tony.’ She coughed again, shaking her head from side to side on the pillow as though trying to shake the illness away. Then, for a few seconds she was quiet. She said softly, ‘It’s in their faces. You can always tell.’
‘Tell what?’
‘When they’ve got a bun in the oven.’
The coughing began again. This time it was much more violent, and she brought up green phlegm. The nurse came rushing back; with her came the sister who told him to wait for her outside. Bewildered, Charlie glanced at his mother and went.
A few minutes later the sister came to join him in the corridor where he was smoking a cigarette.
‘She’s not at all well, Mr Meague,’ she said. ‘Her lungs can’t cope and her heart’s suffering. Do you unders
tand what I’m saying?’
The smoke was making his eyes water. He had never allowed himself to think that his mother might be dying. She had come to hospital so that they could make her better: that was the point of hospitals. He frowned at the sister.
‘Can’t you do something?’
‘We’re doing everything we can. But sometimes that’s not enough.’
He looked down at her – the top of her head was on a level with his shoulder – and realised that he had no idea what to say or do. The situation lay outside his experience.
‘You’re not on the phone, are you? Is one of your neighbours?’
He told her to phone Mrs Halleran at the King’s Head.
‘If we don’t ring you, and I hope we won’t have to, why don’t you ring us in the morning? See what sort of night your mother’s had.’
He nodded. There was a window opposite him and he stared at their reflections in the black glass.
‘Go on.’ She gave him a gentle push. ‘There’s nothing you can do here.’
Chapter Ten
The door of the public bar opened and Gloria looked up, without hope, because hope hadn’t survived the previous disappointments. But this time there he was – Charlie Meague in the flesh, taller and broader than he was in memory, perhaps less graceful, but still Charlie.
She murmured to Jane: ‘Why don’t you make us a cup of tea? I’ll serve this one.’
Charlie glanced round the room, meeting the stares of the regulars. Gloria did a quick calculation. As far as she knew there was no one here tonight who would recognise him. Unfortunately it wouldn’t be easy to talk: there were three men leaning on the bar, flies round the honey pot, and Harold was listening to the radio in the back room.
Charlie moved towards her. In the old days he had been a wonderful dancer. He looked tired.
‘Evening, stranger,’ she said smoothly, for she had rehearsed her opening lines several times. ‘Haven’t seen you for a while.’
‘Long time, no see. Large whisky and a pint of best.’
The other men at the bar had stopped talking and were assessing Charlie as a possible rival for Gloria’s favours. At any other time their behaviour would have amused, even flattered her. Now it was merely inconvenient.
She gave him his drinks and he held out a ten-shilling note to her. Their fingers touched as she took the money. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue.
‘How’s old what’s-his-name?’ he asked as she opened the till. ‘Harold, is it?’
‘Fine, thanks.’
She gave him his change. One of the other customers wanted serving, and wanted to be flirted with. Out of the corner of her eye she watched Charlie settling at the table by the window. He pulled the Gazette out of the pocket of his overcoat and began to read.
After a decent interval, she began to go round the room collecting glasses, emptying ashtrays and wiping the tables. He was reading the article about the Templefields bones. He looked up with apparent reluctance when she reached his table. His lack of interest in her as a woman surprised and piqued her.
‘Got your name in the paper. I see,’ she said. ‘Fame at last.’
He nodded. His face was sullen and despondent, she thought. Where had all the laughter gone?
‘You’ve been down here for weeks,’ she went on softly in a voice that made the words an accusation. Quickly she changed the subject: ‘What’s wrong with your ma?’
‘Pneumonia. They think she’s dying.’
‘Oh, Christ, Charlie. I’m sorry.’
He finished the rest of his beer. ‘I’ll have the same again.’
Her concern spilled over and turned to anger. ‘I thought you did your drinking in the King’s Head now.’
‘I’m drinking here because Ma Halleran said you wanted to see me.’
‘It’s not for my sake, don’t think that. But there’s something I thought you might like to know. I was trying to do you a favour. Should have known better, shouldn’t I?’
She emptied his ashtray into the waste bucket and moved away. To her pleasure he followed her up to the bar.
He put the two empty glasses down on the counter. ‘The same again.’
For a moment there was no one in earshot. She leant across the counter.
‘There was a man in here last night. He was asking after you.’
Charlie’s face stiffened. ‘What was he like?’
‘Little chap with a beard. Sat at the table where you’re sitting, reading a book, a proper book. Jane – that’s Harold’s girl – she served him. He had a large Scotch.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Said I didn’t know you, of course. Charlie, he wasn’t a copper, was he?’
He shook his head. Another customer came up to the bar. Gloria turned away with Charlie’s glasses. After she had served him, he went back to his table. She didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry – glad he was staying or sorry that he wanted to drink rather than talk to her.
Jane came back with a cup of tea and the news that her father couldn’t find his cheque book. Knowing that this was the sort of problem that deeply disturbed Harold, Gloria went to help him find it.
When she returned, she looked in the direction of the window. Charlie was still at his table. But he wasn’t alone. He was talking to the little man with a beard.
Chapter Eleven
Edith Thornhill sat by the boiler darning yet another sock. Her husband had finished his supper and was apparently engrossed in the Gazette. He had spoken hardly a dozen words to her since he had come home.
Richard was hugging to himself his problems with his new job, and she felt guilty about this because she had been far more enthusiastic about the move to Lydmouth than he had. She also felt guilty because she knew that he wanted to make love to her but she wouldn’t let him; she felt angry with herself for feeling guilty – she had as much right to say no as he had to say yes – but the guilt was too deep-seated and irrational to respond to reasoning. She never questioned her love for him, but she did wonder why he had to treat sex with such mechanical urgency, as if he were a famine victim consuming a loaf of bread. He was in general a considerate man, which made his lack of consideration in this respect particularly shocking.
She picked up another sock from the seemingly bottomless supply in the mending basket. She was also worried about the children, and Richard’s apparent lack of concern for them increased the animosity she felt towards him. David had a haunted look in his face and had wept on the way to school this morning: something was wrong there, and he wouldn’t tell her what it was; like father, like son. Elizabeth’s cough was getting worse: could it be turning to whooping cough?
She felt torn in all directions, as though her family threatened to dismember her emotionally. Hadn’t she a right to her own life, if only for half an hour a day? She was a bondservant to her husband and her children and her house: she cooked, cleaned, washed, mended and penny-pinched; she gave them love and they gave her dirty socks, usually in need of darning.
She laid aside the current sock with a sigh. In the distance, she heard Elizabeth beginning to cough. Her eyes itched with tiredness and a yawn slipped out. She sensed that Richard was looking at her.
‘There’s an article about the Templefields bones in here.’
‘Oh, yes.’ She made an effort, since any conversation with him was better than this awful silence. ‘The case you’re working on? The dead baby?’
‘Yes, it’s by the editor, man called Philip Wemyss-Brown.’ Still looking at her, he dropped the paper on to the table, stood up and stretched. ‘Tired?’
She nodded. ‘I haven’t been sleeping well.’ Elizabeth’s cough had kept her awake for the last two nights, that and the other worries.
‘We could have an early night.’
‘It’s only half past eight.’
‘So?’ His eyes were very bright.
‘I – I really should finish this mending.’
‘Damn the mend
ing.’ He got up and stood behind her chair. His hands slid down and cupped her breasts. His breath was warm on her neck.
‘Richard, I’m tired. I’m sorry.’
His hands sprang away from her as if her body had given him an electric shock. ‘You’re always bloody tired.’
‘I’m sorry, but there it is.’
He picked up the newspaper. ‘I’m going out.’
‘Where? Why?’
‘I might as well do something useful. It’s work.’
He stalked out of the kitchen. His outrage had a comical aspect to it, but there was nothing comical about Edith’s feelings. She heard him in the hall and guessed he was putting on his coat.
She got up and went to the door. She didn’t know what she was going to do – whether she would shout at him or plead with him or submit to him. In the event there was no need to make up her mind: as she opened the door to the hall, Elizabeth started to cry as well as cough.
Richard was by the front door. He had his hat on the back of his head and hadn’t bothered to button his overcoat. She thought, inappropriately, how handsome he looked.
‘Don’t wait up,’ he said, not looking at her. ‘I don’t know when I’ll be back.’ He opened the door.
‘Damn you,’ she said, quietly, in case the children were listening, and headed for the stairs.
Chapter Twelve
Dinner dragged its way through three courses, followed by cheese and fruit. Afterwards, Philip washed up, a cigarette between his lips and a glass of brandy conveniently to hand on the windowsill, while Jill dried and Charlotte put away and made the coffee. Susan’s working day came to an end once she had helped to cook dinner; only on special occasions did she also help serve and clear away.
‘You’re not a special occasion,’ Philip had told Jill on her first evening. ‘You count as family, I’m afraid.’
‘In a manner of speaking,’ Charlotte had added.
On balance, Jill thought, she was neither one thing nor the other.
An Air That Kills Page 16