“Get me back in my room!” His voice tore through the air. “It’s my head. My head!”
She leant over her father and into the doorway of the bathroom. She tugged a towel from the rack and slipped it over his head. As she pushed it down tighter he realized what she was doing and raised his hands aside to let her finish. He then clamped his hands down to hold it tight.
She opened both the doors to her father’s room. Still he moaned and writhed on the floor, but the screaming had stopped, his movements less violent. She grabbed his feet. Why was he wearing shoes? They almost slipped out of her hands as he involuntarily wrestled with her. With a better grip on his ankles she began to heave.
Slowly his heavy weight yielded to her exertions. Little by little he was dragged back into his room. She strained at the work, her father incapable of helping at all. Instead his jerks and spasms fought his helper. She began to weep at the indignity. Of his indignity. Of hers. Of the whole ridiculous situation.
Once he was far enough inside the room she shut the outer door. A few more heaves and grunts brought him through the second door. A final attempt at repositioning his body was aborted. He was back in his room now. It would have to do.
The body of her father ceased to struggle from the pain of the light.
“Are you okay?” She panted.
A muffled grunt. A reply barely legible in the gloom. “I need to rest.”
She lay her head on her father’s chest. She felt the warmth within. She felt the rise and fall of his lungs and the beat of his heart. When she was little he used to hold her and Sunny, one either side, and let them listen to his chest. To hear your own father’s body, the man who could do anything, and know that it was made of flesh and blood. It was a wonder which never faded.
His breathing steadied as he fell asleep. She lay still in his warmth and drifted into unconsciousness.
“I wanted to save you.” Ben spoke to his daughter, not knowing whether she was awake or asleep. It making no difference to his confession. “I said I would. I always said this was my case, not yours, and I wouldn’t put you in danger.”
Edith raise her head from his chest. In the dimmest of light she imagined the glimmer of his eyes only centimetres away. She said nothing.
“I wanted it to be done. Over with. It would only take an hour or two. I would go to that man’s house and confront him. Make the bastards back off. You could wake up without a care. You had done your part.”
Still she said nothing.
“I couldn’t even get out the door. As soon as the light hit my eyes I knew it was over. It wasn’t possible. The pain was too much, even just to open my eyes, never mind to drive or to think.” He lifted a hand and stroked her hair. “Sweetheart. My darling. You have to do it.
“Princess, I’m so sorry.”
She wept. She wanted to tell her father that she had always known she was on her own, that he could never help. Yet it was too near to disloyalty to utter such a thing to him. And too near to calling him delusional.
“The gun...,” a hundred questions danced in her mind. Grasping even one was impossible.
He felt for the gun with his hand. “Ah! Where is it?”
“I threw it into the bathroom when I found it. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Well, now you know your father owns a gun and keeps it in the house.” He laughed in relief, yet immediately understood how it must have seemed to his daughter. “I’m sorry.”
“Where did it come from?” For that matter, she thought, where did the money come from? The tens of thousands of pounds she had seen in her sister’s apartment? Please, please, she thought, don’t let them touch my father. Not at the same time.
“It’s an old gun. Barely used, mind.” Hesitation. “No, never used, in fact. Just for...well, just in case. You can’t get them now. They used to be everywhere twenty years ago.”
“You’ve never used it?” She wanted to believe. The knot of revelation hardened inside her. If only she could ignore it.
“Never in anger.” Prevarication. “Just for protection.”
She fell silent. One more question would give her an answer she never wanted to hear.
“Now is a time for protection, Edith.” He spoke firmly. “You have to take the gun.”
“Me?” She withdrew and reared up on her knees. “No!”
“If you wait, the next time they come for you could be too late. You know that. Tell me you know that, Edith.” His fingers scrabbled along the carpet for her hand. He found it and squeezed it tight. “Tell me and don’t lie.”
“But what can I do with it? Threaten him? Tell him to stop?”
“You have to make a point. Maybe this Gervase Hemlyn is the one organizing it all on behalf of the Establishment. Maybe he’s just the pawn of somebody higher up. Either way, they need to know that we’re as willing to kill as they are.”
She threw off her father’s hand. She stood and paced to the wall. “Kill him? Kill him!”
“What did you think I was going to do? What did you think I was asking you to do?”
“Kill somebody, Dad! You’re asking me to kill somebody.”
“You must have known it would come to this. You must have known, Edith.”
She leant forward, head against the wall. She pressed her face into its coolness. Her whole body burnt. Every limb full of energy. She could have died several times already. She knew that she might not outlive the year. She had chosen to fight back, to do something. She should have known what it might come to.
Kill or be killed.
“I’ll do it.” She whispered. She broke into a cry. “I’ll do it.”
He sat up and wrestled with his holster to remove it. “You’ll need this. Go get dressed first then I’ll strap you up.”
“Okay.” She swallowed back tears. “And the gun?”
“It’s easy. You’ll be surprised. Fetch it from the bathroom and I’ll show you how to hold it.”
Her breath stuttered. Her body thrilled with the thought of holding the gun again. Her mind rebelled, unable to accept the body’s desire.
“Can we get rid of the gun once it is over?”
“You mean, because of the evidence?”
“No. Because I don’t want to look at it and be reminded of what I did.”
“Oh. I guess so.” He sighed. He had had no problem looking at the gun over the years he had owned it. He enjoyed remembering the times it had come in handy.
Edith parked the Punto in a field entrance half way down the lane where Gervase’s farmhouse was still out of sight. The main road was likewise hidden behind the brow of a hill. Neither Gervase nor a passerby could see she was here unless they drove down the lane themselves. It would be better to hide the car entirely; this was the best she could do.
The muddy lane gleamed in the weak winter sun. Last night it had rained only lightly in Manchester. Here it must have been much heavier. Freshly–churned ruts lined the road. Certainly Gervase’s car wouldn’t be so polished now. Unless the tyremarks were from guests, which would be an unwelcome surprise.
From the car she examined the tyre marks hopefully, thinking she could divine from them who might be at the farmhouse. It was a pointless task. She would have to think on her feet, adapt to whatever she found. If he had guests she could wait until they left.
Maybe she would have to kill them too.
She shut her eyes and shook her head at the thought. Killing one person was a mountain she barely believed she could climb.
The gun’s solid shape was easily felt from the outside of her parka. Her fingers told her it was still there. Maybe if it had disappeared she could go home. Of course it was still there. Its weight hung like guilt round her chest.
She drew the gun from inside her coat and checked it as her father had instructed. Loaded, chambered. There was no safety; it would fire when she pulled the trigger and not til then. She wriggled her holster to ensure it sat comfortably and returned to gun to its housing. Like the night before
her phone was left at home to prevent it becoming evidence. Now she left her handbag too. Only car keys nestled in her pocket as she stepped out into the mud.
She leant back to check the time on the car’s clock: nearly two in the afternoon. The clouds were skitting across the sky and the cool wind roughly blew the tops of the poplars trees which encircled Gervase’s farmhouse in the distance. Edith thanked her luck that it was neither over cold nor raining. She could take her time outside, watching the house. There was no reason to rush.
The lane sloped down in a long open curve. After she had walked the distance of a field she switched to the other side of the road so that the drystone wall would partly obscure her. The screen of trees around the house would do the rest.
Once she drew nearer she clambered over a gate and entered a paddock which stretched round the whole northern side of the farmhouse. There were no animals here, nor had there been for a while. The grass grew high, giving the ground some firmness despite the damp. The surrounding fields had been regularly close–cropped by sheep, but not this one. She made her way over it bent low, keeping near to the line of the wall.
The trees round the yard jutted out to a corner point. From a distance she caught glimpses of the farmhouse through them as she moved. The garden lay to the north, small and also enclosed by the trees. She squatted, reasoning that if she could now see Gervase’s garden then, possibly, he could spy her in the paddock. With knees bent she crept further toward the poplars.
Every few steps she paused and scanned the yard and house for any sign of Gervase. What would she do if she was spotted? He would have enough time to prepare for her. She might not be the only one with a gun. Even then she there could be no turning back. He was willing to arrange her murder just for investigating the deaths of the Faircotes. The knowledge that she was now hunting him could only be answered in one way.
After several minutes she had only traversed half the paddock. It was more dangerous to be out in the open for such a long time than the alternatives. She nodded sharply to herself and broke into a run. She covered the rest of the field in seconds.
When she reached the corner of the trees around the yard she could clearly make out the farmhouse and its rear elevation. No lights were on inside the house. The gloominess of the day rendered the interior impenetrably dark. First she had to establish that he was at home. Then whether there were any guests. Last, where exactly he was inside the house. Answers to none of these questions were apparent.
She tutted at herself for being such an idiot. Having crept through the paddock to the back yard she had ignored the best information available to her: the cars sat on the gravel at the front. She bent double and raced along the line of trees, away from the back, round the side, until she gained an angle from which she could adequately see the drive.
A single 4x4, well–polished, sat on the gravel. It was Gervase’s car. There were no others. Either he was truly obsessive about his car’s cleanliness or somebody else had visited. The gravel showed multiple tracks leading to and from different points. He had had guests recently, as the muddy ruts in the lane suggested. They were no longer there, however.
From her new position it was impossible to see the house’s front windows. Gaining a better angle would have meant stepping into the mouth of the drive, exposing herself to view. There was no way to watch from the front. She tracked back a few metres along the line of the trees until she was level with the side of the house. A single large window opened into what was likely the kitchen. The dull light of the day made it impossible to clearly discern the inside.
She crouched as low as she could and decided to wait. Gervase would need to eat or drink at some point. When he made himself visible in the kitchen she could shoot him through the window. There would be no confrontation, everything as impersonal as possible. It was doubtful that any neighbours were near enough to hear a gunshot. All he had to do was show his face.
Without her phone she had no idea of the time. She hadn’t thought to bring a watch. She wasn’t sure she even owned one. An hour could have passed, or it could have been fifteen minutes. She wouldn’t have known the difference. Her knees ached with squatting and her feet throbbed with cold. Moving would ease the discomfort but also give him a better chance of spotting her. He could emerge into the kitchen at any moment. Her gaze fixed on the window she willed him to appear.
A light appeared inside. Not in the kitchen, some way off through another door.
This is it.
Her hands tightened their grip on the gun. She focussed on the patch of light.
Within a few seconds Gervase’s head came into sight. She raised the gun.
Unsure that she could make the shot she hesitated. He traversed the window and was out of sight. The opportunity was gone.
Where had he gone?
The sound of a door being unlocked, opened, then slammed shut. She shifted her eyes to the garden. If he was walking around outside it would make her job much, much easier. A clearer, cleaner shot.
Instead, a cat wandered away from the house toward the rear of the yard.
She flicked her eyes back to the kitchen window just in time to see Gervase’s head as he walked away. Once more he was out of sight. The light went off a moment later.
‘Shit!’ The word rose as a hiss from her lips.
Two chances. She had missed them both. The light was failing fast now, though it can’t have been more than mid-afternoon. In another hour, or even half an hour, she wouldn’t be able to see into the house at all. The only option then would be to force an entry, alerting him before she had time to shoot. It might be her only option.
Wait. Had he locked the door? The cat had gone out, the door had been shut. But was it locked? There was one way to know. Only one. And it would be irrevocable. He would hear the door open and investigate the sound. But she would be inside and have the initiative. Enough time to shoot.
She shut her eyes and blew out a breath. The moment she touched that handle, there might be less than a minute before she had to kill him.
With a shake of her head and a curse she slipped between two of the poplars encircling the yard. Still bent she short–stepped to the wall beneath the window. Then, sure that she could not be seen, she sidled to the corner of the house and peered round. No overlooking windows, nobody could see her from inside the house. She reached for the kitchen door, breathed once, then took hold of the handle and turned.
It was unlocked. The door swung on its hinges out of her hand and clattered into the wall. Gervase will have heard that. She stepped into the kitchen stood upright. The gun floated before her, gripped in hands almost detached from her body. She loosened and retightened her hold. Finger on the trigger. The gun was in her hands. She would meet him ready for the shot.
She strode through the kitchen, her eyes on far doorway leading to the hall. There were no sounds. No lights switching on. When she reached the door and turned she saw Gervase as he strolled toward her.
“Hello?” He called just as she rounded the corner. There was no look of recognition on his face, nor, for a split second, acknowledgement that she held a gun.
Then it came. His eyes widened. Then a shallow smile drew across his mouth.
“Oh, it’s you. Hardly a surprise.” He raised his hands feebly aloft. “Well,” he spoke mockingly, “I guess you have me now.”
Edith had stood in front of Gervase for several minutes, gun pointed at his head. Soft light filled the living room, spilling from a pair of exquisite gilt lamps. Watery grey daylight dribbled through the giant archway windows. She had walked him back along the hallway from the kitchen. Now they stood facing each other over the length of a Persian rug. It was a shot even she, a complete novice, could not miss.
Yet she couldn’t shoot him.
She was building up to it, she promised herself. The trigger itched her fingertip. The gun’s weight tired her arms. It could be over in a moment. The imaginary bullet would penetrate easily the soft flesh and brit
tle bone of his skull. His dying body would slump to the floor in a pool of blood. A little squeeze was the only thing needed to make it a reality. She could shut her eyes once she had fired. The body could go unseen, the mess of blood and gore unattended. Turn and run. Turn, run, and pretend it never happened.
First, she had to shoot.
“You’re new to this, aren’t you?” He let his hands sag a little, tired of holding himself under arrest.
“Just shut up! Shut up!” She held out a single finger from her gripping hand and pointed. “I’ll kill you.”
“I’m surprised that it has taken you this long. Actually, I’m not. You’re far more ignorant than I anticipated.”
“You tried to kill me.” She forced all emotion from her voice. Anger ran through her, but wanted the accusation to be plain and true. This was not revenge, it was justice.
“And you’re going to kill me now, aren’t you? We’re not so different.”
“This is self–defence!” She screamed. Her hands tensed. A finger strained on the trigger, feeling the resistance. She willed herself to pull it, though she could not. Not yet. “Don’t pretend we’re the same.”
“As you wish, we’re nothing alike.” He smiled broadly, letting his hands drop a little further as his confidence grew. “Though I dare say I have a better understanding of the situation than you. I’ve been working on this longer than you’ve been alive. You’re ready to kill a man and you don’t even know why, do you?”
“Because you’re a murderer. You’re murdering the Faircotes one by one and you want to murder me because I’m trying to stop you. Besides, you already told me why. Samuel and his family could be the kings of England. You told me because you thought I would be dead soon after. But I’m still here.” She nodded at him. “Not feeling so smart now, are you?”
He snorted as his sole reply.
“And I know who you work for, and I know there are more just like you. Thousands like you who would do anything to protect the Establishment. I can’t kill you all, but I can send a message that I won’t go down without a fight. You’re going to be my message, Gervase, and I hope they hear it all the way at the top.”
Inheritance Page 27