The hospital was starkly bright after the soft twilight countryside they had been travelling through, and Tilly’s shoes squeaked on the shiny grey-and-white-squared lino. She and Gideon got several sideways looks as they traversed its myriad corridors, but it wasn’t until they were at the doorway of Reuben’s room that anyone questioned the presence of the dog.
‘I’m sorry. No animals,’ the nurse said. She was middle-aged and wore an air of authority.
‘He’s a PAT dog,’ Gideon said, without so much as a flicker.
‘Oh,’ she said, looking doubtfully down at Buddy, who was straining towards the door, possibly sensing that his master was inside. ‘So where’s his official jacket?’
‘On the kitchen table,’ Gideon said with a smile that was somewhere between apologetic and charming.
The nurse gave him a long look, clearly not fooled, but allowed herself to be won over. ‘All right. Just this once. But if anyone catches you, I’ll deny all knowledge and have you thrown out, I warn you!’
They thanked her and went on in.
‘You’re shameless!’ Tilly exclaimed, as the door shut behind them.
The collie, on seeing who occupied the bed, threw all his weight into his collar in an effort to reach it.
Reuben was lying propped up against a bank of pillows, his bruised, weather-beaten face looking swarthy against the crisp white bandage that was wound about his head. Seeing his dog, he held out his hands delightedly.
‘Here, boy! Come to me,’ he said huskily, and the dog whimpered its eagerness.
Gideon let go of the lead and, seconds later, Buddy was on the bed, snuggling close to Reuben and licking his face enthusiastically.
‘Oh, crikey! I hope the nurse doesn’t come back and see that,’ Tilly said fervently, glancing towards the door. ‘I think that’s taking Pets As Therapy a bit too far!’
While Reuben was occupied with his dog, Gideon had a chance to look at him properly for the first time and saw a man who appeared to be in his fifties, with a strong face and a couple of millimetres of dark hair.
Even in a hospital bed, it was clear that this man in no way conformed to Gideon’s image of a hermit. If not particularly tall, he was well built and looked as though he possessed considerable strength. Far from shrinking, his gaze was direct and unafraid, and the look he levelled at Gideon over the collie’s black and white head was full of gratitude.
‘Thanks,’ he said gruffly.
‘No problem. How are you?’
‘I’ll live. You’re the ones who found me.’ It was more of a statement than a question, and Gideon guessed that the police had told him.
‘Yeah. This morning, early. The sheep were out on the gallops.’
Reuben nodded.
‘So when did this happen?’ Gideon indicated his injuries.
‘Last night. I was feedin’ Buddy.’
‘Do you know who did it?’
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘But I know why.’
‘The diary?’ Tilly asked.
Reuben shifted to reposition Buddy’s weight, wincing as he did so. The bandage on his head was matched by one on his right hand, and there was clearly unseen damage, too.
‘Ribs?’ Gideon asked, with sympathy.
The injured man grunted.
‘Must be gettin’ old. Could’ve took ’im once. Would’ve then if he ’adn’t fuckin’ jumped me.’ He flashed a look at Tilly. ‘Sorry.’
She shook her head dismissively. ‘Doesn’t matter. Reuben, did Damien give you the diary?’
Reuben’s brows dipped and he looked down.
‘Didn’t want no-one to see it, so I kep’ it for him.’
‘Do you still have it?’ Gideon asked. ‘Or did they take it from you?’
Reuben looked pointedly at Gideon. ‘Need to talk to you. Alone.’
‘To me?’ Gideon was surprised. He glanced at Tilly, eyebrows raised and shrugging slightly.
‘Oh, all right,’ she said reluctantly. ‘I’ll go and get a coffee.’
When she’d gone, Gideon looked thoughtfully at the man in the bed.
‘Do you know who I am?’
‘You brought Buddy to me,’ he stated simply. ‘And I’ve seen what you do with the horses. Damien spoke of you.’
‘I was with him when he died,’ Gideon said softly.
‘I know.’
‘Do you know what’s in the diary?’
‘Damien told me. He didn’t want them to know.’ Reuben nodded towards the door. ‘His family – reckon he didn’t want them hurt.’
‘Did they take the diary? Whoever did this to you – did they find it?’
He shook his head with certainty.
‘I had it hid. Nobody won’t have found it.’
‘Will you tell me where it is?’
Reuben rubbed the dog’s fur contemplatively.
‘What’ll you do with it?’
‘I don’t know, yet,’ Gideon admitted. ‘I need to see it first.’
‘Knew it would be trouble. Got him killed, it did.’
Even though he had suspected this, hearing it confirmed gave Gideon a jolt.
‘Damien? Are you sure?’
Reuben grunted.
‘Of course – Damien. He wanted to make ’em pay.’
He regarded Gideon intensely for several long seconds, then sighed. ‘I don’t want it any more. The lad’s gone and I should’ve burnt the bloody thing! But he trusted me.’ Reuben shook his head in an apparent agony of indecision, and then said abruptly, ‘I’ll tell you where it is.’
His directions were precise, and easy to remember, which was as well, because he warned Gideon against committing them to paper.
‘He’ll know you’ve been here. Watch your back.’
‘You keep saying he, was there only one?’
‘Dunno. One guy hit me from behind and held me down, but there might have been more. He wanted to know where the book was, but I wasn’t about to tell him. Then the bastard did this . . .’ With the hand that wasn’t stroking the dog, he gestured at his injuries.
‘Were you an army man?’ Something about his neatness, his composure, suggested it.
‘I was . . . once.’ Reuben looked down at the dog, which was lying with its muzzle on its master’s chest, and his body language plainly said that the subject was closed.
Gideon wandered to the end of the bed. At the top of the form on the clipboard somebody had written Reuben (?). It seemed that, so far, their patient had managed to protect his anonymity.
‘I guess, for you – after the copse – this must be hell,’ he said sympathetically, leaning on the rail.
‘I’ll leave tomorrow.’
Gideon had an idea the staff might have something to say about that, but he didn’t give much for their chances of stopping him.
‘What did you tell the police?’
‘Nothin’. Said I couldn’t remember.’
‘Where will you go?’
‘Home. Back to the woods.’
‘It’s a crime scene . . . They’ll have it taped off.’
‘I’ll wait. Will you bring Buddy, in a day or two?’
‘Yes, of course, but what if whoever did this comes back? If you didn’t give him the diary, aren’t you afraid he’ll try again?’
‘If he does, I’ll be ready.’
Gideon nodded. He had a feeling it was no more than the truth.
15
WHEN GIDEON LEFT Reuben, leading a very reluctant Buddy, he found Tilly seated in a waiting area a little way down the corridor, drinking coffee from a polystyrene cup.
‘What did you find out? Does he still have the diary?’
‘He’s hidden it. He told me where it is, and he wants me to take it off his hands.’
‘So why couldn’t he tell you that with me there? I mean - no offence – but it hasn’t really got anything to do with you. After all, Damien was my brother.’
‘I think it was because Damien told Reuben he didn’t want you involv
ed. Perhaps he guessed it might be dangerous.’
‘So you do think it has something to do with his death.’
It seemed only fair to tell her.
‘It looks that way, yes. Reuben thought so.’
Looking suddenly bleak, Tilly squashed her empty cup and dropped it in a nearby bin. Together they began to retrace their steps towards the exit, the dog padding resignedly behind. After a moment, Tilly pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and blew her nose.
‘Sorry, it still catches me unawares sometimes,’ she said, straightening her back determinedly.
Gideon gave her arm a brief rub but said nothing.
‘What I don’t understand,’ she went on, ‘is why Damien didn’t just go to the police if he found something important in the diary.’
Gideon pursed his lips and shrugged.
‘Perhaps he was intending to but just asked one question too many before he had a chance. Who knows?’ he said, still evading the blackmail issue.
They walked in silence for a spell, Gideon wishing he knew what Tilly intended doing. If there were any way to avoid it, he would still prefer not to hand the matter over to the authorities just yet, at least until he had had time to judge the importance of the diary for himself.
‘What do you want to do?’ he asked finally.
‘Well, the first step is obviously to find this bloody diary and see just what it does say. Then we can decide what’s best to do with it.’
‘And the police?’
‘If it’s got anything to do with Damien’s murder, then we have to give it to them, don’t we? But I want to see it first. If you’re right, and it is about Marcus and what happened at Ponsonby, it’s family business and we have a right to know.’ She paused, shaking her head. ‘I still find it hard to believe that Damien would keep something like that to himself. We were always so close.’
Turning a corner, they came face to face with a grey-haired man wearing a raincoat over a rather tired-looking suit. The man stopped, a look of recognition spreading over his features.
Detective Inspector Rockley.
Gideon cursed inwardly. He’d guessed Rockley would seek them out sooner or later, but he’d hoped it would be later. It was fortunate that, as yet, he knew nothing of the existence of Julian Norris’ diary, but Gideon was painfully conscious of what they had been saying just moments before.
If Rockley had overheard, he gave no sign of it.
‘Ah! Miss Daniels; Mr Blake. I was going to come and find you tomorrow. I understand you found our mystery man in the woods. Would you by any chance have a minute to spare?’
‘Er, well, we were just trying to sneak the dog out,’ Gideon confided. ‘He really shouldn’t be here.’
‘Well, in that case, we could either talk outside in the cold, or maybe I could find someone to let us have the use of an office or something for five minutes. I’m sure there are several empty, this time of night, and I should think the dog would be excused for a short time. Ah – nurse, have you got a moment?’
Because he was waiting to see whether Tilly stood by their half-formed agreement to keep the existence of the diary a secret, the interview with Rockley, though not long, was uncomfortable, for Gideon at least. Honest by nature and upbringing, he didn’t relish the idea of being less than truthful with the detective, for whom he had a great deal of respect.
Rockley didn’t seem overly surprised that Tilly could give him no further information on the charcoal burner, not even to the extent of being able to say for sure whether Reuben was his first or last name.
The nurse had brought tea and a plate of bourbon biscuits for them, and, seated at the desk of some absent consultant, the policeman took full advantage of both. He listened while Gideon and Tilly gave him their account of the morning’s events and, probably because it was the partial truth, he accepted without demur their story of the sheep’s presence on the gallops having led them to search the woodsman out.
‘Has he told you anything about the attack?’ Rockley asked. ‘He was particularly unforthcoming when I visited him earlier. I think he would have liked me to believe he was a few peas short of a pod, but I don’t think there’s a lot wrong with his intellect. Did you get on any better?’
‘He said they took him by surprise,’ Gideon reported. ‘Apparently he was feeding his dog – this dog – when they hit him from behind. He doesn’t know who it was. Or if he does, he wasn’t telling.’
‘And he doesn’t know why?’
Gideon shrugged. ‘He’s not a talkative kind of bloke.’
‘You know . . .’ Rockley said, dunking a biscuit in his tea for what Gideon felt was a dangerously long time, ‘I can’t help thinking there must be more to this than meets the eye. First your brother’s murder,’ this with a nod towards Tilly, ‘then the house is broken into, and now this . . .’
‘You think it’s connected?’ Gideon injected incredulity into his tone. ‘But I thought you were satisfied that Tetley shot Damien.’
‘Well, it seems that way.’ Rockley took another bourbon cream. ‘But what I’m seeing is a whole bunch of loose ends, and I don’t like loose ends. I don’t like ’em at all.’
The diary was hidden in a large plastic sandwich box, ten feet up in the hollow trunk of a gnarled ash on the edge of Reuben’s copse.
Gideon had made his way to the wood the morning after visiting the hospital and, mindful of Reuben’s warning, he’d gone alone. Just supposing someone really was watching, it would be virtually impossible to reach the copse undetected, starting out from the farm. Gideon thought it unlikely that Reuben’s attacker would be in a hurry to return to the scene of his crime, but on the other hand, if he suspected that Gideon knew where to find the diary, he might quite well lie in wait to relieve him of it on his return.
Leaving the Gatehouse by the way of the Priory drive and Home Farm Lane, and setting off in the opposite direction to that of his destination, Gideon arrived on the outskirts of Puddlestone Farm’s land feeling fairly confident that he hadn’t been followed. He parked in a field gateway, some two miles from Reuben’s copse, and with Zebedee bounding happily at his heels and an Ordnance Survey Explorer map in his hand, found his way across country to the south corner of the wood. Here, following Reuben’s efficient directions, he almost immediately happened upon the stile beside which grew the hollow ash he’d come to find.
Having called upon almost forgotten childhood tree-climbing skills in order to retrieve the plastic box, Gideon lost no time in opening it. It had, in the months it had lain hidden, accumulated on its surface a partial coating of algae, several rotting leaves and a deposit left by a sheltering bird, and, in spite of being watertight, the inside was clammy with condensation. Luckily, Damien had had the foresight to seal the diary itself in a plastic bag, through which Gideon could make out Julian Norris’ initials and a date written on the spine.
Suddenly, he found himself feeling rather vulnerable. Someone had wanted this handwritten journal so badly that he’d been prepared to beat a man half to death to discover its whereabouts. Where was that someone now?
Gideon couldn’t resist glancing around him, but there was nothing to be seen except the budding hazel coppice with its carpet of bluebell leaves promising glory to come. Zebedee, who’d been wandering to and fro, happily snuffling amongst the wet leaf mould, was now sitting about a yard away, nose up scenting the air. Gideon took comfort from the thought that the dog’s sharp eyes and ears would discern any approaching person at some distance.
Wondering if Reuben had indeed discharged himself from the hospital, he tucked the grubby box in the poacher’s pocket of his oiled-cotton coat and had turned to retrace his steps before a disturbing thought struck him.
Damien had been shot, and although Gideon could derive some reassurance from the knowledge that his murderer was accounted for, was this false security? There were four more men on the list he’d made who were still alive and at large, and, by the very nature of their sport, all four woul
d be expert marksmen.
But surely, he reasoned as he trudged back across the wet grass, however great the provocation, the chances of finding more than one man who was prepared to commit murder, in a group of five unrelated men, had to be infinitesimal.
Trying to ignore the slightly uncomfortable sensation between his shoulder blades, Gideon let himself through a gate in the hedge and started across the open space beyond.
Friday April 23rd – Day Six
Six days down, eight to go. It was my turn to ride the grey this morning. I wasn’t looking forward to it after he played up with Robin yesterday, but actually, it was OK. I got a clear round and Harry said he went well for me. Got a bollocking this afternoon, though. That Major Clemence is a bastard. I was running as fast as I could but there’s no way I could keep up with Marcus and Timothy Landless. Even Lloyd was struggling. Clemence keeps calling him ‘Old Man’ which is really making him mad!
I don’t know what I’m doing here. I’m worst at everything except the shooting and fencing. If it wasn’t for Marcus, I think I’d leave, but I promised Damien and I don’t want to let him down. Marcus has been quiet all day ~ it was his eighteenth birthday and I think maybe he was homesick, poor kid. Chef made him a cake at tea, which we all helped him eat. Bed early tonight, the others were teasing me but I need all the sleep I can get!
Monday April 26th
Oh God, this is a nightmare! I still can’t believe it. We got drunk and played a stupid game and now Marcus is dead!
How can this have happened? I keep thinking I’ll wake up ~ God, I wish I could! What the hell am I going to say to Damien? They were here yesterday ~ the whole family ~ but I didn’t have a chance to speak to them. I don’t think I could have faced them, anyway.
What have we done?
I haven’t slept since Friday because every time I close my eyes I hear that terrible scream. The police were here again today and I was terrified they would want to see us but as Sam said, why should they? They don’t know what we know. Nobody knows except us.
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