by Deryn Lake
‘Only if you promise me that you will return home once darkness falls.’
‘Once darkness falls,’ repeated Melissa, and there was fear in her voice.
TWENTY
Dickie had found his wandering footsteps turning towards Foxfield without any instruction from himself. Whether it was because he missed company – and the most congenial company he had ever found had been round Lakehurst and its environs – he did not know. His brain was not capable of working such things out. He burst into song as he glimpsed the distant lights of The White Hart.
I’m only a strolling vagabond
So goodnight pretty maiden, goodnight.
I’m bound for the hills and the valleys beyond,
So goodnight pretty maiden, goodnight.
He tried for the next line but found he could not remember it. Besides, he was getting near houses. It would not be good for them to know he was round about. For no reason other than a strong feeling of self-preservation, Dickie began to slow down. He could hear voices coming through one of the open cottage windows.
‘I’m sorry, Mr O’Hare, to call on you like this but I felt so frightened. I was only playing a prank on my friend but my daddy threatened to smack my bottom.’
Dickie strained his ears to hear the reply.
‘There, there, my dear. We all play pranks from time to time. I bet you your mother did.’
‘What do you mean? My real mother is dead. I never knew her.’
‘I have a feeling that your real mother was a handmaiden of Mr Grimm.’
There was a pause as if Belle was trying to work out what to say, then she answered, ‘I truly don’t know. I could never ask her because she was killed before I could talk.’
‘That would be his way, of course. Do you bear your father’s mark?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Have you a mole or a port wine stain on your body?’
‘I have a mole on my heart. Is it important?’
‘Very. Will you show it to me? You see, it could be your father’s way of picking you out.’
There was a silence and then Belle said, ‘I feel excited. And wicked. I feel like I’ve never felt before.’
Dickie would have crept up to the window then to see what was going on but two people came walking down the lane, chatting, and by instinct he hid in the hedge. When he re-emerged all the lights had gone out in Chris O’Hare’s cottage and he was left to wonder exactly what had taken place next.
The first thing that Hugh Wyatt had done before he left the house was to phone the police using the card that bore Inspector Tennant’s number on it. He had not been put directly through but he explained to the officer that there had been an accident at his house and that his daughter had been involved. Then he had rung off, abruptly, before they could ask him any questions. He had followed Melissa out through the front door, looking at the place where Samba’s travelling basket had once stood, wondering why on earth the child should have taken the cat with her.
As if she had heard his thoughts, Melissa said, ‘She always adored Samba, of course, poor little darling.’
‘You think that’s why she took him?’
‘Of course. Why else?’
‘I don’t know why, Melissa.’
And glancing up at him his wife saw that his face was set in the hard lines that she remembered seeing when he first came back from Afghanistan.
It was the low cry of pain that first drew Reg Marney’s eye down to the floor of The White Hart in Foxfield. He could see nothing but a trail of blood leading from the door to behind the bar and his stomach gave a strange twist. Despite his penchant for dancing naked and outdoor copulation, Reg had a strange dislike of seeing blood and to have been a donor would have reduced him to near hysteria. Despite his natural dislike he steeled himself and looked behind the bar.
There was a cat in extremis. There was no other phrase to describe its condition. The poor creature was covered with little stab wounds and its short, stubby tail had been the victim of someone with a warped sense of humour because it had been tied tightly round with a red ribbon, the same colour as its disappearing blood.
‘My God,’ said Reg. ‘Help. There’s a dying cat in here.’
A man he had seen before in the Great House and recognized as one of Lakehurst’s doctors, pushed his way forward.
‘Where?’ he asked, his accent slightly foreign.
‘Down there,’ said Reg, indicating with his foot.
Without hesitation Dr Rudniski plunged his hands into the midst of the blood and picked the wretched animal up. He turned to Reg.
‘Ring the vet and tell him I’m bringing in a badly wounded cat. Tell him it’s very urgent. Oh, and by the way, tell him I’m Kasper.’
‘Right,’ said Reg, and pulled his mobile out of his pocket.
Charlie, the landlord, sailed up in all his magnificence. ‘What’s going on?’
‘A cat was bleeding to death behind your bar. The Lakehurst doctor, the Polish one, is taking it to the vet’s. I don’t know if it’ll pull through.’
‘It’s made a right mess. I shouldn’t think it’s got a drop of blood left in it.’
‘Well, go and wash this filthy witness,’ said Reg, quoting Macbeth.
‘Don’t you tell me what to do,’ answered Charlie, irate.
‘I think I’ll just finish my beer and leave.’
The vet, a middle-aged man, with a smile he kept for the owners of his patients and which left his face punctually at six o’clock, looked bleakly at Kasper.
‘Whatever bastard did this to the poor animal?’
Kasper shook his head, suddenly sick of the world. ‘God knows. I can’t imagine anyone doing such a thing to hurt an innocent creature. The whole idea revolts me.’
‘Well, it’s not in pain now. I’ve given the poor beast an injection.’
‘You mean you’ve put it down?’
‘No. I’m going to operate tonight. I’ll call one of the nurses in. I’m going to fight for it to stay alive. By the way, I think you know the owners,’ said the vet.
‘I probably do. Who are they?’
‘They’re called Wyatt and live at that large house with the pool just outside the village. Their wretched cat has had its share of suffering, I can tell you. Somebody slashed its tail off the other week.’
‘What?’
‘Yes, and it was no accident. It was severed with a knife.’
‘This story gets more hideous. By the way, I went to see their child. She became quite hysterical after the murders of her friends.’
‘Funny little girl, isn’t she? My Molly went there to tea once but refused to go again or even to have Isabelle back. She never said why. Strange.’
‘Very. Look, Malcolm, I’ve got to go. Keep in touch about the cat, will you.’
‘I’ll have more news in the morning.’
‘Thanks. I’ll give you a ring.’
Kasper got into his car, his mind seething with all the thoughts going through it. Driving back, too fast, he parked in the High Street, and went straight to the vicarage. Nick didn’t answer his bell and Kasper hurried to the Great House to see the vicar tucked cosily in a corner with that golden girl, Miss Quinn. Putting aside everything he had thought of asking, Kasper gave them a pleasant wave and ordered himself a vodka, knowing that he would have to get quite inebriated before he could sleep on what he thought he knew.
Tennant received the message that a Major Hugh Wyatt had phoned him about an accident involving his daughter and had then broken off the call and had not answered his phone when the police rang back. Locating Potter quickly, driving in his innocent way back to Lewes, Tennant got in beside his unprotesting young sergeant, who obediently turned the car round.
‘Time you got yourself a girlfriend, Mark. You’re such an obliging bloke.’
‘Well, I’ve had one or two, sir. Why do you ask?’
‘I don’t know. Just that life can be a bit lonely sometimes.’
&n
bsp; ‘Do you think it’s time I settled down?’
‘Yes, frankly. You’re such a nice young fellow and I believe some girl would be really lucky to have you.’
‘I’ll think about it. Anyway, what’s the trouble with the Wyatts?’
‘I don’t know. Major Wyatt put through a call earlier, muttering something about an accident involving his daughter. Then rang off. Meanwhile we’ve received a call from Tommy Wheeler, the antique dealer, as he likes to call himself.’
‘Do you mean the one on Antiques For All?’
‘Yes, the man himself. He’s complaining about his son being half killed up at the Wyatts’ house. Apparently the boy was hospitalized.’
‘What!’
‘Yes, you heard correctly. There’s something extremely rum about the whole business. So we’re currently hunting Major Wyatt.’
‘I don’t completely trust him. Do you think we should phone for backup?’
‘Steady on, Mark. You’ve been watching too many American movies. This is just a nice social call to enquire about dear little Isabelle.’
Mark raised a quizzical eyebrow but said nothing and they drove up to the house in silence, each man thinking his own thoughts.
The place was deserted, empty, not a chink of light showing anywhere.
‘Let’s have a look round while it’s still light,’ said Tennant. They walked the length of the considerable garden and saw the pool with the cover firmly closed. Then they walked back to the deserted house. The light was just beginning to fade and the trees of the forest, which crept up to the house’s very edge like an enemy advancing inch by inch, were beginning to darken.
‘I’m glad I don’t live here,’ said Mark over his shoulder, shivering.
‘Why? I think it’s a pleasant location. My idea of a dream house.’
At that moment a vixen, very near at hand, let out an unearthly howl, making both of them stop in their tracks.
‘It sounds just like a mother screaming for her lost baby.’
‘Probably what Melissa Wyatt is doing at this very moment.’
‘That’s not funny, sir.’
‘No, it isn’t. You’re quite right. I feel a chat with the vicar is necessary. He’s always a fount of village gossip. And perhaps he can cure me of this nasty habit of saying the wrong thing. Anyway it’s just possible that the Wyatts have ended up in Lakehurst with the wretched child.’
‘And I am sure you could do with a pint,’ said Mark, a touch of acidity belied by his charming smile.
The Great House was reasonably full but not so packed as to stop Dominic noticing two things as soon as he entered. The first was the vicar, sitting opposite the lovely Miss Quinn and appearing so enchanted, so completely under her beautiful spell, that it seemed cruel to interrupt him. The second was Dr Kasper Rudniski, looking terribly depressed and staring into his glass of vodka as if he would like to wring its neck. The decision was not difficult.
‘Good evening, Doctor,’ said Tennant, somewhat over-heartily. ‘Do you mind if the sergeant and I join you?’
Kasper, remembering his manners, stood up and made a small bow. ‘No, please do. I am sorry. I was deep in thought.’
‘Any particular reason?’
‘Actually, I was worried about a cat.’
‘A cat!’ exclaimed Potter.
‘Yes. It’s a cat belonging to the Wyatts. It’s black, called Samba. Well, it crawled into The White Hart – God knows what it was doing out at Foxfield – horribly injured.’ He paused and drank his glass down rapidly. Tennant signalled with his eyes for Potter to go to refill it.
‘Carry on.’
‘Well, it had been stabbed a dozen or so times. It was hiding behind the bar and, to be honest, it was dying. I picked it up and drove it straight to Malcolm Martin, the vet. He was closed but he opened up for me. And that’s the end of the story, actually.’
‘Did it die?’ asked Potter, returning with a full glass which Kasper accepted appreciatively.
‘I don’t know. He was due to operate on it tonight. He was so disgusted by the sight that he said he was going to do his best to save it.’
Tennant sat back in his chair, feeling his brain going into overdrive. Who else had had an injured cat recently? Could there be a connection? And as the thread grew and began to form a web, he actually paled at the prospect before him. Without a word to anyone he rose from his place and crossed the floor to where the vicar and Patsy sat in a rose-coloured bower of their mutual admiration.
‘Excuse me interrupting, Vicar, Miss Quinn, but I have something rather important to ask you?’
Nick came back down to earth and it was a difficult descent. His village persona slowly emerged and his cordial smile appeared.
‘Good evening, Inspector. How can I help you?’
‘I’ll come straight to the point. Can you remember what day of the week it was when your cat’s ear was injured?’
Miss Quinn’s golden eyebrows lifted and the vicar looked puzzled.
‘Let me see now. It was a Wednesday, I think. Yes, it was. There was a meeting of the friends of the church – that is the official title of the fundraisers. They don’t have to be churchgoers, just people interested in preserving the old building. Why?’
‘Could you tell me the names of everyone who came, please?’
‘Is it important?’
‘It could be. Very.’
‘Well, there was Mrs Ivy Bagshot, Mavis, one of my church wardens, Mr and Mrs Honeywell, Mr and Mrs Burton and Major and Mrs Wyatt. It’s only a small, informal group.’
‘Did the Wyatts have their granddaughter with them?’
‘Yes, now you come to mention it, they did. She sat in the living room and watched television.’
‘Was she alone?’
‘Yes, quite. Except for – the cat.’ The vicar’s voice trailed away. ‘But she couldn’t have hurt it. That wound was made with something sharp. There was nothing …’
‘Do you mind if we go and have a look?’
‘But the room has been cleaned – twice. It was over a week ago.’
‘All the same. Just to put my mind at rest.’
The enchanted moment between the couple had vanished. Miss Quinn said stiffly, ‘Well, I’ll only get in the way. I’ll be at Granny’s if you want me, Nick.’
‘Thank you, Patsy. I’ll phone you later, if that’s all right.’
‘Of course,’ she answered.
He watched her go out of the door with such a sad expression that, despite everything, the inspector smiled.
‘Come along, Vicar, as they used to say long ago. We’ll only have a quick look round and then we’ll be on our way.’
‘But what exactly are you searching for?’
‘Something sharp that would cut a cat’s ear.’
Nick Lawrence’s face grew a shade paler. ‘Do you mean Radetsky was attacked?’
The inspector looked official. ‘I can’t comment on that, I’m afraid. We’re just following a line of enquiry.’
In silence the three men walked briskly to the vicarage and Nick switched on the lights of the living room, then stood and watched while Tennant and Potter began a thorough search of the room, mostly with their eyes, covering their hands with disposable gloves before they touched anything. Eventually, digging behind the books on the shelves by Nick’s favourite armchair, Potter cried ‘Got something,’ and pulled out a pair of scissors.
The vicar stared. ‘But they are not kept there. They’re usually on my desk.’
Potter held them up to the light. ‘There’s a small bloodstain on them.’
‘Bag them up,’ answered the inspector. He looked round. ‘Where’s the cat now?’
Nick called and Radetsky came in from the kitchen.
‘I’d keep him in for the next few days.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Never been more so.’
‘Very well. I’ll do what you say.’
And as Nick showed them out into the
darkness he felt a great unease, a mighty chill, as if the forces of evil had combined in someone and he must do something about it. He locked the house and crossed the road into the church where he went to have a serious conversation with the Almighty Powerhouse.
‘Where to now?’ asked Potter as they got into the car.
‘I don’t know,’ Tennant answered wearily. ‘Let’s have one more look at the Wyatts’ house and then … I’m not sure.’
It was only a short drive to the outlying home of the major and his wife and this time they saw that the lights were on. At first nobody answered their knocking but Tennant called loudly, ‘It’s the police, Major. We’ve just come to check that everything is all right?’
They heard the bolts slide back and then, looking like a ghost, her blonde hair tinted white by the light behind her, Melissa Wyatt answered. As soon as she saw Tennant she burst into tears.
‘Oh, it’s all so awful,’ she said in a voice choking with tears.
‘What is?’ Tennant asked. ‘What is it that’s worrying you, Mrs Wyatt?’
‘My granddaughter – little Isabelle – has run away and she’s taken the cat with her. Well, I presume she has. Because the cat and its basket were both missing when we realized she had gone.’
Potter said, ‘Your cat has been found, Mrs Wyatt. It has been seriously injured and at the moment is with Malcolm Martin who is operating on it. I’m afraid that is all I know.’
Her eyes, the colour of wild violets, flashed up at him. ‘Poor, poor Samba. Had he been run over?’
Potter shook his head. ‘I’m afraid that’s all I know.’
‘But where did this happen?’
He saw the almost imperceptible shake of Tennant’s head.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Wyatt, I’ve told you everything I can. Just be sure your cat is in the best hands and will be well looked after.’
‘Where is your husband?’ asked Tennant.
‘He’s still out searching for Isabelle. You have no news of her?’
‘Not as yet, no. But be assured we will find her and bring her back safely.’
‘I can’t think why she ran away. Of course, her grandfather was very annoyed with her about that silly prank.’
‘You mean the one involving the television man’s son?’