33 Women: A gripping new thriller about the power of women, and the lengths they will go to when pushed...

by Isabel Ashdown

  Una scribbles her mobile number down and tears the page from her notebook, offering it to Seed through the bars of the closed gate. ‘Can we come back again?’

  There is silence, and Seed hesitates before taking it.

  ‘If you talk to us,’ Una says, ‘the police will stay away from you.’

  Seed looks at the number, and back at Bramble, who is waiting for her on the path to the house. ‘I’ll talk it over with the other women and we’ll let you know.’

  She starts to walk away, back towards Bramble, but Una isn’t giving up. ‘Now they’ve confirmed Robyn was murdered, they’ll easily get a warrant, you know? You won’t be able to stop them. I’m not saying this to frighten you, but I do know how it works, and I also know the police are running out of patience.’ When Seed doesn’t answer, she adds, ‘If they’ve got a warrant and reason to suspect someone here, Seed, they’ll storm the place.’

  Seed halts, halfway between them and the house, and then she turns slowly, the wind catching the hem of her green tunic so it flaps like a sail. ‘I’d burn the place down first,’ she says, and something in her expression tells Celine she’s not joking now.

  As the two women disappear behind the front door, Una and Celine turn for home beneath the sun-dappled canopy of the woodland track.

  ‘What do you think?’ Celine asks.

  Una casts a final glance back at the sealed security gates to Two Cross Farm. ‘I think they’re hiding a great deal more than we could ever discover in one short visit. Let’s hope my threats have rattled Seed enough for her to invite us back.’

  19. BRAMBLE

  Present day, Two Cross Farm

  Following our unwanted guests’ departure, I feel compelled to check over Robyn’s old bedroom again, and I cannot help but replay the time when she joined us, just three months ago in February, when Seed broke all our rules of recruitment in bringing her in.

  Everything was odd about Robyn’s arrival. There was no discussion between the Founding Sisters, no shortlisting of candidates, and no interview. We didn’t vote for this new resident, or prepare her room, or even have forewarning of when she would arrive. Seed alone made the arrangements, casually delivering the announcement over supper: that we would be welcoming a new cook to the community and she would be arriving to join us some time that week. Of course we couldn’t question her in an open forum like that, and so, when Seed returned to her office after we’d eaten, Regine and I swiftly followed, closing the door behind us and demanding to know what was going on. Fern was already in the room, sitting in the high-backed armchair to the left of Seed’s desk, sifting through her old photographs on a lap tray, oblivious to the argument.

  ‘Is it a problem?’ Seed asked, her tone neutral but her meaning defensive. She pulled out her chair and set to rearranging papers on the desk.

  ‘Well, yes, Seed, honey. You know we don’t do things like this.’ Regine eased herself into the facing armchair, wincing in pain. ‘It goes against the Code.’

  I wasn’t planning to sit. I planted my hands on my hips, an unspoken invitation for Seed to explain herself.

  ‘What’s the big fuss?’ she said, smiling, raising her palms. ‘We have a vacancy. We need an additional cook, don’t we? You know we can’t keep up with demand on the market stall, and, if we move young Oregon on to overseeing the preserves, Robyn can take over as head cook. She’s been working at a top London restaurant – you’ll thank me!’ She laughs at this, but the nerves are there for all of us to hear.

  ‘We don’t know anything about her,’ I replied.

  ‘About who?’ Fern asked, looking up from her photos with a baffled expression. Her dementia had revealed itself slowly at first, in the tiniest of word confusions and physical hesitations, but just lately its grip had seemed to tighten, taking a little more of her with every waking day. It was clear to us all that we were seeing less and less of the original Fern, of that power force she once had been.

  ‘Oh, nobody really, Fern,’ Regine replied, and, satisfied, Fern returned to her pictures.

  ‘OK, then I’ll tell you about her,’ Seed said, patiently as though she were talking to one of the hard-of-hearing Elders. ‘She’s American, and she’s been in London for the past year, since divorcing from her husband. She’s in her mid-twenties, she has an excellent skill to bring – what else?’

  ‘Does she have need of our shelter?’ I asked.

  ‘Who doesn’t?’ Seed replied. ‘She’s still recovering from the breakdown of her marriage, but she’s strong. But if that is not enough for you, the Code of Conduct is clear on this point. If a woman has no pressing need of shelter, they must bring skills to strengthen the group. That, surely, is not up for debate?’

  There was a fog of shocked amazement in the room, and for a while no one knew what to say next. Could this really be our Seed, the most even-handed of all leaders, the woman who had time and again sacrificed her own happiness for the stability of the community, talking in this way? Seed, riding roughshod over our forty-year-old way of life?

  Regine clapped her hands together in challenge. ‘So, no vote? No consensus? You alone have the power, Seed, is that it? That’s not the way of Two Cross Farm. That’s not how we do things.’

  ‘What would Fern say, if she were still in charge?’ I asked. I glanced at her frail form, so reduced in her chair. She didn’t even respond to the sound of her own name.

  At this, Seed stood abruptly, her jaw set hard. ‘Fern handed the reins over to me ten years ago, and I, as custodian, have taken this decision. It’s not the norm, I know. You’re right, there is more to this, and in time I will enlighten you. But for now you’re just going to have to trust me, sisters. Can you do that? Trust me and it will all work out. I give you my word.’

  There was nothing more Regine or I could say without undermining Seed’s wisdom and authority, and a few days later, in the dead of night, Robyn arrived while the household slept. The first we saw of her was at breakfast the next morning, when we noticed that the seating had been rearranged without warning. One of the newer women had been asked to switch seats to make room for Robyn beside Seed at the top of the table. As I retained my position at the opposite end, my view of them was uninterrupted, and the apparent closeness I witnessed between the two was unsettling.

  Robyn was at first shy, smiling when introduced, raising a delicate hand and shrugging in that way young women sometimes did, to indicate how small they were, how little threat they posed. Her hair was a fuzz of dark blonde waves, bound up in a rough bun so that her pale, slender neck disappeared gracefully into the collar of her new teal tunic. Seed’s eyes were ablaze, and she chatted and laughed with the wider group like never before, her energy radiating across the room like heat. From time to time, Robyn would turn and laugh at something Seed had said, her expression close to star-struck. I felt nauseous. A glance in Regine’s direction confirmed to me that I wasn’t alone in my discomfort, and I vowed there and then to watch the relationship closely for fear that Seed might do irreparable damage to her reputation as a just and impartial leader. How long had she been corresponding with this young woman before moving her in so covertly? Surely she didn’t believe herself to be in love?

  ‘Shall I make up Elizabeth’s old bed in my room?’ This from Irma, whom I could have embraced for her straight-talking innocence. Irma’s room-mate, Elizabeth, had moved on a couple of weeks back following a six-month stay, having ultimately decided to fight her partner for custody of their children. It occurred to me now that, uncharacteristically, Seed had made almost no effort to dissuade her from leaving. How long had she been planning for Robyn’s arrival? Had a sister’s departure been just what she, or they, had been waiting for?

  Seed lowered her eyes, evidently taking her time to find a suitable answer. ‘There’s no need for that,’ she said eventually. ‘I’ve decided she’ll take the room next to mine. I’d like her to be on hand if Fern or any of our Elders need help in the night.’ She looked along the table, focusin
g her attention on our dedicated carers Sue and Blossom. ‘The Elders sometimes wake in the night, don’t they? I remember Blossom mentioning that a cup of cocoa and something to eat often settles them, isn’t that right?’ She was going into so much detail with her answer; and none of it made sense.

  Sue and Blossom nodded obligingly, although their expressions betrayed restrained surprise. That was what they were here for, sharing the room adjacent to the Elders, to be available to assist them day and night. They didn’t need a cook to help them out.

  Seed smiled brightly, her shoulder brushing that of shy little Robyn, whose smile mirrored hers with none of the guile. ‘The room next to mine is just along the hall from the Elders, so that works out well. Good! Let’s give thanks,’ she said, and the conversation was closed.

  After breakfast, in furtive little huddles all over the house, gossip and speculation spread like wildfire.

  Now, I sit on the edge of Robyn’s bed, turning over an old press cutting I’ve just found crumpled at the back of her bedside drawer, feeling profoundly thankful that I’d thought to check the room a second time. Seed says it’s possible we may have to invite those two outsiders back in again, if the police press us hard enough – if the only alternative is an official visit. We need to be prepared. I fold the cutting in two and slip it inside my apron pocket. It wouldn’t do for anyone to get their hands on this old news story; you never know what wild conclusions they might jump to.

  20. CELINE

  Present day

  Celine wakes in the night, drenched in sweat after a nightmare in which she’s small again.

  In the dream, she’s in the garden of Two Cross Farm, and it’s midnight, but the lawn is lit up brightly by stars. Her heart is thumping and sweat is soaking her hair at the nape of her neck, running beneath her summer T-shirt and making it cling to her back. Alone, she searches the garden, barefoot, looking for Pip behind the greenhouses and wood store; in the shadows where a small child might hide. Though she can’t see her, she knows Pip is tiny, maybe two or three – like Beebee – and she’s lost somewhere in this garden. As her eyes fall on those two great compost mounds, she feels certain that Pip must be buried here, and she drops to her knees, pawing away at the mulch and soil, desperate to claw her way down to her sister below. Overhead, white wings soar, and, as Celine pauses to follow the trail, her attention is caught by the little white windmill on the far side of the lawn. The windmill has changed position so that it directly faces her now, and she sees Pip is at the window of the fairytale building, her tiny face a mask of fear, trapped behind glass.

  When she wakes with a strangled cry, Celine’s first thought is to pad along the landing on her bare feet, to check on her sister, but then she remembers Pip is not here, she’s stayed on another night at River Terrace with the girls, to sort out a few things. The house and all around it is eerily still, something Celine is not used to back home in her beachfront home in Bournemouth. Here, hidden away on this woodland path, there’s no traffic passing by, no midnight revellers staggering home from the nightclub, and no rush and sigh of waves crashing against the shingle. Here, there is only silence, and her thoughts, high on post-nightmare adrenaline.

  Sort out a few things. What exactly did Pip mean by that? Celine wonders now as she sits up and flips on the side light. Is Stefan being difficult about Pip spending so much time away from home? Is he that kind of man? At the castle earlier in the week, Pip told Celine she plans to stay on in Arundel a while, to make the most of the few months they have left before Olive has to start at school in the autumn – especially as Stefan works such long hours and she’s stuck on her own with the kids most of the time. But perhaps her husband is missing having them around, waiting for him when he gets home. Maybe he’s feeling shut out of Pip’s grief, never having known Delilah, and barely knowing her, Celine. Could that be it? Una’s the one person who does know Stefan, living just next door – and she’s hinted more than once at troubles between the couple, though Celine’s been too much of a coward to confront Pip directly.

  It’s what they do in this family, she realises; it’s what they’ve always done. She’s not the only one guilty of it. They all notice the problems, and then they shut them in a safe corner of the mind and hope they’ll go away without too much interference or cost to themselves. Isn’t that why Vanessa went off and did her own thing in London? Isn’t that how she ended up with a violent criminal like Jem Falmer – how she moved in with him so quickly, with no word of caution from her older sister, let alone her absent mother? Would it have made a difference, if Celine had begged her not to, urged her to wait until she was a little older, a little surer? Maybe not. But it’s the seed of doubt which so often slays Celine in the dark of the night – the thought that perhaps she could have prevented all this. That she could have saved Vanessa if she’d cared enough.

  She reaches for her water glass and drinks, before switching off the light and curling up against the fresh side of her pillow. What if Pip, too, needs Celine’s help right now? What if this dream is some kind of message across the miles, and she really is lost in some way, really does need her? Celine pulls the duvet up over her ears, as though shutting out the silence can somehow mute the endless inner monologue of her deepest fears.

  The wait for news on a follow-up visit to Two Cross Farm is interminable, and when Una says she’ll try phoning DI Dave Aston at midday Celine takes a stroll around the garden, wondering if she should attempt to call Pip again. Her refusal to answer her mobile phone is maddening, but Celine knows she’s feeling more jittery about Pip’s silence than usual, following that disturbing dream last night.

  Across the lawns, the gardener is at work on the flower borders, his back to her as he tends the roses. Harry.

  ‘Hi!’ she calls over, and he turns in her direction and raises a cautious hand. Breaking into a light jog, she approaches him, hand outstretched. ‘I’m Celine. Sorry, we’ve been here a while, and I still haven’t said a proper hello yet.’

  He shakes her hand firmly, and the rough texture of it is a surprise to Celine, at odds with his slender frame and smooth complexion. He’s younger than she’d first thought – mid-forties, perhaps. ‘I’ve met your sister,’ he replies, and it quickly becomes clear that he’s finding it difficult to maintain eye contact.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ she says, smiling to put him at ease. ‘She’s the chatty one. I’m the bossy one, apparently.’

  When Harry doesn’t reply, Celine recognises that he is deeply shy, and finds herself overcompensating as she bestows compliments about the beauty of the garden and the well-tended lawns. ‘It seems a bit much for one gardener,’ she says. ‘How do you manage to stay on top of it?’

  ‘I like the work,’ he replies. ‘It’s nice spending time in a garden like this. I love gardening. I’m lucky.’

  ‘I think a lot of people would like a job like this – doing something you love and getting paid for it.’ When he barely nods, she remembers the note she’d left out for Pip a couple of days ago, asking her to settle the gardener’s bill. ‘Oh, God, did Pip remember to pay you? We’re all upside down at the moment, you know, with Mum and—’

  Now Harry smiles for the first time, and he’s rendered instantly attractive, as deep smile lines appear at the edges of his tanned face. ‘Your sister covered it,’ he interrupts. ‘She paid me before she left yesterday.’

  ‘Oh, phew,’ Celine replies, glad to have finally broken the awkward atmosphere. ‘So, how long have you been working on Mum’s garden, Harry?’

  ‘Oh, a few years,’ he replies.

  ‘Can I ask you, do you know much about the women’s commune down the road?’

  He bends to pick up some cuttings, dropping them into his barrow. ‘Not much,’ he replies. ‘Men aren’t allowed in, so I’ve never seen the gardens, apart from years ago, over the back wall, before they planted in all those bloody leylandii.’

  Celine smiles. ‘You don’t approve?’

  ‘What, of leylandii?�
� He shrugs. ‘Big ugly weeds, if you ask me. They suck the light out of a garden.’

  ‘And what about the community itself? Do people talk much about it around here?’

  Wheeling on to the next section of border, Harry continues with his work, removing the withered flower heads from a small scented rose bush. ‘They used to, back when I was a kid – when it was still quite new, I suppose. Some called it a cult. But I don’t know, the women seem harmless enough to me. Some of them run a market stall in the town. They seem all right.’

  ‘I guess you heard about the dead woman last week – the one found down by the river here?’

  Harry gives an almost imperceptible jerk of his head. ‘Nasty business.’

  ‘Apparently she was a resident there, at Two Cross Farm.’

  ‘That right?’ The gardener doesn’t even look up to give his answer, so engrossed in his work is he. With small, delicate movements he snips, removes and discards the heads, turning away from her more with each action.

  Celine senses that their conversation has come to end. Feeling self-conscious about standing there watching him work, she checks the time and makes her excuses. ‘Right, nice to meet you, Harry. I’d better go and phone my sister while I think of it.’

  As she turns and retreats towards the house, she’s surprised to hear him call after her.

  ‘Say hello from me.’

  ‘Huh?’ Celine asks, halting to look back towards him.

  He’s standing beside the wheelbarrow, a bunch of rose heads in one hand, a pair of secateurs in the other, and to Celine it appears his lean figure is set towards her in a wide-planted pose of masculine threat. He speaks clearly. ‘Your sister. Pip. Will you send her my best?’