‘She said that?’ Cassen looked doubtful. ‘No, she never painted—not as far as I know. That was just her mind wandering, I’m afraid. Her tenant was a painter. Not Emma Larkin, though.’ He sighed. ‘Did anyone else see her—see it happen?’
‘There was only me.’
‘So if you hadn’t been there we wouldn’t know what had happened to her. She’d be just lying out there—until somebody found her. Mind you, I’m sorry it had to be you who saw it. It’s not a nice welcome for you. Anyway, thank you for telling me.’ He got up from his chair. ‘Now, I suppose I’d better do something about it.’
‘I almost didn’t tell you,’ Hal said abruptly. ‘I didn’t want to tell anyone.’
Cassen stopped and looked at him. ‘—Why not?’
Hal shrugged. After a moment he said: ‘I didn’t want to be—brought into it. But now I shall be, shan’t I?’
‘Well—you were there. You saw it happen . . .’
‘Yes. And so now I shall have to go to the inquest. There’s bound to be an inquest, isn’t there?’
‘Of course. It’ll be held in the village school.’ Cassen paused. ‘Hal—I don’t understand what this is about—what your problem is—’
Hal got to his feet and took a few paces across the room. ‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘neither Rowan nor my housekeeper knows about it. I didn’t tell them. Rowan—well, I didn’t want her to know. I still don’t—if I can help it.’
‘About Emma Larkin?’
‘Yes. Oh, I realize that in time she’s bound to learn that it happened, but—oh, I can’t stand the thought of her knowing that I was there—that I saw it happen—that it happened just a few yards from where she was sitting.’
‘Why is that?’
Hal took a long drag on his cigarette and stubbed it out. ‘She—hasn’t been well . . .’
Cassen looked thoughtful. ‘Sit down again,’ he said, ‘and tell me the rest.’
When they were facing one another from their seats again Hal cleared his throat and began, haltingly:
‘We—we had a son. Adam. He was just over two years old. And then—last summer—he died.’ He lowered his gaze from Cassen’s face, paused, steadying his breathing. ‘Near where we lived there’s no really safe place for small children to play. Oh, we had a tiny piece of communal garden but vandals had wrecked the fence the week before and Rowan—well, both of us—we were afraid to let Adam play outside until it was repaired—in case he wandered into the road. For a little time past we’d been driving out into the country looking for somewhere else to live. Rowan was so against bringing him up in London. She never did care for it there—and always said it wasn’t the place for a child. We hadn’t found anything, though—nothing that both of us were happy with. My fault, I suppose. Apart from being just too damned hard to please I’d also lost interest in the whole idea. It just got to be too much trouble. You see, I was fairly content where we were and—’ He broke off, shook his head and sat in silence.
‘What happened?’ Cassen said.
‘That—that particular day was stiflingly warm. There was a glazier in. We were having new windows fitted in the balcony doors. He’d been out there a couple of hours with his step-ladder and things. Adam was playing in the sitting room. Rowan was busy nearby—and keeping an eye on him. Everything was fine. And then, all of a sudden, it all went wrong. Rowan had a minor crisis at the stove . . . And it—it happened then.’ His sentences were coming out even more jerkily, sometimes the words tumbling over each other and at other times disjointed. ‘It—it happened all at once,’ he said. ‘In those couple of minutes while Rowan was occupied in the kitchen the workman went outside to his van to get some tool or other. And Adam—finding the doors to the balcony open, went out there . . . He—he got up, somehow—onto the step-ladder. Rowan—she didn’t hear anything at all. There was no sound, she said. She just turned around and he wasn’t there anymore. Then, in the same moment that she realized he’d gone she heard the cries of a neighbour down below.’ There was silence for a few seconds, then he added dully, ‘He died the same day.’
The silence fell again, broken by Cassen who at last murmured: ‘I don’t know what to say. In my job I see death more often than most people do, I suppose. But I still never know what to say. I doubt that I ever shall.’ He paused. ‘And this was last August . . . ?’
‘Yes.’
‘And since then Rowan hasn’t been well . . . ?’
‘No.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Twenty-seven.’ Hal sat staring down, as if concentrating on his square-cut hands, now placed fingers spread on his thighs. The memory was much too fresh. He could still hear Ro’s screams ringing out as he’d sat working in his study. ‘You never saw such a change in anybody,’ he said. ‘Before that happened she was fine—apart from wanting to move, I mean. I was making good money. And she was working at her own writing in her spare time. It was good. We had nearly everything we wanted. And then—then that happened. When Adam died she just—fell apart . . .’ He came to a stop.
‘Go on,’ Cassen gently prompted.
‘She withdrew into herself.’
‘In what way?’
‘It was a gradual thing. At first she just didn’t want to see people—to have anyone come round—or go out to see them. So—we’d just stay on our own. The only person we saw with any frequency was Mrs Prescot—she’s our housekeeper now. In the end Rowan was going out less and less even on ordinary, everyday errands, shopping and so forth. Mrs Prescot was doing it all. Rowan—I don’t know—she seemed afraid of going out—afraid of the people—and the city itself. I used to have the devil’s own job to get her beyond the front door.’
‘Did she have any medical help?’
‘Oh, yes—of a sort. But what could anyone do—except prescribe pills? Nothing could get to the cause of it. That was beyond changing.’ He shook his head. ‘Oh, they were well-meaning and concerned enough—the doctors—but they couldn’t really help her.’
‘And how is she now?’
‘She’s been so much better lately.’
‘She seemed to me to be all right—when I met you both that first time in the café . . .’
‘Yes, well . . . a stranger wouldn’t necessarily be aware. Besides, by that time we’d started again to look for another place to live. I think that made a difference to her—to have the belief that we would be getting away. One thing was certain—we couldn’t stay in the flat after that—not for any length of time.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘If only I’d made a real effort before.’
Cassen said evenly: ‘You mustn’t blame yourself.’ After looking at Hal keenly for a moment he added: ‘And what about you?—your own state during this time?’
‘What?’
‘How did you manage through it all?’
‘Well, I had my writing, and I just—just dived into it, I suppose. Anything not to think about him—Adam. When I look back I seem to have spent my time working all the hours God made. And of course Ro came off the loser there too.’ He frowned. ‘I should have been with her more. Though I don’t think it was selfishness on my part. I don’t think so. It was just my own—inability to cope—with any of it.’
‘I understand . . .’
‘And of course it affected our whole marriage.’
‘I should be surprised if it didn’t. And how is it now with you? With both of you?’
Hal hesitated for a second, then said non-committally: ‘It’s better.’ Then he added: ‘And it will be better still. Much better—now that we’re away from London—without all the constant reminders. And if we can make a good start . . . Here—well, we both think we’ve found the right place to do that.’
‘I’m sure you have,’ Cassen smiled. ‘And I’ll tell you something—you won’t want for support.’ The smile grew warmer. ‘Hal, you’re both going to be very happy in Moorstone, I’m certain.’
‘That’s what I’m hoping. And this is a good place in which to
raise a family . . .’
Silence fell between them, heightened by the ticking of the antique French clock above the fireplace. Hal said, his expression grave once more:
‘But now this has happened. Just on the very day of our arrival. That poor woman . . .’
‘And Rowan has no idea at all about it?’
‘No.’
‘Does she know where you are now?’
‘I told her I was coming out to see about the phone—to get it connected. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her what had happened. She was shaken enough when we almost ran the old lady down. She couldn’t have coped with being told the rest of the story, I know. Not after what she’s been through. It would ruin everything, I know it would. All the progress she’s made. She’s a different person now. I can’t have her go back to how she was. And I’m afraid now—that it will happen.’ He shook his head despondently. ‘As I said, for a time there I thought I wouldn’t tell anyone. After all, no one knew that I’d seen it; I could just forget it all; pretend I wasn’t there.’ He sighed. ‘But in the end I couldn’t. I couldn’t just put it aside—as if it had never happened. I couldn’t just leave that old woman out there. So—’ he shrugged, ‘—I came to see you. Now, at least, I won’t have that on my conscience.’
Cassen said nothing, just looked at Hal across the India-carpeted space between. After some moments of silence Hal said resignedly:
‘But now that I’ve reported it—acknowledged it—it will all come out—my part in it all. Rowan will know everything.’
Cassen got up from his chair and went towards him. He stood looking down at him for a second, then said:
‘Just leave it with me, Hal. And don’t worry. Rowan’s not going to be upset by this.’
‘But when the—’
‘I mean it. Believe me. I’ll take it from here and report it to the right people. You just go on back to your house and get on with whatever work you have to do. And just remember—you know nothing about all this. Nothing at all. So just—get it out of your mind. Don’t even think about it.’
Hal stood up. ‘But the inquest and—’
‘Don’t think about it,’ Cassen interrupted. He spread his hands. ‘Emma Larkin is dead—and it’s a terrible, terrible thing. But she is dead. Now, as a doctor and a humanist my immediate concern can no longer be with her. We must live for the living. As sad as it is there’s nothing at all that anyone can do now to help Emma Larkin. But we can do something to help your wife. And I think it’s important that we try. We don’t want her having a nervous breakdown or running away as soon as she’s got here.’ He reached out and clasped Hal’s shoulder. ‘Go on home. She’ll be waiting for you to give her a hand.’
Hal remained still for a moment then turned and followed Cassen into the hall. At the front door Cassen said, ‘And cheer up. Believe me when I say that everything’s going to be all right. Take my word for it; nothing’s going to spoil Rowan’s arrival here.’
There was something in the man’s manner and tone of voice that Hal found calming and reassuring. He was at a loss as to what to say. In the end he just murmured his inadequate thanks and stepped through the doorway. Turning, he added: ‘Oh—your note and the box of groceries you and Sandra left at the house. I haven’t even thanked you for that. You must think I’m an ungrateful so-and-so.’
Cassen smiled. ‘How could you thank me? You haven’t seen me this afternoon.’
Hal smiled then for the first time since arriving there. ‘True,’ he said.
He turned again and walked towards his car. When he reached it he saw that Cassen was still standing in the porch. For a moment they looked gravely at one another, then Cassen gave an encouraging smile and called out: ‘Oh, by the way, it’s nice to be able to say it in person, so let me say it now: Welcome to Moorstone. Welcome home.’
4
Will Halligan, a carpenter from the village, had spent all yesterday, Wednesday, putting up shelves in Hal’s study. Now, with the room swept and clean again Hal was at work unpacking and setting in order his papers, files and hundreds of books. At present the room, like most of the rest of the house, was in disorder—but then, it was only the third day; it would be all right soon—give it a little more time.
Swinging his chair back to face the large, thickly cluttered desk, he looked across it through the window onto the sunlit rooftops of the village.
‘How’s it going?’
Rowan’s voice sounded behind him and he turned and saw her standing just inside the doorway, in her hands a tray on which stood cups and saucers.
‘Fine.’ He smiled at her.
‘I’ve brought you some coffee,’ she said as she came towards him. When he’d pushed aside several books to make room she put the tray down and perched beside it on the edge of the desk. While he picked up his cup she looked out at the view. ‘Sometimes,’ she said, ‘I get so involved with all the unpacking and the sorting out that I forget where I am. Then I look around me and realize.’
‘I know what you mean.’ He looked up at her over the rim of his cup. Her dark hair was tied back from her face with a pale blue ribbon at the nape of her neck. Over her blouse and blue jeans she wore an apron bearing a reproduction of an old mustard advertisement. She smiled. He was well aware of the amount of work that awaited her throughout the house, but in spite of it she was looking happier and more relaxed than he’d seen her in a long while.
‘As soon as I’ve got all this in some sort of shape I can come and give you a hand,’ he said. ‘You’re coping okay for now, though, are you?’
‘Yes, with a lot of help from Mrs Prescot.’
‘Thank God for Mrs Prescot.’
‘Amen.’
There was a little silence then she said, with the slightest note of self-consciousness: ‘I think maybe tomorrow I’ll take a walk around the village. It’s time I got a better idea of what the local shops have to offer.’
‘I’ll come with you if you like.’
‘No, you stay here and work.’
‘Tote that barge, lift that bale. Thanks a lot.’
She took up her own cup, drank from it and then said quietly, ‘It’s different here in this place, Hal. It’s not like—there.’ Then she shrugged. ‘But maybe it’s not that. Maybe the difference is in me.’
‘I would think that might be true.’
‘Yes, but then again, maybe it’s the village that brings it out—that difference, that change . . .’
He laid his hand on the soft roundness of her thigh. ‘Don’t underestimate yourself, Ro.’
‘No, I won’t. But the whole thing is so—oh, I don’t know. It just—feels so good here. So right.’ She paused. ‘And how do you feel about it?—now that you’re here?’
‘Exhausted.’
‘No, be serious.’
‘It’s a beautiful place.’
‘But how do you feel about it?’
‘I feel good.’
A moment of silence, then she said: ‘But you wouldn’t have come here had it not been for me, would you?’
He looked at her. He didn’t know what to answer.
What she said was true. ‘Well,’ he murmured, ‘that’s a difficult question . . .’
‘Is it?’ She was smiling at him, her eyes soft and slightly anxious. ‘But you won’t regret it, Hal. You wait till you get used to it. When we get settled in. You’ll really be glad.’
‘I’m glad now.’
‘Good.’ She put down her cup and turned to look from the window again. ‘I’d almost forgotten what it could be like. The peace and the—gentleness. Just waking up in the morning—even that; waking up to the sound of birds singing instead of cars changing gear. It’s all so different.’
‘I’ll say. No litter all over the place. No piggish London taxi drivers. And you can walk without stepping in dog crap every few yards. I’m all for that.’
‘And the lovely old houses. And all the space. And the people too. They seem genuinely to care for each other. God,
when I think back—I mean, just take the milkman for example; that surly, long-suffering old devil in London did it all as if it cost him blood every time. Here, this one’s so warm and friendly.’
‘How warm and friendly?’ Hal raised an eyebrow.
‘No, really. And he’s typical. He was so nice, so pleasant, and . . . welcoming. This morning he was telling me all about the village, and the different people. And you could tell—you could sense the regard they have for each other. He told me they’re having a memorial service at the church on Saturday, for one of the villagers. Everybody’ll be there, he said. Yet she wasn’t famous at all or anything like that. She was just—one of them. Loved, he said. She was loved. Can you think of any nicer tribute?’
At random Hal picked up a book and began to leaf through it. Attempting to sound casual he asked, ‘Who was she?’
‘I think he called her Emma Larkin or Parkin—something like that. She just died peacefully in her sleep, he said.’
After a moment he was aware of her picking up the empty cups and putting them back on the tray. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’d better get back to work.’
Left alone again he sat at his desk unmindful of the chaos around him. She just died peacefully in her sleep. . . . So the death of Miss Larkin had been put down to natural causes. And nothing could be further from the truth. Still, such a downright lie couldn’t cause her any more suffering than she had already known—and that, he reflected, must have been literally unbearable.
The Moorstone Sickness Page 3