Flight of a Witch gfaf-3

by Ellis Peters

  He asked her the old questions, and she was silent with the old silence, patient and absolute. He sat down beside her and told her, in clipped, quiet tones, everything he knew about Jacob Worrell’s narrow, harmless, shabby life, about his poor little backroom hobby of collecting local Midland porcelain, about the two blows that had splintered his fragile skull and spilled his meagre, old-man’s blood over the boards of his workroom. He chose words that made her tremble, and pushed them home like knives, but she never gave him word or sound in return. The room was full of pain, but the only words were his words. He wanted to stop, but she had to speak, she had to be made to speak.

  It occurred to him at length, and why he did not know, to send Policewoman Crowther out of the room, to wait below until he should call her back. As soon as the door had closed behind her Annet leaned and took his hand and smoothed it between hers, entreating him with clinging, frantic fingers and desperate eyes.

  ‘Let me go!’ Her voice was only a breath between her lips, a small, broken sound. She held his hand to her cheek, and the drift of her dark hair flowed over it. ‘Take her away from me, take them all away, and let me go! Oh, please, please, take them all away and leave me alone!’

  ‘No, Annet, I can’t do that. You know I can’t.’

  How well Miles knew her, and how deeply he understood the real threat to her now. Whether she understood what she was trying to do was another matter. All George was sure of was that he had only to remove all restrictions from her, and sit back and watch, and she would lead him to her lover; and that he could not let her do it, that he would not risk her even to catch a murderer. He could not make her speak, and she could not make him grant her the freedom of action she wanted, to throw her own life away after the old man’s life.

  ‘You must! Please! I’ve done nothing. Let me go! You must let me go!’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then there’s nothing I can do, nothing, nothing – Oh, please help me! Help me! Take everyone away and let me go free!’

  The dark hair slipped away on both sides to uncover the tender nape of her neck, and its childishness and fragility was more than he could bear. He took his hand from her almost roughly, and walked out of the room, and her long, shuddering sigh of despair followed him down the stairs.

  ‘No,’ he said wearily, meeting her mother’s questioning eyes in the doorway of the living-room. ‘Hasn’t she said anything to you that could offer us a lead?’

  ‘She says nothing to me. She might be struck dumb. She’s like this with everyone.’

  ‘And no one’s asked to see her? Or to speak to her on the telephone?’

  ‘Not to speak to her, no. The vicar rang up to ask after her. And Regina, of course.’ Even in this extremity she could not suppress the little, proud lift of her voice, at being on Christian name terms with Mrs Blacklock of Cwm Hall. ‘Last night, that was, after the papers came. She and Peter were both very distressed about her. They asked if there was anything they could do, and if they could come and see her. I told them you didn’t wish anyone to see her yet. Though she isn’t charged with anything,’ said Mrs Beck, staring him hard in the eye, ‘and we have a right if we choose—’

  ‘Of course you have. But you also have the good sense to understand the sound reasons why you should listen to me and do what I say. When you stop agreeing with me, let them all in,’ said George patiently.

  ‘We know you have a job to do, of course. And I suppose it gives an impression of activity to mount guard on my girl, when there’s nothing else you can think of doing. Naturally you want to keep up your reputation—’

  ‘What I chiefly want,’ said George, walking past her to the door, ‘is to keep Annet alive.’

  He went out into the bright air of morning, and the sun was high above the Hallowmount, climbing in a sky washed clean of clouds. Thank God for a fine Saturday for Jane Darrill’s field-day with the Geographical Association. No one would wonder too much at seeing forty small boys let loose over the hills on a sunny October afternoon, no one, not even themselves, would suppose they were there to fend off a thief and murderer from recovering his gains (if, of course, he had not already recovered them), and no one would think that even their supervisors and elders were looking for anything more sensational than samples of the local flora, and of the conglomerates, grits and slates of the ridge, or the occasional fragment of galena, or bright bits of quartzite from the outcrop rocks.

  Thanks to them, George thought as he slammed the door of the car and drove along the lane to Wastfield, he had this one day’s grace; and it hung heavy upon his mind that that was all he had, and that he must make it bear fruit. Time trod so close and crushingly on his heels that he had difficulty now in remembering that the murder of Jacob Worrall was, in the first place, Birmingham’s case and not his.

  He had extracted a list of Annet’s closest school-friends from her mother; he checked it with Myra Gibbons, who had been closest even among these, and she supplied, with some encouragement, details of their subsequent whereabouts and fortunes. It might be time wasted, but it might not. No one had yet provided any clue as to where Annet and her partner had spent their nights in Birmingham, though by this time the hotels were all eliminated, and even the bed-and-breakfast places dwindling. One of Annet’s GCE class, it seemed, was now reading English literature at Birmingham University, and another was studying at the School of Art. Probably both in respectable supervised lodgings, but sometimes they found flatlets which afforded them privacy enough to abuse the privilege. And even if they had not given her a bed, they might have been in touch with Annet while she was there. No need for them to have seen the boy, he could easily be kept in the background. But even there, there was at least a chance.

  He telephoned Duckett from the box at the edge of the village, and reported his meagre gains: three addresses where there might be something to be gleaned, the two girl students, and an old, retired teacher who had once been on unusually good terms with the fourteen-year-old Annet at the Girls’ High School in Comerbourne.

  ‘They’d have come forward,’ said Duckett positively, ‘if they’d known anything about her moves. The teacher, anyhow.’

  ‘You would think so. But we can’t afford to miss anything. Have you talked to them again at that end? I take it they’ve got nothing?’

  ‘Nothing? Boy, they’ve got everything, except what they want. The usual lunatic fringe ringing up from everywhere else but the right places, reporting having seen everybody but the right girl. They creep out from under every stone,’ said Duckett bitterly, ‘and run to the nearest telephone. But no sense so far. And yet they must have slept somewhere. And even with dark glasses and a different hair-do and whatever, you couldn’t hide that girl every minute of the day. Somewhere in the ladies’ room of a café she’d be sure to re-do her hair, somewhere she’d take off her hat, if she was wearing one.’

  ‘I don’t believe she ever tried to disguise herself,’ said George. ‘She was committing only a private sin, and she wasn’t ashamed or afraid, once she was away from Comerford, once she’d got what she wanted. I don’t believe she ever even tried very hard to hide from anyone. If she had, she might have been noticed more. And yet, as you say, they slept somewhere, they ate somewhere. Public transport they didn’t need, if they had the motor-bike. And if they walked the streets together, they did it in the dark. The two witnesses who came forward and identified her as the girl on the corner wouldn’t have been much use to us, either, if she hadn’t stood under a street-light.’

  ‘As you say. For one who wasn’t trying, she made a pretty good job of being invisible.’

  ‘Agreed, but largely accidentally. You see she didn’t mind being seen that night. She did stand under a light, she didn’t try to withdraw even when the Brummie lad came along, she only froze him out when he got too oncoming. She didn’t know of any more pressing reason for hiding herself or her lover than the mere preservation of their week-end together. But somehow the circumstances of their stay in
the town were such that they did remain unnoticed. That’s how I read it.’

  ‘You could be right,’ said Duckett. ‘Try it out.’

  ‘Nothing new? Has Scott reported anything further on Geoff Westcott?’

  A spurt of laughter exploded in George’s ear. Duckett laughing meant trouble for someone, but decidedly not hanging trouble.

  ‘Has he! And very interesting it all is, too, but I doubt if it’ll do much for you, George. No, the thing is, Geoff told Scott yesterday he’d been down in South Wales with that side-kick of his, Smoky Brown, staying with Smoky’s cousins in Gower. Said the whole clan would bear him out. Scott didn’t doubt that, knowing our Browns, so he didn’t ask ’em, he went straight to Martha Blount, before Geoff could get away from Lowthers’ last night. Told her Geoff had told him he’d travelled south for the week-end with the Browns, to stay with their cousins, and asked her if she could confirm it. Innocent style, she’d be sure to know, and all that. And Smoky Brown’s sister being the only other Brown in the reckoning, and a very hot little number into the bargain, Martha jumped to the inevitable conclusion, and all but went through the roof. The rat, she says, so that’s what he meant by doing a long-distance driving job as a favour to a friend! And me believing every word, like a damned fool! All Scott had to do was put in the right questions whenever she stopped for breath: What friend? Where to? What was he carrying? She came out with everything he’d told her, and what he’d told her was the truth as far as it went, and it went one hell of a long way. He didn’t tell her where they’d lifted all the lead from, but would you believe it, he told her in confidence where he was delivering it. Two trips, two lorry-loads, to a back-street yard in Bolton. Love’s a terrible thing.’

  ‘Doesn’t mix with business, anyhow,’ agreed George wryly. ‘Think they’ll be in time to pick up the goods?’

  ‘With luck, yes. How are the receivers to know he’d be such a fool as to tell his girl the real reason why he couldn’t take her out Saturday? Didn’t tell her his cargo was pinched, of course, but he only pulled himself up just short of that.’

  So that was another one off the list of possibilities, thought George as he hung up the receiver. Poor Martha! But at least if she made up her mind she was well rid of Geoff, no one was going to die of it. And if she cut her losses and made the best of him, with her force of character she might keep him out of gaol in future. Once having told her the truth, it wouldn’t be any use telling her lies thereafter, she would always be on the look-out and ready to shorten the rein. And if young Geoff really wanted her, as seemed, oddly enough, a strong possibility, he must have thrown such a scare into himself this time that he’d do almost anything in future rather than take the risk of losing her again. She might, even, find it easy to forgive him and wait for him, in the relief of finding that he was not unfaithful, but merely a minor criminal.

  Their small story, at least, need not occupy him. A few more such intrusive comedies, and his list of possibles would be dwindling out of sight.

  He drove through Comerford and over the bridge, and round the eastern flank of the long, triple-folded range to Cwm Hall. The long drive unrolled before him, the vista of the park and the hollow square of the stable-yard over to the left, aside from the house and by two centuries younger. To the rear of the beautiful, E-shaped house lay the farm buildings, barns and dovecote so tall that they showed above the mellow red roofs.

  Regina was at her desk in one of the large windows, ploughing her way remorselessly through her morning’s correspondence without Annet’s aid. She saw the car sweep round the wide curve of the drive to halt on the apron of gravel, and waved a hand and rose at once to come out to George on the doorstep.

  ‘Mr Felse, I’m so glad to see you. I’ve been longing to telephone Mrs Beck again, but it seems cruel to pester the poor woman.’ The alert, commanding blue eyes looked a little startled behind the distorting lenses of her reading glasses. The briskness and decision of her movements and words, undaunted by death, suspicion or suffering, sprang to meet him almost roughly; no wonder those on whom she conferred her quite genuine visitations of sympathy often reacted with bristling hackles and tongue-tied offence. And yet she was a kind, sincere woman, and the one thing she would not do for those in distress or need was leave them gently, self-sacrificingly alone.

  ‘Do tell me about Annet. This is such a terrible business, I don’t understand how she could have become involved. We were always so careful of her. And she isn’t a deceitful child by nature, I’m sure she isn’t, there were never any signs. How could we have failed to see that there was someone on her mind? How is the poor girl now?’

  ‘Physically,’ said George, bracing himself and digging in his heels against the force of her energy, ‘she’s well enough.’

  ‘You don’t want us to see her yet? I don’t want to make things more difficult for you in any way, but do let us know as soon as we can go to her. We’re very concerned. If there’s anything we can do in the meantime, please do ask, we should be very glad if we could help her.’

  So would a great many people, thought George, remembering Tom Kenyon and Miles Mallindine eyeing each other across his rug in an anguish bitterly antagonistic and helplessly shared. Some with better rights even than yours.

  ‘Do you want to talk to Peter? He’s down in the stable-yard with Stockwood, I think, working on one of the cars.’

  ‘It’s with Stockwood I wanted to have a word, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Oh!’ she said, drawing back a step to measure him with blue eyes wide and wary. ‘I thought he’d already satisfied you about his moves. One of your men was here yesterday afternoon to talk to him.’

  ‘I know. Just a detail I’d like to check with him myself. If you’ve no objection?’

  ‘I have no objection, of course. But I think I should tell you that I feel every confidence in this young man. I haven’t had him long, that’s true, but I can usually make up my mind fairly soon about people. I see,’ she said with authority, ‘why you must consider him as a possibility. But I’m sure you’ll be wasting your time.’

  ‘He’s simply one man who at least has been in occasional contact with Annet. You must take my word for it that that’s enough to make this necessary.’

  ‘And personable,’ said Regina, suddenly running her fingers deep into the orderly waves of her short red hair, and clenching them there for a moment. ‘And young!’

  The faint, astonished tang of bitterness the word had for her made her mouth twist. Had she looked too often and too closely at the chauffeur herself? It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened to a busy, self-confident, indulgent woman suddenly shocked into awareness that youth had left her. If so, she had surely never done more than look; she was too certain of herself to sacrifice a part of her personality to an employee, whatever the momentary temptations.

  ‘How much more do you know about him? He came to you with references, of course?’

  ‘One,’ she said, ‘from his last employer, a business man down in Richmond. But of course you can see the letter if you want to. Before that he says he was in Canada for a year, driving or doing any job he could get. So far we’ve found him completely satisfactory.’ It was a royal ‘we,’ and George recognised it as such; Peter had no use for a chauffeur, and no interest in this one provided Regina was happy.

  ‘Oh, I don’t doubt that. And he lives in Braidie’s old quarters?’

  ‘In the south lodge.’ It was behind the house, and hidden from it by the older plantations Peter had brought to such excellent growth and condition.

  ‘Alone? Or is he a married man?’

  ‘He has been married. His wife got a divorce from him – at least, it won’t be absolute for a month or so yet. Over an incident with another woman. You see, he was very frank with me about his circumstances when he applied for the job.’

  ‘So he does live alone?’ In that minor lodge on a very quiet road, out of sight of the house, where coming and going would be easy. ‘A
nd does for himself?’

  ‘Yes, very economically and neatly, so I’m told.’ She smiled for an instant, but wryly. ‘Our head gardener has a rather forward daughter who has made it her business to offer her services, but she hasn’t got anywhere so far. He doesn’t seem to have any use for women, by all the signs.’

  No, maybe not. But then he wouldn’t, for other women, if he had Annet in his sights.

  ‘I’ll go round and join them, if I may.’

  ‘Do, of course. You know your way.’

  George walked round the wing of the house and down the slope of grass. The eighteenth century stable block sat four-square about a large courtyard, two-storeyed, many-windowed, like a mansion in itself. There were still three riding-horses on the place, but the cars had nearly elbowed them out of their own yard. Peter Blacklock, in slacks and an old polo-necked sweater, was bending into the bonnet of the E-type Jaguar that was credibly reputed to be Regina’s last birthday present to him. Stockwood, in overalls, was washing down the Bentley. He turned his head at the hollow sound of footsteps under the stable archway, and showed that proud, dark face of his, withdrawn and defensive as a Romany. For a moment he was motionless. Water streamed from his rubber brush down the flanks of the car, and flowed away into the drain.

  Peter Blacklock took his head out of the car’s innards, and shook back the lank fair hair from his forehead with a nervous toss of his head.

  ‘Oh, hallo, Felse!’ Something of consternation, something of resignation, showed in his long, hypersensitive features for an instant, and then was gone as suddenly, leaving only his usual faintly weary but beautifully modulated politeness. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come. Were you looking for me?’