“You must have noticed the two old things across the road. And there was someone lurking around on the pavement outside when I first drove by looking for somewhere to park. A teenager by the look of it, and up to no good, I thought. Maybe you should have moved further … Thanks. I’m glad to see you still like it dry.” She took the glass of sherry Patience had poured.
“It’s all I’ve got, I’m afraid. Not really your line, Mary.” She was surprised to hear the Christian name come out so easily.
“Oh, I’m a reformed character. Have been for years. My husband before last was teetotal, God help me.”
“And the present one?”
“Past. I’ve just left him.”
“Oh?” They had settled on either side of the dining table and Patience looked at her questioningly.
“‘Oh’ it is. He turned out to be an alcoholic with a tendency to violence. Looking back I sometimes wish I’d hung on to poor Tony Wetherall.”
“What happened to him?”
“He’s all right. He married a very suitable girl and they have at least five children. I’m godma to one of them, I rather think.” She sipped her sherry. “You never gave us a chance to thank you for that money, Patience, which was more than we deserved, I reckon. And sometimes I wonder if I mightn’t have been better without it. Looking back, I suspect I liked my job – when I had it – better than any of my husbands.”
“Any children?”
“No, alas. Tony didn’t want them, and with the others they just didn’t happen. Too bad; I’d have liked them.”
“Oh, so would I.” But that was something about which she absolutely would not talk. “It’s really good to see you, Mary.” It was.
“Isn’t it? I thought I’d be able to talk to you, and you’ve not really changed a bit, Patience, not now you’ve got that frozen look off your face. Do you know, when you opened the door, you looked, just for a minute, that way you did when you came into the study, back at the Hall, and found us all there, conniving against you. And I don’t blame you for a moment. But, honest and true, Patience, Mark and I were going to break ranks if the inquest had gone the other way. You must – please – believe that.”
“I’d like to.” The old wound was bleeding again.
“So, come out to lunch and let’s talk. I rather need a family ear.”
“No, let’s stay here. You’ll be my first guest. Frozen pizza and salad, but I brought away all Geoffrey’s wine hoard, and the cheese is good.”
“Lovely. But don’t let me drink too much. And ply me with coffee afterwards. I’m on my way to the ferry.”
“Newhaven?”
“Yes, if they don’t cancel it. I’m going to meet Mark; he’s got some leave.”
“Leave? What from? He’s not retired?” As she spoke she plunged into the deep freeze and extricated the pizza from under several bags of frozen vegetables.
“Lord, no. Something very hush-hush all over the world. They wouldn’t let him go. Said they couldn’t spare him. You don’t know anything about any of us, do you, Patience?”
“No. I didn’t want to.” It sounded as bleak as she had felt.
“I shall tell you, just the same. We’re your family, after all. When you come right down to it, all you’ve got. Except those friends of yours – what was their name, Cunningham?”
“That’s it. They live in the south of France now. I went to see them last summer.”
“And it didn’t work?” Mary had always been quick. She raised her glass: “Here’s to the gloomy catalogue. Mother and Uncle Joseph are both dead; Emily is in a home and so is Seward – senile he is – and Grisel has taken on a new lease of life. I rather think she had him sectioned, or whatever they call it these days. She certainly made it crystal clear she didn’t mean to look after him any more and got away with it.”
“What about Ludwig and Leonora?” It was strange to find herself interested again, after all these years, in the family that had nearly got her hanged.
“Do you know, they vanished. Into the U S of A, I rather think, from something Grisel said once, but not a whisper, not a Christmas card, certainly not a wedding announcement.”
“And not much loss,” said Patience.
“You mean you liked them even less than you did the rest of us? Well, I suppose that’s good news of a kind. You’ve not asked about Priss.”
“I’d forgotten all about her.”
“One does tend to, but she was the great surprise. She married Paul Protheroe.”
“What?”
“I said it would surprise you. It turned out they’d been carrying on all the time. Very much unbeknownst to old Gran. No wonder Priss had so little use for those spineless young men her mother dragged down for her.”
“Priss and Paul Protheroe!” Ideas were jangling against each other in Patience’s mind. One thing she and Geoffrey had agreed on was their conviction that her cousin Paul had contrived to embezzle her money during her long minority, but there had been no way of proving it. “That is a surprise.”
“And you’d be surprised, too, if you saw Priss. She made herself over when she got away from the Hall; and to some purpose.”
“Dark hair,” said Patience out of deep instinct.
“You’re quite right; suits her much better than that mouse colour. Though mind you, she’s kept it that way a bit too long.”
“Children?”
The telephone rang.
“Hell,” said Patience. She picked it up and got no answer. “I’m being harassed,” she told Mary. “It’s a dead bore; I’ll tell you about it.” She was really glad now that Mary had come. “But if you are going to catch the ferry we ought to be thinking about lunch. I’ll fetch us up some wine. Red or white?”
“Oh, red, don’t you think, now it’s so good for our hearts. Don’t tell me you have a cellar?”
“Yes; a huge one. It’s got the boiler in, but there’s a cool corner at the other end for the wine. It’s got a TudorBethan bread oven in. Come and see.”
“You love this house, don’t you?”
“Yes. Love at first sight.”
“I don’t blame you. It’s friendly somehow. Not like the Hall.”
“You felt that too?”
“Oh, yes.” She followed Patience into the front hall where a bolted door opened on to steep steps, a musty smell and the sound of the boiler muttering contentedly to itself.
“Careful on the steps.” Patience switched on an overhead light, started down and gave something between a gasp and a scream. “What on earth—”
Craning over her shoulder, Mary too saw the crimson pool gleaming in the light from the naked bulb. “Dear God! What’s happened?”
“I don’t know.” They both looked nervously into the dark corners of the cellar where the light did not reach. “I’ll get a flashlight.” Her voice shook. She reached to take Mary’s hand. “I’m so glad you’re here, Mary.”
“Yes.” They moved back, silent, in single file up the narrow stair.
“It must be recent, to look like that.” Neither of them had said the word ‘blood’. Patience picked her heavy duty flashlight out of the hall cupboard and led the way back down. “Oh!” As she flashed the torch on to the sinister pool they both saw that it was not blood at all. “Paint!”
“But still wet,” said Mary. “How on earth?”
“It’s under the area opening.” Patience had begun to think. She flashed the torch upwards. “See. The gas board made me put a grille in for air for the boiler. Someone must have poured it down.”
“What a disgusting trick,” said Mary. “It’s not like you to have enemies, Patience.”
“That’s what I’d have thought,” said Patience, plucking a random bottle of red wine from the rack. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll clear it up tomorrow. It’ll take gallons of turps.”
“But at least it won’t do any harm down there,” said Mary. “Just a very nasty prank. And, come to think, I did see that teenager loitering when I drove by. I told you I th
ought she was up to no good.”
“She?”
“Oh, definitely – hippie type; trailing skirts; are there gypsies in town?”
“Not that I know of.” Patience had automatically uncorked the bottle and poured wine for them both. “I smell pizza; let’s eat. It will make us feel better.”
“There’s room.” Mary took the plate Patience passed her. “I think you should tell the police.”
“No!” Patience took a gulp of wine. “Not the police, Mary. I know it’s not reasonable, but I can’t help it. After those nights in that cell I don’t care if I never see the police again. You just don’t know what it’s like to be treated as worthless, assumed guilty. I’d rather die than go to them.”
“Oh, Patience!” Mary reached out a hand to take hers. “I am so sorry.” And then: “You might have died down there in your cellar, you know. On your own, you might have fallen, knocked yourself out. Who would have known you were there?”
“No one.” They faced it together, soberly, eating pizza without tasting it.
Eight
“I hate to go.” Mary looked at the clock and finished her coffee. “If only there was a way I could get in touch with Mark.”
“But there isn’t.” They had been through this already. “I’ll be all right, Mary, I truly will.”
“And you do promise to go to the police if anything else happens?”
“Yes, cross my heart and hope to die.” They smiled at each other, remembering childhood, and Mary reached out impulsively to kiss Patience on the cheek. “I’m so glad I came,” she said. “I’ll ring the minute I get back. Your love to Mark?”
“Why not?” The quick kiss had stirred something in Patience. “Drive carefully.”
“I do.”
“Well, that’s a change. Oh, I do thank you for coming, Mary. It’s been too long.”
“Soon again.” She was off, walking briskly down the street towards her car, and Patience shut the door behind her and faced her house, which felt empty for the first time. She rather wished there was something to be done in the kitchen, but Mary had insisted on washing up. Instead, she would go down to the ironmonger and buy white spirit to clean up that sinister pool of blood red paint. The house would feel better after that. Making light to Mary about the intruder in her garden, she had almost convinced herself that this act of vandalism had been merely a childish revenge for the bolted garden door. But, “Not a very nice child,” Mary had said.
The white spirit and the scraper that the friendly ironmonger sold her were heavier than Patience had expected. The light was beginning to fade by the time she started home and she paused at the wicket gate that led into the graveyard. The path across it was both quicker and prettier than the main road and the gates were never locked until full dark. Idiotic to blench at taking it. She pushed open the gate and started up the gently sloping path between ancient gravestones. She usually paused to notice a name here, an odd epitaph there, but today she found herself instinctively hurrying.
She paused at last, breathless, to look back at the view of the river. Turning, she was aware of flurried movement. Someone was there, too close behind her, unheard because of traffic noise. A child? A woman? One arm raised. Patience reached out her own free hand and grabbed it.
“Flour!” she exclaimed as the open bag fell and burst on the ground. “What a disgusting trick!” Amazing to find herself instinctively remembering the defence techniques she had learned at college all those years ago. “Don’t try to get away,” she told the savagely writhing figure. “Or I’ll really hurt you. That’s better.” Her captive had stopped struggling and was still, swearing under her breath. She smelled, Patience noticed with distaste. “Not a child,” she said. “So, no excuses.”
“Look who’s talking.” The voice was a surprise: Queen’s English with a slight west country burr and the faintest hint of an asthmatic wheeze. “What excuse is there for you, Mrs bloody Crankshaw?”
“What do you mean?” She used her strong grip to pull her opponent nearer to the light at the top of the graveyard, and saw that despite her foul language she was not much more than a child, skeleton thin, a gypsy-like creature in the trailing skirts Mary had described.
“You killed my mother!” It was spat at her rather than spoken.
“I beg your pardon!” Patience put the ironmonger’s heavy bag down on the bench by the graveyard gate and pulled the girl round to face her. She did not think she was drugged; perhaps she was mad. It seemed the only explanation. “I’ve never seen you in my life before and I’ve no more idea who your mother is than the man in the moon.”
“Not is. Was. I told you, you killed her.” Another stream of curses followed.
“And I tell you that’s nonsense.” Soon, now, the man would come to lock the gate. “You may know me but I most certainly don’t know you.”
“Oh yes you do. I’m Veronica.”
“I’m none the wiser. Veronica who?”
“Crankshaw, it should be!”
“What? I don’t understand.” But was she beginning to?
“Oh yes you bloody do. You’re just pretending. You knew all the time and didn’t give a damn. Dad always said you were a selfish cow.”
“Dad?” Her grip tightened on the thin wrist.
“Your handsome husband. My fine father. The man who would be Prime Minister if he could only get into Parliament. I really believed it all when I was a kid. All that talk. Mustn’t say a word; mustn’t do a thing to spoil his precious career. But he’d look after us; no need to worry; everything under control – safe as houses—”
She was working up towards hysteria when a man’s voice interrupted. “Excuse me, ma’am, closing time.”
“Oh, yes, thank you.” Patience, mentally reeling, took an instant decision. She let go of the hand she had held so tight. “You’d better come home with me,” she said. “When did you last eat?”
“Home? To your house?” But she had not turned to run.
“Well, yes. Better than sleeping rough, surely? And it does seem as if we have something to talk about, you and I.” She picked up the ironmonger’s bag. “You must believe that I knew nothing about you.” Her eyes met defiant grey ones.
“I almost do.” They had left the graveyard now and were walking down the lane, side by side, presenting a picture of amity to the puzzled groundsman. “I’ve been watching you.”
“I know,” said Patience quietly. “And telephoning.”
“Yes. You’re not like he said. Not at all.”
“I don’t suppose I am. But at least you knew about me!” She had been living with more lies than she had imagined and it was amazing how it hurt. Questions seethed in her mind, but not yet.
“Only because Mum saw his picture in the paper. With you. At a dinner. Mr and Mrs. She was a loving fool, was Mum, but not such a fool he could lie his way out of that.”
“Oh dear,” said Patience inadequately. “Here, take this bag while I find my key. You won’t bash me with it, will you?”
“No, honest to God I won’t. I should have had more sense than to believe him. No brighter than poor Mum after all.” They were in the hall now, and she looked about her with quick, nervous glances. “This is the bit I couldn’t see. I like your house. That’s when I began to wonder a bit. About you. But by then I couldn’t stop. It was being so angry kept me going.”
“You found the back door in the wall.” It was hardly a question.
“I figured there had to be one. I’ve been sleeping in the shed. I’ve done no damage. Not yet.” It hung ominously in the air between them.
Except for a little matter of red paint in the cellar. But the girl was shivering. With cold, with shock – with fright? And now that Patience could see her, there was no mistaking the likeness to Geoffrey Crankshaw. “You’re my stepdaughter,” she said slowly, taking it in. “How very strange. Which would you like first, Veronica, a meal or a bath?”
“Oh, a bath, please!” It broke the last bastion
of resistance and she dissolved into tears.
She was frighteningly thin inside the drooping clothes, and Patience, silently considering her own neat, elderly wardrobe, remembered a light wool caftan she had seldom worn. Handing this to her surprise guest along with a new pair of Marks and Spencer knickers, she showed her to the bathroom and turned on the taps. “My bra would be far too big, but I don’t suppose you need one. Lots of bath stuff; don’t hurry; I’ll be making soup. Oh, dump your things outside the door and I’ll put them in the machine. Bit of luck they’ll be dry by morning. You’ll be all right? Don’t lock the door, just in case. Oh—” She hesitated in the doorway. “You’re not a vegetarian or anything, are you?”
“No.” It got her an attempt at a laugh. “Do I look like one? It’s this gear I borrowed, I reckon.” And then, with difficulty: “Thanks.”
Slicing onions for soup, Patience made herself concentrate on the matter in hand: stock from the deep freeze, vegetables, a potato to thicken it. When it was simmering on the back burner she went quietly upstairs to put a hot pad in the spare room bed, glad that she had decided to make one up, just in case. Then back down to set the table with wholemeal bread, cold tongue from a tin, cheese and fruit, dressing for a salad. Best not give the child wine. How old was she? As she worked, the questions battered at her mind. Her whole past had turned upside down. Geoffrey had never wanted children, afraid that they would interfere with his career. It was one of the many things she had not learned about him until too late. Much too late. Her child would have been in its forties now. His forties? Her forties?
Her hand shook as she poured the soup into the blender. When it was safely back on the stove to simmer she went out into the hall to listen and was glad to hear the bathroom door open. “Supper’s ready when you are,” she called up the stairs. “But don’t hurry; it’ll keep.”
“I can’t wait! I can smell it. It’s killing me.” Veronica had washed her hair and it clung pale and damp around the face that was so like Geoffrey’s. Grey eyes met Patience’s. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Then don’t try.” Patience was pouring soup into bowls. “And don’t eat too fast; it might make you sick.”
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