After church, Marigold had gone round to see Susan Conway. She was sure that, by this time, Mark’s mother would have had a significant conversation with Ivy; if the box and other items were to be returned, Marigold could tell the police her property had been brought back anonymously and the matter could rest there.
Susan hid her annoyance at Miss Darwin’s appearance on her doorstep once again, adopting a professional air of welcome.
‘I’m sure you want to get on – I know you’re busy – but I wanted to ask if you’d had a discussion with . . . Ivy, is it?’ said Marigold.
Couldn’t she have telephoned, thought Susan, not realising that Marigold had, in any case, been out of the house and was passing the end of the road.
‘Oh – Steve did do it,’ Susan said. ‘I think Ivy will be round to see you in the morning. The jewellery was in his room.’
‘I see,’ said Marigold.
‘Come in, won’t you?’ Susan said, resigned. Tiresome though the interruption was, Miss Darwin had been very kind to Mark when she might have been extremely angry.
‘I mustn’t keep you,’ said Marigold, but she took off her camel coat and let Susan hang it on a hook behind the front door, then went with her into the living-room.
‘Mark’s upstairs having his bath,’ said Susan.
‘Oh. Just as well, perhaps, that he shouldn’t hear about this,’ said Marigold. ‘Though of course he’d caught on about the box.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Susan.
They sat facing one another on either side of the room.
‘You’re worried about leaving Mark with Ivy after this,’ Marigold pronounced.
‘Yes.’
‘I can understand that. It’s not her fault, however. You were satisfied with her when you made the original plan for Mark, after all.’
‘Steve was quite young then, and his father was alive,’ said Susan. ‘He was more controllable. And Mark has a lot of freedom now. It’s inevitable. I want him to be able to take care of himself.’
‘He seems a most capable boy,’ said Miss Darwin.
‘Bad company can damage anyone,’ said Susan.
‘That’s true. But Mark has other friends than Steve, hasn’t he? Terry, for instance.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Susan. But Terry had been very silly, and she had met few others.
‘I hope we can deal with this without the police pressing charges,’ said Miss Darwin. ‘Steve will have to be punished in some way. Perhaps he could help me in my garden – mow the lawn and cut down rubbish – unpaid for a while, and if he’s a good worker I could offer him a regular job on Saturdays.’
‘That’s a good idea,’ said Susan. ‘I’m sure Ivy would be very grateful.’
‘I don’t want gratitude – just the return of my stolen property and a reformed junior criminal,’ said Miss Darwin. ‘He needs to be kept away from his dubious companions before it’s too late. It would be a pity if he posed as either a hero or a martyr.’
‘Yes.’ Susan looked at the older woman. Her lips were set, her expression determined. Steve wouldn’t be able to run rings round her. She smiled, and Miss Darwin’s features relaxed too. She wished Susan smiled a genuine smile more often, not a superficial one which must be necessary in her job but was meaningless.
‘I’ll be happy to see Mark whenever he likes to call,’ Miss Darwin said. ‘And if you would like him to spend some time with me after school while you make up your mind about Ivy, he’s most welcome. He can do his homework and be safe while you’re at work, and I’ll feed him, too. I like cooking,’ she added truthfully. She had enjoyed preparing nourishing meals for her parents; now she rarely took much trouble for herself.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Susan. ‘If he could – just for a week or so – till I’m sure about things. On a business footing, of course.’
Marigold knew Susan would not accept what she would term as charity.
‘Naturally,’ she said. She could put what sums Susan would insist on handing over into a fund for Mark. ‘That’s settled, then,’ she added, suppressing her unfamiliar feeling of delight. ‘I’ll expect him after school tomorrow.’ She rose to leave. ‘You’ve done a good job with him and it can’t be easy for you. I’ve known several widows and their sons have turned out very well, but it’s sad to lack a father, and a boy is the better for a good one.’ She moved towards the door. ‘However, there are schoolmasters in boys’ lives and the fathers of their friends, good male influences. Richard Gardner, for instance, is a very pleasant man.’
‘Yes, he seems to be,’ said Susan. ‘That’s not an easy situation, either. Being a stepfather, I mean.’
‘No, it’s not,’ said Marigold, glad Susan had not taken her own remarks as implied criticism when they were intended as encouragement. ‘But a lot of things that are worth doing are quite difficult.’
‘I’m not a widow,’ Susan said. ‘I’ve never been married.’
‘Nor have I,’ said Marigold. ‘Who cares?’
Nearing home, Marigold looked forward to her drink. Now and then she had an evening totally without one, just to prove she could, but since she had found that a few stiff ones coaxed her into a mood of cheerfulness, she sometimes even sang along to the radio. In London, this was never her way; she was always strictly sober and very solemn.
It had been a long day, full of tests. Now it was nearly over. Walking up the drive, she was glad to see the lights shining from her house, welcoming her home. She let herself in, still missing Sinbad’s friendly greeting, and hung her coat in the cloakroom. She left her hat there, too, for it was rather damp; when it had dried off she’d take it upstairs. Then she went into the sitting-room and helped herself to a large gin and tonic, from the bottles and glasses kept in the corner fitment. She did not bother about ice or lemon, but after swallowing a mouthful she lit the fire and sat down on the sofa. In a few minutes she would fetch the sandwiches left from tea. Soon the gin took effect and her spirits lifted.
She was happy to be helping Mark, and was looking forward to his company, but she was not sanguine about Steve or Ivy, his unlucky stepmother. There would be a hard row to be hoed there, she thought, unless the boy could be given a fright about what the consequences of his crime might have been. Though nowadays, youngsters seemed to escape with a severe telling-off – a caution – for really serious offences. It seemed that they went after anything they wanted; young thieves did not respect other people or their property.
She topped up her glass before going to fetch the sandwiches, which would soon blot up the alcohol. Her father had always believed in a nip to keep out the cold; it had never caused him to lose control or behave badly. It made you shed your inhibitions; she knew that. Your true nature would be revealed – mawkish or maudlin, merry or bellicose; she had seen it often enough in other people but until she began trying it herself, after her return to Haverscot, she had not understood that she was, herself, one of the cheerful ones. She had never let herself go that far before.
Did poor Richard Gardner ever let go? He’d certainly been drinking when she saw him at The Red Lion, in the bar. He was an unhappy man, but his wife was miserable. What a bitter woman she seemed to be.
Carrying her second drink, she went out to the kitchen. When she opened the door, she felt a draught, and, more slowly than if she were completely sober, she realised that the glass in the back door was broken. She was already opening the fridge door when she saw earth on the floor and a large pair of men’s shoes on the mat. She had just noticed a bottle of whisky, half-full, on the worktop by the sink when a moustached man with wild grey hair, dirty, and with blood on his face, burst into the room from the hall. He carried a shotgun, and, as she stared at him, transfixed, he halted by the door and fired two shots straight at her.
Alan thought he had seen a ghost. He couldn’t have killed the old cow after all, for here she was, as large as life and hideous, but she didn’t fall after he had fired at her.
Marigold had been saved bec
ause the shelves in the fridge door, which had shielded her, had been stacked with bottles, tins and packs of juice whose fluid contents had stopped the shots, though some bits of metal flew about the room and one slightly grazed her hand. She had a brief advantage over her assailant because, although she was shocked and her ears rang with the sound of the explosions, she accepted what she saw, whereas he thought he beheld an apparition.
Milk, cream, mineral water, fruit juice and broken eggs cascaded on to the kitchen floor. As if it were a film unfolding before her, Marigold saw the man move, breaking the gun open as he did so, and he reached towards the box of cartridges which was standing near the bread bin. Marigold stretched out to grab the glass holding her drink which she had put down on the table. She picked it up and threw it at his head. It caught him on the ear and liquid splashed him but it barely put him off course. He was between her and the door: she might get to the back door before he reloaded the gun, but he could still hit her with it.
He was already shoving two new cartridges into the barrels when Marigold hit him over the head with the bottle of whisky from which Alan himself had drunk earlier. He sank to the floor in a most gratifying way, loosening his grip on the gun, and she snatched it from him.
He was only stunned. Marigold pushed the cartridges home and cocked it again, ready to fire. She pointed it at him as he began to struggle to his feet, ramming it against his chest. He was blinking at her, trying to clear his head which was fuddled with the whisky as well as the blow he had received. He was still sure that she must be a ghost come back to haunt him.
Marigold prodded him with the gun, then moved back, realising he might be able to seize it by the barrel and wrench it from her grasp.
‘I can use this,’ she said. ‘Never doubt that.’
He didn’t, but sick rage began to fill him now. He clung on to a cupboard top, managing to stand.
‘You old bitch,’ he said. ‘You move into my house and take all my things away and think you’re so great,’ and then he broke into a string of obscenities.
What was he talking about? He was obviously mad, and also extremely dangerous and violent. Marigold knew she must be very careful and take no chances; he was much younger than she was and a great deal stronger. She held the gun pointing firmly at him and then discovered that he was a coward. Later, she realised that of course he must have been one, to have fired at her at all: armed as he was, an elderly woman posed no great challenge.
But, to Alan, she did: she looked intimidating, glowering at him from under her grim grey hair, her thick brows forming another serious line across her face. She was not wearing her glasses, but she did not need them for this encounter.
‘Get in there,’ she ordered, indicating the store room with the barrel of the gun. ‘Go on.’ She spoke firmly, like a general commanding his troops. ‘On the count of three or I’ll fire,’ she warned. ‘Open the door. I’m waiting.’
You naughty boy. Go up to your room at once or you’ll be smacked, Alan heard his mother’s voice. I’m counting to three. She had never had to carry out her threat.
Meekly, Alan went into the store-cupboard. There was no bolt on the outside of the door, but after she had banged it shut behind him – it opened outwards into the kitchen – Marigold pulled the table across in front of it and then, having dared to set the gun down, wedged that against the door with the fridge, which was very heavy, and difficult to move because of all the mess, but she did it. This barricade would not hold against a strong, determined man; she could not risk leaving it to telephone the police but must sit here, a sentry. In the morning when the milkman came, maybe she could shout for help. But that was hours away. It wasn’t even midnight yet.
The floor was awash with the mess from the fridge. She sat clear of the worst of it, on a kitchen chair, holding the gun across her knees, ready to lift it if the cupboard door gave in to his battering as he rattled it, shouting and yelling. Maybe she should have shot him in the foot.
Then I’d have been charged with assault, she thought, resolving to hit his hands if they appeared.
Time passed, and after a while the man’s cries diminished. Perhaps he had fallen asleep. Dare she risk leaving the room to telephone?
Just as she had decided to chance it, he resumed his cursing and swearing, and then he started throwing things around inside the cupboard. He must have found the light switch in there. She heard tins and bottles break, but the noise he made did not drown the sound of the front doorbell which, like angel music from the spheres, Marigold suddenly heard above the uproar. Surely whoever was there would hear the din and come to investigate? She’d add her yells to those of the intruder.
It was Richard at the door, and he did.
26
At first he could not take in the spectacle before him.
As he opened the unlocked back door, noting the broken pane of glass, he saw Miss Darwin rising from a kitchen chair, holding a double-barrelled shotgun in a business-like manner. The kitchen itself was in a chaotic state, with smashed eggs, broken glass, milk and other liquids all over the floor, and there was a loud background sound of shouting, which he had heard as he came round the side of the house when the front doorbell was not answered.
‘He’s in there,’ Marigold called above the noise. ‘A burglar.’
She had just realised that he must have been in the house for some time before he appeared in the kitchen; he’d had some whisky, and she’d seen, now, that the sandwiches she was counting on for supper had vanished. They weren’t among the mess on the floor, nor left on a shelf inside the fridge as other things had been.
Richard had been so intent upon the search for Verity that he had almost forgotten about the break-in at Merrifields. Unable to get Miss Darwin on the telephone, he had come round to see if, by any freak chance, Verity had called at The Willows. She might have done so, seeking sympathy; Miss Darwin might have persuaded her to telephone her parents, or even the Samaritans, thus accounting for the busy telephone line.
‘Is Verity here?’ he demanded, amazing Marigold by the irrelevance of the question.
‘No.’ She shook her head impatiently. ‘Richard, please go and telephone the police. I daren’t leave here in case he gets out. That door isn’t secure.’ She had already banged the intruder’s knuckles once, extremely hard, and had been able to close the door again when he retreated, screaming.
‘The police aren’t far away.’ said Richard. ‘They’re searching for Verity. She’s disappeared.’
Marigold did not care if Verity had gone to the moon.
‘Richard, there’s a burglar in the store-cupboard. Don’t you understand? He came here with a gun and he shot at me. Please go and telephone, now.’
‘Shot at you? Are you hurt?’ Richard took a grip on himself.
‘No. Richard, please,’ she implored.
‘Give me the gun. You go and phone. It’ll be quicker than going to call them from outside.’
Outside? What did he mean? Marigold handed him the gun.
‘Do you know how to use it?’ she asked.
‘Oh yes,’ he said. There was no need to wonder if she did. ‘You in there,’ he called out loudly. ‘Stop that racket. The police are on their way.’
Thus instructed, Alan, who had briefly quietened down when he heard sounds from beyond his prison, broke into a fresh burst of swearing. Marigold left them to it, hastening off to telephone. When she found she could get no dialling tone, it took her a few minutes to realise that the extension might be disconnected. Of course: the burglar had been up there while she drank her gin. The thought made her shudder. She hurried upstairs and made the call. The police seemed slow to understand what she was saying: an armed man breaking in, and now captive. She feared they thought her an insane woman making a hoax call.
Before returning to Richard, she went thankfully to the bathroom. For some time she had been fearing that her bladder would not last out the siege and such a possibility was mortifying.
Whil
e she was gone, Richard had been having a crazy conversation with her prisoner.
‘So she’s gone, then, has she? The ghost?’ Alan had asked, after running out of breath with his curses.
‘What ghost?’ Richard asked.
‘That old bat,’ said Alan.
‘If you mean the lady of the house,’ said Richard pompously, ‘she’s no ghost. She’s very real and she’s fetching the police at this moment. They’re not far away, in any case. They’re looking for you,’ he added, which was not the truth: not yet, for Steve, held at the police station and waiting for Ivy to arrive before he could be questioned, had not told the tale he had concocted in the time since his arrest. He was going to say that Alan Morton, escaped murderer, had stolen the articles found in his possession and forced him to carry them away and hide them. It was a good story, and he had decided it would get him off the hook.
Marigold, physically relieved, recalled, as she returned to the kitchen, what Richard had been saying about Verity. Wretched, hysterical woman: she was playing another of her silly tricks. Surely, after all the fuss when Terry ran away, she’d have more sense than cause such anxiety?
‘I’ll take over now, if you want to get back outside and resume your hunt,’ she said, entering the kitchen.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m not leaving you alone with our friend here.’ He took a look at her. She was always pale, her complexion sallow, but now, in the bright strip lighting in the kitchen, she looked grey. ‘You could use a drink. Have you got some brandy? Have a nip,’ he suggested.
‘I was having a second gin and tonic when this creature appeared,’ said Marigold. ‘I’d better not start mixing things.’ She laughed, an odd, harsh, unamused sound. ‘I threw it at him,’ she continued. ‘The glass, I mean. I scored a direct hit on his head. Then I used the whisky bottle. It was his fault it was handy – he’d left it out.’
‘How untidy,’ Richard answered calmly. What did she mean, she’d used it? Hit him with it? ‘Well, then, what about some tea? Or coffee. I’d quite like a cup,’ he added. ‘Though I don’t suppose the police will be more than a few minutes.’
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