Dovecote

by Oleson, Anne Britting;

  “So there is bad blood.” There was a certain satisfaction in Barrows’ voice.

  “Listen,” she blurted angrily. “I didn’t attack Paul Stokes. He was leaning over me on a stone wall, threatening me if I didn’t sign over the property to him—he had a paper, he had a pen—and he wouldn’t let me get up and leave. So I knocked him over—”

  “With a rock in your hand—”

  “I hit him in the arm. The arm. And yes, with a stone from the wall he’d forced me to sit on so he could lean over me and threaten me. I was frightened, and he knew it, and he used that to try to get me to relinquish the cottage to him. So I hit him in the arm to escape from him.”

  “Who else was there?”

  Barrows’ bland manner was infuriating. Gwynn wondered if his intention was to make her so angry she said stupid things. If so, it was close to working. But she was experienced, she reminded herself, thinking of Richard, and that way he would anger her, repeatedly, intentionally, in his manic stages. It was years ago, but remaining calm was a learned skill, like riding a bicycle. She would not let Barrows manipulate her.

  “No one,” she said slowly, measuring her breathing. “I have no witnesses.” She looked Barrows straight in the eye over the expanse of his desk. “But that means he has none, either.”

  Barrows sighed, straightening an already straight piece of paper on the blotter. “It’s an interesting story, however, wouldn’t you agree? That you hit a man with a rock”—he held up his hand to forestall any protests—“by your own admission, mind you—and just a few days later, another man is killed when his skull is crushed with a rock. In very nearly the same place. And again, with no witnesses.”

  “I found Giles,” she said evenly, her voice low and grating. “I didn’t kill Giles. I counted him as a friend.”

  Barrows nodded. “Yes. Mrs. Trevelyan seems to think so.”

  Again she looked up. “How is she? This must be so awful for her.” She shook her head. “I haven’t been up to see her.”

  “Why not?”

  “I didn’t know if she was up to visitors.”

  “So not that good a friend, then?”

  He was trying to trap her again. Richard. Remember Richard. “I’m not family. Not like her brother. Not like Mr. Simms.”

  The silence stretched. Barrows was watchful, waiting to see if she had more to add. The paper on the desk—the only paper on the desk—drew his attention after a few moments. He opened the desk drawer, withdrew a pen, made a mark on the sheet. Gwynn strained her eyes to see, but it was too far away.

  “Speaking of family,” Barrows said at last, tucking the pen back into the drawer as though tucking a baby into bed, “you told me you were a widow?”

  “Yes.” Gwynn heard the confusion in her own voice and attempted to rein it in before Barrows noticed. “My husband died six years ago.”

  Now he picked up the sheet of paper and nodded. “By his own hand, it says here.”

  She swallowed hard. Was the piece of paper a dossier on her? If so, it was rather brief. Then again, up until she’d landed in the village, she’d led a rather tame life. Blameless, even. “Yes. Richard was—Richard committed suicide.”

  “How did he do that?”

  “I think,” Gwynn said sharply, her resolve failing her, “you probably know. I think it must tell you that in whatever file you’ve gathered on me.

  Barrows glanced up, unperturbed. “Just checking my facts.”

  She blew out a breath. Remain calm. “Richard hanged himself. In the orchard behind our house. He had been—depressed.”

  “And you found him.”

  “I found him.” Suddenly she could bear it no longer. “I found him. He was dead. It was the most horrible moment of my life. Until Giles.”

  “Whom you also found.”

  “Stop it,” she said. “Just stop it. I found them both. You know that. But I didn’t kill either of them. What is it that you want from me?”

  Barrows stood and walked around his desk so quickly she thought for a moment he was going to strike her. Instead, he continued to the door and opened it. “I’d like you to remain available, Mrs. Forest. In case any more questions come up. That’s all. I’d like you to make sure you don’t leave the village.”

  46

  THE SCRATCHING AT the front door awakened her.

  Gwynn had been dreaming of the strand, of walking along the shoreline with her shoes in her hand, legs of her jeans rolled up, her toes digging into the sand. The sun was warm on her face and bare arms. She heard herself singing. Birds circled overhead, gulls soaring and diving, landing and then leaping up once again into the air.

  Her song changed to Pat’s, the one about the doves.

  Up ahead she saw a stooped figure making his was along the shingle, the stick he used to help himself along basically useless. As she watched, a wave built out on the water, swelling to enormous proportions, balancing at that wave-point just before breaking as it moved toward land. She opened her mouth to shout out a warning, but the man was too far away, the seagulls screaming too loudly. The scene unfolded in slow motion: the wave, the man, certain doom. She broke into a run, shouting words that went unheard, torn from her lips and whirled away into the air.

  She was too late. The wave broke, sweeping up the beach, and the old man was swept from view. Still she ran on, shouting, but it made no difference. She looked out into the swirling waters desperately, hoping for a hand, something, anything—but there was nothing. Except, when her eyes fell to her feet, the walking stick. She bent slowly, curling her fingers around the knob.

  Now Gwynn flexed her empty hands at her sides as she made her way groggily to the front door. There was an urgency to the scratching in the early morning that demanded her attention. “Who’s there?” she called, leaning against the door, her hand on the chair wedged under the knob.

  The scratching came again.

  Carefully she dislodged the chair, drew the bolt, and opened the door a crack.

  Star sat on the doorstep, waiting. She looked up at her and whined softly. Gwynn drew the door back to let her in.

  The border collie padded through the entryway and into the sitting room. Gwynn followed her, curious. The dog went to the side of the wing-backed chair and sat, looking up at her expectantly.

  “What is it, Star?” she asked softly. She made no answer, not even a whine. Gwynn sat in the chair next to her, and she pushed at her hand with her wet nose. She patted the dog’s head, stroked her soft ears. “Are you lonely? Do you miss him?”

  Beneath her hand, the dog was still; Gwynn sensed it as an enforced stillness. Star sat at attention, expecting something.

  “What do you want? Are you hungry?” She thought about the contents of her kitchen, of her refrigerator. Was there anything out there a dog would eat? That was a silly question. Dogs were eager to please; they’d eat anything. Except perhaps vegetables. Raw vegetables. “Come on then.” She stood. The mantle clock struck six, the last ring dying away on the dark morning. “Do you like peanut butter?”

  Star did not move.

  Yawning, she moved to the kitchen door. Star turned her black head slowly, studying her intently. “Come on,” she said, patting her thigh. “Star, come.”

  Still the sheepdog did not move, other than to watch her every step carefully. After a moment under this intense scrutiny, Gwynn returned to the chair and sank into it slowly.

  “Does Bel Trevelyan know you’re down here?” As soon as she asked the question, Gwynn felt idiotic. Do your parents know where you are? The dog had come down and presented herself for some reason having to do with dog logic, though Gwynn had no clue what that reason might be, and Star was not letting on. At least, she did not understand what the dog was trying to tell her. If she was trying to tell her anything at all. She had not made any noise since Gwynn had let her into the house; she had not moved in several minutes. She simply watched, with her intelligent brown border collie eyes. Gwynn put her hand on the furry head ag
ain and rubbed it. “What do you want me to do?”

  Outside the window the dawn was breaking, the morning growing slowly lighter. Another gray and cloudy day, but no rain this time. Gwynn sighed. Probably it would be a good idea to dress and walk the dog back up to the farm. She rose and turned to the stairs, Star followed her, claws ticking on the wooden floors. She followed her into the small bedroom, where Gwynn quickly made the bed and then dug out some clean clothes from the laundry basket. Star followed her into the bath, and lay down beside the tub as she climbed in. At least, Gwynn thought as she pulled the curtain closed around her, she did not attempt to leap into the tub, too.

  “I DON’T KNOW what to do with her,” Bel said, her voice thin and querulous. “She’s Giles’ dog, she is—she never left that man alone for a minute. Followed him everywhere. Now it seems she’s at a loss—goes where Giles went, looking all over the farm for him. And cries. At night she cries, and I’ll tell you true, I can’t bear it. I can’t.”

  Bel sat in the rocking chair near the fire, still. Or again? She did not rock, but just sat, her blue eyes wide and vague behind her thick glasses. At first, when Gwynn had entered the kitchen with the dog, Bel had frowned, trying to place her. She seemed older and more fragile today, her shoulders hunched, as though the world were pressing down on her. Her hands were clenched defensively in her lap. The kitchen itself looked dingier, as though a light had left it. And perhaps, for Bel Trevelyan, it had.

  “She didn’t want food, She wanted to follow me around the house. I didn’t know why she was there.” Gwynn didn’t mention her growing conviction, as she followed the lanes toward Trevelyan Court Farm, that she needed to check on Bel—that Star was hinting that something bad, something else bad—had happened to her neighbor. So strong had this conviction become, that she had steeled her nerves and taken the footpath through the woods and into the high meadow, knowing she’d get there faster; she’d been careful not to anywhere near the hollow, still cordoned off with yellow police tape. She’d been careful not to go anywhere near the portable incident room, either, though the hour was still a bit early, and the room looked deserted.

  Yet Star had been in no rush to get back to the farm, Gwynn realized. Star had stayed to heel, keeping close and silent as they came down the long hill into the farmyard. When Bel had called out in answer to Gwynn’s knock, Star had followed her into the kitchen and lain down in front of the door.

  What on earth did the dog want? Gwynn wished she knew. She wished she knew how Star had known how to find Gull Cottage.

  “Can I make you some tea?” she asked Bel now, helplessly. “Breakfast. Have you had breakfast?”

  Bel, apparently out of words, made no answer.

  Gwynn busied herself with the tea things, neatly tucked away on the sideboard. She brought Bel a cup, then found a frying pan, some butter, some eggs from the bowl on the counter. She was whisking the eggs when the door opened and James Simms entered on a burst of cold air. Star looked up quickly, but then lay back down, her black head on her white paws.

  Mr. Simms cast a curious glance at Gwynn. He unbuttoned the wool coat he wore over his pinstriped suit.

  “Star came to the cottage this morning,” Gwynn said without preamble. “Early. So I’ve brought her back.”

  Mr. Simms nodded, setting his coat over a chair back and going to his sister, listless in the rocking chair. He knelt at her side. “Bel. Have you slept?”

  Bel looked at him in despair. She frowned for a moment, then her expression smoothed over, as though someone had run a hand over it. “Here.”

  “You need to sleep,” Simms said quietly.

  “Not there,” Bel said sadly. “He’s not there.”

  Gwynn turned away from the pair, feeling the tears prickling behind her eyelids. She focused her attention on the scrambled eggs in the pan, stirring them gently with a wooden spoon to break up the curds as they cooked. She found a plate in the cupboard, and, eggs done, she slid them onto it. She cut a slice of bread from a thick loaf, and buttered it. A fork, a napkin—she carried them over to the rocking chair. The little coffee table at the side bore the ring stains of recent cups; she wiped it off before setting the plate on it.

  “Breakfast,” she said, her voice sticking in her throat.

  Bel did not answer.

  Mr. Simms looked up, his expression pained. “Thank you.” He straightened slowly. “I can take it from here.”

  Gwynn knew a dismissal when she heard one. She was secretly grateful to be relieved of a duty she had no idea how to perform. The grief in the kitchen was so thick she felt she had to push it away from her face with her hands, in order to breathe.

  Mr. Simms saw her to the door. She stepped outside. Star followed, fully alert now.

  “Stay, Star,” she commanded. Star did not even deign to sit. Gwynn touched Mr. Simms wordlessly on the sleeve, as much of an expression of sympathy as she felt she could give him, and took a few steps into the yard. The dog followed.

  “Star,” she said again, hardening her tone. “Stay here.”

  But Mr. Simms shook his head. “Let her go, if she wants.” He looked up, his eyes behind his thick lenses suddenly like his sister’s. “That is, if you want.”

  Gwynn looked down into the brown eyes of the dog and wondered about loyalty and allegiance. “How old is she?” she asked. It was the only question she could think of.

  Mr. Simms shrugged. “I don’t know. There’s always been a border collie following Giles around, as long as I can remember—since I was a small boy. Protecting him.” He looked up into the gloomy sky. “Maybe Star thinks you need protection now.” He cleared his throat. “Maybe Giles does.”

  On that prophetic note, Mr. Simms let himself back into the farmhouse. Gwynn sighed and turned away, with Star heeling at her side.

  47

  GWYNN CAME OUT of the shop, carrying the bottle of lamp oil and some canned dog food in her bag. Star still sat at attention by the door. The dog lifted her head and stood, awaiting their next errand. Gwynn shifted the bag to her other hand and touched the black head with growing fondness.

  “It’s all right, girl,” she said, rubbing behind her ears in the way the dog at least put up with from her. “No danger in the shop.” Star wagged her tail once, her expression of approval. “Down to market, then, shall we?”

  They headed down the hill, Star close at her heel. Gwynn was becoming used to her shadow, though she noticed people doing a double-take when they passed. No doubt they recognized the dog as Giles Trevelyan’s, and wondered at her companion. In the past few days, Star had made no move to go home, and neither Bel nor her brother had been by to collect her. Other than vacuuming more frequently on account of the dog hair, which seemed to appear in the corners in little clouds, Mary had made no further comment, either. Star had adopted Gwynn as her charge, watching over her intently during the day, sleeping on the carpet at the foot of her bed at night.

  Now they made their way from stall to stall, Gwynn selecting root vegetables and potatoes to go with the chicken she had purchased from the meat truck. She browsed slowly, almost luxuriously, relieved in a small way to be away from the cottage and its sadness, the garden and its anger. Today there were strawberries, fat and hot-house grown, but she didn’t really mind, thinking of cream and shortbread, the latter made by Mary, a dozen in a small box back on the kitchen counter.

  She was pocketing her change and heard the familiar, unwelcome voice.

  “All right, then, cousin?”

  Gwynn whirled. Star slipped in front of her protectively, the fur on the back of her neck bristling.

  “Fine, thank you, Mr. Stokes,” she said. She moved to turn away, dismissing him, but he put up a hand.

  “It’s just that I haven’t seen you since your breakup with Colin Moore. A bad night for you, wasn’t it?” His smile was more of a leer, and there was an ugly, knowing light in his black eyes. His voice, his words, carried. As he no doubt knew they would.

  “I don’
t know what you’re talking about.” She looked back to the vegetable stall, and the vendor dropped his gaze quickly.

  “Well, never mind, Gwynn,” Stokes said, his voice oily in its fake condolence. “There are plenty of other fish in the sea, if this one didn’t work out. He’s not worth crying over.” He smiled again, wolfishly. “I was just worried about you, see? You’ve seemed so down lately. Depressed. And to break up with your boyfriend like that—can’t have helped, can it?”

  That sympathy. Gwynn felt her eyes widen as she looked into the round red face. He was playing some game, the rules of which she didn’t understand.

  Had he been watching her again? “I’m not depressed. I’m fine.”

  “In any case, if you need a shoulder to cry on, you can always come on over to the Child. I’ll be there.” He winked slowly. “And don’t you worry. I don’t hold a grudge about your attacking me with that rock on Bonfire Night. I know you’ve been under a lot of stress.”‘

  How could his voice carry like that? It seemed as if the entire market had gone silent, listening to him. She looked around; no one met her eyes.

  Paul Stokes laughed. “Just make sure the shoulder you cry on when you come on over isn’t the one you damn near broke when you hit me with that rock up at Trevelyans’. That one still hurts.”

  Now he’d done it, and he knew he’d done it. The fake sympathy had turned to triumph. By now everyone in the village had to know how Giles Trevelyan had died; and now they knew about her tendency to hit people with rocks when stressed. By now everyone knew about that rift between her and Colin Moore, and everyone here who pretended not to listen knew she was unbalanced.

  “Don’t worry about it, Gwynn. Things will get better. Don’t you worry.” Stokes reached out a beefy hand to pat her on the shoulder in consolation and kindness and sympathy, while she stood shocked, frozen in place.