The Dead Summer

by Helen Moorhouse

  “Did you get tangled up in the sheets or the duvet or anything as the attacker left?” he asked.

  She thought for a moment. “No. I turned over really quickly but he was gone.”

  “Didn’t you catch even a glimpse of him as he left?”

  She thought again. “No. Definitely not – he was too quick. I didn’t see anyone.”

  Will sat up. “You say this Mountford is a big guy?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “About my height and build, say?”

  Martha shook her head. “He’s a bit taller than you, I reckon, and definitely build-wise he’s much bigger.”

  “So a bit of a ‘Man Mountain’ then?” said Will with a slight grin.

  “How did you . . . ?” Martha stopped and blushed again as she realised that Will had figured out Sue’s message. She’d kill her when she saw her. Did he think now that something had gone on between her and Rob?

  Will grinned and stood up off the bed. “We need to do this experiment again. But –”

  “With me in the bed and you pulling my ankles?” she said in alarm.

  Will nodded. “I can understand that you might not be comfy with that idea, but it’s kind of key to my investigation and it would really be a huge help.”

  Martha was taken aback. She had thought he was just helping her out, trying to figure out what had happened to her, not plunging into his investigation already.

  “I’ll understand completely if you don’t want to do this,” said Will.

  Martha thought for a moment, looked at his expectant face and gave in. She raised her knee to climb onto the bed. “If you were going to murder me you’d probably have done it by now, wouldn’t you?” she said. “We do this once, though, and once only.”

  “Understood,” said Will.

  She felt vulnerable and stupid as she lay on her stomach in her habitual sleeping position. What the hell was she doing this for?

  “You ready?” said Will.

  In the event, they tried four times in total to recreate the events of the previous night. Martha was intrigued by the fact that no matter how quickly Will ran toward the door she saw him every single time when she turned. “I don’t understand,” she said. “I definitely didn’t see anyone.”

  Will offered no opinion. “There’s something else you haven’t done either,” he said, standing by the open door, giving Martha space to get up from the bed.

  “What’s that?”

  Will responded by pointing his foot and pushing down gently on the floorboards underneath him. They gave a small creak of resistance. “You haven’t mentioned actually hearing your attacker at all,” he said.

  Martha thought for a moment. She couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that was growing by the minute as she realised that any attacker couldn’t have left the room unseen. What had happened to her was impossible unless she’d dreamed it and she knew that it had been real.

  “Listen to what happens when I walk out,” said Will.

  The floorboards creaked quietly but there was no mistaking the sound of footsteps on the wooden floor of her bedroom and out onto the landing.

  “If I go down the stairs you’d hear this,” he called and she clearly made out the sound of descending feet and the occasional creak. “This is coming up!”

  She heard the footsteps ascend again.

  “This is if I go into Ruby’s room!” He demonstrated the sounds of entry into all the upstairs rooms as Martha sat on her bed listening, and feeling sick.

  Will returned to the bedroom door. “Did you hear any of that last night?”

  Martha shook her head, unable to unravel why, when she could hear Will so clearly even when he tiptoed, she hadn’t heard her assailant the previous night.

  “This Mountford was really big,” said Will, enthused by the activity. “Probably would have made even more noise than me, even with his shoes off – hey, let’s try that.”

  Martha looked up to ask him to stop but he already had his trainers off and was leaving the room. She realised she could still tell exactly where he was by the sounds of the floor.

  “Will!” she called. “Yes, I can hear you!”

  He returned, sliding his left foot into his trainer and then the right one, tugging them at the back with his hand to get his heels in.

  “I did hear some footsteps,” she said suddenly, her mind flashing back to the definite creaks she’d heard from above when she was on her knees in the hallway, searching for the soother. She explained to him how she’d heard similar noises from the wood settling before but that last night it had sounded exactly like someone upstairs.

  “Okay,” he said. “That’s enough for now. Let’s get your bag packed and you off for a night of sumptuous splendour in Bickford’s finest budget hotel!”

  Martha was still reeling with confusion, wracking her brains to figure out the gaps in the basic logic of what had happened to her. Will smiled warmly, though, and she couldn’t help but smile back. For a moment she contemplated telling him everything – about what had happened in the kitchen, the temperature drops, the fact that the screaming in the chimney hadn’t sounded remotely like a bird or an animal. That it had sounded like a trapped child . . . but she stopped herself in time. Don’t get any more involved in this than you have to, she thought. Just keep quiet and get out of here quickly.

  Will was hauling bags of equipment into the house from the boot of the Volvo as Martha took her final pieces of luggage from the study.

  “Bit foolish of me to leave all this in the boot outside the pub overnight,” he said. “Some of it belongs to the university and technically shouldn’t be here!”

  Martha smiled. She had turned the corner of the house when a thought struck her and she went back into the cottage.

  “Will,” she asked, “when you were in the pub was there an old lady there called Lil Flynn?”

  “Funny you should mention her. She wasn’t there – the landlord said she was sick and that it was just as well as we were talking about this place here. Apparently she’s responsible for all sorts of stories about it – she just hangs round the pub staring at people, asking about it. By all accounts her talk over the years has stopped people coming near it – postmen, delivery men – have you found that?”

  Martha was surprised that Will had gleaned more information from the locals in a single night than she had managed since she’d been here. So distance wasn’t the difficulty in having things delivered here – Lil Flynn was no doubt why the postman left her mail in a tree like it was some sort of enchanted forest or something. This bloody place, she thought. She turned to her car, preoccupied, leaving Will staring after her.

  She left Will unzipping bags of what looked like cameras and battery chargers and drove off toward the village. She felt foolishly excited about spending the night in a hotel and her heart lifted as the thought struck her that she wouldn’t have to spend another night at the cottage. Her heart grew lighter the further away she drove. The cottage was all someone else’s problem now.

  Ruby was awake and gave a squeal of joy as Martha took her from Mary.

  Mary eyed her, concerned. “Are you sure you’re alright, love?”

  “I’m absolutely fine. I’m just looking forward to getting away and having a good night’s sleep. I’ve, eh, been really stressing myself out with my work.”

  Mary nodded, but looked as if she knew she wasn’t getting the truth. “That man – from this morning – is he up at the cottage?”

  “Will? Yes, he is. Look, Mary, to be honest, I think I had a break-in last night – nothing to worry about! – and he’s going to just watch the place for me while he’s in the area.”

  Mary grew wide-eyed. “You think you had a break-in?”

  Martha nodded. “I mean, I definitely had a break-in but, really, it’s nothing to worry about – he or they were disturbed before they had the chance to take anything. Actually – I need to tell Rob Mountford about
it – didn’t you say he lived on the Bickford Road?” Martha was feeling brave. It might just be the time to call to Rob Mountford, at the weekend, in his father’s house, and see what he had to say for himself. He could have the nice little reward of her notice on the cottage as well, effective immediately.

  “He does,” said Mary, handing Martha Ruby’s changing-bag. “But there’s no point in calling to him – he’s away at a trade thing in France with his dad at the moment. He’s been gone since Thursday – Alison found out from his sister. I thought to myself – that means Martha won’t be getting her wall fixed any time soon.”

  Martha barely heard the end of the sentence. Rob Mountford was in France? Had been since Thursday? That meant that he couldn’t have been her intruder on Friday night . . . What if he’d flown back especially – used France as a cover to come back and do what he wanted with her? Flown back and then what? Driven fifty miles from the nearest airport to let himself into his own property and ravish a woman he’d been alone with dozens of times before and had made no actual sexual approaches to at all? And, if he had been trying to rape her, why had he then just let her go?

  Martha felt logic slipping away from her. It was now highly unlikely that Rob had been her attacker. He was her only logical explanation and now that was gone. Except for Sam . . .

  “Mary,” she asked, “is Sam around? You know, the young guy who was helping Rob?”

  “Oh, no, love, he’d be no good to you,” said Mary, thinking Martha was wondering if Sam could complete the work on the house. “He hasn’t a clue – he’s only a gofer really.”

  Martha longed to ask more questions – like whether Sam had a police record, whether he had ever been accused of anything – even as she thought of this, she felt it didn’t ring true – he had seemed so shy, so diffident . . . She was roused from her thoughts by Ruby tugging her hair. “Ow!” she said playfully, remembering that Mary was watching her. She had to stay calm, stay as normal as possible. “Right, madam,” she said, a little too cheerfully. “Let’s get you in the car and get gone! Thanks again, Mary, for everything. I’ll be in touch.”

  With that, she turned and walked away hurriedly before Mary could ask her anything more. She needed to be away. From Shipton Abbey, Eyrie Farm and most of all her own thoughts.

  Chapter 22

  Eyrie Farm,

  Shipton Abbey,

  Norfolk,

  England

  February 1st 1954

  Dear Caroline,

  Here we are again, another St Brigid’s Day and another birthday for me. I can scarcely believe that I am eighteen today and that a full year has passed since first we arrived at Shipton Abbey, for we are still here.

  So much has changed, and so much has not changed since last I wrote down our tale. Not only are Marion and I still here in the countryside, but little baby Henry, now six months old, is still with us. We are still sure that he is to go to a loving home. Mrs Collins said that he is not too old to be adopted yet but that we should continue to take care of him.

  We would be lost without the advice of Mrs Collins. She has taken the place of Mammy, Lord rest her, in being the person to tell us what to do. I say us, but Marion, to be truthful, isn’t as interested in Henry as she should be.

  Now, Henry eats little bits of the food that we eat – I mash potatoes and carrots together for him and he eats it and smacks his lips. And if I am stewing apples for myself and Marion, I give him a little as well and he smiles at me and holds his mouth open wide for more! It won’t be long before he asks for a knife and fork, I think!

  He still sleeps in my room with me. I put him on his tummy every night with a little bear the Mountfords gave him, which I have called Ted, for company, and I sing him a little lullaby before he drifts off to sleep. He is very good and only cries once or twice in the night and once I rub his little back and sing a little song to him he settles off back to sleep, to be ready for another day’s adventures.

  We still have not heard from Daddy, but that is only to be expected, I suppose, with my mother’s loss so recent. There isn’t a day goes by, Caroline, that I don’t think of her and wish that she could just see Henry – Daddy too, for he would fall in love with him in an instant and bring us all home to be together as a family.

  Mr Mountford calls to us every now and again which is good. He always brings us a little gift, some butter, or some fresh eggs from the hens at his farm. The extra food is helpful for us now that Henry is eating more than just his bottles.

  I know that rationing must be nearly over, thank God, but sometimes Daddy hasn’t remembered to send us money and I have to keep a very tight fist on our budget. I have to hide what little money we have because Marion would have it spent on stockings or material to make dresses – or sweets. She is a devil for the sweets all the same and has got very fat since Henry came along. I have had to let out her skirts and I fear I will have to ask Daddy for money soon to make her some new ones.

  Of course with no word of Henry’s adoption, there is also no word of us going home so I fear we are living day to day here in England. We had Christmas here of course, just the three of us. Mr Mountford very kindly made us a present of a chicken which I cooked here for us, and we had some of the vegetables that I sowed last spring – to think that I thought we would never be here to harvest them!

  I managed to put enough money by to give Marion a gift of some hair-ribbons, and I made Henry a rattle toy with some buttons and a little box that Mrs Collins brought me. Marion didn’t have gifts for us but, after all that she went through to have Henry and her long and difficult recovery, I don’t suppose she had the time to sort something out for us. She did buy herself some pretty hairpins though, when she went to the village after New Year’s. I suppose she deserved to treat herself after months in Granny Flynn’s cast-offs.

  Of course, New Year! I almost forgot to tell you that Marion and I went to a party for New Year – my first one ever! Robert Mountford came to call one day before Christmas in a brand-new motor car (it seems all the Mountford children have their own, save for Charles who will get one at his next birthday, Robert tells me) with proper invitations for us. Of course I said first that I could not go but that Marion should go and I would stay behind to take care of Henry. When I showed him to the door, however, Robert said that he was especially concerned that I should attend the party and that he had already arranged that Mrs Collins should watch little Henry so that we could celebrate 1954. Well, I was shocked and pleased, Caroline, I can tell you. And what’s more, Robert then handed me an envelope of money that he said Daddy had sent to Mr Mountford so that we could have new party dresses. I thought this odd, I must confess, that Daddy had not sent the money direct to us as he does with our housekeeping, but I didn’t question it. I also put a little aside for a rainy day for there was an awful lot of money there, but I didn’t tell Marion of course.

  To make it even better, Robert then promised to come back in his motor car for us the very next day to take us to Bickford, which is a big town nearby, so that we could buy our dresses. I then did a very devious thing and didn’t tell Marion where I was going. If she had come with us, then she would have spent every penny and more on herself and I was determined to have a new party dress – is that wrong of me? – for my first ever proper party. Instead of waiting at the door for Robert, I wrapped Henry up warm and left Marion with strict instructions to feed him and change his nappy, and then I went out onto the road to meet Robert where she could not see me. Oh, Caroline, what a lovely day we had! I bought two bolts of cloth for us, one in red for Marion and one in green for me, with matching ribbons, and there was even enough money for us to get some new shoes. I have become better at sewing, I must admit, and with Mrs Collins’ help I was sure I could make us beautiful party dresses in time for New Year’s Eve!

  Then Robert took me to a little café for tea and cakes – I could scarcely contain my excitement at the delicious cream tea that we shared – that’s what yo
u call tea and scones with jam and cream in England, it would appear. I ate so much that I was stuffed and Robert thought it very funny that for such a skinny thing as I am, I could manage three scones to myself, and four cups of tea. It was dark when he dropped me back at Eyrie Farm but what a wonderful day it had been – what laughs we had – I hadn’t laughed so much since you and I were together, Caroline, a lifetime ago.

  I asked Robert to drop me in the lane outside – did I mention I had hidden the bike in some bushes so that Marion would think I was gone to the village on it? I have grown devious living with my sister! I also wanted to make sure that she didn’t forget about Henry and get up on the bike and cycle off to Shipton Abbey or anywhere else as she is wont to do. Anyway, Robert dropped me at the lane, and helped me take the bike from the bushes. I was embarrassed at first admitting my deceit but he roared with laughter and said I was a rock of sense, if a devious one at that, and then he looked me right in the eye and said that he couldn’t wait until New Year’s Eve. I, too, was very excited about the party. I told Marion that the bolts of cloth had been sent from Daddy in Dublin and she didn’t question me. She never writes to Daddy, I do all that, so she will never mention it to him till it is too late and then my defence for my deception is purely one of sound housekeeping which is something my father admires.

  Of course when I arrived home, poor Henry hadn’t been fed and had dirtied his nappy. The poor little mite was screaming blue murder and Marion had put him in his cot and shut the door of my room so as to read her book in peace. I despair of her sometimes and wonder if her lack of interest in her son is purely as a defence so that she isn’t too sad when he is taken away. It must be an awful burden for a mother to bear, but sometimes I see a coldness in her eyes when she sees me feed him or play with him that leads me to believe she doesn’t care. Is that possible? God knows I thought that she would get sense the minute he arrived but I think I was wrong on that front as well – she spends so much time on that bike, gallivanting and disappearing for hours. Then she won’t tell me where she’s been . . .