“Riding? He went back to work at the stables?”
“No, he was riding his bike. Unmistakably his—all painted with fluorescent colours, with his initials everywhere. Afraid of getting it stolen, I suppose.” He laughed. “In a place like this, too. Still, rather typical of him.”
“Was there any further trouble with him and Timpson?”
“When De Freyne got back? No, I don’t think so. It was all very much in the past then.”
I thought of Jean Timpson’s reaction when I had asked if she knew of De Freyne’s whereabouts. And it had been obvious that for her, certainly, it wasn’t all very much in the past . . .
“How?” I asked, “could he have such colossal nerve—to come back to a place where he’d caused so much trouble?”
“Yes . . . It’s not easy to understand some people, is it?”
“It must have been a pretty unhappy situation for Jean Timpson—to have him back here, practically under her nose.”
“It was, I think. At that time I believe she’d just started to work for your sister-in-law—before she was your sister-in-law, I mean—but when De Freyne showed up, and stayed, Jean left. She didn’t go back till he’d gone.”
“He was a painter also,” I said, remembering. “I suppose he was working there at the cottage—at his painting.”
“I don’t know. Probably.”
“Maybe he was a freeloader.”
“A what?”
“A sponger.”
“Ah . . .” He nodded. “Anyway, he wasn’t there that long. Not before your brother came on the scene. And certainly not for very long afterwards.”
“Was he—Helen’s lover, do you think . . . ?” That, I thought, could account for the ill-feeling between him and Colin; which in turn could account for their fight, and then De Freyne’s sudden departure.
“I told you before,” Reese said. “All I know is that he was there.” He clearly didn’t see any point in going on with it. He had his own question to ask. Which he did:
“Did you mean what you told me earlier on?”
“What was that . . . ?”
“About Jean. You made some—some rather wild accusations.”
I avoided his gaze. “I was in a rather wild state,” I mumbled.
“Yes . . .” And then he smiled suddenly, reached out and shook my hand. “Go on home and get some rest. It’s been a rough day, with one thing and another, hasn’t it?”
“You could say that.” I smiled at his understatement.
He turned, ready to go on his way. “Anyway, Shelagh—Jean—they’ll both be all right. I don’t think you need have any further worries.”
On the coffee-table I found my drink where I had so angrily placed it just before Jean Timpson’s visit. I topped it up and added more ice. I needed a drink. Badly.
I sat down in my armchair and I thought about Shelagh. And then I thought about Jean Timpson.
I had driven her to try to kill herself. The sound of the words I had hurled at her came back to me, re-echoing in my brain. When I lifted my glass I saw all the snags in my flesh, over my wrist and hand; from my scramble through the hedgerows; from the roses Jean Timpson had brought, the roses I had snatched from her hand and dashed to the ground. I must have been mad to have attacked her in such a way.
But even so, that thought, that realisation didn’t mean that I had been wrong in the reasoning that had led to my outburst. My conclusions had been the only ones possible for me to reach. Jean Timpson had a sad, sad story behind her, but I couldn’t allow that to affect my interpretation of the evidence I had . . .
When my drink was finished I poured myself another. Although I hadn’t eaten since breakfast I didn’t in the least feel like facing food. I was totally disorientated. I was drinking too much, too, that was clear. Looking out I saw that the day had begun to die, the shadows were lengthening on the lawn. Could so much have happened in a single day?
Near my left hand was the little knight on his charger. I picked it up, turned it over in my scratched fingers. It was a beautiful piece of work. But there, everything I had seen of Helen’s had been exquisite.
The drink and the events of the day fostered my melancholy and I reflected how even the sorrow of their deaths—Colin’s and Helen’s—was no longer a clean sorrow. Not now. I didn’t now even have the comforting thought that while they had been together they had been happy. I had thought so once. But now it was different. There had been the phone call . . . and also the gossip that he had become involved with Elizabeth Barton . . . And what about the missing photographs . . . ?
I wanted Shelagh with me. Without her, alone, my inclination was to curl up in a foetal position and take, in sleep, refuge from all the problems, the questions that gyrated in my head. I wouldn’t sleep, though. I couldn’t. Those same problems and questions would see to that.
I had told Shelagh that I was through with all the probing, all the wondering. But how could I be? My brother had been accused of murder for gain, and while that calumny hovered over his head I knew I would find no real rest. Yet how I could set about disproving it was beyond me. There was a story there somewhere—and probably a simple story—if I could only find it; if I could only get to the beginning of it, and unravel it, thread by thread.
I must, I told myself, try to find out more about Helen, about her relationship with Colin. And I must find out, too, just how Elizabeth Barton fitted into the story. Yes, I would see her again. And this time I wouldn’t be put off. And De Freyne, too; I had to see him as well—even if only to eliminate him from the puzzle. But how would I find him? He seemed to be something of a drifter. All I knew was that a year ago, after a quarrel with my brother, he had left the cottage for London. And since that time there had been no word or sign of him . . .
When my glass was empty I set it down and went out into the garden. I wandered under the arch into the thicket and made my way to the little clearing where the summer-house had been. I sat on the stone bench for a while and smoked a cigarette. Here, next to the remains of the original foundations was Colin’s marked out plot for the summer-house he had planned to build for Helen. So why had he stopped? Was it time that had run out on him? Or was it indeed his love for Helen . . . ? No, not the latter. Such conjecture was dangerous, and faithless to his memory. Think about something else, I admonished myself—or, rather, do something.
And the idea came to me: just the other night I had sat here with Shelagh, at her side on this bench. “You shall have your summer-house,” I had told her. I thought of her lying there in her hospital bed, bruised and shaken. And she would have her summer-house.
Yes. Tomorrow I would see some local builder and present him with Colin’s plans, and in the meantime, now, I could clear the area and remake Colin’s beginning.
In spite of the fading light I fetched tools from the shed and set to work. I found that the earth was loosely packed; Colin’s digging had obviously been thorough. I was glad; it made my work, now, much easier.
As I worked I was aware of the sounds of approaching night all around me. Leaves rustled with a different sound, crickets chirped and somewhere, deeper in the thicket, a nightingale sang.
It was getting more and more difficult to see clearly what I was doing now. But I kept on. And through it all my thoughts went time and time again to dwell on Colin and Helen. I couldn’t get away from them. Would I ever?
The hard, resisting object against which I slammed my spade jarred my arm up to my shoulder. I struck down again, a little to the side, but it was still there, beneath the surface. I crouched, peering down in the gloom. Taking a stick I poked about until at last I had cleared away enough of the soil to see what lay buried there.
A skull it was I’d struck.
21
Mouth instantly dry, my lips opened, whispered, “Oh, Jesus Christ . . .” and I straightened up, feeling myself go cold, feeling the sweat suddenly chill on my panting body. I trembled.
Taking a deep
breath I forced myself to crouch low again and picked up the stick where I had let it fall. Raking away with it, hands shaking, I uncovered the grotesque head still with traces of skin stretched tight across the bone. There were bits of hair, too; it adhered disgustingly to my fingers and I shuddered, shaking it free. I unearthed more of the body and felt the texture of decayed clothing. One hand, disturbed by my work, shifted and stuck up through the soil, fingers curled, beckoning. And then my own fingers brushed and held a squarish object which, when I’d rubbed the soil from it, turned out to be a bicycle lamp. It was pitted with rust, but even in the dim light I could still make out the bold initials emblazoned on the patterned paintwork: ADF.
De Freyne, De Freyne, De Freyne, my mind was shouting. Dropping the lamp—as if it were red-hot—back into the trough of earth I covered it up again.
I stood up, turned away. All around me the woodland seemed to have undergone a change; I wasn’t aware of it till now. I knew it must only be the result of my imagination, and I told myself as much, but I reacted as if it were real. It was as if my senses were suddenly tuned only to that which was dark, unknowable, shutting out the sweetness of the coming night. Was that nightingale still singing? I don’t know; I wasn’t aware of it. I was aware only of malevolence and menace—in every pale-grey shadow; heard whispered voices in the rustling leaves, and when the breeze was stilled even the silence turned to shriek.
I mustn’t be afraid, I told myself. There was nothing to be afraid of . . . I began to spade the earth back into the shallow grave, covering everything that was there. And I couldn’t pause until the last scattering of soil had been thrown down, patted down—until there was nothing left to see but a mound of newly-turned earth. Only then, leaving the spade and fork behind me did I walk away—back consciously straight, head up—back towards the house, the kitchen.
At the table I sat and rested my head in my dirt-smeared hands, hearing nothing but the drip of the cold water tap, and the moths as they moved to the light, driven, their flight paths as inescapable as destiny. I found myself wincing as, without rest, they flung themselves against the glass.
I had to have a drink. I poured myself a large scotch. Then another, and another. And I continued to sit there while the cigarette-butts and the grey scum of ash filled and overflowed the ash-tray. It began to rain. I went to the door and stood looking out, seeing in the light from the doorway the raindrops pelting down, bouncing up from the flags of the pathway. No stars were visible, nor the moon—only the darkness where the rainclouds hung low. Against my ankles Girlie brushed her smoothness, pushed her nose out into the damp air and withdrew it again, going back to her basket beneath the window. She curled up, slept. I, too, I told myself, must sleep . . .
But not yet . . .
Closing the door on the rain I carried my glass and the bottle of scotch into the living-room. Sleep could wait. I sat in my armchair and thought again of my discovery. Who, I asked myself, had killed De Freyne? And why?
He had not been popular, that much was certain. And there were those who’d had cause to positively hate him . . . Jean Timpson and her father, for instance . . .
Alan De Freyne had been the cause of great unhappiness for Jean Timpson. She’d even refused, when he’d returned to the cottage, to continue with her work here; and she’d only agreed to come back once he was gone . . . Did she know then that he had gone for good . . . ?
But was Jean Timpson physically capable of such an act—albeit she might have wished him dead? Of course she could have lured him somehow to the thicket and killed him there, on the spot. Her task would have been relatively easy then. And the clearing in the thicket was well away from the house so there wasn’t much chance of discovery while she was burying his body . . . Then was it she . . . ? Bill Carmichael had told him that she had spent time in a mental home, and I already had ample evidence of the strange workings of her mind where Shelagh was concerned. I had only to think of the razor-blades, the splinter of glass and the business with the horse . . .
My thoughts took me further, still further . . . If Jean Timpson had killed De Freyne, and if she had actually tried to kill Shelagh, then was it not possible—likely, even—that she might have been directly concerned in Helen’s death . . . ? Perhaps in one respect the anonymous telephone-caller had been correct—Helen’s death had not been an accident. It could be. Jean Timpson had had opportunity there; there was only her word for it that she had been inside the house at the time of Helen’s fall . . .
But there, on the other hand, it was also possible that the old man Timpson had killed De Freyne. He had fought with him all those years ago. Threats had been issued. And it was possible that those threats hadn’t been as empty as people had believed. Had he somehow got De Freyne into the thicket, killed him and hidden his body there . . . ?
My mind was full, crowded with images, words, thoughts and memories. I closed my eyes, leaned back against the soft cushions and gave myself up to the turmoil inside me. It was as if my brain was a receptacle, slowly revolving, in which those images, fragmented thoughts turned over, one upon the other, like coloured pebbles in a stone-polisher’s drum.
There was one other possibility. Apart from Jean Timpson and her father. And that was that Colin had killed De Freyne. But that was a possibility I couldn’t, wouldn’t consider, not for more than a second.
I got up and moved over to the sofa, kicked off my shoes and put my feet up. My head was spinning, and still the thoughts went on, turning over and over.
I awoke with the sunlight streaming in on me. It took me a second or two to realise that I was still downstairs, still on the sofa.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” Shelagh said.
I leaned down, kissed her gently on the mouth, and asked myself why did I concern myself so much with the dead. She had escaped it—death, and that was enough to keep me going through anything.
She was still decked out in the bandage and sticking plaster, but her bright, warm smile was new, and so welcome after the image I’d kept of her since the previous day. I put my armful of roses on the bedside locker and took her hand.
“You look just fine,” I said. I sat down on the chair beside her bed.
“I am fine. And I’ll feel even better when they let me out of here.” She paused. “Supposing they don’t let me out by Saturday—what happens?”
“The licence is valid for three months, so we can make a new appointment any time.”
She sighed, smiled, lying back on the pillow while I held her hand and looked at her. Into the restful silence a nurse came, took up the roses—“Let’s find something to put these in . . .” and went away. She returned a few minutes later with them arranged in a tall vase which she placed carefully on the locker. After giving the flowers a few last little touches of artistry she gave us a smile and a nod and went as quietly as she had come.
“They’re beautiful, the roses,” Shelagh said. “And the scent is so sweet.”
I didn’t want to get my thoughts sidetracked by other things, but with her words I just started thinking of the roses I had found on the pillow—and then of course came other thoughts—of the glass, the razor-blades, the horse rearing up and taking off on its death-headed flight across the fields. And so to the body of De Freyne . . . And Yes, my mind said, it had to be Jean Timpson . . .
“What are you thinking about?” Shelagh asked.
“. . . You . . .”
I stopped at the cemetery on my way home. All peace and tranquillity under the one o’clock sun. And that same peace was there at their graveside. I was aware of it, the peace, and wished I could have some of it inside my head.
I realised suddenly that I would have to sell the cottage. I knew I could never be content there now. Not while that body lay out in the thicket. Not while Jean Timpson lived so close by, a constant reminder of all that had happened . . .
It was the only answer. I’d never be free of it all until Shelagh and I were gone, away from it all. And
until that time came I must shut it out of my mind. Everything. The phone call, De Freyne, Elizabeth Barton, Jean Timpson . . . Yes, her most of all. But there was no need for me ever to set eyes on her again—and with luck I never would . . .
At the hospital that evening Shelagh told me that Bill Carmichael had been to see her. So had Mrs. Stoner from the stables.
“I feel so bad about that beautiful horse,” Shelagh said. There were tears in her eyes. “Mrs. Stoner was so good about it. Me—I’d want to kill me.”
“Don’t talk like that.” I followed up my words with a quick smile, trying to dilute the sharpness of my tone.
When it was time for me to go I said, “I’ll be back in the morning. Is there anything I can bring you?”
“You could bring me a good book.”
“Right. I’ll bring you a good book. Your usual taste, and nothing to get you too excited; just sex, lust, rape, mayhem——”
“And murder,” she finished for me. Murder . . . the word had stuck in my throat . . .
I kissed her and turned to go. From behind me her voice called softly:
“You could bring me some more flowers, too, if you like.”
I followed her eyes to the vase of roses on the locker. Already they were wilting, dying . . .
In the corridor the young red-haired, white-coated doctor came to me and told me he thought Shelagh would be fit enough to leave in time for our wedding.
“Can I tell her?”
“Wait till we’re sure—on Friday. Then there won’t be any chance that she’ll be disappointed.”
Tomorrow, I decided, I would go and see Mr. Jennersen at the bank; get him to set about selling the cottage for me when Shelagh and I had returned to New York. I knew it was the only thing to be done, yet I dreaded the step. I sat in the living-room with my scotch-on-the-rocks and found it almost impossible to imagine that the day would soon come when I would leave this place forever. I loved the cottage. The warmth I had felt on that day was still here. It was all around me . . . But it couldn’t change what had happened. That body in the thicket was still there, and nothing could change my knowledge of that . . .
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