‘I don’t know,’ said Ballard, grimly, ‘but I’m going to do my best to find out.’
‘Because if it is,’ Muriel Curtin’s face was creased with anxiety, ‘well, I’m – I mean, we are – his next of kin, aren’t we? And I can’t just leave him, not after … You don’t think he had anything to do with Rosemary’s death, do you? I don’t mean killing her, but … It’s probably talking out of turn, but you said that you were looking for Mrs Carroll, so if she’s a … a criminal of some sort … then … well, presumably they’re looking after him at this place, but …’
Ballard reached across the table and patted her hand. ‘I do understand, Mrs Curtin. I shall be looking into it, and we will keep you informed, I promise you.’
‘We thought we’d done the right thing when he was a baby, but …’ She shook her head, tight-lipped. ‘I couldn’t imagine – well, I didn’t want to imagine – what Rosemary must have been feeling all those years, but when I saw that room … I just want to do the right thing by him, that’s all. Him and Rosemary.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
After making a note to ask Parsons first thing tomorrow about getting hold of a copy of Billy’s birth certificate and finding out whether the US army had any record of a serviceman called Carroll who’d married an Englishwoman in 1945, Ballard drove slowly and thoughtfully out of Ipswich and home through the dark, narrow lanes.
Mary Milburn was a loose cannon, all right, but somehow he didn’t think that she’d acted on a mere whim in taking Billy from Mrs Aylett. If what had happened with Dr Slater was anything to go by, the woman tended to have a purpose to her actions, no matter how illogical or bizarre it might seem to others. But what that purpose might have been, he couldn’t imagine. What if Lloyd were the writer of Rosemary Aylett’s anonymous letter? If he was, then he’d somehow managed to discover the boy Michael’s true origins.
It was possible, Ballard supposed, that Mary might have told Lloyd that she’d taken Billy and brought him to the Foundation under the name of Michael, but given her apparent disinclination for telling the truth that too seemed unlikely. Besides, the last thing she’d want was for Michael to be revealed as just an ordinary kid. Presumably Roth had spotted Michael’s ‘specialness’ early on, and that, in turn, had conferred status on her. Could she, perhaps, have started off by colluding in the Michael mythology, and ended up actually believing it? Ballard supposed that stranger things must have happened, although he couldn’t, at that moment – driving past farmyard walls in dripping, dung-scented darkness – think of any.
They hadn’t asked the students at the Foundation about Michael – no reason to – but Ballard suspected that if they had, their questions would have been met, despite all the bright intensity, with guarded responses. In a place where the very air was thick with significance, Michael’s divinity would, Ballard was sure, be the most significant thing of all: proof to the students that they were following the true path and had access to something extra special that was denied to others by their inferiority or ignorance. That they considered themselves superior, he had no doubt – with Michael, of course, the most superior of all. People have killed to preserve their status before now, thought Ballard, and Mary/Ananda’s status depended on Michael’s …
If Lloyd’s manuscript had existed, then it might have contained information blowing the whistle on the pair of them. Mary/ Ananda might have been able to get to London to kill him, and removed and destroyed the manuscript in order to keep it quiet, and she might have killed Rosemary Aylett, too, if she’d encountered her. Or Lloyd could have told Mary/Ananda that he’d sent the letter and they could expect a visit, couldn’t he? Roth would have had good reason to want the manuscript suppressed, too – and he’d hardly have welcomed Rosemary … Did he have so much power over his students that they would kill in order to protect him and the Foundation? It was hard to imagine any one of that almost absurdly genteel bunch murdering somebody, but that didn’t make it impossible. If only we could find the bloody woman, he thought, crunching the gears as he turned off the village’s main road and into the lane that led to his house.
*
‘You didn’t tell me Inspector Stratton was here.’ Pauline, up to her elbows in washing-up, was clattering the dishes with unnecessary violence. She’d been spiky all through supper, monosyllabic and challenging by turns. Now, Katy was in bed and Ballard, cloth in hand, was waiting to dry the supper things, feeling – as he had all evening – waves of something a lot like hostility and doing his best to ignore them. Silence, he’d decided, was the best policy. All his attempts at conversation, however banal, had so far placed him immediately and absolutely in the wrong. Now, Pauline’s tone was positively accusing, as if he’d deliberately concealed something from her – which, of course, he had, although he wasn’t really sure why he’d done it.
‘I didn’t think you’d be all that interested.’
‘Well, I am. He’s been asking questions at the Foundation, hasn’t he? About that man who was killed in London.’
‘Heavens.’ Ballard kept his tone light. ‘News does travel fast.’
‘I read about the man in the paper, and I do occasionally talk to people – the ones who’ll speak to me, anyway. And then there was that woman killed in the wood …’
‘Yes, but that’s nothing to do with Stratton’s inquiry,’ said Ballard, ‘at least, not at the moment.’
‘Well, it’s all over the village, anyway. And about the one who’s disappeared and had her picture in all the papers. Not that anyone’s thought to ask me about it, of course.’
Ballard remembered what Mary/Ananda had said about meeting Pauline out walking, but an obscure fear that he’d somehow give himself away made him say, ‘Why, did you know her?’
‘Yes.’ Pauline banged a plate onto the wooden drying rack. ‘As a matter of fact, I did.’
‘Oh?’
‘I met her at the Foundation.’
‘Did you? But …’ Ballard stopped himself. This definitely wasn’t the time to contradict her. Instead, he asked, ‘What were you doing there?’
‘I went to a few talks. They do these introductory courses. Anyone who’s interested can go along.’
Vaguely recalling that he’d seen a notice to this effect in the village shop, Ballard said, ‘I didn’t know you’d done that.’
Another plate crashed into the rack. ‘Well, you didn’t ask.’
Deciding to let this go, Ballard said, ‘What did you think of it?’
‘It was interesting. They’re nice people. Kind. They’re not all posh types who sit about being self-indulgent, you know. They’re up at dawn, and they work really hard – cooking and cleaning and gardening. They’re even going to build a new wing themselves. And you can talk to them.’
Passing over the implication that she couldn’t talk to him, Ballard said, ‘What did you talk about?’
‘That’s not important.’
‘You’re making it sound as if it is.’
‘What I mean is, they don’t have any stupid ideas about me being the wife of a policeman and therefore the enemy.’
‘Unlike some of the people in the village, you mean.’
‘Yes. And it’s peaceful there. It’s … good.’
‘Inspector Stratton found it a bit creepy.’
‘He would.’
Ballard was taken aback by this. Pauline, so far as he knew, had always liked Stratton. ‘It was just his impression,’ he said. ‘And I have to say I thought they were a pretty rum lot myself.’
‘But you only talked to them about one thing, so you’re not really in a position to judge, are you?’ She narrowly missed his hand with the upended teapot, spraying him with water. ‘You’re just accusing them of things when you don’t know anything about them.’
‘No one’s accused them of anything, Pauline. Did you meet the leader, Mr Roth?’
‘Not yet, but they’re always talking about him. I suppose you think he’s done something awful, too.’ A gla
ss crashed against the edge of the sink, hard enough to break. Taking a step back, he said, ‘What’s all this about, anyway?’
‘We never talk properly any more. We can’t seem to have a conversation without it turning into a row.’
‘I wasn’t the one who started it.’
‘I didn’t say you did. Now you’re just being childish.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ Ballard threw down his drying-up cloth. ‘I’ve had enough of this. Are you going to tell me what it’s about, or aren’t you?’
‘I’m trying to! The teacher at the Foundation said that we’re all – all of us – tangled up in our own little worlds, and we don’t communicate properly or honestly or anything, so we go round and round in circles and we don’t say anything that matters because we’re full of preconceived ideas, and that’s how wars start, people getting the wrong ideas about each other, and it’s true, isn’t it?’
‘Are you saying I’ve got the wrong ideas about you?’
Pauline took her hands out of the soapy water and rested her arms on the edge of the sink. ‘It’s not just about you and your ideas, you know.’
‘Clearly a lot of it is, or you wouldn’t be angry with me.’
‘Oh …’ Pauline sighed, flicking her fingers at the soapsuds, the momentum of her anger gone. ‘I don’t know. It all seemed so clear when she said it, and when she was talking about the ideas we have about ourselves – what kind of people we are – but trying to explain it now …’ Pauline shook her head. ‘I’ve been thinking about it for the last few days—’
‘Since the lecture?’
‘Yes. And I thought that if I could just get rid of the wrong ideas and not worry or have negative thoughts, everything would be all right – because that makes sense, doesn’t it? It ought to work, and I really felt as if it would – I was sure. But then this morning – after you left—’ She stopped, tugging at the pushed-up sleeve of her cardigan for her handkerchief and dabbing her eyes frantically.
‘What happened this morning?’
‘I got the curse. I was so positive, this time. I even felt pregnant. The teacher at the Foundation was telling us how the mind affects everything – the subtle world, she called it – she said it governs the physical world and if we think the right thoughts we’ll be in tune with nature and know our true selves. I’ve never heard anyone say anything like that before, and it made so much sense, but …’ The next few words were lost as Pauline blew her nose violently and turned to look at him with damp, red-rimmed eyes.
Ballard, who had managed to follow some, if not all, of this, said, as gently as he could, ‘I don’t think mind over matter is quite as simple as that.’
‘You think I’m being stupid, don’t you?’ Pauline glared at him. ‘About wanting another baby. You don’t understand it.’
‘No,’ said Ballard. ‘I don’t. I mean, it would be nice … lovely … if we had another child, but it won’t be the end of the world if it doesn’t happen. And if you want a positive thought, what about Katy? We’re lucky to have her – some couples can’t have children at all.’
‘Yes,’ snapped Pauline, ‘I know that. And of course I love Katy. I just … I can’t help it, Ben. I think about it all the time.’
‘You know,’ said Ballard, thinking about what Pauline had just said about the lectures she’d attended, ‘that business about people having the wrong ideas about themselves … Well, perhaps your idea of yourself having to be the mother of more than one child is wrong?’
‘So I’ve failed myself as well as everyone else, you mean?’
‘No, I don’t mean that at all.’ Ballard who a second before had been feeling rather pleased with himself, gave up trying to extricate himself and settled for a vehement shake of the head.
‘I have, though. You’ – here, Pauline held up a hand to forestall any argument – ‘and Katy as well. She was asking me the other day why she didn’t have brothers and sisters like the other children in her class.’
Ballard held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘I am sorry, Pauline. It’s hard for me to know what to say …’
Why was it so hard, he asked himself later. The rest of the evening had been spent circling each other at a wary distance, only volunteering the most anodyne of comments. He sat on in his armchair after Pauline had gone to bed, not wanting the proximity just yet. Part of it, he knew, was being ashamed – ashamed of not being more supportive to Pauline, ashamed of not being bothered about another baby; ashamed, too, of wishing the whole problem would just go away.
He knew he’d been distant and uncommunicative; knew, too, that Pauline felt isolated, which made it all the more unforgivable. No wonder she’d turned to the people at the Foundation. Although he’d worried about Pauline being lonely, it hadn’t occurred to him that she’d want to make new friendships – not deep ones, anyway. After you were married, he’d reasoned, you didn’t need them. You had each other, didn’t you? Or you were supposed to … Perhaps that wasn’t how it worked, after all.
He found himself wondering why Mary/Ananda had told him she’d met Pauline while out walking, and not at the Foundation. Perhaps it was just an example of the mysteriousness they all seemed to go in for, or perhaps Pauline had asked her not to tell him – or perhaps Mary/Ananda, a compulsive liar, was simply acting true to form.
Driving away, by an almighty effort of will, a vivid and astonishingly arousing image of Mary/Ananda, skirt hiked up and straddling the stile, Ballard levered himself out of his armchair and, guilty and sheepish, went upstairs to join his wife.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Unable to sleep, and tired of staring into the dark and listening to Pauline’s breathing, Ballard went downstairs, made himself a pot of tea, and, thinking he might as well do something useful, sat at the kitchen table and began writing down the sequence of Mary/Ananda’s doings that he’d managed to piece together so far. At the end of half an hour, he had:
20th December 1943 – Mary/Ananda gives birth to Tom (assuming T is her child!)
21st December 1944 – Rosemary Aylett gives birth to Billy
17th May 1945 – Death of Revd Milburn
Around 22nd May 1945 – Mary/Ananda leaves Tom with Mrs Wheeler
Around 17th August 1945 – Mary/Ananda ‘adopts’ Billy, saying she’s married to an American serviceman called Carroll
Some time in early 1948 – Mary/Ananda and Billy arrive at the Foundation (B. would have been 3 years old)
5th November 1956 – Rosemary Aylett comes to find Billy and is killed
If Mary/Ananda had become desperate for a baby three months after she’d abandoned her own, why not simply go back and get him? Why go to the bother of finding another one? Unless, he thought, looking at Tom and Billy’s respective birth dates, it was to do with the age of the child … If Mary/Ananda was worried that somebody might find out she’d done away with Milburn (or caused his death by neglecting him), then she might well target an American serviceman in the hope of becoming a GI bride – America was nicely far away from gossip and suspicion (not to mention Dr Slater) after all … And what better way to ensure a hasty marriage than claiming to be pregnant? Presumably she was having an affair with this Carroll while Milburn was still alive – Stratton had said the neighbours in Woodbridge had told him how she was always going to the American dances …
If Carroll had gone away to fight in Europe, he wouldn’t have realised that she’d never been pregnant, and it was hard to tell the age of a baby just by looking at it. He might have accepted a one-year-old baby – Billy – as being younger, but by almost two, which was Tom’s age in November ’45, they were beginning to stagger about and say things, weren’t they? Mrs Curtin had said she thought Mary/Ananda was pregnant, although she hadn’t looked it. She must have been mistaken, thought Ballard, because, as she’d said herself, it made no sense at all.
Perhaps Mary/Ananda had married Carroll and gone to America with him but the marriage had failed and she’d returned home with the child.
What had Stratton told him after he’d been to see the chap at the Psychical Research place? Thumbing through his notebook, he found: Thorley unable to find Mary M. when reinvestigating Lincott Rectory haunting in ’46. Slater’s sister said MM was GI bride. Mary/Ananda arriving at the Foundation in early ’48 would make sense if she’d been to the States and then returned.
Ballard went into the hall and took the photograph of Rosemary Aylett that Jennifer Allardyce had given to him out of his coat pocket. It showed an attractive woman posed in front of a rail on a promenade somewhere, the sea behind her and the wind ruffling dark hair about a smiling face. Rosemary, who’d been married to grumpy old Bert, and who’d liked romances and Frankie Howerd. Who’d salted away bits of the housekeeping for years to buy a boy’s treasure trove for her long-lost son. He thought of Katy, snuggled asleep upstairs with her golliwogs Sammy and Topsy beside her, and remembered when she was born, Pauline’s fierce, protective love for her. He’d felt the same, but not, he knew, with the same intensity. Ballard studied the photograph again. It broke her heart, having to give him away … Such love, he thought. All this belief, Mrs Curtin had said. All this hope. Everything she must have felt as she’d set out, armed with an anonymous letter, a photograph and a birth certificate, to try to reclaim her Billy. She and Lloyd were linked by the Foundation, and – if Lloyd were the writer of the letter, by Mary/Ananda and Billy/Michael, too. It was possible, Ballard reasoned, that Rosemary Aylett’s death was an accident, but, if so, why had whoever killed her taken her handbag and gone through her pockets? Robbery could be a motive, he supposed, but it seemed equally, if not more, likely that whoever killed her had wanted to conceal her identity. Was that to make sure that there was no possible link to the Foundation? And if Lloyd had written the letter, might the two of them not have been killed by the same person – someone who was desperate for Michael’s true origins not to be revealed? The obvious candidate was Mary/Ananda who – according to Dr Slater, anyway – had killed once before … And, judging from all he’d heard about her, she was ruthless enough … The one good thing about it, he supposed, was that if she were the murderer, she wasn’t likely to attack Michael, because that would be killing the goose that laid the golden eggs.
A Willing Victim Page 18