A Village in Jeopardy (Turnham Malpas 16)

by Shaw, Rebecca

  She couldn’t even think. She’d take two painkillers, see if that helped. She deliberately chose to use chilled water from the fridge to help swallow them and to cool her raging heart. After another half hour crouched in the chair, her face hidden in her hands, and the painkillers beginning to soothe the pressure in her skull, Alice forced her hands away from her face and sought to answer her own questions.

  What had she left of life? Nothing. An appalling tremble took possession of her limbs that no amount of self-control could stop. This was a night when, if anyone at all crossed her, she – and she was a pacifist through and through – could deliberately set about killing them by cold-bloodedly slashing their throats. Would Johnny be her victim or Marcus . . . or both?

  With her mind swamped with murderous thoughts, the trembling slowed. All the crime dramas she’d ever watched on TV paraded through her consciousness, so when Marcus thundered down the stairs shouting, she was completely unaware, as though the real world had spun into space and left her the only person alive, curled in her favourite chair, paralysed.

  ‘Alice! Alice! Where are you?’ Marcus called.

  She heard him rush into the sitting room, calling her name up the stairs out the back door, again and again and again. The excitement in his voice was obvious. She’d never heard him so elated since . . .

  ‘There you are! I’ve had an email from a publisher asking me to let them have the full manuscript of Killer at Large. They want to see it! Isn’t it wonderful?’

  Seeing as he was all she had left now, Alice summoned every ounce of her strength in an attempt to match his excitement.

  She sat slowly upright in the chair. ‘That’s marvellous. Best not get our hopes too high, just in case.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand. They say “with a view to publication”. They’re lyrical about it, full of praise! Here, read it. Read it.’

  Alice felt the piece of paper being thrust into her hand, automatically looked down to read it, but the printing was a blur so she made a pretence of reading it.

  ‘That’s wonderful! At last!’

  ‘I knew I’d make it one day. See here, look, they’re saying about the possibility of me writing a trilogy! I’ve known all along I was on to a good thing with this novel. Something about it, you know, something special.’ He grabbed her shoulders and squeezed them tightly. ‘At last it hasn’t all been in vain. Now they can all stop mocking me, looking down their noses at me. Now it can be me doing the patronising. Aren’t you thrilled? Say something, woman!’

  She unwound her legs out of the chair and made the effort to stand up. ‘Shall we have a toast?’ How the glasses and the bottle of sparkling wine appeared on the kitchen table she’d no idea, but they did, because there they were and it certainly wouldn’t have been Marcus who’d got them out.

  ‘Well, I must say you don’t seem very thrilled. Can’t you summon something up to show how delighted you are at my success? You’re not envious, are you? You are! That’s why you’re so quiet. That’s just not fair. You’re my wife; you should be thrilled for me. Just think of the money! It could be millions! At last my just reward! All those hours struggling away in that damned attic, always short of money. Now comes my moment! Oh! Sparkling wine! That’s more like it!’

  Alice’s hand shook as she poured it out. ‘Here you are! To Marcus March’s success in the publishing world! At last!’ They clinked their glasses and Marcus saw how her hand trembled and he said with triumph in his voice, ‘You’re quiet because inside you’re absolutely thrilled. I feel humbled by that. I knew one day I would make you proud.’

  The wine made Alice’s head spin as she listened to Marcus going on and on about success, apparently completely forgetting that this had all happened before and come to nothing. She found his writing obscure, deeply depressing and very scary, but maybe that was what publishers demanded now, not a manuscript bright and uplifting, which was what she would have written. On and on he went, talking about publishers sitting at his feet praising his novels, worshipping at the altar that was Marcus March.

  ‘I say, Alice, do you think I should have a pseudonym? Something double-barrelled say, or Marcus something March? Or something completely different?’

  Alice didn’t answer. Unlike Marcus, she wasn’t seeing a room piled high with copies of his very first novel in a major London publisher’s office; she was seeing the look of horror she’d glimpsed in Johnny’s face.

  That night Marcus decided it was the night for making love. If they didn’t have a bit of hanky panky tonight, when would they, filled to the brim with success as he was? So he began his ritual that she knew led to making love and filled her with dread; it was a poor substitute for Johnny’s. She feigned her pleasure as she had done so often before, but this time it was grim because Marcus couldn’t step up to the plate. When he rolled on to his back angry because he’d failed, he blamed it on Alice. She turned on her side and finally allowed the bitterness of her situation to fully surface and crucify her.

  After an almost sleepless night Alice rose half an hour earlier than normal and showered, allowing the hot water to slough away her sorrow for a full ten minutes instead of the three she would have allowed herself had things been happier. She threw on a T-shirt and a pair of loose trouser bottoms, and heard in her head that hymn of national mourning, ‘Oh God, Our Help in Ages Past’. She went down the stairs, one stair, one note, one stair, one note till she reached the kitchen.

  Marcus rolled downstairs an hour later, kissed her on the top of her head and squeezed her shoulders.

  ‘I’m looking forward to today.’ He sat down to eat his breakfast determined not to allow last night’s disappointment spoil what could be the first day of his new life as an international author. So, Alice thought, this is what I am spending the rest of my life with. This self-obsessed man who cares for no one but himself, so convinced of his own brilliance in every aspect of his life. He’s going to be even more unbearable if his book is published. How could she possibly bear it another moment?

  Marcus broke the silence. ‘I’ve decided.’

  ‘Mmmm?’

  ‘I’m going up to London to hand my manuscript in personally and meet the people who will be dealing with it – make a big impression, you know, and be absolutely certain that it will be published exactly as I want it. I won’t tolerate any interference. It’s my book and it has to be done my way.’

  Alice answered him after a long thoughtful drink of her tea.

  ‘Has it occurred to you that they might have very different ideas from you of how they’ll deal with it? You know, this character doesn’t work well, or it would be better balanced if . . . after all, it is your first book.’

  ‘Pass the milk. Quite frankly I shan’t put up with it. It’s my book, I know I’ve got it right and I shall stick out for having it published how I want it done, just exactly as it is. They’ve no right to interfere.’

  ‘You seem to forget, Marcus, they will be paying you. And you, being new to publishing, might just have to fall in line with their thinking.’

  Marcus cleared his mouth of toast and said officiously, ‘Look, what do you know about publishing? I’ll tell you. Nothing. I shall have it my way. Full stop!’

  Alice stood her ground. ‘This will be my last word on the matter. You could find they have decided to change it as they have determined, and you, if you object, could find yourself without a publisher.’

  ‘Rubbish.’

  ‘They’re not a charity, Marcus. They’re in it to make money and they will have strong ideas on exactly how they will treat it. Don’t come home crying to me when they’ve turned you down. It’s happened before and it could happen again.’

  Marcus paused to look at her over the rim of his cup. ‘You have so little faith in me. I praise you for everything you do, but when it’s my turn for the limelight you’re scathing and practical. I was right: you are envious of me. I’m doing what I said I would and no one is going to stop me. I shall need money for L
ondon so watch our bank account – we don’t want to go into overdraft. I’ll go get dressed. Is my best shirt washed and ironed?’

  ‘Yes.’ Alice almost added ‘and good riddance to you’, but she didn’t. She needed to retain a measure of self-respect, though why she did she didn’t know, when all her life was being slowly destroyed by people who she had supposed loved her, and there was nothing she could do about it.

  While Marcus dressed she sat with her elbows on the kitchen table, hugging yet another mug of tea, wondering what Johnny was doing at this very minute. She pictured him in that beautiful house that had been Sir Ralph’s with its new decorations, its brand-new kitchen, the inglenook fireplace in the sitting room fully restored. It had needed doing after the fire. That fire was all so terrible, with Muriel burned to death and Ralph dying so quickly afterwards from a broken heart. They’d been so very happy together. So had she, but where was all that now?

  Marcus came clattering down the stairs, his arrival in the hall impeded by his suitcase.

  ‘You’re going for a few days then?’

  ‘Of course. I can’t do it all in a day. There’ll be talks with marketing and publicity and editors. I’ve got to start as I mean to go on, up there in front, in charge.’

  ‘Perhaps that all comes later when the contract is signed. You forget they haven’t bought it yet; maybe a bit of appreciation might be a good idea.’

  ‘Alice! Where are you coming from? You haven’t the faintest idea how to go about getting a book published. You leave it all to me. I’m not having any book of mine ruined. You’ll see! Right, I’ve got my credit cards. Have you any cash, just till I get to a cash point?’

  ‘There’s a twenty-pound note in my purse.’

  ‘That’s not enough; you know the price of things in London.’

  She rummaged through her purse again and said, ‘I have another fiver, that’s all. You’ve cleaned me out.’

  ‘That’ll have to do. Wish me luck.’ He stuffed the notes into his wallet.

  ‘Good luck. I hope it all goes well.’

  ‘I’ve just thought, Alice. I don’t know how long I shall be away. I can’t leave the car in Culworth railway station for days. Give me a lift.’

  ‘I’m not dressed. You’ll have to wait – won’t be long.’

  Almost steaming with impatience Marcus said roughly, ‘Just pop your coat on over your pyjamas. You’re not getting out of the car; no one will notice.’

  Desperate to get him out of the house, she did as he said – her coat on, in the front passenger seat. They were off, with Marcus driving like a madman. How they reached Culworth Station without having a serious accident Alice didn’t know. She sat white-faced, gripping her seat as he overtook on bends and ignored speed limits: a journey that took half an hour on a quiet day took them twenty minutes in the early-morning traffic. Marcus dragged his case from the boot, waved a careless ‘goodbye’ and disappeared into the ticket office.

  Alice sighed with relief. She was glad to see him go. This wild confidence which had overtaken him didn’t bode well. He could very well come home with nothing and the whole process would start again. Money, of the kind Johnny had, interested her not at all, though she could see the advantages of it when she compared Marcus and Johnny. Marcus had no choices; Johnny had them all. If he wrote a book he could afford to publish it himself without thinking twice about it.

  Oh! Johnny! Where did we go wrong? She shuffled her legs around the gear lever to get into the driving seat and, as though she had called him up just by thinking of him, she saw him in the rear-view mirror. Getting out of a taxi right there behind her. The driver hefted two huge suitcases out, Johnny paid him and strode towards the station platforms, his gait barely affected by the weight of the cases. Two big heavy suitcases! That must mean he was going wherever he was going for a long time. Perhaps for ever. Alice felt as though she’d been winded by a heavy blow aimed right in her solar plexus. She tried sucking air into her lungs but that didn’t work, so she sat crippled by searing pain. God help us! Now what? The car windows were closed but she tried to shout ‘Johnny!’ at the top of her voice. She silently moaned, Please, please, Johnny, don’t go.

  Loud tooting alerted her; she was in the way. The car refused to start up, her tears blinded her, both legs refused to do as she wanted. In fact no part of her worked properly, not just her legs. Finally the engine fired and she stole slowly away, ravaged by grief.

  Alice drove all the way home like a somnambulist, holding up the traffic and not caring that she did.

  Chapter 5

  The news of Johnny’s abrupt departure had spread through Turnham Malpas by teatime that day. The news of Marcus’s departure took a while longer, but the significance of both their exits from the village was minutely examined in the Royal Oak.

  ‘They say a publisher has offered to buy his book, but with him never going anywhere how can he write books anyone would want to buy?’

  ‘How much will he get for a book, do you think?’

  Willie shook his head. ‘No idea. Could be millions; could be peanuts.’

  ‘The rector saw him setting off when he was coming back from his run, didn’t speak because Marcus drove out of the village so fast he couldn’t have caught ’em if he’d had wings,’ said Dottie. ‘She was with him, he said, so she must have gone to bring the car back.’

  ‘If he gets millions for it, I’ll eat my hat,’ Don ventured. ‘Can’t think how a man like him would write anything worth anything. He has one subject of conversation and that’s . . . him. If you talk to ’im it’s all about ’im and ’is writing, nothing else. A whole book about Marcus March! Huh!’

  Sylvia said, ‘He might surprise us all. Who knows what goes on in his head? I feel sorry for Alice – lovely talent she’s got; she could go far but she’s the one with the money to earn, slogging away teaching when she should be flying high singing in important places.’

  Maggie hunched herself over the table so they could hear her more easily and whispered, ‘I reckon he’s a bully.’

  ‘No! Do you think so, really?’ they all said in unison.

  ‘Sometimes in the summer I go out my bottom garden gate and feed the geese at night before they go to sleep, and one time, May or June time it was when the nights are light, I heard him having a right go at her. Shouting and carrying on. I’m not saying he hits her – how could anyone, her being such a lovely girl, well . . . woman. I couldn’t hear her saying a word, even though she has that powerful voice, her being a singer like she is. I reckon he’s on the nasty side.’

  ‘He’s full of himself, that’s for certain, but he’s so boring! Never going anywhere, never talking to anyone, crouched over his blessed computer. Bet she’s glad he’s gone,’ Sylvia said.

  Dottie, more interested in the glorious Johnny than Marcus March, suggested that Alice could be a lot more upset about Johnny going. ‘They could have had a great time while the hopeful novelist’s in London seeing his publisher. I wonder what’s made Johnny go, all of a sudden. Maybe he’s got bored with living in a village. I mean, just think of Brazil and all that money he has with them hotels!’

  ‘I thought they made a lovely couple, both of ’em good looking and him with his money. Alice could really do the big time with her singing.’ This was Maggie having her say, filled with envy at the prospect of beautiful dresses and all that applause, which reminded her of choir practice. ‘Hell! What’s the time? Sylvia! look at the time; we’re going to be late!’

  ‘It’s not choir tonight. Today’s Friday!’ protested Dottie.

  Sylvia leaped to her feet. ‘Yes, it is, it’s the extra, extra practice because of the competition. Where’s my music? Here it is. See you all later. Come on, Dottie, hurry up.’

  They rushed into the church hall to find, instead of Alice, Gilbert standing ready to begin.

  The two of them shuffled into their places, apologising to Gilbert with brief nods of their heads.

  ‘Good evening, ladies. I’m
standing in for Alice tonight; she has a touch of flu. She’s told me all she wants me to go through so we’ll press on. There’s the lovely Mia, with hands poised to play the first of Alice’s voice exercises. Shall we begin? I hope you don’t mind having to put up with me.’

  Having to put up with him? They most certainly could. It was difficult to put into words what it was about Gilbert that was so attractive, but attractive he most certainly was. Everyone in the choir was bewitched by him. They knew he was married to Louise and that they had five lovely children, that he never ever flirted with any of them because he had no interest in any women other than his wife, but still they were intrigued by him; he wore the same clothes summer and winter, shirt unbuttoned almost to the waist, sleeves rolled up, cotton trousers, heavy sandals on bare feet, and it didn’t matter if it was freezing – he had never been seen wearing a coat or sweater. This gave him a very positive aura of masculinity, besides which he had dark, deep-set eyes, a year-round tan, and a tumble of curly hair that, though clean, appeared never to have known the strictures of a hairbrush. As for his voice . . . there weren’t words to adequately describe the deeply pleasing timbre of it, both speaking and singing, which made their knees turn to jelly. So, yes, they sang their hearts out . . . just for Gilbert.

  ‘Now we’ve warmed up we’ll have a go at singing “Amazing Grace”. Overdone and over-sung but nevertheless that’s what’s on the agenda for the competition and far be it from me to ignore it. Passion, ladies, and a tinge of deep sadness mixed with triumph. Who sings the solo voice?’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘Come out to the front, Laura.’

  ‘Can’t I—’

  ‘Out here right by me, please.’

  So Laura went out to the front, as one did if that was what Gilbert wanted.

  ‘I think, Mia, you might not have accompanied this with a slightly syncopated rhythm, but that’s how I want it. This song is always drawled along and that heightens the sugariness with which it is already overloaded. We want hope, not sugar. So we shall sharpen the pace and add a hint of syncopation. Thanks.’