22nd April, the outskirts of Romsey
WHILE ROMSEY HAS WOKEN TO fog, Nash is abroad early again today. He knows his way well enough not to let a little weather discourage him. In town, the greyed-out streets turn early risers into ghosts. Sounds distort, voices boom disembodied in the gloom. A door shuts with the noise of a rifle shot as a dark shape plunges into the roiling damp.
His shoes have rubber soles, silent on the slick pavements, though from time to time he seems to hear an echo, a faint patter of feet that tracks his progress. Nudged into suspicion, he pauses under the railway arch. Listens a moment as the tricksy sound runs on. Like water dripping, or soft wings beating, it seems to come from everywhere and nowhere. The fog billows around him but no one emerges. He shakes himself, moves on. He has work to do, an appointment to keep.
He strikes off uphill. Sometimes he regrets his incapacity to drive, but on a morning like this it’s no disadvantage. No point in calling a taxi, he wouldn’t reach his destination any quicker. What little traffic there is on the road can go no faster than he does on foot.
On the northern side of the railway, the fog grows thinner, more patchy, as his route climbs out of the river valley. Nash begins to pick out landmarks. A cottage, a wall, a public house.
Not far now to the turning into the lane. Almost there. The sound of a dog howling reaches him through the damp air. Feeds the feeling of unease that has accompanied him from the town. He quickens his pace.
*
I sleep better than I expected. Wake early, but that’s OK. I’ve a job to do, so I beg the loan of Dot’s bicycle once more, strap Ollie’s basket to the front and set out.
The bicycle wobbles as the wheel hits a stone. It’s full light now, but for all I can see, I might as well be riding with my eyes closed. The fog surrounds me, as dense and clinging as wet muslin curtains. For a while, the chatter of the stream lets me know I am still on the path. But as my route brings me out of the valley, I can only feel my way, hope I’m going in the right direction.
Birds are busy in the hedgerows when I reach the lane. The light is growing stronger, though the fog clings on around me. I’ve seen no one on my travels, but a steaming trail of manure shows where the cows have been let out after milking. Somewhere, a dog is howling. The sound swirls and bellies, refuses to be located. Without being sure why, I pedal faster.
*
As soon as Nash comes within sight of the cottage, he sees the white dog by the front door. Ollie’s lurcher, Tilly or Dizzy, some name like that. It’s the one making all the noise, scrabbling at the door, standing up on its hind legs and crying.
He opens the gate, walks to the door. The dog takes no notice of him, but now he’s close he can see how distressed it is, shivering in the chilly morning light.
He knocks and calls out, but there’s no reply. Knocks again.
‘Anyone home?’
No response. Another time, he would have thought nothing of it. Imagined Ollie might be out, or sleeping. But the message Jo relayed last night was clear. Ollie wants to see him about her father’s death. Needs his advice. And she can’t get in to town because she’s hurt her foot. So here he is.
But where is she? Surely she can’t have slept through the dog’s howling, but if she’s awake, why hasn’t she called out to him?
His anxiety mounts. She’d never ignore one of her dogs in trouble.
He tries the latch. The door opens readily.
‘Hello?’
It’s as cold and damp inside the cottage as it is out. There’s the smell of dog and something else, oily and pungent. He calls again, but the stillness of the place is absolute.
The dog darts ahead to an inner door. This one is stiff, reluctant, but he wrestles it open, stumbles into the room. The only light comes from behind him, filtering through the open front door. There’s the suffocating reek of paraffin, the choke of soot. He coughs, trying to get his breath. The lurcher is whining somewhere in the depths of the room, but he can’t deal with it now. He’s got to get some fresh air in here. Blundering across the murky room, stumbling against half-seen furniture and tripping on a litter of rugs, he arrives at the back door, pushes it open. Takes a grateful breath of the clean air that rushes in.
The white dog is a pale blur beside the bulky shape of a chair. He thinks someone might be sitting there, but he can’t be sure. And if there is someone, they are ominously still.
‘Ollie?’
A blanket hangs as a blackout over the window. He tears it down, and the light elbows in, lets him see the hunched-up figure in the chair.
‘Ollie.’
He’s at her side, fearing the worst. He tries to rouse her, but there’s no response. He searches for a pulse at her wrist, in her neck. His hand is unsteady. He can feel nothing.
Her face is flaccid, unhealthily pink, but there’s a trace of warmth left in her flesh. He won’t believe she’s dead. He shakes her roughly, hears the faintest whisper of sound.
The dog renews its whining, and he hushes it impatiently. He’s sure it was a breath he heard. The room is stifling – he can hardly breathe himself. He has to get her out into the air.
He throws off his hat and glasses, picks her up in his arms. She’s an awkward burden, not heavy but tall, and he struggles to manhandle her through the narrow back door. He sets her down on the paving stones beside the pump, hears another ragged breath.
He knows the theory of artificial respiration. He learned it in the trenches. There’d been a night when four young soldiers barricaded themselves up in a dugout, lit a makeshift stove because it was so cold. In the morning, they’d all been dead. Not a mark on them, only the cherry red of their faces to show they’d suffocated. Such senseless deaths. The medico had shown him the Silvester Method, but it hadn’t worked then.
Now, it has to.
He bundles up his coat, pushes it under her shoulders. Begins the manoeuvre. Chest compressions and arm extensions. It’s hard work, but he doesn’t give up, even though he’s heard nothing since those two random breaths.
*
I must be quite close to Ollie’s cottage when the dog stops howling. I’m trying to find the gate in the lane Pete told me about, because I can’t take Dot’s bike across the fields. I grope along, painfully slow, convinced I’ve missed the place in the fog. Then, suddenly, there it is. The relief gives me wings. I rattle along the track, cursing the potholes. Alarmed, I see the front door of the cottage is wide open, but there’s no welcome committee of dogs to inspect me as I prop up Dot’s bike and open the gate.
I call out. ‘Ollie?’
‘Here.’ The voice is strained, and it isn’t Ollie. ‘Come here. Quick.’
I follow the sound through the hallway. Trip over a scuffed-up mat by the door into the kitchen. The smell of paraffin catches my throat.
‘Outside.’ The voice comes again, and I realise it’s Nash.
Outside in the yard, he’s down on his knees, working feverishly over a still figure. I recognise the rhythmic effort of artificial respiration, and my heart clenches. Though I can’t see her face, I know it’s got to be Ollie because of the bandaged foot.
‘What . . . ?’ My mind is teeming with questions, but now’s not the time to ask them. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘She’s . . . cold,’ he says between movements. ‘Something . . . to cover her . . . would be good.’
Inside, the blanket I hung up as a blackout for Ollie yesterday is lying on the floor. There’s her afghan on the chair and I grab both, head out into the yard. Though I’m only in the room for a split second, details seem to print themselves on my brain. The still shapes of the dogs on their rugs. Two glasses on the table cosied up to the unblinking painted eye that looks out from Nash’s discarded spectacles. The paraffin heater by the armchair, a curl of rolled-up sacking by the back door.
Outside, Nash is still working over Ollie’s motionless form. The white dog is curled up close to her legs, and when I try to shift her
to cover Ollie, she shows her teeth. I hesitate a moment, then tuck the blankets around them both. At least she’ll give Ollie some warmth.
Nash is sweating with effort.
‘Do you want me to take over? I know what to do.’
‘Can . . . if you like.’ He sits back on his heels, and I take his place. ‘Not sure it’s working.’
‘Of course it is.’ I won’t contemplate anything else. ‘How long—?
‘Ten minutes,’ he says. ‘Maybe a bit more. She was breathing when I got here.’
‘What—?’ It’s all I’ve got breath for myself.
‘Don’t know. Bloody stove, I suppose. No ventilation. It’s lethal. She should have known better.’
‘It wasn’t lit . . . when I left.’ Though I had offered to light it. I feel a shiver of something that might be fear. ‘She said she was . . . low on fuel.’ As I speak, Ollie shifts suddenly under my hands. Gasps, groans. Retches. ‘Quick. Help me roll her.’
We turn her on to her side as she brings up a stream of yellow bile.
‘Thank Christ for that,’ Nash says, though the vomit has run over the coat under her shoulders, which I guess must be his.
Ollie groans again, struggles to sit up.
‘Wha–a?’
‘You’re going to be all right,’ Nash tells her. ‘Nothing to worry about, Ollie. Let’s get you to bed.’
He scoops her up, speaks to me. ‘If you could go ahead?’
I go back through the kitchen, kicking aside the snarled-up rugs so he won’t trip. The stair opens out of the hallway by the front door, steep steps that wind up to a tiny landing. There’s a raised threshold to step over, a low beam to duck under, but somehow Nash manages it.
We slide her between the covers of a bed whose mattress and covers are so soft and puffy they must be goose down. She’s already starting to warm up. Her breathing is better too, though her colour is still high.
‘Aah,’ she says as we settle her. ‘’S good.’
She’s half asleep, but when the dog hops onto the bed, she reaches out to pat it.
‘We should get a doctor to look at her,’ Nash says.
‘No doctor,’ she says, with surprising strength.
It doesn’t seem right after such a close call. ‘But, Ollie—’
‘No. No fuss.’
I look at Nash. He shrugs.
‘Are you sure?’ I ask her.
‘Be a’right.’ And then, abruptly, she falls asleep.
‘Do you think it’s safe to let her sleep?’
‘No idea,’ he says. ‘Maybe we’d better open a window.’
He does, and a wraith of fog drifts in through the casement.
As far as I can tell, Ollie’s sleep seems natural.
‘I suppose it’s OK.’
Nash rubs his face. For the first time, he seems to realise that he hasn’t got the mask of his spectacles to hide his scars.
‘Sorry, I’ll . . .’
He ducks out of the room, clatters downstairs. I hear him stumble, curse. I don’t know whether to stay here, watching, or to follow him downstairs.
After a moment, Nash calls softly up the stairs. ‘Jo. Can you come?’
I step closer to the bed for another look at the sleeping woman. I don’t like to leave her, but she seems peaceful enough. The dog raises its head, watchful.
‘All right, Tizzy,’ I say. ‘You look after her for me.’
The kitchen is a charnel house. The smell, the dead dogs on their rugs. But at least Nash has put his glasses on again.
‘What do you want?’ I say.
‘Awkward about a doctor. You know she’s Waverley’s wife? They don’t get on. Suppose that’s why she doesn’t want him barging in.’
‘She told me yesterday. But . . . surely we could get someone else?’
‘They’re tight as ticks, these medicos. It might do more harm than good if it gets back to him.’
‘I could stay with her if you don’t want me at work.’
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them, because I’m not sure he’ll want me to work for him ever again, after yesterday. I’ll be sorry if I’ve given him the perfect opening to say I’ve got to go.
‘I daresay we can manage without you today.’ His tone is dry, there’s no clue to what he’s thinking. ‘If you’re sure you don’t mind?’
‘We can’t leave her alone like this.’
‘Jo, do you think she tried to . . . ?’
The words kill herself hang in the air between us.
‘Why should she?’
‘Her father?’
I remember the single tear, but it wasn’t despair. She’d been resigned to her father’s death.
‘No. I’m sure she was all right when I left her.’
He kicks the mat by the door. ‘But there was this. And sacks by the back door.’
‘I know.’ But I’m already wondering. ‘I can’t believe she’d have done anything to hurt the dogs.’
He looks round, as if for the first time.
‘I suppose not. An accident, then?’
My turn to shrug. I don’t want to discuss it until I’ve had time to think.
‘What a mess,’ he says. ‘I don’t like to leave you with it.’
‘You need to get back.’
He looks at his watch. ‘God, yes.’
We go out through the front door together. The bicycle is still propped by the gate.
‘You could take Dot’s bike.’
‘I could?’
‘Drop it off for me. I said I wouldn’t keep it long.’
‘Haven’t ridden a bike for ages. Don’t know if I still can.’
‘They say you never forget.’
‘We’ll soon see about that.’ He hands me Ollie’s basket, steps through the frame. ‘Just as well it’s still foggy. Might cover my blushes.’
I watch as he pushes off. He’s got nothing to blush for, because he’s away without a wobble. He’s almost out of sight in the fog before I realise he’s forgotten his coat, but then I remember the vomit. It’s probably just as well.
*
It’s mid-morning before the sun breaks through the mist. I’m glad of the light, the lift of spirits it brings. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve run up and down the stairs to check on Ollie’s breathing. Mostly she sleeps through my anxious visits, but sometimes she stirs, responds to my voice. Once she even asks me for a glass of water, but by the time I bring it, she’s asleep again.
Downstairs, I don’t need to be idle. The kitchen and yard need a major clean-up. And something will have to be done about the bodies of the dogs. The stiffening corpses make me feel bad enough; I can’t let Ollie come downstairs and see them. But at the same time, I mustn’t rush in. I shouldn’t do anything until I’ve had a good look round.
I don’t think what happened was an accident. And I don’t believe it was deliberate on Ollie’s part, either. So there’s only one conclusion to draw. Someone tried to kill her. If Nash hadn’t arrived, she would have died. The question is, why would anyone want to murder Ollie? Were they afraid of what she might have seen on the night of the air raid?
Perhaps I led them to her by coming to the cottage yesterday. With her damaged ankle, she’d been so vulnerable. I should never have left her alone.
The Aladdin stove had been out, I’m sure of that. After I’d boiled the kettle, I’d turned the wick down till the flame died. I’d left it where I’d found it, a long way from her armchair. And when I asked her, she’d been clear. She didn’t want it relit.
Now, it’s tilted on the rough flagstones next to her chair. Though it’s quite cool, I think about fingerprints. Use a cloth to touch it.
As I lift it, set it straight, I hear a faint slosh of paraffin. There must be some still in the reservoir, but a sooty deposit on one side of the chimney shows where the wick burned itself out. Just as well. If every last drop of oil had been used, Ollie would have been dead for sure.
> I try to work out what to do for the best.
If I really believe someone tried to kill Ollie, I should call the police. But I can’t. Not just because of my fingerprints from yesterday, I could wipe them off in a moment, remove any evidence that might incriminate me. But because they might think what Nash did – that Ollie meant to commit suicide. And then she’d be in trouble herself. At risk of prosecution.
I can’t do it.
But that doesn’t mean I can’t gather evidence for what happened myself.
The rugs. There’s a roll of sacking next to the back door, which looks as if it was meant to keep out draughts. The other door, the one from the hall, has a rug by it too. While Nash and I must have kicked it or tripped over it half a dozen times, it’s caught fast by one corner. Stuck on the outside of the door, the hall side. It must have been put there after the door was closed.
Yesterday, I’d arrived by the back door, left the same way. I can’t rule out the possibility that the rug had been there all the time. But what I am sure of is that Ollie wouldn’t have gone all the way round to the outside of the door to block the draught last night. Her ankle was sore, and if she’d wanted to kill herself she only had to put the rug on the inside, and spare herself the effort of walking.
The dogs. I make myself look at the sad little shapes on the floor. However unhappy Ollie might have felt, I don’t believe she would have hurt the dogs. I remember our first meeting, her hostility when she thought I might have come to complain about them. Nosy parkers . . . want me to gas them. Have to gas me first. A woman who’d said that could never have done this.
There are two drinking glasses on the table. Though the tabletop is a muddle of books and papers, jars and bottles and gardening tools, I’m certain they weren’t there yesterday, when I left. I’d washed up, made sure I put the crockery and glassware back on the dresser where they belonged.
Both the glasses have been used. I look more closely, sniff without touching. There’s a sticky residue of brandy in each, but they’re not the same. One glass has a scum of white grains powdering the side. Could be sugar, I suppose, or scale from the kettle if someone made a toddy. But then both should be the same.
Carefully, so as not to smudge the glass, I dip my finger in the powder, taste. It’s bitter, not sweet. Could be aspirin. Ollie might have taken some for the pain in her foot. But there’s nothing on the table that might have held tablets. No brandy bottle, either. And she wouldn’t have needed two glasses.
The Unexpected Return of Josephine Fox Page 19