Marsh Blood (The Endel Mysteries Book 2)

by Lucilla Andrews

  ‘One knew,’ observed David, ‘the US Cavalry wouldn’t let one down. Yowl!’ He grabbed my hand, lowered his head, hunched his powerful shoulders and bulldozed our path to the potter and the grubby figure in paint-streaked rollneck and jeans backed against another pillar.

  Gordon was even thinner than last year, the skin was tight over his high cheekbones and his dark eyes were bruised with fatigue or anxiety, or possibly both. His black hair and fringe beard were neater but his temper hadn’t improved. ‘Will you stop your blethering,’ he was saying belligerently. ‘I was working and I forgot the time and why in hell should it matter to you if I did?’

  ‘Hi, Gordon, remember me? Rose.’

  He scowled. ‘I’d forgotten your name. Not seen you for a wee while.’

  ‘Last year’s show. This is David. Had a good year?’

  ‘In this dump? You must be joking.’

  ‘Why stay, then?’ asked David.

  Gordon was tall enough to see over most heads. His scowling gaze swept the hall as if he expected to find the answer written on one of the walls, or a particular face. ‘The light’s right and out of season it’s dead cheap. Not that you’d think that from this lot.’ He raised two fingers. ‘This wee man said to wear a suit if I want to flog my pictures. Where’d I get a suit? I can’t afford a suit. I’ve not even the cash for the bare necessities.’

  ‘Like food?’

  ‘Who cares for that? The real necessities. Canvases, paints, frames and the van I’ve to hire to take my pictures around for flogging. I can’t carry them on the back of my Norton.’ His scowl was on David. ‘Want to see them?’

  ‘That’s why we’re here.’

  Gordon shrugged, did another quick survey around and walked off without bothering to see if we were following. We had lost the potter to a potential customer when we stopped beside Gordon in front of a large canvas covered with bright yellow paint put on with a knife. Just off centre was a large blob in a darker yellow. Gordon folded his arms. ‘I’ve called that one “One”.’

  David was interested. ‘Why?’

  Gordon gave David’s clean, well-heeled appearance a long, disparaging glance. ‘Why waste the time? You’d not understand.’

  ‘Oh, aye? So tha doesn’t know t’answer thysel’, lad,’ retorted David in broad Yorkshire.

  Gordon flushed darkly. ‘If you’re trying to be funny ‒’

  ‘Come down off that barricade,’ said David in his normal voice. ‘I asked as I want to know. Why “One”?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Gordon,’ I put in, ‘tell him, or he’ll drive us both crazy. He’s got no soul, he’s a scientist, but he has to know the answers.’

  Gordon was unmollified. ‘If she’s right, what the hell are you doing here, Jimmy?’

  ‘Christ, lad, you’ve been at the paint pots too long. What the hell do you think I’m doing here? Trying to lay my hands on Rose’s lolly, of course. And her,’ he added in afterthought.

  Gordon’s disarming smile so transformed his face that I suddenly glimpsed what had attracted Sue. It interested me, but the attraction was missing. ‘Is that a fact?’

  ‘Yep. Why “One”?’

  ‘I couldn’t think what else to call it. This one’s “Two”.’

  ‘Two’ was yellow with a red blob; in ‘Three’ the blob was orange and in the top left corner; in ‘Four’, white and mid-centre. ‘What do you think?’

  David shook his head. ‘I don’t as I don’t understand them.’

  Gordon was gloomily delighted. ‘What’d I say? Then you’ll not want to buy one.’

  David’s kick stopped my wasting thirty pounds. ‘No,’ he said, ‘no. They wouldn’t like Endel House where Rose lives and I’m without fixed address. Be sheer cruelty to hang those on four-hundred-year-old walls, to walls and them.’

  ‘Your man’s right.’ Gordon turned on me eagerly. ‘I’d forgotten you were from Endel. Are you not a girl friend of ‒ of Susie Denver?’

  ‘Sure. My neighbour. I’ve just been telling her mother why she hasn’t arrived ‒’ I repeated my piece and added the invention, ‘I didn’t want to worry Mrs Smith but I shouldn’t be surprised if Sue’s getting flu. This bug going round starts with a crashing headache. I know. I’ve just had it.’

  He was so relieved he beamed. ‘You could be right. Susie was here yesterday getting this place ready and she was a wee bit ‒ a wee bit ‒’

  ‘Off-colour?’ I suggested unoriginally.

  ‘Aye, you could say that. She’ll not be coming?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Gordon, thank heavens I’ve found you! I’ve been looking everywhere!’ A small fair girl with blackened eyelids and clinking neckchains had thrust her way through and grabbed his arm. ‘Please come, please! You’re the only person Ivor listens to and the way he’s hung my Leda you can’t see the Swan for Marcella’s bloody pots! Do come ‒ please!’ She hauled him away.

  David muttered weakly, ‘Get up them stairs, Rose. Booze or you’ll carry me out feet first.’

  ‘Hope there’s some left.’

  ‘Dregs’ll be nectar after over-exposure to young love unrequited.’

  ‘Love? You think he is serious?’

  ‘I think he thinks he is. She could be doing right to stay away,’ he said on the stairs. ‘For my money she’s got him to boiling-point and God only knows what any emotionally disturbed nut won’t do at that temperature.’

  ‘Nut?’

  ‘What bloke in his right mind spends hours bunging blobs on paint and then asking thirty quid for them? You were another nut to think of wasting good money and don’t tell me you’ll not miss it. That wasn’t why. You were sorry for him. Weren’t you?’

  I coloured. ‘Show that much?’

  ‘Yep. And to him. A nut but no fool. Kick a bloke below the belt if you must and your aim’s good, but don’t kick his professional integrity. If our Gordon were open to handouts he’d not look as if he only eats once a week and he doesn’t drink ’em either. He hasn’t the eyes of a boozer. He fancies his blobs and would rather go hungry than flog ’em to those who don’t see them as he does. As blobs they might even be good. I wouldn’t know. I hope so for his sake.’

  I turned at the top to look down over the gallery rail at the black head above the crowd. ‘Just call me Ananias.’

  ‘You mean Sapphira.’

  ‘So I do. I’d forgotten.’

  ‘I know you have,’ he said curtly. ‘I haven’t. I need booze.’

  ‘Just a moment.’ I watched a tall, distinguished grey-haired man who had just come in, making purposefully for the taller figure of General Wenden. I recognized the first man though he was out of uniform as he was another of my father’s boyhood friends who labelled me ‘Rosser’s gal’. ‘Look. There’s the Chief Constable. Remember him?’

  David glanced down casually. ‘Yep. He a culture vulture?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have said so. Of course, he lives in Coxden and his wife and Mrs Smith are huge buddies. Lady Hurst’s a member ‒ yes ‒ there she is over by the collages. Blue pudding-basin hat. She must’ve press-ganged him along. We’d better look at those collages. She’s always making them.’

  ‘Booze first.’

  It was about an hour later, after we had shared the remains of the last bottle with other late arrivals and worked our way round the exhibits to end a few yards from the exit, that General Wenden stopped me.

  ‘Off, Rose?’

  ‘Yes, general. Most impressive show.’ I introduced David. ‘I don’t think you met David,’ I added, ‘when he and I stayed with your brother and sister-in-law just after Endel’s roof gave. Weren’t you in Hong Kong with your son and daughter-in-law?’

  ‘I was. Interesting spot.’ The general’s six foot five made David look slight. ‘Yes.’ He studied David keenly. ‘Remember my sister-in-law mentioning you, Lofthouse. You two in a hurry or care for a cup of tea first? They do quite a decent tea at the Wheatsheaf.’

  David said politely,
‘Thanks, sir. We’re in no hurry.’

  I said, ‘I can’t see Mrs Smith but we should say goodbye ‒’

  The general didn’t seem to hear. He took my arm and marched me out. I was rather relieved. I could ring Mrs Smith later and preferred that to more evasions about now. Also, I was curious. General Wenden had no daughters, his wife had died many years ago, and he always seemed to me a man who preferred a womanless existence, not for the obvious reason, but because he regarded women as a strange species that made him feel uneasy. He and I had never yet had any conversation that lasted more than two minutes and concerned much more than the weather and his roses. He had retired some time in the fifties to a small house in Shepland, his home village, that was maintained for him by his former batman and batman’s wife with the military neatness with which he maintained his garden. He was a passionate gardener and grew the best roses on the marsh.

  The Wheatsheaf was further up the high street on the same side as the town hall. The general ushered us to an empty table in one bay window, beckoned the aged waiter, ordered tea, and announced it was good gardening weather.

  I said, ‘It was good of you to leave your garden for the show. I didn’t know you were a member, general.’

  ‘I’m not. M’wife was. Kept up her subscription. Believe in supporting local enterprises.’ The thick grey eyebrows met over severe blue eyes. ‘You a member, Rose?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. And ‒ well ‒ David’s just here on holiday.’

  ‘Don’t make excuses for him, gal. He looks well able to stand up for himself. You’ve been in the sun, Lofthouse. Where?’

  David was watching the general keenly. He discussed Australia with the old man until our tea arrived, I’d been instructed to pour, and the bread and butter, jam and scones had been arranged to the general’s liking.

  ‘Glad you’re here,’ said the general. ‘Gather you’re an old friend of young Rose’s, h’mmm?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ David hesitated, then astonished me by asking quietly, ‘Am I right in thinking you’ve some bad news to give her?’

  ‘Very astute. Like an astute fellow. Regrettably, yes. Wanted you sitting down first, Rose. A woman needs to sit down and have a cup of tea on these occasions.’

  I put down my cup, looked at David, then the old, lined, teak face, and saw the sadness in the faded blue eyes and suddenly felt very cold. ‘Tell me straight, please, general.’

  He looked about to ensure no one else was within hearing. ‘Very well, m’dear. Nasty business, I fear. Poor young Susan Denver’s body was pulled out of the Ditch ten miles north of Coxden bridge just under two hours ago. Lady Hurst has taken Mrs Smith back to her home to wait until Gerald Smith can leave court and take her home to Astead. They had to get Francis Denver out of court to identify his wife’s body. Not that there was any doubt, but routine, h’mmm! She doesn’t seem to have been in the water more than a couple of hours at the most.’

  Too stunned for speech, I just stared at him.

  David reached for one of my hands. ‘I presume you know how she got in the Ditch, sir?’

  ‘H’mmm. Yes. Her car skidded across the road and hit an ash on the bank, then bounced off. The driver’s door was jolted open on impact, she was flung out. From the state of the car she was going much too fast for that bit of road. Nasty bit of road. Nasty twist where the Ditch bends sharp south. No witnesses. Wouldn’t expect any this time of the year and especially not on Astead market day. All the local farmers’ll be in Astead and don’t generally start for home until the pubs close for the afternoon. Poor gal was driving alone and not wearing her safety-belt. Seems to have hit the back of her head a nasty smack. Wearing some sort of a leather hat they say, but nothing strong enough to cushion the blow. They’ve fished out the hat. Poor gal seems to have been dead before she hit the water, and from the marks on the rushes rolled down the bank. Very nasty business. Very sad. Pretty young thing. No sense, but pretty young thing. Always drove too fast. Used to see her. Probably be alive now if she’d worn her safety-belt. Great blow to her husband and parents. Very sad.’

  I turned away and stared at the cobbles of the high street. ‘No,’ I said mechanically, ‘she never remembered to wear her safety-belt.’

  As if from a long way away I heard David’s ‘Was it the car roof that got her head?’

  And the general’s ‘From the marks on the hat and the tree ‒ the tree. Difficult to be sure yet. She was still wearing the hat when Charlie Gillon spotted her body floating face downwards when he was driving his tractor back to Shepland from Coxden. I imagine the poor gal was on her way here.’

  ‘No.’ I turned back to the two men. ‘She rang me at about twelve. She said she had a slow and was making for Coxden garage.’ I was about to say more when I saw the expression in David’s eyes.

  It was then I remembered that this morning Sue had been to the hairdresser.

  Chapter Six

  We stayed in the Wheatsheaf after the general left and moved first to the bar, then the dining room. Our dinner looked good. I’d no idea how it tasted and nor, from his abstracted expression, had David.

  Over coffee, I said abruptly, ‘Walt Ames and me.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Walt says he can smell danger like he can smell strangers. I’m not so hot on strangers but I’ve just realized I can smell danger. I smelt it yesterday just after saying good-bye to Sue. It never occurred to me to associate it with her, so first I rationalized it as my being persona non grata, then I pinned it on Johnnie, then you. I was crazy and so were you. Nothing to do with old ghosts or your coming back into my life.’ He was eyeing me speculatively. ‘Just something in the present.’

  ‘Oh, aye? Then why’re you still looking like you don’t fancy the smell in here?’

  I looked around the rather elegant little dining room. It wasn’t crowded but the tables on either side of ours were occupied and the tables were close together. I didn’t recognize any of our fellow diners but as it was out of season they were unlikely to be visitors to the district. ‘Later.’

  He nodded and emptied our wine bottle into my glass. He was driving us back.

  ‘You said earlier you wanted to ring the Smiths before we left. That still on?’

  I sighed. ‘I dread it but I must. They should’ve been home some time now. I expect Dr Garmody’s driven up from St Martin’s and given her a sedative but Mr Smith’ll still be up. He’s helped me so much.’

  ‘Would you prefer to drive over to Astead? I can wait in the car.’

  ‘Thanks, but no. I’d feel an intruder tonight. I’m not a relative and, should Mrs Smith be up, it could add to the agony seeing me alive when Sue’s dead. Mightn’t be so bad for her if she liked me. She doesn’t.’

  ‘No. I saw that this afternoon.’

  I smiled wryly. ‘I’d forgotten your talent for getting relationships right at sight.’

  The talent didn’t seem to amuse him. He frowned into his coffee cup. ‘How about Francis?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think he’ll want to talk or see anyone tonight. I’ll do something about him tomorrow ‒ and I’m dreading that too. I feel so ‒ well ‒ responsible ‒’

  ‘Don’t be a bloody moron, woman! By no strength of imagination can you be blamed ‒’

  ‘It mightn’t have happened if I’d not played along ‒’

  ‘Balls. She’d have done what she wanted to do with or without your help. Didn’t she always?’ I shrugged. ‘You know damn well she did. If you’re going to make that call, get it over and let’s get going. There’s a public phone in the foyer. Got enough change?’

  I nodded vaguely. My mind had gone back to Sue this morning and was giving me the impression that something she had said would have struck me as odd had I not been so irritated. I couldn’t remember what it was. I stood up. ‘Don’t expect I’ll be long.’

  I wasn’t. It merely seemed so.

  I went back to David. ‘He was sweet and so sad. His wife’s in bed under sedation. Franci
s has gone home alone and says he’s taking his phone off the hook and not answering the doorbell till morning. Oh dear. Why, why, if it had to happen, did it have to happen on Mrs Smith’s gala afternoon?’

  He gave me a long blank look. ‘That’s just what I’ve been thinking. Let’s go.’

  ‘Has he brought our bill?’

  ‘Yep,’ he snapped, ‘and if you’re thinking of handing me your share, bloody think again or I’ll make the scene to beat all.’

  I looked at his face and believed him. ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘Don’t thank me for my inhibiting Nonconformist upbringing,’ was all he said until we were about three miles from Coxden bridge and on the road by the Ditch.

  ‘Spell it out, Rose.’

  ‘It’ll probably convince you I’m a nutter.’

  ‘It won’t as you’re not one, even though you sometimes act like one. I know you’re not and so do the genuine nutters and that’s why they latch on to you like limpets. They need your strength and you’re generally fool enough to let them have it as you’re fool enough to feel sorry for them. That’s why you married one nutter and will probably end up marrying another. Spell it out!’

  The night was as dark as this morning before dawn, now we had left the lights of Cliffhill behind. The sky was hidden by high, slowly moving clouds, and the marsh was shrouded in black. Our headlights split the darkness like searchlights and made the road glisten, and silvered the bank rushes and caught the disembodied jewelled eyes of frightened rabbits and the black oily surface of the deadly water.

  ‘David, it’s that hat. I can’t understand why she had on that hat.’

  He didn’t turn his face from the windscreen but I saw his shadowed outline stiffen. ‘Why can’t you?’

  ‘She’d just come from the hairdresser. It was a fine windless morning. Maybe someone her mother’s age might’ve put on a headscarf or even a hairnet after the drier. Not Sue. She loathed headscarves and only wore a hat in the rain. The idea of her flattening her new hairdo with a tight hot suede hat just doesn’t make sense.’