Ann Granger (29 page)

The question was soon answered. At that moment, the door of the small parlour opened and the doctor himself came out. He’d adopted this neglected room as his private retreat, to read his newspapers, write his letters and perhaps just to be away from a house full of women.

‘Charles!’ he greeted the newcomer and it was clear he was as surprised as any of us. ‘Good heavens! Where have you sprung from?’

‘My dear fellow!’ returned Roche, shaking hands with his friend. ‘This is a damnable business, damnable. And now it gets worse.’

Mrs Williams, who had been hovering, asked hesitantly, ‘Shall I announce you, sir?’

‘No, no, wait a moment…’ Roche held up his hand in a gesture indicating she should wait. ‘A word with you first, if you don’t mind, Marius?’

‘Yes, yes, of course, come in here.’ Lefebre indicated the small parlour behind him.

‘Give us ten minutes, Williams, if you would, then tell my sisters I’m here,’ Roche ordered her.

The two gentlemen went into the parlour, leaving Mrs Williams standing alone in the hall looking very unhappy.

Lucy and I still hung over the banister like a pair of children crept from the nursery to spy on guests. I straightened up and pulled her away. She was about to object but I whispered, ‘It would never do if we were seen to have been listening!’

We stood still and waited until we heard the housekeeper move away in the direction of the kitchen, probably to rouse the cook to extra effort.

‘What are my uncle and that doctor saying? Oh, I wish I knew! We can’t hear anything from up here!’ wailed Lucy. ‘Shall I go down? Perhaps I could hear them talking through the door? Men’s voices carry very well.’ Her face lit with enthusiasm.

I knew the circumstances that had led to Lucy becoming such an eavesdropper but I couldn’t allow her to take this risk, curious though I was myself.

‘We’ll find out, Lucy, never fear. Of course you mustn’t go downstairs. What if one of them opened the parlour door and found you crouching outside?’

Lucy looked sorry not to be able to demonstrate her spying skills but acquiesced. We moved away and by common consent returned to my room. Lucy began to turn up and down in a fever of excitement, twisting her hands nervously. I begged her to calm herself but she burst out,

‘How can I be calm? What does he want? Why must he and that horrid doctor consult together privately? It’s about me; I know it. Uncle Charles has come down to learn Dr Lefebre’s opinion of my state of mind.’

She darted forward and gripped my hand. ‘Oh, Lizzie, what will the doctor tell him?’

‘We don’t know that’s why he’s come, Lucy,’ I soothed. ‘It’s far more likely he wants to know what progress Inspector Ross and the sergeant have made. It’s quite normal that he wants to talk to Lefebre first. He’s obviously worried about your aunts and how upset they must be.’

‘He’ll remember I threw stones at him, won’t he?’ said Lucy morosely, ignoring my entire speech. ‘But I didn’t stab the rat-catcher. Why should I go stabbing people?’

I couldn’t resist the opening and asked, as coolly as I could, ‘Have you never done such a thing, Lucy? I don’t mean take a knife and made a murderous attack. But have you never used a smaller weapon to inflict a lesser injury on someone?’

Lucy head flew up and her blue eyes blazed at me. ‘Oh, so they have told you about that, have they? When I was at school? I’m surprised my aunts revealed that little piece of my history. They were so very embarrassed at the time and
so
concerned for the name of Roche!’

‘They didn’t tell me,’ I said. ‘If you must know, and it’s only fair you should, it was Higgins.’

‘Higgins?’ returned Lucy in surprise. She paused and thought it over before shrugging. ‘Oh, well, she would, I dare say. She never liked me.’

‘I didn’t believe her at first,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t imagine you doing such a thing, actually inflicting harm on anyone. Why did you?’

‘I was eleven!’ Lucy stamped her foot. ‘And the girl was teasing me. Her name was Charlotte Porter, a hateful girl. She was clever at getting other people into trouble, generally by tormenting them until they retaliated, and then looking herself as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Or she would pick on some girl who was easily led and urge her to some mischief. Charlotte herself was never there when it was found out. I didn’t like her; no one did. But she was the teacher’s little pet. She had such a simpering, namby-pamby way with her! I just lost my temper. She was pulling at my embroidery so I couldn’t stitch properly. I only meant to ward her away, but I held the needle in my hand and, somehow, it went right into her arm.’ Lucy smiled. ‘She let out an awful screech. It was very satisfying.’

I found myself staring at her in something like despair. Lucy was so artless; she seemed to have no idea what sort of impression her words and actions made on others. Only now that her uncle had arrived was she regretting throwing stones at Dr Lefebre. At the time, I surmised, she found that action ‘very satisfying’.

We had been unaware of any footsteps in the corridor outside but now came a sudden rap at the door that made us both jump.

‘Open it, Lizzie!’ urged Lucy, pushing me towards the door. ‘It’s your room. I’ll hide behind the bed.’

‘Don’t—’ I called out, but she was already scuttling away and by the time I opened the door, Lucy had sunk down on the further side of the bed out of sight.

Christina Roche stood in the corridor and, as might have been expected, was not fooled. She had probably heard us talking through the door panels. Doubtless this eavesdropping business, I thought grimly, runs in the family.

‘Where is my niece?’ she demanded. ‘Lucy!’ She walked past me into the room. ‘Come out at once!’

Lucy rose sheepishly to her feet from behind the bed and shook her skirts straight.

Miss Roche watched her dispassionately. ‘Come downstairs. Your uncle is here and wishes to speak to you.’

‘Is it about James?’ Lucy asked suddenly, fear in her voice. ‘Has something happened to James? Don’t tell me he’s dead. If he’s dead I shall throw myself out of the window!’

‘Don’t talk such nonsense!’ was the brisk retort from her aunt. ‘If you wish to persuade us you’re sensible you have a very strange way of going about it. There will be no more such silly talk, do you hear? As for Mr Craven, he is not, to my knowledge, dead or sick.’ She turned away and walked towards the door. ‘Come along, Lucy.’

‘Oh, Lizzie, come with me,’ begged Lucy, catching at my hand.

Miss Roche paused and half turned back. ‘No,’ she said shortly. ‘This is a family matter. Miss Martin is not involved. In fact, Miss Martin, I should prefer it if you would take yourself off for another walk.’

‘
I
do not listen at doors!’ I told her.

‘One hopes not,’ was the dour reply. ‘However, it is possible that my niece may choose to indulge herself in one of her theatrical fits of hysteria for the benefit of her uncle; and I’d prefer it if you were not in the house at the time. Please take at least half an hour over your walk, Miss Martin.’

With that she walked out, erect as a guardsman, Lucy trailing miserably behind her.

I had just time to whisper, ‘Lucy, do and say nothing!’ But I had no way of knowing if she heard me. She gave no sign.

Worried and angry, I pulled on my boots, jammed on my hat, and set out on a second walk before lunch.

*   *   *

Miss Roche’s high-handed way of dismissing me about my business had so ruffled me that I set out to walk as fast as I could to work off my bad mood. No one thinks clearly when in a temper and I had need of such wits as I possess. I marched along in a most unladylike fashion, and made such good speed that I’d reached the churchyard almost before I realised it. I peered over the wall to see if the sexton was still about but there was no sign of him and the church door was shut. Closer inspection and a good rattle of the iron ring handle confirmed it was locked. So Jarvis had gone home for his lunch … or down to The Acorn. I sighed in relief and turned back towards the lych-gate to sit there awhile.

Then my eye caught a movement over to my right. Someone bent almost double was scuttling away from the area where Lucy’s child was buried. The figure brought to mind a crab on the seashore scurrying from rock to rock, as it weaved between the headstones, trying to get cover from them wherever possible. The furtive fleeing form would attract curiosity at any time, but it appeared to me to be making for the sanctuary of the shadows beneath the yew tree where I’d noticed a watcher before. This time I was determined whoever it was shouldn’t escape.

‘Wait, wait!’ I called and ran full pelt between the hummocks, my skirts held high in both hands. I jumped disrespectfully over last resting places, stone kerbs and Grecian urns of wilting flowers, in a way that would have given poor old Jarvis a fit had he been able to see me.

I could now distinguish the figure as that of a woman in dark clothing and a familiar-looking tartan shawl. I took a gamble.

‘Mrs Brennan!’ I shouted.

At the name the woman stumbled, gripped a convenient headstone to steady her, and stopped. It allowed me to catch up and see that it was indeed the rat-catcher’s widow. She was still hunched, her face averted from me and looking down at the earth, as if she wished to avoid my scrutiny.

‘My dear Mrs Brennan,’ I said, as steadily as I could between gasps, ‘I am Miss Martin, companion to Mrs Craven at Shore House. On my journey here a few days ago, we passed you and your husband on the heath. Greenaway was driving me and a gentleman in the trap.’

She straightened up reluctantly but still avoided my gaze. ‘Yes, miss,’ she said in a low hoarse voice.

‘I am sorry for your loss, and I’m so glad to see you. We have all been very worried about you,’ I went on. ‘No one has known where to find you or if you were in any need.’

‘I don’t need anything,’ she replied in that husky tone.

She was of dark complexion with a weather-beaten skin and small elusive brown eyes. I was close enough now to smell a strong odour of burnt wood emanating from her clothing. She has been sitting at an open wood fire, I thought. Then it all came to me in a flash. Greenaway’s claim that Brennan was of gypsy origin, the gypsy caravan with the piebald horse we had passed en route to Shore House, the gypsy woman selling pegs who had called at the house  …

‘You have been living with the gypsies,’ I said. ‘You were in trouble and you went to your husband’s people.’

She looked up at me then with surprise. ‘How do you know that, miss?’

‘I worked it out,’ I said awkwardly. ‘Why did you run away? I don’t mean from me just now, but from police enquiries?’

She shook her head and her long greasy locks fell about her face. The black hair was early streaked with grey. ‘I weren’t running away, miss. I had nowhere else to go but to the travellers’ camp. The constable told me I must stay in the district so I stayed.’

‘But you didn’t tell the constable where!’ I said in exasperation.

She cowered at the cross tone and I was instantly sorry. ‘I mean you no harm, I promise you,’ I said. ‘But please, Mrs Brennan … I do believe you know so much that you must tell us – the police, me! I believe you were watching Mrs Craven and myself from over there, by that tree, when we came here the other day. Why were you—’

I broke off then because my mind was ahead of me, leaping from one conclusion to another by such leaps and bounds that I hardly had time to make sense of all the ideas crowding my brain. I turned my head and looked back at the child’s grave. A fresh posy of wild flowers lay on it.

The woman had seen my glance; she gave a little moan and clutched at the neck of her shawl.

I reached out and took hold of her grimy but unresisting hand. ‘My dear Mrs Brennan, it’s
your
child buried there, isn’t it? It’s not Mrs Craven’s baby.’

She gave another whimper of distress and shook her head.

‘I believe it is,’ I said as firmly but gently as I was able. ‘And the moment has come to say what you know about it. Let’s go and sit on the bench under the lych-gate and you can take as much time as you like. But you must tell me everything, don’t you see? Above all, if you know what happened to Lucy Craven’s baby, where she is or – or if she is alive or dead … Don’t you see, poor Mrs Craven has been half driven out of her mind by all this.’

She nodded and allowed me to lead her to the lych-gate where we took seats. I hoped no one, neither Jarvis nor any chance passer-by, disturbed us. Mrs Brennan sat silently beside me, twisting her workworn hands. It was difficult to guess how old she was. Probably not so very old but life hadn’t been kind to her and her suffering was written in the lines on her skin and her defeated air. She opened her mouth, giving a glimpse of gappy discoloured teeth, and closed it again with a shake of her head. I sensed that she was not unwilling to speak but didn’t know how to begin.

She needed help and it seemed easier to start with the most recent events and work backwards. ‘Tell me,’ I said, ‘why you left your camp on the heath and went to the gypsies without telling the constable. The police were afraid you might have perished in the fire.’

At the word ‘fire’ her head shot up and she stared at me in terror.

‘But I didn’t mean it!’ she burst out in a distraught wail, waving her hands. ‘I didn’t mean for the fire to catch and spread like it did. I’m no fire-raiser, miss, but they will put me in prison for it, I know they will.’

‘No one is going to put you in prison for starting the fire if it wasn’t your intention,’ I replied, hoping I was right. ‘Why did you light it? To cook your food?’

‘No, miss, to burn Jed’s things.’

I must have looked my incomprehension because she went on quickly, anxious now to explain her actions.

‘It’s the gypsy way, miss, when someone dies. Anything that’s their personal things is burnt.’

‘I see…’ I said. ‘So you piled up your husband’s clothing and belongings and set them alight, because that’s the gypsy custom, your husband was of gypsy origins, and you are also, I think.’

‘The heather was dry,’ she began again, almost gabbling out her tale now, ‘there’s been no rain. The fire caught and spread so fast I couldn’t stamp it out. I just ran or I’d have been burned with it. Then I was so frightened, because they would say I was a fire-raiser and put me in gaol. I knew there were gypsies nearby because we met them, Jed and I, on our way here. So it’s to them I went.’