Bury Her Deep (26 page)

‘I’ve been visiting your Mrs Gow,’ I said, when greetings had been exchanged.

‘Auntie Dot, I’ve ayeways called her,’ said Mary Torrance. ‘She was like another mammy to me when I was growing up.’

‘And what a comfort to you now,’ I said. ‘I heard about the dreadful fire and about your parents, Mrs Torrance. How awful for you.’

‘Aye, I’ve no’ had my troubles to seek,’ she said stoically. ‘But I keep my mouth shut and my head up.’ She suited the action to the word, clamping her lips tightly and hoisting her chin skyward.

‘Indeed,’ I said, feeling quite unequal to this stout rebuff, for it was impossible to view it in any other light. ‘Well, I hope happier times are on their way.’

‘They’re here,’ said Mary. ‘I tell Drew that till I’m sick of telling him. We’re doing just grand now and he’s no need to worry.’

‘It’s in the nature of farmers to worry,’ I said. ‘I mean, a fire must have been the final straw, but the last few years have been wretched everywhere.’

‘Don’t I know it,’ said Mary Torrance, almost at a bellow. ‘Drew reads those blessed market lists out every day, as if he was saying his prayers, and I could tell you the beef prices at Kirkcaldy market in my sleep. I keep telling him, a fire would have swallowed up a milk herd the same as it did the beasts.’

I was beginning to see what Mrs Gow might have meant by Drew Torrance being a handful, for it seemed that Mary felt she had inherited the say-so along with the acres and was affronted to find that her husband disagreed.

‘And forby,’ she went on, after tramping along in silence for a while, ‘the way I look at it is: a fire comes and then it goes. What about the Palmers over there, with their well drying up on them time and again? You cannot farm without water, can you? Or the McAdams at Over Luck, fluke in their meadows and clubroot right through their turnip fields, as if the very earth was turning against them. And as for what’s happened at Luckenheart  . . .’ She stopped and a shiver ran through her. ‘I’m not complaining, Mrs Gilver.’ I knew what she was about to say before she said it. ‘The fire was terrible, but what’s for you won’t go by you, no point in hoping it will.’

‘Oh, quite, quite,’ I said.

At times in my short detecting past I have felt that there were hidden patterns tantalising me but I had no such ticklish sense of answers just out of reach now; my poor head was a maelstrom of Torrances, Gows and Martineaus, lovers and husbands, farms and houses, fires and deaths, witches and spirits, demons and strangers and clanging saucepans to boot and I wished that I had the nerve to affect a headache and ask for eggs on a tray. The spare bedroom was icy, but cool, clear air was exactly what I needed because if I gathered even another day’s worth of names and interviews without tidying what I had so far, I was likely to do as our cook used to when I was a child, whenever unexpected guests, kitchen maids’ afternoons out and the cooling off, inexplicable and unstoppable, of the temperamental kitchen range all fell together, which was to shriek, throw her apron over her head and rush out to hide in the stables, sobbing.

Guessing that Lorna and Mr Tait would fuss, however, I endured breaded cutlets in the dining room and sat afterwards listening to the fire crackle and watching Lorna at her embroidery for as little time as I thought I could politely get away with, then retired with cocoa, a hot bottle and a fierce determination to get on top of things while I still had a chance of it.

March, April, May
, I wrote on a fresh sheet of paper.
Elspeth, Annie, Molly. Eggs, flowers, whisky.

June, July, August,
were next.
Mrs Muirhead, Mrs Torrance, Mrs Fraser. Smoke, ???, yeast.

September and October. ??? and Mrs Hemingborough
.
??? and ???
as far as smells were concerned.

And then what? What chance that Mrs Hemingborough’s tussle in the Hinter Luck lane was the end of it? Also, this possibility just occurring to me, had there been attacks before the one on Elspeth McConechie? Were there more who, like the mistresses Muirhead, Torrance and Hemingborough (and ??? in September too), had kept it quiet? If this band of four had been silent, why not?

Except, when I really thought about it, or rather when I forced myself
not
to think about it but just to let the feel of the thing take charge for a moment, the four I had just clumped together did not make  . . . not
sense
, for
sense
was not what was at issue here, I should say it did not make  . . . I knew not what word to use for it.

As a girl, when I swung on the estate carpenter’s door and watched him planing and sawing, my unfocused mind was most receptive and I remember a good bit of what I heard – him talking perhaps to me, perhaps to himself, in that slow, easy way of his, or perhaps to the wood itself, praising it and cajoling it, making it meet him halfway, offer up the prettiest grain and split obligingly in crisp sharp angles when his chisel commanded it. One particular thing he often said, which has stayed with me ever since, was that unlike making a piece of cabinetry which was to stand on its own legs, when one was constructing a cupboard to hang in a room, or putting a window into a wall, or even just nailing up a shelf in an outhouse, one could measure as much as one liked, with rules and tapes and plumb lines; one could take a spirit level and work from the floor, the ceiling, or the distant horizon, and it would make no odds if the thing was not ‘eye-sweet’. ‘That’s what you mun remember, Miss Dandelion,’ he would say. ‘Never mind your straight edge and your square angle, you leave them in the schoolroom. Never mind your plumb or your level: it mun be eye-sweet and when it is you’ll look upon it and you’ll know it, same as you know anything.’

And right now, all these years later, it just was not eye-sweet to say that terrified Mrs Muirhead and the two farmers’ wives, the cold Torrance and the tough Hemingborough, made a set, even though they had all kept quiet about the attacks upon them. Far sweeter, it seemed to me, to say that Mrs Muirhead kept quiet out of a sense of shame, her ear full of poison from her ghastly neighbour but Mrs Hemingborough on the other hand, and Mrs Torrance too from what Mrs Gow had just told me, felt no shame much less any terror and kept quiet from a sense of  . . . once again I could not complete this train of thought. I could not imagine
what
might make a woman accept such beastliness without even a hint of umbrage. When it was Mrs Hemingborough alone I imagined she knew who it was and was protecting him, but who could it be for whom both she and young Mrs Torrance would seal their lips? And if I could stretch some loyalty across both of them, I could not easily account for September’s victim. Would she be another stoic or would she be a second terrified girl? No, I thought, she couldn’t be; it wouldn’t be eye-sweet.

As soon as I had this thought, lazily to myself, I tried to catch it and see what was behind it. I thought hard; I let my mind drift. I asked questions; I made bold statements to see if a bit of my brain would reject them. I drew a map and marked it with farm names, victims’ names, months and even arrows to show where the stranger had sprung from each night. In short, I did every kind of thinking I knew how to do, but it got me nowhere.

Still, cheered even by a vague hint that there was a pattern there somewhere, I turned to what
could
be thought out here in my room: first, were there any before the spring? Secondly, was there any way to work out who November’s victim was going to be? Or even to narrow it down to a set from which the stranger might choose?

In answer to the first of these questions I felt an enormous pull, like an undertow, towards something my eye would find simply delicious. I longed to say that of course Elspeth was first and I wanted to go even further: to say that there would be exactly one more. Three in the spring, three in the summer and three in the autumn sounded just right, but I should be no kind of detective at all if I could not resist this pull, for it is as spurious as it is ingrained – the feeling we have that all things for good and especially for ill must come in threes, like Goldilocks’s bears and the wolf’s little pigs. Pure superstition, I always told Grant, when she regaled me in sepulchral tones of the third calamity to befall someone.

‘First it was her leg,’ she would say. ‘All over ulcers like the doctors had never seen. Then the very next month her poor old dog that she had had from a pup died in the night, and now, three years to the day after she buried her mother, if she hasn’t gone and lost her grandmother’s locket. And’ – she would pause here to let the thrilling moment reverberate around us – ‘the locket had her grandmother’s and her mother’s hair plaited together with a few little hairs from her doggie’s tail that she took while he lay dying, and that makes  . . .
three
. Madam.’

‘But if she goes blind tomorrow, you won’t count it as number four, will you?’ I would protest. ‘You’ll just start counting again on a new set of three and wait like the ghoul you are for the next instalment.’

‘You can scoff all you like. I’ve seen it too often to doubt it.’

‘And the leg ulcers?’ I would say. ‘What connection to the locket there?’

‘Now,’ Grant would say, drawing herself up and twisting her nose as though she was mixing a dish of waving lotion, ‘you are being disgusting.’ And there would be no ‘madam’ at all because I did not deserve one.

So there might well be more to come after November and there might well have been a few before March. As to predicting who might be next, I could not say. I stared glumly at the paper in front of me for a while, but it was well after eleven, the fire was dying down, my hot bottle had cooled and, I was sorry to notice, I had forgotten to drink a good third of my cocoa.
Find Miss September,
I printed in thick black letters underneath the map, then I stood, stretched and walked over to warm myself at what remained of the fire before undressing for bed.

Approaching the fireplace, however, meant that I also approached two windows, terribly draughty despite the heavy curtains which the maid had drawn. (I have often thought it an unmistakable expression of the Calvinist soul of Scotland how often a fireplace is set between two windows in a long wall, as though the architect defied us to find any cosiness in his designs. Far preferable is the habit of setting the fires into the inner walls, so that high sofa backs can protect one against icy blasts and the chimneys are clustered prettily about the roofs like birthday-cake candles rather than rearing up looking like battlements around the edges.)

Eventually, I stopped rubbing my hands and turned around to warm my other side, shivering, then stepped over to the bed and debated with myself whether to ring for Grant or just shuffle off my clothes as quickly as possible and hop in. I looked at my watch: almost midnight, rather late for Grant, and besides I should be much warmer with the shuffle and hop. A moment later I climbed into bed, hugging the last warmth in the bottle.

I was getting drowsy despite the temperature when I realised that, in the light from the embers, I could see the curtains trembling. The window must have been left open after the room was aired that morning – I should have known it could not really be
that
cold, even in a manse – and so I slithered out of bed again trying to leave all the warmth I had managed to muster undisturbed for my return, crossed the floor, parted the curtains and felt along the bottom of the window for a gap. I certainly could not tell by looking, for it was as black a night as any I have ever seen. Right enough, there was a slice of colder air where the window had not been properly fastened and with both hands on the transom I gave it a good downward shove to see if I could close it all the way.

Just then, while my face was pressed almost flat against the glass, I thought I saw something.

I stopped, holding my breath and staring out into the blackness, feeling – as one always does when looking hard into the impenetrable dark – as though my eyes were slightly bulging. Again, very obliquely, I thought I saw it: a flicker to the left somewhere. I latched the window and let the curtains fall shut again, making sure that they were well overlapped and tucked under against the carpet too. Why should there not be a flicker? I asked myself. Someone with a candle visiting a privy. I wriggled back into bed.

I did not know what time it was and did not want to wake myself up again properly by striking a match and looking at my wristwatch, but if it had been midnight when I retired and I had drowsed for an hour before I saw the curtain moving, it was by now rather late for any of the cottagers to be up and about. And then, when I considered it fully, I could not think which precise cottager it would be. Surely that flicker came from the kirk, or the graveyard anyway; there was no cottage garden obliquely opposite the back of the manse.

Well, a very late stroll then, I told myself as at last I dared to stretch my feet down into the chilly reaches of sheet near the footboard, for I never can drop off if I am curled up in a ball. Slowly, delicious sleep began to steal over me, and I wafted down into a half-dream of walking barefoot in long, wet, tickling grass. It was pleasant enough, right up until the moment it ended, as those walking dreams so often do, with a sudden plummet and a startled awakening.

I lay still, waiting for my heart to cease hammering. The difficulty with the late stroll, I now realised, was that I had most definitely seen a candle, not a lantern, and no one would take a candle to go for a walk, even if anyone trying to train a puppy perhaps or barred from smoking their baccy in the house would be out walking on such a night as this. And young Mr Christie walked in the fields, not around the gardens of his neighbours and through the churchyard.

Go back to sleep, I told myself, for if I knew one thing about this case it was that the eventful evenings were a month apart and we were quite midway between the last and the next tonight. Besides, it was ridiculous to imagine that, so soon after telling Mrs Hemingborough how I happened to look out of my window at the precise moment to witness a vital clue, I should do just that. I sank back against my pillows and invited sleep once more, dreamless for choice and lasting until morning.