Cold in the Earth (43 page)

He was most evidently shocked and struggling not to show it. ‘Staying with you, as far as I know,’ he said with a ghastly attempt at jauntiness. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve mislaid her, Inspector?’

Absorbed in their confrontation, none of them had heard the movement on the upper landing until Brett Mason’s voice hailed them from the top of the stairs. ‘Oh, you’re there, Max. I didn’t see your car – I assumed you were out.’

Watching him minutely, Fleming noticed a curious half-smile cross Mason’s face as Brett turned her attention to the visitors. ‘And what, pray, are you doing here? Haven’t we suffered enough?’

Catching a histrionic tone in her voice, Fleming tried hastily to reassure her. ‘It’s all right, Mrs Mason. Our business is only with Max.’

It was an annoying distraction. Fleming had used her shock tactics to considerable effect; now that advantage was being lost as Max visibly recovered himself. Turning her back, she went to the door of the study and held it open. ‘In here?’ she said pointedly.

But Brett hadn’t finished. ‘Max!’ she called peremptorily. ‘Max, is there someone else here? There was a jeep parked round this side when I got back a few minutes ago and went to draw the curtains – a rather battered-looking vehicle. I think you should check – it could be anyone.’

Max couldn’t control an expression of pure rage but his voice was impressively level as he said, ‘In a moment, Auntie. In here, Inspector?’

Fleming and MacNee didn’t move. ‘A jeep?’ she said. ‘Tam—’

‘I’m on my way.’

Everything stopped, Fleming thought afterwards, as if you’d pressed the freeze-frame button on a video. Brett, oblivious, at the top of the stairs; herself, struck with horror; Max – well, Max had his back to the wood panelling of the hall and his expression was unreadable.

It all jerked into movement again as MacNee erupted through the front door. ‘Your jeep,’ he hurled at Fleming, then, ‘What have you done with her, you bastard?’ he snarled, advancing on the cringing Max.

‘I – I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean. Really, officer,’ he tried to laugh, ‘I think you’d better ask my aunt.’

MacNee, his face two feet away from Mason’s, went very, very quiet. ‘Oh, playing games, are we? That’s good. We’ve a rare sense of fair play, in Glasgow. Heads I win, tails you lose.’

The menace of a thousand kilted ‘ladies from hell’, who had put the fear of God into the enemies of Empire, was in Tam MacNee’s voice. Max’s face, white before, turned grey. ‘Inspector—’

Normally, she would have let Tam have his bit of fun. She’d other things on her mind now. ‘Don’t waste your time, Tam. I know where she’ll be. Hold him and I’ll get back-up.’

Then she was running across the hall under Brett’s affronted gaze, talking into her radio phone, and was outside before Tam had said, ‘Against the wall, arms spread!’

The stars had vanished now, blotted out by the wind-driven clouds scudding across the sky. It was almost surreal, like time-delay camera-work, and Fleming took a moment to get her bearings as she came out of the shelter of the house and staggered in the force of the blast. There was a roaring in the trees like a high-running sea and a huge, ancient pine on the edge of the path groaned and creaked as she passed; she cast it a nervous glance.

There, beyond, was the entrance where the bulldozer had made its brutal assault, scooping away the ground so that the wrought-iron gate, almost off its hinges, was blowing violently to and fro with a rhythmic, metallic clang. She made no effort to find a path to the centre, shouldering her way through wherever she thought she saw a weakness in the hedge, ignoring the rips in her clothes.

Laura was here. Her mind was unclouded by doubt on that score. But Laura – in what shape? Laura still, by some unlikely chance, alive, terrified, and waiting for rescue? Or – and here the shadows were dark indeed – Laura dead, as she felt in her bones that she must be?

She had reached the still heart of the maze now. It was very sheltered here out of the onslaught of the wind, with only the mysterious, uneasy rustling and whispering of the hedges and the long grass and the distant clanking of the gate like a tolling bell to break its unnatural peace. The moon appeared suddenly from a rift torn in the clouds and glittered on the metal plaque, highlighting the etched figure with its horns, its gaping mouth a complicit sneer.

The moon vanished and it was dark again. ‘Laura!’ Fleming shouted desperately. ‘Laura, are you there?’

There was only wind sound, then faintly and still a long way off, the familiar, reassuring sound of sirens approaching. No voice, though, no sign of life from within the rough walls of the monument.

Pulling a torch from her shoulder-bag, Fleming shone it round – and there was the confirmation. Round the steps were chips of the mortar which, when last she had been here, had been securing the massive top stone into its place.

Her heart pounding, still calling Laura’s name, she seized the corner of the slab and tried to slide it across. She prided herself on having, if not quite masculine strength, certainly more physical power than most women, but this she couldn’t move. She swore, grabbing at it, breaking her nails; it was only when she heard the sirens stop close by, the flashing blue lights brilliant against the livid grey of the cloudy sky, that she gave up, running out to call for help.

It took three of them to shift it. At last the stone was off, toppling on to the paving below with an almighty smash. The dank smell of wet earth and masonry rose from the shadowy cavity within as the moon came out again, bathing it in cold, sickly light.

They lifted out the huddled body, bound and gagged, with infinite tenderness. She was limp, her eyes closed and her face in the moonlight a ghastly clay-white.

Fleming said stiffly, ‘Is she dead?’ but they couldn’t tell her. The officer who was wrapping her gently in his greatcoat couldn’t feel a pulse.

Another officer appeared behind them. ‘They’re sending a chopper. It’s on its way.’

Numbly, Fleming followed the cortège back to the house. As she crossed the sea of mud by the entrance to the maze, the gate swung violently forward into her path. Giving vent to her feelings, she wrested it violently off its rusted hinges and flung it to the ground.

They were escorting Max Mason out, his hands handcuffed behind him, as Fleming reached the front steps. His head had been bowed; as she drew level with him he raised it to look her full in the face, arrogant and unrepentant.

Still in the grip of helpless, murderous rage, she thought suddenly,
I want to spit in his face. Like Susie did to me
. With sudden appreciation of the other woman’s depth of emotion, she watched as Max was pushed into the police car.

She could hear the helicopter now, going in to land in the field beyond the maze. Satan’s field, where Diana Warwick’s sad, disinterred remains had exposed the sins of pride and jealousy and unwise love.

Paramedics were running up to the house now. Fleming stood in the bitter cold, her hands in the pockets of her badly ripped jacket, and watched them go in, then followed, her head bowed.

But Tam MacNee, coming towards her, was beaming. ‘They’ve found a pulse. And now we’ve the paramedics to start working on her, she’ll be fine. They’re the wee boys!’

Laura was still looking very white and weak, propped up on pillows in her hospital bed when Marjory was allowed into the side-ward to see her two days later. She had developed pneumonia and been acutely ill; her hands were still bandaged but, she assured her visitor, she was on her way to recovery.

Marjory set down a huge bunch of pink lilies on the bed. ‘These are from Bill. Conscience-money. He’s feeling terrible because he told Max where you were.’

Laura looked stricken. ‘Oh no! I hope you told him it wasn’t his fault?’

‘Well – only sort of,’ Marjory confessed. ‘It seemed to be having quite a good effect – realising that his own problems weren’t the worst in the whole world.’

Laura smiled. ‘Poor Bill! It’s hard to keep a sense of perspective in a situation like that. If he’s able to recognise it, that’s a very good sign – in real clinical depression you can’t just choose to snap out of it. Even so, don’t expect too much too soon. He’ll take time to forgive himself for giving way.’

‘I can be patient. I’m just so grateful to see signs of the man I know and love coming back. It’s going to take time for the community to heal too, but at least this dreadful epidemic seems to be over at last. What with that, and the Mason case, it feels as if the sun hasn’t shone for weeks.’

‘I don’t think it has, has it? Anyway, tell me what’s happening out there. They won’t let me have the newspapers yet.’

Fleming pulled a face. ‘You haven’t missed a lot. It’s the usual disgusting frenzy of speculation, hype and downright lies, and you can imagine what they made of the were-wolf angle.

‘Max hasn’t been charged with your sister’s murder yet – we’re still questioning him. Forensic tests are just starting but they’ve found some clothes left in the wardrobe of Max’s old bedroom, including a black cloak he might just have used, and they’re hoping they might manage to match up fibres. And we’ve got his fingerprints on the silver mask.’

‘He put it on and – and gored her with it, didn’t he?’ Laura’s mouth quivered. ‘He described it to me as if Conrad had done it – and mentioned a black cloak, actually – and I was fool enough to react. I can’t think why I didn’t realise before. I’d been right there and seen Conrad
being
a bull – he didn’t need to dress up.’

‘I see!’ Fleming was pleased to have a major question answered. ‘We went round and round it – couldn’t think why he should have decided to take such a risk as to attack you.

‘Anyway, he’s pled not guilty to attempted murder but he’ll probably be advised to change his plea given that you’ll be able to testify and that he had a knife in his pocket in a plastic bag with someone else’s fingerprints on it—’

‘Brett’s,’ Laura said with a shudder. ‘That was the plan. He couldn’t resist boasting about it to me, showing off how clever he had been.’

Fleming listened to her account, fascinated. ‘Is he a psychopath?’

Laura wrinkled her nose. ‘Loose term. You could hardly say he was normal – but after that you get into difficult territory.’

‘That whole family is stark raving mad,’ Marjory said firmly. ‘Another loose term, but it does it for me.’

‘What about Jake?’ Laura asked suddenly. ‘You know, while I was in that – that place, I kept thinking about Dizzy and about him. What sort of man was he? Was she in love with him? Did he love her?’

Marjory sighed. ‘Piecing things together, I think he was an arrogant, hot-tempered man who was taught a terrible lesson. I think he still loves his wife, who is a woman of remarkable strength of character who made a sad miscalculation which she’s been paying for ever since. Whether, after she left him, he and your sister – we’re never going to know, are we?’

She told Laura about the success of the experiment she had suggested. ‘That saved your life, you know,’ Marjory said soberly. ‘But I was talking to the consultant yesterday and now Jake looks to have given up, quietly slipping out of life. Rosamond’s spirit seems broken; she hardly talks to him any more, just sits holding his hand. She’s put in a request to go and see Max in prison but he’s refused to see her.’

Laura sighed. ‘So terribly sad! And Conrad – what about him? I – I really liked him, you know. He was nice to me – kind and funny.’

Marjory gave her an old-fashioned look. ‘Oh aye,’ she said. ‘Charming enough when it suited him, right enough. Bit of a hunk too, I’d have to say. But take a wee bit sandpaper to the surface and he was an ill-tempered bully. Took it out on anyone too weak to hit back.’

‘Oh dear!’ Laura looked dismayed at first, then started to giggle. ‘So much for my talents as a psychologist!’

‘You won’t get me saying a word against psychology,’ Marjory declared, then, as Laura’s laughter turned into a cough, looked alarmed. ‘Here – I’d better go. I’ve one ward sister who’d poison my tea given half a chance. I’m not needing another.’

‘Wait,’ Laura said taking a sip of water, ‘what’s the scary Mrs Mason doing in all this?’

‘Keeping very, very quiet, I’m happy to say. Conrad will probably be released before too long and then it’s my guess they’ll sell up and disappear. Now, I’m away to leave you to rest.’

She went to the door, then paused. ‘And you, Laura? What are you going to do? Is it back to London?’

Laura hesitated. ‘I don’t know, Marjory. You know, when I was in that awful place, waiting to die, I felt that the tragedy of Dizzy’s disappearance had shadowed the past fifteen years, imprisoned me almost. Now – well, I suppose in psychological jargon you could say I’ve had closure, and I’m free. I don’t think I’ve made the most of my life, and that’s going to change. When I’m an old lady I want to be able to look back and say, “Well, I enjoyed that!”’

‘Sounds good to me. Kick up your heels – paint the town red – steal traffic cones – oh well, maybe not the traffic cones.’ They both laughed, then Fleming said more seriously, ‘I never thought we could do this, you know – get at what happened after all these years. Max must have felt quite safe with his secret.’

‘Yes, he probably did. But he should have remembered about truth and oil.’

‘Truth and oil?’

‘Dizzy used to say that.’ Laura’s eyes were wet. ‘It’s a Spanish proverb.
Truth and oil always come to the surface.
’

Postscript

Marjory Fleming stood in the orchard in the May sunshine, watching her chickens pecking hopefully in the long, lush grass. They were acclimatising well; the new rooster, Tony, was a quieter type than his predecessor Clinton and somewhat in awe of the alpha hen, inevitably christened Cherie.

Above, there was pink apple-blossom in the gnarled old trees while below the home meadows were bright with daisies, buttercups, white clover and soft blue speedwell. The white starry clusters of cow-parsley edged the margins of the field like sea-foam, making an idyllic picture for a lovely spring morning.