Last Act of All (14 page)

She
thought she had the house to herself, and the figure, dark against the light from the window and seated by the old wooden work-table, gave her such a fright that she jumped and gasped aloud.

‘
Oh! George Wagstaff, what a start you gave me, sitting there! I thought you’d gone out.’

He
was busy at something; she came round behind him and saw what he was doing. Meticulously, with oil, a rag and a rod, he was cleaning a shotgun.

‘
George!’ She had not meant that her alarm should show in her voice, but she was no actress. ‘What are you doing with that?’

‘
What does it look as if I’m doing?’ His reply was brusque, but he looked up and read the consternation in her face. ‘I’ve been out shooting rabbits, you stupid woman,’ he said, with exasperated affection. ‘They’re hanging in the larder, if you don’t believe me. You didn’t think I’d be puddinghead enough to go out after Fielding with my own gun?’

‘
Course I didn’t. Don’t be daft,’ she said, but her voice wobbled, and dumping the pile of laundry in her arms on to the table, she sat down beside him. ‘Oh my dear, what are we going to do?’ Her voice was thick with tears.

He
set down the little oil bottle carefully and stretched out his hard, cracked farmer’s hand to cover hers, attempting comfort where there was none.

‘
I don’t know, lass.’

‘
Surely he can’t do this to us – surely we must have some rights—’

He
shook his grizzled pate. ‘I always knew we hadn’t much safeguard. Maybe I should have taken it up with Radley, but it didn’t matter then. Oh, he’s got his faults, same as everyone, but he’d never have let us down this way.’

She
tried not to cry, but the tears would come, and she tried to wipe them away with the back of her hand, like a child.

‘
Here,’ he said gruffly, taking a red spotted handkerchief out of his back pocket.

It
must be, she knew, a particular agony for a man as old-fashioned as George to watch helplessly while his woman suffered, and all the talking in the world wasn’t going to change anything. She mopped her eyes briskly, then viewed the handkerchief with distaste. ‘Just look at this! It’s filthy, George. With a pile of clean ones in your chest of drawers, how you can’t remember to change them…’

Fussing,
she got to her feet, and, adding the handkerchief to the pile, picked up the laundry and the reins of her household once more.

In
a voice that shook with intensity of feeling, he promised, ‘I’ll — I’ll think of something, Dora. Don’t you worry. I’ll sort it out somehow.’

The
smile she gave him was one of perfect trust, because she knew that was what he needed just then. Perhaps she wouldn’t make such a bad actress after all.

*

It was the first time Helena had been to Radnesfield House since the day she left it, in such high emotion, almost a year ago.

Nothing
had changed. Only a broken and scorched kitchen chair, and some charred remnants of cloth on the lawn at the front suggested that anything at all had taken place in the intervening time.

It
was Sharon who answered when she rang the bell, Sharon looking awkward at seeing her one-time mistress on the doorstep.

Helena
was brisk. ‘Good morning, Sharon. I’ve come to see Mr Fielding.’ She stepped inside as she spoke.

The
girl looked flustered. ‘Yes — yes, of course, Mrs Field — er — Mrs Radley. I’ll tell him you want to see him, like, shall I?’

‘
Don’t bother, Sharon. Is he in the study? I’ll go myself.’ She walked swiftly across to the door, tapped on it, and without waiting for an answer, walked in.

Slumped
in his chair, Neville was looking black, but when he saw Helena in the doorway, a slow and unpleasant smile crossed his face.

‘
Well, if it isn’t Nella!’ he drawled. ‘And how’s the radiant bride?’

He
got to his feet, and she submitted to his impudent kiss on the cheek without comment.

‘
Do you know,’ he went on jovially, ‘I had a presentiment that I might be having a visit from you today? I don’t know what it is about the country air. Somehow it seems to sharpen my intuition.’

Helena
sat down. She had known Neville would try to provoke her, and she was determined not to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he had succeeded.

‘
I should think you’ll be having a steady stream of visitors this weekend, Neville. You’ve managed to upset an awful lot of people.’

It
was clear this cheered him up enormously. His eyes were sparkling as he said, with mock seriousness, ‘I know. Isn’t it dreadful? The phone is positively red-hot this morning. Even the vicar seems awfully cross with me for some reason. But you would understand, Nella darling. We must all make sacrifices for the sake of Art.’

She
drew a steadying breath. ‘As you no doubt realize, after the blunt message you got last night, feeling is running high. There will be organized opposition, objections made to the planning authorities…’

A
slow, mournful shake of the head. ‘How sad for them! The planners have been itching to get their hands on Radnesfield for years. Edward is an economic moron; if he’d played his cards right, he could have got twenty times the figure he got from me.’

‘
Don’t be rude about Edward to me, please. He cares about the local community, which you plainly don’t. Be careful, Neville, I warn you. There are people out there who really hate you.’

‘
Oh, I know! Isn’t it stimulating? Whoever would have dreamed these bucolic sons of toil could be stirred to such frenzied emotion? George Wagstaff, even—’ He held up his hands in a Harry gesture.

Well,
she had done her best for Radnesfield, and it had proved, as she had thought, useless. With a mental shrug, she moved on.

‘
Neville, you know that I have a maintenance order against you for Stephanie.’

‘
Yes, of course I do.’ The reply was tetchy, but at least more sober.

‘I know what you’ll say about schooling — all the old “never-did-me-any-harm” arguments—’

‘
I certainly don’t want a daughter who’s a silly little rich bitch.’

She
forced herself to reply calmly. ‘Neither do I, but I don’t think that’s a problem. Of course Darnley Hall is expensive, but you were all in favour of it, remember? I’m not bothered about the frills, I’m talking about her friends and above all her security. She had an appalling time last summer; I don’t suppose you noticed, but she lost almost a stone in weight, and I thought that anorexia would be the next thing. But she’s happy and confident at Darnley Hall, and that’s what allows her to cope with the sort of mess we’ve inflicted on her. Take it away from her now, and you could produce lifelong damage.’

Neville
scowled. ‘Well, that’s a bit of a problem. Quite frankly, Helena, it’s a hell of a lot of money, and I need every penny to put into this new project. It’s a fantastic opportunity — to take Harry on to the broad screen, where he can become a world star. I’ve got a Hollywood producer right on the line, provided I can raise enough capital to put up my share. And I will raise it, if it’s the last thing I do.’

He
had forgotten grievance in his enthusiasm. ‘It will be a bit tight for the first bit, Nella, but after that — well, Harry Bradman will be up there with the greats, and the sky’s the limit.’

‘
Don’t you mean Neville Fielding?’ she could not resist interjecting.

He
checked his flow, shaking his head as if irritated by some small insect. ‘Harry, Neville, same thing,’ he said impatiently. ‘But when I make it, I promise you that you and Stephie won’t be forgotten in the pay-off.’

‘
When you make it? In — what? Two, three years? We have Stephanie’s school career to think of. In two years, she has major exams. We can’t muck about with her education. I’m sorry, but if you won’t do it willingly, I’m going to get Henry Stanton to invoke the law. I’ve got that maintenance order, and you’ll be forced to pay it.’

His
face, grew dark once more. ‘Same old thing — you always let me down when it came to the point, didn’t you? Thank god I’m free of you — I can’t think why I didn’t break up that dismal farce of a marriage years ago.

‘
You could never understand Harry’s stature, could you? I really think you were jealous of him, in some extraordinary, perverted way. And now you’re trying to contain a character that’s bigger than you, bigger than me, bigger than petty little Chris Dyer, who’s started taking refuge in standards of bourgeois morality which he simply cannot see don’t apply.

‘
But I’ve taken care of you all. I’ve found the smartest lawyer in the business, and stuffy Stanton can do his worst. I’m about to sign a deed creating the Harry Bradman Trust, and I won’t even own the suit I stand up in. But Harry will lend it to me — he always was generous to his friends.’

Helena
stood up, feeling sick at heart. ‘Neville, I think you’ve gone mad.’

That
was the trigger. ‘Mad?’ he yelled suddenly. ‘How dare you, you stupid, superficial woman, with your small-town husband and your small-town mind!’

Her
resolve crumbled. At last, she felt herself emotionally confident enough to shout back.

‘
Don’t dare talk to me like that! Small-town mind? That’s better than no mind at all. You’re nothing but a vacuum, and Harry Bradman moved in to take over the empty space inside.

‘
I will fight you, not because I want anything for myself — I never have, as you know — but for Stephanie. She loves her pony, that you bought her. She loves her expensive school, where you sent her. You bought her off, because she wasn’t a toy you cared to play with any more. I won’t stand by and see her sacrificed to your monumental selfishness.’

For
a moment he looked dangerous, then broke, instead, into ironic applause. ‘Oh bravo, Nella! Perhaps you should have done that more often. Such wonderful, crashing emotions! You almost make me regret that I let you go. There is something so awfully trivial about Lilian.’

‘
Given the banality of your own mind, I don’t know how you can tell. You seem to me perfectly matched — a case of shallow calling to shallow. Oh, and one other point. You didn’t let me go. I went.

‘
Just let me say this finally, Neville. If there is anything I can do to ensure my daughter’s security, I shan’t scruple to do it — up to and including murdering you with my own bare hands!’

She
flung open the door as she spoke, theatrical instinct telling her that she could hope for no better exit line. Neville, well pleased with the effect of his provocation, threw back his head and laughed, as she slammed the door on the maddening sound.

The
movement at the back of the hall caught her eye: Sharon, whisking out of sight below stairs.

With
her temper cooling as rapidly as it had flared up, Helena sighed ruefully. That would be all round the village by nightfall, without a doubt.

Chapter Eight

‘He can’t do that — he can’t!’ Stephanie was a child again, tears pouring down her cheeks in a tempest of reaction to the unfairness of life. ‘Mummy, you’ve got to stop him! I’ll die if he sells Angel and makes me leave Darnley Hall.’

She
cast herself on to the sofa. Helena, grim-faced, went to put her arm round her.

‘
We’ll certainly do everything we can. I’ll phone the lawyer first thing on Monday, but according to your father that won’t do any good. He may be bluffing, but I’m afraid you may just have to be brave, Stephanie. Worse things happen to lots of people.’

Stephanie
sat up, her face blotchy and her lips quivering. ‘For heavens’ sake, I realize that! And if things had gone really wrong and there wasn’t any money, I wouldn’t moan. But he’s doing this deliberately. He doesn’t care about me one little bit.’

‘
Don’t be melodramatic, dear. Of course he does,’ Helena said mechanically. Stephanie was a child of the theatre, and at the dramatic age anyway, but she was right. Neville didn’t care about her, or about anyone except himself.

Edward
’s voice was purposely matter-of-fact. ‘I don’t think we should get too worked up about it at the moment. I can’t believe the law is as powerless as Neville thinks, and anyway, Hollywood producers can change their minds; someone could make Neville a better offer next week, and he’ll be off on a different enthusiasm. Dyer is certainly trying everything he can do to stop him, so who knows?’

Stephanie
was silent all through lunch, and only picked at her food; Helena wasn’t hungry either. It seemed a long time until Edward finished and suggested they take coffee through to the sitting-room.

Stephanie
disappeared, and as they sat over their coffee, they heard her running downstairs. ‘Just going to borrow Jim Wagstaff’s horse and go for a ride,’ she shouted, and then the front door slammed in a way which suggested reflection had not softened her mood.

‘
She’s sure to go and see Neville,’ Helena said apprehensively. ‘Oh Edward, I do hope he’s kind to her, at least. She’s at such a vulnerable age.’

She
realized how upset he too had been when he replied curtly, ‘I should think it very unlikely. I don’t think Neville knows the meaning of the word kindness — or honour, or decency, come to that.’

*

Edward went out at just after two, to take Helena’s watch to Willie Comberton before he met the vicar at quarter to three.

‘
It gives me an excuse to have a chat — though no doubt I’ll have to listen again to the story about his grandfather’s grandfather clock. Still, he doesn’t get about much these days, poor old boy.’

Helena
made a reply which was purely mechanical. She found it hard to settle to anything, and as much by way of therapy for herself as anything else, decided Stephanie might be just young enough to be cheered by a cake for tea. She was still in the kitchen some time later when she heard the front door slam once more, and footsteps pound up the stairs to Stephanie’s attic bedroom.

She
went into the hall. ‘Stephanie,’ she called, but the distant crash of the bedroom door was the only answer. She hesitated, then climbed the stairs and tapped softly.

‘
Stephie, are you all right?’

There
was no reply, and hearing the sound of muffled weeping, she turned the handle, but the door was locked.

‘
Oh, go away, Mum, leave me alone!’ Stephanie’s cry was despairing, and Helena felt her pain like a knife in her own heart. If Neville had been brutal to the child there was nothing she could do.

But
as she went slowly back downstairs, the anger that had seized her this morning rose once more, in a primitive response to this attack on her young.

She
had once been able to influence Neville; now, if he were hiding behind the great, ugly, looming figure of Harry Bradman, then he must be dragged out. And she, according to Chris Dyer, was the only person who had even the slightest chance of doing it.

On
this surge of determination, she hurried to the cloakroom, grabbing a light raincoat but not pausing to cover her head. It was raining lightly, as she took the short-cut path that led up across the little rise, past the Daleys’ house and below the Home Farm, up to the garden of Radnesfield House itself.

She
attempted, as she set out, to plan tactics, but half-way there, in a flash of clarity, realized her self-delusion. She was no knight-errant, setting out to slay a dragon; she was a woman spoiling for a fight, and when he proved obdurate (as of course he would) she would relish venting her fury directly upon its object.

Approaching
the house, she hesitated. Lilian, by Stephanie’s account, spent her country afternoons closeted with beauty aids and exercise machines, so it should prove simple enough to find Neville on his own, if he was in the house at all. But she certainly did not want to ring the bell again, to have to face Sharon after the last embarrassing encounter.

To
her satisfaction, as she reached the side lawn through the wicket gate, she noticed the French window into Neville’s study was ajar. Perhaps he had gone out that way; if so, she would be waiting for him when he returned.

Daffodils
were blooming damply along the border beneath the windows, and a cherry tree had begun to shake its snow in a browning carpet on the pathway as she crossed it. A thrush, undaunted by the rain, was singing somewhere deep in the shrubbery, and glistening gossamer had been stretched across a budding fuchsia. She hardly noticed; yet every detail etched itself on her mind so sharply that sometimes, later, she thought she could count every strand in the spider’s web.

She
pushed open the door. ‘Neville?’ she said questioningly, ‘Neville? Are you there?’

Helena
had chosen the furnishings for his study herself, in rich, rather sombre shades, to complement the colours in the stained glass panels of the French windows, and the dull reds, blues and burnt oranges made the room dark. For a second she blinked, adjusting to the dimmer light.

Neville
was there, certainly. At least, what had been Neville Fielding remained, slumped across a low, figured walnut desk, hands splayed across it as if trying to support the weight of his body as he had fallen forward in the swivel chair. His right cheek rested on papers spread out on the gilded leather of the desk top, his visible eye wide open, glazed in surprise, though his mouth seemed to have been denied the opportunity to take on any expression at all. The back of his head showed the gleam of bone in the pulpy, gaping wound responsible for the trickle of blood that marked the checked collar of his Tattersall shirt. There was not much blood: it had been a heavy blow, instantly fatal, and the weapon lay, as if thrown down in temper, on the rug at his feet – the long, heavy-knobbed brass poker from the set of fire-dogs.

At
first sight she could not comprehend what she was seeing. She had seen it all too many times: the elaborate stage-set, the carefully-structured wounds, the professional immobility of the actor. At any moment a voice off would say, ‘OK, Neville, that’s great,’ and he would get up, rubbing his back and complaining of stiffness.

But
he didn’t. She found she was holding her breath, and the room swung crazily round her. She steadied herself on the back of a chair, shutting her eyes briefly as if she could blot it all out, start again.

And
still he lay there. She felt, ludicrously, at a loss. Perhaps one should scream – But she had not screamed, and now, though she opened her mouth, no sound came. She could rouse the others in this silent house, fetch help...But it was all too hideously clear that Neville was far beyond human assistance.

The
police. Here, at last, was firm ground. Middle-class conditioning: dial 999 and ask for service required. There was a phone on the fireside table, and she turned to cross the room.

She
did not register it at first, stepping over it carefully with some dim recollection that nothing must be touched at the scene of the crime. Indeed, her hand was already on the telephone when the significance struck her, with a force which dropped her into a chair as neatly as if she had been hit across the back of the knees.

Stephanie
’s riding-crop. She recognized it, because she had bought it herself as a Christmas present; besides, there were the initials, SF, burnt for identification along the wood.

In
her horrified mind, the scene took shape in graphic detail: Stephanie goaded beyond endurance by her father; he, turning his back on her in arrogant dismissal; she, throwing down her riding-crop to seize the poker—

She
buried her face in her hands. Oh Stephie, Stephie! Why had she not come to her mother, instead of locking herself in her room with, this nightmare? Perhaps, between them, they could have concocted an alibi...

Perhaps
they still could. On the thought, she leaped to her feet. No one knew she was here. She could be down the hill in five minutes, and tell the police, when they inevitably came, that she and Stephanie had been in the house together all afternoon. She grabbed the tell-tale crop, then forced herself to pause and think.

Stephanie
might have been wearing her riding-gloves. But if not... Feverishly, she rummaged in her pockets for a handkerchief, suddenly afraid that the door might at any moment open to admit Sharon or Lilian.

There
was no place for squeamishness. She grasped the poker in the handkerchief, rubbing fiercely up and down the length of its shaft, trying not to see the ugly detritus on the knob.

Her
instinct was the oldest of all; to protect her child. She felt nothing for Neville. If he had driven their loving, normal Stephanie to the point where she could do this, he was not fit to live, still less to exact vengeance. She had no time to contemplate the wider problems.

Yet,
despite her haste, she paused in the window aperture, under some elegiac compulsion to look once more.

It
still bore the appearance of theatrical unreality, with a whiff of Bradman in the air. It was as if he had staged it all, as if death were merely the inevitable denouement. In another moment, if she lingered, she would hear Harry’s ghostly laughter in the wings.

Clasping
her hands to her ears, she fled, plunging down the pathway as if shadowy terrors snapped at her heels.

*

It was almost four o’clock when, breathless, she slipped in through the back door. Stephanie – she must tell her that she knew, coach her in her answers…

The
sound of Edward’s voice, calling hopefully, ‘Helena? Are you there?’ presented a more immediate problem. She could not tell him; the only people in the secret must be Stephanie and herself. She could not ask Edward to perjure himself for her child, could not, in truth, be sure he would not insist on honesty as the only way, and she was not sure she could withstand him.

Dabbing
frantically at the dampness clinging to her hair, and schooling her voice, she called, ‘In the kitchen,’ and turned to resume her interrupted baking, thankful that shock left fewer identifiable marks upon the face than grief.

She
even managed a sort of smile as Edward came in. ‘How was the vicar?’

Edward,
preoccupied and distressed, barely noticed her. ‘In a bad way,’ he said heavily. ‘To tell you the truth, I don’t know how he’s going to take a service tomorrow. Marcia’s walked out — left him with the children, and I don’t think he has an idea what to do. He was late for our meeting, then came along wringing his hands and saying he couldn’t cope without her. I really wonder if, as church-warden, I should ring the Bishop.’

She
heard her own voice saying, quite calmly, ‘I would leave things over the weekend, if I were you. She may come back of her own accord.’ And anyway, she thought with detachment, no one will be noticing the quality of the sermon.

‘
Shall I make some tea?’

‘
Yes please.’ She abandoned all pretence of baking, and went to fetch cups and saucers. She discovered her hands were shaking in delayed shock, shaking so that she had to lift each one separately to stop them clattering like castanets.

‘
What about Stephanie?’ Edward asked, as he carried through the tray ‘Shall I call her?’

‘
She’s up in her room. Just leave her.’ Keeping her voice level took all the control she had.

But
the tea, and the quiet sitting-room, steadied her. There was no reason why the police should even question Stephanie, now that the crucial evidence was safely in the cupboard under the kitchen sink. After the events of last night, surely they would assume that this was connected, and Edward had been confident that they would get no information from the village.

She
was just considering making an excuse to go up and see Stephanie, when Edward lowered his newspaper to say in tones of mild surprise, ‘Good gracious, isn’t that a police car? Oh, last night, of course. I suppose they’ll be talking to everyone.’