Memory and Desire (40 page)

“It was all Melinda's fault. She spoiled it for me. So I took that little sash from her dress, no more than a ribbon, and I did for her. I knew what I had to do and I did for her, then and there. Me, who she thought was shit on her shoe, I did for her. I had to, didn't I? Melinda had the proof that would give me the Hall and she had any man she wanted and I had no proof and no one."

So here was the truth at last. Every word of it had its own skewed logic and yet every word of it was wrong—Melinda had a concussion, she probably wouldn't have remembered what happened—a sober Diana might have run for help—a sober Diana wouldn't have confronted Melinda to begin with, throwing her own frustrations and resentments like acid. Just as she was now throwing them at Claire.

“I ran back to Hall for some dustbin liners,” Diana went on. “Melinda was so little, so nothing, it was only a minute dragging her into the garden. Richard had the rose beds all ready, with tools and a pile of muck to hand. Very obliging.

“The dog slipped his lead and came running up whilst I was digging out the bottom of the flower bed. I thought of Jezebel, in the Bible, eaten by dogs. But he's a good dog, couldn't do that to him. I shied a rock at him. Then I wrapped her up in the bin liners and threw the dirt back on top of her. Dirt, that's what she was. Dirt come to dirt.” Diana smiled. She had blood-red lipstick on her teeth. “I wanted to take her ring, but no, peasants like me don't have nice things, do they? Even though she owed it me. I could've had the Hall, couldn't I? She kept me from it. She got what she deserved."

In spite of the chill Claire felt her face glowing hot. Steaming, probably. Eaten by dogs, God....

The dog. Susan had seen the dog running along the street on her way to the midnight vigil. But the woman she'd seen in the portico wasn't Melinda after all. It really had been Elizabeth, agitated, probably, by the horror done in her name.

Diana was still smiling. “I carried the food and the dishes to the pub, locked the dog in, had a wash, and went along to the church, bang on time, made sure everyone saw me. Even that whore Janet. Rob said I was whoring for Elliot, didn't he, and yet when he has it off with a Yankee tart it's only a physical need, like pissing, I reckon."

Yeah, Claire'd heard that one before.

“I said I was ill,” Diana went on. “But I wasn't. I felt good. Strong. Stronger than Elizabeth, even, because I fought back. I found Melinda's car keys in her flat along with her computer. I've had a key to that flat for donkey's years, used to char for Sarita. I ask you, a natural born Brit of good family cleaning for a wog. As bad as a wog playing Elizabeth, isn't it?"

Claire knew she'd be wasting her breath asking why race prejudice was any better than class prejudice.

“I'm a good driver, I am, the Derbyshire-sodding-constabulary be damned. I left the car at Ladybower Reservoir and hitched with a farmer going in to market, had him drop me at a motorway service area by Chesterfield. I hitched from there with a lorry driver. Clever, eh, not to come straight back here?"

“Elliot said you were at his house soon after midnight,” Claire said, forcing her lips to form words without letting out her scream.

“Ah, he took a tablet. Always does, says he's a martyr to insomnia—if he ever worked at a real job he'd sleep, right enough."

“You have a key to his house, too?"

“Yeh, he had me in to dust all his pretty things when he was away farting around with producers and actors and other airy-fairy folk. So I slipped in and changed his clock, didn't I, moved it back to one, the time I left the church. Then I woke him up, tried to get him interested. He wasn't up to it. I hear tell they have tablets for that, too, nowadays. But he won't be needing any."

Diana's appearing at Elliot's bedside, Claire thought, had been a victory roll, gloating over a defeated foe. A foe who hadn't even realized she was in combat. “What happened to Melinda's computer?"

“Couldn't get a bloody thing out of it, could I? Just goes to show you she had something to hide, the way she'd nobbled it with passwords and such. Useless bit of rubbish, and not something I wanted lying about—we peasants don't have computers, either, do we? I smashed it up and bunged it in the Littles’ stock pond."

In other words, Claire told herself, Diana was completely computer illiterate....

“Everyone thinks I'm a bungalow,” Diana spat, “no upper story, see. When that pillock Pakenham said he was after arresting me, I showed him. I showed him good and proper."

Yes, you did. Even though you were wrong there, too.
Claire was trembling, every nerve humming like piano wire. But collapsing into a twitching, sobbing heap wouldn't help. Diana had to be getting near the end of her recital. Her speech of self-justification, crowing over Claire because she'd never had a chance to crow over Melinda. “You killed Elliot, to cover up. You went to his house before you went to the pub yesterday afternoon and forced him to write the confession."

“Yeh. It's easy to kill, once you've done it. Like adultery, gets easier every time.” Diana's eyes narrowed even further, into spiteful glints. “Mind you, Elliot died because of you, not me. Melinda took away me inheritance. Me birthright. You were after taking away everything else, weren't you? Even when she told you sod-all about the will—thought she was too good for you, too, hah!—still you came here asking questions. Couldn't leave well enough alone, could you? Well, Melinda's plotting came to nothing and yours will, too."

Plotting? Claire repeated.
But neither one of us ever had a clue.

Diana stepped forward, head down, shoulders coiled. Claire stepped back once, twice. She was almost at the end of the pew. Her left thigh brushed against a fold of the umbrella.

“It was that bitch Kate, W bloody P bloody C Shelton, saved you from the trap I set with the tapestry. Nothing but sodding luck got you out of those cellars alive. And now you're here, walked right in to another trap. Who's stupid, then? Who?"

Claire glanced to her left, toward the main door. Maybe she could outrun Diana. Hell, right now she could outrun an Olympic sprinter ... The side aisle was almost blocked with the tombs. She'd lose time going around them. Diana could run down the main aisle and corner her by the porch. Then it'd be hand to hand.

Diana was taller, heavier, and stronger. Outside the cellar door she'd had the advantage of surprise, yes, but even so Claire had much too good an idea what would happen if Diana got hold of her now. She could kick, she could scratch—Diana wouldn't feel a thing except her own resentment.

It wasn't worth the effort appealing to Diana's good nature—the woman had worn that out years ago. Reason, maybe? Did she have any left? “Why go to all the trouble of pinning everything on Elliot and then blow it by...” Claire wasn't going to say the words. “...here? All the hue and cry'll start over again and this time the police'll know exactly who to come after.” She flexed her knees. Her jeans made a swishing sound against the black satin fabric of the umbrella. The umbrella...

“You're still thinking I'm stupid, aren't you?” Diana's voice was as coolly reasonable as though she was telling a customer the price of beer. “I'll raise the door to the crypt and push you down the steps. Mind you, Elizabeth doesn't deserve to lie next the likes of you, but she's been amongst the gentry all these years, she'll understand. It'll be like one of them ancient sacrifices when all the servants were buried with the king. It's time one of us peasants got hers back."

Claire bent slowly to the left, her hand sliding, fingers outstretched, down the seam of her jeans.

“By the time they find you I'll be gone. I've been creaming money from the till, haven't I? That and me own little account in Bakewell that'll set me up somewheres, anywheres, so long as it's not a turnip patch like Somerstowe. I'll go by me proper name, Cranbourne.” She took another step forward, raising her hands. “And I have a button from Rob's jacket here in me pocket, if I put that on your body they'll think it's him, won't they? He's having himself a nap just now, he was alone in the entrance hall yesterday when Elliot died, they'll think he did for the both of you. He'll get what he deserves, a cell, no booze, no whores, no one to knock around, not any more. You know what they say, Claire. Third time's the charm."

Diana lunged.

Ohmygod.
The words ricocheted inside Claire's head. She saved her breath to fight.
Ohmygod.
Her hand swept up the umbrella even as she leaped backward.

Her right side smashed into cold marble. So did her left. Swift move, she'd wedged herself between Cecil's and Phillip's tombs. It was all their fault to begin with, yes, maybe it was appropriate she died in their stony embrace...

Diana, all eyes and teeth and flying hair, came at her. Claire raised the umbrella. Her thumb found the catch and pressed. With a whoomp the taut-stretched fabric billowed outward. Claire leaned into the outward thrust, leading with the metal spike. From behind the black circle of the umbrella she felt rather than saw it hit Diana.

Diana screamed, ugly and shrill. At least Claire thought that was Diana's voice, not hers. And someone else was shouting too, several someones. Footsteps reverberated off the roof. She was either hyperventilating or the cavalry had come at last.

Hands pushed away the umbrella and pulled her out of her crevice, hands she'd recognize anywhere, any time. Richard. Her knight in shining armor. Or her knight in jeans and a Cambridge University sweatshirt, to be exact. His eyes were blazing. “Are you all right? Alec and Kate are after her, we heard almost the whole thing—are you all right, lass?"

She wanted to smile jauntily and say, “Gee, you're handsome when you're mad.” Instead her own voice, tiny and shaky, said, “Oh, Richard."

Somewhere footsteps raced. Somewhere voices spoke. Somewhere a door slammed. But here, but now, Claire dropped the umbrella and threw herself against Richard's chest.

His warm arms enclosed her. “I'm here,” he said. “I'm here."

Maybe it was sheer mulishness. Maybe it was Richard's strong arm around her shoulders. It didn't matter. Claire locked her arm around his waist and discovered she could still walk.

Gathering up the umbrella in his free hand, Richard guided her past the altar and around the organ to the vestry door. Inside, Alec was easing Trevor into a desk chair and Kate stood at the open door with a cell phone pressed to her ear.

There was hardly space for them all in the tiny room with its desk, vestment cupboards, and shelves piled with musty books—and the old typewriter. Except for the crucifix above the desk, Claire was reminded of Elizabeth's room in the attics of the Hall.

Past Kate's shoulder she saw a vignette of Olde Englande—green churchyard sod nestled against silvery headstones and the lichened slate roof of the vicarage rising above a wall softened by rambler roses. She didn't see Diana, though, only the blank face of the Cranbourne mausoleum.

Kate switched off and holstered the phone. “Are you all right, Claire?"

“Only bloody just,” Richard answered for her. “Trevor? What happened?"

The elderly man waved away Alec's helping hand. “I stepped up to open the door and it flew open in my face. Diana shoved me against the jamb and ran off, never a by your leave or a fare you well. I'm not hurt, thank you, just startled."

“Good show,” said Alec. And, to Kate, “Blake?"

“He's sending the lads round the village. No worry, she won't get away."

“Talk about arriving in the nick of time,” Claire told them all. Her voice was still a bit shaky, but the wail in her stomach seemed to have receded.

“I stopped by your flat,” said Richard. “You weren't there. Trillian said she'd taken you up a note, not a stamped letter, a note left in the basket on the counter. I didn't like the sound of that. I'd been thinking, Elliot and all, it just didn't add up, did it?"

“Call me daft if you like,” Alec said, “but Elliot's house last night—the air was wrong for a suicide. There was no—no decision, no ending. His life force left echoes of confusion, surprise, fear."

Trevor nodded. “Daft? Hardly. I felt a similar intuition when I went into the house. Sergeant Pakenham seemed to have the matter well in hand, though, so I didn't say anything."

“The only thing Arnold Pakenham has in hand,” said Kate, “is himself. Begging your pardon, Vicar."

Claire managed a thin smile. So did Alec. With an appreciative snort, Richard went on, “I was going into the police incident room when I met Kate coming out. Diana never showed for her interview."

“And we'd just had the forensics report. There were no fingerprints on the gun and no gunpowder residue on Moncrief's hand,” Kate explained. “She wiped away her own prints and put the gun in his hand, but didn't press his fingers round it firmly enough. An amateurish mistake."

“She is an amateur,” said Alec. “And like most amateurs, she never twigged she's been more lucky than clever, and overreached herself."

“Kate and I met Alec on the high street,” Richard concluded to Claire. “He asked Priscilla if she'd seen you whilst working on the green. She had done, said you'd come in here. From the porch we heard Diana going on about the letter Melinda sent me and thought we should have ourselves a listen."

“I can fill in the details on my own,” Trevor said with a heavy sigh. “I've seen Diana grow more and more embittered over the years. If only I could've helped ... Well, you'd best be off.” His raised hand wished them Godspeed and counseled compassion at the same time.

Kate settled her yellow I'm-a-cop jacket over her shoulders and waved them out the door. Alec had a civilian windbreaker like Richard's. Claire followed the others out into the rain, grateful for the umbrella. Very, very grateful for the umbrella. Not that anything short of an Uzi would've held off Diana if the others hadn't come running in. Which was one of several things she didn't have time to think about now.

In one sweeping gesture Richard opened the umbrella and raised it toward the sky. Claire saw the English archers at Agincourt lifting their bows, arrows nocked, ready for battle. She saw the field at Agincourt after the battle, the mud churned red with blood.