Bury Him Darkly Page 15

  I said nothing. Actors are actors, but even in her true self, Bella had not impressed me as possessing any deep feelings or sentimentality. Even her eventual sympathy for her father had been a backlash from her grandmother’s tirade. But there was a possibility that her grandmother had accomplished two things at the same time, had given Bella an understanding of her father, and a picture of her mother that in some way pleased.

  I realized that my talk with Mrs Porter, if I could bring it about, could be very interesting indeed.

  After dinner we split up. From the receptionist Oliver obtained a list of the town’s public houses — there were fifteen — and a sketch map indicating how he might visit them all with the least amount of effort. I noticed that the route put the closest last.

  ‘In case, sir,’ the receptionist said solemnly, ‘you have difficulty getting back.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Oliver.

  Then I asked for directions to Waterford Farm.

  ‘It’s Waterford House really,’ he told us. ‘The farm’s not been worked for years, and it’s just about falling down. Mr Kemp’s place, it is.’

  Oh oh! I thought. I made a careful note of the directions, but already I had a good idea of the general lay of it.

  I drove us out of the rear car-park, having seen Oliver on his way. Terry was silent for a minute or two. I was busy navigating out of the town. At last he said:

  ‘I’m glad to get you alone, Phillie.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘He’ll be quite OK, you know.’

  ‘I’m sure he will.’

  He was silent for two minutes, then, ‘Has he told you how it is with him? All of it?’

  ‘He’s told me.’

  ‘Damn it!’ He thumped his knee with a fist. ‘Isn’t it infuriating! There was me, just got into the CID, and trying to wangle myself on to his team, and that had to happen. I wanted to work with him. Everybody does. You worked with him, see, not for him. He’s like that. Jennie told me. And that had to happen!’

  ‘You’re losing out all ways,’ I suggested.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Jennie too.’

  ‘Yes.’ His voice was empty. ‘It’s getting me down, you know. Being with the chief, I mean. Oh sure, it’s easy enough to look after him. Physically, it is. He helps a lot. It’s mentally. Phillie, I wasn’t made for it. I try — being all cheerful and optimistic — telling him he’ll be a better inspector when it’s healed. You know, jossing him a bit, to stop him getting too depressed. And him pretending he feels great! Lord, I’ve seen him when he didn’t think I was watching. He ought to be in a hospital bed, you know. Really.’

  ‘And you think I could perhaps persuade him to return to it?’ I asked, slowing a little because we had to clear this away while we were at it.

  ‘No. He’s stubborn. Changes the subject. No,’ he said carefully, pursuing his objective with delicacy. ‘But Jennie said… told me...’

  I glanced sideways. His fingers were clenched tightly on his knees. His voice hadn’t been steady.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I told him quietly.

  ‘But it does matter.’ He also was quiet, but he spoke with intensity. ‘Now it’s you who won’t mention Jennie. He won’t. Doesn’t want me to think about it, and it’s all I can think about. Jennie! Oh, we have a grand time together, him and me, you can be sure of that. All the while he’s trying to keep me from thinking about Jennie, and doing it by pretending he needs more help than he really does, and me trying to cheer him up, and pretending he’s a fraud for asking for my help.’

  I suggested that they were perhaps good for each other.

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I’m sure of it.’

  He made a tiny sound, perhaps a bitter laugh, perhaps clearing a small catch in his throat. ‘You know what scares me?’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘Tell me.’ For some reason it was encouraging that he could be scared.

  ‘Sometime,’ he said heavily, ‘probably very soon, we’re going to find out who killed Jennie, and the chief’s going to go wild. You know what I mean? He’s in a ... a dangerous mood. And he’s going to get himself hurt. I’ve got to be there, Phillie, on the spot. You understand? There to stop him — when I’m in a dangerous mood myself.’

  ‘Then you just hang on to him, and I’ll take all the action necessary. I can be dangerous too. If that’ll suit you.’

  Now the little sound was a genuine laugh, muted, but a laugh. ‘He said you were like that. Jennie too.’

  From Jennie, that would be a compliment. I was flattered. Suddenly, I felt all choked up.

  ‘There it is,’ he said suddenly. ‘On the left. According to what the man said.’

  I turned through the imposing entrance to Waterford House. There was an old gatehouse, no longer occupied, and huge wrought-iron gates held fully open by great tufts of grass, and with weeds that wound themselves around an old rusted padlock.

  Tudor Kemp, it appeared, had risked every bit of his capital on his project.

  Terry said, ‘Take it easy up here, the drive looks rough.’

  The headlights danced as the rutted drive threw us about. Beyond their reach was darkness, relieved only by two distant patches of light.

  Chapter 11

  With the lights and engine switched off, we were able to stand out on a reasonably level surface and allow our eyes to adapt. The two patches of light we’d seen were two windows, one in the cottage beside us, and one in the big house itself, which stood on the same level about a hundred yards away.

  It was going to be a crisp and clear October night, still and calm, with the possibility of a mist falling at around dawn. There was a slice of moon, but low on the horizon, and the stars were doing most of the work. The bulk of the town was hidden from here, but the glow of it was lurking just beyond the hill slope to our right, and further over, to the left, the factory was in clear view, though only as an angular block obscuring the stars. I wondered how Tudor Kemp had managed to obtain planning permission for it. The building would no doubt have been built on his own ground, but no end of sweeteners would probably have slid into welcoming bank accounts.

  Below, in the trough of the valley, the motorway operation was cloaked in darkness. In the daytime, when vehicles eventually pounded past in a steady stream, it would impose on the sensibilities with much more force. What a strange man he must be, to ruin his own outlook, which must have been of a green and lush valley, for financial advancement. Certainly, the farming aspect had failed. I could see the jagged outlines of the decrepit barns and outbuildings stretching away behind me from the tattered hayloft at my right shoulder. But Kemp had not simply recruited his financial position, he had thrown every last resource into his dream, which was after all a high-risk project that could have ruined him completely. But which, now, was going to pay off handsomely.

  We turned to examine the cottage. The lighted window was one of the bedrooms, facing sideways and overlooking, I could just tell from the light spill, a narrow cobbled yard that separated it from the run of barns. We were, in fact, standing at the end of a row of six old farm cottages, only this end one now being habitable. We moved round on to the cobbles, my ankles wobbling on the surface. The lighted window was above. I stepped back for another look, and into a rustling, prickly surface that threw up an acrid smell as it moved. Glancing behind, I saw it was a bank of ancient hay, which had flowed out when the outer wooden wall of the hayloft had rotted away. Not intending to step any further into it, I had to make the most of what I could see from there.

  Terry spoke softly. ‘Perhaps we’re a bit late for the old dear.’

  ‘I’m not sure. If she lives alone she probably doesn’t know evening from morning, and time would be no more than darkness and light. I bet she’s sitting up in bed watching the telly.’

  Terry cocked his head. ‘Can’t hear anything. Perhaps she’s still on gas.’

  ‘No.’ I could just detect the overhead wires looping in from the direction
of the big house. It was clear that this end cottage was the only one of the run connected up, and when I explored along the cobbles a little way I could see that the other cottages were in a very sad state indeed, the woodwork rotting, with most of the glass missing from the ancient sash windows, and the roofs sagging dismally. In this end one the woodwork was painted, and recently, and the windows had been replaced by more modern ones, which opened sideways.

  I walked back to Terry’s side. ‘He seems to look after the place.’

  ‘Time’s getting on, you know. Who does?’

  ‘Kemp, of course. And it’s not really late. Just after nine. Old people sleep any time, when they feel like it.’

  ‘What do we do, then? Knock on the door, or open it and shout?’ He was unsettled, anxious to get on with it.

  ‘Open the door, I’d say. If it’s unlocked.’

  ‘It is,’ said a voice behind us.

  We turned. He was no more than a shadow, which moved forward into the light spill. ‘I’d need to be able to get in if anything was to happen.’

  It was Tudor Kemp, who could not have failed to notice our headlights bouncing up his drive. His tone had been neutral, even friendly, but that shotgun was there again, crooked in his arm, when all he could have hoped to shoot in the darkness had to be intruders.

  ‘It’s Mr Kemp,’ I said to Terry.

  ‘So it is.’

  Kemp inclined his head. ‘And I believe we’ve met.’ He waited. He wanted to hear our pedigrees.

  ‘My name’s Philipa Lowe,’ I told him, ‘and this is Terry Alwright.’

  ‘And may I ask your interest in Mrs Porter?’ But he was calm, polite, patient.

  ‘We were told to see her if we wanted any more information.’

  ‘Indeed! Information about what?’

  ‘Her daughter, Dulcie.’

  He moved forward another pace. Now the light, poor as it was, searched out his eyes. They were cold, switching from one to the other of us. I could detect that he was tense and nervous, poised. ‘On that subject,’ he said, ‘I can give you information myself. All you’d be interested in, anyway.’

  But he could not, certainly not the intimate details I’d hoped to extract from Mrs Porter.

  ‘I’m not sure you’d know —’

  A bite entered his voice as he cut in sharply. ‘What is your authority to come barging in and bothering an old lady at this time...’

  ‘Time is the point.’

  ‘And who are you to be asking around? She’s entitled to her peace and quiet at her age.’

  ‘And I,’ I said quietly, ‘am entitled to ask questions. Not demand answers, but talk. I’m sure she’d enjoy talking. To another woman. If she’s isolated like this, with only you...’

  I left it hanging on the edge of a question.

  ‘Come tomorrow,’ he said crisply. ‘I’ll not have strangers prowling around after dark.’

  ‘Nobody intends to prowl. You can be with me, if you like.’

  ‘Hah!’ he said, strangely amused. ‘You don’t know her. Keep me out of it. She’ll tie you in knots till your brain rolls over.’

  ‘Can I suggest you stand out here and stay on call?’

  ‘Tomorrow —’

  ‘Could be too late,’ I cut in.

  His eyebrows shot up. It had been a dramatic statement. ‘Explain that.’

  ‘My life has been in a certain amount of danger. It appears I have some resemblance to Tonia Fields. Her grandmother, I thought, might be able to help me.’

  He eyed me with his head on one side, glanced at Terry, then back at me. ‘There’s a definite resemblance,’ he admitted. ‘I noticed it earlier on, at the site.’

  He had weakened his attitude. I pounced in. ‘So you see, I want her opinion.’

  ‘Her sight isn’t good.’

  ‘We could perhaps manage. She would know.’

  He jerked the gun. ‘And him?’

  ‘He’s my minder. I need protection.’

  He smiled. ‘And I am Mrs Porter’s minder, shall we say. She was my father’s housekeeper, and more recently mine. I have a great affection for her. So… you will go up to her room, and I’ll ask you to open that window so that I can hear if she wants help. You understand? And your friend here can mind me.’ He laughed lightly. Terry touched my arm, indicating agreement.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘That suits me fine.’

  It occurred to me — a sudden realization that placed her in a frame of reference — that Dulcie would have lived in this cottage before she married. Kemp would have been in the same age group, perhaps a year or two older, and this was a man with a driving personality, a man who took risks, a man who had come out on top and who had to dominate. With such a man, Dulcie’s coy tricks would have been useless. He might even have invoked his droit de seigneur, as had earlier robber barons. And Dulcie’s mother might have known this, even approved, perhaps having dreams of promoting her standing at the big house, this time not as housekeeper but as mother of the bride. Then she would be awarded a dower house instead of a cottage. My mind drifted on…

  ‘If you’re coming,’ he said, now impatient to get on with it.

  He was standing by the door. I looked at Terry, who grimaced, then I took my place beside Kemp as he opened the door, put his head inside, and shouted, ‘Visitor for you, Flora.’

  There was an indistinct response. Kemp nodded and I moved into the tiny hall. There was a narrow staircase with a rickety handrail. The confined gap beside it clearly led into the lower rooms. Kemp snapped a switch and a light went on, illuminating a landing.

  ‘It’s up on your right,’ he said.

  I mounted. He called after me, ‘Don’t upset her.’ I nodded, though he couldn’t have seen it. The door on the right had a simple thumb latch. I thumbed it, pushed the door open, and thrust my head in.

  ‘Mrs Porter?’ I asked. ‘I’m Philipa Lowe.’

  She was not, as I’d expected, in her bed, which was a narrow single one against the wall, with a patchwork quilt over it. Mrs Porter, Flora in my mind, was seated very comfortably indeed in a large and well-padded easy chair, with her feet up on a pouffe. There was a wall-light on the wall above her head, on her lap a large-print library book, and on the end of her nose reading glasses, which apparently performed better at a distance. She must have been nudging eighty, a tiny and depleted old lady with a lace shawl over her shoulders, wearing beneath it a thick woolly cardie. Her skirt was voluminous. Her small, sharp and wrinkled face was topped by a mop of pure white hair.

  I looked around. There was no other chair. I wondered how they’d got hers up there. The wall was papered in a striped pattern, perhaps to give an impression of height because the ceiling was so low, the heavy black beams robbing it of another six inches. Somebody had put in shelves on two of the walls, perhaps Kemp himself, to house her collection of china ornaments and little vases, her multiple photo frames, a wide shelf clock, and a small television set, its face blank.

  ‘Philipa Lowe,’ she said, running it round her memory. ‘Come closer, my dear, so that I can see you.’ I did so. The arthritic hands reached up to touch my cheeks, my hair. There was an abrupt stillness in her face, then her tiny mouth quivered. I tried to draw away, but one hand snatched at my shoulder. ‘Don’t go.’ Her other hand removed her glasses.

  But her intensity had shaken me a little. ‘I’ve got to open the window.’

  ‘I don’t like it open. It’s cold out there.’

  ‘Mr Kemp insisted.’

  ‘That old fool!’ He was probably thirty years younger. ‘I was his nanny, you know.’

  I managed to open the window. It moved stiffly and creaked. ‘That do?’ I called out.

  ‘Not too wide,’ Kemp called. ‘Flora feels the cold.’

  ‘What’s he want it open for?’ she grumbled.

  ‘So that you can shout out if I annoy you.’

  She gave a sudden shriek of laughter that would’ve brought a regiment at the trot. It set he
r coughing, but she held up a palm when I tried to slap her back. In the end she recovered, sat back, took a breath, and said, ‘You’re not even in the running, dear.’

  ‘Pardon?’ I sat tentatively on the edge of her bed.

  ‘They’re all coming, all annoying me. What’s going on, that’s what I’d like to know. I bet you can tell me.’

  I shook my head, but she might not have seen it. I wasn’t going to tell her that they’d found a skeleton which was probably her daughter’s.

  ‘That Edith Payne, she was here. My friend. Anyway… she reckons she’s my friend. Said she’d seen our Bella in the fish and chip shop. Fletcher’s. That Arnold’s been, as well, but I sent him packing.’

  ‘It’s Soo Long’s now.’

  She giggled. ‘It’s not, it’s Tudor Kemp’s. Don’t let it get about, though. Dignity. Got to hold on to his dignity, he has. Not much sign of that, though, when he was sniffing round my Dulcie. Like a randy old dog, he was. And why do they keep coming here? That’s what I can’t understand. And that stupid Edith Payne! Of course it wasn’t our Bella, or she’d have come to see me. That’s why I thought for a sec’ you was Tonia, but if you was, you wouldn’t have come. Like Bella. Wouldn’t have come to see her old gran. Well, maybe Tonia, perhaps. She might’ve, ‘cause she did write, which is more’n you can say for Bella. Never even written, she hasn’t. So if she’d been in town she’d have come. Save her a stamp, it would, if she don’t want to write. Seems sense to me, but she hasn’t come. Now you have. If you’ve been writing, perhaps you would. Though she signed ‘em Tonia. And you’re Philipa. You said that, didn’t you? Philipa. Pretty name. You’re not Tonia, are you?’

  She peered at me suspiciously. I was beginning to understand what Kemp had meant about my brain rolling over.

  ‘I’m not Tonia,’ I said quietly. She cupped a palm behind her ear. I raised my voice. ‘I’m not Tonia.’

  ‘Didn’t think you was.’

  ‘But I’ve been mistaken for her.’