A Dark and Stormy Night (18 page)

‘We need, pretty badly, some communication with the outside world, and there seems to be only one way to, possibly, attract the attention of someone in Branston Village. Alan and I propose to set off some rockets, the least flamboyant of my collection, in an SOS pattern. If someone sees and understands, our isolation may be nearly at an end.'

‘If,' said Pat with unusual sombreness.

‘Yes, if. We can but try. So I'll ask you all, please, to step back at least thirty feet. That's ten metres to you politically correct Brits,' he added with a ghost of a grin. ‘Neither of us is an expert at this, and we don't want to set anybody on fire or put any eyes out.'

So we moved back obediently, the six of us. Pat and Ed stood together, while Tom and Lynn and I kept Joyce company. Six of us. There should have been a crowd there, the other five of our house party, and the Bateses, and however many came from the village. And the display should have been beautiful, fabulous, not a few puny rockets for a puny few people.

We watched in silence as Jim picked out nine smallish rockets and lined them up in groups of three. Then Alan, using a long match, touched flame to the fuses of the first three, allowing a second or two between.

Ffft. Ffft. Ffft. The first three went off in rapid succession and exploded, with loud reports, in showers of red sparks.

The next three, lit at longer intervals. Ffft. Silence. Ffft. Silence. Ffft. Explosions. Sparks.

Then the final volley.

‘We'll do another set,' said Jim. ‘Stay where you are until we're done.'

After all the sparks had died away and the smell of gunpowder had dissipated, we waited on the hill. Waited for what? I wasn't sure. For some response, I suppose, some sign that our message had been seen and understood.

There was nothing. No answering flare, no gunshots, no – what – smoke signals?

After a while we drifted back to the house and went to bed.

‘He's awake!'

‘Mmm.' I turned over and pulled a pillow over my head to shut out the unbearable light. Alan pulled it off.

‘He's awake, love.'

‘I'm not,' I mumbled. ‘And I have a headache.'

‘Then have some coffee and a painkiller. I'm going to talk to Laurence.'

He didn't slam the door. Alan doesn't slam doors. But he closed it with a definitive click that penetrated my consciousness. I sat up, squinting against the light, hands to my throbbing temples. Ooooh! How much had I had to drink last night, anyway?

Then, finally, his words reached my brain.

Laurence. He was going to talk to Laurence. It was Laurence who was awake!

I fell back on to the pillows. I was in no shape to cope with the implications.

Furthermore, I didn't have to. I was supposed to be having a nice holiday. Let somebody else deal with Laurence, somebody who didn't have a hangover. And what an undignified condition for a respectable woman my age! It had been years since I'd got myself in this state. I certainly knew better, but . . . well, put it down to stress. In any case, I needed coffee. I needed ibuprofen. Then I was going back to bed to nurse my aching head. I groped for my bathrobe and made my cautious way down to the kitchen.

No one was there, thank heaven. I didn't want to talk. I wasn't sure I could. There was, however, a large Thermos on the table. As I hoped, it contained good strong coffee.

After three ibuprofen and two cups of coffee, I acknowledged the fact that I couldn't just go back to bed. I was not only, I hoped, a respectable woman but a responsible one, and hangover or not, I had obligations. Several people were depending, at least in part, on me to help ferret out the truth.

Ferrets were rat-catchers. Well, there was at least one rat i' this particular arras, and he needed to be caught.

What, I wondered with gross irrelevance, was an arras?

I hoped not a hidden room. I did not intend to think about hidden rooms.

Enough! I told my wandering mind. Get dressed, madam, and then be up and doing, with a heart for any fate.

Eventually, and most unwillingly, I took myself to Laurence's room, where I found almost the entire household gathered to hear what the poor man had to say. Only Julie was absent. She was probably still huddled in her room, stuck fast in whatever terror, or just confusion, held her there.

Someone had made Laurence a pot of tea, and Joyce was making sure he drank it. It was doubtless loaded with enough sugar to loosen every tooth in his head, but he needed sustenance, after nearly three days without eating.

‘So, go on,' said Alan. ‘You talked to the vicar and then went for a walk.'

‘Yes. I needed to think. I . . . well, there was a decision I needed to make, whether—'

‘Yes,' Alan interrupted. ‘I know about that. Then what happened?'

‘I don't remember very well. I think I walked toward the river . . . the river to the south, I mean. The water meadows. It was . . . the destruction was . . . may I have a little more tea, please?'

‘I'll make fresh,' said Joyce, putting her hand to the pot's cheek. ‘This is cold.' Rose Bates moved to take it from her, but Laurence shook his head.

‘That'll do just as well. My mouth is a bit dry. Cold is fine.'

I gave Alan a worried look. He shook his head, ever so slightly. ‘You must be hungry, as well,' he said gently. ‘Shall I have Mrs Bates boil an egg or two for you?'

‘I'm not very hungry. My head aches a bit.'

‘Well, she'll boil the eggs, and if you don't want them, I'm sure someone else will. Now, sir, can you tell me anything at all that happened as you walked toward the river?'

He shook his head, winced, and closed his eyes. ‘I remember seeing the ruined gardens, and Mr Bates getting fresh wood for the fires. And there's something . . . I heard something . . . but I can't remember.'

‘Alan, don't you think—' I said at the same time that the vicar said, ‘Really, Mr Nesbitt—'

We cancelled each other out, but Alan nodded. ‘Yes. It's time he rested. Mr Upshawe, we're all very glad you're feeling better. Now . . . oh, yes, here are some ibuprofen tablets to wash down with some of that cold tea. We'll talk again after you've had a nice sleep.'

He shooed us all out, all but the vicar. I saw the two of them hold a brief conversation, but I couldn't hear what they said. Then Alan closed the door – and to my astonishment, locked it behind him.

‘The vicar has the other key,' he said. ‘He can get out if he needs to, but I've told him to stay until he's relieved. By me. And to wedge the door and respond only to a coded knock.'

And then I saw, and smacked my forehead, and immediately regretted it. ‘What he heard,' I said, when the waves of pain receded. ‘You don't want anyone to get to him before he's had a chance to finish about what he heard.'

‘Yes. And anything else he might have seen. Anything, in short, that he hasn't yet told us.'

‘So that's why you had everyone else in the room. And I noticed you didn't let him talk about his conversation with the vicar.'

‘He did try, before you came in, but the vicar and I managed between us to suggest that the conversation dealt with private spiritual matters.'

‘Which, in a way, it did.'

‘Yes, but I didn't want the details revealed at this point. I did want to make the point, very publicly, that he had told us all he knew. Unfortunately, it didn't work out quite that way. So until he can talk to us again, I want him guarded. I wish I had several stout constables to take the duty, instead of one elderly vicar and one elderly retiree, but I must make do as best I can.'

I sighed. ‘No reply from the mainland, then?'

He snorted. ‘You're in your Agatha Christie mode again, aren't you? No, they've all been told to ignore any signals from— what was the name of the island?'

‘Indian Island.
Ten Little Indians
, remember – the other title.'

‘Yes. Well, to answer your question properly, no, we've heard nothing. Though how could we hear anything? The village is too far away for a loud-hailer, even if they possess such a thing. No phone, no email—' He held up his hands in frustration. ‘
If
anyone saw,
if
anyone understood, we'll know only when they come to us, and that can't be until the roads are clear. Hence the melodramatics with locked doors and so on. And Dorothy –' he turned a very serious look on me – ‘I want you to be very, very careful. Don't go anywhere alone. Everyone knows you're trying to puzzle this thing out. You're in danger, my girl, or you could be.'

‘That's the trouble!' I said fiercely. ‘Everything is . . . is misty, amorphous. I could be in danger. Or maybe not. Maybe Dave Harrison was murdered. Or maybe not. And if he was, maybe it was Laurence who did it. Or maybe the other way around. And there's the skeleton and the mummy and Mike – and Julie – and I did want to see the fireworks!'

And I burst into tears.

Alan gathered me into his warm, safe arms and let me cry. When I had reached the stage of hiccuping little sobs, he pulled out his handkerchief, mopped my face, and said ‘Blow.'

‘That was really a big help, wasn't it?' I said mournfully. ‘All you need on your plate right now is a weepy woman.'

‘All I ever need is this particular woman,' he said, which nearly sent me over the edge again. ‘You're still feeling a bit fragile, I suspect.' He pronounced the last syllable to rhyme with mile, and it summed up exactly how I felt. ‘Suppose you go back to that bed I dragged you out of, and sleep it off. Don't forget to lock the door, though. I'll knock like this.' He tapped a pattern on my sleeve. ‘And, Dorothy, if you feel afraid or worried about anything – no matter if you think it's foolish – scream like the devil's after you, and I'll be there. Promise?'

I nodded, feeling foolish already, and trudged back to our room.

TWENTY

I
woke from one of those dreams, the complicated kind that go on and on and plunge one deeper and deeper into the labyrinth. I was just about to find the way out, nearly there, but someone kept hitting croquet balls into my path. Tock. Tock. Tock-tock. I wished whoever it was would stop, but they kept coming. Tock. Tock. Tock-tock.

‘Dorothy. Dorothy, are you awake?'

‘I am now,' I said, and got up to let Alan in. ‘I thought you were playing croquet. But I was just about to figure it all out.'

He grinned. ‘Have a nice nap?'

‘I feel better, anyway. Alan, if I'm ever tempted to drink that much again, stop me. I had dreams . . . well, nightmares, really.'

‘Where did the croquet come in?'

I yawned. ‘I can't remember anymore. But it was all very vivid at the time. And speaking of remembering . . .'

Alan shook his head. ‘Nothing very useful. He thought he heard something – perhaps a footstep – behind him as he walked down to the river. But it was still windy, as you recall, not a gale but a steady wind, and between the whistle of the wind itself and the sound of debris being blown about, he can't be sure what he heard. And of the scene at the river he remembers nothing.'

I gave a great sigh. ‘Is he telling the truth?'

‘I think so, and I've had some opportunity of judging. You know a head injury often wipes out the memory of preceding events.'

‘Sometimes the memories come back.'

‘But not always, by any means.'

‘Have you told him Harrison is dead?'

‘No,' said Alan, ‘and I've told the vicar not to say anything. At this point that's my one hope of triggering his memory. If I tell him the right way, it might be enough of a shock to bring back . . . whatever happened.'

I began to pace. ‘Another maybe. Another misty thing. Alan, I think I'm going to go talk to Julie again.'

‘Not alone.'

‘No. Anyway, I don't think I'd get anything out of her by myself. And she's afraid of you, for some reason. Oh!'

‘Yes, I thought about that myself, but I never pursued it. Why is she afraid of me? I've never harmed the woman; I scarcely know her.'

‘She's afraid,' I said slowly, ‘because you're a policeman.'

‘I was a policeman.'

‘Yes, but she may not know the difference. I hate to say it of Joyce's sister, but Julie's none too bright. Probably comes of living with Dave all those years. And I'm sure she's heard stories about the omniscience of the English police.'

‘All true,' said Alan smugly.

‘Right. But if she believes that you know everything, and she's afraid of you, that means she has something to hide.'

Alan gave me that grave look again. ‘I'm not sure I want you to talk to her.'

For once I didn't give him a flippant answer. ‘I know. And I agree, in principle. If Julie Harrison has done something criminal, I want nothing to do with her, to be honest. But if she
has
, somebody has to talk to her. Somebody has to worm it out of her. We've agreed you can't be the one. Who else, besides me and Pat?'

‘She talked before to the vicar.'

‘She was in a state of hypothermia and exhaustion. Now she's fine, except she's terrified of something – or someone. It isn't just you, but she hasn't given me the slightest clue about who or what it might be. No, it's probably not the vicar, but would he know the right questions to ask? And would he pass along the answers? You know that tender conscience of his. And you have to remember, too, that she talked pretty freely to Pat. Which seems to exonerate Pat of . . . whatever it is that worries Julie so.'