A Dark and Stormy Night (7 page)

No, I was pretty sure they were rags of cloth, the sorry remnants of what the person had been wearing when he, or she, was buried. And if they were identifiable . . .

‘What a hell of a thing!'

I jumped. Tom had come up behind me while I was brooding.

‘Sorry, D., didn't mean to scare you. Honestly, I don't know how you manage to get into these messes.'

‘Alan said something like that, too. I refuse to take any responsibility for this particular mess! That pile of bones has been down there since before I even moved to England, probably. And may I remind you who is responsible for Alan and me being here this weekend? How's Lynn holding up, by the way?'

‘She's fine. She's pretty resilient, you know. She was just a little perturbed by the bones. You don't expect to find a skeleton when you're out for a walk in the pleasant English countryside.'

‘You don't expect hurricanes in the pleasant English countryside, either. I've never seen destruction like this, and I've lived through a couple of tornadoes, years ago in Indiana. I
wish
I knew what was going on at home. In this age of instant communication, it's incredible that we have none.'

‘Well, D., you'll get your wish as soon as Alan manages to get in touch with the outside world.'

‘
If
he manages to get in touch with them. Anyway, even if the police get here, they won't be wanting to waste time putting me in touch with our Sherebury neighbours.'

‘Not the police, sweetie. The media.' He jerked his head toward our grisly companion. ‘This is
news.
As soon as they hear, they'll be here in force, if they have to use a helicopter.'

‘Oh, Lord. I hadn't thought of that. Talk about your mixed blessings! They could be a big help – but they'll also be a major nuisance. I've changed my mind. I don't need news from home that badly. I hope the TV crews and all the rest don't learn about this for a while. Especially for the Moynihans' sake.' A thought occurred to me. ‘Tom, when you first talked to them about this house, back in Cannes or wherever it was, did they say how long they've owned it?'

‘So you've thought about that, too. It was Antibes, and no, I don't believe they said. I got the impression it'd been a couple of years, because they talked about how much work had needed to be done, and their frustration over the usual delays. So . . .' He held up his hands and shrugged.

‘So they could maybe be involved. Or some of the workmen could. Tom, we need to get this . . . this thing identified as soon as possible, and find out how long it's been dead. Because until we do . . .'

We didn't need to spell out the unpleasant possibilities.

I was glad to leave Tom on guard duty and get back to the house. I met Alan on the way. He was carrying a tall walking stick.

‘What luck?' I thought I knew the answer.

‘No satellite phone. Jim and Joyce have been thinking about getting one, but haven't got around to it yet. So it's Branston village and any help I can find there.' He sounded tired.

‘Alan, it's five miles! And I hate to mention it, but you're going to be seventy in May. Should you walk all that way?'

His discouraged expression changed to one of amusement. ‘My dear pampered American, I'm English. We still remember what feet are for. Five miles is nothing, at least on clear roads. These will be littered with debris, so it may take a bit longer. That's why I borrowed the staff.'

I know a lost battle when I meet one. ‘Have you at least had something to eat? And do the others know? Besides the Moynihans, I mean.'

‘I told Upshawe. And obviously Tom and Lynn know. I haven't broadcast it yet. I made a casual remark to the effect that I needed a stroll, and would come back to report on what damage I found. And yes, I had some of your excellent soup. Go in and have some yourself, love. I'll be back well before nightfall.'

‘But you have a flashlight, just in case?'

‘I do. Stop fretting. A brisk walk will do me good.'

He gave me a peck on the cheek and strode off. I went inside to fret.

SEVEN

T
he entire party was gathered in the kitchen. The moment I opened the door I could hear Julie Harrison, who was, predictably, taking the disaster as a personal affront.

‘. . . slates came right through our window. We could have been killed!'

Which window, I wondered. The sitting room where she'd slept it off, or the bathroom her husband stumbled into?

She whined on. ‘And I think one of them hit me on the head. I have the most god-awful headache. I need to get to a doctor!'

Joyce said, ‘Sis, I've told you.' She was near tears. ‘No one can go anywhere. All the roads are blocked by fallen trees. And we can't call a doctor or a pharmacy, or anyone. We're cut off.'

‘Yeah, well, I'll tell you right now, I intend to sue.' The other Horrible Harrison spoke up. ‘Bringin' us out here in the middle of nowhere to a rickety old house that's fallin' apart—'

‘I will remind you,' said our host through clenched teeth, ‘that we did not “bring you out here”. You came for reasons of your own, and without invitation. I'm not sure whether you plan to sue God for the storm, or the long-dead builders of the house for the flying slates, but I think your lawyers will advise against either course. And I'm not exactly astonished, Julie, that you have a headache. You drank enough to fell an ox. As soon as the roads are clear and the trains are running again, I will escort you to the station in Shepherdsford.'

The shrill voice and the hoarse one rose in united protest.

‘That's enough!' Jim didn't shout, but the Harrisons stopped in mid-tirade. ‘I've put up with a lot, but I'm not going to subject Joyce, or our guests, to any more. You have a choice. Pack up now and set out on foot if you think you can get a train quicker that way. It's something like ten miles to the station at Shepherdsford. Or stay in your room until the roads are clear.' He held up a hand as Dave started to bluster. ‘There is no third option.'

‘Dave! Do something!' shrieked Julie.

‘Oh, I'll do somethin', all right,' he growled. ‘I'll sue the pants off both of 'em when we get back to civilization. Right now we're getting out of where we're not wanted.'

He grabbed Julie's arm and towed her out of the kitchen.

I was beginning to get used to the sort of silences left behind by the Harrisons. This time it was broken by Mike, the dancer. ‘Ooh, do you suppose he
could
have meant what one hopes he meant? That they're actually leaving?'

‘I doubt it,' said Lynn. ‘He had a bottle under his arm. I saw him filch it from the liquor tray a few minutes ago.'

‘Then perhaps they will anaesthetize themselves again,' said the vicar, mildly, ‘and we will hear no more from them for a while.'

I sighed and sat down to the bowl of soup Mrs Bates offered me. Conversation resumed, in bits and snatches. The gorgeous Pat was trading witticisms with Ed, but neither was being especially brilliant. Mike and the vicar were discussing emergency steps to secure the house against further damage by rain or wind until a repair crew could get through. Lynn and I tried to find something to say to each other that had nothing to do with storms or skeletons, but without much success.

The Moynihans were huddled in a corner of the vast room with Laurence Upshawe. Their voices were inaudible, but for those three, who knew about the grisly discovery under the tree, there was only one likely topic of conversation.

Mrs Bates was going about preparations for supper, a set look on her face. These were not, her expression said, the conditions under which she was accustomed to working. I didn't know where Mr Bates was. Probably repairing something. There was certainly no shortage of work to be done.

I finished my soup, ate an apple from a bowl on the table, and was trying to decide what to do next when the kitchen door opened and Alan walked in.

I stood, startled, but he ignored me, went straight to Jim Moynihan, and spoke to him in an undertone. Jim grimaced and nodded, and Alan moved to the centre of the room.

‘May I have your attention for a moment, please?' He sounded perfectly courteous, perfectly relaxed, but there was something in his manner that stopped all conversation. I drew in a quick breath. This was a man I scarcely knew, the chief constable in person.

‘I'm afraid I have two pieces of unpleasant news. The first is that evidence of what appears to be a crime has turned up quite unexpectedly. A human skeleton, apparently buried under one of the oak trees at the edge of the wood, has been unearthed, literally, when the tree was uprooted by the storm. My walk was intended to take me to the village, where I meant to try to find some help in dealing with what will soon become a crime-scene investigation.'

There was a shocked murmur from those in the party who didn't already know about the discovery under the tree. Alan waited for it to subside before he continued. ‘And that brings me to my second piece of bad news. I will not be able to walk to the village. Nor can anyone come to us, for quite some time. The river is in flood, and I'm sorry to say that the bridge has been destroyed by falling timber. Until it can be replaced, we are marooned.'

‘Oh, no!'

‘But, surely—'

‘That's impossible! A boat—'

‘But I have to be in London—'

Everyone was shouting at once. A resurrected skeleton was distressing, but disruption to one's own schedule was outrageous.

‘What's in the other direction?' Ed, the photographer, asked.

It was Laurence Upshawe who answered. ‘No joy there, I'm afraid. I don't know how much chance anyone has had to explore the grounds. The river makes a loop around the estate, making us very nearly an island. Branston village is to the north of us, on the other side of the bridge at what one might call the top of the loop. There are no bridges to east or west. To the south lies a particularly deserted stretch of country, without so much as a farmhouse for probably ten miles. In any case, the bottom of the loop, where the river nearly bends back upon itself, is low-lying ground, marshy at the best of times. In flood, it, too, is impassable, making the estate a true island.'

Tom Anderson began to tick items off on his fingers. ‘No way to get out. No electricity. No phone. I don't suppose anybody's cell phone works?'

‘Almost all the masts in the south-east are down,' said Alan. ‘I heard the news on the car radio earlier this morning.'

‘No cell phone,' Tom continued. ‘Nobody has a satellite phone?' The lack of answer was answer enough. ‘What about wireless Internet?'

‘The card's on order,' said Jim glumly. ‘Should have been here last week.'

This time no one spoke, no one protested. It's sinking in, I thought. They're realizing. We're all stuck here with no communication till heaven knows when. I cleared my throat. ‘Alan, how long did it take for everybody to get their power back after the storm in 1987 – and phones, and so on?'

‘Two weeks, as I recall, for the most remote areas.'

‘And the roads?' Joyce asked tremulously. ‘How long before . . .'

‘The Army cleared the main roads quite quickly. Secondary roads took longer, and private drives . . .' He shrugged. ‘It was a few days before all the railway lines were cleared, as well.'

‘Well, then,' said Jim, ‘we need to get to work. Thank God the chainsaws don't need electricity, and we've got plenty of gas.

‘No, we don't, Jim.' It was Joyce's disconsolate voice. ‘We're nearly out. You were going to drive into the village today for that, and some nails and things. Remember?'

‘Oh.' Jim looked blank. ‘You're right. Still, there's some left. Maybe . . . well, who's game to help me try to cut up some trees and build a bridge?'

The men, and most of the women, rose in a body, but Alan had more to say. ‘Is there anyone here who has any medical experience?' Well, at least it wasn't ‘Is there a doctor in the house?' but it still sounded ominous.

Surprisingly, Laurence Upshawe spoke. ‘I am a doctor. Retired. How can I help?'

I was sure I knew. Upshawe, a very likely suspect in the crime, was not the ideal person to examine the skeleton, but someone had to, and the sooner the better.

Alan hesitated, though, and Joyce saw what he was thinking. She buried her head in her hands and began to sob.

As Alan and Upshawe moved off, I went to Joyce. Whether she was mourning her beautiful house, or worrying about an old crime, or despairing over the now-compulsory continued presence of the Harrisons, she needed comfort.

‘It's all a bit much, isn't it?' I murmured. ‘One thing on top of another. Would you like a cup of tea?' Good grief, I thought with exasperation. I've lived in England too long. A cup of tea, indeed. ‘Or some brandy?'

‘I'm sorry,' she said, sniffling and trying to control her sobs. ‘I'm just . . . it's just . . .'

‘I know. But at least you have lots of workers, and lots of company. I'll bet the guys will get some kind of a bridge rigged in no time, even if it's just a tree or two across the river. And then there'll be professional help. It'll be all right.' I could hear the false brightness in my voice.

‘My trees! My beautiful trees!' she wailed. ‘And the gardens! They won't be all right.'

Lynn joined us and handed Joyce a glass of something amber that looked a lot more like brandy than tea. ‘Drink it,' she said. ‘You'll feel better. And no,' she went on, ‘the old oaks won't be all right. They're gone forever. But not the young ones. Just think what an opportunity you have now to redo the gardens. You can plant all sorts of interesting trees and shrubs, plants you really love, and watch them take shape.'