Death of a Friend (27 page)

‘Feel better,’ Hannah echoed dully. ‘I can’t imagine that day will ever come.’

Dorothy shook her head, pursing her lips in a pout of disapproval. ‘We’ll see about that,’ she said.

The uniformed police made a clumsy job of handling Clive Aspen. Barty’s phone call had admittedly been difficult to decipher, made as it was in a breathy whisper and containing implausible phrases such as
scared for my life
and
confessing to a murder.

So they only sent one car, which took half an hour or more to make the convoluted journey through the lanes. When it arrived, its two occupants found an elderly farmer standing at his own front door, beckoning them urgently. Three yapping Jack Russells added to the confusion.

The old man led them into his front room, where a younger man sat with his hands clasped around a cold mug of tea, his gaze fixed with
horror on something invisible. ‘He’s gone into some sort of trance,’ said Barty in a low voice, as if he didn’t want to wake his guest. ‘Been like it for twenty minutes or more.’

One of the policemen had heard in some detail about the events at the Grattons’ cottage the previous day, and had a working knowledge of the individuals involved. ‘Here we go again,’ he remarked. ‘Going down like ninepins, you Quakers. And what might the trouble be, sir?’ he asked Clive loudly.

Clive ignored him. Barty intervened, more confident now he had reinforcements. ‘He’s had mental trouble before,’ he told them. ‘He turned up here over an hour ago, talking about Charlie Gratton. God knows why he chose me to speak to. But I think he was trying to tell me that it was him who killed Charlie. He got himself into a state because Charlie saw him at the Meet – where the Nesbitt woman was killed. He borrowed my horse – Hotspur. He’s sixteen hands or so and high-spirited. It helps me to have someone to take him out. You’ll have to take him with you,’ he finished, with a look part sorrowful and part triumphant. ‘He’s not right in the head. Not responsible for what he’s done.’

‘Hold on a minute, sir,’ said the second policeman. ‘Are you telling us that this chap has
confessed to killing Charlie Gratton?’

Barty nodded impatiently. ‘His name’s Clive Aspen and he’s Warden of the Meeting House in Chillhampton. He never did like Charlie.’

The first officer bent over and tried to take the mug of long-cold tea out of Clive’s rigid hands. ‘Mr Aspen,’ he said firmly, ‘you’ll have to come with us, sir. We’ll take you somewhere safe where they’ll look after you.’

‘Catatonic,’ said his partner smugly. ‘That’s catatonic, that is.’

The word woke Clive up with startling suddenness. He quivered and looked directly into the bending man’s face. ‘Who are you?’ he said angrily. ‘What have you been saying about me?’ He stood up, tall and intimidating in his long black coat.

‘We’re police officers, sir. We were called because you didn’t seem very well. Mr White was worried about you. We think you might need some medical attention. If you’d just come with us—’

‘No!’ Clive spoke with controlled emphasis. ‘No, thank you,’ he amended. ‘I’m perfectly all right. I’ve already spent a large part of the day on your premises and I can’t say I enjoyed the experience. I’ve got my car outside. I’ll go home. My wife will be worried about me if I stay out any longer.’

The policemen exchanged quizzical glances, and then looked anxiously at Barty. ‘Mr White tells us you’ve been saying some strange things to him. About Charlie Gratton.’

Clive smiled again, urbane now, and self-possessed. To Barty the transformation made him seem more insane than ever. ‘I’ll be pleased to speak to you in the morning, if you think it’s necessary,’ Clive offered. ‘But for tonight, I really think I should go home.’

The situation was sticky – even Barty could see that. He wouldn’t have known what to do in the policemen’s position, either. They’d merely seen Clive frozen, almost, as one officer had already observed, catatonic. They hadn’t seen the repressed violence; the staring eyes; the turmoil of rage and shame and self-disgust. They couldn’t have any idea what he was capable of.

‘He isn’t
right
,’ he said urgently. ‘These things – they come and go. You never know from one minute to the next how he’s going to be. His wife might not thank you—’ He stopped. Clive was directing a gaze of astonished reproach at him. ‘Er …’ Barty dithered. ‘Well, at least call somebody for advice,’ he ended weakly.

Apparently this was a good idea. ‘I’ll go and call Control,’ said one of the officers, heading gratefully for the car outside, as Clive spread his arms in a Christlike gesture of innocence and
accommodation. The three men waited for the much-needed advice.

It took over ten minutes and the tension in the room rose steadily. Barty fidgeted with a collection of objects on a table near the window; Clive walked slowly across the room and back again, over and over again. The second policeman stood stiffly, arms folded.

At last the officer returned, looking distinctly uncomfortable. ‘Well,’ he began, ‘it seems there was some disturbance at your home early this morning, Mr Aspen. No harm done, but your wife was apparently very upset. Now, sir, I’m sure you’ll understand that we can’t risk a repetition of that sort of thing. We’re trying to contact your doctor and get him to meet us at the police station. It’ll be down to him what happens next, in all probability.’ He paused and scratched his head. Then he looked at Barty. ‘We’ll leave you in peace, then, sir,’ he concluded.

Barty tried to feel relieved. It was out of his hands now. Except it wasn’t. ‘It isn’t as simple as that,’ he said unhappily, as Clive gave him another look of injured bewilderment.

‘Maybe not,’ agreed the policeman. ‘But let’s take it a step at a time. Mr Aspen, please come with us now.’

The three of them waited for Clive’s next move. He glanced at a row of china figures on
Barty’s mantelpiece; their owner clearly saw them flying off and smashing, as the policemen struggled to subdue a suddenly violent captive. But it didn’t happen. Clive merely smiled again, something forlorn and childlike on his face, and walked towards the door.

Barty didn’t follow. He waited for the sound of the car engine to fade and then he locked the door. His dogs followed him from room to room, reduced to chastened silence by his obvious distress.

He felt very little better on Saturday morning. He owed it to the Meeting to give an account of what had happened – and he felt particularly bad about poor Mandy. He assumed that Clive had been permitted to phone her and explain what was happening, but this latest crisis was only going to increase her woes. She hadn’t seemed to Barty to be a woman of much inner strength, in the years she’d been at the Meeting House. Now he wondered if he ought to revise his opinion; anyone who could stick with such an unpredictable husband and still stay sane must have more guts than most. In any case, the Quaker way was to ensure that she was cared for and Barty couldn’t assume that someone else would do it. The Meeting had always been small; it had never been easy to evade the many tasks
and responsibilities that went with membership. He couldn’t even assume that anyone else knew that Clive was in trouble. There had been a complete lack of communication for a few days now – no calls from Hannah or Dorothy, and even the importunate Miriam had left him alone for longer than usual.

From long habit, he performed the outdoor tasks before having his breakfast. The dogs were let out and then fed. Although no longer farming, he had a small barn in which he kept rabbits and poultry and they had to be attended to. He often thought that without his residual collection of livestock he would have died long ago – not so much from boredom as a lack of purpose. Without animals or birds depending on him, needing the routines of feeding and maintenance, there would have been nothing worthwhile in his life. As it was, he chatted and whistled as he did his rounds, and pretended to himself that he was still an active farmer living off the land.

When he finally went back indoors it was nine-thirty and he steeled himself to phone Hannah and Bill and describe what had taken place the previous evening. He rehearsed the words, avoiding any overt criticism of Clive, and resisting the obvious inference that he had killed Charlie. Let people form their own conclusions on that subject.

But the phone rang and rang in a house he somehow knew was empty. What day was it? Saturday – they could have gone into town on the weekly bus, he supposed, although it would be unusual; Bill seldom went anywhere these days. He’d have to try Dorothy, as the only remaining sensible Quaker he felt comfortable talking to.

But before he could do that, he heard a female voice outside. ‘Coo-ee?’ it called. And there was only one person he knew who could still unselfconsciously speak as if she’d stepped out of a
Bunty
cartoon strip.

Miriam Snow had heard the news about Bill Gratton from the postman at eight that morning. It was her custom to waylay him if she saw him approaching her front door and engage him in a brief chat. She wasn’t the only one, and he had picked up the news from the occupants of one of the other houses, whose son was a local policeman. It seemed extraordinary to Miriam that she had not been informed directly by Hannah or one of the other Friends. She was rather annoyed at being the last to know, as she assumed she must be.

Everything seemed to be falling apart, what with the police asking questions about Charlie and everyone apparently retreating into their own little worlds. Where there had once been a solid, supportive Quaker Meeting, there was now a
fragmentary collection of disasters, with nobody to hold things together. Val and Polly were always busy, and Miriam knew they regarded her as feather-brained; Dorothy Mansfield was even more dismissive. Silas Daggs was little more than an appendage to the Grattons. Which left only Barty.

She had gone through the list twice, a little smile deepening as she did so. She was right – Barty was the only one she could approach for comfort and advice. More than that, they seemed to be the only two who had been personally unaffected by all the calamities. It made obvious sense to seek him out, and discuss with him what should be done.

Although accustomed to walking long distances, this time the urgency was too great. She would have to use her bicycle and go round by the lanes. This was hazardous, and exhausting, but there was no avoiding it. The bike was in good working order, and she wasted no more time.

Thanks to undimmed hearing, she was able to dismount and cower in the flower-decked banks every time a vehicle came past, in the narrower stretches of lane. Primroses, dog violets and rich yellow celandines were squashed as she pressed into them to avoid one large lorry.
Soon
, she thought crossly,
it will be completely impossible to use these roads except in a motor vehicle
.
There didn’t seem much point in even teaching children to ride bikes any more – and what was the pleasure if you had to dress in so much protective armour first? She of course refused to wear any sort of cycle helmet herself.

But she reached Barty’s farmyard unscathed, and was greeted enthusiastically by his dogs. When she called out, the man himself came to the door within moments, and ushered her in with fair grace. She hadn’t permitted herself to anticipate his response in advance. She knew well enough that he was embarrassed by her ill-concealed feelings for him.

‘I suppose you’ve heard about Bill?’ she began, almost accusingly.

He stared at her blankly. ‘What about him?’

‘Oh, Barty.’ Miriam was penitent. ‘I thought everyone knew but me. It seems he died yesterday morning.’

Barty swayed, blinked, frowned. He glanced back into the hallway, at his phone. ‘I was just trying to call them,’ he said. ‘Where’s Hannah?’

‘I have no idea.’

She met his eyes and her heart did its usual girlish dance. He was such a
sweet
man! Never loud or hasty, but imbued with the Quaker habit of slow consideration of every angle, a refusal to make unfounded judgements. Barty had been an example to her when she first attended Meeting,
and his brief but welcoming words had felt like a blessing.

Now he did an unprecedented thing: he reached out and took her hand. ‘Come and sit down,’ he invited. ‘You must be tired.’ He smiled at the bike behind her. ‘Cycling isn’t as easy as it used to be. And I’ve got something to tell you,’ he added, with a worried look.

‘Oh dear,’ she squealed. ‘Not more bad news I hope?’

He sat her down in the same chair that Clive had occupied the evening before and went to make more coffee. His kitchen was untidy, the washing-up still waiting from the previous day; he had to use his only two remaining mugs, one of which had a crack in it. Things like that no longer seemed to matter.

Miriam waited quietly for him, for which he was thankful. He had to admit she had a nice face; the blue eyes today were slightly less vacuous than usual. She had more spirit than he’d credited her with, riding her bike down those lanes, with milk tankers and horse boxes trying to force her off the road. And he supposed he should be grateful, in a way, for her abiding affection. There was something steady and appealing in it; many men his age would have envied him.

He gave her the drink and told her briefly about Clive. ‘They were going to call a doctor to
him. The poor chap’s had mental trouble before, of course.’

She said nothing at first, which struck him as unusual. Then she spoke, her voice broken, as if a new vein of thought or emotion had just been breached. ‘I know I seem silly sometimes,’ she said with dignity. ‘Always throwing myself headlong into new things. I never seem to strike the right note with people. It’s been the same all my life. But I do care, very much, about all this. It’s terrible to think of Charlie being deliberately killed, and poor Bill dying like that. I suppose it was the shock about Charlie that did it. And now Clive.’ She looked at him, and he was struck by the transparency, the sincerity of her gaze. ‘I didn’t like Clive,’ she admitted. ‘I didn’t even
try
to like him. So gloomy and self-righteous. But perhaps he was just fighting inner demons. Do you think that’s it?’

Barty sighed. Something seemed to fall away; some outer shell of armour. He took her hand again, shyly. ‘I didn’t like him either,’ he said. ‘And last night I was fearful of him. I thought he’d do me harm. When I phoned the police it was with my own welfare at heart, not his. We’re all imperfect creatures, it seems. We muddle on, doing what we do, and making all kinds of messes as we go.’ He smiled at her, eliciting a tremulous response. They both felt something
kindling between them; Miriam with a delight so intense she felt faint, Barty with more resignation than excitement. Sometimes you couldn’t fight these things and it would, he supposed, be good to have human company in his declining years.