Blood on the Wood (12 page)

*   *   *

A single gunshot. It came from the garden at the back of the Venns' house and was loud enough to set the drowsy blackbirds into a flurry of alarm calls and make orange and brown butterflies rise up from the bramble flowers. A sharp, stinging sound. Then, after it, a sound of human distress, like a strangled sob. It took a second for my brain to register. I looked at Bobbie and after that comment about my supposed twitchiness was pleased to see that she was as shocked as I was.

‘It sounded like—'

‘Stay there.'

I left her with the picture and went through the gate into the garden. My first panicked thought was Oliver shooting at us, but the sound had come from away to the right, towards the summerhouse. I pushed my way towards it through archways sagging with vegetation, purple cardoon flowers flopping across the path, nettles shoulder-high, white convolvulus looped between bushes with stems as tough as parcel string. The summerhouse was in the angle between the wall and the unkempt yew hedge, artistically built with knobbly timbers and trelliswork, but neglected now. A woman in a white blouse and a skirt with a pattern of peacock feathers was standing just inside the trellis, staring out at me. Felicia Foster. Her brown hair was tangled and scattered with bits of leaves. Her face was creamy pale, damp with sweat and tears, eyes scared. The hand by her skirt, pale against the purple and turquoise swirls of the pattern, was weighed down by something heavier than feathers. A gun. A revolver. I raised my eyes from it, back to her face.

‘What's happened? Are you all right?'

There was a change in Felicia's eyes, recognising not me in particular but the fact that somebody was there.

‘I … I found this. Under there.'

Her right hand lifted slowly as if coming up from deep water, bringing the gun with it, pointing at a blanket on the bench in the corner of the summerhouse. A ball of twine lay beside the blanket, matches and a paraffin lamp.

I stepped forward and held my hand out for the gun. She hesitated for a moment then let me take it. The barrel was still warm and it reeked of powder and hot oil.

‘I heard a shot,' I said, ‘a few minutes ago.'

‘It went off. It was under the blanket. I picked it up and it went off. I didn't mean…'

Her empty hand was shaking against the skirt.

‘I'll take you back to the house,' I said.

‘Flissie. Flissie, are you there?' Carol Venn's distant voice calling from the house, high and anxious.

‘It's all right, Carol. I'm here.'

It was a brave try. From where I was standing I could hear the tremor in Felicia's voice, but Carol probably couldn't.

‘Is it the boys shooting rabbits again?'

‘I don't know. Wait there, I'll come in.'

She stepped out of the summerhouse and looked at me.

‘Go to her,' I said.

Slowly she walked in the direction of the house. Carol was family – she'd manage better than I could. After a while I heard Carol's voice again, asking ‘Are you all right, Flissie?' If there was a reply I didn't hear it.

I looked at the gun, pointing it at the ground in case of accidents. I'd never taken much interest in the things but a cousin who went into the army had been knowledgeable about them and I remembered him saying that revolvers didn't usually go off accidentally. At any rate, with a shot just fired the chamber would be empty so it was safe for carrying. I slipped it into the pocket of my jacket and went back to Bobbie. She was waiting more or less where I'd left her. I now had three things on my hands I wanted to get rid of: the revolver, the picture and her.

‘What was happening?'

‘Nobody's hurt. But I think we'd better leave the picture in the barn down there for now. I'll come back for it later.'

We went back down the field with the picture, the hedge shadow now dissolved into dusk. The barn door was open. We edged the picture inside and propped it against a pile of hay. Then, as bad luck would have it, the revolver fell out of my pocket. They never make them strong enough in women's clothes. Bobbie's eyes widened.

‘Is that yours?'

‘No.' I picked it up and shoved it in the other pocket, glaring at her to show that further questions weren't welcome. ‘That's it, then. Off you go to the train.'

She didn't move. ‘Are you staying here?'

‘No, I've got things to do. The picture will be safe here for an hour or two.'

Daniel would be paying his evening visit to Daisy at the Scipian camp. I had to see him and tell him that the substitution was on for tonight. That and something else.

‘You can't leave Bessie Broadbeam on her own. She'll be a lot safer if I stay here and keep an eye on her.'

I gave in. Arguing would take too long. Also, against my will, I was beginning to have some respect for Bobbie. She'd been uncomplaining in carrying the picture around and hadn't panicked at all about the gun.

‘It will be a long time, probably midnight,' I warned her.

‘That's all right. I suppose you wouldn't care to leave that gun with me? I could amuse myself shooting rats.'

No, I told her, I would not. As I walked fast downhill towards the camp the wretched thing hung heavy in my pocket, banging against my thigh.

*   *   *

I didn't join the Scipians, not wanting to face questions from Max. Instead I walked up and down the field at the back of the old schoolhouse, watching for Daniel. He came loping along the path at around ten o'clock, a darker figure against the darkness, whistling a sad little tune I hadn't heard before. I came up behind him.

‘Mr Venn.'

He spun round. ‘Have you got it?'

‘Yes.'

‘Tonight's the night, then. Can you give me a couple of hours? I want to talk to Daisy, then I'll go back and see to things. I'll make sure the studio door's unlocked. Uncle Oily will be snoring by the time I get back so I'll unhook the picture from the wall for you. You remember where his study is? Left at the top of the stairs and along to the end of the corridor.'

‘I saw your brother going out in the gig. Won't it be embarrassing for him if he comes back late and bumps into me?'

‘He'll be back by now. He was only going to see a friend in the village.' He seemed to sense some reservation on my part. ‘You're not going off the idea, are you?'

‘No. But there's something you should know. Did you hear a gunshot in your garden this evening, just as it was getting dark?'

‘No, I was playing the piano. But Carol and Uncle Oily were going on at dinner about boys shooting rabbits.'

‘Was Miss Foster at dinner?'

‘No. Felicia had a headache and they sent something up to her on a tray. To be honest, I think she's avoiding me.'

He said it with that hurt little boy air, as if she were being unreasonable.

‘It wasn't a boy shooting rabbits. It was Miss Foster with this.'

I took the revolver out of my pocket. With only starlight to see by he had to bend his head close to it.

‘Oh God, it looks like…' I let him take it from me and got out my bicycle lamp to give him a better look at it. ‘I think it's Aunt Philly's.'

‘Your aunt had a revolver?'

I thought of Philomena in her old-fashioned bonnet and black lace gloves.

‘A Smith and Wesson .38 calibre. A friend brought it back for her from California. She'd play with Adam and me, shooting lemonade bottles off the wall. She was a pretty good shot, as a matter of fact.' He broke open the gun and signed to me to bring the lamp closer. ‘It's a five shot. Looks as if two of them have been fired.'

‘I only heard one. Did your aunt give it to Miss Foster?'

‘Of course she didn't. What would Felicia want with a thing like this?'

‘She was in the summerhouse at the back of the garden, holding it. I heard the shot and went running to see what the matter was. She said she'd found it under the blanket you left for me, picked it up and it went off. She'd been crying.'

A long silence.

‘Did you put it under the blanket?' I asked him.

‘Of course not. Why should I do that?'

I hoped I wouldn't have to say anything else and in the end he got there.

‘You don't believe her, do you?'

‘I think there's another possible explanation.'

‘She gets Aunt Philly's gun, goes to the summerhouse and … oh God.'

‘Tries to kill herself? Yes, I think so.'

Chapter Eight

I
LEFT THE GUN WITH HIM
, but the idea of it was still weighing me down as I went back up the field in the dark. Poor Felicia. Poor Daisy. Even poor Daniel. Stupid, yes, but well meaning. Come to think of it, there's probably more damage done in the world by well-meaning stupidity than calculating malice. He'd behaved like a boy, thrilled with his power to alter lives. Then suddenly and belatedly he'd looked at the gun and had to grow up. Goodness knows where it would end, but that wasn't my problem. By the time it got light, I should be on the milk train back to London with the picture and that would be my last contact with the Venns. Sooner or later, perhaps, I'd hear which one he'd married. No point in even thinking about it. Stick to what you've come for. But, trudging in the dark, I started to hate what I was doing. What did a picture or money matter when lives were being torn apart? I had to conjure up Emmeline to give me a talking to about battles to fight, not everybody's duties being pleasant, not letting down the cause. Yes, Emmeline, I know, I know. But if you'd seen … All right, I'm
doing
it, aren't I?

*   *   *

I went quietly, keeping to the hedges, avoiding the pale smudges in the dark that were sleeping sheep. But Bobbie Fieldfare must have had good hearing. She was outside the barn waiting for me.

‘Are we ready? I'll get Bessie.'

‘Give it another hour.' I wanted to give Daniel a chance to get back to the house and make his small contribution by checking the door and unhooking the picture. ‘Have you been all right here?'

‘Pretty well,' Bobbie said. ‘I had to scare off a drunk tramp, but he was no trouble.'

‘When?'

‘Just after it got dark. I was sitting here wishing I had a cigar to pass the time, then there were these footsteps outside and somebody shambling round whistling. Then he came to the doorway and mumbled something. I told him to clear out and he went.'

‘He went because you told him to?'

‘I said I'd got a gun, which was pretty nearly true. I knew you should have left it with me.'

‘What was it he mumbled?'

‘Couldn't make it out because of the accent and him being drunk, but it didn't sound friendly.'

‘A local accent?'

‘Country. They all sound alike to me. I can do the tune he was whistling if you like.'

She whistled, off-note but recognisably, the first few bars of
Long Lankin.

‘What did he look like?'

‘Too dark to see. Why worry about him? He'll have found some other barn to sleep it off in by now. Have you worked out a way to get us in?'

I said yes and left it at that. By now I'd accepted that I couldn't get rid of her, but the less she knew, the better. We sat in silence outside the barn until I judged that about an hour had passed. It was almost totally dark and the countryside quiet apart from a hedgehog snuffling somewhere in the hedge. Bobbie was on her feet as soon as I moved, following me into the barn for the picture.

‘Hup, Bessie old girl. Time to go home.'

Bobbie was having the time of her life. As we carried the picture up the field alongside the hedge she moved with the bounciness of a dog let out for an unexpected walk. The back garden gate creaked on its hinges, something I hadn't noticed by day but at this time of night it sounded as loud as a trumpet call. I said quietly in Bobbie's ear that I'd go ahead to check that nobody was about and she should wait with Bessie. Trailing briars and roses came out of the dark and slapped me in the face and other vegetable stuff twined round my ankles and squished underfoot. As I got nearer the house I saw a faint light coming from the studio windows and cursed, thinking Adam or Oliver must be up late. As quietly as I could I moved across the terrace and looked in at a window.

The light was coming from the hall, through a door left partly open, possibly Daniel's idea of being helpful. But there was something wrong about the room, something that hadn't been there before, a big dark shape looming in the middle of it. Then my eyes got used to the light and the thing was only the massive dark oak cabinet I'd seen in the workshop. No sign of anybody in the room. The brass handle of the door into the studio was cold against my palm. It turned and the door opened with hardly a sound. I took a deep breath, waited for a minute then went back through the garden to Bobbie. We carried the picture sideways on along the narrow path, up the terrace steps and into the studio. As we were going past the oak cabinet Bobbie stumbled and let out a muffled curse.

‘Rug or something.'

We propped the picture against the wall and I signed to Bobbie to wait again while I looked into the hall and up the staircase. The light I'd seen was coming from an oil lamp hanging just inside the front door. This was the bit I didn't like at all. The staircase as I remembered it was wide and imposing, sweeping up to a broad landing. Once embarked on it we'd be as obvious as two dogs on a cricket pitch, even in the dark. I was tempted to find a less obvious way, perhaps through the kitchen and up the back service stairs that must exist in a house like this. But I didn't know the house, and blundering around backstairs in the dark might be a worse risk. We'd stick to Daniel's plan, such as it was. I went back, collected Bobby and the picture again and we shuffled out into the hall. If Oliver or Adam happened to be looking down from the floor above we were done. I went up backwards with Bobbie walking forwards and the picture in between us, the stair carpet muffling our steps.