Bury Her Deep (10 page)

‘ . . . as well have saved your breath,’ said Irvine, saving as much of his as he could while still getting the words out at all. ‘Women  . . .’ He did not trouble to finish the thought.

‘We met our dear husbands while on a tour – a pilgrimage, almost – in the Highlands,’ said Nicolette. ‘Vash and I have always been simply fascinated by  . . . history, I suppose you would call it.’

I nodded my understanding. In other words, they met their mates while on a shameless husband-hunt in a part of the world known for its old families and enormous castles. For ‘history’, I surmised, one could read ‘pedigree’ and it must have been a shock to the sisters to realise that they had attached themselves to a side-shoot of the illustrious Ross clan and one which could so easily be snapped off and sent packing.

‘So we ended up here,’ said Vashti flatly. ‘We persuaded Irvine and Johnny to buy the place and we moved lock, stock and barrel.’

‘Turfed out the dozier tenants and got the place shipshape again,’ said Johnny. ‘Do you know there was no one at all managing the home farm? The neighbours had simply helped themselves to our fields and had their hay stacked up in our barns.’

‘ . . . nerve of them,’ mumbled Irvine.

‘Then we offloaded the creaking servants and sat back to enjoy the rest of our lives,’ said Vashti. ‘We must have been mad.’

I managed not to look around, not to glance at the windows where on this wintry morning no sunlight whatsoever penetrated the rather dusty, rippled old glass, but I could only agree.

‘I can tire of country life at times too,’ I said sympathetically, feeling myself warm to these kindred spirits a little.

‘Hindsight is one of the cruellest curses,’ said Vashti. ‘How were we to know?’

‘To know  . . . ?’ I prompted. Vashti gazed blankly at me for a while and then sniffed.

‘Oh, just how much everything was going to change,’ she said. ‘Money, chiefly.’

‘But it’s not just money,’ said Nicolette. ‘You must know what we mean, Dandy. Nothing’s the same as it was.’ I did, of course, know exactly what they meant and while it was refreshing to hear it talked about in this way, for proud shabbiness is far more of a social minefield than plain old shabbiness any day, I felt a little impatience with them too, with the paraffin heaters, and the ennui. They should really  . . . I caught myself short. My thoughts had just been turning towards a brisk walk in the fresh air and an order to the girl to wash the windows. Hugh has a great deal for which to answer.

‘Now Lorna darling,’ said Vashti, rousing herself far enough to light another cigarette, ‘tell us the news.’ She waved her cigarettes in my direction and when I nodded lobbed her case to me over the low table.

‘None of it is good news, I’m afraid,’ said Lorna. ‘I’m sorry to say that last night there was another attack. Mrs Gilver and Father were called in to help.’

‘Blood-curdling scream,’ said Nicolette with great relish. ‘Tell all.’

‘And then,’ said Vashti, ‘we’ll tell you.’

‘Tell
us
?’ said Lorna. ‘Tell us what?’

‘No, no, no,’ said Vashti. ‘You first.’

‘Well,’ said Lorna, ‘it’s much the same tale as before. He did no real harm and she didn’t recognise him. Just the same as always.’

‘And was there a search?’ said Nicolette. I was aware that some of the conversation had penetrated the newspapers again and the Howie men were listening in.

‘She didn’t want one,’ I said. ‘She didn’t want anyone to know. In fact, she seemed very reluctant even to admit that it had taken place.’

‘Who was it?’ said Johnny Howie.

‘Oh, yes of course,’ Vashti chimed in. ‘You must tell us who it was. Don’t be bores and say it’s a secret.’

‘It was Mrs Hemingborough,’ I said, then I caught my lip. I should have kept that to myself and not blurted it out to avoid being called a bore.

‘And she’s one who wants it kept quiet?’ said Nicolette. ‘Well, well, well. She never seemed an imaginative sort to me.’

‘Before you think we’ve all gone mad, Dandy,’ said Vashti, ‘perhaps I should explain. There are quite a few souls in the village and surrounding farms who don’t quite believe in this dark stranger.’

‘So I gather,’ I said. ‘But I wouldn’t have said that Mrs Hemingborough didn’t believe in him. Not exactly.’

‘Let me put it another way,’ said Vashti. ‘There are those who believe that our dark stranger is not the sort of stranger who can be caught by the police and clapped in irons.’

‘Vashti, really,’ said Lorna. ‘I’m surprised at you. Miss Lindsay and Miss McCallum are sure  . . .’

‘Oh yes,’ said Nicolette. ‘Miss Lindsay and Miss McCallum are perfectly sure. No nonsense about them. But, Lorna darling, we’re not saying
we
think that. We’re just passing it on.’

Lorna smiled uncertainly.

‘You’re such teases,’ she said. ‘I never know
what
you think.’

‘Well,’ said Vashti, ‘our minds are made up now, Lorna, I can tell you that. Because  . . .’ She paused dramatically. ‘ . . . last night, we saw him.’

The effect she produced was surely exactly what she was expecting: a stunned silence which lasted until Nicolette broke it.

‘Speak for yourself, darling. I saw nothing. I was concentrating on the road.’

‘All right then, I saw him,’ said Vashti. ‘Running across the field that goes around behind the manse. Just as we were driving down the lane. I was sure it was him. And now that you’ve told me about Mrs Hemingborough, I know I’m right. He was headed straight for her farm.’

I considered the story for a moment and I could see that it made sense. The timing was a little odd, mind you – Vashti and Nicolette had swept past us practically at the schoolyard gate, so if they had seen the stranger crossing the field a moment later and yet he had not set upon Mrs Hemingborough until she was almost home, he must have lain in wait for quite some time.

‘Can you describe him?’ I said, eager for more to add to young Jessie’s rather sparse description.

Vashti hummed a little tune under her breath, clearly enjoying herself. Nicolette was still looking rather annoyed. One presumed that her sister had been attempting to convince her of this sighting since the moment it had happened, that Nicolette had been standing firm and saying ‘Tush!’, and that she was none too pleased to be proved wrong at last.

‘Very hard to say,’ said Vashti. ‘He was extremely fast across the ground and he was in shadow most of the time, but my overall impression was one of  . . . Oh Niccy, I do wish you had seen him too. I can’t think how to describe it. He was  . . .’

I could not help myself.

‘Snaky?’

Lorna flinched and Nicolette and Vashti turned round eyes upon me.

‘Now why on earth would you say that?’ Vashti said.

I was thinking furiously. I could not claim that Mrs Hemingborough both denied his existence and described his appearance, and I could not in all conscience tell tales on Jessie Holland to this pair. I did not doubt for a moment that Mrs Hemingborough would put the young family out of their cottage if it got back to her ears and the Howie ladies were quite clearly gossips of the first order.

‘I was at my window,’ I said. ‘Upstairs in the manse.’

‘You saw him?’ said Vashti, looking thunderstruck. ‘You actually saw him?’

I was aware of Lorna’s troubled look at my side; she knew very well that I had been downstairs in the library when the knock came at the door.

‘Why shouldn’t Dandy see him too?’ said Nicolette.

‘And he struck you as snaky?’ said Vashti, looking highly diverted. She repeated the word again softly to herself. ‘Yes, you’re right,’ she said at last. ‘That’s exactly what he was. That’s exactly the word I was looking for.’

‘You must think me quite appalling,’ I said to Lorna as we made our way back to the manse a little later. ‘Cheerfully telling whopping fibs like that. Only I didn’t want to drop poor Jessie Holland in it.’ Lorna still looked far from happy. ‘I know the Howies are friends of yours,’ I went on, ‘and so
you
might be sure that they wouldn’t breathe a word, but I promised Jessie and there was no other way to explain how I hit on just the right way to describe him.’

‘
Jessie
said he was snaky?’ Lorna asked.

‘She did.’

Lorna shuddered briefly. Then with a smile she squeezed my arm.

‘Please don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you did the right thing. After all, a promise is a promise and I’m not entirely blinded by affection. I do see that Nicolette and Vashti are  . . .’ She stopped; I waited and then we burst into peals of laughter.

‘Oh, I shouldn’t,’ said Lorna eventually. ‘They’re so kind to me and such fun. And they’ve as much right to be at the Rural as anyone, even though Miss Lindsay and Miss McCallum would love to find a way to amend the constitution and keep them out. Miss McCallum has been in a terrible sulk since they started coming.’

‘I rather wondered at that,’ I said. ‘They are hardly at home there.’

‘They were drawn in by our American Night,’ said Lorna. Seeing my look, she hastened to explain. ‘It was Independence Day, you know, and we happened to have a clergyman from Wisconsin staying at the manse with his wife. It seemed like such a good idea  . . .’ She trailed off rather mournfully.

‘What happened?’ I asked her.

‘Nothing!’ declared Lorna. ‘Absolutely nothing. And besides,’ she added, rather detracting from the vehemence of her denial, ‘Vashti and Nicolette are my dear friends. They’re even giving a birthday party for me next month. Did my father tell you? Isn’t that kind?’

‘It is indeed,’ I said. ‘I can see why you’re fond of them. They are very  . . . open.’

In fact, of course, I was grateful to their openness since it had given me an interesting question to ponder: why in heaven’s name should the neighbourhood split down the middle, as Vashti Howie had suggested, on the question of whether the stranger was real?

‘I must say,’ I ventured at last, ‘it’s a monstrous piece of good fortune for this scoundrel, whoever he is, to pick out a playground for himself where so many people seem so peculiarly willing to turn a blind eye. You believe in him, don’t you?’

Lorna hesitated.

‘I don’t quite know,’ she said. ‘I certainly don’t believe that he’s  . . . I think either he’s real or it’s an absolute figment of everyone’s imagination. I don’t believe the other thing.’ She was growing quite agitated as she spoke and I could guess why. She did not want to keep me in ignorance but she just simply could not spit it out. It was up to me to say it and then she would agree.

‘You don’t believe,’ I said gently, ‘that it’s real but he’s not? Is that what you mean?’

‘Exactly,’ said Lorna with enormous relief. ‘I don’t believe that for a second.’

‘But why does anyone?’ I said. ‘I’m sure that if the same thing happened at Gilverton no one would even dream of such a thing. Why should Luckenlaw be any different? Why?’

Lorna was silent for a long time and we were almost back at the village before she spoke again.

‘You’d better ask my father, Mrs Gilver. I’m sorry this has come up to spoil your visit and I hope, if you find out, that it won’t stop you from coming back to the meeting next time but if you really do want to know, you had better ask my father. He can explain it all so much better than me.’

6

Accordingly, Lorna withdrew herself from the luncheon table as soon as she politely could, with talk of jelly-making and a young kitchen maid who could not be trusted to scald the jars.

‘The crab-apple from last week is cloudy already,’ she said, ‘and we’re starting this afternoon on the damsons.’

‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Well, you must certainly hurry along then. Crab apples are one thing  . . .’ Actually I cared not a hoot for either the lowly crab apples or the precious damsons – one visit to the SWRI had not made quite so much of a mark as all that – but I recognised my cue.

‘Dear Lorna,’ said Mr Tait once the door had shut behind her. ‘This is far from the life she thought would be hers but never a word of complaint.’

‘She did mention something,’ I murmured. ‘But,’ I went on heartily, ‘she seems very happy as you say. Good friends all around her. I hear the Howies are giving a birthday party for her soon.’ Mr Tait threatened to frown but managed not to.

‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘You must make sure and come along.’

‘Now, Mr Tait,’ I said and I may even have sounded a little stern. I certainly felt a little stern. ‘I have had a number of rather peculiar conversations this morning. The meeting with Mrs Hemingborough you know about already, but also at Luckenlaw House and again talking to Lorna I get the distinct feeling that there is rather more going on here than you told me.’

‘My dear Mrs Gilver,’ said Mr Tait. ‘I assure you that I’ve told you all I know.’ And yet there was a teasing quality in his voice which invited me to keep trying even as his words told me there was nothing to learn.

‘Can you explain then,’ I persisted, ‘why it should be that everyone – no, not everyone; but some – are so ready to believe what seems to me quite unbelievable? That this dark stranger is not real.’

‘But you knew that from the outset,’ Mr Tait insisted. ‘I told you.’

This was true but when we had discussed the matter in my sitting room that day, we had entertained two solutions to the trouble at Luckenlaw. Now, as Lorna had struggled to relate, there seemed to be a troubling third.

‘It’s more than that,’ I said. ‘I don’t mean that the women are imagining a man, or making a man up out of mischief. I’m referring to the idea – and the Howies talked about it quite matter-of-factly; even Lorna concedes it – that this dark stranger is  . . . very much of the darkness and rather more than strange?’

‘Is that what they’re saying?’ said Mr Tait. ‘I see.’

‘Yes, but why?’ I demanded, my voice rising. ‘
Why
do you see? I don’t. And
what
do you see?’

‘It’s all nonsense of course,’ he said, ‘but it’s the kind of nonsense that can easily take root even in the most ordinary of places. I assure you, Mrs Gilver, that Gilverton would succumb just as easily under similar trials.’ I must have looked sceptical. ‘We were speaking of much the same thing this morning – the chamber of the Lucken Law.’ He folded his napkin, patted his mouth firmly with it and sat back in his chair. ‘You would scarcely credit the panic when it was opened.’