Cold in the Earth (29 page)

‘Thanks.’ Rosamond sipped from the thick china cup, then gave a shuddering sigh. ‘It was the boys, you see.’

‘The boys?’

‘Conrad and – and Max. There was a problem, a serious problem, and I could see where it was going to lead.

‘They’d never got on. There were constant rows between them. Oh, I know, boys fight, but this went beyond that, way beyond. Brett always took Conrad’s side and Jake wouldn’t hear a word against Max but I could see there were faults on both sides. I did my best to try to civilise them but Conrad simply despised me and with the atmosphere in that house Max got to the stage where he did too. All any of them seemed interested in was their wretched bulls; the only family holidays we took were to Pamplona and in the end I let them go without me. Those poor, tormented creatures . . .

‘By then, Edgar’s turns were getting worse, more frequent. He was actively dangerous – Jake had to overpower him physically sometimes – but in between bouts he was still quite normal and Brett wouldn’t hear of any sort of serious treatment.

‘And the dreadful thing, the horrifying, awful, frightening thing was I could see it coming out in the boys. They needed help to control themselves, maybe even medication – I don’t know. But Jake and Brett wouldn’t listen; it was just the Mason temper, and they seemed to take a sort of perverse pride in it, as if it were a family talent.

‘Then we found out that Max had been experimenting with drugs – oh, the usual teenage stuff, Ecstasy and cannabis. He said Conrad was too, though he hadn’t been caught and Brett was adamant that Max was making it up to get his cousin into trouble.

‘That was the last straw as far as I was concerned. If, as Jake seemed to believe, it was the absinthe that turned Edgar’s mind, what was Ecstasy going to do to his grandsons’? Conrad wasn’t my responsibility but Max was. I told Jake he must get him to a clinic, get proper help immediately, but Jake wouldn’t hear of it. It would be admitting that there was something wrong in the family and that was against what I used to call Masonic tradition.’

She smiled wryly and took another sip of water. ‘We had a terrible, terrible row. It wasn’t something we did, really; anger – my own or anyone else’s – frightens me and if Jake was angry I gave in. But this time I didn’t. I wouldn’t yield and neither would he and at last I used my only weapon – I told him I would leave him. By then, I suppose, it had become a trial of strength. He refused, and I left.’

Fleming made her voice carefully neutral. ‘You walked out of your marriage and had no further contact for sixteen years?’

‘Not quite. He knew he could contact me through my bank and he did, two or three times, asking me to come back, but on his terms. I had to hold out; it was for Max, but I never meant it to be this long. I believed he loved me and I thought he would give in if he truly believed I meant it – and I suppose, eventually, I would have if he wouldn’t.

‘Then, about eighteen months after I left home he wrote, very briefly, to say that Max had walked out. I phoned him then, offering to come back but – he refused.’

Fleming could see the sparkle of tears. That rejection had hurt; it still did.

‘He didn’t want me; the marriage was over. I assumed he’d found someone else – he was a very attractive man. So – that was it, really. End of sad, messy story. I always had the local paper sent to me and I would comb it for scraps of information about them all – looking, I suppose, to see if a “companion” was ever mentioned on the social page. I never saw one, but—’

The door opened and the ward sister put her head round it. ‘Are you going to be much longer? We’ve other folks needing this room.’

‘I think we’re probably finished.’ Fleming got up and after a moment Rosamond did too, rising with an obvious effort. She looked very pale and drawn and the nurse gave Fleming another cold, accusing look before withdrawing again.

‘Just one final thing. Let me stress that this hasn’t been established, it’s just a theory we’re looking at. It’s been suggested that Diana Warwick’s death might have been an accident, that she was gored by a bull, the one called Satan, and that your husband might have been so concerned that the animal would have to be slaughtered that he buried her body to conceal what had happened.’

‘Oh no.’ Rosamond was shaking her head. ‘No, no, surely he would never have done something like that. He was certainly foolish – they all were, about that dreadful creature – and it was valuable too, of course – but he wouldn’t do that, he couldn’t! No, I can’t believe he would ever have done anything so wicked. He’s a good man, at heart.’

‘Sure – certain – wouldn’t – couldn’t.’ The emphatic words only underlined her lack of conviction. She might just as well have come right out and said, ‘I don’t want it to be true but it’s possible.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Mason. That’s been very helpful. Now, if you can tell me where you’re staying someone will come tomorrow to take a proper statement.’

‘Can I – can I ask you just one thing? Do you know where Max is? He was quoted in a newspaper report I read, but I thought he couldn’t be at home – the nurses said he hasn’t been in at all to see his father.’

How typical of Max! Fleming wasn’t surprised, but it vexed her that his cruel indifference would be another sadness for Rosamond to bear. ‘Yes, he’s at Chapelton,’ she said as gently as she could. ‘Would you like us to notify him that you’re here?’

Rosamond gave a tiny gasp, then compressed her lips as if willing herself not to show her emotion. When she spoke her voice was perfectly level. ‘Thank you, but no. He’ll find me here when he chooses to come and see Jake.’

The ward sister, standing by the open door, cleared her throat very pointedly and Marjory left, feeling the hostile eyes boring into her back as she walked down the corridor. There was a lot to digest in what Rosamond Mason had said, but that could wait. There were other things on her mind; she’d borrowed a police Land Rover and now she was heading home.

17

‘Scott, where are you? You’ll need to get down to open the bar.’

Lisa Thomson opened the bedroom door. The curtains were drawn and the room was fetid with stale whisky fumes. Her husband was lying, fully clothed, flat on his back, deep in sottish sleep, his mouth hanging open, and he was snoring loudly. On the bedside table there was a glass with a splash of whisky in the bottom and on the floor a bottle of fifteen-year-old Glenmorangie, three-quarters empty and lying on its side.

At the sight of the bottle her lips tightened. If he was going to get drunk he could at least have chosen a cheap blend – he wasn’t even going to taste it after the first couple of glasses. But oh no, Scott had to take the best, as if that proved something.

She’d tried to be a loyal wife, tried to be understanding about the problems: his bad arm, always having business worries, being scared they’d lose everything. But she hadn’t had it easy either, and now, when at last they were seeing a good profit . . .

The foot-and-mouth at Chapelton and that poor lassie they’d found had been an awful business right enough, but it had been a blessing for the hotel. With full-board guests and the police camped on the premises, not to mention the bar packed out with folk trying to find out what was going on, they’d got the bank off their backs for a few months at least. She wasn’t kidding herself they were out of the woods but at least they weren’t finished. You’d have thought Scott could have cheered up a bit.

But he hadn’t. He’d been even worse. From the day Laura and the Masons had arrived he’d hardly been sober and she’d had it up to here with his black moods. OK, so he hated the Masons. She didn’t take to them herself and the more you saw of them the less you liked them, but acting like a spoiled bairn when you were in business was just daft.

So what was it all about? She’d managed to put it out of her mind – well, she’d had enough to do with making the beds and the meals and the endless cups of coffee and keeping the weans clean and fed until she could crawl thankfully into her bed at night. But it was quieter now . . .

She knew the police had been questioning Scott. She didn’t know what they’d asked him, or what he’d said; she knew fine the only answer she’d get if she asked was the back of his hand. She didn’t even know how Laura’s sister had died, had deliberately not listened to gossip because even thinking about it scared her. It was like looking over the edge of a cliff when everything seemed to tilt and swing away from her. If he’d hit the girl, maybe just that bit too hard . . . It wasn’t much of a step from that to wondering if she’d been sharing a bed with a murderer all her married life.

She shuddered, then scolded herself. What on earth was the point of all this daft stuff? What she needed to think about wasn’t the past, it was the future for herself and the bairns, for the hotel that could be a really nice wee business.

What would she have done this past week without Dawn to help her? Having another pair of willing hands had made her realise how little Scott had done about the place, even before all this. Dawn was someone she could talk to as well; Lisa had been on her own with Scott and the kids for so long she’d forgotten what it was like to chatter and have a bit of a laugh. There hadn’t been a lot of laughter in her life these last few years. Dawn couldn’t understand why she put up with him. She’d have put him out long ago, she said, if he went on like that all the time.

Lisa looked down at the figure on the bed. He was unwashed, unshaven, and dribbling from the corner of his mouth. She felt scunnered, almost sick with disgust. His red hair was showing grey at the sides and with the puffy face and sagging chins it was hard to believe he was only nine years older than she was.

The age difference had seemed glamorous when she first met him; he’d been a man, not like the boys her own age. He’d taken advantage of that, she could see now, to bully her, being so possessive and demanding that it was easier just to give up her friendships and stay at home. The only time she’d defied him, to go to a girlfriend’s hen-night, he’d slapped her about when she came in – not enough to bruise her but just, as he said, to show her who was boss.

He had been. But now, with all this, she began to think,
Supposing he wasn’t here, supposing she had Dawn full-time instead, Dawn being nice and cheery in the bar so people would like coming and stay on for a meal after, instead of Scott drinking all the best whisky and putting them off with glaring at them like it was an insult to be asked to serve them a drink?
It was a dangerous, exciting thought.

There wasn’t any point in waking him now anyway. He’d only give her a swearing and in any case from the look of him he’d barely be fit to stand. Anyway, given the weather, there probably wouldn’t be anyone venturing out tonight and if there was she could cope herself.

The Masons had checked out, gone back to Chapelton together in the big Range Rover, but not without a lot of shouting and carrying-on. She’d had to listen to them while she made up their bills – discreetly padding them here and there – and Conrad and Mrs Mason had wanted to go off themselves and leave Max behind. But he told them what they could do, said the Range Rover belonged to the farm and he was going to sell up anyway whenever the lawyers allowed him. That got them all going again; they paid their bills without even checking them and she wished she’d slipped in a wee bit more.

The best bit had come when Max had pushed in front of his aunt to go up the stairs and she’d given him his character for having no manners. She tried to remember exactly what Max said: it was really cheeky and funny and she and Dawn could have a good laugh about it later. There was something about it being difficult to know how women wanted to be treated nowadays, but looking at her he could see she must have burned her bra long ago, and then he’d said, ‘Not the smartest move, frankly, but I honour your principles and I wouldn’t insult you with a patronising, chauvinist gesture.’ That was the bit she liked, and Dawn would like that too because they’d giggled about Mrs Mason’s saggy boobs before.

So with Laura and the Masons gone there was no dinner to do tonight and with any luck she’d get an evening off with the bairns for once. Just as long as Scott didn’t wake up with the hangover he deserved they could have a nice peaceful evening at the telly.

He must have heard the car, heard her coming in. He must certainly have heard her call, ‘Bill! Bill, where are you? I’m home!’

Marjory stood in the mud-room and kicked off her snow-caked boots. It was looking unnaturally tidy: the children’s boots and shoes were neatly lined up and their coats and jackets still on their pegs, just as she had left them. There was mud all over the red quarry tiles, though; they certainly hadn’t been washed recently.

There was no response to her call, no sound of footsteps coming to meet her. It wasn’t logical but she had kept a tiny flicker of hope that she had read the signs wrongly, that Bill wasn’t angry and would, after all, be happy to see her back. In the continued silence, the flicker died.

It felt strange to be back after all this time, strange to feel the familiar loose handle with the screw that somehow never got tightened on the kitchen door. She opened it and went in.

The man was sitting in the battered armchair beside the Aga, his head back as if he were asleep, but she could see that his eyes were open. The dog at his feet lay, nose on its paws, ears flat, in an attitude of utter dejection. Her ears pricked as her mistress came in and the plumy tail gave a token twitch, then she sighed deeply and the ears flattened again.

They both looked so – so
defeated
. And Bill – she would hardly have recognised the young-looking, vigorous man she had left in this hollow-cheeked shadow with sunken eyes. He looked
old
.

Marjory swallowed hard. ‘Hello, Bill.’

He sat up and turned his head, as if only now aware of her presence. ‘Marjory.’

It was easier to greet the dog. ‘Meg!’ she called, bending down and patting her knee. ‘Come on, Meggie, what sort of welcome is that? Come and say hello to your mistress!’