Fox Evil (22 page)

"Nancy told me. She looked you up… says you're a bit of a legend."

A smile of pleasure lit the old man's face. "How extraordinary! I thought that war was long forgotten."

"Apparently not."

The return of self-esteem was almost palpable. "Well, at least you know that I'm not easily defeated… certainly not by bullies."

Mark shook his head apologetically. "That was a different kind of isolation, James. You were defending a principle… your men supported you… and you emerged a hero. This isn't the same at all. Don't you see how friendless your position is? You're refusing to go to the police because you're afraid of involving Nancy." He jerked a thumb toward the window. "For the same reason, you've no idea what anyone out there is thinking because you won't go out and challenge them.
Plus
-" he turned his thumb to jab it at the letter on the desk-"you're ready to sack me because you're worried about my commitment… and the
reason
my commitment wavered was because you didn't tell me a damn thing."

James sighed. "I hoped it would stop if I didn't react."

"That's probably what Ailsa thought-and look what happened to her."

The old man pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his eyes.

"Oh, lord!" said Mark contritely. "Listen, I really don't want to upset you again, but at least consider that Ailsa felt as isolated as you do. You talked about her being afraid of self-fulfilling prophecies… so don't you think she was subjected to these lies as well? That Bartlett cow goes on and on about how she must have felt when she found out. Whoever fed Mrs. Bartlett the information almost certainly knew that Ailsa was shattered by it. It's easy to say she should have told you-I expect she was trying to protect you just as you're protecting Nancy-but the
effect
is the same. The more you try to keep something secret, the harder it is to bring it out into the open." He leaned forward again and his tone became more insistent. "You really
can't
let these accusations stand, James. You
must
challenge them."

He crumpled the handkerchief between his fingers. "How?" he asked tiredly. "Nothing's changed."

"Oh, but you couldn't be more wrong.
Everything's
changed. Nancy isn't a figment of your imagination anymore… she's
real
, James… and a real person can disprove everything Leo's saying."

"She's always been real."

"Yes, but she didn't want to be involved. Now she does. She wouldn't have come here otherwise, and she certainly wouldn't have asked for an invitation back if she wasn't prepared to support you. Trust her, please. Explain to her what's been going on, let her listen to the tapes, then ask her if she'll agree to a DNA test. You may be able to do it on blood groups alone. Whichever… it doesn't matter… I'll lay my last cent on her saying yes, and then you'll have evidence of menace and coercion that you can take to the police. Don't you see how much stronger your position is since she turned up this morning? You have an honest-to-God champion at last. I'll talk to her on your behalf if you won't do it yourself." He grinned. "Apart from anything else, it'll allow you to take Pokeweed and Staggerbush to the cleaners. Ailsa would approve."

He shouldn't have mentioned Ailsa. The handkerchief rushed to James's eyes again. "All her foxes are dead, you know," he said in quiet despair. "He catches them in traps and crushes their muzzles before he throws them onto the terrace. I've had to shoot them to put them out of their misery. He did the same to Henry… left him where Ailsa died with a broken leg and a shattered mouth. The dear old thing growled at me as I approached, and when I put the barrel to his head I knew he thought I was responsible for hurting him. There's a terrible madness behind it. I'm sure Ailsa was subjected to it. I think she was made to watch while some poor creature's skull was smashed, and I believe Prue Weldon heard it happen. I'm sure it's what killed the poor old girl. She couldn't bear cruelty. If the creature was still alive, she'd have sat beside it while it died."

It would explain a lot, thought Mark. The bloodstains near her body. Ailsa's accusations of madness. The sound of a punch. "You should have reported it," he said inadequately.

"I tried. The first time, anyway. No one was interested in a dead fox on my terrace."

"What about the evidence of cruelty?"

James sighed and squeezed the handkerchief into his fist again. "Have you any idea of the damage a shotgun blast does to an animal's head? Perhaps I should have left it to die in agony while I waited for a policeman to turn up? Assuming, of course, they'd be remotely interested in a flea-ridden animal that gets hunted and poisoned every day of the year… which they weren't, of course. They told me to phone the RSPCA."

"And?"

"Sympathetic but impotent where vermin's concerned. They thought it was the work of a poacher who took out his venom when he trapped a fox instead of a deer."

"Is this why you sit on the terrace every night? Are you hoping to catch him?"

The old man gave another faint smile as if he found the question amusing.

"You should be careful, James. Reasonable force is all you're allowed in the protection of your property. If you do anything that smacks of vigilantism, you'll go to prison. The courts are very hard on people who take the law into their own hands." He might not have spoken for all the reaction he got. "I'm not blaming you," he went on. "In your position I'd feel exactly the same. I'm just asking you to consider the consequences before you do something you'll regret."

"I consider little else," said James harshly. "Perhaps it's time you listened to your own advice… or is it true that a man who has himself for a lawyer has a fool for a client?"

Mark pulled a wry face. "I'm sure I deserve that, but I don't understand it."

James tore the letter into pieces and dropped them into the bin beside the desk. "Think twice before you persuade Nancy to reveal her connection with me," he said coldly. "I have lost my wife to a madman… I have no intention of losing my granddaughter as well."

Wolfie slipped through the trees in the wake of his father, drawn by a terrified curiosity to find out what was happening. He didn't know the saying "knowledge is power" but he understood the imperative. How else could he find his mother? He felt braver than he had for weeks, and he knew it had something to do with Bella's kindness and the conspiratorial finger that Nancy had put to her lips. They spoke to him of a future. Alone with Fox, he thought only of death.

The night was so black that he couldn't see anything, but he trod lightly and bit his tongue against the assault of branches and brambles. As the minutes passed, his eyes adjusted to the niggardly moonlight, and he could always hear the sound of twigs snapping as Fox's heavier tread broke through the woodland floor. Every so often he paused, having learned from his capture earlier not to walk blindly into a trap, but Fox kept moving toward the Manor. With the cunning of his namesake, Wolfie recognized that the man was returning to his territory-the same tree, his favorite vantage point-and, eyes and ears alert to obstacles, the child moved off at a tangent to establish a territory of his own.

Nothing happened for several minutes, then, to Wolfie's alarm, Fox began to speak. The child shrank down, assuming there was someone with him, but when no answer came he guessed Fox was talking into his mobile. Few of the words were distinguishable, but the inflections in Fox's voice reminded Wolfie of Lucky Fox… and that seemed strange when the old man was visible to him in one of the downstairs windows of the house.

"…1 have the letters and I have her name… Nancy Smith… Captain, Royal Engineers. You must be proud to have another soldier in the family. She even looks like you when you were younger. Tall and dark… the perfect clone… It's a pity she won't do what she's told. Nothing can be gained by involving you, you said… but here she is. So what price DNA now? Does she know who her father is…? Are you going to tell her before someone else does…?"

Mark replayed the recording several times. "If this is Leo then he really believes you're Nancy's father."

"He knows I'm not," said James, dropping files to the floor as he looked for the one marked "Miscellaneous."

"Then it isn't Leo," said Mark gently. "We've been looking in the wrong direction."

With resignation, James abandoned his search and folded his hands in front of his face. "Of course it's Leo," he said with surprising firmness. "You really
must
understand that, Mark. You're a godsend to him because your reactions are so predictable. You panic every time he shifts his position, instead of holding your nerve and forcing him to declare himself."

Mark stared at the window and the darkness outside, and his face in reflection had the same hunted look that James had worn for two days. Whoever this man was he had been in the house and knew what Nancy looked like, was probably watching them now. "Perhaps it's you who're the godsend, James," he murmured. "At least consider that your reaction to your son is also entirely predictable."

"Meaning what?"

"Leo is the first person you accuse in any situation."

Prue's face, too, looked hunted when she answered the hammering on her front door. A peek through her curtains had shown her the gleam of a pale car in the drive, and she assumed immediately that the police had come for her. She would have pretended she wasn't at home if a voice hadn't shouted: "Come on, Mrs. Weldon. We know you're in there."

She attached the chain and opened the door a couple of inches, peering at the two shadowy figures standing on the doorstep. "Who are you? What do you want?" she asked in a terrified voice.

"It's James Lockyer-Fox and Mark Ankerton," said Mark, jamming his shoe into the gap. "Switch on your porch light and you'll be able to see us."

She pressed her finger to the button, and a little courage returned with recognition. "If this is about serving a writ, I'm not going to accept it. I'm not accepting
anything
from you," she said rather wildly.

Mark gave an angry snort. "You certainly will. You'll accept the truth. Now let us in, please. We want to talk to you."

"No." She put her shoulder to the door and tried to close it.

"I'm not taking my foot away until you agree, Mrs. Weldon. Where's your husband? This will go a lot faster if we can talk to him as well." He raised his voice. "Mr. Weldon! Will you come to the door, please! James Lockyer-Fox would like to speak with you!"

"He's not here," hissed Prue, leaning her considerable weight against the insubstantial leather of Mark's loafer. "I'm on my own and you're frightening me. I'm going to give you one chance to take your foot away, and if you don't I'll slam the door so hard it'll really hurt you."

She relaxed the pressure briefly and watched the shoe vanish. "Now,
go away!
" she shouted, shoving against the panels and turning the mortise lock. "I'll call the police if you don't."

"Good idea," said Mark's voice from the other side. "We'll be calling them ourselves if you refuse to speak to us. What do you think your husband will feel about that? He was pretty unhappy when I spoke to him this morning. As far as I could make out, he didn't know about your malicious calls… the whole idea shocked him rigid."

She was breathing heavily from fear and exertion. "The police will be on my side," she panted, bending forward to bring her heaving chest under control. "You're not allowed to terrorize people like this."

"Yes, well, it's a pity you didn't remember that when you started your campaign against James. Or perhaps you think the law doesn't apply to you?" His voice took on a conversational tone. "Tell me… would you have been so vindictive if Ailsa hadn't run away every time she saw you? Isn't that what this is about? You wanted to boast about your chum at the Manor… and Ailsa made it plain she couldn't stand your poisonous tongue." He gave a small laugh. "No, I'm putting the cart before the horse. You were
always
poisonous… you can't help yourself… you'd have made these calls eventually whether Ailsa lived or died-if only to get your own back for being called Staggerbush behind your back-"

He broke off when he heard Prue's squeal of shock, immediately followed by the rattle of the chain and the mortise turning. "I think I've given her a heart attack," said James, opening the door. "Look at the silly creature. She'll break that chair if she's not careful."

Mark stepped inside and looked critically at Prue who was gasping for air on a delicate wicker seat. "What did you do?" He kicked the door closed with his heel and handed his briefcase to James.

"Touched her on the shoulder. I've never seen anyone jump so high."

Mark stooped to put a hand under her elbow. "Come on, Mrs. Weldon," he said, heaving her to her feet and supporting her with his other arm around her back. "Let's get you onto something more solid. Where's your sitting room?"

"This looks like it," said James, entering a room on the left. "Do you want to put her on the sofa, and I'll see if I can find some brandy?"

"Water might be better." He lowered her onto the padded seat while James returned to the kitchen in search of a glass. "You shouldn't leave your back door unlocked," he told her unsympathetically, hiding his relief as color came into her cheeks. "In these parts it's an invitation to enter."

She tried to say something but her mouth was too dry. Instead she took a swipe at him. She was a long way from dying, he thought, as he stepped out of reach. "You're allowed to use reasonable force only, Mrs. Weldon. You've already broken my foot because you're so damn fat. If you hurt me anywhere else I might just decide to prosecute."

She glared at him before taking the glass James handed her and drinking the water greedily. "Dick'll be so angry about this," she said, as soon as her tongue was loosened. "He'll… he'll…" Her vocabulary deserted her.

"What?"

"Sue you!"

"Is that right?" said Mark. "Let's find out. Does he have a mobile? Can we call him?"

"I'm not telling you."

"His son's number will be in the book," said James, lowering himself into an armchair. "I believe his name's Jack. As far as I recall, the other arm of the business is based in Compton Newton, and the house is on site. He'll know Dick's mobile."

Prue snatched up the phone beside the sofa and smothered it with her arms. "You're not ringing from here."

"Well, I am… but at my expense," said Mark, taking his mobile from his pocket and dialing Directory Inquiries. "Yes, please. Cornpton Newton… surname Weldon…initial J… thank you." He cut the line and redialed.

Prue took another slash at him, trying to knock the phone from his hand.

Grinning, Mark moved farther away. "Yes… hello. Is that Mrs. Weldon? I'm sorry… Belinda. Totally understood… Mrs. Weldon is your mother-in-law-" he lifted an eyebrow at Prue-"and you don't want to be confused with her. I wouldn't either. Yes, my name's Mark Ankerton. I'm a solicitor, representing Colonel Lockyer-Fox. I need to contact your father-in-law as a matter of urgency. Would you know where he is… or if he has a mobile number?" He watched Prue with amusement. "He's with you. Excellent. May I speak to him? Yes, tell him it relates to what we discussed this morning. The Colonel and I are in his house… we came to speak to Mrs. Weldon… but she assures us that her husband will take action if we don't leave. I'd appreciate confirmation of that as it will affect our decision on whether to involve the police."

He tapped his foot on the carpet while he waited. A second or two later he held the phone away from his ear as Dick's voice roared down the line. He made one or two attempts to halt the angry tirade, but it was only when Dick ran out of steam that he was able to jump in. "Thank you, Mr. Weldon. I think I got the gist all right… no, I'd rather you told your wife yourself. Do you want to speak to her now? Right… goodbye." He touched end and dropped the mobile into his pocket. "Dear, dear, dear! You seem to have upset everyone, Mrs. Weldon. There's not much support there, I'm afraid!"

"It's none of your business."

"Apparently Mrs. Bartlett's husband is equally angry… neither of them knew what the pair of you were up to. If they had, they'd have stopped it."

Prue didn't say anything.

"James guessed as much, which is why he hasn't taken any action to date… he didn't want to embarrass Dick or Julian. He hoped if he didn't react you'd lose interest or your husbands would start questioning what you were doing. It's gone too far for that now, though. The threats in these calls are too dangerous to be ignored any longer."

"I've never made any threats," she protested. "I've never said anything. It's Eleanor you should be talking to. She's the one who started it."

"So it was Mrs. Bartlett's idea?"

Prue stared at her hands. After all, what loyalty did she owe her friend? She'd called Shenstead House twice in the last hour and each time Julian had told her that Ellie was "unavailable." The word alone implied that the woman was there and refusing to speak to her, but the amused tone of Julian's voice confirmed it. Prue had excused her on the grounds that she didn't want to speak in front of Julian, but she suspected now that Ellie was busy blaming her in order to keep in his good books.

Prue's resentment against everyone grew. She was the least at fault yet she was the most accused. "It certainly wasn't my idea," she muttered. "I'm not the type to make abusive calls… which is why I never said anything."

"Why make them at all then?"

"Eleanor called it natural justice," she said, refusing to look at either man. "No one seemed interested in how Ailsa died except us."

"I see," said Mark sarcastically. "So despite a police investigation, a postmortem, and a coroner's inquest, you decided no one was interested. That's a very bizarre conclusion, Mrs. Weldon. How did you reach it, exactly?"

"I heard James and Ailsa arguing. You can't just put a thing like that out of your mind."

Mark watched her for a moment. "That's it?" he asked in disbelief. "You appointed yourself judge, jury, and executioner on the basis of a single argument between two people you couldn't see or even hear properly? There was no other evidence?"

She wriggled her shoulders uncomfortably. How could she possibly repeat in front of James what Eleanor knew? "I know what I heard," she said, falling back on the only argument she'd ever really had. Stubborn certainty.

"I doubt that very much." Mark propped his briefcase on his knee and brought out the tape recorder. "I want you to listen to these messages, Mrs. Weldon." He located a socket beside the armchair in which James was sitting and plugged in the machine, handing it to James to operate. "At the end I'd like you to tell me what you think you've heard."

There was nothing in the allegations of child abuse to shock Prue-she knew them all-but the relentless repetition did shock her. She felt dirty just listening to the continuously stated details of child rape, as if she were a willing party to their telling. She argued to herself that the calls hadn't come en bloc like this, but the cumulative effect was disturbing. She wanted to say, stop, I've heard enough, but she knew what the reaction would be. James hadn't been given that choice.

Every so often Eleanor's high-pitched rants and Darth Vader's distorted monologues were punctuated by periods of silence in which the sound of stealthy breathing-
her
breathing-was audible on the tape. She could hear the pauses as she turned away from the mouthpiece, afraid that Dick had woken up and come downstairs to discover what she was doing. She could hear her trembling excitement as fear of exposure and a sense of power collided in her chest to produce sibilant little hisses on inhalation.

She tried to persuade herself that Eleanor's strident hectoring was worse but she didn't succeed. Speech-whatever it said-had the merit of honesty; breathing-
heavy
breathing, the coward's furtive choice-sounded lewd. Prue
should
have spoken. Why hadn't she?

Because she hadn't believed what Eleanor had told her…

She remembered whispers of gossip from Vera Dawson about how Ailsa had had to return early from a two-year posting in Africa when Elizabeth contracted glandular fever at school. Of course no one was fooled. The girl was known to be wild, and she truanted too often-particularly at night-for a swollen belly to be anything but an unwanted pregnancy. Rumor had it that James didn't learn about the baby until he returned at the end of the posting, several months after it had been adopted, and his fury that Ailsa had allowed Elizabeth to sweep another mistake under the carpet had been intense.

Eleanor said it proved nothing except that James was capable of anger. A foreign posting allowed for holidays just like any other job, and if Elizabeth said he was in England at the time the baby was conceived then that was good enough for her. Elizabeth was the most damaged woman she'd ever met, she told Prue forcefully, and that sort of personality disorder didn't happen by accident. Whoever forced the adoption had pushed an already vulnerable girl into a spiral of depression and, if anyone doubted it, they should speak to Elizabeth. As Eleanor had done.

The dreadful procession of messages clicked through with one of Prue's to every two of Eleanor's and five of Darth Vader's, and it dawned on Prue that she'd been conned. Everyone was doing it, Eleanor had told her. People were livid that James had got away with murder. The "girls" were making at least one call a day, preferably at night to wake him. It was the only way Ailsa would ever receive justice.

Prue raised her head as James pressed the stop button and silence fell in the room. It was a long time since she'd looked the Colonel in the face, and a flush of shame spread up her neck. He had aged so much, she thought. She remembered him as an upright, handsome man with weather-beaten cheeks and clear eyes. Now he was stooped and gaunt, and his clothes were too big for him.

"Well?" asked Mark.

She chewed at her lip. "There were only three people. Eleanor, myself, and the man. Are there any other tapes?"

"Several," he said, nodding to his open briefcase on the floor, "but they're all just you, Mrs. Bartlett, and our friend who's too frightened to use his real voice. You started to flag recently, but you were calling in regular as clockwork every night for the first four weeks. Do you want me to prove it? Choose any tape you like and we'll play it for you."

She shook her head but didn't say anything.

"You don't seem very interested in the content of the messages," said Mark after a moment. "Does a catalogue of child rape and incest not disturb you? I've listened to these tapes for hours and I'm appalled by them. I'm appalled that a child's pain should be so callously exploited in this way. I'm appalled that I've had to listen to the details. Was that the intention? To humiliate the listener?"

She ran a nervous tongue around her mouth. "I… er… Eleanor wanted James to know we knew."

"Knew what? And please don't refer to Colonel Lockyer-Fox by his Christian name again, Mrs. Weldon. If you ever had the right to use it, you forfeited that the first time you picked up the telephone in menace."

Her face burned with embarrassment. She waved a despairing hand toward the recorder. "Knew about…
that
. We didn't think he should be allowed to get away with it."