Lots of Love (42 page)

‘How many times, Ellen?’ Pheely laid down her sculpting trowel and rolled her green eyes in exasperation. ‘It was Spurs.’

Ellen watched a squirrel dart bravely onto the terrace to pick a wild strawberry before scampering up one of Norman Gently’s headless stone figures and leaping into a tree. She thought about the day she’d hurled strawberries at Spurs and he’d pushed her into the pond, accusing her of having the hots for him. He’d been right. She still couldn’t cool down.

‘Has he left any more gifts?’ Pheely asked.

‘No. I haven’t seen him at all.’

‘Too busy treating poor Otto like a trail bike,’ she grumbled. ‘Dilly is thrilled – says she asked him to get the horse fit for the Devil’s Marsh, but Pixie was in Upper Springlode yesterday delivering organic veg and she saw poor Psychotto tethered outside the Plough while Spurs and Rory lolled in the beer garden.’

Ellen smiled sadly and then remembered something. ‘I still have two of Rory’s jumps in my paddock.’

‘Don’t tell Dilly when she gets back – she’ll insist that we ferry them up to his yard on the moped as an excuse to see Rory, although, I have to admit that boy is
very
dishy. He has his mother Truffle’s looks, unlike the lumpy daughter.’ She was clearly all set to launch into another history lesson in Oddlode genetics.

‘He looks incredibly like Spurs,’ Ellen said mindlessly.

‘He looks nothing bloody like him,’ Pheely retorted, and gave her mermaid buck teeth. ‘Hyperion to a satyr, my darling. And satyr is the lowest form of dimwit.’

Remembering Spurs’ worries about Rory’s drinking, plus a throwaway comment that his feckless, forgetful cousin slept with the eager female stablehands when he was drunk, Ellen wondered just who was the dimwitted satyr.

As always when the topic touched upon Spurs, she found herself keeping the conversational plate spinning for as long as she could before Pheely’s butterfly mind alighted on a more fragrant flower.

‘What exactly happened to make him leave the village all those years ago?’

‘Well, getting sent to jail meant it was pretty pointless renewing his Pony Club sub.’

‘He didn’t go to jail until he was nineteen. I thought he left Oddlode before that.’

‘A couple of years, yes.’ She popped a wart on the mermaid’s nose.

‘I got the impression that something specific made him go?’

‘You could say that.’ The green gaze was warning her off, but Ellen was desperate to know.

‘What did he do?’

‘What’s the worst thing you could possibly do? Think Oedipus, only racier.’

Ellen thought about it, remembering her father’s fondness for Greek tragedies, her eyes boggling. ‘Sleep with your mother and kill your father?’

‘Close.’ Pheely removed the wart from the mermaid’s nose and calmly lobbed it over her shoulder. ‘Try again.’

‘Sleep with your father and kill your mother?’

‘It may have escaped your notice, but both Spurs’ wretched parents are still alive.’

‘Sleeping with both your parents and killing the Labrador?’ Ellen was getting bored of playing games. ‘Tell me.’

‘You have a long, hard think about it.’ Pheely swung round crossly. ‘Think about the fact that everybody hates him. Think about the trouble he caused, the hearts he broke, the lives he wrecked and the mess he left this village in. He left in one hell of a hurry. He didn’t come back for twelve years, and we still hate him. Think about that. And when you have, you might find you stop talking to me about him like he’s the hunkiest Little Lord Fauntleroy you’ve ever met. Because he’s not. Believe me, he’s not – I’m fed up of telling you this. He is a very, very ugly character.’

Ellen quailed, dismayed that she had upset her so much.

‘I’m sorry.’ She moved into the sun beside Pheely, terrified at the thought of losing her friendship, more terrified still by the thought of what Spurs must have done.

Pheely sniffed, equally fretful. ‘Please don’t let’s fall out over it. You’re such a lovely new chum.’

‘Of course not.’ She quickly changed the subject. ‘Is Dilly due back soon, then?’

‘Last exam tomorrow – the school lets them go home as soon as they’ve finished. She’s getting a lift back with the Fullertons’ daughter – Lord knows where we’ll put all her stuff. In the old house, I suppose – if I can find the keys.’ Pheely turned back to stroke her mermaid’s hair for comfort, still jumpy from her outburst. ‘I’m going to cook her a fabulous meal to celebrate getting through her A levels – I thought I’d do a Thai creation with salmon and eggs. Eggs-salmon-Asian. Ingenious, huh?’ Her jokes were always appalling when she was nervous.

Watching her wide, kind face, Ellen realised that whatever Spurs had done, she should leave it well buried. It was already stirring in its grave without her help.

Yet that evening, checking her emails, she couldn’t resist typing ‘Jasper Belling’ into Google’s search engine. Pages of matches flashed up, mostly press articles about Sir St John’s fall from Tory grace and Spurs’ prison sentence. He was right that he had forged more than cheques. It seemed the young, wayward Spurs had forged everything from historically important letters to prescriptions, VAT invoices and Munnings’ sketches. Norman Gently’s recognition of his final protégé’s artistic talents had been well-founded.

Ellen read on late into the night, determined to hate him.

He’d said she needed him like a hole in the head. And he was right. Ellen’s head had always been ruled by her heart, and the hole in her heart had grown so large in their brief acquaintance that a meteor could have landed in it. But, try as she might, she couldn’t hate him.

‘Ellen! Thank goodness. I need your help!’

Ellen tucked her mobile phone under her chin and reached for her coffee. ‘Pheely, where are you?’

‘At the Maddington market fish stall. I’ve just seen the nine-thirty bus go past without me on it, and I’m not going to get back in time for Godspell’s sitting unless you rescue me.’

‘I can’t,’ Ellen apologised.

‘You have no idea how hard I had to work on Ely to release her on early parole. It will only take you twenty minutes.’

‘The jeep’s battery is flat.’

‘Damn – no,
not
that fatty one, it looks as though it took a taxi upstream. I want that gym-fit salmon at the back.’ Pheely broke off to issue instructions to the fishmonger. ‘Damnedy damn. I don’t have her mobile number, and the Manor Farm line is permanently engaged.’

Ellen could see Poppy’s red Golf pulling up outside.

‘Would you like me to go round and tell her you’ll be late?’

‘Oh, darling, that would be terribly kind – no, I want it
gutted
– do you mind?’

‘Snorkel could use the walk.’ Ellen waved as Poppy headed towards the house with yet more Tesco flowers and coffee. It was a good excuse to avoid another one of the estate agent’s gushing misguided tours.

‘You are super. I’ll get the ten-thirty bus.’

‘I’ll let her know.’

The sun had returned to drench Oddlode in its melanoma furnace as Ellen set out along North Street, half expecting to meet Godspell coming the other way with a black parasol shading her pale little face. But the lane was deserted except for Hunter’s rebellious bantam pecking at an abandoned crisp packet.

The village was unusually quiet, caught in the lull between children being walked to school and tourists arriving to nose around. Ellen fanned her T-shirt uneasily. It felt like a museum – unreal and unoccupied, a period film set awaiting its costumed players.

The haunting peal of Manor Farm’s echoing old door bell seemed to accentuate the antiquation when she pulled it – fading away through the house as it summoned a shuffling housekeeper of days gone by.

The image was shattered when Felicity Gates’ pudgy face appeared over the security chain, her mottled chins propping up a walkabout phone.

‘Yes?’ she asked suspiciously, not eager to find herself talking about insurance, double glazing or the Second Coming.

‘Hi. Is Godspell in?’

Her face lit up and she opened the door to reveal an apron covered with alarming blood splatters. ‘Are you one of her friends? How lovely. Come in! You can tie the dog to the boot scraper. Jonathan Cainer’s recorded horoscope just said today would bring fresh faces.’ She waggled the phone and pressed her ear to it once more as she led the way.

Before she could explain why she was there, Ellen found herself ushered through a dark panelled hallway, past a ticking long case clock and along a lobby to a narrow back staircase. ‘I think she’s in her room. She’s going out any minute, so do—’ Felicity cocked her head as the voice in her ear told her that today was good for romance ‘—do go straight up. Excuse me – I must finish cutting this pig up for the freezer before Lady Belling’s coffee morning.’ One ear still glued to Jonathan Cainer, Felicity waddled away.

As Ellen opened her mouth to ask directions, she was distracted by the sound of disembodied screaming coming from upstairs.

‘Is that . . .’ she asked, before realising that Felicity had disappeared, ‘. . . normal?’ The screaming from above was soon accompanied by the sound of a cleaver hacking through tissue and bone in the nearby kitchen.

Without thinking, Ellen bounded the steps two at a time and found herself on a tiny landing, presumably some sort of old servants’ quarters, its whitewashed walls hung with an alarming number of crosses. The screaming was coming from behind an arched doorway. She tried the handle and found it locked. Stepping back, she saw that it was fitted with a Yale.

‘Hello? Hello! Are you okay?’

She listened in trepidation as the screaming continued, along with a maddened series of bangs and metal thrashes.

Moving along the landing, she found a tiny bedroom containing nothing more than a single bed, a small wardrobe and a wooden chair. Yet more crosses adorned the wall. It looked like a nun’s cell.

To the left, a connecting door with another Yale lock led to the screaming room. It was ajar.

‘Jesus!’ Ellen stepped back when she pushed it open.

The first thing that hit her was the heat, closely followed by the smell. The room – as dark and moist as a witchdoctor’s loin-cloth – smelled as though somebody had died in it.

The windows were shuttered and it was lit only by the dimmest of Anglepoise lamps. The gloomy walls were stacked with glass tanks, some of which possessed their own little lights, giving the impression of miniature skyscrapers with only a few of the offices occupied.

But as Ellen stepped cautiously into the room, she realised that all the tanks were very much occupied. They housed insects of every description – armoured, hairy, diaphanous, as big as hands and as small as eyelashes, gangly-legged and stumpy – all shuffling around in temperature-regulated, light-monitored high rise flats containing earth, leaves, mealworms, rotting flesh or fresh locusts. And all these insects were listening to the deafening, agonised screams being belted out of two stereo speakers that hung from the ceiling.

Covering her ears, she started to back away. As she did so, she tripped over a strip plug and accidentally yanked it from its wall socket.

Instantly the screaming stopped and the dim light bulb went out, plunging Ellen into near-darkness. She reached for the door, which had swung closed behind her, and realised to her horror that it must have latched itself from the outside.

‘Shit!’ she looked around in a panic, her eyes battling to adjust to the gloom.

That was when she heard the hissing.

One of the tanks was hissing at her.

‘Eugh!’ She leaped back as she realised that it contained half a dozen cockroaches as big as mice. From the tank above, two scorpions looked down at her thoughtfully, wondering what she had done to disturb their neighbour.

Rubbing her face with the balls of her hands to summon strength, she tried the door once again to no avail. Now that her eyes had started to adjust, she could see the locked door that must open on to the landing, and a further door on the opposite wall.

That was unlocked, leading to a room in pitch darkness. From its depths, Ellen could distinctly hear the fluttering of insect wings. This was getting way too
Silence of the Lambs,
she decided as she hastily closed the door once again and called out. ‘Hello? Can anybody hear me? Hello? Godspell? Felicity?
Hello?’

The hissing cockroaches increased their efforts and were joined by the rasping sound of cricket wings being rubbed together. The heat and stench were stifling.

Ellen banged on the door that led to the landing. ‘Hellooooo! HELP!’

Nothing. Outside, she could just make out the sound of a car turning on gravel and its engine being cut.

She peered through a tiny slit between the window shutters and realised that the room overlooked the driveway. Ely Gates was climbing out of a black Range Rover. For a moment, he looked up at his house and seemed to stare straight at her, but then he heard Snorkel barking and disappeared from sight as he went to investigate.

‘HELP!’ Ellen tried again. ‘Can anybody HEAR me? HELP!’

The hissing cockroaches gave up and shambled away to eat some rotting fruit.

She cast her eyes along the rows of tanks, totally failing to understand the appeal of such a hair-raising array of pets. A praying mantis cocked its skull-like head as it watched her from its illuminated cube. In the glass case beside it, several vast shiny beetles with great armoured horns on their heads formed an excited rugby scrum, kicking up sand. She was grateful for Snorkel’s simple ball-catching pleasures.

Groping around on the floor, she located the socket strip and plugged it back into the wall, lighting up the small lamp in one corner and inadvertently cueing in the screaming once more.

‘Waaaaaaaaaaa!’ wailed the voice on the stereo.

She hurriedly crossed the room to silence it, too deafened by the racket to hear the feet marching up the stairs and a key being inserted into the lock.