Palmer-Jones 01 - A Bird in the Hand (16 page)

Rob was late, wet and irritable. As he changed he gave his excuses and drank Peter’s wine.

“I saw a funny gull on the sea. It was too far away to identify properly, but there was something odd about it. Something about the head shape. I set up the ‘scope and waited for ages, hoping that it would fly, but the sea was dead calm and it didn’t move. The light got worse and worse and it started to drizzle, so I had to come away in the end.”

“What do you think it might have been?” Peter asked. Tina was not listening.

Rob was oddly vague about the bird and refused to put a name to it. He changed the subject and suggested that they had time for a quick drink in the Anchor before the start of the film.

The hall was next to the church on a small incline to the south of the village. It was a square, stone building surrounded by trees. When Bernard Cranshaw arrived he noted with irritation that a number of large, expensive cars were already parked outside. He was too late, and someone else would have taken charge. His presence would not even be noticed. Aggressively he pushed his way inside.

The hall filled quickly. Ella watched with excitement, recognizing not only friends and neighbours from the village, but a carload from one of the inland market towns and a family of wealthy landowners who lived in the biggest house in the district. She laid her coat across the seats next to hers to save them for Sally, Molly and George. When they arrived she waved and beckoned to them. Her excitement and enjoyment were infectious, and Sally felt like a child on Christmas Eve as the lights dimmed ready for the film to begin.

When Peter Littleton, Rob Earl and Tina arrived, breathless after running from the Anchor, the hall was full and the film was about to start. They perched on trestle tables at the back. There the wild boys and girls of the village already sat, defiantly wearing their leather jackets, chewing gum and whispering to each other obscurely obscene jokes.

The film was delicate and haunting, capturing the sense of space on the marsh and its strange, clear beauty. There were close-up shots of waders and wildfowl. It provided an intimate picture of the birds’ lives. Villagers who had come to the film just because it provided them with the chance of a night out were fascinated by the insight into the wild creatures’ behaviour, by the detailed view of a bird they thought they knew well, but which they had only seen at a distance.

Afterwards there were speeches made by the producer who thanked the people of Rushy for their cooperation in the making of the film, by the regional officer of the RSPB thanking the film crew and everyone who had paid to be there that night, and by Bernard Cranshaw who, in a long and tortuous way, said exactly the same as the previous speakers. At last he finished and the audience began to leave. There was the sound of motor bikes as the leather-clad young people rode away in search of some other diversion, and the sound of soft Norfolk voices in gossip.

Only the favoured few remained, those who had been invited to the Windmill for supper. Rob obtained the necessary invitation for Tina. The only thing that the guests had in common was their interest in birds and that Ella thought them worth inviting. Many she did not know personally—their names had been given by the organizations presenting the show—but she had made inquiries about them and was satisfied as to their birdwatching competence. There was an elderly wildlife artist whose paintings fetched huge prices in London galleries, a young biologist who presented a BBC wildlife programme, the television comedian who had introduced the show, national officers of the RSPB and their wives, and local committee members. Then there were Ella’s special friends, whom she had invited on her own account: George and Molly Palmer-Jones, Peter Littleton and Rob Earl with Tina. Sally had left before the speeches to help Sandra with last-minute preparations for the meal.

The Wildmill had been transformed for the occasion. There were stiff white cloths on the tables, bowls of flowers, the best silver and glass in the village begged and borrowed from its owners. Ella, magnificent in crimson silk, looking more Romany than ever, black curls swept back from her forehead and allowed to fall down her back, waited at the door to greet all her guests. The cars arrived in procession from the village hall. She stood like an opera singer preparing to sing. It was nearly dark—before the party finished there would be more rain—and the silhouette of the windmill could only just be seen against the sky. It looked, not untidy, but dramatic, and she was glad that it was still there, a suitable backdrop to the evening’s entertainment. She welcomed her guests with a theatrical dignity, so that attention was diverted from the prefabricated hut, the shabby little snack bar, and was concentrated instead on the sense of occasion, the sense of celebration. It was a real party. Already the bottles of wine were being opened, and heavy china plates, disguised by napkins and covered with food, were being carried from the kitchen.

Molly studied with interest the reaction of the guests to Ella. No one, not even the suburban RSPB wives, had found the performance ridiculous or embarrassing. Most men seemed spellbound by her physical magnificence. The elderly artist took her hand and kissed it. Bernard Cranshaw seemed not to notice that she was there, but walked straight past her, took a glass of wine from a tray, and drank it in loud, unpleasant gulps. Rob Earl caricatured her formality as he introduced her again to Tina, and Peter gave her a big kiss on both cheeks.

George Palmer-Jones had watched Bernard Cranshaw’s arrival with interest and walked, apparently without purpose, towards the man who now held a second glass in his left hand.

“How is your mother now?” George asked politely. “ I understand that she had a fall a couple of weeks ago.”

“Yes.” Bernard spoke abruptly, strangely, as if he were thinking of something else. George could not tell whether or not the man recognized him. “Yes, she did. She’s better now though, I think.”

“How did she fall?”

“She was going to the bathroom and fell down the stairs.”

“When did it happen?”

“Oh, early one Saturday morning. She gets confused in the mornings. She’s very good for her age, but a bit unsteady in the mornings.”

“Must have been unpleasant for her. Inconvenient for you too. You usually go out on the marsh at weekends, don’t you? I suppose her accident kept you in.”

“What?” He still seemed preoccupied. “ No, after the doctor came, she seemed to be comfortable. I always go out on Saturday mornings.”

“What time would that have been?”

There was no suggestion that this was an interrogation. It was polite and courteous interest.

“I can’t remember that. How should I know?” the man replied sharply.

“Did you go out as soon as the doctor left?”

“Eh?” He had gone too far. Cranshaw’s attention was jerked back to the present. Only now did he seem to realize what they were talking about.

“I don’t know. What the hell’s this about anyway?”

Luckily he seemed not to expect an answer, and when George began to talk about the film he joined in, explaining in quite an interesting way how some of the shots had been taken. He left soon after, and Molly heard him say to Ella that his mother would be expecting him home. He seemed genuinely sorry that he had to leave early.

Rob and Peter were getting cheerfully drunk. Rob Earl had decided to accept the job in Bristol and he was talking about the places he would be visiting through work. He seemed to have thrown off his earlier irritation, but there was something forced about his laughter. Peter was giggling gently. Tina drank little, but appeared unoffended by the men’s behaviour. Molly felt that her instinct about Tina and Adam had been right and experienced a maternal sympathy for the girl, who seemed lost and lonely.

Molly watched her husband skillfully separate Peter from the others and move with him out of earshot of Rob and Tina. Peter did not notice what was happening.

George made no attempt to conceal the purpose of the conversation.

“I understand that you were in Rushy the weekend that Tom died. Is that true?”

He appeared to talk quite naturally, but his voice was pitched so low that no one else could hear what he was saying.

Peter had been pulling faces at two of Sandra’s children who were confined to the kitchen, but who had been peeping round the door, their curiosity stronger than their fear of their mother. He stopped. Palmer-Jones’s voice demanded full attention and a serious answer.

“I was in London for most of the weekend. I just came to Rushy for the day. I didn’t know that Tom was dead until I met you at Trekewick. I must have left Rushy before they found his body. I didn’t think that the fog would clear and I left at about four.”

“When we saw you at Trekewick you gave the impression that you had only recently left St. Agnes. Certainly you didn’t get in touch with any of your friends. Why was that?”

Peter said nothing. George thought for a while that he was going to refuse to answer, but he seemed to be making a real effort to be accurate.

“I needed time to sort myself out. I was in quite a state. I might not have seemed upset about what happened on Scilly, but I felt—damaged. I wasn’t ready to talk to anyone about it. That’s why I didn’t go into the Windmill that Saturday. I didn’t want to see anyone I knew.”

“How did you get to Rushy? What time did you arrive?”

“I’d hired a car for the whole weekend. I arrived at about nine and parked on the other side of the village. I don’t know why I came, really. I felt silly creeping about in the fog trying to avoid people. But the weather forecast was so good that I couldn’t stay away. How did you know I was there?”

“A young birder saw you. Why have you never told anyone that you were here that day?”

“It just seemed easier. I couldn’t face having to explain what I’d been doing. And I hadn’t seen anything so what was the point?”

He turned away, but smiled to show that he was not angry, took another glass of wine and went back to Tina and Rob.

Sally had been intimidated by the first crowd of guests and had hidden in the kitchen, refilling empty plates, cutting warm sausage rolls into what Ella had described as a size fit for sophisticated mouths. With a feeling of envy at other people’s self-confidence, she listened to the guests beyond the open door, to the conversation and the laughter. She could hear Ella, already a little loud with wine and the triumph of her success. And then she heard another voice, a voice she recognized. The words which she heard contained a certain, a specific meaning for her and she felt certain she knew who had killed Tom French.

George took Sally home. Ella had found her in the kitchen looking pale and shaken. Sally claimed to have been sick. She certainly looked ill, George thought, as they drove towards Fenquay, but her defensive explanation of the illness, the almost hysterical insistence that she leave the Windmill by the back door, seemed to suggest a different reason for her desire to leave the party. When asked, gently, if she had received any further anonymous letters, she answered in an off-hand way, as if she had forgotten all about them. Then she refused to talk to him, and when he dropped her outside her cottage she did not invite him in. He offered to see her safely inside, but she ignored him and was out of the car before he had finished speaking. There was nothing to do but to drive back to Rushy.

The smell of her terror seemed to linger in the car. It accused him, telling him that he had been too detached, not committed, not strong enough in his search for the killer. Her fear had been wild and irrational. So was murder. He would not find his answers through reason and intellect. This was no crossword to be solved by a gentleman in an armchair. Murder was mad and unreasonable and gentlemen had no part in it.

He parked his car as usual next to the windmill in the car park. It had started to rain, a soft, sea-mist drizzle, but there was no wind. When he first heard the noise he thought that a sudden gust must have caused the wood in the windmill to twist and creak, but there had been no wind. Again there was a faint call like a cat or a gull. He almost ignored it, put it down to his imagination and went on in to join the party, which had become louder since his absence. There was music now and the sound had, perhaps, been part of a record. The lights and the music were very attractive.

But he heard the noise again and it seemed to come from below him. It was a sound of pain. In his car was a torch and, as he shone it around the windmill, he noticed first a mark on the soft, damp wood of one of the uprights, as if it had been cut horizontally, then saw that the rotten planks covering the well had split and shattered. With concentrated panic, he tore the splintered planks away and shone the torch down the well. A long way down he saw a white face, the eyes huge in the sudden light. Adam Anderson was crouched like a hunted animal on a metal grille which only half covered the black, stinking water.

As they pulled him out through the wooden supports of the windmill he could have been ten years younger. His fear had shrivelled him, so that he looked smaller. George almost expected him to cry, but he was dry-eyed and white, shivering, as frightened and wary of his rescuers as he was of the well. It had taken little time to get him out of the shaft. Tina had run to the coastguard cottage. The men there were still awake, they had ropes and knew about climbing. George shouted reassurance down to him and explained what was happening, but Adam did not say a word. In the glare of car headlights the coastguards worked efficiently and light-heartedly, including Adam in their jokes. He did not reply.

Ella had tried to clear the place of anyone who could be of no use, but people were reluctant to go until Adam was safely out of the well. They gathered in small groups, watching, wanting to be a part of the rescue. Yet the rain grew more persistent and the coastguards’ attitude dispelled any sense of drama. Common sense overcame curiosity. They had a good story to tell at parties and did not need to be present at the actual outcome. Car engines were started, there were subdued calls of farewell and the place emptied. Ella, Rob and Peter went inside to begin to clear up; Molly was talking on the telephone to Clive Anderson.