Ravens Gathering (11 page)

“Suicides?”  Martin was careful to keep his voice
down.  He didn’t want to attract any unnecessary attention.  “How
many?”

“Two.”

“And these happened twenty-five years ago?”

“Well, one of them did.  The other was a couple of
years later.”

Martin hadn’t realised there was tension building up in him
until it started to ease.  “When I spoke to my dad this afternoon, he
mentioned that one of the
Sullivans
had killed
himself.  I hadn’t realised there was more than one.”

“Oh yes.  Husband and wife.  Him first and then
her, both in the same house.”

Unexpectedly, Martin felt the tension coming back. 
There was something about the scenario that seemed familiar.  He just
couldn’t put a handle on it yet.

“What else do you know about it?”

Ian took a long look around the room while he chewed on his
meat.  As he did, Martin realised the story must also involve the living,
and he was checking to see if any of them were present.  Apparently
satisfied they were safe, he swallowed and started talking again.

“Maybe you’ll remember Phil Sullivan?”  It was more a
question than a statement, so Martin shook his head.  The name was vaguely
familiar, but as his dad had worked on the Sullivan farm since before Martin
was born, that was only to be expected.  “What about David or Paul?”

“Only because my dad mentioned them this afternoon.”

 “They owned and ran the farm until I bought it. 
But they inherited it from their dad, Phil.  He killed himself in nineteen
sixty-four.  Shotgun, apparently.   Both barrels.”

“That’s enough detail,” Tanya complained.  “I
am
trying to eat, you know.”  She looked at Martin.  “He watches too
many films,” she explained.  “Just loves the blood and gore.”

“Any idea why he did it?”

Another furtive look around the bar, then Ian leaned forward
and spoke even more quietly.  “Apparently, he found his wife in bed with
their son-in-law.”

Something prickled in Martin’s head.

“How do you know this?  If the locals won’t talk to
you.”

“They seem to be a bit more talkative in Long
Clayford
and Thornberry.”

“Try any of the other villages and you’ll find they’re a
lot
more talkative,” Tanya added tartly.

“If we’re going out for a pub meal, we tend to go
elsewhere,” Ian said awkwardly.  Martin guessed he didn’t want to seem
ungrateful for his offer of a meal in
The Major Oak. 
He chose to
ignore it, and let Ian deal with his own hang-ups.

“To be honest it seems even stranger that people from other
villages are talking about it. 
I’d’ve
thought
the
Sullivans
would have kept all this to themselves,
wouldn’t you?”

Ian shrugged.  “I don’t know.  I can only tell you
what I’ve been told.  Maybe it came from the police?  They’re not
noted for keeping things as quiet as they should be.  And it’s a juicy
piece of gossip.”

“Unless you have to live in the same house,” Tanya pointed
out.

“What happened to the wife and son-in-law?”

“Don’t know about the son-in-law.  The rumour is that
he disappeared.”

“Suspiciously?”

“Probably not.  If I was in his shoes, I’d just want to
get as far away from here as possible.”

“I’ll second that...”

They ignored her.

“What if it was true love?”  Martin doubted it, but
nothing could be discounted.

“She was old enough to be his mother,” Ian pointed out.

“Stranger things have happened,” Martin commented, but Ian
didn’t bite.

“True enough,” he acknowledged.  “I doubt we’ll ever
know what really happened to him.  But we know what happened to her. 
She was the second suicide.  Nineteen sixty-six.”

“Shotgun?”

“Overdose.  The general consensus was that she couldn’t
live with the guilt of what she’d done.  To her husband.  Her daughter. 
Even her grandchildren.”

“Jesus!”  Martin said it softly, but with
feeling.  At first he’d thought only of the sexual triangle between
husband, wife and lover.  Ian spelling it out like that made him realise
just how far-reaching the damage had been.

“From what I can gather, the experience had an impact on the
whole family.  David and Paul found their mum and brother-in-law standing
over their dad’s body.”

“In a state of undress.”  Tanya seemed to enjoy the
scandalous aspect of that.

“Was it definitely suicide?”  Martin was thinking of
how it would look to the Sullivan sons.

“Apparently, the initial suspicion
was
that he’d been
killed by his wife or the son-in-law.”

“Rumour is that some people still think it’s the case,” said
Tanya.  Definitely liking the scandal, Martin thought.

“That may be the rumour,” Ian said patiently, “and there may
be people who do think like that, but I’ve been told on several occasions that
the police found enough evidence to support the suicide theory.”

Martin mulled it all over for a few moments, before saying:
“I know it must have been a shock to find his wife with the other bloke. 
But, even if it
was
his son-in-law, it’s still a bit extreme to top
yourself, isn’t it?”

“I agree.  But I’m sound of mind - ”

“That’s a matter of opinion.”

“ – and who knows what state he was in?  He might have
had a load of other things on his mind, and this was just the last straw.”

“You’re right,” Martin nodded.  He forced a
smile.  It was time to leave this for now.  He didn’t want to raise
any suspicions.  “We’ll never know the truth, will we?”

“Not at all.  But it doesn’t help when you live
there.”  Ian dropped his cutlery on to the plate with a clatter.  He
hadn’t cleared it, but Martin couldn’t blame him for leaving the gristly bits
of meat or the world-weary peas.

Martin checked his watch.  It was already eight
o’clock.  He didn’t mind keeping his family waiting, but he didn’t want to
make it too long.  He’d wait until Tanya had finished eating, and then
go.  In the mean time, he would take the opportunity to dig a little
more.  “What are you saying?  The house is haunted?”

Ian chuckled as if at a private joke.  “Hardly. 
Don’t worry.  Your sleep won’t be disturbed by any bumps in the night.”

Maybe not
bumps.  Martin glanced at Tanya, but
she was concentrating on the remains of her chicken.

“No,” Ian went on, “it’s just the reputation the place
has.  It was on the market for nearly four years before we bought
it.  I assumed it was going for a song because of problems in
farming.  Now I know it was because no one wanted to live in a house where
two people had killed themselves.”

“Is that why the
Sullivans
wanted
to sell?  Because of the property’s history?”

“If it is, they waited a long bloody time,” Tanya pointed
out as she put her cutlery neatly together on the plate.

“It might have been a part of it,” Ian said thoughtfully,
ignoring his wife’s comment.  “But they obviously needed something extra
to push them to do it.”  He hesitated, once again casting an eye around
the bar.  The room had filled a little more while they were eating, but he
clearly didn’t see anyone he needed to be careful of.  “Paul had an
accident.”

“Do you know, we’ve even had people telling us the farm’s
cursed,” Tanya said irritably.  “And Paul losing a leg in an accident with
a plough was just more evidence of the curse.”

“Surely it’s an occupational hazard,” Martin ventured. 
“I mean, I don’t think it’s an everyday event, but there’s a lot of dangerous
equipment on farms, so accidents are bound to happen, aren’t they?  I’m
sure we had a couple of serious injuries while
I
was living here.”

“You’re probably right.  But it obviously doesn’t stop
the rumour-mongers.”

“And rumours don’t help to sell houses,” Tanya added.

It was time to leave, but Martin paused for a moment to
study Tanya.  When he first met her, he had been struck by her
attractiveness.  There was a sophisticated sexiness about her, and he
could still see it.  On the outside.  But now he could also see the
cold and bitter woman inside.

From the outside,
The Major Oak
was beginning to show
signs of wear.  Even in the orange light from the nearby streetlamps, it
wasn’t hard to see paintwork peeling and the cracks in the rendered
walls.  The windows that looked on to the street were low down, sills
below knee level for even the shortest of adults.  To the left of the
building was the opening that led to the side door.  A light fitting had
been fixed just above the doorway, but the bulb had blown a while ago, and no
one had got around to replacing it.  About twenty feet beyond the door,
the driveway opened out into the car park at the rear of the property. 
Exterior lights were still working at the back of the pub, and some of it
spilled out to provide some illumination for anyone coming in or out through
the side door.  Nevertheless, the length of wall between the door and car
park was filled with shadows, and it was very easy to simply lean against it
and blend in.

In spite of his height, Adam Hawthorn had the ability to
blend in anyway.  When Martin Gates had come into the pub with the
McLeans
, none of them had noticed the tall man sitting
quietly in a corner of the room.  Nor had they been aware of him watching
them.  And listening.

His cue to leave was when Ian McLean dropped his cutlery on
the plate.  The pint on his table was barely touched.  He hoped Norma
wouldn’t take offence.  He didn’t like alcohol.  Ordering the beer
had seemed like the most appropriate thing to do in a pub, but he knew he had
been clumsy.  Not really knowing what to ask for, he had stumbled over his
request, and he knew that had drawn more attention to himself than he had
wanted.  Leaving an almost full glass would have the same effect.  He
realised that if he had to do it again, he would be better to settle for a soft
drink.  Fortunately his mistakes had been made before Martin
arrived.  Getting attention from the landlady was regrettable, but not
damaging.

Summer had passed, yet the evening was still warm.  He
didn’t know how long he’d have to wait.  Probably not long, but at least
he wouldn’t be shivering if it did take a while.  About five feet beyond
the doorway, the wall turned in slightly.  The rendering masked the
brickwork, of course, but Adam guessed that if it was exposed it would be
obvious that this junction was where an extension had been added to the
building at some time.  Regardless of its reason for being there, it
provided excellent additional cover for anyone who didn’t want to be noticed.

As he’d expected, his wait was no more than ten
minutes.  During that time, one person had left the pub, and three others
had gone in.  None of them had been aware they were being watched.

The second person to leave was Martin.  Adam watched
him walk the few yards to the street, then turn right.  Once he had
disappeared from view, Adam gave him another thirty seconds before stepping out
of the shadows.

The main street through the village curved away to the right
a little further along.  The Post Office was just around the bend, and
several hundred yards beyond that was the entrance to
Forest Farm
. 
Adam was pretty sure Martin’s destination lay further than that.

By the time he reached the road, Martin had disappeared from
view.  Between the pub and the Post Office was an opening that led up to
the Lodge Farm nursery and farm shop.  It was a wide track, big enough to
comfortably allow two vehicles to pass each other.  To one side of that
was a field that had once been used for pasture, though Bob Lambert seemed to
use it simply as a buffer between the rest of his farm and the main road
now.  It was possible Martin could have hidden himself in that entrance,
or against the hedge that bordered the field.  He could be lying in wait
for Adam.

But he wasn’t.  Not that Adam had expected him to
be.  By the time he had him in his sights, he was already striding past
the entrance to the
McLeans
’ home, clearly in a
hurry.

Adam crossed the road.  A terraced row was on that
side.  If Martin did happen to look back, he might assume the lone figure
was heading for one of those.  Being diagonally opposite him also gave
Adam a better view.

It had been over a hundred years since the Sullivan family
had first owned the farm.  In those days, farming machinery was limited
and they had been much more reliant on manual labour.  Farm workers
generally had accommodation provided.  A row of cottages had been built on
the street.  The land had originally been owned by the farm, and it was
possible to access the farm from behind the cottages.  Just before you
reached the first one, there was a driveway that ran along the side of it, then
curved round to pass behind all four.  It provided access to each of the
houses as well as parking spaces.  And at the very end was a gate that
opened on to a footpath that could be taken up to the farm house and the accompanying
outbuildings.  Adam knew all this because he had spent time exploring
every part of the village.  Usually at night, when no one else would know
he was around.

Opposite the farm cottages was St. Peter’s.  The old
church was set well back beyond the graveyard, and half-hidden by trees. 
That was where Adam was aiming for.

Martin reached the farm cottages, and stopped in front of
the third one along.  Adam had reached the end of the row of houses on the
other side of the road.  Beyond that was a children’s play area.  The
swings and slide were hidden in the darkness, the nearest lights coming from
the last house in the row – a distance of at least a hundred yards.  The
vicarage garden bordered the play area, though high hedges obscured its view. 
No doubt it also saved its windows from flying cricket balls or other similar
projectiles.

Adam continued to walk.  On the other side of the
church there was a
cul-de-sac
.  He didn’t want to go that far, but
if Martin glanced his way he would have to carry on and then double back later.

But Martin stood facing the front door of the cottage,
apparently oblivious of anyone – or anything – else around.  Adam could
only guess at what was going through his mind.  Apprehension,
uncertainty... fear?

There were no vehicles on the road.  At that time of
night, there rarely was.  Ravens Gathering wasn’t used as a thoroughfare
much.  The only traffic would be people either travelling to or from the
village, and most of those going out would have left earlier and wouldn’t be
back till much later.  There weren’t many visitors.

The lack of traffic meant that there was almost no
background noise.  A laughter track could be heard dimly from one of the
old farm cottages.  Edith
Lacey
, Adam
recalled.  Deaf as a post and unwilling to admit it.  So she’d have
the TV on full blast, and wouldn’t be able to hear the neighbours
complaining.  Other than that, the only sounds were of the leaves rustling
gently above the graveyard.  When it came, then, the knock on the door was
startling, even though Adam had expected it.  The thick timber vibrated
against Martin’s fist and sounded hollowly across the street, its echo
lingering.

By now Adam had passed the play area and had drawn level
with the vicarage.  He was almost behind Martin.  Another twenty feet
and he’d reach the gate to the church yard.  So far, he didn’t seem to
have been spotted.

As the sound of Martin’s knock died away, the ensuing
silence seemed even more pronounced.  Adam had time to cover another ten
paces before the door opened.  Light shone briefly out on to the street,
then it was gone, the only trace that it had been there was the echo of the
door shutting firmly against its jamb.  Adam glanced over to make sure
Martin had gone in, then a further check for anyone else that may have strayed
out into the night.  Satisfied he wasn’t being watched, he passed through
the gate and into the shadows of the grave yard.

Once inside, his pace changed.  The erect stance that
had accompanied his apparently casual walk transformed into a low crouch as he
darted between gravestones, hurrying to find a suitable place to carry out his
surveillance.  He didn’t know how long Martin would be in the cottage, so
he needed to be reasonably comfortable.  Naturally, he also needed to
maintain a clear view of the cottage, as well as the driveway – just in case he
decided to leave from the rear of the house.  There was a possibility, of
course, that Martin could return to the farm house using the footpath, but at
this time of night that would be foolhardy.  There were too many things he
could trip over or walk into, and if he seriously hurt himself he could find
himself out there all night, and possibly well into the day before anyone found
him.  It wouldn’t kill him, but Adam couldn’t think of a good reason why
anyone would take the risk.

Halfway between the gate and the hedge that bordered the
vicarage, Adam came to a tall and broad headstone.  In the limited light
available, he could only vaguely make out its shape.  He reached out and ran
his fingertips along the top.  It stood almost shoulder high – so nearly
head high on most people – and he guessed at around four feet across.  It
was squared off, with no intricate details carved into it.  As he stepped
around it, he knew he would find another length of the same stone laid across
the grave itself.  He didn’t need to touch this to know the inscriptions
were already fading and the edges chipped.  Phil Sullivan’s grave. 
It could be coincidence or irony, he thought to himself as he settled
down.  The coldness of the stone seeped up through the denim of his jeans
and into his buttocks.  Leaning against the headstone so that the rest of
him was concealed from the street while his eyes peered around it, he reasoned
that it was more likely to be fate that made this the perfect spot.

A lot of people find graveyards disturbing.  Most
probably because they find death disturbing.  Adam wasn’t troubled by such
ideas.  He was very comfortable with death, and had no problem with using
a grave for these purposes.  In spite of the cold in his behind, he was
also very comfortable with the possibility of spending several hours here if he
needed to.  Not that he expected to be that long.  An hour at the
outside, he reckoned.

But it wasn’t activity from the cottage that attracted his
attention first.  It came from the vicarage.

A door opened.  It wasn’t loud, but in the still night
air and with all of his senses on alert, Adam heard it clearly.  The main
entrance to the vicarage faced the church, and he was in no doubt that this was
what he had heard open.  But there was no light.  Even through the
hedge, he should have seen fragments of light coming from the hallway. 
The door closed, and he heard shoes crunching across the gravel driveway, heading
towards the road.

He was here to watch over Martin Gates, and yet his instinct
told him this was just as important.  The vicar, Simon Cantor, was a man
who followed routines.  And leaving his house at this time on a Thursday
night wasn’t one of them.

Very carefully, Adam raised himself into a crouch, then
started to make his way between the graves to the wall that bordered the
street.  As he did, he continued to listen to the footsteps on the other
side of the hedge.  He looked for signs of movement as well, but the hedge
had been grown over many decades and was very thick.

The footsteps stopped, and Adam froze, wondering if he had
made some noise that had alerted the other person.  It took him a moment
or so to realise that they hadn’t stopped walking, they’d just stepped off the
drive.  Cautiously, he moved forward again, his eyes darting all around,
looking for anything else that might be out of place.  But all the time
coming back to look at the Gates cottage in case Martin suddenly appeared.

When he reached the stone wall, he hesitated only a second
before raising his head and peering out.  A hundred yards away, a tall
lean figure was walking along the middle of the road, heading towards the
centre of the village.  From the way he carried himself, he looked as if he
thought he owned the place.  Adam couldn’t help thinking there was more
than a grain of truth in that.