The Hunter and the Trapped (21 page)

“For us all,” he echoed, setting himself apart in his own mind.

“Mr. Nelson. Poor man. I always thought there was something odd about him. Retired from business, but out such a lot. Drugs, Wilson says. He may well be right. I wouldn't be surprised if it was Mr. Nelson that killed Mrs. Morris.”

“Wouldn't you?”

Simon offered no opinion on this point himself.

“Are you going away again?” Mrs. Hyde went on. “No, I see you aren't. No luggage.”

“I shall be back this evening,” Simon told her, his thoughts far away. She watched him go down the stairs until he was out of sight. Such an interesting man. Such good manners. So handsome.

Simon got on a bus that took him beyond Edgeware. After that he walked. He had no particular purpose in walking, but he found it soothing to move on and on along a main road, where the houses grew smaller, older, more countrified and finally, late in the afternoon, ceased altogether. Pavements ended, hedgerows took their place. Cars and lorries swept closer to him until he tired of dodging them and turned away down a forgotten lane and at last, as the sky darkened and stars came out and the late harvest moon rose like a huge pumpkin, swollen and golden, over a little tree-covered rise, came to a stile and a footpath beyond.

He found he was thirsty. There seemed to be no house or cottage within sight, only those deserted fields given over to solitude and idleness that mark the edges of any suburban sprawl, and behind him a glow in the sky over the city he had left.

But in one of the fields as he moved slowly along, he saw an abandoned cattle trough, his attention drawn by the glint of the rising moon on the rain water that half filled it. He stooped and drank from his cupped hands. Then looked about him. Having stopped walking at last he discovered that he was very tired. His legs would hardly carry him across that field to the next, where, under an ancient shelter, the remains of a haystack lay in untidy heaps on the bare earth.

He pulled the heaps together, climbed on to them, sank down and lay still. Here was peace at last and freedom from his enemies and a soft bed for his tired limbs. No one here to interrupt his thoughts, no one to disturb him or make demands of him.

As he turned over, snuggling deeper into the hay, his wallet struck against his ribs and he swore and pulled it out, half inclined to throw it from him. But remembering what it was, he clutched it against his chest and lay open-eyed in the darkness. Thirty pounds in it. Thirty saved from that harpy. A bargain's a bargain. Fair's fair. No cheque, no money.

Her abuse rang again through his head, augmented by his own unfettered imagination. Abuse. Greed. What a fuss they were making over her.

He withdrew his thoughts from Mrs. Morris and from that river bank in Beltonston, that kept returning to him of late, the fishing rod and the acacia tree, among whose branches he had sat, composing his poem, until the boy had flung a stone up at him and another and he had leaped down and taken away the jar, emptying the fish on the ground, at which the boy had struck him and he –

And he, Simon Fawcett – you, Simon Fawcett – send them all away – send them away, Simon. That girl, Joan. Did she laugh when you caught her on the landing? Or was it a scream … ? A scream – But you were asleep. Though you walked every day to the bath room you were really asleep, resting.

Ill, Mother said, over and over again. Ill. What nonsense. How silly old Dr. Marshall was. With his pills that you threw out of the window.

And those others – were there others? Or did he only hear their voices? Enemies. Voices were enemies – He would destroy them. For ever – and ever – destroy –

The moon travelled on and sank again and the sun rose over the field and the shelter, but its rays did not reach the sleeping man inside. About midday on Sunday, Simon woke up, very thirsty and hungry, though he recognised only the former state. He went along to the cattle trough again and drank like an animal, putting his lips to the water to suck it up, noisily.

There was no one to see him. When he had drunk enough and relieved himself in the hedge he went back to his nest of hay, sinking deep into the yielding mass, unconscious of insect bites, of dust, of scratching straws, of the heat of the September sun on the iron roof of the shelter. He slept and woke to a confused march of imagined and remembered scenes and slept again. All of Sunday passed in this way and Sunday night, when a shower of rain clattered on the roof above him like a rattle of tin cans, but could not bring to focus his distorted wandering mind.

On Monday morning he woke up shivering, dizzy from lack of food, but in full knowledge of himself, though not of where he lay.

Mrs. Allingham was in London again, this time for only a short visit of a few days. The upheaval at her cottage and the alterations to its plumbing had made her aware of certain other deficiencies, such as the old-fashioned light fittings, the very worn and faded curtains in her little dining room, and so on. She determined to bring such things into line with her modern drainage system.

The end of the school holidays made the visit possible. Diana usually took the children back to their respective schools in the car, which William was willing to sacrifice for the purpose. Both schools were in Somerset and Diana also had friends in that county. This year she proposed to take the children down on Thursday and spend the rest of the weekend with her friends, returning in time for lunch on Monday. Mrs. Allingham arrived on Thursday in time to have lunch with her grandchildren before they left.

By the following Monday morning she had finished her shopping and ordering and looked forward to going back to the cottage on the following day. She could have gone earlier but she felt it her duty to stay until she had seen Diana again.

She was not happy about her daughter-in-law. Diana was thinner, more easily provoked, more restless than she had been in June and July. The holiday she and William had spent at the latter end of August with the children in Brittany did not seem to have done her any good at all.

Mrs. Allingham knew about Penelope's visit to the Arles festival in a college party that included Simon. From this she concluded that the girl was still involved with this dreadful man. She did not know the final outcome. Diana never spoke of Simon. William, when his mother tried to discuss Penny's affair, said he had not seen Fawcett since the evening he had abused his hospitality and added that he did not want to. It was not like William, she thought, to speak in the sort of language Hubert often used. It distressed her, but she could not press him to say more. Since she avoided reading the detail in newspaper accounts of murders she failed to connect him in any way with the death of Mrs. Morris.

But William, through Hubert, had followed the case with much anxiety. He was horrified to discover the full extent of his friend's hatred. Horrified and deeply resentful. For the first time in many years they quarrelled violently. It was over two weeks now since the murder of Mrs. Morris and nearly two weeks since the arrest of her husband, but he still had not been charged with the crime, merely remanded in custody for theft, according to the newspapers.

The quarrel with Hubert took place when he came to see William to report what he had said to Scotland Yard. Though Hubert seemed to be warning his friend that he had given John's name only as a source of information about Simon, this could not, William thought, have been the real excuse for disclosing his action. William knew, as Hubert intended he should, that the real warning related to Diana. When he understood this, realising at the same time his own helplessness, William lost his temper completely. Hubert was affronted and the quarrel was on. They both said more than they intended or really felt. They parted feeling torn, bereaved, still furious with one another.

On Sunday morning, on the front page of his newspaper, William read about the death by suicide of a Mr. Nelson at an address in Kilburn that he recognised. The paragraph, tactful, discreet, mentioned the fact that the deceased had been a doctor, that he worked as representative for a firm of manufacturing chemists. In a final, deadly sentence, the paper reminded the readers of the Morris murder, still unsolved, that had taken place at this same block of flats just over two weeks before.

William felt a weight lifted from him. If only the newspaper's suggestion could be the right one. If only this man's suicide was a confession. A note beside the body, did it say? A written confession, perhaps. If only – if only –

His first thought was to ring up Hubert and ask him if he knew anything about this latest development. The memory of their recent parting stopped him. He would have to wait.

Mrs. Allingham saw how pale and agitated he was and asked him for the cause. Though he had not meant to tell her anything his resolution broke down at this. Without Hubert, with Diana away, he could not endure the suspense alone.

Mrs. Allingham was shocked by the story she heard, particularly when it came to Hubert's account of Penelope's cheque.

“You see where it might lead?” William said, speaking more frankly to his mother than he had ever done since his marriage.

“To Diana,” she said, without hesitation, though he winced as she went on, “Diana is a law to herself, I'm afraid. You have never influenced her, much as you love her.”

“I think I have not loved her enough,” he said, sadly. “Or not as she wants to be loved.”

Mrs. Allingham said nothing. Open condemnation of Diana would help no one, least of all William. Besides, her puritan soul shrank from a discussion of sexual matters, particularly with her own son.

“If this man Nelson is the murderer, presumably the police will drop any further inquiry,” William said. He was grateful to his mother for her forbearance and already began to feel better.

“Do you really think he may be?” she asked. “Would you be in such a state if you really believed that?”

“I'm entitled to keep an open mind,” he cried, “I go by proof, not prejudice!”

He left her and went down to his consulting room, where he tried to bury his doubts and fears in work. But Mrs. Allingham, upstairs, willing to agree to Simon's guilt because he fitted wholly her pattern of evil, gave herself to prayer for the safety of her family, their good name and their future.

Monday brought no further news in the papers, only a repetition of Sunday's announcement and the arranged date of the inquest on Mr. Nelson. William finished his morning's consultations and went upstairs into the drawing room where his mother was sitting.

“Diana not back yet?” he asked, trying to hide his disappointment at not finding her already there.

“No, dear.”

“No message?”

“No. But I've been out part of the morning.”

He went into the kitchen where the daily was preparing the final stages of luncheon.

“No message from Mrs. Allingham? She said she would be back before one.”

“No, sir.”

“I've got a hospital clinic at two. We won't wait after a quarter past one.”

“Very good, sir.”

“She may have had a puncture or something,” he said and then annoyed with himself for making these excuses aloud, added carelessly, “Anything can happen in a car.”

“Not an accident, I hope,” said the daily, without alarm.

“No, no. Very unlikely.”

He went back to the drawing room and a few seconds later the door bell rang.

“She must have lost her key,” he thought, hurrying to the hall. But it was not Diana outside. It was Hubert.

“You?” William said, astonished to see his friend at such an unlikely hour.

Hubert pushed past him into the drawing room, saying in a low voice as he did so, “We mustn't be overheard. I've something important to tell you.”

He was disconcerted to find Mrs. Allingham sitting there, but he greeted her perfunctorily and turned at once to William.

“Fawcett has disappeared,” he said, on a note of conclusion.

“What d'you mean? That's he's away from his flat and left no address?”

William was determined not to panic, but his thoughts had been for the last half hour with Diana and his heart began to pound.

“He's away all right. He hasn't been seen since Saturday morning.”

“But it's only Monday midday, now.”

“He told one of his neighbours when he went out on Saturday that he would be back in the evening. He wasn't. The police are looking for him and …”

“The police!” It was Mrs. Allingham who broke into Hubert's rapid speech.

“That's how you know, isn't it?” William said, with bitter emphasis. “They've been to you again. I wish to God you'd left the man alone. What right had you to interfere? Penny's life is her own.”

“She happens to be a minor.”

“She's over the age of consent. There's been no question of marriage for you to forbid.”

“Damn you, Bill! Will nothing make you see Fawcett in his true colours – a criminal – and now on the run!”

“Stop this, both of you!”

Mrs. Allingham had risen, flushed, trembling, but resolute.

“Hubert, control yourself and tell us exactly what this means?”

“I wish I knew –
exactly
.”
He
had lost his furious air and now showed the true state of his feelings, confused, miserable, anxious. “I know Bill won't see it, but everything I have tried to do was aimed at saving Penny and others from this man. I've had proof of his wickedness for some time. William knows what I mean. Now there seems to be proof of crime in the legal sense and the police want our help. I find it's my duty to give it if I can.”

“At Penny's expense? Or ours?”

“Penny will not be brought into this if we all know exactly where we stand. The police came to me after seeing her. Thank God her association with Fawcett ended the day they came back from France. He has not seen her since. Caroline Feathers has confirmed that he has not been to their flat since before the holiday. I imagine she has been careful to give them the impression that Penny only knows him though the college as a lecturer in her subject.”