The Judas Pair (21 page)

I entered the copse with as much care as I could and knelt to examine the ground. It must be a motorized pedal-cycle or something very similar, I thought. The grooves were of a type fairly thin but of a probable radius about bike size.

There’s something rather nasty about being spied on. I once knew this woman friend of mine. We’d been out for an evening and on reaching her home for a light chat and a drink – her husband was abroad – found the place had been ransacked by burglars, whereupon she’d been violently sick. It had seemed odd to me at the time, but now I felt nausea rise at the image of a silent watcher here among the trees near the cottage. The intrusion was literally sickening. There wasn’t exactly a beaten path through the undergrowth but the path the watcher had taken was pretty obvious if one assumed the purpose was to get near to the cottage. It took me about an hour of careful searching to find out where she’d waited.

The ground was dry and had that beaten look it gets from being covered by trees. One edge of my garden runs adjacent to the copse and it was about midway along it that the watcher had established herself, having a broken stump to lean on. There was adequate protection from being seen. I leaned on the stump myself. You could just about see my front door and the near half of the gravel path. The car was in full view, plus a side window looking into my kitchenette and an oblique sight of the front two windows. They’re only small so the chances of actually watching me move about inside were practically nil, especially as I’m not a lover of too much light. And, considering how it’s my usual practice to draw the curtains as soon as I switched on, that must make it more difficult. What really displeased me was the horrid sensation – I was having it now on the back of my neck as I imitated my silent watcher – of having somebody peering in. I actually shivered.

Moving further through the copse, I found that the nearest the ground cover approached the cottage was about a hundred feet, maybe a little more. The trouble was you could see both front and back entrances from the copse. I could neither leave nor enter without being in full view unless she allowed her attention to lapse, which seeing the trouble she’d taken wasn’t at all likely. That was the most worrying feature of the whole business.

Taking care not to displace the brambles, I stepped out of the thicket. One pace and I was on my grass in full view of the cottage window. There had been a fence in the old days, long since rotten. I couldn’t help looking back, seeing the copse and hedge completely in a new way. Before, everything had been almost innocent and protective if not exactly neat. Now, even the odd bush in my lawn was somehow too near the cottage for comfort. And as if that wasn’t enough no sooner was I indoors than I began imagining odd noises, actually hearing them, which is most unlike me. The number of creaking sounds in an old cottage is really very few, but there I was like an apprehensive child full of imagination left alone for the night.

I examined the entire place minutely. The walls were wattle-and-daub, a common construction in East Anglia. These dwellings have been standing hundreds of years. In this ancient method you put sticks in wattle fashion as your main wall structure, and slap mud between, adding more and more until it’s a wall. Then a bit of plaster and you’re home, providing you’ve a few beams and thatch for a roof. It’s cool in summer, dry in winter, and offers the best environment for the preservation of antiques known. Not all the best preservation happens in museums and centrally heated splendour – in fact, that environment’s a hell-of-a-sight worse for the really good stuff.

Like a fool I found myself peering at the copse from every conceivable angle. What I’d seen of the cottage from the murderer’s stump told me it would be impossible, without the help of artificial light, for him/her to see much of me unless I was actually close to the window. The trouble was, whoever stood inside the cottage was equally blind because the copse formed a dark opaque barrier at the edge of the grass. Worse, there were two sides of the cottage I couldn’t look out from.

I couldn’t grumble, though I felt peeved at the mess I was in. I’d told Geoffrey the constable to get lost, alienated all my acquaintances, found myself discredited and scorned and regarded as a mentally-sick buffoon without sense or judgement. To undo this would be the work of a lifetime. And it was no good grumbling that the cottage was an awkward shape, remote and rather vulnerable, because what I now regarded as its defects I’d always thought of as marvellous attributes, exactly the sort I needed for my antiques. And my hidden priest-hole – now seeming so useless because it could have been made into a lovely airy cellar with a cellar door I could get out of – had seemed in my palmy days a perfect boon. It was private, hidden, and ventilated. Whoever had built the cottage had been wise in the way of country crafts. Two small ventilation shafts, each about six inches wide, ran from the priest-hole to a point about a foot from the outside of the wall, ending in an earthenware grid set in the grass and partly overgrown. I kept the grids clear of too many weeds so the air could circulate. That way there was no risk of undue humidity, the great destroyer of antiques of all kinds.

The chiming clock struck four-thirty, which meant the village shop was still open. Suddenly in a hurry I collected some money and rushed out to the car, remembering and cursing the locks and alarms for holding me up. I made it with about five minutes to spare. Mrs Weddell judged me with an expert eye to list any grim details about me suggesting further decadence, but I wasn’t having any. Knowing the dour insistence of the Essex villager upon gossip of the most doom-ridden kind, I gave her a ten-watt beam of exuberance and demanded information about her health. That put her off her stride. She was rather sad I wasn’t at death’s door and became quite miserable when I kept smiling. Added to that I bought enough provisions to feed a battalion and managed to find the right change with many a quip and merry jest, which was one more in her eye. ‘I’ve decided that a plump man’s a happy one, Mrs Weddell,’ I told her. ‘I’m going to put a stone on.’ Exit laughing.

One of the hardest things I’ve ever done was to drive up to the cottage and not search the copse for the intruder. Whistling flat and nonchalantly I unloaded the three carrier bags, making myself do it one bag at a time and deliberately controlling the urge to sneak a glance.

The night fell quicker than I’d realized that evening. I couldn’t help leaving the curtains alone just to get a good look in the direction of the thicket without risk to myself, but finally had to draw them to keep things seeming normal. I sat with the telly and radio silent all evening, listening, and made a supper by the quietest possible means though I usually had a noisy fry-up. A million times I heard something outside. It reminded me of the student’s hostel where a studious lad had complained of his neighbour who entertained a girl-friend in the next room – ‘It’s not the noise, it’s the silences I can’t stand!’

The distance across the grass grew shorter in my imagination. You could shoot somebody with fair ease from the cover provided by the bushes, especially if killing was getting to be a habit and you had the unique advantage of possessing a priceless flintlock that could kill without leaving the slightest trace of evidence. Still, no matter what else he tried I was fairly secure. I had enough food, milk and water to last well over a week, and there was always the phone.

And the loaded Mortimers, waiting patiently and still motionless beneath the flagstone floor.

The phone suddenly rang, making me jump a mile. It was Margaret. She’d heard I was on the mend and chatted a full minute about antiques real and imaginary. It was kind of her and I urged her to ring again when finally we’d run out of things to say.

‘I miss you round the arcade,’ she said. ‘Are you really better, Lovejoy?’

‘Yes, love,’ I said. ‘Thanks. I appreciate the phone call.’

‘Pop round here whenever you want.’ She lives at Fordleigh. I promised ‘I would, but I wanted friends checking up on
me
to make sure I was in the pink, not invitations to go visiting. I invented a couple of false promises to entice Adrian, Tinker and Harry to phone in, knowing Margaret would pass the messages on.

The rest of the evening was quite uneventful.

I only wish I’d rested and harboured my strength.

I
DIDN’T SLEEP
a wink. Long before dawn I was up being brave in daylight. Today was going to be my round of people. Today the old debonair impeccable Lovejoy would hit the road like politicians do to show how young and thrusting they actually are behind that comfortable rotund shape. It’s really something of a confidence trick but I was going through with it anyway. The night had taught me how alone I was.

Further reflection had increased my nervousness. Despite having the phone and living so near other people, there was one major problem. Whereas I didn’t know who’d killed Sheila, the murderer knew who I was. Collecting’s a small world. Sooner or later I would come across him, and whether I recognized him or not was irrelevant. The risk I represented was still there.

I drove to George Field’s house and collected the replies to his advertisement, some twenty replies with one catalogue from an overseas dealer casting bread hopefully on distant waters. The ones Field thought most likely turned out dud. Disappointed, I promised to read them with enthusiasm and left.

Muriel Field was next. I enjoyed the drive, but exactly how many times I caught myself looking carefully into the driving mirror I’ll never know. The one blue scooter I did see turned out to be ridden by a district nurse. She’s probably wondering yet why a complete stranger gave her a glare for nothing when she was in the opposite lane. I didn’t recover for miles.

Muriel was glad to see me. I honestly mean that, really pleased. That whole morning was brilliant, every cloud seemed effervescent and the sky a deeper blue than it had ever been. She was radiant, dressed maybe somewhat younger than her age and looked as though the party was soon to begin. The difference between the anxious, hesitant woman she’d been some weeks before and the scintillating beauty I now saw was remarkable. I was coerced into drinking coffee.

‘If that heron keeps its distance,’ I warned.

She laughed. ‘I promise I’ll protect you.’

We sat on the patio and made small talk while a crone fetched coffee, Sheffield plate of some distinction and Spode. The sugar bowl’s fluted design didn’t quite match but could be passed off as the right thing with luck in a nooky antique shop. My pleasure made me, careless.

‘I’ll remember you above everything else for elegance,’ I said playfully, and saw her face change.

‘Don’t talk like that.’

‘It was a compliment.’

‘It sounded . . . so final.’

‘A joke,’ I said.

She wouldn’t be appeased and set about pouring for us both. ‘Everything needn’t be bad or sad.’ I felt out of my depth and said so. ‘I just don’t like it when people talk about going away or changing things,’ she said. ‘It happens too often without anyone wanting it.’

‘I was only admiring your coffee set. It would have been terrible if you’d spoiled the effect with a spoon made out of Georgian silver coins.’ I took my cup and stirred. ‘Have I put my foot in it?’

‘No.’ She shook her hair, head back and face towards the air like they do.

‘I’ll be careful in future.’ That was better. She raised her cup to toast me.

I asked about her upbringing. As she talked I absorbed security and ease all around. No chance of being spied on here, with the two loyal gardeners busy interrupting plants and keeping an eye on the mistress. Inside the house, stalwart ancient ladies – infinitely more formidable than any gardeners – creaked and bustled vigilantly. So many things came down to money. Wealth is safety. Muriel chatted on about her father, her many aunts, her mother’s concern with spiritualism (‘. . . but then it was all the fashion in her day, wasn’t it?’) and her inherited wealth. Husband Eric had been as wealthy as she, it appeared, when they met.

‘Will you stay on here, Muriel?’ I asked.

She glanced away.

‘It depends.’

‘On . . .?’

‘Oh, just things.’ Her vagueness was deliberate, yet there was a hint of a reflective smile in her expression. Oh-ho. I began to ask about Eric.

Society’s cynicism clouds our minds sometimes. When a younger woman marries or cohabits with a much older man, it’s supposed to be only for money. Conversely, when an old woman takes up with a much younger man, she’s blamed for wanting physical gratification and is condemned on those grounds. This is one of the few occasions women come off worst – society says they’re cheap chisellers or sex-crazed. On the other hand, the old chap’s regarded as a sly old dog and the young chap’s seen simply as having just struck lucky getting steady sex and a steady income together in one parcel, as it were. So as Muriel chatted happily on about her elderly husband, I found my treacherous mind wondering what possible motive she’d dreamed up for marrying Eric Field in the first place. Naturally, under the influence of Muriel’s undoubted attractiveness and charm, I was stern with myself and forced these unbecoming suspicions out as best I could.

‘He had a real sense of fun,’ she was saying, smiling.

‘I suppose it’s a lot quieter now,’ I put in.

‘Oh . . .’ For some reason she was hesitant.

‘I mean, fewer visitors,’ I hurried to explain. She seemed to become upset at the slightest thing. ‘You won’t have dealers and collectors bothering you quite so much, seeing we only go for antiques.’

‘No.’ She saw my cup was empty and rose a little too quickly. ‘You haven’t really seen the house, have you?’

‘Er . . . no, but –’ I was taken a little by surprise.

‘Come on. I’ll show you.’ Mystified by these sudden changes of course, I followed her in from the terrace.

The house wasn’t quite the age I’d expected. Despite that, it was only just beginning to fed lived-in. Muriel had taste. Flowers matched the house colours and weren’t too obtrusive the way some people have them, though you couldn’t help thinking what a terrible fate it was to be scythed off in your prime and stuck in a pot to decay.