Chapter One
Every night, at exactly the same time and whatever theweather, Charlie Leathers took the dog for a walk. WhenMrs. Leathers heard the gate of their breeze block councilbungalow click to, she would peep through a gap in the netcurtains to check he was on his way then switch the televisionback on.
Mr. Leathers was usually out about half an hour but hiswife would set her kitchen timer for twenty minutes thenswitch the set off just to be on the safe side. Once he hadcome back early, stared suspiciously at the newly blankscreen and laid the back of his hand against the glass. It wasstill warm. Hetty had to listen to a droning lecture on howit stood to reason that nothing worth watching was on afterten and it was a known fact that valves wore out morequickly during the hours of darkness. Once she had had thetemerity to ask him who paid the licence fee out of theirwages and he hadn't spoken for three days.
Anyway this night—or the night in question as the policewere to call it once its significance was appreciated—he wasout rather longer than usual. Hetty could have watched everymoment of Absolutely Fabulous. It was only a repeat butwas still her favourite programme, being as far removed fromher everyday life of domestic drudgery as it was possible toimagine.
Bright moonlight washed over the village green, illuminatingthe Best Kept Village notice and Ferne Basset's amateurishlypainted coat of arms. This was a made-up, folkloric affairshowing a badger rampant, several sheaves of wheat, crossedcricket bats and an unnaturally vivid lime green chrysanthemum.
Charlie Leathers strode across the shorn grass and ontothe pavement opposite. He directed an angry stare at the darkmass of half-finished new homes and builder's equipmentnext to the pub and kicked a pile of bricks as he went by.He passed several Victorian cottages and a remarkable modernhouse made almost entirely of glass, over which themoonlight ran like silver rain. A few yards further and hewas entering the churchyard behind which lay the beginningsof Carter's Wood. He walked quickly with the angry, vehementenergy that drove all his movements. Charlie neverrelaxed and even slept twitching, sometimes flailing at theair with clenched fists.
The Jack Russell kept up as best she could, trotting alongwith many an anxious, upward glance. Tiredness or hardstones along the way were no excuse for faltering. A savagehoik on the collar or an even sharper flick of leather on hertender nose kept her up to scratch. She was only allowed topause once to do what she had been brought out to do. Awee was accomplished hopping on three legs. And the wonderfullyrich and varied scents that thickened the night airremained for ever unexplored.
After being half dragged through a tangle of thick bramblesand undergrowth, Candy was relieved to find herselfpadding on soft leaf mould before a sideways yank on thelead pulled her round in an awkward half-circle as theyturned to go home.
This involved approaching Tall Trees Lane, where Charlielived, in the opposite direction from which they had left. Thisway they would pass some semi-detached bungalows, severalalmshouses, the village shop and the church of St. Timothyin Torment. And then, before the money started to showitself again, there was the river.
The Misbourne was fast-running and deep. A shallowweir a few hundred yards downstream made a soft swishingsound which mingled with the rustle of leaves in the stillnight air. Over the river was a stone bridge with a carvedparapet barely three feet high.
Charlie had just walked across this when he heard shouting.He stood very still and listened. Noises are hard to placeat night and at first he thought the shrill, angry voices werecoming from the council houses where people couldn't careless who heard them rowing. But then they suddenly becamelouder—perhaps because someone had opened a door—andhe realised the source was the building close by the church:the Old Rectory.
Charlie hurried into the churchyard, stood on tiptoe andpeered eagerly over the yew hedge. He wound Candy's leadround and round his hand until she was almost choking.Warning her to be quiet.
Light from the hallway spilled out, flooding the frontsteps. A girl ran out calling something over her shoulder, thesense of it distorted by gulping sobs. There was an anguishedcry from inside the house. "Carlotta, Carlotta! Wait!"
As the girl hared off down the drive, Charlie quicklybacked round the corner of the hedge. Not that she wouldhave noticed him. Her face as she ran by, just a few feetaway, was blind with tears.
"Come back!"
More running. A regular pounding on the gravel and asecond woman, some years older but no less distressed, flewacross his line of vision.
"Leave me alone."
Reaching the bridge, the girl had turned. Although theway behind her was perfectly clear, Charlie had the mostvivid impression of a wild creature at bay.
"I didn't mean any harm!"
"I know, Carlotta." The woman approached cautiously."It's all right. You mustn't—"
"It was my last chance—coming to you."
"There's no need for all this." Her voice was soothing."Try and calm down."
The girl climbed onto the parapet.
"For God's sake—"
"They'll send me to prison."
"You don't have to—"
"I thought I'd be safe here."
"You were are. I've just said—"
"Where else can I go?" She hung her head, exhausted byher tears, swaying precariously backwards then jerking uprightagain with a little cry of fear. "Ahh ... what will happento me?"
"Now don't be silly." The woman moved forward, herface and hair ghostly in the moonlight. "Nothing's going tohappen to you."
"I might as well be dead." The girl on the bridge becameconsiderably more agitated, covering her face with her handsand once more starting to cry, rocking wretchedly back andforth.
Momentarily unobserved, the woman approached quickly.Softly. She was level with the girl. Had her arms wrappedround the slender legs.
"Get down, Carlotta. Look—I'll hold your hand."
"Don't touch me!"
Charlie Leathers had been easing forward, a breath at atime, while all this was going on. Tugged into the drama,not caring, such was his excitement, that he might be seen.
The moon slid behind a cloud. Detail was lost but therewas still light enough to outline a dark agitated shape, grotesquelytall, as if one woman was balanced on the other'sshoulders. For a few seconds they wrestled backwards andforwards, grunting.
The girl cried again, "Don't ... don't push—"
Then there was a terrible cry and a splash as somethingheavy hit the water. Then silence.
Charlie stepped back into the shelter of the hedge. He wastrembling, his nerve ends jumping like fleas on a hot plate.It was some time before he could start to make his wayhome. And when he did, more than one person noted hisprogress, for an English country village, despite all appearancesto the contrary, is never quite asleep.
For instance, in the beautiful glass house Valentine Fainlightand his sister Louise were enjoying a ferocious game ofchess. Valentine played with savage vigour and a determinationto win. He would swoop over the board, snatch uppieces and wave them in the air triumphantly. Louise, moredetached but equally resolute, remained very still. She wouldsmile, a cool parting of the lips, after a successful move butshowed neither disappointment nor displeasure in the face offailure.
"Checkmate!" The board was tipped over and the figures,dark blue resin styled in the manner of mythical beasts andwarriors, clattered and fell. Immediately Louise got up andwalked away.
"Don't sulk, Lou. Fair and square. Wasn't it?"
"As much as anything ever is with you."
"I wouldn't mind a glass of something."
There was no denying that, so far, it had been good havingLouise around. Valentine had been edgily uncertain when shehad first asked if she might come and stay. He was sorry forher, of course. The break-up of her marriage had caused realdamage. For the first time in her life she had been dealtwounds deeper than those she had inflicted. But it hadworked out very well. On the whole.
To allay his anxiety and emphasise the transitory natureof her visit, Louise brought only two small suitcases. Amonth later she collected the rest of her clothes. Then herbooks and a tea chest full of stuff that had what is describedas only sentimental value. Packing these things had hurt somuch (why do people say "only"?) that the crate remainedin the garage, unopened.
"A spot of Casa Porta would be nice."
Louise started to pull the curtains. These were immenselylong and full yet almost weightless, being made of gossamer-finefabric scattered with pale stars. There was a gap betweenthe upper floor, suspended from a huge loft by steel cables,and the external wall and the curtains fell through this, tumblingfrom the top of the house to the bottom, over a hundredfeet to the ground. When Louise walked along, pulling thembehind her, she always felt like someone in a theatre at thebeginning of a play. Halfway across she stopped.
"There's Charlie Leathers with that poor little dog."
"Aahh ..."
"Why do you have to mock everything?"
"Not quite everything."
No, thought Louise. If only.
"You're turning into a village drab, woman. Peeringthrough the acrylics. You'll be joining the WI next."
Louise stood for a moment staring at the dark, shiftingsilhouettes of trees. And the houses, solid black buildingblocks. She pictured people asleep, dreaming. Or awake,overcome by night-time fears of illness and their own eventualdecay. As she moved again, the muslin soft against herarm, her brother called, "Hang on."
Louise stood still. She knew what was coming and kepther thoughts deliberately even and colourless. There reallywas nothing more to be said. They had exhausted all thearguments. In a way, having been through the same fire, shecould sympathise.
"Is the blue door open?"
"It's too dark to see."
"What about a light in the flat?"
The Old Rectory was shrouded by trees but the garage,over which the flat was built, stood some way from the houseand was clearly visible.
"No."
"Let's have a look."
"Val, there's nothing to look at."
"Humour me, darling."
They stood together staring into the night. Louise avertedher eyes from the sensual hunger and raging tenderness thatconsumed her brother's features. They waited for a few momentsthen she lifted Val's hand and pressed it sadly againsther cheek. As she did this the powerful headlights of a carswept down the village street and turned into the Old Rectorydrive.
Ann Lawrence was not asleep. But when she heard the frontdoor slam and her husband climb the stairs, she jumped intobed, shut her eyes and lay very still thanking God they sleptin separate rooms. Lionel opened the door of her room, spokeher name without lowering his voice, waited a while, gavean irritated sigh and briskly closed it.
Ann got up again and started once more to pace about,padding up and down softly on the faded yellow Aubussoncarpet. She could not be still for a minute. Had not been stillsince that terrifying moment on the bridge when Carlotta hadslipped from her grasp and drowned. For surely, by how, shemust have drowned.
Ann had run along the side of the river calling, crying hername, staring into the dark, rapidly swirling water. Ran untilshe was exhausted. Eventually she reached the weir, a narrowstrip of foam, curling and hissing in the moonlight. Nothing.Not the slightest sign of life, animal or human.
She trudged back to the village sick with emotion andfear. What could she do? Her watch showed that nearly halfan hour had gone by since the accident had happened. Whatwould be the point of telling anyone now? On the other hand,how could she not? Suppose, by some miracle, Carlotta hadnot drowned but was caught up somewhere beyond the weir.Perhaps she had managed to grab an overhanging branch andwas hanging frantically on, cold, soaking wet and desperatefor help.
Ann saw now that she had made a dreadful mistake inracing along the river bank, searching and calling. It hadbeen instinctive, a natural human impulse. What she shouldhave done was run to the nearest telephone and dial the emergencyservices. Surely they would not have taken half anhour. And they would be properly equipped with lights andropes. And divers.
There was a telephone box next to the Red Lion nowquietly shuttered against the night, all revellers departed. Annstabbed at the figure nine three times, the receiver slippingand twirling in her sweaty hand. Asked what service sherequired she hesitated then said the police. They would notifythe ambulance service surely, should one be necessary.
She described the situation somewhat incoherently whilestill managing to make it plain that a person had fallen intoa river and been swiftly carried away. A search immediatelyafterwards had proved fruitless. She gave the exact locationsbut then, asked what time the accident happened, stared ather watch, struggling to make sense of the figures on thedial. She said she didn't know. Perhaps half an hour ago.Maybe less. And then the person on the other end of the linewanted her name.
Ann dropped the receiver which swung and clatteredagainst the glass. Her throat constricted suddenly as if a handhad gripped it tight. She stood rigidly, swamped by horror.Her name. How could she possibly give her name? Her mindleapt ahead and saw it printed in large letters across the frontpage of the local newspaper—maybe even the nationals. Shepictured the repercussions. Her husband's distress and itspossible effect on his reputation. His sorrowful disappointmentnot only at her failure to provide the secure environmentthat Carlotta had so urgently needed but that she hadactually driven the girl from the house. At least that was howit would appear.
Ann slid into a maelstrom of miserable reflection, whenshe emerged moments later, wretched and on the verge oftears, it was to realise she had put the phone back on thehook.
Fortunately there was no one to see her return home. Annwas horrified at the sight of herself in the hall mirror. Facestreaked with dirt. Shoes and stockings soaked through. Shewas shivering as the sweat generated by her mad dash alongthe river bank dried coldly on her skin.
She started to run a bath before she had even taken offher coat. Bypassing her husband's Radox which promised to"soothe away aches and pains, easing tension and tiredness,"she reached for Molton Brown's Sensual Foaming Bath. AChristmas present from Louise Fainlight, ravishingly scented,wonderfully effervescent and surely much more likely to easetension and soothe pain. Tiredness was not a problem. Shehad never felt so wide awake. Was inclined to believe shewould never sleep again. Unscrewing the cap, she noticedwithout surprise that the bottle, which she had used onlyonce, was nearly empty.
She dropped her clothes on the floor, put on a robe andwent downstairs to pour herself a drink. There wasn't muchchoice. Harvey's Bristol Cream. Some dregs of Dubonnetwhich her husband would drown in soda and sip rather daringly.Rose's Lime Juice.
Ann sighed, terribly tempted in her present frame of mindto empty the lot into a giant tumbler and swig herself tooblivion. She opened the huge carved sideboard and discovered,right at the back, a single bottle of Sainsbury's claret.Five minutes later, lying in perfumed water and knockingback the fruity stuff, she replayed the dreadful events of thepast two hours a frame at a time. She could still hardly believethat the ground could have been so violently snatchedfrom under her. Or that events had whirled out of control atsuch a speed. Surely there must have been some point atwhich she could have avoided being sucked into the eye ofthe storm?
* * *
It had all started with the disappearance of her mother's eartings.Delicate exquisite things: rose diamonds and emeraldson an amethyst clip. They had been given to Ann on hereighteenth birthday, together with a fob watch on a wateredsilk strap, a garnet and turquoise necklace and several beautifulrings, too small for all but her littlest finger.
She had been looking for a handkerchief when she noticedthat the tortoiseshell silk scarf under which she kept hercarved jewel box had been moved. She opened the box. Theearrings had gone.
Ann rarely used any of the jewellery. The life she ledgave little opportunity for wearing such lovely things—orshowing them off, as her husband would have put it. Wemustn't flaunt our wealth, he would frequently say in hisbland, determinedly non-critical way. And Ann alwaysagreed, never ever pointing out that it was in fact her wealth.
She sifted through the other items in the box, her fingersshaking. She counted the rings, held the necklace briefly toher heart then put everything back. Nothing else was missing.She stared at her pale face in the glass, at her sandy lashesalready fluttering and blinking with apprehension. But shecouldn't, she wouldn't let it pass.
The fact that she knew who had taken the earrings madethings worse rather than better. It meant a confrontation.Something from which her very private soul shrank. But theonly alternative was telling Lionel and that would mean adeeply embarrassing meeting between the three of them. Herselfstruggling to appear non-accusatory. Lionel twistinghimself into compassionate knots trying to understand andexcuse and forgive Carlotta. Carlotta either denying she hadtaken them, in which case what could they do? Or playingher deprived, unhappy background card, whining that shenever meant any harm. All she had wanted was to try themon, having never owned anything worthwhile or beautiful inher whole wretched unloved young life.
Ann was pretty certain that Carlotta occasionally woresome of her clothes. She had noticed a rather sour smell onone or two shirts and dresses. And various items had disappearedbefore. Some rather expensive diamond-patternedtights. A pair of fur gloves left in her coat pocket in the hall.Small amounts of money from her purse. Pretty much whatshe had come to expect from Lionel's succession of lameducks.
Lifting her head, Ann stared upwards in the general directionof Carlotta's room from which came the relentless thud,thud, thud of rock music. It was played from the moment thegirl got up until eleven at night: a curfew Lionel had imposedas, by then, even his patience was wearing thin.
She would have to tread carefully. Carlotta was supposedto have a history of instability. When she had first arrived,Lionel had urged caution, assuring his wife that the slightestcriticism or pressure to embrace petty, bourgeois restrictionscould well tip Carlotta over the edge. So far Ann had seenlittle sign of this. In fact she was starting to think the bootcould well be on the other foot.
She felt queasy, as she always did when faced by thecompulsion to demonstrate aggression. Feeling it, no problem.Showing it, well, maybe tomorrow. But perhaps—Annstarted to backtrack—it might not after all be necessary. Forinstance, shouldn't she first make sure the jewellery was reallymissing?
Relieved at the possibility of postponement, Ann removedthe top drawer, tipped the contents out on the bed and startedto sort carefully through her tights and underwear. No earrings.She checked the other two drawers. Same result.
She recalled clearly the last time she wore them. It wasthe anniversary of her mother's death. Ann had taken freshflowers to the grave. While her grown-up self had pouredwater into the stone urn and carefully arranged yellow roseswith buds like candle flames, her six-year-old self, achingwith grief and loss, had longed for her mother to appear, justfor a moment. Just long enough to see that she was wearingthe earrings. That she had not forgotten. That she wouldnever forget.
The music suddenly became very loud. Whether it wasthis ugly intrusion into her painful reflections or the renewedconviction that the girl had indeed stolen one of her mostprecious possessions, Ann suddenly found the courage tomove. She strode along the landing, half ran, half stumbledup the attic steps and banged on the door.
The volume increased again, hugely this time. The poundingbass battered her eardrums, burst through, invaded the insideof her head. The wooden panels of the door and theboards beneath her feet danced and shuddered. Consumed byanger—this is my house, my house!—Ann thundered on thedoor with her fists until the knuckles grazed.
The music stopped. A few moments later Carlotta appeared,standing square in the doorway in her dusty blackjeans and T-shirt. Split sneakers on her feet. Long matteddark hair tugged through a purple scrunch band. She worethe expression so frequently present when they were alonetogether. One of amused contempt. Then she ducked underthe Mind Your Head notice, crossed the threshold and stood,blocking Ann's way.
"Got a problem, Mrs. Lawrence?"
"I'm afraid I have."
Ann stepped boldly forward and, surprised by the suddenmovement, Carlotta stood aside. She did not follow Ann intothe room which was very untidy and reeked of cigarettesmoke.
"What's that then?"
"I can't seem to find my mother's earrings."
"So?"
Ann took a deep breath. "I was wondering if you'd ..."
"Thieved 'em?"
"Borrowed. Perhaps."
"I don't wear old lady's stuff. Thanks all the same."
"They were in my jewellery box the other day—"
"You calling me a liar?" Spittle flew as the words twistedthin scarlet lips.
"Of course not, Carlotta."
"Search the place then. Go on."
She knows I never would, thought Ann. Especially withher standing there watching. She imagined calling Carlotta'sbluff but couldn't bear the humiliation of not finding theearrings. Or the awful scene that could ensue if she did.
She wondered if the jewellery had already been pawnedor sold and felt quite ill at the idea. She pictured her preciousthings being handled by knowing, dirty fingers. Money, afraction of what they were worth, changing hands. It was thisthat prompted her fatally rash next words.
(Continues...)
Copyright © 1999 Caroline Graham. All rights reserved.
