Man of Blood, page 21
“I’m looking for William Turner,” he said.
“Speak up, young fella,” bellowed the ancient, cupping an ear. “I can’t hear as well as I used to.”
Piers repeated his quest, a lot louder.
The old man shook his head. “He don’t live here no more.”
“He must do,” Piers protested.
“What?”
“HE MUST DO. I ONLY SPOKE TO HIM RECENTLY.”
“No. He doesn’t. He moved.”
“BUT HE DIDN’T SAY ANYTHING ABOUT MOVING.”
“About five year ago he moved from here. It must have been.”
Piers prepared to give up. Then he yelled, “WHERE DID HE GO?”
“Number 16. That’s on the other side of the road down at the bottom.”
Piers gratefully wrung one frail hand and departed.
As was to be expected, the garden in front of the bungalow with ‘16’ in plastic figures over the door was immaculately tidy. Praying that William was in and that all was well, Piers pressed the bell-push. A small dog of some kind yapped. It was still yapping when the door opened and a woman smiled at him.
“Yes?”
“Is William in? I’m Piers Ashley.”
“Mr Ashley! Oh, how nice. I’m so pleased to meet you after what happened. William will be so sorry he missed you.”
“Can you tell me where he is? It’s rather important.”
“Yes, he’s doing Sylvia Webb’s garden. He always does her garden on Thursday mornings. Would you like to come in and ring him there?”
Piers thought about it. “No, it’s all right. I’ve got my car — I’ll go around there.” He half turned away and then said, “Please don’t think I’m rude, rushing off like this. You must both come to the Hall for tea one afternoon.”
“Oh, that would be lovely,” William’s wife breathed. “Thank you so much.”
Piers felt a fool. He knew that what he had said was inane in the present circumstances but she had looked so pleasant and homely, like a brown mother hen in her tweed dress, that he hated the thought of offending her.
There seemed to be nothing amiss at Sylvia’s cottage; two cats in the front garden sunning themselves in the purple, pink and mauve cushions of aubrietia, a blackbird scolding them, flicking its tail, from the lilac. Piers had already decided that he would openly drive up to the cottage. To burst in, waving a gun on the presumption that Jackson was there, seemed a trifle over the top.
“What the hell,” he said to himself, slamming the car door. “I’ve already made a mess of everything. And who needs to impress Leadbetter?”
“Talking to yourself is the first sign of desperation,” Sylvia called from the doorway.
“Is William here?”
She looked taken aback. “Yes, well, he was until a while ago.” When he got closer she said, “Piers, is something wrong? You look ghastly.”
“Everything’s wrong. Where is he now?”
“I asked him to mend the fence where the branch fell off the tree and damaged it. He said he had to go and get some tools.”
“Yes, but where has he gone?”
“How should I know? And you’re the second person who’s asked for him this morning. What on earth’s going on?”
“Was it Tom? Tom Jackson?”
“Yes.”
“How long ago was Tom here?”
“Only about a quarter of an hour ago. I couldn’t help him either.”
Piers took a deep breath. He hadn’t seen William on the way to Sylvia’s and from what he knew of the topography of the village he was sure that William would have to walk home the same route that he. Piers, had driven. So William hadn’t gone home.
“Think carefully,” he said. “What exactly did William say?”
Some of his own urgency seemed to have transferred to her. “He said it would need a new end post. I told him there was a spare post in the garage but when he looked at it he said it must have come from the fence I had put up at the end of the garden so it wasn’t suitable somehow. Oh, dear, I wasn’t really listening. I suppose he’s gone to find a tool to make it more suitable. I’m sorry, but I’m an awful duffer at things like that.”
“Show me,” he asked.
“You mean show you how the broken fence is different from the other one? But as far as I can see it’s exactly the same — you know, larch lap sort of thing.” Piers ran round the side of the house and into the back garden. Up near the house on the left hand side there was a large elm tree. This had indeed shed one of its lower branches, William having cleared most of it away but for the main stem. The weight of it when it had come down had snapped off the post at ground level, the fence itself now leaning inwards and only slightly damaged.
Piers’ gaze went to the far end of the garden. “But that fence is higher,” he said. “Therefore if the new post you’ve already got was left over from it, it’s too long to be used here.”
“Yes, I suppose it is,” Sylvia said brightly. “Which means he needs a saw.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
“And his saw is at the old lodge.”
Sylvia beamed at him and was about to say that she could see why he was such a good policeman when he turned and raced off again.
“I’ll paint you as Mercury,” she whispered.
*
Piers parked his car well out of earshot of the lodge and went the rest of the way on foot. He did not run: the time for running was past. It was doubtful now whether he had the energy to run and he was ignoring, or trying to, an alarming weakness. This manifested itself, infuriating him, in an ever-increasing tendency to trip on the rough ground.
He did not meet anyone on that quiet, careful walk towards the old lodge. He had thought that he might catch up with Jackson and rounded each curve of the track circumspectly. When he first glimpsed the chimneys of the lodge through the trees he halted and then climbed a bank at the side of the road. That Jackson, an ex-soldier, was as likely as not trained in what was commonly known as jungle warfare was not a comforting thought. Fuddle-headed from sheer exhaustion it took a moment or two for him to remember that the same could be said of himself.
One thing he was sure of, however — it was contrary to all his training to go in alone like this. The trouble was that the entire affair had been a dreadful private thing; old friends, trusted employees, proved to be false. But all the world now knew. The world was free to think that the Ashleys deserved such perfidy. He was not a proud man but he was a very angry one.
As silently as possible he edged his way through the thicket of hawthorn that crowned the bank on this side of the lane. At the spot he had chosen the hawthorn merged into a copse of birch, scrub oak and yet more hawthorn. This, he remembered from his days at the lodge, covered an area of about an acre and extended around one side of it.
For a full two minutes he lay flat, listening and watching. It seemed strange to notice that it was now a fine sunny day, the sun past its zenith but warm and pleasant on his shoulders as it shone through the partly opened leaves above him. Other than the twittering of birds it was very quiet with only the distant sound of an occasional lorry or motorbike on the main road to disturb the peacefulness of the scene.
On his stomach Piers moved closer. At any moment he expected to hear a gun fire. But what would Jackson gain by killing William? He had been asking about his whereabouts however. In his present state of mind perhaps he intended to do away with everyone he regarded as being involved. And afterwards — what then?
“He’ll turn the gun on himself,” Piers said under his breath. “They usually do.”
It seemed inconceivable that Jackson wouldn’t expect the police to be on to him by now. Sooner or later he must realize that Charles Morgan’s body would be discovered. Perhaps on the other hand he was living in some kind of cloud cuckoo land and, assuming Piers to be dead, saw no reason why he himself should be a suspect.
And, of course, there was Thea. Or rather there was the almost overwhelming thought that she no longer…
The idea that she might be dead was almost enough to overturn his own mind.
The shot, when it came, was remarkably loud and close by. It sent up a couple of dozen rooks from a nearby tree with a great flapping of wings and cawing. A few broken-off dead twigs rattled down.
Silence.
Piers breathed out slowly and wriggled forwards a few feet. The shot had not been aimed at him, of that he was certain, it had come nowhere near him at all. And he wouldn’t have thought that whoever had fired was inside the lodge, the sound had been very much in the open air. Then Tom Jackson shouted, seemingly only feet away.
“You stupid old fool! Always shoving your nose in where it ain’t wanted.”
Other things were said by Jackson, or rather muttered, Piers did not catch the words. He guessed that Jackson was standing in the front garden of the lodge. In order to approach the building from the rear Piers changed course, moving through the tall grasses that grew beneath the trees in a fashion — only he did not know it — that one of his instructors had described as reptilian.
Then, all at once, there was only a large clump of cow parsley between himself and Jackson. Piers froze. He had already drawn his gun. Jackson was prowling around the lodge, and having stopped for a few moments, continued until he went from sight around the gable end wall. Piers waited for a couple more seconds and then broke cover and followed. Pressing himself to the wall of the house he looked round the corner and was in time to see Jackson go through the front door. There was no sign of William.
Almost immediately Jackson came out again. This time he was carrying a small suitcase and Piers recognised it as one belonging to his father. Intent on securing the padlock on the door of the boarded-up building he did not notice Piers until he had picked up the case again and was preparing to walk away.
The element of surprise was quite perfect and, as far as Jackson was concerned, utterly crushing.
“You’re under arrest,” Piers told him quietly, walking forward. “I want you to put down that suitcase, throw down the gun that’s in your pocket, and then I want you to lie face down on the ground.”
“I’ve never been anyone’s prisoner,” Jackson said sullenly.
“You’re mine,” Piers said through his teeth. “And if you don’t do as I say, I’ll bloody put a bullet in you. Is that the kind of language you understand?”
Slowly, muttering, the man complied.
A sudden movement, glimpsed only out of the corner of an eye, distracted Piers for a moment but he was careful not to risk giving Jackson any opportunity to escape. He kicked Morgan’s gun out of his reach and then stepped back and gazed around.
“It’s me,” William called. “I’ll be all right though. Don’t you worry.”
He was hobbling up the track, one hand clutched to his thigh. Blood was soaking through his trousers.
“Good man,” Piers called back. “Can you make it here so I can see how badly you’re hurt? I can’t leave this one.”
“Haven’t moved so fast since a Jerry took a shot at me in Normandy,” William puffed when he got closer. “Got a coupla tree-ties in my pocket. Do fine for handcuffs for that little toad and a tourni — whatever they’re called for my leg.”
The tree-ties — strong plastic straps with buckles with special ‘stops’ on to prevent them coming loose — were absolutely ideal for both purposes. Piers attended to both of these things and then fired his revolver three times into the air. It was taking Leadbetter a long time to send someone to investigate the first single shot. Medical attention for William was his first priority, the flesh wound just above his knee was not very serious but one had to remember that he was not a young man.
Piers found the key to the padlock on the front door in Tom’s jacket pocket and opened up the lodge. He wanted to rush from room to room searching for Thea but did not dare leave Jackson unguarded and William was in no fit state to watch over him.
“I saw your sister last night,” William said all at once.
Piers ran over to where he sat with Piers’ sweater draped around him. “Where?”
“She was in a car with a fella who I hadn’t seen before. Nice sort of car too.”
“Where did you see them?”
“In the village. But they were heading out. In the direction of Arundel.”
“Are you sure it was Thea?”
“Sure as sure. The car was parked when I first saw it and she’d put the interior light on to do her face the way young women do. She was looking at herself in the mirror that’s on the back of those things you pull down when the sun’s in your eyes.”
Piers was looking at Jackson. “You said you were going to kill her. All three kids, you said.”
“I haven’t,” Tom growled. “But I would have done if I’d had the chance.”
Piers sat down on the ground, weak and with strange ringing noises in his ears. When he was able he leaned over to loosen the strap around William’s leg for a few moments.
“Now it’s bleeding again,” William complained.
“Yes, but we don’t want your leg to fall off because the circulation’s stopped, do we?”
William chuckled. “I’m proud to have known you, Mr Ashley. Despite the fact that you’re sitting there with a gun in your hand.”
Piers said, “Then you’ll be terribly disappointed when I tell you I’m allowed to carry it.”
At that moment people came running through from the orchard.
*
Commander Rolt arrived some time during the late afternoon, bringing with him in the police helicopter — to Elizabeth’s everlasting joy — Colonel and Mrs Ashley. But the joy was a thing that she promised herself would come later. She would revel in the memories of her home seen from the air only when she knew that her daughter was safe and well. At the moment no one could promise either of these things.
Rolt made a point of not taking charge. There was no need. Crimes had been committed and an arrest had been made by the local CID. Inspector Leadbetter was grateful for this, of course, but had not really expected himself to be forced to abdicate. If he had witnessed Rolt’s strafing of West End Central he might have anticipated otherwise.
“Jackson simply refuses to say if he knows where she is,” Leadbetter said to Rolt, the two of them standing just outside the massive gatehouse. “He seems to be enjoying keeping mum — the only clue we have is when he told Piers Ashley that he hadn’t killed her. But he might have left her somewhere. That’s why Piers was so convinced he’d thrown her down the well.”
“What’s the significance of this well?” Rolt asked. “Why was Piers so worried about it?”
“Apparently he and Jackson went on a tour of the cellars some time ago and while they were down there Jackson made a remark that Thea Ashley might be the third victim. Just an association of ideas really. At least we know that worry’s unfounded now.”
“It’s been searched then?”
Leadbetter gazed at his superior for a moment before he replied. “Perhaps you ought to speak to Piers, sir.”
“Inspector, I’m asking you.”
“Jackson got the better of Piers and heaved him down it. I’m still not sure how he either survived or got out again.”
“Do I understand that you somehow doubt his word?” Rolt enquired, reading Leadbetter’s expression exactly.
“I can believe a lot of things,” Leadbetter continued stolidly. “But I have to think carefully when someone tells me that the bottom of a well is full of feathers.”
“Feathers!” Rolt exclaimed.
“Feathers.”
“Feathers?” asked Elizabeth, coming upon them both. “Do come in. I’ve asked cook to turn to here for a few hours. I think everyone ought to have something to eat. What’s this about feathers?”
This was the last lady on earth to whom Rolt wanted to expose Piers Ashley as a liar. Smoothly he said, “It’s nothing at all important. Just that when the Inspector’s men searched the well for clues they found a lot of feathers.”
She was clearly embarrassed. “Oh dear. How your sins and silliness find you out. That was me, I’m afraid.”
“You?” Leadbetter said.
“Women sometimes do things that men can’t understand,” she told him slightly severely as she noted the incredulity in his voice. “It was when I’d just had Giles. I suffered from a severe bout of Post-Natal Depression. Baby Blues it’s sometimes called now. You men might be interested to know that it wasn’t really recognised in those days. Men told you to pull yourself together. I was having dreadful nightmares. I kept dreaming that Piers had fallen down the well.”
Rolt decided that he wasn’t cold but had merely shivered.
“I know there was a door on the passageway so at least that part of the underground places could be kept locked. But Piers was running about by this time with Thea, and really he was exactly the sort of child who could pick locks and get up to all sorts of mischief. I went on to Mycroft about the danger and he promised to have a grating placed over the well. But you know how it is — nothing was done. One day I was turning out the attics and I came upon piles of old feather-beds and eiderdowns, all full of the moth. So I lugged them all to the cellars and dropped them down the well. I did it quite on my own. I was terrified people would think me raving mad. Then, shortly afterwards, Mycroft had the grating fixed.” She smiled at them. “I rang the hospital before we left town and they assured me that Giles is well on the mend. His kidneys are functioning normally.”
“But how did you know the well was dry?” Rolt persevered.
She shrugged. “I didn’t. I never gave it a thought. No, I suppose in the back of my mind… Yes, I know now. In the dreams I had there were just stones at the bottom and he…” Momentarily she placed a hand on Rolt’s shoulder. “Do come in. I’m sure there’s some beer somewhere.”
“Bloody hell,” Leadbetter whispered when she had gone. “I sometimes get the feeling that people like this — people from families that go back to the year dot and live in castles — aren’t quite like you and me.”
