‘I’ll do so myself.’
Mary hesitated, then gave Davey a gentle push. ‘Come on with you then, though you needn’t think I’m going to be waiting on you.’
Connie waited until they were out of sight, then checked her hair in the hall mirror, pinning a loose strand back into place. She straightened her pale grey skirt and striped blouse, both of which were creased from having fallen asleep in the armchair, then glanced at the clock. Would he detect the smell of brandy on her breath? She hoped not. She was surprised to see it was already four o’clock. Had Nutbeem’s delivered, or had the rain stopped them from coming out? Whatever happened, she had to make sure Sergeant Pennicott had gone by the time Mrs Christie was due to arrive.
She straightened her shoulders, then opened the door.
The policeman removed his helmet. ‘Good afternoon. Miss Gifford, is it?’
‘It is.’
‘Is your father at home? Mr Crowley Gifford?’
Connie sighed with relief. If Pennicott was asking, he couldn’t be bringing bad news about him.
‘I regret to say my father is not here. Might I help instead?’
Sergeant Pennicott frowned slightly. Connie wondered if he was good at his job. He looked a rather unthinking sort of a man.
‘Perhaps you can, Miss Gifford. May I come in?’
*
Davey crept around the back of the workshop and through the hole in the hawthorn hedge to the fields. From there, there was a path that ran down to the stream where Vera had been found.
Vera was peculiar, no doubt about it, but Davey was sad she’d gone. All that ginger hair flying loose all over the place. But she was kind to him too, and from time to time, when he ventured across to the fields on the Apuldram side of the creek, she’d let him watch her feed the birds from her hand. Bramblings, chaffinches, siskins, greenfinches, linnets. Vera loved songbirds best, disliked the crows and gulls. Bullies, she called them. Her pockets were always full of seeds.
As Davey tramped through the sodden marsh, balancing on branches or flattened reeds to keep the mud from going over the tops of his boots, he wondered what had brought her over this side of the creek. She was scared of her father so mostly kept away from Fishbourne. If the rumours were right that she had drowned, Davey couldn’t see how she could have been washed up from Apuldram to here, not even on a high spring tide. Her body would have caught on something further downstream. It was all peculiar, no doubt about it.
There was an overgrown path that ran around the side of Blackthorn House and came out further upstream. When the tide was low, it was possible to cut across and get up into the village without having to go all the way round to Mill Lane. There was a small open clearing, surrounded by reeds, then another trail through a patch of bulrushes and up towards the road. It was all private land, of course, but Davey had no idea who owned it and took no notice of signs warning trespassers to keep out. It was here he’d seen the odd fellow spying on Blackthorn House.
Davey crouched low, taking care not to be seen. Miss Gifford had been particular that when he passed the message on, no one else was around to hear it. He crept forward, ignoring the spray of black tidal mud splashing up his bare calves and the way in which the reeds covered his sleeves with raindrops as he pushed his way through.
Finally, he had the man in his sights. He was smoking a cigarette. Davey watched for a while, until he was certain the man was on his own, then he whistled.
‘Mister.’
The man spun round.
‘Over here,’ Davey said, whistling again. ‘Miss Gifford sent me. Got a message for you.’
‘Miss Gifford?’
The man turned again and was peering into the reeds, trying to work out where he was. He looked so confused, Davey could have laughed, if he wasn’t so bothered about doing the right thing.
He stood up straight. ‘She says to come with me. Pennicott’s in with her. She says you should come in round the back and wait until he’s gone.’
Now, the man looked alarmed, so much so that Davey had a moment of doubt.
‘You are Harry, aren’t you? Because if you’re not . . .’
‘I am,’ the man said quickly.
Davey looked dubiously at him. ‘Harry who?’
‘What?’
‘Harry who?’
‘Woolston,’ the man replied impatiently. ‘Harold Woolston, Harry to my friends. That good enough?’
The boy nodded. ‘If you don’t want no one to see you, you best hurry up.’
*
‘Shall we go through to the dining room, Sergeant?’ Connie said. Her eyes dropped to the policeman’s mud-encased feet. ‘I wonder if you would mind leaving your boots in the hall? Perhaps your cape, as well? You do appear to be rather wet.’
Sergeant Pennicott blushed brick red, and Connie was glad. It made him seem less threatening.
The dining room was barely used, so it felt damp and gloomy. Connie took her time lighting the lamps, wanting to create an impression of unhurried calm. The fact was, her pulse was racing.
‘Please,’ she said, waving the policeman to a chair and sitting down opposite him. ‘Now, Sergeant . . .?’
‘Sergeant Pennicott.’
‘Sergeant Pennicott,’ she said, folding her hands in her lap. ‘How might I be of assistance?’
Pennicott perched on the edge of the chair and got out a notebook. Connie’s pulse tripped again.
‘As I said, miss, it was really your father I wanted to speak to. Would you mind telling me where he is?’
‘Would you mind telling me why you are asking, Detective Sergeant?’ she said, playing for time. If Gifford appeared while they were talking, it would be awkward. But if he didn’t, it was wisest to keep to the same explanation she’d given to Pine and Mr Crowther last evening. It was possible the policeman had already talked to them.
‘If you wouldn’t mind answering the question, Miss Gifford?’
‘His health is not good, Sergeant, so he is currently staying with friends. For a few days, to recover his strength. The climate here, so close to the water, is damp and it’s been such a dreadful spring.’
Connie realised she was letting her tongue run away with her. Do not embroider, do not explain more than absolutely necessary.
‘I’ll bother you for the address of those friends before I go, if I may, Miss Gifford.’
‘Is that really necessary?’ she said quickly. ‘I’d rather he was not disturbed.’
‘Very natural, miss.’ Pennicott looked at his notebook. ‘I wonder if you happen to know if your father is acquainted with a Frederick Brook?’
‘I don’t, I’m afraid.’
‘What about a Dr John Woolston, Miss Gifford?’
‘I don’t believe he’s ever mentioned someone of that name either,’ she said slowly. ‘It’s possible.’
The policeman looked her in the eye. ‘What about you, Miss Gifford? Are you acquainted with Dr Woolston?’
‘I’m afraid this is rather muddling me, Sergeant. I assumed that you were here in connection with the matter of that unfortunate girl yesterday afternoon.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Vera Barker.’
‘My concern is to ascertain if your father is acquainted with Dr Woolston and’ – Pennicott looked back down at his notes – ‘other individuals. So, if you would not mind answering the question, miss, do you or do you not know Dr Woolston?’
Connie matched him with a cold stare. ‘I do not.’
The policeman wrote something in his book. Connie had to stop herself straining across the table to see what it was.
‘And what about his son?’
Connie was at a loss as to how to respond. Since it appeared to have nothing to do with the discovery of the body in the stream, she had no idea what information the police officer was actually after, or why. She was loath to say anything at all.
‘His son?’ she replied weakly.
‘Mr Harold Woolston. The son of Dr John Woo
lston.’
‘I was not aware of that.’
‘So you admit that you know Mr Harold Woolston.’
‘“Admit” is a rather singular choice of word,’ Connie said, keeping her voice level. ‘But if you are asking if I am acquainted with Harold Woolston, then, yes. I met him for the first time yesterday and he was extremely kind in what, as you can imagine, were distressing circumstances. He is a friend of Dr and Mrs Evershed, I believe. He helped me with Vera Barker’s body.’
‘Vera Barker?’ he said sharply.
‘Yes,’ she said impatiently. ‘I told you, Detective Sergeant Pennicott. The woman reported missing in the newspaper this week; she was the person I found in the river at the top of the garden yesterday. Harry – Mr Woolston – helped me bring her body out of the water. I was under the impression, from what I have heard in the village, that Dr Woolston signed the death certificate yesterday evening. Mr Crowther could tell you more.’
‘This is the first I’ve heard of any body being found in Fishbourne.’
It took Connie some time to go through the events surrounding the recovery of Vera’s body. Pennicott wanted every name, every address, every variance of timing, and several times asked, again, for the details of where her father was staying.
‘I still don’t understand why you want to know if my father is acquainted with Dr Woolston. I can’t see how it is relevant at all.’
Pennicott put his book down on the table. ‘I am here, Miss Gifford, in connection with the unexplained absence of Dr Woolston.’
Connie didn’t know what to think. Her head was spinning; all these half-connected stories.
‘Absence?’ she echoed.
Pennicott glanced at his notes. ‘A Mr Pearce, who is employed by Dr Woolston in his offices in West Street, Chichester, has expressed concern about his employer’s whereabouts. I hesitate to call it, at this early stage, a disappearance as such.’
‘Does Mr Woolston know of this?’
‘I have not yet had the opportunity to speak to Mr Woolston,’ he said. ‘But your father’s name has come up in the course of my enquiries.’
‘That’s ridiculous to imply—’
Pennicott kept going. ‘According to Pearce, it appears your father and Dr Woolston were acquainted some years ago and have recently renewed contact with one another.’
Feeling suddenly overwhelmed, Connie decided the only thing she could do was to bring the conversation to a close and give herself time to think.
‘Forgive me, Sergeant, I cannot say for certain whether or not your information is correct, but since my father is not here – and I have never met Dr Woolston – I don’t believe there is anything further I can do to help you.’ She stood up, taking Pennicott by surprise. ‘I will, of course, inform my father of your visit and ask him to be in contact with you as soon as his health and circumstances permit.’
Without giving him a chance to object, Connie opened the door and walked out into the hall. ‘I am sorry you have had a wasted journey, Sergeant.’
Pennicott reluctantly stood up. ‘I must trouble you for the address of the friends with whom your father is staying, Miss Gifford.’
‘I will have to look it up.’
‘I am prepared to wait.’
Connie pretended not to hear. ‘Mary,’ she called along the corridor, ‘Sergeant Pennicott is leaving, if you could show him out.’
‘Coming, miss.’
‘The address, miss?’
‘The maid will bring it to the station in Chichester, as soon as convenient. Good day, Sergeant.’
As Mary hurried along the corridor towards the front door, Connie walked in the opposite direction. She didn’t trust herself to speak. She heard the front door close and felt a gust of wet air come in, but she kept going and let her feet take her to a place of refuge.
‘I found your Mr Woolston, miss.’
Connie heard Davey’s cheerful voice calling from the kitchen, but she didn’t stop. She went into the workshop, closed the door behind her and sank down on a chair.
Chapter 27
Themis Cottage
Apuldram
Gerald White tried to open his eyes.
Found he could not. He tried again. The right lid remained firmly shut, but he managed to half open his left. It was crusted and sore with blood. His entire face was swollen. He could feel the skin straining as he tried to see.
Something was digging into his back, as if he was lying on a branch or the spine of a book. Something sharp. He attempted to shift, but a violent jab of pain snaked along his flank, winding him. He struggled to get air into his lungs, taking short, shallow breaths, each one as agonising as the last.
The face of the hired man flashed into his mind. The look of pleasure as his fist came down, the flash of retribution in his eyes as his boot connected with White’s ribs.
He lay still, uncomprehending as to why he had fallen victim to such an attack. Had he been robbed? He tried to feel his jacket, to see if his pocket book was still there, but now realised his hands were strapped. Even in his pain-confused state, he could feel the restraints on his wrists cutting into his skin. He sent a message from his brain down to his feet and realised his ankles, too, were tied.
And something else. That he was very cold. That there was no protection of cloth between his bruised back and the surface of whatever he was lying on. While he had been unconscious, someone had removed his waistcoat, shirt and vest. Would a thief go to such trouble?
A wave of panic washed through him, an animal instinct to get free, overriding the pain of his wounds and the raw open cuts in his skin.
But he was already too late.
As White fell back, gasping against the wooden boards, the sound of his own blood pulsing in his head gave way to the realisation that he was not alone. He became completely still. He perceived there was someone else with him, motionless but close at hand.
Then the lightest of touches on his bare chest, like feathers being gently stroked across his skin. Despite everything, White felt himself react. Even now, the memories of that night ten years ago excited him, stimulated him, more than they appalled him.
Feathers, his black-and-white mask, the glittering candles. The cotton and lace trim above her knees. The girl begging them to stop. Someone stopped her talking. Not Brook and not him. A stab of longing shot through his bruised body. Pleasure and pain, a contradiction he knew well.
As his various senses started to come back to him, White detected a strange smell. A perfume, but overlaid with a chemical tint of alcohol or sterilising fluid. Like an operating theatre. And the same gentle rising and falling of someone breathing in, breathing out.
‘Who’s here?’
The panic started to return, fear igniting his desire to get free. Struggling, again, against his restraints. Not leather or ribbon, but something sharp. Wire? Each time he moved, a tiny slice of skin was peeled back.
White focused every ounce of energy he possessed on trying to open his eyes. If only he could see, then he would know what was happening.
Now, to his horror, he realised it was not his injuries stopping his eyes from opening, but that his eyelids were sewn shut. He could feel the thin stitches pulling against the skin each time he tried to force himself to see.
‘I have been waiting for you to wake up.’
It wasn’t possible. At the same time, it was the voice he expected. Calm as it sounded, it brought back to him, with extraordinary clarity, the terrified tones that pleasured his nightmares. But it was not possible.
‘I don’t understand,’ he managed to say through cracked lips. ‘What are you doing?’
That same, soft laugh from a decade ago. No fear in it now. The power, this time, was on her side.
‘The punishment must fit the crime, don’t you think?’
White thrashed on the table, desperately trying to loosen his bonds. Then the lightest of touches, downy, as feathers seemed to be covering his chest, and again he felt himself resp
ond.
‘Your tastes don’t appear to have altered,’ she said, her mouth close to his ear. ‘I shall finish this. Then we can “move on to more enjoyable matters”. What do you say?’
In the depths of his memory, White recognised something he himself had said.
‘What do you want?’ he cried. ‘Whatever you want, I have—’
His words were stolen by his scream as the needle pierced his eyelid, the point splitting the membrane, the pain of the thread being pulled through and back.
‘Now, now,’ she murmured, ‘what was it you said? “Don’t be silly”; do you remember saying that? And “don’t make a fuss”?’
Beneath his bloodied and torn eyelids, White felt tears begin to flow. Another roar of pain as the needle pushed through his septum and the thread began to draw his nostrils together.
The ache in his chest later, when the knife cut him open and the blade was drawn lovingly down his breastbone, came as a relief.
Chapter 28
Blackthorn House
Fishbourne Marshes
For a moment, Connie emptied her mind of everything. Then, gradually, the familiar outline of the workshop came back to her – the wooden counter and the silver tools, the glass jars, the paint – and she sighed. Here, at least, she felt safe.
‘Miss Gifford?’
Connie turned in her chair to see Harry standing in the doorway.
‘May I come in?’
She exhaled. ‘Yes, do.’
‘A boy claimed you’d sent him to fetch me,’ he said, inching further into the room. ‘But I won’t stay if I’m intruding. If you’d rather I went, just say.’
‘Davey,’ she smiled. ‘No, I’m pleased you’re here. Come in.’
Harry stepped tentatively into the room. ‘Are you all right?’
She nodded. ‘I slept badly last night, as you might imagine, then the policeman . . .’ She stopped, reliving the wave of panic that had swept through her. ‘It was all rather too much.’
She looked at Harry’s face and realised he was struggling not to stare at the skinned inside-out jackdaw beneath its protective glass dome. With regret, she realised she would probably have to let this one go. She had left it untended for too long.