Grave Doubts Part 20

She turned off the PC, aware that she was running late because she had been sick. Wendy was slipping into her shoes when she heard the front door below slam shut. Their two neighbours had already left for work, which meant that it had to be Dave. She let out a squeal and looked around for somewhere to hide. There was nowhere. Her only option was to climb out of the bathroom window and onto the flat roof of the groundfoor flat's kitchen. From there she would be able to jump to the ground.

Wendy wasn't a brave person, nor was she fit or agile but the thought of being trapped by Dave, with the PC still warm from her use was more terrifying than any physical trial. She would have to take the risk about the PC and just hope that he thought that it was from his earlier use. There were footsteps on the landing outside and she could see a silhouette through the frosted gla.s.s of the front door. She grabbed her bag and ran to the bathroom, closing the door behind her as his key slid into the lock. 'Please, G.o.d, don't let him come in here,' she thought as she opened the window and pushed her bag through. It was narrow but by standing on the lid of the toilet she was able to squeeze through and onto the asphalt of the roof three feet below.

As she pulled the window closed the bathroom door opened. Wendy shrank back flat against the wall and started to pray. She heard the noise of the seat being raised and a long stream of his pee spraying the bowl as he relieved himself. When the toilet flushed she counted to one hundred and then risked the jump to the concrete yard. She didn't look back as she opened the gate and ran to her car, hidden three streets away.

During her drive through the city traffic she began to sort through the images in her mind. This was something at which she was practiced. Self-deception was relatively easy when the alternatives were unthinkable. By the time she arrived on the ward her thoughts were under control, excuses prepared and explanations in place. After a day of dealing with other people's traumas she managed to regain a semblance of routine in which her main concern was whether Dave would still be there when she returned and, if he was, what she should buy him for supper.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

Thunder directly overhead woke Nightingale and she lay in the dark, disorientated, as she tried to shake away the cobweb of a dream. She didn't know why she should start having nightmares again but after a wonderfully blank sleep on her first night she had dreamt of Griffiths repeatedly. He was stalking her through a wood. It was night and a heavy bird was flying through the trees above her head, scattering twigs and leaves onto her. She was wearing a diaphanous, pale green dress with nothing on underneath. Griffiths was masked and much taller than she remembered.

Every night she woke up as his fingers grabbed her hair and pulled her backwards. Tonight, as she had struggled up out of the depths of sleep, she had felt the heat of his breath on her neck seconds before her eyes flew open in alarm. She pulled on a jumper over her T-shirt and went to find wood for the Aga so that she could make a cup of tea. While she waited for the fire to heat the water she lit a tilley lamp and laid out the contents of her aunt's secret drawer. She had lost count of the number of times she had done this, but she had not yet discovered their secret.

There was a diary for the year of her birth, in which there was reference to a January house party that had ended in a fearful argument between her mother and father, and another at Easter when her parents were again among guests at Mill Farm. Nightingale compared the names of the people at the party at Easter with those from New Year. Five matched apart from her aunt: her parents, a married couple called George and Amelia Mayflower, and a guest called Lulu Bullock. The way her aunt described Lulu and the depth of their relationship had convinced Nightingale that the women had probably been lovers. In August her father had arrived with his heavily pregnant wife on condition that Lulu should reside somewhere else during their stay. Her aunt had prevailed on Amelia to take in her friend.

Nightingale studied a packet of photographs as she sipped her tea, trying to put names to faces. The girl she imagined might be Lulu reminded her of someone and she was still trying to remember whom as she drifted into a dreamless sleep.

A light tapping outside the window woke her at dawn. The air was full of birdsong, triumphant after the night of rain. A thrush had a snail in its beak and was beating it determinedly against the stone windowsill. Sunlight angled low through a gap in the trees. During the morning she finished cleaning the bedroom she had selected upstairs and cut some dog roses to place in a creamware jug on the dressing table. She decided against curtains. The idea of waking and sleeping in rhythm with the sun appealed to her. She was on her way downstairs when she heard someone knock at the front door.

'Miss Nightingale, good morning.' The old priest touched the brim of his hat lightly in salutation. 'Glad to see you up and about. I've come to invite you to church. You've missed early morning ma.s.s but we have another service at eleven should you choose to celebrate the Lord's day of rest.'

He eyed the mop and bucket in her hand meaningfully and there was a distinct emphasis to his final words. The priest managed to irritate her all over again but despite this the idea of church and some company appealed. She had been on her own for too long.

'I'll do my best to make it, Father, once I have finished here.' She was not going to give in that easily.

He nodded and peered over her shoulder.

'My word, you've transformed the place already. All your own work?'

'I'm here on my own, if that's what you mean.'

'Indeed, yes, well. As I say, transformed. The garden is back under control, and you've put in seedlings, I see. Until later, then.'

Nightingale watched him walk away across the rutted track, his ca.s.sock caught up neatly in his belt to avoid the puddles. If the service was at eleven she barely had time to finish her ch.o.r.es and wash. She lit a fire under the copper in the scullery and filled it with water from the stream. In the twenty minutes it took to heat to luke warm she finished weeding the herb bed. The rosemary bushes had been hacked into submission, clumps of lemon, variegated and garden thyme had been shaped, and the sages sculpted into almost oriental proportions. Their mixed aromas filled the warm air as she worked.

She cut some lavender to throw in her bath and stripped off to wash there in the scullery. Her skin was tingling and pink by the time she finished, her hair glossy wet but drying quickly in the increasing heat of the morning. The blouse she took from her case was a little creased but the long floral skirt flowed wrinkle free. She put pearl studs in her ears, applied lipstick and a spray of perfume; she was representing the Nightingales, after all.

Bells were already ringing as she parked. An old lady leaning heavily on a stick was hobbling hastily to the door and she followed her down the path. Yew trees crowded the gate and shadowed the lichen-covered graves. Mixed oaks and rowans surrounded the church, proud in their summer green.

The church door creaked loudly as the old lady pushed it open and a dozen heads turned. Two dozen eyes widened in surprise to see a stranger step inside. Nightingale walked a short way down the aisle, crossed herself and bobbed in an action that sprang unchecked from her childhood. In front of her, she was conscious of the dry rustle of old people's whispers. The priest arrived and with him a choir that included the only people in the church below the age of fifty. They raised the number in the congregation to twenty-five.

The organist played the opening bars of the first hymn and Nightingale joined in unselfconsciously, comfortable that her contralto voice would pa.s.s muster. As she sang she studied the organist, a woman about her mother's age, who worked the stops and keys vigorously, inspiring the few voices to sing out. The service was traditional, the hymns the same as she had sung as a child. There was no clapping, no shouts of joy and not the faintest echo of a tambourine. It would have been entirely possible for this same service to have been conducted twenty-five years previously. Perhaps it had been and was only now being recycled.

As she left the priest was waiting to shake her hand. Beyond him, cl.u.s.ters of congregation and choir were hovering on the pretext of engaging in casual conversation but Nightingale was not fooled.

'A lovely service. Thank you.'

'Thank you for coming, Miss Nightingale. Shall we see you next week?'

'I hope so.' She shook his hand and he turned to go. 'Oh, one thing, Father could you show me my Aunt's grave?'

The priest coloured and looked around for rescue.

'I'll do that, Father Patrick.' A voice came from behind her and Nightingale turned to see the organist bearing down on them.

'Ah, thank you, Amelia. Into your capable hands then...' He went to join safer members of his small flock.

'I'm Amelia Mayflower. You must be Henry's daughter. You have exactly his eyes. Well, well. It's amazing,' she narrowed her eyes and examined Nightingale openly, 'the similarity is astonishing.'

'Hardly. It's my brother Simon people say resembles my parents. Apart from my eyes I have nothing in common with either of them.'

The woman blushed an unbecoming red and gestured with a beefy arm.

'Your aunt's grave is over here.' She strode off to the west of the church. Nightingale followed her square rump into the shadow cast by the church wall and shivered.

'There.' The brisk tone softened. 'I'll leave you alone for a moment.'

Nightingale could not believe what she was seeing. The headstone was carved out of grey marble without any sign of age. It was a sculpture of a young woman kneeling on a mossy stone covered by heartsease and forget-me-nots. Above her another woman rested her hand on her shoulder. It was just possible to think of her as a guardian angel but to Nightingale's enlightened eye the imagery was clear. This was her aunt's lover and protectress, Lulu. It must have been carved when the two women were living together.

There was no inscription, nothing to suggest any sense of grief at her pa.s.sing, only her aunt's name and the dates that marked her life. She felt tears gather in her eyes.

'You were fond of her then?'

Nightingale blinked hard before turning to face Amelia. 'Yes. We were very close.'

'She doted on you. If you had been her own daughter she could not have loved you more.'

'Did you know her well?' It was a test question. The diaries and photographs had already given her the answer but she was curious to see whether this woman was honest.

'Very well at one time. Less so as we grew older. I had three children to bring up and a husband who was dogged with ill health. It was because of me that this stone was erected. The priest was fearfully against it but he can't run the parish without me and I threatened to change churches so that was an end to it.'

'Thank you.' Nightingale stretched out her hand in a proper greeting. 'I'm Louise, and I'm very pleased to meet you.'

'So you stuck with that name did you? A real chip off the old block.' She laughed and released Nightingale's hand. 'Shall we go, or would you like more time?'

'Let's go. I'll come back with some flowers later.'

They walked away together, Amelia chatting by her side, explaining that she had been at school with her aunt.

'We were inseparable, the three of us.'

'Three?'

'Your father, Ruth and I. They were wonderful days. How is Henry? He's always kept in touch.'

The expression on Nightingale's face must have told her that something was wrong.

'Put my foot in it, have I? I'm always doing that. My late husband used to say it was my only distinguishing characteristic! Have they separated at last? I knew it would happen...'

Nightingale cleared her throat.

'He's dead. He died earlier this year, in January.'

It was as if she had punched Amelia. The breath went out of her and she sagged against the gatepost.

'I didn't know. News hasn't reached here yet. Henry's dead...' She said the words as if testing them and Nightingale saw tears in her eyes. Instinctively, she put her arm around the woman's broad shoulders in comfort. 'I thought I would have known, that he had gone I mean. I should have known. What date was it?'

'January 27th.'

She shook her head.

'No, that means nothing to me. All this time, I've been thinking...' She shook herself and stepped away from Nightingale's protecting arm.

'You must have been very fond of him.'

'Oh yes, I was. At one point I thought we would marry. But then, I was a silly empty-headed girl of eighteen. He went away to university and came back with a good degree and your mother.'

'And you married and had children.' She prompted, hoping to move the subject on.

'Of course. George had always wanted me. His family was the wealthiest in the area and his prospects were promising, then. You should've seen the wedding present his parents gave us!'

'What was it?'

'The house I still live in. Imagine that. Your fate sealed at twenty-one. Hard to believe, isn't it.'

Nightingale, who still had no real sense of who she was, let alone her destiny, could only nod. Something in her expression returned Amelia to her normal capable self.

'Listen to me wittering! Tell me how's your poor mother coping? I would have thought that his death would be hard on her.'

'She's dead too. It was a car accident. They died together.' Nightingale tried to sound composed but there must have been something in her tone that betrayed the rawness of her feelings.

'Oh my dear. You poor thing. And you're down here on your own with all those memories. Let me give you lunch, no I insist. Follow me in your car, it's not far.' She was not to be denied.

Mrs Mayflower lived in the heart of the village in a small Georgian house next to the old Post Office. 'Some wedding present,' Nightingale thought as she pulled up outside.

The smell of roast lamb greeted them as her hostess opened the door.

'It's all done bar the gravy and greens. Help yourself to a sherry, it's on the sideboard. Be a dear and pour me one too. I think we both need it.'

Sherry was not exactly to Nightingale's taste but when she poured a gla.s.s for Amelia she noticed it was pale and smelled deliciously of smoked almonds. She served a second gla.s.s and took them through to the kitchen. Her hostess sipped but did not speak as she boiled peas then used the juice to make the gravy.

'Knives and forks are in the top drawer. Place mat is by your elbow and napkins are in the dining room. Take your sherry through and lay your place. I'll be right behind you.'

The plates were served ready filled which meant that the meal was hot. There was fresh mint sauce and the potatoes were roasted a crispy golden brown.

'I have a roast every Sunday and I always make plenty in case one of the children turns up unannounced. Some wine? I know you've your car outside but there's a back way up the hill to Mill Farm.'

She poured herself a very large gla.s.s and did the same for Nightingale. As they ate Amelia refilled her own gla.s.s whilst Nightingale sipped from hers. She talked almost non-stop, pausing only to chew and swallow. Nightingale forgave her hostess her loquaciousness as she was easy company. If she occasionally said a stupid or thoughtless thing it was soon forgotten in the following flow as there was little apparent malice behind the words.

Amelia opened a second bottle of wine although Nightingale had only just finished her first gla.s.s and frowned at the measure that replaced it. Over cheese and home baked biscuits, Amelia spoke of the early death of her husband after years of illness. Family money had kept her children housed, fed and educated and a small pension from the family business meant that she would never starve. Nightingale could understand why a woman with Amelia's pa.s.sion and industry had thrown her energy into village and church life.

Over coffee, during which Amelia worked diligently at her wine, they talked of Aunt Ruth.

'She was a good friend. She helped me hold the family together when George was ill and after his death.'

'I don't think my father knew that side of her.'

'Your father!' Amelia shook her head dismissively and rose to clear the last of the plates.

'Please, what about my father? He was so secretive that I never truly knew him.'

Amelia kept her back to Nightingale as she stacked the dishwasher.

'I think it would be better he was allowed to rest in peace.'

Amelia, previously talkative beyond the point of indiscretion, suddenly became close-mouthed. Despite all the wine she had drunk, she would say no more. They were drinking tea and admiring the herbaceous border when Nightingale made her next attempt to learn more about her family.

'This is a wonderful place. I feel so at home here.'

'Well of course. You were born here.'

'In this house?'

Her hostess looked as if she had been snared in a trap then laughed in a silly schoolgirl way.

'No, you were born at Mill Farm with your brother Simon.'

She fanned herself whilst Nightingale studied her surrept.i.tiously. Somewhere in that effusion, she sensed a lie.

'So where does Lulu Bullock fit into the story?'

Amelia was ahead of her so she couldn't see her face, but she didn't need to in order the judge the impact of her question. The woman went rigid and her teacup fell from her hand. It smashed on the path but she barely noticed. After a significant pause she said.

'Fancy you knowing Lulu's name. Who was that from?'

'Just letters at my aunt's house but I saw her initials on the statue by the grave and I was curious.'

'She was an old friend of your Aunt's.'

'I believe she was staying here the year I was born. She was a sculptress?'