Missing Joseph Part 33

"Do you love me? Trust me?"

She tried to read his face. He was anxious to be off. But perhaps he was only hungry after all. And once they started walking, he would be warm enough. They could even run.

"Mag?" he said.

"Yes."

He smiled, brushed his mouth against hers. His lips were dry. It didn't feel like a kiss. "Then wait here," he said. "I'll be right back. If we're gonna bunk off, it's best that no one see us together in town and remember for when your mum phones the police."

"Mummy won't. She won't dare."

"I wouldn't take odds on that." He turned up the collar of his jacket. He looked at her earnestly. "You okay here, then?"

She felt her heart warm. "Okay."

"Don't mind sleeping rough tonight?"

"Not so long as I'm sleeping with you."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

OLIN ATE HIS TEA AT THE kitchen sink. Sardines on toast, with the oil slipping through his fingers and splatting onto the potscarred porcelain. He didn't feel hungry in the least, but he'd been light-headed and weak in the limbs for the past thirty minutes. Food seemed the obvious solution.

He'd made his walk back to the village along the c.l.i.theroe Road, which was closer to the lodge than was the Cotes Fell footpath. His pace was brisk. He told himself that a need to avenge was what drove him so rapidly onwards. He kept repeating her name in his head as he walked: Annie, Annie, Annie my girl. It was a way to avoid hearing the words love and death three times pulse with the blood in his skull. By the time he reached his house, he was hot in the chest but ice to the bone in his hands and feet. He could hear his heart's erratic thumping inside his eardrums, and his lungs couldn't seem to get enough air. He ignored the symptoms for a good three hours but when there was no improvement, he decided to eat. Teatime, he thought in irrational response to his body's behaviour, that'll take care of it, must have a bite to eat.

He washed down the fish with three bottles of Watney's, drinking the first one while the bread was toasting. He pitched the bottle into the rubbish and opened another as he rooted in the cupboard for the sardines. The tin gave him trouble. Curling the metal lid round the key required a steadiness that he wasn't able to muster. He got it halfway unrolled when his fingers slipped and the sharp edge of the top sliced into his hand. Blood spurted out. It mixed with the fish oil, started to sink, then formed perfect small beads that floated like scarlet lures for the fish. He felt no pain. He wrapped his hand in a tea towel, used the end of it to sop the blood off the surface of the oil, and tilted the beer bottle up to his mouth with the hand that was free.

When the toast was ready, he dug the fish from the tin with his fingers. He lined them up on the bread. He added salt and pepper and a thick slice of onion. He began to eat.

There was no particular taste or smell to it, which he found rather odd because he could distinctly remember how his wife once complained about the scent of sardines. Makes my eyes water, she would say, that fish smell in the air, Col, it makes my stomach go peculiar.

Her cat clock ticked on the wall above the AGA, wagging its tail and moving its eyes. It seemed to be repeating her name with the sound of its clicking wheels and gears: No longer tick-tock but An-nie, An-nie, Annie, it said. Colin concentrated intently on this. Just like the rhythm of his earlier footsteps, the repet.i.tion of her name drove other thoughts away.

He used the third beer to clear his mouth of the fish that he couldn't taste. Then he poured a small whisky and drank that down in two swallows to try to bring back feeling to his limbs. But still he couldn't quite vanquish the cold. This caused him confusion because the furnace was on, he still wore his heavy jacket, and by all rights he should have been soaking in sweat.

Which he was, in a manner of speaking. His face was so fiery that his skin was throbbing. But the rest of him trembled like a birch in the wind. He drank another whisky. He moved from the sink to the kitchen window. He looked across to the vicar's house.

And then he heard it again, as distinctly as if Rita were standing directly behind him. Love and death three times. The words were so clear that he swung round with a cry which he strangled the instant he saw that he was alone. He cursed aloud. The sodding words meant nothing. They were merely a stimulus of the sort used by every palm-reader in the world, giving you a small piece of a nonexistent life jigsaw and whetting your incipient desire to have more.

Love and death three times needed no elucidation from anyone as far as Colin was concerned. It translated to pounds and pence each week, hard-earned coins pressed into the palm of the palmist by dried-up spinsters, naive housewives, and lonely widows, all seeking meaningless rea.s.surance that their lives weren't as futile as they appeared to be.

He turned back to the window. Across his drive, across the vicar's, the other house watched him in return. Polly was within, as she had continued to be in the weeks since Robin Sage's death. She was no doubt doing what she always did-scrubbing, polishing, dusting, and waxing in a fervent display of her utility. But that wasn't all, as he finally understood. For Polly was also biding her time, patiently waiting for the moment when Juliet Spence's blind need to take blame resulted in her incarceration. While Juliet in gaol wasn't quite the same as Juliet dead, it was better than nothing. And Polly was too clever in her ways to make another attempt on Juliet's life.

Colin wasn't a religious man. He'd given up on G.o.d during the second year of Annie's dying. Still, he had to acknowledge that the hand of a greater power than his own had been active in the Cotes Hall cottage on that night in December when the vicar had died. By all rights, it should have been Juliet eating alone in the vicar's place. And if it had been, the coroner would have affixed the label accidental poisoning/self-administered to her dying, with no one wise to the manner in which that convenient accident had been brought about.

She would have rushed in to minister to his grief, would have Polly. More than anyone he knew, she excelled at sympathy and fellow-feeling.

Roughly, he rubbed his hands clean of sardine oil and used two plasters to cover the cut. He paused to pour himself one more swallow of whisky which he gulped down before heading out the door.

b.i.t.c.h, he thought. Love and death three times.

She didn't come to the door when he knocked, so he pressed his finger to the bell and held it. He took some satisfaction from the shrill jangle it made. The sound grated on the nerves.

The inner door opened. He could see her form, behind the opaque gla.s.s. Top-heavy and inflated by too many garments, she looked like a miniature of her mother. He heard her say, "Glory. Get off the bell, will you," and she yanked the door open, ready to speak.

She didn't, when she saw him. Instead, she looked beyond him to his house, and he wondered if she'd been watching as usual, if she'd stepped away from the window for a moment and thus missed his approach. She'd missed little else in the past few years.

He didn't wait for her to ask him in. He squeezed past her. She shut both the outer and the inner doors behind him.

He followed the narrow corridor to the right and walked straight along to the sitting room. She'd been working in here. The furniture gleamed. A tin of beeswax, a bottle of lemon oil, and a box of rags sat in front of an empty bookshelf. There wasn't a trace of dust anywhere. The carpet was vacuumed. The lace window curtains hung crisp and clean.

He turned to face her, unzipping his jacket. She stood awkwardly in the doorway-the sole of one sock-clad foot pressed to the other's ankle, the toes moving in an unconscious scratch-and she followed his movements with her eyes. He threw his jacket on the sofa. It fell just short and slid to the floor. She moved towards it, eager to put everything in its rightful place. Just doing her job, was Polly.

"Leave it be."

She stopped. Her fingers gripped the ribbing on the bottom edge of her bulky, brown pullover. It hung, loose and misshapen, to her hips.

Her lips parted when he began to unb.u.t.ton his shirt. He saw her catch her tongue between her teeth. He knew well enough what she was thinking and wanting, and he took a distinctly gut-warming pleasure from the knowledge that he was about to disappoint her. He drew out the book from against his stomach and flipped it to the floor between them. She didn't look at it immediately. Instead, her fingers moved from her pullover to grasp the folds of the insubstantial gypsy skirt hanging unevenly beneath it. Its colours-bright red, gold, and green-caught the light of a floor lamp standing next to the sofa.

"Yours?" he said.

Alchemical Magic: Herbs, Spices, and Plants. He saw her lips form the first two words.

She said, "Glory. Where'd you get that ol' thing?" sounding all the world full of curious confusion and nothing more.

"Where you left it."

"Where I-?" Her gaze moved from the book to him. "Col, what're you about?"

Col. He felt his hand tremble with the need to strike. Her show of guilelessness seemed less of an outrage than did the familiarity implied by her saying that name.

"Is it yours?"

"Was. I mean I s'pose it still is. Except I haven't seen it for ages."

"I'd expect that," he said. "It was well enough out of sight,"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Behind the cistern."

The light flickered in the lamp, a bulb going bad. It made a tiny hissing sound and went out, inviting the day's exterior gloom to seep past the lace curtains. Polly didn't react, didn't seem to notice. She appeared to be mulling over his words.

He said, "You would have been wiser to throw it away. Like the tools."

"Tools?"

"Or did you use hers?"

"Whose tools? What're you about here, Colin?" Her voice was wary. She inched away from him so subtly that he might not have noticed had he not been antic.i.p.ating every sign of her guilt. Her fingers even stopped themselves in the midst of flexing. He found that of interest. She knew better than to allow them to fist.

"Or perhaps you didn't use any tools at all. Perhaps you loosened the plant-gently, you know how I mean, you know how to do it- and then lifted it from the soil, root and all. Is that what you did? Because you'd know the plant, wouldn't you, you'd recognise it just as well as she'd do."

"This is about Missus Spence." She spoke slowly, as if to herself, and she didn't appear to be seeing him although she was looking in his direction.

"How often do you use the footpath?"

"Which one?"

"Don't play games with me. You know why I'm here. You didn't expect it. And Juliet's taking the blame made it unlikely that anyone would ever come looking for you. But I've smoked you out, and I want the truth. How often do you use the footpath?"

"You're mad." She managed to put another inch between them. Her back was to the door, and she was clever enough to know that a glance over her shoulder would announce her intentions and give him the advantage which she currently seemed to believe was hers.

"Once a month at least, I should guess," he said. "Is that right? Doesn't the ritual have more power if it's performed when the moon is full? And isn't the power more potent if the ritual takes place in the direct light of that moon? And isn't it true that communication with the G.o.ddess is more profound if you perform the ritual on a holy site? Like the top of Cotes Fell?"

"You know I worship on the top of Cotes Fell. I make no secret of that."

"But you've other secrets, haven't you? Here. In this book."

"I haven't." Her voice was weak. She seemed to realise what weakness implied, because she roused herself to say, "And you're frightening me, you are, Colin Shepherd," with an edge of defi ance.

"I was up there today."

"Where?"

"Cotes Fell. The summit. I hadn't been in years, not since before Annie. I'd forgotten how well you can see from there, Polly, and what you can see."

"I go there to worship. That's all and you know it." She put another inch between them, saying more quickly, "I burned the laurel for Annie. I let the candle melt down. I used cloves. I prayed-"

"And she died. That very night. How convenient."

"No!"

"During the harvest moon, while you prayed on Cotes Fell. And before you prayed, you brought her soup to drink. Do you remember that? You called it your special soup. You said to make sure she ate every bit."

"It was only vegetables, for both of you. What're you thinking? I had some myself. It wasn't-"

"Did you know that plants are most potent when the moon is full? The book says that. You must harvest them then, no matter what part you want, even the root."

"I don't use plants that way. No one does in the Craft. It's not about evil. You know that. P'rhaps we find herbs for incense, yes, but that's all. Incense. For part of the ritual."

"It's all in the book. What to use for revenge, what will alter the mind, what to use for poison. I've read it."

"No!"

"And the book was behind the cistern where you've kept it hidden...how long has it been?"

"It wasn't hidden. If it was there, it just fell. There was lots of things on the cistern, wasn't there? A whole stack of books and magazines. I didn't hide this-" She touched it with her toe and withdrew, gaining yet another inch of distance from him. "I didn't hide a thing."

"What about Capricorn, Polly?"

That stopped her cold. She repeated the word without making a sound. He could see the panic beginning to take hold of her as he forced her closer and closer to the truth. She was like a rogue dog when at last it's cornered. He could feel her spine stiffening and her legs wanting to splay.

"Hemlock's strength is in Capricorn," he said.

Her tongue whisked across her lower lip. Fear was a scent on her, sour and strong.

"The twenty-second of December," he said.

"What about it?"

"You know."

"I don't. Colin, I don't."

"The first day of Capricorn. The night the vicar died."

"This is-"

"And one thing more. The moon was full that night. And the night before. So it all fits together. You had the instructions, your how-to for murder, printed in the book: dig the root out when the plant is dormant; know its strength is in Capricorn; know it's deadly poison; know it's most potent when the moon is full. Shall I read it all for you? Or would you prefer to read it yourself? Look under H in the index. For hemlock."

"No! She put you up to this, didn't she? Missus Spence. I c'n see it on your face as big as c'n be. She said go see that Polly, go ask her what she knows, go ask her where she's been. And she left it to you to think up the rest. That's how it is, isn't it? Isn't it, Colin?"

"Don't even say her name."

"Oh, I'll say it all right. I'll say it and more." She stooped and s.n.a.t.c.hed the book from the floor. "Yes, it's mine. Yes, I bought it. I used it as well. And she knows that-d.a.m.n her- because I was fool enough once-more'n two years back when she first came to Winslough- to ask her about making a tincture from bryony. And more the fool I was, I even told her why." She shook the book at him. "Love, Colin Shepherd. Bryony's for love. So's apple in a charm. Here, want to see?" She flipped a silver chain from beneath her pullover. A small globe hung from it, its surface filigree. She yanked it from her neck and threw it to the floor where it bounced against his foot. He could see the dried bits of the fruit inside. "And aloe for sachets and benzoins for perfume. And cinquefoil for a potion that you wouldn't ever drink. It's all in the book, with everything else. But you only see what you want to see, don't you? That's the way it is now. That's the way it's always been. Even with Annie."

"I won't talk about Annie with you."

"Oh, won't you? AnnieAnnieAnnie with a halo on her head. I'll talk about her just as much as I want because I know what it was like. I was there just like you. And she wasn't a saint. She wasn't a n.o.ble patient suffering in silence with you sitting at the bedside, putting flannels on her brow. That wasn't how it was."

He took a step towards her. She held her ground.

"Annie said, Go ahead, Col, you take care of yourself, my precious love. And she never let you forget it when you did."

"She never said-"

"She didn't need to say. Why won't you see it? She lay in her bed with all the lights off. She said, I was too ill to reach for the lamp. She said, I thought I would die today, Col, but it's all right now because you're home and you're not to worry a jot about me. She said, I understand why you need a woman, my love, you do what you must do and don't think about me in this house, in this room, in this bed. Without you."

"That's not how it was."

"And when the pain was bad, she didn't lie there like a martyr. Don't you remember? She screamed. She cursed you. She cursed the doctors. She threw things at the wall. And when it was worst, she said, You did this to me, you made me rot, and I'm dying and I hate you, I hate you, I wish you were dying instead."