Within half an hour of Barnaby and Troy leaving the hospital, the news of a murderous attack on Ann Lawrence was all round the village. Not much later the dreadful details also became available via Connie Dale, the postmistress, whose daughter was a nurse in the geriatric ward.
Ferne Basset’s reaction this time was very different to its response when Charlie Leathers was killed. Morbid relish was replaced by genuine distress, for most of the villagers had known Ann since she was a little girl. Known and liked her for her gentle, inoffensive ways and unobtrusive kindness. Many remarks were made along the lines of “Thank God her father isn’t here today”, and “Her poor mother must be turning in her grave”. People wondered aloud how on earth the Reverend would manage.
It would be hard to pinpoint just when the precise situation at the Old Rectory became common knowledge. Either someone called at the house and was rebuffed. Or concerned inquiries, made by telephone, were handled in a strange and deeply unsatisfactory manner. One or two people were simply cut off. Another was answered by a stranger’s voice. Having promised to fetch Mr Lawrence, the phone was laid down and no one returned to pick it up although the caller could overhear masculine voices and loud laughter. Later it was discovered that the Reverend had not even visited the hospital where his wife lay at death’s door.
Hearing this, Hetty Leathers was deeply upset. She wanted very much to be there if only so that Mrs Lawrence knew there was at least one person who cared. Pauline’s husband Alan was standing by to drive her to Stoke Mandeville but the ward sister, once she had discovered Hetty was not a close relative, said there was really little point as things were at the moment. So Hetty picked a large bunch of flowers and branches of autumn leaves that Mrs Lawrence loved and Alan drove in and left it at reception with a card from all of them.
That evening Evadne fed the Pekes, gave them a drink, read a story (Laka - the Timberwolf ) till they were settled then made her concerned way to Hetty’s bungalow.
The night was cool and the Rayburn was glowing, transforming the kitchen into a snug little cave. Candy, without her plastic collar and elastic bandage but still in plaster, rocked and staggered happily towards Evadne, licking her hand and barking.
‘How’s our small miracle?’ said Evadne, sitting in the rocker and accepting a glass of Lucozade.
‘So much better,’ said Hetty, taking the shabby fireside chair opposite her friend. ‘It’s wonderful to see her gradually becoming less timid. Although we haven’t been out for a proper walk yet.’
‘That will be the test, I’ve no doubt.’
They sat for a few moments in companionable silence. The silence lengthened and the longer it lasted, the more impossible it seemed that either would wish to speak. For there was only one possible subject of conversation and who would want to talk about that? But it could not be contained for ever.
Suddenly Hetty burst out, ‘It was Charlie! Ever since he was ... that’s when it started. What’s going on, Evadne? What’s behind it all?’
‘My dear, I wish I knew.’
‘First him, now poor Mrs Lawrence. I’ve never heard that women say an unkind word about a living soul. And now she’s ...’
‘There, Hetty.’ Evadne reached out and took her friend’s hand. ‘We must pray for another miracle.’
‘But it’s so frightening. What will happen next? I feel we’re gradually being pushed towards the edge of a great black hole.’
Evadne could not have expressed it better or - given the fearful accuracy of the image - worse, herself. She knew exactly what Hetty meant.
Like most people in Ferne Basset, she had been convinced that the murder of Hetty’s husband had been a random act of violence. Probably committed by some deranged soul mistakenly released from a mental institution before his time. The man had been asleep in Carter’s Wood. Charlie had stumbled over him and, enraged and terrified, the lunatic had sprung up, killed him and run away. Understandable, inasmuch as madness ever is. That had been the going theory and everyone had accepted it with alacrity and not a little relief.
And now this. But wasn’t the attack on Ann Lawrence also random? Someone had suggested it was a bag-snatcher. And miles away from Ferne Basset. So didn’t that, once more, put the village in the clear?
Evadne realised she was regarding the place where she had been so happy for so long almost as a character in a story. A clear and sunlit haven, beautiful in all its seasons, sustaining and secure when the tale begins then gradually, as the narrative becomes more opaque, tangled and disquieting, so the village, too, becomes transformed into a wilderness full of unknown dangers. They truly had awoken to find themselves in a dark wood, where the right road was wholly lost and gone.
‘What’s that, Evadne?’
‘Oh ...’ She had not realised she was murmuring aloud. ‘A line from a poem which seems to sum up our predicament.’
Hetty gave the impression of taking a deep breath. Then she said, ‘There is something I haven’t told you.’
‘What’s that, Hetty?’
‘Pauline knows but the police don’t seem to have made it public so ...’
‘You know I never repeat anything.’
‘Apparently Charlie was trying to blackmail someone.’
‘Oh!’ Evadne went very pale. ‘And they think that was the motive?’
‘Yes.’
‘So it was someone he knew?’
‘Not just someone he knew, Evadne ...’ Hetty was trembling, shaking from the crown of her head to her shabby, slippered feet while Candy quivered in sympathy. ‘Don’t you see, it must be someone we all know.’
When the news about Ann Lawrence reached the Fainlights, they were pussyfooting around each other with great caution, determinedly avoiding a quarrel.
About an hour earlier Valentine had returned from Jackson’s flat and disappeared into his room to work. While she sat nervously waiting for him to re-emerge, Louise had vowed to behave with nothing but supportive, loving, uncritical kindness. She would keep this up until the moment she left the house. And for ever after. She and Val would not be divided. He would not divide them.
And, after all, everything passes. Louise took this stark consolation to her heart as she spent the next half-hour alternately tormenting and comforting herself by wondering how this wretched union would eventually be severed.
Perhaps Jax would simply get bored. No, she was quite sure that feelings of either interest or boredom were simply not relevant as far as this affair was concerned. He could be bored to tears but as long as there was something to be gained from the relationship, it would continue. Valentine might hope that he was a special person to Jax but Louise was sure that the great cold landscape of the boy’s heart was impregnable. The only special person in Jax’s life was himself.
Neither could she imagine Valentine getting bored with Jax. One did not tire of an obsession. It burned itself out or it burned you out. For the same reason it was impossible to picture Val falling in love with another person.
Fleetingly Louise remembered how happy her brother had been during his years with Bruno Magellan. So distraught was Val for months after his partner’s death, endlessly reliving all their earlier joys and pleasures while sliding further and further into a pit of depression, she had despaired of ever seeing him find the will, energy or courage to start another relationship. And then, after months of slowly struggling back into the light, to be seized by a passion so sterile and reckless it appeared to be hurling him once more into the depths of despair was heartbreaking.