‘It’s all right ... you’ll be all right. You’re safe, Tim. Do you understand me?’ He paused and Tim’s eyes rolled wildly as if searching every shadowy, reeking corner of the room. ‘There’s no one here. No one will hurt you. Can’t you tell me what you’re frightened of?’ This time he paused for much longer, stroking Tim’s burning forehead with his free hand. ‘He wouldn’t like to see you like this.’
At these words, gently spoken though they were, Tim gave forth a series of desolate strangled hiccups. Arno, full of concern for the boy and paralysed at his own inability to comfort, despaired. ‘You’re not worried about the future, are you? I tried to explain yesterday that May and I have the house now. We’ll always look after you. The Master left you in our care. He loved you Tim ...’
‘Do you not think, Arno,’ May’s voice recalled him to the present, ‘that we should perhaps talk to someone at the hospital?’
Ken and Heather looked at each other in open-mouthed consternation. Never did they expect to hear such a renegade phrase beneath the Windhorse roof. Every allopathic remedy from the mildest analgesic to major life-sustaining surgery was regarded with equal and grave suspicion. They had both been devastated yesterday when news of the Master’s terminal illness and the treatment he had been receiving was revealed. Even now they could hardly believe that he had deliberately turned his back on the embarrassment of restoratives available in his own home.
‘I feel if we do that, May,’ replied Arno, pained that for the first time ever he was about to disagree with his heart’s delight, ‘he will feel betrayed. And might never trust us again.’
‘I understand,’ said May. ‘And I hate to ask for professional help. But we can’t just leave him up there. Oh - if only the Master were here.’
‘He will earth again, May,’ called Ken from his home on the range.
But the words seemed to shrivel on the air and offer no comfort.
Meanwhile, directly above their heads, Janet was curled up on the padded window-seat. She had withdrawn the blue envelope from her pocket and turned it face upwards with trembling fingers. A second-class stamp. A Slough postmark. Masculine writing (of course it would be), yet not an especially strong hand. Why, then, was she so sure? Was she simply projecting her own jealousy and resentment?
Maybe she was wrong. Perhaps the letter (perhaps all the letters) came from Trixie’s mother or sister. Or a girlfriend. But whoever it was must be quite close otherwise why write so frequently? And given this closeness, there was surely a pretty good chance that they knew where she had gone. Janet began to pick at the flap then stopped.
What if - being such a regular correspondent - no need had been felt to include an address. In that case she would have violated Trixie’s privacy for nothing. Because of course that could be the only legitimate reason for opening the envelope. To contact Trixie and persuade her to return. She must know that, as witness to a murder, she’d be in trouble running away. For all Janet knew, the police had already sent out a description. Surely it was her duty as a friend to find Trixie and persuade her to return? Naturally she would not read the letter. She tore at the flap and pulled out a single sheet of paper.
Dearest Trix, You won’t believe this - I can hardly believe it myself - but Hedda’s gone. It’s true. Ring or just come. Love oh! love V.
Janet slammed the sheet of paper writing-side down upon her knee. She felt cold with shock. And a terrible concentrated desolation.
So that’s why Trixie had run away. To be with this man - this V - who had ill-treated her before and was no doubt at this very moment doing so again. Janet had read about women who kept returning to husbands who knocked them about. Such behaviour had always seemed to her totally incomprehensible. No one had ever hit Janet and she was sure if they did she would walk right away and never look back.
She recalled the day Trixie arrived. She’d had terrible bruises on the side of her jaw and, on her neck, fierce red nail-marks. Thinking of it, Janet gave a shudder, a single involuntary jerking of trunk and limbs, after which she sat quietly for a long time.
But eventually, with great reluctance, as if forcing her gaze upon some unpleasant scene of despoilment, she looked again at the sheet of paper. There was a brief address. Seventeen Waterhouse. Presumably in Slough to match the postmark. If it isn’t, thought Janet, I’m lost. And even if it is there’s not a lot to go on. No street, road, drive or crescent. No villa, avenue or close. The post office might be able to help.
Janet made herself read the note over and over again, working on the principle that any word or series of words if studied, or spoken aloud for long enough, loses all meaning. And thus the power to wound. She couldn’t honestly say this was entirely the case here. Sharp pinpoints of distress still penetrated and a single thrill of jealousy but, eventually, although her hand had not quite stopped quivering, she began to feel a little calmer. And, with the slow curling away of that first swamping pain, rationality returned.
For instance - why should she take it for granted that ‘V’ was male? True, Trixie (or, more vulgarly, Trix) was the writer’s ‘dearest’ but what did that signify? Strong affection was all. No reason to assume a romantic interest. Same with the concluding form. Who didn’t sign their letters ‘love’ these days. Even to mere acquaintances. Of course there was that rather fervid repetition, but that could simply mean the writer had an enthusiastic nature.
The more Janet thought about this, the more likely it seemed. As for the obviously foreign Hedda, she was probably an au pair living in the house - with whom Trixie had not got on. Now she had left, it was OK to go home.
It was not until that moment, after all her angst-ridden reasoning, that Janet saw how stupid she was being. For of course Trixie had gone before the letter arrived. The two things could not possibly be connected.
About to scrunch up the paper, she checked herself. Nothing had changed in one important respect. V, even if not actually sheltering Trixie, would probably know where she might be found. So the next step must be to ring Slough Post Office and seek out a more detailed address.
Janet got up. Doing something, she immediately felt better. To her surprise she also felt hungry. She took an orange from her fruit bowl and set out to find an unattended phone.
‘Where’s the Indy?’
‘I’m sitting on it.’
‘God, you’re mean!’
‘That’s right.’
In the corner of the Barnabys’ kitchen the washing machine clicked and swooshed and swirled. When Cully was home it was on, and usually full, every day. A smell of frying bacon and coffee mingled with the scent of summer jasmine, a great swag of which hung over the open window. It had been a close night and the air was oppressive and still.
‘It’s not as if you’re going to read it. You’re just thinking about the case. Isn’t he, Ma?’
‘Yes.’ Joyce turned the bacon with a fish slice.
‘So who is it?’
‘Who’s what?’
‘The man in the black hat.’
‘Don’t know.’
‘Pooh. Three whole days and don’t know.’
‘Watch it,’ said her mother. ‘He’s big but he’s fast.’
‘It sounds really weird, this Windhorse. Do they dance starkers under the moon? I bet they’re all having it off. They do in covens.’