The chiming clock struck four-thirty, which meant the village shop was still open. Suddenly in a hurry, I collected some money and rushed out to the car, remembering and cursing the locks and alarms for holding me up. I made it with about five minutes to spare. Mrs. Weddell judged me with an expert eye to list any grim details about me suggesting further decadence, but I wasn't having any. Knowing the dour insistence of the Essex villager upon gossip of the most doom-ridden kind, I gave her a ten-watt beam of exuberance and demanded information about her health. That put her off her stride. She was rather sad I wasn't at death's door and became quite miserable when I kept smiling. Added to that I bought enough provisions to feed a battalion and managed to find the right change with many a quip and merry jest, which was one more in her eye. "I've decided that a plump man's a happy one, Mrs. Weddell," I told her. "I'm going to put some pounds on." Exit laughing.
One of the hardest things I've ever done was to drive up to the cottage and not search the copse for the intruder. Whistling flat and nonchalantly, I unloaded the three carrier bags, making myself do it one bag at a time and deliberately controlling the urge to sneak a glance.
The night fell quicker than I'd realized that evening. I couldn't help leaving the curtains alone just to get a good look in the direction of the thicket without risk to myself, but finally had to draw them to keep things seeming normal. I sat with the telly and radio silent all evening, listening, and made a supper by the quietest possible means, though I'd usually have a noisy fry-up. A million times I heard somebody outside. Worse, a million times I didn't hear anything at all. It reminded me of the story about the students' hostel where a studious lad had complained of his neighbor who entertained a girl friend in the next room: "It's not the noise, it's the silences I can't stand!"
The distance across the grass grew shorter in my imagination. You could shoot somebody with fair ease from the cover provided by the bushes, especially if killing was getting to be a habit and you had the unique advantage of possessing a priceless flintlock that could kill without leaving the slightest trace of evidence. Still, no matter what else he tried I was fairly secure. I had enough food, milk, and water to last well over a week, and there was always the phone.
And the loaded Mortimers, waiting patiently and still motionless beneath the flagstone floor.
The phone suddenly rang, making me jump a mile. It was Margaret. She'd heard I was on the mend and chatted a full minute about antiques real and imaginary. It was kind of her and I urged her to ring again when finally we'd run out of things to say.
"I miss you around the arcade," she said. "Are you really better, Lovejoy?"
"Yes, love," I said. "Thanks. I appreciate the phone call."
"Pop around here whenever you want." She lives at Fordleigh. I promised I would, but I wanted friends checking up on me to make sure I was in the pink, not invitations to go visiting. I invented a couple of false promises to entice Adrian, Tinker, and Harry to phone in, knowing Margaret would pass the messages on.
The rest of the night was quite uneventful.
I only wish I'd rested and harbored my strength.
Chapter 14
I didn't sleep a wink. Long before dawn I was up being brave. Today was going to be my round of people. Today the old debonair impeccable Lovejoy would hit the road as politicians do to show how young and thrusting they actually are behind that comfortable rotund shape. It was really something of a confidence trick, but I was going through with it anyway. The night had taught me how alone I was.
Further reflection had increased my nervousness. Despite having the phone and living so near other people, there was one major problem. Whereas I didn't know who'd killed Sheila, the murderer certainly knew who I was. Collecting's a small world. Sooner or later I would come across him, and whether I recognized him or not was irrelevant. The risk I represented was still there.
I drove to George Field's house and collected the replies to his advertisement, some twenty replies, with one catalogue from an overseas dealer casting bread hopefully on distant waters. The ones Field thought most likely turned out dud. Disappointed, I promised to read them with enthusiasm and left.
Muriel Field was next. I enjoyed the drive, but exactly how many times I caught myself looking carefully into the rearview mirror I'll never know. The one blue scooter I did see turned out to be ridden by a district nurse. She's probably wondering yet why a complete stranger gave her a glare for nothing when she was in the opposite lane. I didn't recover for miles.
Muriel was glad to see me. I honestly mean that, really pleased. That whole morning was brilliant; every cloud seemed effervescent and the sky a deeper blue than it had ever been. She was radiant, dressed maybe somewhat younger than her age, and looked as though the party was soon to begin. The difference between the anxious, hesitant woman she'd been some weeks before and the scintillating beauty I now saw was remarkable. I was coerced into drinking coffee.
"If that heron keeps its distance," I warned.
She laughed. "I promise I'll protect you."
We sat on the patio and made small talk while a crone fetched coffee, Sheffield plate of some distinction, and Spode. The sugar bowl's fluted design didn't quite match but could be passed off as the right thing with luck in a nooky antique shop. My pleasure made me careless.
"I'll remember you above everything else for elegance," I said playfully, and saw her face change.
"Don't talk like that."
"It was a compliment."
"It sounded… so final."
"A joke," I said.
She wouldn't be appeased and set about pouring for us both. "Everything needn't be bad or sad." I felt out of my depth and said so. "I just don't like it when people talk about going away or changing things," she said. "It happens too often without anyone wanting it."
"I was only admiring your coffee set. It would have been terrible if you'd spoiled the effect with a spoon made out of Georgian silver coins." I took my cup and stirred. "Have I put my foot in it?"
"No." She shook her hair, head back and face toward the air as they do.
"I'll be careful in future." That was better. She raised her cup to toast me.
I asked about her upbringing. As she talked I absorbed security and ease all around. No chance of being spied on here, with the two loyal gardeners busy interrupting plants and keeping an eye on the mistress. Inside the house stalwart ancient ladies —infinitely more formidable than any gardeners—creaked and bustled vigilantly. So many things came down to money. Wealth is safety. Muriel chatted on about her father, her many aunts, her mother's concern with spiritualism ("But, then, it was all the fashion in her day, wasn't it?"), and her inherited wealth. Husband Eric had been as wealthy as she, it appeared, when they met.
"Will you stay on here, Muriel?" I asked.
She glanced away. "It depends."
"On …?"
"Oh, just things." Her vagueness was deliberate, yet there was a hint of a reflective smile in her expression. Oh-ho. I began to ask about Eric.
Society's cynicism clouds our minds sometimes. When a younger woman marries or cohabits with a much older man, it's supposed to be only for money. Conversely, when an old woman takes up with a much younger man, she's blamed for wanting physical gratification and is condemned on those grounds. This is one of the few occasions women come off worst. Society says they're cheap chiselers or sex-crazed. On the other hand the old chap's regarded as a sly old dog, and the young chap's seen simply as having just struck lucky getting sex and a steady income together in one parcel, as it were. So as Muriel chatted happily on about her elderly husband, I found my treacherous mind wondering what possible motive she'd dreamed up for marrying Eric Field in the first place. Naturally under the influence of Muriel's undoubted attractiveness and charm I was stern with myself and forced these unbecoming suspicions out as best I could.