There were signs people had come. Great marks were gouged in the gravel path. Several bushes were crushed. A fire engine, probably. Foot hollows in the grass were filled with rainwater already. A small crowd of well-wishers, half disappointed at not seeing Lovejoy crisped, the rest busy speculating which bird it was that had luckily seduced me away from the danger. Friendship's a great restorative.
The idea of a telephone seemed bizarre. You just pick up the receiver, dial, and have a perfectly normal conversation with whoever's at the other end. After a night such as I'd spent? I'd heard somewhere that people rescued from bizarre episodes full of danger—like sailors on a raft for days—weren't allowed back to normal life immediately but were put into solitude until the idea of rescue became a tangible reality. Maybe human brains can't accept too much relief all at one go. Not knowing if I was doing right or not, I compelled myself to sit there beneath the darkening hedge watching the ruins smolder, trying to keep my relief from dominating my thoughts.
The proper thing to do would be to walk through the gathering dusk to the policeman's house. It was only about a half-mile. Nobody would see what a state I was in. He might lend me some clothes. I was wearing socks, shoes, trousers, and a shirt, all filthy and torn. Caked as I was with grime, ashes, and dried blood, I couldn't be a pretty sight, cut and blistered. Or perhaps the telephone booth? Our one public phone was always lit and stood by the village pond in front of the Queen's Head. We have no street lamps, but the place was too prominent.
After some two hours or so tasting fresh damp air, I rose creakily, holding on to the hedge to keep myself upright. It proved difficult even to walk, to my surprise. I kept to the verge of the gravel path so as to make no noise and examined the lane before limping quickly across, carrying the two-barreled pistol now at full cock should my premonitions let me down.
My neighbor has two cottages knocked into one and extended to the rear. Like me he has a curving gravel path up to the front. I ignored this and crept slowly through his garden to the rear of the house. To help in harvesting his apple trees, he has two extending ladders in an open shed there. I laboriously carried one to the house and climbed to an upstairs window. Anybody can get in modern catch windows. Within minutes I was blundering about downstairs in the darkness and on the phone.
I dialed Margaret. Mercifully she was in.
"Thank God!"
"What's He done to earn gratitude?" I snapped. "Look. Have you your car?"
"Yes. Did you know—?" she began.
"I know. I'm still in it."
"What?"
"Come and get me, please." I rang off.
I'd cleared away any trace of my trespass in the house as best I could and was back in the shelter of my own hedge by the time her Morris approached. Funny how bright the headlights seemed.
"Lovejoy?" Her voice was almost a scream as she slithered to a halt on the gravel. The cottage really did look like something from a nightmare.
"Here."
I stepped from the hedge and she really did scream before I could calm her.
"It's only me, Margaret."
"My God! Are you—?"
"Sorry about the fancy dress," I said wearily. "Calm down."
"What's happened to you? The police phoned me. I came around. We've looked everywhere. The fire brigade was here. It was terrible. Somebody said you'd gone off with—"
"Turn the headlights off, there's a good girl."
With her help I got in and leaned back feeling almost safe. She slid behind the wheel. I could see her white face in the dashboard's glow.
"Shouldn't I phone Geoffrey, or—"
"Disturb him at this hour?" She didn't miss the bitterness.
"I'll take you around to the doctor's."
"No," I snapped. "Are you on your own at home?" She nodded. "Then can I come there, to clean up?"
"Yes." She started the engine and backed us down to the lane. "Did you manage to save anything?"
"One thing." I said, lying back, eyes closed. "Me."
Bathed and in some clothes Margaret happened to have handy—perhaps from the estranged husband—I examined myself in the bathroom mirror. I'd have been wiser to stay filthy. My face was cut in a dozen places. An enormous bruise protruded from my temple. My left eye was black, a beautiful shiner. I'd lost a tooth. My hands were blistered balloons.
She gave me a razor to shave with, a messy job with more blood than whiskers.
"Your husband's?" I asked.
"Mind your own business," she said.
She made a light meal and I went to sleep on her couch with the television on. I couldn't get enough of normality. She sat in an armchair close by to watch the play.
"Let me take that."
I hugged the Nock close and refused to give it to her. "I'm, trying to make the pair," I said, a standard antique dealer's joke.
She didn't smile.
Chapter 17
The day dawned bright and brittle. For an hour I could hardly move a joint and tottered about Margaret's house like a kitten. A bath loosened me up. I felt relatively fresh after that. Just as well, I thought, as it was going to be a hard week.
The telephone rang about eleven, Tinker Dill asking if I'd been located. I told Margaret to say I'd gone to London for a couple of days with a friend. She didn't like this but went along with it. The story was that the post girl had seen the cottage afire. She'd called the police, the fire brigade, and an ambulance —a thorough girl. I made Margaret ring Dandy Jack to say she wouldn't be in to the arcade for a few days and to let prospective customers know she'd be back soon.
I also got her to ring Muriel and say there'd been an accident of some description. She told her about the cottage and what she'd heard over the phone. Muriel seemed dismayed, Margaret reported to me. Real tears, as far as one could judge.
"Well, some people love me anyway," I cracked, leering with my gappy grin.
"God knows why," she said.
They gave me a column and a picture—of the burned cottage, not me—in the local paper on Tuesday evening. Police, it said, were making inquiries. Arson could not be ruled out. My own whereabouts were not known, but speculation was that, in the throes of a depressive illness, I had accidentally started a fire and died, or else I was staying with friends. It was made to sound fifty-fifty, and who cared anyway. Too bloody casual by far. The ruins were being searched for clues. It was widely known that I was mentally disturbed after the unfortunate accidental death of a close friend. By Thursday I was written off from public awareness, which suited me. The local paper went back to the more important foot-and-mouth disease. On Friday I asked Margaret to take me for an evening drive.
I felt absolutely calm. The Nock just fitted the glove compartment, wrapped in a dry duster to prevent scratches. All anxieties and fears vanished in the calm that certainty brings.
Margaret had been marvelous during the week. We'd chatted about antiques and I'd been pleasantly surprised at how stable my thoughts were, and how I enjoyed her company. She'd taken the full account of my escapades at the cottage quite well. The only point where I differed from the truth was the invention of a hidden tunnel beneath the sink out to the back of the copse. After all, the honor among dealers is bendable, and my remaining stuff was still down there. I'd partly paid my keep by authenticating some musical seals of about 1790 for her, lovely they were too.
"You're not going to do anything silly, Lovejoy?" she asked as she drove.
"People keep asking me that."
"And what do you answer?"
"Women do keep on, don't they?" I grumbled.
"I'm waiting, Lovejoy."
"Of course I won't do anything silly."