Honoria grabbed the neck of Amy’s sweater, bunching it up, pushed Amy through the window opening and half across the sill. Amy threw up her arms and gripped the sash, digging her nails into the wood. Honoria stopped pushing and began to prise loose Amy’s fingers.
It was then that a vehicle appeared on the drive. Amy saw the headlights and yelled out. Screamed over and over again. Great shrieks so loud that her head filled up with the sound and rang like a bell.
Honoria hauled her back inside. Amy fought maniacally - kicking, punching, scratching. Fought with all her substance and all her strength. Far away she heard the sound of breaking glass. Honoria heard it too. Amy could see by the change in her expression. An acknowledgement that time was running out. Her hands closed around Amy’s throat, the thumbs pressing into the windpipe. A spasm of mad joy made her body tremble and marked her face with a profane radiance.
Amy choked. She could hear humming, like the wind through telegraph wires, and saw redness everywhere. The pressure on her ears was terrible. The inside of her head expanded, pushing harder and harder against her skull until at last it gave way and she fell into the dark.
It was past midnight. Barnaby was in a private room at Hillingdon hospital staring out over the parking lot which, even at that hour of the night, was half full. He had been there for five hours. Unnecessarily, if he was honest with himself, for she wasn’t going to run away. And she wasn’t going to die. Thank God. Two bodies in one evening were more than enough.
They had been putting the first into the mortuary van as he pulled up outside Gresham House. The second, so much lighter, lay in its zippered polythene sheath in the hall.
Barnaby could see it as he got out of the Orion, for the huge doors, against which so many twigs and leaves had been piling themselves on his first visit, now stood wide open.
Laura Hutton’s Porsche was parked at an oblique angle halfway round the back, as if she had drawn up carelessly in a tearing hurry, skidded in a half circle then rammed on the brakes. The keys were still in the ignition. Later Troy had driven it back to the little jewel box of a house and put it in the garage.
There was a sound from the bed, where Amy lay looking very small beneath tightly stretched, fiercely tucked bedclothes. Audrey Brierley sat close by, her white-gold cap of hair shimmering beneath the bedside lamp like a pearl helmet.
A staff nurse came in to take Amy’s pulse and blood pressure. Amy had been sedated, but lightly, and the nurse’s ministrations woke her up. Much as Barnaby wanted to talk he couldn’t help feeling a pang of sympathy. After shining a light into both her patient’s eyes the nurse said everything was fine and went briskly off, her shoes squeaking on the linoleum.
Amy stared at Audrey Brierley, who gently took hold of her bandaged hand. ‘It’s all right, Mrs Lyddiard. You’re all right now.’
Barnaby picked up a chair and carried it over to the bed. He positioned it carefully. Not too near but not too far away, for he feared her voice might not carry.
‘Hullo.’
‘Hullo. It’s you.’
‘Again.’
He was right. It was little more than a whisper. He sat down and they smiled at each other. That is, he smiled. The corner of Amy’s lips twitched very slightly, then gave up. And was it, he thought, any wonder? He began to speak, keenly aware that his opening words were hardly likely to improve matters.
‘I’m afraid your sister-in-law is dead, Mrs Lyddiard. She took her own life. There was nothing anyone could do.’
‘She said ... she would ... after ...’
These few words seemed to exhaust her and she closed her eyes again. Barnaby sat in silence for a short while but then continued, for he was anxious she did not drift back into sleep.
‘I’ll be as brief as I possibly can. We can talk at greater length when you’re feeling better.’
‘Hurts ... to talk ...’
‘Of course. I thought I would give my ideas on what I think has been going on and you can just stop me, shake your head or whatever, if I’ve got it wrong. How does that suit?’
When she did not reply he began to speak, keeping his tone carefully prosaic, as if anything could reduce the impact of what he had to say.
‘Honoria Lyddiard, until last Monday, had no idea that Gerald Hadleigh and her brother had ever met. But in Laura Hutton’s kitchen she discovered a photograph of them both, together with some other people at a restaurant. Very excited by this, and eager to discover the whys and wherefores, she went straight round to Plover’s Rest, but Hadleigh was out, calling on Rex St John. She tried twice more during the course of the day, but without success. Eventually, no doubt unable to wait until the morning, she returned late that same night.
‘But the visitor was still there, so she stayed concealed in the trees behind the house, until she saw him drive away. Then, I suppose after knocking and getting no response, she went in. Knowing Miss Lyddiard’s passion for correct behaviour we can only guess at the driving curiosity which got her, when she couldn’t find Hadleigh downstairs, upstairs and into his bedroom. Then, and I don’t quite understand how, I feel there must have been some sort of hiatus before they actually spoke. Enough time anyway for her to take in the photographs, some of which we now know were pretty explicit, and the clothes—Yes?’
‘He ... Gerald ... was in ...’
‘The bathroom?’ Amy nodded. ‘She told you?’
‘Yes.’
She told me everything. And spared me nothing. The vile words gathered again, infesting Amy’s mind and fouling the calm, quiet room.
If you’d loved him enough he wouldn’t have died. She knew now what Honoria meant. It seemed that years ago, when Ralph was in the navy, he had been unfaithful. Because she hadn’t loved him enough he had loved someone else, who had given him the terrible disease that was to kill him. And Honoria knew this because the Spanish doctors had told her. But she had naturally thought it was a woman.
Gerald had been terribly drunk. When he came out of the bathroom and found her holding up the photograph of the group at the club at Marrakesh he had jeered and laughed. Then he had given her all the sordid details. How he and Ralph, who had never met before that night, had gone outside into the back yard and had sex, turn and turn about, up against the wall. How Ralph had loved it. Gone out again later with someone else. No wonder he’d ended up with Aids.
That was the moment when Honoria had struck. Seized the nearest heavy object and smashed it into Gerald’s head, not just once but again and again until there was nothing of him left. Then she had stuffed the clothes and photographs into a suitcase and taken it away so that no connection between the obscene mess on the floor and her beloved brother could ever be made and because she was a law unto herself.
‘It certainly wasn’t Hadleigh who infected your husband, Mrs Lyddiard,’ said Barnaby. He had asked for a blood test directly after speaking to Laura Hutton and received a negative result. ‘You had no idea what was wrong with him?’
‘No ...’
Honoria didn’t tell me because she hoped I’d got it. Hoped and prayed that Ralph, before he died, had passed the sickness on. Watched and waited for the signs. Didn’t tell me in case I sought help or, worse, was tested and found fit and well. In which case she would have killed me herself. Because that was the faithful promise she had made before God.
Weak tears started from Amy’s eyes and WPC Brierley pulled some tissues out of a box on the locker. Barnaby decided to leave it there. By the time he had got his overcoat buttoned up and put his scarf and gloves on Amy seemed once more to be on the verge of sleep. He switched off the bedside lamp, leaving only the glow of a blue night light.