3

Hal had snatched at the excuse of the telephone—just to get out of the house.

He couldn’t think how he had managed to keep up the appearance of calm in Rowan’s presence. He had lied to her; pretended nothing had happened. But a woman had died. She had killed herself right before his eyes. She lay there now at the bottom of the chalkpit—and there he had been trying to go on as if getting the house in order had been his only concern. He couldn’t have kept it up much longer.

There was a phone box near the corner, but he went past without giving it a second thought, turned left at the junction and drove east, heading for Paul Cassen’s home.

He parked at the side of the large Queen Anne house, got out and rang the bell. To his relief the door was opened almost immediately. Cassen’s wife Sandra stood there, a pretty blonde young woman whom Hal and Rowan had met on their first visit to the village.

‘Is Paul around?’ Hal asked once the greetings were over.

‘Yes, he is. Come in.’ She turned and he followed her through the hall into a large, graciously furnished sitting room. ‘If you’d like to wait I’ll go and fetch him,’ she said and went away, closing the door behind her.

Hal had not been inside the house before. Now, left alone, he looked around him, his glance taking in the heavy velvet curtains, the fine, elegantly formed Louis XIV chairs. On polished surfaces he saw beautiful porcelain figures, all antique, while on the embossed wallpaper hung original oil paintings—landscapes, and portraits of unknown faces whose modes of dress placed them in periods of the past. The overall impression of the room was of a grace and style of bygone days.

As he stood there Cassen came in, his smile wide.

‘Hal,’ the doctor said, ‘how nice to see you. How’s the moving going?’

‘Fine.’ Hal paused. ‘I—I wanted to see you—talk to you  . . .’

Cassen studied him for a brief moment then waved him to a nearby sofa. ‘Sit down . . .’

When Hal was seated Cassen took a chair facing him. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘tell me what’s up. You’re looking very worried.’

There was a little silence then Hal said:

‘Half an hour ago I saw a woman die. A woman from the village. She killed herself. Right in front of me.’

‘Dear God.’ There was silence as Cassen stared at him. After a few seconds he added wearily, ‘Tell me about it.’

Faced with the continuing expression of shock on the other’s­ face Hal began to relate his story. When he had finished Cassen said: ‘Do you know who she was?’

‘No, I’ve no idea.’ Hal went on then to give a description of her appearance, after which Cassen nodded.

‘That’s Emma Larkin. It couldn’t be anyone else.’ He groaned. ‘The poor woman. Who’d have dreamed she’d do such a thing as that?’ He covered his eyes with his hand and turned away. When he took his hand down a moment later Hal could see the anguish was still sharp on his face. ‘Do you know why she did it?’ he asked.

‘Yes . . . She had cancer. It wasn’t only that, though. Just lately she’d become rather—unbalanced . . . Oh, God—to think that she should take that way out of it all. . . .’ He looked at Hal and shook his head. ‘I’m not surprised that you should look so shaken—seeing such a thing happen.’

‘I can’t get it out of my mind,’ Hal said quietly. ‘She had an awful kind of—purpose about her. But no hysteria. That was the strange thing. Just this kind of—sad calm. And bewilderment too, as if she was in some kind of shock or something.’ He fumbled in his pockets and Cassen got up and pushed a cigarette box across the coffee table towards him. Hal took a cigarette, lit it and exhaled the smoke. ‘I’d met her before,’ he said, ‘in the village. The very first time we came here. It was by the post office, I remember. I was waiting for Rowan and the old lady and I just—fell into conversation. She seemed perfectly composed then. There seemed to be nothing about her then that you’d describe as—despairing in any way.’ He paused. ‘When I saw her today, though, she didn’t remember me at all.—She told me how she used to go up there—by the pit—and paint and sketch.’

‘She said that?’ Cassen looked doubtful. ‘No, she never painted—not as far as I know. That was just her mind wandering, I’m afraid. Her tenant was a painter. Not Emma Larkin, though.’ He sighed. ‘Did anyone else see her—see it happen?’

‘There was only me.’

‘So if you hadn’t been there we wouldn’t know what had happened to her. She’d be just lying out there—until somebody found her. Mind you, I’m sorry it had to be you who saw it. It’s not a nice welcome for you. Anyway, thank you for telling me.’ He got up from his chair. ‘Now, I suppose I’d better do something about it.’

‘I almost didn’t tell you,’ Hal said abruptly. ‘I didn’t want to tell anyone.’

Cassen stopped and looked at him. ‘—Why not?’

Hal shrugged. After a moment he said: ‘I didn’t want to be—brought into it. But now I shall be, shan’t I?’

‘Well—you were there. You saw it happen . . .’

‘Yes. And so now I shall have to go to the inquest. There’s bound to be an inquest, isn’t there?’

‘Of course. It’ll be held in the village school.’ Cassen paused. ‘Hal—I don’t understand what this is about—what your problem is—’

Hal got to his feet and took a few paces across the room. ‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘neither Rowan nor my housekeeper knows about it. I didn’t tell them. Rowan—well, I didn’t want her to know. I still don’t—if I can help it.’

‘About Emma Larkin?’

‘Yes. Oh, I realize that in time she’s bound to learn that it happened, but—oh, I can’t stand the thought of her knowing that I was there—that I saw it happen—that it happened just a few yards from where she was sitting.’

‘Why is that?’

Hal took a long drag on his cigarette and stubbed it out. ‘She—hasn’t been well . . .’

Cassen looked thoughtful. ‘Sit down again,’ he said, ‘and tell me the rest.’

When they were facing one another from their seats again Hal cleared his throat and began, haltingly:

‘We—we had a son. Adam. He was just over two years old. And then—last summer—he died.’ He lowered his gaze from Cassen’s face, paused, steadying his breathing. ‘Near where we lived there’s no really safe place for small children to play. Oh, we had a tiny piece of communal garden but vandals had wrecked the fence the week before and Rowan—well, both of us—we were afraid to let Adam play outside until it was repaired—in case he wandered into the road. For a little time past we’d been driving out into the country looking for somewhere else to live. Rowan was so against bringing him up in London. She never did care for it there—and always said it wasn’t the place for a child. We hadn’t found anything, though—nothing that both of us were happy with. My fault, I suppose. Apart from being just too damned hard to please I’d also lost interest in the whole idea. It just got to be too much trouble. You see, I was fairly content where we were and—’ He broke off, shook his head and sat in silence.

‘What happened?’ Cassen said.

‘That—that particular day was stiflingly warm. There was a glazier in. We were having new windows fitted in the balcony doors. He’d been out there a couple of hours with his step-­ladder and things. Adam was playing in the sitting room. Rowan was busy nearby—and keeping an eye on him. Everything was fine. And then, all of a sudden, it all went wrong. Rowan had a minor crisis at the stove . . . And it—it happened then.’ His sentences were coming out even more jerkily, sometimes the words tumbling over each other and at other times disjointed. ‘It—it happened all at once,’ he said. ‘In those couple of minutes while Rowan was occupied in the kitchen the workman went outside to his van to get some tool or other. And Adam—finding the doors to the balcony open, went out there . . . He—he got up, somehow—onto the step-ladder. Rowan—she didn’t hear anything at all. There was no sound, she said. She just turned around and he wasn’t there anymore. Then, in the same moment that she realized he’d gone she heard the cries of a neighbour down below.’ There was silence for a few seconds, then he added dully, ‘He died the same day.’

The silence fell again, broken by Cassen who at last murmured: ‘I don’t know what to say. In my job I see death more often than most people do, I suppose. But I still never know what to say. I doubt that I ever shall.’ He paused. ‘And this was last August . . . ?’

‘Yes.’

‘And since then Rowan hasn’t been well . . . ?’

‘No.’

‘How old is she?’

‘Twenty-seven.’ Hal sat staring down, as if concentrating on his square-cut hands, now placed fingers spread on his thighs. The memory was much too fresh. He could still hear Ro’s screams ringing out as he’d sat working in his study. ‘You never saw such a change in anybody,’ he said. ‘Before that happened she was fine—apart from wanting to move, I mean. I was making good money. And she was working at her own writing in her spare time. It was good. We had nearly everything we wanted. And then—then that happened. When Adam died she just—fell apart . . .’ He came to a stop.

‘Go on,’ Cassen gently prompted.

‘She withdrew into herself.’

‘In what way?’

‘It was a gradual thing. At first she just didn’t want to see people—to have anyone come round—or go out to see them. So—we’d just stay on our own. The only person we saw with any frequency was Mrs Prescot—she’s our housekeeper now. In the end Rowan was going out less and less even on ordinary, everyday errands, shopping and so forth. Mrs Prescot was doing it all. Rowan—I don’t know—she seemed afraid of going out—afraid of the people—and the city itself. I used to have the devil’s own job to get her beyond the front door.’

‘Did she have any medical help?’

‘Oh, yes—of a sort. But what could anyone do—except prescribe pills? Nothing could get to the cause of it. That was beyond changing.’ He shook his head. ‘Oh, they were well-meaning and concerned enough—the doctors—but they couldn’t really help her.’

‘And how is she now?’

‘She’s been so much better lately.’

‘She seemed to me to be all right—when I met you both that first time in the café . . .’

‘Yes, well . . . a stranger wouldn’t necessarily be aware. Besides, by that time we’d started again to look for another place to live. I think that made a difference to her—to have the belief that we would be getting away. One thing was certain—we couldn’t stay in the flat after that—not for any length of time.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘If only I’d made a real effort before.’

Cassen said evenly: ‘You mustn’t blame yourself.’ After looking at Hal keenly for a moment he added: ‘And what about you?—your own state during this time?’

‘What?’

‘How did you manage through it all?’

‘Well, I had my writing, and I just—just dived into it, I suppose. Anything not to think about him—Adam. When I look back I seem to have spent my time working all the hours God made. And of course Ro came off the loser there too.’ He frowned. ‘I should have been with her more. Though I don’t think it was selfishness on my part. I don’t think so. It was just my own—inability to cope—with any of it.’

‘I understand . . .’

‘And of course it affected our whole marriage.’

‘I should be surprised if it didn’t. And how is it now with you? With both of you?’

Hal hesitated for a second, then said non-committally: ‘It’s better.’ Then he added: ‘And it will be better still. Much better—now that we’re away from London—without all the constant reminders. And if we can make a good start . . . Here—well, we both think we’ve found the right place to do that.’

‘I’m sure you have,’ Cassen smiled. ‘And I’ll tell you something—you won’t want for support.’ The smile grew warmer. ‘Hal, you’re both going to be very happy in Moorstone, I’m certain.’

‘That’s what I’m hoping. And this is a good place in which to raise a family . . .’

Silence fell between them, heightened by the ticking of the antique French clock above the fireplace. Hal said, his expression grave once more:

‘But now this has happened. Just on the very day of our arrival. That poor woman . . .’

‘And Rowan has no idea at all about it?’

‘No.’

‘Does she know where you are now?’

‘I told her I was coming out to see about the phone—to get it connected. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her what had happened. She was shaken enough when we almost ran the old lady down. She couldn’t have coped with being told the rest of the story, I know. Not after what she’s been through. It would ruin everything, I know it would. All the progress she’s made. She’s a different person now. I can’t have her go back to how she was. And I’m afraid now—that it will happen.’ He shook his head despondently. ‘As I said, for a time there I thought I wouldn’t tell anyone. After all, no one knew that I’d seen it; I could just forget it all; pretend I wasn’t there.’ He sighed. ‘But in the end I couldn’t. I couldn’t just put it aside—as if it had never happened. I couldn’t just leave that old woman out there. So—’ he shrugged, ‘—I came to see you. Now, at least, I won’t have that on my conscience.’

Cassen said nothing, just looked at Hal across the India-carpeted space between. After some moments of silence Hal said resignedly:

‘But now that I’ve reported it—acknowledged it—it will all come out—my part in it all. Rowan will know everything.’

Cassen got up from his chair and went towards him. He stood looking down at him for a second, then said:

‘Just leave it with me, Hal. And don’t worry. Rowan’s not going to be upset by this.’

‘But when the—’

‘I mean it. Believe me. I’ll take it from here and report it to the right people. You just go on back to your house and get on with whatever work you have to do. And just remember—you know nothing about all this. Nothing at all. So just—get it out of your mind. Don’t even think about it.’

Hal stood up. ‘But the inquest and—’

‘Don’t think about it,’ Cassen interrupted. He spread his hands. ‘Emma Larkin is dead—and it’s a terrible, terrible thing. But she is dead. Now, as a doctor and a humanist my immediate concern can no longer be with her. We must live for the living. As sad as it is there’s nothing at all that anyone can do now to help Emma Larkin. But we can do something to help your wife. And I think it’s important that we try. We don’t want her having a nervous breakdown or running away as soon as she’s got here.’ He reached out and clasped Hal’s shoulder. ‘Go on home. She’ll be waiting for you to give her a hand.’

Hal remained still for a moment then turned and followed Cassen into the hall. At the front door Cassen said, ‘And cheer up. Believe me when I say that everything’s going to be all right. Take my word for it; nothing’s going to spoil Rowan’s arrival here.’

There was something in the man’s manner and tone of voice that Hal found calming and reassuring. He was at a loss as to what to say. In the end he just murmured his inadequate thanks and stepped through the doorway. Turning, he added: ‘Oh—your note and the box of groceries you and Sandra left at the house. I haven’t even thanked you for that. You must think I’m an ungrateful so-and-so.’

Cassen smiled. ‘How could you thank me? You haven’t seen me this afternoon.’

Hal smiled then for the first time since arriving there. ‘True,’ he said.

He turned again and walked towards his car. When he reached it he saw that Cassen was still standing in the porch. For a moment they looked gravely at one another, then Cassen gave an encouraging smile and called out: ‘Oh, by the way, it’s nice to be able to say it in person, so let me say it now: Welcome to Moorstone. Welcome home.’