52

 

 

HEEDLESS OF THE brambles, Gwynn ran through the garden. They’d grown up again, and it was as though hands reached for her, tried to hold her back. Ahead, the rotted gate. She grabbed it with her free hand and dragged it back so fiercely it broke from the top hinge and hung drunkenly.

On the ground just outside lay Martin’s blackthorn. Gwynn tripped over it and nearly fell. The cry caught in her throat, and, checking the lantern flame, she bent quickly to retrieve the stick. He was here. Somewhere. Out here.

Not somewhere. She knew exactly where he had gone.

Then she heard the bark. Again, a single sharp yelp, just as it had been earlier.

Please, Star, she prayed. Please be with him.

But the note. The note on the counter, just as it had been in her dream. Just as it had been in Gwynn Chelton’s reality. How had it come to be there? She had left it in the drawer of the bedside table, unwilling to touch it again, unwilling to unfold it and look at the incised command. Pieces of paper did not transport themselves from closed drawers in upstairs bedrooms to kitchen countertops. There had to be human agency involved. But what human agency? Please, she prayed again, incoherently. Why would Martin have brought it down? How would Martin have known it was there?

Again the bark. Seized with a sudden panic, she brandished the walking stick in front of her, the best weapon she was likely to find, and rushed up the hill into the wood.

 

THE CLEARING WAS deserted. Silent. Instinctively she looked for dead doves, birds with their necks twisted and broken, but there were none.

“Martin?” she called. Her voice wavered. “Star?”

No answer.

She paused, looking at the door, the way it hung crookedly. Was it closed more than it had been the last time she’d been up? She couldn’t tell. She threw a glance over her shoulder: she should have brought someone. She should have called someone. She cursed herself now for not calling for help, cursed her flagging courage. It wasn’t too late. If she ran back down to the cottage, called the police, called Mary—but no. What if Martin was in there, collapsed again, his life ticking away with the labored beating of his heart? And Star had barked. Star was here. Somewhere.

Swallowing, she moved toward the sagging building. The lantern was in one hand, the walking stick in the other. She shoved open the door with her shoulder. The blackthorn she held aloft, just in case.

“Martin?” she called again, stumbling into the soft thick air of the dovecote. In the wavering circle of light from the lantern, she could barely make out the empty boxes, the rotten hay on the floor. “Martin, it’s me. Gwynn. Are you here?”

She sensed the movement first, and spun. When she saw the rope suspended from the overhead beam, she let out a small scream and dropped the blackthorn stick.

The door slammed shut behind her with the sound she recognized from her dreams.

 

“MARTIN’S NOT HERE.”

Gwynn whirled. She lifted the lantern and saw, leaning against the door, Paul Stokes.

“Thought you’d come for that note.” He had his arms crossed over his chest, his cigarette tucked in the corner of his mouth. He held a flashlight, the flashlight from the kitchen. He withdrew a packet of matches from a pocket. He lit his cigarette, shook out the match, and dropped it, then ground it into the dirt floor with the sole of his shoe. “Can’t have that starting a fire.” He blew smoke up toward the rafters.

Gwynn could not speak. She bent quickly to gather the walking stick, but, his foot flashing out like a snake, Stokes kicked it away.

“No, you don’t. No weapons for you, cousin.” He picked up the stick, hefted it in his beefy hand. “You could do someone an injury with this—even if it isn’t a rock.” His laugh was unpleasant. He moved closer, so close Gwynn took a step back. “And I’ll have that, too.” He wrested the wire handle of the lantern from her surprised hand.

“Where’s Star?” she demanded. “Where’s my dog?”

Now Stokes raised the light to her face, and she blinked, blinded.

“Least of your worries, I think. Here you are, feeling lonely and depressed, and all you can do is ask about a dumb animal?” Another laugh. “It’s run off, Gwynn. Run off and left you. Like everyone leaves you.”

Gwynn ignored this. “Star was up here. I heard her.”

Stokes shrugged. “I dragged that damned dog up here. I knew you’d come looking for it. But it ran off when I needed the rope for—something else.”

The noose. Hanging from the rafters behind her. Gwynn felt her neck prickle. She blinked against the blinding lantern light.

“You’re crazy. If you wanted to frighten me, you’ve succeeded. But I’m done with your game.” She made a move for the door, which she knew was somewhere behind him.

He thrust the blackthorn stick out at her knees, and she tripped and fell.

For one hysterical moment, she felt his weight on her—but that was Gwynn Chelton, that wasn’t her; that was Tommy Chelton, not Stokes. That was then, this was now. Gwynn drew a deep breath, full of dust and the must of rotten straw. She coughed as she dragged herself to her hands and knees. “What do you want? I’ll sign the damned paper, but it won’t do you any good. No witnesses. Under duress.”

The tip of the stick was under her chin, forcing her head up. “I want what’s mine. I want the cottage.”

Follow the money, Giles Trevelyan had said.

Stokes might not have simply waited for Gwynn Chelton to die, Giles Trevelyan had said.

Suddenly Gwynn was very afraid.

It was hard to breathe, and the blood was pounding in her ears again.

Be practical, she told herself. Keep him talking. Stall for time. Because, she realized, Star was out there. Everyone was looking for Martin, and someone would come across Star, and she would bring someone up here. If Gwynn could stall for enough time.

Slowly she got to her feet, the tip of the stick poking uncomfortably into the skin under her chin. She wiped the straw from her hands on her jeans, concentrating on tiny details. “How much money do you need?” she asked, trying to sound conversational. “I have plenty of money. I can help you.”

His hand was rough on her arm, the same arm he had bruised on Bonfire Night, and she winced more in memory than fact. “Sit here and don’t move.”

Gwynn hadn’t seen the rickety chair beneath the noose. Stokes forced her down onto it; the chair rocked, and the seat cracked, but it held. She gripped the sides with both hands to keep from shaking.

Stokes tucked the walking stick under his arm. He lifted the oil lantern and raised the wick; the light brightened and the lantern began to smoke. He glanced over at her and smiled. “Have to set the stage, as it were.”

“Money,” she replied quickly. “You need money, I have money. Let’s talk.”

Stokes shook his head. The lantern cast a larger circle of light, wavering in the dimness of the dovecote. He was not wearing the red windcheater today; probably, Gwynn thought nonsensically, that coat was far too easily recognizable.

“Too far along for that.” He straightened. “You’re too far along for that. Too depressed. Alone in a village where you know no one, can’t talk to anyone about your split with your boyfriend.”

“How much do you need?” she persisted desperately.

“Thinking too much on your husband, you have been,” Stokes continued, sighting along the blackthorn as though along a gun barrel. “And the coincidence of your great-aunt’s husband. How they both hanged themselves.” He turned slowly to face her, still sighting along the stick. “Suicides run in families, you know. Something about suggestibility. How the impossible becomes possible if people near and dear to us do it first.” His sudden jerking upward of the stick suggested the kick of a gun, but now he was pointing the stick at the noose, which swayed above Gwynn’s head.

 

IN A MOMENT of screaming clarity she saw it. She saw the young Gwynn cast one last look at the swaying shadow that was Tommy Chelton, then, without checking for life, turn and walk out of the dovecote, careful to leave the door open.

Saw her walk slowly back to the cottage and seat herself in the wing-backed chair.

Saw her watch the hands of the clock on the bookcase move slowly: a quarter hour, a half, one hour, two.

Only then did she stand, go to the back garden, smudge some dirt on her hands and knees—and rush through the side gate and down to the road, crying for help. Gwynn Chelton’s tears came easily. They were tears of relief.

 

“NO,” SHE OBJECTED sharply.

“You know,” Stokes kept on, “I felt so sorry for you, Gwynn. I offered to help you, to keep you company, to listen if you wanted to talk, but you kept pushing me away. I told people in the village how worried I was about you. I told people in the pub how depressed you seemed, and how you wouldn’t let me help.”

“No.” She gripped the seat harder, measuring the distance between the chair and the door. She could make out the vague outline of light, where the door fit imperfectly, even closed.

“And the more you repeat something to people, the more they believe the truth of it.”

“It won’t do you any good,” she protested, her voice rising. “My will—”

“You have no other relatives, Gwynn. I’m the only one left.” Now he approached, leaned forward to look into her eyes. “And even if you’ve left everything you own to charity, the fact that you’re a suicide supports my arguments about the balance of mind.”

Stokes’ eyes were black holes in his face. In her fear, she watched him fade into Tommy Chelton and then back to himself again.

“I’m not,” she ground out, “a suicide.”

Again he shrugged. He tapped the shaft of the stick against his other palm. “You will be.” He glanced up at the rope swinging from the rafter, and smiled that sickly smile once more.

Gwynn’s eyes flickered to the door and back. Keep him talking, she repeated to herself. Stall for time. Star will come. She desperately hoped that was true. Suddenly she started to her feet, but just as quickly, Stokes shoved her back onto the seat roughly.

“No, you don’t,” he said.

“You’re crazy,” she repeated. “I’m not depressed. I’m not suggestible. I’m not going to hang myself.”

“It’s not a problem.” Stokes tapped the stick against his palm a few more times, measuring its heft; then he took a few steps to his left, looking up at the rope. “A little rap on the head, and I help you up.” He turned, paced the other way, always keeping between her and the door. He frowned. “I don’t think you’d be that heavy.”

“No,” she said again, more shrilly. She could not keep her voice under control. She ran her eyes over him, looking at his legs, wondering if she could trip him, knock him down, get past him. She had to take him by surprise. There had to be a way. “Even if you did that, an autopsy”—she blinked, took a breath—“an autopsy would show bruising. It would be investigated. And any investigation would lead right back to you.”

Follow the money, Giles had said.

She froze.

“A rap on the head,” she whispered.

“Like the one I—I mean, you—gave Trevelyan, who asked one question too many.” He nodded. “You’re a smart one, you are. But of course, remorse at your killing the old man is also weighing on your conscience. Adding to your depression. I tried to cover for you as best I could with the police, but they were too clever for me, and I had to tell them all about your violent tendencies. Sad.” He sucked gently on the stub of his cigarette, and the end glowed red. “And if, when you kicked over the chair you stood on to reach the noose, it tipped your lantern into the hay—well, there wouldn’t be much left of you to autopsy once the fire brigade put out the blaze. A devil of a time getting up here to put it out, they’ll have.”

Stokes had it all planned. He had thought about this for a long time. That was obvious. And she—she hadn’t considered the possibility at all; who would? Gwynn closed her eyes. She knew who had: Giles Trevelyan. And then Colin. They had both warned her, and she’d disregarded them.

“Don’t.” She gripped the seat of the chair tighter, watching Stokes pace. The rope above her head swung gently in the movement of air beneath the bowed roof. How many feet to the door? Could she make it? She would have to dodge him and wrest open the latch—and then what? Outrun him, back through the wood to the cottage, back into the street. Her mind clicked over to that familiar clarity beyond panic. She was in better shape than he. She’d be faster, through the trees. Could she lock herself inside the cottage? Could she phone the police? It’s my cousin. He’s trying to kill me. He’s already killed our great-aunt. It sounded far-fetched—would they believe her? Would they come?

She took a deep breath, waiting as he passed before her in his pacing, then leapt up and ran for it.

Stokes whirled and lurched, swinging the blackthorn. It caught her above the ear. The dimness exploded in shards of glitter, streaks of fire. For the second time, Gwynn found herself face down in the dirt, this time with a mouthful of blood. She lay there, winded, defeated.

Then she heard the dog bark.

Gwynn scrambled to her feet dizzily. Stokes’ arm went around her throat, and he dragged her backward. She heard the stick clatter as he threw it aside. She couldn’t see, and there was a roaring in her ears, growing louder. Louder. Desperately she grabbed his arm with both hands and twisted, then bit his wrist. He hit her again, and she staggered but remained on her feet. His arm tightened around her throat, and she kicked backward, as hard as she could. She felt her foot connect with the chair, and there was a sudden sharp smell of oil. Shards of glass crushed under her shoes.

She twisted again, but his grip was strong, and she felt the dizziness moving from her head along into her arms, her legs. No air. She coughed. Smoke? She couldn’t tell. Behind her ear Stokes coughed sharply and swore, but he sounded far away and he was receding and it was getting warmer and smokier and she couldn’t stand up much longer—

“Gwynn! Go—run!” The voice was high and reedy. Martin. She couldn’t see him.

But she could smell the smoke more clearly now, the mustiness of it as it burned the moldy straw on the floor, creeping toward the empty wooden cages that lined the walls. One last effort: she thrust both elbows backward, then slammed her head back into Stokes’ face. The arm around her throat loosened, and she fell away from him, toward the floor where flames rushed up at her face.

“Martin!” she croaked frantically, back into the whirling smoke.

“Go!” Martin shouted again. “I’m right behind you—go!”

Coughing, she crawled across the burning floor toward the door. She couldn’t see it—with her head throbbing and her eyes streaming, she was confused, disoriented. Something tore at her ankle, and she fell sideways, rolling through the licking flames, and she felt her hair catch fire. She threw her hands up, beating at her scalp. She heard Stokes shout something—his grip tightened on her ankle and he was pulling her back where the flames grew higher, the sound of their ravenousness growing to a roar. She twisted, but could not break his grip.

“Martin!” she screamed.

Then there he was, Martin, encircled by flames, his white hair haloed in a rage of red and orange, his arms lifting the chair over his head and bringing it down again over Stokes’ back. There was a grunt, and Gwynn was free, scrabbling away from Stokes and the flames, but not before she saw Martin Scott tumble back with the force of his swing, backward into the roar of the engulfing inferno.