Everything he said sounded halfhearted, more so when James flatly refused to involve the police because he didn't want Ailsa's death "resurrected" in the press. Indeed, resurrection seemed to be an obsession with him. He didn't want Mark resurrecting Elizabeth's "blasted teddy bear" or the row over the adoption. He didn't want Leo's thieving resurrected. It was history, over and done with, and had no relevance to this campaign of terror. And, yes, of course he knew why it was happening. Those damned women-Prue Weldon and Eleanor Bartlett-wanted him to admit he'd murdered Ailsa.
Admit…? Mark tried to keep the anxiety out of his voice. "Well, they're right about one thing," he said. "These allegations are easily disproved with a DNA test. Maybe the best strategy would be to make a tactful approach to Captain Smith. If she's prepared to cooperate then you could take these tapes to the police. Whatever the reason for the calls, there's no question they constitute menace."
James held his gaze for a moment before his eyes slid away. "There's no tactful way of doing it," he said. "I'm not stupid, you know, I have thought about it."
Why this tiresome defense of his faculties? "We needn't involve her at all. I could ask her mother for a sample of hair from her bedroom. She must have left something behind that will give a reading. It's not illegal, James… not at the moment, anyway. There are companies on the Internet who specialize in giving DNA analysis in questions over paternity."
"No."
"It's my best advice. Either that, or inform the police. A temporary solution might be to change your phone number and go ex-directory…but if Leo's behind it, he'll soon find out the new one. You can't let it go unchecked. Apart from the fact that you'll be dead of exhaustion in another month, the gossips will talk and mud will stick if you don't challenge these allegations."
James opened a drawer in his desk and took out a file. "Read this," he said, "then give me one good reason why I should turn this child's life into a nightmare. If one thing is certain, Mark, she neither chose-nor is responsible for-the man who fathered her."
Dear Captain Smith, My solicitor informs me that if I attempt to contact you, you will sue…"
An hour later, telling James he needed a walk to clear his mind, Mark crossed the vegetable garden and made his way to Manor Lodge. But if he expected enlightenment from Vera Dawson, he didn't get it. Indeed he was shocked by how much her brain had deteriorated since August. She kept him at the door, her old mouth sucking and working through her resentments, and he was less surprised than he had been that the Manor was filthy. He asked her where Bob was.
"Out."
"Do you know where? Is he in the garden?"
A pleased smile flickered in her rheumy eyes. "Said he'd be gone eight hours. That's usually fishing."
"Even on Christmas Day?"
The smile vanished. "He wouldn't spend it with me, would he? Only good for work, that's all I am. You get up there and clean for the Colonel, he says, never mind there's mornings I can hardly rise from my bed."
Mark smiled uncomfortably. "Well, could you ask Bob to come up to the house for a chat? Later this evening, perhaps, or tomorrow? If you have a pen and paper, I'll write him a note in case you forget."
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "There's nothing wrong with my memory. I've still got my marbles."
It might have been James talking. "Sorry. I thought it might help."
"What do you want to talk to him about?"
"Nothing in particular. Just general things."
"Don't you go talking about me," she hissed angrily. "I've got rights, same as everyone else. It wasn't me stole the Missus's rings. It was the boy. You tell the Colonel that, you hear. Bloody old bugger-it was him murdered her." She slammed the door.
7
SHENSTEAD VILLAGE
BOXING DAY, 2001
After a fruitless attempt to contact his solicitor- the office answerphone advised callers that the partnership was on holiday until January 2-Dick Weldon gritted his teeth and dialed Shenstead Manor. If anyone had a lawyer on tap, it would be James Lockyer-Fox. The man was in permanent danger of arrest if Dick's wife, Prue, was to be believed. "You'll see," she kept saying, "it's only a matter of time before the police are forced to act." More to the point, as the only other property-owner with a boundary on the Copse, James would be involved in the discussion sooner or later, and it might as well be now. Nevertheless, it wasn't a call that Dick wanted to make.
There had been no communication between Shenstead Farm and the Manor since Prue had told police of the row she'd heard the night Ailsa died. She always said it was fate that intervened to turn her into an eavesdropper. In three years she had never felt the need to walk the dogs through the Copse in the dark, so why that night? She had been on her way home from a visit to their daughter in Bournemouth and one of the Labradors started to whine halfway across the valley. By the time she reached the Copse, the agitation in the back of the estate was intense and, with a groan, she pulled onto the mud track and let the two dogs free.
It should have been a brief lavatory stop, but the bitch, untroubled by her bowels, got wind of a scent and vanished into the woodland. Damned if she was going after it without a torch. Prue reached inside the car for the dog whistle on the dashboard. As she straightened again an angry argument broke out somewhere to her left. Her first assumption was that the Labrador had caused it, but one of the voices was clearly Ailsa Lockyer-Fox's and curiosity kept Prue from blowing her whistle.
She had an ambivalent attitude toward the Lockyer-Foxes. The social climber in her wanted to become a frequent visitor to the Manor, to count them among her friends and drop their name into casual conversation. But the fact that she and Dick had been invited only once since their arrival in Shenstead three years ago-and then only for a drink-annoyed her, particularly as her reciprocal invitations to dinner at the farm had all been politely declined. Dick couldn't see what the fuss was about. They're not comfortable with formal socializing, he said. Go and talk to them in their kitchen. That's what everyone else does.
So Prue had turned up a few times, only for Ailsa to give the impression that she had more important things to do than hang around the kitchen gossiping. After that, their encounters were confined to brief exchanges in the road if they chanced to meet, and irregular appearances by Ailsa in Prue's kitchen when she was looking for donations to her many charities. Prue's private view was that Ailsa and James looked down on her, and she wasn't above a little muckraking to find something that would give her an edge.
It was rumored-principally by Eleanor Bartlett, who claimed to have heard them in full flow one time-that the Lockyer-Foxes had vicious tempers, despite the reserve they showed in public. Prue had never seen any evidence of this, but she'd always thought it likely. James, in particular, appeared incapable of showing emotion, and in Prue's experience such rigid repression had to break out somewhere. Every so often one of their children announced a visit, but neither parent showed much enthusiasm at the prospect. There were stories of skeletons in cupboards, mostly to do with Elizabeth's reputation for being sex-mad, but the Lockyer-Foxes were as close-lipped about that as they were about everything.
To Prue, such restraint was unnatural and she was always pestering Dick to dig out the dirt. The tenant farmers must know something, she would say. Why don't you ask them what these skeletons are? People say the son's a thief and a gambler, and the daughter was awarded a pittance from her divorce because she'd had so many affairs. But Dick, being a man, wasn't interested, and his advice to Prue was to keep her mouth shut if she didn't want a reputation as a gossip. The community was too small to make an enemy of the oldest family there, he warned.