Prue panicked. "It's not my fault," she blurted out. "Ask Eleanor. I told her it wasn't true… but she kept talking about a campaign for justice. She said all the girls from the golf club were phoning in… I thought there'd be dozens of calls… I wouldn't have done it otherwise."
"Why only women?" asked Mark. "Why weren't men involved?"
"Because they sided with Ja-, the Colonel." She glanced guiltily toward the old man. "I never felt comfortable," she pleaded. "You can tell that by the way I never say anything…" She petered into silence.
James stirred in the chair. "There were one or two calls at the beginning before I installed the answerphone," he told her. "They were much like yours-long silences-but I didn't recognize the numbers. I presume they were friends of yours who felt a single call discharged their duty. You should have asked them. People rarely do as they're told unless they take pleasure from it."
Shame turned to humiliation. It had been a delicious secret between the clique that she and Eleanor had formed around themselves. Nods and winks. Stories about near misses when Dick got up for a pee in the middle of the night and almost caught her crouched over the telephone in the dark. What a fool she must have seemed, trotting out her poodle-like obedience to Eleanor, while the rest of their friends were secretly keeping their hands clean. After all, who would ever know? If Eleanor's plan to "smoke James out" had worked, then they would take credit. If it didn't, Eleanor and Prue would have no idea how two-faced they'd been.
Memories of what Jack had said beat against her brain. "…the toe-curling embarrassment of your phone calls to that poor old man… the only person who believes you is that idiot Bartlett woman…" Was that how her friends perceived it, too? Were they as disgusted and disbelieving of her as her family was? She knew the answer, of course, and the last remnants of her self-esteem ran in tears down her fat cheeks. "It wasn't pleasure," she managed. "I never really wanted to do it… I was always frightened."
James lifted a concerned hand as if to absolve her, but Mark overrode him. "You loved every minute of it," he accused her harshly, "and if I have my way, the Colonel will take you to court-either with the help of the police or without. You've slandered his good name… slandered his wife's memory… weakened his health with malicious calls… aided and abetted the killing of his animals and the burglary of his house… placed his life and the life of his granddaughter in danger." He took an angry breath. "Who put you up to it, Mrs. Weldon?"
She hugged herself frantically, his doom-laden words whirling in her mind. Blackmail… slander… malice… killing… burglary… "I don't know anything about burglary," she whimpered.
"But you knew that Henry had been killed?"
"Not killed," she protested, "only dead. Eleanor told me."
"How did she say he died?"
She looked scared. "I can't remember. No… truly… I can't remember. I know she was pleased about it. She said the chickens were coming home to roost." She pressed her hands to her mouth. "Oh, that sounds so callous. I'm sorry. He was such a sweet dog. Was he really killed?"
"His leg and muzzle were smashed before he was dumped on the Colonel's terrace to die, and we think the same man mutilated a fox in front of Ailsa the night she died. We believe you heard him do it. What you described as a punch was the sound of a fox's head being crushed, which is why Ailsa accused him of insanity. That's the man you've been helping, Mrs. Weldon. So who is he?"
Her eyes widened. "I don't know," she whispered, playing the sound of the punch through her mind and remembering, with sudden clarity, the order in which events had happened. "Oh, God, I was wrong. He said 'bitch' afterward."
Mark exchanged an inquiring glance with James.
The old man gave a rare smile. "She was wearing Wellingtons," he said. "I expect she kicked him. She couldn't abide cruelty of any sort."
Mark smiled in return before shifting his attention back to Prue. "I need a name, Mrs. Weldon. Who told you to do this?"
"No one… just Eleanor."
"Your friend's been reading from a script. There's no way she could know so many details about the family. Who gave them to her?"
Prue flapped her hands against her mouth in a desperate attempt to find the answers he wanted. "Elizabeth," she wailed. "She went up to London to meet her."
Mark turned left out of the farm drive and headed up toward the Dorchester to Wareham Road. "Where are you going?" asked James.
"Bovington. You have to tell Nancy the truth, James." He rubbed his hand up the back of his head where his headache of the morning had come back in force. "Do you agree?"
"I suppose so," the Colonel said with a sigh, "but she's in no immediate danger, Mark. The only addresses on file are her parents in Hereford and her regimental HQ. There's no reference to Bovington."
"Shit!" Mark swore violently as'he slammed on the brakes, slewed the steering wheel to the left and bumped to a halt on the grass verge. He tugged his mobile from his pocket and punched in 192. "Smith… initial J… Lower Croft, Coomb Farm, Herefordshire." He switched on the overhead light. "Just pray God they've been out all day," he said as he dialed. "Is that Mrs. Smith? Hi, it's Mark Ankerton. Do you remember? Colonel Lockyer-Fox's solicitor…? Indeed, yes… I saw her, too… I'm spending Christmas with him. A real thrill. The best present he could have had… no, no, I have her mobile number. I'm phoning on her behalf as a matter of fact… there's a man who's been pestering her… yes, one of her sergeants… the point is, if he calls she'd rather you didn't tell him she was at Bovington… I see… a woman… no, that's fine… you, too, Mrs. Smith."
20
Bella wondered how long the child had been standing beside her. It was freezing cold and she was huddled in her coat and scarf, listening to Madame Butterfly on her Walkman. Zadie had taken the dogs back to her coach to feed them, and half the world could have crossed the rope barrier without Bella noticing. "Un bel di vedremo" swelled in her head as Butterfly sang of Pinkerton's ship appearing on the horizon and her beloved husband climbing the hill to their house to claim her. It was a fantasy. A hopeless, wrongheaded vision. The truth, as Butterfly would learn, was abandonment. The truth for women was always abandonment, thought Bella sadly.
She had looked up with a sigh to find Wolfie shivering in his thin jumper and jeans at her elbow. "Oh, for fuck's sake," she said roundly, tugging out the earphones, "you'll freeze to death, you silly kid. Here. Get inside my coat. You're one weird bugger, Wolfie. What's with all this sneaking around, eh? It ain't bloody natural. Why don't you never draw attention to yerself?"
He allowed her to wrap him inside the flap of her army greatcoat, snuggling up to her big squashy body. It was the most wonderful feeling he'd ever known. Warmth. Security. Softness. He felt safe with Bella in a way he had never felt safe with his mother. He kissed her neck and cheeks, and rested his arms along her breasts.
She put a finger under his chin and lifted his face to the moonlight. "You sure you're only ten?" she asked teasingly.
"Reckon so," he said sleepily.
"Why aren't you in bed?"
"Can't get in the bus. Fox's locked it."
"Jesus wept!" she growled crossly. "Where's he gone?"
"Dunno." He pointed toward Shenstead Farm. "He took off that way through the wood. Reckon he's gone for a lift."