“I can’t stand this,” she said. “What do I have to do?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re saying it’s over between us then?”
“No,” he said. “No. Trust me. Not much longer.”
“When can I see you?”
“Soon.” He reached out and touched her face, stroked it from her forehead down her cheek to her chin. She felt the rough skin of his thumb and fingertips. “You will wait?”
“I don’t have much bloody choice.” To keep some remnant of pride she turned away before he did and stormed back into the pub.
The gin was on the bar, the ice already starting to melt in the glass.
“Are you all right?” Jeremy said. She must have looked pale. She felt weak and shaky.
“Fine, just too much sun.”
When she returned to the Priory, several gins later, Jeremy bullied her into phoning Barbara Waugh and she didn’t have the energy to resist. At least, she thought, I know Godfrey’s not there. The phone was answered by the child. Anne was thrown for a moment. She was never quite sure how to speak to children.
“Can I speak to your mother?” She realized she sounded abrupt, rude.
“Who shall I say is calling?” It was as if the girl had learnt to articulate the words at an elocution class.
When Barbara answered she was breathless. Perhaps she was worried that Anne would hang up before they had a chance to speak.
“I was in the garden. Such a beautiful day. I am so sorry to have disturbed your husband with my calls. He must think me very foolish.”
“Not at all.”
“I wonder if we could meet?” The voice seemed to break and she apologized again. “I’m sorry but I don’t know where else to turn.”
“Why not?” The gin had made Anne reckless.
“What about Thursday? Could you come here? Or if that’s not convenient I could come to you.”
This from Barbara who never went out. She must be desperate, Anne thought. “No, Thursday’s fine. And you’ll never find Baikie’s. I can come to you. In the afternoon?”
“Oh yes.” The relief was obvious. “You’ll be able to meet Felicity.
Come for tea.” At least, Anne thought, there’ll be homemade cake.
Chapter Forty-Five.
When Anne returned to Baikie’s that evening the effects of the gin were wearing off. She regretted having agreed to meet Barbara. She shouldn’t have let Jeremy persuade her to phone in the first place. The encounter with Godfrey had been unsatisfactory but it seemed he had plans. Perhaps having afternoon tea with Barbara would cock them up?
What would Godfrey think if he found out? And still she had come to no conclusion about what she should do when the project was finished.
The thoughts, jagged and unformed, danced in her mind as if she had a fever. She had spent too long in the sun and was restless and spoiling for a fight. Rachael was in the living room, working at the table. Her papers were in neatly symmetrical piles.
“Well?” Anne demanded. “Did you tell Stanhope what we agreed? We’ll stay until the weekend and no longer.”
Rachael looked up, but seemed preoccupied. “I couldn’t.” “You promised you wouldn’t go all weedy on me. An ultimatum we said.
You promised you wouldn’t let Stanhope intimidate you.” Anne flung her bag onto the sofa, releasing a faint cloud of dust.
“I didn’t. I didn’t even get the chance to talk to her. Neville Furness was there.”
“What did he want?”
“I’m not sure he wanted anything. I think Vera asked him in to answer some questions.”
“What about?”
“How on earth would I know?”
“He must be a suspect.”
“Perhaps. But Vera disappeared again this afternoon and Joe Ashworth wouldn’t tell me anything.”
“Neville was in the pub in Langholme at lunchtime with Godfrey Waugh.
Reporting back to his lord and master, I suppose.”
“Was he?” Anne seemed flushed and jumpy and Rachael wasn’t sure what to make of the information. At one time she would have been excited by this evidence of Neville’s perfidy. Now she was confused. She didn’t like the thought of Neville obeying Waugh’s orders. She pictured him suddenly on the hill working the sheep with a dog and found that image more pleasing. “It’s possible he won’t be working for Slateburn Quarries for much longer.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was talking about coming back to Black Law to farm.”
“Has he actually handed in his notice?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I bet he hasn’t. You weren’t taken in by that, were you?” She was pacing up and down, practically ranting. “It’s a knack he has. He tells people what they want to hear and then they trust him.”
“How do you know?”
Anne was still for a moment. “I’ve met other people who’ve come under the Neville Furness spell. Do you think Vera would drag him out here if he weren’t involved in the murder?”
They stared at each other. Rachael was embarrassed by her impulse to rush to Neville Furness’s defence. In the garden there was a burst of birdsong. Upstairs a cistern was flushed and they heard Edie’s footsteps in the bathroom, water running, tuneless singing.
“He’s asked me to dinner,” Rachael said. She could feel herself blushing.
“You didn’t say you’d go!”
Rachael didn’t reply.
“But you blame him for Bella’s suicide!” Anne cried.
“I know.”
“Well then. Are you crazy?”
“Perhaps I was wrong about Neville having put pressure on Bella. She told him and Dougie about her conviction years ago, before they were married.”
“And perhaps you’re deluding yourself.”
“No. Why would Neville drag the information up after all this time?”
“I don’t know. Because of the quarry. Because he wants to get his hands on the farm. Anyway, you only have his word for what Bella told him. Dougie’s hardly in a position to contradict. How can you know he’s telling you the truth?”
Anne had come up to the table and was leaning on it, her face very close to Rachael’s. Rachael turned away.
“I believed him. I didn’t want to, but I did.”
The effort of keeping calm made Anne’s voice shake. “Look, you’re contemplating going out on a date with a murder suspect.”
“It’s not like that. Not a date. It’s just to talk, to finish the conversation we started this morning.”
“Have you told Edie? I expect she’ll have something to say about it.
So will Vera, for that matter.”
“What’s that about Vera?” The voice resonant as a foghorn, made them turn. The Inspector must have been moving even more quietly than usual, or they were engrossed in their discussion, because she had appeared suddenly at the French windows like a character in a Whitehall farce. Her bulky form blocked out the last of the light. Rachael wondered how long she had been listening, then how many other conversations in this house had been overheard.
“Well?” Vera said jauntily. She looked tired but more cheerful. “Was somebody taking my name in vain?” She opened the door wide, but remained outside, leaning on the frame. She was wearing one of her shapeless floral frocks, with a bottle-green fleece jacket over the top. The jacket was zipped tight and the dress was pulled over her knees. Anne turned to her, demanding support.
“Neville Furness has invited Rachael out for dinner tomorrow night.
She’s agreed to go. I thought you might have something to say about it.”
Vera shrugged. “None of my business, is it?”
“But he’s probably mixed up in this murder.”
“Tut, tut… You can’t go about saying things like that. It’s speculation. He’s been helping us with our inquiries, that’s all. No question of any charge. He can see who he likes.” Vera nodded towards Rachael. “And so can she. She’s a consenting adult.”