The Lazarus Tree Page 19

  ‘What for?’ she demanded. ‘Whether or not she is, there’s still someone in the churchyard. I’m coming with you.’

  ‘OK.’ Maltravers knew there was no point in arguing. ‘But no wandering off. We all stay together just in case.’

  ‘In case of what?’

  ‘If I knew that, I wouldn’t have to say we stay together.’

  Flyte dared a quick look round the edge of the gravestone, then shrank back as he saw them moving in a group beyond the churchyard wall. Not all three! Just him! On his own in the dark, unaware of what was going to happen. Like Patrick Gabriel had been. Perhaps they would split up ... he heard one of them speak as they reached the lychgate. It was a situation in which he was not in control, where he had to make instant decisions and could not afford a mistake. He whimpered with fright, then suddenly leapt up and bolted from his hiding place.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  The shout was snatched away by the wind as Flyte ran down the side of the church, starting to sob with fright as he heard running steps behind him. Cut off by the rectory and its neighbouring cottages, there was no way out from the back of St Leonard’s. The wind surged angrily, buffeted in all directions as it crashed against the church walls. Flyte reached the clump of yew bushes, high, fat and holding their own deeper darkness. He plunged into them then stumbled across a barrel tomb, scrambled to his knees and crouched behind another gravestone. Gasping for breath, tear-blurred eyes instinctively recorded ancient carved lettering. ‘Sacred to the memory of Thomas Smith, 1818-1902. And of his daughter, Faith, died 1845, aged three months. And of his wife Jane, 1830-1913. “Blessed art they who live in the fear of the Lord”.’ He strained his ears above huge gushes of wind, desperately trying to locate where his pursuers might be.

  ‘Where’s Tess?’ Maltravers demanded as he and Stephen emerged at the back of the church.

  ‘She ran round the other side. She must have thought whoever it is might have tried dodging us by doing the full circuit.’

  ‘The stupid ... Tess! Tess!’ Fear shot through his shouting. ‘We must find her before we do anything else. Come on.’

  Stephen followed him as he ran towards the north side of St Leonard’s, still calling Tess’s name.

  ‘Over here!’ Her voice came from near the rectory.

  ‘Where?’ Maltravers shouted. ‘We can’t see you.’

  ‘Here! By the bushes. I saw ...’ The wind crashed in again and drowned whatever else she was saying. Amid the yews, Flyte smothered a cry as he heard her within yards of his hiding place.

  ‘Stay there!’ Maltravers yelled. ‘Don’t move!’

  Flyte heard racing footsteps coming nearer as he scuttled like a terrified animal in any direction that led away from danger. He reached a sprawl of brambles and realised that beyond them was the wall alongside the path to Dymlight Cottage. Thorns tearing his hands and face, he forced his way through them and crawled over the wall, falling into the ditch beyond it. The impact winded him and he lay weeping with pain, dread and helplessness. For one mad moment in his life, he had been driven by the urgency of crisis to believe he had courage. And now he was trapped and could only wait for his tormentors to discover him. Gilbert Flyte, deputy bank manager, Rotarian, church-warden, biographer, trembled as cold ditch-water begin to soak into his clothes.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, I told you to stay with us!’ Maltravers’s voice cracked with angry relief as he reached Tess.

  ‘I’m all right!’ she snapped back impatiently. ‘Whoever it was went into these bushes. They could be anywhere by now.’

  ‘Could they get out of the graveyard from here?’ Maltravers asked Stephen.

  ‘All they’d have to do is climb the wall.’

  Maltravers jerked his head abruptly as a sudden scatter of stinging rain laced the wind lashing his face. ‘That’s all we need. Let’s try anyway.’

  They searched cautiously for several minutes, the rain increasing, before they gave up.

  ‘There’s nobody here,’ Maltravers said. ‘Or if they are, they’re welcome to stay here. Let’s forget it.’

  ‘But who might it have been?’ Stephen asked.

  ‘I don’t know and I don’t care. From what I saw, it looked like a man, so you can stop worrying about Michelle. She’s probably at home in front of the fire which is where we should be.’

  Less than ten feet from where they were standing, Flyte painfully held panting breath. It was going to be all right. They hadn’t recognised him in the darkness. As long as the ditch was deep enough for them not to see him as they walked past ... he lay very still as he heard them hurrying up the lane. Then he forced himself to wait until he was certain they were indoors before cautiously peering out. Irrationally, he began to feel successful. He had deceived them and there might now be another opportunity, one that he could plan more carefully. He had proved to himself that he had the courage to do it, all it needed was more preparation. Perhaps he could ... as he made his way home, Gilbert Flyte began to repair his shaming sense of humiliation by telling himself that next time ... next time ...

  *

  Maltravers and Tess heard St Leonard’s clock strike one as the wind, now pitiless in its fury, howled around Dymlight Cottage.

  ‘Who do you think it was?’ Tess asked.

  ‘In the churchyard? God knows. Perhaps someone was planning to steal the lead off the roof, although they must have been out of their minds on a night like this.’

  ‘We might find out more in the morning.’

  ‘Possibly.’

  They lay in silence for a while, then Tess moved closer to him, pulling his arm across her. ‘For comfort. Perhaps we’re wrong.’

  ‘Perhaps. And if we are, we can just go home and forget it. If I was the type who said prayers, I’d pray for that.’

  SEVENTEEN

  Shrieking like a banshee, the wind scoured the valley with the fury of a living thing in pursuit of hidden quarry. Gusts buffeted outcrops of rock on the hillsides, probing frenzied fingers into granite crevices before dashing away to race among trees, frantically ransacking the mottled camouflage of dead leaves and whipping between trunks to flush out some fugitive. Occasionally it paused, chafing as if uncertain where to go next, then regathered and tore on, a raging army of phantom hounds howling under stampeding, death-grey clouds. Shaking roof tiles and hissing through thatch, it besieged Medmelton’s cottages, rattling windows to demand entrance before swirling away in frustration. It threw columns of air down chimneys, billowing smoke vanguard of its invasion, or sent thin jets whistling through cracks beneath doors, chill, urgent and hostile. The lychgate of St Leonard’s groaned as it swept into the churchyard, breaking in a violent, invisible wave against the west front.

  Just after eleven o’clock in the almost empty lounge bar of the Raven, Maltravers watched the pub’s hanging sign swing on its wooden post, helpless as a tattered sail in a storm-boiling sea. Broken twigs tumbled across the deserted green opposite and a wandering dog scampered for shelter. As he looked out, a lone figure appeared walking towards the pub, coat flapping like struggling wings, head bent against the blast. Maltravers returned to where Tess was sitting by the log fire crackling in the huge stone grate. As he sat down, she reached across the table and took his hand; staring at the drink in front of him, he returned the encouraging pressure of her fingers. Whichever way it went, the situation held too much human pain and ... the wind howled in triumph, blasting cold through the room as the door opened. The handful of morning customers who had ventured out looked up as the newcomer stumbled inside then hurled his weight against the door to force it shut again. Captured whirling air was swallowed and died as the sanctuary within was re-established. The man stood for a moment, smoothing ruffled hair and unfastening his coat, then crossed to the fireplace.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ Maltravers said. ‘You’ve not met Tess.’

  ‘No.’ With automatic courtesy, Ewan Dean held out his hand. ‘Hello.’

  ‘What would you l
ike to drink?’ Maltravers asked.

  ‘Oh ... thanks. Just a half. Bitter.’

  Tess nearly made some banal, instinctive remark about the weather as Maltravers went to the bar, but small talk would have been grimly farcical and Dean appeared to prefer silence. Their eyes met as he sat down, then he looked away again. She mentally played a writer’s game which Maltravers often did on a train or walking down a crowded street; find the one adjective to describe a face. Frequently the features were a mask with nothing in the eyes or set of the mouth to draw on, but when personality or emotions were visible, the right word came. Melancholy, vulnerable, impish, distressed, cavalier, imperious, worldly, cynical. She sought the word for Ewan Dean’s face: cautious ... no, more than that ... guarded. He made no gesture of thanks as Maltravers placed the beer in front of him.

  ‘I didn’t understand the note you pushed through my door last night,’ he said. ‘I only came because it said you wanted to talk about something serious.’

  ‘Murder’s serious,’ Maltravers replied quietly as he sat down.

  ‘Whose murder?’

  ‘Patrick Gabriel’s.’

  ‘Gabriel? God, that was ... it’s all been forgotten.’

  ‘Not by me it hasn’t.’

  ‘Well it has by me.’ Dean swallowed half the contents of his glass and looked straight at Maltravers. ‘And everybody else in Medmelton. I know you’ve been prying into it, but I can’t see why it’s any of your business. From what Stephen’s told me, you couldn’t stand Gabriel when he was alive. Why this sudden concern now he’s dead?’

  ‘Patrick Gabriel was a bastard,’ Maltravers admitted. ‘A talented one, but a bastard all the same. But my opinion doesn’t mean that I think someone should have killed him.’

  ‘And what’s any of this got to do with me?’

  ‘Everything. You’re the one who did it.’

  Tess stiffened as fury flashed across Dean’s face and the knuckles on the glass he was holding went white. Then he controlled himself.

  ‘I knew this was a waste of time.’ He started to stand up. ‘Thanks, but I won’t finish your bloody drink.’

  Maltravers ignored the reaction. ‘And you killed him because he made love to your daughter.’

  Half risen from the table, Dean stopped and was very still for a moment. Then he looked at Maltravers as though he was insane.

  ‘What the hell are you talking about? I don’t have a daughter. I don’t have any children.’

  ‘Yes you have,’ Maltravers contradicted. ‘And once I realised that, it explained a great deal. Michelle’s your daughter — which of course is why Veronica has never admitted to anyone who the father was. It was her own brother.’

  Dean leaned forward, angry fists resting on the table’s edge. His self-control was now absolute.

  ‘I’ll just say this and then I leave. If you ever repeat that, I shall ... no, I won’t sue you. I’ll kill you. Who the hell do you think you are, making accusations like that? Against my sister.’

  ‘Back off, Ewan.’ Maltravers sounded impatient. ‘If you’re going to kill me, it’ll have to be here and now, because unless you sit down again and listen to me I’m going to the police. Then they’ll investigate and stir up so much dirt that it’ll stick to everybody. The first thing will be DNA fingerprinting of you and Michelle — and there’ll be no refusals this time. I’m no scientist, but I know the results will prove you’re her father. Do you want Michelle to know that? Do you want your parents to know? Think about it.’

  Dean stared at him for a moment, then turned to Tess. ‘How do you live with a madman?’

  ‘I don’t,’ she replied. ‘But I live with a man who sometimes has an eccentric view of the law. In his position, a lot of people wouldn’t have asked you to meet them, they’d have gone straight to the police. Gus is actually offering a way out of this — at least for some people. And they’re people that you love.’

  She laid her hand on his right fist, still pressed against the table. ‘Hear him out, Ewan. Please. When he’s finished you can still walk out if you want to.’

  Dean’s fist hardened beneath her fingers, then began to slacken before he pulled it away. He breathed in very deeply, straightened his chair again and sat down.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Maltravers was aware that he had taken a very significant step. ‘I’ll make this as short as possible, because I can appreciate it’s going to be painful for you. I could begin with when Patrick Gabriel came to Medmelton, but of course the real starting point was when you and Veronica became lovers ...’

  The rage that had appeared in Dean’s eyes when Maltravers had first made the accusation had hardly faded; now it erupted again, but this time it was mingled with grief and confusion.

  ‘Don’t interrupt,’ Maltravers said. ‘That’s none of my business or anybody else’s. It’s illegal, but it happens more often than many people think and human emotions don’t take much notice of laws. Nobody else was hurt by what happened and it’s obvious that you and Veronica are still very close to each other. I’m counting on the fact that you love her.

  ‘Anyway, it happened and both of you kept your secret. And then you married and couldn’t have children and had to watch your daughter grow up without being able to acknowledge her. For a long time, you could sublimate your feelings by being a favourite uncle, but then Veronica married Stephen. He’s a good stepfather, but he was another man taking over what you wanted to be your role in Michelle’s life.’

  ‘I can see how you make a living as a writer,’ Dean interrupted. ‘You’ve got the imagination for it. Can you prove any of this?’

  ‘Not a word,’ Maltravers admitted. ‘But are you going to risk telling me to get lost and hope I won’t go to the police?’

  ‘Would you?’ Dean challenged.

  ‘You’d better believe it.’

  ‘So you don’t give a damn about how much pain you’d cause.’

  ‘If I didn’t give a damn, I’d have gone to them already. Wouldn’t I?’

  Dean made no reply and the silence between them was startlingly invaded as a broken tree branch smashed against the window, cracking the glass like a pistol shot. For a few moments, there was an alarmed agitation, the landlady rushing to examine the damage, the wind whipping in again as a man suddenly anxious for his greenhouse hastily left, and what sounded like schadenfreude comments were made about the state of the church roof. Hidden behind the bar, the landlord’s dog whimpered.

  ‘Wouldn’t I?’ Maltravers repeated quietly as relative peace returned to the room. Dean had remained so totally still during the disturbance that it might never have happened.

  ‘I don’t know you well enough to say. Perhaps you would.’

  ‘And if I did — because you left me no option — would I be right?’

  Dean looked at him without replying for a very long time. Then he seemed to reach a decision.

  ‘You’ve been asking questions, but you haven’t got anywhere, so for some reason you’ve come up with this and are trying to trick me into confessing something by threatening to go to the police with it. But you’re bluffing.’

  ‘Then call it.’ Maltravers picked up his glass and finished his wine. ‘Tess and I are going back to Dymlight Cottage — we’ve already packed incidentally. We’ll be leaving Medmelton at ...’ he glanced at the clock above the bar, ‘let’s say twelve o’clock. If you don’t come to talk to me before then, I go to the police. That’s the best part of an hour for you to think things over. Sorry, Ewan, but it’s as simple as that.’

  Gaze fixed on the crackling fire, Dean remained motionless as they stood up and walked out. Tess clutched Maltravers’s arm tightly as they bowed their heads into the shredding wind.

  ‘Do you think he’ll come?’ She had almost to shout over the tumult.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Maltravers gasped back. ‘But I hope so.’

  In the Raven, a man at the bar called across to Dean. ‘What was all that about, Ewan
? That was Stephen Hart’s friend you were talking to. Gus ... whatever it is. The one who’s been asking bloody questions.’

  ‘I was just saying goodbye,’ Dean replied. ‘He’s leaving today.’

  ‘Good riddance ... want the other half?’

  ‘No thanks. I’ve got to go.’

  It was only after he left that someone wondered why he had not been at his shop that morning.

  *

  In Exeter, Veronica was completing an application form for a local authority grant when she was overwhelmed with an inexplicable sense of disaster. The pen suddenly refused to move across the paper and her hand shook; for a few seconds she felt icy cold and physically sick as the office went blurred. The moment passed and she realised that she was frightened, because ... because ...

  ‘Ewan?’ Instinctively whispered, the name terrified her. ‘What’s the matter?’

  Dear God, this hadn’t happened for years, this instant agonising knowing that something was wrong. What was it? An accident? Violent illness? Danger? She snatched up the telephone and dialled the model shop; it only rang twice before she heard her brother’s voice.

  ‘Dean’s Model Centre ...’

  ‘Ewan! It’s ...’

  ‘... I’m afraid we’re closed at the moment, but if you leave your name and number after the ...’

  Frantically, she rang off and began to dial his home number. It was past eleven, why wasn’t he at work? Ursula should have called her if ...

  ‘Come on ... come on!’ she begged as the ringing tone remorselessly echoed itself. Ursula must be in on a foul morning like this ... unless she’d gone to see Bernard about something to do with the church. Veronica dropped the receiver on her desk and pulled open a drawer, dragging out a directory. Quayle ... Queen ... Quentin ... Quex. Holding the number in the turmoil of her mind with constant repetition, she punched it in ... Christ, an ansaphone again.

  Now the knowing had hardened into total conviction, heightened into terror of what it might be. Snatching up her handbag, she raced out of the office, all self-control lost, crying some meaningless explanation about a crisis at home to startled colleagues. Outside on the pavement, she stopped as she realised that Stephen had the car, then ran towards the taxi rank by the railway station. Reading a newspaper, the driver of the first cab jumped as she banged on the window.