Читать книгу In the Shadow of Winter: A gripping historical novel with murder, secrets and forbidden love - Lorna Gray - Страница 9

His late night comments on my altered appearance had been right; I was slimmer now. I had been a softly rounded teen but the subsequent years of hard physical work made worse by the deprivations of the war had stripped my body down to lean muscle that I suspected was rather boyish, and sadly no amount of dreaming would allow me to pretend that I had magically transformed my baby fat into a model-like elegance. I supposed that I still had hips somewhere, but they were so well hidden by handmade trousers and the loose folds of my thick winter jumpers that I would have been hard pushed to prove it.

Reassuringly, the bruises appeared less substantial in the light of day and as I quietly slipped down the stairs to the familiar sounds of a windswept world dawning to thick snow, I noticed that, like the marks, the concerns which had haunted my night had since faded to become a more reasonable judgement with the morning. So much so in fact, that upon opening the living room door to the predictable discovery that I still had a houseguest, I believe I simply felt a vague sense of relief that the telltale smudges were harmlessly out of sight. They were well concealed by the thick rolls of excess wool at my wrists – this was one of the better results of wearing hand-me-down clothing – and at least now I could be sure that not only would Freddy not see the marks and upset himself, but, almost as importantly, I would avoid the unhappy experience of provoking belated attention from him.

Not that there was presently very much danger of anybody being provoked into anything, whether admissions or otherwise. Matthew was asleep.

He was still lying on my settee, his feet hanging off the end in sleeping disarray, and as I drifted silently past the back of his chair, it was impossible not to give in to the daring burst of curiosity that prompted me to pause and examine him.

His mouth was hanging slightly open as he breathed steadily and his relaxed features had softened through sleep to a gentle harmlessness that was a world away from the waking man who showed the taut pallor of exhaustion and a stark tension in every gesture. His expressive face, although currently drawn and rather grey, held a defined structure and pleasing jaw that were undeniably engaging and beneath the disguise of stubble and vagrancy, he still possessed something of his old appeal. Infuriatingly, he did not seem to have had the good grace to prove that my youthful attraction had been nothing more than a figment of my romantic imagination and for a moment I found that, where his short sandy hair was ruffled by vulnerable sleep, I actually had to resist the urge to stroke it back into place.

He moved, only a brief dreaming shift of his cheek on its cushion, but it sharply reawakened me to an unpleasant fluttering of doubts and apprehension as he settled once more, perfectly unaware of my interested scrutiny.

He was thinner than he should have been, much thinner than a few days of this unexplained drama could justify and it both worried and frustrated me that I knew nothing about what might have happened to make him become like this. The shock of his injuries might well serve as a justification for his present loss of charm – not that his charm could still have any effect on me anyway – but even so it didn’t seem sufficient to explain how he had altered in the years since we had last met to become tougher and far more remote than even I would have expected. What had changed in him; what wartime tragedy had turned the gentle young man of my teens into this…this lean stranger?

I sighed inwardly and moved to step away but as I turned, something stirred in the folds of the blanket. Transfixed, I watched as a dark shape moved languorously and separated itself from the shadows.

Meow it said, before lithely leaping over the back of the settee and dashing across the kitchen floor into the small dairy and its shadowy corners beyond. My hand went to my throat in a classic pose of shock and I felt a powerful wave of hysterical laughter rise within me. A cat! Of all the things I had imagined being somehow associated with the turmoil in my mind, one of the half-wild farm cats was not what I had expected. It had obviously sneaked in to seek warmth in the night and I wondered if I was going a little strange myself, given my determination to live like a character from a horror story.

Shaking my head and silently berating myself, I lit the stove and put the kettle on. There was a great pile of washed crockery on the drainer and I tried to put it away quietly so that it wouldn’t wake the sleeping man. I would, I knew, have to re-dress his wounds today – it really ought to have been done yesterday – and so a certain level of interaction was inescapable, but if I could just manage to get breakfast out of the way without having to speak to him, I would be a very happy woman.

“Good morning.”

I gave a startled squeak and nearly dropped the cups and sugar bowl onto the sideboard. Hastily collecting them together again and feeling strangely like I had been caught in the middle of a guilty act, I took a deep breath, and turned.

Clearly a master of stealth given that I had been moving quietly myself, Matthew was standing by the settee, looking pale, tired and wearing nothing but the tattered trousers that had been drying in front of the fire and the bandages across his chest. To my immense relief, he looked calm and perfectly lucid, although slightly annoyed as if it irritated him that in his weakness, he had allowed me to observe him while he lay in unguarded sleep.

Who could be after him, I wondered; what had happened to make even sleeping a risk? I carefully avoided noticing the lean fitness of his stomach and upper arms and instead set my face into a concentrated frown.

“Sit down,” I said in a voice that betrayed me by squeaking. I tried again, finally managing to sound much more convincingly detached and stern. “What can I get for you? Tea? Toast?”

Amusement had flickered behind his eyes at my tone but then, as if to mask the brief spark of old familiarity, the faint lift of his mouth swiftly contracted into a flat line; although this might have been from the sudden discomfort as he settled uneasily into a dining chair.

“Some clothes would be nice, then I’ll get out of your hair.”

“Really?” My surprise came out in another squeak that this time I think I managed to successfully conceal as a cough. My delight was palpable, however, and I couldn’t help that the powerful sense of release at his announcement of an imminent departure was making me seem suddenly very cheerful.

“Clothes I can do,” I said brightly and had to concentrate very hard on not smiling.

I experienced a faint feeling of something like conscience as I laid out breakfast and then climbed the stairs to rummage through my father’s things. Dragging out a pile of old jumpers, I went through them until I found one which was relatively unworn and would probably fit Matthew’s rather longer arms. He was lucky; there were still a few shirts left too and, pulling out the two that had escaped either the moths or being altered to fit me, I collected them up into a neat little pile and then shoved the drawers shut again. Unusually, the muted click of wood on wood was repeated by a louder, sharper slam of the front door.

As was apparently becoming the norm for me, I instantly gave a guilty start of surprise and very nearly dropped the stack of folded clothes. Somehow I managed to snatch them back again and barely able to believe that he would leave before I had even properly equipped him for the snow, I hurried, with trailing sleeves flapping madly about me, out of my room, across the narrow landing and down into the gloom of the stairs.

And ran straight into Matthew just as he was stealing silently up them.

He put out a hand to steady me. Knocked out of all restraint by relief and the pain of our collision, I drew a shaky breath to laugh and to tell him about it but before I could even speak a word, I found myself being curtly hushed.

His authoritative grip on my arm made me draw breath in a different way as he leaned in to whisper in my ear.

“Someone’s here,” he hissed. “Get rid of them.”

I shot him a foul look to hide my shock at the unpleasantness of both his tone and his closeness. Then, thrusting the clothes carelessly at his chest, I shook off his hand and marched with perfect icy hauteur down to the door at the foot of the stairs. It only occurred to me as I was closing my fingers over the handle that the rough edge to his temper might not have been entirely without cause, depending on what I found on the other side.

There was suddenly every temptation to turn tail and run upstairs to hide with him, and I very nearly did so. But then a woman’s muffled voice hallooed through the living room wall and I recognised the invasion for what it was; just another harmless example of that comforting time-honoured custom that country people have of walking straight in and out of other people’s houses, usually in time for tea.

I carefully put my face in order, and opened the door.

Mrs Ford was slightly older than I was, married, and took this as an excuse to be a bit superior and a little snooty. For all her airs I liked her though, and with half my mind still centred on my own concerns, I wondered what was worrying her. She was hovering just inside the kitchen and clutching her handbag to her as if her life depended on it, but it seemed highly unlikely that she was the source of the mysterious threat that had the power to send Matthew diving for cover.

That something was worrying her, however, was perfectly obvious. I thought she had smiled cheerfully enough when I welcomed her, but she seemed oddly stiff with me as she refused my offer of a cup of tea and now she was hovering awkwardly by the kitchen table with the prudish air of someone who had just swallowed a very bitter lemon. I wondered whether she had caught sight of a half-dressed man disappearing up my stairs.

“What can I do for you, Mrs Ford?” I asked while sneakily trying to clear away the three sets of breakfast things.

“Well,” she began hesitantly, still looking uncomfortable. She stood for a moment staring at the pile of well-thumbed books that Freddy had left abandoned on a chair and fiddled with her handbag again. Then she must have caught my curious look because she seemed to give herself a shake before suddenly brightening and eagerly bursting out with; “Have you heard the news? Isn’t it too awful?”

“What news?” I asked, confused. Surely she hadn’t walked all the way from the village in these conditions just to indulge in gossip.

I was automatically making tea anyway, whether she wanted it or not, but then the flimsy webbing that covered the handle of the battered old tin teapot crumbled and fell away as I touched it, and with a silent curse I snatched up a teacloth so that I could pour without scalding my hand.

I glanced back at my visitor in case she had noticed the tatty state of my kitchenware but she didn’t seem particularly aware of anything as she flushed with the excitement; “I’m surprised you haven’t heard already – it’s been all over the wireless.”

I didn’t bother to mention that I had sold the wireless about six months ago when Freddy’s boots had finally got beyond repair. “What news?” I repeated.

“About that man over at Warren Barn, Old Whatsit’s son, you know; the one with the stammer.”

“Jamie Donald?” I supplied. Jamie was a seedy-looking man who made a dubious living by doing Lord knows what surrounded by pheasants in the heart of the nearby country estate commonly known as the Park. He had set up home there after the war and didn’t seem particularly fond of human company, sometimes, strategically I thought, adopting the offensive slur of the stage alcoholic as I rode past with ponies in tow. I had seen him do it to others too, so it wasn’t just me, but for all his oddities, he had given Freddy some honey once so couldn’t be all bad.

“Yes, him, that’s right. He’s only been murdered!” No sign of nervousness now, she clearly relished the horror of it. “Nearly five days ago – the poor man was brutally strangled. It’s been on the wireless; it would have been in yesterday’s newspapers had it not been for the blizzard. Which killed nearly all the sheep on Exmoor. Didn’t you know?”

“No, no I didn’t.” It wasn't entirely clear to me whether she had meant her question to refer to the man or the sheep; not that it mattered anyway because she had swept on regardless.

“Well —” There was a bizarre moment of suspension where I could see her mouth moving so I knew she was speaking but somehow, hard as I tried, I just couldn’t comprehend the words. But then, unhappily, my mind cleared of its numbness and I caught the tail end of her excited rush. “… and the police have had dogs out and everything, and Mr Langton from the Manor lent Sir William some men and they found a scent but lost it in the snow. I must say that I always thought he looked a bit sullen but who’d have thought that he was a murderer.”

“I’m sorry. Who did you say …?” But I didn’t need her answer. I already knew.

Matthew Croft.

For a moment it felt as though the world had actually stopped. Only that was clearly wishful thinking because then it started again, my heart racing painfully in my chest while those last few words resounded in my head with all the gentleness of a death knell.

So this was his terrible secret, the reason for his silence and the cause of his determined exclusion. But…why?

I must have spoken this last question out loud because she gave me a funny little smile that was mainly shocked but just a little bit gleeful. “The men that disturbed him at the scene said that they caught him going through poor Jamie’s pockets, so the wireless is saying money, but it’s my guess that he came back from the war damaged …What’s the word? Shell-shocked.”

I put a trembling hand behind me onto the worktop. My blood was pounding in my ears and I might have staggered but for its solid support. “Oh my God,” I finally whispered and carefully eased myself down into a chair.

She was quick with eager sympathy; “It is shocking, isn’t it? The police don’t know where he is and Sir William is furious. To think a murder could happen on his estate; it really …” There was a crash upstairs and she broke off, looking startled. “What was that?”

“Freddy, I expect,” I said hastily, hoping that she wouldn’t notice the way my breath was coming in short panicky gasps. The room was spinning with the horror of it; my frustration at his silence seemed utterly idiotic now, particularly when I realised that while he had hinted at danger and pursuit, he had been carefully neglecting to mention that it was, in fact, the police…

Mrs Ford was staring at me with wide-eyed alarm, “But I saw Freddy outside with the ponies.” She clapped a hand dramatically over her mouth. “Lord, you don’t think …?”

“No,” I said firmly. “I do not. It was probably just one of the cats.”

“But aren’t you afraid?”

“Of what?” I asked, almost impatiently. I wasn’t really paying attention as my brain fell back yet again into the search for flimsy excuses in the face of this awful discovery. It seemed impossible, every instinct screamed it must be, and yet cruel logic armed with the evidence of what I had found in the snow quietly persisted in forcing the point home. This was the mystery he had tried to hide from me? Impossible, my mind said again, forcefully, but then a memory flashed before my eyes of that first meeting, his hands imprisoning mine and his voice becoming nearly unrecognisable as it twisted into crazed unthinking fury.

I blinked quickly and focused on a bit of dirt on the table.

“All alone here,” she said in a low whisper. “With him on the loose…Oh I know you’ve got Freddy,” she waved my objections aside, “but what good is that boy going to be against that … that monster!”

“Oh, Mrs Ford, you do dramatise!” A brittle laugh somehow managed to disguise the trembling in my voice. “I can’t see why he would come here.”

“Can’t you? Time was when you two were rather close as I recall.”

“But how did you …?” I stared at her, shaken out of all appearance of calm, but Mrs Ford was so busy being shocked and appalled herself that I don’t think she noticed my change of colour. “I mean that was all a long time ago, Mrs Ford. There’s nothing between us now. No,” I said firmly into her protest, “I really don’t think that he would come here, and if he did, why I’d just send him packing again.”

I stood up quickly to cover the lie. I wasn’t even sure why I had said it. Over the years I had often fantasised about meeting him again and how my poise and cool reserve would prove to be a rebuke of the most powerful kind. Sometimes, fate being cruel, I had suspected that I would only come across him when doing something unbelievably foolish, forcing me to suffer his sharp wit and blush and stumble my way through our meeting as though I were still an embarrassed teen. It seemed insane that this was the way our little story would end.

A sudden remembrance of a past that could only bring me pain made me abruptly wish to change the subject; it was either that or give way to the rising nausea. I picked up the two forgotten teacups from the worktop and set one down in front of her before reclaiming my seat. “Anyway, Mrs Ford. Don’t tell me you trudged all this way through the deepest snow yet just to warn me of something nasty hiding in my woodshed?”

She smiled at my feeble joke. “No, dear.” She took a breath and slid into a chair opposite me, only to find that it rocked so violently that she had to hastily transfer herself to another. Kindly, she did not mention it. “I’ve come to ask a favour.”

“Yes? What is it?” I asked distractedly as my brain still span in a desperate rejection of reality.

“It’s about the pony. Did you hear that my Simon got his arm shot off?”

“I did, I’m sorry about that.”

She shrugged my sympathy aside, “Well, many people lost more, so I just thank the Lord he’s come back to me. Anyway the truth of it is, he’s not able to work so much now, the pension doesn’t go far and things need to be a little tighter. Much as Charlie loves that pony, he’s just too expensive.” She paused, looking at me helplessly before adding, “I’ve got a little bit put by but he’s eating it away.”

I hadn’t really been listening and was just slowly nodding my sympathy, but then I gave myself a sharp mental shake and finally I realised what it was that she wanted me to do. “Do you want me to take him back?”

I looked over at her properly for the first time and as my brain cleared, I saw with a jolt that her polite words had been a mask for the grim truth. Anyone could see that she had lost weight, her face pinched and drawn as she doubtless sacrificed her meals for the sake of her son. Rationing was all very well and good, but a family still needed money to buy the stuff.

I stood up crisply. “Of course I’ll take him back. How much did you pay for him? Can you remember?” I went to the cash tin on the shelf and lifted it down.

“We paid six pounds, but that was a few years ago,” she said sadly, fearing what I would say.

“Right. Well, your lad has done wonders with him, so he’s definitely worth more now. I’ll give you twelve.” I took out what was to me a small fortune and handed it to her. “And I need a rider for the smaller ponies; do you think Charlie will come and exercise them for me?”

Mrs Ford folded the notes and slipped them into her purse. “He’d love to, I’m sure. Shall I send the pony up this afternoon?”

“Yes please, Mrs Ford.”

She gave her thanks and we made our goodbyes and then, suddenly, I was alone in my kitchen, standing by the bare oak table and staring blankly at the few notes left at the bottom of the tin. My hands were shaking when I finally lifted it back up onto the shelf.

I waited for a while until the trembling passed and then I went and picked up the telephone.

“Ah, hello, Mr Dixon, Eleanor Phillips here. Yes it is rather snowy again, isn’t it … I’m calling about my father’s car; I’ve decided to sell it after all, if you’re still interested? Sorry? Oh, you know how it is, the ponies always need feeding. I know, selfish of them, isn’t it? Tuesday next week will be perfect, see you then.”