Ivy Tree (34 page)

Adam glanced down at me. "Apart from Con's feelings," I said, "to which I've never had a clue, it's quite true."

"So," said Con, "it occurred to me to come across and intercept her, and tell her I was sorry for what had happened, only no sooner did she see me in the path than she let out a screech like a frightened virgin, and keeled clean over. I went to see what was the matter, and the next thing was, you were manhandling me into that damned bush. Don't worry, I'll take your apologies for granted, I suppose it was quite natural for you to think what you did. But you—" he addressed Julie on a scarcely conciliatory note—"it's to be hoped you'll see fit to stop making these damned silly accusations, Julie! I'm sorry I scared you, if that's what you want me to say, and I'm sorry if you've hurt yourself. Now for pity's sake try to get up, and I'll help Annabel take you home!"

But as he came towards us, Julie shrank a little against my shoulder. "Keep away from me 1" Con stopped. Adam was standing between him and Julie, and, though I couldn't see his expression, I realised he was at something of a loss. The situation seemed to be hovering uncertainly between melodrama and farce. Then Con said, on a note of pure exasperation: "Oh, for God's sake!" and turned on his heel and left the clearing. We could hear him, unhurrying, making his way downstream towards the bridge.

The silence in which he left the three of us was the silence of pure anticlimax. I had a strong feeling that, whatever had happened tonight, Con Winslow had walked off with the honours of war. Adam started to say something then, I think to ask Julie a question, but I cut across it, "That can wait. I think we'd better get Julie back to the house. Con told you the truth; she's had a shock tonight, and now a bad fright, and the sooner we get her to bed the better. Can you get up, my dear?"

"I think so. Yes, I'm all right."

Between us, Adam and I helped her to her feet. She still seemed dazed, and was shivering a little. I pulled her coat close round her. "Come on, darling, can you walk? We must get you back. Where were you going, anyway?"

"To Donald, of course." This in the tone of one answering a very stupid question,

"Oh. Welt, you'll see him tomorrow. Come along now, and don't worry, you're all right with Adam and me."

She responded to my urging arm, and went forward across the clearing, but so uncerainly and slowly that Adam's arm soon came over mine to support her.

"I'd better carry you," he said. "It'd be quicker."

"I'm too heavy," protested Julie, still in that small, shaky voice quite unlike her own.

"Nonsense." He took her up into his arms, and quite unselfconsciously she put her own round his neck and held on. I went ahead of them to hold back the swinging branches, and, when we got to the bridge, opened the gate and held it. Con, even in his anger, had taken the trouble to shut and latch it. The back door was standing open. The kitchen was dark, and the house seemed quiet. At least, I thought, snapping on the light, there was no sign of Con.

Adam paused inside the door, to say a little breathlessly: "Shall I take her straight upstairs? I can manage." Julie lifted her head, blinking in the light. "I'm all right now. Really I am. Put me down, I'm fine." He set her gently on her feet, but kept an arm round her. I was thankful to see that, though still pale, she didn't look anything like as drawn as she had seemed in the dead light of the moon. She managed a little smile for Adam. "Thanks very much for . . . everything. I'm sorry to be a nuisance. All right, Annabel, I'll go to bed, but may I just sit down a minute first and get warm?"

I said: "Put her in the rocking-chair near the stove, Adam. I'll get some brandy. Would you like a drink?"

"Thank you. Whisky, if you have it,"

When I brought the drinks through, Julie was in the rocking-chair, leaning back as if exhausted, but looking every moment more like her usual self. Adam stood by the table, watching me. At the sight of his expression, my heart sank.

"Mix your own, will you, Adam?" I said, "Here you are, honey."

"I loathe brandy," said Julie, with a healthy flicker of rebellion.

"You'll take it and like it," I lifted the cover off the stove, and slid the kettle over the hot-plate. "And a hot-water-bottle in your bed, and some soup or something just as soon as I get you there." I glanced at Adam. "It's no wonder she fainted; the silly little ass wouldn't have any supper, and all this on top of a mishap to the car she was in, and a mad quarrel with Con. Julie, there's some of tonight's soup left over. Can you take it? It was very nice."

"As a matter of fact," said Julie, showing signs of abandoning the role of invalid, "I should adore it."

"Then finish your brandy while I put the soup to heat, then I'll take you up to bed." Adam, if he heard this very palpable hint, gave no sign. As I brought the pan of soup in, he was saying to Julie: "You're beginning to look a little better. How do you feel?"

"Not a thing wrong with me, except hunger."

"You didn't hurt yourself—give yourself a knock or anything —when you fell?"

"I—I don't think I can have. I can't feel anything." She prodded herself experimentally, and then smiled up at him. "I think I'll live."

There was no answering smile on his face. "Then can you tell us now," he asked, "why you said that your cousin was going to kill you?"

I set the soup-pan on the stove with a rap. "I don't think Julie's fit to talk about it now. I saw what happened, and—"

"So did I. I also heard what she said." His eyes met mine across Julie's head. They were as hard as slate, and his voice was inimical. I saw Julie look quickly from the one to the other of us, and even, in that moment, spared a flicker of pity for a child's dead romance.

"You seem uncommonly concerned," he said, "to stop her telling her story."

"You've heard what happened," I said sternly, "and there's nothing to be gained by discussing it now. If we talk much longer there's a chance we'll disturb Grandfather, and he's had more than enough upset for one night. I know that most of what Con told you was true, and almost certainly the last bit was, as well. Julie saw him, got a sudden fright, and fainted. I'm fully prepared to believe that's just what happened."

"I'm sure you are," said Adam, and I saw Julie turn her head at his tone.

"For heaven's sake 1" I said crudely. "You're surely not still trying to make out it was attempted murder 1" I heard Julie take in a little breath. "Annabel—" "It's all right, darling, I know you said it, but you didn't know just what you were saying. He'd half scared you to death, looming up like that through the trees. Now, if you're ready—" "Will you please let your cousin speak for herself?" said Adam. I looked at him for a few moments. "Very well, Julie?"

Julie looked doubtfully up at him. "Well, it's true," she said. Her voice held a puzzled uncertainty that was uncommonly convincing. "I know I said he was trying to kill me, and I—I think I must really have thought so, for a moment, though why, I can't quite tell you." She broke off and knitted her brows. "But actually, it happened just as Con said, and Annabel . . . I'm not lying, Mr. Forrest, really I'm not. He—he never touched me. I know it sounds silly, but I'm sure I'd never have fainted if it hadn't been for the car accident, and then not having anything to eat . . . and then when I saw him, suddenly, like that, in the dark—" she gave a tremulous smile—"and, let's face it, I was feeling a bit wary of him, because I'd said some pretty foul things to him, and .. . well, that's all I remember."

I said: "Do you want Mr. Forrest to telephone the police, and report what happened?"

"Police?" Her eyes widened. "What on earth for?"

"In case it happens to be true that Con meant to kill you."

"Con? Annabel, how crazy can you get? Why, you don't really think-?"

"No, honey, no. But I think that's the way Mr. Forrest's mind's working. He threw Con into a bush."

"Did you?" Julie sounded shocked, then, lamentably, began to giggle. "Oh dear, thank you very much, but—poor Con! Next time he really will try to murder me, and I don't blame him!" I didn't dare look at Adam. I said hurriedly, to Julie: "Darling, it's time you went upstairs, and don't make a sound. Adam, I'm most desperately sorry you've had all this—oh, my dear sweet heaven, the soup!" It was hissing gently down the sides of the pan on to the top of the spotless stove. "Oh, Lisa's stove, and you should never let soup boil! It just shows—" as I seized a cloth and swabbed madly at the enamel—"that you shouldn't mix cooking and high drama. All this talk of murder—Adam, I'm sorry—" Think nothing of it." His face was wooden. "I'd better go." He turned to Julie. "Good night. I hope you'll feel quite all right in the morning." Then to me: "I hope my ill-advised attempts to help haven't made the soup quite undrinkable." The door shut very softy behind him.

"Annabel!" said Julie. "Do you think he meant to be nasty}** "I'm quite certain he did," I said.

•••

The cooler-house was clean, shining and empty. The floors had been swilled some time earlier, and were not yet dry; they gleamed under the harsh, strong light from the unshaded bulbs. Aluminium shone coldly, and enamel glared white and sterile. The machinery hummed, and this, since there was nobody in sight, gave the place an even barer, emptier appearance.

I stepped over a twist of black hosepipe, and looked through an open door into the byre. There, too, the lights glared on emptiness.

"Con?"

No reply. I crossed the wet floor and threw the switch over. The machinery stopped. The silence seemed to surge in, frightening, thick, solid. Somewhere a tap dripped, an urgent rapping on metal. I went back to the door of the byre and reached for the light-switch. My steps sounded incredibly, frighteningly loud, and so did the snap of the switch as I clicked it off. I turned back into the cooler-house. Adam came quietly in and stood there, just inside the doorway. I stopped dead. My heart began to jerk. I must have looked white with fatigue, and as guilty as sin. I said nothing. After a while he said: "Covering up?"

"What?"

"For your accomplice. You knew what I meant, didn't you?"

"I suppose I did."

"Well?"

"Look," I said, striving to sound no more than reasonable, "I know what you think, but, believe it or not, we told you the truth! For goodness' sake, don't try to take this thing any further!"

"Do you really think I can leave it there, after tonight?"

"But nothing happened tonight!"

"No, because I was there, and possibly because you were, too."

"You surely can't think that I— 1" I checked myself. "But you heard what Julie told you."

"I heard what you persuaded her to say. I also heard her say that Con was going to kill her."

"She admitted she had nothing to go by! She was scared of him, and got a sudden fright—what's tic use of going over and over it! You can see for yourself how seriously Julie's taking it now!"

"She trusts you. That's something I find particularly hard to take. She's another fool, it seems, but she at least has the excuse of being young, and knowing nothing against you." I looked at him rather blankly.

He gave a tight little smile. "I only mean that Julie has no reason not to trust you, whereas I had, being merely a fool 'sick of an old passion'. Well, that's over. You can't expect to take any more advantage of my folly, now."

"But I've told you—"

"You've told me very loud and clear, you and Con. And Julie has echoed you. You showed a touching family solidarity. All right, you can tell me three more things. One, why Connor went across the river at all."

"He explained that. He was going—"

"Oh yes, I forgot. He was going to apologise to her, wasn't he?" The irony bit. "Well, we'll skip that. Now tell me why he left the machinery running while he did so? I heard it; it was going all the time, and the lights were on. Odd, wouldn't you say? A careful type like that, who shuts gates behind him even when he's just been chucked into a bush and accused of murder?"

"There's—there's nothing in that. Maybe someone else was here."

"Who else, at this time of night? No one's here now. But we'll skip that, too. The third thing is, why did you follow Julie yourself?"

"Well, obviously, I didn't like the idea of her going out alone like that when she was so upset," "Did you know Connor had gone to intercept her?"

"No, of course not! The lights were on in the byre, anyway. I thought he was working here."

"Then why," said Adam, "did you cry out—sounding so frightened, at that—as you ran up through the wood?"

"I—I heard her scream. Of course I was frightened!"

"You called out before she made a sound."

"Did I? I must have wanted her to stop, make her wait for me.

"Why, in that case, did you call 'Julie, Julie! Co«/'?" Silence.

"So you did expect him to be there?" "I thought he might be." "And you were frightened."

"Yes," I said, "yes, yes, yes! And don't ask me why, because I've told you before! It was you who said it was absurd when I told you Con might be violent."

"I know I did. I thought you were exaggerating. Which is one of the reasons I so stupidly believed you, when you said you could look after Julie. Well, now we know better."

"Listen, Adam—"

"I've done enough listening. Look at this from my point of view. You told me you're in some racket or other which will turn out right in the end. You persuaded me to keep out of it, God knows how, but you did. Now, tonight, this happens. Because I chanced to be there, no harm was done. But you admit that Connor may have intended to do harm. That he may be dangerous."

"I've always admitted that."

"Very well. But the time has come for me to stop trusting you, you must see that. In the first place, I had no reason to, except that ... I had no reason to. Now after this—" a gesture took in the sterile, gleaming shed, and the now silent machinery—"I have less than none."

I said, after a pause: "Well? I can't stop you. What are you going to do? Telephone the police? Tell them Con tried to frighten Julie to death? Even if you had some sort of case— which you haven't; even if Julie would charge Con—which she won't; even if you had me as a witness—which you haven't, what could you prove? Nothing, because there is nothing to prove. All you'd achieve would be a howling scandal, and Grandfather laid out, and all for nothing."