The Possessions of a Lady (41 page)

Creak. Who the hell? I was listening for, and hearing, creaks that
weren't even creaking. Honest to God. I mean, [king it out, who was possibly
against me, now the whole thing was done with? Roadie? I could handle him any
day of the week. Or at least I could scarper faster. Deny and Bonch lid prove a
problem, but Big John Sheehan has a sort of rum fairness, ends up with you in
the mire and him righteous at St Cuthbert's at evensong. Skulking isn't his
game.

The reason I didn't go straight in was the door was ajar. I could
feel the draught on my face from the slice of deeper black. I shoved it
experimentally. Was Briony here? But there'd been no car below. Aureole? No car
below for her either. Vyna? Carmel? But n.c.b.

Lydia, come to make up, pulled by my sheer animal magnetism?
Hardly. She detested me now. And she must still be at Scout Hey with Wanda
going over the auction list. Thekla? No.

Two choices. One, go inside, believing in the friendly real world.
Or stay out here like a lemon, scared by figments, old frights.

The door opened as I shoved. Why didn't it creak, then? I tried to
remember if it had creaked before, or if the floorboards had creaked when Wanda
and I had made smiles. Couldn't recollect. Step inside, I'd know for sure.

Inside, then. My leg took a lot of persuading to move, my foot to
find the floor, my weight to sway forward. I did it, almost sinking with
relief. An engine, car approaching. Lights switched across the interior of the
great old farmhouse. I saw that nobody was here at all. But the car didn't turn
down the track. No Tinker.

The light dowsed, the engine silenced. Might it be linker, after
all? I stepped forward, confident, felt for the rail. The upstairs was more of
a balcony, rather a wide landing, and could be used as an impromptu bedroom for
some rustic visitor. It was bounded by a stout wooden railing that became a
banister down the interior staircase to the living-room floor.

No flashlight. I fumbled for matches. Had I kept them, when
lighting the fire? No. Wanda, selfish bitch, had used her cigarette lighter. I
remembered her returning it to her handbag. That's how helpful she is.

The stairs creaked as I went down, a step at a time. Definite,
creak, creak. Very like any old wooden staircase would creak, as when a person
descended. Or ascended. So as to be behind anybody entering from the exterior
staircase, say? Coming in through the door above, at balcony levels I reached
the ground floor, relieved and safe.

So as to be behind?

A flashlight snapped on behind me, casting my grotesquely huge
shadow onto the chimney breast. I was almost blinded, turned, felt about in
front of me, hands spread.

'So you're Lovejoy.'

'Eh?' I screwed my eyes up. 'Who're you?'

I could hardly see against the light, but I was sure I'd never
seen the bloke before. He was a small intense man, should be at his books
instead of haunting remote farms. Specs, waistcoat shopsoiled. It wasn't his
normal condition, I could tell. He held a knobkerrie.

'Terence Entwistle?' I was guessing.

'Lovejoy.' He was interested. 'You're the one who stole the
antiques I hid at the mansion. You gave them to Stella's auction.'

'No,' I lied swiftly. 'It wasn't me, Terence. They'll be here any
sec. For you. I want to help, see?'

'You made her auction a success, Lovejoy. I planned to make it
fail.'

'I didn't!' I cried, gauging the distance to the stairs, any door.
But he held the light on me, swung the knobkerrie the way somebody might who
knew how to use it. I pressed on, desperate to lie my way out. 'Where you'd
hidden them was bound to be discovered, see? So I had them moved. They're in a
truck. Tinker my mate's bringing it.'

'Don't try to run, Lovejoy.' He was smiling, really proud of
something. 'My friend's at the door.'

'Friend?' I swallowed. 'Two of you?'

'I was sabre finalist, Lovejoy. I know hand weapons. Tell me about
Stella and Enderton.'

'Eh? I don't know! Honest! I only just met him.'

'Own up, Lovejoy,' Tubb said from the landing above, leaning
nonchalantly on the rail, looking casually down as if at a play. 'Terence was
betrayed all along, weren't you, Terence?'

'It's true!' Entwistle's cheeks were a single point of red outrage.
'By that . . .
politician!
’

'Tubb?' I said stupidly. Him, and this madman?

'Me, Lovejoy. I'm here to help Terence. He's going to do for you.'
Tubb sighed, shook his head. 'Terence's plan would have worked. The auction
would have been a failure, Stella would have hated Mayor Tom. Terence wouldn't
have lost his wife. But you messed it up.'

Entwistle swung the weapon, rolling it as a drum major does a
marcher's mace. I stepped back. He stepped after, shining the torch in my eyes.

'Terence. Please. One more minute!' I begged, hands joined in
supplication. This wasn't fair. T know you've been wronged. I understand . . .'

'Terence,' Tubb said regretfully. 'Are you going to listen to
him?'

'No.' Terence swung the implement. Christ, he looked strong. That
knobkerrie, perhaps from some old African campaign. 'You must pay, Lovejoy.'

'Please!' I shouted, retreating to the inglenook, but my voice
only echoed up the chimney. I was standing in the warm ashes of the peat fire
that had burned so welcomingly. 'Please, Terence. I'm your friend!'

Tubb heaved a great sigh, enjoying it. 'Don't believe his crap,
Terence. A friend, spoiling your clever plan? Lovejoy and Stella were more than
just old friends. He was her boyfriend years ago. That's why I tried to . . .'

'Crisp me in the archway!' I yelled. It suddenly dawned. 'Tubb!' I
pointed, aghast. 'You! You who did Spoolie! And tried to molotov me.' I'd
shrunk to a crouch among the ashes, hoping to avoid the blows that were going
to fall. My shoulder caught on the jack spit, its great iron hook.

'Who?' Terence paused. 'Spoolie who?'

'The police are looking for Spoolie's murderer!' I bawled hysterically
at Entwistle, pointing with a shaking hand. 'It's him!' I raised my shoulder.
The iron hook lifted, fell behind me into the ash.

'Don't try it, Lovejoy.' Tubb lit a cigarette. 'Don't listen,
Terence.'

'And that Viktor Vasho bloke! You did him, too?'

Tubb shook his head, as if at a querulous child.

'Viktor Vasho tried to defect from Roger's arrangements, so of
course he had to suffer. Viktor reneged on the plan to raid a few fashion
houses that Vyna was picking out. You don't understand the forces, Lovejoy.
Roger pays well. Him and Carmel are an unstoppable pair, Lovejoy. You had your
chance.'

'What
is
this?'
Terrence's weapon had almost stilled.

'Lovejoy's trying to distract you, Terence.' Tubb blew a smoke
ring. He had muscles to spare, the demented workouts he was always doing. I'd
thought him a wimp. Now, he seemed to grow before my eyes. 'Does it alter the
wrong he's done, Terence?'

'No,' Entwistle said dully. He hefted his weapon, stepped close.
'It's in the Good Book, Lovejoy. An eye for an eye.'

The door behind Tubb suddenly swung inwards. A woman's voice
called, 'Lovejoy?'

'Stella!' I screeched.

Entwistle turned, caught himself as he recognised that the voice
wasn't Stella's. I grabbed the hook and swung it across in front of me out into
the room where Entwistle was standing before the hearth. It met something with
a thunk. Wetness spurted onto me, poured down my face. I was blinded.

I rolled, begging and whining, clawed at my eyes, then screamed
some more as my face slammed into Entwistle's. He was on the wooden floor,
gagging, seeming to be trying to speak. Blood was everywhere.

'No!' I screamed, standing up. He had an iron hook in his throat.
Blood spurted out five, six feet, going whirr, whirr. I tried to back away,
hearing myself howling, seeing the room in dreadful tableau. 'No! No!' I kept
bawling, blotting my eyes.

The torch had fallen against a couch, sending shadows slantwards.
Tubb had hold of Nicola, his hand over her mouth. I picked up the knobkerrie.
It was slippery. I had the sense to wipe it on my jacket, get a grip. I could
hear myself whining, keening.

'Lovejoy!' Nicola cried, struggling. Tubb semi-throttled her to
silence.

Entwistle stopped threshing. He lay there, the blood down to a trickle.
I judged Tubb. He looked even bigger, Nicola small and terrified. Thinking
always comes too late.

'They'll be here soon, Tubb.'

'Who?' He actually seemed to be enjoying himself. He hauled Nicola
up, lifted her so she sat on the railing over the drop. 'All your friends?' And
he laughed. I'd never seen him laugh before. 'Roadie? He was our informer,
Lovejoy. Roger? He pays me. Carmel? She's Roger's partner. Thekla, well, wanted
to warn you. Good job you were too stubborn to heed her, eh?'

'Thekla?' A friend? When she'd made me homeless?

'I'm coming for you, Lovejoy.' Tubb set Nicola screaming by
pretending to let her drop over. 'It's time.'

I tried not to look. Entwistle had stopped breathing, I think. I
pulled the hook from his throat. Like a fool, I said, 'Excuse me, please.'
Then, 'Let her go, Tubb.'

‘I hate that nickname, Lovejoy.' He sighed, hard-done-by. 'What
good do you think that hook's going to do you? And that shillelagh? I pick my
teeth with bigger sticks than those. I'll drop the woman.'

'Chuck her, then, Tubb.' I stepped towards the staircase, not
rushing because I wouldn't know what to do when I got there. 'She's no good to
me.'

'Lovejoy!' Nicola shrieked, struggling. One of her shoes flew off,
whizzed by me.

'As long as you know what day it is, Tubb,' I said on the bottom
step. I moved to the next. For the first time he looked uncertain.

'Day? What day?'

'Patron saint of farms,' I invented. 'Saint Aloysius. Used to live
hereabouts. That old well was his. It starts a stream that flows through this
farm.'

'What's that to do with anything?' He licked his lips. I was on
the third, fourth step. I might make the door past him, get out.

'Today's his saint's day, Tubb. He's buried by the well. His
spirit's supposed to live here.'

'Balls, Lovejoy.' He looked at Nicola, petrified in his grip.
Fifth, another, seventh.

'The saint abhorred killing, Tubb. Even animals. This farm never
succeeds. Farmers have to kill sheep, see? Bullocks, cows, the lot. It'll grow
good barley, but farmers go for animals. Profit. Anybody'll tell you.'

'What happens?' he asked, wary.

'Ask Tinker. I told Entwistle the truth. Tinker'll be here soon,
with the dresses you're all after, and the pinkos on them that Vyna must have
guessed weren't cheap costume jewellery. This was Tinker's family's farm.'

'Tinker's family's?'

'His parents died. They had their own abattoir across the
farmyard, went bankrupt before they died. See? Seventeen generations tried it.
Death, Tubb. And you killed poor Entwistle on the saint's holy day.'

'It wasn't me,' Tubb cried, triumphant. 'You did him, Lovejoy.'

'But you topped Spoolie. You and Roger.'

'Not here, we didn't!'

'Where doesn't count. Can't talk yourself out of a killing where a
saint's concerned. Top me, you'll die yourself before the day's out.'

I stepped onto the landing. Level. If he chucked Nicola over, I
could maybe clout him and flee. Except like an idiot I'd got the jack-spit hook
in my right hand and the knobkerrie in my left, and he was facing the wrong
way. Could I maybe hook him and then dash for it? The door was ajar. Maybe I
could be off before he came blundering after? My heart was whooshing in my
ears, deafening. Had I left the keys in the old motor's ignition? And it always
took an age before it got going.

It's hopeless trying to look threatening when you can't. I did
try, frowning like I'd seen in films. His brow suddenly cleared. I thought,
Christ.

'Then I'll take you, Lovejoy. And the bird. Do you somewhere else,
after midnight.'

'No!' I said, panicking. 'That won't work. The legend says—
don't!
’

It was a trick. He lobbed Nicola over. I swung the hook round-arm,
felt it hit. I clubbed with the knobkerrie left-handed, missed, swiped
back-handed and got him on the head. He rolled along the rail. I heard myself
yelling, followed and hit, clubbed, swiped. He leant away, vanishing over the
railing. I stopped, rasping for breath, heard him slam, breaking something.
There was blood everywhere, on me, on the landing floor.

Below, I saw in the bizarre slantwise light Nicola weeping and
mewling. Her leg was at an angle it shouldn't have been. She was trying to
grasp a wooden chair, pull herself away from the ghastliness of the two fallen
blood-covered things nearby.

There was no question. I raced out into the cold wet darkness,
blundered down the outside stairs to the ground, fell once dashing to the car,
fumbled, talking rubbish, blubbering like a frightened child. I slammed into
the motor, clambered in, found with a screech that I'd still got the hook and
the knobkerrie, dropped them with a cry, managed fiftieth go to get the key
into the ignition, fired the engine and the headlights came on.