A Proposal to Die For (22 page)

Among the graves beside the church something took shape in the gloom. A dark silhouette moving among the tombstones. It was impossible to make out whether it was a man or a woman. It seemed like a strange hour to go see a grave.

Worried, Alkmene pushed her forehead against the pane but could make out no more. She had no field glasses and even if she did, they would be of little use, with the dim light.

She turned to the bed and ditched her nightgown, slipped into a blouse, tweed skirt and coat. Every blister hurt when she stepped into her shoes with bare feet.

Then she moved to the door and opened it a crack. Nothing stirred in the corridor. She went down it on tiptoe, then the stairs…

One step creaked like a pistol shot popping, and she hurried on, worried someone would call out to her and halt her.

In the empty space of the inn's main room she stared at the painting over the fireplace. Made by the father of the hostess. Mary Sullivan's father also. The hunter for waterfowl who had known every path across the moor. Mary had used her knowledge to escape, escape the village, her family who used her like a servant, the supposed friend who had betrayed her to her mind. She had probably honestly believed Wally's loose tongue had brought the vengeance of her lover's family upon her.

It was so sad how one event had torn up this entire community and nothing after had ever been able to put it back in place again. Perhaps catching the killer could help some?

Alkmene went to the door and lifted the latch, stepped out into the dark square. She crossed to the right, towards the churchyard, and entered through the open metal gate.

The dark shape was scurrying in the distance, disappearing…into the church. There had to be a side door there.

Alkmene followed quickly, careful to keep her footing on the muddy path. She found the side door ajar.

She slipped in and stood a moment, her blood pounding in her ears. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness inside, lifted by a few lights that burned perpetually. Apparently this was a place of prayer where the villagers could find comfort at whatever hour of the day.

It made sense in a farming community where people rose early to work the land or travel to market. Maybe this person had not been doing anything mysterious but had simply ventured in to say a morning prayer.

However, she heard a sound as of leaves turning over.

She perked up her ears and moved in the direction of the sound. The church was long and straight, but had a side wing on the top left hand, perhaps where the vicar changed before the service began. From that very room, the rustling sound came.

Holding her breath, Alkmene went to the door and peeked in. A man stood hunched over a table, leafing through a large old book. He muttered to himself, names it seemed and dates.

Was that a registry of members of this congregation? It could easily be in a place like this.

He halted, his face lighting in relief. His finger pointed at a certain place on the page. Then it moved upwards, grabbed the edge, and without any care for the antiquity of the book or the sanctity of the place he was in, he ripped the page out of it.

Alkmene gasped.

Maybe he heard, maybe it was just because he was done and eager to get away, but he looked up at the door and he noticed something. He came for the door, in large strides.

Alkmene backed up, collided with something that clattered down. Ignoring it, she turned and ran.

Someone overtook her, grabbed her from behind and pinned her against a bench.

‘Lady Alkmene.' The voice at her ear was low and menacing. ‘Such a shame. You are just too curious for your own good.'

She wanted to say something, but her assailant pushed a cloth thing into her mouth. She bit down on it, hoping it was not a dirty handkerchief.

‘I know the perfect place to put you,' the voice said at her ear. ‘You might be found eventually. Or not. That would be a shame, I guess. But I have to cover my tracks. With this little piece of paper in my pocket, I am halfway done. There will be nothing left to prove that Silas Norwhich ever had any interest in Cunningham or indeed that a Mary Sullivan ever lived here. Her sister will not testify. When I came here to establish if there was any chance Mary or her dear baby would pop up and cause us trouble, the sister was the first to ask me how much money I was willing to pay to make her swear in court Mary was dead, drowned in the marshes. She was here ready and waiting to make sure dear Mary never surfaced again. Family is a wonderful thing, right?'

He began to pull her back.

Alkmene struggled, but knew it was futile. He was much stronger than she was. If only Jake…

But he was in bed, sleeping off yesterday's long hike across the moor.

She had been a silly idiot coming here without informing him, thinking it couldn't hurt to sleuth on her own. Hurt by his remarks, goaded by his rejection, she had endangered her life. It was only fair she was caught and now…locked up.

She just hoped that the man had been a little optimistic in surmising she'd never be found. An hour or two of discomfort would be punishment enough.

Still dragging her, the man wrestled her down some steps. She stumbled and almost fell. It smelled damp in here, chilly, like a dungeon.

He threw her to the ground and hunched beside her, dragging some rough rope around her wrists and then her ankles. Tying it, he laughed softly. ‘You are not all alone in here, Lady Alkmene. But I am afraid the others are not very talkative. All dead, you know, and have been for centuries. But then again with that cloth in your mouth you are not saying a whole lot either.'

He backed away. She tried to scream, crawl after him, grab his ankles, pull him to the floor.

But his muddy shoes had walked away already, up the steps, and then a door closed with a thud, and a chain rattled.

She was locked up. Under the village church. In a vault or something.

Probably where all the prominent citizens had been buried in times past.

In a tomb that was. A grave for the rich and wealthy.

Ironic. Jake might have had a good laugh about it.

Chapter Twenty

Alkmene tried to push the despicable gag out of her mouth with her tongue, but it didn't work. Neither could she get her hands loose. There didn't seem to be an edge or sharp rim in the vicinity that could aid her in this purpose. Everything she had always imagined you could do when bound and gagged and left to die was not working.

Maybe Jake had been right that she knew too little about being undercover.

Maybe so little she would actually die on her first investigation.

No. That was pathetic. Her father had taught her you didn't sit down and cry at the first trouble that came into your path. She just had to try harder.

Or be smarter.

She wriggled herself onto her stomach and tried to crawl like a worm or caterpillar. Those little creatures had no arms or legs and they moved about freely, even dug through earth or crawled up trees.

But they had to have special powers to do so, because this was not working either.

She was only getting a terrible muscle cramp.

Snakes then. How did snakes move?

She tried to picture the images of them from her father's books.

Then she heard a sound overhead. Something thudding. She wanted to scream, but the gag would not let her. She had to make a sound, somehow.

She lifted her feet and dropped them on the floor.

Ouch. That didn't sound loud enough to reach the world overhead. She needed metal to bash against, but there was none there. No pipes to clink sending out some sort of Morse code. Just nothing.

It was terrible to realize, but people would just bustle about the church all day: putting fresh flowers in place, lighting candles, offering prayers, talking to the deacon or the vicar, and they would have no idea of the tragedy playing out down here.

She could die of famine here with all those people happily singing glory to God overhead.

She tried to swallow down the despair that flooded her. She just had to think. She could come up with something.

And maybe people did come down here, every now and then.

For…

For what?!

Alkmene closed her eyes. She thought of her father in India, looking out over the river and listening to the cries of the monkeys and feeling so secure in the knowledge his daughter was safely in London, far away from poisonous beasts and the possibility of rabies from a bite. Safe in their home with the servants, safe among their well-bred friends. Safe because he had made her so.

He'd have no idea what kind of trouble she had gotten herself into. All because she had overheard the fatal words ‘marry me'.

She sighed, but even that was not as relieving as when you were not gagged.

Then a door opened. A voice said, ‘Down here.'

She lifted her head and moaned, groaned, made any sound possible at all. She kicked with her foot against something, hoping despite knowing better that it would make a clanging sound.

Somebody knelt down beside her and touched her face. A voice said, ‘Alkmene, are you all right?' Hands came on her wrists, untying her bonds. She shook her head, willing him to take off the gag first.

Carefully he pulled it out. She moved her dry tongue. Her throat refused to let audible words out.

Jake untied her ankles and rubbed them with his large hands. She sat on her bottom on the cold stone floor, while other people stood over her, saying things like: terrible and no idea that somebody could be locked in like that.

She looked into Jake's eyes and saw the relief there and the kindness. Almost like he was happy he had found her.

But of course the first thing he said was: ‘I can't believe you were stupid enough to go investigating on your own. What did you want here?'

‘I caught the…' Her mind suddenly raced, and she jumped to her feet. She swayed but pushed past the people cluttering her path and ran up the steps. If they wasted any more time, he'd be gone!

Jake came after her, shouting, ‘What now? Talk to me, Alkmene. You could at least tell me something, you know.'

She ran through the church's aisle, her side already stinging with exertion. But she could not stop now. She burst into the sunshine, blinking against the harsh light after the darkness in that cellar.

There. There he was.

A man in a suit, a nice face, a smile, ready to get into his car that was parked in front of the post office.

‘Mr Walker,' she called out.

He froze. He spun to her, disbelief in his handsome features. He was good-looking all right, but a little weak around the mouth. Exactly like she had pictured him the night he had talked to Evelyn Steinbeck behind the screen. A man who wanted things in life the easy way.

But life didn't work that way.

She halted in front of him.

Jake came up after her, saying, ‘What is this? It would have been nice if you had at least congratulated me on having found you.'

Walker snapped, ‘I am in a rush, if you will excuse me.'

But Alkmene slipped her hand into his pocket and produced the page he had torn irreverently from the list of names in that church. ‘Here is the proof we need that he is the killer of Silas Norwhich,' she called, holding it up. ‘He came to remove any proof Mary Sullivan had lived here. He wanted to make sure nobody could prove any more there had ever been a claim in which he was involved.'

Jake took the paper from her hand, studied it and whistled.

Walker said coldly, ‘I have no idea what this mad woman is talking about.'

Then a voice said in a screech, ‘You liar!'

Wally Thomson came forward, his face contorted with rage. ‘You came here to find out all about her. I thought you cared for her too, like I had, and wanted the best for her. But you only wanted to erase her. I saw that too late. You want to drive her into the bog for real. You should die for that, die!'

He jumped at Walker, who cried, ‘Get that rabid dog away from me. He is insane.'

‘He is no more insane than any of us,' Jake said, restraining Wally, who clawed and kicked at Walker. Two other villagers helped him keep the little man off the lawyer.

Jake said, ‘He will testify in court and based on his testimony and that of others, you will swing for having killed Silas Norwhich.'

‘I am glad he is dead,' a female voice screeched. The innkeeper's wife stood there, her red hair blowing in the wind from the moors. ‘He deserved to die. I am glad you did it for us, for justice's sake.'

‘Justice?' Alkmene said in a cold voice. ‘You hated your sister. You were glad that her dream of being rich and happy ended in despair. You never wanted justice for her, just wealth for yourself. You agreed with this man to testify in court that your sister died all those years ago, while carrying her baby. You agreed to testify that no baby had ever been born, no heir. But the heir is alive and well and so is your sister. And now that Silas Norwhich is dead, she will have everything that he once owned. She will be rich like she once dreamed she would be, and you cannot keep her from it.'

The woman stared, her mouth agape with shock. For a moment nothing stirred about her but those fiery locks dancing in the breeze that came from the moor.

Then the innkeeper's wife sank to her knees onto the cobbles and began to sob. ‘Mary. Oh, Mary. Oh, Mary.'

Her husband leaned over and touched her shoulder, helpless to comfort her.

The constable with the moustache had rushed over and now clicked the cuffs round Fitzroy Walker's wrists.

The arrogant young lawyer's face contorted as he spoke. ‘Evelyn deserved to get the money. The art, all of it. She is beautiful and accomplished, the perfect heir. Norwhich wanted someone who would be in his league, right, who would impress the people in his circles. I created her for them. I gave him exactly what he had always wanted. It made him happy. I did him no harm. And Evelyn… She had a hard time growing up. Then those awful bit parts… The constant disappointment when a play was cancelled prematurely and she had to start all over again. She told me all about it on our journey back here.'