The Tiger in the Well, Page 7

  It would have been hideous, but Charles would have trusted her. And Mr Temple had still been alive then. Even if Parrish had claimed at that time that Harriet was his child, she'd have had a far better chance of fighting him off.

  Well, she'd refused Charles's offer, and she mustn't start wishing she hadn't. Things were as they were.

  She took the photograph, and Harriet's brick, and one or two other bits and pieces, and put them in her bedroom. Then she took a leather case from her wardrobe and brought it downstairs, and looked in to the kitchen, where Mrs Perkins the cook was reading her newspaper, the cat in her lap.

  "Hello, miss," said the cook. "Ellie tells me you were asking about the knife-man."

  "Yes. I don't think he's what he seems to be. I don't suppose he'll come again, but if he does, I'd like to catch him - just come in without him expecting it. Mrs Perkins, I just looked in to say I'm going to do some shooting, so don't be startled."

  "Very well, miss. Thanks for letting me know."

  In the breakfast room, now cleared and tidy and looking almost austere, she unfolded a large, heavy screen covered with a light green Morris-printed cloth and stood it against the far wall.

  She took off the cloth and laid it on the table. Underneath it, the screen was plain soft wood, pitted with holes. She pinned a paper target on it, adjusted the light to shine on it more clearly, and then opened the case she'd brought from her bedroom.

  It contained her target pistol: a single-shot French model made by Flaubert, a beautifully balanced gun with which she'd often shot against Jim or Charles. She was better than they were, but she could never match Webster, even though he'd never shot before she'd shown him how to. His hand was as steady as his eye. There was a vogue for this kind of shooting; the light guns were called saloon pistols, after the sort of rooms they were often used in. A good pistol like her Flaubert was utterly accurate up to ten yards or so, which was all you needed, and it didn't make much noise.

  She pushed an armchair aside, loaded the pistol and fired a shot. Not good, too far to the left. Never mind. Here was something she knew how to do, and for which she had the tools to work with.

  She worked for half an hour or so, firing off a box of fifty cartridges, taking her time, pausing to clean the gun and put up a fresh target, and she felt much better when she'd finished. Her shots were bunching closely around the centre of the target, and she'd found that calm, detached rhythm that made for concentration.

  Before she put the target away and covered the screen again, she decided to try the new pistol, the British Bulldog.

  It was an ugly thing, not at all like the long elegant Flaubert. She put a cartridge in the chamber, held the pistol firmly, bracing herself for the recoil, and aimed low, as the gunshop assistant had advised her.

  When she pulled the trigger, the noise filled the room and shook the windows. Her wrist felt as if a horse had kicked it: so much for her boast that she was used to it. And as for the heavy screen, which had absorbed fifty shots from the target pistol without moving, it had been slammed back against the wall and was split from top to bottom.

  Blinking through the fumes which now filled the room, she put the revolver down and went across to the screen, shaking her wrist. The bullet had gone right through and buried itself in the wall behind. At least she'd put it close to the centre of the target, she thought. She stood the screen up and put the revolver away. She knew for certain that if she fired it, she'd do some damage; but if she didn't fire it two-handed, she'd damage herself. If you weren't careful, you could break your wrist.

  She tidied up, opening the windows to the chill autumn night to clear the room of fumes, and threw the cloth over the screen. Then, as she occasionally did, she took one of Jim's cigarettes from the box on the sideboard and sat down to smoke it. Empty the room of one kind of smoke, fill it with another, she thought.

  She looked idly through the papers she'd bought. There was nothing about the Russian business in the Illustrated London News, but in the Jewish Chronicle, to her surprise, she found an article by Daniel Goldberg. She was surprised, because she'd thought that the Jewish Chronicle wasn't especially sympathetic to socialism, and because she'd had the impression that Goldberg was some kind of agitator or demagogue. But this article was calm and closely reasoned. He was putting the case for considering the problem of Jewish immigrants as part of a wider social question, involving the relations of all men and women to each other and to the means of production and exchange.

  He wrote well. His tone was light and persuasive and clear, and she found herself grudgingly admitting the force of his case.

  The last paragraph read:

  There is, however, one burden which Jews have to carry merely because they are Jews, and which their fellow-workers are spared. I refer to the attentions of Mr Arnold Fox. This gentleman, in the fervour of his anti-Semitic zeal, is now collecting what he fondly takes to be information regarding the influx of large numbers of Jews from Russia. He will certainly use whatever facts his imagination can find to discredit all Jews in the eyes of English people; and we should certainly avoid giving him any ammunition. I write this in the perfect confidence that all the Jewish sweatshop owners who read the Chronicle will instantly treble the wages and halve the hours of their workers in order to spite Mr Fox. Such is the power of the press.

  Sally smiled, and put the paper down. She knew very little about the sweating system, the practice of employing poor people at starvation wages in unhealthy surroundings; was it tailoring? Cabinet-making? Shoemaking? It was clearly a loathsome business, but there was bound to be more to it than simply the malice and greed of the owners, as Goldberg was implying.

  She looked at the Swiss clock on the mantelpiece. Half-past ten; she wasn't tired, but she'd go to bed. Read a Penny Dreadful.

  She got up to open one of the top windows a fraction, to let out some of the fumes of cordite which were still lingering.

  As she parted the curtains, she heard the crash of glass.

  It was somewhere off to the left, where Webster's tracking-camera shed, roofed with glass, stood against the wall.

  She could see nothing in the window but the reflection of the room behind her, and quickly pulled the curtain across again so that she was standing between it and the window. There was another crash, and as her eyes accustomed themselves to the dim light from the cloudy sky, she saw a figure - a boy or a youth - crouching on the wall above the camera shed, and raising an arm as if to fling down a stone.

  Then he threw it, and she heard the shards of glass shower to the wooden floor, and heard a high-pitched laugh. The boy raised his face to the sky and sidled along the wall, above the next pane of glass.

  Sally ran to seize the lamp and flung open the French window, calling, "Stop that! Stop that at once!"

  A shrill laugh, and the figure hurled another stone down, and then took a stick and beat down furiously with it, laying about him like a maniac, with glass showering and crashing to the ground and high into the air.

  Sally ran out on to the veranda and then down the steps on to the damp lawn, holding the lamp high.

  "Stop it!" she shouted. "Stop it and get down!"

  The boy stood up straight, still shrieking with laughter, and danced along the wall, and she began to feel uncertain: there was something hideous about his uncontrolled laughter. It was as if he wasn't sane, or as if he were a demon or an elemental spirit - no, she thought angrily, don't be stupid - but there was such a gust of malignity coming from the prancing, faceless figure that she quailed a little.

  The pistol.

  She could run in and load it and -

  She had hardly begun to turn when she heard a scream from the house behind her.

  Sarah-Jane's voice -

  She whirled around, and then there came another scream, Ellie this time, and the sound of a door banging somewhere.

  The figure on the wall forgotten, Sally ran in through the French window and flung open the door to the hall.


  Ellie was crouching by the stairs, sobbing. The rug on the floor was rucked up, and something - a china cup or a plate - lay shattered on the floor.

  "Ellie, what is it?"

  Sally crouched down, putting the lamp she still carried on the hall stand.

  "Up there, miss -" Ellie stammered, looking up the stairs.

  Sally, remembering Sarah-Jane's scream, left Ellie and ran up the stairs to the landing. There she stopped. It was dark, but in the light from below she could see that all the doors were shut.

  "Sarah-Jane?" she said, her voice shaking. "Sarah-Jane?"

  Silence, and a slow drench of fear from her head to her toes.

  Then quietly, Harriet's door at the end of the corridor opened, and Sarah-Jane came out.

  They ran to each other.

  "What is it? Is she all right? What happened?"

  "Yes - yes - she's safe - she's asleep. There's nothing wrong at all. Oh, I was so frightened -"

  Sarah-Jane still had her cloak and bonnet on. Her hands were cold.

  "But what happened?" said Sally.

  They were speaking in urgent whispers.

  "I'd just come in through the gate and I looked up at Harriet's window, I don't know why, and - oh, it was horrible, I saw a face there, a man's face - that was when I screamed - and I rushed in, and Ellie was just coming from the kitchen, and I ran up the stairs - and there he was at the top - he just ran straight past, and I think I screamed again, and then there was a crash from below - he ran into Ellie - and I went in to Harriet. . ."

  "He'd been in there?" Sally was horrified.

  Ellie was coming upstairs shakily with the lamp.

  "Is she all right, miss?" she said from the end of the landing. "He ran into me, miss, and I fell over, and then he went out the door and. . ."

  Sally went in to Harriet. Ellie held the lamp in the doorway while Sally bent over the bed. Harriet was sleeping as soundly and peacefully as if nothing had happened. They could hear her quiet breathing; everything was silent now. The crashing of glass had stopped.

  Sarah-Jane was looking out of the window.

  "He's gone," she whispered.

  Sally knelt by the bed and stroked Harriet's face, tucking one bare arm gently back beneath the blankets.

  "She seems to be all right," she whispered. "Ellie, could you lock all the doors and the French windows, and make sure the windows are fastened? Did he hurt you when he knocked you down?"

  "No, miss. Only a shock. I'll do the doors now, miss. Then I better see if Cook's all right. She probably never heard nothing. . ."

  She went down, leaving the lamp with Sarah-Jane.

  "Should we go to the police?"

  "Yes. But in the morning. I'm not going to walk up there in the dark tonight, and nor is anyone else. We'll lock everything up; they won't come in again."

  She took the lamp from Sarah-Jane and thought that the first thing she'd do was load the revolver, and never mind the recoil. Sarah-Jane was looking on the floor, and then she lifted the counterpane and looked under the bed.

  "What is it?" asked Sally.

  "I can't find Bruin. You know how she fusses if he's not there. . ."

  "He's probably down in the bed somewhere," Sally said, waiting for her to come out. "We'll find him in the morning."

  Chapter Six

  MIDDLE TEMPLE LANE

  But they didn't. Harriet missed him when she woke up at seven o'clock, and ransacked her room looking for him, pulling back the covers from her bed and lifting the edges of the carpet as well as tipping all the bricks out of the brick-box and waking Sally up. Sally unenthusiastically joined in the search, but they still hadn't found him by breakfast-time, and Sally told Harriet that he'd probably gone off to hibernate. Harriet liked the sound of that word, but didn't think much of Bruin for not telling her he was going.

  Sally didn't know what to make of it. Why should they want to take a child's woolly bear? They meant Parrish, of course. Had these men intended to snatch Harriet herself, but been frustrated? But why should they bother to do that, when he had a court action pending which would make his claim legal?

  It didn't make any sense, and it was one more tangle of anxiety. As soon as breakfast was over, Sally went up to the glazier's in Church Street to see about repairing the broken glass, and then to the locksmith's to order new locks for all the doors, and safety closures for the windows, before going on to the police station.

  The police took notes, and a sergeant promised to come along to Orchard House with a constable as soon as possible and look around. His manner changed as soon as he realized that Sally, an unmarried woman, was talking about her own child. He didn't actually say that she'd brought the problem on herself, but he implied it as clearly as he could. She left discouraged.

  And there was work to be done. Part of her wanted to stay close to Harriet all day long, but she had clients to see, appointments to keep, and she couldn't keep passing it all on to Margaret. Besides, the legal business was going to cost a good deal, and repairing the glass and making the house more secure wouldn't come cheaply either. If she didn't earn some money, their comfortable life would soon break up.

  So she hurried off to the City, intending to get through what had to be done as quickly as possible, and then take an hour or so to look at the house in Clapham where Parrish had claimed that she had lived with him when they were first married.

  Telegraph Road was one of a number of identical streets of terraced houses not far from the common. Roads like this were springing up all over the suburbs and edging the country aside as the city spread outwards. Clerks, small businessmen, shopkeepers, those were the kind of people who lived in them. She'd have expected a commission agent to live with a little more style, but perhaps if he was starting out. . . There didn't seem to be anyone at home, and she toyed with the idea of ringing the bell, just to see.

  She hesitated. Well, what else had she come for?

  She walked in through the narrow little brick gateway, only a step or two from the front door, and pulled the bell. It jangled loudly in the tiny hall. No response, and she rang it again, relieved; but just as she was about to turn away, she heard footsteps.

  A middle-aged woman in apron and cap opened the door.

  "Is Mr Parrish at home?" Sally asked.

  "No. Would you be Mrs Parrish?"

  Her tone was unfriendly, and so was her face.

  "Certainly not," said Sally. "When is he expected home?"

  "I couldn't say."

  "Is he at work at the moment?"

  "Probably."

  "How long have you worked for him, can I ask?"

  "Long enough to know what's going on. I shall tell Mr Parrish about this, don't you worry."

  She made as if to close the door.

  "No - wait - please, what's your name?" Sally said, putting out a hand.

  The only reply was a glare of disdain, and then the door was slammed in her face.

  Sally sighed.

  She left the tiny garden and, without stopping in case she decided not to, went next door and knocked. The door was opened almost at once; she hadn't imagined that flutter of the lace curtains, then.

  "Yes?" said the maid.

  "Is the lady of the house in?"

  "I'll see, ma'am. Who shall I say, ma'am?"

  "My name is Lockhart."

  Less than fifteen seconds later a woman of forty or so, alive with curiosity, came to the door.

  "I'm sorry to take up your time," Sally said, "but your neighbour, Mr Parrish - do you know him?"

  "Mr Parrish - well, yes - why? Who are you?"

  "I'm trying to find him. It's in connection with . . . a family matter," she said, improvising; she should have thought to have a story ready.

  Instantly the woman's face closed up.

  "You're his wife, aren't you?" she said. "I know all about you. I think it's disgraceful, if you want my opinion. I think you should be ashamed of yourself. He's a good man, your husband. But you - I haven't
got a good word to say for you."

  And for the second time in five minutes, a door was slammed in Sally's face.

  It was hard not to feel it personally. It was hard to shrug and walk away lightly. There were people - perhaps many people - who believed this lie, who looked at her and saw a deserting wife, the wrecker of a home.

  She wondered, as she walked blindly along the street, how long she could keep believing in herself. At some point the pressure would be too great, perhaps, and she'd realize that she'd been wrong all this time - of course she was married to him - she couldn't think why she'd denied it - she was so ashamed - and all that would be left would be the fight to keep Harriet. . .

  No! She wouldn't do that, would she? You know what's happened to you, don't you?

  But there was that entry in the registry, and. . .

  She found herself outside a church similar in age and style to St Thomas's in Portsmouth: a dull building put up to serve a dull area, and built where it was for no better reason than that the developer had an awkward space to fill. Without actually deciding to, she made her way inside, and found the place occupied by three ladies arranging flowers and one sombre-suited, shrewd-looking elderly man tidying prayer books.

  She went up to him and said quietly, "Excuse me, who is the Rector of this parish?"

  "It's a Vicar here, miss, not a Rector," said the man. "Mr Harding's away at the moment. He'll be back on Saturday. Can I help you? I'm the verger. The name's Watkins."

  "I'm just trying to find someone who knows a Mr Parrish," she said.

  His expression tightened. "Would that be Mr Arthur Parrish? The churchwarden?"

  "Is he a churchwarden here? I didn't know. But that's his name, yes."

  "Well . . . he's known here, of course, miss. Did you want his address?"

  "No. It's not that, exactly. . ."

  She must have looked distressed, and she certainly felt light-headed, because he said, "Would you like to step into the vestry, miss? I'll fetch you a glass of water."

  She followed him. The dim little room, hung about with the choristers' surplices, had the same dry, musty smell as the one in Portsmouth, and made her think again that she'd forgotten things - that the past was replaying itself like a sequence of photographs, but differently.

  Presently Mr Watkins came back with a glass of water. He shut the door carefully, having looked around outside.