The Woman Next Door(29)
I have quite an appetite. I eat three sandwiches and feel much the better for it.
And I think it’s because my blood sugar has risen again that I suddenly have a jolt of real brainpower.
‘Scarrow Hall!’ I say.
‘What?’ says Melissa blankly.
‘That’s the name of the place where Terry used to go fishing! Let’s look it up! Do you have a computer?’
She gives me another of her rather impenetrable looks and goes to one of the cupboards, from which she removes an impossibly thin silver laptop computer. Flipping the lid open, she taps away for a moment until a screen with Google on it appears.
‘Scarrow Hall,’ I say again, slowly but she is already typing.
A page opens and we both bend a little closer to read. ‘Forgotten Dorset’ says the banner across the top. We read on:
A few miles from the thundering A303 lies a pocket of England in which time has stood still. Scarrow Hall was, in its day, the home of the Parkstone family, who were major landowners in the North Dorset area.
But in the latter half of the twentieth century the house fell into a state of disrepair and when the final member of the Parkstone family, Emily, died in 2009 at the age of 91, a complicated probate situation has meant the old house is now derelict and unloved.
Take a pictorial trip with us as we explore this once grande dame of local architecture.
She deftly clicks and enlarges picture after picture of the house, including one of the well.
‘Well I think it looks as though it’s much the same,’ I say triumphantly but Melissa is doing something complicated on a map page and doesn’t appear to be listening to me.
‘Hmm,’ she murmurs after a while. ‘There’s no Street View in that area at all so there can’t be any major housing developments there.’
I don’t really know what she’s talking about but it doesn’t matter, because she slaps down the lid of the laptop and half smiles at me for the first time in … well, I don’t know how long.
Then her shoulders slump again. ‘But how would we find the well? There’s no guarantee that it’s still there, is there?’
I muse on this, wanting so much to bring that hopefulness back into her face, and a wonderful thought comes to me. I can see it very clearly in my mind’s eye.
That photograph: Terry beaming into the camera, holding aloft some manner of fish or other as though it were the crown jewels. And then bringing it home and expecting me to gut, clean, and cook it. I refused, of course. But he insisted on having that picture up until he died. I’m sure it’s in a drawer somewhere, and I could swear the well can be seen in the background.
‘Hester!’
Melissa has slapped her hand on the table and the sound shocks me deeply, as though I, myself, have been struck.
‘Can you fucking concentrate! What are we going to do?’
I’m conscious of my spine stiffening and my cheeks glow with an unwelcome warmth. When my words come out, they are clipped but I keep my cool and speak quietly.
‘I am very happy to help you in any way I can, Melissa,’ I say. ‘But I will not be sworn at. Are we clear on this?’
Her bottom lip gapes a little before she closes her mouth and runs her hand across her face. Her eyes look dull and tired.
‘I’m so sorry, Hester,’ she says quietly. ‘But I am very, very upset and frightened. I have …’ she gulps, visibly, ‘killed a man in my kitchen and I don’t know what I’m going to do.’
Her voice skids away into a choked sort of sob and I feel compassion flood my heart. I would like to hold her again and let her cry it all out but I sense too much contact might not be welcome. Instead I stretch my hand across the table and pat hers.
‘Please don’t worry,’ I say in a soothing voice. ‘I was just remembering that I have something which will help us. I’ll go get it right now and then we can plan our route.’
She’s watching me, blinking hard to dispel the threatening tears, and she nods. I know how much she wants to believe me.
And how much she needs me right now.
MELISSA
Melissa roots desperately through the kitchen drawer, pushing aside packs of cards, string, broken bits of toy from when Tilly was small, and assorted other rubbish she can’t believe she hasn’t thrown away. Stabbing her thumb painfully on a mini screwdriver that came in a Christmas cracker a couple of years ago, she swears expressively, then sucks the thumb. The coppery taste of her own blood causes another swell of panic.
Don’t do this, a small voice says in her head. Stop this now. It’s not too late. Tell the police he attacked you.
But the sensible little voice doesn’t suggest how she would explain that Jamie’s wound is on the back of his head and not the front.
She turns back to the drawer and roots inside it, more cautiously now. She hasn’t smoked properly in years, but had bought a packet during the Sam episode and was happy to find she was able to stop again at will.
The action of placing the cigarette between her lips is rooted deep in her muscle memory. The papery toasted taste floods her mouth with anticipation of the hit to come.
Finding the cook’s matches in another drawer, she sparks up and lights the cigarette. The nicotine burn hits her in a dizzying wave and she sucks greedily, instantly feeling a pleasurable roughness in her throat. Christ, she’s missed this.