Spider Light(86)
Weston and Oliver Remus went out together, and Donna, glancing through one of the pub’s narrow little windows, saw Antonia walk across to her own car and Remus go back across the square. Weston was blithely swinging her shoulder bag as if she had just passed a pleasant hour, and was finding life enjoyable.
She should not be enjoying anything at all. She should have been disintegrating with fear and nervousness, but here she was carousing with a pair of attentive men, apparently not turning a hair. If Donna was not careful, Antonia would end up being happy–more to the point, she would end up unpunished.
Donna had intended to make several more moves before the final one–she had thought out a number of ploys–but she saw that she would have to bring the finale forward. Her heart began to beat faster at the prospect. Could she do it? She remembered Don’s beloved face, and knew she could indeed do it.
Tonight? Yes…
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Godfrey had been delighted to hear about Oliver’s encounter with Antonia Weston in the library, and the lunch they had had. Oliver had been offhand about it–saying he had merely lent Miss Weston his research ticket and then it had seemed courteous to accept her offer of a lunchtime drink–but Godfrey was pleased to think of Oliver having some female companionship for an hour or two. He did not socialize much, these days, poor Oliver, not unless you counted the sales and the occasional trips to London for the Reading Room or Oxford for the Bodleian, which Godfrey did not.
It was entirely understandable that after what had happened five years ago, Oliver had put up barriers against the world. Godfrey often wished he could put up a few barriers himself, because no matter what the professor might nowadays feel, he, Godfrey, could never see that grisly watermill without a sick shudder. He would prefer it if the place were closed down, but just as Quire House had not seemed to belong to anybody after Thomasina Forrester’s death, neither had Twygrist, and none of the local authorities wanted to admit responsibility. Oliver said it ought to be possible to trace the mill’s ownership through land registration and Ordnance Survey maps, but they had never got round to it, and it continued in its owner-less state.
Godfrey hated Twygrist, just as he hated autumn, although once it had been his favourite season. But the memory of one November night was printed indelibly on his mind and he would never forget it, not if he lived to be a hundred and twenty.
Oliver had returned from a buying trip and had got back to Quire just after lunch. He had managed to buy some really beautifully bound early editions of Shelley’s poems quite reasonably, and a box of excellently preserved early copies of Punch and the Strand magazine, which would command very good prices among enthusiasts. There was a remarkable market for that kind of thing. There had been some nice lithographs as well.
Oliver and Amy had been going to the theatre in Chester on that November night. Godfrey could have gone with them, but he had a sniffly cold and was going to tuck himself up with some hot milk and whisky. Quire was not open to the public in November anyway so he could lock up early, and Amy had promised to brew up her grandmother’s marvellous honey posset for him before she went out. She liked making a fuss of Godfrey; Godfrey liked it as well. He thought Amy beautiful and intelligent and good company, and he liked the way she kept Oliver from becoming too serious and too deeply absorbed in his work and made him laugh.
He had been hunting for aspirin when Oliver had come into his flat to ask if he knew where Amy was. But Godfrey had not seen her since the morning, although he had heard her car drive off before lunch. It was a Mini with a distinctive growly note because the exhaust was blowing, and Amy could not be bothered to get it fixed. She found mechanical things boring and usually forgot to get them dealt with. Oliver found mechanical things boring as well. He and Amy had almost exactly the same way of looking at life, which was probably why they had such a happy marriage.
By four o’clock Amy had still not returned which was slightly worrying. It was to be hoped she had not had a prang, although they would surely have heard. Most likely she had met a friend for lunch and her car had broken down miles from a phone. This had been before mobile phones were as common as they were today. Still, it was not like her to be out so long, and it was nearly an hour’s drive to Chester which meant they would have to leave about six.
At half past four Oliver had rather diffidently phoned the police, just to make sure no accidents had been reported. Godfrey, perched on the edge of the sofa in Oliver’s flat, worriedly sucking throat lozenges, had heard the disinterest at the other end of the phone, and Oliver had heard it as well. He had slammed down the phone, and walked out. Minutes later Godfrey heard his car roar away down Quire’s main drive. He had wasted at least ten minutes wondering whether to follow but, in the end, he had put on his quilted jacket and a woollen muffler and gone outside to his own little car. St Michael’s church clock had just been striking the hour as he set off, five o’clock it had been, he remembered hearing the chimes very clearly indeed.
At five o’clock on an early November day, it was not completely dark, but it was already the vaguely eerie half light that Godfrey disliked. You could never be quite sure what might be hiding inside that kind of blurry dusk.
Driving through the deceiving light, his cold expanding to include a pounding headache, Godfrey turned left instead of right, and the car he had thought was Oliver’s turned out to be driven by a stranger. It was not until they went past the brooding outline of Twygrist that he realized this and slowed down, thinking he had lost Oliver anyway and it might be better to head back to Quire to await events. Amy was probably long since back and wondering where everyone was.