Peter Lovesey - Rough Cider

“Why, for God’s sake? It’s a hole.”

“I can see that.”

“Is it me? Something I said to upset you?”

“No particular thing.”

“What, then?”

The food arrived, dried-up fish and undercooked chips without vegetables or garnish, slammed in front of us, followed by one of the ketchup bottles.

I said with all the consideration I could muster, “Alice, I’d like to know what this is about.”

She tightened her mouth and said nothing.

I told her, “I’m not going to leave you in a dump like this without a very good explanation.”

She pushed her plate aside. She hadn’t touched the food.

I said across the chasm that had opened between us, “Don’t you think I’m entitled to be told?”

Something disturbingly akin to contempt flickered across her face.

I wasn’t giving up. “This relates to something you asked me earlier, doesn’t it?”

A response at last. She nodded.

I said, “About what happened in the hayloft?”

She mouthed the word yes.

So we were back to the rape.

She must have seen the muscles tighten along my jawline.

She gave me a warning look, narrowing her eyes.

I said, “Has something prompted this?”

“Sure. What we just heard from Harry.”

“Harry? He was lying through his teeth.”

After an interval to sharpen up the sarcasm she asked, “How did you get to be such an infallible judge of character, Theo? Is it intuition, sixth sense, or just refusing ever to trust a Yank?”

I smiled ironically. “Harry?”

“Not only Harry. My daddy too.”

“I trusted him.”

“Not when he said things you didn’t want to believe.”

“Such as?”

“The way he really felt about Barbara. There was never anything serious between them.”

I frowned. “He said that?”

“In court. On oath.”

“He was confused.”

“Theo, it’s on record. I read it in one of your books. There was nothing serious. He said it.”

I commented offhandedly, “Depends what you mean by serious. I’d say her condition indicated something serious.”

She scraped back her chair and said witheringly, “Is this the garbage you were trying to peddle to Harry? Are you seriously suggesting my daddy got her pregnant?”

She had every right to feel defensive about Duke. I loved him, too, and the truth hurt. “Someone did, Alice. She wasn’t promiscuous.”

“I’m not questioning that. I question the assumption that my daddy was responsible.”

I leaned back in my chair. “Who do you think was the father, then?”

“Cliff Morton. You told me it was him.”

“I told you what the gossip was in 1943.” I leaned forward. “She was two months’ pregnant when she died at the end of November. She’d been going out with Duke since September.”

Alice clicked her tongue and looked away, as if it were futile listening to me.

I took a mouthful of the pale chips and chewed them, letting her brood on what I’d said. After an interval I said, “I expect you’re thinking of the incident in the apple orchard, when Morton was given his marching orders. You think he may have made her pregnant then? It’s true that she was pretty upset and so were the Lockwoods. She had love bites on her neck and shoulders. But as for full sex, no, that doesn’t fit the facts. They would have treated it more seriously. Everyone would have. I had the impression there was some grappling in the long grass, a few snatched kisses, not much more.”

“With Barbara’s consent?”

I felt my blood run cold. “Of course not.”

Alice’s eyebrows jutted above the level of her glasses. “Why not?”

She was either incredibly wide of the mark or trying to goad me. Deciding to treat it lightly, I gave a laugh that was exhaled more than voiced. “She despised the man. He had a bad reputation. No regular work. He dodged the call-up. The entire family despised him.”

“They employed him to pick apples.”

“Force of circumstance. Men were in short supply.”

She felt for her plait and traced one of the strands with her fingertip.

I said, “You won’t make me believe that Barbara allowed Cliff Morton to… to…”

“You can’t even bring yourself to mention it, can you?” said Alice in a voice that mingled pity and contempt. “Theo, you idiolized that girl. She was sweet to you, and you turned her into a saint. I don’t blame you. I had crushes on people myself when I was a kid. Only you’re not a nine-year-old boy anymore. For God’s sake let’s talk about this in an adult fashion, because I think you’re way off-beam over Barbara. I think she loved Cliff Morton.”

“Impossible.”

“Will you let me finish? Let’s start with some facts of life. Simple mathematics. Barbara was found to be two months’ pregnant at the time of her death, right? When precisely did she kill herself?”

“On the Sunday. November thirtieth.”

“So she conceived in late September or very early the following month.”

“Presumably.”

“And it was late September when my daddy first came to the farm.”

“True.” At least there were some facts we could agree on. I took a fish bone from my mouth and parked it at the edge of my plate. I had a glimmer of where this was leading but only a glimmer. A man isn’t so habituated to counting weeks and months.

She added, “If I got it right from you, they didn’t spend any time together until the Columbus Day concert.”

She’d fanned the glimmer into a spark.

“Columbus Day is October twelfth. These days we observe it on the second Monday in the month, but in the war it was always the same.” She watched me without emotion as she repeated, “October twelfth, Theo.”

I stared at her blankly. Why hadn’t I worked it out for myself? I took a deep breath and admitted with as much dignity as I could salvage, “Duke couldn’t have been the father of her child.”

“Thank you.” She looked over her glasses. “But somebody must have been.”

I said with loathing, “That bastard Morton. He did rape her in the apple orchard.”

Pointedly, she commented, “You told me just now it doesn’t fit the facts.”

“It has to,” I blustered. “I was mistaken.”

“No,” said Alice. “You were right. You’re not going to like this, Theo, but Barbara and Cliff were sweethearts.” She put up a restraining hand. “Before you hit the roof, will you answer me this? When was the first time you noticed Cliff?”

“That morning in the orchard, I suppose.”

“Would you try to recall it precisely, please?”

I gave a sharp sigh of impatience. The way she was addressing me was strikingly reminiscent of the cross-examination she’d made of Harry Ashenfelter. Well, if she wanted me on the witness stand, she’d find that I had a poor regard for her latest theory. I reminded her coolly, “I think I told you this before. It was during the break when Mrs. Lock-wood brought out the tea. Quite a few of the people there were strangers to me, but I noticed Morton because he collected a mug of tea for Barbara and sat beside her. It proves nothing.”

“You were just a little put out because it cut across your plans as a matchmaker. That’s why you noticed him, isn’t that so?”

I wasn’t letting that pass unchallenged. “A matchmaker, no. I never actively promoted the friendship between Duke and Barbara.”

She rephrased it. “They were both special people in your eyes, and you hoped they would link up.”

I accepted that.

Alice said, “Let’s move on to that afternoon. If I understood you right, Barbara quietly went missing in some remote part of the orchard.”

“Quietly?” I objected. “That puts a whole different emphasis on what happened, as if it were furtive.”