Sarah Rayne - What Lies Beneath

As Ella drove away from the over-heated, fussily furnished house, her mind was in turmoil. She was not overly worried that a solicitor and a coroner’s official apparently knew about the diaries; what worried her was Veronica’s sly hints that it might have been Ella herself who had taken them. Did Veronica think Ella was worried that Clem might have recorded what had happened in Priors Bramley all those years ago? If so, it was odd she had not said so. But she could not suspect Ella of anything worse than taking the diaries. She could not possibly suspect her of killing Clem. What motive would there be?

Still, it might be as well to find out exactly what was in Veronica’s mind, although it was to be hoped Ella would not have to deal with Veronica in the same way she had dealt with Clem.

It had been a bit naughty to tease prim, correct Ella, Veronica acknowledged that. She did not really think Ella had pinched Clem’s diaries and destroyed them – there was no particular reason for her to do such a thing, although it was still peculiar that the diaries had vanished.

Veronica had only been having a bit of mischievous fun, although on reflection perhaps she ought not to have mentioned Barrack Room Brenda. That might have been going a bit far and Ella had looked quite upset when she left. Veronica would phone tomorrow and apologize. She would say she had been a bit squiffy on account of drinking in the middle of the afternoon, and that Clem’s funeral had upset her. It would not actually be a lie, and Ella would understand and forgive her.

Meantime, there was an early evening guest to prepare for. Veronica, washing up the teacups and the vodka glass, felt a little thrill of excitement. He would be here around six – cocktail hour, if they wanted to be posh, although it sounded as if posh was the last thing they would be.

They were going to have one of their games; he had suggested it when he phoned yesterday. What he thought was that he would pretend to be an unsuspecting caller at her house – there for some innocent ordinary purpose – and she would be the sex-mad housewife luring him in to have her evil way with him.

‘D’you mean like here to read the gas meter?’ suggested Veronica, who was quite getting into the spirit of these games and had read a couple of fairly raunchy books to get a few ideas on her own account. ‘Or mend the washing machine? Or sell insurance?’

‘Whatever you like, Berenice,’ he said, letting his voice sink into a lower key over the name.

Shivers ran all over Veronica’s body. Really, this was the most extraordinary, unexpected thing that had ever happened in her life.

She had dashed out early that morning to buy a low-cut scarlet top, and after Ella had gone, she put it on. She had a black skirt which was a bit tight nowadays, but which exactly fitted the role he wanted her to play. Industrial strength make-up, and a slash of really vivid lipstick. Dangly earrings and some clunky necklaces, and she was ready. She positioned herself at the window to watch for his arrival.

Here he came now, walking up to the front door. Veronica, watching fondly, thought you could almost say the sun came out and cast a rosy glow on the whole street, just because he was here.

The game went brilliantly well. Veronica adopted a breathy, slightly accented voice, and they made love up against the washing machine, and then again on the sofa.

As he got washed and dressed afterwards, he said it had been marvellous, and she had been wonderful, really tarty and exciting. She played the slut to absolute perfection, he said. Veronica thought this was a remark a lot of people would have considered insulting. Coming from him, it was nothing of the kind, of course. It was said from inside their private world, the vivid exciting make-believe world he could create. It was a world where different rules and standards applied.

Edirne, 1912

‘The rules are different here,’ said Gil as he and Crispian stood in a corner of the courtyard, horrified at the sentence just pronounced on Jamie. ‘There’s a war raging and we’re in the East, and this is the old Eastern way of tailoring the punishment to the crime. In some areas if you’re caught stealing they cut off your hand. But for them to do this… this mutilation to Jamie without a proper trial, without letting him even try to defend himself…’

‘Raif, what do we do?’ said Crispian in a low voice, his eyes on the men around the table, who were now in earnest conclave.

‘There’s nothing any of us can do,’ said Raif, but he looked shaken. ‘Even if we could call out the entire military personnel from the fortress, by the time they got here it would be too late.’

‘They said sunset. That’s more than an hour away. Surely there’s time to get help? Can’t we at least try?’

Raif frowned, then said, ‘Yes, all right. You two had better stay here, though. I’ll go faster on my own and I might be able to get in to see one of the Pasha’s aides. But don’t hope for too much. Also,’ he said, ‘while I’m there I can collect some medical supplies to bring back.’

‘Raif, if we don’t free him – if they carry out this sentence – will they drug him first?’

‘I don’t know. They probably would do if the crime was anything other than spying. Or perhaps if he wasn’t a foreigner. I’m sorry,’ said Raif, ‘but being English won’t have helped him.’

Gil, seeing Crispian’s expression, said, ‘You can’t blame them. Imagine how we’d feel if England was about to be invaded and someone from Turkey or Greece sold military secrets to the enemy. You wouldn’t fall over yourself to rescue him and nor would I.’ He looked at Raif. ‘Do the best you can,’ he said.

Jamie had been taken back into the stone-faced building. Crispian had tried to gesture to him, implying they would rescue him somehow, but he had no idea if Jamie understood or had even known they were there. After the door banged shut, he went to speak to the interpreter, hoping he and Gil would be allowed in to see Jamie.

But the interpreter was implacable. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No visitors to the prisoner allowed. We do not know you; we have no cause to trust you.’

They returned to the courtyard and sat in one corner, watching everything that happened.

‘I still don’t believe Jamie’s guilty,’ said Crispian. ‘But if he is, what was his motive?’

‘Money, I suppose. Isn’t it at the root of everything?’

‘But he doesn’t need money.’

‘Don’t be naïve, Crispian. Everyone needs money.’

‘But he had only to ask me – I’d have given him anything he needed.’

‘Perhaps that’s why he wouldn’t ask,’ said Gil. ‘But if he did do it, it was more likely to be to find a way to get back to England.’ He shrugged. ‘Perhaps there was some offer of forged papers or something of that kind. I’m only guessing, though.’

Gradually the shadows lengthened and the first glow of the setting sun began to colour the ancient stones. The Englishmen were hot and exhausted, thirsty and hungry, but they did not dare leave the courtyard.

The sun was setting in a blaze of crimson and amber when Crispian suddenly said, ‘Something’s starting to happen,’ and pointed to where several of the men who had formed part of the makeshift jury were lighting small bronze lamps set high on the stone walls. The flames leaped up in the hot dry air, tinting the night sky, and the scent of rancid oil drifted across the courtyard. Four men carried out a rectangle of wood, about ten feet long and half as wide. Chains were driven into each corner.

‘Manacles,’ said Gil softly. ‘They’re going to chain him down.’

Crispian glanced towards the courtyard entrance. ‘Raif’s not coming back, is he?’