Minette Walters - The Devil's Feather

“Did Haversham buy the whole valley?”

She nodded. “Grandfather was lazy. He couldn’t be bothered to farm himself, or even find tenants, so he let Haversham take the lot and sell the agricultural land in piecemeal plots for twice what he’d paid for it.”

“Who did he sell to?”

“I don’t know. It happened in the late forties. I think my mother said it was split between four of the local farmers, but it’s changed hands several times since. The north acreage was bought by a cooperative from Dorchester about three years ago.”

“What about the Derbyshires? Did they buy any?”

“Of course not. They couldn’t have afforded it.”

“Except Barton Farm’s quite big, isn’t it? Peter told me it’s one and a half thousand acres.”

Madeleine shook her head. “She’s a tenant…owns about fifty acres and the rest is rented. Jess’s family were humble people. Her grandmother worked as a maid in our house after the war.” She looked at the fireplace. “Old Mrs. Derbyshire used to clean out that grate every day. Mummy said she had a squashed nose and flat face and looked like a mongol or someone with congenital syphilis.” She caught my eye. “She wasn’t either, of course, but it’s obviously genetic or Jess wouldn’t have the same problem.”

I blew smoke in her direction. “And it was this lady’s husband who owned Barton Farm in the fifties?”

I could almost hear the words “She was no lady” forming in Madeleine’s head. “No, it skipped that generation. The husband contracted polio during the war and died of it shortly after he returned home-and there was a younger brother who died in Normandy, I think. Jess’s father inherited it from his grandfather. Then he died, and Jess took it over…although what’s going to happen when she goes is anyone’s guess.”

“Perhaps she’ll have children.”

She threw me a scornful glance. “They’ll be virgin births, then. She’d sooner lie with her mastiffs than a man.”

Ss-ss-ss! “So what happened to Jess’s grandmother?”

“When her son took over, she went to Australia to live with her brother. Before that she kept house for her father-in-law. He was a drinker…drove his wife to an early death and then made his daughter-in-law’s life a misery. According to Mummy, it soured her relationship with her son-which is why she emigrated-although I expect the hope of a better life had something to do with it as well.”

“Did you ever meet her?”

“Only when she came back to help Jess through the funerals. She stayed about three months, but the whole thing was too much for her and she died of a stroke soon after she returned home.”

“That’s sad.”

Madeleine nodded. “Mummy was upset by it. She saw quite a lot of Mrs. Derbyshire while she was over. They were different generations…and from very different backgrounds, of course…but she said it was fun reminiscing about the old days.”

“It must have been terrible for Jess.”

“It was,” she agreed, holding my gaze for a moment before looking away. “She came up here with a carving knife and slit her wrists in front of Mummy. There was blood everywhere…although the doctors said it was a cry for attention rather than any serious attempt to harm herself. The cuts weren’t deep enough to do any real damage.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Poor Mummy was petrified,” Madeleine went on with a hint of apology in her tone as if she regretted having to tell me. “She thought the knife was meant for her. It was such an odd thing to do…come all the way to Barton House to kill herself in front of an audience.” She paused. “It’s why I was so appalled yesterday when Peter said Jess was helping you settle in. He should have warned you about her mental state instead of encouraging her to fasten on you the way she fastened on to my mother.”

Extracts from notes, filed as “CB16-19/05/04”

…I can’t eat anymore. I force myself to try but everything tastes the same…

From: Dan@Fry.ishma.iq

Sent:Sun 11/07/04 14:05

To: connie.burns@uknet.com

Subject:Thank God!

Where the hell have you been, Connie? You promised you’d keep in touch as long as I put you on the plane, but all I’ve had is silence for nearly two months-zilch…00000000-until a miserly 15-word email 2 hrs ago. I’m so damned angry with you. I’ve been sick to my stomach with worry since you left.

FYI: I’ve been bombarding London for info, only to be told they know less than I do. Harry Smith had to ask a colleague on a tabloid for your parents’ address because your next-of-kin details are out of date. All your father will say is that you’re “out of London” and he’s passing on messages. So why haven’t you answered any of them? Where are you? What’s going on? Have you seen a doctor? I wouldn’t have kept my mouth shut if I thought you were planning to deal with this on your own. Have you any idea of the stick I’m getting?

I assume you used my private address to avoid the office finding out. Well, OK, except you’ve told me nothing apart from your new e-address and the fact that you’re “fine.” I can’t/don’t believe that. You must talk to someone. London had a counsellor lined up for you-they were willing to give you all the protection you wanted-but you blew them away. Why? Don’t you realize what the consequences are likely to be? I still have nightmares about Bob Lerwick being shot in front of me, and that was ten years ago.

At the moment I’m beating myself up for not forcing you to accept help here. I thought I was doing the right thing by keeping it quiet, but now…

It’s turning into a hell of a mess, frankly. I’ve been interviewed three times by a cynical US cop working with the Baghdad police (Jerry Greenhough) who’s concluded the whole “abduction” was a scam. He seems to think you’re planning to demand huge sums in compensation or write a best-selling “fiction” about something that never happened.

Write to me, Connie. Better still, phone. My number’s the same.

Love, Dan

Extracts from notes, filed as “CB16-19/05/04”

…Obedience comes quite easily after a while. Do this. Do that. Inside my head, I rebelled. If you let me live, then you will die. It was a way of staying sane…

…The truth was different. You belong to me. You die when I say so. You speak what I tell you to speak. You smile when I tell you to smile…

…At what point did I decide to be controlled forever? When I realized that every shameful thing I did was being videoed? Why didn’t I refuse? Was death by suffocation so bad that I’m prepared to live like this?

…There were no marks that would say what had happened. I bled inside but not outside…

…I’m lucky. I’m alive. I did what I was told…

From: alan.collins@manchester-police.co.uk

Sent:Mon 19/07/04 17:22

To: connie.burns@uknet.com

Subject:Keith MacKenzie

Attachments:AC/WF.doc (53KB)

Good to hear from you, Connie. After your release, I tried to contact you via your mobile and old address but without success, so presumably some thief in Baghdad has them? I was shocked to read about your abduction, particularly as it happened so shortly after your email in May re MacKenzie. You say there was no connection between the two events, but, yes, you’re quite right, I did wonder. To the extent that I contacted Bill Fraser in Basra and suggested he look into it. In the event, you reappeared, unharmed, before he was able to take it further.

You say your boss in Baghdad is interested in picking up the O’Connell/MacKenzie story where you had to leave it. I’m attaching my correspondence with Bill in full, as you requested, although some of it may not make pleasant reading for you. Bill tells me the situation in Baghdad is out of control. Foreigners have become a commodity, with most abductions being carried out by professional gangs who sell their hostages on to the highest bidder. As you say, you were “fortunate” to be released when you were.