Part 31 (1/2)

Robert grabbed the old man, and then with barely a pretence of gentleness shoved him into the pa.s.senger seat.

”Harry wanted to go fis.h.i.+ng.”

”I bet he did,” Robert snarled. ”Put your legs in so I don't slam the door on them.”

John's patience evaporated. ”Take it easy with him. He can't move that quickly.”

Robert rounded on John. ”What do you know what he can or can't do?”

”Stan's exhausted. Show a bit of consideration, can't you?”

Robert tapped his nose. ”You, Newton! Keep this out!”

With that he climbed into the pa.s.senger seat. Then he raised his hand. It was to draw the seatbelt across Stan's chest, but the old man raised his hands in fear as if to protect his face from a blow. Robert Gregory saw what the man had done and hurriedly pulled Stan's arms down, then fastened the seatbelt.

John felt as if he'd been slapped himself. He looked from Stan to the ugly brute of a son-in-law.

So, that's it, Gregory, John told himself as the truth crept home. That's why the old man thinks you're Adolf Hitler. You b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Gregory. You miserable, abusive bullying b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

CHAPTER 27.

1.

Robert Gregory crushed the gas pedal to the floor, sending the car roaring down the old Roman road. Anger seared him. He managed to keep the rage bottled until he was well out of sight of the Water Mill, then he released it in a rush.

”I don't believe it. I don't f.u.c.king believe it. You must lead a charmed, f.u.c.king life!”

”I was looking for Harry,” Stan Price said, frightened. ”I wanted to go fis.h.i.+ng.”

”Harry's f.u.c.king dead. And so should f.u.c.king you!”

Unable to stop himself now, he leaned toward Stan, then snapped his elbow back into the old man's chicken bone chest.

”Uh!”

The flow of traffic at the main road stopped him from driving further. He shook his head marveling at the unbroken stream of trucks and cars. ”How do you do it? How do you walk through this without so much as turning a hair?”

Stan rubbed his sore chest. ”Baby Bones.”

”Yeah, I'll Baby Bones you, you old dog.”

He raised his elbow again. Instead of flinching the old man began to laugh.

Surprised, Robert didn't follow through. ”Jesus Christ, what on Earth does a pile of skin and bone like you find so funny?”

Stan reached down into the storage compartment in the door and pulled out two sheets of paper. On each one were a few lines of Gothic-looking handwriting.

Robert Gregory snapped angrily. ”What have you got there?”

Stan laughed until his eyes watered. ”You-you've been getting them, tooa you've been getting them, too!”

Robert Gregory s.n.a.t.c.hed the letters. ”I meant to throw these out. Some stupid brats have been playing a prank.”

”You've ignored them?”

”Of course I b.l.o.o.d.y well have.”

The old man laughed again. A loud braying laugh, so raw with emotion that it unsettled Robert.

”He's ignored them.” Stan shook his head. Tears of laughter rolled down his cheeks. ”He's ignored them!”

At last a break appeared in the traffic. As Robert Gregory pointed the car's nose homeward he hissed through clenched teeth. ”Go on, laugh. Because I haven't finished with you yet.”

2.

Thirty minutes after Robert Gregory drove Stan Price away John Newton still smoldered with anger. He makes my blood boila an old phrase but an apt one. John paced the lawn, his blood running hot in his veins. John kicked the head off a dandelion. So help me, I should have grabbed Robert by the s.h.i.+rt collar and chucked him into the pond.

There was no doubt in his mind that Robert Gregory ill-treated the old man. To what extent, however, he couldn't say. Stan had certainly expected to be slapped when Robert had raised his hand to get a hold of the seatbelt buckle just over Stan's shoulder.

Now John remembered with a biting clarity that Stan had claimed someone was trying to kill him. John had written that off as a delusion cooked up by dementia. Now he wasn't one hundred percent sure. But what could he do about it? He'd need a d.a.m.n sight more proof if he was to telephone the police. Should he talk to Stan's daughter, Cynthia Gregory? But she was so timid she'd probably back up any c.o.c.k and bull story Robert Gregory came out with.

John walked toward the orchard. From the shade of the trees Sam watched him. He paused to rub the dog's head. ”It's a cruel world,” John murmured. ”Sometimes you find yourself standing by, watching s.h.i.+t happen and knowing you can't do a d.a.m.n thing about it.” The dog licked his hand. John smiled. ”Well, if you get a chance, boy, you tear a b.l.o.o.d.y big lump out of Gregory's a.s.s.”

For a while John did a few pointless ch.o.r.es to take his mind off what had happened: he made coffee, scratched out weeds from between the cracks in paving slabs, worked more grease into the sluice gate clogs up at the pond. The thing hadn't been opened in years. Now it had become a personal quest to free the mechanism. Pick the bones out of that one, Freud, he told himself, wiping the grease from his hands.

He then went to weed the flowerbed. h.e.l.l's teeth. He should be writing. He knew that. But Stan's visit had unsettled him. Especially the ugly scene with Gregory yelling at the old man like he was a dog. Now he didn't think he could settle to do anything productive-or meaningful. That was until he saw the briefcase.

Gregory's stormy arrival had wiped the briefcase from his memory.

Now it sat there under the holly bush. Cobweb smeared, cracked- oozing with questions.

He paused with a bunch of bindweed in each hand. So what was in there?

A pile of baby bonesa Despite himself he smiled as his runaway imagination slipped in the macabre answer.

No. Unlikely. More likely it contained the letters that schoolmaster Kelly received in this very house seventy years ago.