Three British Mystery Novels

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FOUR

The more that she ate, the more she surrendered to those instincts she had for so long been conditioned against, and the more she began to remember. It was a therapy of food; slim rashers of crisp pig, bursting sausages, eggs beaten to within an inch of their lives by her practised hands, as though not eggs but something else, transformed into dripping omelettes. It was only natural, she supposed, that these memories manifested in her dreams at first. What else are dreams, but memories of the past, the future; of what could have been, or might yet be?

* * *

She dreamt first of the Forest. She couldn’t see the brook from where she walked but she could hear it; a lively rushing of water through the trees. It was dark here, but not oppressively so; light broke through the dense canopy in wide pools, which scattered the shadows of the forest floor. Occasionally the path would take her through a glade or clearing, where more light reached, uninterrupted by leaves or branches. It must have been summer; delicate elf rings dotted the grass, inviting her to run through them, to jump from circle to circle, and dandelion seeds drifted languidly on the air.

Another figure moved behind her in the Forest. She could feel his presence; the press of his footfalls on the ground. She knew without looking that it was her father and that she was a little girl. The trees were taller, so much taller than she remembered them being, the grass much closer to her face. Wood pigeons warbled softly in the trees, as did a number of birds she couldn’t identify. She didn’t suppose it mattered; the birds sang and the forest air was pleasant. These were the important things. This, surely, was why the memory had endured, hidden for so many years. She felt dizzy with nostalgia.

Father and daughter moved deeper into the Forest. She saw other shapes now, twin shadows in the undergrowth: their two Cocker Spaniels, Ralph and Jack. The dogs moved through the shrubs without stopping, their noses never far from the ground. Occasionally they would collide, as the same scent brought them together. Playful yelps ensued, scattering through the trees, followed by laughter. She realised it was her own, and that she was smiling.

The brook drew closer. She could see the gap ahead, where the trees grew slightly apart, and she hurried towards it. She moved faster now. She seemed to be skipping.

Bauchan Brook, named after a local legend of Lynnwood, said that visitors to the water were watched by someone or something between the trees; a spirit of the wilds or perhaps the trees themselves, standing guard over the clear waters from which they drank. She had no such memories, no encounters that she could recall, but she couldn’t deny the presence that hovered over the place; a quiet watchfulness, seeming both young and old.

Except, this time when she stepped from the tree line, as she knelt to dip her hands into the water, she thought she did see something. A silhouette, crouched across the brook. She saw only its reflection first, broken and pale in the shining waters. Filled with curiosity she looked up, the figure across the brook doing likewise. Their eyes met and she felt a deep, irrepressible urge inside of herself, the likes of which she had never felt before. Then the brook seemed to expand, breaking its banks as the light washed down through the trees, and the trees themselves rose taller and thinner until there was nothing but that shining, liquid light and she woke, wet and hot, in bed.

* * *

Though Freya never actually saw her father in these dreams, he wasn’t far from her thoughts. David Heart was as shrewd a businessman as he was a devoted father, and he had always been there for his daughter.

“He was tall. And broad. I remember him being broad,” said Catherine, her eyes sparkling devilishly over a glass of white one afternoon. “Big, strong arms.”

“Catherine Lacey. You’re awful, do you know that?”

“Would you have me any other way?”

Despite growing up in the same school year as Freya, Catherine still seemed the more youthful of the pair. Her rotund face concealed age, and her portly figure, with her thick neck and generous arms, suggested a voluptuousness Freya’s slender shape lacked. Even so, the two remained as close friends as they had ever been. Where they had run through the heathland as little girls, now Freya’s dog gambolled over the grass. The poetry they had read at school filled Catherine’s bookcases. One collection comprised of Catherine’s own verse, though Freya had been f*******n from ever reading it. And the squash that they used to drink had become darker, stronger and much more alcoholic in nature, though they drank it with no less relish. Catherine had always possessed something of a nose for “the good stuff,” ever since they first started sneaking bottles from her parents’ wine cellar after school. Raised on these fumes, it was only natural that the woman had grown up with a taste for them.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about him lately,” said Freya, staring over her glass into the garden. “About what happened to him, the unfairness of it. The disease took everything from him. That business was his life.”

“Everything! Remind me, did the business fail?”

“Well, no,” said Freya. “He sold his shares long before the end. There was no other way. He couldn’t run a company with dementia.”

“There we go,” said Catherine. “The wheels of industry kept turning. Some poor soul will have risen to replace him and that was the end of it, as far as they were concerned.”

“You’re saying his business lived on without him. Is this supposed to be comforting?”

“Yes! Consider that Sam Clovely. He took his seat on the village council so seriously, but what good did it actually do him?”

“He was mad, Catherine...”

“No, he went mad.” She rolled her eyes. “When you get down to it, it’s not work that matters, it’s not job titles or a place at the head of the business table. These things go on regardless. It’s Haven House. It’s your memories. It’s you.”

“Me?”

“You, your father’s seed, his flesh and blood –”

“You’re growing vulgar again,” said Freya, winking. “It’s too early in the evening for that yet.”

“Dress it up however you like.” Catherine took a large mouthful of her wine. “You know what I mean. There’s working and there’s living.”

Birdsong sounded from the garden. It was light, without worry. Freya watched as one of Catherine’s cats stalked a sparrow through the undergrowth. “I’ve been dreaming about him again,” she said.

“Your father?”

She nodded and Catherine smiled wickedly.

“I’ve been dreaming about him too. What would your mother have said?”

The cat sprang, the sparrow vanishing beneath its claws.

* * *

When not in Catherine’s company, Freya found herself increasingly drawn to Allerwood Church. She had lived a privileged life, all things considered. Her father worked hard to provide for his family and she had inherited generously on her parents’ passing. She visited the churchyard in the afternoons, once Eaton had been walked and the children were at school. The dreams gnawed at her resolve, their little teeth nipping at wounds long since healed until they were red and raw.

“It is clear you have something on your mind, my dear,” said Ms. Andrews, after they had exchanged pleasantries one afternoon. The vicar made her way through the graves, to stand by Freya’s side.

“Is it so obvious?”

“Indeed,” said Ms. Andrews. “I have a view of the church grounds from my windows. It’s really quite beautiful, in the summer. Pardon my saying, but you’re spending near as much time here as the dead. Is there anything I can help you with?”

“I don’t think so. Thank you, though.”

“You are sure, Freya? God is healing, you know, and failing that I have an excellent brandy in need of drinking.”

“I feel... I’m remembering things, that’s all.”

A curious look passed over Ms. Andrews’s face at these words. The woman seemed suddenly older and younger, almost childlike in her expression. She toyed with her hands behind her back.

“We’re all remembering things. Winter, it seems, has brought a host of memories this year.” She stared into middle-space for a moment, her wet eyes glistening. Then she smiled. “Come inside, let us talk and eat.”