Chapter Eleven #2
Later in the conversation, I distinctly hear Reacher say, ‘Let’s call it a deposit,’ then a flurry of numbers are chucked back and forth between the two men. I risk a swift eyeball to the window and see Gerrish counting out a fair number of bank notes. Dart away again.
Has Reacher promised the land to Gerrish, without Arabella’s knowledge or permission?
Maybe he knows that Arabella will stubbornly refuse to part with it, but will be grateful for the money once it comes in – an overriding of authority for the greater good.
After all, hadn’t I done similar by putting the letter into Reacher’s tray?
Both Reacher and I contriving to pull Harfold out of its bog of debt.
I’m holding my breath in an attempt to hear what happens next, when a woman comes out of one of the yard cottages. She’s wearing a white apron and a look of suspicion. Her hands on her hips, like a schoolmarm. ‘Who’re you?’ she demands, in a way that tells me she isn’t asking to be friendly.
‘No one,’ I say. Wave my long-extinguished cigarette end around. ‘Just enjoying a fag.’
‘Well, you can enjoy it elsewhere,’ she tells me, ‘unless you want me to call the police.’
Does anyone ever want that? I smile ever so politely and give a salute, before turning for the marketplace, casting a final, regretful look at the window as I go. Only then do I spot that the room beyond is now empty. The meeting must be over.
Not wanting to miss anything, I go quickly back into the covered entrance and loiter there, trying to angle myself so the woman won’t see I’m still close by.
After a couple of minutes, Reacher and Gerrish both emerge into the street.
Reacher carries a brown paper package that he didn’t have with him before: this must contain the money that was handed over.
The two men shake hands outside the Three Horseshoes’ door, Gerrish offering a string of thanks, before they part ways. Gerrish heads in the direction of East Street, and Reacher, this time, does go next door into the bank.
The coast now clear, I step out into the marketplace and, looking up at the building Reacher has just entered, I have another realization.
I’ve been elbow-deep in the household accounts after all, tidying them up.
Arabella banks with Barclays – not the Warminster Savings Bank.
So whatever Reacher is doing with this money, he isn’t paying it into his cousin’s account.
I try to convince myself that there could still be a charitable interpretation.
Maybe Reacher deposits all Harfold’s income into his own account, then transfers it later.
Yet this doesn’t feel right to me … When I was winding my pocket watch earlier, I accidentally moved the hands out of sync, so I’m not sure how much time has passed since Reacher and I parted, but I reckon it should be coming up to an hour now.
This must be his last errand. Probably safest to head back to the car and wait for him there.
Ten minutes or so later, Reacher strolls over to where I’m idling by the Singer. I search his face for a sly look, a flash of guilt, but there’s no evidence of wrong-doing to be found. ‘Ready to go?’ he asks me.
‘Yes, sir.’
He pauses a moment, cocking his head, and I worry I’ve overlooked some damning evidence of my own little secret mission. ‘Did you get your seeds, then?’ he asks.
‘Oh, yes,’ I say, patting my empty pocket. ‘It’s only a small packet, but they’ll make all the world of difference to the garden – just you wait and see!’
‘Wonderful stuff,’ he replies.
‘And you managed to do everything you needed?’ I ask, bold at his easy acceptance of my lies.
‘Yes, thank you. A productive outing for all.’
I need to decide whether to tell Arabella about what I’ve seen.
Instinct tells me not to. Not yet. I have to play this strategically.
I don’t have any real evidence against Reacher so far, and I don’t know what suspicions – if any – he may hold about me and my past. Each of us waiting for the other’s poker face to crack.
No: if asked to choose between his word and mine, Arabella may still pick him – even now.
He’s the only family she has left. Best keep my cards hidden a little longer, at least until I know I have an upper hand.
Though I wonder if this game is more like Old Maid: impossible to win; the only hope that your opponent will lose first.
I’m still pondering all this later in the day, back at Harfold, when I see Tom come stumping past with a basket on his way to the wood-store.
When I call out to him, he doesn’t return my greeting.
Maybe doesn’t hear me. Then a little later, on his way back, he passes me once more without saying anything.
Unusual for him to miss the opportunity for a chat, and I think again of his subdued mood this morning.
‘What’s up with him, then?’ I ask Mutton, who doesn’t offer much in the way of helpful insight.
Mrs Allen brings me out a cup of tea a little later. ‘Tom all right?’ I ask her, blowing on the hot liquid. ‘He seems a bit down in the dumps today.’
She makes a sympathetic tutting noise. ‘Don’t mind him, he always gets like this round this time of year. It’s the eighteenth of February today, George’s anniversary.’
‘The day he died, you mean?’
A nod. ‘He’ll be all right again tomorrow.’
It’s strange to know that Tom walks around all the time with this secret grief still heavy on his chest. He’s usually so cheerful, so open.
His good mood can be relentless. I wonder for the first time how much of it’s a mask.
A person can’t really be happy every waking minute.
Not sure what to say next, I take a sip of tea.
The flavour’s weak – probably made from sweepings.
Another of Harfold’s embarrassed economies.
‘He likes having you around, you know,’ says Mrs Allen, in a sudden tangent. ‘He’s friendly to everyone so it’s hard to tell the difference, but he does think the world of you. It’s nice for him to have another person to talk to; Bruce was never much of a chatter.’
‘Tom’s been very welcoming to me. That is, you both have.’
Mrs Allen shakes her head with a rueful smile.
‘Well, now I know you’re a liar!’ Then she sighs, her breath white in the winter air.
‘I didn’t mean to be rude to you, when you started.
I only wanted to warn you. But I never had a hope of getting you to listen, did I?
And now here you are, just as tangled in her web as the rest of us.
’ Her eyes flick in the direction of the manor, where a light burns in the morning room.
‘I wouldn’t put it like that,’ I say, after a moment.
‘If you’ll let me give you one piece of advice, Vee: keep your wits about you.
The Lascys … Tom’s always singing their praises, but nobody else round here’s forgotten how it was when Lord Lascy sold off all that land.
And that’s without mentioning Miss Yates – the children’s old governess, that is.
Lovely woman; I still write to her from time to time.
Well, I don’t believe for one minute those hidden cocaine tablets were ever hers, not after she’d come crying to me just the week before about some nastiness Lord Lascy had tried on with her.
He just wanted an excuse to kick her out after that. ’
‘That’s dreadful.’
Mrs Allen purses her lips. ‘As for Lady Lascy and Mr Reacher … well, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
Look what they did to poor Bruce when he couldn’t work any more – evicted him from that cottage without so much as a parting goodbye.
Oh, he’s too much of a gentleman to complain about it, but that doesn’t make it right.
So I have to ask, what’ll they do when Tom and I get too old to be of use? ’
When Tom had told the story, I’d got the impression Bruce had chosen to leave, moving in with his sister so she could take care of him.
However, playing the conversation back now, I realize that had been my interpretation – Tom never actually said it’d been Bruce’s decision to go.
My mind turns to Dad. The Reeses. One squint in the wrong direction and you’re out.
I still feel a spike of fierce anger just thinking about it.
Even after everything that’s happened since. ‘Why do you stay, then?’ I ask.
‘Oh, I’ve asked Tom to leave plenty of times: set up a nice bed-and-breakfast or public house together, something like that. Own our lives. But he won’t listen – all on account of George’s memory.’ Her mouth twists down. ‘You’ve heard what happened to him, I suppose?’
I nod, remembering the gory details of Peggy’s story.
‘Tom thinks George did it on purpose. I reckon, deep down, he feels like he failed George by not noticing his pain. Leaving him behind now, well, that would be failing him all over again.’
‘And what do you think?’ There’s a long pause from Mrs Allen, and I worry for a second I’ve come up against one of her walls again.
But then she leans in close to say, ‘George would never have left his family like that. He loved those kiddies. And without saying a word to Tom …’ She looks up at the main house, as if searching its windows for an answer.
‘There’s no way of knowing, but I think it was a tragic accident.
Lord knows, we’ve had enough of them at Harfold over the years. ’
At the top of the garden, Tom crosses the lawn with a barrow, Mutton trotting loyally at his heel. We both fall silent for a moment, watching him pass, as if afraid he will hear us across this distance.
‘Well, I’d best get back,’ says Mrs Allen, at length. ‘You done with that?’
I drink the last inch of tea and hand the cup to her. ‘Thanks.’
Turning to head in, Mrs Allen clears her throat. ‘You won’t tell anyone I said all that?’
‘Course not.’