Chapter Seventeen
SEVENTEEN
DAWN IS brEAKING. The chiming birdsong draws my attention to it first, and I wonder idly if Finchley is part of this morning chorus, finally reunited with his own kind. When I look out the window I discover a bouquet of colours: marigold, cherry blossom, rose, violet, periwinkle.
Then her solution, of all things, was to offer me up to die in her place. I’d laugh at the irony, if my lungs didn’t still hurt from almost drowning. I’m in half a mind to leave her believing I drowned – let my ghost haunt her for the rest of her life right alongside George. It’s what she deserves.
But I can’t do that. What about Tom? He deserves to finally know what happened to his brother.
Maybe it will bring him peace. Perhaps he’ll even be able to leave now, get away from the Lascy clutches and live the life that Mrs Allen has been wishing for all this time.
Surely the two of them deserve to find happiness.
And what result will make me happy?
I came to Harfold looking for a new start, and for a time I thought I’d found it in Arabella.
But that was the problem: it was her life.
I had only ever been a guest in it. So stupid not to have seen that earlier.
I won’t make that mistake again. What I need is a life that doesn’t rely on anyone else.
Money enough to free me from the whims of careless employers.
A home that no one can kick me out of. To drive around in my own motorcar.
And, though it’s not pretty to admit it, I also want to get back at Reacher and Arabella. If the law will never bring them to justice, I’ll take personal revenge as a second choice.
Besides, I’ve been reshuffling my hand, and it looks a lot better this morning – for the first time since coming to Harfold, I can see all of the cards clearly. I know just what I have to do, but I need to strike quickly while Arabella and Reacher are still off their footing.
First, I need to get the pair of them alone for a meeting.
Not back up at Harfold – that’s too far from help if things go wrong, and besides, I don’t know what they’ve told the Allens about me.
No, better for it to be here in the village.
I can’t exactly invite them into Peggy’s house for this conversation, but there must be somewhere else we can have a spot of privacy.
As I make my way into the Wights’ kitchen for breakfast, my eyes catch on the keys where they hang on the wall. There, among the usual ones for all the household locks, will be Mr Wight’s spare for the church. Now, that will throw them off their balance.
When nobody’s looking, I take the churchwarden’s key down, finding that it’s been helpfully labelled with a tag.
Next, I beg paper off Peggy and scribble a note to Arabella and Reacher.
I keep it short and non-specific: I know what you did.
Meet me in the church at seven o’clock. Don’t sign my name.
I don’t want it to be used against me later, and anyway, I like the idea of making them sweat a little.
Then I write another note, wrapping it up along with Arabella’s journals before adding Lou and Gladys’s address to the front.
I take both of these up with me to Daniel’s bedroom, where I give a soft tap on the door to draw his attention.
He’s more than happy to run the first message up to Harfold for me, without letting on who it’s from.
I also ask him to look after the parcel and, if I don’t come back to collect it before tomorrow morning, to pop it in the first post. He doesn’t question any of this, seemingly too in awe of me to disobey the orders.
The church closes for worship at six o’clock, and I watch out of the cottage window until I see the vicar locking up and making his way to the vicarage at around quarter past. I give it another few minutes to be sure, then tell Peggy I’m off for a walk.
Use Mr Wight’s key to let myself in. The absence of other people makes the space feel even smaller than it did at Christmas, the empty pews confusing my sense of perspective.
A meagre trace of evening light falls through the stained-glass window at the chancel, the shadows cast by Saint Anselm and the cowering hare stretching long up the limewash walls.
From this angle, the creature’s face looks sly, calculating.
As I move further in, my footsteps ring behind me up the aisle, almost as if someone is following close at my back. I breathe stale air, laden with the smell of old dust.
Wanting to keep surprise on my side, I duck behind a pew to wait, unseen from the entryway as my eyes adjust to the gloom.
Perch on an embroidered kneeler, this one showing a wreath of flowers.
Wonder idly whether any of the designs are Arabella’s.
No, it wouldn’t be like her to do something for the community in that way.
I don’t have to loiter for long before the wooden door scrapes open, and – risking a peep over the benchtop – I see that Reacher and Arabella have arrived. They enter cautiously, scanning the room to check if they’re alone.
‘She’s not here,’ says Reacher. He speaks at a whisper, but the echoing walls carry his words clearly to my ears.
Despite the mild evening, Arabella is bundled in her fur coat, shuddering as she pushes past her cousin to look for herself. ‘I have already told you, it can’t be Vee, she’s—’
‘Then you are sure nobody saw the other night, when it happened?’
‘There was nothing to see.’ Arabella’s features are hidden beneath the deep shadow of a frown, but the tremor is plain in her voice. ‘She slipped and fell.’
Reacher grunts in frustration and collapses on to one of the back pews.
He clearly doesn’t buy Arabella’s story about my tragic fate.
There’s a puffiness to his face and his clothes are dishevelled – the marks of a man who hasn’t slept.
Up late looking for his escaped chaffinch, I imagine.
I feel that spark of pleasure at inflicting pain.
‘Perhaps it is just a trick,’ says Arabella, coming to stand beside him.
‘Village boys having a laugh.’ She touches a hand to her throat, rubbing the skin as if trying subtly to remove something.
The nervous gesture reminds me of the first day we met, just over half a year ago now.
She was such a mystery to me then, a knot of threads to be unpicked.
But now I see her completely for what she is: a woman unable to care for anything beyond her own fears.
I step out of my hiding place. Clear my throat.
They both look up at once. On Arabella’s face, the same expression of terror that I saw yesterday – wide-eyed, white-faced, frozen in place. She grabs at Reacher’s shoulder. ‘I told you!’
Reacher, however, is unmoved. ‘For God’s sake, Bellsy, she is obviously not a ghost.’ Then to me, ‘I thought it would be you, Miss Owens.’
Arabella looks at me more intently, blinking repeatedly as though she’s trying to dispel an after-image. A twitch in her jaw as the disbelief melts away. She has finally accepted the truth. ‘Vee?’ she breathes.
‘Alive and kicking,’ I agree, coming a little closer up the aisle. ‘I guess George Allen didn’t want me after all, did he?’
At the name, Arabella jumps, then glances toward the door to the bell tower, as if she expects the former churchwarden to step out of it. ‘What do you know about that?’
‘I borrowed a few of your diaries for a little entertainment,’ I tell her. ‘In fact, I found them so interesting that I sent them on to a friend to read too. Hope you don’t mind.’ I’m unable to resist the urge to gloat a little – I’m only human.
Reacher scowls at me, getting up from his seat. ‘What do you want? Money? We don’t have it.’
I find it funny how rich people always think they don’t have money.
The Reeses were like that, too, forever suggesting cost-saving economies – although these were always imposed on us staff, never the Reeses themselves.
‘The only thing I want from you both,’ I say, ‘is for you to clear out of my house.’
He doesn’t understand. Stares blankly back at me. ‘What?’
‘Harfold. It’s my name on the deed.’
Now he laughs – a nasty, mocking sort of bark that rings up the church’s limewashed walls then back down again. ‘We’ve already destroyed that. Haven’t we, Bellsy?’
Arabella bites her lip. ‘The curse …’
Reacher’s attention snaps to his cousin, nostrils flaring. ‘You told me you’d—’ He catches himself, exhales slowly. ‘Never mind that, Miss Owens: I remind you that your name isn’t on it, and I will be changing it back shortly in any case.’
I smile at him, all sweetness. ‘Oh, you do still have it, then?’
Reacher takes a step forward, opening his mouth to reply, but then the words snag in his throat. There’s a dawning dismay on his face. He must be putting it together: that Arabella really did see me last night, that I’ve been into his study. That I took the deed right out of his desk drawer.
I pat my breast pocket, which gives out the unmistakable rustle of paper. ‘I didn’t think so,’ I confirm. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of correcting the small error I made last time, when I mis-wrote my own name. It’s definitely made out to Vera Owens now, clear as anything.’
Losing steam, Reacher darts another look at Arabella. ‘It won’t stand up in a court of law.’
‘Are you willing to bet on that?’ I’m trembling with adrenaline, fighting to keep my voice and poker face steady. He’s probably right – it can’t be a proper legal contract – but will he call me on my bluff?
‘Bellsy wasn’t in her right mind when she signed it over to you.’
‘And was she in her right mind when she tried to kill me?’
Arabella flinches at this, face screwing up in a grimace. She’s looking down at the floor. ‘Vee …’ Her voice is soft, with a wheedling note to it.