Alice questioned me closely-in fact, it seemed to me, with excessive, if not prurient, interest-in the details of the rape, the precise position of the two of them, and their state of undress. She wanted to know if Morton was wearing trousers (he wasn’t; the memory of his hairy thighs and jerking buttocks still nauseated me) and if Barbara’s breasts were visible (her blouse and bra were forced up to her shoulders), if she was wearing scent (I didn’t notice), and if her knickers were made of cotton or something finer (I ask you!). I answered everything as candidly as I was able, even down to the way Barbara had cried out and hammered the floor with her legs and arms as she tried hopelessly to twist from under him. I don’t mind telling you that some of the things I had to say stuck in my throat, but Alice waited impassively until I found my voice and then coolly asked me supplementary questions. She wasn’t held back by inhibitions.
We looked for the bullet hole and found a place at about hip height where a whole section of wood had been sawn out of a beam by the forensic expert, Dr. Atcliffe. Without seeing the angle of the bullet, we couldn’t estimate the line of fire.
“Enough?”
Alice nodded.
Descending a ladder with my handicap is harder than climbing it. I was breathing heavily when I joined her. She suggested we sit down a moment on a bale.
“Was it worth the trouble?” I asked.
“It’s not an experience you can evaluate,” she said sharply, then, sensing that she ought to soften the remark, “But I’m grateful.”
“What’s next?”
“The Lockwoods.”
“They must have left the farm by now.”
“I’ll find them.”
I noted the change of pronoun. Up to now she’d been only too pleased to have me at her side. Was this an assertion of independence? Was my usefulness played out? Oddly, considering my earlier reluctance, I felt a stab of rejection. If Alice was going on with her absurd quest, I was beginning to want to be part of it.
I reached for my stick. “Let’s try the farmhouse.”
The wind whipped up the rain as we crossed the yard. I thought a curtain twitched at one of the windows, but it may have been a gust getting through the casements. There was no response to our knocking.
I repeated, “It must have changed hands by now, anyway.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it,” called Alice, already moving around the side of the house. “Look what I found-if the memory isn’t too painful.”
I followed her. She was by the back door, and she had her hand on the rusty mangle Mrs. Lockwood had bent me over when she slippered me.
I gave a mock groan. We needed some light relief.
“Any new people would have gotten rid of this piece of junk,” said Alice. “Can you see inside the kitchen? Does it look the same?”
I got up close to check.
There was an instantaneous gunshot.
“Christ!” I said.
Chips of stone had been dislodged from somewhere above us and peppered the cobbles.
I asked Alice, “Are you all right?”
She was brushing moss off her sleeve. “I think so.”
“Bloody lunatic!” I could see him across the yard holding the gun, a figure in a black oilskin and boots, standing beside the tractor, grinning inanely. I shouted, “What the hell was that for?”
I limped towards him, so angry that I gave no thought to the gun. “Did you hear me?” I yelled.
By way of reply, he spat copiously on the bonnet of my car.
“Peasant!” I said.
Alice had caught up with me. “Theo, be careful,”
“Leave this to me.”
I was close enough to recognize him. The face had thickened, and the black hair was flecked with gray. There were a couple of gaps in the grin, but it was still a strong, good-looking face that wouldn’t look out of place on a Fair Isle pattern.
Bernard Lockwood.
I said, “You could have killed us.”
“Rats.”
I glared at him. There was no glimmer of recognition on his part.
He leered at Alice and said slowly, “I were firing at rats.”
I felt like throwing a punch at him. I’m not incapable of using my fists. Without taking my eyes off him I said, “Alice, I think you’d better get in the car.”
Bernard said, “Don’t ‘ee understand English? I were aiming at two old rats by the guttering there. Vermin.” He made a creeping motion with his fingers. “Them as has four legs and tails.”
I said, “God-awful shot if you were.”
Alice hadn’t moved.
Bernard folded the gun under his arm. “What you be doing here?”
“Visiting”
“Trespassing, more like.”
I said, “It’s bloody pouring and I haven’t the time or the inclination to discuss it with you. We’re going.”
“No, Theo,” butted in Alice. “Please.”
“Save your breath,” I told her. “The man’s a thug.” Perhaps I should have said moron. He seemed impervious to insults.
Alice told Bernard civilly, “Maybe you could help us. We want to get in touch with the Lockwood family.”
Let’s give him credit for some artifice. He didn’t admit to his identity immediately, though it may have been due to sheer obtuseness. “Lockwood? What’s your business with they?”
I said to Alice, “You see? We’ll get nowhere.” I really hoped we could beat a retreat without introductions, but she was digging in.
She explained to him, “They were the people who owned this place in World War Two, right? Are you the present owner by any chance?”
“Could be,” conceded Bernard.
I’d had enough. I switched to the attack. “Come off it. You’re Bernard Lockwood. Where are your parents, in the house?”
His hand tightened around the butt of the shotgun.
Alice turned to me in amazement. “This is Bernard?” She said it the American way, stressing the second syllable.
I was watching Bernard’s spare hand. He’d taken two orange-colored cartridges from his pocket. I didn’t have long to get my message across. I took a steadying breath and told him, “I was the boy evacuated here. The young lady is a friend. I promised to show her the place and, if possible, look up your parents.”
Before Bernard could respond, Alice rashly chimed in, “My name is Alice Ashenfelter and my daddy was the man convicted of the murder here.”
I could have belted her.
Muscles were bunching on Bernard’s jawline. He frowned, grappling with what he had heard, trying to make the connection. His brown eyes darted between me and Alice. Finally, he abandoned the attempt and said through his teeth, “What’s past is over. You’d best get on your way.”
Curiously the words didn’t carry the force represented by the gun. I risked an appeal to his better nature. “Come on, man. We’ve driven out specially from Reading. Your parents were good to me in the war. The least I can do is present my compliments.”
“I’ll pass ‘em on for ‘ee.”
“Are they inside?”
I’d pushed too far. He snapped the cartridges into the gun, locked it in the firing position, and leveled it at my
