Dryden took a step closer and saw that Woodruffe was still sweating in the moonlight. Under the jetty the river glugged and the cool stench of rotting weed was heady.
Woodruffe put the cigarette between his lips and hid his hands. ‘Peter Tholy killed Kathryn Neate because she wouldn’t go with him to Australia.’
Dryden sucked in some night air. ‘You’re saying Kathryn Neate was murdered?’
Woodruffe nodded, chin down.
‘Hold on, hold on,’ interrupted Dryden, struggling to take it in. ‘It was George Tudor who wanted Kathryn to go with him to Australia. Peter Tholy just made up the party – because George looked after him.’
Woodruffe shook his head, exasperated. ‘Sure, George wanted Kathryn to go with him, because he wanted her to have a life away from the Neates. But it was Peter that wanted to love her, wanted her as a wife. George went back to Neate’s Garage that night to plead for Peter. George was like a big brother to that kid, always had been since school. George likes to protect people – he tried to protect Kathryn, for her mother’s sake. Christ, she needed it. She’d never really grown up. After Marion died she went back in her shell and Walter didn’t help, couldn’t help. He couldn’t look at her sometimes, it was like Marion had come back to life.’ Woodruffe raked in some more night air. ‘And Jimmy isn’t the type to give someone a shoulder to cry on. So she didn’t really have anyone. But she was beautiful, and I don’t think she understood, you know…’ He looked at Dryden. ‘What they were after. She was too lonely to keep them away.’
He rubbed fingers into his eye socket, trying to clear an image. ‘George only turned up at the funeral because Tholy had promised Kathryn that he’d be there, because he was the father, because he loved her. But he didn’t have the guts to show his face. Someone else letting her down, see? It was little Peter’s child, and little Peter wanted to take Kathryn to Australia: the three of them, escaping. But Jimmy and Walter wouldn’t have it.’
‘And how do you know all this?’ asked Dryden.
Woodruffe looked away. ‘George and Jimmy told us – all of us – the next day. We met at Imber’s house. And I knew about Kath, through the family.’
Dryden remembered the open window, the sunlight on the orchard below.
‘They weren’t lying, Dryden, believe me. It was little Peter that loved Kathryn Neate.’
Dryden closed his eyes, trying to imagine night falling on Jude’s Ferry.
‘When the family got back to the garage that night, after the funeral, Walter told Kathryn she had to be straight with Peter, tell him to go without her. Jimmy said later she set off down to The Dring towards Tholy’s cottage, about six thirty. That was the last time any of us saw her alive.’
On the horizon the floodlights on the cathedral’s Octagon Tower blanked out.
‘Jimmy said it was late – nearly ten thirty – by the time they got worried enough to organize a search. He went down to Tholy’s cottage, tracing her steps, and George checked out around the Methodist Hall – the dance was over but there were still kids about. Anyway, Jimmy found her soon enough, behind Tholy’s cottage on the riverbank. He reckoned they’d met on the path where it cuts behind Orchard House. She’d been strangled and the prints were black round her neck – the fingers, where he’d pressed into the flesh. Jimmy said that as he’d come along the river he’d seen someone by her body, but they’d heard the footsteps and run for it back to the house, Tholy’s house.
‘Jimmy took her body along the river path back to the garage and then he found George by The Dring and they knocked on Tholy’s door, forced it off its hinges. He was alone, packing, and he said he’d been alone all night, that he’d gone to say goodbye to old Broderick, but he hadn’t seen Kathryn. That’s when Jimmy said he knew he’d done it because he’d been down by the body. So they dragged him out in the street and down to the inn.
‘We were all out in the back yard watching the Smiths fight. It was sport, really; everyone was drunk, and if they’d finished we’d have turned on Cobley next. We knew about them, see, knew what they were. They couldn’t hide it that night, couldn’t say it wasn’t true.’
He laughed, brushing the back of his hand over his lips. ‘There was gonna be blood spilt. Something about the drink, and leaving, it seemed to make everyone crazy for a night. And there was this blood-lust, you just knew it would end in blood.’
A pike surfaced on the river and then dropped out of sight with a plop.
‘Anyway, we was all watching the fight but John Boyle – he’s long dead – was out on the front step throwing up and he looked up the street and saw them coming. George had him round the throat so we knew then that he’d done something terrible because nobody stood up for Peter more than George. They said he’d killed Kathryn, strangled her down by the reeds because she wouldn’t go with him.
‘Everyone looked at Walter, of course. He’d doted on her all her life, since the mother died. He just crumbled at first, then turned on Jimmy, saying it wasn’t true, that it couldn’t be true. He felt guilty anyway, about the kid, we all knew he’d never wanted it. We were all looking at him, waiting for a lead I guess. So he went for Peter, like he’d kill him there, so we dragged him back – told him we hadn’t heard Peter speak, that he had to have the chance.’
Dryden shivered, the sweat beginning to cool on his forehead. ‘So what did Peter say?’
Woodruffe shrugged. ‘He said he didn’t do it, said he hadn’t seen her that day at all. But Jimmy cut in, asked him if he was the father of her kid, and you could see he was because he couldn’t think of an answer. So Jimmy said there was a place they could find out the truth. The cellar.’
‘How’d Jimmy know about that?’
Woodruffe looked at his hands. ‘Like I said, family. Jimmy said he’d help, when Mum said she wanted to die, he said it was what his mum would have wanted. I couldn’t do it alone so we dug the grave.’
‘Did anyone think of phoning the police?’ asked Dryden. ‘What about the army, didn’t they have anyone in the village that night?’
Woodruffe shook his head. ‘She was dead, they weren’t gonna bring her back, were they?’ He paused, deciding. ‘I didn’t go down. But they said – later – said they’d snapped his neck. Snapped the runt’s neck.’
‘And Kathryn?’ asked Dryden, but he knew already. He’d held her skull that night on Thieves Bridge, the searchlight driving the shadows into the eye sockets.
