Into the Valley of Death (13 page)

“Oh, miss, miss,” she blurted out. “The mistress is bad, very bad. How can you think anything else when—when the master’s to be hanged come Friday?”

And, without waiting for any comment Miss Unwin might have, she blundered round and ran out the door.

Rising to close it after her, Miss Unwin was decidedly thoughtful.

But almost at once the recollection of what was to happen down below in the private bar in not much more than an hour put everything else out of her head.

She longed to hear from Mr. Heavitree. Perhaps, after all, he had seen his quarry make a dash for freedom and had caught him. And then …? Had Arthur Burch already given him the name of the man who had persuaded him to give his false evidence?

She wished now that, instead of sitting uselessly going over the reports of the trial, she had trudged through the hot sunshine out to the farmer’s isolated cottage once again and had somehow found Mr. Heavitree in his watcher’s hiding-place.

But she knew this was nonsense. If her fellow detective was secretly watching the farmer, he would not be easily found, and she herself making her way along the lane, which she knew could be seen from either of the two upper windows of the cottage, would be quite likely to have been spotted. And that would mean Arthur Burch would know that her interest in him was more than that of a lady magazine writer who had been easily scared away by the sight of
his shotgun. So the long-waited-for effect of a shock revelation would be wasted.

No, she must continue to be patient until the farmer was well established in the bar down below. Then she and Mr. Heavitree could make their entrance side by side, and that, if they had judged their man correctly, would cause his nerve to break.

Yet it would be a relief to hear Mr. Heavitree’s solid tread on the stairs just now, and to be able to discuss with him the final details of the ruse.

But no sound came.

Down below, all was bustle as the inn prepared for its business of the evening. Briefly Miss Unwin wondered how Mrs. Steadman was managing without the assistance of Vilkins, washing glasses and running errands. And Betsey? With that odd behaviour of hers, those sudden, deep, not easily explained blushes at the mention, surely, of her master’s predicament, would she be as helpful behind the bar as she ought to be?

Time passed. From the window of the sitting-room Miss Unwin, kneeling on the sofa to peer out as far as she could, was able to observe customers coming for their evening’s entertainment. There were plenty of them. And no wonder, she thought. It is not every day in a man’s life when he can drink his ale in a house where the landlord is to be hanged before the week is out.

There were plenty of customers. But there was no sign of Mr. Heavitree. What had happened to him? Had he set out in chase of Arthur Burch and had the farmer perhaps turned that gun of his on him?

She left the window and began to pace round and round the little room.

Surely if Arthur Burch had made a break for it and had been held and had confessed, Mr. Heavitree would have hastened back to the Rising Sun with the news. Mrs. Steadman had a right to know as soon as it was humanly
possible, even if Miss Unwin might be supposed to be able to possess her soul in patience.

She went back to the sofa and craned again out the open window into the soft evening air.

And then she saw a cart drawn by a scraggy horse coming meandering along towards the inn. She knew at once, even before she had got a clear sight of the man loosely holding the reins of an animal well acquainted with the way, who it would be.

Arthur Burch. Arthur Burch coming to take his evening’s refreshment below. The cautious beast coming all unwarily to the set trap.

But where was Mr. Heavitree?

Watching Arthur Burch arrive at the Rising Sun, Miss Unwin saw his horse appear to come to a halt without any check from its master, slumped on the seat of his battered old cart. For two or three minutes he stayed where he was, looking dully at the road in front of him. Then at last he heaved himself up and jumped clumsily to the ground.

Drunk, Miss Unwin realised. Arthur Burch was more than a little drunk even before coming to the inn.

She welcomed the discovery. It showed he was already a deeply worried man. No doubt he had not been entirely happy about the danger of being found to have given perjured evidence at Jack Steadman’s trial. He must have known that what he had said in the witness-box was what had sealed that verdict of guilty. And now, within days of the morning when Jack Steadman was to hang, to have people come asking him about that evidence must have added suddenly to his fears. Even the sluggish conscience that had enabled him night after night to visit the very home of the man he was sending to death must have surely been touched.

Was he already, forgetting altogether to tie his horse to one of the posts outside the inn as he staggered inside, at the point where he would break?

Oh, where, where was Mr. Heavitree?

Miss Unwin leant even farther out the window and strained to see along the road. But there was not the least sign of the former detective.

Abruptly, she decided that what she ought to do if she could was to keep Arthur Burch under observation herself.
What if some chance remark from another customer in the private bar did what she and Mr. Heavitree had planned to do by confronting the perjurer out of the blue themselves? What if he poured out some sort of confession to ears that did not know enough to appreciate its full meaning?

She hurried downstairs.

But in the passage dividing the two bars she came to a halt. She realised she was in more than a little of a difficulty. Arthur Burch might well be sitting staring directly out the open doorway of the private bar, and only by standing in or near that doorway could she keep watch on him. It was where he had been sitting when, according to his evidence at the assizes, he had heard the exact words Alfie Goode had flung from the doorway of the taproom opposite at Jack Steadman behind him.

She decided she must risk at least taking one quick look.

Gathering herself up, she launched into a rapid walk that would take her straight past the open doorway. As she passed, she would turn her head quickly and trust that she would spot Arthur Burch before he, in his state of drunken bemusement, noticed her.

One, two, three, four quick steps. Turn the head. And yes. Yes, there he was, slumped on a settle in the far corner. Mercifully, his head was so sunk on his breast that he could not have seen her.

Out in the road where the setting sun was casting long purplish shadows, she stopped and thought. In a moment she realised she had seen more than she had thought. Besides the half-drunk farmer slouched on the settle, she had seen the small window almost directly over his head.

Through that, if she could get up to it from outside, she would surely be able to keep him under observation, completely safe herself.

She hurried round to the side of the inn. The narrow path leading to the back of the building was deserted and already
dusky. She looked for the window. Yes, there it was, high up and partly obscured by ivy growing up the side wall.

But was it too high to reach? And below it nettles grew in a formidable clump.

She looked round. Nothing to stand on. Quietly she walked on round the corner to the inn’s backyard. There was no one about.

But, almost as if it had been put there by the sheer power of wishing, she saw at once the wooden wash-tub which that morning Vilkins had had her arms in up to the elbows in soapy suds. She had left it propped against the back wall to drain.

Miss Unwin looked about cautiously and approached the tub. It was heavy indeed to lift, but deep as it was it would surely make a stand high enough for her to be able to peer through that tiny window.

She grasped it with both arms as if it was a great fat man she was about to dance with. She bent at the knees and heaved. The tub came up with her.

At an ungainly staggering walk, she got it round to the path beside the inn and at last, plonk, let it drop into the middle of the clump of nettles.

It was the work of a moment then to lift her skirts and, clutching at a thick ivy stem on the wall, to hoist herself up onto the upturned tub. She found that her face was bang in front of the window.

In the private bar a lamp had just been lit, and by the light it cast it was easy to see the top of Arthur Burch’s battered and dirty hat directly underneath her. And there was something else to see, too.

On the narrow, rough wooden table in front of the farmer there was not the pot of ale that had been his customary tipple. Instead there was a glass with in it, she could see quite distinctly, the bright brown glint of brandy and soda. Arthur Burch was evidently determined to blot out any pangs of conscience and the fear of discovery.

But how much more drunk was he going to get?

At the moment he appeared to be content to sit solitary and brood over his troubles. But drink could go any way. It might need only another sip of that brandy to make him lurch off to anyone who would listen and pour out all his woes.

And she would not be there to hear if he let out a name, the name of the man who had paid or persuaded him to give his false evidence. The name of the man who had shot Alfie Goode in the back of the head and then had arranged for Jack Steadman to be suspected and tried for the crime.

Where was Mr. Heavitree? Surely, the right moment to play their trick had now come?

But there was nothing she could do except stay where she was and hope that no one came along the path between the inn and the next-door cottage. Dusk, thank goodness, was creeping on, and at least she would not be easily seen by any passers-by in the road.

She stood and watched.

Arthur Burch finished his glass and called for another. Betsey, who was behind the bar, brought it over to him and said something as she took his money. It was impossible to hear what it was, thanks to the murmur of talk in the room, but from the sharp expression on the girl’s face Miss Unwin guessed she had been telling the farmer that he had had almost all the drink she was prepared to let him have.

The path at her back was now quite dark, although above the sky still held light.

Patiently, she turned back to the window and the sight of Arthur Burch’s dirty old hat and the twinkling glass of brandy on the table in front of him. He was putting the glass to his lips only at long intervals, as if he had taken some heed of Betsey’s warning. But each time he reached out, his hand seemed to waver more, and it was plain that he was now very, very drunk.

Then suddenly there came from the entrance to the path some five or six yards away a tiny scuffling sound.

And, Miss Unwin remembered with an abrupt chill, it was nightfall.

With her mind fixed on Arthur Burch, she had not thought at all about Mrs. De Lyall’s threat. It had been something she had made up her mind to ignore, and she had now forgotten it altogether. But what if, while she had been wholly engrossed in keeping watch on the farmer, Mrs. De Lyall’s bully boys had been on the look-out for her? They could have been lurking on the other side of the road already when she had come hurrying out, and then they might have waited watching her until night had fully fallen, the last limit Mrs. De Lyall had allowed her.

There came another sound from the entrance to the path, a distinct footfall.

Miss Unwin, her face pressed against the little window, did not dare to turn.

Another stealthy footfall.

Could she jump from her perch, dash into the backyard of the inn, and find somewhere to hide? In a shed or somewhere? Or batter on the back door and shout for all she was worth?

“Miss Unwin. It’s you. I wondered.”

The familiar solid voice of Mr. Heavitree.

Miss Unwin felt such a surge of relief that she almost fell from the tub.

“Miss Unwin? Are you all right? You look disturbed.”

She turned. Mr. Heavitree was standing right behind her.

“Yes. Yes, Mr. Heavitree. It was just that— But never mind. You’re here now, and Arthur Burch is sitting in the taproom just underneath this window. Very drunk.”

“Yes, I looked in at the front door and saw him. I’m sorry I couldn’t get here earlier, but he left home in his cart sooner than I expected, and I’ve had to foot it all the way back.”

It is always the simple explanation, Miss Unwin thought.

“Well, no matter,” she said. “Don’t you think, though, it is time we played our trick?”

“Yes, my dear, I do. If he’s only half as drunk as you’ve said, he’ll be more than ripe for it.”

Mr. Heavitree held out a hand to her. She took it and jumped from the tub.

“Then let’s try,” she said.

What they decided they had to do was very simple. They merely walked in at the front entrance of the inn and placed themselves at the door of the private bar. Arthur Burch was sitting there still, swaying backwards and forwards over the last remains of his brandy.

“If he stays like that, he won’t even see us,” Miss Unwin said.

“Oh, he’ll look up sooner or later,” Mr. Heavitree replied. “And if he doesn’t, I’ll rouse him soon enough.”

They stood in the doorway for another minute or two. But for all the notice the drunken farmer took of them, they might have been in Timbuktu.

“All right,” Mr. Heavitree said at last, “I’ll try this.” He took a pace backwards so that he was standing facing well into the room. “Yes,” he said in a voice so loud it even startled Miss Unwin, “Arthur Burch could never have heard those words from where he’s sitting.”

It was enough, and more than enough.

At the sound of his name echoing out, the farmer looked up bemusedly. And there, clear in his line of vision, was Miss Unwin plainly engaged in conversation with the police officer who had wanted to know about the evidence he had given at Jack Steadman’s trial.

He sat staring at the pair of them with his face moment by moment draining of all colour.

It’s as white as a sheet of letter-paper, Miss Unwin thought. It really is.

Then the victim of their device lurched to his feet. He sent the narrow table in front of him crashing over with a thud,
stepped over it in a single stride, and came straight towards them.