The Last Baronet Read online

  The stubblefield, hugely silent and blessedly peaceful, was scattered with great whorls of harvested straw like slices cut from a gargantuan Swiss roll, and whilst she waited, alert for the approaching sound of their rescue, she watched the clouds move across the enormous sky and thought of John Constable and how he must have watched these great East Anglian skies, noticing every nuance of light, of movement, of colour, of beauty.

  Along the far edge of the stubblefield some movement caught her eye. A man, wearing what looked like plus-fours, had come into sight pushing a wheelbarrow with a palpably painful slowness, his shoulders bowed by the weight of it. Even from so far away, Anna could see that he was not a young man, and it struck her as being odd to see someone pushing a heavily laden wheelbarrow across a stubblefield in the country. Wheelbarrows, to Anna’s way of thinking, were domestic things, more at home in yards and gardens or building sites, rather than in open fields, where it was surely more usual to use a tractor and trailer or a Land Rover to transport a heavy load for a long distance over uneven terrain.

  After a goodly period of exhaustive travail, the man and his burden arrived at what appeared to be his destination; some kind of pond or quarry Anna was unable to see properly but was able to recognise as such by the fact that it was bordered by rough ground and fringed with rushes. Here the man dropped the handles of the wheelbarrow and, after an interval during which she supposed him to be recovering his breath, he leaned over and took something from it, uncoiled it with care and arranged it around his neck.

  Anna watched him do this, and afterwards would be able to say that she saw him put the noose around his neck and tighten it, but that her brain would not allow her to believe what her eyes had seen. And so she continued to watch, still unbelieving, as the man leaned into the wheelbarrow once more and lifted, with the most enormous difficulty, and only at the expense of truly herculean effort, some tremendously heavy object which appeared to be fashioned of stone, and was round, with a hole in the middle. A millwheel perhaps or a grinding stone, with the end of the rope attached to it. Then, succeeding in one massive and final feat of exertion, the man somehow contrived to throw the stone into the quarry and, with a grotesquely jerking and peculiar twisting movement, his body followed.

  There was an audible splash.

  Anna ran.

  THREE

  David Williamson drove into his farmyard like a madman. He felt, much of the time anyway, quite like a madman, but in his calmer moments realised that he was in the grip of an obsession.

  These days, watching the Rushbrokes occupied most of his waking hours, and even when he slept, Rushbrokes were there, inhabiting his fevered dreams. Spying on them, tracking them, hating them was, he knew, not only damaging his health and ruining his life, but also threatening both his occupation and his sanity. Especially his sanity. It seemed to David Williamson that the Rushbrokes had somehow taken possession of his brain and must be lodged there like a terrible, malignant growth, like the manifestation of some unspeakable, incurable disease he could never be free of, never escape. He felt, (illogical though it was; there were, after all, only three of them) surrounded by Rushbrokes, swamped by them, hemmed in and persecuted. Even his farmhouse, situated as it was on a modest rise, on the only high ground for miles, seemed uniquely and conveniently placed to look down upon the Rushbrokes, enabling him to observe them walking, riding, driving over his land, shooting his game and stealing his crops, from a natural vantage point.

  His latest confrontation with the Honourable Nicola had left him trembling and anguished. Before it happened, he had been pondering the condition of his bullocks in Twenty Acre, considering their shining flanks and the gentle humps and hollows of their quarters. David Williamson liked bullocks and had been content in the midst of their moist curiosity, a willing recipient of their breathy, if somewhat pressingly claustrophobic companionship, until he had noticed the horse droppings.

  There had been no possible mistake about it; they had definitely been horse droppings; not the distinctive flat black pools of grazing cattle, but quite unmistakably the glossy, oval, ginger-coloured droppings of a corn fed horse. David Williamson had stared down at them, feeling the familiar stabbing discomfort of chronic anxiety as he speculated as to what new and indefensible outrage they could possibly represent. For he had realised at once that they heralded some form of deviation from the usual abuse of his pasture; there were far too many piles to be the result of a regular short cut across the land and they marked no particular line but appeared to be distributed at random. And the more he looked, the more he saw!

  Prowling to and fro he discovered older evidence, darker in colour and scattered by birds, and some piles that were new, absolutely fresh and recently evacuated. He was both incensed by this and mystified. Surely the Hon. Nicola could not have been using his pasture as a schooling ground for her obnoxious quadrupeds? Almost certainly his bullocks were too inquisitive to have allowed it. They would have become excited and gambolled about, obstructing any disciplined exercise, upsetting the horses. Not only that, but any unwonted activity on the pasture would have attracted his attention at once; yet horses had obviously been on this land for some time, for several hours at a stretch, regularly, and recently, and if not in the daytime, when he could hardly have failed to notice them, then at night, in the dark! The Hon. Nicola had been stealing his grazing! Turning out her horses amongst his cattle at night!

  The realisation had filled him with a passionate rage. At once, his heart had begun to race, he had begun to sweat, and he had felt the first swimmy, sickly stirrings of nausea. His bullocks had crowded around as if to show sympathy and support. One of them, more forward than the rest, had licked his arm with its warm, abrasive tongue, but he was not to be comforted, feeling that they had somehow betrayed him, that by their innocent involvement in the conspiracy they were partly responsible and must bear some of the blame. He had shouted at them to get off, waving his arms angrily and setting them shying away, lurching and capering, becoming clumsily frolicsome with a bovine insensitivity that he might, a few minutes earlier, have found rather pleasing.

  As they regrouped around him, wary now, and at a more respectful distance, David Williamson had closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe deeply and slowly, filling his lungs to capacity and exhaling to maximum degree. He had recognised the physical symptoms as those of chronic stress occasioned by his obsession and knew that his anger must be controlled otherwise the Rushbrokes would succeed in damaging his body as well as his mind. He had resolved to make a determined effort to be calm so that he could decide, in a rational manner, (for David Williamson honestly considered himself to be a reasonable, rational, man), how to cope with this latest depredation, this new and appalling deceit, this subtle act of legerdemain, this wilful violation of his property.

  And so, standing on his pasture, surrounded by his raptly attentive cattle, he had resolutely performed his respiratory exercises and, in due course, his heartbeat had slowed and become steady in his chest, his nausea had faded, and the sweat had begun to cool on his body.

  But the anger had not faded. The anger had stayed and, staring venomously at a pile of droppings, David Williamson had burned with a desire to wreak vengeance. But how? He had considered making yet another complaint to the police, but abandoned the idea almost immediately. He had appealed to them on countless occasions in the past but, whilst listening to his lengthy catalogue of grievances with every appearance of patience and sympathy, they had displayed a curious reluctance to take any action. Trespass was a civil offence, they had informed him; it was something they would prefer not to get involved with. Of course, theft or criminal damage was a different matter, but where was his proof? If he wanted to bring charges he must provide proof of intent to permanently deprive, to wilfully damage; he must provide evidence. And even if such evidence were to be at hand, had he really thought about the consequences of prosecution, of instituting criminal proceedings against the Rushbrokes? Would he rea
lly want to have the whole sorry business dragged through the courts, reported in the newspapers? Had he considered how it might damage his reputation and social standing in the local community? And even if he won the case and was awarded damages, how would he manage to extract his compensation from the Rushbrokes when everyone knew they were already on their uppers?

  No, David Williamson had decided, there would be no help forthcoming from the police. They had actually suggested that he should go away and quietly forget all about it. Given time, they had said consolingly, wouldn’t the situation resolve itself? The old buffer must the pretty ancient by now; how old would he be? Eighty? Eighty-five? Wouldn’t he be fairly certain to drop off his perch soon? And when he did, wouldn’t the rest of the estate be coming up for sale, and wouldn’t he, David Williamson, then find himself remarkably well-placed to buy it for a knock-down price? Well then, they had concluded, taking all this into account, wouldn’t it be in everyone’s best interests to turn a blind eye and exercise a little neighbourly tolerance? All of which might have been sound advice had David Williamson not been driven to a state of acute hypersensitivity by the Rushbrokes, from which there was certainly no prospect of any return to patience or tolerance, neighbourly or not.

  Realising that any assistance from the police was extremely unlikely, David Williamson had decided that if the Rushbrokes were to be punished he must take the law into his own hands. He must turn vigilante. He must act! But how? What could he do? Threats against the Rushbrokes or appeals to their better nature he knew to be useless. Sterner measures were called for. He had kicked out at the pile of droppings, disturbing a small cloud of hideous ginger flies, revealing glistening dung beetles. What he ought to do was to catch the Hon. Nicola red-handed just as she was about to turn her horses out onto his land. Catching her in the act would give him a great deal of satisfaction. And why not? Why shouldn’t he lie in wait and catch her at it! Of course, the execution of such a plan would entail mounting a night watch. The idea both excited and alarmed him. The very prospect of apprehending the Hon. Nicola in the dark made him quiver with trepidation, for what was he to do with her once apprehended? He could hardly wring her neck because in the event of a murdered Rushbroke he would certainly be the prime suspect. The thought of the Hon. Nicola’s soft, dead body was oddly disturbing; imagining it, picturing it, brought him a sharp thrill of pleasure, swiftly followed by feelings of disgust and outrage; largely directed towards his prospective victim. Why, the woman was turning him into some kind of monster! A murderer! A necrophiliac!

  It was clear to David Williamson, walking up and down the pasture in an agitated manner in order to lose a certain wholly unwelcome and humiliating personal rigidity, that any close contact with the Hon. Nicola was something to be avoided at all costs. It was out of the question. The plan had to be revised. What the Hon. Nicola needed was a shaking up. She needed to be given such a fright that she would never again dare to set foot on his land in the dark, or in the light for that matter, with or without her loathsome equines. But how to achieve it?

  Whatever scheme he devised, he had realised it was essential he was not recognised. This rather vital consideration indicated that some form of disguise should be adopted, but the wearing of a wig, a false beard or a moustache would surely require a certain theatrical flair which he feared was absent from his nature. He knew he could not be a convincing actor, even a mute one (for to speak would be to give the game away immediately) and must beware of being ridiculous rather than frightening. Clearly something more sinister than a simple disguise was called for. He considered pulling a stocking over his head like a bank robber, or wearing a menacing black hood with slits for his eyes and mouth, like the IRA or the SAS, but would either garment actually be sufficient to protect his identity? He doubted it. His shape and mannerisms would betray him. In fact, given the situation, any human shape might be assumed to be his simply by association. There was also the indisputable fact that the Hon. Nicola possessed nerves of steel. She might not be frightened enough. David Williamson could imagine only too well the ignominy of being brushed aside or disregarded. The Hon. Nicola was also physically strong and, unexpectedly encountering a threatening figure in the darkness, might be predisposed to violence. She might attack him! He would then be obliged to defend himself and he had already ruled out any possibility of intimate contact.

  No, a disguise was not going to be sufficient. What he must do, he had decided, was to transform himself completely; not into someone but into something; he must somehow contrive to turn himself into something monstrous and inhuman, something ghastly! That was it! He must assume an entirely different shape and appear out of the darkness as something hideously malformed; a hellish apparition! He must take the form of some unspeakably awful creature out of the worst kind of horror film! Some evil and repulsive being out of the most hair-raisingly fearsome nightmare! He must appear as a ghoul!

  The idea delighted him. Immediately he was filled with a feverish anticipation. His mind began to race. Putting the plan into operation would require stealth and planning. Somehow a terrible costume must be constructed; a costume designed to scare the living daylights out of the Hon. Nicola; a costume to make her scream aloud with terror; a costume to ensure that never again would she venture out under cover of darkness; a costume which would present her with a sight so incredibly awful, so unbelievably shocking, that she would be forced to sleep with the light on for the rest of her days. Naturally, such a costume would not be contrived in five minutes. It would take time to achieve exactly the right effect. Sketches would have to be made. A prototype would have to be constructed. Great care would have to be taken if the desired effect was to be achieved. Patience would have to be exercised if this wonderful opportunity for revenge was not to be wasted.

  In the meantime, he must say or do nothing which might alert the Hon. Nicola to the fact that he was aware she was grazing her horses on his land. No accusations must be made. Cautioning himself thus, fired with excitement and quite dangerously over-stimulated, David Williamson set off towards the gate with a spring in his step followed, at a deferential distance, by two dozen bullocks. It was somewhat unfortunate that at that very moment he should have spotted the Hon. Nicola riding across the next field, taking advantage of a convenient short cut through his beans.

  In a trice, he had bolted for his Land Rover and was bucketing after her in a rabid fury with all thought of caution gone with the wind. ‘Get off my bloody land!’ he had shouted. ‘Get off! Get off my beans!’

  The grey horse had bucked and leapt and snorted in alarm at his approach, flattening its ears and shaking its head and splattering him with revolting brown froth as he drew alongside. But the Hon. Nicola had remained undisturbed in the saddle, leaning forward in order to massage the loathsome creature’s dripping neck in a reassuring manner; as if sitting on top of a crazed equine was the most natural thing in the world; as if there was nothing to it. ‘I’m not actually on your beans,’ she had pointed out, as the maddened beast had plunged about with its mane flying and its great eyes rolling round in its head. ‘I’m on a tractor crossing, as you very well know, and I don’t see how you can possibly object to my taking a short cut, especially when it’s an emergency. There has been an accident in the lane and I have to get the car to pull somebody out of the ditch.’

  He had not believed her. He had been infuriated by the fact that his rage had made no impression on her whatsoever; she had been impervious to his anger and, whilst he was anguished and filled with violent and passionate resentment, she was untouched by him. He had rubbed wildly at his face, feeling his skin contaminated by the horse’s odious spittle. ‘Get Off!’ he had yelled, his voice strangled by distress, and then, rendered almost inarticulate and hysterical, had bawled, ‘Get off my bloody beans! You’re trespassing on my bloody land! How many bloody times have I told your sodding family to bugger off; to bloody well stop using my bloody land as if it was still your bloody own!’

  Unfaze
d, the Hon. Nicola had leaned over the horse’s shoulder, the better to peer in at him through the window. Exactly at eye level, the soft fullness of her generous breasts strained the top button of her jacket. ‘It’s habit, I suppose. Quite possibly something to do with the fact that my family have owned this land for over four hundred years, whereas you have only owned it for three.’

  The cheek of her! The sheer impertinence! He had felt about to explode; that she might actually have caused him to split asunder with fury. ‘I don’t care how many years your blighted family have owned the land!’ he had howled. ‘It’s MINE now! Paid for with MY money! This land belongs to ME!’ Tearing his eyes away from the mesmerising movement of her breasts as they rose and dipped in response to the cantering gait of the horse, fixing his gaze ahead, gripping the steering wheel as if his very life depended on it, ‘I’m warning you, The Hon. Nicola,’ he had shouted. ‘I’m not standing for any more of this! I’m taking action! This time I MEAN it!’

  ‘Well, of course you mean it.’ She could have been talking to an imbecile, or one of her maddened equines. ‘But now, just at this very moment, shouldn’t you be doing something about your cattle?’ What did she mean? Distraught, he had put his head out of the window and looked back across the rows of beans, just in time to see the first group of bullocks shoulder their way through the gate from Twenty Acre.

  *

  Returned to the comparative sanctuary of his own farmyard, David Williamson clambered shakily down from his vehicle and leaned against the bonnet. It had been a bad morning. Nevertheless, he knew he must guard against depression for the sake of his health and wellbeing. He must look on the bright side. At least his bullocks, having enjoyed their adventure, were now safely back in their own pasture, and he now had his plan with which to comfort himself. Things were not as black as all that.