THE SON OF BOMALLY

 

                                                                        Chapter Nine

                                                                       Fall from grace

 

It was quiet in the old house and David was very ill at ease. Three days had elapsed since he had found his father's body, and three days since Richard and Becky had disappeared. He had not at first feared for her safety, expecting in any case that they would return home that night. But they had not; nor the next day.

             Inspector Bryndle had called each day, and each day he had asked the same questions.

              "Where are they?" and "Why did they run away?"

             His tall skinny frame and thin beak like face seemed to hover as he waited for an answer. And like the questions, the answers were always the same.

                "I don't know." and, "I don't know."

               But today had been a little different, for now David could not hide his concern.  "I don't know if my brother killed my father," he had said," but he might have; at least I suspect he is capable of it, and now I am feeling  very concerned about Miss Carr."

             That had been some hours ago, the inspector had gone. David was feeling alone, and very uneasy. But being alone, though not normally a condition of his choosing, would not normally be a problem. But now it was different; he wasn’t just alone; he was alone and scared. He had tried to keep himself busy in different ways.  Even offering to help Mrs Simpson in the kitchen, but as things stood, she had little to do herself.

          So he wandered off disconsolately unable to settle, wondering what to do with himself, when suddenly the quiet was shattered by the shrill ring of the phone.

          "Bomally." he answered, his curt response reflecting his tenseness.

          "David?" a woman's voice asked, subdued and tearful, but very familiar.

          "Becky?"  It was a statement rather than a question, for he knew immediately that it was her. "Where are you; why are you not at home?”

          "Oh' David," she cried,  "it's like a nightmare; it just gets worse." Then her voice broke down and she was crying.

          "Where are you, Becky, are you alright?"

          Becky was trying to regain control of herself, and haltingly she told David where she was but the name she gave was not one with which he was familiar. He was not even sure if he had heard it correctly, but he thought she had said ‘The Dales’.

          "Did you say The Dales? why on earth?"

          Through her sniffles and tears David managed to hear,  "No... it's a place in Wales... It's Richard's cottage."

          "I didn't know he had a cottage in Wales; where is it?"

          "Its think it's about a mile from village called Dalimar, but I don't know exactly where we are."

          David tried to get her to be more specific, but it was very difficult.  How could he possibly find her if he didn't know where to start? "Is there a town Becky, anything?" he almost shouted.

          Again he couldn't properly hear but it sounded like St. Isham's.

          At last, somewhere he had heard of.  "Where is Richard?, I want to talk to him."

          "You can't."

          Becky was crying so hard now that he could hardly make out a word.

          "Calm down Becky," David shouted, so that he could be heard above the noise she was making, "what on earth is the matter?"

          "I can't go on any longer, I can't take any more." she shouted, a little calmer perhaps, though she was still sobbing, still distraught.

           "Can you get Richard to come to the phone Becky, I must talk to him."

           "You can't." Becky said. At last she had managed to control herself, and she was quieter now, almost calm.

           "Why not, is he not there?" David was still urgent.

           "No."

          "Come on Becky, don't play games with me, lt's very important that I speak to him; doesn't he know that our home is swarming with police ... what is going on?"

          "He's dead David ... I ...  oh' god! ... I killed him." Then there was a click; and silence. 

           I was a long drive from his home in Oxfordshire, to the little Welsh village near St. Isham's, on the Welsh coast.

            He had set off within half an hour of his strange frightening talk with Becky. He couldn't begin to know what had happened, but he did know that Becky was nearly out of her mind.

            In the dark he knew that he was driving too fast so he was having to apply all his concentration.  It would not do Becky any good if he were to have an accident.  Or more likely, to be stopped  by a police patrol for speeding.

          Two and a half hours of hard driving followed, eyes everywhere ready to spot any potential problems before they happened, especially from the police.  He was already a suspect for one murder, and he had left home without informing the inspector of his intention or his destination. So now he would be classed as a fugitive from the law. Being picked up now, even if it was only for speeding, followed by a routine computer check, would surely find him accommodation in some jail for the night. Even if they didn't make a connection with his father's murder, being over the limit would be reason enough, for he had consumed three or four generous tots of whisky before Becky's phone call had changed his plans for the night. Perhaps for his life.

          Now there was the added complication of another death; another murder perhaps.  His brain was spinning 'First my father, and now Richard.’

          At first it was only an idle thought, which he quickly dismissed, but it came again, and once more he drove it from his mind. But gradually it became his only thought, refusing to be drowned, refusing to be put down.

          'What if?' But no!, surely it could not be !!.' There was no doubt that Becky had been cruelly treated, particularly by Richard. And now that she knew how she had been used, might she not think that all the family were in on his evil scheme.

          'So what if it was Becky who had killed his father for abusing her for so long; and now Richard'.

          David was trying to recall just what he knew, which was not much. He too had been shocked when he discovered that all the time he had been seeing her, making love with her, his father had been seeing her too. But he had believed his father when he said he thought he was the only one, and that he loved her.

          'But what if,' He couldn't get away from the thought, 'If it was Becky who killed my father, and now she has killed my brother. Were her tears and hysterics on the phone just a ploy to get me to go to some remote place in Wales so she can kill me as well?'.

            He could hardly believe that he had thought of such a thing; even less so than she would go through with it; but still he couldn't quite brush it aside.

            Soon however, one way or another, he would know, for he was now in St.Isham's, and he hoped, only a mile or two from some answers; all he had to do now was to locate Richards cottage.  

        He found his way to the harbour, and some shelter from the wind to wait for the dawn. Sitting quietly he watched the waves crashing through the narrow gap between the cliffs at either side. An eerie luminescent glow appeared as each one followed the last to shed its power in foam and spray, caught only by the light of a pale moon as it pierced the quickly moving clouds.

            He did not attempt to sleep, and would not have succeeded had he tried, for his mind was in turmoil. Things had happened which he did not understand, but he knew that finding Becky was his first priority.

            The sky was beginning to lighten, and now he must make a move.  In her hysterical state Becky had called out the name of the village, but he was not certain that he had heard it properly, but she had said St Ishams so at least it was somewhere near.

          A look the map soon revealed Dalimar, a couple of miles from the harbour, and it showed two approaches, but there wasn't much else to go on.  He was soon the village, small and quiet and with a two field gap between another small cluster of houses; little more than a hamlet.  A few lanes branched off, but he had seen nothing to help in his search, and he didn't know what kind of a house he was looking for. Becky had called it a cottage, but that was a bit vague.  So he tried first one lane and then another, each time driving a few miles, before going back to Dalimar to start again.

          Still nothing. Then, on his third time round he spotted another building down a side track.  In the early morning half light he had missed it, but now he saw now the faint glow of a light. It didn't seem to be much of a place in these dim conditions but he had to try. As he got closer he could see that it was set near some trees which had partly obscured it, and that it was considerately bigger that he had first thought. He could see now that it was stone built, and quite old. Then he saw what he had hoped to find, and the hunt was over.  Richards car!

          It was now about eight o'clock, and getting lighter all the time, though still some time from full daylight. He knocked firmly on the door. A good loud knock, for he wanted to be sure to wake Becky, and there were no neighbours to hear, or to pry. 

          Then he stepped back and waited. There was no answer. He knocked again, louder this time. Again no answer, and yet there was a light on in entrance hall, and another in what might have been a bedroom.

          David was worried, not knowing what state of mind Becky was in, or what she might do. He walked round the building looking and listening for any sounds of life. He saw and heard nothing, nor did he see any widows left open.  There was only one way left: he would have to break in. Returning to the front door he tried the knob, then gave the whole door a good rattle. It seemed a bit rickety, but David suspected that although it was heavy, it was old and might give.  In fact it nearly fell off, such was the neglect the old cottage had suffered over the years.  A fairly modest push with his shoulder was all it took, and he was inside. 

             It took only a few minutes to determine that Becky was not there, and that two bedrooms had been used. It was easy to tell which was hers by the clothes and bottles lying around, and placing his hand on the bed just under the cover told him that it was probably some time since its occupant had risen, for it was quite cold.

             Then he spotted a piece of paper on a little table behind the front door.  It had a scribbled message on it which was hard to read, but he could make out 'something Cave' Castle lighthouse, ' either '3 or 8 mile',  and unmistakably, 'Becky'

              "What a bloody nightmare." he shouted out loud as he went to his car, hoping and praying that he could make some sense of it on the road map.

              At least he knew now where his starting point was.  He quickly saw that there was a lighthouse on the headland about five miles from the cottage, but he could see no reference to a cave. And then he spotted in tiny lettering, 'Frenchman's Cove' a mile or two nearer. Another look at the note, obviously written in haste, and he felt a degree of confidence that now he knew what the note said.

 

                   "Frenchman’s Cove near the lighthouse on Castle Head, 3 miles" 

​

          He read it out loud two or three times to fix it in his head, and with that he jumped into his car and started the engine But something bothered him and almost immediately turned it off again. It wasn't the front door off its hinges, lying at a rakish angle where it had fallen against the wall. It was Richard's car that was causing some concern. It was almost certain that his was the only car here at this time, and if Richard was dead why hadn't Becky used it to go to Frenchman's cove? It could only mean that she had walked!; But why?

             He started up once more, and this time he continued, ignoring doubts and thoughts of other things he might do. He must get to the cove as soon as he could. There was even a chance, if she has not been gone too long, that he might catch her up. It was getting lighter now, and with no traffic on this out of the way road, he was able to make good time. He reckoned that he might do it in less than ten minutes.

              This was foreign territory to David, and he didn't really know what to look for except that the cove was a mile or so this side of the lighthouse, which he could see intermittently on the headland before him. Driving as fast as he could, but slow enough to see any signs, he preceded with urgent caution. One mile, two miles, three, until eventually he was almost at the lighthouse. Angrily he stopped, and took another quick look at the map. It was clear that he had gone too far, but he had not seen a road or a path that might take him to any part of the cliff edge, never mind the cove. He found a convenient farm entrance in which to turn round, and soon he was on his way again. The light continued to improve, and as the road was still quiet he kept his speed up as high as he dare. Then something on the left caught his eye, but he was past it before he was able to see it properly. With his foot hard on the brake, the car came to a noisy, unsafe and slippery stop, the back end slithering first to one side, and then to the other, bringing forth from David driving skills he did not know he possessed.  Before he actually stopped he forced the gear crunchingly into reverse and shot backwards at high speed until he was back to the place where he had spotted a sign.  Lying on its side where it had fallen, its pointer buried a few inches into the muddy grass, was a sign that proclaimed

          'Public Footpath'  'Frenchman's Cove'  'Half a Mile'

           David leapt from his car, slamming the door as he went, but not bothering to stop and lock it. Up and over the stye he almost jumped, onto the slippery path ignoring the rain and the wind in his face. He could see the dip on the cliff top where he guessed the cove to be, and beyond it the wide flat horizon.  It didn't seem to be very far, but it was the longest half mile he had ever run.

        He was nearly there when he came to the edge of a ridge from which he could look down a slope the cliff top, and there, standing on its very edge was the figure of a woman. It had to be Becky. 

          David was very alarmed to see her so close to the edge as the twisting and spiralling wind might unsteady her, especially as she seemed to be wearing only her nightdress which was rising and swirling as each gust tried to pull her over.

      David was near enough to call her now, but she didn't seem to hear.  The noise of the wind, and the crashing of the waves below were making a wall of sound he could not penetrate.

            Without warning, or apparent awareness of his closeness, David saw her make the sign of the cross.  He froze and watched her jump.

       "Noooooo..." he shouted, his cry masking hers as she fell, both drowned by the sound of wind and sea, and of startled seagulls.  He had been so close he could almost have touched her.  One lunge and she would have been in his arms, but by that narrow margin he had lost her. He stepped close to the edge but could see nothing but mist and spray.

      She was gone.

                                                                 -oOo-

 

"When did he go?".  Inspector Bryndle was not happy, and poor old Mrs Simpson was getting the rough side of his tongue.

          "I don't know I keep telling you."

          Mrs Simpson, ten years senior to the inspector, and twice his size - at least side to side - was beginning to get fed up with his brusque manner.

          "Look," she said facing up to him, but having to tilt her head back some,  "I come down every day to see to breakfast, and to see if there is anything special that needs doin'. Then I get on with it. Cleanin' and cookin if they need it, or whatever they want.  Sometimes they don't need me very much, and sometimes it's well into the evening before I'm done."

          Now she was getting into her stride. "I come down this mornin', and he ain't here. That's not unusual; quite often in the past they’ve gone before I come down, though I must admit, they usually tell me, so I don't have to rush so."

          "You didn't know today?" It was a question disguised as a statement

          "Of course not." a note of irritation finding its way into her voice.

          "Look lady, my men have taken this place apart looking for something to work on. We found a knife which we think might be the one that killed Mr. Bomally, but all three of the main suspects have gone missing. Can't you tell me anything that might be helpful?"

          "I'm sorry inspector, but I just don't know."

          "If I find that you do know, and your not saying, I'll have you for aiding and abetting."

          He sat down wearily, the smell of new bread was strong, and Mrs. Simpson continued her task while they talked.

          "It's no use you threatenin' me," she said, giving him a quick look as  she reached down, cloth in hand and opened the oven door. "I can't tell you what I don't know."

          She then proceeded to take out of the oven a tray with a dozen newly baked bread cakes on it. They were brown, hot, and smelled like heaven.

          Bryndle new he would not get anywhere with bully boy tactics. Mrs Simpson was too much on home ground for that.

          "I'm sorry," he said, nose twitching, "I didn't wish to imply that you were lying, but I am trying to find out how Mr. Bomally; for whom I know you had a great respect, came to by lying dead with a knife in his chest."

          Mrs Simpson came to a stop.  For a moment she was lost.  She turned again to face the inspector. "I s'pose I have been a bit cagey," she started.  "Truth is I'm too shocked; just don't know if I'm comin' or goin', and I'm just gettin' on with things till someone tells me to stop."

          Bryndle had been resting against the window frame, but stood up properly now.

          "It's a tough time for you I know, and I promise that I am not trying to trap you; I just need somewhere to start, that's all."

          He was near the work top where the bread cakes had been put to cool, and couldn't resist an imitation of the Bisto kid, breathing in deeply through his nose. "My goodness those smell good."

          Mrs Simpson, perhaps with her own thoughts still uppermost,  missed the point of the little pantomime, and had not 'cottoned' on.

          "Perhaps I have been a little bit 'canny'," she smiled apologetically,  "but you seem to forget how upsetting all this is."

          "Well if I can have one of those I will forgive you." the inspector said, realizing that in this endeavour he would have to be direct, and giving Mrs Simpson one of his rare smiles. "while it's still hot, with lot's of butter."

          Mrs Simpson also smiled but she did not say anything. She liked making bread, it was something she had always enjoyed doing, and as usual she found it especially calming when there was 'something up'. And it was something in which she took a certain pride. 

          The inspector continued to walk slowly back and forth, while Mrs Simpson busied herself with the largest, brownest bread cake. It was a big old fashioned kitchen and there was space enough for them not impinge on each other, yet each was acutely aware of the others presence.

          "You know Mrs Simpson," Bryndle said, speaking quietly, almost as if to himself, "I know all about loyalty; and misplaced loyalty. I guess you do too?"

          He paused and turned briefly to look at her, then turned his back on her once more. "Lets see, you must have been here at the big house about twenty years or more, is that about right?" With the question he turned again to face her, prompting an answer.

          "Nearer thirty you mean; in fact, Richard was only a toddler when I first came; it was supposed to be just for a year, and I'm still here." She smiled  "I guess they liked me."

          "You like Bomally then?"

          "Oh yes, and Mrs Bomally, she was very nice too.  Always treated me as if I was important."

          "And the boys?"

          Mrs Simpson hesitated a little, considering her words.  After all, she didn't want to say the wrong thing. "As I say, Richard was very small when I first started, and not long after that I moved in.  And then David was born soon after so we have grown up together in a way."

          "You were a bit like a mother then?"

          "Oh no; never that. Mrs Bomally loved those children, and she was always the mother.  But I saw a great deal of them as they grew up, and I loved them too only in a different kind of way."

          She had a wistful expression on her face, as, just for a moment, some happy memory intruded into her sorrow. "I suppose they thought something of me.  P'raps a bit like an aunty."

          Mrs Simpson smiled at the inspector, a soft slightly tearful smile. "I am glad Megan’s not here now." almost a whisper, while her eyes filled visibly. It was almost her final act of resistance to the inspector.

          "It's a terrible thing, and I don't know what to think."

          "What about the boys?" Bryndle asked again, not wanting the memory of Mrs Bomally to sidetrack Mrs Simpson, now that she was talking.

          Bryndle sensed that she wanted to talk, and he wanted to take full advantage of her cooperation, before she put the loyalty mask back on.

          "They were always so different." she started.  "Of course Richard was a two year old when his brother was born, and had become used to being the only child, so there were problems."

          "It's often the way." Bryndle observed sagely, remembering for a moment his daughter at that age. "Sorry, please go on."

          "Well;  as you say, fairly common, but as soon as his brother appeared Richard was a problem.  He was always cunning, on the sly side, and he got worse as he got older."

          Bryndle sensed that Mrs Simpson was getting uncomfortable, as though she might be breaking a confidence.  He tried to change to safer ground

          "What about David; what kind of a child was he?"

          "Ah; now there's a thing.  For a while there was a lot of concern about David.  In his first two years he was almost silent.  He was even seen by some specialists to try and find out what was wrong, but they found nothing. He didn't talk or make much noise at all; at one time they thought he might be deaf, yet in other ways he seemed to be allright, but somehow,” she shrugged, “he was never quite normal."

          "How do you mean 'normal?"

          "No-one seemed to know, he seemed to be healthy, and did all the thing a growing child would do, but he was so quiet." She seemed to hesitate again, perhaps uncertain. "He was always better when Richard was not with him, and often when he saw a doctor, he appeared perfectly well."

          "Some kind of telepathic influence do you think?"

          "Oh I cant say about that, but he was definitely a different child when Richard wasn't there."

          "Were there ever any emergencies, illnesses; anything like that?"

          "No, they were lucky really.  Lots of little thing that kids get, but nothin' major, except ... well Richard sometimes used to go off half cocked, if you know what I mean, shouting and losing control of himself."

          "How often did that happen?"

          "Oh lots of times; he was always an odd child, and always a handful. Sometimes it would be for just a couple of hours; but sometimes he'd be actin up for a couple of days."

          "What about ...?" He was going to ask another question but stopped when he saw Mrs Simpson put her head down, weeping quietly.

          "I'm sorry my dear, shall we call it a day?" he asked quietly "I think you've had enough for now." 

          Being a policeman didn't always mean being insensitive, so long as his men didn't see.

          A little sniffle and then a smile, and Mrs Simpson was composed again.

          "Thank you." she smiled. "Maybe one day I'll get used to it."

          "I'll let myself out; but don't be surprised to see me again tomorrow." Bryndle smiled again, and turned to leave but was stopped by a slightly urgent call from Mrs Simpson.

          "Inspector, oh' inspector." she called, and was walking toward him with her characteristic little wobble, carrying a neatly wrapped bundle in her hand, "You nearly went without your bread cake."