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Authors: Sheila Radley
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conspiracy to murder hadnât after all been his own idea. It wasnât his unconscious that had put forward the proposition, it was that evil little bastard Packer. If ever a man deserved to be knocked down, it was him.
It wasnât until after midnight, when he lay sleepless, that Derek realized that he had just abandoned the inhibitions of a decent, honourable lifetime. He had used â and justified the use of â violence against someone smaller than himself.
He had no sympathy for his victim. Far from it. With renewed unease he began to consider the possibility that the man, though comparatively small, couldnât be written off as proportionately weak.
Couldnât be written off at all.
Worrying about it through the early hours, Derek felt sure that he hadnât seen the last of Packer. He sensed, obscurely, that the man had somehow tricked him; had gained an advantage by deliberately tempting him to make that unprecedented physical assault.
Though it seemed that he had won this particular encounter, Derek had a guilty premonition that if the attack on his principles were to be renewed, he might yet succumb to the ultimate temptation.
Chapter Six
âIn here, Dee.â
Stretching a smile over his dark thoughts, Derek followed the sound of his wifeâs voice and found her in her work-room. It was officially the dining-room, but except for major family gatherings they always ate in the kitchen, and the large dining-table was an ideal place for Christine to spread her furnishing fabrics.
Like the other main rooms in the Edwardian-built Brickyard this was large and light, with a squared bay window occupying one wall. The room was at the back of the house, facing west over the modest dip in the landscape that was the valley of the Wash brook.
Although the long gravelled yard at the front of the house abutted on the village street, with its dwellings and shops and comings and goings, from the back windows there wasnât a building to be seen within half a mile. This duality was one of the features of the Brickyard that had particularly attracted the Cartwrights when they first saw the property. They enjoyed being a part of the community, and yet they valued the privacy the house gave them.
They also enjoyed the view. The back windows overlooked a down-sloping lawn where, at this season, clumps of daffodils blew beneath a pear tree in full blossom. The lawn was bounded by a tall old hedge, bustling with birds, and in the hedge was their private gate leading to a field path where they walked the dog.
Overtopping the hedge were the chestnut trees that stood in a group in the meadow beyond, their candles still yellowy-green but promising an outburst of white. Further away, lower in the dip, were the greyer-green tops of the willows that grew beside the brook. Then the land rose again, vivid with winter barley, towards a pink-washed farmhouse backed by late-leafing oak trees on the far side of the little valley. Further still, the flint tower of Doddenham church stood up against the wide East Anglian sky.
It was a pleasant outlook. Unspectacular, quintessentially rural, utterly peaceful. The only movementâapart from wind-blow, the darting birds, clouds skittering across the sky, and Sam the beagle scouring the hedge-bottom for rabbitsâcame from infrequent local traffic on the minor road that crossed the far slope on its way between Wyveling and Doddenham.
Today, though, the view from the tall window was partly obscured by a swathe of fabric in a swirling, leafy design of blues and greens and lilacs that complemented the plain blue-grey of the wallpaper. Christine, balanced on a stepladder, her prosthesis riding higher under her blouse than her remaining breast, was stretching up to hang a curtain.
âFor heavenâs sake !â Derek protested, hurrying forward. âMy love, what are you doing ?â
âExactly what it looks like,â said his wife cheerfully.
It wasnât until after midnight, when he lay sleepless, that Derek realized that he had just abandoned the inhibitions of a decent, honourable lifetime. He had used â and justified the use of â violence against someone smaller than himself.
He had no sympathy for his victim. Far from it. With renewed unease he began to consider the possibility that the man, though comparatively small, couldnât be written off as proportionately weak.
Couldnât be written off at all.
Worrying about it through the early hours, Derek felt sure that he hadnât seen the last of Packer. He sensed, obscurely, that the man had somehow tricked him; had gained an advantage by deliberately tempting him to make that unprecedented physical assault.
Though it seemed that he had won this particular encounter, Derek had a guilty premonition that if the attack on his principles were to be renewed, he might yet succumb to the ultimate temptation.
Chapter Six
âIn here, Dee.â
Stretching a smile over his dark thoughts, Derek followed the sound of his wifeâs voice and found her in her work-room. It was officially the dining-room, but except for major family gatherings they always ate in the kitchen, and the large dining-table was an ideal place for Christine to spread her furnishing fabrics.
Like the other main rooms in the Edwardian-built Brickyard this was large and light, with a squared bay window occupying one wall. The room was at the back of the house, facing west over the modest dip in the landscape that was the valley of the Wash brook.
Although the long gravelled yard at the front of the house abutted on the village street, with its dwellings and shops and comings and goings, from the back windows there wasnât a building to be seen within half a mile. This duality was one of the features of the Brickyard that had particularly attracted the Cartwrights when they first saw the property. They enjoyed being a part of the community, and yet they valued the privacy the house gave them.
They also enjoyed the view. The back windows overlooked a down-sloping lawn where, at this season, clumps of daffodils blew beneath a pear tree in full blossom. The lawn was bounded by a tall old hedge, bustling with birds, and in the hedge was their private gate leading to a field path where they walked the dog.
Overtopping the hedge were the chestnut trees that stood in a group in the meadow beyond, their candles still yellowy-green but promising an outburst of white. Further away, lower in the dip, were the greyer-green tops of the willows that grew beside the brook. Then the land rose again, vivid with winter barley, towards a pink-washed farmhouse backed by late-leafing oak trees on the far side of the little valley. Further still, the flint tower of Doddenham church stood up against the wide East Anglian sky.
It was a pleasant outlook. Unspectacular, quintessentially rural, utterly peaceful. The only movementâapart from wind-blow, the darting birds, clouds skittering across the sky, and Sam the beagle scouring the hedge-bottom for rabbitsâcame from infrequent local traffic on the minor road that crossed the far slope on its way between Wyveling and Doddenham.
Today, though, the view from the tall window was partly obscured by a swathe of fabric in a swirling, leafy design of blues and greens and lilacs that complemented the plain blue-grey of the wallpaper. Christine, balanced on a stepladder, her prosthesis riding higher under her blouse than her remaining breast, was stretching up to hang a curtain.
âFor heavenâs sake !â Derek protested, hurrying forward. âMy love, what are you doing ?â
âExactly what it looks like,â said his wife cheerfully.
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