Written in Blood(146)

Honoria glowered and her feet kicked and pawed savagely at the floor. She looked brutally sure of herself, less mad, much more frightening.

‘I shall fight,’ said Amy. ‘And it will show. They will find you out.’

‘Do you think I care.’ Honoria’s voice was thick with contempt.

‘You will care,’ shouted Amy, ‘when you are in prison for years and years shut up in a cage with the sort of people you despise.’

‘You’re an even bigger fool than I took you for. Once your death is accomplished I shall seek my own. What else have I to live for?’

The appalling desolation behind this remark, springing from a hatred of life that Amy could not even begin to comprehend, evoked unwilling pity. For the first time she was moved to use her sister-in-law’s name.

Honoria crossed swiftly over to Amy and spat in her face. Then she spun Amy round, seized her wrists and wrenched her arms together behind her. Amy kicked out backwards. A high strong kick like a spirited horse. It connected with Honoria’s shins and hurt Amy’s heel even through her boots.

Honoria began to drag her captive towards the open window. Amy’s arms felt as if they were being torn from their sockets. She dug her heels in, rucking up the carpet but, like a chicken on the way to market dangling from tied legs could do little to help herself.

When they reached the window Honoria pushed Amy violently against the frame. The sash bar struck her hard on the nose and blood flowed into her mouth. Now she was being forced to the floor. Amy planted her legs astride, made them rigid and strong, braced the front of her thighs against the sill. Honoria let go of Amy’s wrists, put both of her hands on Amy’s shoulders and bore down with all her might. Amy’s knees gave way with a crack.

Honoria grabbed the neck of Amy’s sweater, bunching it up, pushed Amy through the window opening and half across the sill. Amy threw up her arms and gripped the sash, digging her nails into the wood. Honoria stopped pushing and began to prise loose Amy’s fingers.

It was then that a vehicle appeared on the drive. Amy saw the headlights and yelled out. Screamed over and over again. Great shrieks so loud that her head filled up with the sound and rang like a bell.

Honoria hauled her back inside. Amy fought maniacally - kicking, punching, scratching. Fought with all her substance and all her strength. Far away she heard the sound of breaking glass. Honoria heard it too. Amy could see by the change in her expression. An acknowledgement that time was running out. Her hands closed around Amy’s throat, the thumbs pressing into the windpipe. A spasm of mad joy made her body tremble and marked her face with a profane radiance.

Amy choked. She could hear humming, like the wind through telegraph wires, and saw redness everywhere. The pressure on her ears was terrible. The inside of her head expanded, pushing harder and harder against her skull until at last it gave way and she fell into the dark.





It was past midnight. Barnaby was in a private room at Hillingdon hospital staring out over the parking lot which, even at that hour of the night, was half full. He had been there for five hours. Unnecessarily, if he was honest with himself, for she wasn’t going to run away. And she wasn’t going to die. Thank God. Two bodies in one evening were more than enough.

They had been putting the first into the mortuary van as he pulled up outside Gresham House. The second, so much lighter, lay in its zippered polythene sheath in the hall.

Barnaby could see it as he got out of the Orion, for the huge doors, against which so many twigs and leaves had been piling themselves on his first visit, now stood wide open.

Laura Hutton’s Porsche was parked at an oblique angle halfway round the back, as if she had drawn up carelessly in a tearing hurry, skidded in a half circle then rammed on the brakes. The keys were still in the ignition. Later Troy had driven it back to the little jewel box of a house and put it in the garage.

There was a sound from the bed, where Amy lay looking very small beneath tightly stretched, fiercely tucked bedclothes. Audrey Brierley sat close by, her white-gold cap of hair shimmering beneath the bedside lamp like a pearl helmet.

A staff nurse came in to take Amy’s pulse and blood pressure. Amy had been sedated, but lightly, and the nurse’s ministrations woke her up. Much as Barnaby wanted to talk he couldn’t help feeling a pang of sympathy. After shining a light into both her patient’s eyes the nurse said everything was fine and went briskly off, her shoes squeaking on the linoleum.

Amy stared at Audrey Brierley, who gently took hold of her bandaged hand. ‘It’s all right, Mrs Lyddiard. You’re all right now.’

Barnaby picked up a chair and carried it over to the bed. He positioned it carefully. Not too near but not too far away, for he feared her voice might not carry.