In the Shadow of Winter: A gripping historical novel with murder, secrets and forbidden love. Lorna Gray
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it?” I asked distractedly as my brain still span in a desperate rejection of reality.
“It’s about the pony. Did you hear that my Simon got his arm shot off?”
“I did, I’m sorry about that.”
She shrugged my sympathy aside, “Well, many people lost more, so I just thank the Lord he’s come back to me. Anyway the truth of it is, he’s not able to work so much now, the pension doesn’t go far and things need to be a little tighter. Much as Charlie loves that pony, he’s just too expensive.” She paused, looking at me helplessly before adding, “I’ve got a little bit put by but he’s eating it away.”
I hadn’t really been listening and was just slowly nodding my sympathy, but then I gave myself a sharp mental shake and finally I realised what it was that she wanted me to do. “Do you want me to take him back?”
I looked over at her properly for the first time and as my brain cleared, I saw with a jolt that her polite words had been a mask for the grim truth. Anyone could see that she had lost weight, her face pinched and drawn as she doubtless sacrificed her meals for the sake of her son. Rationing was all very well and good, but a family still needed money to buy the stuff.
I stood up crisply. “Of course I’ll take him back. How much did you pay for him? Can you remember?” I went to the cash tin on the shelf and lifted it down.
“We paid six pounds, but that was a few years ago,” she said sadly, fearing what I would say.
“Right. Well, your lad has done wonders with him, so he’s definitely worth more now. I’ll give you twelve.” I took out what was to me a small fortune and handed it to her. “And I need a rider for the smaller ponies; do you think Charlie will come and exercise them for me?”
Mrs Ford folded the notes and slipped them into her purse. “He’d love to, I’m sure. Shall I send the pony up this afternoon?”
“Yes please, Mrs Ford.”
She gave her thanks and we made our goodbyes and then, suddenly, I was alone in my kitchen, standing by the bare oak table and staring blankly at the few notes left at the bottom of the tin. My hands were shaking when I finally lifted it back up onto the shelf.
I waited for a while until the trembling passed and then I went and picked up the telephone.
“Ah, hello, Mr Dixon, Eleanor Phillips here. Yes it is rather snowy again, isn’t it … I’m calling about my father’s car; I’ve decided to sell it after all, if you’re still interested? Sorry? Oh, you know how it is, the ponies always need feeding. I know, selfish of them, isn’t it? Tuesday next week will be perfect, see you then.”
“You take charity a bit far, don’t you? I thought you loved that car.”
I jumped and span round, the silent telephone receiver instantly forgotten in my frozen hand. My father’s jumper must have been larger than I thought because it hung off him, accentuating his lean frame.
Matthew was looking pale again, his eyes gleaming darkly against his colourless face and my first thought was that he seemed unnaturally calm as he lingered there, as though his breathing might have been as fast and as light as mine had he not been forcing it back under control by sheer will alone. My second was that he looked like he ought to have been in bed.
I bent to replace the receiver on its cradle. “Feelings change.”
He was standing at the foot of the stairs, watching me and leaning with contrived ease against the door frame quite as if he and I did not both know perfectly well that he had been upstairs only a moment before. He made no reply and for an insane moment I thought we were just going to stand there, staring at each other, trying not to breathe.
But then he spoke. “So they do,” he said and moved. Not towards me and where instinct made me step back against the hard edge of the fireplace, but towards the settee where he reached for the folded blanket. He examined it for a moment, testing its fibres between finger and thumb before laying it carefully over the arm again. I could see even that simple movement hurt. I waited.
From my little sanctuary against the wall, I waited for him to speak. I waited for the confession that should have come yesterday, or the day before. It wasn’t hard to guess that his panicked flight down the stairs had been driven by a desperate impulse to silence my telephone call. The fact that I hadn’t been speaking to the police at all hung between us like a thin joke at our expense. It begged the question; why?
At last he turned. But when he looked at me, it was only to give a brief glimmer of an unfriendly smile. “Well then, Eleanor. What now?”
“Now?” I asked weakly.
“Yes. Now.”
Still that same air of cold restraint. Rejection wrapped up in a criminal façade of indifference and it had the same impact as a slap across the jaw. I lost my temper; “Go.”
Absurdly, I think my decision surprised him. He stood there, staring; a silent shadow of a man barely able to stand without swaying. I ground my teeth. “Get. Out.”
Right on cue, the telephone began to ring.
We both started and then turned to stare blankly at its shrill volume. It didn’t stop. I cast a swift sideways glance at the man by my settee and reached out an unsteady hand.
“Good morning…?”
There was an incomprehensible bustle from the operator before a man’s voice erupted loudly into my ear:
“So I’ve caught you at last. Where on earth have you been hiding?”
“John!” It came as an indescribable relief to find myself being greeted by nothing more formidable than the well-bred tones of John Langton from the Manor in the village.
I heard his familiar laugh. “And a very good morning to you too, Ellie. I was beginning to get worried when I missed you yesterday – Freddy said you were wrestling with the animals. Everything is all right up there, I presume, what with this latest burst of lovely weather and all?”
“Fine actually, thanks,” I said carefully, determined if I could to contain my delight to within the bounds of normal pleasantries. “How are things with you?” A snatched glance sideways showed me my companion’s face and it wasn’t so very controlled any more. I could almost feel his ears straining to catch my friend and neighbour’s words.
“Fine, fine,” John said shortly. “Now Ellie, I imagine you’ve heard what’s happened?”
A tiny pause as reality hit hard. Then, with an impressive air of calm; “Mrs Ford told me about it just now. How is Jamie’s sister doing? It sounds awful.”
“Oh, she’s well enough.” The concern was swiftly dismissed. “I’m actually ringing about you. Has he contacted you?”
Another silence while I frantically adjusted my thoughts to this new reality. All I could hear was the faint hiss and crackle on the line and the pounding of my own heart.
“Who, Matthew?”
This was it then. I only had to say one word, I only had to speak.
“No.”
My voice came out as a hoarse croak. I barely managed to say the next over the rushing in my ears; “Should he have?”
The guilty silence that to me seemed to span several lifetimes must have passed by John in the blink of an eye because when he answered, his voice was merely touched by friendly concern:
“Not as such, no, well that is to say, I know he courted you in the past and I can’t help worrying that he might have passed your way. For old time’s sake, you know? I know you don’t like my fussing but it does