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Rebecca Archer - Part Two

The final part of Betty Back-Hall's Daphne du Maurier parody, originally contributed to the Fantasy Archers topic on The Archers :

Read Part One

It was the morning after my birthday party, I remember, when the storm came. How could I forget that dreadful party? The first we had had since I came to Brookfield, when I had made the terrible mistake of dressing as one of DavidÂ’s ancestors from the old book of photographs he kept in the drawing room. How could I have known that Sophie had worn the identical dress just before she died? And why, oh why, would David not believe me when I told him I had not known?

It was the very next morning the storm struck. That dreadful storm which brought the rain crashing through the farmyard, and brought the Am up to our very door. It was the flood that did the damage, washing away the dam at the end of the slurry pit, causing it to empty its contents across Midsummer Meadow and down into the river itself. And when the flood subsided, there, at the bottom of the empty tank, was a womanÂ’s skeleton, lying face-down in the mud and dung.

There was an investigation, of course. And then the inquest, opened and adjourned, with only the identification evidence being heard. That damning evidence, taken from the DNA of the skeleton, and beyond all doubt. The dead woman was Sophie. Drowned in the farm slurry pit, and not killed in the blizzard at all.

David came to find me after the inquest, where I was working in the milking shed.
"ThereÂ’s something I should have told you," he said. "about the night Sophie died. ItÂ’s been standing between us since we met, and IÂ’ve always known, always dreaded that it would one day come out.
"I killed Sophie. I stabbed her with the knife I use for the lambsÂ’ tails, and put her body in the slurry pit. I was alone in the lambing shed that evening. She seemed excited and said she had to talk. She had a cousin, a fellow who had been abroad and had come back to England again. A fellow called Roger Travers-Macey. He had been married to my cousin Jennifer at one point, before he went away. She told me she was in love with him, that she was leaving me and going to live with him. That I would never have any more of her money.

"IÂ’d never loved her. But she was rich and the farm needed cash. It seemed an ideal arrangement. I would have the money and she could live here in the country and do all the things she loved. Host parties here. Cook and paint and show off her accomplishments. I thought it would work. And I was wrong. It wasnÂ’t enough for her; she got bored, and started spending more and more cash in Birmingham on clothes and theatre trips. When she told me she was taking her money and going I lost control. I picked up the knife and slipped it between her ribs as she laughed in my face."

***

She was laid to rest in the family vault in St Stephens, and the other woman, whoever she was, poor thing, was removed from beneath the slab bearing the name of Sophie Rebecca Archer, and re-interred quietly in the churchyard. A few days after the funerals Alistair Lloyd, the local vet and DavidÂ’s brother-in-law came to see us.

"ThereÂ’s something I think you should know, David. Can we talk alone? ItÂ’s about Sophie."
"You can talk here, Alistair, we have no secrets here."
Alistair looked quizzically at me. "Well, if youÂ’re sure." He took a deep breath.
"I suppose I should have told you all this months ago, but you seemed so happy now, so that I didnÂ’t want to drag up the past. You remember when the scots lad Jazzer nearly died, and it turned out that it was my partner, Theo, who had been supplying him with Ketamine?" David nodded slowly, his white face turning even paler. "Go on." He said. "Well it turned out he had an accomplice, who was taking the stuff to Birmingham and selling it on. When he confessed he told the police everything, and gave them the name of the person who had been helping him. IÂ’m sorry, David. It was Sophie."

David stood up and walked to the window, the muscles in his jaw working under the skin. "Why are you telling me this now?" "There was something else. Something that may help. Theo told the police that Sophie had met him in town the day before she died. SheÂ’d told him that she wouldnÂ’t be able to help him any longer. She said sheÂ’d been to see a doctor, and she was ill. That she couldnÂ’t bear the diagnosis and she wanted to die. If what Theo said is true then thereÂ’s a chance that she may have committed suicide. IÂ’m going to have to tell the inquest when it re-opens, and I thought you would want to hear it from me first."

A sudden noise from outside the door interrupted him. A sound like a stifled sob. David strode across the room and flung the door wide. Behind it stood Mrs Fry, white as a sheet, stuffing her handkerchief into her mouth. "ItÂ’s not true" she gasped. "My Sophie would never do anything like that. She wasnÂ’t a drug-pusher. Her money came from her family. From her rich uncle who died when she was a child. My Sophie wasnÂ’t a criminal. And she would never have committed suicide. She loved life too much for that."

David pushed her aside and mounted the stairs towards the attic rooms he normally avoided. "ThereÂ’s one way to find out," he said. "WeÂ’ll talk to the doctor she saw. The appointment will be in her diary, wonÂ’t it?" He flung open the door to SophieÂ’s little office, and started pulling papers out of her desk. There it was. A leather bound filofax, with names and addresses and appointments entered in her elegant sloping hand.

David feverishly thumbed through the pages, flicking them rapidly until he found the date he wanted. There it was: ‘9.30 am – Tim Hathaway" and another entry for the same day: "1.00 pm – RT-M". "So she was seeing him." He whispered. "Seeing who, David?" Alistair had followed us into the room. "Roger Travers-Macey. You know, Jennifer’s ex-husband. Always was a nasty piece of work." "Travers-Macey. Yes, of course. I knew I’d heard the name. According to Theo that was the name of the person she was taking the drugs to in Birmingham." As they spoke David was punching numbers into the telephone. A rapid conversation followed as the line connected, then he slammed the phone down. "He said he’ll tell me everything, but he won’t talk over the phone. Curse the man for moving out of the village. Alistair, ask Bert to hold the fort here."

***

We drove together down to London and met Dr Hathaway in his new consulting rooms there. He told us everything he knew. How Sophie had been confiding in him for months. How she had started taking Ketamine to Birmingham for Theo, ‘for a laugh’ she had told him, and then when she realised that her cousin Roger was involved she got drawn in deeper. At some point she had started using drugs herself, just soft stuff initially, but then she had started injecting. Sometime in the summer before she died she started getting ill. Nothing specific at first, only minor infections that wouldn’t heal. Then she started losing weight. That was when Tim had decided to do the blood tests. He had given her the results the day before she died. He paused in his tale at this point, and smiled apologetically at David. "It was probably for the best that she died when she did, old man," he said. "The tests were conclusive. She had AIDS. She hadn’t got very long to live. I’m, sorry. She must have been sharing needles with someone."

We drove back to Ambridge through the dusk. David staring fixedly ahead of him as he clutched the wheel. "I knew it would come to this." He said. "All through those months of happiness with you, I knew it couldnÂ’t last. That Sophie would find a way to haunt me. That it would all come out in the end."

"ItÂ’s alright" I said. "IÂ’ve got some savings. WeÂ’ll go away. WeÂ’ll go to Hungary. ThereÂ’s a good future for farmers in Hungary."

We were nearing Ambridge now, and ahead of us there was a strange light in the sky. "ThereÂ’s a lot of afterglow from the sunset tonight," I remarked.
"ThatÂ’s not the afterglow. ThatÂ’s Brookfield."
"David, what is it?"

He drove faster, much faster. There was no moon. The sky above our heads was inky black but the sky on the horizon was not dark at all. It was shot with crimson like a splash of blood. And the ashes blew towards us with the gentle breeze from the hill.

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