Free The Devil`s Feather by Minette Walters Page B

“I doubt the agent could have lit the Aga.”
    She smiled rather grudgingly in return. “My number’s in the book under J. Derbyshire, Barton Farm. I suppose you want help with the extension cables for the landline?”
    I nodded.
    “I’ll be here at eight-thirty.”

     

    T HIS WAS THE PATTERN of the days that followed. Jess would make a reluctant offer of help, come the next morning to fulfil it, say very little before going away again, then return in the evening to point out something else she could do for me. On a few occasions I said I could manage myself, but she didn’t take the hint. Peter described me as her new pet—not a bad description, because she regularly brought me food from the farm—but her constant intrusions and bossy attitude began to annoy me.
    It’s not as if I got to know her well. We had none of the conversations that two women in their thirties would normally have. She used silence as a weapon—either because she had total insight into the reaction it inspired, or none at all. It allowed her to dictate every social gathering—and by that I mean her and me, as I never saw her in a larger group except on the rare occasions when Peter dropped in—because the choice was to join in her silences or trot out a vacuous monologue. Neither of which made for a comfortable atmosphere.
    It was difficult to decide how conscious this behaviour was. Sometimes I thought she was highly manipulative; other times I saw her as a victim, isolated and alienated by circumstance. Peter, who knew her as well as anyone, compared her to a feral cat—selfsufficient and unpredictable, with sharp claws. It was a fanciful analogy, but fairly accurate, since the goal of Winterbourne Barton appeared to be to “tame” her. Nonconformists may be the bread-and-butter of the media, and loved by the chattering classes, but they’re singled out for criticism in small communities.
    Over time I heard Jess described as everything from an “animal rights activist” to a “predatory lesbian”—even “having an extra chromosome” because of her flat features and wide-spaced eyes. The Down syndrome charge was clearly nonsense, but I was less sure about the animal rights and lesbian tags. She was at her most animated when I asked her about the birds and wildlife in the valley, always able to identify animals from my descriptions and occasionally waxing lyrical on their habitats and behaviour. I also wondered if her twice-daily visits were a form of courtship. To avoid wasting her time, I made it abundantly clear that I was heterosexual, but she was as indifferent to that as she was to hints about leaving me alone.
    After a couple of weeks, I was close to locking the doors, hiding the Mini in the garage and pretending to be out. I’d learnt by this time that I’d been singled out for special favours, since she never visited anyone else, not even Peter, and I began to wonder if Lily had found her as oppressive as I did. One or two people suggested that Jess’s attachment was to Barton House, but I couldn’t see it myself. I thought Peter’s suggestion that she saw me as a wounded bird was a more likely explanation. In her strangely detached way, she appeared to be monitoring me for signs of renewed anxiety.
    Surprisingly, I didn’t show any. Not at the beginning, at least. For some reason, I slept better alone in that echoing old house than I had in my parents’ flat. I shouldn’t have done. I should have jumped at every shadow. At night the wisteria tapped on the window-panes and the moon silhouetted finger-like tendrils against the curtains. Downstairs, the numerous French windows invited anyone to break in while I slept.
    My way of dealing with that threat was to leave the internal doors open and keep a powerful torch beside my bed. The beauty of Barton House was that every bedroom had a dressing-room with its own door to the landing, which meant I had a second exit if a prowler came along the corridor. It also had