***
Grace arrived back at the
Centurion
office at ten o’clock the following morning, armed this time with a notebook and pen. Back in the archive room everything was as they had left it the day before.
Pamela made a telephone call.
Grace located the section she wanted and made detailed notes, then continued to scroll through the rest of 1911. Laurence Deverell’s disappearance was front-page news. A grainy black and white photograph of Laurence stared out from the pages with stark headlines announcing the young man’s body had been found in Oakham Wood. Grace shuddered. Oakham Wood was no more than a stone’s throw away from their cottage. After completing 1911, Grace began reading the 1912 articles. In February of that year the front-page headline read: John Farrell – Suicide Confirms Guilt. Grace copied the article and switched off the microfilm machine and then stuffed her notebook into her bag.
Upstairs, Grace thanked Pamela for her help and left. She needed time to think, to assimilate what she’d found out and decide what to do about it, so she headed towards the river, completely unaware she was being followed.
Nathan Brock stood on The Rows, a walkway above street level. He leaned over the balustrade to keep Grace in sight and then followed at pavement level from a safe distance. When Grace turned towards the river and was out of sight for a few minutes Nathan jogged to the end of the street. Standing half hidden beside a high wall he scanned the tourists walking along the riverbank, but couldn’t see the girl. An outing of senior citizens walked towards the bandstand. A crowd waited to take a trip on the cruise boat named
Lady Diana
, which was moored alongside the bank of the River Dee. To the left of the wall local artists displayed their art work, and paintings and drawings were propped up on trestle tables or lined up on the pavement. Nathan walked among the tourists who gathered around to view them. The girl wasn’t there. Cursing, he ran up to the stone walkway running along the top of the Roman walls, but the girl was nowhere to be seen.
Chapter 9
As dusk fell, heavy rain pelted the Primrose Cottage windows, adding to Grace’s depression. The storm reached its momentum around eleven p.m., when thunder rolled around the Cheshire plains, and lightning bounced off the Welsh hills. At four a.m., by which time Grace had given up on sleep, the storm receded to a distant mumble and she dozed intermittently. When she woke at seven a.m. it was to a morning of clear blue skies.
During the long night Grace had decided to visit St Martin’s cemetery again and this time take a peek inside the church. She set off early before Amelia was up, to avoid interrogation. In her shoulder bag she carried a small bottle of water, and as an afterthought she included a light rain jacket folded to the size of a small envelope, just in case the weather turned wet again.
The walk was invigorating, the air fresh. Blackbirds serenaded her and each other as she strolled along. Bright pink fuchsia flowers and white hedge roses poked out of hedges. Honey bees buzzed in and out of wild primroses at the side of the road and rain-sodden plants and trees dripped and rustled all around her. The sky above was a flawless expanse of blue, the only blot on an otherwise cloudless sky was a white feather of smoke trailing from an aeroplane.
Grace arrived at St Martin’s Church and looked around the cemetery in dismay, noticing how the tributes to the dead had become victims of the previous night’s storm. Flowers were stripped bare and petals had scattered like confetti, gathering here and there in granite corners. A couple of thin branches from the sycamore had broken off and lay across the path. Grace bent down and pulled them to one side, out of her way, then stood bemused, studying the graves and headstones surrounding her. The older part of the cemetery looked haphazard. Dull grey marble gravestones, some upright, some leaning at an angle and some flat on the ground, were dotted here and there. In the newer section, blocks of graves were lined up in neat straight rows between paths. These weren’t dug randomly but were precisely managed, Grace realised. The only thing the old and new had in common was that all the gravestones faced east. Grace was sure that a plan, some sort of map, denoting each deceased person’s plot, must exist. It was too early in the day to visit Reverend Lanceley and ask him about it not that Grace felt inclined to. It occurred to her that Reverend Lanceley would have to employ a grave digger, and she looked around for a shed where tools would be stored.
Aimlessly Grace wandered up and down until she came to a path running alongside the perimeter wall. Here the wall had crumbled in places and blackberry bushes filled the gaps. Through the brambles she saw fields undulating away towards the village and stood for a moment stood trying to spot Primrose Cottage. It was then that Grace noticed the gate. She walked through it and found on the other side of the wall four unmarked graves, just indentations in the ground. The one nearest her feet had a jam jar pushed into the soil; it was filled with buttercups. A flutter of white wedged between the yellow petals caught her eye, and bending down to have a better look she saw a crumpled piece of paper. She picked it up and, not wanting it to litter the cemetery, put it into her trouser pocket.
Grace began walking back the way she had come and then remembered her intention to look inside the church. The latched iron bolt on the church door clicked against its handle and the oak door swung open. Grace stood peering into the dimness. The aisle ran in a straight line in front of her with rows of wooden pews on either side. At the top of the aisle, set to one side, was a low wooden platform reached by two steps, and that was where the lectern rested on its pedestal. Leaded arched windows cut into the stone walls let in mellow light and looked out onto the cemetery. Large cream candles sat unlit on two-foot-wide window sills. Grace stepped in and let the door swing shut behind her. Almost tiptoeing, she walked along the central aisle and slipped into a pew a few rows from the front. Ahead of her, on a long narrow table covered in a white cloth and a tapestry runner stood a large gold-coloured cross. Behind the cross and equalling its splendour, quatrefoils and fleurs-de-lys formed part of a stained glass window that depicted Bible scenes in a myriad of colours. In awe Grace sat in silence, enjoying the peace, and absorbed the spiritual atmosphere inside the building. Without thinking she bowed her head and whispered a prayer.
Unexpectedly the church door opened and a shaft of light fell across the opposite row of pews. Grace bent lower, hoping not to be seen in the faint light, but a rustle of material and a slight cough nearby told her she’d been found.
‘Miss Farrell, are you all right?’ Reverend Lanceley asked.
‘Yes, thank you. Is it okay for me to come in here? The door was open,’ Grace replied, feeling a little uncomfortable under his gaze.
‘Yes, of course. The door is open for a few hours each morning for that purpose,’ David Lanceley assured her.
‘You have a lovely church,’ Grace blustered, forcing a smile.
‘Do you mind me saying, you look as though you’ve been crying. Would you like to talk to me?’ the vicar asked kindly.
‘I’m fine, but there was something I wanted to ask you,’ Grace said, grabbing her opportunity. ‘I noticed how well designed the new part of the cemetery is. Do you employ someone to manage it?’
‘The diocese wouldn’t pay someone else to do that when they have me. But thank you, I take it as a compliment that you approve,’ the vicar replied, not without sarcasm.
‘The grave digging, you do that too, then?’ Grace countered.
‘No, I leave that to the borough council. Now if there’s nothing I can help you with further, I must get on.’
Grace walked towards the door with Reverend Lanceley following behind her. Once outside she heard the key quickly snap in the lock.
Chapter 10
Amelia was surprised to find that Grace was up and out so early. She didn’t mind. It was a joy to sit and eat her breakfast alone in the conservatory. She sat with her notebook and ran through the list of jobs to be done. Prioritising the more urgent ones, she decided which she should tackle first.
Her sewing machine and stand were in the conservatory, positioned a safe distance away from the plants and soil. Amelia sat with lengths of material draped around her feet on the clean tiles. Accompanied by Radio One and the machine’s soft whirring noise, she hummed snatches of songs. By twelve o’clock a box pleat pelmet was all that needed to be made to complete the order. A pair of curtains and a set of tie backs were already wrapped in tissue and folded in a box, ready to post.
Amelia, head bent low and concentrating on her work, didn’t hear the knock on the kitchen door. The second knock, louder this time, stopped her, and she called out.
‘Hang on a minute.’ Mindful not to tread on the material, Amelia went to open the back door. A man stood on the step, cap in hand. He had an anxious expression and at once began apologising. Amelia’s heart sank. There must be a gypsy camp nearby as she’d thought, she acknowledged to herself. Shaking her head, Amelia began to close the door, speculating on whether the man was related to the women Grace had seen in their garden.
‘Sorry, we don’t need anything today,’ she said through the narrowing gap.
‘I heard you’re looking for an odd job man. I’ve come to offer my services. Joseph Jones is my name and people call me Joe.’ Joe leaned forward and spoke through the crack in the door, raising his voice so Amelia could hear him. ‘I live in one of the cottages up the road, nice and local like, on your doorstop so to speak.’ Joe stopped for breath and waited, hopeful.
Amelia opened the door again. ‘Hello. I am sorry about that. Will you come in for a minute?’ Amelia asked apologetically, feeling uncomfortable about her blunder.
Joe wiped his feet on the door mat and then stood rooted to the spot. Amelia filled the kettle with water and set it to boil, then fetched two mugs from the dresser.
‘Shall I take my boots off, miss,’ he said worriedly. ‘I came through the wood I did, they’re muddy now.’
‘No, don’t bother. Come and sit down, I’ll make some tea. And call me Amelia.’ The sound of Joe’s slight Welsh accent made her feel homesick for Llangollen. Joe looked relieved and sidled over to the table, sitting on the edge of a chair as if ready for flight.
‘Have you lived in Woodbury long?’ Amelia asked conversationally.
‘Yes, worked mostly on the farms hereabouts. I retired last year, but I still like to keep my hand in, if I can get the work.’ Joe subtly brought the conversation back to the possibility of work.
‘Is your wife a local lady?’ Amelia poured out the tea and put a plate of biscuits on the table.
‘Yes, childhood sweethearts we were.’ Joe attentively sipped his tea, avoiding Amelia’s eye. ‘Janet worked as a dinner lady at the primary school. We never had any children of our own, you see,’ he said, as if it needed explaining.
‘Did you and Janet know our great aunt, Lillian Farrell?’
‘Oh yes, and Sophia and Doreen. Lovely old dears the three of them,’ Joe answered.
‘Sophia?’ said Amelia, fishing for more information. She already knew about Doreen.
‘Sophia Deverell and Doreen Brock shared this cottage with Lillian, then a few years after Lillian died, they moved into Tapscott Manor Nursing home. There’re in their late eighties now.’
‘Yes, that’s what Reverend Lanceley said.’ Strange he never mentioned Sophia, Amelia thought. ‘Do you know if Lillian had a handyman or gardener to help around the place? The cottage is in such good repair considering its age.’ Amelia shoved the plate of biscuits under Joe’s nose.
Joe beamed at her. ‘She did. You’re looking at him.’
Amelia thought this to be the case and grinned. Joe dunked a bourbon biscuit into his tea and popped it into his mouth whole, returning her grin.
‘I still keep my eye on the cottage if truth be told. Well, not now you’re here of course, that would be snooping.’ Joe shook his head. ‘But after Sophia and Doreen moved out, I made sure to water the plants now and then, and during the winter months I checked for burst pipes and put the heating on a couple of times.’
‘You have a set of keys to the cottage then?’ Amelia inquired.
‘Oh yes.’ Joe looked guilt stricken. ‘I suppose I should have handed them back.’
Seeing his look of concern, Amelia reassured him. ‘It isn’t a problem, Joe. It’s just that we’ve some keys missing and you may have them. Will you drop them off next time you come, and I’ll have some duplicates made?’
Joe studied Amelia’s face a moment. ‘Does that mean I’ve got the job then?’
‘Yes, if we can agree on your wages. What do you normally charge, Joe? I haven’t got a clue,’ Amelia replied.
‘I usually charge eight pounds an hour for gardening. Maintenance jobs, well, it all depends on what it is.’
‘Okay, how about we start off with three hours a week on the garden, reducing it to one hour when winter comes? Any other work we’ll agree a price as and when. I’ll pay you ten pounds an hour, Joe, and for the extra you could continue to keep an eye on the cottage for us, especially when we go away on holiday. What do you think?’
‘I think it’s wonderful,’ Joe said gratefully. ‘I’ll go straight home now and get you those keys.’ Joe stood, pushing the chair back.
‘There’s no rush. Stop and have another cup of tea,’ Amelia said quickly, wanting the opportunity to glean more information from him.
‘I won’t be a jiffy. I’ll be back before you’ve poured the second cup,’ and Joe was gone.
Pleased, Amelia dunked a biscuit into her tea and waited for his return. Then she remembered the gravestone and her face paled.
***
Grace happily passed to Joe the job of tidying up the garden, after first insisting he concentrate on the vegetable garden and lawns. Any pruning of trees could be left until late autumn, she emphasised, and Joe agreed. She wondered if Joe knew about the gravestone. It was possible, but he hadn’t mentioned it.
Feeling free to get on with other chores, Grace started by giving the kitchen walls a coat of ivory cream emulsion to freshen them up. Her next task, which probably should have been her first, was to convert the smallest bedroom into an office. Working with the window open, a crisp fresh breeze helped to rid the room of the paint smell. With plenty of ivory cream emulsion left over, she gave the walls a quick lick of fresh paint and then rearranged the desk, filing cabinets and bookcase. Books and ledgers were unpacked and she placed these on the shelves. Amelia had made new covers in bright pink for a futon chair and this Grace positioned in a corner. The colour gave off a rosy hue and warmed the walls. Standing back Grace looked at the room proudly, admiring the finished result.