Death of a Friend (32 page)

Forensics were called out in the dark Easter Saturday evening. Den rode in the back of a police car with Hugh and Nevil Nesbitt. Nev babbled wildly, unable to get to grips with what was happening.

‘Hugh would never
do
such a thing,’ he insisted frantically. ‘Tell them, son, it’s all a stupid mistake.’

Hugh said nothing. He sat in the back of the car watching the dark lanes outside.

‘You didn’t do it on purpose, of course you didn’t. Granny should never have let you go out on that horse. You couldn’t control him properly, a massive beast like that. It was a horrible accident.’

‘Dad—’ began Hugh, before lapsing into another silence.

‘Yes? What? Tell me, Hugh.’

‘I didn’t lose control of him. He does everything I want him to.’

‘Shush!’ Nevil cast a worried look at Den. ‘Don’t say any more.’

‘It wasn’t an accident, Dad,’ Hugh repeated. ‘I did it so you’d stay with us. We didn’t want Charlie for our father.’

The choking sob that came from Nev was agony to hear. Den tried to close his ears to it. He was in no mood to offer sympathy to Nevil Nesbitt.

They all assembled at the police station: Nev, Hermione, Martha and a social worker. Martha and Hermione were not present at the questioning, but sat with Den in another room. Martha wept. ‘I had no idea,’ she repeated, over and over. ‘It never occurred to me.’

Den believed her, aware of how much it mattered that he should. ‘What about Alexis?’ he asked, when she was calmer.

She frowned in anger and suspicion. ‘I don’t know. I couldn’t swear to it either way. She might have guessed, I suppose.’

‘And if she had?’

Martha moaned softly. ‘It wouldn’t make any
difference now. She and I have been pushed apart by all this. I haven’t been able to understand her lately – she’s been like a person with a secret. I can see that now.’

‘And Clem?’ he almost whispered, confronting a question he knew to be acutely painful.

Hermione spoke up, with shocking ferocity. ‘Clem was in thrall to his brother. I saw it all, but couldn’t do anything. Can you remember how it is for children – how there is no way any adult can hope to ensure justice? All I could do was look on and wait for Hugh to grow up and leave Clem alone. I would even have paid for boarding school, but his mother wouldn’t hear of it. By protecting Hugh, I think I did protect Clem as well, at least a little. He was frightened and sad, but he’d learnt how to avoid arousing his brother’s worst side. When it was obvious that nobody had even considered Hugh as Charlie’s killer, everything relaxed a little. But we all three of us knew, deep down, that it would come to this in the end.’

Martha wept afresh. Den had an image of the pale child showing him round the orchard, seeming glad to be away from his brother. Dark thoughts crossed his mind. ‘Hugh forced him to keep quiet. To lie and pretend. Clem was there that Sunday, with his bike. He went home alone, while Hugh stayed with you. He must have been terrorised, scared rigid.’

‘Hugh’s not a monster,’ Hermione broke in. ‘It’s the way he’s been brought up. Too many crosscurrents, too much freedom. He’s never been properly disciplined.’

Martha nodded miserably. ‘Nina didn’t believe in it. And if one of us told him off, he just went over to your place to be indulged and spoilt.’ She looked up at Hermione. ‘I think you’re partly responsible for this.’

Hermione closed her eyes and said nothing.

Den felt immensely weary. He rubbed the tender side of his face, which was tingling, as it did when he was tired or upset. ‘Families,’ he said, and Martha just nodded. It seemed to sum the whole thing up rather neatly.

He left them, almost dead on his feet from weariness. It was half past nine. There were still things he had to do.

First he called Lilah. It felt like several days since he’d seen her, instead of barely twenty-four hours. ‘Happy Easter,’ he said cautiously when she answered the phone.

‘Same to you,’ she returned. ‘How’s the murder coming along?’

‘It’s finished,’ he said flatly. ‘With the usual whimper.’

‘No rejoicing then? No sense of a job well done, a source of satisfaction?’

‘Hardly any of that,’ he agreed. ‘This job’s a bugger – which you probably knew already.’

‘And mine’s the job from hell. Join the club.’

‘We’re still friends then, are we?’

‘Oh Den, I’m really sorry. I’m infantile. I should have been helping you, not nagging for attention. Am I allowed to know who did it? Who did kill Charlie?’

‘Hugh,’ he said. ‘Young Hugh Nesbitt. On his grandma’s horse.’

‘An accident then? Surely not deliberate?’

‘Absolutely deliberate, I’m afraid. He didn’t want Charlie usurping his father’s rightful place.’

‘Oh shit,’ she choked.

‘That’s about it,’ he agreed.

Next morning, feeling foolish and nervous and unsure, Den Cooper walked into the Quaker Meeting at twenty-five past ten. Dorothy Mansfield and Silas Daggs were in their places; Val Taylor and Polly Spence were on a bench near the back, shoulder to shoulder; and behind Den sat Miriam Snow and Barty White.

Slowly the silence deepened, as the tiny group began their Meeting for Worship. It was Easter Day, but there were no outward manifestations of this: none of the exuberance shown by other Christian churches on this day of the Resurrection and hope. Den’s thoughts whirled as
he covertly glanced from one person to another, wondering what was going on inside their heads. Wondering, too, what in the world he thought he was doing there. He had received brief smiles of acknowledgement from Miriam and Barty, and a more obvious welcome from Dorothy, that betrayed no hint of surprise.

He assumed that none of them knew the outcome of the murder inquiry; they were still very much preoccupied by the death of Bill Gratton and the collapse of his sister Hannah. He assumed, too, that every person present had been shaken and disturbed by recent events. And yet the atmosphere was profoundly calm. There was something sweet in the air, partly the scent of the spring flowers in a simple vase on the central table, but also something less tangible. As if all unpleasant thoughts and deeds had been left at the door, and those present had brought nothing but their better side.

The seat was hard and Den felt the muscles tighten in his back as he fought to keep still. He let his eyes close and tried to empty his mind. Images of Hugh Nesbitt on the massive, murderous horse; of Frank Gratton cowering in shame in a village church; of Mandy Aspen being shaken into making false accusations by a deeply disturbed husband – all came into his head and then drifted away again. He was learning simply
to observe them, without rushing to interpret or deny.

Then there was a sound at the door. Footsteps and a single brief whisper. He let the next breath finish before opening his eyes. Passing in front of him were two figures – a man and a woman – on their way to the far end of the bench on which he sat. Without warning, Den’s eyes filled with tears, rushing from nowhere. He closed them again, rubbing swift fingers beneath each lower lid, trying to sweep the droplets away. He felt intensely conspicuous and impossibly foolish. But somehow it didn’t matter. He could feel Dorothy watching him, accepting, understanding.

After all, he reminded himself, he had reason to cry. The world was a profoundly sad place at times. He glanced sideways, quickly, apologetically, to where Hannah Gratton sat beside her nephew Frank, holding tightly to his hand.

If you enjoyed
Death of a Friend
, read on to find out about more books by Rebecca Tope …

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R
EBECCA
T
OPE
lives on a smallholding in Herefordshire, with a full complement of livestock, but manages to travel the world and enjoy civilisation from time to time as well. Most of her varied experiences and activities find their way into her books, sooner or later. She is also the author of the Cotswold Mysteries series featuring Thea Osborne.

www.rebeccatope.com

T
HE
C
OTSWOLD
M
YSTERIES

A Cotswold Killing

A Cotswold Ordeal

Death in the Cotswolds

A Cotswold Mystery

Blood in the Cotswolds

Slaughter in the Cotswolds

Fear in the Cotswolds

A Grave in the Cotswolds

Deception in the Cotswolds

Malice in the Cotswolds

T
HE
W
EST
C
OUNTRY
M
YSTERIES

A Dirty Death

Dark Undertakings

Death of a Friend

Grave Concerns

A Death to Record

The Sting of Death

A Market for Murder

OTHER BOOKS IN THE
WEST COUNTRY MYSTERIES

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thought provoking of today’s crime writers’
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