Authors: Nicola Slade
At that moment a rattle and thump announced the arrival of the post and Alice, obviously glad of an excuse to be alone for a moment, retreated to the hall to collect it.
‘Here, Neil,’ she held the solitary letter out to him. ‘You open it for me, it looks official and I don’t think I can stand much more.’
‘It’s from Egertons, the property developers.’ He spoke slowly after he had read the gist of the letter. They want to buy this house and demolish it, and build a small, ‘exclusive’ group of luxury houses on the land.’
Their eyes swivelled round to Alice whose face wore an expression of blank astonishment, then Neil referred back to the letter in his hand. ‘It all looks kosher,’ he said, as he laid the letter down on the table. ‘They’ll be talking big money here, Alice,’ he told her.
Again Sam wondered. Harriet’s uncertainties and anxieties about Christiane Marchant’s unpleasant but unfortunately only too welcome death had begun to infect him. Harriet was no fool and he respected her judgement. If she felt uneasy it was with good reason.
What if Alice Marchant had known beforehand about the property developers’ forthcoming offer? What if they had approached her informally, holding out the lure of a gilt-edged freedom? Alice had not known until a few minutes ago that her
mother was not the owner, or at least, part-owner of the house. He could swear her reaction had been genuine. What if she had seen her mother, that unhappy, difficult soul, as the only obstacle that could thwart her escape from drudgery?
What if Alice, somehow, had killed her own mother?
An hour or two later Neil, his meeting concluded unexpectedly early, knocked on the door to Pauline Winslow’s office. Bidden to enter he greeted her politely, realizing that she had no idea who he was.
‘I’m Neil Slater, Miss Winslow,’ he hastily introduced himself, shaking hands. ‘I was here last night, I’m the clarinettist in the Oompah Band.’
Her face clouded at once and she looked distressed so he hastened to explain his visit.
‘I’m here really on Alice Marchant’s behalf, to act for her, if you like. She’s very upset, of course.’
Mollified by this she gestured to him to sit down, professing her willingness to be of assistance.
‘I suppose I just felt we ought to keep each other abreast of developments,’ he suggested, disarming her very slight trace of hostility with his open, friendly smile. Not a handsome man, nor even a good-looking one, she found herself thinking, but there was something attractive about his angular face and crooked grin.
‘I’ve been in touch with the police for Alice,’ he began. ‘There will obviously have to be an inquest but my understanding is that it will be opened for evidence of identification, then immediately adjourned because of the Christmas break. I gather it’s purely routine, happens in all cases of sudden death.’
Pauline Winslow felt the tight band of pain round her skull begin to loosen. Purely routine, she reminded herself, that’s all it is. ‘Yes, of course,’ she replied. ‘I’ve had a visit from a
sergeant and he said much the same thing. I do understand, but from a purely selfish point of view I wish it didn’t have to happen. There’s bound to be adverse publicity, though I have to admit we seem to be escaping quite lightly so far, just the local papers and television. I just hope our luck holds and we don’t get the tabloids descending on us.’
She smiled at him, her rueful expression compounded with a touch of shame.
‘I can’t help feeling angry. I know that poor woman didn’t deserve to die that way, nobody could, but she really was a most unpleasant person. I almost feel she did this to spite me, illogical as that sounds.’
She flushed as he cast a look of mild surprise at her, and fiddled awkwardly with her pen. ‘She was a mistake. I don’t know how I could have detected what a nuisance she’d turn out to be, probably not, but she seemed to attract unease, to cause trouble and unrest. She was a most unpleasant woman.’
Harriet was helping Alice sort through her mother’s clothes.
‘You don’t have to help me with this, Harriet.’ Alice looked gratefully at the older woman.
Harriet was putting underclothes into neat piles in an old leather suitcase that lay open on the bed and she raised her head at Alice’s words.
‘No, I realize that, my dear,’ she nodded. For a moment she concentrated on folding vests, smoothing the gossamer silk and woollen garments with a gentle hand, then she spoke again. ‘My own mother died last spring so I know how much there is to do. I’m very glad if I can be any help and besides.…’ She grinned suddenly, entirely mischievous. ‘As Sam, and probably the entire population of Locksley village would tell you, I don’t think I could bear to pass up such an opportunity to meddle!’
‘I don’t think you’re meddling.’ Alice smiled gratefully, aware that Harriet’s calm, friendly company was exactly what she needed just now.
At that moment she heard footsteps and Sam appeared in the doorway looking slightly dishevelled from his efforts in the garden. ‘Neil just rang,’ he announced. ‘He’s got the go-ahead to arrange the funeral, so he suggests you have a think about what you want. He’ll be back soon and you can get things rolling.’
He turned to go. ‘Now, what else was there? Oh yes, I know. I’ve just made some more coffee, Alice, if that’s all right, I’ll go and pour it out, so don’t let it get cold.’
‘You’re an angel, Sam.’ Alice straightened up, rubbing her back. ‘Come on, Harriet, let’s give ourselves a break. There’s no real reason why we should do this now, I just have this urge to – oh, I don’t know. Put all that part of my life behind me, I suppose; does that sound quite dreadful to you?’
‘Of course not,’ Harriet was brisk. ‘It’s not good to dwell on the past and action is always my panacea in times of trouble. You go and have a hot drink now and I’ll do a bit more here. I’ll join you in a minute or two.’
Stretching and yawning Alice made her way into the kitchen to join Sam.
‘Alice?’ Sam handed her a mug of coffee, steam curling comfortingly upwards. ‘Was your mother a Catholic?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ She shot him a puzzled look and went on: ‘Yes, of course she was. I am too, technically, though I’m afraid neither of us ever paid much attention to religion. Apart from the French service once a year.’
Unlike Neil, Sam needed no clarification. He was acquainted with the little Huguenot church. ‘I just wondered about a priest for the ceremony,’ he explained and she gave a sharp exclamation.
‘Oh no, couldn’t you do it, Sam? I hate the thought of having to explain it all over again.’
She was glad to see that after the first surprise he could see her point of view so she pressed him. ‘I just want a very quick cremation, no fuss at all,’ she urged. ‘I couldn’t bear it, specially in the – in the circumstances. Will you do it, Sam? Please?’
Her eyes filled as he gave her a very kind smile and nodded. She thought for a moment. ‘Could we get it over and done with before Christmas?’ Alice looked at him hopefully. ‘It’ll just be hanging over us otherwise.’
Later, when Neil had reappeared and Alice seemed to be coping, Sam drove Harriet back to Firstone Grange.
‘What about Christmas, Harriet?’ he asked her. His cousin was very deep in thought and came to with a jolt.
‘Mmm? Oh, yes, Christmas. I haven’t thought about it really, I’ll be home though; I can’t call myself convalescent for much longer.’ She slid him a sidelong look, noting the suddenly bleak set to his not-unhandsome face. Avril, she remembered with a painful flip-flop of her heart. Avril and Christmas. ‘Sam?’
He had disappeared inside himself, forgetting that it was he who had raised the subject but now he came back, and cocked an enquiring eyebrow at her.
‘Sam,’ she stumbled a little, choosing her words carefully. ‘I’d be really grateful, actually, if you’d consider coming to stay with me for a few days.’
She was aware of his slight frown, that he was withdrawing proudly from her. As he opened his mouth, she hurried to forestall his protest. ‘My neighbour invited me but I wasn’t entirely truthful with her, told her I’d be fine, but I’m not sure I’m really up to coping on my own at first. I didn’t want to inflict myself on her; an invalid is such an imposition, specially when she’ll have her family there.’
Sam relaxed and gave her a malicious but affectionate grin. ‘I see. You don’t mind being an imposition on me, I suppose?’
Pleased with the result of her cunning she composed her features into a semblance of shamefaced acknowledgement and his grin widened.
‘It’s actually rather convenient,’ he confessed. ‘Both the children invited me but I told them I’d be too busy looking after you. I just hadn’t got round to telling you.’
They bickered comfortably all the way back to Firstone Grange but as Sam gallantly helped Harriet out of the car she looked anxiously at him.
‘I wish I didn’t feel so uneasy about that woman’s death,’ she persisted and was perplexed and a little troubled to see him frown.
‘I wish I didn’t feel like that too, Harriet,’ he said.
The horrific accident spread ripples well outside Firstone Grange. Kieran was miserable. Ryan had told him about the old woman’s death and now he was feeling upset, not that he’d known her, or even glimpsed her. No, it was something about the way Ryan had smiled when he described the shattered head and the gleeful relish in his voice as he spoke of brains and blood spilling out.
You didn’t ought to be like that. Kieran frowned, astonished to find himself censuring his dominant friend, even here, in the safety of his imagination. It’s not funny, somebody dying, not like that, and it’s not nice being glad about an old lady dying. It’s not right.
He thought about his own granny dying and, aghast, shied away from the image. The picture was so disturbing that it took him some time to conjure up a true picture of his granny, as a talisman: a small, cheerful woman who adored her lummox of a grandson. He decided to call in on her tonight rather than go down the pub with Ryan. Wonder if Gemma would come out with me, he pondered, shivering at the daring thought. He’d got the distinct impression that Gemma didn’t actually like Ryan very much.
As she made beds and tidied rooms at Firstone Grange Gemma was thinking much the same thing. She had rung Ryan first thing
in the morning and when his mobile failed to respond she rang his home, greatly daring, but his mother said she couldn’t disturb him, he was asleep. It’s not right, Gemma stood still, with a duster in her hand, you didn’t ought to be afraid of your own son, not when you’re a grown woman. A vision of the future flashed before her, herself with a son like Ryan, possibly Ryan’s own son, and herself pussy-footing round him like Ryan’s mother did, afraid of provoking one of his violent outbursts.
Kieran would have been greatly heartened by this and even more so had he known she couldn’t help contrasting him with Ryan. He’s kind, Kieran is, she said to herself. He’s nice to his mum and he loves his granny. You wouldn’t need to be frightened of Kieran’s son; he’d be like his father, slow and gentle, kind to women and animals. Another picture rose up in her mind; Kieran’s face and the way it lit up when he saw her, delight and desire mingling, but not in a scary way. Comforting, nice.
Lunch was just being served as Harriet hurried in to the
dining-room.
‘Oh there you are, Miss Quigley,’ Mrs Turner greeted her. ‘Just in time, another five minutes and you’d have been in the naughty corner!’ Her smile belied the words and she indicated an empty chair. ‘Here’s your place, come and sit beside Mrs Ransom, she’s certainly picked the best spot today, right next to the radiator.’
Harriet smiled but was interested to see that Mrs Turner’s mild joke raised not a flicker on Ellen Ransom’s sombre face. Granted, Ellen was hardly noted for a sense of humour, except at other people’s expense, but she usually tried to make an effort at the social graces. Today she looked very ill, so much so that Harriet’s tender heart was touched; Ellen Ransom was far from her favourite person but no one should be this unhappy.
‘Brrr!’ she shivered, trying to establish a neutral topic. ‘Have you set foot outside today, Mrs Ransom? It’s absolutely freezing out there and not even bright and sunny like it was yesterday.’
Ellen gave her a blank stare then shook her head, with a noncommittal murmur, but the old soldier, on Harriet’s other side, was more forthcoming. He launched into a diatribe against the English weather and followed it up with a paean of praise in favour of wintering in Egypt which, he informed them with some complacency, he had been fortunate enough to experience.
‘How lucky,’ Harriet went with the flow. ‘I’d love to go to Egypt myself one day; I’ll have to see if Sam would come with me. When were you there, Colonel?’
He gave a mischievous grin. ‘Well, it was 1945,’ he admitted. ‘I expect things have changed a bit now, but I bet the weather’s pretty much the same.’ He joined in the laughter at this then turned to her again. ‘I noticed you drive up just now with your cousin, Canon Hathaway, isn’t it? Been out on business, or just pleasure, dear lady?’
Really he was just as nosy as she and Sam were, Harriet decided with a tolerant smile, though his hearty military persona could be a bit wearing. ‘I went to give poor Alice Marchant a hand,’ she replied, awarding him a crumb of gossip. ‘I gather she has no close relatives and it’s rather a daunting business at the best of times, sorting out a parent’s death, let alone in the circumstances.’
Ellen Ransom made an indescribable sound, between a snort and a sob, blundered to her feet and rushed out of the room. Harriet half-rose to follow her but was gently pushed back into her seat by Mrs Turner.
‘I’ll see to her, Miss Quigley, don’t you worry. We’re all a bit on edge today, I’m sure there’s nothing badly wrong.’
I rather think you’re mistaken, Harriet frowned to herself, but allowed herself to be overruled.
After lunch Harriet drifted into the hall and perched uncomfortably on the oak settle unable to relax. She ignored the ornately carved fireplace and the pitch pine panelling, staring instead at the minstrel’s gallery with its wide handrail, as wide as a ledge. She thought of the fleeting glimpses she had caught, that brief momentary shadow that she had recognized as Gemma’s dark and rather sinister boyfriend. If she could convince herself that he had somehow managed to push that heavy brass instrument off the balcony, she would feel more at ease, dreadful though it was to be suspecting anyone at all. Ridiculous, she scolded herself, why is it better to think of a nasty little thug as a murderer than any of the other people here? She sighed I didn’t realize I was that bigoted.
She took another look upwards, conjuring up an image of the hall the previous night, mysterious, shadowed, with flickering candle bulbs. A perfect setting for an old-fashioned country house murder. Pity this wasn’t actually an old-fashioned country house, with a parlour maid – and a butler whodunit. Pity I can’t knit, she grinned, remembering Miss Marple and Miss Silver, with their incisive minds and their inevitable balls of fluffy pink or blue wool. Maybe if I could whip up a matinée jacket I could whip up some inspiration along with it.
Murder will out she thought, then stopped short. There, she said to herself, I’ve done it again.
Murder
! In the teeth of all the evidence, in spite of knowing there was not the slightest shred of suspicion in anyone else’s mind, she was suddenly quite sure it
was
murder. Except Sam, she reminded herself, there’s more than a shred of suspicion in Sam’s mind too.
The enticing smell of freshly-brewed coffee disturbed her concentration. Mrs Turner was holding out a cup of coffee and
from her tolerant smile, had obviously been there for several moments. ‘My goodness, Miss Quigley,’ she said with a laugh. ‘You were miles away and no mistake. Here, perhaps this will aid the thought processes, you looked extremely puzzled.’
Harriet reached for the cup with a grateful smile, then, after a glance up at the minstrels’ gallery, she turned again to the housekeeper. ‘That reel of button thread,’ she said slowly. ‘You found it on the mantelpiece, didn’t you? At the end of the evening?’
Mrs Turner opened her eyes in surprise. ‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘I can only surmise that it had rolled across the room somehow and some kind soul retrieved it.’
‘Mmm.’ Harriet tried not to let her doubts show. ‘Let me see, it went missing during the interval, didn’t it? Or had you noticed it earlier?’
With an inward sigh she realized that the housekeeper was now wearing the patient look that accompanied her conversations with some of the dottier guests at Firstone Grange, but she persevered.
‘It was certainly there just as the interval began.’ Mrs Turner was definite. ‘I know that because I’d just tied up yet another strand of that wretched tinsel. Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, nothing really.’ Harriet decided that vagueness was a good camouflage and took a sip of her coffee so Mrs Turner whisked back to the kitchen, her curiosity unsatisfied.
‘I wonder,’ thought Harriet, staring fixedly up at the gleaming polished wood of the gallery, remembering last night’s cluster of residents and visitors chattering and inspecting the instruments. ‘I wonder.’
‘I’m so sorry to trouble you, Canon Hathaway.’ Pauline Winslow was uncharacteristically hesitant, sounding extremely apologetic. Sam was intrigued. ‘It’s rather difficult but I’m
afraid he insists that only you will do.’ She broke into Sam’s startled query. ‘Of course, I haven’t explained. It’s Mr Buchan. The one who is staying here, I mean, not his son.’ To Sam’s ear Matron was sounding peculiarly unlike herself, with that note of uncertainty in her voice, where usually there was only supreme self-assurance.
‘I rang your home, Canon, and you’ve got your mobile phone number on your message service, so I hope you don’t mind— Oh dear, this is so irregular. It’s just that Mr Buchan Senior walked into my office just now and said he wishes to go to church. At once. Demanded it, really. Well, of course, there’s no difficulty about that, our local church just down the road is very nice and I can easily understand anyone here feeling the need for comfort at such a time. But I’m afraid he’s insisting he has to go to Winchester, to the Cathedral.’
‘Really?’ Sam was curious. ‘It’s a wonderful building, of course, but I hadn’t gained the impression that Mr Buchan was at all interested in architecture. Whenever I’ve tried to have a word, on my visits to Harriet, he’s turned away with just a grunt.’
‘You must have made
some
impression on him,’ sighed Pauline Winslow. ‘Because he’s insisting, not only that he must go to Winchester Cathedral, but that he has to go right now, and that furthermore, he wishes you, and
only
you, to take him there!’
‘That
is
a surprise.’ Sam whistled softly. ‘I suppose I’d better come back to Firstone Grange straight away. As it happens I’m luckily only just down the road. I looked in to the nice little bookshop in Chambers Forge after I dropped Harriet back with you for lunch, then I nipped over the road to Waitrose. I needed some toothpaste so I thought I’d better buy it while I remembered, and the upshot is that the coffee shop here is very nice so I’ve just had soup and a roll. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’
As Sam parked his old Volvo estate at the front door of Firstone Grange, Pauline Winslow came outside with Fred Buchan who was looking shaky but resolute.
‘Here we are, Mr Buchan.’ She handed over her charge with a bright smile and a sprightly note in her voice that Mary Poppins might have envied. ‘Canon Hathaway has very kindly agreed to give you a lift in to Winchester.’ Without a word spoken, Fred slumped in the front seat while Sam fussed about with the seat belt. ‘Don’t be too late,’ Matron said, sounding anxious as she exchanged a glance with Sam. For two pins, he thought, she would have rolled her eyes at him, but such behaviour was well outside her code, so she merely gave a concerned nod of farewell as the two men drove off.
‘What is it that you wanted to do in the Cathedral, Mr Buchan?’ Sam shot a look sideways at his passenger. ‘It’s a wonderful building, of course, is that why you want to go there?’ There was no response, so he turned to the more likely reason. ‘Or are you hoping to join in a service? I’m afraid you’ll be unlucky, if that’s the case, but I can easily arrange to pick you up tomorrow, if you like.’
‘Not a service.’ Fred shook his head. Sam waited then, as no further communication seemed forthcoming, he asked: ‘What denomination are you, Fred? I’d guess either Roman Catholic or Lutheran? Would I be right? Those are pretty widespread in Europe.’
‘Once I was—’ The voice sounded harsh, in need of oiling. ‘Once I was a Catholic. But now I am nothing.
Nothing
.’
He said no more and Sam gave up, concentrating on making his way round the narrow back streets and through the ancient gateway into the Cathedral close which was thronged with people visiting the annual Christmas Market. Parking was always a nightmare at this time of year so Sam sighed with
relief as he eased the car into a friend’s conveniently empty parking space and helped the old man out of his seat.
‘You are a priest? Yes?’ The question took Sam by surprise and he stared for a moment. ‘Well, I am,’ he admitted. ‘But not in the way I suspect you mean. I’m a priest of the Anglican church but that’s not the same as being a Roman Catholic priest. What did you.…?’
‘No matter, but that was why I—’ The old man stomped off towards the great grey building, head down against the chill wind and ignoring the crowds queuing at the open-air ice-rink, so Sam locked the car and set off in interested pursuit. They were nodded through by the guide at the door, who recognized Sam and, after a few tentative yards, Fred Buchan halted and gazed around. For a moment or two he stared up at the Perpendicular nave but there was no admiration in his eyes. He flicked a glance towards the black marble font but that too found no favour, so he headed towards the altar.
Bemused but curious, Sam followed him, close enough to assist if need be, but keeping enough distance so that the old man should not feel crowded. Did Fred know the Cathedral at all, Sam wondered. There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason in all this, he’s not following some predetermined plan, he’s speeding up then slowing down and just looking right and left, as if he’s searching for something.
At the notice on the door to the crypt Fred stopped altogether, standing in front of it and peering at the wording. ‘I’m afraid we won’t be able to visit the crypt today,’ Sam told him, concerned as he realized that the other man now seemed a bit panicky. What could be the matter? Had he forgotten what he was looking for? Had he perhaps never known, and merely burrowed like a frightened animal into the shadowy sanctuary of the Cathedral in search of safety?
‘You know it’s prone to flooding? After all that heavy rain
we’ve had lately the water is knee deep down there.’ The old man’s eyes flickered so Sam opened the door. ‘Look, even though we can’t actually go in there, we can stand here on this step and see the statue.’