'He's been looking forward to this,' said Connie, fondly watching. 'Is this all your land? All we can see, I mean.'
'No, just down to that hedge, the one with the big oak tree, and across to the lane. Some of it's behind those elms, where Daddy and Miles are going. It's about seventy acres altogether, depending on how you measure it.'
'What do you grow?'
'Just horses really, unless you count the rabbits. We rent some of it to Martin Bulloch for his sheep. That's his place below us, on the crossroads: the red house with the outbuildings. It's actually called Red House Farm.'
'And the horses in the stables are all yours?'
'Yes, seven at the moment. Various friends borrow them, though. One of them is sort of Ian's.'
'It must have been a lovely place to grow up in.'
'Yes, it was. It's smashing in summer. I was away at school in term time of course. Look, there's the train.'
'Oh, it's quite close, then? Miles talked about us taking it but I think he wanted to try out his new car.'
'There's a halt,' said Daisy, 'It's actually about a mile beyond the village. It carries timber mostly but they put on a carriage for the locals. We go into Southampton on it sometimes but there's only one a day so you daren't miss it.'
'I can see now what Miles meant about being tucked away in the forest,' said Connie, gazing around her. 'It's forest wherever you look. Is that the only way out, where the road goes?'
'Down the lane and through the village, yes. You get to Nether and Lower before here, but they're quite small so you probably didn't notice them in the dark. The lane at the crossroads goes to Long in one direction, which is a dead end, and curves round in the other direction until it rejoins the road. And that's it! There are no others. The forest behind us stretches for miles and miles, all the way into Wiltshire, although a lot of it is bog and heathland and there are other villages dotted about. We often ride out to them but it's just tracks mostly. You can feel a bit hemmed in when the leaves are on the trees – except for up here, of course – but it's rather beautiful, especially in autumn.'
'How many live here?'
'In the parish? About four hundred I think. Daddy would know.'
'Gosh, that's tiny! Do you know them all?'
'Not all, perhaps half by name. I know most of them by sight though, being in the choir. It's nice to get up to Town sometimes, to see different people and do some shopping, but I'm always glad to be back.'
'But you like it here?'
'Oh yes, it's home.'
They were silent for a while, gazing at the view and the smoke rising from the train.
'Don't you find him terribly old?' asked Daisy curiously. 'Miles, I mean.'
Connie laughed. 'He's not that old. Anyway, I prefer older men. Young men only think of themselves.'
'They're not all like that,' protested Daisy. 'Ian isn't.' She smiled. 'When I was a baby, he used to change my nappy, and give me a bottle. Mummy made him do it.'
'Did he? I've a feeling he'll regret me learning that!'
'Does it surprise you?'
'No, not at all. He's the gentlest of men.'
'Oh, Connie, I'm so pleased you're marrying him!' cried Daisy. 'As soon as I met you I wanted you for my sister!'
Connie smiled affectionately. 'I'm glad. I've always wanted a sister too. But what about poor Grace? Doesn't she count?'
Daisy looked equivocal. 'She's all right, I suppose. But she's even older than Miles and all she ever talks about is her wonderful children, though they don't seem all that wonderful to me. They can be quite rude and badly behaved, especially when they come here. You're so nice and you ride and you're almost my own age.'
Connie shook her head. 'I don't feel it, you know. It seems years and years since I was eighteen. I feel about thirty.'
Daisy sighed. 'You mean sex, I suppose.'
Connie laughed. 'I was thinking of illness and suffering, and storms and young men drowning – one, anyway – and suicide and murder. I've packed rather a lot in.'
'Oh!' said Daisy. 'Gosh!' And after some thought, 'Mummy thinks you're pregnant.'
'Is that what she said?'
'Lord no! It was just the way she looked at you.'
'Yes, I noticed that. It was funny.'
'You're not then?'
Connie shook her head. 'Mother would slaughter me!'
'So you don't . . . ?'
'No. Do you?'
'Not . . . everything,' said Daisy, blushing a little.
'Is it serious with Ian, then? It looked as if it was last night!'
'I don't know really. Yes, I suppose so. We've known each other forever. He'll be going back to college after Christmas, though. He's at Cirencester.'
'He wants to be a farmer?'
'Yes, but he's got no money, or he won't have by the time he's finished his course. I don't know what he'll do then.'
'What do your parents think of him?'
'Oh, they like him.'
'But they don't know there's anything between you?'
'Goodness no, I shouldn't think so. He's just Ian.' She looked thoughtful. 'I hope Miles doesn't say anything. About seeing us, I mean.'
'I'll see that he doesn't. Wouldn't they approve?'
'I don't know. They mightn't. The trouble is, he's not . . .' She hesitated.
'Quite our class?' suggested Connie.
'Perhaps not quite,' said Daisy doubtfully. 'I mean, you mustn't take any notice of his accent, they all talk like that round here, and he's very bright. He went to school on a scholarship. When did you first know you loved Miles? What were you doing?'
Connie blinked and shook her head. 'It must run in the family.'
'What must?'
'The non sequiturs. He'd just been sick, over the ship's rail. I was helping him.'
'You're joking!'
'Not entirely. It's being a nurse, I suppose.'
'Did you really want to leave? It doesn't sound like it.'
'Oh yes. I'd had enough, even before the cruise. I only went back to escape my mother. I knew immediately I wanted to marry Miles.'
She followed Daisy back to the stables, allowing the horse to pick his way down the steeply sloping field. She'd had a pony as a child but hadn't enjoyed it much and still didn't. She'd swing perilously out from the shrouds of her father's little yacht, full of the joy of the rushing, sparkling water, but she'd never felt entirely confident on a horse. She'd learn to be, she supposed. What a sweet family they were; so free and easy after her own. Well, Daddy was all right. It was nice that he and Miles got on so well together. She'd begun to think he never would propose and it was a considerable relief when he'd finally done so. She knew why, of course — it was that Partridge woman. He didn't know she knew but she'd worked it out. Well, he was hers now, and she'd best not forget it.
Chapter Three
With the uplifting strains of "Hark the Herald Angels" still ringing in their ears, some three hundred worshippers waited patiently to pass through the church porch where the Reverend Hugh Shepherd was bidding farewell to his flock. Spare and stooping in pince-nez spectacles and black cassock, the Vicar of St John's was saved from physical negligibility by his luxuriant white hair which had arranged itself into a perfect natural tonsure. The general effect was of an undernourished Friar Tuck. 'I'm very pleased to meet you, Miss Harrison,' he said earnestly. 'We see so few new faces in the parish. Colonel, good evening! So glad you and Mrs Trenchard could be here.'
'Wouldn't have missed it for the world, Pastor,' boomed the Colonel. 'Nice to see the old place properly full for once. Hello Miles. Christmas in the bosom of, what? And who is this lovely creature? Yours, is she?'
'Gerald and Gertrude Trenchard,' said Miles, 'this is my fiancée, Connie Harrison. And this is their daughter Penelope. Hello, Penny.'
'How do you do?' smiled Connie.
'I think er . . .' said Dr Felix, gently taking the Colonel's arm.
'What? Lord, yes. Holding up the troops. Come on Gertie.'
'I'm being chivvied, what's the matter?' said Connie, as Miles, guided her firmly from the crush.
'Did you see that woman with the little fellow in the topper?'
'The one in the dreadful hat that brays like a donkey?'
Miles chuckled. 'She does doesn't she? That's Sir Rupert and Lady Willoughby from the Hall. Given the chance, she'll be asking us to dinner, and if she doesn't, Sir Rupert certainly will. He's a crook, or I'm not a policeman, and she's a bore. To be avoided at all costs. Ah! Here they come.'
To the accompaniment of much clapping the junior members of the choir were now filing into the churchyard, each holding aloft a flaming torch. Dispersing themselves among the gravestones they drove away the darkness, while the verger and an assistant lit candles on the great Christmas tree that had been set up there.'
'What a lovely idea. Is it a tradition?'
'Centuries old. The tree is more recent, of course. They used the set the candles on the gravestones. Hello, Buckett, how are you? Connie Harrison, this is Constable Buckett, our local representative of the law.'
'How do you do, Miss? Very pleased to meet you,' said the Constable, smartly saluting.
'Working over Christmas?'
'Keeping an eye, sir. Don't suppose there'll be much doing.'
'I managed to get you out of it,' said Lavinia, coming up with them. 'Isn't the tree lovely? Hello, Constable. How's the arm?'
'Just about right again now, ma'am, thank you.'
'Out of the Willoughbys, do you mean?' said Miles.
'Yes. Sir Rupert spotted Connie of course. I made your excuses. Where's Daisy? Oh there you are, darling. We thought you sang beautifully: clear as a bell.'
Daisy glared at Ian, who was grinning mischievously. 'Don't you dare say it!'
'Voice of an angel,' averred Ian.
'What about the Trenchards?' asked Connie as they crossed the road. 'Are they all right?'
'Yes, I suppose so. He's not a bad old buffer, if you don't mind hearing about Poona, and Gertie is chums with Mother. What did you think of the daughter?'
'Perhaps a little strange? She was staring at me rather.'
'They tried to fit me up with her. Can you imagine?'
Connie giggled. 'Poor girl — fate worse than death. Where are we going?'
'The Bell. Good place to meet the locals.'
'That sounds fun.'
There was a quality of remoteness to Bettishaw that was more than mere miles. Few came there unless on business, and with scant incentive to improve or modernise, the Bell Inn had changed little in generations. There was no beer garden and no saloon bar, just a tiny 'snug' for the infrequent guest. Within living memory there had not even been a bar counter; just a motley assortment of chairs and benches, with the landlord drawing beer from a barrel in the corner. Little concern was shown regarding opening times or the ages of the drinkers, to both of which Constable Buckett turned a blind eye, choosing to regard the premises more in the nature of a private club. Indeed, apart from Cecily Ashton and her friend Miss Pruitt, who liked their Saturday night tipple, it was very much a men's club. An influx of the fair sex was a rare event and the advent of one such as Connie probably unprecedented. Daisy, of course, didn't count since they'd "knowed her from a babby," and Lavinia, for all that she never mentioned it, was a Lady, and out of their orbit entirely.
There was a distinct reduction in the volume of chatter as the Felixes made their entrance; a path respectfully clearing to the bar. This was presided over by the burly and affable Archie Kitcher, augmented for the evening by his wife Fanny, an immense woman of daunting aspect who doubled, when occasion demanded, as chucker-out. No-one ever argued with Fanny.
'What's everyone having?' asked the doctor. 'Connie?'
Connie gazed around the crowded room with its low, smoke-stained ceiling, its gleaming brasses and rustic customers and smiled delightedly. 'I'd like half a bitter please.'
'Really?' frowned Miles. 'Are you sure?'
'Yes, why not? When in Rome and all that.'
'Then I'll join you,' said Lavinia. 'They say it's very good here.'
'Two half bitters then, Archie,' said Roger. 'Daisy and Ian, what about you?'
A tall, good-looking man with the brick-red complexion of a farmer, came to greet them. 'Hello, Miles.'
'Martin! Nice to see you,' said Miles. 'Connie Harrison, this is Martin Bulloch, one of my old riding pals.'
'How do you do, Miss Harrison?' said Martin, his handshake lingering, she felt, a little longer than was strictly necessary. 'Note that he doesn't say hunting pals,' he confided. 'Gone soft on us.'
'Martin is our downhill neighbour,' explained Miles, ignoring this gibe. 'He owns Red House Farm.'
'At the crossroads?' said Connie.
'Yes, that's right. How did you know?'
'Daisy was pointing out the sights to me,' she explained.
Martin smilingly held her gaze. 'Glad she included the important ones.'
'Half a bitter, Connie,' said Dr Felix, handing it over via Miles. 'Evening, Bulloch.'
Martin nodded a distracted greeting. 'And drinks beer as well! A woman after my own heart.'
Connie was amused to find Miles' proprietorial hand on her shoulder. She smiled into her beer-glass.
'How is Alma? He asked, with psychological transparency.
'Fine, thanks. She's taken the children home.'
'Poor Alma,' thought Connie.
There was a waft of chill air and Miss Ashton hobbled in, accompanied by the older choristers. 'Miles, dear boy!' she cried. 'How lovely to see you again. I've been hearing all about your adventures from Lavinia. And you must be Connie. How do you do, dear?'
Connie stooped a little to take her hand. 'I feel I know you already, Miss Ashton,' she said. 'Daisy has told me all about you.' She turned and looked around. 'Which of you gentlemen is going to give this lady a seat?'
Smiling gratefully, Miss Ashton drew Connie down beside her. 'How wonderful to be young and pretty and have the men dance attendance on you. Daisy has learned the trick already, of course. My Ian is thoroughly smitten with her, as well he might be. She's really quite musical, you know, and has the most lovely voice, though she needs to practice more. Miles was quite talented too, as a child, but of course he was only here in the holidays. Such a pity. It's hard to keep the boys anyway, and once their voices break you've usually lost them.'
'Gin and tonic, Cecily,' said Dr Felix, handing it down.
'Roger, that's most kind of you. I've just been singing your daughter's praises, though you mustn't tell her so, or it'll make her swollen-headed.' She turned back to Connie. 'Where was I? Oh yes, Miles. I should never have thought he'd become a policeman. I thought perhaps the Church, you know, or academia; he's such a clever man. But he seems to be doing well at it and looks happy, although part of that is you, I'm sure. It's so strange to know them as little children, and suddenly they're grown men with careers and families.' She paused for a moment, perhaps aware of a mild faux pas. 'Are you very fond of him, dear?'
'We've just got engaged,' smiled Connie.
'Oh how wonderful!' beamed Miss Ashton. 'I'm so pleased. Hello, Beatrice,' she said, looking up. 'I wondered where you'd got to. Isn't it crowded! The whole village seems to be here.'
Perhaps in her early fifties, Beatrice Pruitt was the physical opposite of Miss Ashton, being quite tall and slim with a still handsome figure. Unlike her rather shambolic friend she was smartly if rather severely dressed in a beautifully cut tweed suit and fashionable cloche hat. She was the recently retired headmistress of the village school, and there was steel, Connie thought, in those shrewd eyes and firm, rather thin lips, though she smiled amiably enough down at them.
'One almost has to queue to get in!' she said.
'Please, do sit here,' said Connie, having risen to be introduced. Turning, she saw with annoyance Martin Bullock approaching, an all-too-familiar predatory gleam in his eye, but Miss Ashton called to him, and Miles beckoned her
away to meet Gabriel and Marie Shutler.
'Gabriel is that essential adjunct to our lives, the village blacksmith,' said Miles.
'Really? How marvellous!' said Connie. 'I'd love to see you at work.'
'Cost you tuppence,' smiled Gabriel. He was a big, powerful man, quite bald, his huge arms and beer-belly making him seem top-heavy in the manner of a gorilla.
'Take no notice of him; just walk in and I'll give you tea,' said Marie. 'Your head must be in a whirl — all these new people!'
Others came with Christmas wishes and news of family and friends, until it seemed as though the Felixes were holding a private soirée. Then suddenly it was 'Time, gentlemen, please!' probably in deference to Roger, who had not long retired as a magistrate, and the company dispersed, laughing and calling out to one another, into the black and starless night.
'Marie's right, I don't suppose I shall remember half their names,' said Connie as they made their way up the hill, their torches illuminating the rutted surface of the lane. 'Who is that fair-haired chap that took over from the landlord for a while?'
'That's his son-in-law, Ronald,' said Lavinia, 'Why?'
'He looks unwell,' said Connie.
'What sort of unwell?'
'Nerves, I thought. Shell shock perhaps? He'd be about the right age.'
'Connie, that's very astute of you,' said Dr Felix. 'I quite agree. I'm afraid he's inclined to make a nuisance of himself, fighting and so on. It takes some men that way, as you know. He and Minnie live with her parents, over the shop, so to say.'
'They've two children too,' said Lavinia. 'I often wonder how they all fit in.'
'He was a bit wild even before the war, I think,' said Miles. 'He turned to look behind him. 'Hello sis, Ian gone home?'
Christmas day passed in traditional fashion and they saw no-one apart from Reuben, the Felixes' stableman, and Mrs Piper and her daughter who shyly joined them in the evening for cocktails. Ian arrived after church on Sunday (Boxing Day being deferred to Monday), and the morning was spent riding, followed by luncheon at the Manor House. This was situated, for historical reasons, some two miles away at Lower.
A Country Way of Death (The Inspector Felix Mysteries Book 4) Page 2
