by Jo Carnegie
The Revd Goody’s untimely demise had got the village very jittery. Although no one had dared bring it up after the service that morning, the same question could be seen in the eyes of each of the Churchminster residents.
Was there a killer among them?
Chapter 38
IT WAS A week of heightened emotions in the village and several people were about to do things they shouldn’t.
Caro, desperate to escape the air of tension in the village, left Milo with her grandmother and drove to Fit 4 U to pick up a class schedule. If there was a murderer lurking in the village, the least she could do was be as fit as possible to defend herself and Milo if needs be. Sebastian was being his usual unsupportive self and refused to stay with her in the country for more than a few extra days. ‘Place is crawling with rozzers, there’s more chance of me getting mugged when I get back to London.’ When she suggested getting more security for the house, he had informed her no bastard was getting past the fifty grand alarm system he had bought and, if she was really worried, she should go and stay with Clementine.
‘After all, darling, I can’t imagine any serial killer, no matter how psychotic, taking your grandmother on,’ he had drawled. What about your son? Caro had thought, but she had to admit she was feeling better because of the regular patrols by police cars around the village.
She arrived in Bedlington and drove into the car park of Fit 4 U. Only a few cars were parked there. Pulling in near the entrance, Caro climbed out of the car and walked into the bright, airy reception. It was deserted.
‘Hello?’ Caro called out. Nothing. She strained her ears, but could only hear a faint gasping coming from a room at the end of the corridor. Must be a class going on, she thought, and made her way down to have a look. She passed several studios, all empty and filled with exercise equipment, and finally got to the room the noise was coming from.
A sign on the door read ‘Meditation Room’, and there was a small round window below the sign. Caro looked through it, but she couldn’t see much, as the lights in the room were turned down low. Gradually, her eyes accustomed to the gloom and she could make out a small, square room with about a dozen exercise mats laid out on the wooden floor. On one of them, her fuchsia pink leggings round her ankles and a look of pure bliss on her face, was Lucinda. What’s more, she was furiously riding the man Caro recognized from the fun run as her personal trainer.
‘Oh!’ For a moment, Caro stood transfixed as the two bodies ground and writhed in unison. Henry was facing away from Caro and she watched the muscles in his arms work as he kneaded and fondled Lucinda’s naked breasts. Luckily, Lucinda’s head was thrown back in the throes of ecstasy, so she didn’t see Caro finally clap her hand over her mouth and step back quickly from the window. Blushing furiously, Caro ran back down the corridor, through the still empty reception and out to the car park.
It was only now she recognized Lucinda’s Range Rover parked next to a navy-blue convertible BMW. An image of Lucinda bouncing around in pink Lycra flashed through her mind, and Caro opened her car door, climbed in weakly and sat behind the wheel.
Lucinda Reinard was having an affair! Who would have thought it? Caro didn’t know whether to feel shocked or impressed.
A few days later, Lady Fraser was taking afternoon tea out on the terrace when her mobile beeped. It was a text message. Amazingly for this day and age, she’d only just got the thing. (Really, it was so vulgar to be seen in public with such a contraption clamped to one’s ear.) The message was short and to the point. ‘Do you fancy dinner at mine tomorrow? D.’
Frances’s heart started thudding, and a thrill of excitement she knew she shouldn’t be feeling went through her. Devon! So many times she had nearly picked up the phone to call him, only to stop herself quickly. Ambrose was away for a few days on a shooting trip to Scotland – did Devon know that? But how could he?
It would be rude not to accept, she thought; he probably wants to discuss the ball. She chuckled at herself: for God’s sake, Frances, who are you kidding? Hands shaking, she typed a formal reply. ‘That would be wonderful. Thank you.’
She pressed the send button and, almost instantly, her phone beeped again. ‘Great! See you about 8 p.m.’
The next evening, Frances stood in front of the full-length mirror in her opulent bedroom. She’d already changed twice, deciding the white beaded Chanel dress was too showy and the caramel John Rocha trouser suit a trifle dowdy. Finally, she decided on a simple sleeveless black top, and fitted linen trousers that showed off her long, elegant legs. At her neck, an exquisite diamond necklace Ambrose had bought her for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. At the thought of her husband, Frances felt a wave of guilt wash over her. She stared at herself in the mirror. Somehow, she looked different. Is this the face of a soon-to-be adulteress? she wondered. The diamonds glittered around her neck accusingly. Frances decided to take them off, and put on a black and white silk scarf instead.
Outside, it was a beautiful evening. The grounds of Clanfield Hall looked prosperous and perfectly kept, green lawns stretching away as far as the eye could see. Frances decided to take the MG so she could put the roof down. She tied another scarf around her hair to protect her immaculate chignon, then set off looking like Grace Kelly – but feeling like a nervous schoolgirl inside.
At Byron Heights, Devon was feeling equally jittery. He’d told Nigel to go out for the night, and Nigel had looked at him critically but said nothing. At Devon’s request, the housekeeper had laid a table for two on the veranda at the back of the house. A thick white tablecloth was draped over it, silver cutlery laid out on top. On an ornate platter lay delicious slivers of smoked salmon and Serrano ham, with fat stuffed olives and other delicacies from the organic deli in Bedlington. A bottle of Dom Perignon stood chilling in a solid silver ice bucket by the side.
It was 7.59 p.m. when the huge, clanking doorbell sounded. Devon, who was in the garden doing deep breathing exercises to centre his core, hurried back into the house. He was beaten to the front door by the housekeeper, on her way home for the evening, and found Frances standing imperiously in the corridor. She was made for huge houses like these, he thought. Others might have felt dwarfed or intimidated by such grandiose surroundings, but they only served to make Frances seem even more regal.
They shook hands awkwardly. ‘You have a wonderful home,’ said Frances stiffly.
‘Thanks, it’s not everyone’s cup of tea,’ said Devon, looking round at the dark-red walls and massive Gothic staircase. ‘It does me all right, though.’ There was a silence as Frances surveyed the place, looking anywhere but at him. Do I sound really common to her? he thought. He didn’t know if it was intentional, but Frances had that effect on him, and he felt like an uncultured yob beside her inherent, aloof classiness.
She followed him through the house to the veranda. ‘Drink?’ he asked.
‘Thank you,’ Frances replied. Another silence. God, this is awkward! both of them thought. Frances looked at the table pointedly and Devon jumped forward.
‘Shit! I mean, do you want a seat?’ asked Devon, and she nodded, allowing him to pull one of the chairs out before lowering herself elegantly into it. Devon got the champagne out of the ice bucket. He was suddenly gagging for a drink to calm his nerves. He seemed to have lost his powers of speech completely, now, grinning at her goofily while she looked back in apparent distaste.
In fact, Frances was feeling exactly the same, desperately trying to think of something to say. Her mother, had she still been alive, would have been horrified at her daughter’s sudden attack of muteness. Lady Frances Fraser had been put on this earth to hold effortless, charming conversation with the rich, the royal and the privileged. So why did she feel so completely tongue-tied now?
Devon was having problems with the cork. As he subtly wrestled with it, growing gradually redder in the face, Frances pretended not to notice, and looked out across the gardens. All of a sudden, there was a loud ‘pop!’ and Devon watched in horror
as the cork ricocheted off the wall and flew in terrible slow motion towards Frances, hitting her squarely on the right breast.
At that moment, Devon wanted to curl up and die. Frances’s mouth formed an ‘O’ of shock, and her hand instinctively moved towards the boob in question, then stopped. There was a moment’s deafening silence. Beyond shame and mortification, Devon waited for a furious, icy reaction. She probably thought he’d done it on purpose! But after a few excruciating seconds that seemed to last a lifetime, the most extraordinary thing happened. Frances laughed. Devon stared at her, utterly overwhelmed. What the hell was going on?
‘Your face looks so funny!’ she giggled. ‘I’ve never seen anyone look so horrified in all my life.’
Still unsure of her reaction, Devon looked at her worriedly. ‘You’re not hurt? Christ, Frances, I really am so sorry—’
She put up her hand. ‘Stop. It’s fine, really.’ She started giggling again. ‘Oh, your expression!’ It was such a surprisingly light and infectious sound that Devon couldn’t help but join in.
‘Shit!’ he spluttered. ‘I thought you were going to have me bloody ’ead chopped off!’ Now they both fell about laughing, Devon leaning forward with both hands on the table, while tears of mirth and relief dropped on to the tablecloth.
Three hours later, they were getting on famously. Devon just couldn’t get over what a laugh Frances was! Once she’d abandoned her stuck-up exterior, he saw a very funny, interesting and warm person beneath. For the last hour, they’d been talking about Devon’s career, Frances firing questions at him about his life as a pop star. ‘I used to have the biggest crush on you,’ she told him, delicately nibbling at a piece of sun-dried tomato. ‘All the debs did, we thought you were marvellous!’
‘A bit of rough?’ asked Devon, grinning.
Frances blushed. ‘Oh, of course not. Well, not that much.’ She shot him a mischievous smile. In the half-light of evening, her pale blonde hair shone, making her look like a beautiful sea nymph.
‘Do you fancy a walk around my grounds m’lady?’ he asked.
‘Rather!’ said Frances, finishing the last of her champagne and kicking off her expensive court shoes. Devon held out his hand and she took it to climb over the low stone wall on to the lawn. Despite the dropping temperature of the evening air, the heat of electricity between them was unmistakable.
They walked down the long curving path to the small ornamental lake at the bottom of the gardens. ‘This place reminds me of my grandmother’s house,’ Frances said, as they passed a huge pair of stone lions, jaws drawn back in impressive snarls.
‘What, did she live in a bleedin’ Hallowe’en theme park?’ Devon chuckled.
Frances smiled. ‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ she said. ‘I think this was rather a wonderful era for landscaping, actually.’
Suddenly, her foot went from underneath her, and she tripped. Instinctively Devon went to grab her. When he pulled her up again, he didn’t let go, drawing her in towards him. Frances didn’t resist. They stayed like that, bodies pressed against each other, faces inches apart.
‘Your heart is going like the clappers,’ said Devon softly.
‘So is yours,’ she whispered back. ‘Devon, I—’
Now it was his turn to stop her. ‘You’re a fine woman, Frances,’ he said. ‘Don’t feel bad.’ With that, he leaned forward and kissed her. Her lips were like the finest velvet. Frances, feeling the strange thrill of a new person’s mouth on hers, responded passionately. Her hands moved over his broad, lean back: first over the shirt and then underneath, touching and caressing the firm flesh. Devon groaned and kissed her harder; she could feel his erection pushing into her pelvis. When his hands didn’t find her breasts quickly enough, she guided them herself. They were small and perfect, and Devon gently felt the hardness of her nipples through the fabric of her top. A few seconds later the top was off and he was slowly lowering her on to the grass. She pulled him down with her and started unbuttoning his trousers. In the moonlight he marvelled at her slenderness and flawless, porcelain skin. She was beautiful.
‘Make love to me,’ she said, as Devon’s fingers moved inside the front triangle of her underwear. Suddenly, he was inside her, making her gasp with pleasure. She wrapped her legs around his back, mirroring his movements with her own body. Then he was kissing her again, his tongue flickering in and out of her mouth, as his thrusting became quicker and more intense. ‘Oh God, oh God,’ moaned Frances as Devon eventually climaxed, just seconds before her. Her whole body felt alive, and he clasped her to him, shallow, fast breaths against her neck.
‘I was a lady and now I’m a tramp,’ she said softly.
Devon shook his head in disagreement. ‘No you’re not,’ he said, stroking her hair. He added, ‘I bet your grandmother never did this on her lawn.’
Frances smiled. ‘You never know, it might run in the family.’ They both laughed and Devon started to tenderly kiss her body again.
Chapter 39
TWO WEEKS LATER, the village was trying to get back to some semblance of normality. The Reverend’s body still lay in Bedlington morgue. Despite an extensive search, neither the mysterious black car nor the hooded figure had been found, and the story had moved from the front pages of the newspapers to a cursory mention inside.
Rance thought they might have their first suspect when Clementine strode into the station one morning, demanding to see him. She had finally remembered something that had been bothering her and relayed the Revd Goody’s story of his altercation with Sid Sykes. A few swift phone calls soon stopped Rance in his tracks. On the night of the murder, Sykes had been at some fancy dinner with his wife in London. They’d gone to a casino afterwards until four o’clock and then stumbled back to their suite at the Dorchester. His wife, several hundred people, a night doorman and a good few hours of CCTV backed up his story. Sykes had a watertight alibi. And who was to say the Reverend hadn’t exaggerated? thought Rance cynically.
The SCBA Committee met up and discussed, out of respect to the deceased, whether or not the ball and auction should go ahead. They unanimously agreed to carry on. ‘Arthur loved this village!’ cried Angie.
The fact they now had Devon Cornwall on board was a major coup. ‘How did you do it, Mummy?’ exclaimed Harriet at one Wednesday-night meeting at Fairoaks.
‘Yah, it was like getting blood out of a stone when I talked to him about it,’ said Freddie admiringly.
Frances hoped she wasn’t blushing; she could still feel the warmth of Devon’s tongue licking her inner thigh. Since their first frolic on the lawn, they had tried to see each other as much as possible. Is it really only a fortnight? Frances wondered. She couldn’t even remember life before him. Her waking hours had taken on a new energy, a colour she had never thought possible. ‘Oh, I didn’t do much,’ she said to Freddie dismissively. ‘I think Devon – Mr Cornwall – just came to his senses.’
‘Is he going to try and get Mick for us?’ asked Freddie.
‘He might be away touring at the moment, but I am led to believe Nigel, Devon’s secretary, has made a phone call about it,’ Frances replied, in the most businesslike tone she could muster.
‘A sort of “my people will call your people” thing?’ said Caro. ‘Oh, how frightfully glamorous!’
The conversation moved on then to Calypso’s VIP list. The death of the Revd Goody was a terrible thing, but it had brought a certain irresistible notoriety to Churchminster. Suddenly, everyone wanted a ticket to the ball in the village all the papers had dubbed ‘the real life Midsomer Murders’. Celebrities’ agents were ringing up by the hour, and Calypso had even managed to secure DJ Dawg, who was going to play a set. (‘A what?’ asked a baffled Clementine.) Calypso had even persuaded him to forgo his enormous fee, with a vague promise he might meet the Queen. Soirée’s features editor had been on the phone to Calypso earlier to inform her that they were planning a much bigger piece now, and were going to send a journalist and photographer down to the village. �
�We’re thinking an old money versus new money battle, yah?’
‘Oh, it’s going to be a nightmare doing the guest list,’ Caro wailed, but they all rallied round her with promises of help, and cries of: ‘Of course it won’t!’ and ‘You’ll do a jolly marvellous job!’
Angie Fox-Titt was still working wonders sourcing things for the auction. Somehow she had secured twenty one-hour sessions with Madonna’s personal trainer (who was otherwise booked up for the next five years), and an art critic friend was going to approach Tracey Emin about doing something. Clementine hadn’t got a clue who Tracey Emin was, and had to discreetly ask Calypso afterwards.
‘She is, like, this totally cool artist, Granny,’ Calypso told her. ‘People are going to bid, like, zillions for that. Awesome!’
If Lady Frances Fraser was on top of the world at the moment, her daughter was about to become the opposite. She loved being on the SCBA Committee. Being the site manager gave her so much more confidence; organizing, pulling things together, making it all happen. People asking her opinion and actually listening! It had made her realize she was actually good at something. So the next Sunday, at dinner with her parents, she broke the news. She wanted to train to be an events manager.
Ambrose, who at that moment was halfway through his bowl of gazpacho soup, almost spat it out over the priceless Ming china.
‘A what?’ he’d spluttered.
‘An events manager, Daddy,’ explained Harriet patiently. ‘You know, someone who is in charge of putting on social functions and corporate events, for example—’
Her father cut her off, waving his spoon around furiously. ‘Yes, I do know what one is, Harriet,’ he boomed. ‘I’ve seen those women! Bloody awful bigarsed girls running around with a clipboard, looking like something out of Challenge bloody Anneka. Vulgar, pushy, common creatures. Over my dead body!’
