Late of This Parish

by Marjorie Eccles

  ‘If you’d be so kind, Dr Thorne,’ he said patiently as Miriam Thorne, followed by the dog, disappeared through an archway cut into a clipped Leylandii hedge which led to the next, higher, part of the garden.

  ‘No problem about my whereabouts. I was at the Institute all day. Stayed until nearly eleven, in fact.’

  ‘A long day, sir.’

  ‘Not unusually so. The sort of work I do means I often stay late. I’d some important work to finish and I wanted to see an experiment through. I’d already lost time because of a top level meeting – which was actually with some of your own people, I might add. Because of the bomb we had there, you know. They seem to think our safety precautions have been slipping and need stepping up, though I have to say,’ he added with a hint of umbrage, ‘it’s what they themselves laid down in the first place.’

  Mayo disregarded the invitation to comment on a situation with which he was only too familiar. It happened all the time. Tight security to begin with, everyone conscious of it, then familiarity and a gradual relaxing of vigilance. Finally, slackness and downright negligence ... until disaster occurred and too late, every stable door in spitting distance was being locked and barred within an inch of its life. Had he been in Denzil Thorne’s position, responsible for an organization as vulnerable as that, he’d have kept quiet on the subject.

  ‘The meeting,’ added Denzil, ‘was at half past four and lasted for a couple of hours.’

  And you couldn’t have a much better alibi than that, closeted with senior police officers.

  ‘So – that’s all I can give you. Not much, but I hope it’s been of help.’

  Mayo said it had but there was one thing more which he’d like to know about the security at the Institute – Thorne looked wary – had he ever received threats of a personal nature?

  ‘From time to time, but nothing I couldn’t handle.’ His caution was obvious, in the same way, the previous evening, that his wife’s had been. What, Mayo wondered, had made them so cagey?

  ‘One expects that from cranks,’ Thorne continued, more easily. ‘And from people who just can’t see straight – though they must think they have a legitimate point of view, I suppose,’ he added, smiling his Boy Scout smile, striving so hard to be fair it must have hurt him. ‘But I don’t understand what that has to do with Willard’s death.’

  Mayo was saved from explaining his theory about the connection between Willard and possible animal rights extremists by the return of Mrs Thorne who, having dealt with the dog, was now quite prepared to deal with the constabulary. ‘Well, what are you doing about finding Danny Lampeter, Mr Mayo?’ she demanded as soon as she came through the gate. ‘I hear he’s pushed off.’

  The village grapevine hadn’t been slow. Mayo murmured something non-committal about having no reason at the moment to try and find Lampeter.

  ‘No reason? Only that a pound to a penny he shot those badgers,’ she returned, as though that immediately made him the prime suspect for smothering Willard, too.

  ‘Miriam, that’s pure guesswork,’ her husband protested, but mildly.

  ‘No use pussyfooting around! Everybody knows it must’ve been him. He’s always been in trouble one way or another, even before he went into the army, and I’ve seen nothing to show that he’s changed. Bad blood there, y’know. The father was the same – upped and left them when the mother was diagnosed as having multiple sclerosis. Didn’t want the responsibility, not even for Danny. Left it all to Ruth.’

  Mayo thought of what old Sam Biggs had said to him about Ruth Lampeter having had a rough time. Maybe he ought to look more kindly on that uptight young woman, it was beginning to sound as though maybe she had plenty of reason for being the way she was.

  ‘Why d’you think Lampeter would want to shoot the animals?’

  ‘Danny?’ She laughed shortly. ‘People like him don’t need a reason for causing trouble. They just enjoy mindless violence.’

  This wildly outrageous generality, unsubstantiated by any evidence, needed no comment from him, Mayo felt. But there was a grain of truth in it. The shrinks might not agree – would certainly trump up some connection between Lampeter’s anti-social behaviour and the missing father, he was sure. In his own opinion violence was as inbred in some men as blue eyes or short stature – bad blood, as Miriam Thorne had it. What she’d said threw a little more light on Lampeter’s character – or at any rate his reputation. There was always at least one scapegoat family in any village and sometimes they actually were responsible for the things they were blamed for. It was interesting to speculate on, but of doubtful use in the present circumstances.

  Unless Danny had misinterpreted Willard’s wishes in wanting to be rid of the badgers in too zealous a manner ...

  ‘Have you seen the badger sett?’ Mrs Thorne asked abruptly.

  Mayo had to say he hadn’t.

  ‘You should. Come on, I’ll show you.’ And zipping up her anorak to her chin, the lady opened the garden gate and prepared to set off down the path.

  Mayo felt he’d already been told more about badgers than he wanted to know, and that he’d better things to do – like solving a murder – than spending all his time on Sunday afternoon walks. Further, he didn’t want to be bossed around by Miriam Thorne. Still, at the back of his mind the thought persisted that in some way as yet unfathomable, the truth about Willard’s death might lie in clearing up the mystery of the badger-shooting. If nothing else, it would eliminate at least one useless line of inquiry. Meekly, he followed the determined figure and carrotty head of Miriam Thorne along the river bank, with her husband bringing up the rear.

  The sett was in a sheltered beech coppice about a hundred yards downriver from the houses in Parson’s Place, where the high plateau on which Wyvering stood gave way to rocky slopes and the river began to swing out. There was little to see, however, except a criss-cross of well-worn tracks in the soft red earth, wandering between low scrub and bracken and a great spread of yellow gorse. The water was so clear you could see the pebbles lying in the shallows and watch the minnows darting. Blue dragonflies skimmed the surface and a moorhen paddled quietly across to the far bank. In the soft haze of the day it was very quiet, with a slight melancholy hanging over the place, like some sentimental Victorian painting.

  Denzil Thorne pointed to a thick clump of holly and thorn growing at the foot of an old beech tree. ‘See that?’ he asked, lowering his voice to a sibilant stage whisper. ‘It completely obscures the entrance to the sett. You have to know where to look, but I don’t think we should go any further in case they catch our scent. It’s not right to disturb them.’

  The footpath, though considerably less muddy here than the first stretch, had degenerated first of all into a mere track and had now disappeared altogether, and Mayo was not averse to the suggestion of calling a halt. ‘So anyone wanting to get to the sett would have to come from Wyvering,’ he commented.

  ‘That’s right. The river’s not navigable from here. Much too shallow and weedy.’

  ‘Unless they walked up from that direction?’ Mayo waved towards a church spire which could be seen in the distance.

  ‘From Stapley? No way! It’s a good four or five miles and no proper path. You’d be mud to the eyes.’ Returning to his theme, Thorne said, ‘It was just here, outside the sett, where they found the bodies of the badgers.’

  ‘They? Who were they?’

  ‘Couple of ten-year-olds. Cycled down that track over there.’

  ‘Cycled?’ Mayo looked back, following Thorne’s pointing finger to a track that was steep as a house-side and slippery with loose red earth and stones, recognizing it immediately as the one leading from Parson’s Place and seeing its appeal to small boys.

  ‘Well might you ask!’ Miriam said. ‘We – the parish council, that is – put a gate across the top and a notice forbidding entry, but that doesn’t stop the kids. They dare one another to ride down on their bikes and I can’t tell you the number of broken arms and legs we’ve had,
not to mention one concussion. Good job he didn’t end up in the river, which I might say one or two of the little monsters have nearly done. We can’t keep it locked, it’s a right of way.’

  And a useful rubbish tip, thought Mayo, recalling the propped-open gate.

  ‘All the same,’ said Denzil, ‘those lads knew it was illegal to kill badgers from all these wildlife programmes they watch and went back and told Jack Wainwright straight away. There’s a lot of talk about kids watching too much television but I’m all for it if they understand that sort of thing.’

  'I could see Willard’s point,’ Miriam said as they trudged back along the river bank, having seen all there was to see and leaving the badgers sleeping in their dark secret world under the earth. ‘Much as I disagreed with him. Must’ve been infuriating that his garden – and old Mrs Crawshaw’s next door to him – are the only ones affected. The badgers have never dug anyone else’s lawn up, but you can’t expect the poor creatures to tell the difference – it’s their instinct to go where they know they’ll get food. You couldn’t tell him that, though. Couldn’t tell him anything in fact, he never listened to a word anyone else said, once he’d made up his mind.’

  ‘He should’ve put food out for them like Catherine Oliver does,’ Thorne said, ‘then they mightn’t have bothered with his lawn.’

  ‘Oh, phooey!’

  ‘I don’t know that’s so crazy. But as a matter of fact,’ he said to Mayo, ‘I’ve got a bit of a conscience about this business. For suggesting it to Willard, I mean. The thing is, he hadn’t known what Mrs Oliver was doing until I told him, though of course I hadn’t realized that. Mentioned it quite casually in conversation and he nearly hit the roof. Called her a sentimental fool of a woman and sent her a very stiff note, then complained to Constable Wainwright and caused no end of fuss. Poor Catherine was very upset about it. Better to have kept my mouth shut.’

  ‘Don’t be such a clot, Denzil! No use beating your breast at this late stage. You might’ve known that’s how he’d take it. And you could’ve told him it’s not sentiment with Catherine. She encourages them because she wants to draw them, Mr Mayo. She’s just written a book that’s to be published and illustrated with her drawings – not only badgers of course but other nocturnal animals. Enchanting. She draws the most beautiful owls. Philly – my daughter – works for a publisher and she’s heard on the grapevine that the book’s likely to be a success. Not that it’s any secret.’ She added obscurely, ‘Even Lionel knows now.’

  They had reached the garden gate where Mayo had stopped, intending to go back the way he had come, until he heard voices somewhere ahead of them in the garden which made him change his mind about going back into the town by way of the castle walk. ‘Is that your daughter I hear? If so, I’ll take the opportunity to see her.’

  'Yes, that’s Philly.’ Mayo had a moment to wonder why the reluctance, why the worried line that suddenly appeared between Denzil’s brows before he pushed open the gate, with a hearty ‘Be my guest.’ But then, recollecting his glimpse of Phyllida Thorne the previous evening, remembering her attitude and what she had looked like, Mayo thought of several things her father might have cause to be worried about.

  Thorne and his wife followed Mayo through the archway in the hedge which he now saw led on to the first of a series of crazy-paved terraces, bright with aubretia and alyssum. Two people were there, sitting close together on a low wall: the Thornes’ daughter, Phyllida, and Sebastian Oliver. The air between them vibrated like a plucked violin string.

  The girl shrugged indifferently when Mayo told her he’d like to ask her a few questions. ‘I suppose. I’m not going anywhere. But Seb was, weren’t you, Seb?’

  Her right hand was rhythmically stroking a malevolent-looking Persian with rusty black fur which Mayo vaguely remembered seeing wandering around Parson’s Place and which now lay on the low stone wall, watching him with slitted eyes, its tail dripping over the edge.

  ‘That’s all right,’ he said, ‘Mr Oliver and I have already spoken.’

  Her mother and father, having made their farewells to Mayo, had already gone forward into the house. Sebastian, however, showed no signs of following them. He kept his black eyes on Phyllida. He was another Sebastian from the smooth, flippant young man Mayo had seen before, his face now set and rather pale. As for Phyllida, she was flushed and her eyes sparkled, but with temper rather than excitement. Mayo saw that he had interrupted, not a love scene as he had first thought, but a battle. Which could, on second thoughts, amount to the same thing.

  He availed himself of the seat which the girl had offered with a casual wave of the hand. He wondered for a moment whether to let Sebastian go, though he seemed in no hurry to leave. The feeling that he had had when they first met returned, the certainty that Sebastian Oliver was in some specific way central to the mystery. In what way this could be so remained to be seen, and he decided that meanwhile he would do better to see Phyllida Thorne alone. He looked at Sebastian until that young man finally got the message, came reluctantly to his feet in one graceful movement and for a moment remained standing, looking down at Phyllida, his hands in his pockets, his face unreadable. Then he said abruptly, ‘See you, Philly,’ and went.

  She didn’t turn her head, but sat up very straight. Mayo waited until the young man, with his quick, light strides, had disappeared up the garden path before asking the girl, ‘Who else was here with you? Who was it just left?’

  ‘There wasn’t anyone,’ she answered coolly. ‘You must’ve been mistaken.’

  Mayo knew he wasn’t. He’d heard another voice. Moreover, one he’d heard somewhere before, and though he hadn’t yet placed it he knew he would, given time.

  ‘OK. I don’t mind answering questions,’ she said suddenly, ‘though you can put your handcuffs away, you’ve no reason for arresting me.’

  Not unless it’s for being indecently dressed, he thought.

  She was wearing jeans so tight he wondered how she could sit, and a sleeveless top striped like a pirate’s jersey, fairly obviously nothing at all underneath. Isn’t she frozen? he thought, but there wasn’t a single goose bump on her smooth, brown young arms. Minus the thick make-up of the previous evening, he could see that her face was lightly tanned also, and against the tan her eyes were a startling blue-green. Her mouth was stubborn.

  ‘Nothing so interesting,’ he said, assuming the deliberately avuncular expression he could when he chose. ‘Just a few minutes’ chat.’

  She shrugged in an offhand manner that didn’t hide the fact she was nervous. Not as cool and sophisticated as she was trying to make out, Miss Phyllida Thorne.

  He sat back as easily as the uncomfortable seat, digging into the backs of his knees, would allow, refusing to be provoked. ‘I expect it was quite a shock when you heard about Mr Willard being dead.’

  Her hand reached out again to caress the cat with long, slow strokes; the cat responded with a purr like an engine. ‘Nothing to be shocked about, was there? He was old and anyway, I didn’t know him, I don’t suppose I’ve spoken more than twenty words to him in my life.’

  ‘But his daughter’s a friend of your mother’s.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry for Laura, but she’s not the one who’s dead.’

  She was like one those seeds, lupins or some such, the sort that put him off gardening. With a coating so hard it had to be chipped or soaked before it would germinate and flower. This flower, when it bloomed, might be spectacular, a prize-winning exotica; or it might turn out to be a miserable specimen, withered and atrophied through some unseen canker within.

  He was growing fanciful. He said, ‘Tell me what happened since you got here on Friday night.’

  She had stayed in, talking to her mother, she said, looking bored, done a little shopping the next morning for her at the village store, worked on some papers she’d brought with her until six o’clock, when Sebastian had called for her. From then on, her version of events tallied with his, which was neither more nor l
ess than Mayo had expected: Sebastian, he recalled, had telephoned her that evening as soon as he arrived home and heard that Willard was dead – or had been found, which was not quite the same thing. And if they hadn’t agreed what to say then, they’d had plenty of time since.

  ‘Where did your drive take you?’

  ‘As far as Denver Bridge.’ He ignored the exaggerated patience she assumed, knowing it was deliberately designed to be disagreeable. ‘We got out and walked in the woods for a while, then drove on to the River House. I can’t remember what time we arrived there, but I’m sure they’ll be able to tell you. What we ate and drank as well, and how long I spent in the bloody loo, I dare say.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ he said mildly. He thought she was shockingly spoiled. Probably never had so much as her hand slapped when she was a child, more’s the pity. ‘You must appreciate the countryside, living in London. Mr Oliver says he does.’

  ‘Mr Oliver will say anything for effect,’ she said, mocking, but her eyes were a flame of aquamarine at the mention of his name.

  I was right, he thought, there is something between them. For a while he let himself play with the question of what linked them together. Sex, yes. She was an open invitation. But it was more than that. Beneath her casually immature rudeness, he sensed something older, essentially tough and implacable, perhaps a passion for the unattainable, certainly a contempt for compromise. Sebastian might find this an irresistible combination but Mayo knew that women like her spelled trouble with a capital T. Of the two he’d rather deal with Sebastian Oliver any day.

  ‘See much of him, do you? In London?’

  ‘We’re friends. Naturally, both coming from Wyvering.’ The opposite might more probably be the case, he thought, but didn’t say. Was it correct, he asked, that their visit here this weekend was unscheduled?