by Rebecca Tope
‘Come on then,’ she said. ‘Everything’s all right now.’
The morning passed quickly, with Karen feeling more like a tourist than a visiting friend. Timmy wore himself out exploring and almost fell asleep on his feet. Karen put him in the car, under a shady tree, with the door left open, and sat with Stephanie on a grassy bank close by, making daisy chains. Hilary brought out a bowl of semi-solid beeswax, which she was kneading into small tablets. ‘It’s wonderful furniture polish,’ she said. ‘I don’t bother with all the fancy moulds and stuff; it works just as well like this. I’ll give you some to take home.’
‘I’m not much of a one for polishing,’ Karen laughed.
‘Never mind. You might get the urge one day. Just smear it on and then give it a good rub with a cloth, and you’ll be amazed. It makes things smell nice, as well.’
Karen smiled ruefully. She didn’t think she’d ever seen the effect of beeswax polish. Her mother hadn’t been into housework, either.
It was a relaxed day, after the initial shock. Hilary’s son Justin had shown up some time later, and been told off by his mother.
‘Sorry,’ he’d shrugged. ‘It was a bloody great crow. I couldn’t resist taking a pot at it. Missed it, though. I’m a rotten shot.’
He was nineteen, strongly built and tanned – the sort of boy, Karen thought, that you’d expect to see on a farm, but somehow seldom did. He seemed to be a figure from a bygone age.
‘What sort of gun have you got?’ she asked, merely to make conversation. He no longer had the weapon with him.
‘It’s a Brocock,’ he said, clearly with no expectation that she’d be much enlightened.
‘Oh? Is that a shotgun?’
‘No, just an airgun. Pretty harmless. You don’t need a licence for them.’
‘But they can kill a crow, can they?’
‘Well, just about.’
‘It didn’t sound like an airgun,’ Karen said thoughtfully. ‘It was much louder than that, surely?’
Justin turned away, as if he hadn’t heard her. ‘They’re coming in for lunch in a minute, Mum,’ he threw over his shoulder at Hilary.
‘As if I didn’t know,’ she sighed. ‘Every day, I have to feed five grown workers, strictly at one o’clock. Would you believe it? It’s like feudal times.’
‘Five?’ Karen queried.
‘Husband, brother-in-law, son, tractor driver and a casual chap who comes on Wednesdays.’
‘Not counting yourself, then?’
‘Too busy to eat,’ Hilary laughed. ‘Though I suppose I pick so much through the day that I end up eating more than they do. I’m certainly not thin, am I?’
‘Not fat, either,’ said Karen. ‘But … the farm can support you all, can it? I thought things were at crisis point these days. How do you manage?’
Hilary shrugged. ‘Hand to mouth. We don’t buy much, don’t pay proper wages.’
Karen looked at the venerable farmhouse with a feeling of foreboding. On the face of it, it was indestructible, the surrounding land faithfully producing lush grass and whatever crops were profitable this year, but she knew it was much less secure than that. The economics of agriculture were on the brink of collapse. Despair prevailed and families like the Hendersons were hanging on by a thread.
And yet Hilary seemed genuinely contented with her life. She was busy, cheerful, sociable, unworried by events swirling around her, and the probable future her children could expect.
Lunch presented Karen with a difficulty that Hilary did not appear to have noticed. ‘Er – should we go now?’ she faltered. ‘If you’ve got to feed the family.’
‘Oh, no. Don’t be daft. I’ve got a special picnic prepared for us. We’ll have it out here, once I’ve sorted the hordes. There’s a shepherd’s pie in the Aga for them, and I’ll do some frozen peas to go with it. It’ll only take a few minutes, then I’ll be with you.’
The effortless organisation made Karen feel weak. ‘Shall I come and help?’ she said.
‘Of course not. Stay here and keep an eye on these little ones. I’ll bring it all out soon. Will Timmy wake up, do you think?’
‘He’ll probably be quite hungry soon. That usually gets him moving.’
They ate on the grass, like day trippers in a bygone age. Hilary provided cold sausages, hard-boiled eggs, mixed salad and home-baked bread rolls. They drank apple juice, and finished with yoghurt that was clearly homemade. It came in white china pots and had lumps of banana in it.
Stephanie ate slowly and minimally. Timmy had to be woken up and was groggily half-asleep throughout the meal. Karen found herself eating to excess, in an effort to make up for the children’s poor efforts. Hilary ate even more than Karen, despite seeming somewhat distracted.
Karen found herself wondering just what she was doing there. It felt like an invasion, notwithstanding Hilary’s relaxed hospitality. The children had evidently had enough, and were, in their own ways, also wondering about the visit.
‘I’d better be going soon,’ Karen said. ‘It’s been really lovely. Thanks. The kids really need to see some proper farms now and then. It’s not always easy to organise.’
‘No,’ agreed Hilary absently.
‘Funny, when you think about it – how cut off and remote farms are. I’ve got no real idea about what goes on here, on a daily basis.’
‘Karen,’ Hilary interrupted. ‘Do you have any theories about who killed Peter Grafton?’
Karen shot a worried glance at her daughter, but Stephanie was being bossy with Timmy, trying to force him to eat some yoghurt, and did not seem to be listening.
‘Absolutely none,’ she said frankly. ‘Have you?’
‘Not at all. It seems crazy. Here we are, more than a week later, and it all seems to have gone cold. What are we supposed to make of it?’
‘I suppose it’s most likely to have to do with this supermarket contract. You know about that? He was going to supply fresh apple juice to SuperFare.’
‘Yes, I knew that,’ Hilary nodded. ‘I think we all did, one way or another.’
‘I didn’t.’ Karen felt fleetingly resentful.
‘Ah. Well, he didn’t exactly broadcast it, knowing how we felt about it all. But somehow we all got to know about it.’
‘Drew and Den are both interested in solving it,’ Karen laughed self-consciously. ‘That sounds odd, I suppose. Drew’s been involved in murders before, one way and another, and Den was a police detective, so he takes a professional interest. Or, rather …’ she paused in confusion.
‘The interest of an ex-professional?’ Hilary suggested. ‘I suppose that makes sense. He must be feeling a bit left out.’
‘You know him, do you?’
‘Sort of. I know he’s with your Maggs. I haven’t ever spoken to him, as far as I can remember. He came to the market an hour or two before Peter was killed. I noticed him.’
‘People do, with him being so tall,’ Karen nodded. ‘Anyway, there’s not much teamwork going on,’ she continued. ‘Drew’s busy, and Maggs seems a bit distracted these days. We all seem to know different bits of the story, and never get together to pool it all. Basically, I think we’re just playing at it this time. And yet, I knew Peter. I feel I ought to be making a lot more effort.’
‘And Drew’s doing his funeral,’ Hilary put in quietly.
‘Yes. Tomorrow. He’s seen Julie, and Sally. Geraldine had a word with him, too.’ She munched on yet another bread roll. ‘It’s all arranged, I think. At least it means the cause of death was straightforward.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Oh, letting them have the body for burial. They wouldn’t do that if they thought there was any risk of somebody’s defence lawyer wanting another post-mortem.’
Hilary held up both hands to stop her. ‘Defence lawyer?’ she queried.
‘When the murder comes to trial,’ Karen explained. ‘When they catch who did it.’
‘You think they’ll catch him, do you?’
Karen nodd
ed, scarcely pausing to think. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘They’re sure to catch him in the end.’
‘I admire your confidence in the forces of law and order,’ said Hilary.
Karen heard the irony. ‘No you don’t,’ she smiled. ‘But let’s not worry about it.’
‘We really do have to get together, all four of us, and pool our findings,’ said Maggs. She was with Den in the car, on Thursday morning. ‘I’m going to tell Drew the same thing.’
And she did. ‘Can we have a proper meeting this evening?’ she persisted. ‘Is Karen going to be in?’
‘I think so,’ he agreed. ‘But she might not feel very cooperative. I get the impression she’s rather sick of the whole business.’
‘Well, then, the sooner we clear it up the better,’ said Maggs.
‘We’ve got the funeral before that,’ he reminded her. ‘Busy, busy.’
‘Right boss,’ she said.
Elsie Watkins was buried that morning, at ten thirty, with minimal ceremony. Despite their best efforts, Drew and Maggs could not prevent their attention from returning repeatedly to the oncoming funeral that afternoon. Peter Grafton was going to be their most famous interment so far. His murder had made the national press, albeit not as headline news. There would be reporters, police, curious onlookers and shell-shocked relatives. There would be Sally Dabb, Julie Grafton and even Della Gray. All the women – as far as they knew – who had harboured fond feelings for him. There would be Geraldine Beech and Hilary Henderson, and perhaps Mary Thomas to complete the threesome of local witch-women.
Maggs chattered animatedly to Drew over their snatched lunch. ‘We haven’t really been very good in keeping our promise to Sally Dabb, have we?’ she said. ‘We told her we’d try and scotch the rumours about her, and I for one haven’t mentioned it to a soul. What about you?’
He shook his head. ‘I haven’t really seen anybody,’ he said.
‘It’s a lonely life you lead,’ she sighed unsympathetically.
‘Shut up,’ he said.
But Maggs was irrepressible. ‘Who else do you think will come? Is the vicar going to say the right things? Is it the usual organist? I hope he doesn’t leak.’
Leaking was a particular hazard with natural burials. The conventional undertakers used endless quantities of white plastic sheeting to line coffins and wrap bodies, to prevent just such an eventuality. Peaceful Repose Burials were environmentally sensitive, and that meant not using plastic. Instead they made the best of hessian, shredded paper and in extreme circumstances, wood shavings. Anything absorbent and lightweight.
‘He won’t leak,’ said Drew. ‘And the organist is Eileen Hopworthy, as always. Why are you so agitated?’
She crossed her arms over her front as if cold. ‘I don’t know,’ she shivered. ‘Premonition?’
Drew gave a melodramatic sigh. ‘Don’t get into that,’ he said. ‘It’s bad enough as it is, without you seeing into the future.’
They had a checklist of details in the run-up to the funeral. The two of them, plus Peter Grafton’s brother and a neighbour, were carrying the coffin in and out of the church. They had decided against using any vehicles, as was often the case. The church was three hundred yards up the road, so the entire gathering would follow it from Drew’s office to church for the service, and back again for burial. It worked well enough, although rain made for complications, and Drew could never quite reconcile himself to the inclusion of a church service at all. His ideal was a pagan or humanist ceremony at the graveside, where everybody who wanted to freely expressed their thoughts and feelings, saying goodbye in their own ways. The intervention of a minister of religion never failed to offend him.
But Maggs persistently reminded him that some people were actually Christian as well as environmentally sensitive. And for a Christian, the presence of a vicar was essential. So it seemed was the case with Peter Grafton.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The service was due to begin at three. Fifteen minutes beforehand, Julie Grafton arrived, in a small blue car driven by a man who Drew recognised as the brother who was to be a bearer. He went out to meet them.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t come again to view him,’ she said composedly. ‘I decided against it. I hope you weren’t waiting for me?’
‘We were ready for you, but it’s not a problem,’ Drew assured her. ‘Do you want to wait out here? I’m afraid we don’t really have a waiting room.’
‘I thought I should be a bit early. Then I can welcome people as they arrive.’ She wore a pair of smart black trousers, and a long black tunic, making her seem much taller and slimmer than Drew would have thought possible. Her face was pale, but she was carefully made-up and her hair looked as if it had just been freshly washed and styled. A woman acting the part of a new widow for all it was worth, he judged. Some women seemed to confuse funerals with weddings, which he supposed was not too hard to understand.
Somewhat to his surprise, the next to arrive, on foot, were Della and Bill Gray. Mentally, he checked the day, and whose turn it was with the kids. Thursday – Karen. Right.
Della almost threw herself at Julie, her face crumpling. ‘Oh, Jules! How on earth are you coping? How can you bear it?’
Drew watched in trepidation for Julie’s reaction. Almost anybody would give way under such an approach, he thought. But the widow was serene. She pushed Della away slightly, with a flicker of distaste around the mouth. ‘I’m surviving,’ she said. Then she looked past Della to Bill, as if asking him to remove his annoying wife. He appeared to get the message, and took hold of Della’s arm.
‘It’s good of you to come,’ Julie said to him.
‘Peter and I were old mates,’ Bill said. ‘I’m going to miss him.’
Cars began to draw up along the lane outside Drew’s hedge. Maggs always put a sign out to indicate where people should park.
‘Looks like quite a turnout,’ she reported, at five to three. ‘Some members of the press, as well. I’m going to tell them to move their cars further down, to leave room for the proper mourners.’
Drew watched in admiration as she marched off, in her smart black funeral outfit, to issue her instructions. It seemed she was sufficiently authoritative: three cars moved jerkily down the lane in reverse to the spot she indicated.
Drew mobilised the bearers, and they carried the cardboard coffin at a respectable pace down the leafy country lane. Overhead were larks and rooks, chaffinchs and even a distant curlew. The bright green leaves of early summer filtered the sunlight onto the procession, and a sense of timelessness descended for a moment. Mixed as his feelings were towards the undue ritualisation of death, Drew enjoyed a pang of satisfaction at the way it was going.
The church service lasted a brief twenty minutes, with one hymn and a eulogy. Julie had elected not to speak, and nobody else had come forward. The vicar had at least known Peter, and much of what he said was apposite. A man of strong ideals, a go-ahead innovator, a pillar of the community and popular with everyone. That just about covers it, thought Drew.
Then they shouldered the coffin and retraced their steps. The procession behind seemed to straggle a little more this time, and the coffin felt considerably heavier. The people from the media were behaving well, hanging back and refraining from taking premature photographs or questioning the mourners. They’d probably get a bit more pushy when it came to the actual interment, Drew supposed. His natural burials still attracted considerable interest.
As they rounded the bend, Drew saw Karen and the four children in her care standing in the garden, watching their approach. His first reaction was to sigh inwardly with irritation. He’d told her he didn’t want the children in evidence during a funeral. But then he remembered that Karen would have liked to attend the service, and had been prevented by Della’s firm insistence that her boys were not to be in the main part of the action. Della would probably be considerably more irritated to see them there now, witnessing the latter part of the funeral.
If any
thing, the sun seemed even brighter as it began its slow decline to the west. They were sideways on to it, and Drew felt his arm and leg getting warm in the dark clothes, on that side. He heard again a lark over a grass field close by.
He glanced at Maggs sharing the front end of the coffin with him, wondering whether she was struggling with the weight. She seemed to have a knack of perching the corner on her shoulder in such a way that she could walk freely and balance it with only the lightest hold. She met his eye and winked. Behind them, the two volunteers were rocking the coffin slightly, as they fell out of step for a moment. Drew often thought it would be much safer for him and Maggs to take the rear, since there was less chance of the whole thing being dropped that way – but he also felt he should lead the procession, which meant being at the front.
It was impossible to look back. Sally Dabb had arrived late, and sat at the back of the church. Geraldine Beech had gathered her friends about her, and sung loudly. Drew could hear her voice now, three or four people back in the procession, but didn’t know who she was talking to.
They were nearly there. Karen had come forward, almost hanging over the small gate from their front garden to the road. Stephanie was perched precariously on the garden wall, her head slightly lower than Karen’s, and only two or three inches distant from it. Timmy was peering through the bars of the gate, but Finian and Todd were nowhere to be seen.
And then, without any ceremony or warning or fanfare, it happened. There was an explosive crack, from somewhere very close, and Karen gracefully keeled over backwards, releasing the gate as she did so. A silence that seemed to last forever was finally broken by Stephanie’s scream.
‘Mummy!!’
