“Well done, well done Algie,” Valentine laughs throatily as he takes off his mask to reveal rivulets of sweat streaming down his face.”
Valentine’s rich cultured voice continues, every word articulated with precision, “A narrow victory I think but I must stop and talk to my friend here on whatever urgent business brings him to my threshold. We shall have a drink next time perhaps?”
A hand shake and his opponent departs to the showers and one of England’s earliest Turkish baths that still lie down the narrow twisting stairs behind the fireplace to the marbled basement.
***
Valentine smiles almost shyly as he turns to me. Bosom friends for thirty years, we greet each other warily, almost like strangers. Shared disappointment at our mutual reticence moves us then into a natural, if belated hug.
“Do you remember we all used to fence here?” Valentine asks to redress the awkwardness.
That last summer when Bess, Val and I were all eight years old and still together, us two boys had been eager to learn the romantic sport of fencing. The spectre of separation was not yet in the air. Bess, at first reluctant to play ‘this stupid boy’s game’, had proved supreme. The medieval sport of gentlemen was in her blood it seemed. She had thereafter challenged either of us to a duel that summer if we upset her and with quicksilver feet and hands always won.
We both know the other is having that very same vivid memory. We pause. I see the ravages of grief and sorrow on Valentine’s face as much as mine, a revelation of our inner souls. He breaks the moment by moving to a small wooden table to one side, covered in a purple velvet cloth. He hovers a decanter over two fine balloon glasses.
“Brandy?”
Valentine generously fills his own and sits down on a carved wooden bench by the wall even as I shake my head. My mother sees Val regularly and told me her worries that he is now consumed by God, drink and money.
Coming here is a mistake. The ghosts of so many memories are tangible figures on this spot. The three of us as youngsters, us two boys as teenagers when he was home from boarding school, and then us all together once more after Bess and I met again by pure chance elsewhere, married and returned to Ancaster County. Now we two survivors are almost strangers, the past another country, as deep and dark as Valentine’s lake with memories like weeds curling up to entangle us.
Yet I love this man, always have since standing with him against the village lads who thought us both strange and fair game for bullying that first day together at D'Eynscourte Village Primary School. Marshall and Smith were the leaders of the pack. Valentine was small and branded a weakling for being an orphan without a father or mother.
He might be rich and the future Lord of the Manor but kids were not yet aware they needed to be deferential or careful with him as they would certainly be now. I was the same, seen as weak with no father to protect me, and worse, a ‘furriner’ from Lilburne, a good five miles away. Soon I was seen as ‘a clever clogs’ too, one who always had a book in his hand even then. The other kids grouped Bess with us as she was very smartly dressed, small, posh of accent and often carried her flute case, a sure sign of being different.
An inevitable and natural trio, we formed a circle like a gaggle of baby penguins covered in vulnerable fur. Better able together to fend off the bigger birds of prey that would devour us if given the chance.
Conflict had come that first week when Marshall and Smith bragged that they could pee up the toilet wall higher than anyone, a gang gathered us up and imprisoned us in the outside urinals. When a shy Valentine declined to take part, the two older boys, with Bull quietly egging them on, pushed his head into the toilet and were about to flush it.
Even at five, I could be all anger beyond reason at unfairness and became a whirling dervish who tore into the bigger two, throwing punches, kicking out and taking heavy blows as the shouts of ‘Fight, fight’ drew a ring of spectators and Headmistress Miss Martha Loam to break things up. After that, I was normally to the fore to defend us three, showing a quickness of speed and willingness to endure pain and keep fighting no matter my losing situation.
It took two years for Sam to persuade my mother to let him take me to the boxing club. ‘Be good for the lad, keep him fit, teach him self-defence, discipline, to control that temper, he does not need to get in the ring.’ My mother reluctantly agreed and off I went, just a few exercises, no real control of my limbs at seven but I just felt at home and longed for my weekly visits. At nine I had a smattering of controlled movement, combinations, speed and watchful self-control. After being afraid of him I came to love Daniel, the owner and trainer at Merian boxing gym, and the very look, smell, taste and atmosphere of the old place. Sam took me every week and always came back for me to joke with Daniel, ‘Have I created a monster?’
Val, Bess, myself were inseparable in and outside of school for three years and eventually left alone by the bullies who found other targets. Lost in searing summers, mystic winters, magical spring times and colourful autumns spent at each other’s houses, our great delight was ever the giant playground that was D'Eynscourte Hall and its vast estate.
It all ended abruptly without warning that summer as I was eight, leaving me heartbroken. My father had left me before I even knew him, now Valentine left for boarding school and Bess’ parents were killed in a road accident and she went to London almost overnight to live with a maiden aunt, lost to me entirely. I saw Valentine each holiday, though skiing and trips to the south of France often took him away even then. We two wrote and stayed close throughout. I alone stayed at the primary school. Marshall and Smith, my would-be tormentors, moved on to Merian Comprehensive, and I was left alone with my books and stories that I devoured under Miss Loam’s guidance.
I became stronger friends with Henry Aystrup, Sam’s son, a year older than me who tragically died soldiering in Afghanistan some years ago. Times past, Henry and Bess and Grace all lost now it seems. The ghosts in my machine never dissipate. I see and feel them all with me still and always.
16
The child is the father of the man, says Wordsworth, and Valentine was and is a lovely natured creature. Blonde haired and freckled like my mother, he is tall, cheery friendliness at every turn. He always reacted with a smile even when bullied all those years ago, just standing there, taking whatever was thrown at him until he saw I needed him and helped as far as he could.
His ancestors in the huge portraits that peer down threateningly in the giant hall way and stairs are all dark but he is clearly one of them, carrying their hawk like nose and seemingly hooded grey eyes with irises black as ebony that turn on me now.
“Good to see you, Caleb, I was expecting to meet as usual next week, to share time on Bess and Grace’s ….” Valentine falters before he finishes, weakly, “you know.”
I can only nod as unbidden tears form. Valentine takes a large swig of alcohol then, staring into the mottled amber liquid as it swirls in the glass. A little plumper in the face and body now, the hint of mottled red beneath his clear white skin indicating a hardened drinker perhaps.
A regular visitor to our family home, he felt the loss of Bess and Grace as much as I, was impotent to help, sobbed himself to distraction the one and only time he could bear to come to our cottage a month after the disappearances.
A wonderful man who takes tradition and his responsibilities seriously in being the local squire, Chairman of the Magistrates and stalwart of the D’Eynscourte Hunt when it meets in splendour on his front lawn. He also throws his grounds open for summer fetes, skating on the lake, and spectacular light and firework shows Christmas Week followed by mulled wine and mince pies for hundreds.
A throwback, by natural inclination a benevolent local aristocrat, in a modern world where he does not fit. My mother worries he is changing. He tried to be a benevolent employer and landlord for the villages and farms he owns but accountants rule. Competition meant diversification and slashing cutting of costs on the estate in recent years. Such actions led to th
e estate evicting Sam and his wife from their farm worker’s cottage that was the family home for generations, and making Sam redundant. A devoted trade unionist, Sam had never ever spoken of my friendship with Valentine but I knew. He disapproved of the wealthy and powerful in general, and now for strong personal reasons. Eviction to a soulless flat in Merian was followed by the loss of his son in action, his wife’s death of a broken heart at their fate, and a demeaning job picking up road kill.
Still Val and I had roots that ran deep and essentially had avoided the sensitive subject of his wealth and status locally for decades. Who knows what he is thinking as these thoughts flash by in my mind. One thing I do note: he seems nervous but then so am I.
There is something else in the room too or perhaps on Valentine; an odour, a strong deodorant, a smell of spices perhaps? The log fire at the far end is burning low and sparking to remain bright. Perhaps the new style logs that are being developed to be scented as well as bright and warming?
“Official business I am afraid,” I say, fumbling for words, not wanting to use here what I know has become my norm, clubbing single words or phrases that I smash out at people.
We sit silently on the wooden bench at the side, beneath the various shields of the knights and their families that had faithfully, or unfaithfully, followed Val’s ancient ancestors and their intrigues in support of or against the Monarch at court.
Valentine stares at his drink, takes another major swig and quietly stands and refills, saying, “Are you absolutely sure you do not want one?”
I shake my head, explain about the sudden death of the woman in the ditch, the dinner party guests being the most likely witnesses, my wanting to get background on the Hakluyts who live there and who better for this than my old friend.
“The homeless woman?” he asks.
I shake my head, “Hardly.”
Val looks serious as I go on with a question I suddenly know the answer to even as I try to make it jocular, “And since it was no doubt a high-powered affair I assumed you would be at this dinner?”
He nods in agreement, “Seven for eight, drinks and then dinner. Five courses, exquisite wines. Extra special occasion for me, just heard I am to be the Lord Lieutenant of the County from next year.”
I smile congratulations, stand and shake his hand even while knowing that the position is just one more irrelevant relic that maintains an inefficient status quo. He will follow several of his ancestors into the role, no doubt wearing the same eighteenth-century velvet court dress uniform, tights, peaked hat and sword.
He swigs his drink down, refills, sits down again, his grey eyes troubled, “We left. One thirty in the morning. Hazy. Too much vino. Wanted to get a taxi. Young Bull insisted on taking me, stayed, brought me back. Hell of a night, freezing cold, horrible. I talked mainly with Rebecca, Hak’s wife, they wanted me to stay over.”
His mind drifts off then and I let things lie before I press on.
“No, did not see anything untoward, arriving or departing,” he says in answer, looking me directly in the eye.
And yet, he is uneasy, his gaze wandering then around the far wall, eyebrows frowning in concentration. His answers are all short sharp sentences and phrases, giving little away; a standard defence mechanism.
Valentine stares at the photograph of the woman I show from my iPad, the side portrait of death unsullied by injury.
Still he reacts with horror at death’s staring eye; sits, swigs, recovers though white of face, “A beautiful woman. I do not think I know her. I certainly did not see her Sunday night.”
An afterthought in whisper, “We did not hit her, Bull would have stopped if it was us.”
***
“Cold in here, the fire,” Valentine almost cries, abruptly standing, taking a long draught of brandy as he totters the twenty yards or more to tend the huge fireplace, throwing more logs on with slow studied precision. His head is turned away, deliberately it seems as my own uneasiness grows.
“So,’ I draw out the words when he returns, “you do not recognise the woman, arrived at seven and left after one thirty in the morning, not driving home yourself and you did not see her or her body at any time?”
Valentine souses himself back groggily onto his seat, shaking his head, his glass refreshed to the very brim once more. Is this the reason for the spicy odours in the room – to cover the smell of the habitual drunk which always returns even after one drink? His hands are steady but I can see how bloodshot his eyes are, even as they resolutely fix on the shields opposite before turning to stare through me with a firm nod of agreement.
“And who was at the dinner party?” I plough sadly on.
His voice retains its own bright lilt, “Charles and Rebecca Hakluyt, the hosts, their son young Rocco briefly, myself, and a few more, business people.”
Lightly, “And what was the gathering about?’
His gaze flies high over my head as he dredges his memory for a second, ‘Oh, nothing untoward, general chit chat.”
I know he is lying to me, for the first time ever. People such as him do not attend dinner parties for high flying business people without reason. Funny, as a copper, how often you just know. You meet so many cheats and liars that you almost cheer the truthful, helpful, respectful. Val must be under some undue influence to blatantly lie to me like this.
“Nothing untoward,” he whispers again almost to himself, like a mantra. “General chit chat.”
I feint to another detail, “And the fox, did you see or hit a fox as you arrived or left?
Bemused, Valentine shakes his head, “A fox, no, no.”
“Did your car hit this woman, what vehicle were you in?”
He shakes his head, as I strike again from a different angle, “And what time did the son come back, in his green car?”
“My Range Rover. Rocco was coming along the Albion drive near the house as we left. Bull waved to him, said it was him.”
I quiz Valentine as to precisely when this was and where on the drive but he clearly does not know.
“Bull, good man,” Valentine slurs slightly. “Show you our vehicle. For you to check. If you have to. Elimination, all that. Quite understand. Glad to help.”
His mind goes awry, “Though is it your case, too minor surely for Major Crimes?”
I pause before pressing again, “And the others at the dinner party were?”
Valentine looks down, embarrassed, sips his drink slowly now, articulating each word, “Not sure, ask Hak, the host, lives at Albion, banker, Charles Hakluyt, be best, he will know?”
I am certain now. Someone has told Valentine what to say and what not to reveal if someone comes calling. He is doing his best to comply when his normal open nature is simply not up to the task with me. I find it alien to speak to my friend this way. Like the fencing match I find myself probing, looking for weaknesses through which to thrust and unnerve him.
Epee laid aside, I take up the broadsword, “So Valentine, you spend six hours talking to, eating with people and cannot remember who they were apart from the few we already know?”
Valentine’s gaze is bleak, without response, as I say softly, “For the first time ever I do not believe you Val. You know but will not tell me. Why?”
He stands, merely stares at the burnished whirls of his drink as he lifts it to his lips, notes the distant logs sparkle through the mottled liquid. The shields and swords reflect the flames and creak lightly in umbrage at such impertinence here from a mere commoner. He stares at his own family shield opposite, the lions of England blazing in red, ‘Fulget virtus’. ‘Virtue shines forth’.
“Business, confidential, nothing untoward,” Valentine whispers finally, virtue having lost to the vices.
I leave an eerie silence, before my words echo in the rafters as I say softly, “A woman died Val, horribly, nothing is confidential.”
Hail suddenly drums on the high windows with a violence that unnerves us both as Valentine’s voice is low, “Business, boring. Good
for the area, for our people. Nothing worth killing for.”
Never swear to what you do not know, my friend.
17
The body of the dead woman in the ditch was in the wrong place.
I drive quietly with lights off at the last to within a half mile of the Albion House gates. Parked in a gateway, windows down, I listen. Sounds of trees shouldering snow on their branches creak in the gathering darkness. I hear rather than see crime scene tape fluttering loudly, but remain still and watchful. ‘Something wrong about where the body lay,’ Sam had said as we left.
It screamed out. The direction of tyre tracks at the impact point did not match the position of the body. The way the car hit the woman was from below slightly to the right but head on, which would have thrown her up in the air but straight backwards into the field. Not sideways down the road fifty yards into the ditch where he found her. Subject to a crash expert’s opinion of course. But I know: someone dumped that woman in that ditch, probably heard a splash as her arm or leg hit the water in the dark and assumed she had disappeared.
We did not have chance to look in the field earlier before the PC arrived. But when I went back to meet Odling and Whittle, forensics were not, had not been in the field as far as I could see and did not have sufficient officers there to do a full check in any event. It is dark now but I want to risk a quick look with my torch and come for a thorough look in daylight tomorrow.
But I am cautious as Odling may have left men on watch. I would. Perpetrators often return to the scene of their exploits, whether to enjoy it all over again, check they eradicated all clues or show remorse. For a hit and run they either want to go through it all at the location to convince themselves it was not their fault, or sadsts look to relive the moment. Whatever the reason, they return. Police watching the scene means you may catch them quickly and easily. If it was a hit and run the perpetrator could have known he hit something, hid the body in the ditch but want to be sure it has not been found. Odling has his man, Sam. So perhaps he will not have set a watch.
Bitter Pastoral_A DCI Caleb Cade Crime Thriller of rural Ancaster County. Page 10
