THE AFFACOMBE AFFAIR
Pollard & Toye Investigations
Book Two
Elizabeth Lemarchand
To B.V.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
ALSO IN THE POLLARD & TOYE INVESTIGATIONS SERIES
Chapter One
The Crownmoor village of Affacombe lay in an enormous silence under the midnight stars. A solitary lighted rectangle indicated the sitting-room window of Poldens where Olivia Strode sat absorbed at a workmanlike desk. Presently she turned a page with a rasp. The church clock gave three metallic hiccoughs which vanished without trace, like stones dropped into deep water. Surfacing, Olivia swept off a large pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, blinked and realized that her son David could arrive at any moment. She leant back and listened, but the intensity of the silence seemed to sound in her ears. Then an expression of certainty came over her face, and she got up and went to her kitchen to heat a saucepan of soup. Leaving it on the cooker, she flung open the front door, letting a shaft of light fall across the street. As a powerful car streaked along the main road below the village she was disappointed, but almost at once noticed the lights of a stationary vehicle which had already taken the Affacombe turning. Surely it must be David — what on earth was he doing? But as the question framed in her mind the car began to move forward, and in less than a minute a mini braked outside Poldens. Her son grinned through the driver’s window.
‘Sorry I’m so appallingly late, Mamma,’ he said, extracting his six feet of length and giving her a hug. ‘Just on twelve, isn’t it?’
‘It doesn’t matter a scrap,’ she told him, ‘especially as you were so thoughtful about ringing up to say you’d feed on the way down. I’ve got soup and sandwiches laid on, and the garage is open.’
‘Jolly good. I’ll run her in and be with you.’
Affacombe was nine hundred feet up, and there was a nip in the September night. The Strodes drew armchairs up to the electric fire in the sitting-room and settled themselves for an exchange of news.
‘Thank heaven it wasn’t raining,’ David remarked as he wolfed ham sandwiches. ‘Perfect night for the run, really, except for the odd patch of mist in the valleys. I’d hoped to get off much earlier, but there’s been a rush of work this week, and in the end I got caught up in the Friday evening traffic snarl. Better not to make difficulties when you’re a new boy, though.’
Olivia nodded, thankful for his common sense. Things might have been so different. Her husband’s sudden death when David was ten had left her with the responsibility for the boy’s education and launching, but she’d been incredibly fortunate. He’d gone straight through school and his articles, and now was a partner — even if a very junior one — in a well-established firm of London solicitors at thirty. There remained the marriage that she wanted for him so badly...
‘You see,’ he was saying with apparent inconsequence, ‘I particularly wanted to get down this weekend.’
She felt a tremor of excitement as she recognized the indirect statement which he’d employed from childhood to tell her something important which he didn’t want to discuss for the moment. This must mean that he’d known Julian Wrey was coming home too. Could he be going to propose to her at last? Had he got himself over the hurdle of her money?
‘Well, you’ve hit on some marvellous weather,’ she replied, taking her cue. ‘The Ainsworths have got up a bathing-cum-tea party at the school swimming pool tomorrow afternoon. I said you were coming down, but didn’t commit you, of course. It’s a kind of open invitation.’
As she expected, David refrained from giving any undertaking.
‘Aren’t the boys back yet?’ he asked.
‘No. Term begins next week. Boys’ prep schools always seem to have fantastically long holidays.’
He put down his cup and saucer, stretched, and smothered a huge yawn.
‘Time we turned in, isn’t it? I feel I could sleep for a week. It’s so marvellously quiet after London, especially the hellish planes.’
Her mind went back to his arrival.
‘Why did you draw up just beyond the turning tonight?’
David looked at her with amusement.
‘Little escapes the notice of Mrs Olivia Strode, the well-known local historian,’ he enunciated with the inflections of a broadcast talk. ‘It’s all this scouring the countryside for hut circles and what-not, I suppose... I was intrigued by a car which was determined not to pass me, and thought I might get a glimpse of it in the mirror, but it went past the turning at such a lick once I was out of the way that I wasn’t much the wiser.’
‘Was it a van? There’s been some sheep-stealing from moor farms lately.’
‘Definitely not a van. A big dark saloon of the high-powered sort. Someone fairly local out with somebody else’s wife is my guess.’
White mist blanketed the combe at dawn on Saturday, September 20th, but by ten-thirty when Olivia Strode came out of Poldens the sun was unchallenged in a cloudless sky. She carried a trug of gladioli from her garden and set off briskly up the village street in the direction of the church, her comfortably plump, rather short figure sensibly dressed in a navy-blue tub frock. Her progress was marked by exchanges of greetings with passers-by and figures in doorways, for she was no longer considered an incomer. It was on her honeymoon, thirty years ago, that she and John Strode had chanced on Affacombe, found Poldens up for sale, and decided to buy it for a holiday cottage. She still found the village and its setting enchanting, and on this perfect September morning gazed with pleasure at the granite and cob cottages curving up the hill, their gardens blazing with rich autumn colour. On the far side of the combe the massive ridge of Sinneldon was already touched here and there with dull gold, crimson and purple, promise of splendour to come.
Turning down Church Lane she went through the lych-gate and up the path to the south porch. The door stood open, and she was greeted by a buzz of conversation, and a strong smell of flowers, greengrocery and metal polish. An angular figure emerged from the space under the tower at the west end, wearing a straw hat and an overall and carrying a dustpan and brush.
‘Oh, there you are, Olivia. I was beginning to wonder, but you’ve got your boy, of course. Your vases are all ready for you, over by the font. I’ve kept a sharp look-out after what happened at Easter — Yes, Mrs Allcut, I’m just coming. One thing about Patronal and Harvest, it gets the green frontal off, and we can give the altar a good brush down.’
Before Olivia could reply, Hilda Rainbird, an energetic spinster who functioned as sacristan, had darted up the aisle to superintend operations in the chancel. The church was dedicated to St Matthew, and sensibly combined its patronal festival on September 21st with its harvest festival, although a minority of the parishioners strongly resented the arrangement. After a little tactful admiration of other people’s efforts Olivia went over to the font and set to work herself. Crudely fashioned and roughly ornamented the font never failed to stir her imagination. It was far older than the existing church, and almost certainly older than the replaced Norman church. Its millennium of association with human faith and religious emotion gave it great serenity and dignity, she thought, as she began grouping her flowers.
She noticed that Barbara Winship’s window had already been decorated, and wondered if Julian had taken her mother into Leeford for shopping. David would almost certainly have gone round to Crossways as soon as he’d finished his very late breakfast.
A voice broke in on her thoughts.
‘Mornin’, Mrs Strode. Real beautiful, your flowers.’
Olivia looked up from her knees to see Mrs Earwaker, a buxom young Affacombe matron, vigorously polishing the brass ewer.
‘Good morning, Ethel,’ she said. ‘Yes, they’ve done well this year. The church is going to be a mass of colour, isn’t it?’
Ethel Earwaker, who belonged to the dissident minority, refused to be placated.
‘Maybe ‘twill,’ she replied, ‘but I still says ‘tis a shame Patronal’s bin put atop o’ Harvest. Does us out of a festival, like. Festival should be Revel Day, shouldn’t’n?’
‘Us doan’t want Patronal ten days afore Christmas,’ protested another voice. ‘You’m daft, Ethel Earwaker.’
‘Patronal oughter be Revel Day b’rights,’ Ethel persisted. ‘Allus wur, till some ole bishop altered’n.’
Olivia listened fascinated to this evidence of the incredible length of village memories. The original dedication had been to a St Lucca, undoubtedly a Saxon goddess of light taken over by Christian missionaries, and associated with the Roman St Lucy, whose feast-day falls on December 15th, significantly near the winter solstice. Affacombe’s St Lucca had retained a ‘revel’, far removed from Christian piety, and the church had been allowed to fall into a ruinous state. It had been rebuilt in the thirteenth century during the reign of the indefatigable Bishop Whitcombe, who had no doubt insisted on a fresh dedication, well separated in the calendar from the dubious St Lucca and the junketings. But resentment at this interference by a foreigner still lingered on into the late twentieth century.
Her flowers arranged to her satisfaction, Olivia began reluctantly to heap the inevitable fruit and vegetables between the vases.
‘It’s the thought of distributing it all on Monday that makes me feel weak,’ remarked Jane Fairhall, the Vicar’s wife, as she passed.
‘I’ll be along with the car as usual,’ Olivia told her. ‘David has to go back tomorrow.’
‘Careful!’ trumpeted Hilda Rainbird from the altar steps.
Jane Fairhall winked at Olivia. A small procession advanced awkwardly up the aisle, supporting the best golden frontal slung on a pole. It gleamed in the sunlight which streamed through the south windows. Olivia thought with amusement that St Lucca might still be said to have a stake in the land.
Chapter Two
Finishing his breakfast in the kitchen at Poldens, David Strode was suddenly possessed by panic. Suppose Julian turned him down? A tacit understanding was all very well, but what an arrogant fool he’d been to imagine that she was going to hang about for him until he brought himself to make a move. All because his idiotic pride had jibbed at her money. All those doctors at the Highcastle Hospital where she’d been working because she wanted to do something useful — a vision of TV medicos invaded his agitated mind. He set down his cup with a clatter and got up from the table. He’d go round to Crossways at once, and only hope they’d be able to shake off her mother and old Winship.
A little surprised to find himself in the role of a frantic lover he set off up the village street. Admittedly he’d been a bloody fool about the money, but if you hadn’t had a father since you were a kid, and had seen your mother carrying the can for years, you felt you wanted to do absolutely everything for the woman you married. Illogical, perhaps, but that was how he felt. All at once he knew for a certainty that Julian would understand.
Crossways, the home of the retired Colonel Hugh Winship, Julian’s step-father, was a small Queen Anne house opposite the Church Lane turning. David went up the drive and round to the front. The Colonel was in his shirtsleeves, bedding out wallflowers, and raised a trowel in greeting.
‘Morning, m’boy,’ he said. ‘Glad to see you. M’wife and Julian have gone into Leeford. Should be back any minute. We’ll have a cup of coffee. Julian said she thought you might be turning up this weekend.’
An odd little trait of Julian’s, this reluctance to count chickens, David thought. He’d written to tell her he was coming.
‘Morning, sir,’ he said. ‘Nice healthy lot of plants you’ve got there.’
‘Raised ‘em from seed. Should have got ‘em out before. Touch of frost last night. How’s the law?’
David sat down on the grass, clasping his hands round his knees, and obliged with anecdotes from his recent professional activities. Colonel Winship worked with dexterity and speed, inching along on his knees, and uttering a guffaw from time to time. At last, after what seemed an eternity, there was a toot from the direction of the gate, and a car came round the side of the house. As David scrambled to his feet to open the door for Barbara Winship he intercepted a look and a smile from Julian which set his heart racing.
‘My dear David, how delightful,’ Barbara said, making herself heard with difficulty above the frenzy of two Jack Russell terriers struggling to get out of the car. She handed him a shopping basket. ‘Thanks so much. Your mother’s still in church, I suppose? Noble woman! I’m afraid I did my window early and gave the Rainbird the slip. Otherwise I’d be there now. Ju, darling, some coffee would be quite marvellous, don’t you think?’
It was generally conceded that Barbara Winship was an attractive woman. Her fair prettiness had lasted on into the forties, and she was invariably soignée and becomingly dressed. David found her rather languid charm irritating. He thought her self-centred, and unobtrusively skilled in engineering her own comfort. It came home to him once again how uncongenial he would find her as a mother-in-law.
‘I’ll take the basket in. There are some things for the fridge.’
Julian had come round the front of the car, and he wondered how even the Rockefeller millions could have mattered to him for a single moment. She was small and lightly-built, with shining dark hair and bright dark eyes, and when she smiled the corners of her rather wide mouth curved up puckishly, dissolving the gravity of her face in repose.
‘Can’t I help?’
Their fingers touched as he handed over the basket.
‘No, thanks. There’s really nothing to do. I left the coffee perking. Stay and talk to Mummy while I collect it.’
She was quite right, of course. This wasn’t the context for the most important decision of their lives. He stared after her until Barbara’s voice broke in.
‘Could you move this chair just a tiny bit, so that my head’s in the shade, David? Thanks so much. That’s perfect. Come and sit down and talk to me.’
He took the seat she indicated, aware of a keen, if veiled scrutiny. He suspected that Julian’s marriage might well affect her financially.
‘I gather from Mamma that we’ve all been asked up to the Priory this afternoon,’ he said by way of conversation.
‘I simply adore that heavenly house,’ Barbara remarked, her eyes half-closed as though visualising it. ‘I could sit and look at it indefinitely. It makes me yearn for the days of gracious living.’
‘Must have been damn cold to live in before central heating,’ said her husband, coming up to join them and winking at David.
‘Darling, you’re laughing at me as usual, but just imagine walking down that glorious staircase in the manner born, taking it all for granted. Rather wonderful, don’t you think?’ She turned interrogatively to David.
‘Personally I should have disliked quite a lot of things in the Country House Age,’ he replied, deliberately judicial. ‘The place crawling with servants, for one thing. Popping up when you weren’t expecting them. No real privacy.’
The Colonel agreed, ramming tobacco into a pipe with an earthy thumb.
‘Menace,’ he commented briefly.
There was a chinking of china in the background. David rose thankfully to take the coffee tray from Julian.
It emerged that they were all four going to the Ainsworths party, and that Julian and David intended to swim.
‘It’s a super bath,’ Julian remarked. ‘Those boys are jolly lucky.’
‘Garnish must have spent a fortune on modernizing the place,’ said David. ‘Unless Ainsworth pays him a whacking rent for the school part he can’t be seeing much of a return on his money.’
‘It seems to me a pretty good arrangement from the Garnishes’ side, all the same. The West Wing makes them a lovely little country house. It’s quite private, but near enough for the Ainsworths to keep an eye on it when it’s empty. And a well-run school’s about the least objectionable thing to have in the rest of the place. It only functions for about eight months of the year.’
‘Anyway, I don’t suppose money enters into it,’ said Barbara. ‘They’re absolutely rolling. There was a lot about Countrywide Properties in the paper the other day, wasn’t there, Hugh, and then there’s his Mayfair estate agency.’
‘Can’t think why the chap doesn’t pull out and come down here, away from the stink and racket of London,’ said Colonel Winship, puffing contentedly. ‘Just can’t stop making a bit more, I suppose. Becomes a habit.’
Presently David caught Julian’s eye and looked at his watch.
‘I’d better be pushing off,’ he said. ‘Many thanks for the coffee. We’ll be foregathering this afternoon, then?’
Julian got up too. They strolled towards the drive.
‘Will you come out to dinner with me afterwards?’ he asked her, when they had rounded the comer of the house. ‘I rang up the Foxtor and booked a table on chance.’
‘I’d like to,’ she replied.
Silence descended. David stared at the long crest of Sinneldon, crowned with its three Bronze Age barrows, imprint of a time infinitely remote. All at once the evening seemed equally far removed. He stopped dead.
‘Julian,’ he said jerkily, ‘you will marry me, won’t you?’
The Affacombe Affair Page 1
