by Faith Martin
But making their way steadily towards her were the police officers with the blue-and-white police tape and little metal poles, who were intent on securing the area. As Jenny watched, one officer would competently hammer a little metal pole into the grass, whilst the other one wound the tape around and through it, before looping it along to the next pole.
The woman suddenly seemed to notice their approach and quickly set off. But not towards Jenny and the others, where a path leading back to the village could be found, but instead setting off across the rough field beyond. Clearly, she didn’t want to have to talk to the police, or be seen by any of the other spectators who were still hanging around.
Which instantly made Jenny sit up and take extra notice. So intent was she on watching this distinctly suspicious behaviour that it took a while for the cook to realise that she’d actually seen the woman somewhere before.
Jenny didn’t know why, but she’d have been willing to bet money (well, a modest amount!) that the stranger wasn’t just another random villager. Not someone who’d merely been lured out to see what was going on and, whilst curious to see what was happening, was at the same time anxious not to get actively involved.
What’s more, even from the quick glimpse that she’d just had of her, Jenny was now sure that the woman making her way smartly across the open field was the same red-haired woman in the trouser suit who’d been sitting at the bar at the inn the other day. The woman that she’d then subsequently seen talking angrily with Dr Rory Gilchrist sometime later, before storming off in a huff.
Jenny had assumed that she was Rory Gilchrist’s ex-wife, or an ex of some sort, and almost certainly the woman the Oxford academic had been so anxious to avoid that he’d actually paid to spend a weekend away from his home town.
Now what was she doing here, Jenny wondered. The cook hadn’t formed the impression that she’d been part of the Regency Extravaganza. And she wasn’t a guest at the inn, that was for sure.
What’s more, Jenny pondered thoughtfully, if she was here, was Rory also somewhere nearby? Quickly, she glanced around her, but there was still no sign of the silver fox. But had the woman expected to find him here and come looking for him? If he was deliberately avoiding her — and after their argument of the other evening that was a good bet — perhaps she’d had trouble tracking him down and had hoped to confront him again here?
Telling herself that all this speculation was pointless — what she badly needed were some plain and simple facts to go on — Jenny got up and approached a nearby uniformed police officer who had just finished talking to one of the villagers.
‘Hello. My name is Miss Jenny Starling. I’ve already spoken to Inspector Franklyn. I just wanted to make sure that I could go now?’ she asked politely.
‘Of course, madam. Can I just make sure I have your home address please? And contact details?’
Jenny gave him her mobile phone number and told him that she was currently staying at the Spindlewood Inn in the centre of the village. And when she heard him give her the go-ahead to leave, she felt a profound sense of relief. She just didn’t want to be in this lovely little beauty spot anymore. In fact, if she never saw another village pond again, she wouldn’t much care.
The short walk back to the inn felt a bit surreal. It was now nearly six in the evening, and the sun was beginning to sink ever lower in the horizon, taking on that faint reddish hue that promised a spectacular sunset.
The village itself looked rather eerily deserted. Probably it was the time of evening when most families were indoors eating, or preparing to go out and eat. As a result, she hardly saw a soul until she reached the inn. Which left her feeling vaguely disconnected, as if she was in one of those films where she was the sole survivor after some sort of apocalypse.
That feeling of aloneness was shattered, however, the moment she pushed through the inn doors and into the bar, which was full of people and the low hum of intense conversation.
The first person she saw was Min Buckey, sitting at the bar and drinking what looked like a large gin and tonic. Beside her, Silas watched her anxiously, barely sipping at a half-pint of what looked like cider.
Behind the bar, Richard Sparkey wiped some wine glasses clean with a spotless white cloth, and watched them a shade nervously. Further down the bar, Muriel was handing over a frothing pint of beer to Old Walter, who pounced on it with glee.
And there, sitting in Jenny’s favourite window seat, was Dr Rory Gilchrist. Evidently, the woman in the trouser suit hadn’t tracked him down, for he was placidly reading a local paper, and sipping from a glass containing what looked to Jenny like a shot of neat whisky.
There were a number of people sitting at the bar and tables, drinking and talking earnestly, and it was clear that the news had already travelled back to the inn. Which wasn’t particularly surprising. Jenny knew that news in any village tended to travel faster than wildfire — and that bad news travelled fastest of all.
As she approached the bar, intending to order a big snifter of warming brandy to counteract her own case of mild shock, Richard straightened up slightly. ‘So it’s true then. Rachel Norman drowned?’ he asked quietly, the moment she was within earshot.
‘Yes,’ she said curtly. ‘I take it you and Muriel didn’t come down to watch the show then?’
‘Nah, too much clearing up to do here after lunch,’ he said flatly. Which instantly reminded Jenny that she was supposed to be getting an evening supper ready for anyone who wanted it.
But she’d been kept for hours at the pond, and was now hopelessly behind schedule. When she said as much, to her intense relief Richard told her to forget it. Nobody would be expecting — or in the mood — to eat, he reasoned, and if anyone did want to, some cold meats and salad would just have to do them. ‘Besides, I reckon all this lot,’ and here he nodded at the crowd around him, ‘have only come here to gossip, not eat, anyway,’ he added morosely.
Jenny nodded gratefully and ordered a brandy. It was completely unlike her to not feel like getting to work in the kitchen, but the afternoon’s events had completely taken it out of her. Her hands, as she reached for the drink, felt cold and a little numb.
‘You look done in. Pretty grim, was it?’ he asked, pushing the bulbous glass towards her.
Jenny nodded mutely, swirled the deep amber liquid in the bottom of the large glass and gratefully took a sip. Instantly as she felt the spirit slide down her throat, it began to warm her from the inside out. ‘I expect the police will be along shortly,’ she warned him wearily. ‘They’ll be wanting to speak to Min and Silas for sure, and everyone else who knew Rachel,’ she added.
Again, Richard sighed. ‘Not good for business, something like this,’ he said quietly.
But Jenny thought, rather cynically, that it would probably have the opposite effect. Knowing human nature, customers would probably come flooding to the inn once the story hit the papers, eager to try and pick up the gossip first-hand, and see for themselves where the drowned woman had played the role of another drowned heroine.
With a non-committal grunt, Jenny took her brandy and made her way to the table nearest the window seat. As she sat down, she caught the Oxford don’s eye, but Dr Gilchrist merely nodded at her curtly and went on reading his newspaper. Then she felt a movement behind her, and Rory’s head came up. His gaze moved past her shoulder, and she saw his eyes widen slightly.
Jenny turned, half-expecting to see the woman in the trouser suit, but instead saw Vince Braine.
‘Rory! I’m so glad I caught you here. I’ve just heard the most extraordinary thing! Is it true?’ The country solicitor looked pale and a little harried as he joined his old friend on the window seat. In his hand he was carrying what looked like a vodka and tonic in a square glass. ‘Is Rachel really dead?’ he demanded.
‘So it seems,’ Rory said curtly. ‘I was writing up that article I told you about in my room when the stragglers started to get back.’ He nodded at the various members of the historical society
and other audience members who were scattered around the bar area. ‘So I came down and started picking up the gist of it from what I could overhear.’
‘But it’s . . . it’s just unbelievable. What on earth happened?’ Vince squeaked.
Rory shrugged impatiently. ‘How the hell should I know? I wasn’t even there. Sounds to me like she went in the water and must have had a heart attack or a stroke or something.’
‘A heart attack? But Rachel was young and healthy. I never heard she had anything wrong with her heart.’
‘Maybe it was something else then,’ Rory said brusquely. ‘Like I said, I wasn’t there.’ Then he said, a shade more kindly, ‘I dare say the cause of death will be established sooner or later. They’re bound to do an autopsy, after all.’
At this, Vince took a hasty sip from his glass. ‘Poor Rachel,’ he said. ‘She was so lovely, wasn’t she? And so full of plans for the future too. Oh Lord, how she went on about that commercial being her stepping stone to getting a part in one of the soaps,’ he smiled fondly. ‘And why not? Who’s to say she wouldn’t have made it big?’ he demanded. ‘Others before her have done just that. And now . . . It just doesn’t bear thinking about. And now it makes me wonder . . .’
He left off, a strange look passing over his face.
And Jenny suddenly remembered the last time she’d heard Rachel and Vince speaking together. And what Rachel had asked the solicitor. And Jenny began to wonder too.
‘Wonder what?’ Rory said, again a shade brusquely.
‘Oh nothing,’ Vince said hastily. ‘So, how are things now between you and Diana?’ he rather clumsily changed the subject.
‘That bloody woman just won’t give up,’ Rory exploded, then glanced hurriedly around the room and lowered his voice a shade. ‘She’s already tracked me down here — well, I told you about that. Do you know she’s actually had a private investigator on to me? I mean, a bloody PI! I thought they only existed in bad American films.’
Vince sighed. ‘Did she say what this investigator found out? Presumably she has no interest in, er . . . any lady friends you might have made since the divorce?’
Rory gave a snort of angry laughter. ‘As if she cares about that! You know damn well what she’s got this nosy bloody parker trying to root out. I told you — with Diana it’s all about the money. As if she didn’t bleed me dry in the divorce as it was.’
Vince Braine sighed and took another sip of his drink. ‘Rory, you haven’t done anything silly have you?’ he asked so quietly that Jenny almost couldn’t hear him.
‘Silly? Me? I’m the least silly person I know,’ Rory drawled.
‘Now, Rory, don’t go all sophisticated and witty on me,’ Vince said sharply. ‘I’m the one who handled your divorce, don’t forget. And if Diana has any basis for her claims, then you’re not the only one who’ll be in hot water. Mud sticks, especially for people like me. Small firms like ours can’t afford to be implicated in anything even remotely smacking of financial chicanery.’
‘Don’t be such a wimp, Vince. You know what Diana’s like. A piranha in Prada! She’s out for blood and my last pound of flesh. And as my solicitor, I’m relying on you to make sure she doesn’t get it!’
‘Yes, yes, that’s all very well, but . . .’ Vince began testily, when he suddenly broke off, and everything went quiet.
For a moment, Jenny was absurdly reminded of one of those old westerns, where a gunslinger pushes open the swing doors and walks in, and the piano player stops playing and everyone stops talking and turns to look at the new stranger in town.
But when Jenny glanced up and around, she didn’t see a man in a cowboy outfit wearing a Stetson hat, but the slightly paunchy figure of Inspector Franklyn, and his attractive blonde-haired sergeant. They’d both just stepped through the open door and were looking around them with interest.
A moment later, the low buzz of conversation resumed, but everyone in the room was either openly or surreptitiously watching them.
But the inspector, it seemed, had eyes only for Min and Silas Buckey.
* * *
The American couple had changed out of their costumes, but with Min dressed in a flowing kaftan garment of purple with silver braiding and embroidery, and Silas dressed in khaki shorts with a polo shirt in moss green, both were radiating their nationality.
Jenny noticed Min’s hand slip into that of her husband’s as the policeman drew closer. And she saw Silas squeeze her hand back, silently offering comfort and support.
‘Mr and Mrs Buckey, is it?’ Franklyn asked mildly.
‘Yes, that’s us,’ Silas responded at once, standing up from his bar stool and looking the Englishman straight in the eye. He also, Jenny noticed, moved his body slightly, half-blocking, half-sheltering Min from the inspector’s eyeline.
Franklyn efficiently flipped open a little black leather wallet, showing his identification, and introduced himself. His sergeant did the same. ‘I was wondering if I could have a quick word, sir,’ Franklyn said politely. ‘Perhaps down at the station?’
‘I don’t reckon we need to go to the police station, Inspector,’ Silas said at once. ‘It’s not as if we’ve done anything wrong,’ he added challengingly.
And Jenny could see at once that the large American was intent on being . . . if not exactly obstructionist, then determined not to let himself be bullied. He’d obviously had time to do some thinking, and must have realised, on hearing about Rachel’s death, that he and his wife were sure to be quizzed. And had come to the conclusion that the only way to handle it was head on.
And Jenny, for one, couldn’t help but feel like applauding his chutzpah.
Franklyn blinked, looking a little surprised by this blunt refusal.
‘As you wish, sir,’ he said a shade stiffly. ‘Then perhaps we could go somewhere more private? Perhaps the landlord has a private study or . . .’
But again, Silas forestalled him. ‘I can’t see why we need privacy, Inspector. Neither my wife nor I have anything to hide.’ He was speaking, Jenny was sure, as much to the crowded room as to the Inspector. ‘We can speak here — can I get you a drink?’ he offered amiably.
‘No sir, not whilst I’m on duty,’ Franklyn said, looking disconcerted by this unexpected turn of events. ‘But are you sure you wouldn’t rather do this in private?’ he tried again.
‘Do what?’ Silas asked flatly.
‘As you might be aware, sir, a young woman has died in rather unusual circumstances,’ Franklyn said stiffly.
‘Yes, we heard about Rachel,’ Silas said, and sighed heavily. By now the whole room was clearly listening shamelessly, although pretending not to. And the female sergeant, for one, was clearly not happy about it, and kept shooting glances around the crowded bar.
But Jenny supposed that unless Inspector Franklyn wanted to arrest the Buckeys, there was no way he could insist on them going to the police station. And with him not even having established yet that a crime had actually taken place, he clearly wasn’t able to do anything so formal as to make an arrest.
Besides, he was probably thinking that his superiors wouldn’t be happy if he arrested some American tourists, only to have to release them with an apology later if it turned out Rachel’s death had been due to natural causes. Creating diplomatic incidents with foreign nationals probably wouldn’t look good on his personnel record.
Which left him with little choice but to play things Silas’s way.
‘And we were right sorry to hear about it, weren’t we, Min?’ the American swept on blithely. Beside him, Min, looking diminutive and pale, nodded silently. ‘So if you’ve got questions for us, we’ll be only too happy to answer them. Fire away.’
Franklyn, finally conceding to the inevitable, gave a weary sigh but nodded. ‘Very well, sir. If that’s what you want. As I understand it, you and your wife were part of the audience who followed Miss Norman as she made her way to the pond, yes?’
‘Yeah, that’s right. It was her big scene and every
one was looking forward to it, right, Min?’
Again, Min nodded without speaking.
‘But when you got to the pond, just when Miss Norman got into the water, you started screaming, Mrs Buckey, is that right?’ Franklyn asked, determined to get the woman speaking for herself, instead of merely nodding passively.
‘Yes. I saw this enormous spider on me . . . crawling down my arm. I nearly died!’ Min said. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was a mixture of horror and defiance. ‘I hate spiders — you can ask anyone. Positively hate ’em!’
‘Anyone can tell you that,’ her husband took over once more. ‘So I knocked it off her and tried to calm her down. Then I took her back here,’ Silas marched on. ‘I made her a hot cup of tea up in our room, then we changed and came down here for something a bit stiffer. Richard here was kind enough to break open a bottle of Napoleon brandy, and we had a drink. It wasn’t much after that when these good folks,’ and here Silas looked around the room, as everyone in it tried to pretend that they weren’t listening to every word he said, ‘started coming back and we heard about the tragedy.’
‘I see,’ Franklyn said, a shade wryly. ‘A very concise and quick account, Mr Buckey, thank you,’ he added drolly. It had clearly not escaped him that the other man was trying to speed the process along and get things over with as quickly as possible. And Franklyn was just as determined not to let him. ‘But perhaps we could get a few more details.’ He showed his teeth briefly in what might have passed for a smile. ‘Did you know Miss Norman well?’
‘Hell no,’ Silas protested. ‘We only clapped eyes on her for the first time on Friday night, when this weekend shindig started.’
‘And before that you were where?’
‘London.’
‘And Miss Norman was . . . friendly towards you?’ Franklyn asked stiffly, very much aware of all the people around him listening with bated breath for the American’s answer.
