Silent Terror

by Ted Tayler

  “If he needs a place to rent, Monty will have something, I’m sure,” said Vera.

  “The ACC told me our new Police Surgeon has snapped up one of your ex-husband’s properties already. There won’t be much choice left for young Brett.”

  “Rhys Evans, yes,” said Vera. “A rugged rugby-playing surgeon in his early thirties. He’ll set a few hearts fluttering.”

  “I’m sure he will,” said Gus. “I must dash; our leader kept me upstairs far longer than I hoped. I’ve got a busy day ahead before I let my hair down tonight.”

  “It’s curling over your collar, Gus. It suits you.”

  “No, it has to go,” said Gus. “A haircut is on the list of things to do before Suzie arrives at seven this evening.”

  “You’re under orders then?” said Vera with a wicked grin. She left Gus by the door and bounced up the stairs to the first floor.

  Gus returned to his car and threw the murder file on the passenger seat. A rugged rugby-playing surgeon. Was that what lay behind the shorter hairstyle? Kassie had competition.

  Gus hesitated as he waited for a gap in traffic on London Road. Yes, it made sense to get the haircut out of the way before returning to Urchfont. Otherwise, it wouldn’t get done. He reversed the Focus, returned to the parking space he just left and walked into the town centre.

  It was one o’clock when Gus reached the allotment. After he’d paid an extortionate sum for a trim, he’d bought a gut-busting pasty from a well-known bakery chain to save making himself a sandwich. The murder file was now in the lounge of his bungalow, on ice until tomorrow evening.

  The afternoon belonged to his fruit and vegetables. Gus opened his shed, retrieved the notes designed to keep him on the same timetable as Bert Penman, and selected the correct tools. One glance at Bert’s plot told him he was a week behind at best. It was time to get stuck in.

  When there was nobody around to chat with, or to interrupt his train of thought, it was amazing how much progress he could make. As the church clock drew in its breath to announce the arrival of six o’clock, Gus heard a familiar voice.

  “Gus, I thought you would have gone by now? You’re hot and sweaty. Have you forgotten about this evening?”

  “Good evening, Reverend,” said Gus, “I’ll be clean and presentable by seven-thirty, don’t you fret. Did you drop by just to check on me?”

  “Not at all,” said Clemency, “I need to harvest my salad items. After allowing myself the odd indiscretion later tonight, it will be back to basic rations from tomorrow.”

  Gus studied the slimmer version of the Vicar of Dibley that stood before him. Clemency had tied her sun hat under her chin with a bow, and she leaned on the handlebars of her bicycle, taking deep breaths.

  Using two wheels to circumnavigate her parish proved beneficial, it appeared. A month ago, there would have been a second chin.

  “Two stones, so far, Gus,” said Clemency. “I can see you want to know, but you’re too much of a gentleman to ask.”

  “I’m proud of you,” said Gus. “You know what this means though? Just when I seemed to see more of you, I see less.”

  “You’re a terrible flirt, Gus Freeman,” said Clemency.

  “I’m incorrigible, according to Suzie,” said Gus, “I’ll leave you to your lettuce and tomatoes. I’m packing away my things and then heading home. We’ll see you later. It’s a lovely evening; perhaps we can sit outside in the beer garden again?”

  “I’ll call into the Lamb on my way home and make the arrangements,” said Clemency.

  She had her breath back now and rested the bicycle on the grass. Gus closed his shed door and watched the Reverend retrieve a trowel and knife from the wicker basket on the front forks.

  “That knife blade should have a cover,” he said as he walked towards the gate.

  Gus realised Clemency would get flustered, thinking the strong arm of the law was about to descend on her shoulder.

  “I never gave it a thought,” she said, “will I get in trouble?”

  “I won’t mention it to anyone. Ask Irene for the key to Frank’s shed. I don’t understand why she didn’t hand it over before. You shouldn’t have to bring tools with you every time you come here. Keep them locked away. I doubt there’s much of any value inside that old place, anyway. A few old tools, seed boxes and empty matchboxes. Frank always spent more time smoking here than he did gardening.”

  “I dread to think what I’d find,” said Clemency. “If there are lots of spiders, would you get rid of them for me?”

  “Don’t look at me,” said Gus, “appeal to Irene North’s sense of fair play. She should have handed you the key to the shed when you agreed to take over Frank’s allotment. Get Irene to sweep it out and remove anything she wants to take home. After that, hang on until September. Pick up two conkers from the ground over there and leave them by the shed door.”

  “Conkers aren’t big enough to drop on a spider and kill it,” said Clemency.

  “I’m ashamed of you, Reverend. You don’t kill them. The saponin in the conkers is unpopular with spiders, lice, fleas, and ticks. They’ll move on. Bert gave me that tip three years ago, and I’ve only seen the odd rebel since.”

  Gus left a chastened Clemency to her work and walked along the lane to the bungalow. He had plenty of time to shower and get dressed. To save time, he’d get two alternative options lined up in case Suzie objected.

  Seven o’clock arrived before he knew it, and he was still ironing another spare shirt as Suzie’s key slid into the lock.

  “Sorry, I thought Gus Freeman lived here,” said Suzie, holding the door open. “Oh, it is you. Someone’s had a haircut. You look like a college professor trying to look as young and trendy as his students. I loved the way your hair curled over your collar. What possessed you?”

  “Vera said she didn’t reckon I needed a haircut when I saw her this morning either. I only wanted a trim, but when I saw the price list, I thought I’d better get my money’s worth.”

  “I got a call from Geoff Mercer today,” said Suzie, “I’m off to Gablecross next Monday.”

  “That was my fault,” said Gus.

  “Geoff didn’t tell me that. What did you have to do with it?”

  “Gareth Francis went into his interview with Kerry Burnside like a bull at a gate, just as I feared. I tried to warn him. I told the ACC and Geoff that it needed a woman’s touch. How was I to know that Gablecross didn’t have anyone of your calibre?”

  “You can’t sweet-talk your way around this one, Freeman,” she said. “Gareth’s a plonker, always has been. I must admit the variety will be welcome. Ever since the cyber course that I attended, I seem to get tagged for every job that involves spending hours glued to a screen. What’s that your ironing?”

  “My third-choice shirt.”

  “Promote it to number one,” said Suzie, “the colours are in-your-face, but it will stop people staring at your short back and sides.”

  Gus groaned. If he’d known, he could have avoided ironing the other two shirts.

  Fifteen minutes later, they left the bungalow and walked to the Lamb.

  “We’re not the only ones with the same idea,” said Gus.

  “The last time I saw a queue to get in here was New Year’s Eve,” said Suzie.

  “Clemency Bentham was hoping to book us a table in the beer garden,” said Gus as they reached the door. “I saw her earlier, just as I finished working on my allotment.”

  “I look forward to seeing the progress you’ve made when we go there tomorrow. Glad I took the day off now, I can have as many drinks as I want tonight.”

  “I can’t see much from where I’m standing,” said Gus, “but Bert’s not sat on his usual stool. Let’s go outside again and enter the beer garden from the car park.”

  “Make your mind up,” someone moaned as they battled their way to the door. When they walked into the crowded beer garden, Gus spotted Clemency Bentham waving.

  “Hello, the Reverend has gone a
ll Laura Ashley,” he said. “I hardly recognised her.”

  “Clemency’s out to impress tonight,” said Suzie.

  “The Reverend’s not the only one. Irene North’s made more of an effort than usual.”

  “Glad you could join us, Mr Freeman,” called Bert. “May I introduce my daughter, Margaret Hadlee and Brett, my David’s son?”

  “Good evening, Bert,” said Gus. “I know I can’t persuade you to call me other than Mr Freeman, but I hope Margaret and Brett will call me Gus. Welcome, both of you.”

  Margaret was elegant and reserved. Gus tried to remember whether he was a year older than her, or a year younger. He shook her hand, and Margaret nodded a greeting.

  Brett Penman was a tall, solid-looking individual. His handshake was firm and warm. The cows he treated must have loved him.

  “Good to make your acquaintance, Gus. Grandpa has told us about you.”

  The Canadian accent was strong but educated. Gus immediately thought he could get to like the young relative of his best friend.

  “Say hello to Suzie,” said Bert Penman. “Mr Freeman doesn’t know what to call her yet. In my day, if you hadn’t got as far as buying a ring, you referred to your young lady as your intended. Would that be the right term, Miss Ferris?”

  “Close enough,” she laughed. “You’re a wicked man, Bert Penman.”

  “What have you two been doing with yourselves today?” Gus asked Margaret and Brett.

  “We drove out to Stonehenge this afternoon,” said Margaret.

  “I hope to drive via Lacock Abbey to Bath tomorrow,” said Brett. “Aunt Margaret wants to visit the Royal Crescent and the Roman Baths. I’m a photography fan, so a trip to the place where it began and the Fox Talbot Museum is a must.”

  “We could go there one day, Bertie,” said Irene North.

  Gus noticed that Margaret frowned at that remark. Was it the pet name Irene had adopted for someone she’d known since he was a boy, or because Brett had to sit beside her rather than his grandfather? Ah well, Margaret was flying home to New Zealand in a little over two days. If Bert and Irene found solace in spending time together in their twilight years, what was the problem?

  There was activity all around with customers coming and going. The pub staff looked harassed as they tried to serve drinks and food in the right sequence. It was almost half-past eight before Bert’s party ate, but the drinks arrived with enough regularity to keep everyone chatting and happy.

  “Never try to keep pace with Bert,” Gus whispered to Brett. “He can drink anyone under the table.”

  “Thanks for the advice, Gus. Aunt Margaret will keep an eye on my glass. She won’t want to get delayed in the morning while I recover. What is that lady drinking over there?”

  “The Reverend? That will be an elderflower cordial. It’s non-alcoholic, but she seems to enjoy it.”

  “Non-alcoholic? I thought the rosy cheeks were because of a full-bodied liquor I wasn’t familiar with.”

  Gus wondered if it was the Canadian veterinary physician who was getting Clemency Bentham flustered. Perhaps that explained the Laura Ashley look.

  “After I’ve taken Aunt Margaret to Heathrow on Saturday, I’m returning to stay with Grandpa for a few days. Aunt Margaret knows he’ll be down after she leaves. He’s coming to terms with the tragedy our family suffered, but when she flies back this time, it may be the last he’ll see of her. He’ll never fly out to New Zealand, and she can’t afford to make the trip that often. When his time is close, she wants me to call her to give her a chance to make it back in time to say goodbye.”

  “How long will it take for you to settle things back in Canada?” asked Gus

  “Two weeks, tops,” said Brett. “I set the ball rolling before we left. When I get back, Grandpa has kindly agreed to let me stay until I find a place to live.”

  “So you’ve decided to live in the UK?” said Gus.

  “In the West of England,” said Brett, “I plan to find a job close to the Penman home.”

  The food was up to its usual high standard, and everyone had a good time. Even Margaret loosened up after two sherries. Clemency Bentham helped Irene North home. Brett stayed sober so he could drive Margaret back to their five-star hotel in Colerne.

  Bert and Margaret hugged one another before she left. Gus and Suzie stood beside Bert as the hire car disappeared into the distance.

  “Do you need us to walk home with you, Bert?” asked Suzie.

  “I think you two will need to help one another,” laughed Bert. “I’ll manage on my own as I always have. Good night to you.”

  Suzie stayed the night at Gus’s bungalow. There was no way either of them could go anywhere.

  “Did you have a good time last night?” asked Gus the next morning.

  “Yes, thanks. You got on famously with Brett, I noticed. Clemency didn’t get a chance to see whether or not he was a churchgoer.”

  “Brett noticed Clemency,” said Gus. “He was interested to learn why an elderflower cordial produced those rosy cheeks.”

  “Watch this space,” said Suzie.

  “Maybe, did you notice that Margaret was standoffish? At first, I thought it was because Irene North treats Bertie as if they are an item, and she disapproved. Brett reminded me later on that Margaret was all too aware that when she gets home to New Zealand, she’s a long way from her father if he’s ill.”

  “It’s easy to believe Bert will go on forever,” said Suzie. “I can see how Margaret recognised the importance of the evening. Bert just soldiers on. I don’t think he’s one to give things like that a thought.”

  “If we’re going to that allotment of mine, we’d better get showered and dressed,” said Gus, rolling out of bed.

  “That sun’s too bright,” groaned Suzie.

  “That’s common at noon,” said Gus.

  Suzie heard the shower running and turned over. Gus could manage alone today.

  His intended needed five minutes extra in bed.

  Sunday, 1st July 2018–Claverdon near Warwick

  Blessing Umeh was leaving her family home in Claverdon for the last time. The name came from Clover Hill, which summed up the beautiful countryside surrounding the leafy village that lay just five miles west of Warwick, the county town of Warwickshire.

  At twenty-one, it was the first time Blessing had left home. Despite her father being a university lecturer, Blessing had no interest in staying on at school after she completed her four A-levels. Her ambition from the age of eleven had always been to join the police. Since 2015 she’d made the twenty-minute drive from Claverdon to Royal Leamington Spa in her trusty Nissan Micra.

  Her father, Kelechi, taught her to drive and bought her a 1997 Micra because it was a reliable runabout. There was no question of Blessing owning a powerful, modern car. Kelechi thought that thirty miles per hour on the road between home and work was fast enough for anyone. Some days, with the traffic on the A4189, Blessing was lucky to reach even that modest speed.

  Her mother, Maryam, waved her only daughter goodbye from the front door. There were no tears because Kelechi and Maryam were also leaving home. The ‘Sold’ sign that stood in the garden for two months was now lying against the boundary wall waiting for collection by the estate agents. On Tuesday morning, the removals firm would arrive to transport the Umeh’s belongings to their new home in Englishcombe village, four miles from Bath.

  Kelechi and Maryam enjoyed village life in the English countryside, and Blessing’s father had never lived far from his place of work. Claverdon was the perfect spot to commute to Warwick University, and when he secured his new lecturer’s post in Bath, he wasn’t searching for a house anywhere further away than a five-mile drive.

  Kelechi and Blessing had one thing in common. They both lacked a sense of direction.

  Blessing passed her test first time not long after her seventeenth birthday. Her father bought the Micra for her eighteenth, weeks before she was due to start work in Leamington. He made her drive bet
ween Claverdon and the police station every day for a week for Blessing to get used to the journey. Three years later, she knew every bump in the road, every bend and busy junction.

  As a constable, she had few opportunities to drive anywhere with her duties. When she started working with DI Andy Carlton’s team, there were two or three Detective Sergeants whose seniority meant they naturally believed they should jump behind the wheel. Blessing never complained. If the crime had occurred somewhere that she’d never visited before they would only have got lost.

  Maryam was a far better navigator, so Kelechi relied on his wife to know where they were going whenever they ventured out as a family. When at work, he relied on the short trip never altering enough that it confused him. Maryam often wondered how a man with such a brilliant mind in his field of expertise could be so dumb at following road signs.

  That was why there were no tears that morning. Maryam had taken the precaution of purchasing a satnav for Blessing’s car.

  “I’ve entered the details,” she told Blessing, “you should be at the Ferris’s farm in three hours.”

  “I’m not using the motorway, am I?” asked Blessing. “I never feel safe.”

  “No, darling, I programmed it to avoid motorways. You’ll be on the A429 for most of your journey. Keep calm, and you’ll be fine. You can drive into Leamington Spa the same as you did before, and then the A429 takes you to Chippenham. It’s almost a straight road because it follows the old Roman Fosse Way for much of the journey. Just listen to the lady’s voice, and you can’t go wrong.”

  “I’m nervous and excited,” said Blessing.

  “Of course you are, darling. It’s a new experience for you. Just remember, we’ll only be a few miles away from you after Tuesday. I’ll get your father to drive us out to Worton to meet Mr and Mrs Ferris. He wants to check it’s a suitable place for you to be living. I shall accompany him because he’d never find you on his own, poor thing.”

  Blessing checked her mobile phone was fully charged, took one last look around the home she’d lived in for twenty-one years, got into her faithful Micra, and set off for pastures new.