by Rebecca Tope
Miranda felt panic. How was she supposed to reply?
‘Er, well …’ she stuttered. ‘I haven’t really thought about it. At least, not in that sort of detail. You’d be better off asking Lilah. She’s the amateur detective, not me.’
‘Well, let’s go through it slowly, shall we?’ His patient persistence seemed sinister, like a cat silently watching the mousehole. It was worse somehow that he was so young. He ought not to be this confident at his tender age. At times he behaved almost paternalistically, though never enough for her to feel she could trust him.
‘Firstly, the gun. Your daughter saw it in Mr Carter’s room a few days ago.’
‘Yes, she mentioned it,’ confirmed Miranda.
‘So, how do you think the killer could have got hold of it?’
‘Sam never locked his door. Anyone could have slipped in and taken it. There’s been a lot of coming and going since Guy died.’
‘Could you give me a few names?’
‘Oh, heavens.’ She felt daunted. ‘Let’s see. Jonathan, Sylvia, Amos, the AI man, the milk recorder, about four reps, the vicar … any number of police people. And there are times when nobody’s in the yard, when it would be easy to sneak in on foot. There are plenty of hiding places and we haven’t got a dog to warn us.’ She looked up as a shadow crossed the sunlit floor. Lilah was standing in the doorway, as the policeman had done earlier.
‘Can I come in?’ she asked. ‘It’s just that I’ve found something in the office.’
Miranda sighed. ‘Oh, Lilah, not again,’ she protested.
Ignoring her, Lilah held something out to the policeman. ‘I’ve never seen it before. I don’t understand why it was there,’ she said simply.
‘Have you seen it before?’ he asked Miranda.
It was a photograph of Guy, standing on a beach, a coat jacket slung over his shoulders. He looked young and handsome and arrogant. Miranda looked at it for a long moment and shook her head.
‘Could it have been Mr Beardon’s?’ the Inspector asked.
‘It could have been,’ said Miranda, with a nod. ‘In fact, surely it must have been. He’s got an old album somewhere. If I was a suspicious wife, I’d say he’d been showing this to some lady friend, showing off what a handsome chap he’d been in his prime.’ She spoke lightly, dismissively. Lilah was horrified.
‘Mum!’ she protested. ‘Don’t make jokes like that.’
‘I wasn’t joking, love. You know how vain your father was. And it’s a very nice photo.’
The policeman looked from one to the other, assessing their reactions. ‘Right, then,’ he said at last, slipping the photo into an envelope. ‘Could you fetch the album, please?’
With some difficulty, Miranda found it. It took very few minutes to establish that the photo had not come from its pages. There were no empty spaces, no recent removals. Dave licked his lips and chewed a corner of his mouth with suppressed excitement. ‘Thank you very much,’ he nodded to Lilah. ‘Now, perhaps I can carry on with your mum for a bit?’ She looked hard at Miranda for a moment, and then went outside, closing the door behind her.
‘Tell me more about Mr Carter,’ he invited. ‘Anything that comes to mind.’
Miranda, soothed by the relaxed approach, found herself pouring out a jumble of information about herself, Guy and Sam. She briefly went over their early history, when Sam had been a favourite pupil of Guy’s, and when he left school, and Guy had kept a fatherly eye on him. ‘I suppose he was a sort of substitute for Terry and Leo,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Even though he was much older than them.’
‘Who are?’ the policeman prompted.
‘His sons, by his first wife. We told you about them.’
‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘We checked them out. They’ve both got the strongest possible abilis.’
‘I’m impressed,’ she said with a faint smile.
He encouraged her to finish the story, asking about personalities and relationships. Guy had been a difficult man, she admitted. Everyone had had cause to resent him, including herself. And yet she hadn’t at all minded being married to him. Having him die like that made her genuinely sad, if not entirely surprised. ‘It was an awful way to go,’ she added. Yet every time she thought about it, the horror was mixed with a very tiny glow of amusement. That the mighty Guy in all his arrogant confidence should come to that end was a little bit of a joke; a joke she planned to revisit with Sylvia and other friends, over the years to come.
She confessed with a wry smile, that she really had supposed that Sam had done it, out of a mixture of all-too-understandable reasons.
‘Which were?’ he prompted.
Firstly, she explained, there was the way Guy treated him. Even a worm will turn, and Sam was several stages up from a worm. People always assumed that because he wore shapeless and tattered clothes and had rough hands that he must be an ignorant semi-human yokel. Guy himself, although he knew better than anyone that this was wrong, behaved as if it were so. The unvarying humiliations could easily have become too much to bear.
‘And secondly?’ He asked the question almost idly, as if he had all the time in the world. He leant back in his chair, folding his arms. He had even stopped taking notes.
Well, Miranda plunged on, secondly, there was the curious matter of the ownership of the farm. Guy had behaved badly over that, she supposed, although on paper it must seem perfectly fair. When they had found Redstone and decided to buy it from the Mabberleys, it had been clear that every penny of the milk cheque would have to go to pay the mortgage every month. There simply was nothing to spare for Sam’s wages. At that time, Sam and Guy had been as close as father and son, and neither could bear to be parted. Sam wanted to get away from his domineering widowed mother, and Guy was aware that he had actual biological sons growing up forever out of his sight or knowledge. Each filled a gaping need in the other. Miranda formed the third side of the triangle, and was not always comfortable with her position. Casually, Guy offered Sam part ownership of the new farm in return for the most minimal of wages. He would have free accommodation and food, and occasional use of the car. It was more than many a farm labourer might have expected in generations past. Sam had shrugged and nodded agreement. From the start, he had seemed content, and never once had Miranda heard him complain about money in all the subsequent years.
‘So, strictly speaking, he was a man of some considerable means?’ the sergeant summarised. ‘And he might possibly have taken exception to the way your husband treated him as only a humble employee?’
‘We all forgot about the original arrangement,’ Miranda assured him. ‘I suppose Guy felt – I don’t know – embarrassed, almost. I don’t really think he deliberately slighted Sam, or anything like that. Although – well, he was never very nice to him, I suppose. I always assumed that Sam accepted it, as Guy’s manner. I mean, they were obviously fond of each other, in a funny sort of way.’
‘So, to your knowledge, nobody in the village knew that Sam Carter was part owner of the farm?’
‘That’s right.’ She nodded. ‘None of us would ever have talked about it. I don’t think we can treat it as a motive. Not even Lilah or Roddy knew. And I had honestly forgotten until the will arrived the other day.’
‘Right,’ he said slowly. ‘And is there a thirdly?’
‘Pardon?’
‘We’ve had firstly and secondly. Reasons for thinking that Sam might have killed your husband. Is there anything else?’
Miranda felt her face growing red. Hoping to avoid his gaze, she stood up. ‘Let me get us some coffee,’ she said.
He nodded acceptance. ‘There is, isn’t there?’ he persisted.
‘I don’t think so,’ she muttered, with her back to him.
‘I should tell you that I’ve talked at some length to your neighbours, as well as the vicar and Mrs Axford in the shop. And a person called Hetty Taplow. Routine questions, but there did seem to be hints. I’ll put this as delicately as I can, Mrs Beardon, but it must be me
ntioned. One or two people seem to think that there were … relations … between you and Sam Carter. Is there any truth in that suggestion?’
She sighed, and turned back to him. ‘It isn’t like you think,’ she began.
‘I expect it is,’ he said, with a direct look. ‘Don’t worry, it won’t go any further. At least …’
‘It might, if we get to a court case. I don’t mind, really. I’ve never cared much about what people think of me. Yes, Sam and I had sex sometimes. Do I have to say any more than that?’
‘Did your husband know?’
‘God! Of course not! He’d probably have taken us both out and shot us if he’d ever found out. The only person who knew was Sylvia, and she wished she didn’t, I think. It wasn’t anything important. Just sex. Sam didn’t have anyone else, and … oh, what’s the use of trying to explain?’
‘But it’s definitely a thirdly, all the same. A reason why Sam might have wanted your husband out of the way?’
Miranda said nothing. The memories were irresistibly coming back to her. The ‘affair’ – if that’s what it was – was something she almost never thought about between encounters, but which she found quite extraordinarily pleasurable when it was actually happening. The inevitable Lady Chatterley overtones – utterly inappropriate though they were – only added humour to it.
For Sam had not been in any sense a ‘good’ lover. Urgent, apologetic, hasty, clumsy – like no character in any book she’d read, she had still found it thrilling. She loved the way he’d needed her so inescapably; she more than loved his moments of climax, the long, relinquishing gasp and brief collapse onto her welcoming breast. Always then she cradled him, calling him baby names and shushing his groans of guilt and shame. They parted every time with her on a warm, self-satisfied high and him stumbling awkwardly away, mumbling that he wasn’t going to do it ever again – he’d find his own woman, be damned if he didn’t.
But he never did, and he grew all the more dependent on her, until he started taking risks – dropping back to the house when Guy assumed he was hedging or ditching – and telling her he loved her. Although he never voiced it, Miranda assumed that he suffered agonies of jealousy towards Guy, the rightful husband.
Perhaps he had calculated that with Guy dead, he could marry Miranda and assert his rights on a number of levels. In the weeks following Guy’s death, she had allowed herself to believe that he would get over his guilt and allow himself to move into her bed permanently. The idea even had some natural justice to it, although she suspected there could definitely be too much of a good thing where Sam was concerned.
The policeman had finished. He drained his coffee mug and got to his feet. ‘Thank you very much indeed for being so frank,’ he said, and smiled the warmest smile so far. ‘You’ve been extremely helpful. So has your daughter. I’m sure we’ll have something to show for the investigation before much longer. Meanwhile, please do contact us if there’s any more you feel we should know.’
Miranda nodded, then remembered something. ‘I meant to ask you – would it be all right if I went away for a day or two? There’s somebody I want to go and see. And it would be wonderful to get out of this place for a bit.’
He smiled paternally. ‘That would be no problem, providing you came back again. Just let us know when and where.’
When he was gone, Miranda felt drained. What had possessed her, telling him everything like that? He must be a hypnotist, to have got it all out of her so easily. And poor Lilah, banned from the house, what must she be thinking? A quick look around the yard suggested that she had found some work further off. The hens were clustered around the gate, crooning earnestly, and Miranda realised they hadn’t been fed. As she scattered corn for them, she watched with scorn their desperate dashes from grain to grain. Stupid creatures, she thought. So dependent. Like everything else here, a millstone around her neck. The desire to escape was like a physical sensation. Like running away from a great fire. She had to get away, to a place where nobody and nothing needed her.
This was the chief motive in wanting to visit the woman in Nottingham. She hadn’t been completely honest with Lilah when conveying the subject matter of last night’s phone call. Barbara had sounded as if she had something important to discuss, and Miranda was happy to clutch at any straw.
She knew that she was probably taking a foolish risk. She was, after all, a woman of property, and if Barbara was living in relative poverty, the discrepancy might call for action that would be unwise or worse. Though she had had the sense to speak to her solicitor, in order to give herself at least a modicum of ammunition prior to making the visit. If she could honestly state that everything was mortgaged, or tied up in some sort of trust, or rightfully due to Lilah and Roddy, she would feel more confident.
But escape was not going to be entirely simple. First she had to ensure that Lilah and Roddy would survive without her. The very least she could do was to ensure that they had some help with the milking. She took up the phone and dialled the number of the agricultural college. It rang and rang in vain. ‘Damn it!’ she exclaimed, dashing the thing down in a gesture worthy of the irascible Guy. But still she couldn’t quite take the step of phoning for a proper relief milker. Somehow, it was just too much of a commitment. Somehow, there had to be a simpler answer.
Then, as if to confirm her hesitation, a car drove into the yard. She didn’t immediately recognise the sporty red model, and even took a moment to identify the young man who jumped out with remarkable energy. Then she realised who he was: young Tim Rickworth, the husband of Sarah, the overworked computer whizz kid who did little but dash hither and yon in his fast red car.
Bewildered, she went to meet him at the door. ‘Hi!’ he greeted, as if he regularly paid her a visit. ‘How’s it going?’
She expelled an expressive sigh.
‘Just as I thought,’ he trumpeted. ‘Well, sigh no more, fair lady. Sir Galahad is here at last.’
‘Er—’ She’d heard that Tim and Sarah were both on the unpredictable end of the spectrum. She wondered now whether he might be seriously unstable.
‘Sorry,’ he grinned, dropping the medieval act. ‘It’s simple really. I finished a contract yesterday, and have promised myself a whole month off. I did book us a farmhouse in the Dordogne, actually, but Sarah’s refused to go, so that’s off. It’s an ill wind – because I honestly would love to come over and lend a hand, if you think I’d be any use. No strings, no need to pay me or anything. I guess it’s just a romantic gesture on my part – reading too much Laurie Lee, if you like. I like cows, especially your sweet little fawn ones with the long eyelashes. If someone can just give me a couple of lessons in milking, then I’m your man. No hour too early, no task too mucky. Well, within reason.’
‘Gosh!’ said Miranda. ‘Don’t pinch me. I don’t want to wake up from this one.’
Tim’s laugh was a little forced. ‘So?’ he said, after a moment. ‘What do you say?’
‘I’m tempted to say I don’t believe you, but that might be rude. I think we’ll have to find Lilah, and see what she says. She’s really the boss around here, these days.’
‘She’s over there, look, doing something manful with those bales. Hey, Lilah, put that down. Let Sir Galahad shoulder thy ponderous burden!’ And he ran across to where she was struggling with some hay and took it from her. Astonished, she could only stare at him, mouth wide open.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Cappy had left the house just as it got light, to the sound of hectic birdsong and Jonathan’s gentle snores. Summer mornings were magical to her, coming as she did from northern latitudes where the light was something precious, to be celebrated extravagantly. It was also a time for secret activity, unobserved by others. A time to defy the senseless laws of her adopted country, and pursue her own ends undisturbed.
In a remote corner of the great Mabberley woods, Cappy had cleared a piece of ground, tilling it and letting in the sunlight. Then she had planted a forbidden herb and kep
t her seedlings safe from potentially marauding deer or squirrels with cleverly camouflaged netting and sheets of polythene. It was a minor indulgence, a small-scale business, which occupied little of her time. But it accounted for her presence in the woods, and how she came to notice the hidden camp in the bracken. It had not taken long for her interest to be diverted to the goings-on there.
This morning, she crept silently along the invisible path, until she could see the hideaway. There was a canvas bag on the ground beside the fire circle, and a pair of Doc Marten boots. Someone was at home – and unlikely to stir for some hours yet, she assumed. Squatting out of sight, she considered her alternatives, slowly and methodically. It was beginning to worry her that this camp existed; it seemed now that it had to be connected to the Redstone murders, and was therefore sure to implicate her and Jonathan in some way. It would suit her very well for it to be gone and the people driven well away. And now that she knew the identity of one of them, she could take steps to orchestrate their removal.
Elvira had always fascinated Cappy. A great lumpen girl, with striking black hair and a meaningless grin, she had seemed to hang about the village doing nothing for as long as Cappy could remember. Phoebe, her mother, was an alarming woman, snappy and independent, seldom responding to Cappy’s friendly waves and smiles. Together the pair resembled something from an old English novel: a Thomas Hardy or Charles Dickens. But they were only too real, and when Jonathan had mentioned seeing Elvira with a strange young man, showing every sign of being her boyfriend or lover, Cappy had worried. And Cappy did not like to worry. She actively sought serenity, smoothing out wrinkles in her life almost before they happened. Jonathan’s regular pleadings for a child was one of these wrinkles, the biggest of them all. Knowing how disorganising and unpredictable children were, she shuddered at the idea. Knowing her own paradoxical nature, harsh in many ways, but unduly sensitive in others, she shuddered even more. And the presence of this camp in the bracken was another source of the anxiety she tried so hard to avoid.
