by George Mann
“Well, Sally and I were both members of the parish council, back in 1993, and there was talk about trying to put on a fete or gala to try to bring the villagers together. I had a vague recollection of seeing photographs of the parade from the Victorian era, and when I started digging, it turned out it had once been quite an event, before it was shut down by the puritans, who didn’t appreciate the more pagan elements. It seemed like an obvious thing to do to bring it back, as the centrepiece of the new village fayre.”
“So you and Sally worked together to resurrect it?” said Elspeth.
“Precisely that,” said Iain. “We dug out all the old photographs and accounts, and using those we were able to put on the best approximation we could of the original parade, or at least how it had been in Victorian times. It proved so popular that we did it again the following year, and it’s been going ever since, with the rest of the fayre sort of growing up around it.”
“And you see it as a sort of celebration of the village’s history and tradition?” asked Elspeth.
“Yes, I suppose that’s exactly what it is,” said Iain.
“Of course, there’s always been fayres and parades around these parts,” said Carl. “It’s likely that the villagers simply incorporated the witch into their existing festivities, dating back years before Agnes Levett’s time. That’s why Iain’s always encouraged the villagers to dress up and join in, and why you’ll see all sorts of different masks and mythical figures amongst the crowds.”
“To me it’s always just been an excuse to dress up and have fun,” said Iain.
“I imagine most people see it that way,” said Elspeth, but she couldn’t shake the image of the terrifying effigy of Agnes Levett she’d seen all those years ago as a child.
She finished her coffee. “You must be pleased about the attention you’re getting this year, too, with the crew from Countrywide here to film everything?”
“Oh, yeah. It’s brilliant, isn’t it? Hallowdene on national TV!” Iain looked genuinely thrilled. “I just hope all that business with Nicholas Abbott isn’t going to cause any problems. I’d hate for everyone to miss out if we had to cancel the fayre.”
“I don’t imagine so,” said Elspeth. “Have you spoken to the police?”
“Not yet. I’m kind of working to the principle that if I don’t hear anything, I can just plough on with the arrangements,” said Iain. “Sally’s a little more circumspect, but then she knew Nicholas a little better than me. Had done for years.”
That was interesting. “As a customer at Richmond’s, you mean?”
“I think they must have been friends, once. I’m not really sure – you’ll have to ask her, I’m afraid.” So Sally knew Nicholas outside of his shenanigans in the tearooms. Elspeth made a mental note to follow up on that.
“Well, I suppose I’d better leave you to your preparations,” said Elspeth. She was thinking about the mountain of work she had to do, updating news articles on the Abbott investigation, and making a proper start on her piece about the fayre and the dig. “Thanks for your time. It was really fascinating.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The day had run away with Peter, seeing to all of that business up at the manor. After a brief spell back at the station briefing DCI Griffiths on his findings, he was on his way back to Hallowdene to talk to Sally Jameson about Lee Stroud.
He’d intended to try to catch Elspeth over lunch again today, to see if he could straighten things out with her a bit. He didn’t like how they’d left things in Lenny’s the day before, with neither of them entirely clear about what the other was thinking. Ellie was too important to him for all that. In the last few months they’d grown closer, and he’d started to think that things had a chance of becoming serious between them. He’d certainly hoped that was the case.
Now, though, there was talk of London, and new jobs, and Abigail, and he had to wonder – was he putting his own life on hold for something that wasn’t real? They’d been thrown together in a moment of crisis, rekindling old childhood affection. Was that enough to base a relationship on? He certainly fancied her, there was no doubt about that, and they really did seem to connect on an intellectual level, too. The thought of her going back to London caused his guts to twist uncomfortably. What did that mean?
Then there was the promotion. If he managed to sort out either one of these murder cases, he’d be a shoo-in. There was no doubt about it. He could make DCI, be running his own small team, dealing with important matters like these every day. Wasn’t that what he wanted?
One thing was certain – he’d have to make a decision soon, and he had to do what was best for him in the long run. But did it really have to come down to a choice between Elspeth and his career? The thought of it made him nauseated.
In the end, all he’d managed was a brief phone call and a flurry of text messages with her during the course of the afternoon. She’d spent the day in Hallowdene, working from the pub, writing bulletins for the Heighton Observer’s website about the investigation into Nicholas Abbott’s murder, and the discovery of Lee Stroud’s body that morning. She’d seen the news go out and had called him immediately to make sure he was okay. She’d barely mentioned the details of the case – the call had been about him, and how he was holding up. That had told him something, too.
The worst thing was, now he needed to talk to her in a professional capacity. Not that she was a suspect – she had no reason to be involved in any of this – only that she’d talked to Stroud at the dig site, and seen the way he’d behaved at Richmond’s, and might have some insight to share.
For now, though, he’d settle for a chat with Sally Jameson regarding Stroud’s ongoing campaign against her exploitation of the Hallowdene Witch. Then he’d have to head back to the station to read through Jenny Wren’s official statement.
It was close to six when he pulled up outside Richmond’s, although the sun was still high in the sky, finally hinting at the coming change in seasons and the onset of summer. He swung the car into a space and trudged up the path to the door. Through the window, he could see it was empty, and the staff were cleaning up, ready to close. He walked in, and the bell trilled.
“I’m sorry, we’re closed for the day,” said Sally, without looking up.
He cleared his throat. “Ms Jameson? DS Shaw, Heighton police. I wonder if I might have a word?” He held up his warrant card.
The woman looked up, surprised, but then nodded meekly and closed the open till. “Yes, of course. Um, I suppose we could go through to the office.”
Peter nodded, and followed her through the kitchen, retracing the route he’d taken with Daisy the previous day.
“I’m sorry it’s such a mess,” she said, squeezing in and taking a seat on one of the chairs. She was wearing the same black-and-white uniform as Daisy, and she crossed her legs in a protective gesture, placing her hands on her knees.
Peter remained standing, his back to the door. “I’d like to talk to you about Lee Stroud,” he said.
“Poor Lee,” said Sally, hanging her head. “I can’t imagine what drove someone to do such a thing.” So she’d obviously heard the news.
“I understand he could be a little… difficult, from time to time?” said Peter.
Sally looked pained. “He had his troubles, but he never meant any harm by it all. He was a lonely man, and he’d developed something of an obsession with local history. Sometimes that obsession got the better of him, is all.”
“You mean the Hallowdene Witch?”
“Yes, amongst other things. He’d spent most of his life researching the history of Hallowdene and the surrounding area.”
“So you knew him well?”
“Not really, no, but he’s always been there, a fixture, if you like. Nicholas Abbott used to call him the village idiot, but he was always unkind to people who were different. The thing is, Lee really believed in the story of the witch, and her curse, and he was trying to warn us about it. He was a caring man. Just a bit con
fused.”
“When did he start causing trouble for you in the café?” said Peter.
“Like I said, he’s a bit of a permanent fixture. He’s always objected to the way we’ve turned Agnes into a commercial enterprise, both in the shop and through the fayre. But then it’s not just us, is it? It’s the whole village. We all capitalise on the old stories. It brings the tourists in, and without them, we’re just another tiny village in Oxfordshire with nothing to set us apart.” Sally rapped her fingernails on the desktop. “It got worse in recent weeks. He’d started coming in every couple of days, ever since the archaeological dig was started. At first he’d seemed quite level-headed, quite rational, and took me aside for a quiet word about his concerns. When it became clear that I wasn’t going to act on those concerns, though – well, he started to get a little frustrated.”
“And how did that frustration manifest itself?” said Peter. “Was he ever violent towards you?”
“Oh, no!” said Sally, abruptly. “Never that. There was a bit of shouting, that’s all. Christian was usually on hand to help out, though, and would usher him back out the door before the other customers started to complain.”
“It seems you’ve had your fair share of disruptive customers, Ms Jameson,” said Peter. “What with Nicholas Abbott making passes at your waiting staff.”
Sally went as white as a sheet. She pursed her lips, trembling with repressed emotion. He couldn’t tell if it was raging anger or harrowing fear. “He was a difficult man,” she said, after a moment. “In his own way, as troubled as Lee.”
“So everyone keeps saying,” said Peter. “Do you think the stories about him are true?”
“The stories…” started Sally. “You mean about the woman.” She sighed. “Yes, I think they were probably true. Nicholas was an arrogant man, Detective, but he was clever, too. There was never any proof. Just stories about wandering hands, and filthy words whispered in ears. But yes, I think he probably did deserve his reputation.”
“Why didn’t you bar him?”
“He… he…” Sally hung her head again. “It’s difficult. He wasn’t always like that. I’d known him for a long time.”
Peter felt a sudden flood of compassion for the woman. She looked on the verge of tears. Had Abbott been pestering her, too? “Are you okay, Ms Jameson? Do you need a minute?”
She waved her hand. “No, no. I’m fine. It’s just been a bit of a shock, is all. Two murders in as many days. Here, in Hallowdene. It’s enough to make you wonder if Lee was right all along, and we are all cursed.”
“What about Daisy?” said Peter. “Do you think she might have been involved in Nicholas Abbott’s murder? She was overheard threatening him that day when he assaulted her.”
“She was? I wasn’t aware of that, Detective, but I can’t think of anyone less likely to carry out cold-blooded murder. Daisy’s had a difficult life, but I think of her as a daughter, and she’s a wonderful human being. There’s no way she could be involved in any of this.”
“But you weren’t aware of the incident that day, out there in your tearoom?” pressed Peter.
“Well, no…”
“Where were you when it happened?”
“I must have been back here, in the office or the kitchen,” said Sally. Her eyes darted nervously to the door, and Peter knew immediately she was hiding something.
“It’s a small place, Ms Jameson. I find it difficult to believe that you wouldn’t hear a commotion out there on the floor, particularly as there were raised voices… Unless there’s something you’re not telling me?”
Sally sighed. She looked utterly defeated. “I was having an argument with my son, Christian.”
“Regarding what?”
She looked up at him, her eyes pleading. “About how he’d treated Lee Stroud when he’d thrown him out. I thought that he’d been too hard on Lee, calling him names and manhandling him out of the door. But he was only trying to defend his mum. It’s understandable, really, when you consider Lee kept on coming back and wouldn’t get the message.”
“Where were you and Christian last night?”
“Here, together. We live in the flat above the tearoom. We had dinner, and then he went into his room to watch TV. I know he didn’t come out, because it was blaring on into the small hours, and I struggled to get to sleep until he switched it off, about 2 am.”
“Can I speak with him?”
“Yes, of course. He’s just out there helping close up for the day.”
Peter opened the door.
“Is that it?” said Sally, hopefully.
“For now,” said Peter. “We may need to talk to you again.”
Out in the main room, Christian had continued cashing up the till for his mother while Daisy was perched on the edge of a table talking to Elspeth, who looked as though she’d just arrived. She looked surprised to see Peter – perhaps even a little sheepish.
“Hello,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
“You weren’t?”
“No. I’m here to collect Daisy. She’s going to show me some of her paintings.”
“I’ll just go and fetch my coat,” said Daisy, eyeing Peter with trepidation. She hurried off out the back.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” said Peter, lowering his voice so that Christian wouldn’t overhear. “You said you were going to keep an eye on her, not become best chums.”
“I know what I’m doing,” said Elspeth, as if that answered all of his questions. “I’ll call you later. It’ll probably be too late to come over.” She brushed the back of his hand. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
“I came to talk to Sally Jameson about Lee Stroud,” he said.
“Anything useful?”
He glanced over his shoulder, but Christian was lost in his counting, and neither of the two women had re-emerged from the back rooms. “Only that I need to have a word with our friend here, too.”
Elspeth nodded. Her face was close to his, and he could smell her floral perfume. “He did lose his rag a bit the other day.”
They stepped apart at the sound of the kitchen door swinging open. Daisy made a beeline for them. She was wearing a denim jacket over her uniform. One of the cuffs, Peter noted, was dirty with mud. She put her hand on Elspeth’s shoulder. “Ready?”
“Lead on,” said Elspeth cheerily, and they bundled out of the place, laughing at some unheard joke. She didn’t look back.
Peter turned to Christian, who was watching the girls through the window as they marched off towards the village, a wistful look in his eye. “I don’t suppose you get much chance to socialise, helping your mum out here all the time?”
Christian gave a somewhat belligerent shrug. “Doesn’t really bother me, to be honest,” he said. “There’s nothing much to do round here anyway.”
“Where were you last night?” said Peter.
Christian gave him a fierce look. “I was in my room, watching TV.”
“What were you watching?”
“I was streaming the first season of Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., if you must know.”
Peter knew the show, but he’d never managed to make it through the first season, despite being a massive comic-book fan. It was guaranteed to send him to sleep on the sofa. “What can you tell me about Lee Stroud, Christian?”
“The man was an imbecile,” said Christian. He shovelled a handful of counted notes into a red cloth bag and closed up the till. “Always going on about the witch, and how we were disrespecting her and her story. It was rubbish, and he knew it. I reckon he had a thing for Mum, and was using it as an excuse.”
“Your mum said he’d been around here a lot lately,” said Peter.
Christian nodded. “We’re all sick of him, customers included. And he never stood a chance with Mum. A man like that? She’d have to be mad.”
“I heard you got a bit handy with your fists the other day when you threw him out.”
Christian shook his head. “No. T
hat’s not what happened. I grabbed his arm, pushed him out the door, told him he wasn’t welcome here. I never hit him. There are witnesses, too. The place was packed.”
“But your mum thought you’d been a little tough on him, didn’t she? There was an argument…” said Peter.
“She’s too soft, that’s all. She lets people walk all over her, and then forgives them for it. I was standing up for her, but she didn’t see it that way. Said it was bad for business for me to be going off on one like that in front of the customers. But that’s not how it works. You know that, being a copper. When someone starts making a fuss, you shut it down. That’s what I was trained to do.”
“Trained?”
“I used to be a bouncer, in Oxford. I’ve seen all sorts. And I know how to handle someone like Lee Stroud.”
“Did you want him dead?”
“Of course not. I just wanted him to leave us alone. And the other day, I think he finally got the message.”
“All right,” said Peter. “Thanks for your time.” Christian followed him to the door, saw him out, and then turned the sign on the door to ‘CLOSED’ before pulling the blinds.
Sitting out in the car, Peter ran through it all again in his mind. There were so many plates spinning. Christian’s alibi was hardly watertight, but then, neither was Sally’s. He didn’t think it was Jenny Wren – she had no real cause to kill Stroud. But Hugh Walsey? Peter didn’t think Walsey was the type to get his own hands dirty, but would he put it past the man to hire someone to do the job? It was still a possibility, despite what Walsey had said about planning permission and the fact that Stroud’s objections had gone nowhere. He’d have to get Patel to take a closer look at the man’s business affairs.
Then there was the Nicholas Abbott case. Were they connected? It didn’t seem that way, at least at the moment, despite their proximity. There were two people still in the frame for that: Thomas Abbott and Daisy Heddle.
Thomas Abbott clearly had a temper. Could he have finally snapped? And was there any reason why he might have wanted Lee Stroud dead, too? The way that Stroud had been bludgeoned – the sheer, brutal violence of the act – seemed like something Thomas was capable of, but there was no reason to believe he had anything to do with Stroud. He’d have to see what the forensic report revealed about the murder weapon, but it was another line of enquiry to pursue.
