The service was drawing to a close. The collection plate had gone round, passed smoothly from hand to hand along the pews and borne away piled high with crisp bank notes. Not a humble coin to be seen.
Go forth into the world in peace; be of good courage; hold fast that which is good; render to no man evil for evil; strengthen the faint-hearted; support the weak; help the afflicted . . . Another of his favourites: a blessing that had something constructive, as well as instructive, to say.
They walked out, shaking hands with the rector at the south door and gathering outside in the sunshine. As the Colonel had expected, people were staring at Cornelia – openly curious stares and a few of them speculative. Skeletons, after all, were normally buried safely out of sight in the village churchyard. The sudden appearance of one in a resident’s barn was somewhat irregular. Not to say unfortunate. Property prices could be affected.
Crispin Fellows came up with his wife, Susie. She had dark curly hair, rather than the usual ash-blond, and a warm smile. An invitation was extended for pre-lunch drinks.
‘Do come back to our place. We’ve got a few people popping in on their way home.’
The few turned out to be at least thirty and Crispin Fellows had a lethal hand with a bottle. The Colonel almost choked on his gin and tonic as he looked around the drawing room. The furnishings were deceptive. They seemed faded and worn in an English country way, but he suspected that they had been designed at considerable expense to give that impression. The antique furniture, however, was genuine.
The other drinkers obviously knew each other well. Mainly bankers and lawyers and senior City men, he guessed. There was only one regimental tie and he was introduced to its wearer – a Brigadier Lawrence who had served out in the Far East many years ago. They talked about Malaya for a while – the brigadier with morose nostalgia.
‘Damned hard to settle down in the Old Country, don’t you find? All rather dull by comparison. Phyllis has taken to it like a duck to water, though.’
He indicated his wife who was standing near by, engaged in loud conversation. The Colonel smiled to himself. She bore more than a passing resemblance to Major Cuthbertson’s wife, Marjorie, whose prow would take to water as easily as any duck.
Susie Fellows appeared and took his arm.
‘You don’t mind if I kidnap the Colonel for a moment, do you Brigadier?’
She steered him away into a corner of the room.
‘I’ve been dying to ask you about the skeleton, Colonel. Any news from the police?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Betty Turner at the pub has been telling people that it might be the Swedish girl who was here years ago. She says she told you about her and that you were going to pass it on to the police. It’s all round the village.’
It would be. Faster than a forest fire.
‘Do you remember her?’
‘Gunilla? Nobody could forget her. She was a knockout. There wasn’t a man in King’s Mowbray who didn’t lust after her – even past-it old boys like the Brigadier – or a woman who didn’t want to scratch her eyes out – myself included. Not that she was Crispin’s type; he doesn’t like it thrust at him and Gunilla did plenty of thrusting in all directions.’
‘Nobody mentioned her to the police.’
‘Well, to paraphrase the immortal response of Mandy Rice-Davies to the judge, they wouldn’t, would they? And, anyway, everyone had assumed that she’d buzzed off back to Sweden.’
Not all of you, he thought. One of you knew that she hadn’t.
He said, ‘Cornelia doesn’t seem to remember her at all – but then she and Howard hadn’t moved into King’s Mowbray at that time.’
‘Oh, she’ll remember her all right, Colonel. We used to take Cornelia and Howard to the Golden Pheasant for dinner sometimes when they came to stay. Gunilla would be there with her short skirts and her cleavage, tossing her blond mane about. She had a trick of peering at men round it, like round the edge of a curtain. Very Veronica Lake. Poor Roy used to try and make her tie it back but she never did.’
‘Roy?’
‘The previous landlord, Roy Barton. Of course, Howard thought she was simply fantastic. Right up his street. He was always making lecherous remarks about her in Cornelia’s hearing. He can be pretty crude, as I expect you know.’
‘I’ve never actually met him.’
‘Well, he’s a bastard. But Crispin finds him good company and they’ve known each other ever since prep school, so I put up with him. I used to send them off to the pub together for a drink and Cornelia and I would stay behind.’ She looked up at him. ‘You think it could be Gunilla, don’t you? So do I. It all adds up and, frankly, she was asking for trouble.’
‘Did she have any particular admirers?’
‘They all admired her – like I said – and she rang the changes. I suppose she’d get bored with them. When she arrived here, Ben Holland was the first in line.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Was. The grandson of old Mrs Holland who owned the farm that Howard bought. He was a good-looking kid, but not too bright. He used to follow Gunilla about like Mary’s little lamb. Not long after, though, he got crushed to death when he overturned his tractor out in the fields. Except for his barmy grandmother, that was the end of the Holland family.’
Other guests came up and he talked to a brace of bankers and a QC and his wife before Cornelia reappeared.
‘Do you mind if we leave, Hugh? I’ve got a dreadful headache.’
He drove her home in the Riley and, as they neared the house, she said, ‘Where’s Diego? He always opens the door.’
The front door remained stubbornly shut and it took a while for Cornelia to find a key in the depths of her handbag. Inside, everything was quiet and when she rang the servants’ bell, nobody answered. She went off to the kitchen and came back, looking bewildered.
‘They’re not there, Hugh.’
‘What about their room?’
The quarters occupied by the Filipino couple were bare. Clothes and possessions all gone. Not even a note left.
Cornelia wailed. ‘I don’t believe it . . . what rats! And they must have taken the Range Rover.’ She collapsed on to a sofa. ‘They might at least have done our lunch before they went.’
He went into the kitchen and found a frying pan and some eggs to make omelettes. He also found a packet of frozen peas in the freezer and cooked those too. They ate at the kitchen table, Cornelia picking fretfully at the peas.
‘What on earth am I going to do, Hugh? I can’t even boil an egg.’
‘Ring up the agency. Get another couple.’
‘You’ve no idea how hard it is to find decent people. They’re like gold dust. And it’s all because of that bloody skeleton. Diego and Perlita must have taken fright.’
‘I imagine so.’
‘Howard will be simply livid about the Range Rover.’
‘I’ll report it missing, Cornelia. I’m sure the police will find it.’
‘Well, they can’t seem to find anything else, can they? They’re absolutely useless.’
He rang Naomi again.
‘Do you think you could go on feeding Thursday for a bit longer? I’m still needed here.’
‘Prenez-garde, Hugh!’
‘I assure you there’s no need to worry. How’s Thursday?’
‘He still looks at me daggers, but he’s eating the food. And, before you ask, the garden’s fine. I’m watering anything that needs it. It’s a pity you’re missing the irises – they’re looking their best.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry about that.’
He had planted them last year on Naomi’s recommendation, in the mud at the edge of the pond – a yellow variety that apparently liked their feet in the water.
‘And your Albertine is coming out.’
He wished he could see that too.
‘Tell it to hang on until I get back.’
‘It may not take any notice. By the way, your white lavender plants a
rrived yesterday, safe and sound. I’ll look after them for you.’
‘Thank you. I’d be very grateful.’
‘I’ll get Jacob to give the grass a cut. It could do with it.’
‘That’s a good idea. If he doesn’t mind.’
‘He’ll need to get into your shed for the mower. Where do you keep the key to the padlock?’
He wouldn’t put it past Naomi to have already been snooping in through the shed windows. He said reluctantly, ‘It’s on a hook by the back door.’
‘I’ll find it.’
He had no doubt that she would.
‘How did the committee meeting go?’
‘The usual wrangle. I made your apologies. Marjorie Cuthbertson was quite put out at your absence. Ruffled her feathers like a broody hen. They’ve got some pretty hare-brained schemes for this year. I’ll tell you all about it when you get back . . . that’s if you ever do.’
A loud guffaw. He held the receiver away from his ear.
‘I’ll be back as soon as I can, Naomi. And thanks.’
EIGHT
The Range Rover was discovered by the police, neatly parked at the main-line station, and the Colonel drove Cornelia over to collect it.
‘I don’t think there’s any need to tell Howard about this, do you, Hugh?’
‘None whatever.’
‘He’d kick up the most tremendous fuss. Accuse them of stealing it. Get the police to prosecute.’
‘Not much point in that.’
‘I expect I’ll find another married couple before he gets back.’
‘I’m sure you will.’
‘It’s so lucky that you can cook, meantime.’
He smiled. ‘I’m not sure I can.’
The immense freezer in the kitchen was full of food but the Colonel’s off-by-heart repertoire was limited and there were no cookery books or any of Naomi’s misspelled recipes to help him. He could manage a passable shepherd’s pie, a roast chicken and some grilled pork, but it was a far cry from Perlita’s delectable cuisine.
The agency who had originally supplied the Filipino couple had been unable to offer any alternatives and it took Cornelia several phone calls before she finally found one who had just taken a Swiss couple on to their books. She announced her intention of going to London to interview them.
‘They sound quite possible, but, of course, I’ll have to see them before I can make any decisions. Do you mind terribly keeping an eye on things here, Hugh?’
‘Not at all.’
He took her to the station the next morning and when he returned the daily cleaning woman had arrived on her bike and was busy with the vacuum cleaner, steering it across the wood flooring. The Colonel went to sit out on the terrace with a book that he had found on the shelves – a leaden account of the Crimean War. Its chief merit was a fine old leather cover embossed with gold. The other books, he had noticed, had covers of similar quality which made him wonder whether they had all been bought by the yard for their looks, rather than their content. He couldn’t imagine that Howard, and certainly not Cornelia, had the slightest interest in the long, drawn-out struggle with the Russians or in the gallant but useless charge of the Light Brigade, still less in Florence Nightingale’s grim and grisly succour to the wounded and dying. In between pages, he observed the Heathcote’s gardener at work. Old Matt, Cornelia had called him when she had warned that he would turn up to do what she described as potter about.
The Colonel watched the man working his way slowly and methodically through the borders – rooting out any hint of a weed, dead-heading, trimming and snipping. After a while, he put down his book and went over.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
The gardener touched his cap. ‘That’s very kind of you, sir. Milk and two sugars, if you please.’
He went away to search in the kitchen cupboards where he discovered a selection of exotic blends – orange blossom, cinnamon, peppermint, camomile and a box of Earl Grey. No sign of the ordinary cuppa kind that Old Matt would almost certainly prefer. He chose the Earl Grey as the least of the evils and carried the brew out in a bone-china cup and saucer, two sugars stirred in. When he complimented Old Matt on the gardens the old man shook his head.
‘None of my doin’, sir. They had one of those landscaper people in, and they always send someone to do the fancy clippin’. I just mow the lawn and keep things tidy.’
‘Well, you do it very well.’
The gardener sucked at the tea. ‘When Mrs Holland were alive she wouldn’t have nothin’ cut back. Roses ramblin’ everywhere, shrubs overgrown. Bit of a mess, if the truth be told, but that were the way she liked it. To my mind, there’s such a thing as bein’ too tidy in a garden.’
Both men looked in silence at the faultless borders, the flawless lawn, the impeccable topiary. The Colonel wondered what Old Matt made of Redemption.
He said, ‘You must have worked here for some years, then?’
‘Close on forty. Mrs Holland’s son, Mr Tim and his wife took over the farm till they got killed in a car crash and young Mr Ben inherited. He weren’t interested in the garden – most farmers aren’t – all they think of is crops and animals. Then Mr Ben went and got hisself killed on the tractor and poor old Mrs Holland went inside the house and never came out no more, ’cept feet first. I would have retired then and there, but when the farm were sold to Mr and Mrs Heathcote they asked me to stay on. So I did, to oblige. I don’t need to work, but it gives me somethin’ to do.’
The Colonel said, ‘Rather a shock about that skeleton turning up in the barn.’
‘Nasty business. They think it might be that Swedish girl who worked in the pub, don’t they? That’s what I heard. Wouldn’t surprise me. I used to see her sneakin’ into the barn when she was meetin’ Mr Ben. He was sweet on her and I s’pose they went up to the hayloft. There’s still some old hay up there, you know. I can’t say as I blame him – not with her looks. She was an eyeful, all right. But if someone did her in, it couldn’t have been Mr Ben. She was still alive and kickin’ after he was dead.’
‘Did you ever see her go to the barn again, after Mr Ben’s death?’
‘Oh yes. She went there often. I’d see her walkin’ through the orchard on her way, pinchin’ apples and eatin’ them. Once when I went into the barn, she threw an apple core down from the hayloft and hit me on the head. Leanin’ over she was, with all that blond hair hangin’, and she was laughin’ away at me. I told her she was trespassin’, but she just went on laughin’. Called herself Rapnuzzle, or somethin’.’
The Colonel smiled. ‘Rapunzel. It’s an old fairy tale about a beautiful girl imprisoned by a witch in a tower. When she lets her hair down out of the window a prince climbs up it to rescue her.’
Old Matt wagged his head. ‘Well, I always thought there was somethin’ daft about that girl.’
The Colonel carried the empty cup and saucer back into the house and washed them up. The Crimean War having palled, he took a walk down to the village to buy a newspaper. Vera was not behind the counter this time; Alice, the partner who did all the cooking, was in her place. He found the newspaper and took it over to pay.
‘I’d like some of your wonderful-looking cakes, too, please. Which do you recommend?’
She blushed and some of the faded prettiness returned. ‘Well, people seem to enjoy the éclairs very much but you might prefer the carrot cake, perhaps? Or the sticky ginger-and-pear?’
He smiled at her. ‘It’s not for me. I thought Mrs Heathcote needed cheering up. Do you happen to know which are her favourites?’
‘The éclairs – especially the coffee ones.’
‘In that case I’ll take half a dozen, please.’
‘I’ll put them in a box for you. They’ll keep in the fridge until she gets back.’
He realized that Alice, and presumably the whole village, knew that Cornelia had gone off to London. It was just the same in Frog End, of course. Nobody could go anywhere unobserved. Naomi always spoke
of constant surveillance by the local KGB, which was probably no exaggeration.
He waited while the éclairs were placed carefully in a box which Alice began to tie with a length of silver ribbon. Fortnum & Mason could do no better.
He said casually, ‘I’ve been hearing a lot about a Swedish girl called Gunilla Bjork who worked at the Golden Pheasant four or five years ago. She seems to have made a big impression on everyone. Do you remember her?’
‘Yes, I remember her.’
‘It seems possible that the remains found in Mrs Heathcote’s barn could be hers.’
‘They couldn’t be. She went back to Sweden.’
‘So it was thought. But perhaps she didn’t, after all?’
‘I wouldn’t know anything about that.’
‘Did she ever come in here?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘I’m sure she loved your cakes. I don’t suppose they have such things in Sweden.’
‘I’ve no idea. I’ve never been there.’
He went on, wanting to keep Alice talking to see if he might learn something. ‘People keep telling me how very striking she was.’
She had finished doing the bow and looked up at him. He caught a flash of some strong emotion in her eyes but it was gone before he could read it.
‘She was nothing special.’
But Betty Turner had said she was beautiful, Susie Fellows had referred to her as a knockout and Old Matt had called her an eyeful.
He said, ‘I hear that she had many male admirers in the village.’
‘You shouldn’t believe everything that people tell you.’
‘No, of course not.’ He agreed completely. In his experience, people seldom told the real truth and almost never the whole truth.
He paid for the éclairs and she handed the box over, looking at him without expression.
‘There was nothing admirable about Gunilla Bjork, Colonel. She had no morals, no conscience, no scruples, no shame.’
Her voice had been perfectly quiet but the words were unequivocal. Clearly, Alice had done more than disapprove of the Swedish girl: she had hated her.
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