Beneath the Soil

by Fay Sampson

  Troubled times.

  What century was not?

  She took down a history of Moortown from the shelves and scanned the index for Avery. Her ancestors had been sufficiently significant in Moortown to warrant five mentions. One in particular stood out. A ‘List of Tynners’ for 1691.

  It contained the names of Moortown men and women ‘that are to maintain Armes wthin our pish for the Stannary of Moortown’. ‘Pish’ was, of course, ‘parish’. Clearly these citizens, who included several widows, were not working the tin mines on the moor. They were wealthy landowners, who had inherited or otherwise acquired the statuary rights of tinners, and the consequent responsibilities.

  ‘Barnabas Avery Gent’ was listed twice. He was solely responsible for contributing ‘one man’s Armes’ towards the Muster Roll and the same amount jointly with three others. Perhaps the second reference, to a lesser amount, was for his son.

  Only some of the men were styled as ‘Gentleman’. Barnabas Avery was clearly a leading citizen.

  She typed out a transcript on her laptop. She could have used the photocopier, but to do so risked transferring the information from one sheet of paper to another without it passing through her brain. This way, she was forced to concentrate on every word she was copying.

  She checked the catalogue and the archivist brought her the next papers she asked for, relating to the tinners’ stannary court. These were the originals, not yet digitized or microfilmed. She hoped she would be able to read the old handwriting.

  As she made a second transcript a phrase leaped out at her. ‘Abraham Hutchings sentenced to three yeres in ye gaol.’

  She sat back and looked at the screen. Barnabas Avery had been among those who sat in the tinners’ parliament. Might he also have been a judge in the stannary court? Had he passed sentence of imprisonment on one of their number who had broken the rules of their guild?

  The Fewings had visited that stannary jail on the edge of the moor. It was partly ruined now, and in the care of English Heritage. It was a gloomy place. It stood foursquare, like a castle keep, grim-faced, without embellishment. They had been down in the dark depths of the dungeon when a thunderstorm broke. Thunder had shaken the walls and lightning blazed through the darkness. Millie, much younger then, had been terrified.

  There was no reason to connect that frightening moment with the man in the raincoat and the dark-brimmed hat.

  Perhaps it had been a mistake to come here, to open this particular file.

  The whole Fewings family gathered around Nick as he drew the large photograph out of its envelope and laid it down on the table.

  Suzie hung back a little, letting Millie and Tom pore over it. She felt an odd reluctance to look. It was Tom who noticed and stepped back for her.

  ‘Hey, Mum, Take a look at him. Does this tell you anything you didn’t already know?’

  Suzie made herself step forward to the edge of the table. The high-quality print showed its subjects in shockingly clear detail. The photographer had not used his most powerful lens, but it was enough.

  In the middle distance, the party around Eileen’s grave were figures only, the rector most noticeable in his white surplice and black cassock. At the head of the grave stood her son, Matthew Caseley. Suzie could clearly distinguish his tall, broad-shouldered build. At the foot, separated from the other mourners, Philip Caseley and his warder had their backs to the camera. The undertakers were lowering Eileen’s coffin into the grave. It was half hidden by the figures standing around it, but it conveyed the ineffable sadness of the woman Suzie had met only once, and would never see again.

  The two detectives were more distant onlookers, on the far side of the grave.

  What most grabbed her eye were the two people in the foreground, though they stood on either sides of the composition, facing in towards the central group like the supporters of a coat of arms. One, startlingly, was herself. Unlike the newspaper, the colour print showed her grey skirt and mauve jacket, the slightly untidy fall of her wavy brown hair. Her face was mostly hidden, watching the burial over the old churchyard wall.

  She forced herself to move her eyes sideways to the man on the right-hand side of the photo. The same large body she remembered. The long black buttoned-up raincoat. She could see now the broad-brimmed hat in his hands, which she had not noticed until he put it on later. His face was much more clearly visible than her own. She had not imagined it: he had turned from the burial in the field above him to look straight across the picture at her. It gave her a shudder even now.

  ‘Well?’ Tom asked eagerly. ‘Recognize him?’

  ‘Only from that day. I don’t think I’d ever seen him before.’

  She stared down at the face in the photo. She no longer knew what she ought to think about him. She had been so sure at the time that he was a danger to her, that he had not expected to see her there. But now she thought of Millie’s theory. Was this in fact a man paralysed by grief, watching the burial of the woman he loved?

  Was he a mining magnate who had either killed, or ordered the killing of Eileen Caseley to further his own commercial interests? Or had he brought about her death in quite a different way, through an unwise affair with Philip Caseley’s wife?

  How did he feel as he stood, so near, yet not quite part of the burial party? What had drawn him to expose himself so far? And what inexplicable reason could there be for him to consider Suzie Fewings significant?

  ‘You know,’ Tom said, his head on one side, ‘I think I have seen this guy somewhere before. I just can’t remember where.’

  SIXTEEN

  The centre of Moortown was transformed. Last time Suzie had seen the square it had been fuller than usual, but with people in the dark clothes suitable for a funeral. This Saturday afternoon there was a holiday atmosphere. Townsfolk and summer visitors were out in colourful attire. The weather had been kind to the Young Farmers. The sun shone out of a blue sky flecked with white clouds, but not so fiercely as to make towing a tractor up the inclines of the moorland road any harder than it needed to be.

  Suzie had checked the square before she and Nick went off for a pub lunch. Tables had been set up under the open-sided market hall in the centre of the open space. She had met with the volunteers from the Women’s Institute who were laying on a welcoming tea when the victorious team arrived. A local pub had donated kegs of beer and soft drinks. Local craftspeople and fund-raisers had set up stalls around the square. The police had been informed well in advance, and orange cones ensured that the entry route into the town would be kept free of cars. She introduced herself to a couple of officers she met on the way, and they nodded politely.

  There was nothing more she could do for the moment. The MP Clive Stroud would be arriving mid-afternoon to perform the welcoming ceremony and to receive a giant cheque for the sponsor money the Young Farmers had raised. Everything seemed under control.

  Earlier that morning, Suzie had met Tom at the foot of the stairs and asked him if he wanted to come too.

  ‘I thought I’d hang out with the guys this afternoon. You don’t need me, do you?’

  ‘No. I just thought you might enjoy it. A bit of fun.’

  ‘My memories of Moortown aren’t exactly fun.’

  She had felt the rebuke. ‘I’m not forgetting there’s been a murder,’ she snapped. ‘I’m just doing my job.’

  Millie had smiled at her, bemused, over a bowl of muesli. ‘Mum, do I look the Young Farmer type?’

  Over lunch Suzie tried to convince herself that this was just another weekend expedition with Nick. She hadn’t wanted to come back to Moortown, but the tractor tow had been planned months ago. She couldn’t get out of it.

  It was a weekend. There was no reason to think that Frances Nosworthy would be here on the streets. Suzie didn’t even know whether the solicitor lived in Moortown.

  A new worry nibbled away at her mind. Should she have ignored the obvious command to stay out of further involvement and done more to follow up Frances’s
call? Perhaps she should have responded to her gut instinct that what had really mattered was that final plea for Suzie’s understanding. If she had been right about that, what had Frances hoped that Suzie could do?

  ‘I feel bad about Frances,’ she said to Nick as she sipped her coffee. ‘I feel I’m letting her down, somehow. I can’t believe Millie’s theory that she was in on the murder.’

  ‘You’ve done what you could,’ Nick said sensibly. ‘You reported her call to the police. It’s up to them now.’

  ‘Mmm. I suppose so.’

  ‘Look, I thought we’d come here because you’re responsible for the arrangements for this jamboree. You’ve got to put this other thing behind you.’

  ‘I know. I’m probably making a mountain out of a molehill. We never did have any proof that there was somebody else in the woods that Saturday.’

  ‘Gosh, was that only four weeks ago?’

  ‘Yes. It’s all happened so fast. The murder, the funeral, everything. I wonder how long Matthew Caseley is staying. Presumably they can’t decide about the future of the farm until Philip’s sentenced – if he is. And the trial could be months away. Meanwhile, there’s no one to run the farm. I can’t imagine that neighbour I met will be able to go on looking after their sheep indefinitely. Just being in prison may be enough to make Philip give up the farm.’

  ‘You don’t think they’ll let him out on remand?’

  The thought startled Suzie. ‘Would they do that? Release someone accused of murder?’

  ‘If it’s what they think it is, a crime passionel, he’s not likely to kill anyone else.’

  ‘What about the other man?’

  ‘Who may or may not be that strange guy in the photograph. We’re guessing, Suzie. Let’s face it, we haven’t really got a clue what’s going on. Let’s leave it, shall we?’

  It was a relief to let the business of the afternoon take her over. She checked her mobile frequently to pick up messages about the progress of the tow. The Young Farmers had stopped for lunch at a pub halfway across the moor. With luck, they should reach Moortown by about three o’clock. Suzie thought of the long hill from the fringe of the moor down into the town. They would need ropes on the back of the tractor to stop it plunging downhill out of control. Like the brake horses on the back of stage coaches in the past, she thought, remembering yet another ancestor who had kept the toll gate on the stage coach route into Moortown. A local diarist had hinted he was pocketing some of the tolls.

  She shook herself back to the urgency of the present. Before long Clive Stroud would be arriving. She had arranged with his assistant to meet him at the market hall in the middle of the square.

  ‘You go ahead,’ Nick said. ‘You don’t need me, do you? I thought I’d look around some of the craft stalls. You never know, I might pick up something interesting.’

  ‘Fine,’ Suzie said. ‘I checked before lunch, and everything seems to be OK for this afternoon. I’m not expecting any problems I’d need your help with.’ A sudden chill struck her. ‘Just don’t go too far away.’

  ‘I’ll be around. Have fun, then.’ Nick grinned at her and disappeared into the crowd of holidaymakers.

  The helpers from the Women’s Institute had been busy. Platters of savouries and cakes, covered in cling film, were appearing on a table under the shade of the market hall’s slate roof. Cups and saucers and glasses stood ready on another. The Moortown WI evidently had considerable expectations of the Young Farmers’ appetites. Suzie thanked the women effusively.

  ‘I hope there’s going to be a bit of that luscious-looking coffee cake left over. It looks too good to miss.’

  A teenage boy about Tom’s age was setting up a microphone for Clive Stroud’s speech. I have thought of everything, haven’t I? Suzie wondered.

  She was aware of a disturbance in the square. It had been closed to traffic, but a sleek black car was inching its way through the crowds, which parted reluctantly to let it pass. It drew up in front of the market hall. Two people got out: a man from the passenger seat and a woman from the driver’s side. The man marched confidently up the steps to the shaded area of the market hall. A big man in a tweed jacket, his large head almost bald. Suzie took a step forward to greet him, and stopped dead.

  It was the man in the photograph. The man who had stared at her from behind the Celtic cross.

  Just for a moment, she saw a flash of something in his eyes. It was gone too quickly to interpret what it was, before it was replaced by a beaming smile. He advanced towards her, his hand held out.

  ‘Mrs Fewings, I believe. How nice to meet you in person at last.’

  SEVENTEEN

  His hand grasped hers, strong and firm. Too strong. She felt imprisoned by it. There was a moment when she felt the pressure tighten.

  He released her just as suddenly. It left her feeling unbalanced. She hoped she was not going to faint.

  The woman with him bustled forward: frizzy hair, tied back in an effort to tame it, horn-rimmed spectacles. She carried a clipboard like a shield before her.

  ‘Where will Clive be speaking from? That microphone over there? Have you tested it?’

  She was making for the speaker’s table, as if to try it for herself, when Clive Stroud put out a commanding hand to grasp her arm.

  ‘This is my agent, Gina Alford. My nanny, really.’ He beamed at both of them. The woman’s face softened in its warmth into an enormous smile. ‘She’s the one who looks after me, makes sure I’m always where I’m supposed to be, and that I stay out of trouble. Gina, meet … Suzie … Fewings.’ He said her name slowly, as though savouring it. ‘I’m sure the two of you have been in touch about all this.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Gina Alford, returning to her businesslike crispness. ‘These things don’t arrange themselves. Good afternoon, Mrs Fewings. What time do you expect the tractor to arrive?’

  ‘Three-fifteen, by the latest reckoning. They should be coming down off the moor by now. That’s the trickiest bit. It’s quite a hill.’

  She marvelled that she could keep talking so calmly. If there was tension in her voice, it was no more than might be expected with so much responsibility in her hands. But while she talked with the MP’s agent about the arrangements she was all too conscious of his large presence just behind Gina Alford’s shoulder. His face had been grim, expressionless, at the funeral. Today he wore the wide and practised smile of a constituency MP. His weekends must be filled with events like this as he moved around his rural electorate. Why did she find that smile more sinister than the sober face she had seen before?

  She decided to seize her courage in her hands and take the initiative. While Gina Alford fussed around the table where her MP would make his speech, Suzie turned to him.

  ‘Didn’t I see you at Eileen Caseley’s funeral a few days ago?’

  The eyes narrowed fractionally. But his mouth did not lose its smile.

  ‘She was my constituent. Bad business.’

  ‘Did you ever meet her?’ She was pushing her luck now. For reasons she could not begin to guess, he had not wanted to see her at that funeral. Did she really hope that she could find out more by questioning him? Or was she risking making him angry with her? She was deeply sure that, however much he might be smiling in public, this was a man it would not do to cross. Her fingers still felt the crushing power of his grip before he had let her go.

  ‘My dear, I thought you had invited me here for a celebration. A splendid effort, pulling a tractor all the way across the moor. I only wish I were young enough to join in. I don’t think we want to be reminded of something quite as unpleasant as a murder, do we?’

  He was challenging her now, ordering her to stay out of his business. She had a sudden image of Frances Nosworthy, unseen at the other end of a telephone. Suzie had had that sense of someone in the room with Frances. Someone powerful enough to bring the force of his personality to bear on her and make her deliver that message to Suzie that she must stay out of this murder case in future.<
br />
  Why? What was it that Suzie Fewings knew, or he thought she knew, that was so important?

  And what would he do if she disobeyed?

  She looked round in sudden need. Nick had readily offered to come with her. ‘I’ll be there to watch your back,’ he had said yesterday. It had been half humorous, half not. But she had been glad of it. Nick had been reluctant to take seriously the full gravity of the situation Suzie thought she was in. Still, he had been persuaded. She was sure of it.

  Yet where was he? Now that she was truly afraid, now that she was face to face with the man in the photograph, Nick was nowhere to be seen. He had said he was going to look at the craft stalls. But surely he would have remembered to keep an eye open for what was happening here in the market hall? He must have seen the car forcing the crowd apart as it rolled its way across the square. He must surely have seen Clive Stroud getting out and making his way to this dais under the pillared roof. How could he not have recognized the man whose photograph he had ordered from the newspaper himself?

  There was a sound of distant cheering. A far part of Suzie’s mind remembered why she was here. The tractor. The Young Farmers must have reached the edge of the town, where the first onlookers would be lining the street to welcome them.

  Clive Stroud had caught it too.

  ‘Ah, our young friends are approaching, by the sound of it. Three-ten. I congratulate you, Mrs Fewings. You seem to have everything planned.’

  The professional smile was back. He was very good at the charm. He certainly had Gina Alford under his spell. She was back at his elbow now, eager for him to turn his attention away from Suzie to her.

  ‘Clive, do you need a stand for your notes? I’m sure Mrs Fewings could find you one before they get here.’ She looked challengingly at Suzie, evidently wishing her away.

  ‘No, Gina, everything’s fine.’