‘So John has actually lived here all his life?’
Pat nodded.
‘But aside from his family, the house was essentially empty until the Moynihans . . . but no, you said the house was sold twice.’
‘Yes. A few years after Laurence left, we were beginning to consider the National Trust. They don’t pay much, but they do assure that the property will remain intact and well-preserved, and the Home Secretary’s office was getting a bit impatient. You know they oversee the preservation of listed buildings?’
‘I do know, as it happens. My house is listed, and I had a go-round with them some years ago when it needed a new roof.’
‘Then you’ll understand why they were rather breathing down our necks. At that point, however, a holding company stepped up with an offer. Not a fantastic offer, but a way of getting it off our hands, and enough money to pay for some needed repairs and leave a bit for poor Laurence, who by that time had, I think, despaired of ever realizing anything from it.’
‘A holding company? What did they plan to do with it?’
‘They had in mind an institution of some kind, a school or retirement home or something. But apparently the plans fell through, because nothing was ever done.
‘A few years later – around 2000, that would have been – the elder Mr Bates died and John took over as caretaker. He and Rose had just married, poor things, and the full responsibility of looking after the estate fell upon their shoulders.’
I shuddered. ‘Not a burden I’d care to have thrust upon me.’
‘Nor I. But they have done a yeoman job, prevailed where many another couple would have foundered. I doubt that even these past few days have offered the greatest challenges those two have had to face. Only a genuine love of the house could have kept them here. Now, where was I? Oh, yes, in due time the holding company decided to sell. The matter came into our hands again, and this time the Moynihans bought it.’
‘I imagine everyone concerned was glad to get an offer this time.’
‘Yes.’
Pat was looking at me with a rather peculiar expression. I had the feeling she was waiting for something from me.
‘I suppose theirs was the only offer?’
She relaxed. Apparently that was the right question. ‘No, in fact it wasn’t. There was one other, but it was far below the asking price, and Jim and Joyce offered full price, with no haggling, so there was no contest, really. A pity, in a way. Most of the old estates have already passed out of the hands of the original owners, which couldn’t be helped when the families died out, but I do hate to see them go to foreigners. Not that Jim and Joyce aren’t perfectly nice people, but . . .’ She shrugged.
‘That’s more the kind of sentiment I’d expect from the vicar, enamoured as he is of old houses.’
‘You don’t think I’m a sentimentalist? Well, perhaps the role does fit me rather oddly. Are you sure you won’t have a little brandy?’
It was a clear dismissal. I said something about bed and left Pat to her Dorothy Sayers, but I wasn’t sleepy.
The conversation had been interesting chiefly for what Pat hadn’t said. Was she, in fact, the ‘flighty young thing’ who refused Laurence Upshawe’s hand all those years ago? I could always ask the vicar, but he was a good friend of Pat’s and might not tell me, even if he knew – the thing had happened before he came to the parish.
And even more interesting, who had underbid the Moynihans for Branston Abbey? It was easy to deduce from what Pat had said that he, she, or they were English. Could it possibly have been the vicar? Or Pat?
Hardly the vicar. The clergy in the Church of England don’t usually have much more money than clergy anywhere else. There are exceptions, but very, very few could come up with the kind of money this pile must have cost – not to mention what it would continue to cost in upkeep.
Pat, then? Pat, who appeared to be cool and professional and yet hated to see the old estates fall into the hands of foreigners. Lawyers made good money, some of them, but a village solicitor? And what on earth would a single woman do with a place this size, anyway? True, Jim and Joyce were only two people, but it was likely they planned to use the house to entertain largely, in the interests of Jim’s business, whatever that was – I kept forgetting to ask Tom.
And if either Pat or Paul Leatherbury had tried and failed to buy the house, in what possible way could that fact connect with the death of Dave Harrison, let alone with a skeleton and a mummy?
I gave it up, found Alan, and had that brandy after all.
THIRTY-TWO
I must have dreamed that night, though I have no memory of what my subconscious cooked up. I only know that in the morning I knew the answer. All the answers. Who killed Dave and why, who buried the skeleton, who hid the mummy away and why – and a lot more. It remained only to prove all of it, and that might well be a big problem.
I tackled Alan over our morning tea. ‘How old would you say John Bates was?’ I asked, without preamble.
‘Early thirties, at a guess. Why?’
‘And Rose is maybe a little younger?’
‘I suppose so. What does it matter?’
‘Just confirming my own ideas, that’s all. Are you about ready for breakfast?’
It was a beautiful day, and we had a beautiful breakfast. Alan had been a true prophet. Somehow or other John Bates had obtained fresh supplies. A bowl of fruit adorned the breakfast table, oranges and bananas and kiwis and even a couple of pineapples, quartered and then sectioned. There were fresh eggs, plainly new-laid, the yolks mounding handsomely above the whites in Rose’s perfect fry-up. Milk for my tea and for the vicar’s cereal.
‘How is this possible?’ I asked Rose in awe.
She smiled. ‘John has friends. He sent a message back with the West Kent Chronicle, and a man brought a boat around to the water meadows this morning. I told him I’d cook him a very special lunch by way of thanks. The river’s gone down a lot in the past day or two. By tomorrow that part of the meadow will be all mud, and by the next, anyone who wants could walk out.’
I smiled and shook my head in silent admiration, but I felt a little panicky. I didn’t have a lot of time. And I had to be very, very careful.
As soon as breakfast was over, I sought out the vicar. I found him, as I thought I might, sitting on the bench in the ruins of the garden, reading the morning office.
‘Please don’t let me interrupt you, Mr Leatherbury,’ I said. ‘In fact, may I join you? I know some of the responses, at least.’
He beamed, and patted the bench beside him. ‘We can share the book. I should be delighted.’
So we read the Psalms together, and the canticles, and prayed for peace, and grace, and I felt quite a lot better when we had finished.
‘You are an Anglican, my dear.’ It was not a question.
‘By adoption, as it were. I was an Episcopalian back in the States, but we’re all in the Anglican Communion. At home I attend Sherebury Cathedral; it’s right in my backyard.’
So we had a pleasant little chat about the Cathedral, and its Dean, whom Mr Leatherbury knew, and various church practices. Then he gave me a clear-eyed look. ‘But you did not come out here for the office. Are you cold? Shall we go inside for our talk?’
‘You’re right. I came to talk to you. And unless you’re cold, I’d rather talk here, where it’s private.’
He inclined his head courteously and waited for me to continue.
For a moment I found that hard to do. I began tentatively. ‘I hope you’ll believe that I don’t ask these questions out of curiosity. I am . . . I think I am on the verge of knowing what has happened here, not just these past few days but over the past many years, but I need confirmation.’
Again he nodded.
‘Very well, then. Pat told me about a woman Laurence wanted to marry, years ago. She turned him down. Was it Pat, herself?’
Somewhere a bird sang a wintry little snatch of song. Another answered. I waited.
‘Yes, it was,’ said the vicar with some reluctance. ‘It all happened before I came to St Michael’s, but Pat told me about it a long time ago. We’re good friends.’
I tucked away that bit of information. ‘Yes, I had realized that. She is a remarkable woman, I think. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Pat also told me that the Moynihans were not the only ones interested in buying the house at the time they did buy it. She did not tell me who the other party was, but I think I know.’
Now his face was shut.
‘I thought for a bit it might have been you, with your love of old houses, but I didn’t think – forgive me – I didn’t think you could afford it.’
‘Nor would I have bought it if I had been able to raise the money. I am a priest of the church. I dearly love beautiful old houses, but it would be most unseemly for me to live in one. Remember what Christ told the rich young ruler.’
I nodded assent. ‘Then I thought of Pat, but I doubted even she, who must have a good income, had that kind of money. And a single woman – what would she do with a house this size?’
Now his eyes were wary.
‘I went to bed thinking about it, and this morning I knew. Or at least I think so. It was John Bates, wasn’t it?’
He said, heavily, ‘I am not privy to the confidential dealings of Pat’s law firm.’
‘No. But you know, all the same, don’t you?’
He sighed and nodded. ‘It was very difficult for Pat. She knew and respected John and Rose, and knew how much love and labour they had put into this estate. She felt they, of all people, deserved to live here as owners, not mere servants. But they simply hadn’t the money, nothing like enough. I believe John had been saving every penny he could, ever since he was a boy, actually, in the hope that one day it could be his. But alas, one must be a millionaire many times over to own an estate like this and keep it in proper repair. It was always a pipe dream.’
I could not speak for a while. Finally, I said, ‘I hope you will pray for all of us, sir. We need it.’
‘I do, and I shall.’
I had expected to feel some satisfaction. I now had all the pieces I needed to complete one part of the puzzle, but all I could feel was sadness. And as for the other part – I went to find Alan.
He was in the library, surrounded by a nest of newsprint. ‘Look, love! Mr Bates managed to get some papers in this morning, along with the groceries. He is truly a man of parts.’
‘Yes. Alan, what did you do with that locket? The one you found on the mummy? Annie’s locket?’
If he was surprised by my lack of enthusiasm about the newspapers, he didn’t remark on it. ‘I gave it to the police. To DC Price, since she was the one who had to sit with the poor thing. Their experts need to take a look at it, see what they can learn from it.’
‘Is she still here? DC Price, I mean?’
‘No, I believe she went back with the helicopter late last night. Why?’
‘Would she still have the locket, or would she have handed it over to one of her superiors, do you think?’
Alan put down his paper and gave me his full attention. ‘Dorothy, what is this all about?’
‘I want to know more about Annie, and that locket might tell me.’ I hated being devious with Alan, but I wanted to do this my own way, and if I told him everything I knew – all right, everything I suspected – he would certainly interfere.
‘Are you plotting something?’
‘I suppose you could say that,’ I answered reluctantly. ‘Is it all right with you if I ask DI What’s-his-name about the locket?’
‘You’re not going to get into some kind of trouble, are you?’
‘What kind of trouble could I get into with police swarming all over the place?’
It wasn’t an answer, and Alan knew it. He also knew that I needed my independence and that I had, so far, managed to wiggle out of whatever trouble I got myself into. I waited.
‘You’ll find DI Bradley in one of the third-floor bedrooms. I don’t know which one. And Dorothy.’
‘Yes, love?’
‘Don’t go and do anything stupid.’
I was sure he would consider what I was planning to be stupid, but I didn’t.
Well – not very stupid, anyway.
I took the lift to the third floor. My knees were beginning to shake a little, and I didn’t want them to give out on me.
There were twelve bedrooms on this floor. Heavens, I thought, what must it have been like, back in the days when all of them might be occupied at once! And no running water in those days. Hip baths, with the water having to be heated on the stove and brought up the stairs – no lift – by hapless chambermaids. And then there were the chamber pots to be emptied every morning—
I refused to follow that train of thought any further.
Which room would I choose, if I were a policeman in hiding? Not the mummy room, because that was the obvious one. I’d choose the room next door, or the one across the hall. Close, in case someone wanted to pull something funny.
The mummy room overlooked the back of the house. That’s where the helicopter would land when it came back. That’s where he would be, next door, with almost the same view. And he would have stationed one of his minions across the hall, to keep an eye on the front of the house and any comings and goings there.
There would undoubtedly be someone at the ends of each wing, as well. It wasn’t going to be at all easy to do what I meant to do.
If I was right.
I found DI Bradley where I expected to. He was not, at first, best pleased to see me. ‘I hope, Mrs Martin, that you haven’t told anyone else that I am still here. Our presence is meant to be inconspicuous.’
‘And it is,’ I assured him. ‘Alan did tell me you hadn’t left, but I simply worked out where I would be if I were you, and there you were.’
‘Ah. On the principle of the missing horse.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Will I seem rude if I ask you, now that you have found me, to go away again? If our voices are heard—’
‘Certainly.’ I lowered mine another notch. ‘I came for a purpose, though. There was a locket – Alan found it on the mummy’s body and gave it to DC Price. Did she turn it over to you?’
‘She did.’
‘If you still have it, Mr Bradley, I’d very much like to see it.’
I held my breath. There was no reason in the world why he should show it to me.
The thing hung in the balance for a long moment. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small plastic bag. ‘The chief asked me to give every consideration to Mr Nesbitt – and to you. He apparently has a good deal of respect for your abilities, and your discretion.’ He sounded extremely dubious, but handed me the bag. ‘You may not take it out, you understand.’
‘May I open it? Still in the bag?’
‘If you can.’ He sounded even more dubious. ‘It’s very dirty; the catch may be corroded.’
With very great care, I manipulated the locket, through the thin plastic of its container. Getting a fingernail in the crack between the two halves, I pressed the catch.
It opened, showing itself quite clean on the inside. The tiny gold ovals on either side framed two pictures. One showed a young girl with flowing blond hair pulled back with a blue ribbon. She was beautiful, with a classic profile, lovely bones, a gracefully shaped head held high, proudly. She wore small gold hoop earrings and a locket around her neck. The other was of a man a good deal older than she, handsome in a weather-beaten sort of way. He had a stern, unsmiling face.
‘Thank you,’ I said, and handed the bag back. I didn’t close the locket. Let that be remembered in my favour when St Peter reckons up the score.
THIRTY-THREE
Now I knew what I had to do. I didn’t like it at all, and I had no idea how to go about it, except that I must do it alone.
I would have liked a little quiet time in the cloister, but the men
were out there working. I peeked out from Julie’s old room that had such a splendid view. I could hear the braying of saws, could see, through the holes in the roof, Ed and Mr Bates manhandling a branch of oak here, Jim hauling away a pile of debris there, Tom and Alan setting up a sawhorse, even Laurence and the vicar gathering up broken glass with gloved hands.
No possibilities there.
I went to my room, put my coat on, and went outside by the kitchen hallway. Savoury smells were coming from the kitchen, and I heard Rose humming as she worked. I felt slightly sick.
The sun was bright, but not warm. Winter was coming. The grass, even after all the rain, was becoming dry and brittle. Leaves on the few trees still standing were fading from their autumn grandeur to winter brown or gray, or falling from their living branches to lie in melancholy silence on the dying earth.
I walked south to the water meadows. Here the mud lay thick, a fetid brown slime covering all the vegetation. A dead fish, stranded by the receding waters, stared at me with its dull eye. A boat was pulled far up on the shore, its sides mud-splattered, heavy footprints all around testifying to the unloading of provisions.
Walking was treacherous. I had foolishly not worn wellies, nor had I brought my cane. I turned back. There was no respite here, either.
My head was throbbing. The pain hadn’t yet begun, but the pounding was growing stronger.
So unfocused was my mind that the helicopter was in sight before I recognized the sound for what it was, and then it was too late to hide. Whether the arrivals were more police, or the media again, I didn’t want to talk to them. I didn’t want to talk to anybody except Alan. Alan the forbidden confidant, Alan the one person I must not even be near lest I say too much.
A Dark and Stormy Night Page 22
