Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 11

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “My partner and I have just bought Meadow View, yes.”

  “Meadow View?” The woman closed her eyes for a moment, as if determined to shut out the here and now. “St Lucy’s, you mean.”

  Kelly hated causing offence. Better make it plain that she was an ignoramus. Most people liked to give help to others who were in need. It made them feel superior.

  “I wasn’t even aware there was a saint called Lucy,” she said with a friendly smile. “Sorry, I wonder, can you tell me if—”

  “You don’t know about St Lucy?” The woman shook her head. “And we didn’t have partners in my day, either. You either lived in wedlock or sin, and that was an end to it.”

  Kelly said hastily, “This is such a lovely part of the world. I feel so lucky to be moving here. Becoming part of the community.”

  The old woman resumed her contemplation of an invisible spot in the distance. “We used to call the church a house of God. Not any longer.”

  “The man who designed our house made a spectacular job of it,” Kelly said. “Would you like to come and visit us, have a look round? We’d be happy to offer a cup of tea and scones.”

  The woman coughed. “You don’t understand.”

  Kelly felt a nip of wind on her bare cheeks. “Well, I mustn’t keep you. But it was nice to say hello. I’m called Kelly, by the way. Sorry, I don’t know who you are?”

  “My name is Honoria,” the woman said.

  “Lovely.” Kelly stretched out a hand. “Pleased to meet you, Honoria. And I look forward to seeing you again. Don’t forget to look in next time you’re passing, the tea and scones are a standing invitation.”

  The woman stepped back from the gate, and ignored Kelly’s hand. “Do not sleep in that house tonight.”

  Kelly stared. “Sorry?”

  The woman limped back up the path towards her front door. The garden was a mess of nettles and ground elder, and the house cried out for a lick of paint. One of the ground-floor windows was cracked.

  The sun disappeared behind a cloud. Kelly hurried back in the direction of Meadow View.

  “If you insist,” Brett said.

  “It’s not a matter of insisting,” Kelly said. “Only, I didn’t expect any of this. I have stuff to do back home.”

  “This is your home now.”

  “Yes, I mean the flat.” She stroked his hand. “Look, it’s only for one night. If you run me back, we can stay over . . .”

  He sighed heavily, and she knew she had persuaded him. What she didn’t know was why a stray remark from a stupid old woman had bothered her, so that she didn’t want to spend tonight in their new dream house. Honoria must be jealous of them. Two young people with their lives ahead of them, everything to look forward to. The old cow would be reduced to a meagre state pension, surrounded by strangers in a village that had changed beyond all recognition. No wonder she was bitter, and prepared to spoil the innocent pleasure of others.

  But spoil it she had. Kelly was determined not to stay here tonight. Of course, she couldn’t explain to Brett. He would only laugh, and say she was a gullible fool. It might make him wonder again what a tall, handsome Rhodes Scholar from Sydney had in common with a shy English girl who worked in a florist’s shop. Things would be different in the bright light of morning. Honoria hadn’t warned her against sleeping here in future, she reasoned. Nor would the woman have a second chance to make a nuisance of herself. From now on, Kelly meant to give her a wide berth.

  When they were in the car, she asked, “Who was St Lucy, then?”

  “I looked her up,” Brett said, as he zigzagged past smaller vehicles into the fast lane of the motorway. He always relished parading his knowledge. They had first met twelve months ago, in a posh London bar when she was on a night out with a friend from school. Brett captained the winning team in a quiz, and he bought the girls champagne to celebrate his success. He was six feet seven, with bleached blond hair and the bluest eyes Kelly had ever seen. That night, he and Kelly made love for the first time. They had been together ever since. “I like to do my homework. Lucy is patron saint of the blind.”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “She was a Christian martyr who consecrated her virginity to the Lord.” He sniggered. “When her marriage to a pagan bridegroom was arranged, she turned the fellow down. He took his revenge by denouncing her to the magistrate. She was ordered to burn a sacrifice, and when she refused, her sentence was to work as a prostitute.”

  “Poor wretch!”

  “Yes.” He considered her, blue eyes gleaming. “But the guards found they could not move her, even when she was hitched to a team of oxen. In their anger, they gouged out her eyes with a fork.”

  She put her hand to her mouth, too shocked to speak.

  “You did ask,” he said. “Maybe she should have been more cooperative. Anyway, it’s good to know the history of your own home. If we don’t understand the past, how can we prepare for the future?”

  For a few miles, Kelly did not say another word. Something puzzled her. When they were a couple of streets away from the flat, she asked. “How come you managed to buy the house so quickly? I heard on the news that the property market is depressed.”

  “This is a buyer’s market,” he said. “I put in a basement offer, non-negotiable, with a twenty-four-hour deadline. The woman who was selling had to make her mind up on the spot. Take it or leave it, yes or no. She said yes, and that was that.”

  “I thought you said the house was converted by a man called Dixon.”

  “Yeah, but my vendor was a woman called Hitchmough, all right?”

  “How long had she lived there?”

  “I don’t think she ever moved in.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Keeping his eyes on the road, he said, “Have you been listening to gossip in the village while you were out on your walk?”

  “No, I don’t understand.” She fought to keep panic out of her voice. “What sort of gossip?”

  He exhaled. “It’s only that someone died there.”

  “Where? In our new house?”

  “Listen, there were protests about the regeneration of the village. The not-in-my-backyard brigade caused a load of trouble. A lost cause, obviously, but John Fryer, the old bloke who used to play the organ, decided to stand in the way of progress. He blocked the path of the builders’ trucks. When the police were called in, he took shelter inside the church.”

  “Sanctuary?”

  “Stupidity, more like. He was wasting his time, obviously. When they told him the church authorities wanted him out, he went berserk. He was a widower, and he reckoned the church and its organ were all he had left. Whatever happened to the afterlife, uh? Sounds to me like his so-called Christianity was only skin deep.”

  “What did Fryer do?”

  “Threw himself from the loft on to the ground.”

  “Oh no!”

  “No maple floorboards at that time, needless to stay. The church floor was solid stone. His head was smashed up, as you might expect. Utterly ridiculous. What was he trying to prove?”

  “Yet the conversion went ahead?”

  “Thank goodness it did, from our point of view. Not that it did Dixon much good.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Fryer’s death may have spooked him more than anybody realized. Then again, maybe he was just exhausted. The project was almost complete, he’d been working at it night and day, when he slipped off a ladder and fractured his skull.”

  “He died too?”

  “’Fraid so. The place was on the market for a year or more, until the Hitchmough woman bought it from Dixon’s family.”

  “You mean two people met their deaths in our house?”

  “What’s so unusual about that? Not everyone dies in hospital, you know.” His lips tightened. “That unborn baby of yours died in your flat, have you forgotten?”

  Kelly bit her tongue, did not say a word.

  “This is how things get snarle
d up, when people react emotionally.” He clenched his fist, trying to keep control. “For some reason, Hitchmough got the wind up herself, that’s why she never moved in.”

  “But it took her a long time to sell?”

  “Blame the economy, sweetie. Hitchmough was desperate, that’s why she bit my hand off even at a massive undervalue. One person’s misfortune is another’s slice of luck, that’s how life goes.”

  “So not a single person has slept in the house since it stopped being a church?”

  He gave her a sideways look. “Exciting, isn’t it, sweetie? We have our very own virgin home. You and I are the first real occupants.”

  They returned to Meadow View at noon the next day. While Brett busied himself with calls to clients on his mobile, she tiptoed into the porch, closed the double door without a sound, and set off down the lane towards the village.

  Soon she arrived at the cottage where she’d met Honoria. She’d changed her mind about avoiding the old woman. Sometimes you needed to confront your fears, that was why she’d asked the doctor whether she was going to lose the baby. She was due a break. If she interrogated Honoria about what happened to John Fryer, and Dixon for that matter, chances were, she’d find there was nothing to worry about. Accidents happen every day, you can’t allow your life to be taken over by fear.

  The garden gate was latched, but nobody was in sight. Kelly pushed open the gate, and strode up to the door. When she pressed the bell, nobody answered. She knocked furiously, until her knuckles hurt, but with the same result. The cracked front window was festooned with cobwebs. Peering through the grimy panes, Kelly saw that the room was empty. Yellowed newspapers covered the floor, but there was no furniture. Honoria must live in the back. It wasn’t uncommon for old people to confine their living quarters to small portions of their homes, when the whole house became difficult to manage.

  Kelly trudged back to Meadow View to find removal men hurriedly unloading her possessions. Brett’s mobile was still clamped to his ear, and big boxes full of her bits and pieces were strewn across the rear part of the ground floor, between the sofas and the steps to the gallery. By the time the removal men departed, she’d emptied a couple of packing cases and at last Brett was off the phone.

  He wrapped her in her arms, and lifted her off the ground.

  “Time to celebrate!”

  “I thought I would cook us a nice meal this evening. If you can pick up some food and champagne . . .”

  “I read your mind!” he crowed. “A couple of bottles of Bolly are cooling in the fridge. I’m expecting a delivery van from the hypermarket on the retail park. It’s due in an hour, bringing everything else we could possibly need.”

  “You’re wonderful!” She kissed him hard, determined to push the image of miserable old Honoria out of her mind. “See the silver candlesticks I left on top of that packing case? They are heirlooms, they belonged to my grandmother.”

  “Very nice,” he said absently, “we can use them some other time, once you’ve given them a polish. There are fresh candles in a holder for the table in the delivery I ordered.”

  “You think of everything,” she murmured.

  “Trust me, sweetie. It’s all about getting the details right. Like I say, we have an hour before the van arrives, and I know just what to do in the meantime.”

  She nuzzled his ear. “Tell me.”

  Laughing, he swung her over his shoulder and carried her up the staircase, towards the mezzanine gallery and the four-poster bed.

  “How does the underfloor heating work?” she asked later.

  “Digitized utility control panel in the porch. I switched the system on before the delivery arrived.”

  They were lying on the bed, his long, long limbs entwining hers. As soon as they’d unpacked the food delivery, he’d hauled her back up to bed. She felt exhausted, and right now, the warmth of his flesh mattered more than the pleasure of intimacy.

  “But the place is freezing!”

  Amused, he said, “You’re not wearing any clothes, that’s why.”

  “Even so!” Her teeth had started to chatter. “Are you sure the heating isn’t broken, if the house hasn’t been occupied?”

  Brett scowled as he disentangled himself from her. “Better hadn’t be broken. Otherwise, I’ll be on to my lawyer, first thing tomorrow.”

  She jumped off the bed and threw on a gown retrieved from the packing cases. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her to start preparing their meal.

  “What’s this?” she said, pointing up towards the ceiling.

  “Didn’t I tell you?” He roared with delight. “How could I forget? Up there is the bell tower, and that is the pull-rope. We can ring our very own church bell!”

  Kelly couldn’t sleep. Perhaps it was the champagne. Brett had downed most of it, but she’d drunk more than usual, and although he started snoring the moment his head touched the pillow, her thoughts kept racing, and she found it impossible to slow them down enough to enable her to drift out of consciousness.

  Cocooned by the duvet, her feet no longer felt like ice. During their meal, they had needed to resort to using her old electric fan heater. Even then, she’d worn a thick sweater. Brett, made of sterner stuff, remained in shirt sleeves. Although he’d grown up around Sydney’s surfing beaches, cold weather amused him, as if it presented a challenge a strong young fellow must overcome as a matter of honour. Besides, Meadow View was fully insulated, and the roof weatherproofed with the latest materials. Not a single crack for the night air to creep in. As he drained his glass, he told her that the coldness was all in her mind.

  Her imagination was too vivid, according to Brett, though sometimes she feared it wasn’t vivid enough. It failed her whenever she tried to picture St Lucy’s as a place of worship. How many years had John Fryer played the organ here, to the deaf ears of people who were close to death? She fancied she could hear the strains of the Toccata and Fugue, echoing in her brain. Did they often play that in rural churches? She could not recall the names of hymns from her childhood.

  The darkness was absolute. Brett had been diligent about turning off even the standby lights on their electrical equipment. It was a ritual with him, as close as he ever came to religious observance. It wasn’t about saving money; he could afford to keep lights burning all night, every night, but he insisted on doing his share to save the planet.

  Her throat felt dry and scratchy after the alcohol. She should have drunk more water, and despite the cold outside the bed, she’d better go downstairs and pour herself a glass. She reached out through the curtain and fumbled for the bedside light, but when she pressed the switch, nothing happened.

  She swore under her breath. If the power supply had failed, she ought to check the control panel in the porch. Brett had mentioned some kind of fail-safe gizmo, but she’d better not disturb him. He would be furious if anything went wrong on their first night in his dream home.

  That was the point, she realized, as she put one foot on the chilly floorboards. This was his dream, not hers. Not yet, anyway. Surely she could not allow old Honoria to ruin things forever?

  Easing herself out of the bed, she pulled on the gown. Thankfully, its fleecy lining kept out the chill. Better be careful, venturing down those steps with open treads. It was all very well for Brett to brag about safety features, but when you could not see a thing, you needed to take care.

  One foot in front of the other. No rush, she reminded herself.

  At last she reached ground level. Her soles were freezing, but a couple of kilims were stretched out on the floor near the sofa. As she padded across them, something brushed against her cheek. Something cold and slithery; it was like being stroked by the thin fingers of a creature from another world.

  She couldn’t help jumping back, and the movement knocked over the pot containing the tall palm whose fronds had touched her. The pot smashed on the floor, and she screamed with the shock of it.

  Not even Brett could sleep through that. The sound of mov
ement came from upstairs.

  “What’s happening?”

  He sounded groggy, no wonder after drinking so much. She wanted to call to reassure him, but her throat had dried, and when she tried to shout, no sound came.

  “Kelly, where are you?” He swore viciously. “What have you done to the lights?”

  As she heard him clambering out of bed, she found her voice at last.

  “Brett, it’s all right!”

  “Were you trying to get away?” he bellowed. “What did they tell you about this place?”

  “Nothing, nothing.” Had she woken him from a savage nightmare? “It was only an old woman . . .”

  “You bitch, why did I ever think you would have the guts?” He sounded frantic, unreasoning.

  She heard the crash of the bell in the tower. He must be pulling on the rope. His rage terrified her. She needed to get back to the mezzanine gallery, and calm him down, but she dreaded cutting her feet on shards from the plant pot. Fear rooted her as the bell stopped clanging, and she heard him thunder around on the upper floor.

  “I can’t see you, but I know you’re there!”

  “Brett, why . . . ?”

  Something happened, so quickly that afterwards she found it impossible to describe. A terrible crash ripped through the silence, and she knew at once that Brett had fallen from the gallery. Despite the rails and safety panels, it was easy for such a tall man to pitch over while flailing around in the dark, and plunge to the ground.

  Only when she found the switch to restore the power, and bright lights banished the darkness, did she realize that one of the wooden packing cases had broken his fall. But it had not saved him. The impact must have been horrific. Worst of all, he had fallen head first, straight on to her precious silver candlesticks.

  She dared not look as she dialled 999, but when the ambulance arrived, one of the paramedics threw up the moment he tried to shift the body.

  His colleague told Kelly what even a man familiar with death found so shocking.