Death at Coombe Farm

by Phillip Strang

  ‘You’re a mongrel. My own son and his tart. Both of them want me out on the street, begging,’ the mother said turning to Tremayne and Clare.

  ‘They’re the police. What are you doing?’

  ‘They need to know in case I end up dead, like your father.’

  ‘Mother, don’t talk rubbish. Nobody’s throwing you out on the street, but someone’s got to take control of this place. Our father was driving it into the ground, and you know it.’

  ‘William would have been back here within six months, and he’d have sorted it out.’

  ‘Are you joking?’ Gordon said. ‘He’s full of academic theory, that’s all. When did he last get his hands dirty?’

  ‘And when did you, Gordon?’ William said. ‘Unless it was to paw Cathy.’

  ‘You bastard, I’ve a good mind to…’

  ‘Sit down and shut up. Our father’s dead and you just want to cause trouble.’

  ‘I’ve got a copy of his will. It’s mine, all mine,’ Gordon said.

  ‘He wrote that ten years ago,’ his mother said. ‘It’s no longer valid. Back then, I agreed when he gave it to you, but now, you’d destroy this place.

  ‘No longer valid? Where’s its replacement?’

  ‘He was going to sign it this week, you know that. You all know that.’

  ‘Mrs Selwood, what would the new will have said?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘I would have inherited the farm in totality, with the provision, that in the event of my death, the farm would pass to my three sons. Gordon would receive a one-off payment to not become involved, Nicholas would be entrusted with a fifty per cent share to deal with the financial management, and William would run the farm, another fifty per cent share.’

  ‘Would that have been acceptable?’

  ‘To Nicholas and William, not to Gordon.’

  ‘I’m the eldest son, it belongs to me.’

  ‘And you’ll destroy three hundred and fifty years’ worth of effort,’ Marge Selwood said furiously.

  ‘I’ll bring it into the twenty-first century.’

  ‘Rubbish. You intend to sell it. You’ve already been checking out its value.’

  ‘Is it valuable?’ Tremayne turned towards Nicholas Selwood, assuming him to be the most knowledgeable on such matters.

  ‘The market’s buoyant. This place is worth plenty, and there are buyers in the area.’

  Tremayne stood up in front of the fire. ‘The phone call I had previously was from Jim Hughes, our crime scene examiner. He’s still with Mr Selwood.’

  ‘And?’ Gordon Selwood asked.

  ‘He’s also checked out the horse. What he believes happened is that the horse reared and threw the rider on to the ground, one of his hands was still holding the reins, and he was dragged under the horse.’ Tremayne paused to allow the others to focus on what he had just said. ‘Was Mr Selwood in full control of all his faculties?’

  ‘My husband was suffering from dementia. It was still mild, and not easily noticed, but he was forgetful.’

  ‘Forgetful enough to check his riding gear?’

  ‘I suppose so, but what’s to check?’

  ‘I don’t know, but we know that his hand became entwined in the reins.’

  ‘If it did, so what?’

  ‘We don’t know, but we intend to carry out further tests. Mr Selwood was, we believe, on the ground. The horse should have moved away.’

  ‘Why didn’t it?’ William Selwood asked.

  ‘Because someone was firing pellets at it from an air rifle. If the horse moved one way, then another pellet would force it to move in another direction. It would have taken an excellent shot, but Claude Selwood falling off the horse wasn’t an accident, he had been hit by pellets as well.’ Tremayne paused and scrutinised each of them in turn. ‘This is murder, and someone, possibly in this room, is responsible.’

  Mrs Selwood collapsed to the floor. Clare and Cathy rushed over to help her. Marge Selwood accepted Clare’s help, pushed Cathy away.

  ‘Now what?’ Gordon asked.

  ‘Our crime scene team will continue their investigation. Afterwards, please make yourselves available for further discussion and interviews. Also, we’ll need copies of fingerprints, as well as a complete check of this house, and any weapons that may be here or nearby.’

  ‘But why?’ Claude Selwood’s widow said.

  ‘You know why,’ Gordon said. ‘Somebody didn’t agree with our father’s plans.’

  ‘You didn’t,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Maybe, I didn’t, but my father changing his will while he had dementia? They’d throw it out in court.’

  ‘I’ll fight you all the way to protect this family,’ his mother said.

  Clare observed the Selwood family, thankful that her parents were boringly normal. They’d argue, like any married couple, but there was never any dispute over inheritance, no issues about the division of assets.

  But in this farmhouse, a war was about to break out.

  Chapter 2

  Back at Bemerton Road Police Station, the inevitable visit of Superintendent Moulton. ‘Another one, Tremayne,’ he said.

  ‘A warring family, and enough money at stake to make them all potential suspects,’ Tremayne replied.

  ‘Never the easy ones for you, is it?’

  ‘We’ll deal with it.’

  ‘I know that, and besides, I’m not after your retirement this month. Maybe after you wrap up this case,’ Moulton said. Clare could see the uneasy truce between the two men.

  Clare settled down at her desk, paperwork to do. Tremayne opened his laptop after Moulton had left, took a cursory look at his emails, opened up the reporting template and closed it again. Jim Hughes walked into the office holding a mug of coffee. ‘The horse trod on his throat, crushed his windpipe,’ he said.

  ‘Could he have survived?’

  ‘The horse was spooked. He could have trodden anywhere, even missed the man.’

  ‘Shooting at the man and his horse is not rational, even if it was only a warning.’

  ‘Pathology will conduct an autopsy. Maybe they’ll come up with something else.’

  ‘Claude Selwood’s health?’

  ‘A little overweight, but I’d say he was fit.’

  Clare came into the office. ‘We’ve got an unknown,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘What is it?’ Clare said.

  ‘According to Hughes, the man’s death may have been accidental.’

  ‘That’s not conclusive. If he hadn’t died, then whoever was shooting the pellets could have taken him out with a bullet. There’s no shortage of weapons up at the farmhouse,’ Hughes said.

  ‘There were some single-shot rifles at the farmhouse,’ Clare said.

  ‘No doubt every farm in the area would have one or two.’

  ‘Did you check those at the house?’

  ‘We checked the serial numbers, the ammunition, nothing more.’

  ‘Had they been used recently?’

  ‘That wasn’t our concern. We were looking for the weapon that shot the pellets,’ Hughes said.

  ‘Any luck there?’

  ‘The pellets are in Forensics. Matching them with a gun will be difficult. We’ve taken all the pellet guns we could find at the farmhouse for testing, not certain we’ll find much. Whoever fired the shots would have been wearing gloves on account of the weather.’

  Jim Hughes left Tremayne’s office. Clare took his seat. ‘It’s still murder until proved otherwise,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Judging by the animosity in the Selwoods’ house, it’s not the last one.’

  ‘Check out the family, give me a breakdown on each of them. I didn’t like Gordon Selwood, but that doesn’t make him a murderer, and Selwood’s widow, what’s with her? It’s not often you see that intensity of feuding between mother and son.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ There’s a lot of money at stake.’

  ‘Not with my wife and me,’ Tremayne said. ‘Mind you, we barely had two pennies to rub toget
her. How about you, Yarwood? Would you be tempted?’

  ‘My parents have more than two pennies, but no. There’s a pub in the village where the Selwoods live. It may be a good idea to have a pub lunch there, see what the mood is, what people think of the family.’

  ‘Yarwood, you’ll make detective inspector yet.’

  ***

  ‘Claude Selwood, you’ll not find many around here who’ll be sad at his passing,’ the publican at the Coachman’s pub said.

  ‘Why’s that?’ Tremayne asked as he drank his pint of beer and enjoyed his steak, well done, as usual. More like burnt, to Clare, who was eating a salad and drinking a glass of white wine.

  ‘Are they titled?’ Clare asked.

  ‘There was a lord in the past, ended up dead for treason, and then another one who ingratiated himself to the next king and reclaimed the fortune. Nowadays, there’s no title, although Claude used to come in here sometimes expecting us to bow and scrape. I’ll give the man his due; he certainly made a success out of that farm. Some swear he had made a pact with the devil. Each and every year, his cattle would win prizes at the agricultural shows in the area, and his crops would always command premium prices.’

  ‘The devil?’ Clare said.

  ‘I’m just talking. We had some in another village who believed in ancient gods. Did you ever get over there?’ the publican, a short, jolly man, said. Tremayne realised he was the typical publican, ready with a story while the patron continued to drink and spend money.

  ‘We both were,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Nasty business. Around here they can be superstitious: no walking under a ladder, seven years bad luck if you break a mirror, but that’s it.’

  ‘What else can you tell us about the Selwoods?’

  ‘Marge, his wife. She’s not a bad sort, didn’t come from around here. She can be aloof, but she means well.’

  ‘The sons?’

  ‘Gordon, he’s a layabout, only wants to spend the money. Nicholas, a quiet lad, sensitive, and then there’s William.’

  ‘What about William?’

  ‘Polite, well-intentioned. You’ll not hear a bad word about him around here. The only ones the village had problems with were Claude and Gordon.’

  ‘Were Claude and Gordon close?’

  ‘After a few pints maybe, but otherwise, Claude thought Gordon wasn’t fit to take over from him, but he’s the hereditary male. I heard that Claude was thinking of isolating his son, giving it to the other children.’

  ‘To his wife?’

  ‘That’s the same thing. She’s close with Nicholas and William, remote with Gordon. Strange when a family can be so dysfunctional that a mother does not like her son?’

  ‘I suppose it is,’ Tremayne said. ‘Old Ted, what can you tell us about him?’

  ‘He’s lived here since he was Baby Ted. I doubt if he’s been further than two miles from this village for the last seven years since his wife died.’

  ‘Suspicious?’

  ‘Ted’s wife, no way. She was a small woman, almost as round as she was tall. Always a cheery disposition. One day she’s out on the street talking to a group of women, the next minute she keels over, heart attack. A big turnout at the church that day. After that, Old Ted’s been in his own world. I’ll give Claude Selwood his due; he did make sure the man kept his cottage, rent-free until his death. I don’t know what will happen now.’

  ‘Old Ted kept working for them.’

  ‘Not really, but if there’s something needs doing, he’ll be there. His family and the Selwood go back generations. Old Ted reckons it’s over three hundred years, but that may be him thinking it did. Anyway, he’s always been around here, popular too. He rarely comes in here, but when he does, my wife always gives him a free lunch.’

  ‘Generous.’

  ‘Not really. Every week or so, there are two dozen eggs on our back doorstep from him.’

  ‘Coming back to the Selwoods,’ Tremayne said. ‘What about this feud between mother and son; have you heard about it?’

  ‘Gordon, he likes to drink a few too many sometimes. He starts talking. We all know his plans. Once he’s got control, he’ll sell it to the highest bidder, and he’ll take off for God knows where with his latest floozy.’

  ‘He was with a Cathy up at the house.’

  ‘She’s been around for a while. I heard that she married him.’

  ‘She has. What do you know about her?’

  ‘She turned up about six months ago and moved in. I can’t see her being serious about Gordon. Apart from his claim to the money, he’s not got much going for him. He’s certainly not a farmer, not much of anything really. When he was young, he was a hooligan, graffitiing around the place, attempting to seduce the local girls.’

  ‘Any luck?’

  ‘Back then, son of the biggest landowner in the district? He wasn’t a bad-looking teen, so I’ve been told, the sort the girls go for. There was one, the daughter of the doctor, she disappeared and never came back. Her father left soon after.’

  ‘Any reason?’

  ‘It was believed she was pregnant with Gordon’s child, but nothing more was heard. If she were, the child would be sixteen, maybe seventeen now. No doubt a claim to the property through its father, if its proven.’

  ‘It’s a long bow to stretch, that one. The others would have a stronger claim than the illegitimate child of the eldest son.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not. The farm has passed male heir to male heir, the son of the previous for generations.’

  ‘Could the right of an unknown child take precedence over the other sons?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ the publican said. ‘Around here, the old ways still apply, but the law may say otherwise. It’s just a thought.’

  ***

  Clare had found the village of Coombe to be attractive; Tremayne enjoyed its pub. Neither of the two officers felt the need to linger. Claude Selwood’s death by the horse could not have been guaranteed, although there was no doubt about the intent of hurting the horse and the man. The question was, who had fired the shots. ‘It could have been someone young,’ Tremayne said to Clare on the drive back to Salisbury. She was driving as usual, not that she minded.

  ‘According to Jim Hughes, the pellets had hit the horse and Selwood, and both were moving around. It would have taken a good shot.’

  ‘They’re a strange bunch.’

  ‘There’s a lot of money at stake,’ Clare said. ‘His widow showed no emotion. That’s illogical, even if she despised the man.’

  ‘It can’t be much fun, the wife of the eldest son and the matriarch under the same roof.’

  ‘It could be a lot of fun, especially for Gordon.’

  ‘You think he’s a man who enjoys watching the fireworks?’

  ‘I’m sure he does. He doesn’t seem to be interested in much else. He’s the most likely culprit at the present moment. Maybe a warning to the father not to change his will in favour of the mother.’

  ‘We never understood what Gordon did for a living. It’s clear he has money, judging by the wife and the car outside.’

  ‘They live in the house; it’s big enough for the warring factions to keep apart.’

  ‘It still doesn’t explain what the eldest son does with his time. He’s not a stupid man, and he had the most to lose if his inheritance was placed in doubt.’

  ‘He said he would fight a new will in the courts.’

  ‘That costs money, and if it’s all tied up in the farm, and his mother has control, he’ll not stand a chance.’

  Tremayne leant back in the passenger seat to mull over the case. Clare looked across, knowing that before they arrived at the police station, he would have dropped off for a few minutes. She knew that she was fond of the man, even if his penchant for gambling on three-legged horses, and his predilection for pints of beer and cigarettes, were not to her taste.

  Her relationship with her parents, especially her mother, was loving, yet formal. With Tremayne, she could let d
own her guard, occasionally get angry, even answer him back when he was talking nonsense or heading down the wrong track with his analysis. With her mother, it was a case of remembering your place and doing the right thing. Clare was old enough to be independent, yet her mother treated her as a child, and there was always a man of her age invited to dinner whenever Clare went home: her mother’s matchmaking.

  ‘It’s time to get over Harry,’ her mother would say. ‘You need to get yourself married, have a few children and to forget this foolishness about being a police officer, and spending all your time with that old man.’

  Clare wanted to say that the old man, as her mother disparagingly referred to Tremayne, was important to her, professionally and personally. It had been he who had snapped her out of the melancholy after her fiancé’s death, not her mother, who would only talk about moving on. But moving on wasn’t easy, Clare knew that; her mother would never understand. She had not been there when the man that she loved had been snatched from her and thrust up into the branches of a tree. She had not heard the last gasps as he had died.

  It had been long enough since his death, and Clare knew she should have forgotten him, but she hadn’t. She was confident she never would, not totally, but she also knew that her biological clock was ticking and she wanted children, but with a man she loved.

  Back at the station, Tremayne retreated to his office, Clare to her desk. She switched on the laptop and entered the name of Claude Selwood into the search engine.

  Chapter 3

  A family that should have been united in grief, but wasn’t, sat around the table in the kitchen of the farmhouse.

  ‘Does she have to be here?’ Marge Selwood said. She was looking over at Cathy, Gordon’s wife.

  ‘If you want me to be here,’ Gordon said. His other brothers were sitting upright; he was lounging back attempting to project his seniority.

  Gordon, everyone knew, was a man who had spent too much money and time on women and fast cars, not enough as a farmer. The despair of his father in his later years, the bane of his mother’s existence.

  ‘Is our father’s death suspicious?’ Nicholas Selwood said. He was at the head of the table, his mother at the other end.