Death at Coombe Farm

by Phillip Strang

Outside in the garden, the neighbour, a man older than Tremayne, older than Old Ted, dug a hole for Clare. She carried the animal out of the cottage and lovingly placed it in the hole, the blanket still wrapped around its lifeless body. The other cat, younger and more agile, was nowhere to be seen. A few words were said, the neighbour shovelled soil over the hole, Clare patting the ground until it was firm. She then placed a flat rock on the grave and went back inside.

  Even though she had already drunk two glasses of wine, she opened a bottle.

  ‘Do you want me to stay with you, or do you want to come and stay at our place?’

  ‘No thanks,’ Clare said. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  She then went up to her bed, a glass of wine in her hand. Upstairs on her bed, the other cat, the one who usually lay down at the end of the bed, was lying on the pillow.

  Clare turned on the television, a depressing movie. She turned it off and put the glass of wine, still untouched, on the table at the side of the bed and switched off the light.

  It had been a long day, culminating in more sadness. Within five minutes, she was fast asleep.

  Chapter 7

  ‘Now look here, Gordon,’ Nicholas Selwood, the older of the two younger brothers, said at the farmhouse. ‘Our mother is staying in that pub, while you’re up here lording it up, and what about your wife?’

  ‘What about Cathy?’

  ‘This is our mother’s house, not hers, and there she is redecorating the place.’

  ‘And doing a good job, don’t you agree?’

  ‘That’s not the point. Our mother looked after this house for forty years, and you kick her out.’

  ‘For one thing, she wasn’t kicked out. Cathy and our mother cannot be in the same house, it’s fireworks when they’re together.’

  ‘We know that, but our mother? How could you?’

  ‘Decisions needed to be made. We’re staying, not selling. You two will have free run of the place, and our mother has a cottage if she wants it.’

  ‘A farmhand’s cottage? What is that compared to this house?’

  ‘It’s the only compromise, and you know it.’

  ‘If we run the farm, where do we live?’

  ‘Nicholas, you’re the financial manager. You don’t need to be here all the time. You can even keep your accountancy firm in Salisbury. We can always build a place for William. There’s no shortage of land.’

  The two younger sons could see the hand of Cathy. Gordon, they knew was a weak man, susceptible to a pretty face and a good story. His life had consisted of very little, and now he was acting decisive and resolute, whereas his past history would have indicated that he would have taken the money and run.

  Nicholas and William, both still relatively young, had come up with a proposal that would allow them to pool their financial resources with their mother’s and to buy Gordon out, but now there was a fly in the ointment: Cathy.

  It grated, they both knew, as they sat there and listened to their brother. The farm was big enough for them and their mother, as well as their wives and children in the future, and Old Ted’s farm cottage, if modernised and extended, was excellent accommodation, although they did not intend to let that be known at this time.

  Down in the pub, Marge Selwood waited for an update, hopeful that the result would be positive, aware that it probably would not. She had known what Cathy Selwood was from the start, an opportunist who had latched on to a weak man. Wasn’t that what she had done with Claude. He had been picked by her as a suitable subject, been made strong, almost too strong for even her to handle.

  In London and in her early twenties, she could see there was no future in the life she had been leading. Always a smart woman, she had checked out where she wanted to go and who she wanted to ensnare. Salisbury seemed the best place for her, having lived in the area as a young woman.

  She remembered a young man she had met when she was fourteen; they corresponded by mail for a few months afterwards; he, the son of a wealthy landowner, she, the daughter of an army officer. He stayed in the area; her father was posted overseas.

  She had phoned up her first love purely on the off-chance after eight years, found that he wasn’t involved with anyone else. They met that weekend in London, made love, became engaged and married within two months. Since then she had never looked at another man, and now, that man’s son, the child she had carried for nine months, was denying her the farm and the house that were hers.

  After two hours, the two sons who remained loyal to her entered the pub. Nicholas ordered a beer, William, a whisky.

  ‘She’s controlling him,’ Nicholas said as he sat down next to his mother.

  Marge felt neither dismay nor disappointment, only a realisation that it was up to her to address the situation. ‘I thought you were wasting your time. Did you offer him our proposal?’

  ‘Not then. It’s Cathy who holds sway. He will do what she tells him.’

  Marge knew that she had taken Claude, a weak and dilatory person and transformed him into an aggressive and dynamic man. She could see Cathy was doing the same with Gordon.

  She admired the woman, even if she hated her. If her sons could not deal with the situation, then it was up to her. Nicholas was a professional man who would abide by the law, but it would require unlawful activities to succeed, and, as for William, he was still young and idealistic. If she needed to act, she needed to do it alone and unhindered.

  ‘Leave it with me. I’ll talk to Gordon,’ Marge said.

  ‘Cathy?’

  ‘She will not last long.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Gordon is weak, I’m not. It may take some time, but I’ll be focussed on the end game.’

  ‘In this pub?’ Nicholas asked.

  ‘Not for me. I will make peace with Gordon and his wife. I will take up his offer of the farm cottage.’

  ‘Have you sold out?’ William asked.

  ‘You’re my son. What do you think?’

  ‘Be careful, Mum. You know what can happen.’

  ‘Nothing can happen unless I wish it.’

  ‘And the offer to Gordon?’

  ‘There will be no mention of it for the time being. At the appropriate time, it will be offered again.’

  ***

  The mood in the village of Coombe was calm. Claude Selwood had not been well regarded, although his business acumen had been sound. Apart from Old Ted, another fifteen worked at the Selwoods’ house and farm. The initial concern over Claude’s death had abated once it was clear that Cathy Selwood would be taking control, the village collectively discounting Gordon as the weaker of the two.

  Marge Selwood was regarded as capable, as were her youngest sons, and it had been hoped she would have taken control, but it had not come about, and then there was the death of Old Ted. His murder still concerned people, but not as much as it should have. There were some in the village who had taken to ensuring their windows and doors were closed at night.

  Tremayne and Clare took the opportunity to check out the area. So far, they had only visited the pub and the farm. ‘It’s a pretty place,’ Clare said as they walked around. On one corner, a local store, a telephone box outside, as well as a post box.

  The pub stood proudly in the centre of the village, just across the road from the church and the graveyard. Tremayne and Clare walked around the graves, finding Claude Selwood’s with no difficulty; it was the only one with a headstone that wasn’t old. Clare read the engraving, Tremayne casually looked and moved away.

  ‘Not interested?’ Clare said.

  ‘He’s dead and buried. He’ll not help in solving Old Ted’s murder.’

  ‘It’s related, though.’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘And there’s no way to prove it?’

  ‘How? We’ve no idea who fired the pellet gun.’

  As they stood there, the local vicar came over. ‘Claude Selwood, a hard man,’ the Reverend Walston said.

  Clare could see an athletic man in
his forties with a pleasant face. She hadn’t expected to be excited on meeting the vicar, but she was.

  ‘He gave you some trouble, so we’re told,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘He’d be here every Sunday, the same as Marge.’

  ‘Religious?’

  ‘Marge may have been, but I don’t think Claude was.’

  ‘Why did he come?’

  ‘His family had held sway for centuries around here. He saw it as his duty. He was not a man you ever really knew.’

  ‘In what way?’ Clare said.

  ‘With some people, he was strict; with others, he was kind and generous.’

  ‘Why is that strange?’

  ‘If you had met him you would understand.’

  ‘We only saw him after he died.’

  The three of them had moved away from the grave. It seemed almost sacrilegious, Clare thought, to talk ill of the dead while standing next to the man’s grave.

  ‘He wanted to interfere as if he regarded this village as his.’

  ‘Was it?’

  ‘In the past, and it’s not as if the Selwoods were titled. There’s an earl, supposedly an ancestor, buried in the church, but he died back in the seventeenth century.’

  ‘I thought titles were hereditary?’ Clare said.

  Apparently not,’ the Reverend Walston said.

  ‘He’s a bit old for you, Yarwood,’ Tremayne said as the two of them walked away from the church.

  ‘A bit religious, as well.’

  ‘He was making eyes at you; you liked the look of him.’

  ‘Don’t go matchmaking, guv. I can always find someone.’

  ‘You’ve been moping around for too long. Sorry about your cat, but it’s not a substitute. You need a man in your bed.’

  ‘A little too familiar, don’t you think?’

  ‘With you? Hell, Yarwood, I’ve listened to your failed dates, their attempts at seduction. I reckon I’ve earned the right to make a comment. If the vicar’s your cup of tea, religious or not, grab him.’

  ‘We’ve got a murder case to investigate. Maybe once this is over.’

  ‘There’s no time like the present. The man’s not suspected of being involved.’

  ‘Why not? It could be anyone in the Selwood family or on the periphery. The vicar had been controlled by Claude. What’s to say that he did not fire the shots at Selwood, enough to frighten the man.’

  ‘It’s a long bow you’re stretching there. I think you should have a drink. In fact, I think I should as well,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘For once I agree.’

  ***

  Marge Selwood did not want to stay in the pub. A single room, as good as it was, was no substitute for the splendour she had enjoyed before. It had been she who had taken the main house at Coombe Farm and renovated it to her standards. It had even been featured in a magazine on one occasion.

  She would not let her eldest son, Gordon, suffer, but his wife was another matter. She needed to make peace.

  ‘I’m willing to accept your offer,’ she said to Gordon and Cathy Selwood in the front room of the main house.

  ‘That’s great,’ Cathy said, who came over and gave her mother-in-law a hug.

  Marge reciprocated through gritted teeth. ‘We’ll be neighbours,’ she said. ‘I’d like that. It’s time for me to move on, and this house is too big for me.’

  ‘That’s what we thought. Sorry about the unpleasantness,’ Gordon said.

  Marge looked over at her son, realising that not even Cathy could mould the man into another Claude.

  ‘I’ll organise a firm to come and start work on the cottage,’ Marge said.

  ‘That’s fine,’ Cathy said. ‘Just send the invoices here.’

  Marge looked over at the woman and outwardly smiled. Inwardly, she seethed.

  ‘Will you stay for dinner?’ Gordon said.

  ‘I’d love to,’ Marge said. She had to admit the house looked good and that Cathy, a friend under other circumstances, was a capable administrator, and someone who would ensure the legacy of the Selwoods, but it was her bloodline that she intended to run the place, not the bloodline of a woman who had sold herself. Marge knew that she had given herself to other men out of necessity; Cathy had apparently enjoyed the experience.

  Gordon sat back in his chair and looked at the two women in his life. He was pleased they were friends. Cathy Selwood was under no illusion as to the reality. One day, she knew, there would be problems, but for tonight, she would enjoy the magnanimity.

  Chapter 8

  Crispin Goode, a joy to his mother, was in a good mood as he walked to school. Not only was it close to the end of the term, but his exam results were, as expected, excellent. He saw the law as his vocation, and he had set his sights on entry into Oxford University when the time was right.

  He knew his mother was a woman who liked everything in its place, even his room. He preferred that she would leave his bedroom the way he wanted it, chaotic, but every night, there were the clothes in the drawers or on hangers, the papers and magazines neatly stacked. He had spoken to her enough times about it, but he knew she would not change.

  Sometimes, he wondered about his father, but it wasn’t often. His mother’s only comment: ‘It was a long time ago. One day, I might tell you, but not until you’re old enough to make the right decisions, to forgive me.’

  ‘What’s to forgive?’ Crispin said.

  As he was about to cross the road to his school, Bishop Wordsworth’s Grammar, a friend shouted out. ‘Come on Crispin. You’re late.’

  Crispin, noting a lull in the traffic, walked across the road, even though no further than twenty yards away there was a marked crossing.

  As he crossed the first lane, a car could be seen coming in the opposite direction. Crispin could see it. ‘It’s going fast,’ the friend said.

  ‘Don’t worry. It’ll slow down,’ Crispin’s reply. He continued to cross, raising his hand in acknowledgement of the driver slowing.

  ‘It’s not slowing,’ the friend said again.

  Crispin was hit full on and thrown over the bonnet of the car, landing heavily on the road. He was unconscious, and his friend was desperate. Another pupil phoned emergency services, an ambulance was on the scene within five minutes, a police officer within eight.

  At the hospital, Crispin was rushed into emergency; his condition deemed as critical. At the accident scene, the officer took a statement from the friend and two other pupils who had been witnesses.

  ‘The car was slowing down, and then it sped up. The person’s foot must have slipped off the brake and back onto the accelerator,’ the friend said.

  ‘Did you get a number plate?’

  ‘It was a Toyota Camry, that’s all I know. Blue in colour.’

  Rose Goode arrived at the hospital to find her son in a stable condition. ‘He’s lucky,’ the doctor said. ‘Two cracked ribs and a severe concussion.’

  ‘When can he come home?’

  ‘He’ll need a few days in here for observation. He’ll be out of service for a few weeks, and he’ll be sore.’

  ‘He had hoped to go on a trip to Europe in a week’s time.’

  ‘Not this time, he won’t.’

  ***

  It took two days for Marge Selwood to organise a local handyman to come to Old Ted’s former cottage and to clear the kitchen, one of the bedrooms, and the sitting room. After that, a professional cleaning company from Salisbury had gone through the house in infinite detail until it was liveable. The handyman and one other had painted the main areas, an interior decorating firm had been in, and had fitted the renovated rooms with items of suitable quality. The exercise had cost plenty. Marge sent the invoices straight up to the main house. The rest of the cottage would take another four weeks to complete. By then, Marge hoped to be back in the main house.

  On the fourth day in the cottage, Nicholas and William Selwood came to visit. ‘It’s looking good, Mum,’ Nicholas said.

  ‘I used to like this
cottage when I first came to the village,’ Marge said.

  ‘And now?’

  ‘It could burn to the ground for all I care.’

  ‘Don’t go destroying our inheritance,’ William said. ‘And when you’re back in the main house, I’d be happy to live here.’

  ‘It’s yours.’

  ‘Has Gordon been here?’

  ‘Cathy has. She brought me a potted plant as a housewarming present.’

  ‘Where is it now?’

  ‘In with the rubbish.’

  ‘The hatred remains,’ Nicholas said.

  ‘She’s a capable woman, more than I can say for Gordon.’

  ‘She’ll make a success of the farm, you know that.’

  ‘It is ours, and I intend to get it back.’

  ***

  Six in the morning and Clare was at Bemerton Road Police Station. It was still dark outside, an excellent time to catch up on the paperwork. She knew that Tremayne wouldn’t be in until later, a visit to the dentist was long overdue for him. He had admitted to her there wasn’t much he was afraid of, apart from someone drilling into his teeth. ‘When I was young, we had this dentist; he didn’t believe in injections or gas. He’d be straight in there with his drill, and I’d be climbing up the wall,’ he had said.

  Clare had to tell him that times had moved on, and his fear was irrational. But, she knew that Tremayne was a man set in his ways, and he’d endure the dentist and be back in the office later that morning.

  As Clare typed on her laptop, a woman who had been brought into Homicide by another officer, spoke. ‘Someone’s made an attempt on my son’s life.’ Clare looked up at the woman. She could see a conservatively-dressed woman in her thirties.

  ‘Please take a seat,’ Clare said. She saved her work on the laptop and focussed on the woman.

  ‘My name is Rose Goode.’

  ‘Rose Fletcher?’

  ‘You’ve heard of me?’

  ‘We’re aware that you were involved with Gordon Selwood in your youth.’

  ‘My parents were ashamed of what I’d done. We moved away from the area.’