Death at Coombe Farm

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Not now. Once Crispin is finished with school, and then at university, maybe.’

  ‘You’ve driven through Coombe on several occasions. Has it ever been more than that?’

  ‘Not really. I may have driven past my old house, the churchyard, Gordon’s place.’

  ‘And stopped to have a look.’

  ‘Maybe, but no one ever saw me.’

  ‘It may not be important, but the car that hit Crispin is. We’ve checked the CCTV cameras in the city centre, but nothing that helps, and his friend who was standing there couldn’t tell us much.’

  Clare left the mother and went to speak with Crispin. He was sat in front of a computer monitor playing a game. ‘Your mother says you’re on the mend,’ Clare said.

  ‘Another few days and I’ll be back at school.’

  ‘We’ve not found the car that hit you.’

  ‘It could have just been an accident.’

  ‘It’s always possible.’

  ‘Mum’s told me about my father if that’s what you want to talk about.’

  ‘I never asked her if she had. How do you feel about it?’

  ‘I don’t feel very much. I’d like to meet him at some stage, but not now. Mum doesn’t want me to. I’ll respect her wishes.’

  ‘You understand the significance?’

  ‘It’s on the internet. I’ve checked. And now my father’s wife has died.’

  ‘Murdered. That’s why you need to be careful.’

  ‘But why me? I never knew about them before.’

  ‘They knew about you. You confuse them, and someone in that family is irrational. We can never know what will happen next.’

  ‘I’ll be careful.’

  Clare knew that Crispin Goode’s idea of careful was not hers. He was a young man, anxious to make his mark. She knew he’d be fishing around Coombe within the week, regardless of what was said. It had been important for Crispin to know his birthright, although it made his situation more precarious.

  Clare left the Goode’s house and drove back to the police station, diverting to Tremayne’s house. The man was awake and looking for updates. She found him downstairs, a blanket around him, the television on the sports channel. ‘There’s no hope for you, guv,’ Clare said.

  ‘I’m feeling better. I thought I might place some bets on the horses.’

  ‘You lose enough when you’re well. You could have given it a break for the day and stayed in bed.’

  ‘Don’t go on, Yarwood. A cup of tea would be nice.’

  Clare could see that Tremayne enjoyed being fussed over. ‘Anything to eat?’

  ‘I could manage some chicken.’

  ‘Just this once. Is there any in the fridge?’

  ‘I doubt it. There’s a shop down the road, takeaway.’

  ‘If I’m feeding you, then you’ll eat healthily. I’ll go and buy some chicken breast and prepare it here. You must give Jean hell when she comes to stay.’

  ‘With Jean, she has me cleaning the house.’

  ‘It’s looking better for her influence.’

  Clare left the house. She returned in fifteen minutes and prepared Tremayne a meal. In that time, he had lost money on his latest sure-fire winning horse.

  ‘What are the updates?’ Tremayne asked as he ate the first homemade meal that he had eaten in a couple of weeks.

  ‘Superintendent Moulton waylaid me, enquired after your health.’

  ‘Did he have his latest retirement package in his pocket?’

  ‘Not this time.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Rose Goode suspected that someone tried to poison the young Crispin when he was four.’

  ‘Is it likely?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Just bear it in mind for future reference, and Mr Goode, Derek, he’s divorced from Rose, but they keep in infrequent contact. No reason to suspect him.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He didn’t know about Crispin’s father, and Rose wouldn’t have told him.’

  ‘Assumptions, Yarwood. Never make firm decisions unless they’re backed up by fact. Agreed that this time you’re probably right, and seeing that Rose and Derek Goode are no longer together, then it seems unlikely. We may need to interview the man at some stage.’

  ‘Any more?’

  ‘Rose Goode and Gordon Selwood were childhood friends, and she was a frequent visitor at the Selwood house.’

  ‘A romance?’

  ‘Not as children, although they were close. Later on, he’s playing the field, so is she, but the friendship remained. It was Gordon that fathered the child, she made that clear, as she had not slept with any other man.’

  Clare left the house after one hour, making sure to wash the dirty dishes first. Tremayne was still sitting in his chair watching the television. She thought he looked lost, the most inactive she had ever seen him.

  ***

  For once, the weather was pleasant, even though it was five in the afternoon. Gordon Selwood, no longer able to tolerate his mother rearranging the main house, left by the back door and walked up the track to the top of the hill. He knew he had loved Cathy, had forgiven her for her past, but she was gone, and he was sad, sadder than he had been for a long time. With her, he felt complete, but now, it was his mother back in his life, and he did not want her. She had been in Old Ted’s cottage. She could have stayed there, and have left the house to him.

  He wanted to cry, but could not, consumed with the hatred he felt for his mother. His father had been strict, but with him, he could stand his own, even if that meant fearsome arguments, but then the old man had started to become forgetful, vague even. Gordon had seen that the spirit had gone out of the man, a hollow shell, and now, he, the eldest son was allowing his mother to reassert her stewardship of the Selwoods’ household.

  He stopped halfway up the track and looked around him. Cathy had loved the place, although he had not. He had promised her that he would not sell the farm and she would take over the day-to-day management, even bringing in Nicholas and William as necessary, although he knew they were his mother’s stooges. He took one further look around him and walked back down the track.

  He entered the main house. ‘Mother, I want you out. This is Cathy’s house. I want it left the way she liked it.’

  ‘You’re an ungrateful bastard. I’ve come over here to look after you, and this is what you say to me.’

  ‘You don’t understand. I loved Cathy.’

  ‘She was a whore, only wanting to take you away from me.’

  ‘She was my wife, and someone’s killed her. I want you out of here now. The cottage is still there.’

  ‘That’s only fit for a farmhand, not for me, the wife of Claude Selwood, the person who drove him onto being somebody, the same as I was going to do for you.’

  ‘I’m thirty-three. I don’t need someone to hold my hand to cross the road. I need a woman to love me. A woman that I had.’

  ‘You’re upset,’ Marge said. ‘It’s only natural. It’s come as a shock to you, to all of us. It’ll be better in the morning. Let’s talk then.’

  ‘There’s nothing to talk about. I want you out of this house in the next ten minutes, and don’t ever come back.’

  Sensing her son’s determination, the family matriarch left and walked towards the cottage. If she had been honest with herself, she would have said that it was more than adequate for her, but her power base lay in the other house. She opened the door to the cottage and made a phone call to her other sons. She knew they’d come. They loved her, even if Gordon did not.

  Was it true what the policewoman had said? Marge thought as she sat in the cottage. Nicholas and William were definitely Claude’s sons, their similarity to their father, undeniable, their mannerisms, similar to hers.

  Gordon, she realised, was taller than anyone else. He was susceptible to putting on weight, whereas no one else in the family was, and his hair colour was fairer than the others. Was he Claude’s son? She needed to know, and she needed to k
now quickly.

  Chapter 12

  Crispin Goode realised his life had taken a turn for the better. He made a phone call, a man answered. He slammed down the phone regretting that he had gone against the advice of his mother, excited that he had heard his father speak.

  ‘Did you phone someone?’ his mother asked.

  ‘Just to a friend, that’s all. He wasn’t home,’ Crispin said. It was the first time that he had openly lied to his mother. He knew it had been necessary.

  Clare, after a long day, although exhilarated that she had been running Homicide without Tremayne, sat in the living room of her cottage. Her only remaining cat sat nearby licking itself. It was just the two of them, and she knew it wasn’t satisfactory. She had been on a few dates with a couple of officers at Bemerton Road, but they had not worked out. One of the officers, a good-looking man with a loud voice, had only wanted to get her into his bed; she declined. The other, more sensitive, had been the perfect gentlemen, but she had felt no passion.

  Apart from that, she had not slept with a man for over two years, and she was nearly thirty. She had said many times in the intervening period after the death of Harry Holchester, that enough was enough. The man was long dead, although emotionally she knew she still loved him, even though he had been a murderer. Not for the first time, she held a handkerchief to her eyes. The cat, sensing that its mistress was sad, came closer.

  After five minutes, Clare snapped out of the inertia and phoned Tremayne. She knew he’d be awake.

  ‘I’m having a pint,’ he said. ‘Come and join me.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘The Pembroke Arms.’

  ‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes,’ Clare said. She had seen enough sadness for one day, and sitting at home alone feeling sorry for herself wasn’t going to help.

  At the pub, Tremayne was sitting at the bar. ‘I’m going easy,’ he said.

  ‘You’re looking better.’

  ‘It’s you’re looking after me that’s done the trick.’

  ‘Don’t expect it every day.’

  ‘I won’t, and besides Jean’s coming at the weekend.’

  ‘We may be busy.’

  ‘She’ll understand. It’ll give her a chance to tidy the house.’

  ‘That sounds like male chauvinism to me?’

  ‘Not from me, it isn’t. She likes to fuss around the house, the same as you.’

  ‘I don’t like it, but when it’s necessary, I will. If you want to live in chaos, that’s up to you. I like everything to be tidy, and in its place.’

  ‘Okay, you’ve said your piece. A glass of wine.’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  The two police officers sat there comfortable in each other’s company. Whenever she was with him, she felt content. To her, he was the warm blanket, the comforter a child looks for.

  ***

  William Selwood finished his last lecture of the day. The lecturer had been dry and dull, and he had had trouble staying awake, and now, there was a five-thousand-word report to present on what the man had been droning on about. It did not concern him as the subject matter was interesting, even if the man was not.

  That weekend, five hours to research, five hours to write, and five hours to edit. It was how he had approached the degree course, compartmentalising each day, each subject. He was on schedule to complete, although the deaths at the family home were making it difficult, and now his mother was becoming demanding.

  He knew she was difficult, but then she always had his best interests at heart. It had been she who had convinced his father that his absence from the farm for a few years would reap the rewards in the end, and she was right. He could see what was wrong with the farm, having used it as the reference for most of his time at university.

  Sure, every year, the farm had won the best of breed for their cattle, the best barley crop, but he knew it could be improved. With further mechanisation, a comprehensive software farm management programme, he could see at least an eight per cent improvement, as well as a reduction in permanent and casual staff.

  He was eager to start, but the death of his father, and then Old Ted, and now Gordon’s wife, was jeopardising his return to Coombe Farm. He had known of the antagonism between his father and mother, the despair over Gordon, but he had learnt to ignore it, but now it was impacting, and his mother was looking for him to drive over and visit her in her cottage.

  He imagined that there had been problems at the main house. Before having to deal with his mother, he phoned Gordon. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing’s changed. Cathy is with the pathologist, and I’m here on my own.’

  ‘Mother?’

  ‘I’ve sent her back to the cottage.’

  ‘But why? I thought there was a truce.’

  ‘Not with our mother. You may be tied to her apron strings, but I’m not.’

  ‘That’s not fair. She’s done right by us.’

  ‘By you and Nicholas. Look how she treated Cathy and now she’s dead. Our mother pretends to care, but she does not. I know that, and it’s about time you and Nicholas wised up.’

  ‘Maybe she was against Cathy, but she’s still our mother. She deserves respect.’

  ‘She’s got respect in her cottage. She’s got a place to live, no issues with money. What more does she want? And besides, our father gave this place to me.’

  ‘And who’s going to run it?’

  ‘You and Nicholas. I just want a suitable return.’

  ‘And you keep the asset.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I may as well get a job on another farm.’

  ‘You won’t. You’re full of this family heritage nonsense, the same as our mother. You’ll be here, the same as Nicholas, hoping that I have an accident, maybe even helping it to occur. I’ve not eliminated any of you from Cathy’s death. If ever I prove that any of you are involved, then…’

  ‘Then what? Kill us the way you did Old Ted. What did he know?’ What skeletons do you have buried? And what about our father? Did you kill him?’

  ‘Watch your mouth. This is my place, and I can throw you out anytime I like.’

  William, a mild, even-tempered youth, realised that he was finding an inner-strength. He had to thank Gordon for that. He ended the phone call and walked to his car. If his mother needed help, he’d be there for her.

  ***

  Tremayne was in the office early the next morning. He had appreciated Yarwood coming over and cooking him a meal, although he would not be thanking her profusely; that was how their relationship worked, a good deal of sarcasm, a denigration of the other’s importance.

  ‘What’s the agenda today?’ Tremayne said. He was looking better, even though he had ended up in the pub the night of his convalescing.

  ‘More of the same. We’ve not found who fired the weapons, unlikely to in the office. The vicar should have a finger on the pulse of the village.’

  ‘You know he fancies you.’

  ‘Maybe he does, but I’m not religious, you know that.’

  ‘What does it matter. You’re a woman, he’s a man.’

  ‘At least your eyesight is fine,’ Clare said.

  The two officers left the office, Clare driving. She had phoned ahead; the Reverend Walston would be waiting for them in the church.

  Inside the church, they found the vicar arranging the prayer books. ‘One of the parishioners does it for me usually, but she's not been around for a couple of days,’ he said.

  ‘Any concerns?’ Tremayne said.

  ‘She’s in her eighties. I should go and check.’

  ‘We’re trying to resolve these murders. We thought you may be able to give us a new perspective,’ Clare said. Tremayne noticed that the vicar stopped arranging the prayer books when she spoke.

  ‘I’ll help in any way I can, although I’m not sure I can help much. The influence of the church is not what it used to be. I’m afraid we’re like the village pub, declining in patronage. I’ve tried to embra
ce the community, to encourage the youth to come, but I’ve not had a lot of success.’

  ‘Even so, you talk to people,’ Tremayne said. ‘We were told that Claude Selwood interfered.’

  ‘On more than one occasion. He was generous in helping the church, but he was a forceful man who wanted it to be done his way.’

  ‘We were told about a sermon.’

  ‘It was a dispute only. He was a great believer in that success belonged to those who strived and worked hard. I wanted to preach about helping thy neighbour, those less fortunate. To him, those less fortunate deserved what they got. The man believed in the value of hard work, and he felt that some in this village were bone idle, and needed to be reminded of the fact.’

  ‘Did he upset anybody with his comments?’

  ‘Once or twice. Sometimes Claude Selwood would get down the pub, a few pints in him, and he’d start philosophising. People around here don’t like to be lectured. The history of the Selwood family is well known. Claude Selwood’s father, he was a tough man, not afraid to take a cane to those of his workers who slackened off, and lectures by the son were not appreciated, considering that some here remembered the stories from the past. One of the Selwoods even killed a villager, but that was over two hundred years ago.’

  ‘It was a crueller world back then,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘Not to some in this village. There were a few who were pleased when Claude Selwood died, and now with Old Ted, they’re blaming the Selwoods again.’

  ‘What about the death of Cathy Selwood?’

  ‘She carried the Selwood name, and she wasn’t from around here. No one’s concerned about her, although most would admit to having liked the woman. She didn’t have their arrogance, and she was an improvement on the others.’

  ‘Gordon Selwood. What can you tell us about him?’

  ‘There was a scandal, but it goes back before my time.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Local gossip. Supposedly, the daughter of a doctor.’

  ‘Fletcher, that was the name. Does it mean anything to you?’

  ‘I’ve been here for nine years. There are some Fletchers in the graveyard, probably related, but Dr Fletcher has never been in here.’