The Village Fate

by William Hadley

  “Okay,” said Claudilia, “but are his predictions as good as he says? We only have his word for it.”

  “He’s sending over his records by email and I’ve lined up our accountants to take a look,” Hubert smiled.

  Actually it did make sense thought Claudilia. The Belchers had always invested in new developments that would help their business. Over the centuries they had married into or bought farms when possible and now had a very significant holding in the area. When everyone else was walking behind horses they were the first to buy tractors. They invested in the first combine harvester in the county when their neighbours were still using threshing machines. Their cattle breeding program was based on scientific excellence.

  “I’m going to arrange a trial next week,” said Hubert.

  “Oh, really, who’s the accused and what have they done?”

  “Idiot,” said Claudilia’s big brother. “We, that’s Angus and I, want to see if we can break down food waste using our new wood chipper. It’ll make a bit of a mess but we’ll hose it down and run a couple of tonnes of trimmings through afterwards. You’ll never know it was used for a mucky job like that.”

  “Why?”

  “We need to break down the material before it goes into the macerator. It starts releasing the gas faster that way. Our chipper is a smaller version of another machine, one made specifically to do this job.”

  “You said “we”. You’ve already bought into this haven’t you. You may not have put up any cash yet but you see yourself as part of the project.”

  “Yes I guess I do. It’s a new challenge and I like the idea. Renewable energy’s important. Helen’s always banging on about how we should fill a few of the fields with solar panels. It was her who talked me into having them on the house and barns.”

  “Well let’s have a closer look,” said Claudilia. “That’s all I’m agreeing to at the moment.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by a ringing phone. After waiting for Sally to pick it up, and her not doing so …Silly girl must be in the loo again, Claudilia lifted the handset and talked to a timber client for a few minutes. By the time she’d finished Hubert was on his phone and they’d slipped back into routine tasks.

  The overcast morning had become an overcast afternoon, but Pumpkin was waiting when Claudilia reached the stables and it didn’t look like rain was imminent. Conscious that her big friend had spent all of the previous day in his stable, Claudilia decided to take him for a breath of fresh air. Max could do with a run too she thought. She saddled up and they left the yard through the field gate. Behind her Monk Hill was topped with mist, to her left the faint rumble of a tractor on the road attracted her attention. “Probably one of those monsters going to the AD plant,” she told Pumpkin. He didn’t reply. Two fields away and looking like a big grey slug the river Wimpole disappeared over a monochrome horizon.

  As they approached the river, occasional glimpses of high visibility jackets could be seen. Police officers were walking along the bank, stopping from time to time so they could poke at something in the water, or crouching down for a better view of the far bank. They seemed to be looking for something, but had no single area of activity. From what she could see they were about level with the spot where Claudilia had met Gary Woods, the spot where he’d been punished for not buying a fishing licence. …and for calling me a silly old witch.

  It had occurred to Claudilia earlier that the idiot man might have had a coat, a catch bag or a net of some sort. He certainly had a rod with him. There was nothing to link her to these things and if the police did unearth his fishing paraphernalia it would only confirm where he’d entered the water. Any link with Claudilia would be circumstantial, but it would be best avoided she thought, as she walked Pumpkin along the bank in the direction of the village.

  At the boat house there was a concentration of police officers, some uniformed, some plain clothes and some in search team overalls. “Ms Belcher, Claudilia” she heard called out as she rode by. It was Josie Robinson, standing with a man in an ill-fitting suit, his tie loose and his top button undone. Claudilia took him to be another CID officer, they were looking at a map spread out across a trestle table. “I was sure you won’t object, we’ve set up here to co-ordinate our search of the river. … I bloody do object, I want you to get off my land and out of my village. The longer you’re here, the greater the chance I’ll end up behind bars.

  “No that’s fine, just so long as you don’t trample the flowers too much.”

  “This is DS Ian Hudson from Warwick,” said Josie Robinson. “It’s his case but I think we’ve agreed it’s a fishing accident. We’ll be wrapping it up soon.”

  The two officers walked across to where the horse was standing and Josie started to make a fuss of him, stroking his nose and scratching his neck. Pumpkin enjoyed the attention, he put his head down and nudged her in the ribs. Josie, all nine stone of her, was pushed back a step or two before she steadied herself, “A bit less of that If you don’t mind young man,” said DS Robinson. “You can’t go pushing the law around or we might have to clamp you.” Pumpkin took no notice, he put his head down again and let his new friend scratch him behind the ears and twist his mane around her fingers. As a child Josie had enjoyed riding and her parents had taken her for weekly lessons at a local stable; but DS Hudson couldn’t have looked less comfortable if he’d tried. In his opinion horses belonged in western movies or on a racecourse. DS Hudson couldn’t get rid of this woman fast enough, not to mention the mess those great iron hoofs were making of his search area. And why the badger buggering hell hadn’t any of his officers stopped her from riding right through the middle anyway. Arrogance, that’s why. Put a person on a horse and they’re immediately superior to those they look down on.

  DS Hudson cleared his throat and tried not to sound subservient. “DS Robinson’s right, from what we can see it was an accident, he could have stepped out too far and lost his footing. According to his next of kin, that’s his parents, he couldn’t swim so when his waders filled his ability to save himself was compromised, not pleasant but there you go.”

  Sitting in her lofty position on top of Pumpkin Claudilia felt emboldened. “wouldn’t he have had a bag of some sort, a catch net or maybe somewhere to keep his keys and wallet?”

  “Not necessarily,” said Ian Hudson, “he was poaching and they don’t like to be weighed down …bad choice of words, in case they have to make a run for it. We found his wallet and keys in a waterproof pocket in his waders. We don’t have his rod yet but it could have drifted further downstream or be caught in the reeds somewhere. It was almost certainly an accident.”

  “Almost certainly an accident?” questioned Claudilia.

  “There is no such thing as being one hundred percent sure. Unless an eye witness saw him go under and that was backed up by the Chief Constable and the Lord Chief Justice.

  DS Robinson laughed. “We’d have to discount the CC’s testimony, he does a bit of fishing and he’d exaggerate the size of the fish that pulled the man under.”

  “Well I’m sure the pub appreciated the extra lunchtime trade. I’ve heard how policemen like a drink, and Sandy will have sold a few more burgers than a normal Tuesday morning.” Turning to Josie Robinson Claudilia asked, “Did you go to the building site today?”

  “Yes, we’re all finished there and it’s back with the builders now, I’m told they are going to call one of the roads Barker’s Way as a mark of respect. Apparently it’s a dead end.”

  Claudilia could see that Josie was desperately trying not to laugh. Her face, purple with effort, was unmoving, as if carved from rich Italian granite, not a smile or titter. Her eyes however were watering, and if Claudilia didn’t move on soon she thought she may see one of the constabulary’s finest wet herself, the police sense of humour can be very dark at times.

  Back at the stables Claudilia hosed the mud off her horse’s legs and wiped the sweat from where the saddle had been. There was no rain forecasted sh
e put him into his field for the night. Pumpkin was happy to be outside again and he leaned on the gate huffing, puffing and waving his head at Claudilia. He’d been a good boy and now he wanted his reward.

  “Here you go, you silly old bugger,” said Claudilia fishing a carrot out of her coat pocket. She snapped it into three and fed him the first piece while she looked across the fields and down to the river. “I wonder what happened to his gear. He had a rod if nothing else, but he must have had a coat or a bag for his waders?” The next piece of carrot went in. “And he didn’t seem the sort to hide them. He was as bold as a baboon’s shiny purple arse. Fishing on my river without a licence, in broad daylight.” The final piece of carrot disappeared into the waiting mouth and was chomped up.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Claudilia showered then dressed in comfortable slacks and a smart but casual blouse. Tuesday was Women’s Institute evening in Wimplebridge. She felt it was important to look nice for the meetings, but equally it was important not to look too nice either. “What this old thing, it’s nothing special, just something I pulled out of the back of the wardrobe, had it for years.” could often be heard at the meetings, even if the garment in question was plainly new and quite likely had bought that day. No, “it’s important to be seen, but it’s equally important not to be seen trying to be seen.” That’s what Claudilia’s mother had told her when she was young.

  Claudilia was in the kitchen when Josie Robinson knocked on her front door. “It’s open,” she called, and the police officer came in.

  “We’re all done at on the river Miss Belcher,” she said, accentuating the Miss but not in an unpleasant way.

  “Please call me Claudilia, unless this is official.”

  “Okay Claudilia, we’re all done at the river and the team have cleaned up and cleared off.”

  “Good. Tea?”

  “Oh yes please, I’m gasping but can I use your loo first. It’s okay for the lads, they can nip behind a bush or walk back to the pub. I took one look at their Ladies and decided not to risk it.”

  “Quite right too, filthy hole. The Belcher’s is a much cleaner establishment, but your poor fisherman didn’t have the sense to park there did he? The loo’s at the top of the stairs, first on the right. The flush is about a hundred years old and bit sticky. Pull it hard twice and release, count to five slowly, then a gentle tug and hold it down, that normally works.”

  Claudilia busied herself with cups, milk and teabags while the kettle boiled, then she got individual Victoria sponges, safe ones, and put them onto a plate before she heard clunk, clunk, wait for it, whoosh. It appeared the ancient plumbing was in a co-operative mood today.

  “It’s a fantastic cottage,” said Josie as she came back into the kitchen. “Just two bedrooms?”

  “That’s normally one more than I need, but I have guests from time to time. Old school chums come for a couple of days and end up staying for a couple of weeks. It’s that sort of place.”

  They sat at the kitchen table and Claudilia poured the tea, Josie looked around the room. The whole house was so different from her own. “I love the low ceilings and exposed beams, but Peter’s six foot two, he’d be banging his head all the time.”

  “They weren’t low when it was built. Each generation grows fractionally taller than the one before, do that for three hundred years and you start to bang your head.”

  “We’ve got two kids, a girl and a boy. Most days the house is an explosion of toys, dolls and washing. This is a heaven compared to my place.”

  “I’ve never wanted children,” laughed Claudilia. “I’m happy with dogs, horses and my flatulent cat. If ever I feel I’ve missed something, I just visit Marie’s brood for a couple of hours. That’s usually enough to make me see sense.”

  When Josie drove out of the village an hour later something was nagging at the back of her mind. Wimplebridge was only a small place and, as far as she could see from police records there had never been anything noteworthy happen. There were a few characters who’d come to the attention of the police, but it was only low level stuff, a bit of juvenile shop lifting or a little cannabis for personal use. The village might not have existed for her before the weekend, and even now she wasn’t sure there was anything to justify her come back again. There’d been no actual crimes, just a couple of unfortunate deaths, still DS Robinson had an uneasy feeling. Her coppers sixth sense was telling Josie she’d soon be back at Wimplebridge.

  Later that evening Claudilia entered the village hall and found a dozen or so ladies already there. The Women’s Institute was well attended in Wimplebridge with twenty or twenty-five coming to most meetings. It was a chance to chat, to get away from husbands, to socialise and catch up on gossip.

  This week the gossip was all about Gus Barker and the fisherman who’d drowned. They were the biggest events in the Village for as long as anyone could remember, and some of the W.I.’s members had very long memories. …And they can hold a grudge for just as long if you criticised their baking.

  On the stoke of seven thirty the Chair coughed loudly and invited them all to take their seats so the meeting could begin. …It’s bloody stupid political correctness, should be chairman, who ever heard of a chair running a meeting. A chair is an inanimate object, come to think of it, so are some of our W.I..

  “Our speaker this evening should have been Alison Fleming, but unfortunately she’s not able to be with us tonight.” said Mrs Short, a farmer’s wife from the far side of Monk Hill. “It appears she’s eaten something that disagreed with her, so her talk entitled “don’t let bad hair spoil your day” will be rescheduled for later in the year. I’m sure we all wish her well, and a speedy recovery from whatever it is that’s inconvenienced her. Alison has asked me to pass on a message to those of you whom she has appointments with, and I quote “Don’t think you’ve escaped, I will be after you with my sheers very soon.”

  Sitting next to Claudilia, Mrs Harris leaned over and whispered into her ear, just loud enough for most people to hear, “I heard she couldn’t leave the loo for all of Sunday night and Monday morning.”

  Mrs H, as she was known to everyone, was the housekeeper for the Belchers. She’d always been there, even though she seemed old when Claudilia was a little girl. She lived with Mr H in a cottage at one side of the Belcher farm buildings. A low white fence was all that separated their garden from the yard. Inside its enclosed area Mr H kept the grass as perfect as a bowling green, the beds were weed-free and the roses seemed to be in constant flower.

  It was to Mrs H that the young Claudilia would run when hiding from her brother or if she had broken something and was afraid to tell her mother. She confided in Mrs H when she had her first proper boyfriend, and when he dumped her it was the housekeeper who offered a shoulder to cry on and agreed that all boys were bastards. When Hubert had turned up with his bride-to-be, Mrs H made her feel welcome at once. She explained how things worked around the village and introduced her to everybody she needed to know. After the death of Claudilia’s parents Mrs H was a God send. She kept the house running smoothly and was a stand in grandmother for Helen, Maggie and Alan. Along with her husband, Mr H, she’d kept secrets and confidences for three generations of Belchers.

  “I need a word with you Miss Claudilia, when we get a moment,” whispered Mrs H. Claudilia immediately felt very small and naughty, what could she have done? She was only Miss Claudilia when it was important and she was in trouble. She was six again, it was the day Mrs H had discovered Claudilia had coloured on the walls of her bedroom. The little girl was scared that the housekeeper was going to tell her mother, but instead of dragging her off to her parent Mrs H showed her the best way to get crayons off emulsion and everything was fine. Or was it when she fourteen, Mrs H had discovered some pornographic magazines which Hubert had hidden amongst her pony club books…No internet back then. Mrs H explained how real women didn’t look like the ones in the pictures, how the publisher used an air-brush to smooth over the skin and wh
y her older brother was interested in seeing them. Later she took them back to Hubert and showed him a much safer hiding place in his own room. When she was sixteen Claudilia took up smoking and Mrs H discovered a packet of cigarettes under her bed. They’d agreed it wasn’t safe to light up in her room and she helped the teenager arrange a safe place in Mr H’s shed. She even found an old chair and an ashtray. Soon after that Claudilia stopped smoking, it wasn’t as much fun if it wasn’t illicit.

  Claudilia snapped back to the present. Mrs Macintosh was on her feet and speaking. …I think you mean Mrs Muck don’t you? Her nasal whine set Claudilia’s teeth on edge. She was wearing a tailored dress which curved in at the waist and only slightly out again to cover her hips. It stopped just above her knees and her calves were given definition by heels. Grudgingly Claudilia had to admit she looked good. …The cow.

  “When Mrs Short told me our planned speaker couldn’t be here I put my thinking cap on and got out my phone book. And voila, we have a stand in speaker… Why is this stupid woman talking to us like we’re a bunch of five year olds. I’m sure you’ll welcome Tish, my very own personal trainer. She’s starting a ladies only weight management class in the village hall next month and looking around I can see three people I’m sure will be there; and half a dozen wondering who the other two might be.” Mrs Macintosh waited for the laugh. It didn’t come. “So here is a preview of what you can expect, a talk entitled, “Tish’s tips for curvy bits.” Surely there will be laughter now she thought, only silence filled the uncomfortably long gap that followed. Even Mrs Muck should be able to see she’s dying on her bony little ass, thought Claudilia. But like the Light Brigade at Balaclava, she went steadfastly onwards.