Murder at Standing Stone Manor

by Eric Brown

  ‘Won’t bother. I just wanted to—’

  ‘Nonsense. In you come.’

  The young man limped over the threshold, his sudden smile warming his hitherto sullen countenance.

  On impulse, Langham said, ‘Look, we’re having a drink. Why not join us?’

  He could see the debate going on behind the young man’s eyes. He ran a hand through his jet-black hair and nodded finally. ‘I will, thank you, but I won’t stay long.’

  ‘This way,’ Langham said, leading the way to the living room. The young man followed, dragging his left leg.

  ‘Someone who owes you an apology,’ Langham told Maria as they entered the room. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch …’

  ‘Roy. Roy Vickers.’

  Maria was standing before the fire, frowning at the newcomer. He hung his head and avoided her gaze.

  Langham made the introductions and poured Vickers a whisky. ‘Sit by the fire and get warm. You look perished.’ He passed Vickers the tumbler and the young man limped to the armchair and sat down on the edge of the cushion.

  He regarded Maria shyly through his flopping fringe. ‘I was rude earlier. I didn’t mean what I said.’

  Langham looked from Vickers to Maria. ‘What happened?’

  Trying not to smile, Maria said, ‘I was on the way back from the manor when I passed the meadow and the caravan. I understood that Mr Wellbourne had some logs for sale, and when I saw them … Mr Vickers told me in no uncertain terms that they were not for sale.’

  Vickers said, ‘I don’t know what came over me. Look, I’m sorry.’ He shook his head. ‘I hardly slept last night, and I was in pain, and when I saw you eyeing the logs … Well, I’m not normally so rude.’

  ‘It’s good of you to come round and apologize, anyway,’ Langham said.

  ‘Apology accepted,’ Maria went on.

  ‘How’s the Scotch?’ Langham asked.

  Vickers raised his glass. ‘It’s a drop of good stuff, right enough.’

  ‘We were just raising a glass to the move,’ Langham said.

  As Vickers warmed by the fire, the reek of damp clothing and old sweat filled the room. Beneath the greatcoat, Langham made out a light-blue RAF tunic. He wondered if the young man had flown, or merely acquired the tunic as part of his down-at-heel, ragtag wardrobe.

  Vickers took another mouthful of whisky and said to Maria, ‘You said you were coming back from the manor. Friendly with the professor, are you?’

  ‘I’d only just met him. His niece, Nancy, invited me in for tea.’

  Vickers nodded. ‘Well, a word to the wise. Be careful of Robertshaw. He might come over all posh and learned, with his Oxford professorship and letters after his name, but the man’s a nasty piece of work.’

  Langham sat back, nursing his glass. ‘In what way?’

  The young man flicked a glance from Maria to Langham, hesitating. ‘Well, I don’t like the way he treats Nancy, for starters. Has her running around after him and his wife like a slave.’

  Maria tipped her head. ‘Do you know Nancy well?’

  Vickers looked away. ‘Spoken to her once or twice. Can’t say I know her that well. But anyway, the professor treats her like dirt – and that’s not the worst of it.’

  ‘Go on,’ Langham said.

  The young man stared into his drink. He looked up, skewering Langham with his intense gaze. ‘Two things. I went up to the manor last summer, looking for a bit of work. He has a big garden, and I knew old Wicketts was all on to keep it in check. I needed a bit of money to tide me over, so I decided to ask the professor if he needed a hand.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘What happened? He attacked me with his ruddy shooting stick before I could open my mouth. Accused me of trespassing and told me to get off his land. Ended up in a right slanging match – me calling him all the names under the sun …’

  He touched his head just above the hairline, then leaned forward so they could inspect the scar. ‘He did this, with that stick of his. Blood all over the place. Lucky I didn’t need stitches. Harriet Wellbourne saw me staggering back to my van and she cleaned me up, bless her. They’re good sorts, the Wellbournes. People think they’re a bit odd, but don’t listen to tattle. They’re the salt of the earth. Unlike that Robertshaw. And another thing—’ He stopped abruptly, staring at the dregs of his whisky.

  Langham filled his glass. ‘Go on.’

  Vickers took a mouthful, then smiled. ‘My old dad used to say that you shouldn’t talk behind people’s backs – but then I reckon it depends on who that person is, doesn’t it?’ He stared at the fire. ‘Fact is the professor has a sick wife at the manor. She’s dying, according to some people. Anyway, I reckon Robertshaw’s just counting the days before she buys it, then he can …’

  He fell silent again.

  ‘Then he can what?’ Langham urged.

  The young man knocked back his drink and, as if emboldened by the alcohol, went on, ‘I was up in Bury one day, in the Midland Hotel, having a quick one before I caught the bus back. And who should I see over in the dining room but the professor, all lovey-dovey with a blonde piece.’

  ‘So you think Robertshaw is having an affair?’

  ‘It certainly looked that way, Mr Langham. I’m no prude. People can do what they want as far as I’m concerned. But it just struck me as … as two-faced. You should hear Robertshaw in the Green Man, bewailing his fate to his cronies and weeping crocodile tears over his sick wife – and all the time he’s running around with some tart behind her back. It fair stinks, in my book.’

  ‘Does Nancy know about this?’ Maria asked.

  Vickers shrugged. ‘No, I shouldn’t think so. She’d be upset. She’s a good, sweet kid, Nancy is.’ He stopped suddenly, then climbed to his feet and lodged the empty glass on the mantelpiece.

  ‘I’ll thank you for the whisky and be making tracks. And I’m sorry again for what I said earlier,’ he finished, dipping his head to Maria. ‘That was well out of order.’

  As he was showing the young man out, Langham said, ‘Do you ever drink at the Green Man?’

  ‘Well, I’m not a regular – can’t afford it. But I like a pint when I can.’

  ‘Then we should meet up for a beer at some point,’ Langham suggested.

  Vickers smiled. ‘Yes, that’d be grand.’

  ‘Well, goodnight, Roy. I’ll see you around.’

  The young man hesitated, then took Langham by the hand and shook it. ‘Thanks again for the drink, Mr Langham,’ he said, and ducked out into the freezing night.

  Langham returned to the living room and refilled his glass. He joined Maria on the sofa. ‘Well, the more I hear about the professor, the more intrigued I’m becoming. I must admit I’m rather looking forward to meeting him tomorrow.’

  Maria pulled a face. ‘I would be happy never to set eyes on him again,’ she said. ‘I pity poor Nancy, having to live under the same roof as the ogre.’

  They sat in companionable silence, sipping their drinks as the embers settled in the grate and dance music played on the wireless.

  ‘What did you make of young Vickers?’ Maria said after a while. ‘I must admit, I didn’t take to him this afternoon.’

  ‘And what do you think of him now?’

  ‘Well, he’s rather a pathetic fellow, isn’t he?’

  He nodded. ‘I wonder if he injured his leg serving with the RAF?’

  ‘He did, according to the professor.’

  Langham drained his glass. ‘Poor chap.’

  Maria finished her drink and said, ‘Bed?’

  ‘Mmm,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll make an early start in the morning, unpack a few books and arrange things in the study. Then I have the prospect of the professor’s hospitality to look forward to.’

  He turned off the wireless, placed the fireguard before the hearth and followed Maria up to bed.

  FOUR

  After a breakfast of coffee and toast, Langham set to work in the room he’d designated as h
is study. It was next to the dining room and looked out over the back garden, and had the advantage of having fitted shelves on two walls. With the bookcases he’d brought from London, there would be more than enough shelf space for his library.

  The bookcases arranged to his satisfaction, he began the pleasurable task of opening the boxes, pulling out his treasured volumes and slotting them on to the shelves.

  It was another brilliant winter’s day, and the sun dazzled off the snow in the garden. He heard Maria moving about in the spare room overhead, opening boxes and placing clothes in various drawers and cupboards.

  Later she came downstairs and popped her head around the door. ‘Time for a break? How about a cup of tea?’

  ‘Love one.’

  He looked at his watch. He was surprised to see that it was almost ten: he’d been working for a couple of hours.

  Maria returned with two mugs and gazed around the room, looking impressed. ‘My word, Donald. At this rate, you’ll be finished by the end of the day.’

  ‘Maybe, if not for the meeting with Robertshaw in an hour – oh, and the do at the Wellbournes’ this evening.’ He sat on the floor with his back against a box, sipped his tea and admired the books ranged along the walls.

  ‘I’d forgotten about the Wellbournes’ party,’ Maria said, settling herself on a packing crate. She wore light-blue cropped canvas trousers and a blue-and-white hooped T-shirt, and looked rather like an attractive matelot taking a breather from swabbing the deck. ‘We’d better take a bottle of wine.’

  ‘If we can find which box they’re in.’

  Maria wrinkled her nose at him. ‘I know exactly where they are, Donald.’

  ‘I should have known you’d make that a priority.’

  A quiet tap sounded on the door, and Maria said, ‘Another neighbour come to say hello, no doubt.’

  She jumped from the packing crate and hurried into the hall. Donald heard a low exchange, followed by Maria saying, ‘We were just having a cup of tea. Come in.’

  She entered the study and stepped aside, gesturing to their guest to enter.

  A slim, golden-curled girl stepped diffidently into the room. He thought the best word to describe her would be elfin, and although he knew she was older, he thought she looked no more than twelve.

  ‘Donald, meet Nancy Robertshaw. Nancy, my husband, Donald.’

  He took her hand in a gentle shake, careful to exert minimal pressure lest he break her bird-like metacarpals.

  ‘My word,’ she breathed, gazing at the ranked hardbacks. ‘I take it this is the library?’

  ‘My study,’ Langham said. ‘Take a pew, or rather a packing crate.’

  Maria popped into the kitchen and returned with another mug of tea. Nancy hugged it to her chest and smiled at him. ‘I withdrew one of your books from the library last week, Mr Langham. I thought it was super. I’ve never read anything so thrilling.’

  ‘You’re that rare breed.’ He laughed. ‘A satisfied customer.’

  ‘I’ll buy the next one, and if you could sign it …’

  ‘I’d be more than delighted.’

  ‘I actually came round to tell you that my uncle is spending the morning at the site, Mr Langham. So when you drop by, don’t knock on the front door. If you go around the house and past the standing stone, you’ll find him.’

  Langham said, ‘The site?’

  ‘Well, that’s what Unc calls it. I call it a hole in the ground.’

  ‘I thought the professor had retired,’ Maria said.

  ‘That’s right – years ago. The stone is just his hobby. He has some theory about it, but don’t ask me. He must have told me all about it a million times but it goes in one ear and out the other. Isn’t that awful?’

  Maria said, ‘Not at all; each to their own, as Donald is so fond of telling me.’

  Nancy smiled at Langham, swinging her legs so that her heels drummed against the packing crate. ‘Do you mind my asking what Unc wanted to see you about, Mr Langham? Only he hasn’t been himself of late, and this morning he was impossible.’

  ‘Impossible in what way?’

  ‘Even more tetchy than usual. I made him breakfast and nothing was right. The coffee was too hot and the toast too cold, and I hadn’t put enough treacle in his porridge! He was like a bear with a sore head. I felt like tipping the porridge all over his head and walking out!’

  ‘I hope you didn’t,’ Maria said.

  Nancy lifted her chin in a mock-virtuous manner. ‘I showed admirable restraint, if I say so myself.’

  Langham laughed. ‘Well, your uncle didn’t say why he wanted to see me. I was hoping you might be able to shed light on the matter. I … I suspect he just wants to say hello to the newcomers.’

  Nancy looked dubious. ‘Unc isn’t usually given to such social niceties, Mr Langham. It’s more in his way to ignore people. Or run them off his land.’

  Maria smiled. ‘Ah, oui. We heard all about that from Mr Vickers. He called around last night.’

  ‘Oh, he told you … It was awful, Maria. I saw it all from the kitchen window. I heard raised voices and looked out in time to see my uncle setting about Roy with his stick.’ She stopped, looking from Maria to Langham with comically wide eyes. ‘I felt sick. I wanted to go out there and help Roy, only … Well, I was too frightened of what he might say. When Unc’s temper is up …’ She left the sentence unfinished.

  Langham sipped his tea. ‘I understand Roy was in the RAF?’

  ‘That’s right. Bombers. He was a gunner, in the tail bit at the back of the plane.’

  Langham grimaced. ‘Ah, a tail-end Charlie. Hellish dangerous. The casualty rate was frightening. I take it that’s how he sustained his injury?’

  ‘He hasn’t said as much, but I once overheard Richard Wellbourne telling his wife something about it. Apparently, Roy was shot down over France, and I suspect he was injured then.’

  ‘Was he taken prisoner or did he manage to evade capture?’

  Nancy shrugged. ‘I really don’t know. I mean … I’ve spoken to him a few times, but …’ She hesitated. ‘The thing about Roy is … Well, he doesn’t do himself any favours, living like a tramp in that caravan.’ She smiled at Maria. ‘But I do think he’s rather handsome, don’t you?’

  Maria returned her smile. ‘I think he would be if he cleaned himself up a little and shaved,’ she allowed.

  Langham looked at his watch. ‘Crikey. Ten to eleven. Time I was pushing off.’

  Maria said to Nancy, ‘Would you like another cup of tea? You could stay and help me unpack a few boxes upstairs. Unless you need to get back, of course?’

  Nancy beamed. ‘I’d love another tea, and I’d be delighted to help. I don’t need to be back until noon, when I make Xandra’s lunch.’

  Langham made his farewells, pulled on his overcoat and gumboots, and left the cottage by the back door.

  A low hedge separated the back garden from Crooked Lane. He pushed through the rotting timber gate in the hedge and made his way along the lane which followed the winding course of the stream.

  Fresh snow had fallen during the night, giving the landscape a renewed, pristine aspect. Langham found himself squinting against the glare of the sun reflecting from the snow and taking high steps to negotiate the drifts as he came to the bridge and moved carefully over its ice-covered surface. He almost lost his footing on the other side, regained his balance and slowed his pace as he followed the lane to the manor house.

  He saw a tiny, stoop-backed old man shovelling snow in the driveway and assumed this must be the chap with the strange name who did odd jobs for the professor.

  He waved as he approached and said, ‘I understand you deliver coal, Mr …’

  The wizened old man pushed back his flat cap and scratched his brow. ‘I be Wicketts and you’ll be Mr Langham, I take it?’

  ‘That’s right. I hear you’re the man to see about coal?’

  ‘I be the chap, all right. Five bags every fortnight; leastways that’s what ol
e Mrs Ashton had delivered, from September through till April. Six bob a bag, premium grade. Pay me when I deliver ’em next Monday. That suit?’

  ‘Capital,’ Langham said. ‘And thank you.’

  ‘You be seeing the Guv?’

  ‘That’s right. I understand he’s at the … site?’

  ‘The ruddy great ’ole in the ground, more like. Mind how you go.’

  Langham nodded. ‘I will. It is rather treacherous, isn’t it?’

  The old man gave him an odd look. ‘No, I mean, watch your step with the Guv. He’s in a hell of a mood.’

  ‘I’ll be careful. Thanks for the warning.’

  Wicketts returned to his work, and Langham moved off down the drive and walked around the house.

  In the distance, striking in its primitive asymmetry after the formal Georgian angles of the manor house, the standing stone stood in silhouette against the blue sky. Langham tramped through the snow, pausing before the menhir and staring up at its cold, grey length. Unlike the only other ancient standing stones he’d seen, at Stonehenge, this one was not squared-off at its summit but stepped, so that a higher nub of stone appeared to be knuckling the sky.

  He reached out and laid a hand against its freezing surface, wondering who might have erected the henge, and how long ago, and why.

  He moved around the stone and stared across the snowy ground.

  A hundred yards away he made out a line of scaffolding planks laid alongside a trench to form a walkway. At one end of the excavation, to the right, a muddy brown tarpaulin was held in place by a dozen huge tractor tyres. The top of a wooden stepladder emerged from the trench, and the glow of what looked like a paraffin lamp illuminated the tarpaulin.

  This, evidently, was the ‘site’ – or, as Nancy and Wicketts would have it, the hole in the ground.

  He made his careful way down the slight incline towards the excavation.

  He stopped by the stepladder, dropped to his haunches and peered into the trench beneath the tarpaulin. He heard a sound from within, the scraping of some tool against the earth and an occasional mutter.

  ‘Hello down there!’

  The muttering abruptly ceased, along with the scraping. A muffled imprecation was followed by a stertorous demand. ‘Who the hell are you?’