by Carrie Marsh
Tamsyn. Janet's daughter. Marcie bit her lip. That was what had been worrying her. If Janet had left, that would mean she had walked out on her eight-year-old child.
Tracy looked horrified. “You think she left Richard? Without Tamsyn? Shocking!”
Marcie frowned. “It isn't unheard of,” she said thinly. There was a part of her, raised in her father's manor house, that was free-thinking and unconventional, and sometimes the middle-class protocol made her impatient. She herself wrote the rules. The fact that others saw fit to follow them annoyed her just a little.
“No,” Audrey agreed. “No, it isn't. But...” She turned to Stella, the only woman in the room who hadn't said anything. Stella was the oldest member of the group, and often the best source of information.
“You think we should tell her?” Stella asked quietly.
“Yes,” Audrey insisted, nodding her head. “It's only proper.”
“Tell me what?” Marcie insisted. The delay was making her worry more.
“Tell you that Janet Fleet was seeing a man. In her house. That wasn't Richard,” Stella said flatly.
Marcie stared at the two women. “You're sure? Did Tamsyn know..?” she paused.
“Tamsyn must have known,” Audrey said confidently. “We saw the man there at two p.m., when Richard Fleet would have been at the shop. Tamsyn would have been at home over dinner time. She must have known.”
The women all shook their heads. Marcie paused and considered this information.
The thought of Janet Fleet entertaining a strange man in her home with her daughter present was a little shocking, even for her. It was sad, too. Sad for the little girl, who was only eight and should not have had to witness the disintegration of her parents' marriage.
“A broken home is a hard thing for any child,” she said softly.
“Harder than a flighty mother?” Audrey said harshly. Some of the women nodded in agreement, but it was an agreement Marcie could not share. She had known Janet Fleet since the woman was the same age Tamsyn was now, and she had always known she was not suited to village life, unconventional and free-spirited.
She sighed. Janet had a visionary quality that was utterly alien to these uncomplicated, contented people. When she had married Richard Fleet, the heir to the Fleet Grocery, just after she turned nineteen, Marcie had wept inwardly. It was like seeing a falcon put in a hen-coop. Part of her could not blame the young mother for leaving Richard now – she had clearly been unhappy. She could just have wished it had happened sooner – before Tamsyn was born – or in a way that would cause the child no pain.
“I think there are worse things than being flighty,” Marcie said carefully. “Being judgmental, perhaps?”
She raised an arched brow, and Stella, who was sharper than most of them, cackled nastily. Audrey blushed.
“I was not meaning to be judgmental,” she said, affronted. Sheryl had the grace to raise an eyebrow at her and Audrey, still flushed with indignation, subsided.
Marcie bent over her work, an intricate design of flowering violets. She was sad for Janet, but hoped that she had found some solace in her visitor – whoever he was. She also hoped that, wherever she was now, she was safe. Safe, and able to make some kind of plans for her lonely and confused little daughter. She made a note to ask Harry what they could do when he returned home later.
Kindly and dependable, Harry would know what to do. She threaded her needle and let her mind drift, planning the day ahead. A nagging thought remained with her. Where had Janet gone?
She would just have to try and find out.
CHAPTER TWO
MISDEEDS AND MEMORIES
MISDEEDS AND MEMORIES
“...and the grass is doing well. Still good for a spot of golf,” Harry, Lord Winston-Browne, said warmly. He was sitting on the terrace at the Rifleman's Rest, a grand old restaurant in Stowe and now part of the vast golfing estate on the outskirts of the hamlet.
“Quite, Harry, quite.” Darrell, his oldest friend, leaned back against the chair opposite and blew pipe smoke over the foggy field before them.
Behind them, the hotel was old-style elegant, the dining-room still furnished with oak tables, their ball-and-claw legs marking them as from a distant and more graceful age.
Harry nodded and leaned back against the outdoor chair, looking out across the foggy scene before them. He had been born and raised here in Norfolk, at Stowe Manor, his father's seat, and he knew the weather and the village better than anyone.
“I think we'll have a fine year,” Harry observed. It was cloudy for mid-September. The farmers would, he knew, have something to say about it. He smiled. Farmers always did.
“What's so funny, Hal?” Darrel asked, grinning. His eyes were lost in wrinkles when he smiled.
“Nothing, Frank, nothing...” Harry mused. Darrel's nickname, Frank, came from his surname Franklinson, and baffled everyone who had not been part of the Norwich Academy Class of 1965. “Just thinking about the farmers and the rain. Never satisfied, they are.”
Darrel, whose family owned one of the oldest farms in the region, chuckled mildly. “Tell me about it. If it rains, they're depressed. If it doesn't rain, they're depressed.”
“With all this rain, we can be sure there won't be any late apples in Fleets'.” He made a wry face. “Nothing for apple tart, then.”
Darrel nodded. “That Richard Fleet won't give them a decent price for late apples...they'd do better making cider with them.” He chuckled.
Harry nodded in slow assent. “Fleet,” he said thoughtfully. “That reminds me. Poor Tamsyn. Poor Janet,” he added sadly. “You heard she's left them? She was a nice girl. I'm sad she felt the need to do that...”
Harry had heard about it that afternoon when he went to the newspaper stand. He couldn't say he was surprised – he never had liked Richard Fleet much and always considered the two a bad match. However, he thought of little Tamsyn and how confused she must be.
Darrel nodded. “Poor lass,” he agreed. “Though not so poor for Janet – I'd say she's well away from Richard, depending on where she ran to.”
Harry nodded. “Difficult man, that Fleet.” He shifted in his seat, sighing as his back clicked. Richard Fleet was not well-liked in the village – surly and self-righteous, he made few friends and kept people at a distance.
“Mm,” Darrel agreed. “Never liked him. Was a bad lot since he was a boy. Didn't deserve such a lovely wife.”
“Exactly,” Harry said, stretching again. A tall man with a lean, sinewy frame, Harry was the village Badminton champion – a sport that kept him fit and trim. Practicing out of doors also tanned him the same tea-dark brown of the village farmers. Blunt-faced, honest Harry did not look like an earl, but like a down-to-earth village man himself, and was well-liked, in many ways the opposite of Richard Fleet.
“My sympathy is all with Janet, so it is.”
“True,” Harry agreed contemplatively. “A shame for a child to have to do without one of her parents.” He shook his head. He had known Tamsyn since she was born.
“It is, it is. She's a good girl. I remember her...came up to the farm for the garden show every year with her mum. Well-mannered and polite. Beautiful child.”
“She is,” Harry agreed again. It was hard to imagine the delicate little girl being the daughter of a man as rude as Richard Fleet. She took more after her mother in looks and in her nature. Harry sighed. “It's awful how the years pass so fast – I remember her mother at her age!”
Darrel chuckled. “No it isn't awful, Hal. We're older and wiser and that's got to count for something, right?”
“Right,” Harry granted.
Now the sun was coming out and the two sat quietly and watched as the mist cleared and the inevitable lone golfer appeared, looking remarkably unruffled as he searched for the next flag marking the final hole.
Harry leaned forward thoughtfully. “You know anything about Tamsyn? If she is being provided for?”
Darrel paused. “Wel
l, I saw her yesterday, if that helps,” he explained helpfully. “She was on the terrace with her dad. This was yesterday evening, around five, as I was heading back to the main road. So they must have known about Janet. She looked surprisingly okay,” he offered, “though they had clearly both been crying.”
“Well, that's something,” Harry observed. “Poor lass. I would worry about her, left alone with her dad, but Richard is devoted to her.” He sighed. “Mean sod, our Richard is – always was that – but he loves his daughter.”
“True,” his friend remarked.
“Would you keep an eye on them for me?” Harry asked after a moment. “Richard and the little girl were always special to Marcie and me, and I'm so far out of the village nowadays...” His voice trailed off. Since he’d retired from his employment as arbitrator on the village council, he only came into the village on Monday afternoons for badminton and on Fridays for lunch.
“Of course, Harry,” Darrel agreed. “If you like, I could suggest that they send the little girl up there to the manor for a visit? Marcie is a bit of a fairy godmother, isn't she?”
Harry smiled. He loved his wife as intensely now as he had when they married. His friend had spoken aright – Marcie was like fairy godmother to the village children, spoiling them either with little gifts or thoughtful words and advice. He had always admired her impeccable way with people.
“Yes, Frank, she is.” He smiled. “I think that's a good idea. Will you put it to Richard if you see him?”
“I will,” Darrel agreed. “And if I'm not going to see him, I could always tell Anthony to pass it on.” Anthony owned the village club, Gentlemen's Leisure, and Darrel and Harry were the best patrons. “He'll see him more regularly than I do, probably.”
“True,” Harry replied. “I'd appreciate it.”
They both leaned back, thinking about it. Opposite them, the lone golfer had been joined by friends. Cheers drifted across and Harry looked up to see that one of the golfers had scored a hole in one.
“Who would have thought this place would be a golfing estate?” Harry sighed. “The village has gotten so much bigger since I was a boy.”
“It has. You heard there were plans to build another resort near here?” Darrel said cautiously. “Lytchwood way?”
Harry blinked. “I thought that fell through years ago?”
“Well, Gerald has brought it up again,” he sighed.
“Aw, no,” Harry shook his head.
“Well, he has,” Darrel insisted.
The problem in question was one of land ownership. Mr. Gerald, a wealthy landowner on the opposite side of the village, wanted to develop Lytchwood Common, an open area on the left side of the village. The plans had been drawn up and the villagers had either delighted in it or been outraged, and then, mysteriously, it had all halted. Most people had forgotten about it.
“I wonder if he'll actually do it this time,” Harry mused.
“Probably. I mean, this place has been successful, hasn't it?”
“Indeed it has,” Harry chuckled. “Amply aided by some of us using it?”
Darrell grinned, flushed. “You know golf is my one indulgence, Hal, so be fair.”
Harry chuckled. “I certainly don't begrudge you your golf, Frank. I just object to these tycoons making money buying up village land...it was nice when the countryside started just behind the hotel,” he said wistfully.
“It was; it was,” Darrell agreed. “But I suppose progress is, well...progressive?”
He grinned and they both laughed. Harry looked at the clock.
“Speaking of progress, it's getting late. How about stopping at the club for a drink before you head back home?”
Darrell grinned. “I think that, Hal, sounds ideal.”
They headed out onto the street. The club was a short walk away from the hotel and the evening was still warm. They could get in a walk before supper.
CHAPTER THREE
A SUDDEN SHOCK
A SUDDEN SHOCK
“Blood clots...”
The voice – cultured, drawling, and proud – rolled around the tiny office at the Stowe police station.
Inspector Gilding, finding himself on the receiving end, quietly closed his eyes and pretended he wasn't there. It didn't work. The visitor in his office had not planned to leave.
“...you aren't listening, are you, Randall?” the voice asked.
“I am, Dr. Hargreave, really, I am. Carry on.”
Randall Gilding, handsome and short-tempered head of the police force in Stowe, formerly of Norwich, ran his hand through his dark hair and sighed.
“I said, I hate this job,” Doctor Hargreave continued. “All I ever see, and hardly ever, you understand, are heart attacks, strokes – which is where the blood clots came in – and people the worse for a drink. You might think I would see some excitement here – after all, I'm the only doctor in a forty-mile radius. Besides Marlborough, that is...”
Inspector Gilding gave his visitor a pallid smile. Eustace Hargreave, medical expert and general all-round expert witness, had a grand education and prodigious mind. The two were equaled only by his estimation of them. He and Gilding had been working together since Randall had moved there five years ago, perfect sparring partners.
“I can imagine it must be quite upsetting,” he said lightly. Over the years he had discovered neutrality was the best approach.
“Quite stressful?” Eustace looked affronted. “I would say very stressful, Inspector! I feel as if no one appreciates my talents.”
The inspector grinned at him. “Join the club, Eustace. I only get the occasional missing sheep to investigate.”
Eustace laughed and when Randall met his gaze, he saw compassion there, mixed with the haughtiness.
“I know, Randall. You're wasted here too.”
Randall nodded tranquilly. He didn't really mind. When his wife Laine had died five years ago, he had chosen to move because of the lack of demands: He felt that he needed the time and space to heal from her death. So far it seemed he had been right. He sometimes wondered if he would ever heal, though; ever stop grieving for her memory.
“Nothing ever happens here, doctor. It's part of why I like it.” He sighed.
At that moment, the corridor filled with the sounds of running feet. The doctor and Randall looked at each other. Wordlessly, Randall stood and headed toward the sounds.
“Inspector!” Sergeant Ginsberg called to Randall. He sounded frightened.
“Yes?” Randall asked. “What is it?”
“You'd better come quickly, sir. We've found a body.”
CHAPTER FOUR
INVESTIGATION BEGINS
INVESTIGATION BEGINS
The field outside the village was wreathed in mist – the same mist that always descended on the village round three o' clock in autumn evenings and stayed until the morning. Shivering as the rain trickled down the back of his neck, Inspector Gilding cursed the fog and wished he could see clearly.
Before him was the outline of a car. At least, it had been a car before someone crashed into the back of it and sent it down the embankment to lie here in the rain. Now, it was a mangled heap of metal, the back compressed, the nose dented, one of the wheels skew. The driver lay on the field beside it, covered now with dark cloth. He shivered.
“Any idea of the time of death?” he asked the paramedic, Mr. Grayson, who stood facing him. The man ran a weary hand down his face.
“No idea, sir. I'd say sometime around six o' clock...the body's getting cold now.”
It was seven o' clock now, or thereabouts. The body could have cooled in an hour, Inspector Gilding knew. It depended on how cold it was outside. And it was cold. The air stole at the warmth of his own body, and he was far from being dead. He shivered.
“Cause of death?”
“Broken neck, I'd say, sir,” the paramedic shrugged. “Not a lot we could have done even if we'd got here earlier. Rest her soul, poor lady.”
Inspector Gilding
noticed he had taken off his hat in respect, as had the other paramedics, despite the rain. He felt self-conscious and reached to take his off as well, wincing as the iced rain fell against his skin.
“You called the tow truck?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We'll want to look at this car – they must take it to the station. And no one's moving anything until Denton has taken pictures of the scene. Correct?”
“Correct, sir.” The paramedic inclined his head. “I'll take her to the morgue? Our Doctor'll be able to to tell you more'n I can.”
“Thank you, yes.” Gilding said distantly. He was looking at the shrouded form, watching as the two paramedics bent down to lift the stretcher into the back. They moved with the careful uncertainty with which humankind everywhere approaches their own dead. They carefully lifted the body onto the stretcher, her dark hair trailing out behind her as they did so like a flag, trapping the raindrops as they slowly fell.
He shuddered. He himself had seen too much of death, and that was where the problem started:The form, the height of her, the way she was shrouded, reminded him for all the world of Laine. He knew that he desperately did not want to get involved with this case. Any failure would hurt him and he wished he could back out. And he knew he was already too involved, too invested.
“Denton?” he called to the sergeant, who was busy taking pictures.
“Yes, sir?”
“Tell me when you're done. And use a flash, please?”
Denton, a tall police officer with a blunt face, laughed aloud. “I know, sir. But here in the mist a flash is worse than useless. We'd do best to wait for it to clear.”
“Yes,” Gilding nodded. “We'll come back tomorrow. If someone can tell Mr. Ralph not to move the car until we do so, it would be a blessing. Now let's get out of this rain and somewhere civilized, shall we? Freezing never helped anyone think clearly.”
