by Fay Sampson
She felt a flash of resentment she knew to be unfair. If things had been different, she could have woken this morning to feel David beside her in this large bed. Instead, it had been Veronica who shared the night with her, carefully distant across the wide mattress. There had been no privacy to cuddle up against him in the dark. No chance to let go of her self-possession and confess to him how scared she had been at finding Melissa’s body in the well. No opportunity for him to cradle her and reassure her that it would be all right.
Instead, the first she had seen of him had been his balding head ascending the stairs, on his way back to Veronica’s room from his run.
It was apparently Jo he had shared that early morning with him, out in the steeply sloping grounds with their sweeping flights of steps and hidden pools. Not his wife.
Veronica had come in behind her. ‘I’d better go back to my own room and finish packing. Not that it will take me long.’
Was there embarrassment in her voice? Did she realize what she had taken away from Hilary?
Left alone, Hilary felt a pang of guilt. It was the possible danger to Veronica, more than to her, which had brought David here. But so much had happened since then. Veronica couldn’t still be at risk from Gavin and Theresa, could she? Not now that she had made her statement to the police? It was too late to silence her.
Hilary let out a sigh and bent her mind to clearing the room of the few clothes and minor possessions she had needed for the weekend. She picked up her notepad with the novel she had started to write, sitting on the step that led down into the Leechwells. Hastily, she dropped it into her suitcase. She would not be returning to that again.
The door opened for a second time. It was David.
As she turned, a grin lit up his face. ‘This is where I really need a wife. In the short time I’ve been here, I’ve scattered my few belongings across two bedrooms and at least one bathroom. What are the odds on my remembering to pick them all up?
David’s and Veronica’s clothes, mingling in that smaller bedroom.
‘Here,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘You hung these in the wardrobe.’ She lifted down a raincoat and a heavy knitted jacket.
‘Thanks. You’re a miracle.’ He dropped a kiss on her forehead, then his arm went round her shoulders and he pulled her close. That, at least, was something he would not do with Veronica, she told herself. She let her body snuggle into the warmth of his embrace. His jumper smelt of woodsmoke. She comforted herself that she might not look as fair and feminine as Veronica, but she had this when she needed him. It was ridiculous that she could ever have been jealous.
‘Right,’ she said, releasing herself and smoothing her rumpled hair. ‘We need to clear our rooms, get all this into the boot of the car, and then it’s off to Totnes.’
‘I’m sorry your weekend has turned out so terribly. Do you think you might write about it one day? Turn reality into fiction as a catharsis? You could always transpose the story into the past.’
‘No,’ said Hilary curtly. ‘Definitely not.’
TWENTY-ONE
There was a queue at the reception office in the West Cloister. The course participants were handing in their keys and settling bar bills. Hilary found herself behind Lin Bell. The older woman turned. Her smile seemed forced, a gallant attempt to put a civilized gloss on the profoundly shocking events of the weekend.
‘It seems rather premature to be relinquishing our keys. As though the weekend were over. But there’s still this morning to get through, and our final meeting with the Inspector. Do you have plans?’
‘To get away from here as soon as possible,’ Hilary answered. ‘But we can’t just yet. So I’m planning to go to church.’
‘It must be nice to have that consolation. I lost that long ago.’
‘It’s never too late to change your mind.’
Lin ignored that. ‘This meeting with DI Foulks this afternoon. Don’t you feel it smacks rather too much of the old-style whodunnit, Agatha Christie vintage? All the interested parties gathered in one room for the dénouement. The clever inspector surveys the course of the plot and lists all the possible culprits, before pointing the finger triumphantly at the one person no one has suspected. Do you suppose that’s what our current DI has in mind?’
‘I’m sure that’s not how the police work nowadays.’
‘So am I. I fear it’s just going to peter out inconclusively. He can’t detain us any longer, but he wants us to let him know if any fresh evidence comes to mind.’
‘That, I’m afraid, is real life. Not a neatly rounded scenario. Still, there’s probably been lurid coverage of the murder in the press. Body in the Leechwells. I haven’t been following it. Maybe one day we’ll switch on the television and hear they’ve arrested someone.’
‘Mrs Bell?’ Fiona at the reception desk recalled Lin’s attention to the matter in hand.
When it was Hilary’s turn, she was struck by how changed the receptionist looked from the smartly dressed and elegantly made-up woman who had welcomed them to Morland Abbey what felt like ages ago. Friday afternoon. Less than two days.
Now Fiona looked strained, as though she too had been up in the night, searching for suspects in the darkened paths and shrubberies of Morland’s grounds.
Perhaps she had, Hilary reflected, as a new twist presented itself. Why do we assume that the culprit has to be someone who came here for this course? What if the fact that it happened here was more important than any of them realized? Gavin and Melissa must surely have been to Morland Abbey before, either attending a literary event or organizing one of their own. What else might have happened at the abbey, some time in the past, involving Fiona? Could yesterday’s calamity be the playing out of an old enmity, and nothing to do with this week’s would-be crime writers?
‘See you at lunch then.’ Lin Bell was at her elbow, bidding her a temporary farewell.
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ Distracted, Hilary struggled to remember the pin number for her credit card.
It was her turn to move away from Fiona’s desk. She had paid no attention to who might be waiting behind her. It was a pleasant surprise to meet the knowing smile of Jo Walters through those heavy-rimmed glasses. Harry stood, as always, a supportive shadow at her side.
‘Nearly the end,’ Jo said, with an attempt at lightness. ‘We have to crack this by this afternoon, don’t you think? I couldn’t bear to go away not knowing.’
Hilary ran an assessing eye over the blonde young writer. From the very first afternoon, Jo had impressed her with the seriousness of her ambition to make a go of this. Hilary had an inner conviction that she would. Most of her fellow writers, Hilary knew, would founder in unfinished manuscripts or the discouragement of rejection letters. But there was something about Jo’s bright intelligence, her determination, which convinced Hilary that this woman would not.
Jo Walters. Her imagination painted the name on the cover of a crime novel, possibly even a bestseller like Gavin’s. Might she and Veronica come back to Morland Abbey one day and find that name prominently on display in the book room, Jo sitting at the table writing autographs?
The week’s events caught up with her. Would she and Veronica want to come back?
‘I’m sure DI Foulks is doing his best. I’ve no doubt he must have all sorts of evidence he isn’t sharing with us. For all we know, he may have his finger on a suspect by now.’
A shiver seemed to run through Jo. Her eyes brightened. ‘Yes, I know we’re at a disadvantage. We can’t know a fraction of what he knows. But wouldn’t it be wonderful if someone here got the answer before he does?’
‘I can’t think of anything about this weekend I’d describe as “wonderful”.’ Hilary sharply cut the conversation short.
Harry moved to take her place, fumbling in his wallet for his credit card.
Fiona leaned forward. ‘That one, Mr Walters?’ pointing to one of his many bits of plastic.
‘Oh, yes! Thanks. I seem to be all fingers and thumbs to
day.’
Hilary left the Walters to it. David and Veronica were waiting by the door.
‘All done?’
‘For the moment.’
Hilary paused before stepping out into the quadrangle. The early mist was receding, leaving a glory of autumn leaves against a background of grey stone. She breathed deeply. All around her rose the medieval buildings which had withstood so much turbulent history.
‘It’s strange to think that it’s all still here, unchanged by everything that’s happened within these walls.’
‘Perhaps that’s why we keep coming back,’ Veronica said. ‘The lovely permanence of it.’
‘And why it’s not entirely ridiculous that Gavin might actually have gone to the Lady Chapel to pray when he thought the rest of us were on our way to bed. I wish I knew what to believe.’
Some of the early birds were already making their way across from the West Cloister to Lady Jane’s Chamber. Ben and Jake were walking briskly, chatting with animation. Ben held a notepad in his hand.
‘Look at them,’ Hilary exclaimed. ‘This has made their day. Not the fictional crime they came for, but a real-life murder. They’re going to be dining out on this for years.’
‘Only it isn’t actually real life to them, is it?’ Veronica asked. ‘They can’t seem to separate what’s happened on the ground from what they were making up in their heads yesterday.’
Others were also converging on Lady Jane’s Chamber. Many of them Hilary did not know by name, from the Snake and Slowworm groups.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to join them?’ David asked. Was that a gleam of mischief in his eyes?
‘Ugh!’ Hilary gave a shudder that was not entirely feigned.
They had almost all disappeared through the door when a last figure came hurrying across the dew-beaded lawn from the direction of the car park to join them.
‘I didn’t expect to see her with them.’ Hilary watched the small upright figure of Lin Bell making for the same door into the East Cloister as the two young men. Although she was heading indoors, she carried a walking stick and had a knapsack on her back. Probably she planned to take a walk after the meeting.
Her animated face swung round to them as she passed.
‘Have you heard? They’ve taken Rob to the police station for questioning.’
A shock ran through Hilary. The long-legged, bespectacled companion of Tania. The young man with Wirral Whippet emblazoned on his sweatshirt.
Then memory flooded back to her. Could someone have told the inspector about Rob’s macabre description of his imagined murder scene? The body lying in the pool below the water wheel. Had DI Foulks made the same connection between that fictional image and the pools of the Leechwells?
Frantically, she tried to reorganize her thoughts. She had had her suspicions about Tania, whose tracksuit had resembled the police sketch in some respects. But Rob had been no more than one name on a long list of possible suspects who might have been mistaken for a lanky teenager. A list so wide, it had even included Veronica.
She thought quickly back to what she remembered about Rob. Athletic certainly. He had been wearing rather inappropriate shorts when she first saw him. Could he have been the figure emerging into the cloister in the mist of early morning? And what if he had been?
‘Why?’ Veronica was demanding. ‘What motive could he possibly have?’
Lin shrugged, her eyes still sparkling. ‘What motive does anyone have? We don’t know enough about each other. Are you coming?’
With that, she was off up the stairs to Lady Jane’s Chamber.
The three of them were left standing nonplussed in the cloisters.
Hilary was the first to break the silence. ‘Do you remember yesterday morning, when we were sharing our ideas for where to set a murder? Can you recall Rob’s?’
Veronica frowned. ‘No–o … No, hang on. Wasn’t it something rather nasty about a waterwheel?’
‘Dartington Tweed Mill. He had his victim caught up in the machinery, and ending up as a mangled corpse in the pool.’
The significance struck the three of them into silence.
Across the drive, more of the course members were putting luggage into the boots of their cars. Hilary raised her hand to Dan Truscott.
This morning he wore a flat tweed cap. Hilary felt that, however he dressed, he could not disguise what he was. A retired colonel, with the discipline of a lifetime ingrained in his habits and beliefs.
‘Good morning, ladies, Dr Masters. Bad business, this. Your husband will be glad to get you safely away from it all. You too, Mrs Taylor. No place for a woman.’
‘We’re all caught up with it, whether we like it or not,’ Hilary retorted. ‘Though I don’t mind admitting I shall be glad to drive away from here this afternoon. I just hope they’ve found the culprit by then. Did you hear they’re questioning Rob?’
‘Are they, indeed? Well, you can leave it to the police, dear lady. Finding a murderer is a man’s job.’
‘They have women in the police now, you know.’
When they were safely out of earshot, David chuckled.
‘Is he real? He’s so much the stereotype of the retired military gentleman. Do you suppose there are darker depths he’s not allowing us to see?’
‘What you see is what you get. He may actually be the original the caricatures are based on.’
‘I don’t know.’ Veronica’s light voice held a note of speculation. ‘I’ve sometimes wondered what he’s doing here. You look at people like Ben and Jake, or Jo. They’re obviously hooked on the crime genre. They’ve read authors I haven’t even heard of. They genuinely want to succeed. But I doubt if our good colonel has read anything later than the Father Brown stories. And when he read out his own bit of writing, well … Hilary, you were the only one who was brave enough to say what we all felt. It was, well …’
‘Leaden. Oh, dear. I hope I didn’t demolish the poor man completely.’
‘But why did he come here?’
‘Another mystery we’re unlikely to solve.’
Hilary drove them down the sweeping drive of Morland Abbey and into Totnes. It was good to be away from the insistent police presence at the abbey. The mist had been torn away. The sky was a cheerful blue, with white clouds scudding across it and no sign of the overnight rain. As she got out of the car, the screams of seagulls made her feel how close they were to the sea.
‘This way,’ she said, heading resolutely for the opposite side of the High Street, away from Leechwell Lane. She would try not to let herself think of that this Sunday morning.
The bells were ringing out for morning service. Some shops were open, but there was still something of a Sabbath atmosphere. It felt cleansing.
David, she knew, might have preferred a simpler non-conformist chapel, or a Quaker meeting. But there was something about the history of Morland Abbey and Totnes which called for its centuries-old parish church to complete the experience. To put the murder in the context of the centuries of violence the town had seen. It had survived and flourished, a resolute part of her mind told her.
‘We didn’t get to see the church yesterday,’ she told David. ‘What with one thing and another.’
It was a colossal understatement.
The narrow hill of the High Street widened to reveal the landscaped churchyard in front of the priory church of St Mary’s. The red sandstone tower, surmounted by pinnacles, soared into the sky that was turning blue.
‘Built with wool money, I shouldn’t wonder.’ The historian’s part of her brain took over. ‘When Devon cloth was at the forefront of the export trade.’
Veronica turned back to look down over the town. ‘It’s strange to think of the Dart estuary crowded with sailing ships setting out to sea, where now it’s just the occasional cruise boat and motorized yachts.’
‘Nothing stays still.’
The interior under the wagon roof was dimly lit after the sunshine outside. Hilary felt the hush fall over them
and was glad of it. They found a pew towards the back of the morning congregation. All three sat awhile in prayer. When Hilary raised her eyes again, her active mind was back, assessing her surroundings.
For a while, her brain was busy with stone and wood, stained glass and plaster, fitting the carvings to their century. She let her eye pass over her fellow worshippers without curiosity. It had not occurred to her to study the human content of the church. Then a familiar face recalled her to the twenty-first century. She should not have been surprised to find that some, at least, of those on the study course at Morland Abbey should be here at morning service, but she was.
Harry, looking rather disconsolate on his own. So he had not chosen to join Jo at the brainstorming session, then. Hardly surprising. And curly-haired Ceri, the one local resident from the group. It was this fact that had made her stand out from the rest. Unlike all the others, who were requested by DI Foulks to remain at Morland Abbey, Ceri had the freedom to go back to her home in Totnes for the night. She must know the town so much better than the rest of them, better than Hilary and Veronica, for instance. Ceri had clearly felt strongly about the Leechwells. Strongly enough to resent Gavin’s rather jokey appropriation of its presiding deities.
The Long Crippler. The blind Slowworm.
