A Dirty Death Page 11

  Miranda did not react beyond a small frown of irritation. ‘Oh, it’ll soon be all over,’ she said. ‘I’m not particularly worried about it.’

  ‘Well, that’s very brave of you,’ he purred. ‘Most women would be worried sick. Especially after this terrible business with the poor Grimsdale brothers. I see that the good women of the village have taken it upon themselves to feed the cats and tend the place until Amos gets home. I understand that Phoebe Winnicombe is helping out. She was unwell, but it seems she’s better now.’

  ‘I hope you’re not implying that I should be doing something? Good grief, as if there wasn’t enough to do here.’

  ‘No, no.’ He raised his hands defensively, took a small step backwards. ‘All I meant was … well, it has been a dreadful business and people are thinking there must be a maniac loose … and you really are very vulnerable here.’

  ‘Vicar, it probably sounds strange, but honestly, I don’t feel bothered. You seem to think I should be afraid of something, and I have to admit I’m really not. It’s probably thanks to Guy. He was always so scathing about talk of murderers lurking in the woodshed, that he’s convinced me – and Lilah – that there’s not much to worry about. It was awful about the Grimms, I know. But I can’t believe it had any connection with Guy’s death, whatever people might be thinking.’

  He was silent for a moment, before reverting doggedly to his original theme. ‘An inquest is never a pleasant thing,’ he stated, with a hint of defiance. ‘So many questions …’ He paused, waiting for a reaction.

  ‘There isn’t much I can tell them,’ she said steadily. ‘I was asleep until Lilah came bursting in with the news. I don’t suppose they’ll even want to ask me anything.’

  ‘They will, my dear. You can be sure of that. You see, they’ll want to know about his state of mind. How he was the day before. All that sort of thing. Surely, it must have entered your head that it wasn’t an accident.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ she said, snapping her muddy hands together. ‘Of course Guy didn’t commit suicide. He was far too sane. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get on with the weeding.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Miranda didn’t want to go to Jonathan’s barbecue. ‘His friends always make me feel so dowdy,’ she grumbled. ‘And they’ll be pussy-footing around, trying not to mention Guy. Can’t you go without me?’

  ‘I will if you insist, but it’ll be the same for me. I don’t know who makes you feel dowdy.’

  ‘Cappy, for starters. She’s dreadfully sophisticated. And Sarah’s so slim and young. She’ll be there, I imagine?’

  Lilah nodded. ‘He said he’d asked them. I don’t know why, when she and Tim fight all the time. He must get some sort of buzz out of it. The Vicar’s going to be there as well, which is a pain. He’s been giving me evil looks, as if he thinks I’m some kind of demon.’

  ‘That man isn’t normal. And I think he’s getting worse since Guy died. If that’s what a pastoral visit’s like, no wonder the church is in decline. He seemed intent on frightening me. And then he tried to claim that Guy committed suicide. Guy, of all people! He’s obviously dotty. I’m glad Guy wouldn’t let either of you go to his confirmation classes.’

  ‘Maybe Roddy’ll come with me to the barbecue.’

  But Roddy pulled a face and shook his head. ‘No way!’ he spluttered. ‘Not my thing at all. What do you want to go for, anyway? They’ll all be decades older than you.’

  Lilah shrugged. Anything for a change, she supposed. And she liked Jonathan. He frequently featured in her dreams, as a kind of romantic erotic figure, catching her unawares behind a hedge on sunny afternoons.

  She set out at six fifteen, having swapped milkings with Roddy and done the rounds of calves and hens before she left. Sam had given her a reproachful look when she told him about the change. In recent days Sam had said almost nothing to her beyond the necessary minimum concerning the livestock. At the back of her mind, she knew something was wrong, something that would require her attention sooner or later. Until then, she pushed it away and concentrated on getting through the next in the endless string of farm tasks.

  She took the cross-country route and walked across three fields in her open sandals, before emerging on to the lane that would take her to the Mabberleys’ place. It was a rare summer evening, slow and soft, scented with young grass and new leaves. Dry without being dusty. She found herself calculating that there were at best twenty-five days in each year in which she could do this walk without wearing boots against the mud. Even if the field tracks were passable, there was usually a churned-up area in the gateways, or a boggy ditch too wide to leap without a foot sinking into noxious black liquid. The more orthodox route to the neighbouring farm was to go out of the Redstone yard, directly on to the narrow back lane which led to the Mabberleys. This lane was seldom used, and had a dark, inhospitable atmosphere to it. Lilah’s automatic instinct had been to avoid it.

  The Mabberleys farmed four hundred acres as if the new age of agribusiness had barely arrived. ‘Lazy farming’, Guy had called it. Beef cattle of all breeds ran free over much of the land, as if on the mid-west American prairies. Very few crops were grown, apart from some hay. Guy had devoted much attention to trying to work out how Jonathan managed to live as well as he did, given the poor beef prices. Resentment simmered between the two for more reasons than just the sloppy hedge-keeping between their farms. Jonathan’s persistent good humour made it worse, for then Guy believed he was being mocked. It seemed that everything Mabberley touched turned to gold, where Guy regarded himself as perpetually only a few pounds away from bankruptcy.

  Lilah could smell the charcoal before she could see the house. Fancy a Devon farmer giving something so vulgar as a barbecue, she thought with amusement. Especially one whose family had been here for generations – though Martha Cattermole had shown her how the social distinctions which once prevailed were hopelessly blurred now. Even the musical Devon accent was lessening, as comprehensive education worked its way down the generations.

  In fact, Jonathan’s worst crime, when it came down to it, was refusing to act the part properly. Mabberleys had lived in this house for centuries, farming much the same acreage in all that time. The property had remained more or less intact – no foreclosures made, no scandals or dramas. The grass was good, the extensive woodland against the north boundary a semi-public area for recreation. People came from town to picnic under the great Mabberley beeches and oaks, which might have gone back to Tudor or Elizabethan times. But it was as if Jonathan cared nothing for ownership, when other men across the world would have risked their lives to hold on to such an unspoilt and lovely piece of ground. His very casualness enraged people. His generosity was discounted, since anyone could be generous with something they didn’t value. Holding a summer barbecue was wrong, somehow, for its very modernness. Better a big barn dance, or some long-lost folklore festival. But that was forgetting Cappy, of course, who could not be expected to understand the nuances, and who obviously couldn’t have cared less about them in any case.

  Lilah was the last to arrive. People were arranged around the patio on garden loungers, glasses in their hands, talking in relaxed fashion as if the initial formal overtures were long past. The main voice to be distinguished was that of Wing Commander Stradling, who spoke as if the words had to be forced violently from deep in his throat. He sounded more like a growling animal than a man, and everything he said seemed angry; an impression that was reinforced by his red cheeks and wiry grey hair. Lilah had always been shy of him, especially as Guy had consistently gone out of his way to provoke the man, but she did not dislike him. He could be funny, and kind, and she had sometimes felt almost sorry for him; a dinosaur left stranded by the removal of the respect which had once been his birthright. He was also a quietly heroic husband to an invalid wife kept invisibly at home. He was in the midst of addressing Sylvia, whom Lilah was very surprised to see. If Miranda had known that her one true friend in the village would be a
t the barbecue, thought Lilah, she might have felt differently about putting in an appearance.

  Tim and Sarah were positioned as far apart from each other as possible. Tim was chatting to Jonathan, his back to everyone else, his glass slopping as he waved it to illustrate a point. Jonathan was turning steaks on the barbecue, and only half attending. Sarah was the first to notice Lilah’s arrival. She gave an over-bright smile and a silly little flip of her hand. ‘Everyone!’ she called, like a primary school teacher. ‘Look, Lilah’s here.’

  Jonathan was the first to react. He dropped his fish slice and bounded across to greet her. His lovely dog followed, equally enthusiastic, and between them they lavished a warm welcome on her. She giggled with embarrassment as he gave her a big hug. The thin summer clothes ensured quite a bit of skin contact, which she found more provocative than she could have wished. The mixture of sexuality and security in his embrace left her with an ambivalence that rendered her speechless. All she could do was to stand back and concentrate on petting the dog for a few moments, to give herself time to regain her composure.

  ‘You’re late,’ said Jonathan. ‘You missed the aperitifs. You’ll have to go straight on to the punch. Help yourself.’ He waved at a great silver bowl on a garden table, and strolled back to his meat. She busied herself with pouring a glass of the cold punch. Some of it spilt, and she glanced round guiltily.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ came a cool voice. ‘That’s the great thing about having all this outside.’

  It was Cappy, Jonathan’s wife, holding a big wooden bowl of salad. Her transatlantic accent made her sound detached and somehow superior. Dark-skinned and small, she came from some wildly exotic background which Lilah was never sure she fully understood. There was an Inuit parent, she was sure of that, but the other half seemed to vary from Creole to Chinese via Native American. Whatever her parentage, she seemed to have found her ideal man in her ideal place, and had been living in apparent contentment for five years now. Carelessly racist, Guy had called her ‘Mabberley’s half-caste’, but he had always been charming to her face, and had been curious to hear stories of her early life, on the few occasions when he had talked with her.

  ‘Here,’ said Cappy now, ‘let me wipe your glass.’ She produced a damp cloth and deftly removed the stickiness. ‘I’m sorry about your father, by the way. I thought the funeral went well, didn’t you? We came straight home, of course, afterwards – we didn’t think Guy would have wanted us to come to the bit back at the house. By the way, what do English people call that part of a funeral? Is it a wake?’

  Lilah frowned. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Nobody called it that, as far as I know. It’s just “refreshments”, I suppose.’

  Cappy laughed. ‘Well, whatever, I’m still very sorry it happened. It must have been so strange, finding him like that.’ She spoke easily, with no discernible embarrassment. She looked Lilah straight in the eye, as if searching for something, which had the effect of rendering the girl awkward and inarticulate.

  ‘Strange,’ she repeated. ‘Yes, that’s exactly what it was. Like something from a film. I still can’t believe it.’

  The woman laid a hand on the girl’s arm. ‘My father died violently, too, you know. It brought it back to me, when I heard about Guy. It makes life seem so – uncertain. Don’t you think so? I saw Guy only the day before. Such a thing to happen, right next door. To a man so full of life! I would have expected him to live another thirty years.’

  Lilah couldn’t remember anything about the days before Guy’s death. They seemed to have receded into a very remote past and to have lost any relevance. She didn’t remember her last words to him, before that final ‘Night, night,’ which came every bedtime. But Cappy’s remarks caused her to wonder for the first time just what Guy’s last movements had been.

  ‘Where did you see him?’ she asked, with scant curiosity.

  ‘In town. He was buying fruit, and said hello, for once. Usually he would just glower at us if he met us. Then I saw him again, from the car, when I was coming home. He was standing on the pavement with another man. They were having a bit of a quarrel, from the look of things. I felt a little embarrassed for him, to be honest. Though I do know – sorry, am I saying too much?’

  ‘No, go on.’ Lilah felt very odd, as if she were being shown something forbidden.

  ‘Well, it’s just that he was a man with a temper, and often shouted at people. At least, he shouted at Jonathan quite a lot. But it seemed strange for him to be doing it in the street. Out of character, perhaps? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t judge. I didn’t know him very well.’

  ‘You’re right, though. He was always sweet and charming in public. Who was the other man?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. He had his back to me, so I couldn’t see his face. It could have been anyone. Youngish, and quite thin, that’s all I can recall.’

  ‘But you could see that Daddy was angry?’

  ‘Yes. He was quite red, and – tight, somehow. Like someone trying not to burst. I thought perhaps he would hit the other man. But I only saw them for a moment. Perhaps I got it all wrong.’

  Lilah tried to dismiss the whole story. The man might have offended Guy in any number of ways: his temper was quickly sparked, and quickly assuaged again. Cappy had probably caught a brief glimpse of something that had meant nothing. She didn’t seem to have connected it in any way to Guy’s death, and Lilah tried to follow suit. Unfortunately, this new report felt more like a whole handful of important pieces for her growing jigsaw of suspicion than an irrelevant coincidence.

  Sylvia seemed to be hanging back, as if unwilling to speak to Lilah. Firmly refusing to yield to paranoia, the girl went up to her and smiled. ‘Hello, fancy meeting you here,’ she said, exploiting the long-standing intimacy she assumed existed between them. ‘It’s been a while since I saw you.’

  Sylvia’s height gave her the same untouchable demeanour as Den’s did. Tall people never seemed to be agitated or tense; like giraffes, their movements appeared calm and measured, even when in a hurry. Sylvia held a large glass tankard by its manly handle, and spoke in a rich contralto. The stance and voice contrasted, however, with something that looked very much like embarrassment.

  ‘How’s your Mum?’

  Lilah merely shrugged, assuming that Sylvia knew the answer to that at least as well as she did.

  ‘I really meant to call round today. I don’t know why I didn’t.’ She stared vaguely over Lilah’s shoulder at Jonathan’s woods. ‘You’d think I’d be there all the time, without Guy—’ She blinked, and stopped herself.

  For as long as Lilah could remember, Miranda and Sylvia had been close friends, meeting religiously every few days for a coffee and a chat. Sylvia had collected Lilah and Roddy from school when Miranda’s car broke down, had swapped eggs for honey, tomatoes for clotted cream. Sylvia never stopped working, a fact witnessed by the obvious muscles in her arms and the absence of an ounce of surplus fat. In comparison with Sylvia, Miranda was a drone, lacking in skill or application.

  ‘Is Sam behaving himself?’ Sylvia asked, apparently changing the subject.

  Lilah raised her eyebrows. ‘He’s wonderful. We’d be completely lost without him. He’s not nearly as daft as people think, you know.’

  ‘I never thought he was daft. Your mother doesn’t think so, either.’

  ‘No, of course she doesn’t. But village people do. It’s his own fault, I suppose – he plays up to it. I think he does it for an easy life. And Daddy often made him feel stupid.’ She spoke dispassionately, about a state of affairs that had existed for as long as she could remember. Not until quite recently had she begun to feel a mild indignation on Sam’s behalf, although she dismissed it as none of her business.

  ‘That’s true,’ said Sylvia, carefully. ‘And is your mother doing her share of the farmwork?’ She smiled at the idea.

  Lilah mirrored the smile. ‘Not really. She never seems to get the hang of it. She feeds calves and does a bit of tidying up, but I woul
dn’t say she’s a vital part of the workforce.’

  Sylvia laughed aloud. ‘Miranda’s wicked, isn’t she. Quite the wrong person to be involved in all this.’

  ‘All this? Being widowed, you mean?’ Widow. Now there was another strange word. Black cloth covering your head and a fairytale son off to sell the cow …

  ‘And the rest. Coping with the paperwork, making decisions. I imagine you’re taking on most of that, as well?’

  ‘We’re managing. Most of it’s common sense, when it comes down to it.’

  Sylvia looked at her, probing, as Cappy and Den had been, openly curious as to her state of mind.

  ‘Don’t stare at me,’ Lilah said, itchy with irritation. ‘People keep doing it, and it’s awful.’

  ‘Oh, Li, I’m sorry. I was just thinking about Miranda, and how you’re getting to look like her. Your hair grows exactly the same as hers does – I never noticed before.’

  ‘Don’t tell me it’s a widow’s peak.’ The joke seemed to come from somewhere else – Guy’s spirit possessing her, never missing a chance to make a wordplay.

  ‘Oh, my love. You’ll be all right, you will. She’s bloody lucky to have you, and I hope she knows it.’

  Lilah couldn’t think of an appropriate answer to that.

  ‘Tell her I’ll be round in a day or two, will you?’

  Lilah nodded, still wordless, and the woman turned towards Sarah, who was making a commotion about a small cloud of midges dancing above her head.

  The sun sank gloriously over Jonathan’s nicely-framed horizon, and plates of steak and salad were passed around. Lilah tried to be sociable, but as Miranda had predicted, everyone but the Mabberleys seemed uneasy with her. She concentrated on the food, although an odd swollen sensation in her stomach meant that she could manage little of it. She felt vaguely uneasy, as if tears could well up at any moment.

  Father Edmund came over to her, somehow giving the impression that duty was forcing him against his will. ‘I’ve been thinking about you,’ he said unctuously. ‘I do hope you’re feeling a little better now, after your terrible shock.’