A Crowded Coffin (15 page)

‘Wonder why it smells?’ Rory was intrigued. ‘Could it be methane bubbling up, maybe?’ He was remembering Sam’s parting shot before he hurried back to his meeting. ‘According to my informant,’ Sam had told him. ‘The best detection device of all in the oil world used to be someone who feels it in his bones, kind of ‘reads’ the rocks. Someone with a nose for it. Someone,’ he had added, ‘in the oil business might well come from Texas.’

There was no time to consider the problem. Walter Attlin kept Rory by his side, introducing him to this neighbour, nodding to another, making sure that nobody was stuck for long with a bore. ‘Staff College,’ he twinkled on catching Rory’s eye. ‘Army training never leaves you; don’t let a group get too big and never let anyone get trapped in a corner. Ah, Lara. How are you, my dear? Your father not with you? Business in London? What a pity. And this must be your American friend. I’ve heard about him, of course.’

They shook hands and Walter nodded to Rory. ‘Have you two been introduced?’

‘Not formally,’ Rory answered as Edith came up to them.

‘I must remedy that,’ the old man was smiling. ‘Mr Goldstein, let me introduce my cousin, Dr Rory Attlin.’

‘Your cousin?’ Lara’s interruption sounded incredulous. ‘I understood he was—’

The temperature lowered until even Lara had the grace to look abashed. Edith looked startled and anxious but Walter Attlin spoke with a measured dignity. ‘Certainly, my dear.’ He was politeness personified, in spite of Lara’s own rudeness. ‘There was some kind of family quarrel a couple of generations ago and my great-uncle ran away from home. He was Rory’s great-great-grandfather and sadly the two branches of the family were separated. Fortunately, Rory made contact with us when he came down to talk about his new job, and we’re delighted to have the opportunity of healing an ancient rift.’

Edith had time to notice Lara’s chagrin, along with the bashful but pleased expression on Rory’s face, before the
significance
hit her. So there was no mystery, no dark family secret. As he had claimed all along, Rory was a distant cousin, nothing more, and she had been making a complete fool of herself. The rest was sheer spite on Lara’s part, fuelled perhaps by
speculation
: the likeness really was remarkable.

The arrival of the vicar gave Edith no time to analyze her relief. He opened his eyes at her slightly distrait manner and, to her intense irritation, it was clear that he was putting it down to pleasure at seeing him. Pride made her pull herself together as she escorted John Forrester towards the drinks. ‘I hear you were thinking we might go out for a drink tonight? Sorry about that but it’s been pretty chaotic round here, what with Harriet moving in with us.’

‘I hadn’t realized she was going to do that, but it makes sense, I suppose. I did try calling her but she hasn’t replied to my voicemail. I don’t think she likes me very much.’

‘Oh no,’ Edith murmured. ‘She’s very shocked, of course, and not really thinking straight.’

He looked curiously at her and cleared his throat. ‘I was surprised Mr and Mrs Attlin decided to go ahead with their party, in view of everything.’

‘Oh, they wouldn’t cancel, not when everyone was coming,’ she said. ‘And it won’t affect Harriet, after all. She’s doped to the eyeballs and won’t hear a thing from downstairs.’

She wondered at all the concern for Harriet. Brendan and Mike Goldstein had sent their sympathy and now here was the vicar at it as well, though it could simply be professional
courtesy
on his part. She took a sip from her glass and changed tack very firmly.

‘You’re looking very smart,’ she commented. ‘Most
unvicarish
.’

‘How kind,’ he grinned complacently, as he glanced down at his dark-grey, herringbone tweed jacket, expensive and
understated
, as were all his clothes. ‘I like to strike a balance between fogeyish and über-trendy and when I spotted this in
Gieves & Hawkes
in Winchester at lunchtime today when I gave our American visitor a lift in, I decided it was about as daring as the village would tolerate.’

‘Mike Goldstein was in Winchester today?’ She tried not to weight her question too heavily, but her mind was racing. No time to think about it now, though, not with John Forrester smiling down at her. For a moment she felt her pulse race – he really was unreasonably attractive – but even as she smiled in response, she glanced up to see Rory pause just behind the vicar. A frown wrinkled his forehead but he must have felt her eyes on him because he glanced up and grinned at her. Of course, it was true after all, she scolded herself, aware that John Forrester would assume her sudden blush was for his benefit. What a fool she’d been, her only possible excuse a mixture of anxiety and
jetlag. Grandpa wouldn’t lie. If Rory happened to be his grandson, illegitimate or not, he would have said so. It must be so and besides, now she came to think of it, Rory would never have kissed her if the relationship had been closer. But why did Gran look so sad when anyone mentioned Rory’s father? She’d never known him, so what was the mystery?

Rory was about to speak when his phone rang. ‘Sorry,’ he called as he headed outside again. This time it was a woman’s voice, with a slight accent. She sounded familiar.

‘It’s Margaret Mackenzie,’ she announced. ‘I was at the
cathedral
this afternoon? I’ve just remembered something.’

The Great Hall was dark and shadowy, echoing with strange, unearthly chords. Harriet was watching some kind of ceremony, performed by a central robed figure, tall and magisterial, silhouetted against the dazzling light shining in from the front windows. The figure took a step towards her and she woke in a flutter as she realized it was an angel.

She should have slept the night through, judging by the number of painkillers she had taken, but no, here she was at – she groaned as she glanced at her watch – just after 2.30 a.m. Her head aching and feeling uneasy after the strange dream, she sat up and wondered what to do. Karen had thoughtfully left a kettle and tea things in case of need, but it didn’t appeal. She staggered slightly as she went to the bathroom and on the way back she crossed over to the window.

A flash, a second flash, hastily dowsed. Torches? The
moonlight
made them superfluous and she could just make out a figure right over at the far edge of the Burial Field. Oh not again. There hadn’t been much time to think about Edith and Rory’s glimpse of the two men, Brendan and Mike Goldstein, who had been up to no good in the same place. Edith had rung the police but too much had happened since, and that odd little incident had slipped Harriet’s mind. But what on earth were they up to now? Treasure-hunting, presumably, but what treasure? It was widely known locally that the remains of a Roman villa were supposed to be under the field and it was
Walter Attlin’s cherished dream that one day there would be enough money to finance a proper dig. It was also known, however, that the field had been ploughed and planted for centuries and that nothing but fragments of pottery had ever shown up.

Harriet tried to clear her throbbing head. There was no time for that puzzle but what should she do? If I’m going out there to see what’s happening, she shivered, I’m not going alone. Sam would never forgive me and anyway, I’m not that stupid, but – she hesitated – someone needs to check it out.

Not Edith, though. Harriet dismissed the idea immediately. If anything happened, if there was an accident of some kind, it would kill the old people. Sam was too far away so it would have to be Rory; she certainly couldn’t handle this on her own, even though Edith would be furious when she found she had been sidelined. Harriet scrambled into jeans and a sweatshirt, thrusting her feet into canvas shoes. Grabbing her phone and her car keys, with their built-in torch, she stumbled out into the corridor and made her way to Rory’s room.

‘Rory, wake up.’ She shook him with increasing urgency. ‘Somebody’s digging in the Burial Field again. Oh, for
goodness
’ sake, Rory, wake up, will you?’

When he peered groggily at her, yawning and protesting, she gave him a brief outline of the situation. ‘We’ve got to call the police.’

‘I think you’re right.’ He was still yawning and rubbing his eyes as he stared out of his window. ‘Blimey, I saw movement too, something glinting in the moonlight. But what do we tell the cops? Wouldn’t they just think it’s poachers? Is that going to be high on their list of priorities? I don’t know anything about what goes on in the countryside.’

‘Even if it
is
just poachers,’ she said firmly, ‘they’ve no right to be there and that’s reason enough to tell the police. Look, can
you see to get dressed? I don’t want to put the light on, it might make them suspicious.’

‘Oh, all right,’ he grumbled. ‘Go away for a minute, Harriet. I sleep in the nude. I’m sure you’ve seen it all before but I’m shy, so push off.’

He heard a stifled, surprisingly youthful giggle as she wandered over towards the window while he struggled into his clothes. A shaft of moonlight caught something sparkling on the polished mahogany of the tallboy and Harriet took a closer look.

‘Rory?’ There was an odd note in her voice and he raised his head. ‘Where – where did you get this?’ He zipped up his jeans and crossed the room to examine the tiny thing in the centre of her palm, the light glinting off the intricate twists and loops of silver wire.

‘That? It’s a bit of one of Edith’s earrings, isn’t it? I spotted in nestling in the weave of your precious vicar’s jacket this evening, on one of the sleeves. I nicked it without mentioning it to him, I’ve no wish to talk to him anyway. I meant to hand it over to Edith but we all went to bed fairly early and I completely forgot about it.’

She looked at the delicate little object and then met his eye, looking very sober. ‘But this isn’t an earring, Rory. It belongs to me. It’s a miniature silver toast rack from my doll’s house
collection
.’

They stared at each other, Harriet looking bewildered and increasingly disturbed. She frowned and looked out of the window again at the distant figure, then back at the miniature. ‘This is new,’ she said slowly. ‘It arrived by registered post the day before yesterday and I’d only set it on the side table with my other most recent treasures just before Edith came in for coffee with me.’

Rory slipped on his trainers as Harriet added, ‘The only time the vicar can have got this tangled up in his jacket is when he
gave Edith a lift to the village to pick up the things I asked her to fetch; in other words it had to be yesterday afternoon.’

‘But that’s not …’ Rory stood up, still frowning. ‘I overheard him at the party telling Edith he only bought that jacket in Winchester at lunchtime today, I mean yesterday. He said he bought it especially for the party and was boasting about it not being too trendy to upset all the old fogeys in the village.’

‘You’re sure it was on his jacket? It couldn’t have brushed off someone else’s clothes?’

‘No chance. I had to give it quite a tug to free it up from the tweed. I’m surprised he didn’t notice me but he was too busy hitting on Edith. I was sure it was an earring; I assumed she lost it when she went out to dinner with him the other night.’ He peered closely at the tiny silver bauble. ‘A toast rack, really?’

Harriet sat down hastily. ‘No, I’m all right, don’t fuss. It’s just the pills I’m taking, and I have to admit it’s come as a shock. If that jacket was new at lunchtime yesterday that means he must have broken into my cottage sometime the same afternoon, not on his visit with Edith the day before. At any rate it can only have been just before he turned up at the party. But why?’

‘Edith said he was looking at some notes you’d made,’ Rory remembered. ‘When he was there with her, I mean. He blamed the cat because the papers were on the floor, but when Edith took them off him, to replace them on your desk, she said the name Colin Price jumped out at her. Maybe that’s what he spotted. But why would that bother him?’

Harriet had her mobile in her hand. ‘We need to call the cops,’ she said, her tone decisive, the momentary weakness vanished.

‘No, wait, I’ve just remembered something else.’ He caught at her arm. ‘I had a call from the Canadian lady who was in the chapel. You know, she took Edith to lunch after we found Sam’s friend in the chapel. She rang about half-past nine last night and I’d forgotten all about it till now. She said she noticed the party
of German tourists who were milling about in the chapel but it had only just occurred to her that there was another man in there too. Mrs Mackenzie didn’t think it could be important but as I’d asked her to let me know
anything
at all, she decided to call me. I asked her if she could describe him, and she said it was only a clergyman who was praying beside the old chap, Dr Sutherland.’

‘
What
?’

‘I know.’ He hunched his shoulders, looking perturbed. ‘I asked her about this clergyman and she said she hadn’t taken much notice of him; she was busy with her own memories of her late husband and in any case, several of the tourists knelt to pray briefly. Mrs Mackenzie said she hadn’t even thought about him till I asked, after all, a vicar in a cathedral is a bit like
wallpaper
, so much what you expect to be there that you don’t even see it after a while. But when she thought about it, it seemed a bit odd. She’d seen Dr Sutherland enter the chapel and sit down but she was lost in her own thoughts so she didn’t see the other man come in, or leave, come to that. She couldn’t describe him but she did tell me she thought he was probably in his thirties with reddish-brown hair.’

Silence hung between them until Harriet brushed a hand across her eyes. ‘I can’t make head or tail of it,’ she said irritably and moved over towards the window again. ‘They’ve gone,’ she gasped, and pointed as Rory joined her. ‘Here, see if you can make out anything.’

‘There’s no sign of movement,’ he agreed, after a moment. ‘I’m going to take a look – and before you say anything,’ he
forestalled
her protest, ‘I’ll take precautions, I’m not an idiot.’

Harriet still held her mobile phone in her hand. Sam, she breathed as Rory disappeared downstairs. I know I promised him I wouldn’t do anything stupid but there’s no way I’m leaving Rory by himself. Let me think…. Inspiration struck and
she sent Sam a text.
‘Checking activity in BField. Rory with me. Not stupid. H.’

Tucking her phone into the back pocket of her jeans, she was at the head of the stairs when a thought intruded. Better spend a penny, she muttered to herself. I can just imagine Rory’s face if I say I need to nip behind a tree.

What with attending to the call of nature, she was some minutes behind her fellow conspirator but she could just glimpse him as he circled the Burial Field, using the old stone wall as both guideline and shelter. Harriet took a deep breath and followed suit, her mind racing madly. Why did the image of John Forrester praying beside the old clergyman make her shudder in distaste? John was a cleric himself, after all, and the old man had died of a heart attack, hadn’t he? Or if he hadn’t, how in the world could John have killed him undetected and, what was even more to the point,
why
in the world should John, or anyone else, have killed him? Oliver Sutherland was a cheerful old man who did nobody any harm and was popular and well respected among his former colleagues and parishioners.

Perhaps it was a heart attack. Or a stroke and maybe John had found him already dead? But no, surely in that case the natural thing to do would be to summon help, as Sam and Rory and Edith had done. I don’t like the vicar, Harriet admitted to herself, in a moment of honesty, but no, he couldn’t, he wouldn’t – to somehow murder an old man in a cathedral, of all
blasphemous
things to do.

It must be a mistake, but Rory was insistent. Mrs Mackenzie was a calm, rational witness who was adamant that she had noticed a youngish man of the cloth quietly praying beside an older colleague. It was a kind and thoughtful act but if that were all, Harriet wondered with a heavy heart, why had John not raised the alarm himself? Why had he not even mentioned the circumstance?

The snatched conversation she’d had with Rory a few minutes earlier made it clear that the subject of the sad death in the cathedral had not been raised at the drinks party, probably because most of the guests were in ignorance. But even allowing for John to be showing consideration to his elderly hosts, who most probably had been acquaintances, if not friends, of the elderly Dr Sutherland, surely the normal thing for him to have done was at least to sympathize in private with Edith and Rory?

She caught up with Rory at the corner of the two fields, where the stone walls joined to make a sheltered spot for a clump of blackthorn bushes, their flowers all gone and the sloes showing hard and green. From there they had a reasonably clear view of the tangled thicket further up the rise, where the ancient stone stood. They crouched there, in the rank grass and nettles, straining to see, to hear. A sudden clang, of metal against stone, made them both freeze and Harriet could hear her heart thumping as Rory touched her arm and pointed towards the angel stone.

‘Who?’ She breathed the question and he pointed again. A figure, tall and angular, was silhouetted against the silvery light; it was Gordon Dean’s visitor from Texas, Mike Goldstein, unmistakable in his lean length. As she and Rory held their breath, he dropped to his knees and seemed to be peering at something beside the angel stone. Or was it something below the stone? Harriet felt a frisson of excitement; could they be excavating the Roman ruins?

Even though recent Attlins had been unable to finance any serious exploration, most people in the area knew the legends and, in Harriet’s opinion, her cousin Walter had been incredibly lucky that no enterprising treasure-seekers had so far disturbed the ruins. It looked as though his luck had run out now, because anyone with an innocent interest in archaeology would hardly be out here, secretly, in the middle of the night.

Rory was watching silently while Harriet speculated. Surely Mike Goldstein and his henchman – it would be Brendan Whittaker, her money was on him – surely they couldn’t believe that the rewards of such a dig would be enough to justify such a hole-and-corner venture. This wasn’t a fabled site like Sutton Hoo, or, nearer home, the Roman palace of Fishbourne, a few miles along the coast towards Chichester. Harriet recalled her history. Fishbourne was the home of Cogidubnus, king of the Regni, and recognized by the occupying Romans as a sub-ruler but Lucius Sextus Vitalis, the supposed founder of the Attlin family, had only been a retired soldier who married into the local gentry. Alfred’s son had been the family’s one essay into major-league high society and since then they had kept a low profile: dutiful soldiers, hard-working farmers, solid citizens, with no shooting stars or shining lights. The Locksley villa was small potatoes.