Dry Bones (13 page)

‘That's true.'

He wondered how often Howard strayed, given the unlimited opportunities on his travels; and whether he had ever visited Gunilla's hayloft; and whether Cornelia had found out?

A
representative from the estate agents summoned by Cornelia arrived on the doorstep the following day. The Colonel, in his butler's capacity, opened the door to him. A card was proffered.

‘Good morning to you, sir. Henry Willoughby from Parnall, Monk and Morrison. Mrs Heathcote is expecting me.'

They had clearly sent one of their senior men. There was none of the callow brashness of the young lad who had shown the Colonel round Pond Cottage. No creased blazer or scuffed suede shoes; instead, well-cut tweeds, well-polished brogues and well-oiled discretion.

Cornelia received him graciously and the Colonel retreated to soldier on with the Crimean War, while she took the estate agent on a lengthy tour of the house. As they progressed, he could hear Hans Birger's name being mentioned several times by Cornelia, and Mr Willoughby's duly-impressed responses.

After a while, the Crimean War began to pall once again and the Colonel picked up a weekly local newspaper which had been delivered. The Danish architect would certainly have categorized it as clutter. On the front page was a report on the identification of the mysterious skeleton in the barn, together with a photograph of Gunilla Bjork, presumably obtained by the Swedish police. She was wearing an off-the-shoulder white peasant blouse – the sort that Jane Russell wore in
The Paleface
– and she was peering round a curtain of long blond hair, just as Susie Fellows had described. And, as Betty Turner had accurately said, she was beautiful. Exceptionally so. He could see what all the fuss had been about. It was impossible to believe that such youth and beauty could have turned into the grinning skull and dry bones that he had seen in the barn.

Cornelia and the estate agent returned from the tour.

‘Hugh, would you be a dear and show Mr Willoughby the gardens and everything?' Cornelia paused. ‘And the barn, too. I'm afraid I'm really not up to it.'

He led the way out on to the terrace, and the estate agent followed, murmuring aside into a small tape recorder as they went along. His comments were entirely predictable:
immaculately landscaped gardens
. . .
mature topiary
. . .
luxurious mosaic-tiled, illuminated swimming pool, complete with spring-board and large jacuzzi
. . .
changing cabins with showers as well as a spacious refrigerator with ice-maker
. . .
built-in barbecue with a delightful canopied area for entertaining guests. All-weather tennis court in perfect condition and charming pavilion, also with refrigerator and verandah for spectators. Magnificent medieval barn, recently fully restored
. . .

They went into the barn, ducking under blue and white police tape without comment. Mr Willoughby admired the interior, craning his neck upwards.
Re-roofed with authentic old tiles, retaining almost all the original roof timbers,
and featuring an interesting old hayloft with access by ladder
. . .

It was a considerable height, the Colonel thought, gazing upwards too. He could quite see why Gunilla Bjork, with her long blond tresses, had played at being Rapunzel imprisoned in the tower. A fantasy that had somehow gone hideously wrong.

The estate agent indicated the cordoned-off area.

‘I take it that's where the unfortunate discovery was made?'

There wasn't much point denying it. ‘Yes, indeed. In the corner.'

‘Mrs Heathcote didn't mention it to me but, of course, I'm well aware of the situation. It's been reported in the national and local press. I must admit it presents some problems at the moment, but nothing that need worry us in the longer term.'

The Colonel said drily, ‘You mean that a corpse won't put buyers off?'

Mr Willoughby shook his head. ‘Not at all. This is a very desirable property, in perfect order, with superb amenities and in an excellent and exclusive location. It ticks all the boxes, as they say. We simply wait while the police conclude their investigations, and in the meantime we plan our marketing strategy.'

They walked over to the corner and stared down at the shallow grave.

The estate agent said, ‘I gather from the newspapers that it was some Swedish girl who worked in the Golden Pheasant pub. From her photo, she rather looked as though she asked for it.'

‘People don't usually ask to die.'

‘You know what I mean. Well, let's hope the police get a move on and find the culprit soon. The trouble is, with a girl like that it could be anybody.'

Mr Willoughby switched on the tape recorder again.

The barn would make a superb games room and allows ample space for both table tennis and billiards. Alternatively, it could be used as a gymnasium and could accommodate a wide variety of exercise machines and aids, even, possibly, an indoor swimming pool
. . .

Cornelia reappeared as they returned to the house and the Colonel left her on the terrace for a final discussion with the estate agent.

He went back to his chair and picked up the local newspaper again, studying the photograph of Gunilla Bjork once more. Mr Willoughby had thought that she rather looked as though she'd asked for it, which was unfair, as well as inaccurate. Women were entitled to wear their hair how they liked and dress how they liked without anybody having the right to murder them. But the estate agent had been right that anybody could have done so. The most obvious motives were jealousy, hatred, frustration, revenge – or simply in order to stop her from spilling the beans?

The telephone rang and he answered it. Crispin Fellows was at the other end of the line, inviting him for bridge that evening after dinner.

‘One of our regular four has gone sick on us, Colonel. Can you step into the breach? It's all men and decent stakes. No bloody women around. Susie always takes herself off to bed early.'

Bridge was something he'd always enjoyed. ‘I'd be glad to.'

‘Nine o'clock, then?'

‘I'll be there.'

Earlier, he had fished in the freezer and brought out tuna steaks to grill for supper. Cornelia's Fortnum & Mason jar of grilled aubergines was liberated from the kitchen cupboard to be heated up and the rest of Old Matt's potatoes put in a pot and boiled. It was an unusual combination but perfectly edible.

Afterwards, Cornelia went off to watch television while the Colonel drove over to the Fellows' house. The other two players had already arrived – Brigadier Lawrence whom he remembered from the Sunday drinks and an Edward Maplin who was introduced as the owner of the local brewery responsible for the excellent ale served in the Golden Pheasant.

Crispin Fellows was partnering the brewer and the Colonel sat down opposite the Brigadier.

‘What are we playing for?'

‘A pound a point, Colonel,' Fellows said. ‘All right by you?'

In Frog End it was usually a penny a point but this was King's Mowbray.

‘That's fine. What convention do you play, Brigadier?'

‘Simple Acol.'

They played the best of three rubbers and the Colonel and the Brigadier were lucky in the third rubber. The losers paid up and there was only a brief post-mortem – also unlike in Frog End where Major Cuthbertson was likely to replay almost every hand.

‘We would have made it but the kings were on the wrong side,' Edward Maplin said, but without resentment.

The Brigadier grunted. ‘And you missed trumping that Jack of Clubs.'

They moved away from the bridge table to sit in comfortable armchairs, and brandy and cigars were produced. The Colonel was reminded of many evenings spent in messes and clubs during his army career, at home and abroad. He enjoyed the company of women very much but sometimes it was a relief to be without them. Restrictions were lifted, speech franker, opinions more honest. The Brigadier's were franker than most.

‘Damned politicians! They're nothing but a pack of scoundrels. Not an honest man among them. No principles, no guts. Kowtowing to the bloody Europeans, opening the floodgates for all kinds of foreign riff-raff to come and claim every benefit they can get their dirty hands on.'

‘Tut-tut, Jumbo,' Crispin Fellows said. ‘You mustn't talk like that any more. It's forbidden. You'll be taken away and clapped in irons for being racist.'

‘I
am
racist and proud of it. The British are the finest people on earth – except for our politicians – and I'm not afraid to say so loud and clear. Unlike your snivelling Lefties.'

‘They're not mine, Jumbo.'

‘Didn't mean it literally. We used to be proud to be British – not that we've ever blown our trumpets about it. Not our style. But look at what we've been reduced to! Our armed forces cut to a handful of men, half a dozen ships and a few obsolete planes. Beholden to the bloody Yanks. Even the French can put on a better show, for God's sake. We're the laughing stock of the world. Isn't that so, Colonel?'

He said mildly, ‘We're certainly no longer the power we used to be but I believe we're still well respected.'

‘Huh! What do you think, Maplin?'

‘I agree with the Colonel. There's still plenty for us to be proud of. Lots to recommend us. That's why so many foreigners want to come and live here.'

Crispin Fellows groaned. ‘Don't start him off on that again, for God's sake.'

The conversation took a different turn – in the direction of fishing – which provoked another outburst from the Brigadier who had been having no luck on his stretch of the river and blamed it all on pollution.

‘Nothing to do with your brewery, Maplin, of course. It's those holiday campers and their bloody caravans, dumping all kinds of rubbish, using it as a sewer. And some fool on a TV nature programme went and let a pair of otters go free. It took us years to get rid of the damned things and now we've got them back again. We won't have a single fish left soon.'

The talk eventually came round to the subject of Gunilla Bjork and the police investigation into her death. It was Crispin Fellows who had brought it up.

‘You remember her, don't you, Jumbo? The Swedish bombshell at the pub?'

‘Vaguely.'

‘A bit more than vaguely, old chap. Let's face it, we all remember her vividly. Isn't that so, Edward?'

‘I wouldn't put it quite as strongly as that.'

‘Well, we're all suspects in the eyes of the police – every man and woman who was living in or around King's Mowbray five years ago. Any one of us might have done it.'

‘Steady on! That's going a bit far.'

‘Is it? I wouldn't say so, Edward. Would you, Jumbo?'

‘Bloody ridiculous, is what I say. Damned police don't know their job. Haven't a clue.'

‘They've probably got several clues, if we did but know it. When you think about it, we were all involved with Gunilla, one way and another.'

‘Speak for yourself, Fellows.'

‘Actually, she didn't really appeal to me – rather over the top, I always thought – but I don't think you were exactly immune, Jumbo, if I remember rightly. Or you, Edward. But you were hardly the only ones. She played the same game with pretty well every male, and that included poor old Vera. Isn't that the truth?'

The Brigadier growled. ‘I wouldn't know. All I know is I wish to God she hadn't been dug up. Gives the village a bad name. Next thing we know property prices will start falling.'

‘And we certainly wouldn't want that to happen. So, the sooner the crime is solved, the better.'

The Brigadier drained his brandy and consulted his watch. His face was flushed. ‘Time I made a move. No idea it was so late.'

The brewer stood up as well. ‘I ought to be off too. Early meeting tomorrow.'

Crispin Fellows showed the two men to the door and returned.

‘You'll stay for another brandy, Colonel?'

He accepted, but not for the sake of the drink. People's reactions to any mention of Gunilla Bjork were interesting to him.

Crispin Fellows refilled their glasses.

‘Poor old Jumbo, tilting away at windmills, as ever. Phyllis will probably be waiting behind the door with a rolling pin. You've met his wife, haven't you?'

‘Seen, not actually met.'

‘One glance tells all. Not exactly Cleopatra, is she? And they've been married for ever. It's a sad fact for us men that by the time we wake up to the fact that life's passing us by, it's too late to do anything about it. Jumbo thought he'd got it made with Gunilla but it was a joke, of course. She was just teasing him, leading him up the garden path. Very cruel of her. Gave him her come-hither look from behind the blond curtain and made him feel young and virile again. Edward's wife's a lot easier on the eye than Phyllis but he was very taken by Gunilla, too. As I said, I might have been tempted myself, but she wasn't really my type and also I'm very satisfied with my third wife. Besides, I haven't a head for heights.'

‘Heights?'

‘It was always the hayloft. God knows why. Gunilla had some sort of weird thing about the place. She wanted men climbing that bloody great ladder for her while she waited at the top dangling her long blond hair.'

‘Rapunzel,' the Colonel said.

‘What?'

‘The beautiful girl in the old fairy tale. That's who Gunilla was pretending to be. A witch imprisoned her at the top of a tall tower and a prince had to climb up a plait of her long golden hair to rescue her.
Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair.
Don't you remember?'

‘Christ! I can't say I do. The Three Billy Goats Gruff was more my mark.
Trip-trap, trip-trap. Who's that trip-trapping over my bridge?
Did the prince make it?'

‘Yes he did, but the witch found out and tricked him that Rapunzel was dead. He threw himself from the tower into some thorn bushes and was blinded.'