Dry Bones (8 page)

Police tape still encircled the barn and police cars still came and went to what had now become a crime scene.

‘Rather difficult to do that, Cornelia – just at the moment.'

‘That's what I said to Howard. Of course, he wouldn't take any notice. Anyway he's not coming back yet. He says he's got to go on to Singapore at the end of the week, and then Sydney after that. I told him you were here and what a help you'd been. You will stay on, won't you, Hugh? It's worse than ever now. They think it's a murder, don't they? Somebody hit whoever she was on the head, and killed her on purpose.'

‘It would seem so.'

‘It's
awful
! Like a nightmare!'

‘But whatever happened, it was long before you and Howard moved in here, Cornelia. You've got nothing to worry about.'

On the following morning, the Colonel walked again to the village to buy a newspaper. Was there anything more beautiful, he asked himself, than the English countryside with summer coming round the corner? He had seen a good deal of the world's countries and climates and, in his opinion, nothing could match England at this time – the incredible greenness and lushness and fresh new colour, seen with eyes jaded by a long, grey winter.

He found several residents in the shop. Gossip was gossip the world over, he reflected, scanning the shelves for his paper and listening to them talking. It made no difference whether you lived in a big city, in a jungle, on a remote island, up a mountain, or in an English village. Where two or three, or more, were gathered together, there would always be gossip. This was a quartet of women, all dressed in Cornelia's deliberately casual country style – almost a village uniform – and with the same smooth ash-blond hair, as though they all went to the same hairdresser in London. Naturally, they were discussing the mysterious skeleton.

‘It must have been a stranger,' one of them said. ‘She couldn't possibly have come from King's Mowbray.'

They all agreed. Such an idea was clearly unthinkable.

‘Poor Cornelia. Frightfully bad luck having it happen practically on her doorstep – and with Howard away. As usual.'

‘Well, I hear she's got some chap staying with her – an old friend who's been dragged in to cope with the situation. Keeping Cornelia sane.'

‘Really?
Who is he?'

‘Retired army, I gather. A colonel. All very respectable. Rosemary saw him walking through the village. She says he's rather good-looking.'

‘Lucky Cornelia!'

‘Anyway, whoever the skeleton belongs to, it's nothing to do with King's Mowbray. Nobody's missing from the village. It must have been someone passing through. A hitch-hiker, most probably.'

‘What was she doing in the barn, then? It's a long way from the road.'

There was no sign of Alice who was, presumably, busy with her baking, but her partner, Vera, was standing impassively behind the counter, listening to the gossipers. It was impossible to tell from her face what she was thinking, though the Colonel could guess. She catered superbly for her customers, but she didn't have to like them.

‘I'm trying to remember,' one of the coven said. ‘When exactly did the Heathcotes buy the farm?'

‘About three years ago, I think,' another told her. ‘They had the house rebuilt by that terribly well-known Danish architect and they didn't actually move into King's Mowbray until last autumn. So, they're well in the clear.'

A third said, ‘Actually, I wouldn't quite say that, Lois. They used to come to stay with the Fellows at weekends. I remember Oliver and I meeting them at a Sunday drinks, and that must have been at least five or six years ago. And we bumped into Howard a few times in the Golden Pheasant with Crispin, letting everyone know how wonderfully successful he was. Rather a nasty piece of work, I've always thought. And a
very
roving eye. Heaven knows what he gets up to when he's away. Still, I suppose, as long as Cornelia doesn't hear about it, it doesn't really matter. I mean, it's nothing unusual, is it?'

The Colonel had found the last remaining copy of his newspaper hiding behind a
Country Life
and moved towards the counter. The gossipers finally noticed him and fell silent. He smiled at Vera as he paid.

She said, ‘Would you like me to order one in future for you, Colonel? They tend to get sold out.'

‘It's kind of you but I'm not sure how long I'll be staying.'

‘I could keep one by on a daily basis?'

‘It's not necessary, but thank you all the same.'

He raised his cap politely to the coven as he passed and the bell jangled as he opened the door. When he glanced back, closing it, he could see the four of them still staring after him.

Retracing his steps, he took the opportunity to observe the villagers' well-kept gardens at close quarters. He noted a well head, complete with wooden bucket dangling on a chain, statuary and urns, benches and pergolas, stone sinks and sundials – the sort of things to be found in a pricey reclamation yard, such as the one where he had bought the sundowner terrace flagstones.

One house, smaller than the rest, was rather different. Its window frames and guttering were in need of new paint but the front garden, free of any artful features, was much more to his liking. He stopped for a longer look at a yellow and white honeysuckle scrambling over a wall and a wonderful mix of flowers coming into bloom: foxgloves, delphiniums, peonies, poppies, marguerites, campanulas . . . all ones that he knew and recognized. His own front garden was very dull – a short path leading from the gate to the front door, old bricks laid on each side and no flower beds. Only the rambling rose planted beside the porch redeemed it. One of the old-fashioned, once-a-year, double-flowered kind. According to Naomi, its name was Albertine. Many years ago, when he and Laura had happened to stop at the Dog and Duck pub in Frog End while driving through Dorset, they had noticed the cottage across the green because of the mass of pink roses smothering its porch and walls. Little had he known, then, that it would one day become his home.

An elderly, grey-haired woman was kneeling on a pad, working away with a trowel, a tray of young plants beside her. Instead of the usual village uniform, she wore a shapeless tweed skirt and a plain blouse. When she saw him standing by the gate, she got to her feet, very agilely for her age.

‘You must be the Colonel.'

He smiled pleasantly. ‘Must I?'

‘We don't get many strangers in King's Mowbray and you stick out like a sore thumb.'

‘That sounds bad.'

‘Not at all. You're different from the rest and, in my book, that's a good thing. I'm Miss Simmons, by the way. Ester Simmons.'

‘I was admiring your garden,' he said.

‘Well, you're the only one who does. Everyone else thinks it's a mess. Are you a gardener?'

‘Not really. I have a garden, and I'm trying to learn.'

‘I'm just putting in some tobacco plants.'

He looked at the neat rows in the tray. ‘Did you raise them yourself?'

‘I couldn't afford them otherwise. Garden centres charge ridiculous prices.'

Her window sills would be crammed with pots of seedlings, just like Naomi's, and there was probably a busy greenhouse at the back. Even a garden shed?

He said, ‘I'm afraid I'm not much use at that sort of thing, but luckily I have a neighbour who is.'

He went on appreciating the garden – the happy mix of plants, cheek by jowl, and the lack of any particular order. There was a place for grand and elegant design, for parterres and topiary, but not in an English country garden.

He asked, ‘Have you lived here long?'

‘Almost fifty years. I used to be headmistress of the village school: in the good old days of Reading, Writing and Arithmetic. Nobody teaches the basics properly any more. You mustn't encourage pupils to read books or to write legibly or to do simple sums. That's out of date. The school's long since closed down, of course, and been converted to a fancy residence. No young children here any more, you see. I bought this house for a song and I've hung on to it ever since. People often ask me if I want to sell, but I always say no. They offer some enormous price and simply can't understand why I won't accept it.'

‘Well, this is a lovely place to live.'

‘It used to be. I'm not so sure if it is any more, but I might as well stay on now. How is Mrs Heathcote bearing up? It can't be pleasant to discover a corpse in your barn.'

‘Not at all pleasant,' he agreed.

‘I wonder who she was – the woman?'

He said, ‘Could it have been somebody local, do you think?'

‘Very unlikely, I'd say. It happened about five years ago, didn't it? People move in and out of the village all the time – they're always buying and selling – but I can't recall anybody going missing. We would have noticed. It's something of a mystery.'

‘A B & B visitor?'

‘There aren't any B & Bs in King's Mowbray, Colonel. It's not that sort of place.'

He saw what she meant. A bed and breakfast sign posted outside a gate would lower the tone.

‘Well, I'm sure the police will identify her soon.'

‘I doubt it. They're usually more interested in harassing motorists than in solving crimes these days.'

He raised his cap to her and went on his way. Nobody in the village, it seemed, had any ideas about the owner of the skeleton. Even the coven had failed to come up with any suggestions. All of which pointed to a stranger, passing through. Possibly a hitch-hiker. Except that King's Mowbray was too much off the beaten track for passing traffic and murdered hitch-hikers were generally found in a roadside ditch or in a nearby wood, not laid neatly in the corner of an inconveniently distant barn – as one of the coven had quite rightly pointed out. Dead bodies tended to be difficult and heavy to move. He could remember the leaden weight of a fallen comrade whom he had struggled to save from the line of enemy fire – as it happened, in vain.

He went on to thinking about the damage to the skeleton's skull described in court by the expert medical witness, which had indicated a mortal blow administered by a sharp and heavy object. Being strangled was surely the more likely fate of a hitch-hiker? Strangled and dumped out of a car or lorry. Cornelia had told him that the farm had previously been owned by a batty old woman and Vera had said that the woman never went out. The barn would have provided a perfect place for lovers to meet, unseen and undisturbed, especially illicit lovers. The more the Colonel thought about it, the more he was convinced that the dead woman had been local. But who was she? And who was her lover? In a village like King's Mowbray – come to that, in
any
village of
any
kind – someone must remember something. Five years wasn't so long ago, after all.

H
e walked past what must have been Miss Simmons's former school house. The old belfry was in place on the roof, together with the bell, and the words
Boys
and
Girls
remained carved over the separate entrances, but he knew that the interior – desks and inkwells, blackboards and chalk, rows of child-high clothes pegs and lavatories smelling of Jeyes Fluid – would have made way for an ideal home out of the pages of a magazine.

He walked on to the church and opened the lychgate into the graveyard. Ancient headstones tottered at odd angles, lettering eroded by time and weather and obscured by moss and lichen. The Victorian ones were predictably gloomy – all weeping angels and black marble. The newer graves were relegated to what space remained. Not so many people were buried these days. Laura had specified cremation in her will and, though he had honoured her wish, there were times when he would have liked a grave to visit, a place to lay flowers and to feel near to her.

The heavy latch clicked loudly as he went into the church. The peace and the silence immediately enfolded him: the troublesome world shut out with the closing of the door. Twelfth century, he thought, looking round, and probably built on an original Saxon site. The Victorians might have laid their dead outside but mercifully they had kept their hands off the interior. Stained glass windows, rood screen, choir stalls, pulpit, pews, font, all belonged to centuries past, including a fine carved tomb topped by a crusader lying in battle armour with his crossed feet resting on his dog. There were wall tablets dedicated to local worthies and the names of the village men who had died in both the First and Second World Wars – in the case of the First, five members of the same family. There was also a list of vicars reaching back to the earliest times when they had been referred to simply by one name: John, Roger, Robert, Thomas, William. As the Colonel left, he inspected the visitors' book, lying open on a side table. Nobody had written in it since last August when a couple from Eagle River, Wisconsin, USA, had recorded their appreciation.
We love your wonderful old English church.

Where there was a village church, a pub was never far away. In this case, the Golden Pheasant lay immediately opposite and its door was open for business. The Colonel crossed the road and went inside.

Like the church, and unlike the Dog and Duck at Frog End, he saw to his relief that the inside had not been spoiled. The oak beams had been left intact, flagstones still covered the floor, the original bar counter had survived and the inglenook fireplace had a proper grate for real log fires, not imitation flames. But there was nothing shabby or neglected about the place. Everything was clean and brightly polished and the greeting from mine host behind the bar was all it should be. He was a young man who clearly knew his job and took a pride in it.

‘Good morning, sir. What can I get you?'

They discussed the merits of the ales offered straight from the barrel and he settled on half a pint of a highly-recommended local brew. He was just lifting the mug, when another customer standing at the bar, approached.