The Unburied Past (22 page)

The woman's expression changed. ‘Was it you put that ad in t'paper?'

‘It was, yes.'

‘Well, all I can say is we've spent years trying to put it behind us. It was horrible, them ghouls coming from far and near, poking and prying and wanting to see where it happened – not at all the kind of publicity we needed. Any road, I weren't working here then so I can't help you.'

Kirsty said quietly, ‘Perhaps we should explain that it was our parents who were murdered.'

The woman's eyes widened and a hand went to her mouth. ‘Those little kiddies …?'

Adam smiled crookedly. ‘We've grown a bit since!'

‘Oh, I'm that sorry – I didn't know!'

‘That's all right.' He paused. ‘I believe a Mrs Birchall was postmistress at the time?'

‘Me auntie, aye. Upset her dreadfully. She'd grown right fond of the … of you.'

‘Is she still … around?'

‘Aye; I took over when she retired, like – I'm Joan, by the way – but she still lives in t'village. I'm sure she'd be pleased to see you. Shall I give her a ring and see if she's in?'

‘That would be wonderful!' Kirsty said warmly.

Joan disappeared into the back room and they could hear her excited voice as she spoke on the phone. Then she reappeared, smiling. ‘Auntie will be delighted to see you. Go straight round if you like – she says to tell you coffee's on.'

She came round the end of the counter and walked with them to the door. ‘Cross over t'road and take first turning on your left – Hollybush Lane. It's third house down on t'right, but she'll be looking out for you.'

They thanked her, waited for a tractor to lumber past and crossed over towards the green. Joan stood looking after them till a customer approached and she had to return to her work.

‘That's a stroke of luck,' Adam said. ‘Mrs B was the head of our list of priorities. Let's hope we'll do better with her than we did with Mrs Vine.'

As her niece had predicted, the ex-postmistress was standing at the open door of her house and came hurrying down the path, clasping their hands in hers, her eyes full of tears. She was a small, plump woman in her seventies, with a wrinkled face and short grey hair.

‘I can't believe I'm seeing you again!' she said tremulously, her eyes raking their faces. She nodded at Adam. ‘Aye, I recognize them big grey eyes!' And to Kirsty, ‘But where have all yon curls gone?'

Kirsty smiled. ‘I lost them when I was six and began to grow my hair.'

‘Well, well, come in and tell me what I can do for you. I saw your advert, but I thought it were some nosy parker wanting to butt in again.'

They were shown into the front room, where a tray had been set out with coffee cups and a plate of biscuits.

‘So you've come back after all this time – a kind of pilgrimage, like.'

‘We'd have come sooner,' Adam said levelly, ‘if we'd known what happened. Believe it or not, we've only just been told. Up till then, we believed our parents had been killed in a car crash.'

‘Well, now, fancy that!' Mrs Birchall exclaimed, pouring the coffee. ‘Still, I suppose it were kindly meant.'

‘When we were children, yes. Not afterwards.'

She glanced at his set face. ‘I wish I could say they caught 'em, but of course they never. Not so much as a hint as to who might have done it, or why.'

‘It would be lovely,' Kirsty said quietly, ‘if you could tell us everything you remember about our parents. We're trying to build up a picture of the week they spent here.'

‘Well, I reckon I saw 'em more 'n most, since they was allus coming in t'shop. Your dad was a great one for taking pictures. He'd wander round t'village with that camera of his hanging round his neck and your mum pushing the pram alongside.' She flashed them a quick glance. ‘Some say it might have been camera as caused all t'trouble.'

Kirsty nodded. ‘Can you think of anything … controversial … he might have photographed?'

‘What could have been controversial, in a little village like yon? They went t'fête, that I do know. I saw 'em coming away about teatime, the little boy – you, sir – carrying a Donald Duck nearly as big as you were. And you, dearie, had that teddy of yours. I never saw you without it!'

Kirsty smiled. ‘I still have it,' she admitted.

Adam turned to her in surprise. ‘Kirsty, you haven't!'

She flushed. ‘I know it sounds silly, but it's my only physical link with my parents. My aunt told me it was a first birthday present.'

‘And that,' Mrs Birchall said sadly, ‘were the last time I saw you. I couldn't believe my ears when I heard what had happened.' She reached for a handkerchief and wiped her eyes.

There was a brief uncomfortable silence. To break it, Adam said tentatively, ‘I believe someone drowned in the lake that summer?'

Mrs Birchall sniffed and replaced her handkerchief. ‘Yes, indeed, poor Mr Vine from Hawkston. Terrible it were, and weeks before they found him.'

‘We'd have liked to speak to his widow, but she's not in the phone book.'

‘Not as Mrs Vine she's not. She's Mrs Dean Ferris now.'

‘Ferris as in the firm that employed her husband?' Adam asked quickly.

‘Right enough. My sister's boy worked there and it caused quite a stir, I can tell you, them marrying within a year of Mr Vine's death; but she were a scatty little thing, Jack said, and like as not would have been lost on her own.'

‘So she's still in Hawkston?' Adam tried to keep the excitement out of his voice.

‘She is, aye.' Mrs Birchall frowned. ‘Though I don't see what she has to do wi' your mum and dad.'

Adam and Kirsty exchanged a glance, but she deserved an explanation.

‘The last time she saw her husband was on the day our parents were killed,' Adam told her.

‘Get away!' Mrs Birchall stared at them.

‘I read the newspaper archives, and that was the date she gave.'

‘Well, I'll be blowed! With him being found all those weeks later, I never realized.' She paused. ‘But I still don't see how there could be a connection.'

‘Nor do we, but it could be worth looking into.'

‘Well, I never!' Mrs Birchall seemed stunned by the idea.

‘Do you remember anything our parents spoke to you about?' Adam prompted.

She shook her head. ‘After it happened I went over everything they'd said, in case it might give a clue, like, but there were nowt of importance. They said as they'd been t'church and were surprised to find it open, but vicar insists on that. Says a church door should never be locked. They were interested in old family monuments and asked if same families were still here. And they was allus going off having picnics, to the lake and suchlike, where the gentleman could take his pictures.' She gave a small, embarrassed smile. ‘I never knew their name. It were in t'paper later, but I've gone and forgot it.'

‘Franklyn,' Kirsty supplied. ‘Mark and Emma Franklyn.'

‘That's right – I remember now. Like t'President.'

‘Did you see them that last day?' Adam asked.

‘No, shop were shut, it being Sunday. Papers went out first thing, that's all. I don't hold with folks buying groceries and such on t'Lord's day when they've all week to do it. Some say it lost me business, but that's as maybe. I have my principles.'

It seemed they'd exhausted all she could tell them, and shortly afterwards they left.

‘I suggest we have a bar lunch at that pub we passed,' Adam said as they walked back to the main road. ‘The Wheatsheaf, wasn't it? And afterwards we can drive out to this lake everyone talks about. Though what it can tell us after all this time, God knows.'

‘You seem rather deflated,' Kirsty remarked minutes later, as they settled themselves at a table in the bar.

He shrugged. ‘I suppose I've been counting on this visit to open a few windows, but so far we've not learned much.'

‘Adam, we've been here under twenty-four hours!'

He smiled reluctantly. ‘You're right, we'll keep digging. And Mrs Vine-That-Was is definitely on the list. We should be able to find her now.'

So they drove out to Lake Belvedere, parked alongside a string of other cars, and did a circuit of the lake, which took most of the afternoon. It was a lovely setting, surrounded as it was by heather-covered hills. A skein of geese flew overhead, honking loudly, and brightly coloured mallards swam on the still water.

‘I wish I had a camera myself,' Adam commented.

‘It all looks so peaceful,' Kirsty said. ‘It's horrible to think of Tony Vine dying here.'

They drove back to Hawkston in reflective mood, thinking back over the day and the people they'd met.

‘Tomorrow,' Adam said, as they were approaching Hawkston, ‘we can try to track down the barman where we had lunch that last day. He just might have overheard them discussing plans for the afternoon or know if there was anything special on that day, something they might have gone to see. And we can write up everything we've learned so far, which,' he added with a wry smile, ‘shouldn't take long. Then, on Monday morning, we'll call on the Merry Widow.'

‘Call on her?'

He nodded. ‘We can't really give a good reason for wanting to see her, but if we just arrive on her doorstep she's not likely to turn us away.'

‘She might not be in,' Kirsty pointed out.

‘If she isn't we'll keep trying till we catch her. OK with that?'

‘You're the boss,' Kirsty said.

S
unday was what Adam considered a wasted day. They located the pub mentioned in the video and enquired if a barman by the name of Antonio Bellini still worked there, only to learn that he'd returned to Italy two years previously. Nor, not unnaturally, could anyone they spoke to, either in the pub or the surrounding shops, recall any special event in Hawkston that Sunday twenty-six years ago.

‘It was always a long shot,' Adam said philosophically. ‘He'd have told that reporter all he knew – it was his
quart d'heure
of fame, after all. Not many people can say they served lunch to someone who was murdered later that day.'

They spent the afternoon visiting the museum and art gallery, both of which, unbound by Mrs Birchall's principles, were open on Sundays, and walked round the ruins of the Norman castle. By the time they returned to the hotel, they felt they had at least learned something of the history of the area, history that stretched back beyond the twelfth century.

With a break from concentrating on their research, they also learned a little more about each other and their lives during the long years they'd been apart. Kirsty asked after her cousins, and gathered from Adam's replies that he'd not enjoyed a particularly close relationship with either of them.

‘They resented me,' he said simply, and one look at his face convinced Kirsty it would be unwise to dispute the statement.

That evening they again borrowed the hotel phone book, and were confronted with a list of several Ferrises in the Residential section.

‘So which do you suppose is her husband?' Adam asked rhetorically. ‘BW, DW, HB or JL?'

‘We could look on their website,' Kirsty suggested. ‘That will probably show the directors, and possibly even their CVs.'

‘Brilliant!' Adam switched on his tablet. ‘Ferris Engineering, isn't it? And hey presto, here we go.'

Kirsty looked over his shoulder. The chairman was given as Barry William Ferris, and a little further delving revealed that he had married one Vivien Kendal in 1974. The Vice Chairman, Dean William Ferris, on the other hand, had married 1) Lucinda Parsons in 1976, divorced 1985, and 2) Marilyn Vine in 1987.

‘Bingo!' Adam exclaimed. ‘The other two are probably offspring. So – what's Mrs Dean Ferris's address?'

The house, standing well back from the road, was a handsome building of grey stone standing in an immaculate front garden still colourful with dahlias. On rising ground to the west of the town, it had magnificent views of the mountains that surrounded it on three sides.

As they walked up the path, Kirsty worried that they hadn't found the right approach to gain Mrs Ferris's cooperation. How would she herself react, she wondered, if two total strangers arrived on her step with such an outlandish story? There was nothing, as far as she could see, to stop her closing the door in their faces.

Marilyn Ferris opened the door herself, a small, pretty woman whose fair hair was expertly cut and whose blue woollen dress, Kirsty surmised, bore a designer label. She looked from one of them to the other with a questioning smile.

‘Mrs Ferris?' It had been agreed that Adam should open the proceedings.

‘Yes?'

‘My name is Adam Carstairs and this is my sister, Kirsty Marriott. We'd be very grateful if you could give us a few minutes of your time.'

She hesitated, as well she might. ‘Are you Jehovah's Witnesses?' she asked uncertainly. ‘Because—'

‘No, no, nothing like that. Actually, we'd like to talk to you about … your first husband.'

She gave a little gasp and took a step back. ‘
Tony?
'

‘Yes; it's just possible that he met our parents.'

She gazed at them blankly. ‘I don't understand,' she said. From upstairs the sound of a vacuum cleaner reached them.

‘I promise we're not confidence tricksters or anything,' Kirsty said quickly. ‘The point is that our parents were murdered in Penthwaite in nineteen eighty-six, and we're trying to trace anyone who might have come into contact with them.'

‘But … Tony's dead!'

‘We know,' Adam said gently, ‘and we appreciate that it might be painful to talk about him, but we'd be so grateful if you'd just let us explain.'