by Cleeves, Ann
She kept her coat on while she lit the fire, had a moment of panic when she thought she’d run out of kindling, but got it going at last. Joe Ashworth was always telling her she should get a log-burner, because the fire stayed in longer and gave out a better form of heat. His Sal had got one installed in their suburban house in Kimmerston; Sal had loved the idea of it, seen them in the fancy interior-design magazines she read, though Vera suspected the couple only lit it when friends had been invited for dinner and they wanted to impress. She couldn’t see Sal emptying ashes. Now, as most of the heat seemed to disappear up the chimney, Vera wondered if it wouldn’t have been a bad idea to take Joe’s advice while the house was being renovated.
She heated a tin of soup in the tiny kitchen, leaving the door wide open so she could keep an eye on the fire, then ate it in the sitting room, the bowl on a tray. The bread was stale so when the soup was finished, she toasted two slices, one after another, using the long-handled fork that again held childhood memories, holding it towards the flames, squatting on the hearth until her cheeks were red and at last, she could take off her coat.
All the time she was thinking of Lorna Falstone, trying to understand her, feeling some sympathy. They had things in common, after all. Lorna had been a girl with a difficult man as a father too. Vera thought her mother would have been different from Lorna’s: more sociable, livelier. While Jill Falstone was a farmer, Mary Stanhope had been a teacher in a village school, like Connie Browne. If she’d lived long enough, not been taken away by cancer, Mary might have painted watercolours in her spare time too. Hector had always said she was a brilliant artist. Hector had adored his wife and had disliked Vera because she was nothing like her mother, no possible sort of substitute. That, at least, was how it had seemed to Vera.
She allowed herself a moment of self-pity, while she thought how different her life would have been if her mother had lived. Because her mother would have loved her, wouldn’t she? Unconditionally. She would have taken her into town and bought her the sort of clothes the other girls wore, had tea ready on the table when she got in from school, taken an interest. All the things that Hector had never managed to do. It occurred to her that with a mother like that, she’d have grown into a different woman. Softer, weaker. Not so good at her job. All the same, she thought, maybe that would have been a price worth paying.
In contrast to Vera, Lorna Falstone had had two parents who doted on her, at least according to Joe Ashworth, and he usually got families right. But wouldn’t loving parents have noticed that she was miserable, that she was starving herself, apparently hoping to disappear? Vera thought they needed to speak to an expert, someone who would understand these things. What sort of man might be attracted to a young woman like Lorna? Someone compassionate, who wanted to rescue her? Or a bully who’d see she was easy to dominate?
Vera carried her tray back to the kitchen and left it on the wooden draining board. She made instant coffee and poured a small whisky, then went back to sit by the fire.
Since she’d got in, she’d been immersed in thoughts and memories of Brockburn past and present. That had been Hector’s home and had shaped him. She knew he’d never got on with his elder brother, Sebastian, and that he’d turned his back on Crispin and Harriet, only visiting when he needed cash. He’d scarcely spoken of the family. Now, she thought, there was one person who’d know everything about her Brockburn relatives. It still wasn’t late, only early evening, but she was too knackered to go out again. She reached for the phone and dialled.
Chapter Eleven
BY LATE AFTERNOON, ALL THE GUESTS had disappeared and Brockburn was quiet, but Juliet thought the place still didn’t feel like home. Though Vera’s people were no longer working in the main house, they were still outside, some searching the garden, others hovering over the body in the thin white tent, like raptors taking their fill of a dead lamb. Juliet had no idea how long they would stay. Soon it would be dark. The black crescent of the forest beyond the high stone wall was already shadowy and indistinct.
Dorothy had taken charge of the arrangements with the investigating team. She’d suggested that the officers could use an outhouse, an old workshop, as their base. It had a lavatory and small hand-basin, and power points for a kettle and for computers and phone chargers, though there was little reception for either. Dorothy had taken out old mugs, teabags, milk and sugar for them. The forensic boss with the grin and the cheeky smile had protested, said they could do a run to Kirkhill for supplies now the roads were clear, but Juliet thought Dorothy had been right to make them comfortable. Surely it was better to keep these people on side and make friends of them.
Dorothy had left the big house just over an hour ago; Karan and the baby had walked down to meet her.
‘I hardly need a bodyguard.’ Dorothy had nodded towards the figures in blue overalls moving slowly through the trees. ‘Not with all these people about.’ But she’d smiled and tucked her arm into her partner’s, so when they’d moved down the track, they’d looked like one very large person, not a family of three. Watching, Juliet had felt the familiar stab of envy.
Now, she stood for a moment, feeling a little alone and without support, like one of the saplings they’d planted in the park, which needed a stake to hold it up. Mark said she was becoming reliant on Dorothy: ‘I know she’s brilliant and all that. In an old-school kind of way. But I’m not sure she’ll have a role in the new regime. We’ll need a different kind of staff then and we won’t have the cash to employ everyone we want.’
Juliet hadn’t replied to that. She still wasn’t sure what Mark had against Dorothy, except that she’d been to school with Juliet, then off to Cambridge, and it made him insecure to have an employee who was better educated than he was. Or because Dorothy wasn’t young or beautiful and she didn’t shower him with compliments like the women with whom he worked. She was just thinking she might wander up to Dorothy and Karan’s cottage, because it was always warm there, and she hadn’t really had the chance to talk all this through, when her mother appeared. Juliet saw she’d reapplied her make-up, though there was nobody to see, nobody but the family to perform for.
‘Darling.’ Harriet spread her arms wide. ‘Isn’t this the most terrible mess?’ There was a hint of reproach in her voice as if Juliet and Mark had somehow been responsible for Lorna’s dead body being found in their grounds.
‘What do you want, Mother?’
The tone of her mother’s voice had rankled and Harriet rarely ventured into the kitchen unless she wanted something. Certainly not to help stack the dishwasher or put laundry into the machine.
‘Well, tea would be lovely,’ Harriet said, ‘and perhaps we could plan something a little more substantial than soup for dinner, but now we have the house almost to ourselves, I thought we should discuss what’s happening and decide how we should deal with it. Some sort of meeting. Just the three of us. Where is Mark? I suppose he should be there while we have our little chat.’
Juliet didn’t say that he’d gone to sleep off the results of last night’s drinking. As soon as their friends had left, he’d dropped the bright and cheery act and collapsed. ‘I’ll find him. Why don’t you put the kettle on, while you’re waiting for us?’ She walked up the stairs, surprised that she’d found the courage to suggest her mother should do such a menial chore.
Later, they gathered in the small drawing room, just the three of them. Dorothy had laid a fire in the grate before she’d left and Juliet put a match to it, but the place still felt damp and chill. She drew the curtains to shut out the gloom and the memories of Lorna, who as far as she knew was still lying outside. Harriet had surprised Juliet by making the tea and had carried it through; the tray was on a small occasional table. While they spoke, they sat with cups and saucers finely balanced on knees and chair arms, like actors in a pre-war farce.
‘So, what has been going on?’ Harriet had obviously decided to take the lead. She looked at her daughter and son-in-law, her eyes icy and her back straight
. She looked almost excited. ‘And what should we do about it?’
‘I don’t think there’s much we can do about it.’ Mark had been churlish since Juliet had gone to summon him. She suspected he still had the hangover. ‘Except to let the police get on with things and hope that they find the killer quickly.’
A silence. Juliet thought she might be expected to fill it, but she was thinking, just no. I’m too exhausted. And they never listen to me anyway. They’ll fight it out between them and do want they want. She finished her tea and reached out to put the cup and saucer back on the tray.
‘I think, Mark, that whether we like it or not, we are involved.’ Harriet was talking as if he was a backward child. He’d hate that. There was nothing he disliked more than being patronized. Juliet couldn’t blame him. She wanted to tell him not to take it personally. Her mother spoke to everyone like that. Harriet continued speaking. ‘The girl was found dead on our property, her parents are our tenants and we’ve known her since she was a girl.’
‘Do the police know that you’re the family’s landlady?’ It seemed that he was too curious to be aggrieved by her tone.
‘You make me sound like the owner of a seaside guest house.’ Harriet looked at him as if he was a worm. ‘They’re tenant farmers. Nearly all the people who farm in the valley are our tenants. Of course the police will know. Whatever I think of Vera Stanhope, she’s a countrywoman. She understands how these things work.’
‘So, you both knew the dead woman?’ This time he looked at Juliet for an answer.
‘I knew her a bit when she was younger. We were both mad about horses, so I saw her around. She was younger than me.’
‘She was a nervy little thing,’ Harriet said. ‘She had an eating disorder when she was at school.’ A pause. ‘The GP didn’t seem to be doing anything. She ended up in a specialist residential clinic.’
‘You seem to know quite a lot about her.’ Mark’s surprise came across as manufactured. He took every chance he could to have a dig at Harriet. Juliet found the continual spats, the need to take sides, childish and exhausting.
‘The family has always felt a certain obligation to the people who live on our land. Of course we take an interest.’ This was Harriet at her most imperious; she brooked no argument. Which, Juliet thought, was just as well. She didn’t want Mark poking around into their private lives either.
‘You know there’ll be press interest in the case,’ Mark said. ‘I’m surprised they haven’t been here already. Perhaps the snow put them off, but according to the lunchtime forecast, it’ll all be gone tomorrow. I think we should provide them with a statement.’
‘They’ve been on the phone.’ Juliet had fended off a couple of calls, then made sure they went straight to voicemail.
‘Obviously, we’ll be careful what we say to them.’ Harriet turned to Mark. ‘Why don’t you draft a statement. I’m sure you’re good at that kind of thing.’ A pause. ‘Of course, run it past us before you put it out.’
‘I could do that.’ He seemed almost pleased though Juliet knew that Harriet hadn’t meant the comment as a compliment. She despised the press. ‘We might be able to slip in something about the theatre project. It’d be great to get something into the nationals.’
Harriet shot Juliet a look that said, couldn’t you really do better than him? But at least she managed to stay silent. ‘So, we’re agreed then. Of course, we’re courteous to the police and answer their questions, but we don’t volunteer unnecessary information, and, apart from supplying them with the statement which Mark will write, we’ll have no communication with the press.’
Harriet stood up and left the room, leaving the tray and cups behind her. Juliet was left, as always, in awe of her mother’s ability to get just what she wanted in every situation.
Mark looked up. ‘Has she got something to hide?’
‘You don’t think she killed Lorna?’ Juliet thought humour was the only response to this ridiculous situation. ‘That she went out into the snow while we thought she was dressing up for the party and bashed the woman on the head?’
He smiled. He had an adorable smile and she remembered why she cared so much for him. ‘I wouldn’t put it past her. She’s the most ruthless woman I know. And I’ve met a few in the theatre. All those divas.’ He took Juliet’s hand and pulled her down to sit on his lap. ‘Are you okay? I realize I’ve not been much help.’
‘I might go out,’ she said. ‘I feel as if I’ve been stuck in this house for days. Just to clear my head. I might wander up to Dorothy’s.’
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘If that’s what you want.’ But she heard the distance in his voice and knew she’d disappointed him again. He didn’t offer to go with her, to make sure she was safe.
Outside there was the sound of melted snow dripping from the trees in the park, a tawny owl close by, and as she walked around the corner of the house the chug of the generator used by the crime-scene team to power the lights in the tent. It was already quite dark, but she could see perfectly. The police officers had shown them the route they should use, a path well away from the crime scene, but the lights were so fierce that they lit the track all the way to Dorothy’s place.
The cottage was low, single storey, one of a pair. The other, larger house had been sold off by her father when the estate was short of cash and the tax man was getting heavy. Now it was a holiday home, owned by a businessman in the south, only used in the summer, but quiet and dark at this time of year. Dorothy’s curtains were still open and Juliet looked inside and felt again a tug of jealousy. The baby, Duncan, must just have been in the bath. He was lying on a towel in front of the fire. Karan was drying him. Everything seemed so compact and simple. So manageable. Karan looked up and saw her. He smiled and waved her to come in.
There was a glass porch at the front of the house where they sat on summer evenings drinking tea or wine looking out over the valley. Juliet left her boots there and walked straight into the living room. Karan had scooped the baby into his arms. Through an open door to the back, Juliet saw Dorothy in the small kitchen.
‘I’m sorry to intrude. I just needed to get away.’
‘I don’t blame you. What a nightmare it must be.’ Dorothy was folding laundry.
Still working. Still doing what she’s been doing for us all day.
‘It would have been worse without you to take charge.’
Karan stood up, the boy in his arms. ‘I’m taking this one to bed. I’ll be back soon.’
In the kitchen, Dorothy reached into a cupboard and pulled out a bottle of wine. It would be better, Juliet knew, than any of the stuff she and Mark drank. Dorothy opened it deftly, poured a glass and took a moment to taste it before pouring one for Juliet. ‘I see they’re still there.’
‘According to Vera, they hope to have taken the body away this evening.’ Juliet paused. ‘I guess things will get back to normal then.’
‘I don’t think they’ll be anything like normal until the police find the killer.’ Dorothy lifted the pile of laundry into a basket. ‘We were here when she died. The snow was so thick it’s unlikely anyone else could have got in. Of course, they’ll be asking questions.’
Karan came in and heard the last comment. He poured himself a glass of wine. He was Glaswegian, of Indian heritage, calm, easy. He and Dorothy had met at university; he’d trained as an accountant to please his parents and had given it up to become a teacher. The plan was that he’d start training in the autumn. There were times when Juliet found herself comparing him with Mark, wishing she’d ended up with someone like him.
‘But you didn’t have anything to do with her,’ Karan said. ‘The idea’s crazy! You didn’t even know her.’ He looked at them. ‘Did you?’
‘This is a small place,’ Juliet said. ‘We know everyone.’
Chapter Twelve
HOLLY JACKMAN WAS AT HOME IN her clean, white flat, with its view of the city graveyard, when Vera called. The boss had sent her away at lunchtime, soon after Holly had
interviewed Mark Bolitho and Sophie Blackstock, and when the guests were allowed to leave Brockburn. ‘Get on off. I doubt you got much sleep last night. I’ll give you a shout if we need you.’ And now, it seemed, Vera did need her.
‘I hope you managed some kip this afternoon.’
‘A little.’ Holly wasn’t sure what she was letting herself in for. She’d been for a run and then dozed for a while, but didn’t pass on those details. With Vera, it was best to be cautious, to give nothing away.
‘If you’re up for it, I’d like you to go back to Brockburn. The roads are clear there now. I’ve not long got back. I don’t need you at the big house, but it’s been niggling me that nobody’s really spoken to Dorothy Felling, the housekeeper. I don’t know anything about her, except that she’s a good cook and she’s got a partner and a little boy. I’d rather someone talk to her this evening. I couldn’t quite work out how she ended up working there.’
Holly didn’t answer immediately. She’d changed into pyjamas after the run and a shower, and there was nothing appealing about going out again.
‘No worries if you don’t fancy it.’ Vera’s voice was chirpy. ‘I’ll ask Joe. He’s always glad of an excuse to escape the family.’
‘No,’ Holly said. ‘I’ll go.’
‘Maybe phone first. It’s a long way for a wasted journey.’ And before Holly could answer Vera had replaced the receiver.