by Rebecca Tope
‘Don’t you?’
‘Oh no. The crimes are all done on computers now.’ Thea recollected that the woman had taught Ben how to work a spreadsheet – which implied she knew her way around a computer.
Thea was looking around the house. The hallway was lined with pictures in handsome old frames. There was a long narrow rug running the length of the hall floor that looked handmade. The stairs were carpeted in a rich crimson and the banisters were made of ornately turned wood that looked like oak. ‘I know – it’s like a museum,’ Norma said. ‘All old stuff from our parents. These are family photos, look.’ She indicated the pictures. One showed a large Edwardian wedding group, the bride and five bridesmaids all clothed in something white and highly attractive.
‘Pity they make the bridesmaids wear such hideous clothes these days,’ Thea remarked idly.
Norma did not reply directly. ‘Those girls are all sisters, cousins of the bride. It’s a lovely picture, don’t you think? And see that house behind them? It belonged to the bride’s mother, and then went out of the family. It’s a complicated story – just one of many, really.’
Thea’s spine began to tingle. There was something going on, a code or a hidden revelation. ‘Do you know who Gwendoline Wheelwright was?’ she asked.
‘I do, yes. Yet another of the Wheelwright relations. This couple here were her parents, in fact. Why do you ask?’
‘Um … I just saw the name somewhere.’ Norma was a nice person, she repeated frantically to herself. There was nothing to worry about.
‘It all connects, you see,’ the woman was saying, in a friendly tone, rather proud, if anything, of the big, solid, middle-class family she belonged to. ‘Even young Ben has his roots here. We’ve been trying to persuade him to come back and live here, you know. But he seems wedded to the Lake District.’
‘He’s a bit young, isn’t he, for that sort of decision?’
‘You might think so, I suppose. But such a clever boy is an asset to the family. We don’t want to lose touch with him.’
‘Is he an only child?’
‘Oh, no!’ laughed Norma. ‘Ben’s the second in a family of five. But he’s the only one who ever showed any interest in his mother’s relatives, and even he gets very confused by it all.’
There was something meaningful in the constant repetition of the word family, Thea realised. And something even more meaningful in the fact that the woman who had died in the Corner House was connected to this self-important collection of people, who evidently placed great significance on genes and inheritances and errant branches who went off to places like Cumbria and even presumably China. But it couldn’t possibly lead to a person being murdered. Here, she decided, was the moment of truth, crunch time. Assuming Norma really was here on her own, it was as safe a moment as she could hope for to reveal something of what she knew, and to ask a whole lot of questions.
‘You know what?’ she said. ‘I think that woman who was killed at the weekend was another member of your family. I suppose you must have known her. She only lived in Banbury. Not far away at all.’
Norma was slow to react. Then she simply shook her head and said, ‘No, no. You’ve got that totally wrong. From what I heard, the woman was Chinese. She must have got on the wrong side of somebody in a tour group. Things can get terribly heated on those buses, you know. The same people squashed up together day after day, all kinds of arguments can break out, and then get completely exaggerated.’
‘Enough to lead to murder?’
‘I don’t see why not.’
Despite Ben’s discoveries and her own suspicions, Thea was half persuaded. It did fit with the few fragile facts she knew. ‘Is that what everybody in the village thinks?’
Norma shrugged. ‘We haven’t really discussed it. And honestly – she can’t possibly be a relative. We’d know, if she was.’ Her manner was disarmingly transparent, the eyebrows raised again in sincere denial.
‘Well, her name was Wheelwright. Could it be that some of the others knew, but not you?’
Norma went quiet and rather pale. She swallowed down her obvious shock and smiled. ‘I hardly think so. You’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick there. Who told you that, anyway? It’s impossible. We’ve all been beavering away at the whole ancestry thing for years now, sharing our findings. Listen – let me phone Richard and see what he says about it. If you’re right, then there’s something very secretive going on, and I want to find what it is.’
Again the spine tingled. ‘Oh – I expect Ben will have told him the whole thing by now. He found a whole lot about Karen on the Internet. It was amazing.’
‘Karen? But I heard that her name was Grace.’
‘I know. Ben’s found the whole thing on the Internet.’
‘I see. We might have known he would. He’s such a clever boy, isn’t he. And he does love anything to do with murder. You should hear his poor mother on the subject. So my guess is he’s been digging away on that smartphone thing of his, and come up with some idea that looks convincing – but it can’t possibly be right. You know, you can’t believe everything you read. There’s an awful lot of disinformation.’
‘I don’t think that can be the case here,’ Thea began to argue. ‘I mean – why would anybody go to so much trouble? I think we can at least be certain of her identity now. And that’s all the police will need to get to the bottom of the story. They can question Grace Berensen – that’s her partner – who’s sure to shed a whole lot of light on the matter.’
Norma flashed another quick smile, and then sighed. ‘Best leave it all to them, then. Listen – I’ve got a cottage pie all ready to be warmed up. What do you say? Shall we have some supper first, and then see about all this other stuff? I can show you my husband’s collection of beer mats.’ She laughed. ‘He’s terribly proud of them. They come from all over the world. And we could sit out on the patio to eat. Don’t you feel you have to make the best of any dry evening, at this time of year?’
Could she possibly be as blithely innocent as she seemed? Nothing appeared to worry her, even startling revelations about her family. Did it not occur to her that if the fact of Grace’s identity had been kept a secret, there had to be a reason for that? Something nasty, guilty and ultimately violent. Apparently, she could just carry on as normal, regardless of any implications. Perhaps this was the way most people behaved in the real world, and it was only Thea who saw killers behind every rural hedge. With an inner sigh of resignation, she accepted the offer of cottage pie and a large glass of red wine to drink while it heated up. Norma led her outside to a wrought-iron table and chairs on her patio at the back of the house. There were about eighteen plant containers ranged all around the area, full of red geraniums and hectic impatiens. Begonias and violas, too. Unimaginative but undeniably colourful.
It would soon be time to phone Drew. His image had hovered at the back of her mind all day, curiously tinged with trepidation. She found she was in no rush to speak to him, especially given his repeated discouragement of her making nightly phone calls anyway. There were going to be more hard decisions about how much to tell him, how closely to question him, and how much of her unhappy sense of distance she ought to try to convey. He would imply that it was all her own doing, that he was being the model husband in tolerating her absence without complaint. He would say he was happy to go along with whatever programme she had for the weekend, and express satisfaction that she was alive and well. She had no right to demand any more than that, which only made her more unhappy.
‘I’ll just put some peas on,’ said Norma, getting up. ‘Ready in about seven minutes, okay?’
‘Lovely,’ said Thea, just as her phone pinged to announce a text.
‘Got your message – extraordinary! Where are you now? Can I phone you? Not sure I should, if you’re into something delicate. For God’s sake be careful. C. B.’
It struck Thea that nobody knew where she was. Not Gladwin, or Ben or Drew or Clovis. The phone was a false friend
, useless unless she employed it to inform somebody of her whereabouts. And she did not know the name of the house. Suddenly it hit her that everything was wrong. She was yet again idling about when out there was every kind of wickedness, urgently requiring attention. What was that line about evil flourishing when good people did nothing to stop it? It was after seven, and here she was hiding away from everybody with a nice woman who was making cottage pie, of all things.
Norma had not come back, and in a fit of eager co-operation Thea texted back, ‘Chadwick house having supper. Probably best not to phone, though not in any danger.’ Despite the adjurations of Stephanie, Jessica and others, Thea still felt impelled to use telegrammese for her texts. And this time, she wanted it done before Norma caught her and started asking questions.
As it was, the mobile was back on the table when the woman returned. ‘Shouldn’t you be calling your husband?’ she asked brightly.
‘Not yet. He won’t have got the kids to bed yet. Another hour or so should be fine.’
‘Well, supper’s ready, just about. More wine?’
‘Why not?’ said Thea, against her better judgement.
‘And after that, I’d better call Richard. I can’t rest until I’ve had all this out with him. He’s sure to be able to explain it to us.’
‘He’s the expert, is he?’
‘You could say that. He’s been obsessed this last few months. There’s that property, you see, standing empty. He says it can’t go on like that, not now that Simon’s dead—’ She stopped herself, eyes widening. ‘Well, you won’t understand any of that. I’m just prattling as usual.’
Thea nodded. ‘The farm that Gwendoline left,’ she said. ‘Yes, I know about that.’
‘Ben again, I suppose.’ The tone was a lot less admiring this time. ‘I don’t know what the older generation would think of him splurging all the family secrets the way he does.’
‘I don’t think he realises it’s meant to be secret.’ Thea aimed for a mild lack of concern, while her pulse was accelerating. Somewhere just down the village street Ben might be facing an irate old man – or two – who were not taking at all kindly to his relentless researches. The air around Barnsley seemed to prickle with imminent drama. At least Barkley knows where I am now, she thought.
She made herself eat the delicious homemade fare in the rays of the lowering sun, which had finally succeeded in breaking through clouds in the closing hours of the day. Occasional cars went by, on the other side of the house, and a plane growled its way across the sky. ‘Peaceful,’ she said, wistfully.
Before Norma could agree, there was a musical peal that could only be her front doorbell. The patio was at the back of the house, a door opening onto it from the kitchen. Rather than go through the house to the front, it was much quicker to trot around the side and see who might be standing there. And even quicker than that to call a welcoming ‘Hello-o-o?’ and invite the newcomer to join the little party. Which Norma did, in a loud but wavering voice.
But instead of a single person, there were two. Caz Barkley led the way, square-shouldered and professional, closely followed by a woman Thea had just seen in a newspaper photograph. ‘Mrs Chadwick?’ said Barkley. ‘I’m sorry to intrude, but I was hoping for a word with Mrs Slocombe. I’m Detective Sergeant Barkley and this is Ms Berensen.’
‘What on earth …?’ squealed Norma, getting to her feet, fork still in hand. Nice Norma. Nice normal Norma was clearly very perturbed by this turn of events. Thea’s mind was working slowly, with no instant realisations or implications bubbling up. Norma was still uttering shrill half-sentences. ‘How did you know …? Who told you …?’
Grace Berensen stood back, her eyes red and blurred after what had obviously been a prolonged spell of crying. Thea tried in vain to meet her gaze with a comforting smile. She tried to remember what time she had phoned Cirencester with the dead woman’s name. How long would it have taken the police to work out where Grace lived, go to find her, break the news and suggest she go with Barkley to the scene of her partner’s murder? It all felt remarkably quick.
Caz addressed Thea directly. ‘Could we go to the Ibbotson house, do you think? Ms Berensen wants to see the place—you know what I mean. And she’d like to talk to you about what happened.’ Then she turned to Norma. ‘It’s all right, Mrs Chadwick. That is, we will want a word with you at some point. I’d appreciate it if you could stay here until somebody arrives to speak to you.’
‘Me?’ Norma’s voice rose even higher. ‘What on earth for? I had the police round here on Sunday, asking me whether I’d seen anything suspicious at the Corner House. What more do you want to know?’
Caz glanced at Thea. ‘Just routine,’ she said blandly. ‘Nothing to worry about.’
Questions began to stir sluggishly in Thea’s mind. How much did Caz know? Had she spoken to Ben Harkness? Was she here all on her own, or were there people from Cirencester swarming all over quiet little Barnsley?
The cooling cottage pie called to her, the few forkfuls she’d managed thus far only increasing her hunger. ‘Can I just finish this, do you think?’ she asked. ‘Are you in a tearing hurry?’
‘Only Thea Slocombe,’ murmured Caz, rolling her eyes. ‘Hurry up, then.’
Norma Chadwick watched her in undisguised amazement, as she finished the food. Thea knew she was behaving strangely, ignoring the clear request of a police detective, as well as the evident needs of the suffering Berensen person. But she was giving herself time to think; wanting to test the dawning theories that were nudging at her. She was aware of Grace Berensen finally giving her a close scrutiny, trying to understand this apparent callousness. ‘I’ll just be a minute,’ she said, with her mouth full. ‘It would be a shame to waste it, you must admit.’ She beamed at Norma. ‘It really is very delicious.’
Norma was making no attempt to eat her own meal. She was jittering about on the patio, alternately trying to look relaxed and demonstrating confusion and alarm at the presence of a police detective. Unlike Thea, she was steadfastly averting her gaze from Grace Berensen. ‘This is awful,’ she was muttering. ‘I don’t know what to think.’
‘Just relax,’ Caz urged her. ‘We’ll soon have everything sorted out.’
But that was quickly shown to be over-optimistic. A man’s voice was heard approaching, calling as he went, ‘Norma! Are you there?’ Before she could respond, Richard Jackson came into view, his limp as pronounced as ever. In his wake was young Ben Harkness, looking rather pale.
Thea tried to watch all the faces at once, wondering where the deepest significance lay. She was the only person sitting down, which seemed to give her a useful cloak of invisibility.
Richard stopped dead at the sight of the four women. He glared round as if suspecting a conspiracy, pausing with Caz Barkley. ‘Are you a police officer?’ he demanded.
‘I am, sir, yes. This is Ms Berensen, and I think you know Mrs Slocombe.’ She put a gentle hand on Grace Berensen’s arm. ‘I believe this must be one of the Mr Jacksons,’ she said. ‘Your partner’s relative.’
‘They’re probably all her relatives.’ The woman spoke for the first time.
‘Don’t you know?’ Ben’s mind was obviously working at top speed. ‘Have you not been here with Karen to meet them?’
She looked at him, as if calculating how to take his words. Then she appeared to decide to take him at face value. After a deep breath, she started to explain. ‘She had no idea they were here. We have only lived in Banbury for a short time. As far as we could see, there is nobody in this area who carries the name of Wheelwright. All we knew was that it had once been a very large family, and that there was a valuable property being contested. Six months ago, Karen began to make enquiries – and this is the result.’ She dissolved into quiet weeping. Thea recalled Karen/Grace’s remarks about greed, and finally realised that light was dawning on the story.
The real Grace sniffed back her tears and spoke again to Ben. ‘And you? You’re another cousin, are you?’
‘I am as it happens. I’m as surprised as you are – more so, probably. You hadn’t reported her missing, then?’
His youth protected him, of course. Where older heads and hearts would quail before confronting someone so very newly bereaved, Ben stepped in and treated her exactly as he treated everybody else. Grace seemed to appreciate his directness. ‘What would have been the point?’ She spoke with a despair that struck Thea as utterly tragic. ‘The police don’t worry very much about healthy sane adults who drop out of sight for a few days. Besides, Karen would have been furious with me if I did that.’
‘And yet – it would have made everything so much easier if her identity had been established sooner,’ the young man continued.
‘She would still have been dead,’ Grace Berensen pointed out.
Everyone fell silent at that unarguable fact. But then Ben went back to his entirely unauthorised questioning. Thea wondered why Barkley or even Richard Jackson didn’t stop him. ‘You didn’t hear anything at all about it on the news?’
‘No, I don’t bother much with the news. I find it only makes me angry.’
‘That’ll be because you’re a social worker,’ he nodded. ‘Makes sense.’
Thea abandoned any further pretence to be eating, and spoke to Caz. ‘What’s happening now? Are we still going over to the Corner House?’ The detective merely shook her head, as if to say Just wait a minute.
‘Richard?’ It was Norma who faced her distant cousin, with a puzzled expression. ‘Why are you here?’
‘So this young man can repeat to you what he’s been saying to me. You need to hear it for yourself, and tell him what absolute tripe it all is.’
Everybody looked at Ben, who lifted his chin, and said in a voice full of absolute conviction, ‘It was Uncle Richard who killed Karen Wheelwright.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
‘There!’ trumpeted the older man. ‘What do you make of that? The boy’s obviously lost his wits.’