Six Proud Walkers

by Anthea Fraser

  Six Proud Walkers

  Anthea Fraser

  Copyright © Anthea Fraser 1988

  The right of Anthea Fraser to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  First published in Great Britain in 1988 by William Collins Sons & Co. Ltd

  This edition published in 2014 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  For my brother and sister-in-law, Christopher and Mary Roby, in their Silver Wedding Year.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  Extract from Pretty Maids All in a Row by Anthea Fraser

  CHAPTER 1

  The July sky was a molten blue, and the sun scorched his back through his thin shirt. Leaning over the newly restored battlement of the twelfth-century tower, Chief Inspector Webb looked down on a high-walled garden and saw murder. Quite literally saw it spelt out in flowers, the letters formed of vivid red blooms against a background of gold.

  He turned to Hannah, who was gazing across the village to the woods and fields that encompassed it.

  ‘Take a look down here,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Where?’ Her bare brown arm brushed against his, her hair swung forward as she followed his pointing finger.

  ‘My goodness!’ she said. ‘Someone has a macabre sense of humour.’

  ‘If that’s what it is.’

  She turned to look at him. ‘Oh come on, David! You’re off duty—stop thinking like a policeman!’

  For a moment longer he stared down, the accusing red letters branding themselves on his retina. Then he took her arm and moved her round the tower. ‘No point in drawing attention to it,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that the place we’re going to this afternoon?’

  ‘Yes, the Old Rectory; where the fete’s being held.’

  ‘Not much sign of activity.’

  ‘It’ll be the other side of the house.’

  The sound of approaching voices echoed up the spiral staircase, and some people about to descend waited for the newcomers to emerge. When both groups had dispersed, Webb said, ‘Didn’t you say you know the people?’

  ‘That’s right, the Walker family. The younger daughter’s at Ashbourne.’

  ‘Are they given to accusations of murder?’

  ‘I doubt it. They’re the Walkers of Walker & Fairfax. You know—Broadshire Porcelain. They won the Queen’s Award for Export again this year. But if you’re curious, ask Mr Walker yourself. He’s the churchwarden on duty.’

  ‘I shan’t bother, but given the chance I’ll inspect those flowers more closely.’ He looked down at the honey-coloured houses and the ford which gave the village its name, now dried to a mere trickle in the heatwave. All the gardens were ablaze with colour, a tumbling mass of roses, hollyhocks, delphiniums and marguerites. But as far as he could see, none of the rest of them spelt ‘murder’.

  ‘It’s a pretty little place you’ve found yourself,’ he commented.

  Hannah sighed contentedly, turning and leaning her back against the warm stone. ‘Yes, aren’t I lucky? And Paula actually thinks I’m doing her a favour.’

  ‘Well, you are. Not everyone would be prepared to move in and look after three highly eccentric cats for a month.’

  ‘I shall love every minute of it. I’ll spend my time sunbathing and having cool drinks. After a fraught term, what could be more relaxing?’

  ‘Talking of cool drinks, how about sampling one of the pubs for lunch?’

  ‘Good idea. There’s one near the cottage which looks promising. Would you like to lead the way down?’

  After the sunlit open air, they were temporarily blinded by the plunge into semi-darkness, and the dank walls of the staircase struck chill on their hands. The stone steps were worn into hollows by centuries of climbing feet, and the voices of people still up on the parapet reached them like echoes from another world. The ringing chamber, with its narrow windows, offered a brief respite before the final descent to the cool, flower-perfumed church. Over by the font, a man was being interrogated by an elderly woman in a big hat.

  ‘That’s the Mr Walker I know,’ Hannah said quietly, ‘Fay’s father.’

  ‘It’s still run as a family firm, then?’

  ‘Yes, by three brothers, I believe, and their mother.’

  The elderly woman moved away and, turning, the church-warden caught sight of Hannah. He came across with a smile.

  ‘Miss James—welcome to Honeyford! Miss Welling told us you’d be cat-minding while she’s away.’

  Hannah took the hand he offered. ‘Good morning, Mr Walker. May I introduce David Webb?’ The two men shook hands.

  ‘We’ve been admiring your restoration work,’ Webb said. His glance, deceptively casual, took in every detail of the man in front of him. Mid-forties, average height, light brown hair, pleasant, confident manner. Managing Director or somesuch, no doubt.

  ‘Yes, marvellous to know it’s finished at last. We’ve been fund-raising for over two years.’ Walker smiled ruefully. ‘Though no doubt there’ll soon be something else to raise money for; the penalties of inheriting ancient buildings. I hope you’re both coming to the fete?’

  ‘Oh, certainly.’

  ‘Good. The vicar’s opening it at two.’ He glanced at his watch, then nodded towards the staircase. ‘Are there many still up there? Once they’re all down, I can go home for lunch.’

  ‘I don’t think they’ll be long. We’ll see you later, then.’

  The churchyard lay baking in the midday peace, its forgotten tombstones leaning drowsily towards the parched grass. There was the hum of small insects, a bird calling in one of the high trees. At the gate, a faded board informed them they’d been visiting the Parish Church of St Clement.

  ‘Oranges and Lemons,” said Webb predictably. They walked down the sloping path towards the gateway of the Old Rectory.

  ‘Where does the vicar live, if not here?’

  ‘Over there.’ Hannah nodded to a much smaller house immediately opposite. ‘The days when the clergy lived in huge houses are long gone.’

  Webb paused, looking up the driveway to the Old Rectory. It was a handsome, three-storeyed house, in the pale grey stone which contrasted here and there with Cotswold gold. On the right of the drive, a vast lawn spread green and lush—obviously the result of careful watering over the past few weeks. A succession of stalls edged it on three sides, at which figures could be seen busily setting out their wares. At the far end loomed the large, white outline of a marquee. Webb glanced to the left of the drive, but a laurel hedge blocked off what lay behind it.

  The group whom they’d left up the tower were now approaching, and Hannah could see Mr Walker locking the church door. ‘Come on,’ she urged, ‘we don’t want him to catch us peering up his drive.’

  They moved on down the path, between the drystone garden walls over which a profusion of plants spilled in extravagant largesse.

  ‘I wonder how the place got its name,’ Webb mused. ‘The “ford” bit is obvious, but “Honey” could refer equally to bee-keeping at some time, or to the colour of the stone.’

  ‘Sorry, but it’s neither. It was originally Huna’s Ford, according to the guidebooks.’

  ‘Who the hell was he?’

  ‘Some Saxon lord, no doubt.’

  Webb grinned. ‘Trust a schoolmarm to know that. I prefer my own explanations.’

  They h
ad reached a fork in the path. The main stem continued down to the High Street, while the right-hand branch led to the cottage where Hannah was staying.

  ‘The pub I mentioned is just round the corner,’ Hannah said, as they passed her gate. One of the cats lay spread out on the path, eyes blissfully closed. Another sat watching them unblinkingly from the gable over the front door. Then they were past and, rounding a bend in the road, found themselves facing a charming old pub nestling under a roof of mossy stone, with ancient oak beams supporting its framework. Opposite it, on a triangle of grass, grew an enormous chestnut tree with a wooden seat round its trunk, and here, in the shade, a group of lunch-time drinkers chatted animatedly. Webb felt it would have been more in keeping had they been gap-toothed ancients in smocks rather than young people in designer jeans, but even Huna’s Ford moved with the times. He followed Hannah into the welcome cool of the inn.

  ‘Is that you, Neville?’ Lydia Walker came hurrying out of the drawing-room. ‘Thank goodness you’re back. The men have some question about the marquee. Would you go and have a word with them?’

  Her husband kissed her cheek. ‘Couldn’t Robin have seen to it?’

  ‘He had a look, but as you know, he’s not exactly practical.’

  Neville smiled. ‘All right. Pour me a G and T and I’ll see what I can do.’

  He walked through the cool elegance of the drawing-room and out of its open French windows, where the merciless heat awaited him, seeming to shrivel his skin with its dragon’s breath. Mad dogs and Englishmen, he thought humorously.

  They’d made good progress since he left to go on duty. The stalls were all up, many of them decked with gaily coloured bunting, and the worthy ladies of the parish were engaged in setting out piles of knitted garments, cakes, toys, books and records. A coconut shy had been erected, and a hoop-la stall. For how many hundreds of years had such innocent amusements been partaken of in rural England?

  Neville felt a sense of permanence and wellbeing, which banished for the moment worries about the factory and the Francombe order. After all, it was the weekend, and one that promised to be enjoyable, since after the fete they were giving a birthday party for his nephew. Neville always enjoyed family gatherings. Though he envied Howard his son, women these days were as able managers as men. His mother more than proved that, and his daughters, he felt sure, would follow the family tradition.

  How lucky he was, he thought, pausing to congratulate one of the stallholders on her display. He had so much—health, wealth, success, this beautiful home and a thriving business. Above all, he had the family. He felt a surge of love for them all—for Mother and Lydia and the girls, for Howard and Ashley and Gavin, for Robin—even, he thought wryly, for Eleanor. Mother had reservations about her, but after all, Robin was nearly forty. It was more than time he settled down, and if Eleanor was what he wanted, so be it.

  Reaching the marquee, Neville ducked his head and went inside to sort out the problem.

  ‘Glad to see you’re supporting home industries, Miss James!’ Neville nodded smilingly at the jars of homemade jam and pickles in Hannah’s basket. ‘Enjoying yourselves?’

  ‘Very much,’ Webb answered. ‘You’ve a magnificent garden. Do you work in it yourself?’

  ‘Not often, to be honest. Too many other calls on my time. Fortunately, we inherited gardeners when we moved here ten years ago—a father and son. They keep it well in trim.’

  They’d be unlikely, though, to sow flowery accusations of murder. Tut no doubt some of your family garden?’

  If Walker was surprised by his persistence, he was too polite to show it. ‘My elder daughter does. She showed interest very early on, and we gave her her own patch to look after. It paid dividends—she’s taking a course at Broadminster Horticultural College.’

  ‘Would her patch by any chance be over by the wall near the church?’

  ‘How on earth d’you know that?’

  ‘We saw it from the tower, but we’d like a closer look, if it’s not inconvenient. It’s—fairly striking.’

  ‘Well, good for Melanie. I’ll come with you—I haven’t been down there lately, and I shouldn’t be needed till they draw for the raffle.’

  Leaving the crowded lawn behind them, they crossed the wide gravel drive and went through a gap in the laurel hedge. But even then their view was limited. To create interest, the available space had been divided into a succession of small areas, each hidden from the next by trellises and hedges. The result was a series of miniature gardens each with its own characteristic: a profusion of roses in one, a small pool in another, a rockery filled with alpine plants. Finally, bypassing the last hedge, they came upon the high boundary wall, beyond which rose the church with its newly restored tower. Between them and the wall lay the bed which interested them, the deep, burning gold proving to be French marigolds and, carved out in their midst, the vivid scarlet of salvias.

  Hannah wished suddenly that they hadn’t come. What would poor, pleasant Mr Walker make of that garish display?

  ‘I presume it’s a pattern of some sort?’

  Neither of them answered him. In silence they walked round to the front of the bed till they were facing the flowers and their bizarre message. Neville Walker gazed at it unbelievingly, and Hannah saw the colour leave his face.

  ‘My God!’ he said, barely audibly. Then, with a strained laugh, ‘Well, it adds a new meaning to saying it with flowers.’

  ‘Have you any idea what it refers to?’ Webb asked.

  ‘Refers to? Good lord, man, it doesn’t refer to anything. How could it? It’s just a sick joke. I shall have a word with that young lady.’ He looked up at the tower, closed to the public this afternoon. ‘Heaven knows how many people have seen it from up there.’

  ‘Perhaps it was work she was set at college,’ Hannah suggested. ‘There must be quite an art in forming letters.’

  ‘But she didn’t sow the seeds. Those flowers were raised in the greenhouse, and only planted out in April. I remember now, Jack mentioned Melanie had asked for some.’ He paused, and repeated, almost to himself, ‘April.’

  ‘Even if it was set work, it was an odd word to choose,’ Webb said mildly. ‘Anyway, we thought it worth mentioning.’

  ‘Indeed yes, I’m very grateful. I’ll get Jack to dig it up on Monday.’

  Dorothy Walker drew her favourite chair to her bedroom window and sat down. From here, she’d a grandstand view of the lawn and the throngs of people milling about.

  She wished she didn’t feel so ill. Four more days, and she’d know, one way or the other. Suppose she really did have that frightful disease? She’d never even heard of it till three weeks ago, when Bruce suggested this latest set of tests. Should they prove positive, what appalled her even more than the inevitable advance of paralysis was the fact that the disease was hereditary. Which meant she’d have to tell the boys. She couldn’t leave them to find out after her death, as they were bound to.

  She pulled herself to her feet, leaning on the windowsill for support. Neville was walking back across the drive with a man and woman. She wondered where they’d been. The woman looked familiar; wasn’t she the Deputy Head of Fay’s school? That’s right, someone had said she was staying at Wychwood.

  A queue seemed to be forming down to her left, and, seeing the cause of it, Dorothy clucked her tongue with annoyance. Eleanor signing autographs. How utterly ridiculous. Why should merely reading the news on television warrant such attention? She did so wish Robin had chosen differently. There was the boy too, and although he seemed a nice child, it was an added responsibility.

  Her attention was brought back to the scene below. A disturbance had broken out near the Bran Tub—some jostling, and raised voices. Heads were already turning in that direction. Dorothy narrowed her eyes, trying to identify the source of the trouble. A shock of red hair, suddenly flailing fists: oh dear, it was the Ridley boy. She’d have to go and sort things out.

  Wearily, she turned and hurried from the room
. By the time she reached the scene, Ridley was being restrained by Neville and Howard. He was obviously drunk and ready for a fight. ‘Here comes the Queen Bee in person!’ he jeered, catching sight of her. ‘Queen Bee of Honeyford! Good, that!’

  Aware of the interested crowd, Dorothy said quietly, ‘I suggest you go home, Mr Ridley. You’re clearly unwell.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to turn my pockets out first? I might have nicked something from the stalls. Like father, like son, they say.’ His face distorted suddenly and he began to weep. Distressed, Dorothy turned away as his wife, red-faced with embarrassment, came to claim him.

  ‘I’m that sorry, Mrs Walker,’ she murmured with bent head. ‘He’s still upset, see—he didn’t mean no harm.’

  ‘Harm?’ Ridley raised his ravaged face and Dorothy took a step back from the hatred in his eyes. ‘I’ve not started yet, duck. These bloody Walkers killed my dad, and I’ll make ‘em pay for it. Every last one of ‘em!’

  ‘Come on, Dick,’ his wife urged desperately, tugging at his arm. ‘Let’s go home and have a nice cup of tea.’ And to everyone’s relief, he allowed himself to be led away.

  Webb and Hannah, on the fringe of the crowd, watched them go. ‘I wonder what that was all about,’ Webb said. ‘I must say, it’s been a more interesting afternoon than I’d expected, one way or another.’

  ‘Oh, Miss James, there you are!’ Lydia Walker had appeared beside them. Her flushed cheeks were the only indication that she’d witnessed the scene just over. ‘I was hoping to have a word with you; I’d meant to call round and welcome you to the village, but what with one thing and another, I haven’t got round to it.’

  Hannah murmured some reply, and introduced Webb. The churchwarden’s wife, it seemed. He wondered if she’d seen her daughter’s flower-garden. She was a lovely woman, tall, slim, immaculately groomed, her smooth black hair coiled low on her neck. But, interestingly, he was aware of underlying disquiet. The explanation could lie in the unpleasantness of a moment ago; on the other hand it might be more deep-seated.