by Ann Granger
Harriet continued to stare at the Old Nunnery for some minutes, trying to calm down. The day was cold and damp. The interior heating of the car provided temporary respite, but she still felt an inner chill that was nothing to do with the temperature and all to do with shock and panic. She was shivering and sweating, crazy though that seemed, and her heart was pounding in her chest. She was lucky she’d been able to drive home without there having been a worse incident than almost forcing an oncoming SUV into a wall, just below Crooked Man Woods.
That other driver, the one in the SUV, would remember her, worst luck! Where had he been heading? Perhaps even to the woods? No, no, not on this damp, chilly day. He must have been on his way somewhere else. But supposing, just supposing, he had been intending a stroll through the ancient woodland? Suppose, just suppose, he’d turned off into the car park and had chosen to walk down that path, of all the possible routes through the trees, and he’d stumbled upon . . .
‘Stop it, Hattie!’ she ordered herself aloud sharply. Why on earth should he have been going to the woods? No one went there much except at weekends and during milder times of the year. In springtime, when the wild flowers, above all the bluebells, spread a colourful carpet between the trees, whole families descended on the spot, and in mid-summer, when the woods offered a cool retreat. At this time of year, late January, the wildlife pretty well had the woods to itself.
Immediately, she thought that this wasn’t quite true. Not only walkers visited the woods. Forestry workers, doing routine maintenance, had been there recently and might have come back. Some were volunteers and some employed by the trust which owned the woods. The volunteers were likely to turn up at any time. But there was absolutely no reason why any of them should be there today. No reason at all. She hadn’t seen anyone.
No one except him, and he was still there.
She made a last effort to pull herself together. She had to appear normal. She peered through the windscreen at the house, in all its ramshackle familiarity, with its haphazard mix of architecture built of mellow stone.
It had once been a real nunnery, standing foursquare against the elements on this open hillside, surrounded by high walls. When Henry VIII had ordered the dissolution of the monasteries, most had been pulled down. The wealthy wool merchant who had got his hands on this desirable property had demolished only the chapel, the site marked by mossy remnants of foundation stones sunk in the turf.
The house had eventually passed into other hands and continued to undergo extensive modifications over four centuries. A new wing, built in what a Victorian owner had believed the Gothic style, represented his ambition to have a ballroom. No one had danced in it since the First World War, when the son of the family perished in the Flanders mud. The house and contents had passed to a niece. Since then, three direct generations of Harriet’s family had lived here, descended from that niece. If you included that wavy line in the descent, they’d been there since Georgian times.
‘And I,’ said Harriet aloud, ‘will be the last.’ Whatever happened, she could be sure of that.
She felt she could face Guy now. Her heart had stopped pounding. She still felt slightly nauseous but, overall, she was in control. No more putting it off.
Harriet drove sedately around the house to the old stable yard to the rear and slightly to the left of the main block. She parked up well away from the stacks of building materials. From within the complex that had once been divided into tack room, loose boxes and a hayloft came the sounds of hammering. Further back from the stables stood the stone cottage that had been the accommodation for the outdoor staff in a vanished era. It showed signs of recent drastic renovation; its exterior had been scrubbed yellow. The tiny window frames of the upper floor, replaced and painted glossy black, peeped out from beneath the gutter of the tiled roof. She paused, after getting out of the car, to cast a critical eye over the alterations. If you had a walking stick, you could stand outside the cottage, reach up and tap on the upper windows the whole place was so tiny. How short in stature our ancestors were, she thought; Lilliputians to whom the present vitamin-stuffed generation would appear a race of Gullivers.
The stable block, too, was being converted into guest rooms for the bed-and-breakfast business Guy was certain would be a roaring success. It was odd how alike Guy and Carl were, both so full of schemes, confident of elusive riches just around the corner. Perhaps that was why they’d never got on. More likely it was because their individual schemes always seemed to depend on her putting money into them. You can only cut a cloth so many ways. She’d told Carl that, more than once.
So far, the cost of the conversions had begun to alarm even Guy. The plan was for four en suite units in the cottage and six in the stable block, each comprising sleeping and sitting space, with a ‘breakfast nook’. The sofa in the sitting area would open out into an additional bed and allowed each unit to be described as a ‘family accommodation’.
If guests didn’t want self-catering, the breakfast part of a B-and-B deal would be offered in the main house, where the small sitting room would be turned into the visitors’ area. It had looked all right on the plans, but Harriet felt a frisson of doubt.
Every business plan Guy had ever come up with always looked all right on paper. He was always so enthusiastic, that was the trouble. He would never listen to any doubts expressed by her, or anyone else. Small, practical details troubled him not a jot. He just swept them aside. ‘It will be all right on the night’, the theatrical phrase, might have been coined for Guy. Everything always would be all right and, when it wasn’t, and the record so far showed a distinct lack of success, Guy simply discarded that brilliant plan and steamed on to the next one. Just like Carl.
‘How?’ Harriet sometimes wondered when depression settled. ‘How did I end up financing a pair of losers?’
Her father had warned her, whispering painfully from his sickbed, ‘I shall be leaving you pretty well off, Harriet. I am telling you this now so that you will be on your guard. If you are known to have any money, there will always be someone eager to help you spend it.’
Had he meant Carl but shied away from naming him aloud out of respect for Nancy’s memory? Her father had continued, ‘If you did not have Guy to protect you, I would have considered a trust fund. But as long as you have Guy, I know you will be well advised. Guy loves you. He won’t let you come to any harm.’
All his life so shrewd in business matters, her father’s judgement had failed him at the end. He’d liked Guy, admired him for his army career, and had been swayed. Guy did love her. Her father had been right about that. What he had not anticipated was that without Queen’s Regulations to guide him, Guy was adrift in the civilian world.
The riding stables had been the first brainwave to grab Guy’s imagination. ‘Obvious, darling! Look, the stables are already there!’
That had folded under the cost of finding suitable horses and feeding the hungry brutes, together with the sheer hard work of looking after them, and all that even before the accident. A horse had bolted with an inexperienced rider in the saddle. Pretty quickly out of the saddle, actually. Dislocated shoulder, broken pelvis and loss of income on the part of the injured rider. He had turned out to be a high-flying young lawyer in the business sector and they’d ended up being sued heavily by him. They’d had insurance, of course. But even so, they’d had to pay out considerable damages. Then, as after any such serious accident, the cost of insurance had gone up. End of that venture.
Then came the restaurant, set up in the old ballroom; that hadn’t lasted long, either. The kitchen had not been of the standard for a commercial enterprise. Tiling the walls and installing new worktops and equipment had cost much more than they’d expected. Experienced chefs proved temperamental and expensive. Guy’s cheerful suggestion that Harriet might like to ‘take over the cooking’ was met with such an outburst on his wife’s part that even Guy had realised that hadn’t been a wise suggestion. He still assumed, however, that she’d cook all
those breakfasts for the guests who would fill the newly adapted stable block and cottage.
The antiques centre had been the next thing to grab Guy’s imagination. ‘We’ve got a house full of old stuff. We can start by selling some of that.’
My old stuff! Harriet had thought but not said aloud.
The fatal flaw in that plan had been that neither of them was an expert in antiques. Nor did they find the boxes of china and bric-a-brac, all wrapped in faded newspaper, as Harriet remembered from childhood exploration of the attics. It had probably been dispersed to jumble sales and charity shops, perhaps by her stepmother. Lingering in the attic, draped in cobwebs, was furniture, mostly the sort of thing that languished in salerooms all over the country because it was out of fashion. There were boxes of books by writers no longer read and, in one suitcase, her mother’s wedding dress, the lace discoloured, the waist unbelievably tiny. So much for Guy’s dream of the attic contents fetching a small fortune. They’d had to go antique hunting and, despite all those programmes on the television, it was not as easy as it looked. They’d nearly ended up in court again, due to Guy being unable to tell the real thing from something made in China last year. The unsold ‘old stuff’ cluttered the former ballroom, briefly restaurant, and gathered dust. Some pieces still had yellowing price tags on them.
The hammering stopped and male voices were raised in argument. Harriet recognised her husband’s and that of Derek Davies, the carpenter.
‘He’s not a practical man, is he, your husband?’ Derek had once remarked to her over a mug of tea. ‘Got lots of ideas, mind! I’ll give him that.’
She couldn’t face whatever dispute had arisen between Derek and Guy. Not just now. Harriet turned away from the sound of argument and made for the house. She marched briskly through the kitchen, dragging off her jacket as she went and hurling the garment on to a hall chair, from which it promptly slithered to the floor. She ignored it. She had to speak to someone else. She couldn’t keep the morning’s awful events to herself. After a moment’s hesitation, she thought of Tessa. Tessa would understand.
Harriet grabbed the phone, but the sound of the dialling tone in her ear made her panic again. What was she doing? What would she say? She slammed the receiver down.
As she walked back towards the kitchen the phone rang shrilly in the hall behind her, making her jump out of her skin. Reluctantly, she returned to pick it up.
‘Did you just try and ring me?’ asked her friend’s breathless voice in her ear. ‘I was outside in the yard. You rang off before I could get to the phone.’
‘Something awful has happened and I don’t know what to do,’ Harriet said bluntly.
‘What sort of thing?’ Tessa’s voice had sharpened.
‘Carl’s dead.’
There was a shocked silence. Then Tessa said, ‘I don’t know what to say. When? How? Was it an accident?’
‘No. He’s – he’s shot himself, in Crooked Man Woods.’
A gasp. ‘But that’s—’ Tessa, true to form, went on the offensive. ‘Why would he do such a daft thing? Not that Carl wasn’t always one for the dramatic gesture. Sorry, won’t speak ill of the dead and all that . . . if he really is dead. When did this happen? I hadn’t heard anything. Are you sure?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Harriet, surprising herself by how calm she now sounded. ‘I’ve just found his body.’
‘Where? In the woods, you said? But you’re at home now, aren’t you? You rang me from your landline number. Look, sweetie, are you sure about all this? This isn’t some ghastly mistake? Do you mean some poor devil has shot himself in the head? Or in the chest?’
‘No mistake. Quite sure it’s Carl. Shot in the head, lower part of the face all gone, just a horrid bloody mess. But the eyes, forehead, the hair . . . yes, it’s Carl.’
A pause, then Tessa, ever practical, asking, ‘Have you made a statement to the police?’
Oh, damn, thought Harriet. The police . . . She hadn’t even thought about them. ‘No, no, I haven’t. I’ve literally just found him, Tessa. I panicked and drove home.’
‘Is Guy there? You’ve told him?’
‘No, of course I haven’t told him! He’d ask why I was in the woods, and if he found out it was to meet Carl and discuss money, well, he would hit the roof. He’s outside now, having words with Derek Davies over some carpentry problem. But when he comes out into the yard he’ll see the car and know I’m home. I told him at breakfast I would be popping into Weston to the supermarket there.’
‘Stay there and have a hot drink, tea or something. I’ll be right over,’ Tessa’s voice said briskly. ‘Don’t, for pity’s sake, hit the bottle!’
The admonition brought her out of the fog of panic. ‘I’m not going to, am I?’
‘Good!’ said Tessa and slammed down the phone at her end.
Of course, now that Tessa had ordered her not to have a drink, she wanted one desperately. But tea, that was the thing for shock, wasn’t it? But if she went back to the kitchen there was a possibility Guy might walk in. She had to head Tessa off before she reached the house. They had to talk first, without the danger of Guy blundering through the door mid-explanation.
Harriet let herself out of the front door and ran down the drive to the gate. She waited on the road, huddled under the wall that formed a boundary to the property. Atop the gateposts twin lions stared smugly towards the outside world. Perhaps they’d originally looked fierce. Time and weather had worn their features to those of amiable pugs. There had been a time when the house had been a place of safety, happiness and protection. When had all this changed? When her father died? Or had it been before that, the reassurance it offered slowly slipping away unnoticed until it was gone?
Harriet shivered. She’d left her jacket on the hall floor and her sweater offered no protection against the sharp bite of the wind. I’m still in shock, she thought, wrapping her arms around her body. I should have had that drink. Her next thought was that when Guy came into the yard he’d see the car. He’d assume she was in the house, probably go indoors and call out to her. He’d wonder where she’d got to.
‘Oh, Carl’ she muttered, remembering the ghastly sight. ‘You idiot. Why has it all ended in this dreadful mess? There must have been some other way. Things couldn’t have been that bad, could they?’
Yes, they obviously had been. He’d asked her so often over the past months to help him, his emails, messages and calls to her mobile phone ever more desperate. She couldn’t even blame Guy for urging her to ignore Carl’s pleas, because the contact with Carl had been secret. Guy couldn’t get into her computer. He didn’t know her password. Carl, in financial trouble, had always turned to her. This time, she’d been determined to refuse. The responsibility for what lay in the woods lay with her entirely.
‘Come on, Tessa!’ she cried.
Her friend lived only four miles down the road, after all. It wouldn’t take her that long to get here. As if in answer to her words, a mud-splashed jeep bounced around the corner and drew up in front of her, spraying her with grit so that she had to jump aside. Muffled barking from within was followed first by the driver climbing out and then the eruption of a thick-coated sable and white rough collie. The collie greeted Harriet with enthusiasm, wriggling, whining and pushing its long muzzle into her hand before it bounded away through the gateposts and ran up the drive towards the house.
‘Fred!’ shouted its owner in vain. ‘Sorry, Hattie, he thinks we’re going indoors. Are we?’ As she spoke she was subjecting Harriet to a sharp scrutiny and followed her words with a hearty embrace. ‘Hold up. Don’t go to pieces, whatever you do.’
‘We can’t go into the house, not yet, anyway. I’ve got to tell you what happened first. Can we sit in the car?’
‘OK,’ said Tessa when they were safely in the vehicle. ‘Let’s have it. Are you certain about all this? If his head was the mess you described, you could be mistaken and it’s some other poor sod.’
‘It was Carl. There was enough . .
. enough to tell. Anyway, he was wearing Carl’s scruffy old Barbour. He was slumped on the ground, propped against a felled tree trunk. It was so – grotesque, unreal. I wanted to tell him to stop messing around and stand up! That was stupid, because he was so obviously dead.’ Harriet briefly pressed her hands to her face, as if that would keep out the image of the dead man.
‘But you’ve been avoiding Carl, haven’t you? What possessed you to meet him, and in Crooked Man Woods, of all places?’
Harriet hunched her shoulders unhappily. ‘Lately, Carl’s been in financial trouble and pestering me about bailing him out. I couldn’t help him, Tess, even if I wanted to! Guy and I are sinking so much capital into converting the stables. I decided the only thing was to meet Carl face to face and, even if it meant a real ding-dong argument, I would get it into his head that I would not, under any circumstances lend him any money, much less sell the Old Nunnery.’
‘Sell the house?’ squawked Tessa. ‘Is – was – Carl bonkers? Hasn’t your family lived there for ages? Your father left it to you so you could carry on there, not sell it to bail out Carl.’
Harriet leaned forward and said desperately, ‘It sounds so simple when you say it. But it wasn’t like that; you know it wasn’t! Carl thought it should have been left to us jointly. He claims – claimed – that it was always Dad’s intention.’
‘Why should it have been?’ was the growled reply. ‘Carl wasn’t any kind of blood relative, just Nancy’s kid from her previous partnership!’
Harriet gestured through the car window towards the house. ‘Things have been made worse by the failure of all our business ventures, Guy’s and mine. Carl said I was throwing away all Dad had built up. I know Guy’s plans don’t work out, or haven’t worked out in the past. But this holiday accommodation idea might. Other people do it.’
She hunched her shoulders. ‘I suggested to Carl we meet in the woods so that Guy wouldn’t know. Guy would insist on being there and they’d both fly into a rage. Carl would insult Guy and then . . . oh, you know how they are. They were, I mean,’ Harriet amended her words miserably.