by H. V. Coombs
I pulled into Chandler’s Ford and parked by the church. I walked up towards the houses near the Greyhound, or rather I paddled through the flooded river. I was glad I was wearing high-sided boots. The water had spread way beyond its banks and was now halfway over the field opposite. It was lapping around the church and surrounded the pub. I looked over to the far bank. The green fields of the proposed development were still visible but I could see the watery sun from the grey skies above glinting on the surface of gigantic puddles. It was obvious that the whole area was incredibly waterlogged, making a nonsense of the report that it was, in fact, flood safe.
The river was nearly up to the front door of the pub. There was a terrace of three houses to the left of the pub, overlooking the church and the graveyard, then the pub, then the road, and then another sprinkling of houses. That was the village in a nutshell. Maybe a dozen or so buildings. I started looking for the address of Arcadia.
The terrace was numbered one to three, so I crossed over the road to the first of the other houses, number five. I went back to the pub. It had to be number four: the address from the Land Registry.
Over the door was the legend, ‘Edward Musgrave. Licensed to sell beer and spirits.’
So, the Managing Director of Arcadia, no less. And his corporate lair. It was hardly Shell House or the Lloyds Building.
Well, that was one mystery solved. I walked back to my car and I noticed Old Tom, the man we’d spoken to in the Greyhound, accompanied by his dog in the churchyard. He saw me and made no effort to move, just stood there stiffly as the spaniel, nose to the ground, excitedly snuffled around the headstones. I went over to him.
He was contemplating Paul Harding’s grave.
‘Morning,’ he said to me. I noticed again how he had the old Bucks accent, now long defunct, an ‘oo-arr’ kind of burr. He looked closely at my face.
‘’Oo done that?’
‘Farson,’ I said.
‘Farson? All by isself?’
I shook my head. ‘He had help.’
Old Tom laughed. ‘Quite a lot of help, I should think. I saw you beat him the other day.’ He looked at the grave. ‘Shame you stopped when you did. Farson’s a nasty piece of work, there’s the proof if needs be.’
He nodded at the grave, the stone with its legend, ‘Et in Arcadia Ego.’
It made sense since that’s what Harding had campaigned all his life for. I couldn’t work out why it would reference his killers. Who had commissioned it? Harding could scarcely have predicted his own death.
It was a fine memorial to him, plain, highly polished granite, the inscription deeply cut. It had that deceptive air of simplicity that generally means very expensive.
‘Who paid for that?’ I asked.
He looked at me. His face was deeply lined but his eyes were still bright, his skin weathered like old leather from a lifetime of agricultural work. His dog still zigzagged around the churchyard, absorbed in whatever he was tracking.
I kind of knew the feeling: I felt I was picking up a scent so strong it was almost pulling me along, but unlike the dog I didn’t really know who my quarry was.
‘The Earl.’
‘Earl Hampden?’
Old Tom rolled his eyes heavenwards as if to say, How many earls are there in this part of South Bucks?
‘He organised the funeral. Harding had no family, no real friends either come to that. Just his dog.’ He contemplated his own animal. ‘I knows the feeling.’ He shook his head. ‘Well, best be off, good luck to you.’ He nodded in the direction of the pub. ‘Be careful of Musgrave. I knew his dad, ’e was a chiseller but the boy, well, him, Ed, he’s twenty times worse. And the next time you hit Farson, make it a good ’un.’
He whistled for the dog and they disappeared up the slope toward the cottages.
I got into the Volvo and started the engine.
Time to go and meet the Earl, then.
‘Bloody good bloke.’ I’m sure he was. I was going up in the world socially.
Perhaps I should have brought a tie with me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Wednesday, 27 January, noon
I drove up the long and winding drive to Marlow House. I had never visited an earl before and all sorts of peculiar feelings rose up within me but predominantly: social unease. I’d joked about it to myself, but I really did feel as if I should be wearing a tie. I’d never really given much thought as to where I stood in social rankings. Personally I find these working-class, middle-class, upper-class British distinctions kind of annoying. I wish we were more like America or Australia where people don’t draw conclusions the moment you start to speak. But accent here exercises a kind of baleful power. I wished it’d die out. But, whatever the reason, I was feeling a bit plebby and over-awed to be meeting an earl and I was also feeling cross with myself because of it. Deference runs deep.
I was falling so far short of my quest for Zen-like calm it was ridiculous. I was a sweaty, panting mass of anxiety. I was terrified of having to go back to prison.
The house was not particularly grandiose. It was big and looked, to my eyes, like a small hotel: Victorian, lots of windows, posh, certainly; jaw-dropping, definitely not. I felt a twinge of disappointment. I’d been expecting something huge, like Chatsworth or Blenheim Palace. I parked on the gravel next to the Maserati that I recognised. There was also a Range Rover and two BMWs. My car looked quite sad next to these, I felt I should be parked in the tradesman’s entrance.
I crunched up to the door over the gravel and rang the bell. A volley of barks was followed by Bryony opening the door. Five dogs ran out of various shapes and sizes, none looked pure-bred. Most of them had seen better days. Bryony was wearing ripped jeans and a man’s shirt with quite obviously nothing on underneath. As usual she looked quite stoned, with a faint aroma of weed hanging round her.
‘Hi, Ben!’ The dogs sniffed me in a friendly way. I guess to a dog’s ultra-sensitive nose, I smelled fantastic, a whole pot pourri of exotic food smells. A miniature Schnauzer hung back, and eyed me suspiciously, like an elderly major looking at some chav who’d dared try and enter his club. He cleared his throat and gave a disapproving bark. I thought I recognised the dog.
‘C’mon through …’ said Bryony, gesturing vaguely with one hand, ‘he’s been expecting you.’
I followed her. Had he indeed? I looked around as I followed Bryony. The hall of the house was marble tiled and hung with oil paintings, portraits and landscapes, nothing that looked particularly noteworthy. The impression was one of comfortable, family wealth. If the Earl were very rich he hadn’t been spending his money on flash interior designers.
Again, I felt a bit let down. I wanted the Earl to be living in some riot of Gainsborough portraits in huge gilt frames and vast high ceilings and shag-tastic Gobelin tapestries, suits of armour, halberds, something really over the top aristocratic, not something that a mildly successful stockbroker might have. I was underwhelmed, like I’d been short-changed.
Bryony ushered me into the lounge. It was a large room, again comfortably, but not ostentatiously furnished. The Earl was sitting in an armchair, dressed in an elegant charcoal-grey three-piece suit. Bryony indicated a sofa facing him and I sat down. She went and stood by the Earl and put her arm around his shoulder. I thought, she’s got over Craig’s death quite well, I wonder if she still thinks the Earl is still behind it? If so, she’s certainly come to terms with it.
He spoke to her, ‘Please leave us now, dear.’
She nodded, then leaned forward and kissed the Earl slowly, lasciviously, on the mouth. I thought, I guess she doesn’t think the Earl killed Craig.
She sashayed out, ignoring me. I thought, bit of an age gap there. The Earl gave a wintry smile as if divining my thoughts.
‘Does the age difference shock you?’
‘To be honest, yes,’ I said. I found it distasteful, I have to say.
‘That’s very conventional of you,’ the Earl commented, ‘I’m disappointed.�
� He sighed as if I had let him down.
‘I would have expected you to have been a bit more broad-minded. Drink?’ He indicated a small table on which were various bottles. I shook my head.
‘I’ve got things to do,’ I said. My face was grim. I had better things to do with my time than discuss sexual morality.
‘I’m sure you have,’ he said, drily.
I studied him frankly. He must have been in his mid to late sixties, slim, trim and dapper. He looked wealthy and assured, above all, he had poise. He had that kind of military look: ramrod straight back, clipped moustache, silver hair brushed straight back. If someone had referred to him as ‘the Colonel’ I wouldn’t have been surprised. But there was more to him than just a military, prosperous aura. There was a kind of raffishness. There is a book by a philosopher called Nietzsche whose title is Beyond Good and Evil. That’s the kind of air that the Earl gave. Serenely floating above it all. I wished I was.
I was up to my neck in deep, deep shit, that was for sure.
‘I’m here because of Arcadia,’ I said, ‘do you know anything about it?’
The Earl steepled his fingers and looked at me, then he poured himself a cup of tea. He seemed faintly bored.
‘Earl Grey,’ he said, ‘if you don’t want an alcoholic drink are you sure you won’t join me?’
I shook my head.
‘Pity,’ said the Earl, his piercing eyes looked at me over the rim of his cup, ‘well, I’ll answer your question.’
I thought, thank God for that. I was, quite frankly, amazed. I hadn’t expected honesty.
He put his cup down. ‘Arcadia is a project of a consortium of locals. To be precise—’ he held up his left hand and ticked them off with his right ‘—Musgrave, Farson, Jackson and Whitfield. Part of it, but not officially, were Montfort and Craig Scott. Montfort to ease things through with the planning and Craig Scott, our esteemed local drug-dealer, provided much of the finance.’
‘And two of these people are now dead,’ I remarked.
‘Indeed,’ said the Earl.
I wondered not for the first time who was the brains behind it all, who was guiding these people? I think I was still waiting to hear the name Slattery.
‘And you sold them the land?’ I asked.
‘I did. I didn’t think they’d get planning permission.’
‘Why’s that? I mean, why didn’t you think they’d get planning permission – they obviously did.’
The Earl considered my question. ‘First, it floods. As I’m sure you’ve noticed. About three years ago the Environment Agency and the council created a kind of sluice upstream to speed the flow of the River Bourne, because they wanted to reduce flooding there. It did, but it moved the problem downstream. To Chandler’s Ford. But the Land Registry report was based on figures of flow rates before the new development, so they don’t reflect today’s reality. The information the report is based on is out of date. But that didn’t matter as far as planning went.’
He picked his cup up again and drank more tea.
‘The other reason was it was green-belt land, or so I thought. It’s ironic really, I thought I had ripped them off, when in reality it was the other way round. But I had reckoned without Montfort’s cunning. He had it declared a brownfield site suitable for development because there used to be buildings on it long ago, an old paper mill. It burnt down fifty years ago and the land was ploughed up, but still …’ He shrugged. ‘There we go.’
‘So Montfort fiddled the records?’
‘No, he didn’t “fiddle” anything.’ He sounded exasperated at my inability to follow a simple explanation. ‘Technically he was correct, but on paper, not in reality. But that’s how the council works.’
‘And Harding was going to point this out, I suppose. He was going to lead the fight against the development,’ I said.
He nodded. ‘He was going to point out the discrepancy between the out-of-date report and the reality that it was an unsafe area to build on. Harding was an experienced campaigner, people listened to him. They obviously decided he was worth silencing.’
‘Farson?’ I asked.
He nodded. ‘A disgusting little man. I heard you gave him a damn good hiding, well done you. I felt very sorry for Harding. I met him once or twice. We were both active in the South Bucks society. I didn’t like him, and he certainly didn’t like me, or aristocrats in general, he thought we were parasites and should be swept away. Strung up, I think he said. He’s quite right of course.’
He laughed, as though amused by the thought of the landed aristocracy dangling at the end of a rope. ‘But I respected him. He was sincere. And he loved the Chilterns.’
I had thought that the Earl was going to be part of this. I wasn’t prepared for this forensic dissection of the Arcadia group.
There was a knock on the door and Bryony came in with a phone. ‘It’s DI Slattery.’ When she handed the phone to the Earl, my heart sank.
I knew immediately what it meant. Montfort had been found. The DI would have been round to the Old Forge Café like a shot. I guessed I was now very much wanted by the police. I wondered what Francis had said. I would have liked to have heard that exchange – when Francis was confused it was extremely difficult to work out what he was on about.
There was nothing to do but listen to the Earl’s side of the conversation.
‘Hello, Slattery … No … No, I haven’t … Well, if I do, I’ll be sure to let you know … Mm-hm … Luke Montfort, did you say … Poor chap … Certainly, bye.’ He clicked off the phone and handed it to Bryony.
He looked at me. ‘I assume you can work out what that’s about.’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Luke Montfort’s dead. DI Slattery thinks you did it. He wants you to hand yourself in to the police.’
He looked at me.
I looked at him.
Bryony looked beatifically into the middle distance.
Silence fell.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
I waited to see what the Earl would do. So far, he seemed to be on my side, but he was obviously unpredictable. If he believed what Slattery had told him, he was sharing a room with a suspected killer. I knew that he wouldn’t panic, I couldn’t imagine anything frightening him.
‘Did you kill Luke Montfort?’ He spoke casually, as if out of politeness. His tone implied that he wouldn’t care one way or another, but he felt he had to ask.
‘No.’ It did sound slightly unconvincing, I tried again, ‘No I didn’t kill him.’
‘Did you know he was dead?’ The Earl raised an inquisitive eyebrow, while Bryony stifled a yawn. Presumably she was inured to tragedy by now, after Craig had been so cruelly taken.
‘I did, I found his body. Are you going to turn me in to Slattery?’ I asked.
The Earl considered the question. ‘And you’re sure you didn’t kill him?’ Now he sounded amused by the whole thing.
‘He was going to tell me who had killed Dave Whitfield.’ I was getting irritated. ‘No, I didn’t.’
‘I thought not,’ said the Earl, ‘I told him I hadn’t seen you. Can you give Bryony your car keys, please?’
Bryony was staring into space with unfocused eyes. She really did look very stoned indeed. One of the elderly dogs, an Alsatian, had accompanied her and sat by her side and she absent-mindedly stroked its head. It panted and drooled, its eyes half closed in bliss. Perhaps it reminded her of Craig.
‘Why?’ I asked. I was confused.
The Earl poured some more tea for himself.
‘Slattery doesn’t like you and he’s not overly fond of me. He’ll be round, or that wretchedly noisy police helicopter will. Bloody thing. Bryony, will move your car to the barn where it’ll be out of sight. Won’t you, dear?’
‘What?’ She looked startled. ‘Oh sure, yeah, right, car, stables.’
I gave her my keys and she disappeared. Should she be handling heavy machinery? Then I thought, the fate of my old Volvo was the least of my worries.
‘Do you know who killed Harding and the other three?’ I asked the Earl.
‘Farson almost certainly killed Harding. It’s just the kind of thing that repellent man would do. The others I blame on a falling out of thieves. I really don’t know and, quite frankly, I really don’t care. As I said, Slattery thinks you killed Montfort.’
‘Why would I do that?’ I said scornfully.
‘A crime of passion,’ he said, casually, smiling maliciously at me. ‘Montfort’s been Naomi West’s lover for the past year.’
Just as I had felt like a teenager in love, now I felt all the despair and jealousy of a teenager whose girlfriend has been cheating on him. Like falling down a lift shaft. I heard the words but I didn’t hear them. Montfort and Naomi. I thought of her sweet, innocent face. I heard in my memory her voice … ‘budge up…’ I thought of her naked with Montfort, repellent, creepy Montfort.
That little sandy beard of his …
All of this must have been visible on my face.
I felt physically sick. I wanted to tell the Earl that I didn’t believe him, but I knew that I did.
‘Oh, didn’t you know?’ he said with mock shock. The malicious amusement in his eyes was obvious, unmistakeable.
I stared at him in dislike as he drank his tea. He really was an evil old bastard. Jess had been right about him.
Now more things made sense.
I remembered Whitfield storming round to Naomi’s – ‘It’s him, isn’t it?’ At the time I thought that ‘him’ referred to an unspecified vandal. It was obvious now that he had meant Montfort. And the man I had seen when walking on the common, that had been Montfort; that was why he had looked familiar in the Indian restaurant.
The thought of Montfort and Naomi together. The things she had whispered to me when we had made love. The things we had done, they had done. Then I thought, presumably he had felt the same way about me. I had originally thought that Montfort would have had to be forced into attacking me, now I could see it was probably his idea.
Montfort was probably about as happy with Naomi seeing me as I was with her seeing him.