‘No, though I thought I was.’
‘Suppose you come clean over a cup of tea?’
She let out her breath in a long sigh. ‘It’s a deal,’ she said.
Fourteen
‘Well, you needn’t worry any more about Max knowing of our arrangement,’ Rona told Dave when she returned his call the next morning. ‘Your voice came over loud and clear when we played back our messages.’
‘Oh God, was that your home number? Rona, I’m sorry! I must have pressed the wrong one – they’re underneath each other on the menu. Did he blow his top?’
‘Briefly, but as it happens, I’m glad he knows. I don’t like secrets.’
‘Did you tell him about the prison visit?’
‘I – glossed over it a bit, but yes.’
‘And I bet you also “glossed over” your doubts about Spencer’s guilt?’
She laughed reluctantly. ‘Right, but there was no need to go into all that; it’s pure speculation, after all. Anyway, you asked about Sports Day; it’s this afternoon, starting at two. Beth Spencer’s collecting me at one thirty.’
‘What’s her car like?’
‘I’ve no idea, but honestly, Dave, I don’t think it matters any more. Clive will be in clink by now, and he wouldn’t have harmed me anyway.’
‘I’m being paid to protect you and that’s what I’ll do,’ Dave said stubbornly. ‘Spencer’s guilt or innocence might be speculative to you, but if he’s not the murderer, it won’t be to the real one, and you are dabbling in murky waters. I’ll wait outside Parsonage Place till she collects you, and follow you from there. If I can get on to the sports field I will, if not, I’ll wait till you come out again. How about this morning?’
‘No doubt it’ll be the library again,’ she said resignedly.
As Rona lifted her case out of the car, she heard her name called, and, slamming down the boot, spied Lois Breen the other side of the wall.
‘We must stop meeting like this!’ Rona said with a smile, walking over to join her.
‘I have to confess I was looking out for you.’
‘Oh?’ Rona put down her case and regarded her questioningly.
Lois hesitated. ‘Are you about to dash off somewhere?’
‘Only the library, faute de mieux, but there’s no hurry.’
‘This is your last visit, isn’t it?’
‘For the moment, yes.’
‘You did say you’d be interested to see my sculpture?’
Rona brightened. ‘Oh yes, I should.’
‘How about coming over now?’ Lois suggested, not quite meeting her eyes.
Rona had the impression that she wanted to speak to her, and the sculpture was simply a means to that end.
‘Sure; I’ll just leave my things and clock in with Nuala. Ten minutes?’
‘Fine. I’ll put the kettle on.’
‘You won’t forget it’s late supper tonight?’ Nuala reminded her, as they met in the hall.
‘I won’t. Is there any news of Clive?’
‘He’s been charged with burglary and other offences. I hope they’ll be lenient, considering he gave himself up and people got their things back.’
‘Only some of them,’ Rona pointed out.
Nuala nodded absently, her mind elsewhere.
‘How are you feeling?’ Rona asked gently.
Nuala shrugged and gave her a wan smile. ‘I miss Aunt Edna,’ she said simply. ‘Sunday afternoons are the worst; for years she’s been coming here for tea. And it’s creepy, really: every time I go into the square, I automatically glance at her window, to see if she’s there.’ She bit her lip and added in a low voice, ‘Frank Jeffries says that apart from a bequest to the Sunday school, she’s left everything to me.’
She looked up, meeting Rona’s sympathetic eyes. ‘Thanks again for Thursday, Rona. It was good of you to help.’
‘I was glad to be there. Is there anything else I can do?’
Nuala shook her head. ‘I’m steeling myself to go over this afternoon, and start sorting through her things. Perhaps once that’s done, I’ll begin to come to terms with it.’
The vicarage was as homely and comfortably untidy as Rona remembered, and Lois herself seemed a part of it. She was wearing what appeared to be an oversized man’s shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal brown, muscular arms, and a pair of faded corduroy trousers. Her short hair went its own way unmolested and her face, bronzed from her work in the garden, was innocent of make-up. Both she and the house seemed to be saying ‘Take us as you find us’, and Rona was glad to do so.
‘You’ve something you want to say, haven’t you?’ Rona prompted, as the coffee was poured.
Lois smiled. ‘And I thought I was being so subtle!’ She handed Rona a mug. ‘Yes, there is something, but it’s up to you whether or not you take any notice.’
‘So what is it?’
Lois seated herself and met Rona’s eye. ‘I’m becoming increasingly uneasy, my dear. Frankly, you seem to be stirring up things that are better left alone.’
Rona frowned. ‘What kind of things?’
‘Well, Beth is telling all and sundry that you’re convinced Alan’s innocent, and as a result people are starting to talk about the murder again.’
Rona said slowly, ‘If he is innocent, surely that’s a good thing?’
‘It’s raising false hopes,’ Lois said simply, ‘both for Beth and possibly, to a lesser degree, for Alan, too. It’s even come to the ears of the police, and I gather Ed Barrett, who headed the original inquiry, is less than happy.’
‘He would be,’ Rona said grimly. ‘He gave me short shrift over Miss Rosebury’s death.’
Lois glanced at her in surprise. ‘When you went with Nuala to the hospital? Why should that have annoyed him?’
Rona flushed. ‘I thought she might have been murdered,’ she said.
‘Edna? For pity’s sake, why?’
‘I’d – had an interview with her. She made various statements that I thought might be significant, and then the tape went missing.’
‘And you thought she’d been silenced?’ Lois’s lips twitched. ‘Forgive me, my dear, but it sounds more like Chicago than sleepy old Buckford.’
‘I know – it seems ridiculous now, but I was really worried at the time.’
Lois leant forward, hands clasped between her knees. ‘Do you see, that’s just what I mean? It’s another example of your – overreacting, seeing possibilities that don’t exist. Don’t you think it would be better for everyone if you stepped back from this – campaign, however good a story it might make? Alan wasn’t convicted by a kangaroo court, you know; he had a fair trial.’
Rona held on to her temper. ‘Do you think he did it?’ she challenged.
Lois held her eyes for a long moment, then slowly nodded. ‘I wish I didn’t, my dear, but to be truthful, yes, I do. So please think carefully before you get in any deeper. Remember that you’ll soon be back in Marsborough, and it’s we who’ll be left with the unpleasant aftertaste. Now –’ she sat back – ‘I’ve said my piece and we won’t mention it again; so if you’ve finished your coffee, come and have a look at my studio.’
As they walked over the scorched grass, Rona was still resentful. She’d not cared for the suggestion, however tactfully phrased, that her main interest in Alan Spencer lay in making copy out of him, the more so since she wondered, in her inner heart, if there might be a germ of truth in it. But as soon as Lois unlocked the wooden door and they stepped into the studio, anger dissolved in interest.
The floor was deep in wood shavings, the scent of them sweet and clean. There were a couple of workbenches and a bewildering array of implements – planes, chisels, knives of all shapes and sizes, and other tools Rona couldn’t name. Work in progress stood about in various stages of completion, and the shelves that lined the room contained dozens of finished carvings in a wide range of subjects.
‘As I told you, wood’s my thing,’ Lois reminded her. ‘No angels or cherubim
, either – they’re Gordon’s territory. In my opinion, marble is for tombstones and statues to dead heroes; wood’s a living medium, and it’s the living that interests me – people, animals, flowers – you name it, I’ll carve it. Mostly I work to please myself – flowers in spring, berries in autumn – but my bread and butter is models of people’s pets, and the gift shop in the mall’s a regular customer.’
‘I think you’re being modest,’ Rona commented, moving along the shelves. ‘Your husband said you exhibit in London, and I’m not surprised – these are really exquisite. May I touch them?’
‘Of course; pick them up, stroke them, get the feel of them. That’s what sculpture’s all about.’
Rona lifted a slender column some eight inches high, round which had been carved a swathe of leaves and berries, each stem and vein intricately detailed.
‘It feels almost warm,’ she said, ‘and I love its paleness. What wood is it?’
‘That one’s lime. Grinling Gibbons is my hero, and it’s what he used. I can’t always get hold of it, though.’
Rona replaced the column and, moving on, gave a sudden exclamation as she came to a model of a long-haired retriever. ‘Just look at this! My dog could have modelled for it!’
‘Have it!’ Lois said promptly.
Rona turned to her. ‘Is it for sale?’
‘No, it’s a gift. If you’d like it, it’s yours.’
‘But I couldn’t possibly—’
‘Nonsense!’ Lois retorted briskly. ‘Don’t argue, just take it.’
A peace offering, perhaps, after earlier criticism? ‘Then thank you – very much.’
Holding the little figure, she continued her examination of the carvings until, on the floor against the wall, she came upon a larger one, partly covered with a cloth, and turned enquiringly.
‘It’s Charlotte Spencer,’ Lois said, adding as Rona stared at her, ‘You can uncover it if you like. I’m not quite satisfied with it yet, probably because it’s been done from memory.’
Almost apprehensively, Rona lifted the cloth to reveal the laughing bust of a young child, so full of joy and life that she felt tears come to her eyes. Lois had come to stand beside her. ‘It’s for Beth, of course, though she doesn’t know anything about it.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ Rona said in a low voice. ‘I saw the newspaper photos, and you seem to have captured her exactly.’
Lois sighed and, gently taking the cloth out of Rona’s hand, dropped it back over the bust. All at once, there seemed nothing left to say, and after thanking her again for the little model, Rona left the vicarage and made her belated way to the library.
Beth, who’d arranged to have the afternoon off work, arrived at Parsonage Place as agreed at one thirty. The morning cloud had dissipated and it was becoming increasingly hot.
‘I wouldn’t like to run far in this heat!’ Rona commented, climbing into the car.
Beth nodded agreement, reversing in one of the parking places and heading back out of the end of the road. From the tail of her eye, Rona caught sight of Dave’s car parked at the kerb.
‘I brought a couple of sun hats,’ Beth said. ‘There’s not much shade on the field.’
‘You said this was Middle School Sports Day?’
‘Yes; and thank goodness it’s the only one I’ll have to attend. Last year, Harry was still with the juniors.’
As they turned on to the road leading to the college, they joined a stream of other cars moving slowly in the same direction.
‘How are your articles coming along?’ Beth asked as they inched forward.
‘Not too badly; I still have to look into the town’s inhabitants through the ages – you know, merchants, builders, squires, landlords, inventors. It’s the people that make the place come alive. I’ve already clocked up past mayors and vicars, and of course the people everyone knows about – James Cunningham, General Salter and Piers Plowright, who are always associated with Buckford.’
‘We had a highwayman in the seventeenth century,’ Beth volunteered, edging inside the gateway at last.
‘Really? That’s great! You must tell me about him.’
‘Mrs Bishop included him in her scrapbook. Have you read it?’
The image of Catherine Bishop walking with her father came sharply into Rona’s mind, and was instantly dismissed. ‘Not thoroughly,’ she admitted after a minute. ‘I haven’t really had time. It’ll be better when I’m not coming up here every week.’
‘Well, my sons will fill you in on him, gladly! They spent a whole summer holiday once, dressing up as Kit Tempest and his cohorts.’
Halfway up the drive, they were directed by senior boys to a field set aside for visitors’ cars, and as they continued on foot, they could see bunting and flags in the trees and chairs lining the track, while a loudspeaker blared out its repetitious ‘Testing – one, two, three, four—’ Nearer to the school, two large marquees had been set up, and Beth nodded towards them.
‘Tea tents,’ she said. ‘One for parents, the other for the pupils.’
The chairs near what would be the finishing line had already filled up, and they took their seats roughly halfway along. The sun was now burning down and Rona was grateful for the linen hat Beth handed her.
‘I haven’t been to a sports day since I was at school myself!’ she confessed, glancing down at the programme they’d been handed. ‘How long does it last?’
‘Two till four, then tea. By that time, I assure you, we’ll all be ready for it!’
‘Which races are your sons in?’
Beth leant over and indicated them on the programme. ‘There are two members from each house in every race,’ she explained, ‘and they compete for the house rather than individually. My two are in different houses, so my loyalty’s divided.’
The chairs along the track had now filled up and people were spreading rugs on the grass. The loudspeaker blared into life with a loud Sousa march, which, after a couple of minutes, ended abruptly to give way to an announcer.
‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. Welcome to Buckford College Sports Day. The first race will begin in five minutes, so please will those taking part assemble on the starting line?’
The races followed one another, with little to distinguish them. After a while Rona grew tired of watching wiry little bodies, none of whom she knew, dash past her, while supportive parents yelled encouragement. To Beth’s delight, both the Spencer boys won their races, so family honour was vindicated here, at least. As time went on, however, Rona found herself longing for a drink and some shade, and it was with profound relief that she watched the prizes being presented and people at last collecting their belongings and making their way to the refreshment tent.
A full afternoon tea was provided. There were plates of sandwiches, scones and small iced cakes on each table, and kitchen staff wielding catering-sized teapots moved between them. At the far side of the marquee, the headmaster and his wife were circulating among their guests. Helena, cool in coffee-coloured trousers and a cream shirt, carried a large-brimmed hat which no doubt had shielded her from the heat of the afternoon.
Rona and Beth had almost finished by the time their turn came and Richard Maddox’s smooth voice said, ‘Good afternoon, ladies. May we join you for a few minutes?’
Without waiting for an answer, he pulled out a chair for his wife and sat down himself.
‘The boys did well for their respective houses, Mrs Spencer,’ he continued. ‘You must be proud of them.’
‘Indeed I am. I’m only sorry their father wasn’t here to see it.’ There was a brief, awkward silence, then she added, ‘Perhaps next year, he will be.’
Richard Maddox’s hand stilled on the table. ‘Oh?’ he said neutrally. ‘Has a date been set for the appeal?’
‘Not yet, but Miss Parish here has a new lead that gives a completely different slant on things. The police won’t have any option but to reopen the case.’
Rona, momentarily stunned in
to silence, gazed at her in consternation, and was about to deny any such claim when Helena said plaintively, ‘But I don’t understand; what could possibly come up after all this time?’
‘I heard rumours were circulating,’ Richard Maddox remarked, his voice cold. ‘Unsubstantiated, I don’t doubt. I can’t think it’s very healthy to reopen old wounds like this.’
Beth said heatedly, ‘The wounds are far from old, Mr Maddox, they’re raw and painful. My husband did not kill Barry Pollard, and I’m convinced the truth will clear him, once it can be unravelled.’
Maddox’s nostrils were pinched, his thin lips tightly compressed. A closed face, possibly a cruel one. ‘Of course we make allowances for your feelings, Mrs Spencer – only natural, after all. I simply think Miss Parish would be better employed with ancient rather than modern history. There is plenty of it, after all.’
‘And talking of ancient history,’ Rona put in desperately, ‘Mrs Spencer tells me you had a highwayman in these parts?’
Beth, aware she’d overstepped the mark, threw her a look of apology and came to her rescue. ‘That’s right – we were just speaking about him.’
Richard Maddox made no reply, and it was Helena, with a quick look at his set face, who answered. ‘Yes, Kit Tempest. His birthplace is only a few miles away. You ought to see it, Rona.’
Beth looked startled at the use of the first name, and Richard raised an eyebrow.
Rona said, ‘Unfortunately this is my last visit for the moment. I’m not sure I’d—’
‘But you really should make the effort,’ Helena insisted. ‘There’s one of those new centres, where you walk round seeing tableaux illustrating his life. It’s really very well done, and there are books for sale that you’d find useful, and showcases of his guns and masks.’
Rona hesitated. A highwayman would certainly add colour.
‘I know,’ Helena said suddenly, ‘why don’t I drive you over, tomorrow afternoon? I haven’t been for a while and there are some new exhibits. Also –’ she flashed Rona a smile – ‘there’s a catalogue I promised to lend Magda that I haven’t got round to sending. I’d be very grateful if you could take it back with you. Quid pro quo?’
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