Untimely Graves

by Marjorie Eccles

  ‘Come round and have some supper tonight,’ Cleo suggested, ‘It’ll have to be a takeaway but I can’t wait for Mum to see what the front room looks like now.’

  George said they’d be delighted. He’d cause for a celebration of his own, he said. He’d landed an assignment to act on behalf of a leading insurance company to investigate some dodgy car accident claims, work enough to keep him busy for months – and what was more, he’d found Sara Ruby.

  ‘You have? Great!’

  ‘It was pretty much as I thought.’ Predictably, there’d been a quarrel that Mrs Ruby had omitted to mention to him, over Sara’s choice of boyfriend, and Sara had flounced off to live with the said young man. George hadn’t been able to persuade her to return home, but at least she’d promised to ring her parents and reassure them she was all right.

  After Kelsey Road, Cleo and Sue were expected at a house where the mother of four children under five had recently given birth to another. Cleo had been sent there with Sue the day before, to make a start, and wasn’t looking forward to a repeat performance, but it wasn’t a task she could opt out of: she was, she’d gathered, the last desperate end of Val’s resources as far as Mrs Bristow was concerned, the only one of the MO personnel apart from Sue who hadn’t refused to enter the house again after their first time. Cleo couldn’t blame them. The house was a tip, the children – twin boys, a girl of three and a toddler who wasn’t potty-trained – were like wild animals, while the mother remained serene and calm in the middle of it all, feeding her new baby while reading or marking student sociology papers for the Open University, sublimely unaware or uncaring of the mayhem going on around her. Mucking out the monkey house at the zoo, with the monkeys in it, would’ve been preferable.

  It had to be around here, it was somewhere on the rough end of Victoria Road, Abigail had been told. She had parked her car in a side street and was now searching for George Atkins’s office, which, knowing George, she half expected to be some sort of dump above a launderette or a betting shop. She was pleasantly surprised to see the freshness of the newly painted exterior standing out amid the dismal surrounding shops. The interior decor continued the welcoming theme, gave promise of careful attention to detail, though all this was somewhat marred by the familiar sight of a cluttered desk and a battered typewriter glimpsed through an open door which, however, told her she’d found the right place. George couldn’t be far away.

  ‘May I help you?’ A small, elderly woman with iron-grey hair had pushed her knitting quickly, though not quite quickly enough, into an open drawer and picked up a Bic, looking attentive. A dachshund, curled in a basket under the kneehole of her desk, sniffed around Abigail’s shoes with interest and growled softly when she moved them away. ‘Quiet, Hermione!’

  ‘I’ve really come to see George – Mr Atkins. I’m one of his old colleagues, Abigail Moon.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve heard him speak of you – but I’m sorry, he’s out. He should be back any minute, though,’ she added, looking at her watch. ‘I’m Muriel Seton. Do have a seat. Tea or coffee?’

  ‘Well, thanks, tea please, if he’s really not going to be long …’ Abigail was spitting feathers, but adding to her guilt-load by drinking yet another of the coffees she ought to cut down on was something she didn’t need.

  ‘Earl Grey, Lapsang, peppermint, or rosehip and strawberry?’

  ‘Oh – er – just ordinary tea will do, I’m not fussy,’ Abigail said, bemused by the choice. ‘No milk or sugar.’

  ‘I see you know how tea should be drunk. Ordinary tea? It had better be George’s Indian, then.’

  Muriel Seton disappeared through a door into a back room and Abigail bent to stroke Hermione, changing her mind when she saw the little dog’s lip curling alarmingly. What was the point of pets when they were so disagreeable? She didn’t object to dogs but she’d never been inclined to get one herself, notwithstanding her lifestyle, which didn’t adapt itself to the idea. If ever she’d been tempted, the monster black dog that lived at the end of her lane and terrorised everyone who approached her home, including herself, would have stopped her.

  ‘Well,’ said Hermione’s owner, coming back with a tray laid with Royal Albert china and apostle spoons in the saucers. A traycloth, for goodness’ sake! She put it down on her desk with an expression that said, We May Be Small, But We Don’t Let Our Standards Slip. ‘I see they’ve had a murder up at the school, then?’ she commented as she poured.

  Abigail sighed. She was expected to pay for her tea, after all. She nodded and avoided further comment by saying, ‘Actually, it’s not George I want to see, not specially, I just thought he could tell me where I might find his daughter.’

  ‘Oh, I can give you her home address, but better still, if you want to speak to her quickly, you can get in touch with those contract cleaners she’s working for. Val Storey will tell you where you can get hold of her.’ Her mouth turned down at the corners in disapproval, whether of the cleaners or the job itself wasn’t clear.

  Just as Sue was about to start up the van after she and Cleo had finished at Kelsey Road, a car drew up behind them and a woman with red hair jumped out of the passenger seat and ran towards the van.

  ‘Hold on a minute, I’d like a word, please. Are you Cleo Atkins?’ she asked, peering around Sue’s rotund form to where Cleo sat. ‘Oh, good, I’m Abigail Moon, Lavenstock CID.’

  ‘Well, we’re just on our way somewhere else, and we’re on a tight schedule,’ Sue replied sharply, putting the van into gear, immediately jumping to the conclusion that Cleo would want to avoid having that word.

  ‘Wait! Cleo, I used to work with your dad and Muriel Seton put me on to Mrs Storey, who told us you’d be here. I only want a quick few minutes. How about you getting in the car with us and we’ll follow your friend to wherever you’re going next? You can talk to me on the way.’

  ‘We-ell … OK. It’s all right, Sue, I haven’t done anything wrong,’ Cleo told Sue, hoping she hadn’t, but not having a clue what this was all about. ‘I’ll see you when we get to Mrs Bristow’s.’

  ‘Sure?’

  Cleo nodded and climbed into the back seat of the car, as instructed by Inspector Moon, who introduced her to the other woman detective, Jenny Platt, the one doing the driving. ‘Nice to meet you, Cleo,’ said Jenny. ‘Where to?’

  ‘It’s Corby Avenue. Number 5, the one with the clapped-out Mini and all the kidditoys in the front garden.’ And, she thought but didn’t add, the smeary windows, which she’d tried without much success to clean yesterday of all the muck left by sticky fingers and snotty noses pressed against them. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘George has told us you saw a gun at Wych Cottage, Cleo,’ said Abigail Moon. ‘Can you describe it to me?’

  ‘Well, it was just a gun.’ Cleo was taken aback, wondering why her seeing it should suddenly have assumed such importance as to warrant her being questioned by CID officers. ‘I only mentioned it to Dad because it was such a funny place to see it and an odd thing for someone like Mrs Osborne to have.’

  ‘Just a gun. The sort with a long barrel?’

  Cleo gave her a steady look. ‘It wasn’t a shotgun. I don’t know much about guns, but I can recognise the difference between a shotgun and – and the other kind.’

  ‘A handgun,’ Moon supplied. ‘A revolver or a pistol.’

  ‘I suppose that’s what they are, but I wouldn’t be able to recognise either.’

  ‘Could it have been a replica?’

  ‘If I can’t tell one from the other, I wouldn’t know that, would I? Anyway, I thought that was the whole point of a replica? That it looks exactly like the real thing.’ Realising she was beginning to sound belligerent, she added, ‘I only got a glimpse, but anyway, I don’t know how you’d tell.’

  ‘With difficulty,’ Abigail said. ‘Only on close inspection. Even professionals can be fooled otherwise.’

  ‘Then that’s maybe just what it was, just something to scare away intruders. I’d be inclined t
o have one myself if I lived out there.’

  Abigail nodded. ‘Especially as she’s a dealer.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Antique furniture, porcelain and so on. We’ve done our homework on Mrs Osborne.’

  ‘Oh.’ So that’s what Mrs Osborne had meant when she said she’d occupied her life with other things than being a farmer’s wife. ‘For a moment there, I thought –’ She laughed. ‘I’m not sure I’d be all that surprised, even so.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ Abigail asked sharply.

  ‘It was a joke. She might look like the Queen Mum, but she isn’t your typical sweet old lady.’

  ‘That was your impression?’ Abigail asked, looking thoughtfully at Cleo. ‘Was that why you mentioned seeing the gun to your father?’

  Cleo thought about it. ‘Not really. I just meant that she’s shrewd. She’s still got all her marbles – and her reaction surprised me, as much as anything, otherwise I’d probably just have forgotten it.’ She added worriedly, ‘She’s not going to get into trouble, is she? She was very nice to us.’

  ‘Oh, there’ll be some satisfactory explanation, I’m sure.’

  ‘So you’re going to ask her about it?’

  ‘Probably.’

  Cleo said suddenly, ‘It’s to do with that woman they found in the river, isn’t it? You can’t think Mrs Osborne did that!’

  Abigail smiled. ‘There’s nothing to say she did. But little old ladies don’t usually have dangerous things like handguns lying around. She should be warned about that, even if it’s only for her own protection.’

  ‘Maybe so. But I’m beginning to wish I’d never said anything!’

  ‘Don’t worry, we won’t mention your name – we won’t let her know we even know she has a gun, unless it’s necessary. But thanks for your time, Cleo.’

  ‘Oh, don’t mention it,’ Cleo said. ‘Any time you want me to snoop on my friends … Is that all?’

  ‘Yes, you’ve been very helpful – but look, don’t get the wrong idea –’

  ‘All right, I’m sorry, I know. You’re only doing your job.’

  ‘This the house?’ enquired Jenny from the front seat, as they turned into Corby Avenue, a neat street of semis with shining paintwork and spring gardens being coaxed into bloom. Clusters of nursery-reared polyanthus in day-glo colours were helping on the crocuses. Universal pansies abounded. A forsythia or two was already flowering. Number 5 was conspicuous for having none of these. Jenny looked at the Mini that had been rubbed down and prepared for a long-forgotten respray, and now sat abandoned on a weed-sown drive, at the overgrown grass plot, strewn with primary-coloured plastic toys. The windows were smeary again and the grey net curtains sagged on their wires. ‘What can it be like inside?’

  ‘Don’t ask,’ said Cleo. ‘The mother’s a PhD and the life of ordinary mortals passes her by.’

  John Riach cast his eyes around the office he’d set his sights on seven years ago, knowing it should rightfully have been his then, and now, at last, was. Only temporarily, he reminded himself with his usual caution, but permanent tenure of the school bursarship was now in the palm of his hand, and if he couldn’t grasp it this time, he wasn’t the man he believed himself to be. The last obstacle had been removed. Charles Wetherby had been eliminated from the scene. And John Riach was here, every detail of the job at his efficient fingertips, the right man in the right place. He wouldn’t be passed over this time, as he had been before. They wouldn’t be able to look on him as ineffectual any longer, someone who faded into the background.

  He’d always been too easily overlooked, despite his undoubted abilities, something which he blamed on his small stature. He was slight, under middle height, always conscious of this when he was in the presence of taller men, especially men like Wetherby. Lack of height was in his genes, an inheritance from his father who, like many other short men, offset this by aggression, a well-known compensating factor. Aggression all too often vented on his son. Riach had taught himself not to give his enemies this sort of handle to use against him, not even to think it. His resentment stayed curled up inside him like a sleeping snake, while outwardly he appeared pleasant, self-effacing, reliable, all the qualities needed for a second fiddle.

  He pulled the chair closer to the desk. A new chair was first thing on the agenda. This one had suited Wetherby’s long frame but its high back dwarfed its present occupant, giving out quite the wrong signals. The rest of the room wasn’t to his liking, either, but its life-expectancy was doomed anyway: it was only a matter of time before the new offices would be built.

  Taking off his rimless glasses, he polished them on the maroon silk handkerchief in his breast pocket, refolded the handkerchief and placed it with the points just showing, adjusted his cuffs and the discreet gold and enamelled cuff-links and placed his well-kept hands in front of him on the blotter.

  Everything that had once been Charles Wetherby’s would now be his. The increased salary which would be useful but wasn’t paramount, the increase in power which was. The house that went with the job … the wife?

  A surge of adrenalin hit him.

  Riach had schooled himself not to give an inkling of how much he wanted to step into Wetherby’s shoes, and believed his colleagues were still unaware of the burning desire he kept so well hidden. Just as he’d disguised the extent of his feelings for Hannah. He’d known they were dangerous and he’d taught himself to keep them well under control, at least in public.

  But now, with an unaccustomed stab of excitement, he allowed his thoughts to dwell lingeringly on her, something he could at last legitimately do. A small smile touched the corners of his mouth. Yes, Hannah. She wouldn’t, he thought, be – ungrateful. After all, he had, if nothing else, smoothed her path …

  He closed his eyes and imagined her as he’d first seen her, when she came with Wetherby to the school on his appointment as Bursar. Dark, slim, and with those lovely eyes, a mirror to her grave and gentle manner, so much in contrast with Wetherby’s arrogant self-importance. It was the thought of her, the daily chance that he might see her and talk to her, that had stopped him from seeking another job when Wetherby had been given the position that he, John Riach, as Assistant Bursar, had pinned his hopes on when the former Bursar had retired. Despite his furious disappointment, he had stayed on in a subservient position, hoping – though for what, he hadn’t rightly known.

  Hannah had always felt warmly towards him, he was sure of that. Outwardly, she’d never shown him any more than friendship, but then she wouldn’t, would she? Women like Hannah kept to their marriage vows, no matter what, and he respected her for that. Her life with Wetherby had been miserable. Not that she’d ever said anything – though she’d been on the point of doing so the other day, he was sure – but Riach had quick intuitions, especially where she was concerned, and what he didn’t actually observe for himself, he sensed from the atmosphere that surrounded the couple. And from the unemotional way she’d received the news that Wetherby was dead.

  He had volunteered to accompany the young policewoman, Tracey Matthews, who’d been detailed to do the job, and they’d been only too glad to accept his offer. It always helped, they said, when friends or relatives were there to play a supportive role, for the bereaved to have a shoulder to cry on. Except that Hannah hadn’t cried, had she? Not a tear. He was exultant. Everything pointed to the fact that the wheel was, at last, spinning his way.

  He glanced at his watch. There was much to do. Amongst all the other duties and administrative details that had been piled on his shoulders since Wetherby had died, he had to make sure that the police investigation wasn’t getting in the way of the smooth running of the school. There were tasks concerning that which were likely to take him all afternoon. After that, at six, he had an appointment with the Head in his study, where he’d receive confirmation of the decision of the board of governors, and no doubt a congratulatory glass of sherry on becoming Bursar of Lavenstock College.

  13


  The wind was in the right direction, blowing away from the pig farm, which was perhaps as well, given the strength of the aroma without benefit of a breeze.

  ‘Whew!’ Jenny wrinkled her short nose. ‘And they try to tell us pigs are really clean animals!’

  Where were the sties? There wasn’t a sign of anything that Abigail would have called a sty, nor were there any pigs or piglets, for that matter. Instead, there was a series of low, domed sheds set in acres of oozy mud, which ran right up to the farmhouse. Was this what organic pig-rearing meant? If each hut represented even one pig – and she’d no idea whether this was so or not – she reckoned there was quite an investment there. Had the floods reached this far? Hard even to begin to envisage what a disaster that would have been. Though it looked as though the farm might have escaped the worst: from the dip in the lane where Wych Cottage stood, the land rose towards the farmhouse in what might almost stand for a slope in these parts. The water level had by now gone down dramatically, but a keen wind still rippled the standing water in the lower fields.

  They stood outside the car, which Jenny had drawn into a convenient widening of the narrow lane, half-way between Wych Cottage and the farmhouse. ‘Let’s try the cottage first, while our feet are still clean,’ Abigail suggested. ‘We don’t want Mrs Osborne coming down on us like a ton of bricks before we start, accusing us of dirtying her clean floors. She might be hiding behind the door with that gun.’