by Amy Myers
‘But aren’t you a friend of that man Giovanni who murdered my brother?’
Paul’s face bulged with fury. ‘What the blazes are you doing here then?’
‘He’s been released without charge,’ I pointed out, ‘and I’m here on the Land Rover case which, as you assured me, is nothing to do with your brother-in-law’s disappearance.’
Stephanie then took over. ‘That man’s a murderer,’ she insisted, ‘and I’ve been told you help the police on murder cases.’
‘If commissioned to do so, but I haven’t been.’
‘In that case, why are you looking at the Alfa Romeo?’ she enquired.
‘I love classic cars and who wouldn’t want to see this one?’
She ignored that. ‘That’s why you’re here. You think this car is connected to my brother’s murder. It isn’t and your friend is undoubtedly his murderer.’
‘Your brother is only missing at present and I hope very much that you’re wrong.’
She stared at me, then glanced at Paul who nodded agreement. ‘Mr Colby,’ she said finally, good humour restored, ‘you’ve seen quite enough.’
Odd, I thought, as I walked back to my car. They seemed more concerned over Giovanni than over their missing brother.
My next port of call was at Four Star Services, Martin Fisher’s garage. This was a no-brainer as far as the Land Rover theft was concerned and anything I might pick up on the Comptons would be a bonus. The place looked desolate, perhaps because it was now overcast and drizzling with rain. It was a repair business, not retail, and did not sell petrol, and I thought at first that there was no one inside the large, sturdy wooden building, which looked somewhat like an overgrown Swiss chalet. When I poked my head inside though a curly-haired lad in his early twenties appeared, announced his name was Stephen and asked if he could help. He could: I would find Martin along at the Hop and Harry pub.
Leaving my car where it was, I walked back to the pub past the hotel, which was inappropriately called The Larches, as its 1990s combination of red brick and gabled mock-beamed dormers hardly conveyed the grace of the tree after which it was named. Behind it was a garden and by its side I glimpsed a children’s play area, dominated, as far as I could see, by two huge plastic welcoming bears, one bearing the name Huggy, the other one Puggy.
In contrast to that, the Hop and Harry was a pleasing sight, and I liked the way it perched so confidently on the bend of the road from old Plumshaw. It was attractive, partly because the Olde English aspect had not been overdone. It was an old timbered building but the beams were stained grey, rather than the usual black, which gave it a mellow appearance, and the hanging flower baskets looked as if they were planted at home and not bought in as a job lot.
Inside I found myself in a low-ceilinged bar that looked homely in the best sense of the word. There was hardly anyone in it, however, save for a table at the rear with half a dozen people, perhaps journalists waiting for the next scoop, and for Martin sitting in front by a window and indulging in a beer and a toasted sandwich. He didn’t seem surprised to see me, as he must have had a clear view of my arrival. He didn’t look particularly pleased either.
‘About Peter Compton’s missing Land Rover, Martin,’ I began, pleasantries over.
‘Pull the other one,’ he rejoined, as cheerfully as a man interrupted mid-sandwich could. ‘You’re here about the Alfa Romeo.’
‘Only partly. Officially the Land Rover.’
‘The other reason being your chum Giovanni.’
‘Perhaps,’ I replied diplomatically. ‘That agreed – any idea what’s going on here now that Giovanni’s been released? Is that what all the press are here for? Waiting for Hugh to stroll back?’
‘They’ll have a long wait if so.’
‘And if he doesn’t, how’s that going to affect the development plans you told me about?’ I thought I was speaking softly enough not to be overheard, but I was wrong. A pretty woman in her early thirties emerged from behind the bar and marched over to us.
‘Meet Lucy,’ Martin said, clearly amused. ‘She and her husband Andrew run this place. That’s Andrew there, Jack.’ He indicated a man of about Lucy’s age in a chef’s apron, currently talking to the press.
‘There won’t be any development plans,’ Lucy told me brightly. ‘We’re turning the pub around successfully, aren’t we, Martin?’
‘You’re doing a great job,’ he assured her without much conviction, as she was joined by Andrew, who put a protective arm round her. Lucy was clearly the draw here, I thought. Andrew looked pleasant enough but a reluctant host. I bore in mind that he had been Pen’s informer, however, so I reserved judgement on him.
‘If you’re here for the gossip,’ he addressed me, ‘Hugh’s going to turn up again all right.’
‘George Makepeace will be rubbing his hands with joy if he doesn’t,’ Lucy added, to her husband’s clear annoyance.
‘Is George the enemy?’ I asked.
‘To half the village, yes. To the other half, he’s its saviour. And in between come Lucy and me,’ Andrew said lightly.
‘And me,’ Martin offered.
Lucy and Andrew didn’t comment on this, perhaps because Martin’s garage stood adjacent to Makepeace land, and although I liked Martin I wouldn’t care to hazard a guess as to which side he might back if push came to shove.
‘We need Hugh back here,’ Andrew said. ‘He’s the obstacle to Makepeace’s deal with the developers.’
‘I thought his father owned the Compton estate?’
‘Hugh runs it though,’ Martin replied. ‘They could always sell the Alfa Romeo of course. That would keep the farm going, but the old man won’t sell that either.’
‘Peter Compton’s our lifebelt,’ Lucy chimed in. ‘Paul and Stephanie wouldn’t give a damn if the farm was sold and the Alfa Romeo with it.’
‘He’s getting on a bit to rely on him as a lifebelt,’ I said.
‘Ninety-five and still shouting,’ Andrew said. ‘Met his wife Hazel, have you?’
‘I haven’t had that pleasure,’ I said.
‘Forget the pleasure. The first wife left Plumshaw when Stephanie was a kid. Took the toddler and toddled off.’ Andrew sniggered, to a reproving look from Lucy.
‘Does Hugh have a son,’ I asked, ‘as well as his daughter Bronte?’
‘No, and that means there’s a succession problem if Hugh’s dead.’
‘Why? Because of her sex?’
Another snigger from Andrew. ‘In a way. She fancies Jamie Makepeace, George’s grandson.’
I whistled. ‘A touch of the Romeo and Juliet?’ I joked. No one laughed, which made me want to poke further. ‘It would solve the feud nicely if they married.’
‘Anyone seen a pig flying over?’ Lucy said. ‘Firstly it won’t happen and even if it did, Makepeace and Compton would still be at each other’s throats.’
‘Hazel Compton is against development too?’ I asked.
‘She is, but if Hugh is dead the likelihood is that the farm would be left to Paul and Stephanie, rather than Bronte.’
‘That’s Peter’s choice?’
‘Yes, but it suits him to have Hazel as his mouthpiece. He likes to pretend he’s a spent force, but no way. That’s just a gambit. He was in the SAS or something like that during the Second World War and is still a raging bull. His first wife was a tornado in her own right by all accounts, and several years after she died he married Hazel. She was a nurse, I think. She’s in her seventies now and there are daggers drawn between her and Stephanie if you ask me. Bronte’s Mrs Compton’s pet, or she’d like her to be. But Bronte has a mind of her own.’
‘Suppose she and Jamie Makepeace do marry?’
‘All hell will be let loose to ensure they don’t.’ Andrew looked almost pleased, though to me it seemed a disaster waiting to happen.
‘Isn’t there some way to bring peace between the two sides?’ I asked. ‘Don’t you have a peacemaker in the village who could act as go-between?’
Martin grinned. ‘Sure we do. It’s an unspoken agreement that first old Plumshaw controls the parish council and then new Plumshaw does. As for a peacemaker, we do have a witch.’
‘Seriously?’
I assumed it was a joke until I saw no one laughing. Instead Andrew apparently had to get back to the kitchen, Lucy to the bar, and Martin to his garage. Left alone, I finished my drink, had something to eat – which was quite good – and then I too left. Lucy had disappeared from the bar by then, and I went out through the back door to see the rest of the pub’s domain. What I found was Lucy in their garden, which was not large but beautifully kept. She was hard at work digging a hole for a rose currently living in a pot, and as this witch was still intriguing me I decided to have another go at it. Lucy, rather than Andrew, seemed the better bet to me.
‘It will be a great shame,’ I said appreciatively, ‘if the pub is pulled down and you lose this garden.’
‘The Comptons won’t sell,’ she said shortly.
‘Unless Hugh fails to return,’ I commented. ‘Perhaps your witch could work out a compromise if the wand method fails.’
She looked up sharply. ‘I wish they wouldn’t talk like that.’
‘It is true, then? Covens at dead of night, that sort of thing?’
‘No, it’s only Nan.’ She then gave her full concentration to the rose.
I tried to make sense of this but she was feverishly digging now, clearly hoping I’d go away. ‘Where does this Nan live?’ I asked. ‘In a cottage in the dark, dark woods?’
The joke went wrong. She stood up abruptly, spade in hand.
‘Nan lives in Puddledock Cottage. That enough for you?’
It was. How could I resist going in search of a witch who lived in Puddledock Cottage?
I returned to my car to check the large-scale map and my satnav for the whereabouts of Puddledock Cottage. Coming from my usual direction it lay just before I reached old Plumshaw and, sure enough, there was woodland marked all round it which ran as far as Plumshaw Manor. That suited me very well. It was time I met the Comptons. I’d call at the manor first and then take the interesting-looking track through the woods to the cottage from there. That would surely be the appropriate way to approach a witch’s domain, even though with my hulking six foot I was hardly a little Red Riding Hood trotting along towards a big bad wolf.
I thought the witch had changed domains when the manor doorbell was answered. A small, elderly woman with piercing eyes – surely Hazel Compton – inspected my police identification in silence, then returned it to me.
Having ignored my condolences on her missing son, she awarded me a sweet smile and a flat ‘What do you want?’
I explained. ‘Did you hear anything unusual on the Friday night when the Land Rover disappeared?’
‘No.’ Her eyes indicated this was a game she intended to win.
‘Could anyone on the estate have taken it for whatever reason?’
‘No.’
‘Could your son have taken it on a mission of his own?’
‘Certainly not.’ Another sweet smile.
‘Is there anything at all that was odd about the theft?’
‘No.’
I fought my irritation, and reminded myself that compared with her anxiety over her missing son a stolen car was merely an irritant. ‘I’m on my way to Puddledock Cottage, but thought it polite to call here first.’
‘What do you want to go there for?’
I wasn’t sure I knew, so I asked for directions instead.
‘Leave the car here, walk towards Manor Cottage, take the track leading off to the right just before you get there, and don’t come back. Except for your car.’
Something that in happier times might have been a twinkle in her eye came and went. I went too. She was under stress, but that didn’t entirely explain her attitude. I duly set off through the woods, wondering if I would need breadcrumbs to sprinkle along the path to find my way back in the best fairy-tale tradition. With my current luck the starlings would eat the lot before my return. The path was simple enough to find, and it was a peaceful if not entirely enjoyable walk through the woods. The May greenery looked attractive, but drops from a recent shower dripped from overhanging branches which, where the trees were at their thickest, blotted out the sun and gave a sinister undertone to my journey. Nevertheless the woods smelled of spring and of England at its best.
The map showed only one cottage on the far side of the wood, and only one main fork in the track. Unfortunately, there were quite a few more paths and finally I was at a loss to know which one to take. The one I chose brought me to a point where I could see a lane ahead and a cottage. With any luck it was Puddledock. It was half-buried in woodland with a rear garden surrounded by trees but with three tracks leading back into the woods. The front showed a more cheerful aspect and a neat garden with a wicket gate and a painted sign announcing that it was indeed Puddledock Cottage. There was no reply to the bell, however, nor was there any sign of life in the garden, despite the fact that there was a Ford Escort parked outside.
Blaming myself for having made this pointless and now wasted journey, I set off down a different path hoping to weave my way back to the manor. It was narrower than the one I had come by and I found myself slipping in mud. Then I turned a corner and was surprised to see a large pond with seemingly fresh enough water to support a duck population. I remember my mother calling them Puddle-ducks. This was not Puddleduck cottage, though, but Puddledock, which means something to do with mud – as I could testify this path did. The pond was something special, however, and I stopped to admire the sheer beauty of the surroundings. Only then did I become aware that I was not alone.
On the far side of the pond stood a gigantic man whose size, muscles and shaven head would guarantee him top rates as a bodyguard. He exuded power. He was gazing down at a dark patch of undergrowth or leaves in the water, but fortunately when he looked up and saw me, he didn’t begin flexing those muscles in readiness.
‘Do you know where Nan is?’ I called out, thinking this might be her husband or son.
‘Reckon I do,’ he said slowly.
‘Where then?’ I asked politely as he showed no signs of continuing.
‘I’m Nan.’
It was only then that I looked at what had caught his attention in the pond. It wasn’t a patch of dark-coloured leaves. It was a body floating face down. A very dead body.
FOUR
Any chance that there was any life left in the body that Nan and I dragged out of the pond was rapidly discounted. This body had – at least to my lay eye – been in the water too long for that. The skin was far too wrinkled for Nan to have tipped it in himself just before my arrival. I reminded myself, however, that the first person on the scene is often the guilty party and that it wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility that he had kept the body secreted at the helpfully remote Puddledock Cottage and only recently pushed it in. I temporarily abandoned this theory because it was leaping away beyond any evidence.
Standing on the edge of a pond with even a potential murderer was, nevertheless, not my idea of a sensible thing to do. That was only a fleeting thought, especially as the police and paramedics were on their way, but it took my mind off the gruesome sight before me. There was no obvious sign of how he had died save for what were possible bloodstains on the man’s shirt, jacket and trousers. The greyish skin and indications that wildlife attack had begun were not something to dwell on, however.
As to whose body it was, it was almost certainly Hugh Compton’s. If so, my first thought was that this pond was miles from where Giovanni had been spotted in his car which had Hugh’s blood in it. My next thought was that wouldn’t matter a damn, as theoretically Giovanni could have killed him here and then driven to Challock to protest his innocence, with the result that the police concentrated on that area. No, on second thoughts they would have searched this area too.
The wood was heavy with silence while Nan and I waited
. I could hear his steady hard breathing, the trees were hiding us from the afternoon sun and the claustrophobic atmosphere had to be broken.
‘Had you only just spotted him when I arrived?’ I forced myself to ask.
He raised his large head from the contemplation of the body, and turned to stare at me. Then he smiled slightly and nodded. It was a reassuring smile, not the sort that suggested I keep my mouth shut.
‘It’s him, isn’t it?’ I continued.
‘Yes. Mr Compton.’
I liked the way he afforded him some dignity. Corpses have a right to a personality.
‘Did you hear or see anything going on here recently?’
‘No.’
That seemed to end it, but I didn’t want our stilted conversation to end. I’d have to look at the corpse again if I did. ‘So you’re Nan,’ I said fatuously. ‘I came here to find you.’
That slow smile again as he picked up my unspoken query. ‘Full name Nantucket Brown, sir.’
My attention was well and truly on him now. What a name!
‘My grandad,’ he told me, ‘was a whaler. In his time,’ he added reflectively.
Ah! All was explained. ‘Moby Dick,’ I said. One of my father’s favourite novels. There was a Gregory Peck film made in the fifties which I knew Dad watched whenever it came on TV and so I had bought him the DVD not long before he died. The original, he demanded, not the remake. Nan must have acquired his name from the island off the Massachusetts shore, as Nantucket was a big whaling centre.
Nan nodded. ‘They maybe told you in the village I was a witch. That why you came?’
This man would expect a truthful answer. ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘I’m curious to know what they meant by that.’
A long pause for consideration. ‘What they means is me just looking, just seeing.’
‘Did you foresee this?’ I looked briefly at the corpse.
The English language is complex; it can convey meaning with precision because it bends and accommodates it in the most simple of words. The hitch, as Humpty Dumpty pointed out to Alice, is that some words can mean just what one chooses them to mean, but which isn’t obvious to other people. In what sense, I wondered, did Nan want ‘seeing’ to be interpreted: understanding or observing?