Classic in the Dock

by Amy Myers

  Then I saw what she meant. That the Alfa Romeo and the fire seemed out of balance in comparison with the crime of Hugh’s murder. I examined this angle for a moment or two.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ I said. ‘The strength of the car’s monetary value as a motive would be measured by how much the killer needs, not what’s available. In this case Giovanni wants the car, but most certainly money is not the objective, and neither Hugh nor Peter planned to sell it. Both Peter and Giovanni seem to value the Alfa Romeo as an object, not for itself. For Peter it has memories of a bitter time and for Giovanni it’s the prospect of a wonderful painting with family connections. And if Hugh did have plans for its sale, he kept them very quiet.’

  ‘Then when – how – did Giovanni or anyone else hear about it?’ she asked reasonably enough.

  ‘My theory is that Hugh was a customer at La Casa and talked about it to this friend of Giovanni’s who passed it on.’

  Her eyebrows shot up. ‘Well, well. Bit of a coincidence that a casual comment over a plate of pasta hit so big a target.’

  ‘OK. I surrender,’ I told her. ‘It was engineered by the Comptons. Set on wanting vengeance, Peter Compton worked out this way of luring Giovanni here through leaking the news that the Alfa Romeo was in his barn. If it failed, no harm done. If it worked, the hoax could go ahead.’

  ‘And they just happened to know that the owner of La Casa was a chum of Giovanni’s?’

  ‘Could well have. Giovanni’s a well-known name in this country; this Umberto could have been boasting about him and that’s why they set up The Mousetrap. How would that one work on stage?’

  She laughed. ‘It would run and run.’

  The former Hop and Harry was a desolate sight when I went over to Plumshaw later that day. It had obviously been made safe in the five days since I was last here, for the cordon had been lifted and the front, albeit charred, was open. I could see Andrew inside. There were a pile of black bags and a stack of boxes outside and two vans parked in the road. Andrew was staggering out with another one and managed to give me a wave, albeit a lacklustre one. I went over to talk to him.

  ‘Christopher’s Lego set,’ he said, indicating a bag put to one side. ‘At least he’ll be happy.’

  ‘How is your son?’ I asked. ‘Where’s he staying?’

  ‘We’re still with my mother-in-law in Ashford.’

  ‘Has any of your kitchen survived?’ I doubted it as it was near the side of the building that had suffered most.

  ‘I rescued my knife,’ he said, almost cheerfully despite the circumstances. ‘Just as well. It’s my lucky talisman. With that in my hand I could cook for the Queen, so I take its rescue as a sign that I’m on my way to fame and fortune.’

  Looking at the Hop and Harry I couldn’t see much hope of his achieving that here. ‘Are the Comptons going to rebuild?’

  ‘Not known. The place is on the borderline for being demolished, as it would cost the insurance companies – Peter’s and mine – a fortune to restore it. If it goes, my job goes with it. I don’t see him rebuilding. What with Hugh’s death and all that he’ll surely sell up now.’

  I wasn’t sure that would be the case, but if it helped Andrew to believe it, who was I to contradict him? ‘What will you do next if he doesn’t?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ll pick up a job somewhere,’ he said laconically. ‘I’m good.’

  I wasn’t as convinced as he was about that, but confidence carries one forward a long way.

  ‘Here in Plumshaw?’ I asked, more for the sake of keeping the conversation going than for information. He seemed reluctant to leave me and as the alternative would be plunging back into that sad building I could understand why.

  He shot a look at me. ‘Where would I get that then? In the village tea-rooms?’

  I thought of the small tea-shop in the cottage on the corner of Church Lane, and I had to admit that I didn’t see Andrew in that context, even though his ambition seemed somewhat to overweigh his capabilities. When did that ever stop anyone rising to the top, though? I couldn’t see another pub opening in the village unless one went up in the new development – if it went ahead.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t see Lucy in a tea shop either.’

  ‘She deserves the best,’ he said simply. ‘She’s upset about her garden. Mess all over it. Flowers trampled down, veggies gone for a burton.’

  ‘Is she here now?’ I asked. I could see someone moving around on the ground floor. I would have thought the top floor must be fairly uninviting, even though it had obviously been made safe.

  ‘No. She’s over at her mum’s moving stuff around. We’re having to ferry Christopher to school and back, so we’re hoping we’ll be settled by next term.’

  The question of who was within was quickly solved when another two black bags arrived through the door. All I could see was a pair of jeans transporting them, but as the bags were offloaded, Jamie Makepeace materialized from behind them. A surprising place to find him, I thought, given that the obvious suspects for an arson attack would be the Makepeaces.

  One of the bags split open so I obligingly went to help pick the stuff up – and what a heartbreaking job this was, even though it wasn’t my family. The bag contained photos, no doubt going back years to a time when photos only existed as printouts and not stored in a computer. Many of them were charred round the edges, some curled up and partly burnt.

  ‘Look at them,’ Andrew said bitterly, coming to have a look and then quickly turning away. ‘That’s our life burnt up.’

  ‘You can take many more,’ I said. ‘You’re young.’

  He ignored me, perhaps rightly. ‘When I find out who did this lot—’

  ‘It wasn’t an accident then? It was deliberate?’

  ‘You bet it was. Mr Compton thinks I left something burning in the kitchen. I didn’t, and the police don’t think so neither. They found newspapers and stuff and a paraffin can which wasn’t mine, I can tell you that.’

  ‘The accelerants,’ I said.

  ‘Whatever, but it’s done for us.’

  He seemed to have forgotten his earlier confidence that a new and better life lay ahead, as he went back into the pub. This left me with Jamie, who seemed embarrassed at my presence, which was hardly surprising since not that long ago he’d punched me in the jaw, plus been the cause of sending me flying down the steps of the pub to gather a few painful bruises. He kindly acknowledged the fact.

  ‘Look, about that punch-up – sorry and all that,’ he managed to say, blushing to the roots of his sandy-coloured mop of hair. ‘Been under pressure, see?’

  ‘Let’s forget it,’ I said nobly. ‘You could stand me a drink, but I doubt if there’s a glass to be found. Did all the bottles go?’

  ‘Most of them. Wouldn’t fancy drinking out of the rest.’

  ‘Nor me. You’re a chum of Andrew’s?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  I noted the touch of wariness there, and wondered how he would react to Bronte’s name.

  ‘Are you still at odds with Bronte?’

  His face crumpled. ‘Can’t do nothing about it. She’s gone right off me.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ I said robustly. ‘It’s just the stress of what she’s going through.’

  ‘No, it ain’t. She’s gone right over to the Compton way of thinking. Got to stand by her grandfather now that her dad’s not there. That sort of thing. I tell her he’s got a wife to do that. And he’s got a daughter. Bronte’s got her own life to lead – or so she reckons, and it’s not with me.’

  ‘That might be the problem. What happens after Peter’s death now that her father is no longer alive to inherit?’ This might be a painful subject for him, but that was too bad.

  ‘I dunno. Bronte says she’s got to do what her grandad wants. I tell her it’s the twenty-first century and we do what we want. We had it all planned. A cottage too and all.’

  ‘How about a compromise?’

  He looked blank and then shrugged. ‘No suc
h word between Makepeaces and Comptons. My grandad says it’s a fight to the death.’ A pause as he realized his choice of words was unfortunate and shuffled his feet. ‘Not that Grandad would have gone that far. Not to burn down the pub, nor kill off those Comptons. Not really. But it’s what those bastards deserve. Think they can rule other folks’ lives.’

  ‘What will happen to your family’s development plans now? Stalled until the pub situation is sorted out?’

  A touch of his old aggression returned. ‘Grandad will go ahead. Course he will. Still got the homes to build, even without the road and industrial site, but he wants the lot, does Grandad. And he’s going to get it.’

  ‘Can’t the road skirt the Hop and Harry?’

  ‘Been into that. No way at all. But now,’ Jamie said with satisfaction, ‘there ain’t no Hop and Harry. That should hurry things along. Maybe Bronte will come round when it’s a done deal.’ He looked at me hopefully.

  ‘I hope she will,’ was all I could say. I also hoped that it wasn’t for that reason. They needed a fresh start, as did Andrew and Lucy, although none of them saw it that way at present.

  We were interrupted by the slam of a car door behind us, followed by Stephanie making her way up the path. She nodded to me as though it was normal to see me here, as perhaps it was. Jamie didn’t seem to be on her list, however, as she swept by to find Andrew, murmuring to us en route. She must have failed because out she came again, wrinkling her patrician nose.

  ‘Not good in there,’ she commented, as Jamie made a hurried escape. She sounded friendly enough, and she looked younger too, as the set mouth and hard eyes seemed to have softened. I bore in mind, however, that setting aside her brother’s death, fortune was now favouring her. She stood next in line for taking over the estate – or the cash from it in due course – not to mention the Alfa Romeo. If Bronte came back on to the scene, however, it could be a different story.

  All this was speculation, however, and in front of the ruins of the Hop and Harry it seemed out of place. We were spectators at a private tragedy in which a young couple’s livelihood had disappeared and with it the Comptons’ dreams of keeping the estate intact.

  ‘How is Peter coping?’ I asked her. ‘After your brother’s death this must be one more blow at a time when he can least face it.’

  ‘He hasn’t taken it in. He’s dwelling in the past just now. Hugh’s death changes a lot of things. Paul and I are running the farm between us at present.’

  ‘And Bronte?’

  ‘Not her, nor my stepmother who’s rushing around intent on planning the funeral – whenever the police deign to let us know when we can hold it. Bronte’s still brooding over her father’s death.’

  ‘And her love trouble, of course.’

  ‘I doubt whether that’s the case. For all his solicitous help over clearing up the mess of the pub, who’s the most likely person to have burnt it down? The Makepeaces – and Jamie is their front man. I noticed you were happily hobnobbing with him just now.’

  I ignored that. ‘The arson attack could have been by someone who stood to gain from the Makepeace plans.’

  Stephanie stiffened, which was interesting. Did she include herself and Paul amongst them?

  ‘What will happen to the Alfa Romeo now?’ I continued casually.

  I thought she was going to cut me off with a curt ‘mind your own business’ but she didn’t. ‘It stays,’ she said. ‘Hugh wanted to sell it, but my father wouldn’t allow it and he still won’t.’ She smiled, which made me warm to her. ‘I’m not sure why I’m telling you all this.’

  ‘Talking helps shock.’

  ‘The shock of Hugh’s death? Or this?’ She stared at the Hop and Harry.

  ‘Both, I’m sure. As it must be for Bronte. Will she continue to live at the manor?’

  ‘She says she will. She’s a changeable creature though. First she riles my father by announcing she’s marrying a Makepeace, now she’s dropped him. I sometimes wonder what is behind that.’

  So did I. Cutting out Paul and Stephanie perhaps? ‘Maybe she wants to live with her grandparents, now she’s not going to live with Jamie in new Plumshaw.’

  ‘Nonsense. Hugh had promised them Puddledock Cottage.’

  ‘What?’ How many more surprises were in store from this manipulative family? ‘But that’s Nan’s cottage. Is he moving out?’

  ‘Who knows, now that Hugh is dead. He’d told him to leave, offered him a cottage by the church, but he simply spat in Hugh’s face.’

  ‘Literally?’

  She shrugged. ‘Perhaps not,’ she conceded, ‘but as good as.’

  ‘He’s still in Puddledock.’ This sounded an odd story to say the least, almost sinister. ‘He said nothing to me about leaving, and presumably he has rights as a long-standing tenant.’

  ‘If he’d ever had a contract he might. He more or less squats there,’ she replied. ‘He pays a hundred quid a year. Less than ten pounds a month. His parents did odd jobs in return for the small rent charge and when they died my father felt sorry for him. Now he works for everybody else but us. Brings us a load of useless medicines now and then.’

  She laughed at my astounded expression. ‘Rather unfair of me. He’s our vet too, if there’s anything wrong with the dogs or cats. Still a cheap rent, don’t you think? He has to go.’

  I murmured something as I thought of all the pots, the gardens, the animals, and of the carefully tended gardens. That cottage was Nan’s life. It had been his mother’s life. He wouldn’t have taken Hugh’s news lightly. I thought of his criminal record, of that pond, and of a secret hiding place that could so easily have been no secret to those used to striding the fields behind the chalets or those to whom Andrew could have confided their secret. I thought of the night and Nan’s strong arms around the body of Hugh Compton. Nan the peacemaker, Nan the reformed murderer.

  ELEVEN

  I’d thought Plumshaw Wood a peaceful place when I first saw it. Now it seemed full of secrets; it was a kingdom of its own, and one that didn’t welcome intruders. Before it had seemed to beckon to me, but no longer. The mind can play odd tricks. This was the same place, but that first impression had been blanketed over by what had happened since. I had slept on it, but I knew I had no choice. I had to draw a deep breath and confront the witch, wicked or otherwise.

  Puddledock Cottage looked innocent, tiled roof melting into the woodland landscape and the garden where wild flowers had reached a compromise with the gardener’s hand. Nature was tamed here, but for good or evil? It must be a fine point. As I opened the gate I could see foxgloves; the poison its leaves contain is used in countless medicines for good, but in overdose is highly toxic.

  There was a similar balance between Nan the peacemaker and Nan the man who years ago murdered his wife. How much demand did he still have for his ointments and pills, I wondered. Did the village still make its way to him for potions as they had done to his mother? Some would perhaps, I thought, but most would not. His skills were of another age and the knowledge he had inherited would die out.

  The more I looked at Puddledock Cottage, the less I could see Nan being willing to leave it. I’d looked up his trial with some difficulty, as Nantucket turned out to be his middle name and John his first forename. From the report it seemed a familiar scenario of his having discovered that his wife had a lover, but murder is murder. Nevertheless, that of Hugh Compton could have been committed in the passion of the moment when Nan had learned that he was going to be turned out of his cottage. That would fit with the hoax murder in the barn, if Nan had discovered where Hugh was hiding and had only just learned of his plans for Puddledock Cottage. Relief followed when I realized it was hardly likely that Nan could have killed Hugh at the chalet and then conveyed him to the pond right near his home. Why would he?

  Then an unwelcome thought came to me and would not be dislodged. Hugh did not remain marooned in his chalet for all that time. He would have emerged at safe periods for exercise on the Compton estate,
as he had done on the Friday night when he returned to the manor for a discussion. Perhaps he had done so overnight on Saturday or early on the Sunday morning, when no one would be around – except possibly Nan, who lived on the estate and might have run into him by design or chance.

  I wrestled with this, but the possibility would not remove itself from my mind. It was no use. I had to square up to knocking on that door.

  Before I could do so, however, it was wrenched open from within and I automatically sprang backwards to a shouted series of unrepeatable oaths. The feminine voice’s only faintly recognizable message was: ‘Lemmego!’

  A pair of whirling, kicking boots (female) came out almost horizontally on the end of leather-clad legs followed by a body and familiar face squashed in and peering out from a mass of leather jacket and scarf.

  ‘Pen?’ I asked incredulously.

  A second later, I realized that Nan was behind this ignominious exit and was suspending her flying figure solely by his grasp on the back of the ancient bomber jacket she favours.

  I stood aside while he released his hold and the boots scrabbled for the security of the brick path. I then had to wait while she went through her entire repertoire of oaths and threats, while Nan stood there unmoved and in silence. When he had had enough, he went back inside and shut the door on us both.

  ‘Good morning, Pen,’ I said politely.

  A snarl. ‘Do you know what that – said to me?’

  ‘I can guess. Many of your victims would feel the same way.’

  ‘He’s a – criminal. I’ll have him for assault.’

  ‘From what I could see he wasn’t touching you, only your jacket.’

  ‘Yeah, and that’s another thing. Ruined it he has. Heard it rip. He did it, Jack. He did for that Compton guy. What say we go for it?’ she asked eagerly.

  ‘I’d rather be sure he’s guilty first.’

  ‘I’ll make sure he is,’ she assured me.

  ‘Pen!’ I warned her.

  She had the grace to look discomfited. ‘OK. But if he did do it, he’s mine, Jack.’

  ‘What did you say to upset him?’