Where there was a village church, a pub was never far away. In this case, the Golden Pheasant lay immediately opposite and its door was open for business. The Colonel crossed the road and went inside.
Like the church, and unlike the Dog and Duck at Frog End, he saw to his relief that the inside had not been spoiled. The oak beams had been left intact, flagstones still covered the floor, the original bar counter had survived and the inglenook fireplace had a proper grate for real log fires, not imitation flames. But there was nothing shabby or neglected about the place. Everything was clean and brightly polished and the greeting from mine host behind the bar was all it should be. He was a young man who clearly knew his job and took a pride in it.
‘Good morning, sir. What can I get you?’
They discussed the merits of the ales offered straight from the barrel and he settled on half a pint of a highly-recommended local brew. He was just lifting the mug, when another customer standing at the bar, approached.
‘You must be Cornelia’s Colonel.’
He put down the mug to shake the hand thrust out to him. ‘I believe that’s my description.’
‘I’m Crispin Fellows. My wife, Susie, and I are old friends of the Heathcotes. I was at Harrow with Howard and we were both at Sandroyd before that, so we go back a pretty long way.’
‘I’m afraid I’ve never met Howard.’
‘I was best man at his first wedding – the one before Cornelia – and he was best man at my first.’ He grinned. ‘I’m on my third wife now – and, I hope, my last. What’s your connection with Cornelia, old chap?’
Smooth was the word that best described him, the Colonel thought. Smooth hair, smoothly dressed in a Vyella check shirt, Harris tweed jacket and corduroy trousers. The male version of the village uniform. Not much would ruffle him. Certainly not the discovery of an inconvenient skeleton in his barn. The builders would have been told to cover it up again and get on with the job.
He said, ‘She was a great friend of my late wife. I’m glad to be of any help I can.’
‘She’s not very good at managing things on her own, our Cornelia. Gorgeous woman, but totally impractical. She drives Howard crazy sometimes. And, of course, she’s completely besotted by that son of hers. I don’t know what’s going to happen when Rory finally buggers off. She’ll be lost without him. Personally, I think it was a mistake to set up camp out in the sticks, but Howard wanted to have some land so he could play at shooting. Lousy shot, but never mind. I told him about the farm when they were staying with us. The old woman who owned it had just died and it had come up for sale. He spent a small fortune on the new house.’
‘A well-known Danish architect, I believe.’
‘Those sort of people charge the earth. Personally, I can’t stand all that modern stuff, but Howard and Cornelia seem to like it.’
‘Did they often stay with you?’
‘Fairly often. My wife, Susie, likes having people at weekends and I go with the flow, as it were. I took early retirement from my firm in the City. Absolutely pointless to give myself ulcers when I’d made more than enough to see us out in considerable comfort. We bought a jolly nice house here with stables and a fair acreage. I hunt and shoot and fish to my heart’s content. I’m a happy man, Colonel.’
Why, he wondered, had Cornelia not told Inspector Rodgers that she and Howard knew King’s Mowbray quite well? That they had stayed with the Fellows fairly often – not just once?
He said, ‘I gather the woman who owned the farm was something of a recluse.’
‘That’s an understatement. Old Mother Holland never set foot outside the door for years. The place was a total tip. It was rather a shame that things finished up like that. The Hollands had farmed the place for generations – father to son, and all that. Then a father and son both died within a year of each other and the grandson inherited at nineteen and made an utter balls-up of running it. In the end, he was killed when his tractor overturned – easy thing to happen if you’re careless. After that, only the old girl was left and she’d lost the plot completely, poor soul. When’s Howard due back, by the way?’
‘Not for a while. Apparently, he has to go to Singapore and then on to Sydney.’
‘Ah. Well, I don’t blame him for staying out of it. Police snooping around, asking us all damn silly questions. They don’t seem to have a clue whose body it was, do they?’
‘I haven’t heard any news.’
‘They seem to think that somebody bashed whoever it was over the head. But it’s quite obviously nothing to do with the Heathcotes, so Cornelia can stop panicking. They’d never been near the place until they bought the farm and, according to the papers, the corpse had been in the barn for four or five years.’
‘I wonder if the dead woman could have been local?’
‘Hardly. We’re all highly respectable residents here,’ Crispin Fellows said drily. ‘Nothing disturbing is allowed to happen without our unanimous consent and approval. She must have been an outsider.’
Outsider was an interesting word to use, the Colonel thought. Stranger had an altogether different meaning. A stranger was an unknown person, whereas an outsider could be known but not belong.
He said, ‘I live in a village myself. Not much passes unnoticed there either.’
‘Do you have a decent pub?’
‘It’s been rather spoiled, unfortunately. Done over and overdone, if you understand me.’
‘Only too well, old chap. Hideous carpeting, no draught beer, microwaved food, piped music, quiz nights . . . it’s happening all over the country. We’re bloody lucky with our present landlord. When the previous one sold up a couple of years back we thought it would be all-change for the worse but everything Kevin’s done has been for the better. The place rather needed a new broom – it was time poor old Roy retired. His health was on the skids and he couldn’t cope any more. His wife, Maureen, had some sort of chronic kidney trouble. She was pretty much an invalid, in fact. They retired to Poole and he died soon after, I believe. Hell of a job, running a pub. I wouldn’t do it for anything, would you?’ Crispin Fellows drained his glass. ‘I ought to be getting back. Lunch calls. You must come and have a bite with us if you’re going to be around for a while, Colonel. Susie’s a hell of a good cook.’
The Colonel ordered another half of the excellent local brew. The young landlord had been replaced at the bar by a plump, middle-aged woman who was equally competent. A motherly type with permed hair and sensible clothes. He watched her fill the glass with a deft precision that must have come from long practice.
‘There you are, sir.’
The mug was set in front of him without a drop being spilled.
She went away and busied herself polishing glasses for a moment before returning.
‘I couldn’t help hearing you and Mr Fellows talking about that skeleton found in Mr and Mrs Heathcote’s barn, sir. What a thing to happen! It gave me the creeps when I heard about it. I’ve only just come back from a week’s holiday, so I missed the police coming round. Not that I could’ve told them anything. I’ve worked at the Golden Pheasant for nearly twelve years and we’ve never had anything like this in the village. It’s a very quiet place. Very quiet indeed.’
No village was that quiet, the Colonel reminded himself. Beneath the mill pond surface there was always a hidden and seething maelstrom of emotions and longings and secrets.
‘Rather a shock for everyone,’ he said sympathetically.
‘The police don’t know who she was, do they?’
‘No, I don’t believe there has been an identification, as yet.’
‘Four or five years ago . . . that’s when they think it happened, isn’t that so? I read it in the local newspaper.’ She gave the spotless counter an unnecessary wipe. ‘When I heard Mr Fellows saying to you that the skeleton must have belonged to an outsider, I just wondered to myself why nobody’s thought of Gunilla? Why she’s never been mentioned? Not by anyone.’
‘Gunilla?’
>
‘The Swedish girl who came to work in the pub a few years ago. She was here for several months. She’d come over to learn English and Mr Barton, the landlord then, employed her as a waitress – serving the bar snacks and waiting at tables in the dining room. She helped behind the bar, too, sometimes but she wasn’t much use at that. The only thing she was good at was flirting with the gentlemen customers. She did that a lot and, of course, they all lapped it up, being what they are.’
He smiled to himself. As with valets, few men were heroes to barmaids. ‘Was she pretty?’
‘Beautiful, more like. Tall, slim, very long blond hair, blue eyes, and ever such white teeth. But she was bone lazy and, in the end, Mr Barton gave her the sack and told her to get out. She packed her suitcase and left.’
‘Did she live in the pub?’
‘That’s right. There’s a room up in the attics. It’s a very nice room with a lovely view. She was lucky to have it.’
‘Where did she go when she left?’
‘Back to Sweden, as far as I know. Of course, she might have gone to London. She always said being in the country bored her.’
He said, ‘Can you remember when this happened?’
She frowned, thinking. ‘It would have been in October. I know that because we’d started lighting the fire. She was supposed to keep putting the logs on but she’d forget and let it go out. It was the final straw for Mr Barton.’
‘Which October would this have been?’
‘Well, my grandson was born that same month, and he’s four years and seven months now. So, it will be five years ago this coming October.’
Five years.
‘Did she say goodbye to you?’
‘No. I was off work the day she went – helping my daughter with the new baby.’
‘Do you happen to know how she left? By bus? In a taxi?’
‘There’re no buses going through King’s Mowbray, sir. Everybody’s got cars – or bikes, if you’re like me.’
‘It’s a long walk to anywhere, carrying a suitcase.’
‘Maybe she got a lift. Or phoned for a taxi. You can do that, though it costs a bit.’
‘What was her surname?’
‘Gunilla Bjork. She told me she came from a place called Uppsala. I don’t know exactly where that is.’
‘How old would she have been?’
The barmaid shrugged. ‘About eighteen or nineteen, I suppose. Perhaps a bit older. Hard to say with a girl like that. Always made-up to the eyes. Mind you, the hair was real enough.’ She stared at the Colonel, looking upset. ‘It could be Gunilla, couldn’t it, sir? It’s possible.’
He said, ‘I’ve no idea, but if the police don’t know about her, they ought to be informed at once.’
SEVEN
The Colonel telephoned Detective Chief Inspector Rodgers as soon as he returned to the house. He relayed his conversation with the barmaid at the Golden Pheasant, whose name, he had learned, was Betty Turner. The inspector, it transpired, knew nothing whatever of Gunilla Bjork. Not one of the villagers interviewed by the police had mentioned her.
‘Rather odd, Inspector?’
‘Not really, Colonel. People forget what happened last week, let alone four or five years ago. And if she was a Swedish bombshell then most of the men would deny remembering her at all. We’ll have a word with Mrs Turner. Perhaps she can throw more light on the girl. And the previous landlord and his wife should be able to tell us something.’
‘Apparently, they retired to live in Poole and he’s died since. His wife’s still alive but I gather she’s in poor health.’
‘Well, so long as she’s breathing, she’ll have some information of some kind. Thank you for your help, Colonel.’
Cornelia had come in from the terrace and sat down on a sofa. ‘What was all that about, Hugh?’
‘I’ve just been speaking to Detective Chief Inspector Rodgers.’
‘What about? You’re looking very grim, whatever it was.’
‘I stopped at the Golden Pheasant on my way back from the village. The barmaid told me that there was a Swedish girl who worked there for a while about five years ago – just around the time the dead woman would have been buried in the barn.’
‘I’d sooner not talk about it, Hugh. If you don’t mind.’
‘The thing is that nobody in the village has mentioned this girl to the police. Nobody. Don’t you think that’s rather strange?’
Cornelia echoed DCI Rodgers. ‘Not specially.’
He was standing behind the sofa where she was sitting. She had picked up a copy of The Field and was engrossed in an article devoted to magnificently engraved and extremely expensive guns. As far as he was aware, Cornelia had never touched a firearm in her life and had no interest whatsoever in shooting.
He said, ‘I also met Crispin Fellows in the bar.’
‘He’s a permanent fixture.’
‘He said that he was the one who told you about this place being for sale.’
‘Yes, I already told the inspector that. We happened to be staying with the Fellows.’
‘In fact, he says that you stayed with them quite often – not just once. Is that so?’
‘You’re beginning to sound like the inspector, Hugh. We may have stayed a few times . . . I really don’t know how many.’
‘And I expect you went to the Golden Pheasant with the Fellows?’
‘Once or twice. I’m not very keen on pubs, myself, and I hate beer. Howard loves it, though. He always raves about the local brew they serve there.’
‘So, you might have seen the Swedish girl – when she was working there?’
‘I can’t say that I remember her.’
‘She was very striking, apparently. Blond hair, blue eyes, tall.’
‘Well, all Swedes are, aren’t they?’
He persisted, ‘It’s rather unusual to find one working in an English village pub in the middle of nowhere. Are you sure you can’t remember her, Cornelia?’
She said firmly, ‘No, I don’t remember noticing any Swedish girl at all.’
She was lying, he knew, but it could be for a number of innocent reasons, the most likely being that Howard, like the other men at the bar, had noticed Gunilla Bjork too much.
He said, ‘Did Rory ever stay at the Fellows’ with you?’
She lifted her head sharply. ‘Rory has got nothing whatever to do with all this.’
‘No, of course not. But did he?’
‘He was away at Harrow.’
‘Did he stay there in the school holidays perhaps?’
‘He might have done once – I really can’t remember.’
Another lie, he thought. She would remember everything about her beloved son.
‘Does he know about the skeleton?’
‘Of course he doesn’t.’
‘I thought perhaps you might have mentioned it in a letter? Sent him a news cutting?’
‘Certainly not. He’s got important exams coming up. I don’t want him worried.’
She was like a lioness protecting her cub. Though the cub, he thought, was much more likely to be intrigued than worried. A skeleton discovered in the family barn would be considered pretty ‘cool’ by teenage standards. He did some mental arithmetic. Rory would be eighteen in August. When Gunilla had been murdered, he would have been thirteen. Surely far too young to have been of any interest to her?
She had done her flirting with the customers at the bar – the older men.
Cornelia had abandoned the pretence of the magazine and was looking up at him anxiously.
‘You will stay longer, Hugh, won’t you? Diego will see to all your laundry and get you anything you need.’
To be honest with himself, he was intrigued by the mystery, as well as mindful of his duty to Laura’s old friend.
‘Yes, of course.’
On Sunday, the Colonel escorted an unwilling Cornelia to Matins at the church.
‘Everyone will stare at me.’
‘All the more r
eason to put in an appearance. If you don’t, they may think you’ve got something to hide.’
‘How could I have? It’s ridiculous.’
The service was well attended and the congregation had taken care to dress for their part. Formal clothing rather than the country casual, with suits and old school ties, frocks, a sprinkling of hats and even gloves. It was a remarkable change from the modern ‘anything goes’ church wear of jeans, sandals and T-shirts.
They waded through the Te Deum and the Benedictus, confessed their sins, listened to the lessons, recited the Creed, prayed for the Queen and the Royal Family, and sang the hymns, including one of his favourites: Judge eternal, throned in splendour, Lord of Lords and King of Kings.
None of it meant much to him any more – not since Laura’s terrible suffering and death. He sang or spoke the words when required, knelt down, stood up and sat down, all automatically. The rector looked a decent old chap, creaking his way up the pulpit stairs, but his sermon was uninspiring from its opening sentence. The Colonel’s mind drifted away.
He thought about Gunilla Bjork. If she had been the blond bombshell, so-described by the inspector, she could have stirred up considerable trouble in the village. As Betty Turner had observed, the men in the Golden Pheasant had all had their tongues hanging out, and the barmaid had spoken of the girl as more than merely pretty: she had been beautiful, a word not so widely used. He had never been to Sweden and only encountered a few Swedish people. He knew almost nothing about them beyond saunas and smorgasbord, meatballs, dark forests, Volvos and Ikea, and, of course, au pairs who were frequently the subject of elbow-nudging jokes. Uppsala, he was aware, was a large university city, not far from Stockholm. For all he knew, Gunilla Bjork had returned there safely and was, by now, happily married with a brood of blond children. But, somehow, he didn’t think so.
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