‘Who else had a motive?’
‘Well, let me see. I’m pretty sure Edward fancied his chances in the hayloft, but I don’t know if he ever actually got up there. Maybe he did and Gunilla threatened to tell his wife, Sonia. Or maybe she found out, anyway, and got in a jealous rage. You don’t tangle with Sonia, if you can help it. Or Alice might have done the deed because Vera fancied Gunilla, or perhaps Gunilla led Vera up the garden path like Jumbo and then dumped her. The possibilities and permutations are endless. Even our worthy rector might have entertained sinful and lustful thoughts beneath his surplice – though that one’s pretty unlikely, I must admit. As a matter of fact, Cornelia had a double motive.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, Howard’s the obvious motive, of course. He certainly had the hots for Gunilla – nothing unusual in that. But Gunilla tried it on with Cornelia’s precious Rory when they were staying with us. He was only a kid and I don’t think anything much happened, but there was an almighty row. Howard went berserk and Cornelia was frantic. She felt her son had been besmirched for ever. I bet he enjoyed it, though.’ Crispin Fellows puffed at his cigar. ‘I’m sure I could scare up some more suspects, if you like.’
‘How about Miss Simmons?’
‘Dame Slap? Can’t quite see a motive there, unless she simply thought Gunilla needed eliminating like one of her garden weeds. Or maybe she had a guilty secret from her past that Gunilla had somehow found out about? Abusing a pupil, say . . . that makes for a very juicy scandal these days. The newspapers love that sort of thing and so do their readers. Gunilla was always pretending and teasing, like I told you. Playing cat and mouse with people. To be perfectly honest, she bloody well asked for what she got.’
The estate agent, Mr Willoughby, had voiced the same view. So had Cornelia, come to that, and so had Susie Fellows. The Colonel guessed that most people would think it, though they might not actually say so.
He said, ‘I gather that the former landlord of the Golden Pheasant eventually gave her the sack.’
‘Roy was a cretin to have hired her in the first place. She brought the customers in all right but she never did a stroke of work.’
‘So, nobody was very surprised when she disappeared from the village?’
‘No. We all assumed she’d gone off to the bright lights of London, or back to Sweden.’
‘Except one person.’
‘Well, yes . . . The one who did her in. Why the interest, anyway, Colonel?’
‘I’m just curious.’
‘Be careful. Curiosity killed the cat.’
Driving back, he thought about a particular cat – the battle-scarred, black and tan old stray who had condescended to move into Pond Cottage and live with him. It wouldn’t do to leave Thursday on his own much longer or he might decide to cancel their arrangement and move out, which would be a great pity. The Colonel had grown accustomed to having him around. As soon as the Swiss couple arrived, he’d leave Cornelia in their, no doubt, very capable hands and head for home.
Later, in bed and waiting for sleep, he thought again about Gunilla Bjork. Whatever her character and shortcomings, she had not deserved to die: to have her young life brutally cut short. Crispin Fellows had been right that almost anyone in King’s Mowbray might have done it and Detective Chief Inspector Rodgers was going to find it very difficult to track down the culprit. The trail was too old and too cold, as he’d said himself. Added to that, the inspector’s heart would not be in the search: he was too much in love with Iris, the goddess of the rainbow.
The Colonel went through some suspects in his mind: Alice at the shop, Vera herself, the Brigadier humiliated by his failure, his stoutly-built wife, Phyllis, who looked more than capable of wielding any weapon, the brewer, Edward Maplin, or his wife, Sonia, who was not to be tangled with. Howard Heathcote, Cornelia, a thirteen-year-old Rory . . . and heaven knew how many others in the village. Crispin Fellows could well have lied about Gunilla not being his type which meant that Susie Fellows would also have had a good reason to be jealous. Ester Simmons would have been on his list of non-runners, together with the rector and Old Matt, but the offhand suggestion of some guilty secret in her past had made him think again. Pupil abuse in a sexual form seemed a ludicrous idea, but perhaps she had administered the cane unnecessarily hard and gone beyond the acceptable boundaries of discipline, even for those Dame Slap schooldays? My secret? What do you mean? She had snapped out the words at him. He had meant her secret for growing clematis, but she had reacted oddly. The modern trend was for grown-up people to reveal any childhood abuse – real or imagined – and their stories were gleefully reported in the newspapers. No, Ester Simmons could not be ruled out, after all.
There was no shortage of potential murderers, the Colonel thought to himself. Only a shortage of evidence.
ELEVEN
‘Rory phoned me from Harrow while you were out playing bridge,’ Cornelia said at breakfast. ‘He’s got an exeat this weekend and he’s coming home tomorrow for a night.’
‘You don’t look very happy about it.’
She was fiddling with her coffee cup, twisting the handle to and fro.
‘I’m worried, Hugh. Someone told him about the skeleton – they’d read about it in the papers – and he seems to think it’s a big joke. He wants to see what he calls the “scene of the crime”.’
‘Boys can be very gruesome.’
‘It will be lovely to have him, of course, but, to be honest, I’d much sooner he didn’t come here at the moment. I don’t want him mixed up in this sordid business.’
‘There’s no reason why he should be – is there?’
‘No . . . It’s nothing whatever to do with him. The whole thing’s just so unpleasant.’ More twisting the cup handle. ‘I wish to heavens the police would go away and leave us in peace. That awful tape is still up. I can’t think why.’
‘I’ll phone the Chief Inspector and ask if he can do something about it, if you like.’
‘Thank you, Hugh. You’re such a comfort.’
‘More coffee?’
‘Just a drop.’
When he had poured the coffee, he said, ‘Rory was thirteen when Gunilla Bjork was working at the Golden Pheasant. That’s a very impressionable age. I wonder if she tried to impress him – when you were staying with the Fellows?’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘Targeting a good-looking thirteen-year-old boy would have been an amusing diversion – a change from all the older men slavering after her. That’s what I mean, Cornelia.’
She covered her eyes with her hand and he waited until she took it away.
‘If you must know, Hugh, that bitch did try to get her claws into Rory. Luckily, we found out and stopped it at once. I could have killed her for contaminating my son . . . I don’t mean that literally, of course.’
‘How did you find out?’
‘Howard caught her with him in the garden at the back of the Golden Pheasant. There’s a brook there and Howard and Crispin took Rory with them one evening so he could fish while they were drinking in the pub. When Howard went to fetch him, he found Gunilla lying with him on the bank and she was kissing him. Thank God, it wasn’t worse! Howard was absolutely livid. I’ve never seen him so angry. He told Gunilla if she ever laid a finger on Rory again, he’d make sure that she was thrown out of the country.’
‘So Rory never went to the barn to meet her?’
‘He didn’t know anything about the barn, Hugh. How on earth could he? He was only in King’s Mowbray once or twice when we stayed with Susie and Crispin.’
‘You don’t think Gunilla might have suggested it to him when they were lying on the bank together?’
‘Even if she did, Rory would never have had the opportunity. After that episode, he was with us all the time. We made sure of that.’
He said slowly, ‘Did you know about the barn, Cornelia? Did you know that Gunilla was in the habit of daring her lovers to climb the ladder into the hayloft in order
to claim her? That she pretended to be Rapunzel in the fairy tale? Letting her hair hang over the side?’
‘I most certainly did not. What a tramp she was! And she must have been mad, too.’ She shivered and rubbed her arms. ‘This house gives me the absolute creeps now. I can’t think how I ever liked it. Howard’s right, the sooner we get rid of it, the better.’
Rory turned up the following afternoon. He had been given a lift from Harrow by the family of one of his school friends. The Colonel observed his arrival with interest – Cornelia fawning on her son, his impatient response, his studiedly casual wave of thanks to the friend and family as they drove off in their green Bentley. The Colonel realized that the tall and good-looking Rory was, unfortunately, his father’s son.
He was deputed by Cornelia to give a guided tour of the scene of the crime.
‘You don’t mind, do you, Hugh? I really couldn’t bear to go anywhere near the place.’
‘Not at all.’
He conducted the young man over to the barn, police tape still gratifyingly in place, and showed him the shallow grave where Gunilla Bjork’s body had lain undisturbed for nearly five years.
‘Wow! Awesome!’
He had found it quite awesome himself.
‘It’s upset your mother a lot. I shouldn’t talk about it too much, if I were you.’
‘I don’t know why she’d care. She hated Gunilla.’
‘Did she really?’
‘Loathed her. I think Dad rather fancied her, that’s why.’
‘Do you remember Gunilla yourself?’
‘Oh, absolutely! She was working at the pub when we stayed in King’s Mowbray with the Fellows.’
‘What did you think of her?’
The young man ran a hand through his forelock. ‘Well, she was frightfully attractive . . . lots of long blond hair and fantastic boobs. I remember her jumping me once. She came up behind me on the bank where I was fishing at the back of the pub and the next thing I knew her tongue was down my throat and her hand down my jeans. I was only about thirteen and Dad came out and found us. He kicked up a hell of a stink. So did Ma. But I thought it was fantastic, I can tell you. First time anything like that had happened to me.’
‘Did Gunilla ever ask you to meet her here, in the barn?’
‘No, worse luck. I’d have gone like a shot, if she had. We were only there for the weekend and I went straight back to Harrow.’
‘You didn’t meet her again?’
Rory shook his head. ‘She wasn’t working at the pub any more the next time we stayed with the Fellows. She’d left the village – or at least everybody thought she had.’ He stared, fascinated, at the hollow in the earth. ‘I say, you saw her, didn’t you? When they’d found her. What did she look like?’
‘Just dry bones,’ he said. ‘That’s all.’
‘Awesome!’
The visit to the barn was clearly the high spot of the weekend for Rory. The Colonel watched and listened with sympathy to Cornelia’s attempts to entertain and amuse her son while he went on looking bored. He volunteered to play a few sets of tennis with the young man, being careful to lose. Winning, he knew, would not have been a good idea.
Over dinner at the Golden Pheasant, Cornelia brought up the subject of the eighteenth birthday dance.
‘I’ve got everything planned,’ she told her son. ‘The caterers, the flowers, the jazz band . . . everything. With luck, the police will have finished soon, won’t they, Hugh? Then the builders will be back to do the barn floor and it will all be ready in time. I thought a steel band might be rather fun to have as well.’
‘Steel bands are history, Ma.’
‘Oh. I didn’t realize that.’
Rory said, ‘Actually, I was thinking that it might be rather cool to do something in London instead. Go down the Thames on a boat, maybe, or take over the Zoo. Make it a bit different, you know.’
On Sunday, the Colonel drove Cornelia’s son to the station to catch the train back to London. They bowled merrily along the lanes.
‘Dad’s going to buy me a Porsche for my eighteenth.’
‘Is he really? That’s a wonderful present.’
‘Yeah . . .’
The Colonel smiled to himself. He could tell that Rory wasn’t at all sure what to make of the old Riley – whether it was awesomely cool or simply pathetic.
Detective Chief Inspector Rodgers was at his desk when the Colonel telephoned on Monday morning about the scene-of-the-crime tape. He sounded in an affable mood.
‘I’ll send someone to remove it. Not much point in leaving it there any longer. We’ve gone over the place with a fine toothcomb.’
‘No further news on the case?’
‘Nothing to speak of. The landlord’s wife, Mrs Barton, is in hospital, in Poole General. Apparently, she’s been stuck in there for months. I sent Sergeant Collins off to have a chat with her, but it was a waste of time. Her kidneys have packed up completely and she’s too ill to answer questions. Collins said she wouldn’t even open her eyes.’
It reminded the Colonel of Naomi’s visit to his own sick bed, armed with the chicken soup, and of himself taking refuge in the same way.
‘That’s unfortunate. She might have been able to shed some useful light on the case.’
‘I doubt it. As I said before, most people can’t remember what happened last week.’
‘But she would have known Gunilla Bjork rather well. Seen her in action, as it were.’
‘So would most of the village. I’ve already got a bloody good idea of what made that girl tick and I don’t think a sick old lady would be able to add much to the general picture.’
‘Perhaps her husband could have done?’
‘Well, we’ll never know that, will we? Dead men can’t talk.’
That was indisputable.
‘Will you keep Mrs Heathcote posted?’
‘If there’s anything to post.’
‘You’re not optimistic?’
‘No, Colonel, I’m not. I’m realistic. The reality is that we’re not very likely to solve this particular case. The file will probably end up gathering dust on a shelf with all the rest.’
After he had replaced the receiver, the Colonel strolled over to the barn, ducked under the police tape and went inside. He had no idea what he was searching for. There were certainly no clues to be seen. The barn was bare, except for the old wooden ladder reaching up to the hayloft. He gripped its sides with both hands and looked up the rungs. Thirty feet at least, he reckoned, and at a near vertical angle. No wonder the Brigadier had failed the test. It was tough enough to test the nerve of all but the young and fit. A classic challenge for an aspiring and hot-blooded lover, with the reward beckoning tantalizingly at the top.
He thought again of the story of Rapunzel and her valiant prince climbing up the plait of golden hair to the top of the tall tower and of his fall into the thornbushes to be blinded. Gunilla’s suitors had been luckier. They had survived their trial unscathed. But supposing there had been a twist to the modern version of the fairy tale? Supposing Gunilla herself had fallen? Or been pushed? He picked up a large chunk of flint stone from the barn floor, tested its weight and felt its sharpness.
TWELVE
As usual, the Colonel walked down to the village for his newspaper, encountering a woman walking her black Labrador dog. He recognized her as the one who had given him directions when he had first driven into King’s Mowbray. She also recognized him and stopped to talk.
‘I’m Sonia Maplin,’ she said. ‘I believe you played bridge with my husband.’
She was certainly easier on the eye than the Brigadier’s wife, and a good deal younger. Not a paid-up member of the coven, he decided.
Her style was different.
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘I hear you’re rather good, Colonel.’
He smiled. ‘I’ve put in plenty of practice over the years.’
‘It’s a very good game, isn’t it? I play once a week with a re
gular women’s four and whenever else I get the chance. I never get bored of it, do you?’
‘Not so far.’
‘Every hand’s different – that’s the joy. Always a challenge, don’t you find?’
‘Very much so.’
‘Rory was home over the weekend, wasn’t he?’
How on earth had she known? Simple, though, when he thought about it: she was always out walking the dog. A one-woman reconnaissance patrol.
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘How is he?’
‘He seemed to be very well.’
‘Growing up fast, I imagine. Not too much like his father, I hope. And Cornelia?’
‘She’s well, too.’
‘I’d call, but we’ve never been close. Edward and I objected to the original farmhouse being knocked down and to that hideous place they had built instead. It should never have been allowed, but there you are. My husband’s family have lived in King’s Mowbray for a hundred and fifty years, and everything’s changed in the last twenty.’
‘It happens everywhere, I’m afraid.’
‘Rather ironical that the Swedish girl should have been found in the Heathcotes’ barn.’
‘Ironical?’
‘A sort of comeuppance, I thought, for the way they steamrollered the old farmhouse. And I wasn’t sorry to hear that that girl had got her just desserts either. She richly deserved it.’
It was amazing how openly vindictive perfectly pleasant-seeming people could be. He’d noticed it many times.
‘She seems to have upset a lot of people.’
‘She did, Colonel. But we won’t go in to all that. Let’s just say, nobody’s shedding any tears for Gunilla Bjork.’
The Labrador, who had been waiting patiently, started to tug at his lead and, with a wave of her hand, Sonia Maplin strode on down the lane.
The coven was assembled in the village shop – the same four women, picking over the latest rumours, ash-blond heads together.
‘I’m not a bit surprised it turned out to be that Swedish girl,’ one said. ‘She was bound to come to a bad end, sooner or later.’
There was unanimous agreement.
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