by Fay Sampson
‘Yes,’ Nick agreed. ‘I took a photo of it for you. So?’
‘Well, the odd thing was that I’ve never been able to find a record of Charlotte’s death and burial, even though her name was on that grave. I found Richard’s, but not hers. I hunted through the St Nectan burial register, and tried the GRO death registrations, and Charlotte Day didn’t show up. I’ve just discovered why.’ She paused for dramatic effect.
Millie perched on the edge of a chair and brushed back her blonde hair. Tom had appeared behind her, still spruced up for wherever his evening had taken him.
‘Shoot,’ he said, with that affectionate smile in his blue eyes, so like his father’s.
‘I’ve just checked out the 1911 census. I’d done it for my grandparents and great-grandparents, but I’d forgotten Charlotte would still be alive then. And guess what? She’s there, but she’s not Charlotte Day.’
Nick frowned. ‘You’re not making sense, love.’
‘She’s in that census, but she’s down as Charlotte Churchward. She must have remarried in her seventies, after Richard died. Yet her name’s still carved on that tombstone as Charlotte Day.’
‘Slow down, Mum,’ Millie said. ‘How do you know it’s the same woman, if the other name’s on the grave?’
‘The census gives her age, which is the same as Charlotte Day’s. She’s living only a few streets away from where Richard and Charlotte lived in the 1901 census. And she was born in Moortown, just like Charlotte Day. Moortown’s only a small place. It’s thirty miles away from St Nectan, in the middle of the county. How many Charlottes are there going to be, born in Moortown in the same year and moving to end their days in St Nectan, also in the same year? And once I’d got her new name, I found her marriage record easily. Charlotte Day, widow, to Stanley Churchward, widower.’
‘I think I’m with you.’ A slow smile spread over Tom’s face, ending in a burst of laughter. ‘You mean, that grand tombstone was put up by Richard and Charlotte’s children, and they disapproved of their mum taking off in her seventies and shacking up with this Churchward guy. So they carve her name on their father’s headstone with his surname … well, their surname. They want to cut this Churchward marriage out of the record. I like it!’
Millie swung her long legs. ‘So great-great-granny shocked the children by having a last fling with her geriatric boyfriend.’
Suzie coloured. ‘Well, something like that. Mind you, it probably wasn’t as romantic as all that. I expect Stanley Churchward just wanted someone to cook his dinner and darn his socks.’
Millie tapped her fingers on the patio table. Her grey eyes were thoughtful. ‘It just shows. That gravestone. You can’t always believe the evidence in front of you, can you?’
Suzie had been glowing with the excitement of an unexpected discovery. But Millie’s words placed a cold hand over her heart she could not explain.
She walked slowly back to the study.
That scene in the woods this afternoon had been disturbing, but she knew next to nothing about the people concerned. Did she have the right to meddle with the Caseleys’ lives?
She had not understood as much as she thought she did about Charlotte Day when she had stood by her tombstone two years ago.
Then she thought of that murder committed in the house next door to the Days. Could Richard and Charlotte have done anything to prevent it? Could she keep silent about what she had seen today, even if she had got it wrong?
In a moment of swift decision, she picked up her shoulder bag, took out her phone and dialled 101, the police non-emergency number.
‘It’s … Look, I know it doesn’t sound much. But it’s something I think you ought to know. We were up in Saddlers Wood outside Moortown this afternoon. We were on our way to Saddlers Wood Barton when we heard a gunshot. And then the farmer, Philip Caseley, came out of the trees. He was carrying a shotgun, but it wasn’t broken over his arm. He must just have fired it. He looked … well, distraught. And when we went on up to the farm, his wife came out of the house looking really frightened … Yes, I know. It sounds a bit lame … Yes, I do realize you couldn’t do anything about it without more to go on … Well, maybe there is an innocent explanation, but you needed to have been there. Something had scared her. I wouldn’t want to think – if anything happened – that I hadn’t said anything … Yes, thank you. Yes, if one of your officers happened to be passing, maybe to talk about farm security? I’d just feel happier.’
She ended the call and put the phone down. She was left with a feeling of anticlimax. The sergeant she had talked to had not been unsympathetic, but she had hardly needed him to tell her that a scared expression on a woman’s face was hardly evidence enough to act on. No crime had been committed, or none that they had witnessed.
She turned back to the desk. The three printouts about Maud Locke’s murder lay beside the computer. That first excitement of discovery had faded. Soberly, she put them back in her file.
FOUR
The evening sun fell warmly on the garden between the shadows of the trees.
‘I was thinking of making this bank into a rock garden with a waterfall. What do you think?’ Nick appealed to Suzie.
‘You’ve a better eye for garden design than I have. It sounds lovely.’
‘Mum! Dad!’ Millie’s voice shrilled from the conservatory windows.
Nick and Suzie looked at each other in sudden alarm. Nick went loping across the lawn. Suzie hurried after him.
‘Where’s the fire?’ Nick called.
‘It’s the telly. Local news.’ Millie’s usually pale face blazed with excitement. ‘He’s shot her.’
‘Who? Shot whom?’
Millie motioned wordlessly at the screen.
A reporter was talking to camera, in front of a scene that struck Suzie as vaguely familiar, a backdrop of woods climbing the hill behind him. Now police tape barred the track, but beyond it she could glimpse a whitewashed farmhouse and the patchy white and red of a dilapidated barn.
‘Saddlers Wood Barton!’ she breathed. ‘No!’
‘… The shocking find was discovered by a delivery van driver. The police will only say that a forty-five-year-old man is in custody, helping them with their enquiries. But local people believe it to be the dead woman’s husband, Philip Caseley. As you can see, Thelma, this is a remote spot. There are unlikely to be witnesses. But a police forensics team are examining the scene of the killing as I speak. My information, unofficially, is that Mrs Caseley was shot in the chest, but the police have not confirmed that. Inspector Tony Battershill will be making a statement to the press later this evening. This is Roger Thorverton for “Evening Southwest”.’
‘Dear God! That poor woman!’ Suzie whispered.
‘It’s her, isn’t it?’ Millie said as the cameras returned to the studio. ‘That woman we met. The one who gave us tea – what? – three days ago? And now she’s dead. And we met the murderer. He even had the gun.’
‘They’ve taken him in for questioning. We don’t even know if they’ve arrested him, still less charged him with murdering her.’
‘Come on, Suzie! You were the one who wanted to report it to the police,’ Nick protested.
‘I did report it.’ Suzie’s voice came quietly.
‘What?’
‘Saturday evening. I was thinking about that newspaper report, and my Richard Day finding the woman next door with her throat cut. And suddenly I thought, what if Mrs Caseley really is in danger, and I’ve done nothing? So I rang them. Of course, it was like you said it would be. They couldn’t do anything just because I’d seen a farmer with a gun and a woman who looked upset. I didn’t really think they would. Only … he was actually more sympathetic than I expected. Said there were all sorts of reasons why the police might call at a farm. Crime prevention against thefts of animals or machinery, that sort of thing. He could ask an officer to look out for anything suspicious.’
‘I wonder if they did,’ Millie said.
The front door
opened and slammed. Tom breezed into the conservatory where the three of them were standing. As usual, he seemed to fill more of the space with his personality than his lean frame warranted.
His deep blue eyes were ablaze as he ran his hand through his unruly black hair.
‘Have you heard the news?’ he cried. ‘Yes, I can see you have. How’s that for a turn up for the books? I was over at Dave’s and we saw this newsflash on the web. Of course, the moment I saw Saddlers Wood, I knew who they had to be talking about. They’ve arrested her husband.’
‘I’m afraid it was inevitable,’ Nick said. ‘It’s hardly likely to be anyone else.’
‘Oh, no? Haven’t you forgotten something? I bet the police don’t know there was somebody else in those woods on Saturday afternoon. Somebody who didn’t want us to see him.’
The three of them stared at him.
‘What are you suggesting?’ Nick asked. ‘That whoever parked that green car along the road from ours, and drove away ahead of us, had something to do with this?’
‘I’m not saying it’s an open-and-shut case. That Caseley guy was upset about something. And his wife was scared. But that doesn’t have to mean it was just between the two of them. Mum, you thought somebody was watching us down by that ruined cottage.’
‘We heard a noise. But it could have been anything.’ She frowned, trying to remember. ‘In the end, the rest of you assumed it must be an animal. Until we saw that car. Then we thought it might have been someone out walking.’
‘But if it was some innocent hiker, out for a walk in the woods, why stay hidden?’ Tom insisted. ‘We had a clear view of the footpath, and there was no one on it.’
‘Philip Caseley went down that path after he left us.’ Nick was frowning too, as he struggled to piece together the fleeting impressions from three days ago.
‘Maybe he was meeting someone,’ Millie suggested.
‘Or maybe he was the one who made that noise in the wood. The one I felt watching us,’ Suzie countered.
‘Whatever it was, I reckon someone needs to get on to the police and tell them there may be someone else in the picture they don’t know about.’
The Fewings looked at each other.
‘Did you mention that when you rang them?’ Nick asked Suzie.
She shook her head.
‘I’ll do it,’ Nick said, and strode off towards the phone.
He returned a few minutes later. ‘Stand by your beds. They’re sending someone round to question us.’
DC Pauline Godden looked up at them over her notes. Suzie had an uncomfortable feeling that what had seemed to Tom to be a great revelation had sounded rather more thin when put down in black and white. A Saturday afternoon in an attractive stretch of countryside. A footpath through Saddlers Wood. A car whose occupant, or occupants, might or might not have gone for a walk in those woods, and who might or might not have met Philip Caseley. Someone who might or might not have had enough power over the Caseleys to upset them. Who might – and here it sounded even more unlikely – have had a reason to shoot Eileen.
Nick signed the statement.
‘Will you follow it up?’ Tom asked. ‘Look for evidence of who was around that ruined cottage?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t discuss that.’
DC Godden thanked them and left.
‘It probably was her husband, wasn’t it?’ The flush of excitement had left Millie’s cheeks. ‘The man we met?’
‘It’s too early to say,’ Suzie said unhappily. ‘It still seems the most obvious answer, yes.’
FIVE
On Wednesday, Suzie was tidying away the lunch things. Nick was at work; Millie was out with friends, enjoying the freedom of the summer holiday; Tom had gone upstairs. Suzie had done her stint at the charity office in the morning. She contemplated an afternoon of housework with no great enthusiasm. Perhaps she could go to the Record Office instead and pursue some more family history. But, for the moment, there was nothing she could think of that she needed to look up.
She heard steps on the stairs. Looking along the passage, she saw Tom making for the front door carrying a knapsack. There was nothing unusual about that. Why shouldn’t he be off to his mate’s in the university vacation? But there was something about the quiet, almost furtive way he moved which aroused her suspicions. Her nineteen-year-old son usually exploded with energy, leaving everyone else rocking in the wake of his passing.
With sudden misgiving, she put down the bread board and hurried to intercept him at the front door.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Ah!’ The smile was a shade too broad. She steeled herself against the beguiling dazzle of his blue eyes. ‘Just thought I fancied a trip out into the country. I should be back for tea.’
‘A trip into the country.’ Suzie repeated his words, her voice heavy with suspicion. ‘And how are you planning to get there without a car?’
‘Dave thinks he can wangle his mother’s car. If not, there’s a bus to Moortown … every hour.’ His voice died. She saw the quick flush which told her he had not meant to give her that piece of information.
‘Moortown?’ Her question rose in disbelief. ‘And what would you two want to be doing in Moortown the day after we hear about that murder?’
‘Come on, Mum. You know the Bill aren’t going to take us seriously about a branch cracking in the wood. I thought there might be something more. That guy, whoever he was, might have left some evidence.’
‘What guy? You mean that car we saw? You don’t know anything about him. It might not be a he. It was probably nothing to do with the Caseleys.’
‘OK. So we don’t find anything. We have a walk in the woods. Fine.’
‘What if the police are still there? They won’t let you through.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of charging up to the house. I’m not stupid. It was what was going on around that old cottage that interests me. Eileen Caseley said no one used that path now. But we saw Philip heading off down it.’
‘He was out shooting. In his own wood.’
‘So? Look, Mum, I’ve got to go.’
‘I’m coming with you.’
On a sudden impulse, she ran upstairs. It took her only minutes to throw on a pair of jeans and ankle boots. As she sped back down, she feared that Tom would have gone. But he stood waiting by the front door with an amused expression on his face.
‘I rang Dave. The car’s not on. We may have to run to get that bus.’
‘I’m with you.’
They dashed down the avenue towards the main road. Dave was waiting at the bus stop. He was a plumpish, gangling lad with ginger hair, with a suggestion of apology in the stoop of his shoulders.
‘Hi,’ he greeted Tom. His eyes went sideways to Suzie questioningly. ‘Hi, Suzie.’
‘Change of plan,’ Tom said with an air of confidence. ‘I brought her along as cover. If we run into police in the woods or anything, she’ll make it sound more plausible than a couple of teenage layabouts like us.’
‘Oh, sure.’ Dave did not sound entirely convinced.
The bus came. Suzie settled into a seat in front of the boys and watched the scenery roll by. She had hardly had time to think about what she was doing and now she feared that it was a wild goose chase. What possible evidence could they find in Saddlers Wood? Worse still, they might be trampling over subtle signs which forensics would need if they really did follow up on the Fewings’ report.
She thought of the run-down farmhouse, the sparsely furnished living room, the absence of farmyard sounds. But surely there must be animals somewhere? She thought she remembered seeing sheep in the fields below the woods. Who would be looking after them now, with Eileen dead and Philip Caseley in prison, supposing he was still in custody?
She recalled a newspaper advertisement she’d found in the online archives for a farm sale in the nineteenth century. Is that what would happen to Saddlers Wood Barton? Generations of family tradition would be ended if the farm was put up for au
ction.
But would it be? The Caseleys had looked about the same age as Nick and Suzie, perhaps younger, though Eileen’s careworn face had made it hard to tell. There had been no sign of children in the house, but there might be grown-up sons or daughters. Perhaps one of them might come back to farm at Saddlers Wood.
Suddenly she thought of the awfulness of what those children must be experiencing, if there were any. Their mother shot dead. Their father the prime suspect for the murder.
Too late, she wished she had just stayed at home and prayed for them. What possible good could it do to revisit the scene?
Behind her, Tom and Dave were discussing their plans with all the enthusiasm of healthy teenagers.
The bus rolled to a stop in the market square at Moortown. Suzie rose to get off. Tom reached over the seat back and grabbed her.
‘Hang on. Next stop’s not far from where we parked the car.’
Of course. Tom would have checked it out on the internet. She subsided into her seat and watched new passengers board the bus.
It stopped again at a crossroads Suzie half recognized. There was a cluster of houses and then the lane that led south past Saddlers Wood. She followed the boys off the bus.
‘What are you planning to do?’ she asked them.
‘Take a recce first. If the coast’s clear, we walk up the track like we did on Saturday, and take the path to the cottage. If the Bill are around, we find a back way up through the woods.’
They set off along the lane.
Suzie’s sense of misgiving grew. How was she going to explain to Nick that she had not only failed to dissuade Tom from this hare-brained scheme, but had actually taken part in it?
But as she walked, the rhythm of her boots beat out a more defiant message. Eileen Caseley had met a terrible death. If there was the slightest chance that her husband was not responsible, then they owed it to her, and to her children, to find the truth.
There was no one at the foot of the track, where they had left their car at the weekend.