Beneath the Soil

by Fay Sampson

  She coloured. ‘Yes. I really don’t know why I’m here. But she was kind to us. Even though … well, we probably caught her at a bad time. But she gave us tea and told us where we could find the cottage where my family lived. Coming here was … well, a way of saying thank you.’

  The dark eyes regarded her suspiciously. ‘Looks like the world and his wife have turned out. Just because they’ve seen it on the telly. There’s people here I’ve never seen before.’

  So these were not all local people.

  Suzie looked round her with renewed curiosity. Would Detective Chief Inspector Brewer be here? Wasn’t that what the police did? Hovered on the edge of the victim’s funeral, in the likelihood that the murderer would be there among the crowd, unable to resist the temptation to see their crime through to the end?

  She was suddenly at the church door, being carried in by the slowly moving press of mourners. The farmer who had spoken to her marched up the aisle to sit near the front. Suzie looked around for somewhere less conspicuous. She slipped into a pew in a side aisle, near the back. Between the pillars she could see the church filling up.

  She craned her neck to get a better view of the front pews. There was a tall, broad-shouldered man she did not recognize, sitting alone. Eileen’s Caseley’s son? But the figure she had half expected and feared to see was not there. Philip Caseley hadn’t come. Unless the police intended to smuggle him in at the last moment.

  She thought with a sudden ache of what it must be like to sit in a cell, knowing his wife’s funeral was taking place, and not be there. Picturing the church filled with all his farming friends, and wondering what they were thinking. She wondered whether his son had been to visit him in prison, and what would happen to the farm when Eileen Caseley was put to rest.

  Suddenly she was aware of a commotion in the churchyard outside. The congregation’s heads were turning in alarm. Suzie turned with them. From her pew, she could see little through the door, but she had the impression of flash bulbs lighting up the dark yews.

  There was a hiss of indrawn breath. A current of murmurs ran through the pews. Suzie started as two men entered the church. The nearest to her was a burly prison warder in uniform. Handcuffed to him was a lean man in a black suit and tie. His fairish hair was slicked back today, unlike his dishevelled appearance when he had burst from the path in Saddlers Wood carrying a shotgun. But there was no mistaking that this was Philip Caseley.

  He had come.

  The murmurs stilled. The congregation watched in silence as the widower made his way up the aisle to take his seat with his escort in the front pew opposite his son.

  In the long hush that followed, Matthew Caseley did not turn his head to look at his father.

  The congregation was standing. That could only mean one thing. Suzie turned her head. Eileen Caseley’s coffin was being carried solemnly up the aisle.

  As the procession passed behind a pillar, Suzie found herself looking straight across the nave. In the side aisle opposite her stood a tall woman with long fair hair. Her heart jumped with something that was not quite surprise. She had been right. Chief Inspector Brewer was here to watch proceedings.

  A more uncomfortable thought struck her as their eyes met across the church. What would DCI Brewer make of Suzie’s presence here?

  The service was over. The large congregation, protective or curious, was edging its way out of the church door. Suzie wondered as she waited her turn whether they would all be making their way to the top end of the churchyard, where an extension had been opened beyond the old stone wall for newer graves. Or was the committal at the graveside only for close family and friends?

  The thinning crowd ahead of her made different decisions. Most headed straight down the path between the yews to the church gate which opened on to the town square. A smaller number, especially those who had sat near the front of the church, were steadily climbing the narrower path behind the church. Philip Caseley and his warder were there too, leaving a conspicuous gap between them and the others.

  Suzie hesitated, then followed them. She didn’t know why. In no way could she count herself a friend of Eileen Caseley. She had only met her once.

  By the time she reached the gate in the wall which led to the new intake, she realised that she was almost the last of those who had chosen to follow the coffin to its burial. The chief mourners were already gathered around the open grave. A sheet of artificial grass covered the mound of newly dug earth at the side. Two floral wreaths had been laid upon it. One, she was sure, must be from the son from Australia who had returned alone for his mother’s funeral. Was the other from Philip, her husband and, in the eyes of the world, her murderer?

  Would it have been better if he had stayed in prison? The idea haunted Suzie. She tried to imagine Nick dead, and herself prevented from attending his funeral.

  She shuddered violently. What a horrible thing to think. Awful enough to imagine that Nick might die in his forties and leave her alone. But that she who loved him might be in prison awaiting trial for his murder … What black thoughts was she allowing herself to think?

  But someone had killed Eileen Caseley. It happened all the time. Two women a week killed by their spouse or partner, present or ex. It was a terrifying statistic. Why should she think that Philip Caseley was not one of those men? What did she know about him, or the tensions between him and Eileen?

  The rough stone surface of the wall was digging into her hand. She hadn’t realised she was gripping it so hard until she gathered her wandering thoughts.

  Too late now to join the group around the grave. She could hear the priest intoning the words of the committal. ‘Dust to dust. Ashes to ashes.’ It would have been inappropriate for her to be there, anyway. She was a stranger to them. She remembered the inquisitive, almost hostile stare of the neighbour who had been minding the Caseley sheep. What further questions would she be asking if she noticed that Suzie had followed them?

  She looked around, wondering if it was time for her to make a quick withdrawal, before the group around the grave broke up and came this way. This extension to the graveyard was barer than the older churchyard. It lacked the tall dark yew trees, the grand monuments and large crosses of the more ostentatious memorials of the past. Across the wall, in the modern plot, there were only three rows of graves as yet. The rest was green grass on an open hilltop overlooking the town. The few gravestones already there were modest, not more than a foot or two high. It felt exposed.

  She was not the only one to watch from a distance. Two people, a man and a woman, stood respectfully back among the new graves. Police? She remembered her conjecture that detectives might want to see who came to watch the burial of their victim. Yes. She recognised the beanpole figure of Detective Chief Inspector Brewer. The shorter, bearded man beside her was unfamiliar to her.

  A prickling on her neck made her turn her head. Her heart gave a sudden start. There was someone else behind her, on the older side of the churchyard wall. He wore a dark raincoat buttoned up to the neck. His balding head was bare. He was half hidden by the tall shaft of a Celtic stone cross, but through its wheel-head she could see that he was staring, not at the closing moments of the burial, but at her.

  With sudden panic, she turned and sped down the path towards the crowded square, at a walk so fast it was almost a run.

  NINE

  The burial was over. There were still knots of people about in the square, conspicuous in their black funeral clothes. Philip and his warder had been driven back to prison. But most mourners were drifting away, back to everyday reality. At Suzie’s Methodist church, there would have been an invitation for anyone at the service to stay and join the family afterwards for refreshments. No such general invitation had been given here. She suspected that the family’s friends would have been invited to a funeral tea in some hotel function room.

  The press photographers and television crews had packed up and gone, Suzie was relieved to see.

  Her heartbeat was quieteni
ng, but she was still tense. Should she risk turning her head to see if that man in the black raincoat was following her? Why was she of interest to him? Why had he scared her?

  A hand grasped her wrist. She gasped.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.’

  It was a woman’s voice. Suzie brought her panic under control and turned.

  The woman was dressed in a black suit with a crisp white shirt. She wore her funeral clothes with an understated elegance, almost like an habitual uniform. A coil of dark hair fell forward over one shoulder. She was, Suzie guessed, about her own age, with a diamond-shaped face slanting from pronounced cheekbones.

  She smiled now, though she was watching Suzie keenly. Her narrow fingers still held Suzie’s wrist, like a bird’s claw.

  Behind her, Suzie saw the party of chief mourners coming slowly down the path from the grave. The rector’s white surplice flapped in the breeze. Her hurried eyes thought they saw the watcher in the raincoat following them. A broad-brimmed leather hat hid his bare head now. The summer day was overcast, but his shielding clothes looked out of place for this time of year.

  She tore her eyes away and made herself speak with a semblance of naturalness to the woman partly blocking her view.

  ‘It’s all right. I think I’m just a bit strung up.’

  The woman’s dark eyes narrowed. She let go of Suzie’s arm and held out a small hand.

  ‘Frances Nosworthy. I’m Philip Caseley’s solicitor.’

  The image jumped into place. It was easy to imagine this smart but soberly dressed woman in a law court, as well as at a funeral. It was a few seconds before the oddness of the introduction caught up with Suzie.

  ‘His solicitor?’ The unspoken question was, ‘What do you want with me?’ She had only come because of a moment of unsatisfied curiosity, and a sadness for the woman so briefly met.

  ‘I hope you won’t think me intrusive, but I wondered who you were. We’re a fairly close-knit community here. I think I know most people in Moortown. But you obviously knew Eileen well enough to want to follow her to her grave.’ A thought seemed to strike her. ‘You’re not a reporter, are you?’

  ‘No! No.’ Suzie found herself blushing. ‘I probably shouldn’t be here. It’s just …’ She heard herself repeating the story of their expedition to Saddlers Wood, the gunshot, Eileen’s evident distress, but then her gallant attempt at hospitality to the Fewings.

  ‘I felt – I don’t know – that I owed her something.’

  ‘Yes, Eileen had a warm heart. You wouldn’t have got away from her without a cup of tea, no matter what was happening.’

  ‘But you’re representing Philip.’

  Frances Nosworthy made a face of distaste. ‘It’s a tricky situation. The Nosworthys are the family’s solicitors, have been for generations. My grandfather and old Michael Caseley. My cousin John is representing Eileen’s side, and the son, of course. But my father branched out into his own law firm, so I’m representing Philip. It’s a bad business. We’re trying to avoid a conflict of interest.’

  ‘You don’t really think Philip killed her?’

  The solicitor’s hand was suddenly back on her arm, drawing her away from the gate. The rest of the mourning party were coming through into the square. Suzie fell silent as they passed. The tall, suntanned man she thought must be the Caseleys’ son passed her. His mouth was set in a grim line. He nodded curtly to Frances.

  She spoke in a low voice. ‘Matthew. I’m so sorry.’

  He walked on without answering. The black-clad party turned away along the pavement.

  The two detectives, who had watched the burial from a distance, left a tactful space before they followed. As they passed Suzie and Frances, the tall chief inspector let her eyes dwell on Suzie for an electrifying moment. Suzie read all too clearly her surprise and condemnation at seeing her here.

  It took a moment for Suzie to recover.

  When she did, she was relieved to see that the man in the raincoat and the broad-brimmed hat had gone.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Frances said, letting her go. ‘Matthew’s not speaking to me. Of course I’m defending Philip. That’s my job, but I’d do it anyway. Though at the moment, I’m searching for crumbs.’

  Words hovered on the tip of Suzie’s tongue. ‘Only …’

  ‘Yes?’ Again that narrowing of the eyes. The sense of a sharp intelligence leaping into action.

  ‘There was more than I told you. That afternoon, and again later.’

  The dark eyes summed her up. ‘Do you have time for a cup of tea? I’ve been invited to the official tea at the Tor Hotel, but it might be a bit delicate, under the circumstances. A bit like Banquo’s ghost at the feast. And if you have any information that might help Philip …’

  ‘We told the police, but I’m not sure it made much of an impression.’

  ‘Well, tell me.’

  Suzie let herself be steered to a tea shop, with chintz-covered cushions on the wheel-backed chairs. She would miss the bus she had intended to catch, but there would be another one in an hour.

  ‘Now,’ said Frances Nosworthy, setting down her patent-leather handbag. ‘This one’s on me. Could you manage a cream tea? I don’t know about you, but I feel in need of something to cheer me up.’

  Suzie looked at the other woman’s enviably slender figure. But the lure of scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam was too much. ‘Yes, please. Me too.’

  Frances placed the order. ‘Now,’ she said, getting out a notepad from her handbag. ‘Let’s take it from the top, shall we? You went to Saddlers Wood on …?’

  ‘Saturday, the thirteenth of July.’

  She told it all. The path Eileen Caseley said was infrequently used, down which they had seen Philip stride with his gun. The crack of wood snapping as they explored the ruined cottage. The sense of being watched. And then her joining Tom and Dave’s hare-brained adventure to discover more. The evidence of surveying in the patch of moorland just beyond the wood.

  ‘It makes sense,’ Frances said, laying her pen down among the crumbs of scone on the tablecloth. ‘I can’t reveal the family business, of course, but I’m not actually surprised.’

  ‘What I don’t understand,’ Suzie said, ‘is, if Philip was opposing the exploitation of mineral rights, why anyone should want to kill Eileen, and not him.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  Frances’s narrow fingers tapped on the table top. ‘I can’t discuss the family’s affairs. But you’ve just said enough to make me sense it’s not an open and shut case of domestic violence. I was never convinced that it was, but what do I know? I sit in my snug little solicitor’s office; business goes on – wills mortgages, land sales, drink driving charges. The recession doesn’t really hit us. Perhaps a few more DIY divorces, instead of paying people like us who know what we’re doing. But out there on the farms, it’s a different picture. It’s a hard row to plough – low prices, high costs. The sort of loneliness there used not to be when every other man was an ag. lab. And now climate change on top of everything else. It’s either drought or floods these days, and another season’s crop lost. It can drive a man to suicide, or worse.’

  She played with her teaspoon, her eyes bent downwards.

  She recovered herself with a visible effort.

  ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be loading all this on you. You’ve been really helpful. And goodness knows Philip needs all the help he can get. Look, take my card. If you can think of anything else that might be relevant, ring me.’

  Suzie looked over her shoulder. A single-decker bus was pulling into the square. She yelped with dismay. ‘My bus! Sorry, I’ve got to go. Thanks for the tea – I haven’t had scones and cream in ages. Look, if you need me again you can find my number on the website for the Age of Silver charity. I must fly.’

  ‘Of course. And thank you again.’ Frances moved her chair aside as Suzie fled for the door and raced to the bus stop on the other side of the square.

  Suzie lean
ed back in her seat, recovering her breath. The bus rolled forwards, past the now-empty churchyard.

  Only then did she remember that she hadn’t told Frances Nosworthy about the man lurking among the graves.

  TEN

  She should not have felt guilty about attending a funeral. But as the bus rolled homewards, she felt a peculiar reluctance to tell her family where she had been. The lashing tongue of DCI Brewer still smarted. Just for a moment, as the two detectives had passed her at the church gate, she had met the taller woman’s cold blue eyes. The police officer had said nothing to her, but Suzie had felt her disbelief and scorn. She knew the chief inspector was angered by her determination not to let the matter go and leave it to the professionals.

  It wasn’t like that, Suzie argued with herself. I didn’t go to Moortown because I thought I might discover something. I went to the funeral because … oh, because Eileen Caseley had been so troubled, yet so generous. She could just have sent us away. But she took us into her home and gave us what help she could.

  She thought of the woman’s attempt at smartness, the silk blouse and the linen skirt, incongruous in the dilapidated farmhouse.

  And now she’s dead. Violently. I wanted to do what little I could to pray her to her rest.

  She was afraid that the rest of the Fewings would see it as the chief inspector did.

  And, after all, she had found something. She shivered as the summer landscape sped past her. That strange man in the leather hat. She had not imagined that his eyes had been directed at her, rather than at the people round Eileen Caseley’s grave. It was unsettling that a silent stare should be so frightening.

  At least Frances Nosworthy was an ally. She had seemed genuinely grateful for Suzie’s information. It was somehow reassuring to know that the solicitor’s business card was tucked into her shoulder bag.