Beneath the Soil

by Fay Sampson

  A little note of caution sounded in her mind. Trust nobody. Frances Nosworthy had changed her tone unexpectedly. So might her cousin John. She would have to be careful.

  She made her decision, She had to find out more. She felt the tension in her throat as she dialled the number.

  ‘John Nosworthy.’

  A small feeling of relief. It still sounded like a friendly voice she could trust.

  ‘This is Suzie Fewings. We met at the tractor pull in Moortown.’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘Thanks for the extra cheque from the stalls, by the way. On top of the sponsor money that’s a fantastic sum.’

  ‘No problem. I take it that’s not the only reason you’re phoning me. You emailed me to say the cheque had arrived.’

  ‘No, look, I know it’s a bit of a cheek asking you, but I suppose the contents of Eileen Caseley’s will are no longer private. I just wondered … who gets the farm?’

  There was silence at the other end of the phone.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Have I stepped out of line?’

  ‘No. It’s not that. Anyone can get a copy from the Probate Office. Look, I’d rather not discuss this on the phone. Is there somewhere we can meet?’

  She thought rapidly. ‘It’ll have to be somewhere in town. I don’t have a car.’

  ‘Right. Do you know the Fenwick Barton? It’s a pub out on the edge of the city. You could get a bus there.’

  ‘Next to the old priory? Yes.’

  ‘About four?’

  She glanced at her watch. ‘Fine.’

  ‘I’ll see you there.’ The call was cut off.

  Suzie looked down at the phone in her own hand. She had wanted the reassurance of talking to a solicitor, someone who could tell her the legal facts. If Bernard Summers’ death related to what lay under Caseley land, then it was important that she knew who owned that land now. Matthew? Philip? Who stood to gain by Eileen’s death?

  But surely the police would have looked into all of that.

  Still the doubts nagged at her. Why had John Nosworthy cut off her question so abruptly, and why was it necessary to meet him in person? Was there something he was afraid of?

  Or was it her question that had scared him? Was she what he was afraid of?

  It was a disturbing thought.

  With an effort, she pulled herself back to the task in hand. She had promised Millie that she would ask DS Dudbridge if there was any reason why the police would not want the Fewings to go to the press with the story of Bernard Summers finding gold at Saddlers Wood. She couldn’t imagine he would be overjoyed at the idea. Well, it would do no harm to ask.

  She did not have the detective sergeant’s personal number, but when she told the operator who answered that she wanted to speak to him about Bernard Summers’ death, she was put through.

  ‘DS Dudbridge speaking. What can I do for you, Mrs Fewings?’

  ‘Look, I know this may sound a rather odd request, but we’ve reported several times that people seem to be warning us off the Eileen Caseley case.’

  ‘It’s in police hands, Mrs Fewings. You can leave it to us.’

  ‘I don’t mean you, the police. Other people. Frances Nosworthy, Philip’s solicitor. Clive Stroud, the MP. Some farmers in Moortown. And my husband went to you with the information that Bernard Summers had found gold at Saddlers Wood. It’s just that he might have been killed to keep that quiet. And we know. My family. It occurred to me and my daughter that the only way we can be sure something doesn’t happen to us as well is to put the information out in the open. Tell the press. That way, it won’t be a secret any longer. There would be nothing to be gained from anyone trying to silence us.’

  A pause. ‘Don’t you think you’re being a little melodramatic? We have no reason to believe that Bernard Summers’ death was not an accident. We’re looking into it, of course, as we would any other sudden death of this sort. I’m sorry if you feel threatened. But since your husband has told us the story, I think you can consider it in safe hands.’

  ‘Are you saying I shouldn’t tell the press, or that I can?’

  ‘I would prefer it if you left the police to manage the release of information that could just possibly be related to a criminal case. Not that I’m saying it is relevant, you understand.’

  ‘So is that a no?’

  ‘I would advise you to leave everything concerning this case to us.’

  Suzie was left with a feeling of dissatisfaction.

  She rang Millie.

  ‘Well? Is it on?’ Millie demanded.

  ‘He didn’t exactly say no, but I think that’s what he meant.’

  ‘Bollocks! We can still do it, though, can’t we? If he didn’t come straight out and say we couldn’t?’

  ‘I wish I knew what was the right thing to do. Look, I’m meeting someone. John Nosworthy, Eileen Caseley’s solicitor. I think he’s going to tell me something about the will.’

  ‘You mean something important? Something nobody else knows?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. It can’t exactly remain secret once the will is proved. He didn’t want to discuss it over the phone. I’m meeting him at the Fenwick Barton at four o’clock.’

  She was about to put away her phone when she noticed a text message she had missed. It was from Nick.

  ‘Working late. Don’t wait supper. X.’

  She hesitated, then phoned him. When there was no answer, she decided not to leave a message on his voicemail.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The ruins of Fenwick Priory stood on the very edge of town. The thatched pub beside it still had a rural air. There was a row of modern houses on the other side of the road, but beyond their back gardens the green fields began. The expanding city had only just caught them in its net.

  Suzie walked along the road from the bus stop with questions tumbling through her mind. It had been her initiative to ask John Nosworthy about the dead woman’s will, but why had the solicitor thought it sufficiently important for him to make this journey in from Moortown to speak to her? What was it that he had to tell her which could not be communicated over the phone?

  Could she even trust him that this was not some sort of trap?

  On an impulse, she stopped and got her phone out. She had told Millie where she was going, but it suddenly seemed important that Nick should know too. She dialled his number. His phone was still switched off. With a sag of disappointment, she left a message with the bare facts of whom she was meeting, where and when. At the last moment she added, ‘It’s something to do with Eileen’s will.’

  There was nothing more she could do to protect herself. She had been half-hoping that he would forbid her to go to the meeting alone, that he would insist on dropping whatever work he was expecting to keep him late and come rushing over to join her. She even considered phoning Tom. But he didn’t have access to a car. He wouldn’t make it, even by bike, in time for four o’clock.

  She straightened her back and turned in at the gate of the Fenwick Barton.

  The interior was dark after the sunlight. It was more sleekly modern than the thatched roof suggested. Chrome rails and green tiles gleamed at her. She looked around for the slight, fair-haired figure she remembered from the market square in Moortown. There was no one there she recognized.

  ‘What can I get you?’

  The soft voice behind her startled her. She turned. John Nosworthy was looking at her uneasily. Again she was struck by the neat formality of his dress, even on a heat-soaked summer afternoon. He wore dark trousers and a crisp blue-and-white shirt, the sleeves carefully folded to above his elbows.

  ‘Just a lemonade, please.’

  He brought the glasses from the bar. She noticed with some surprise that he had got a whisky and soda for himself. He motioned with a glass in each hand towards the side door.

  ‘Shall we take these in the garden? It’ll be quieter there.’

  The pub was hardly crowded at this hour of the afternoon – Suzie could see only th
ree tables occupied – but she followed him outside. Sunlight struck her eyes as they emerged into the pub garden. There were the usual wooden tables and benches, some with sunshades. A fountain played in a raised basin set in a circle of cobbles. A cartwheel leaned against a wall.

  John Nosworthy led the way across the grass to where a table stood in the shadow of a tree overhanging from the priory next door. Suzie slipped gratefully on to a bench out of the sun. There was not much of the old priory left. The few ruined walls were the same red sandstone as the Norman castle in the city centre.

  She sipped her drink, savouring the tang of Sicilian lemons, and wondered who should speak first. She was aware of John Nosworthy looking at her with a silent solemnity.

  ‘Thank you for meeting me here,’ she said, to break the ice. ‘I really didn’t mean to put you to a lot of trouble. It’s just that we seem to have got ourselves involved in this case, whether we want to or not. At first sight, it looked as if it might just be another domestic murder. Husbands do kill their wives every week. And I know farmers are under a lot of strain. But the more we found out about it, the more it seemed as though it must have something to do with whatever has been found under Saddlers Wood.’ She paused. She was struggling to remember whether she had spoken to John Nosworthy about Bernard Summers’ discovery of gold. Perhaps he knew about it anyway. The serious face across the table gave nothing away. ‘So,’ she made herself go on, ‘I felt we need to know just who inherits the farm. Is it Matthew?’

  He set down his whisky glass. A cautious look around the garden. There was no one within earshot. Still he bent forward until his head almost met hers.

  ‘Yes. That was the will as she first drew it up. Everything to Matthew, but Philip would have the right to stay on the farm for his lifetime.’

  ‘But the son would hold the mineral rights?’

  ‘Of course.’ He frowned, questioningly. ‘Why?’ Again that quick look round. ‘The will’s gone through probate, so there shouldn’t be any harm in telling you. There was a codicil. She made it the day she died.’ A leaf from the tree drifted down on to the table. He twiddled it nervously in his fingers. Then his pale blue eyes looked straight at her. ‘Matthew still gets the bulk of the farm, but there’s a rough bit of land just on the far side of the wood, Puck’s Acre. It looks like an outcrop of moorland, not much good for farming. She’s left it to … Clive Stroud.’

  ‘The MP?’ Suzie was startled into speaking more loudly than she intended. She too looked behind her. A couple of men in green and khaki, the sort of army-style clothing farmers favoured, were drinking beer. She did not think they could have heard her, but she remembered the knot of farmers in Moortown and her stomach tightened.

  ‘Why?’ she asked more softly.

  His voice was sober. ‘The conclusion the police seem to have jumped to is that she was having an affair with him. She wanted to give him something, but she couldn’t leave him the whole farm, of course. Philip was the obvious suspect from the beginning, and I’m afraid this strengthens the case against him. He could have found out about the affair.’

  ‘Is that why your cousin Frances told me to drop the case? If she found out Eileen was being unfaithful, it would give her client a much stronger motive for shooting his wife.’

  ‘It looks like it.’

  ‘Did Philip know Eileen had drawn up this codicil?’

  John stared down at his hands. ‘Eileen didn’t tell me. I doubt it. She swore me to secrecy. Not that I’d have disclosed her legal affairs anyway, even to her husband. What puzzles me is why Puck’s Acre? What good would that be to a man like Clive Stroud? She wouldn’t tell me.’

  ‘I know why.’ It was Suzie’s turn to lean closer. ‘My son and I went back to Saddlers Wood two days after the murder. We found evidence that someone had been surveying there. And then, the day of the tractor pull, my husband went off with this eccentric geologist …’

  ‘Bernard Summers?’ John was sitting up, instantly alert. ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘That’s what scares me. That afternoon he told Nick what he’d discovered at this place you called Puck’s Acre. There’s gold in a stream running off it.’

  John leaned back. His narrow face looked pale, even in the heat of the afternoon. ‘A potential gold mine? And she’s left it to Clive Stroud?’

  ‘So, if what you say is true, Philip wasn’t the only one with a motive to kill her.’ The idea was still clarifying itself in Suzie’s mind. ‘But why would he? Clive Stroud, I mean. If she really loved him that much, all she had to do was divorce Philip and marry him. He’d have had the whole farm.’

  ‘I’m not sure that Eileen would have done that. It’s a very conservative community. Both she and Philip have their roots deep in the soil. Maybe she couldn’t bring herself to throw him off the land. And then there was Matthew to consider. Not that he needs the property. He’s done very well for himself in Australia, by all accounts. Still, she might not have wanted the scandal. Not until after she was dead.’

  ‘I can’t believe that. In this day and age? She wouldn’t stay with Philip just because of that.’

  ‘Or perhaps Clive Stroud had reasons for not wanting to marry her. Just a bit on the side.’

  Suzie thought back to the harassed woman she had met in the farmyard. Those surprisingly smart clothes under the flowered overall. Could she really have appealed to the suave Clive Stroud?

  ‘Divorcing your wife and marrying your mistress is hardly a career-wrecking scandal for MPs. These days, it seems to be par for the course. And to suggest that he’d take a short cut by killing her …’

  John shrugged despondently. ‘He might have tired of her, and wanted a quick way out before she changed her mind about the will.’

  ‘Somehow, I don’t buy that. It’s a bit extreme.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, until you mentioned gold. It does strange things to men’s minds.’ He leaned towards her. ‘I didn’t tell you, but when Eileen came to my office that Monday I told her I’d have the codicil properly typed up and she could come in and sign it later in the week. But she insisted on doing it that same afternoon. I thought she seemed … frightened. And then, of course, she was shot that same day. It’s occurred to me since that perhaps whoever did it knew she was going to change her will, and wanted her dead before she signed it. And Eileen must have been afraid of that. I fear that somebody has to be Philip and not Clive Stroud.’

  ‘Why are you telling me all this?’ A new thought struck Suzie. ‘You didn’t have to. It’s not public knowledge yet, is it? It would have been all over the national newspapers, on TV. “MP inherits gold mine after lover’s murder.”’

  John Nosworthy drained the last of his whisky and let out a long sigh. ‘To be honest, there’s something about this that scares me too. I can’t discuss it with Frances. Things are a bit fraught between us at the moment. I don’t know where you fit into all this, apart from stumbling across that find in Puck’s Acre.’

  ‘And the fact that Bernard Summers chose to tell Nick why it was so important.’

  ‘Yes, there’s that too now. I had no idea. No, it was something Clive Stroud’s agent said to me the day of the tractor pull.’

  ‘Gina Alford?’ Suzie recalled the woman shepherding her MP like a protective dragon. Horned-rimmed spectacles, unruly hair dragged back into a ponytail.

  ‘Yes. At one point she looked across at you and said, really vindictively, “That woman! She should learn not to poke her nose in where it’s not wanted.”’

  Suzie was shocked. ‘Clive Stroud’s agent said that? Why? We’ve corresponded, but we’d never met before that day. What could I possibly have done to upset her?’

  ‘I rather hoped you’d know. It gave me the feeling that we might have a common interest in this case. She was pretty edgy towards me too. I assumed it had something to do with Clive Stroud and Eileen Caseley, but why would she involve you in that?’

  Suzie sat back, letting the thoughts mill around in her head. She
hadn’t liked Gina Alford. The agent had been too possessive of the MP, too scornful of Suzie’s abilities to organize things properly without her checking up on everything. But she could think of nothing she had done to provoke the venom with which John Nosworthy had relayed her words.

  It must be some protective instinct. She had clearly doted on Clive Stroud.

  She shook her head. ‘Right from the beginning, I’ve had this feeling that we’ve blundered into something over our heads. I don’t understand what’s going on.’

  John made to rise. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve alarmed you. You’ll keep this to yourself, won’t you? The police know, but it’s not for public consumption yet. As you say, once it gets out, it’s likely to cause a scandal. It won’t look well, either for Clive Stroud or, I’m afraid, for Philip.’

  They made their way out of the pub. John headed for the car park. He had his keys out and flashed on the lights of a blue BMW. At the same moment he hissed, ‘What the blazes …?’

  A second later, Suzie saw that all four tyres of the BMW had been slashed.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  John looked, if anything, even paler. He managed in a choked voice, ‘At least it was my tyres and not my throat.’

  Suzie turned to him in alarm. ‘You think this has something to do with the Eileen Caseley business? You don’t suppose it was a gang of local teenagers? There’s a secondary school just down the road.’

  It was the school holidays, but she told herself that some of the pupils must live nearby. Adolescent boys, bored, looking for a chance to wreak mischief and mayhem on an expensive car.

  ‘There’s something going on that I don’t understand,’ he said. The words still came out strained. ‘I’m only Eileen’s solicitor. I can’t change the terms of her will. But I’ve been feeling threatened.’