by Emma Rowley
I can’t hear his reply, but then they must move close to a window again.
“. . . lift a finger to help,” says Olivia, “but you won’t . . .”
Should I go in? But I don’t want them to see me move and think I was eavesdropping.
“. . . past it, if you ask me.” Josh is clearer now, anger making his voice loud. “Just because someone knew your family doesn’t mean you . . .”
I lose the rest. I wait a few more moments, keeping still.
It sounded like they were arguing about money. It must cost a lot, the upkeep on this place, and the staff. There is Annie, of course, and that man I saw the other day. Cav, the gardener.
I wake up my computer and start to type.
* * *
After a while, I am aware of people moving around in the kitchen, then someone pushes open one of the doors behind me. “Oh. Morning.”
I turn round to see Josh, barefoot in jeans and a rumpled shirt.
“Morning. How’s Olivia doing?”
“Fine,” he says. “I think.” He looks tired—hungover—and less than pleased to see me.
“Will she be down soon, do you reckon . . . ?”
“I don’t know.” He registers my laptop, remembers I am here to do a job. “Sab’s just gone up to her office, wanted to see how she’s doing. Best leave it for now, I’d say.”
“Of course. Her call,” I say to his departing back.
Bloody Sabrina. I turn back to the document on my computer, trying to focus again on the few words in front of me, but my concentration is shot.
The sun has moved behind a cloud, too, and everything seems dimmed, as if the lights have been turned down. I think I’ll go in myself now . . .
I see it in the corner of my vision: just a shape moving, before a clap loud as gunshot.
I jerk back, scrambling out of my chair so fast it goes flying, clattering sideways over the gray shards now scattered across the terrace.
My heart is thundering and I have to lean against the table. It was so near me, if it had been a few inches closer . . .
I hear footsteps running in the house.
“Are you all right?” Josh bursts onto the terrace and takes in the pieces of roof tile shattered around me. “It didn’t touch you, did it?”
“No. No, I’m fine, honestly.” I am breathing like I’ve run a mile.
Annie is out here now, too. “My goodness. I’d better get you a Band-Aid for that.” She nods at my ankle—I reach down to touch the blood: a sharp piece must have nicked me.
“That looks nasty,” says Josh, grimacing.
“Really, I’m OK. They’re always so much bigger than you expect, roof tiles, up close,” I say nonsensically. I feel a little shaky.
I look up at the roof. It isn’t even windy.
Chapter 29
After Annie has brought me a Band-Aid and made me a cup of sugary tea, I am persuaded to lie down for a bit in my room. I look far too pale, she says.
But I don’t fall asleep. I wait until everything is quiet, then I head out of my room. The upstairs hallway runs across the back of the house, its windows giving a view of the garden. They open over a small decorative roof that juts out a little over the terrace.
It’s at the third window off the hallway that I see that one tile on the short roof below is oddly exposed because its neighbor is missing.
So I was right. That tile didn’t fall from the main roof, it fell from here, within an arm’s stretch of the open window.
I stay there a second, thinking. The pin in my lip balm, and now this . . .
I lean forward, lifting the iron strut that holds the window open, and pull it shut in its frame.
“Should you be up already?”
I turn: Annie is hovering behind me.
“I’m fine really,” I say. “I don’t want to make a fuss.”
She nods. “If you’re sure.” But she doesn’t go anywhere.
“Mrs. Hayes is very sorry,” she says, as if by rote, “but she can’t see you today.”
“You mean right now, or all day?” There’s a definite edge to my voice.
“All day, I think.” She looks worried. “Should I check?” She half turns, as if to go back into Olivia’s room, the door ajar down the other end of the hallway.
I shake my head. “Sorry—it’s just tricky. Here I am . . .” I sigh. “It’s a difficult situation.”
Annie’s professionalism thaws, just a little. She lowers her voice. “She doesn’t seem right today. And she’s getting all these phone calls. ‘Business as usual,’ she says, but . . .”
I sense an opening. “It must be tough. How do you find working for Olivia?”
“She’s a wonderful employer,” she says loyally. “Of all those I’ve worked for. This place is one of my favorites, the house, the family. Bea is a little poppet. Why, the other day, she said the funniest thing—”
“It must be hard though, for you, such a big house, and helping with the childcare, too. Olivia said something about it being difficult to get a nanny out here?” It is a little white lie—I am thinking of what Josh said in the night. “That the last one left.”
She tuts. “Oh, these young girls.” So she won’t blame Olivia.
“And what about the gardener I saw around—has he worked here long?”
“Mr. Cavendish? If you call standing about with a rake ‘work,’” she says primly. “That lawn is getting to be beyond a joke. But I suppose someone had to keep an eye on the house, while it was empty. Which reminds me,” she says, turning to go, “I mustn’t stand around wasting time.”
I nod, distracted. I am thinking of what I heard Josh say, when he and Olivia were arguing before. Just because someone knew your family . . . He implied she was keeping someone on the payroll out of loyalty. And now I learn Cav has worked for her for years, at least since the house was empty. I wonder just how long exactly?
But then another thought occurs to me.
“Oh, Annie?” I call after her. She turns round slowly. “One more thing, sorry. Would you mind shutting my window if it rains when I’m out?” It’s not going to rain, I know. “I want to leave it open to air the room—I’m so sensitive to smoke.”
Annie frowns. “Now you haven’t been smoking inside, have you?”
“Oh no. I’m not a smoker.”
“Because we don’t even have candles in the house,” says Annie.
“No, I know. It’s just”—I grimace—“I think someone has been smoking, down this end of the house?” Annie’s eyes follow mine to one of the doors off the hallway. “Maybe in one of the other guest rooms. I didn’t want to bother Olivia . . .”
I don’t know if Sabrina made that tile fall—or that anyone did, for certain. It would hardly be the act of a normal person.
Now Annie sniffs the air, testing.
Although, Sabrina was staying in the house on Tuesday night, too, when I got scratched by that needle in my wash bag. And I’m almost sure she had slipped away earlier when we were having dinner with Olivia and Josh . . .
“I can smell it myself now,” says Annie, her mouth a grim line.
But what I have no doubt about is that Sabrina blocked me from talking to Olivia, when I wanted to go to her last night. That woman is getting in my way.
“Leave it to me,” says the housekeeper.
I nod. That’s just what I hoped she’d say.
Chapter 30
I know my way now to the lane where Joey Crompton and his grandmother live. But I drive straight past their cottage and park at the end of the row.
With no prospect of talking to Olivia today, I am going to try Pete Gregory, the policeman Joey told me about. I couldn’t find a phone number, so I am going to do what I should have done already, rather than rely on Marie Crompton. Knock on his door.
On the doorstep, I go over again what I know, what is driving me forward. Not much, on the face of it. The sound of a gunshot. The fact that Alex Vane didn’t call the emergency services. H
is money problems—of a sort.
But it’s more than that . . . it’s that feeling I have about that house. That something bad happened there.
And that I am not wanted. It is easier to admit, when I am out of there. That I am getting scared . . .
The man who opens the door is tall and solid in a blue sweater and old cords, if starting to stoop a little. The house behind him feels more traditional than Marie’s, with dark wood furniture and a doily under the tulips on the hall table.
“Mr. Gregory? I’m Nicky Wilson. I wondered if I could have a word. About a fire that happened around here a long time ago . . .”
He looks at me, then steps back from the door.
* * *
Sunk in a soft floral couch, I am giving my usual spiel about working with Olivia. I mention that I met Joey Crompton, Marie’s grandson, who told me that Mr. Gregory was the police officer—I am not sure of his rank then—in charge around here at the time of the fire. The old policeman, sitting opposite me in his armchair, nods at that.
I am being more open than I have been, conscious of his background. I tell him the truth: there are things about the fire that seem odd to me, that I am struggling to understand.
I can’t read his expression. Some things must stick when they leave the police.
“Well, I don’t mind answering a few questions,” he says finally, “best not to quote me though.”
“That’s fine,” I say, “thanks so much.” I pull out my notepad and pen; I doubt he will want to be recorded.
* * *
I couldn’t find out much about him online. The most recent mention was in the Mansford paper—he was doing a half-marathon for charity—which gave his potted bio.
The former police inspector spearheaded Mansford Rural Watch during a career that spanned more than three decades. Since retiring, he has held voluntary roles with organizations advising them on rural crime-fighting schemes and worked on domestic violence campaigns . . .
But I couldn’t find anything linking him to the fire, and I tell him as much, in case he thinks I have not done my research.
He just laughs. “The big boys took over when the cameras turned up. Old Albright kept giving press conferences outside, when there was nothing new to say.” He harrumphs. “But he ended up chief constable, so he knew how to play the game, didn’t he?”
I smile. “So what would your role have been at the time?”
“Well, let’s see . . .” He rubs his shiny freckled head with one hand. “It was before I was moved to Chester for a few years. So back then I was the PC looking after things around here, pretty much on my own.”
“So you would have been the first police officer on the scene, being based nearby?”
“Ah, one of them, maybe. No one could get near the house for hours, of course. And then they had to secure the walls, I remember, before we could enter . . .”
And he’s off, explaining the process, giving me snippets of gossip about the personalities under the uniforms and white suits. But soon I have the impression he is more interested in settling old scores than sharing details of the fire.
“. . . truth is, the major investigation lot can be a tad high-handed. They didn’t want me anywhere near. Assumed all I dealt with out here was the odd stolen pony—”
“And Olivia’s parents, Alex and Elsa? Did you know them well?”
“What?” He doesn’t like my interruption. “No, but I knew of them. Nice couple, good-looking, everything going for them.”
“It must have been a difficult scene to investigate.”
He snorts. “Standard house fire. Clear as could be.”
“It was?”
“Bloke fell asleep with a cigarette in his hand—maybe he’d had a drink or two, the family away—and it went up like a tinderbox.”
“But didn’t they consider it could have been started deliberately?”
“Of course. That was checked out, as standard. By the insurers, too, who paid out. Which tells you something.” He chuckles. “You see, there are some telltale signs when a fire’s no accident—if it starts in more than one place, if you find traces of accelerants . . .”
“Accelerants?”
“Petrol, something to speed the flames up—but there was none of that. And no motive to burn the place down,” he adds, pointedly.
“OK . . . but didn’t some money go missing, at the house, around that time?”
He looks at me, his head cocked to one side. “There was a bit of unpleasantness with one of the staff, now you mention it, but that all got smoothed over.”
I lean forward. “Did anyone get sacked? Might they have had a grudge against Vane? Set a fire maliciously, that got out of hand . . .”
“No, no,” he says easily. “The money turned up, all a misunderstanding. Certainly never got to be a police matter.”
“How did you know about it then?”
He looks amused at my effort to catch him out. “It’s a village. People talk.”
I press on, trying not to get flustered. “I also know that the body was very badly burned, that they couldn’t work out exactly what the cause of death was. So no one would have been able to tell, say, if there was a gunshot wound.”
“A gunshot wound?” he asks mildly. “And just who’s shooting who, here?”
“Well, if Vane killed himself, let’s just say.” That’s what Sam Gibbons assumed when he heard the gunshot.
“Why on earth would he do that?”
“Or even,” I hesitate, thinking about Joey’s suggestion Vane upset someone he shouldn’t—I might as well say it—“if someone else was present . . .”
He sighs tiredly. “Of course there were rumors. Always are. But that doesn’t mean they’re not cruel and unnecessary.” He pauses. “And unwarranted.”
It’s the moment to pull out my trump card. “Well, I appreciate that. But I know that Alexander Vane didn’t call for help that night—that the 999 call came from a neighbor, Sam Gibbons—and that Vane could have had access to guns. And Sam is absolutely certain that what he heard that night was a gunshot.”
The old policeman is very still. As the silence stretches on, he keeps looking at me, his pale eyes unblinking, and I feel my heart start to race.
“All right,” he says finally, and I realize that I am a little afraid of what he will say. “I might as well tell you, after all these years.”
He pauses, and suddenly I know that this is it, at last. I am getting somewhere.
“Yes, we found a gun.”
Chapter 31
“You found a gun?” My voice is filled with horror.
For a terrible moment, I think Pete Gregory is crying: then he leans back in his chair and I see he is shaking not with tears, but with silent laughter.
“Oh,” he wipes his eyes with his handkerchief. “I am sorry. Your face . . . Yes, there were guns. I could tell you even now, Alex Vane had four, including, let me see, a lovely Purdey 12-bore.” I try not to look blank.
“I’d have to check the rest,” he continues comfortably, “but everything was documented just as it should be. He liked shooting, nothing wrong with that. I’ve bagged a few pheasant in my time, too.” His look seems to challenge me to object.
“But did you check if any of the guns been shot recently?”
“Course we checked.” He holds my eye contact. “They were still locked in their cupboard fixed to the wall in an outhouse, but forensics were all over that.”
“Sam Gibbons was very insistent that he heard a gun go off. Before he saw the fire.”
“Ah well. Far be it from me to suggest that a man could be confused about what woke him up in the middle of the night . . .” his voice drips with irony. “But we knew what the bang was: the heating oil stored in the garage went up when the fire reached it. I saw the thing it was kept in—the whole side was bent out. As for Sam hearing it before he saw the flames—well, the houses weren’t that close. Makes sense that he couldn’t see the fire until it had really take
n hold.”
I am frowning, making sure I follow. He has answers for everything.
“Of course,” he says, more quietly, “there were things that weren’t made public then. That man shouldn’t have died.” He sounds angry, for the first time. “Why didn’t Alexander Vane call 999? I knew why.”
“You do?” Finally, am I getting somewhere?
“Because the fire engines had to come all the way from Mansford—he knew his house would be gone before they even got there. I’d bet he tried to put it out himself. The state of the resources out here.” He shakes his head regretfully. “But that’s all done now . . . Sam Gibbons!” he says more cheerfully. “Now that’s a name I haven’t heard for a while, anyway. How is he? Not much of a countryman,” he continues without a break. “Got on to me about the cockerel down the road when they moved here, wanted me to ‘do something about it.’” He laughs softly. “Townies.”
I feel like the insult could be directed at me, as much as Sam.
I stand up. I am done now, all my leads frustrated.
“Well. I really am grateful.” I might as well be polite.
He gets up, relaxed as ever. “Not a problem.” Relaxed and yet somehow . . . watchful.
Yes that’s right, I decide, as I put away my notepad. I just got the sense he was paying more attention than he let on. Once a policeman . . . old habits die hard.
And for me, too, as a ghostwriter. Hoisting my bag over my shoulder, I scan the photos lined up on the mantelpiece behind him, register a row of young smiling faces, his grandkids surely, so he’s a family man . . .
He stands up in front of them, breaking my sight-line.
“There is something else I should mention, before you leave.” His expression is grave. “You mentioned Joey Crompton. Everything all right there?”
“Yes,” I say, surprised. “I know he’s a bit—awkward. . .”
He nods. “Now, I hope I’ve cleared a few things up for you, and that’s why I agreed to talk to you. But I’m going to give you a friendly word of warning about that young man, if he has encouraged you to think there was something untoward about that fire. Did he tell you why he had to move out here in the first place, to live with Marie?”