Art by Laurie Harden
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A two-time nominee for the Crime Writers’ Association of Britain's Short Story Dagger Award, Kate Ellis is also the au-thor of a series of novels that each combine an intriguing contemporary murder mystery with a parallel historical case. In the U.S. the most recent book available in that series is A Cursed Inheritance (Piatkus 2004); in the U.K. The Shining Skull is hot off the press.
I felt his tight grip on my arm as I slumped into the passenger seat and when my hand went up to the blindfold he ordered me not to touch it. I did as I was told and clung to the soft leather of the seat, trying to work out where we were heading.
We travelled for hours on a fast, straight road and I guessed that we must be well out of London. When the roads started to wind I sensed that we were out in the country somewhere and we seemed to drive for miles before I felt the car swing sharply to the left. I heard the crunch of gravel beneath the tires as though we were on some sort of driveway, and when we stopped he told me to take the blindfold off. I could see my surprise at last.
I untied the blindfold and sat there blinking as my eyes got used to the light. I'm sure I swore when I realised where I was. But then I saw the excitement on Paul's face—like a little boy at Christmas—and I forced my mouth into a smile until the muscles began to ache. I think I managed to say what he wanted to hear. I could hardly have let him know the truth.
I managed to keep the smile in place when he told me the house was called the Old Rectory, and I rushed up to the front door, forcing out enthusiastic oohs and aahs as he pointed out each new desirable feature. He expected excitement and that's what he got. He had the Merc, the million-pound apartment in London, and now he had the place in the country he'd been promising himself for years. To have poured cold water on his triumph would have been like snatching away a kid's birthday present ... and I couldn't have done that to him. Not when I saw how thrilled he was.
He was twenty years older than me and too many business lunches meant that what he'd lost in hair he'd gained in weight. But I was fond of him—I suppose I might even have said I loved him if I believed in love, which I don't. We stayed in a hotel in Exeter that evening and he ordered a bottle of champagne to toast our new country life. After the bubbles had booted some of my inhibitions out of the window I asked him if he realised what life was really like in a place like Manton Worthy. But he just laughed and said he'd bought the best house in the village so the peasants could kiss his arse. People in the restaurant looked round and I felt myself blushing. Paul never worried about what people thought ... unless he was doing business with them.
Looking back, I couldn't complain about the house itself. It was like an oversized doll's house to look at ... symmetrical with long, square-paned windows painted in gleaming white. Paul said it was Georgian and it had a long gravel drive and a shiny black front door you could see your face in, with bright brass fittings. It had belonged to a TV executive from London who had spent a fortune on the place and only used it on weekends. Inside, the previous owners had kitted it out with gold and silk drapes and thick cream carpets. It hadn't always been like that, of course—once it had been a draughty, rambling place where the old vicar lived; where the parish bigwigs held their long, boring meetings and where the vicar's skinny wife organised her fetes and good works. But times change.
Paul had lived in London all his life and what he knew about the country came from watching old episodes of Miss Marple and reading the colour supplements. He said I should get to know the area, perhaps chat up a few locals ... there was no harm in cultivating useful contacts. But I said no, thanks, I had better things to do, and began to paint my nails. There was no way I was going out there. Not in Manton Worthy.
I had an uncomfortable feeling that it wouldn't be long before things began to go wrong ... and it turned out I was right. The cockerel next-door started it: cock-a-doodle-bloody-doo over and over again at five o'clock every morning. I knew Paul would take it badly ... he needed his sleep, and by the third day he was threatening to throttle the bird with his bare hands. I told him that crowing is what cockerels do ... that it was all part of the country experience. But there was no reasoning with Paul when something annoyed him.
He dealt with it, of course ... like he dealt with everything. He stormed round to see the farmer, who was called Carter—"an inbred lump in a flat cap and waxed jacket,” according to Paul. As soon as I heard Carter's name I knew I had to take care not to get caught up in Paul's little feud.
When the cockerel carried on I tried to convince Paul that you couldn't stop the forces of nature. But he said he'd have a bloody good try if they kept him awake at night. I suggested moving into one of the bedrooms at the back of the house and to my relief he agreed. I started to hint about spending more time at the London apartment, but Paul said that no inbred yokel was going to drive him out of the home he'd worked his backside off for. He always had a stubborn streak.
So there we were, stuck in the middle of nowhere, and as I stared out of our old bedroom window across the rolling green landscape, the sight of Carter's farmhouse squatting there in the field nearby made me shudder. I should have got out then ... I know that now with hindsight. But how could I have hurt Paul?
Another thing that spoiled the rural peace Paul thought he'd bought was the noise of the church bells. They rang on Tuesday evenings and woke us up every Sunday morning. One Tuesday Paul fetched a pair of shears from the garden shed and I feared the worst. But I thought quickly and said that I loved the sound of the bells and how glad I was that we lived so near to the church. Paul looked at me as though I were mad, but the shears were returned to the shed.
When the bells stopped that evening, I walked to the bottom of the garden and hid myself behind the hedge to watch the ringers leave the church. I saw Carter, leading them down the church path—probably to the pub—and my body started to shake at the sight of him. He had hardly changed. He still had the slicked-down hair I remembered so well—although it was grey now rather than black—and he'd put on weight. I watched him until he disappeared round the corner, then I hurried back into the house, taking deep breaths, trying to still my trembling hands. I made for the downstairs cloakroom, where I threw up, scared that Paul would hear me ... but he didn't. I told him that I had been outside putting something in the bin and he seemed to believe me. I hated lying to him, but I had no choice.
From then on I made sure we stayed indoors on Tuesday evenings and the change of bedroom had dealt with the cockerel problem. After a couple of weeks I was becoming more confident that I could manage the situation. But being in Manton Worthy still made me nervous, and I woke up each morning dreading what the day ahead would bring. And yet I put on a smile for Paul's sake.
Paul had decided to spend less time in London and run the business from the Old Rectory. I offered to act as his PA—after all, we'd met when I'd started work as his secretary ... just as he was becoming bored with his first wife. And doing my bit for the business gave me the perfect excuse not to go out.
But I suppose it was inevitable that I would meet someone from the village sooner or later, and one Monday morning, as I was getting dressed, the doorbell rang. I let Paul answer it while I stood hidden at the top of the stairs, peering down into the hallway to see if the caller's face and voice were familiar. Once I was sure that I had never seen the visitor before in my life, I walked down the stairs, smiling graciously, and invited her in. She introduced herself as Mandy Pettifer and she seemed nice enough in her way, although she wasn't really our type ... all floral dress and flat sandals. But I knew that a contact on the outside might be useful.
I took her through into the lounge—or the drawing room, as Paul insisted on calling it—and offered her a coffee. This was my chance to discover the lie of the land. Who was who now and what was what in Manton Worthy.
Mandy was the chatty type. In fact, once you started her on the subject of the locals it was hard to shut her up. She'd lived
in Manton Worthy for ten years and she was married to an IT consultant who worked abroad a lot. She taught part-time at a primary school in the nearby town of Ashburn, the local school having closed down years ago, and I guessed that she had come visiting because she was at a loose end in the school holidays. She was one of those people who'll tell you her life story before you can get a word in edgeways.
"I expect most people in the village have lived here for years,” I said when she paused to take a sip of coffee.
She looked disappointed, as though she wanted me to reveal as much about myself as she had ... but I wasn't playing that game.
"Actually the nice thing about Manton Worthy is that most of the people are newcomers like you and me.” She leaned forward, as if she was about to tell some great secret. “To tell you the truth, I don't think most of the locals can afford the house prices. I know the people who used to have our cottage live in Ashburn now. In fact, I only know of one person who's lived here all her life, apart from some of the local farmers, of course."
"Who's that?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
"Miss Downey: She lives next-door to me. She's in her seventies now but she used to teach in the village school when there was one."
"Nobody else?"
Mandy shook her head.
"What about the bell ringers?"
Mandy looked surprised, as though she'd never considered that human beings rang the church bells. “I've no idea. Perhaps they come in from Ashburn. Most of the cottages were owned by a local estate and when they were sold off the tenants couldn't afford to buy at the prices they were asking. Most of them moved to the estate in Ashburn."
"And the cottages?"
"Bought as second homes or by people like us."
"So there's nobody apart from Miss Downey?"
Mandy laughed ... a tinkling, irritating sound. “You'll have to meet her; she knows a lot about local history and all that. If you ever want to know what's gone on in Manton Worthy in the past, she's the person to ask."
I smiled but didn't answer. That afternoon I went for a walk through the village. It nestled in rolling, patchwork fields; chocolate-box pretty with its thatched cob cottages and ancient stone church next-door to the pub—everyone's ideal English village. Perhaps I had been wrong to be afraid. Perhaps everything would be okay ... as long as I avoided Carter.
Over the next weeks I became bolder. I walked through the village—well away from Carter's land—and I even took Mandy up on her invitation to call round anytime for a coffee. Perhaps I needed to see someone other than Paul. Or perhaps I just felt I needed to know what was going on in the outside world.
One afternoon I found myself sitting in Mandy's front room overlooking the main village street. She had done it up nicely, I'll give her that. There was an old-fashioned inglenook fireplace and she'd taken up the carpet to reveal the original stone floor which she had promptly covered up again with a large abstract rug in shades of grey. There was a whiff of minimalism in the air, which surprised me as Mandy hadn't seemed the type for that sort of thing. She talked at length about interior design ... and I listened. She had gone for a fusion of old rustic and modern, she said. I nodded and let her rabbit on. But I had more important things to worry about.
She mentioned the murder just as I had bitten into a Danish pastry. I felt myself choking and grabbed at the mug of coffee. By the time Mandy had fetched me a glass of water from her new beech kitchen with its slate-tiled floor, I had composed myself, although my heart was still pounding against my ribs. Who could have thought that the mere mention of it would bring back all the old terrors? But Mandy can't have noticed anything was wrong because she kept on talking, telling me how the girl had been found up by the woods, on the site of the old gallows. She'd been strangled, Mandy told me, enjoying every detail of the story. Strangled with a bell rope from the church. The police knew who'd done it, of course, but they could never prove anything. The boy had had learning difficulties and his mother had given him an alibi.
I asked her where she'd heard all this and she tapped the side of her nose. “A woman I work with used to live here. She told me."
"Did she mention Mr. Carter who has the farm next-door to us?” I regretted the question as soon as I'd asked it. But Carter was on my mind. In fact, if Paul knew how scared I was of Carter, he'd have done something about it, so I kept quiet. Trouble was the last thing I wanted in Manton Worthy.
Mandy looked puzzled. “No, I don't think she did. I can ask her about him if you like.” She leaned forward, eager to please. She reminded me of a dog we had once owned, a stupid animal who was all enthusiasm and no sense. It had been put down and we'd buried it in the back garden.
"No. It's okay. It's not important.” I hoped she couldn't sense the fear in my voice.
We got through three cups of coffee before I looked at my watch and realised how late it was getting. Paul would start to worry if I wasn't home soon. Perhaps it was the age gap between us that made him treat me like a child sometimes. Mandy tried to persuade me to stay—she was probably lonely there in that cottage, that cage of rustic minimalist chic, with her husband away so much—but I had to get away. She was beginning to get on my nerves.
Now that I knew the village was full of incomers like myself I felt more comfortable walking back. But as I hurried back down the main street towards the Old Rectory I heard a voice behind me.
"Karen? It is Karen, isn't it?"
I stood there frozen to the spot for a few seconds before I took a deep, calming breath and turned round. I tried to smile but I felt my mouth forming into an expression more of pain than pleasure.
The woman was small, bent with age. Her hair was snowy white and her flesh looked like thin parchment stretched over the bones. But her sharp eyes hinted at an agile brain behind that mask of age. I heard myself saying, “Sorry, you've made a mistake. My name's Petra."
But the woman's bright grey eyes were focussed on mine like searchlights. She hesitated, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “I'm so sorry, my dear, you just reminded me of one of my old pupils. I'm Edith Downey. I live in Beech Cottage ... just over there.” She waved a gnarled finger in the vague direction of a row of thatched, pastel-painted cottages straight off a picture postcard. I shuffled my feet, anxious to get away. “So you've moved here recently?"
"Yes.” She looked at me expectantly. She wanted more. “We've moved into the Old Rectory ... me and my husband ... Paul. We've come from London.” I tried to smile but I don't think I quite managed it.
Miss Downey took a step closer. Her eyes were still on mine, as though she were reading my thoughts. “It's all new people now ... apart from the Carters and myself. I taught at the village school ... when there was a village school."
"Really.” I tried to sound interested but I felt the adrenalin pumping around my body as I prepared for flight.
"Have you been to the church yet?"
I shook my head.
"It's worth seeing. It has a medieval screen with some fine angel carvings. Some of the people who used to live here still come for Sunday service ... most of them live in Ashburn now but they still feel they have ties here."
There was a hint of recrimination in her voice; a subtle criticism, as though she was hinting that I was personally responsible for driving up the village house prices and evicting people from their homes. But I said nothing. I wanted the encounter to be over. I wanted to get back to Paul.
I remember running back to the Old Rectory as though the hounds of hell were after me. I sank three large gin and tonics before I began the supper. Paul was busy in his office so I don't think he noticed.
It was awhile before I summoned up the courage to walk through the village again. I made excuses to myself: I had to use my new Range Rover because I wanted to do some shopping in Exeter or visit a supermarket ten miles away ... I didn't dare risk the one at Ashburn. I was making any excuse not to walk past Miss Downey's cottage. But how could I avoid the woman forever?
/> Somehow I had to persuade Paul that moving to Manton Worthy had been a mistake. But as I wondered how to go about it, I carried on day after day, driving through the village in the Range Rover wearing my dark glasses. The days passed, and before I knew it the lanes were filled with farm vehicles and the fields hummed day and night with the noise of combine harvesters. When Paul complained, as I knew he would, I took my chance and said that farms were noisy places and we might be better off somewhere else. But he was determined to stay put. Once Paul had made a decision, he would never admit he was wrong.
Soon after that a leaflet came through the door. It was an invitation to the church's harvest festival, followed by a hot-pot supper in the church hall. Naturally I threw it straight in the bin and I had the shock of my life when Paul found it there and said he wanted to go. He said he'd decided it was about time we became part of the community. My mouth went dry and my hands began to shake. This was the last thing I wanted.
I was thinking how to talk Paul out of it when I went out into the hall and found the note lying on the doormat.
* * * *
"Miss Downey was knocked down and killed on Wednesday night ... hit-and-run driver.” Mandy leaned forward, anxious to share this juicy piece of gossip.
"That's awful,” I said. “Have the police any idea who...?"
"Well, I've heard that an old Land Rover was seen speeding around the village earlier that evening. Someone said the police have questioned Mr. Carter, who has the farm next-door to you ... it's said he often takes his Land Rover to the Wagon and Horses. These country people sometimes think they're above the law where drunk driving is concerned, you know."
"So they think it was Carter?"
Mandy shrugged. After virtually accusing the man, she couldn't bring herself to deliver the final verdict. She leaned forward confidentially. “Remember I told you about that murder ... the girl who was found strangled? Well, I asked about it and apparently she was Carter's daughter ... and he was questioned about it at the time."
EQMM, June 2007 Page 6