The Haunting of Mount Cod

by Nicky Stratton

  ‘He had a thing with some kind of orphanage when he was at St Botolph’s, I seem to remember,’ Angel said. ‘But I don’t think Aunt Matilda would have gone for that. She always said she preferred dogs to humans. That was enough to drive old Frank nuts.’

  Laura left Angel and returned to Mulberry Close; this new motive for the murder of Matilda was too compelling not to impart immediately to her friends. Laura felt confident as she waited for Strudel to finish making what she called her Bavarian-style egg mayonnaise. Strudel tipped half a dozen hard-boiled eggs from a bowl onto a wooden board on the kitchen work surface and took out a knife from the rack.

  ‘I fully appreciate you and Jervis’ belief about a ghost being Matilda’s representative from beyond,’ Laura said, pacing up and down beside her.

  Strudel began chopping the eggs with swift staccato swishes, her little finger raised at an angle as the rest of her hand gripped the handle of the blade.

  ‘But what if it was Canon Frank Holliday all along,’ Laura continued as Strudel raised the knife and brought it down with a thud onto the board.

  ‘Of course the ghost might still be part of it.’ Laura watched as the tension in Strudel’s fist relaxed.

  ‘And what motive are you giving to this new gentleman suspect?’ Strudel reverted to her dainty method of slicing.

  Laura stopped her pacing. ‘Religious differences.’ She sat down and put her elbows on the kitchen table cupping her chin in her hands. ‘It’s a well-known fact that doctrinal argument can lead to violence. From what Angel said this looks increasingly probable, but I’m not sure how best to tackle him.’ The smell of the eggs was getting irksome. ‘Where’s Jervis? Laura asked. He’ll know what to do.’

  ‘We will disturb him in a minute when he has finished responding on Facebook.’ Strudel dolloped mayonnaise into a bowl and mixed in the eggs then added the already chopped raw onion and frankfurters to the dish. ‘Harvey Elwood has posted something most unsettling. He says he did not sign up for sexual deviancy when agreeing to go out with Gladys.’

  ‘Gladys in trouble again?’ Laura was thinking Jervis might also be in trouble again. Indigestion looked inevitable.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ Strudel put the egg mixture in the fridge.

  ‘Oh dear, and I did hope Reverend Mulcaster would have a word with her,’ Laura said. ‘I’ll have to go and see her myself.’

  ‘Please do. We must be scotching this in its prime. Jervis is saying we will have to unsubscribe Gladys if she can’t be controlled.’

  ‘Come and see what I’ve found,’ Jervis shouted from the sitting room. ‘Robbie and Robert Hanley Jones are the same person.’

  They hurried in as Jervis sat jiggling the computer mouse, his miniature glitter ball cuff link sparkling. ‘And he’s got quite a little empire of companies to his various names. Robbie Hanley, Bob Jones.’

  ‘Not very inventive,’ Laura said.

  Jervis started typing with two fingers. ‘Look here’s his CV on LinkedIn. Harrow, then a disappointing third in politics from Leicester. It doesn’t seem to have held him back though; a stint at acting school was obviously all he needed to get him going.’

  ‘Well actually…’ Laura told them what Repton had said about his acting career being cut short by Matilda.

  ‘He’s got a lot to thank her for by the looks of things,’ Jervis said. ‘At present, along with State of the Union and the marketing company Promoco, he and his aliases run some sort of import export business in the Ukraine that I can’t make head or tail of but more importantly, a property investment company called “RHJ Associates”, that runs a subsidiary called “RHJ Care Homes”. Something doesn’t smell right to me.’

  ‘What is this Jervis?’ Strudel said.

  ‘There seems to be a connection between the wedding venues and the care homes.’ Jervis tapped the side of his nose with one finger and Strudel sniffed her armpit.

  ‘Care homes?’ Laura paused.

  Jervis typed in a different web address and scrolled down. ‘From the records it seems that State of the Union is by no means his biggest player. In fact it looks more like a recreational toy. The profits for State of the Union are small compared to the property company, and the care homes are catching up.’

  ‘Jervis is the maestro of cross-checking, are you not my love?’

  Jervis winked at Strudel then turned his attention back to Laura.

  ‘But here’s the thing. There’s a property on the State of the Union books from a couple of years ago that now turns up in the RHJ property portfolio under the heading “pending planning”. It’s going to be turned into a care home.’

  Laura’s eyes widened as she took in the implications of Jervis’ revelation.

  ‘Mount Cod?’

  ‘Just what I was thinking. They’d have to get Repton to sell up first,’ Jervis said.

  ‘They could frighten him into it.’ With the aid of a fake ghost? Laura kept the idea to herself. ‘And what about the planned kitchen extension?’ she continued. ‘Saying it was for the weddings but actually it would be perfect for a care home. All costing Repton money that would eventually benefit RHJ.’

  ‘Run the place down. Keep profits to a minimum. Pile on the pressure. Yes, I see what you mean.’ Jervis got up from his desk and stretched. ‘I think this might be one for Vince Outhwaite’s legal chappies to look into. They’ll know all about their rivals in the care home sector. I need to do a bit more digging. Find out the circumstances of the sales. See if there are more places that might have been sold privately that had been used as wedding venues.’

  ‘This is excellent, Jervis,’ Laura said. For now, Canon Frank would have to wait. ‘I think we’re in business.’

  Chapter twenty-one

  Impatient though she was, Laura felt that she must wait for Jervis to get back to her with further information before she contacted her granddaughter. Victoria’s husband Vince was not a man to trifle with. There was no point wasting his time until Jervis was sure of his facts. So in the meantime she kept her word and arranged for Angel to see the foxhounds.

  The hunt kennels were situated just off the end of Woldham High Street down a short lane and, incongruously, next to a butcher’s shop. It was about the only part of the town that had not been prey to developers and still backed onto open countryside. Laura waited in the sunshine at the appointed hour outside the gate to the kennel complex. She could see a pack of hounds standing up at the bars of their enclosure, tails wagging, tongues hanging out. As a man carrying a bucket of food arrived, they began to bark wildly. Parker, who had been standing quietly at Laura’s feet, attempted to bolt back to the car. As there was no sign of Angel, Laura walked him back and deposited him on the front seat.

  On her return, she could see two figures waiting.

  ‘Wotcha, Lady Boxford.’ Angel called out. She had made a great effort with her appearance and had put a flat cap over her Mohican. A waxed jacket and gumboots finished the look. Beside her stood Rich. To Laura’s consternation, she saw that he was wearing the tweed suit from the charity shop window, a pair of white sock clearly visible above his trainers.

  Laura greeted them and they went to find the kennel huntsman.

  ‘Re-homing retired hounds?’ he said, scratching his head with blood spattered hands. ‘You wasn’t thinking of having ’em indoors were you?’

  Rich folded his arms and surveyed the baying dogs. ‘We’re still at the planning stage at the moment.’

  ‘We’ve got some fundraising to do,’ Angel said. ‘What do you feed them?’

  ‘Tripe mostly. Horsemeat if they’re lucky.’

  Angel fiddled with the zip of her jacket. ‘Donkey?’

  The kennel huntsman considered this. ‘D’you know, in all my years, I can’t remember a single incident of a dead donkey being fed to hounds.’

  Angel sighed with relief at the passing of a potential conflict of interest.

  ‘Mind you we was once donated a llama.’

  Angel win
ced.

  ‘And I’ve heard tell of other exotic creatures. Old Lord Ramsbury used to keep a herd of zebra once upon a time.’

  ‘We mustn’t keep you on this lovely morning,’ Laura said.

  ‘If that’s all you’re wanting, I’d better get back to work. I haven’t hosed down the bitches’ yard yet. Smells pretty bad once the sun gets on it.’

  Laura, Angel and Rich walked back to the High Street.

  Angel was in high spirits. ‘I see absolutely no reason why you can’t housetrain a foxhound.’

  ‘But which one? There are so many.’ Laura wished she’d kept her mouth shut.

  It was plainly a quandary that was vexing Rich. ‘How many do you think were in that pen?’

  ‘Twenty?’ Angel offered.

  ‘They were just the dogs.’ Laura pointed out. ‘And how many other hunts are there?’

  ‘In England?’ Angel asked.

  ‘You mean Wales and Scotland too.’ Rich rubbed his stubbled chin.

  ‘I think you might find you’ve got quite a lot of funds to raise to realise your project, but I hope I’ve been of some help. My car is parked over there.’ Laura pointed across the road.

  ‘Thanks Lady B.’ Angel held out her hand for a high-five.

  Rich took the cue. ‘Yeah, sure. Plenty to think about. Milton Keynes wasn’t built in a day.’

  Laura crossed the street and looked back as the pair walked on, apparently deep in conversation.

  Driving back to Wellworth Lawns, she engaged with Parker about the plight of elderly foxhounds. ‘I suppose it must be someone’s job to shoot them…’ Parker curled up tight on the seat beside her. ‘Don’t take it personally,’ she said as she pulled up at the lights on the pedestrian crossing. ‘But talking of shooting, we must drag Venetia away from the latest instalment of CSI and tell her about Angel’s plans.

  Venetia was not impressed by her daughter’s charitable efforts.

  ‘She is a very stupid girl and I really don’t have time for her infantile behaviour. It’s Pointless.’

  ‘I don’t know, animal welfare is important.’

  ‘I mean it’s Pointless on now.’

  Laura said she’d come back later and take Venetia down to supper where she had arranged to meet Gladys.

  As they rounded the corner into the dining room they heard a familiar yapping and from underneath a table Sybil Thorndike appeared. Parker rushed forward to greet his friend.

  Sir Repton turned from where he was sitting with his back to them, opposite Gladys Freemantle. He gave a feeble wave as Laura and Venetia walked over to join them.

  ‘Repton,’ Venetia said. ‘Whatever are you doing back here?’

  ‘Oh woe is me, dear coz. The world is grown so bad…’

  ‘Please try not to take it to heart.’ Gladys reached across the table to stroke his hand. ‘You see someone has stolen the eagles from the roof of Sir Repton’s house.’ There was a hint of hysteria in her voice.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Venetia asked.

  ‘Tam and Pom did say that they had certain reservations about the booking. We’d never had a big fat gypsy wedding before. They wanted photos from the parapet to post on Facebook.’

  ‘Like in the brochure?’ Laura asked.

  ‘Yes, that’s why the crane was ordered. The bride was too fat to get up the ladder to the roof.’

  ‘Jervis said that sort of thing was photoshopped,’ Laura said.

  ‘The bride wanted photos of herself and the groom in the foreground with the caravans and horses that were gathered in the park below. It was as they were being hoisted up after the actual ceremony that someone noticed the eagles had gone. But as it stands we will never know if it was them; they were a charming family.’ Sir Repton shook his head. ‘Then the whole night was such a commotion – even with my earplugs and a substantial sleeping draught, I could hear it going on. It was past three in the morning when I last checked my alarm clock.’

  ‘But surely someone would have seen four giant stone eagles being carted off?’ Laura said.

  ‘They took a Henry Moore from the Yorkshire Sculpture Park. I heard about it on Antiques Roadshow,’ Venetia said.

  ‘Inspector Sandfield admitted that he was stunned by the audacity.’

  ‘Phil Sandfield?’ Laura said. ‘Stunned about sums him up. I wouldn’t hold out much hope of finding the eagles with him in charge.’

  Gladys stretched her arm across the table again. She clasped Sir Repton’s hand in hers, squashing the white roll that he had just picked up. ‘You must go higher up the chain of command.’

  She let go and turned to Laura. ‘If only the Brigadier was here, he’d have known someone in the SAS who could have helped.’

  Sir Repton shook the bun from his palm and wiped his hand on a napkin. ‘A forensic team has cordoned off the entire place. Today’s wedding has been transferred to a barn near Northleach. The bride is distraught. Tam, or Pom say it’s my responsibility and suggested I retire here to Wellworth Lawns for a spot of peace and quiet while they sort out the insurance.’

  ‘It’s the best thing that could have happened.’ A look of unadulterated joy illuminated Gladys’ craggy features.

  Laura rang Strudel and Jervis.

  ‘Most suspicious I’d say, Jervis said. ‘You mentioned that other statuary had gone missing.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Leave it with me. I must get to the bottom of Robert Hanley Jones’s import–export company. He may be shipping antiquities via the Ukraine. Meanwhile I think it’s time you called Victoria.’

  Laura agreed and spoke to her granddaughter. Victoria said she would get Vince’s trusty accountant, Bernard to look into RHJ Care Homes.

  Over the next few days Laura waited and watched. She watched from Venetia’s bedroom window; from the car park; from the lounge; from, well, almost every corner she watched as Gladys mounted her campaign to win Sir Repton’s affections. Laura’s theory that it was Sir Repton who was hellbent on a rich widow was scattered to the four winds; there could be no doubt that it was Gladys who was on the offensive.

  Feeling out of sorts one morning, she ordered breakfast in bed. It was not that she was actually ill but staying in bed was the only way she could think of quelling her impatience.

  Mimi waited as Laura closed the volume of the Brigadier’s dairy she was reading and put it on her bedside table. ‘You down dumps morning time Ladyship?’ She placed the tray on Laura’s lap. ‘Not thinking poor old Brig again?’

  Laura glanced back at the diary. He had been stuck in the village on the shores of Lake Tanganyika for a very long time. Almost two years in fact. Laura had always thought of him as such an active sort of person but his scant diary entries made little sense and spoke mostly of ceremonies that had taken place within the village. He was obviously highly revered as he made reference to feasts that were put on and the celebratory outfits that he wore. But she felt that there was something he was not telling. And then his handwriting became so poor… Perhaps he had contracted malaria?

  ‘I have been thinking of him actually,’ she said, as Mimi handed her the morning paper.

  ‘Good thing Brig not here now for sure he losing temper time.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Mr. Parrott not allowing mobility scooters.’

  ‘Why?’ Laura pulled at a piece of croissant and Parker surfaced, pushing back the bedclothes beside her.

  ‘Parkee!’ Mimi stroked his head. ‘He say them old things lazy. He is making my Tom put them all away in garage. Tom saying Mr. Parrott gone fitness bloody mad.’

  Mimi said she’d come and collect the tray later and left Laura to her breakfast.

  Laura gave Parker a piece of croissant. ‘I shall have to call Victoria again. Edward Parrott is getting way above his station.’

  She heard a knocking and Venetia popped her head around the door. ‘Oh dear,’ she said ‘I’m quite out of breath but I had to come and tell you.’ She collapsed on the end of Laura�
��s bed. ‘I’ve just heard something most intriguing.’ She fanned her face with her hands. ‘I thought I’d just go and see if I had any letters at reception – I’ve written to the Jeremy Kyle Show to ask if I can participate. I thought they might have responded and as it was I had a few minutes to spare after Homes Down Under.’

  ‘Get on with it,’ Laura said, getting out of bed and putting on her kimono.

  ‘I am, I am. You see Mimi was at the desk talking with a young man. Terribly good looking. Rather like Jeremy Kyle actually, only younger, and taller and… not so weasily. Not very like him now I think about it…’

  Laura sighed. ‘And?’

  ‘He was asking for Repton.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘He said his name was Ned something… Oh dear, I did think it was important at the time…’

  ‘Do try to remember.’

  ‘Underwear, his name had something to do with underwear… Ned Smalls?’ ‘It can’t have been.’

  ‘Gusset?’

  Laura opened the top drawer of her chest of drawers and pulled out a pair of tights.

  ‘That’s it,’ Venetia said. ‘He said his name was Ned Stocking.’

  Laura wrapped the tights into a ball and replaced them in the drawer; so Repton had finally answered the letter. ‘Unusual name,’ she said.

  ‘There was that MP.’

  ‘Oh yes, Humphrey Stocking. Made a frightful hash up over something or other.’

  ‘And of course there was the actress, Jezebel.’ Venetia’s eyes widened. ‘Now I remember it; they were in Macbeth together.’

  ‘Jezebel Stocking. Goodness I’d forgotten her.’

  ‘Yes,’ Venetia smiled. ‘Now it all makes sense…’

  What does?’

  ‘And the timing is about right – it must have been about thirty years ago.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘He says he’s Repton’s son.’