There wasn’t any other option. The pall-bearers were under strain, and they were only too pleased to return their burden to the hearse.
‘As for the rest of you,’ Cole said, ‘I shall require statements, so kindly repair to the Admiral Byng, where comestibles are being served, and my assistant, Constable Chesterton, will make a list of all present and begin the process of interviewing you. But let’s be clear: no one is to leave without permission. You are all, in effect, under arrest.’ The latter statement was sweeping, but it needed to be said.
The people of Crabwell knew the voice of authority when they heard it. In fact, some of them broke into a run in their keenness to get to the pub, though it isn’t certain whether they were scared of the inspector or eager to be first at the bar.
‘Shall I go with them, guv?’ Chesterton asked.
‘Herd them in, Constable. Don’t let a single one escape.’
‘What will you be doing?’
‘Sealing the scene, summoning the police surgeon and forensics.’
‘Do you want me to phone for reinforcements?’
‘Leave that to me.’ Cole didn’t want any of the so-called murder experts muscling in on his big opportunity. He would phone one of the private crime-scene investigation firms.
Someone cleared his throat nearby – a nice touch of deference. It was the sexton, holding a spade. ‘Would you like me to cover him up, sir?’
‘No, no, no, no. I’m arranging for a forensic tent. You dug the grave, I take it? When did you finish?’
‘Yesterday evening, sir. Six o’clock. It was getting dark by then. It’s no fun being in a graveyard after dark.’
‘And did you cover the grave with the tarpaulin then?’
‘Yes, sir. I could feel in my bones it was going to rain. And I didn’t want the walls of the grave to cave in. There’s a lot of sand in the earth here, you know, being so near the sea.’
But Cole wasn’t interested in the composition of Crabwell’s soil. ‘So the unintended corpse must have been put there some time in the last twenty and a bit hours.’ He stepped closer to the grave and took another look. ‘Strictly between you and me, sexton, do you have any idea who this is?’
‘That be Mr Bentley, sir. Griffiths Bentley, the solicitor.’
‘I don’t believe I’ve met him.’
‘A bit late now.’
‘Is he local?’
‘He isn’t any more, sir. He’s gone to another place. But he used to have a little office over a Chinese takeaway in the village.’
‘I see.’ Cole enjoyed his food. He thought it might be necessary to visit Bentley’s premises before the day was out. But first he intended to solve the murder. It was safe to assume that this one was a murder and not a suicide. And it was ideally set up, with all the worried suspects gathered in the library… well, the public bar of the Admiral Byng. He would be at least the equal of one of the great fictional detectives, dominating the final chapter of the book and startling everyone with his brilliance before naming the killer.
Already the crowd in the pub sounded like party-goers. People always got more cheerful after a funeral than a wedding. Perhaps it was a way of fending off thoughts of their own inevitable demise that made them determined to enjoy themselves while they could. Or perhaps it was because the dead were safe from everything the fates or their enemies could do to them, whereas the newly married had years of difficulty and angst to come. Greta bit her lip hard and told herself not to be such a cynic.
Amy greeted them near the door, as if taking on the role of Fitz’s daughter, or perhaps widow. For the first time in ages, Greta wondered just a little about Fitz’s private life in recent years.
‘Have a drink,’ Amy said, waving towards a metal tray bearing glasses of something red, something white, and something fizzy.
You could make up a ditty for funerals, like the wedding one about old, new, borrowed and blue, Greta thought, apparently unable to stop her subconscious throwing up unsuitable ideas.
Something fizzy
Makes you dizzy
Something red
Mourn the dead
Something white
Life is sh…
What would her girls think, if they could ever get a glimpse of her unspoken thoughts?
‘You do look windblown: both of you.’ Meriel Dane could make the most innocent comment sound loaded with sexual innuendo, exactly the kind of thing to make Alice pucker up in disapproval. ‘Have a canapé. Devils-on-horseback. Fitz always said eating one of them made him think of oral—’
‘Thank you, Ms Dane,’ Greta said repressively, glancing at Alice with concealed anxiety. Luckily there was a gleam of naughtiness behind the forbidding spectacles.
Alice took a devil-on-horseback and touched it gently to her lips in case it was too hot. ‘Mmm: delicious. That lovely mixture of salty fat and sweetness. May I take another?’
Meriel’s disappointment nearly made Greta laugh. Instead she, too, took a prune wrapped in crisp bacon and swallowed it down.
All desire to laugh disappeared as Amy skittered across the floor towards them, twisting her carroty hair in the way she did only when she thought she was about to cause trouble.
Greta turned her back, but she wasn’t quick enough to get away before Amy’s thin white hand gripped her wrist.
‘Well, we’ve got two murders to solve now, haven’t we?’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘Oh, of course you wouldn’t know. You left the church before he was found, didn’t you?’
‘Before who was found?’
With great relish Amy proceeded to tell them about the discovery of Griffiths Bentley’s body. Alice looked more surprised by the news than Greta did.
‘Presumably the police have been called?’
‘Of course. They said they’d be coming here to take some statements. I asked if we should actually go ahead with Fitz’s wake… you know, given the circumstances. They said it was fine. I think, although they didn’t put it in words, they were pleased at the thought of having all of the suspects gathered together in one place.’
‘Do you reckon we’re all suspects?’ asked Greta.
‘Of course we are.’
Amy restrained herself from continuing, ‘Particularly those who rushed out of the church before the funeral had started.’ Instead she said, ‘Greta, I need your help. At least, not just me: Ben and me.’
‘Amy, I cannot imagine what you think I can do for you. But if you’re still playing amateur detective, I can tell you now that I know nothing about either of the murders that could possibly help either of you.’
‘It’s just your Girl Guides, Greta.’ Amy’s voice was full of synthetic sweetness, like fake maple syrup. ‘I can’t believe that none of them saw anything. I mean…’
‘How many more times? Everyone left together. If you’d heard them all complaining all day you wouldn’t bother to ask so often. Modern girls aren’t used to being cold and wet in the way we were in my day. There was never any chance that they were going to spend the night in those tents. They legged it off that beach as soon as I said they could go.’
‘But, Greta, I’m sure…’
‘Sorry, Amy,’ she said in the tone that had never failed to control a recalcitrant pupil, ‘but I see Victoria Whitechurch on her own in the corner. I have things to say to her. I’ll talk to you later.’ If I have to, she added to herself in silence.
The vicar saw her coming through the crowd and smiled in gratitude at the thought of rescue. Greta had never understood quite why Victoria was so unpopular. She always seemed pleasant enough and, as far as Greta knew, had never done anyone any harm.
‘Hello, Victoria.’ She made herself forget Amy and put plenty of warmth into her voice. ‘I’m so sorry I had to rush out of the church.’ Greta gestured vaguely towards her abdomen as she lied, ‘Bit of a tummy bug, I’m afraid. But everyone says it was a good service… in spite of the way it ended… you know, in the grave
yard. I’m sure Fitz would have been pleased.’
‘D’you think so?’ Victoria’s face was thin, but had somehow avoided the kind of lines a woman of her age ought to have. ‘Though he fulfilled his duties as a churchwarden, I know he wasn’t exactly a believer.’
‘Not in the holy mysteries, perhaps, but he was a great believer in old England and her traditions. The church would have been part of that for him.’
‘Couldn’t agree more.’ They had been joined by Bob Christie, his maintenance dose of alcohol well topped up. ‘Very good service, Vicar. I’m glad you stuck with the 1664 prayer book. Fitz’d definitely have appreciated that. And he’d have sung the hymns with great gusto. Who chose them, by the way?’
Victoria inserted her right forefinger between her neck and the starched dog collar, and she flushed a little. ‘Well, me. I hope you don’t think I…’
‘Somebody had to. And I do think Fitz would have enjoyed “When a Knight Won his Spurs in the Stories of Old”. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that at a funeral before.’
‘It was just all this talk of Templar gold and that sort of thing. I had a vision of knights and lances and fluttering pennants.’
‘As I say, he’d have liked it.’
‘Greta.’ Alice’s voice was full of anxiety, and Greta turned at once to see that she was staring at Tracy Crofts. The girl sat huddled beside the fire, staring down at the flames. ‘Look at her face. There’s something very wrong.’
Greta moved a little so that she could see more than the back of Tracy’s head. The expression on the girl’s narrow little face looked as though she was facing the flames of hell rather than a comforting pub’s blazing fire. And, in spite of its heat, her skin was very pale.
‘D’you think she’s ill, Alice?’ Greta whispered. ‘Or pregnant?’
‘Not possible,’ Alice said in the voice of one who knew.
Morning-after pill? A coil? Greta had often wondered how Alice dealt with the contradictions inherent in being a good GP.
‘She resents me,’ Alice went on, ‘since our last encounter in the surgery, so I think this might be one for her vicar.’ She interrupted Bob Christie’s pontifications to say, ‘Victoria, can you tackle Tracy? She looks terrified.’
‘I don’t think ghostly counsel is what that young woman needs. I did once try to talk to her about the unhappiness that was likely to follow a life of sin, but she…’ Victoria produced a ghastly smile. ‘She showed me in no uncertain terms that she would not listen to anything I might say and, indeed, would do her best to cause trouble if I continued.’
I wonder what she used to threaten you, Greta thought, imagining financial malfeasance, or possibly heresy. Except that Tracy’s world was not likely to encompass anything as esoteric as heresy, even if she knew what it meant. Embezzling the collection was a much more likely accusation.
‘Do you mean she threatened to blackmail you?’ she asked.
Amy, passing with a tray of drinks, heard the word and lingered, waiting for the vicar’s response.
Victoria Whitechurch coloured and said unconvincingly, ‘There’s nothing anyone could blackmail me with.’
‘No?’ Greta looked straight at Victoria, who avoided eye contact. ‘Most of us have done things in our past that we wouldn’t want to be common knowledge… and Tracy Crofts seems to have a knack for finding those things out.’
‘Well, there’s nothing she could find out about me.’ Trying to be assertive, the vicar just sounded flustered.
‘Are you going to talk to the girl? She’s in a bad way.’
‘No. One of you’d do it far better than I would,’ Victoria said, aiming her voice between the two of them.
Greta took it on, preferring to spare Alice. They had always been very protective of each other.
‘Tracy,’ she said quite gently.
‘What now?’ The girl’s voice was not encouraging, but Greta pulled forward a cushioned stool and perched on it. Amy, realising that it’d be too obvious if she tried to eavesdrop on their conversation, moved on.
‘Tracy, you look…’ Greta hesitated over the most useful and least threatening word, and eventually decided on ‘… worried. What’s the problem?’
‘Why do you think there should be a problem? Not everyone lives a pathetic life, worrying about what everyone else thinks about them.’
‘Certainly not.’ Greta remembered the wine glass in her hand and took a healthy swig of Shiraz. ‘But you’re not yourself. It can’t be sadness over Fitz’s death because you hardly knew the man.’
‘No. But you did, didn’t you?’
‘Every adult in the village knew him.’ Greta was keeping her temper, not rising to the girl’s insinuation. ‘What is it, Tracy?’
‘Lots of people hated him.’ For the first time this evening, the nasal voice sounded real. ‘I mean, really hated him. Like Jack the Ripper hated his victims.’
‘What on earth do you mean? Did you see something?’
‘Ms Knox?’ A pleasantly deep male voice sounded from behind Greta.
‘Yes?’ she said, turning to see Gregory Jepson, the chubby hedge-fund manager, offering to refill her glass. He was about the only man in the room not wearing a suit; his worn jeans, T-shirt, and hoodie demonstrated his lack of interest in traditional funeral protocol.
Greta put her hand over her glass. ‘I think I’ve got enough, thank you.’
‘OK.’ He put the bottle on the table and focussed his dark eyes on her. ‘I rather wanted to talk to you – if you’re not too busy.’
‘Tracy and I were just…’
‘Oh, for goodness sake!’ Tracy shouted. ‘Leave me alone. I don’t want to talk to you, you dreadful old witch. I’ve told you what I need from you – if you want to avoid trouble!’
‘And I’ve told you that I won’t—’
‘Shut up! Why won’t everyone just leave me alone?’ And with that the girl stomped out of the pub.
Greta blinked and allowed herself to be helped up from the stool as though she was eighty rather than fifty.
‘What can I do for you, Mr Jepson?’
‘Nothing at all.’ He smiled again, showing off the most beautifully straight, white teeth, which were somehow at odds with his general scruffiness. ‘But poor Fitz told me the last time I saw him that I ought to get to know you better.’
With a hand on her throat, Greta tried to control her imagination and failed.
‘Why?’ she whispered, telling herself that this successful, rich, scruffily-dressed young man could not possibly be the result of her brief embarrassing fling with Fitz. She scanned the shape of his face and the cut of his lips and longed to believe it could be true. The dark, almost black eyes were the giveaway. It was like looking into a mirror.
‘I think you know why,’ Greg replied. ‘But on the day the poor old boy is buried, I thought I ought to do as he asked.’
‘You lived here in Crabwell once, didn’t you?’ Greta said, trying to sound lightly social. ‘Why did you move away?’
‘The commute was a nightmare and I got an amazing offer for the Old Manor,’ he said, then flushed a little. ‘Actually, that’s not true. A relationship broke down, and I needed to make a new start. I think you and your partner had just arrived here, hadn’t you?’
‘That’s right. My mother had died and left me her house, and we were trying to decide what to do with it when Alice discovered that the local GP practice was looking for a new partner. It made sense to sell up in London and move down here.’
‘Brave though to come back after…’ His voice faltered.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, Fitz told me you ran away from here years and years ago after he proposed to you.’ Gregory smiled a little ruefully. ‘He wasn’t very sophisticated, was he? I think he found it hard to imagine that someone he had… well, loved, could prefer a woman to him.’
‘Not a lot of self-knowledge, you mean.’ Greta saw Alice watching them and waved. ‘I think most people wo
uld understand why anyone would choose someone like Alice over someone like Fitz. Poor Fitz.’
‘Special, is she?’
Greta felt as though all her joints were softening out of their habitual ache. ‘Oh, yes.’
‘Then I think I need to get to know her better, too.’
‘Mr Jepson, I…’
‘Couldn’t you call me Greg? Or even Gregory. I mean…’ He looked around to make sure there was no one in earshot. ‘After Fitz made such a business of telling me to get to know you, I made some enquiries. Bob Christie, the editor of The Crabwell Clarion, was very useful to me. He’d done a lot of research into… I don’t know the right name to call him…’
‘Fitz.’
‘Fitz, OK. And in the end, I had sight of my real birth certificate.’
‘You? No. I mean, I…’
‘I think you’d better sit down again.’ He steered her towards a chair. ‘You look very pale. Is the idea so terrible?’
She shook her head, dumb, and feeling the hot wetness of tears in her eyes. ‘I never… I mean, I… We can’t do this here, Gregory.’ She breathed carefully, and then said his name again. ‘Gregory.’
‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have tried in public. It’s just that I… I knew it would be hard, and somehow I thought we might both find it easier if we were in a place where we couldn’t give way to everything we felt, where there were other people around. You see, I…’
Now that he was finding words hard, Greta regained some of her own confidence. She smiled up into his face.
‘Are you horrified?’
‘Absolutely not. And I want to get to know you. You and Alice.’
Greta tensed up. ‘Don’t for heaven’s sake, say anything to Alice about this. Not yet. She’ll be very shocked. Let me prepare the ground.’
‘Fine,’ said Greg. ‘I’m all in favour of taking things gently. Our lives have been so very different, and we’ll have a lot of ground to cover.’
‘Gently all the way. I couldn’t agree more. So long as you’re not appalled.’
‘I’m very far from appalled,’ said Gregory Jepson, with a smile the memory of which Greta would always treasure.
The Sinking Admiral Page 22