by Ali Carter
‘I must go,’ I said. ‘If we don’t see each other again this week, I’ll be back to deliver the drawing before Christmas.’
‘Don’t worry Susie, Christmas is almost upon us. I’d hate for you to think you had to get it to us beforehand, particularly with all that’s been going on.’
I let myself out. There was plenty of daylight left so I didn’t need to head to Beckenstale Manor quite yet.
I had far more information than I could hold in my head and wanted somewhere to gather my thoughts and put it down on paper.
The Dorset Horn beckoned, and if there’s one place primed for eavesdropping then surely a public house is it.
It was looking to me as if I had got both Alexander’s and Henry’s characters only half right. I didn’t want to think sceptically about my friend Lord Greengrass, but it was hard not to with recent revelations.
The thing about murder is that the motivation does not necessarily have to be rooted in something of deep significance. I was fast beginning to think that sometimes something tiny but nonetheless significant to the murderer can spark the desire to kill. Or, just being in the right place at the right time could have led to a spur of the moment action. It’s unpleasant to think about but it’s true.
I was sitting next to a woman at dinner not that long ago and she was telling me about a recent Glaswegian court case where her father was the judge. A husband had murdered his wife with a pair of fire tongs for buying the wrong colour of budgerigar. Absolute truth, I promise.
These thoughts filled my head as I walked to the pub, which sits at the furthest end of Spire village from the church. I paused outside, looking up at the swinging iron ram above, thinking that the noise from inside sounded unusually busy for a Wednesday afternoon.
In the bar there were far fewer people than I expected. The woo-ha was coming from a table of Lycra-clad cyclists toasting each other. I didn’t envy them being out and about in this crisp weather in such thin sports gear. All but one had very red noses, and rather than lager or soft drinks they were drinking steaming hot toddies. A cooing couple sat in an alcove by the coal fire.
The only others were two old codgers perched on stools pulled up to the bar, who each had half-drunk pints of ale in front of them. They were listening to what sounded like a rambling tale that Ronnie was telling, but then his eye caught mine.
‘What can I get for you, my love?’
I was up at the bar and could feel the eyes of the men on stools straining to get a look at me without moving their heads.
‘Half a shandy, please.’
‘You visiting?’ Ronnie pulled down on the beer tap in front of me.
‘I’m staying at Beckenstale Manor.’
Ronnie’s eyes flicked up at me, and his hand slipped on the tap. ‘Whoops, took me by surprise, you sayin’ you stayin’ at the Manor.’
‘I’m an old friend of the family.’
‘Young old friend,’ Ronnie joked, thankfully distracting us both from the underlying topic.
I paid for my drink and went to sit at a small table with my face to the door and my back to the bar. It’s much easier to listen subtly to other conversations if you are facing in the opposite direction, I find.
I brought my sketchbook out of my pocket and with my eyes and thoughts in one direction, and my ears, intent on the conversation up at the bar, in another, I set to noting down what I’d learnt today. It was surprisingly easy to do both at once. Thanks to their age, these men were all a little deaf and that meant they didn’t whisper.
‘It’s been so long since we’ve seen you, Ron. We woke up this morning and just decided to jump in the car.’
‘Afraid I can’t offer you a bed. I’m living now with Katy and she ain’t lettin’ me bring anyone in, male or female.’
‘Wise that daughter of yours. Must take after her mother.’
There was a pause, in which I thought Ronnie might well be grimacing at these patrons he clearly knew of old. Antonia had told me his divorce had been messy. Then he said in a conspiratorial way, ‘There’s been a murder in Spire.’
‘Gossip we want Ronald then, not entertainment,’ chuckled one of the old-timers.
In my sketchbook I was mapping out what looked like a family tree but was in fact a mock family, each person representing a suspect. I used initials rather than names, and as I worked I looped connections between people. It sounds complicated but was the clearest way of seeing who was most closely connected to Alexander and who was least. I find that a visual aide-memoire helps me more than a simple list, although I know others think the opposite.
‘That posh idiot from the big house got what was coming to him in the graveyard on Sunday. I’m amazed it took someone so long to give him his due, and donk him on the head,’ Ronnie went on.
‘Ocht.’
I smiled when I heard the response of his audience. I didn’t for a moment believe that they hadn’t already heard of the murder. Then I thought that Ronnie may well be in for a windfall, as the notoriety of the village and this Agatha Christie-esque crime would likely bring in extra trade from those coming to gawp.
‘There was a murder in this village?’
The elderly chaps were playing at being slow to cotton on. To my mind, there were elements of pantomime to this scene. Although unrehearsed, they were feeding Ronnie the lines, and he was allowing them to do so.
‘Yup.’
‘Anyone fingered?’
I guessed that at least one of them had been watching 1970s crime drama reruns on BBC Encore. The Sweeney had a lot to answer for.
‘Nah, not that I’ve heard.’ Ronnie paused. ‘It weren’t me, before you go leaping to conclusions. Top-up, anyone?’
I was halfway through my shandy. The warmth of Antonia’s house had made me thirsty but I was aware I shouldn’t drink too quickly.
Ronnie continued, ‘It’s certain he was murdered, so I hear, as there’s evidence…’
Drat. He’d been silenced by an extra-thin cyclist who was making his way from the far table to the bar. Why is it that when bicycling became cycling even the most amateur of Sunday sportsmen starting dressing as if they were professionals? The man passing my table had on skin-tight Lycra clothing, which left very little to the imagination. Those flaccid bulges really are too much to bring out in public, and I didn’t much care either for the padded seat in his sports tights; it gave an unsightly impression of a baby’s nappy. I gave an involuntary shudder as I averted my eyes.
I focused on my Tree of Suspects, while another round of hot toddies was ordered. I knew that at some point I would have to start putting red crosses through initials on my diagram, but it was going to be tough. I hadn’t quite worked out yet what would happen on my system should one of these people have not actually committed the murder but instead been part of a conspiracy.
Painting trees sprung into my mind. Initially, you think how on earth am I going to represent all those leaves, the multiple grooves of the bark, the branches of all different shades and thicknesses? For a while it seems an overwhelming task. And then you see that if you let your hand and eye lead the way without conscious thought you find yourself portraying the simplest impression of the subject. Painting on top of this impression, and showing how the light falls on each separate element, soon gives definition to the tree. Almost before you know it, all that detail which made you apprehensive before you started has suddenly appeared in front of you.
I thought that if I could apply a similar method to my investigation, keeping the logic simple and not allowing myself to get caught up in or distracted by the in-between details (and right now this included dwelling on whether anyone was involved in a conspiracy), then hopefully all would have become clear by the time I had reached my conclusion. I remembered something an old boyfriend had once shown me written down: ‘It deosn’t mttaer in what oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoetnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be at the rghit pclae. The rset can be a toatl mses and you can sitll ra
ed it wouthit a porbelm.’
So, I told myself, all I have to do is to get to the bottom of the beginning and the end of Alexander’s murder; and find out what sparked it and who committed it. And to have any chance of saving Greengrass family relations, I must work it all out as quickly as I possibly can.
I took a large gulp of my shandy.
Turning back to my Tree of Suspects, I had A.G. (Alexander, Earl of Greengrass) at the crown, then, suspended and dangling from various branches depending on how closely connected they were to him, the initials of everyone whose name had come up in the last few days: D.G. (Diana, Countess of Greengrass), Lr.C. (Arthur, Lord Cornfield), La.C. (Asquintha, Lady Cornfield), G.S. (Groundsman Sid), N.A. (Nanny Angela), B.S. (Butler Shepherd), H.M. (Housekeeper Mary), M.F. (Mrs Fishbone), S.H. (Sarah Hember), A.C. (Antonia Codrington), B.C. (Ben Codrington), N.M. (Nanny May), H.D-S. (Henry Dunstan-Sherbet), R.R. (Republican Ronnie – I liked these initials), R.dK. (Ronnie’s daughter, Katy), P.Y. (Phil Yard), I.Y. (Iona Yard), S.L. (Strange Loader). And finally I added S.M. (Susie Mahl) for the sake of thoroughness.
The cyclist returned to his table followed by Ronnie and a tray of hot toddies. As soon as he was back behind the bar he struck up the conversation with his friends again.
‘If I were yous,’ said Ronnie to his audience. ‘I’d keep your visit short and sharp. People are sniffing around and everyone has their own theory. If you’re seen talking to me I daresay the coppers’ll have you in for questioning.’
‘Murder happened in the graveyard on Sunday morning?’ said one of the men on the stools.
‘Thoughtful place to do it,’ said the other.
I smiled to myself as I remembered my favourite sign, which is in Whitby, North Yorkshire: a large sign on a metal pole instructs ‘No Overnight Camping’ right beside the entrance to the graveyard.
‘Who do you think done it, Ron?’
‘Don’t know and couldn’t care. Never liked him. I’m sure it was him who ran over my dog all those years ago.’
‘Mabel, your Staffy?’
‘Yes. It still pains me to think about it.’
If there’s one thing I’ve learned from people with pets, it’s that when their beloved animal dies the owner suffers greatly.
Murdering someone ten years later in retribution for causing the death of a dog seemed a bit extreme, but I wondered if long-harboured grudges were perhaps the most potent. Mabel must have been the dog Diana briefly referred to under her breath on Tuesday morning.
Maybe on Sunday morning Ronnie was on his way to visit Antonia at the Glebe House, when he saw Alexander faint and with it an opportunity to give him a once-over. Could what everyone assumed was murder in fact have been the disastrous unintentional result of a bit of rough-housing, which was never intended to cause death? Could Alexander’s age and weakening health have led to a much worse outcome than had been meant?
I finished my drink and, as I went to leave, a pinboard by the door with newspaper cuttings caught my eye. There, right in the middle of the various stories, was the headline ‘Egerton Goughs Sell Listed Building to Landmark Trust’. Underneath a black and white picture of the very same round and fat stone tower that was in my photograph of Alexander and his loader.
Egerton Gough, Egerton Gough, I chanted to myself as I went out of the door and promptly scribbled it in my book. I was desperate to get back to Nanny’s house and look them up.
The sun was beginning to go down and now the air had a really bitter bite to it. I took the road back to Beckenstale Manor’s drive, fearing being alone on the now dark wooded footpath to the park.
The door of Rose Cottage was unlocked although Nanny didn’t call out as I entered.
The noise of company in the front room travelled down the corridor. Tiptoeing to my room as I didn’t want to announce my arrival just yet, I shut myself in the quiet of my bedroom, kicked off my shoes, plonked Henry’s bag on my bed and wriggled off my coat. Slumping on the chair at my desk, telephone in hand, I typed ‘Egerton Gough’ into Google. A list of results appeared. My eyes raced over them looking for relevant information.
Their large pile of a house turned out to be barely twenty miles from here. It was a 10,000 acre estate, according to Wikipedia, and one of the best shoots in the country. Then I spied the information I was really after: Mr Egerton Gough, chairman of the Game Conservancy succeeded by the Earl of Greengrass.
It seemed ironic that anyone could chair the Game Conservancy while also being a keen fan of shooting pheasants.
I wanted to telephone but I knew I couldn’t possibly visit at five o’clock in the afternoon, which would actually be more like six by the time I could get there.
I felt a bit restless. What to do? Then I looked down at Henry’s bag and it wasn’t long before I had convinced myself that, now it was in my possession, I had the right to look inside it.
Sadly there was nothing interesting. It was all very disappointing, being a comb, a half-eaten pack of chewing gum, a Spectator magazine, a blue biro that had been chewed at one end and an A5 notebook. I flipped through it quickly, but it didn’t seem to have anything in it.
Damn. Antonia was right, there was nothing here that Henry couldn’t do without or that yielded any new information. I put everything back in the bag and stuffed it under my desk.
Lying on the single bed, faced with another evening spent alone and churning theories over in my mind, I asked myself, why not call Toby? I had nothing to lose, and he was the soundest person around to bounce ideas off.
I got up and pulled the curtains shut. It was only five o’clock but almost dark outside. My mobile was on the bedside table winking at me. Calling Toby was open to misinterpretation, I knew, but there was no time to hesitate on the next step in the plan. I dialled his work number, which I’d saved as soon as I had received his business card.
‘Toby,’ I said, suddenly feeling strangely short of breath. ‘It’s Susie.’
There was a dreadful din coming down the line and I could only just make out his ‘Hang on a sec’.
‘Shall I call you back?’ I said, probably too softly as there was no answer. ‘Toby?’
The background noise disappeared and I could now hear him clearly. ‘So Susie, what’s up?’ he said. ‘Great news on the puppy.’
‘Yeah, I cleared that up thanks to your help…Um, I was wondering if you’re free to meet for a drink this evening?’
‘That would be great.’
My heart fluttered with his enthusiasm as he’d agreed instantly, although I then slightly deflated when he added, ‘I could do with a drink. Been a long day and the damn photocopier’s just let out a horrendous noise before – kaput! – it’s given up on me.’
‘How annoying,’ I commiserated. I hate photocopiers, and they hate me. ‘Technology’s all very well until it goes wrong. Shall I come to you?’
‘No need to do that. I’ll be done here soon and we can meet halfway. Do you know the Pig’s Trotter in Farby village, just beyond Spire?’
‘No, but I’m sure I can find it.’
‘It’s about four miles on the main road, heading west out of Spire. No village as such, more a pub and red telephone box on a bend in the road. Would six-thirty work for you?’
‘That would be ideal. See you then.’
I hung up as soon as I could. The thought of further telephone chit-chat with Toby made me so nervous that I’d rather be presumed rude than get into it. I wanted to have a bath but I had to say hello to Nanny first.
The door of the front room eased open over the fluffy carpet. The room was too warm, the curtains were closed and the television was silent although switched on. Shepherd and Mary were here.
‘Hello everyone, I hope I’m not interrupting.’
‘Not at all, Susie,’ said Nanny, just as I caught Mary shooting Shepherd a hard-to-read glance. ‘You’re welcome to join us.’
Shepherd tapped an armchair next to him. ‘Come and sit here.’
‘Don’t st
art treating this house as if it’s yours, Shepherd. Susie has more right than you to pull up a chair in my front room.’ Nanny sounded a bit piqued.
Mary tut-tutted at her husband, who ignored both of them.
All three of them had clearly come straight from work; Mary and Nanny were in their blue pinnies and Shepherd was so tightly stuffed into his three-piece suit I was surprised his hanky hadn’t shot out of his top pocket the moment he’d sat down.
Nanny said, ‘Susie, we’ve hardly seen you today, where’ve you been?’
‘I think Diana wanted me out of the house while Inspector Grey was getting statements, but that’s fine. I’m here to give her comfort and don’t mind at all. It suits me that she doesn’t want me all the time.’
Nanny was in high spirits. ‘You’ll be pleased to hear we’re all off the hook following our interviews. You can sleep soundly tonight.’
‘I never thought it was any of you,’ I reassured the room just in case I needed to. ‘I thought it must have gone well as you all sounded very jolly when I came in.’
‘These women,’ said Shepherd, ‘have a bit of a routine.’
And with that Nanny said, ‘Come on Mary, let’s do a repeat for Susie.’ And I saw an uninhibited side of her I’d never suspected. Both women stood side by side, holding their right hands up to their mouths as if they were grasping a microphone.
Nanny went first with ‘I Just Called to Say I Love You’.
Mary followed with ‘Killing Me Softly With His Song’. I found her swinging hips distracting.
I smiled and said they were great, and I was off for a bath. I was clearly not necessary to their fun, and as I relaxed for fifteen minutes in the hot water I could hear them going from strength to strength.
‘Ain’t No Mountain High Enough’. Nanny.
‘You’re the One That I Want’. Mary.
‘The Look of Love’. Nanny.
‘Lay Lady Lay’ and ‘When A Man Loves A Woman’. The Nanny and Mary duo.
And with that I reached for my towel. There are few things I enjoy more than a hot bath. It would definitely be my luxury on a desert island. I like it absolutely piping hot, don’t stay in it long and look like Sir Lancelot’s just rescued me for at least ten minutes afterwards.