Death at Coombe Farm

by Phillip Strang

  ‘His actions, as well as those of our mother, have created tensions,’ Gordon said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Marge Selwood said.

  ‘This attempt to alienate me made no sense.’

  ‘The farm must survive, so must the name of Selwood. You would have wasted the inheritance.’

  ‘That’s a lie, and you know it,’ Gordon said.

  ‘It’s not,’ his mother said. ‘When have you contributed to this family? When have you put in a good day’s work on the farm?’

  ‘When I was younger, I did my fair share. You live in the house, the same as our father did. When was the last time the two of you ever went further than the local pub? All that money wasting away, and why do we have employees? They can do the work; we can issue the orders.’

  ‘This is a working farm; it needs a manager. Your father, even though his health was ailing, maintained that position.’

  ‘I’d prefer to do something else.

  ‘Tell us, Gordon. What is it that you’d prefer to do, and we’ve heard you and Cathy enough times in this house, so don’t say screwing.’

  ‘How dare you insult my wife.’

  ‘Your wife? She’s here for the money, what else?’

  ‘I happen to love Gordon,’ Cathy said.

  ‘What were you before you latched on to my son? A stripper in a club in London?’

  ‘I was a professional woman.’

  ‘Professional, my foot. You were a tart, selling yourself to whoever would pay. It may be best if you ditch Gordon and take up with Nicholas or William. They’ll be running this farm, not Gordon, although he intended to sell it. How much for? Ten, fifteen million pounds.’

  It had always been the same, Marge knew that. She had married Claude out of love, and back then, he had been the eldest son of the owner of Coombe Farm and moderately wealthy.

  It was just before Gordon was born that they had moved into the main house. It had been Claude who had taken the farm and had built it up, even acquiring additional land when it became available in the district. Back then, and up until the first signs of Claude’s forgetfulness, later diagnosed as early-stage dementia, the man had run the farm with a firm hand, upsetting a few, gaining the begrudging admiration of others, and now the man had been killed.

  Marge Selwood had seen it some months earlier. His decisions for the farm were not as good as before. Sure, every day he was out there, rain or shine, dispensing orders, advising the farm hands, but the edge wasn’t there. There was hesitancy in the man, and deliberating, when, in the past, his decision making had been immediate and not open to dispute. One of the farm hands had even answered him back once, and Claude had not reacted with his usual invective.

  She knew that decisions needed to be made. The farm wasn’t just there to generate money, it was what made the Selwood family. A land bequeathed by a grateful king in the distant past, it represented heritage and stability, something the village of Coombe needed.

  It had been a fateful decision, Marge knew, when she had decided that her eldest son, Gordon, wasn’t capable of running the farm, and especially after he had arrived at the house that Saturday night six months before, a woman on his arm.

  ‘This is Cathy. We were married last week.’

  And that was it, Marge remembered. The woman had given her a hug, thanked her for letting them stay in the house until they found somewhere else, but never did, and then the veiled threats to have her out of the house once her husband died.

  Marge had summed up the blonde woman with the slender figure and the pumped-up breasts for what she was, even hired a private investigator to check her out.

  Two weeks later, and with her bank balance two thousand pounds lighter, the investigator came back with his report.

  Cathy Franks, born in…

  Marge skipped the first page, went straight for the second, and there it was: Cathy Franks, part-time model and professional escort.

  Marge knew her son, an easily duped man, had married a woman who sold herself. There had been an argument that night between the prostitute and her mother-in-law.

  ‘You’re just a common tart, hawking your wares on a street corner.’

  ‘I’m better than that. I’m educated, a qualified lawyer if you must know, but life’s tough when you look like me, and the men in the office and the courts treat you inappropriately. I was there as a lawyer, they just saw me as a quick lay.’

  ‘So, what did you do?’

  ‘I made them pay for what they assumed they could get for free.’

  ‘A tart, nothing more, nothing less.’

  ‘I was a businesswoman. I had the commodity, they had the money.’

  ‘And that’s how you met Gordon?’

  ‘He treated me well. He looked past the persona, saw the inner me.’

  ‘Next, you’ll be telling me it was love at first sight.’

  ‘And what if it was?’

  ‘I don’t believe it. You saw an easy touch, money in the bank. You’ve got your eye on the bigger picture. Once my husband is dead, you’ll be there with Gordon throwing me out on the street, taking all the money, and then you’ll be off.’

  ‘Better to be what I am, than a frustrated old woman.’

  Marge had wanted to hit the woman that day. She never knew why she did not, and now with Claude dead, and the will still not signed, it was all going to Gordon and his whore. She knew she could not allow the situation to continue.

  ***

  Jim Hughes’ report stated that Claude Selwood’s death was accidental, although the pellets shot at the horse and the man were contributing factors. If the man’s hand had not been caught in the reins, then in all probability he would have only suffered minor injuries, instead of his trachea being crushed by the horse’s foot.

  It wasn’t the result that Tremayne wanted to see, but he realised that Hughes was correct. Pellets from an air rifle would not kill a man, nor would a horse under normal circumstances, not even Napoleon, the horse that did not like Selwood.

  As expected, the lull in the Homicide Department’s workload meant the appearance of Superintendent Moulton attempting to pension off his most senior inspector. It had, however, been a weak attempt, as the superintendent enjoyed his encounters with the straight-talking DI.

  Some in the police station, Moulton knew, were subservient, always attempting to ingratiate, but not Tremayne. The man, he knew, would never try to butter him up, and would still give straight answers to straight questions.

  ‘We’ve not heard the last of the Selwood family,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘It’s not murder,’ was Moulton’s reply. The man was sitting down in Tremayne’s office.

  ‘It doesn’t make sense. It’s just after five in the morning, the weather’s lousy, and it was almost impossible to get up to where the man died, and yet, there is someone else up there with an air rifle, and not only that, someone skilled.’

  ‘Any other tracks up there?’

  ‘None. There was a herd of cattle, and their tracks were clear enough.’

  ‘What was it? A warning?’

  ‘Probably, but why? We’re aware of the animosity within the family, and we know Selwood wasn’t liked by a lot of people, but firing pellets seems to be the act of a fool.’

  ‘And that fool has killed someone.’

  ‘Not only that. He’s opened up a can of worms. They buried Claude Selwood at the weekend, a big turnout according to the publican in the village.’

  ‘You’ve kept in touch?’

  ‘I have. This is not over yet. The stakes are too high, and there are anger and jealousy in that family.’

  ‘The eldest son?’

  ‘He’s taken control. The mother attempted to wrest control, but she couldn’t.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘She’s licking her wounds, taken a room above the pub.’

  ‘And that’s it?’

  ‘I know it’s not. It’s a case of wait and see.’

  ‘If there�
�s no murder, then you and Yarwood have nothing to do.’

  ‘Give us a fortnight on this. Something’s going to happen, and I want us to be ready.’

  ‘Tremayne, will you ever leave?’ Moulton said.

  ‘Not me, sir.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. Try and get an idea who the shooter is, and what the mother is doing.’

  ‘That’s what I intend to do,’ Tremayne said.

  ***

  Marge Selwood, a woman who wasn’t short of money, regardless of her protestations about being thrown out on the street, was in a benign mood. Tremayne and Clare had made the trip out to Coombe to see her. The village was only small, no more than one hundred and fifty inhabitants, and the majority of the cottages that lined the main street were old, with thatched roofs. Clare had looked at a house that needed rethatching when she was looking to buy a place in the Salisbury area, eventually settling on a more modern cottage in Stratford sub Castle, not more than ten minutes from the police station.

  The pub in Coombe, once the centre of activity, along with the church, had lost its impact due to the advent of motorised transport and the internet. The publican had confided to Tremayne on a previous visit that he was thinking of leaving, and there would probably be no takers for the licence.

  In one corner of the pub, secluded from the other patrons, Marge Selwood sat. In her hand, a glass of sherry. Tremayne ordered a pint of beer for him, a glass of wine for Clare.

  ‘One’s enough for me,’ Marge Selwood said when Tremayne offered.

  Clare could see the anguish on the woman’s face.

  ‘Mrs Selwood, thanks for meeting us,’ Tremayne said.

  ‘A refugee in my own country,’ the reply.

  ‘We understand your son has exerted control of the farm.’

  ‘He and that woman.’

  ‘Cathy?’

  ‘That’s her. I checked her out, you know.’

  ‘What did you find out?’

  ‘She only wants Gordon for his money.’

  ‘Your son has left you homeless?’

  ‘I’ve got money, but I’m not going far. Here I’m near to Claude and my house.’

  ‘Claude?’ Clare said.

  ‘He’s in the churchyard. I go up there every day to talk to him.’

  ‘What are your plans?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I may take a cottage in the village, or I’ll see if my lawyer can do anything.’

  ‘Is that likely?’

  ‘I don’t think so, but my other two sons, they’ll do what they can.’

  ‘Will your eldest son sell the farm and the house?’

  ‘Either that, or he’ll carve up the land, keep the house for himself and his woman.’

  ‘You intended to let Nicholas and William run the farm?’

  ‘They would have done a good job, even better than Claude.’

  ‘You could go and stay with them.’

  ‘Here is where I belong; here is where I’ll stay.’

  ‘Why was the original will in favour of your son, and not you?’

  ‘It’s always been that way. Tradition mainly, and I agreed initially when Gordon was younger, but then, he left home, got in with the wrong crowd. And now, he’s got a tart, and he has no interest in the land. As long as he’s got her, then he doesn’t want anything else. The family name means nothing to him.’

  ‘Mrs Selwood,’ Clare said, ‘we have been told of a local girl that your son was involved with when he was in his teens.’

  ‘Rose Fletcher. I suppose that was bound to come out one day.’

  ‘Did she have a child?’

  ‘Yes, although I’ve no idea where the mother and the child are now. The Fletchers left the village, and they’ve never been back.’

  ‘Why did the horse your husband was riding not like him?’ Tremayne asked.

  ‘I don’t know, nobody knows. Claude was firm with the animal, not afraid to take the whip to him, sometimes too much.’

  ‘Enough for the horse to remember?’

  ‘Not really. Napoleon’s a thoroughbred, not a nag, and he could be temperamental. Some of the others wouldn’t ride him.’

  ‘Old Ted said he was fine with him.’

  ‘Old Ted never rode him. It’s one thing to give the animal a carrot and a brush down; it’s another to ride him fast across the fields.’

  ‘Did Gordon ever ride the horse?’

  ‘He’s a natural, the best in the family. Gordon showed such promise when he was younger, but then bastardy runs in the family. Unfortunately, it was passed on to him.’

  ‘Bastardy?’ Clare said.

  ‘Not what you’re thinking. Our family goes back nearly four hundred years. In that time, there’s been a few that have been illegitimate, a few that were first cousins, not so unusual back then. Every so often, the black sheep turns up.’

  ‘And Gordon is the black sheep?’

  ‘He’s the one who’ll lose the fortune. It’ll be for another generation to reclaim it.’

  Tremayne could see a proud woman unwilling to be daunted by her circumstances. A room above the pub, a cottage in the village, wasn’t likely to be a substitute for the magnificence of the farmhouse, but the woman, he knew, would take it in her stride. He had to admire her resilience in the face of adversity.

  Clare wasn’t so sure about the woman. For some reason she did not trust her, as if she was capable of more, even isolating her son from the farm and his wife. And if Cathy had a dubious past, it did not automatically make her bad. An earlier murder case, the trophy wife of a wealthy man had turned out to be the most honourable amongst a group of others who oozed respectability. Clare would reserve judgement on Cathy until she met her again.

  Chapter 4

  Bemerton Road Police Station on an overcast day wasn’t Tremayne’s idea of fun. He was a man conditioned to be out and about in the field. However, the investigation had come to a standstill.

  He looked at his sergeant through the open door of his office. He could see her typing away on her laptop. He looked at his, saw only disinterest and boredom. What he needed was a cigarette, and in line with the regulations, he was relegated to the outside of the building.

  ‘Come on, Yarwood. I need a break,’ he said.

  ‘You’re not going to breathe that smoke over me again, are you?’

  ‘Don’t go all official on me. We need to free ourselves from this office. I’m still unsure about Claude Selwood’s death.’

  ‘You know it’s an accident.’

  ‘It’s too convenient. We know the Selwood family was in turmoil, the father was not making good decisions, and the son is there with his tongue hanging out, his woman in tow.’

  ‘At that time of the morning when Selwood died, everyone had an alibi.’

  ‘I know that. William Selwood is at his college, verifiable. Nicholas is shacked up with his girlfriend, and there’s no reason to doubt her. And we know where the others were.’

  ‘Are you certain the pellets were shot by one of the family?’

  ‘Who else would have benefited?’

  ‘What if the man was unstable, attempting to sell the farm. There would be a lot of people who depend on the Selwood family in the village, even if they didn’t like Claude Selwood.’

  The two police officers walked out of the police station and around to the designated area. Apart from them, two others were there, cigarettes in their mouths. One was on his phone, the other was attempting to blow smoke rings.

  Tremayne seemed oblivious to the surroundings; Clare could only shiver. ‘Come on, Yarwood, a little bit of rain is good for the soul.’

  ‘Good for yours, not mine.’

  ‘I can’t prolong this case for much longer. Moulton’s holding off for the present, but you know him.’

  ‘You know him better than me. You two are like Laurel and Hardy whenever I see you together.’

  ‘And which one is the fat one? And be careful how you answer.’

  ‘I’ve no intention of answ
ering.’

  ‘Okay, back to something serious. If Rose Fletcher had a child, a son, would he be the next to inherit after Nicholas and William?’

  ‘According to Marge Selwood, the child of Gordon would take precedence over Nicholas and William.’

  ‘If she’s intent on claiming the farm back, an unwanted inheritor is the last thing she needs.’

  ‘Or maybe it isn’t. Marge Selwood could well be playing a smart game. She’s staying close to the house and the farm for a reason.’

  ‘The village and the farm have been her life for a long time. I can understand her reluctance to move away,’ Clare said.

  ‘Okay, I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt, but this unknown child, male or female?’

  ‘We are assuming male. If it were female, then Nicholas would inherit in case of Gordon’s death.’

  ‘It appears that the forces are in play to ensure that Gordon and his wife don’t have long enough to change the wallpaper.’

  ‘Are you certain they’ll be another death?’

  ‘The Selwood family have a history stretching back centuries, and there would have been skulduggery and murder over the years. Marge Selwood will not let this go, nor will Gordon and his brothers. There’s a battle going on that we don’t know about, a battle that will have casualties.’

  ‘Cathy Selwood?’

  ‘You need to meet her, see what she knows, check how far she’s willing to go to maintain her husband’s claim.’

  ‘And if she genuinely loves her husband,’ Clare said.

  ‘Relevant?’

  ‘I believe so. She’s being portrayed as the scarlet woman, but is she?’ We know what she was once, but that doesn’t make her a bad person, and someone still took shots at Claude Selwood.’

  ***

  Cathy Selwood, it was known, had a penchant for spending money, and her visits into Salisbury to check out new furniture for the house that she and Gordon now occupied made her easy to find. Clare, still decorating her cottage, although not with the budget of the other woman, intentionally ran into her in the store that both women enjoyed. ‘Mrs Selwood,’ Clare said.