‘I’m not casing the joint,’ Cathy said.
‘I never thought you were.’
‘Gordon’s mother, she can hate. The first time I walked into that house, she was straight onto me.’
‘Have you got ten minutes for a chat?’
‘A police grilling?’
‘Nothing as dramatic as that.’
‘Why the interest?’
‘Let’s say we’re concerned. Your father-in-law dies under mysterious circumstances, your mother-in-law has set herself up in the village, and two younger brothers are champing at the bit, believing they are what is right for the Selwood family.’
‘You’re reading too much into it, but I could do with a break.’
The two women left the store and walked down Fisherton Street. They entered a small café and ordered; Cathy insisting on paying.
‘Gordon, he’s not a bad person,’ Cathy said. ‘Sure, he’s not interested in the farm, but not everyone is cut out for it.’
‘Do you love your husband, Mrs Selwood?’
‘Yes, I do. That’s a little impertinent, asking such personal questions. I thought we were here for a chat.’
‘And we are. Excuse me, but we’ve seen these situations before: old family, steeped in history. The conflict between the family members doesn’t abate; it’s constant.’
‘I’m not sure I understand.’
‘Your background?’ Clare asked.
‘Middle class, north of England.’
‘The average family.’
‘If you say so. My parents are still alive and living together, and as for an inheritance, a half share in a former council house is hardly worth fighting over.’
‘Marge Selwood checked you out. Did you know?’
‘I knew. She’s a vindictive woman, a person who’ll do anything to protect the Selwood name, not that it’s that worthy.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They have a historical record of the family stretching back from before the land was bequeathed to them. It doesn’t gloss over the rogues and villains.’
‘Anything that would be of interest to us?’
‘One was hanged for treason, but that goes back nearly three hundred years.’
‘And your family history?’
‘Four hundred years of peasant stock, but I’ve never checked, never needed to. What someone did in the past makes no difference to my life. My fortune is dependent on what I do, not who slept with whom in the past,’ Cathy said.
‘Is that in the Selwoods’ historical record?’
‘There was a female ancestor, two hundred and fifty years ago, who was the mistress of the King. I’ve looked on the internet, but I can’t find any reference to it.’
‘It may not be true,’ Clare said. She was sitting back, realising that the two women had been chatting for more than ten minutes, more like thirty.
‘It probably is, but it’s not important.’
‘According to Marge Selwood, you have a dubious background.’
‘We all have skeletons, even you,’ Cathy said. ‘Mine is that I went through a rough patch in my life.’
‘And you sold yourself?’
‘Yes. Gordon knows, so does his family, and no doubt, everyone in the village of Coombe. I’m neither proud of my past, nor ashamed. It’s a fact, and I’ll not deny it. It doesn’t define me.’
‘You seem to be a more balanced person than your husband, more driven.’
‘Gordon is a bit of a waster, but he means well.’
‘Marge Selwood believes you’re with him for his money.’
‘She can believe what she wants. If Gordon’s father had not died, we’d have still been living with that insufferable woman.’
‘Is she insufferable, or is she just the grieving widow?’
‘Check on her background,’ Cathy said. ‘Find out where she came from. It’s easy for the pot to call the kettle black.’
‘Do you know something?’
‘I recognise a fraud when I see one. Her posh accent, her pretence at nobility, none of it’s true, I’m sure of it.’
‘Have you mentioned this to Gordon?’
‘Not him. He lost all respect for his mother years back.’
‘Why?’
‘You know about Rose Fletcher?’
‘We do, but we don’t know where she is, and what happened to the child.’
‘Marge does. I found a piece of paper in a drawer in the house. Rose Fletcher’s name was on it.’
‘Does Gordon know?’
‘Probably not. Marge has been using a private investigator to keep tabs on the woman.’
‘And the child?’
‘He still lives with the mother. Supposedly, they’ve had no contact with the Selwoods for years. Apart from that, I don’t know anything more.’
‘You realise that if Gordon died, then the child of Gordon and Rose could possibly inherit the house and the farm.’
‘Gordon knows that.’
‘Which means that Marge does as well. Why are you telling me this?’
‘I’ve nothing to hide. I want to stay with Gordon. He’s a decent person who treats me well.’
‘And the money?’
‘It’s important, I’ll not deny it, but if it comes with all the baggage, I’m not sure it’s worth the cost.’
‘The cost?’
‘I’ve read the family history, brother against brother, father against brother. It’s all there, and nothing has changed.’
‘Nicholas Selwood?’ Clare asked.
‘Ambitious, bright, probably not honest.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘He’s a man who weighs up the pros and cons, the percentages. He’ll play his game tactically.’
‘And William?’
‘Young, energetic. He would make a great addition to the farm.’
‘But Gordon wants to sell it.’
‘He has this idea of cruising the world, staying at the best places.’
‘And you?’
‘I’d rather stay here and have children.’
‘That’s not how Marge Selwood portrays you.’
‘I’ve seen through her; I’ve seen the black heart. No doubt, she’s seen through me, and my heart is pure. I want nothing more than what I have now.’
‘And the sale of the farm?’
‘I’ll convince Gordon to stay. He’s malleable, at least to me.’
***
In a housing estate in Salisbury, a studious youth of sixteen read through the essay that he was to present the next day at Bishop Wordsworth’s Grammar School. He was oblivious to the events in Coombe, not that he would have cared.
‘Dinner’s ready,’ a voice from downstairs. Always obedient, even though he was of an age to be rebellious, the youth left his work and walked down the stairs.
‘How’s the essay?’ a woman in her mid-thirties said. Rose Goode, the surname a result of a failed marriage in her mid-twenties, when she had needed love and Crispin had required a father.
It was unusual for such a bond to exist between mother and son, but it did. Rose, her parents no longer alive, having died young. Her mother, she knew, from shame after they had found out their virginal daughter was pregnant. Payment made by the father’s family to conceal the fact and to pay for Rose’s confinement at a private hospital in London where discretion was assured.
‘The essay’s fine, but I’ll be late home tomorrow. There’s a rehearsal for the school choir. I’m trying to get a solo.’
‘You’ll make it, I know you will.’
As Rose sat there looking at her son, she reflected back to when he had been conceived, something she had not done for many years, not until she had read that the Selwoods’ patriarch had died in a horse-riding accident. She remembered the anguish of her parents, the sobbing of her mother, her unwillingness to talk to her only daughter for days afterwards, the slap across the face from her father.
She knew she should not have made love to
Gordon Selwood, but he was young, as she was, and fate had thrown them together. It had only been a short-lived romance, mainly harmless, until that one night when he had got hold of some alcohol, and the two of them were sitting behind an old stone wall around the back of the churchyard.
Up until then, it had been heavy petting, not going the whole way, but with the alcohol and the starlit sky and Gordon, she had relented. It had been neither romantic nor agreeable. All in all, she had to register it as not unpleasurable, but not as it was portrayed in books. There were no moments of abandonment, no melding of two bodies. It was just sex, and it was over in a couple of minutes. And after that, the meetings with Gordon, the inevitable sex at the end, the reluctant admission that it had all been a disappointment, and then, the missed period, and then, having to tell her parents.
Rose knew little of the agreement that had been struck between her father and Gordon’s father, other than there had been a hastily arranged marriage ceremony at a registry office in Southampton, a city to the south of Salisbury, and then, after the birth, a divorce. Neither she nor Gordon had spoken to each other during the marriage and in the years subsequent. She had seen him on several occasions in the city, but he had not recognised her.
Back in their teens, she had been young and slim, but now, she had a disposition to put on weight, and her once flowing dark hair was blonde and short.
The last time she had seen him, he was no longer the athletic teenager. She had made no attempt to contact him, not even after the death of his father, although Gordon was now the owner of the farm, and her son, Crispin was his heir.
Rose looked over at her son, a young man without vices, a young man to be proud of, yet within him were the Selwood genes, genes that were tarnished. She knew that she needed to tell her son the truth as to who he was, but not today. Today, he had an exam, and he’d be home late. Tomorrow, she thought, but the idea did not appeal. He was hers, and hers alone. She did not want to share him, and certainly not with a Selwood.
Chapter 5
Old Ted walked up the track at Coombe farm, the same as he did every day, rain or shine. It was early, and it was still dark. He looked at the view when he reached the top. Down below, the farmhouse, and further on, the village of Coombe. He knew the Gordon Selwood and his wife were sleeping peacefully in the house below, Gordon’s mother in the pub. He remembered when she had first arrived in the village, a slim, upright woman. The locals had been suspicious, an outsider, but with time they had accepted her.
He did not trust Gordon, the eldest son, although he could admire Nicholas and William. To him, they represented stability, the need to maintain the traditions, even if William would want to change how the farm operated.
Where Claude Selwood had died was no longer muddy. He walked over to the site, knowing that Napoleon was in the stable down below, and he was still being ridden by others, including Cathy. Old Ted did not know what to make of her. He had heard the scurrilous comments of her mother-in-law; who hadn’t if they frequented the local pub or walked around the village, but to him, she was an attractive woman who loved the animals, especially Napoleon. If he did not get time to spend with the horse, she’d be out there with him.
They had spoken on more than one occasion; he, the farmhand, she, the wife of the farm’s owner, and there had been no doffing of the cap, no calling her Mrs Selwood. She had been adamant that her name was Cathy.
Old Ted had respected Claude Selwood, did not like his wife, but with Cathy, he found a kindred spirit, a person who loved the area and the farm. Gordon was contemplating selling the place, it was local gossip, but his wife had confided in him that they were going nowhere. And William, the youngest, would take over the management of the farm, Nicholas would deal with the money side, and her husband could do whatever he liked, and if that included involvement in the farm, so much the better. If he did not, it did not matter, as she would take up his mantle.
Old Ted liked Cathy Selwood immensely, he knew that. Over in the distance, not more than one hundred yards, he could see cattle grazing. He sauntered over to them revelling in the serenity, only to be disturbed by the sound of a motorbike in the distance.
As he approached the animals, the sound of gunfire. Old Ted collapsed. From behind him, a person approached. Once alongside the man on the ground, the person who had fired the first shot aimed the rifle at the head of Old Ted and squeezed the trigger. The only witnesses, a herd of cattle that initially moved away, but soon resumed their chewing of the grass.
***
It was mid-morning when the call came through, and Tremayne wasn’t well. Too many beers the night before, and he had a throbbing headache as well as a stomach that was feeling unduly sensitive.
Clare had no sympathy when she picked him up from his home. Her previous day had consisted of cleaning her cottage and then sitting with a book while her cats sat nearby.
‘We’ll be busy now,’ Tremayne said as Clare drove. This time Tremayne wasn’t checking out his form guide, he was attempting to catch up on his sleep.
Clare had been briefed by the village policeman as to what they were going to find at the scene. For once, the weather was improved, although it was still cold. As they drove into the farm, there was the presence of Gordon Selwood. ‘We’ve got a Land Rover that will get us up there. The track’s dried out in the last few days, and there’s not a lot of mud.’
‘The same place?’ Tremayne asked. Clare could see that his condition had improved. He still looked like a bag of potatoes to her with his rumpled clothes, his shirt hanging out. For once he wasn’t wearing a tie.
‘It was Cathy who found him. She was riding up there.’
‘Napoleon?’
‘She gets on well with the animal, not like my father.’
‘Where is your wife?’
‘She’s in the house. She’s upset over the man’s death.’
‘Aren’t you upset,’ Clare asked. ‘After all, the man had been here from before you were born.’
‘I’m sorry to see the man go, yes. He was a good worker, never knew when to stop, and now, he’s dead. But he was lonely with his wife gone. All he really wanted was to be with her.’
‘The crime scene investigators?’ Tremayne said, looking at Clare.
‘They’re on their way.’
‘Any way up apart from the track?’ Clare said.
‘There have been no vehicles,’ Selwood said. ‘There’s a couple of dogs that’ll bark like crazy if anyone they didn’t know went up there.’
‘Very well. Let’s go.’
At the top of the hill, the Land Rover parked at some distance from the body. The three of them walked over towards it taking a circuitous route in case there was evidence that they may disturb. On the ground, Old Ted, a local uniform standing nearby.
‘The cause of death?’ Tremayne asked.
‘He’s been shot twice, once close up, the other at a distance. A .22, I’d say, judging by the wound,’ the uniform said.
Clare looked at the body, remembered an old man who talked slowly and said very little. ‘Whoever did this would have had to be a marksman,’ she said.
‘If the rifle had telescopic sights, and the shooter had a steady hand, it wouldn’t need too much skill.’
‘Could you have executed the shot, Mr Selwood?’ Tremayne said. Clare had noticed him taking deep breaths of the fresh air. He was almost back to normal now, even having tucked in his shirt.
‘I had nothing against the man.’
‘That’s not an accusation, just an observation. Could a woman have made the shot?’
‘Not Cathy. She can’t stand weapons of any sort.’
‘I wasn’t levelling an accusation against your wife, either. Mr Selwood, this is a murder enquiry. We need to ask questions, questions that may seem irrelevant, accusatory.’
‘Understood.’
‘I’ll ask again. Could a woman have shot Old Ted?’
‘Yes. Some of the women in the village are better s
hots than the men: steadier hand, keener eyesight.’
Clare realised that Tremayne was thinking of Marge Selwood. The woman was devious, and Old Ted knew of the family skeletons.
Clare asked the question. ‘Your mother. Was she a good shot?’
‘Yes, but…’
‘There are no buts,’ Tremayne said. ‘Only facts.’
Clare realised that Tremayne did not like Gordon Selwood and that he had cut the man off short.
Another vehicle reached the area. ‘Touch and go getting up here,’ Jim Hughes, the crime scene examiner, said on his arrival. ‘You’ve got your murder,’ he said to Tremayne.
‘He was known as Old Ted, although his name is Edward Garrett.’
‘How old was the man?’
‘He was in his seventies, that’s all I know. They’ll be records at the house,’ Selwood said.
‘Fine, that’ll do for now,’ Hughes said. ‘I see you’ve been careful in approaching the body. It’s not necessary for you to stay around, just give us a shoe print, so we can exclude yours from the investigation.’
‘We’ve not found where the shot was fired from,’ Tremayne said.
‘Leave it to us. What time do you reckon the man was killed?’
‘He normally came up here between five to six in the morning, the same routine every day.’
‘And the body was discovered at ten?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did anyone hear the gunshot?’
‘It’s probable, but the occasional gunshot, someone shooting at a fox, or a pheasant, wouldn’t be unusual,’ Gordon Selwood said. ‘Most times, you’ll find the people in the area will just ignore it.’
The four had pulled back from the body, and Jim Hughes’ team of crime scene investigators were erecting a crime scene tent over the body.
‘How long?’ Tremayne said.
‘Before I start?’
‘You know the routine.’
‘You pester me till I give you something. Then you go away.’
‘That’s it.’
‘I’ll phone you when I know something,’ Hughes said.
‘We should go to the house,’ Clare said. She wanted to see if Cathy Selwood could be the murderer.
Death at Coombe Farm Page 4