Death at Coombe Farm

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Not really, but what can we do?’

  ‘We can prove that Gordon is not your father’s son.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nicholas, there’s something I’ve never told any of you, not even your father. I was involved with another man when I met your father.’

  ‘Are you saying that Gordon may not be our father’s son?’

  ‘I was in love with your father. I was sure it was his, I always have, but now with Gordon the way he is, I have my doubts.’

  ‘Does Gordon know about this?’

  ‘Yes. I told him I wanted to conduct a test. He reacted badly.’

  ‘What did you expect?’

  ‘I didn’t expect anything.’

  Nicholas Selwood, a man devoted to his mother, wasn’t sure of what to say. He had not expected to be told that his mother had another life before his father. He phoned William, asked him to come over. His mother sat quietly in one corner. The pedestal that her two sons had placed her on had been firmly broken, and all because of necessity. For all her children’s lifetime, she had hidden her previous life from them, and now in one day, the past had resurrected itself, the memories of what she had done when she was penniless and with no support mechanism from her parents. She knew that if Gordon wasn’t Claude’s son, she could not say who was his real father. A reputation cherished and embellished, destroyed.

  She had not expected Nicholas to remain so calm. She knew that William would have difficulty accepting the reality. She hoped both her sons would see the need to expose Gordon.

  Marge recognised in Rose Goode a more significant threat than Cathy. Rose was pure and chaste, and she brought up a son, a son who should have been adopted, but hadn’t been, and there he was, not less than eight miles away.

  William arrived within twenty-five minutes. Marge made a pot of tea, three cups. Her voice was steady, but her hands were shaking, so much so that Nicholas had to pour.

  ‘Mother, you’d better tell William the truth and no procrastinating.’

  Marge put down her cup, and, while holding her youngest son’s hand, she recounted the story she had told to Nicholas. At the end of the telling, William was in tears.

  ‘Was it worth all this?’ Nicholas asked his mother.

  ‘I told you because I love you both.’

  ‘Are we our father’s children?’ William asked. His face was ashen as he spoke.

  ‘I made a mistake once. Claude Selwood is your father. I was a good wife to him, you know that.’

  ‘What do you want us to do? Nicholas said.

  ‘In time you’ll forget what I have just told you.’

  ‘We won’t. But for now, we will do what is necessary.’

  ‘I need a sample of saliva from either of you and a sample from Gordon.’

  ‘Gordon will not comply,’ William said.

  ‘Then you must secure certain items from him without him knowing.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Nail clippings, a toothbrush, a sample of hair, but it will need the follicle.’

  ‘How about yours?’ Nicholas asked.

  ‘I’m the mother of all three of you. I will send a sample as well.’

  ‘Is this strictly legal?’

  ‘No. I will want one of you to consent to be yourself, the other to be Gordon. You can use your own name, but we will know which is which.

  ‘And if he is our father’s child.’

  ‘Then he and his son will take the farm, and there will be nothing we can do.’

  ***

  Cathy Selwood’s funeral was held in the local church, the vicar from the next village officiating. In the congregation, the Selwood family, although Marge wasn’t present. Also, Tremayne and Clare, as the two of them had known the woman.

  Gordon Selwood was comforted by his brothers. Cathy Selwood had none of her family present. Nicholas and William made speeches on Gordon’s behalf. Apart from that, it was a short ceremony, Cathy’s coffin being taken to a plot in the graveyard not far from Claude Selwood. Up at Marge’s cottage, the woman trained a pair of binoculars on the churchyard. She was looking for the presence of Rose Goode, but she could not see her. Inside the cottage, she took a bottle of gin from the cupboard and poured herself a glass. If no one was coming to see her, then she did not want to remember the day.

  After the ceremony, those in the church moved to the farmhouse. The caterers had prepared a meal, and there was alcohol available. Tremayne helped himself to a beer; Clare, after listening to a few more speeches in praise of the dead woman, left and went out to the stables. She found Napoleon at the far end. He was pleased to see her. ‘What you could tell us,’ she said to the horse. The horse, sensing kindness, but not understanding what was said, just shook its head.

  Another of the farm’s employees came up to her. ‘He’s not been ridden for a while. How are you with horses?’

  ‘I used to ride a lot when I was younger.’

  ‘Great. I’ll saddle him up. We’ve got some riding gear that should fit you. I’ll take another horse.’

  ‘I should be at the wake.’

  ‘Napoleon, he’s the one who’s suffering. He liked Cathy a lot, as much as he seems to like you.’

  ‘Very well. Let’s go.’

  Tremayne came out of the house after a few minutes to see his sergeant heading up the track on the back of Napoleon. Gordon Selwood came out soon after. ‘That’s good to see. Cathy was fond of the horse.’

  Inside, a beer and some food awaited Tremayne. He knew that Yarwood would not just be riding, she’d be asking questions of her riding companion.

  ***

  Crispin Goode was elated; his mother was not. She had made the decision to make herself known to Gordon Selwood, not out of an altruistic need, but because her son had almost been killed. For her, she would have preferred to have stayed hidden and for her son to have never known the truth.

  Her becoming pregnant by Gordon had destroyed her family: her father had never regained his position in society, her mother had faded away with shame. It had been two that night behind the churchyard, yet she, the female, had been the one who had been pronounced as the guilty party, not Gordon.

  Rose knew that it wasn’t necessarily Gordon’s fault. He was the result of a system that excused the wealthy, blamed the less fortunate, and she had loved him. First as a friend, then as a lover, and then briefly as a husband. She remembered back to the wedding, a ten-minute visit to a registry office; her parents and his in attendance. A brief shaking of hands across the families, and then, she and Gordon were man and wife. There was no honeymoon, no kiss on tying the knot. It had been clinical and without passion, and then the man that she loved, who loved her, was gone.

  After that, a hidden location, the best of care, the endless hours waiting for her child to be born. The plan had been for it to be adopted, a family was already lined up, but then, when Crispin had been born, a beautiful little boy, she could not let him go, nor could her parents.

  ‘Rose is mature enough. She can keep the child. If anyone asks, he’s ours,’ her father had said to her mother. And that was the way it was, until, at the age of nineteen, Rose had declared that she was leaving and she was taking her son with her.

  It had been another five years before she saw her parents again, her father helping her financially during the difficult periods while she attempted to establish herself. The next time she saw her parents, her mother had aged dreadfully, her father was still upright. And then, while working in the administration office of a factory, in walked Derek Goode.

  Her parents had attended their wedding, and for once her mother had appeared to be pleased, but behind the façade, the woman was ill, succumbing after another six months; her father was gone within two years.

  It was just Rose and Crispin, and Derek Goode. It had never been her intention to return to Salisbury, but Derek had accepted the transfer, and that was that.

  There had been times when she had been tempted to drive the short d
istance to Coombe, but she had resisted for years until she had seen Gordon that one day in a shop in Salisbury. It had been fourteen years, and he had changed.

  Derek was no longer around; the marriage had reached its conclusion.

  The first time that Rose had driven around Coombe, it had been a quick in and out; the second, she lingered, even walked down the main street, passed a couple of women who had been friends of her mother, and they had not recognised her. She had been unable to stay away from the funerals of Claude Selwood and Old Ted, maintaining a discreet distance.

  At the time of the funeral of Cathy, Rose busied herself in the small garden at her house; her son, Crispin, busy with school work.

  She was sure that the events at Coombe were not over, and Gordon wanted to spend time with his son, even if she, the mother, had some trepidation. Rose had been in the pub in Coombe on one occasion when Marge Selwood had sounded off about Cathy, her daughter-in-law. ‘She was a whore, you know. One minute she’s turning tricks, and the next, she’s keeping me out of my house.’

  Rose had smiled that day, hopeful that the upturned collar on her jacket, the blonde wig she had worn, and the years that had altered her appearance, would make her unrecognisable.

  She had loved the woman’s son back when Crispin had been born, but now she wasn’t so sure. He had appeared worthless when they had recently met. Now, he had the money, and Crispin had been enamoured of the Jaguar, hopeful of a drive, optimistic that his father would buy him a car. Even now, Crispin had a new laptop in his backpack courtesy of Gordon. ‘You two should get together again,’ Crispin had said to his mother.

  Even in that short encounter with his father, Rose could see that her son, always so sensible, had picked up some of the bad habits of the father.

  Chapter 16

  Clare could see that Napoleon wasn’t an easy horse to ride. Even though the horse was friendly towards her, he still reacted when she first mounted him.

  ‘Show him who’s in charge,’ Callum, the farmhand, who had chosen a smaller and calmer horse, said.

  ‘That’s the problem, he is,’ Clare said.

  ‘Napoleon needs to burn off excess energy.’

  Once they were away from the stables and heading up the track, Napoleon wanted to gallop. ‘He’s fast,’ Clare said.

  ‘Faster than most horses around here. Mr Selwood, the older one, bought him for that reason. Now there was a man who could control a horse, not that Napoleon liked him.

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Old Ted reckoned it was because the man mistreated the horse.’

  ‘You don’t agree?’

  ‘Mr Selwood and Napoleon, they were alike. Both strong-willed, both attempting to exert control over the other. Napoleon, he’s a smart animal. Mr Selwood could control him by willpower, mind over matter. Cathy, she showed the horse love, and the horse responded. With her, he wanted to please. No doubt, he’d be like that with you, but first, he needs to show you what he’s capable of, not wanting you to forget.’

  ‘He’s doing a good job.’

  At the top of the track, the two riders stopped to look over the view. ‘It’s beautiful up here,’ Clare said.

  ‘Too much death for me,’ Callum said.

  ‘What’s your story?’

  ‘Not much to tell. I’ve worked here for the last few years. I’m a local, wasted my time at school. I need to be on the land, not in a stuffy office, and as for university and a career, that’s for others.’

  ‘Old Ted, what did you reckon to him?’

  ‘He was fine. Not very sociable, but he taught me plenty. I’ve taken over his responsibilities.’

  ‘He was shot up here.’

  ‘It doesn’t make any sense, not Old Ted. If he knew anything, he’d not talk.’

  ‘Everyone seems to believe he knew something.’

  ‘We’re a good people for gossiping in Coombe. People talk to people, that’s all.’

  ‘But you’re not so good at keeping quiet, are you, Callum?’

  ‘I’ll admit to it, but there’s nothing I know that you don’t know already. I mind my own business, the same as Old Ted.’

  ‘It didn’t stop him being murdered. How would you fancy a bullet in your head? Did you see the body? It’s not a pretty sight, a man’s body, its head with a bullet in it. Is that what you want?’

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘Then tell me the truth. What did Old Ted know that is important?’

  ‘Mr Selwood used to meet someone up here.’

  ‘Do you know who?’

  ‘I saw them once. Old Ted was with me, although we were not visible, at least to Mr Selwood and the man he was talking to. It was early, he told me to tell no one.’

  ‘Why would Old Ted do that?’

  ‘That was the man. He didn’t get involved. Whatever happened, happened for a reason as far as he was concerned. If Mr Selwood wanted to build three hundred houses up here and change the village forever, then that was his business, not Old Ted’s.’

  ‘We were always told it was to be a low-impact, low-cost housing development, down in the village.’

  ‘That’s what people believe.’

  ‘And you’ve told no one.’

  ‘I mind my own business, do my job, go home, get drunk occasionally.’

  ‘Who did Claude Selwood meet?’

  ‘Len Dowling.’

  ‘The man who runs an estate agency in Salisbury, fancies himself as a property developer?’

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘You remember the death up at Old Sarum?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘We met him there. We’ll speak to him in due course, but why up here, and how did Dowling get here?’

  ‘The area would have gone mad if it had known. You can walk up here from another direction if you want.’

  Clare knew that if Len Dowling, a man that she and Tremayne had come across before, was involved, then it was, if not illegal, at least questionable.

  ***

  Nicholas and William Selwood were in the main house at Cathy’s wake, and, aware of their mother’s revelation, walked around the house. Neither would admit as to the hurt they had felt when finding out about their mother’s past life.

  The deceit of their mother concerned them both, and they had debated the subject long and hard. Regardless of how the future would turn out, they had to secure the title to the farm and the house. William went upstairs into their parents’ bedroom. On the bed, the undeniable evidence that Gordon and Cathy had been using it. In the wardrobe, Cathy’s clothes, in the bathroom, her make-up and toiletries. William took a toothbrush, obviously recently used which could only mean it was Gordon’s, and found some nail clippings in the sink. He put them into a bag, as well as some fallen hair, although, he realised, that without the follicles, they would probably be of no use. He opened the bin by the sink and discovered an old bandage from where Gordon had cut himself when he had been cleaning the inside of the Jaguar’s engine bay.

  Downstairs, Nicholas kept Gordon occupied. ‘Rose Fletcher, you’ve seen her?’

  ‘We’re here to mourn Cathy,’ Gordon replied. For once, he had smartened himself up, and he was wearing a suit, instead of the usual tee-shirt and a pair of jeans.

  ‘It’s a day for remembering. What about your son?’

  ‘He looks like our father.’

  Gordon, not wanting to confuse Cathy’s day with talking about his first wife, even if only for a short time, walked outside of the house. He saw Tremayne, a cigarette in his mouth. ‘I could do with one of those,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve not seen you smoking before.’

  ‘That was Cathy. She was trying to get me fit, to give up my bad habits.’

  ‘My sergeant liked her a lot. She seemed a good woman.’

  ‘She was. She had a rough time when she was younger, but for some reason, she loved me.’

  ‘According to Yarwood, Cathy said it was because you treated her well, never let the past impact on
your relationship.’

  ‘She was pregnant.’

  ‘We know that, and now you have a son.’

  ‘It’s strange, isn’t it? One door closes, another opens. Anyway, today’s not the day to talk about Rose and Crispin.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Tremayne said. He could see confusion beneath the man’s countenance. It was understandable, Tremayne thought. Within a couple of weeks, Gordon Selwood had had to deal with his wife’s death and then to be confronted by a former lover and their son.

  Up above on the hill, Clare and Napoleon.

  ‘Your sergeant knows how to ride a horse,’ Gordon said.

  ‘Yarwood, she keeps me in check. The horse doesn’t stand a chance.’

  ‘Cathy loved that horse. Your sergeant is welcome here anytime to ride him.’

  ‘I’ll let her know. It’ll do her good. She’s into animals.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Not even a goldfish. My wife had a dog once. I’d just about trained it to fetch my slippers when she left.’

  ‘Nowadays?’

  ‘The dog’s long gone, and if I want my slippers, it’s up to me to fetch them. My wife and I, we’re still friends, and we get together every few weeks for a few days. Ideal relationship really.’

  ***

  The name of Len Dowling had raised interest in the two police officers. They had suspected him in a previous case of a fraudulent rezoning of some land in Salisbury from industrial to residential. It had not been proven and was not the reason for a succession of murders.

  However, Tremayne always remained suspicious as to the legality, knowing that Dowling was a man who pushed the envelope between right and wrong when it was to his financial benefit.

  Ultimately, it had been found that Dowling had been entrepreneurial, having taken a risk, and then reaping the rewards.

  Dowling’s estate agency, the sign outside the door announcing that it was Salisbury’s finest, had not changed since their last visit. The man was initially surprised to see Tremayne and Clare inside his office, obsequious after that.

  ‘Have you decided to sell your house, Tremayne? How about you, Sergeant Yarwood? I’ve got a buyer for your place. We could do a deal today.’