Murder at Standing Stone Manor

by Eric Brown

  Maria couldn’t help noticing that Roy Vickers wolfed his food as if he hadn’t eaten for days. She wondered at the kind of life he led in his gypsy caravan, and why he didn’t lodge with the Wellbournes in the house itself: it was, she thought, more than large enough to accommodate three people.

  She overheard the vicar asking the young man how long he’d been in the village.

  ‘A couple of years now,’ Vickers answered with marked reluctance, not looking up from his plate.

  ‘And I understand you work on Richard’s farm.’

  ‘I do bits here and there,’ came the grudging admission.

  Richard beamed at Reverend Evans. ‘The lad earns his keep.’

  ‘Oh, more than that,’ Harriet said, smiling across at Vickers. ‘You’re a godsend, aren’t you?’

  ‘Wouldn’t say that,’ Vickers muttered, clearly uneasy at the attention.

  Maria smiled to herself when Donald sensed the young man’s discomfort and changed the subject. ‘What’s the size of your herd, Richard?’ he asked.

  For the next ten minutes, Wellbourne treated his guests to a lecture on the finer points of maintaining a herd of a hundred Jersey cows.

  Dinner ended with coffee and cognac, and afterwards the guests split into two groups; one remained in the kitchen, drinking coffee around the table, while the other repaired to the living room and gathered before the banked fire with Scotch and port. Maria found herself in the latter group, with Donald, the Wellbournes, Roy Vickers and the Reverend Evans.

  The vicar reminisced about his Oxford days for a while, then Richard Wellbourne told the guests about his education at an agricultural college in Malvern. ‘Best years of my life,’ he said, ‘and do you know why?’

  Maria noticed that Harriet was blushing as she fiddled with the hem of her blouse.

  ‘I met Harriet there,’ he continued. ‘She worked in the cheese shop, a Saturday girl. Tiny slip of a thing. Nothing much changes—’

  ‘You silly old duffer, Richard! I wasn’t much smaller than you at the time.’ Harriet looked around the group. ‘I didn’t know how big he was going to get, or I might have had second thoughts!’

  Maria asked Wellbourne, ‘Was it love at first sight?’

  ‘Do you know something,’ he allowed, ‘I rather think it was. Our eyes met above a round of Stilton, and nothing was ever the same again.’

  ‘And you?’ Donald asked Harriet. ‘What did you make of Young Farmer Wellbourne?’

  She laughed. ‘I thought him a galumphing oaf of a chap, and still do! He had the gall to ask me out there and then, in the shop, with a dozen customers looking on!’

  ‘But you accepted,’ he said.

  ‘And you wined and dined me with only one thing on your mind.’

  ‘My sweet,’ Wellbourne said, his eyes twinkling.

  Maria noticed, across the room, a sideboard arrayed with a collection of black-and-white photographs. They showed a young man wearing an RAF uniform. In one of them, he stood beside the fuselage of a Hurricane.

  She turned to Harriet, intending to ask about the young man, but Roy Vickers was saying, ‘I don’t know if anyone noticed, but Randall Robertshaw is back in town.’

  ‘Didn’t know the chap’d been away,’ Wellbourne said.

  ‘I saw his Morgan speeding past the green at five,’ Vickers went on. ‘He’d been away on business, according to Newton. Left owing a bar bill the length of his arm, by all accounts.’

  ‘He likes the sauce?’ Donald asked.

  ‘Just like his father,’ Wellbourne said.

  Vickers muttered something, and Wellbourne said, ‘What was that, Roy?’

  ‘I said, he’s even worse than his old man.’

  ‘What is it that you have against young Randall?’ Harriet asked Vickers, concern creasing her features.

  Roy Vickers’s hatchet face turned to the dancing flames, embittered. ‘He’s a conceited oaf,’ he said. ‘As you’d know if you had any dealings with him.’

  ‘And you have?’ asked the vicar.

  ‘Bumped into him in the Green Man a few times,’ Vickers said, nursing a glass of port in his bony right hand. ‘He’s the kind of toff who looks down on people for no good reason. He’s not liked in the village, I can tell you.’

  The vicar said, ‘I heard on the grapevine that you and he once came to blows.’

  The young man looked uncomfortable. ‘That’s an exaggeration.’

  ‘But I heard that he hit you …’

  The young man reddened. ‘What if he did?’

  ‘Roy!’ Harriet said, shocked. ‘You never told me!’

  Vickers shrugged. ‘You didn’t need to know.’

  Wellbourne asked, ‘What happened? What was it all about, Roy?’

  Vickers swigged his port in one gulp. ‘He just said something that he shouldn’t about someone, and I put him right.’

  ‘So he hit you – and you hit him in return, I hope?’

  Vickers looked anywhere but at the farmer. ‘He wasn’t worth the effort,’ he muttered, ‘and anyway I don’t believe in violence.’

  ‘Good for you!’ said the vicar.

  Wellbourne asked, ‘Who was he talking about?’

  The young man shook his head. ‘Doesn’t matter who,’ he muttered.

  Changing the subject, Donald asked, ‘What line of business is Randall in?’

  ‘I understand he has something to do with a bank in Norwich,’ Wellbourne replied, ‘though I heard he’s in hot water with them.’

  ‘Fingers in the till?’ Donald asked.

  ‘Not quite that serious,’ Wellbourne said. ‘According to Newton – the fount of all gossip hereabouts – his wife caught him in flagrante with his secretary. The wife did the right thing, gave the hussy a piece of her mind and chucked hubby out on his ear. The bank found out and gave him the old heave-ho, and Randall scurried back to the manor with his tail between his legs.’

  ‘That wasn’t the first time, according to Newton,’ Vickers went on. ‘You should see him in the Green Man, trying it on with all the single girls in the village, and some not so single.’

  ‘The professor must’ve taken a dim view of his infidelity,’ Wellbourne said.

  ‘Robertshaw doesn’t know,’ Vickers said. ‘Randall told his father that his wife’d met someone else. As well as being a cad, the chap’s a barefaced liar.’

  ‘You paint a delightful picture of the Robertshaw scion,’ Donald said. ‘I can’t wait to meet him.’

  In the kitchen, the back door opened and Maria heard a chorus of greetings. Nancy appeared in the doorway to the living room, her face rosy with exertion. She waved a mittened hand. ‘There you all are.’

  Harriet patted the cushion beside her. ‘Nancy! Come and get warm, and do help yourself to a drink.’

  The girl strode into the room, removed her coat and pulled off her mittens. ‘Well, perhaps a tiny little glass of port,’ she said. ‘I’ve just put Xandra to bed, and I remembered your invitation, Richard. Sorry I couldn’t make it in time for dinner.’

  She poured herself an inch of ruby port and squeezed on to the sofa beside Harriet, wrinkling her nose in greeting to the others like a naughty schoolgirl.

  She looked across at Roy Vickers and smiled. ‘Hello, you.’

  He flushed and smiled at the girl, murmuring, ‘Hello, Nancy.’

  ‘I noticed you all fall silent when I arrived.’ She laughed. ‘What were you talking about?’

  Maria noticed that Vickers was grimacing at the flames.

  Wellbourne said, ‘We were observing what an all-round good fellow your cousin is, Nancy.’

  The girl rolled her eyes. ‘What’s he done now?’

  ‘Merely arrived back in the village,’ Harriet said.

  ‘Yes, I heard the car earlier,’ Nancy said, ‘and managed to avoid him.’

  ‘So there’s no love lost between you two?’ Donald asked.

  ‘I’ll say not! He treats me as if I were a schoolgirl, and leeches off his fat
her something frightful. And the worst of it is that the silly old man falls for it every time.’ She clapped a hand over her mouth. ‘Listen to me, blabbing! And I haven’t even had one sip of port yet!’ She proceeded to put that right.

  Maria laughed. ‘Thank you for helping me unpack earlier. There’s plenty more to do if you find yourself at a loose end.’

  ‘I jolly well enjoyed it,’ Nancy said. ‘It was a relief to get out of the house.’ She turned to Roy Vickers and asked, ‘How’s life in the gypsy wagon, Roy?’

  ‘Not as cold as it was, thanks to the stove Richard kindly gave me last week.’

  Their heads came together and they chatted in lowered tones. The vicar turned to Donald and asked him about his novels. Wellbourne, seeing that two or three glasses were perilously close to empty, picked up the decanter and played the perfect host.

  Harriet, having noticed Maria’s earlier glance at the photographs on the sideboard, took her hand and said, ‘Come, I’ll show you.’ She led Maria across the room.

  There were perhaps a dozen photos, some showing a little boy behind the wheel of a tractor and others depicting the same young man in uniform. Maria picked up the photograph which showed him standing before a fighter plane.

  ‘My son, Jeremy,’ Harriet said.

  ‘He’s very handsome,’ Maria murmured, replacing the picture.

  ‘Just like his father.’

  ‘I can see the resemblance.’

  Harriet said, ‘It was the last photograph ever taken …’

  Maria felt her throat constrict. ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s hard to believe that it happened way back in ’41,’ Harriet said. ‘He would be almost thirty-seven, now.’

  Maria nodded.

  ‘He was flying over Holland, escorting a bombing raid back to Kent. They were attacked, and Jeremy went down in the Channel. I still recall the feeling when I read the telegram. “Missing in action.” I knew, of course. A mother feels these things, you see.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Maria said again, aware that the response was wholly inadequate.

  Harriet smiled and patted her arm. ‘Oh, don’t be. You shouldn’t be sorry. Jeremy isn’t dead.’

  Maria blinked. ‘Oh, I thought …’ She imagined the young man terribly injured, laid up in some hospital.

  But Harriet went on, ‘Well, I suppose he is dead, in that he’s let go of his physical persona – but he really and truly still exists. He’s over there, standing in the corner, leaning nonchalantly against the wall and smiling at me.’

  Maria felt a cold shiver travel down her spine. ‘He is?’

  Harriet gripped her hand and whispered, ‘Don’t let people believe that this life is all there is, my dear. Death is not the end. Life goes on, but life very different from that which we’re accustomed to. But listen to me! I’m giving you the heebie-jeebies!’

  ‘Harriet!’ Wellbourne called from beside the fire, concern etched on his craggy features. ‘Fetch another bottle of port, would you, old girl?’

  ‘Of course,’ Harriet said, smiling at Maria and taking a bottle from a cabinet and moving back to the fire.

  The back door opened again, and the murmur of conversation in the kitchen fell suddenly silent. Then Maria realized why. A figure appeared in the doorway of the living room, short and squat and bristling with ill-contained anger. He glared across at the group before the fire.

  Nancy stopped talking to Roy Vickers and looked up, her expression stricken.

  ‘You didn’t ask my permission, young lady,’ Professor Robertshaw growled.

  The girl looked shocked. ‘I … But Xandra was in bed. She was fast asleep, and you were in the study with Randall. I … I didn’t want to disturb you.’

  ‘And what if Xandra had awoken and needed attention?’

  ‘Edwin,’ Wellbourne said in his best man-to-man tone, ‘cut the girl a bit of slack. There’s a good fellow. It isn’t as if she’s keeping bad company.’

  Professor Robertshaw glared from Wellbourne to Roy Vickers and said, ‘That’s your opinion, Richard. Nancy, it’s time we were leaving.’

  Before the girl could acquiesce, Roy Vickers jumped to his feet and strode the length of the room. He confronted the professor, a head higher than the old man, and spoke to him in lowered tones. The professor went red and spat something in reply. The others looked on, their expressions frozen. Nancy appeared on the verge of tears. Harriet squeezed the girl’s hand consolingly.

  Professor Robertshaw prodded Vickers in the chest with a stubby forefinger, leaned forward and said something too low to catch.

  The effect was instant. Maria half expected Vickers to respond with violence; instead, he just stared at the old man for a second, murder in his eyes, then pushed past him and stormed through to the kitchen. The back door slammed on his exit.

  The professor cleared his throat, strode up to the hearth and took his niece by her upper arm. He almost dragged her from the room, pausing only briefly so that the tearful girl could collect her coat, beret and mittens.

  As they disappeared into the kitchen, Maria stepped forward. She felt a hand clutch her arm. ‘There’s nothing you can do,’ Donald murmured.

  ‘I know, but …’ She shook her head, impotent. ‘But I feel I should have done something.’

  He smiled. ‘I know what we can do,’ he said, ‘but not tonight.’

  ‘What?’

  He told her; she laughed, then hugged him. ‘Let’s,’ she said. ‘Let’s do that, Donald!’

  Beside the fire, Richard Wellbourne hoisted the decanter of Scotch.

  ‘I think that,’ he said, ‘calls for another drink.’

  SIX

  Langham yawned and stretched, basking in the luxurious lethargy that comes from occupying a warm bed on a cold Saturday morning, having slept in way past the time he usually rose.

  Maria was watching him, her head propped on a hand. ‘It’s so quiet,’ she said.

  ‘No growl of double-decker buses or rattling milk floats.’

  ‘Just birdsong.’ She ran a hand through his hair. ‘How’s your head?’

  ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘surprisingly clear.’

  ‘Mine, too. I’m glad you made a pot of tea before we turned in.’

  ‘Ralph Ryland’s patent hangover prevention,’ he said. ‘Did you enjoy last night?’

  ‘Yes, I did. Until the professor’s treatment of poor Nancy, that is. You?’

  ‘I like the Wellbournes; they seem genuinely nice people.’

  It was well past midnight when they had finally taken leave of their hosts, the last hour spent before the fire, quietly drinking with Richard and Harriet. Richard had told them all about the village and its inhabitants, an account far more charitable than Professor Robertshaw’s assessment of the villagers. He had also told them about the farm, which they had bought almost thirty years ago when he’d inherited a considerable sum on the death of his father.

  Now Maria said, ‘What do you think Roy Vickers said to Professor Robertshaw when he confronted him last night?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I was more intrigued by what Robertshaw said to him. Roy shot off pretty damn quick, didn’t he?’

  Maria stared through the window. ‘Poor Nancy. I do feel sorry for the girl,’ she said. ‘It’s a good idea of yours, anyway. I feel as though we’ll be getting back at Robertshaw.’

  ‘Of course, the old devil might not be amenable.’

  ‘I’ll charm him into agreeing,’ she said.

  Langham sat up. ‘Now, how about I cook some scrambled eggs on toast, then after a leisurely breakfast we can go for a long walk and explore the place?’

  Maria squinted at the bedside clock. ‘My word, it’s after ten.’

  ‘Brunch,’ he said, swinging out of bed.

  The telephone rang downstairs.

  ‘I’ll get it, Donald.’ Pulling on her dressing gown, she hurried downstairs.

  He dressed, and a minute later Maria appeared in the doorway and leaned against
the frame. ‘Who do you think that might have been?’

  ‘Surprise me.’

  ‘The professor—’

  ‘Apologizing for last night?’

  ‘Hardly. He wanted to know if we’d like to pop round for tea at two thirty today. Xandra is having one of her good days, and he said that we could meet his son, Randall, at the same time.’

  ‘Did you accept?’

  ‘I had half a mind to say we were busy, but then I thought we could ask him if Nancy can come to dinner tonight. Also, I’m more than a little intrigued at the prospect of meeting his wife and son.’

  ‘The ne’er-do-well scion,’ he said. ‘Wellbourne and Roy didn’t paint a very complimentary picture of the chap last night, did they?’

  ‘Like father, like son,’ she said. ‘I’m surprised you took to the professor, Donald.’

  ‘I think he must have been presenting his best side when I met him.’

  They went downstairs, and while Langham scrambled half a dozen eggs and toasted the bread, Maria made a pot of coffee. Before he met Maria, he’d made do with Camp Coffee and professed himself satisfied. Maria had introduced him to the real thing, made in a big silver Italian coffee pot that sat directly on the stove, and now he was addicted to his daily dose of caffeine.

  He heard the letterbox rattle in the hall and Maria said, ‘I’ll get it.’

  She returned with a postcard showing an unprepossessing view of Portsmouth docks.

  ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘It’s from Ralph,’ she said. She read out loud: “Dear Don and Maria, wish I wasn’t here! Portsmouth is a right dump – at least the bit where I am is. But the good news is my brother’s on the mend and he’ll be home in a few days. Hope the move is going well. See you soon. Regards, Ralph.”’

  Langham laughed. ‘Sounds as if he’s really enjoying himself. Poor Ralph.’

  They breakfasted in the kitchen, warmed by the Rayburn that Langham had remembered to bank with coal when they’d returned from the Wellbournes’. The room was on the eastern side of the house and received the full glare of the winter sunlight.

  Maria recounted what Harriet had said about her son, Jeremy, and her belief that he was still with them, in spirit if not in body. ‘She is a little odd,’ she said. ‘But I do like her.’