A Crowded Coffin (12 page)

He felt absurdly flattered at her commendation; praise from Harriet Quigley was something to respect. ‘I’m still
convalescent
myself,’ he explained briefly. ‘I know it’s hard to think straight sometimes. So, what did your cousin Sam have to say?’

‘He rang just after breakfast to check up on me. Apparently he’s been making some calls while he’s stuck at the airport, doing some digging around. He’s come up with a report that’s just come in; the clergy can be astonishingly indiscreet
sometimes
, thank goodness. Anyway, the European police have produced an identikit picture of a man believed to have been the vendor of the missal that was sold recently.’

She paused dramatically. ‘Guess.’

‘Colin Price, I presume?’ Rory sounded excited.

‘None other.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s good news and bad, I’m afraid. Interesting in that it ties Price in with the disappearances from the archive but bad news in that nobody has the slightest idea how to find him. Leaving aside the theories flying round the village, that he’s been done away with, this part of the world is awash, literally, with inlets and harbours, boats, marinas, yacht clubs, all making it easy to get out of the country in a
hurry. And that’s not even considering the commercial traffic, ferries, airports, etc, which he could have used.’

Rory turned into the farm drive and drew up at the front door. Karen, jazzy today in a 1960s psychedelic-print shift dress, came running out.

‘Harriet, you poor thing. Come on in; coffee’s ready, decaf in the circumstances or you can have tea or hot chocolate if you’d rather. Then you can either go to bed straight away or go and relax with Mrs Attlin. She’s upstairs and looking forward to seeing you.’

‘Rory?’ Harriet smiled her thanks to Karen and turned to her chauffeur. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I promised Sam you’d pick him up from Southampton airport at midday. He has to check in at the office but before that he says he’ll buy you lunch and give you a quick unofficial tour of the Stanton Resingham archive if you’d like?’ She shot him a conspiratorial glance. ‘No need to mention it to Edith till you get home.’

It was soothing, Harriet decided, to sit in a pretty,
old-fashioned
bedroom-cum-sitting room and be served with lunch – even though it was only soup and a cheese sandwich – and later, afternoon tea, in company with a pair of delightful elderly relatives. Not something you’d want to do every day, but once in a while it was like stepping back in time. She smiled her thanks as Karen bustled in bearing more tea and Penelope Attlin leaned forward to pour out.

‘I was just thinking,’ Harriet observed, ‘that I feel as though I’m in a period drama.’ As Penelope glanced at her in surprise, Harriet explained. ‘You know, tea that I haven’t had to make myself in a mug, and served in beautiful old china. Karen is a perfect treasure!’

‘She is,’ agreed Walter, slathering butter on a crumpet. ‘She says much the same, Harriet. She told me she likes to pretend
she’s the senior parlour maid in a period piece on television,
Downton Abbey
, perhaps, though that’s way out of our league.’ He looked thoughtful, a lurking twinkle in his eye. ‘I can just see Karen in a maid’s outfit, complete with frilly cap and apron.’ Mrs Attlin gave him a wifely look and he grinned, ‘Seems a harmless kind of daydream to pass the time and as you say, she’s very good to us. I find it a little less convincing though, when I try to picture Elv
eece
in the role of the perfect butler.’

‘I’m glad to see you’re recovering, Walter,’ Harriet changed the subject as she looked across at the old man. ‘Your colour is much better and I notice you’re moving about more
comfortably
. Have you had any further thoughts about what happened the other night?’

‘No.’ Walter Attlin spoke sharply, then clearly felt the need to apologize. ‘I beg your pardon, Harriet, I know you mean well, but I don’t want to talk about it. No harm done in the end.’

His wife rolled her eyes at Harriet and turned the
conversation
to the Test Match, so cricket occupied them until Rory turned up, accompanied by Sam Hathaway. Sam shook hands with the Attlins while his eyes checked out his cousin. Satisfied with what he saw, he nodded to her and came across the room.

‘Silly idiot,’ was his fond greeting, as he bent to give her a hug. ‘I hope you weren’t playing detectives?’ This last was in a lower tone and he grinned at her indignant expression. ‘Okay, okay, keep your hair on. Rory told me what you said. It seems incredible but a lot of peculiar things seem to be happening around here lately. And you didn’t manage to get a look at the car or the number plate?’

She answered in a similarly low voice. ‘No, I didn’t, but I’ll tell you one thing, I think it was someone from the village.’

‘What?’ Mindful of the other people in the room, Sam’s
exclamation
had to be muted, but he frowned at her. ‘How do you
make that out?’ he demanded. ‘And come to that, what were you doing near a quarry on some farm track anyway?’

‘Oh, of course, I forgot you wouldn’t know about it yet. It’s a short cut,’ she explained. ‘Hold on a minute, we can’t stay here whispering.’

She rose and spoke softly to her hostess who turned her head at the movement. ‘I’m going to lie down for half an hour, Penny, do excuse me. Sam will make sure I don’t fall over on the way.’

Safely in her room, she dismissed Sam’s attempt to make her lie down. ‘Nonsense, it was just an excuse, I’ll be fine sitting here in the quiet; I just didn’t want to disturb Walter and Penny. Now, what was I saying? Oh yes, the short cut. It cuts off a long
meandering
corner if you avoid the road to the village and nip across. It’s Walter’s land but he’s never minded and most people in the village use it to save time.’

She turned eagerly to him. ‘But that’s my point, Sam. Nobody else would use it, because it doesn’t go anywhere, apart from the village. And I know it wasn’t somebody who spotted me on the main road and for some reason decided to follow me, because I’d only just started up again when whoever it was came up over the brow of the hill. I had to stop to take a phone call from one of the people at the meeting I’d just been to in King’s Somborne. That took ages, so I reckon I was parked up there for a good ten minutes.’

Sam’s blue eyes were narrowed in anxiety as he sat, waiting for the end of the story. ‘I feel sick when I think about it,’ she confessed shakily and was glad of Sam’s warm hand clasping her own. ‘I’d just started up the engine and set off, still only doing about ten or fifteen miles an hour – it’s a bit rough up there – when this car appeared. It seemed to slow down for a minute, then the lights blazed at me and he came straight at me and hit the side of the Mini as he swerved away at the last minute. I’m quite sure it was deliberate.’ She paused and
whispered
,
‘You see what I’m saying? He wasn’t following me; he was heading for the village via the short cut and when he
recognized
me, he decided to kill me.’

‘Well?’ Edith nodded her thanks as Rory handed her a cappuccino. Winchester was always a popular call for tourists, particularly on a sunny morning in summer, and two or three coachloads had already crowded into the cathedral refectory. The groups of visitors were refreshing the body after traipsing round the city; shortly they would be disappearing into the cool, dark peace of the cathedral to refresh the soul.

‘What do you want to know?’ he hedged,.

‘We didn’t get a chance to talk yesterday,’ she said. ‘What with Harriet staying and Gran inviting Sam to stay for supper. He took you round the archive, didn’t he? Did you find out anything?’

Rory shook his head. ‘Nothing new,’ he confessed. ‘It was an interesting experience, though, and just a brief glimpse of some of the documents made me itch to get stuck in and delve deeper. I might volunteer to help with the research when I’m settled – they’re short-handed. Mostly though, Sam was worrying about Harriet and wondering what she’s got herself into that someone would go for her like this.’

He paused, then continued, ‘I don’t know if you’ve had a chance to talk to her, but you ought to know what’s been going on.’ He ran through the background and then filled her in on Sam’s most recent brief history of the missing researcher and the vicar’s tenuous connection with him.

‘The police asked Forrester about Colin Price but they seem to
have been pretty gentle with him, from what Sam told me.’ He responded to her questioning look with a shrug. ‘They had no reason to press him anyway, but the thing is, the night Price was last seen in the village was the night before Mrs Forrester’s funeral. The police asked the vicar if Price had told him anything that might suggest he was about to abscond with his ill-gotten gains, but the vicar said he had no recollection of seeing Price at that time, let alone talking to him. Who could wonder at it? The poor bloke must have been in a complete state the whole time.’

‘You’ve changed your tune,’ she said. ‘I thought you didn’t like him.’

‘I don’t, but that’s no reason not to feel sorry for him. Anyway, Sam doesn’t like him either, but that’s doesn’t stop him giving Forrester an alibi for when someone was knocking down your grandfather.’

She looked up, startled. ‘What do you mean?’

‘On the night in question, Sam was at a diocesan discussion, attended by a dozen-or-so local clergy, including John Forrester. The meeting didn’t go smoothly and things got heated – nothing to do with Forrester or Sam – so what with having to calm everyone down, Sam said it was late finishing. And then one of the others suggested they go back to his place for a nightcap. About eight or nine people accepted, including John Forrester, though Sam says he never actually got to speak to Forrester that night, partly because he barely knows him and mostly because he, Sam, was drawn into a debate with a couple of friends. Anyway, by the time the vicar left Winchester, even driving his flashy car, he’d hardly have been in a position to run down your grandfather out in the fields.’

She nodded slowly and he glanced at her in surprise. ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’

‘I suppose so, it’s just….’ She hesitated and sipped her coffee.
‘Ugh, it’s gone cold.’ She pushed her cup aside, shaking her head when he offered her another. ‘It’s just that yesterday, when John ran me home via Harriet’s place, I fed the cat and then left John in her sitting room while I went upstairs to collect the things on her list. When I came down again, he didn’t hear me at first, and I found him in her study, flicking through some papers on her desk. He straightened up at once and moved away, making some comment about having picked up the papers from the floor. He said he’d gone in there by mistake while looking for the loo and that it must have been the cat that scattered them, unless Harriet was very untidy and he didn’t think that for a moment.’

She tried to remember. ‘He went to put Harriet’s bag in the car while I locked up, so he didn’t see me take a sneaky look at the paperwork on the desk. The first thing I saw was the name, Colin Price. It jumped out at me from what looked like a précis of the problems at the archive, something Harriet must have written down to try and make sense of it.’

She stood up as Rory glanced at his watch. ‘I don’t believe John is involved in anything shady,’ she said as they made for the exit. ‘But, but if he is,’ her voice faltered and she hunched her shoulders anxiously. ‘If he is, he knows now that Harriet has been nosing around about the Stanton Resingham archive and she can only have got that information from Sam.’

Sam Hathaway was fidgeting uneasily. For once, as he stood in the longest cathedral nave in Europe, he was unconscious of the soaring beauty of the pillars and arches. Harriet had slept well the previous night, she had assured him when he called her earlier, and said she was planning to return to her cottage the following day.

That much was a relief, but Sam found himself haunted by the thought of how miraculously she had survived the accident,
haunted too by the desolation that her death would have caused him. What the hell was going on in Locksley village? One of the prettiest spots imaginable, painted so often that it was difficult, some days, to get near the church or the village duck pond for easels and hefty great bags of painting gear, while artists sat hunched on little folding stools. An old farmer run down on his own land; a respectable middle-aged woman deliberately driven into a disused quarry and only saved by a clump of trees that clung to a craggy chalk face. These things simply didn’t happen in his and Harriet’s world.

It was just on eleven and Rory was due to arrive any time now for his guided tour of the cathedral. Sam sighed; no chance to discuss the unlikely crime wave in his new home village, not with the companion he had picked up on his way here.

A familiar voice had hailed him as he walked down the High Street after a visit to his solicitor, to the bank and to his estate agent, to check on today’s arrangements for the completion on the cottage.

‘Sam? Sam Hathaway? My dear fellow, it’s been too long. How are you?’

An elderly man, rotund in clerical suit and dog collar, was puffing towards him, hands outstretched in greeting.

‘Oliver.’ Sam halted in his tracks and shook hands. His
friendship
with Dr Sutherland dated back years, to the days when Sam, having exchanged electrical engineering for the church, was newly out of theological college and about to take up his first curacy in Oliver’s parish. Dr Sutherland had proved to be a kind and effective mentor and Sam had held him in
considerable
respect and affection ever since.

Lately, however, there had been another, sadder link between the two men. Celia Sutherland had died only a week before Sam’s beloved Avril, and the older man had continually sought out his former curate, finding solace in their shared widowed state.

Only I didn’t find solace in it, Sam growled to himself as they turned their steps towards the cathedral. Mrs Sutherland had been in her seventies, Avril twenty years younger, all those years stolen from them. It wasn’t fair. Sam felt himself tighten with the strain of not yelling the words out loud. Even now, nearly five years after her death, the loss of Avril was unbearable; would never heal. All he could hope for was that the move to the cottage next to Harriet would turn his thoughts in other directions.

‘What are you up to these days, Sam?’ For a moment he had forgotten Dr Sutherland but he pulled himself together and gave a brief rundown of his activities, adding, with a glance at his watch, that he must be on his way to meet someone at the cathedral.

‘Good idea.’ The old man gave a benign nod. ‘I’ll walk down with you. Just the thing, a wash and brush-up for the soul. Don’t like to go too many days without dropping in, and it must be getting on for a week at least since I was last at a service there.’

Sam gave in with a good grace and slowed his long-legged stride to suit the old man’s wheezes. As they turned into The Square, Oliver Sutherland paused and looked behind them, then shook his head, tugging at Sam’s sleeve.

‘Been hearing about you, Sam,’ he said. ‘Someone said you’ve been poking about in the matter of that missing research chappie. That true?’ He studied Sam’s startled expression and laughed gustily. ‘Never mind, never mind,’ he puffed. ‘Don’t tell me anything, none of my business anyway. Just thought you ought to know your investigations haven’t gone unnoticed.’

At the West Door, Sam, who was still looking thoughtful, took off his slightly battered but elegant panama hat, shooting a grin at his friend as he did so.

‘I see you still insist on wearing that ruddy panama,’ snorted the old man as Sam had known he would. ‘I should think everyone in town knows you by it, damned silly affectation.’

‘No such thing,’ Sam countered robustly. Their sparring was long-established and affectionate. ‘You know perfectly well it was a birthday present from Avril. She liked me in it so I’ll damned well wear it whenever I want to.’

‘Oh, well, she was a lovely woman, so I suppose you’ll suit yourself.’ The reply was an amiable grunt, then Oliver Sutherland went on, ‘I’ll tell you what, though, you might lend me that poncy silk handkerchief you also insist on festooning yourself with. I’m hot and sticky and my own handkerchief is wringing wet.’

Sam hesitated for a split second then shrugged and handed over the sky-blue silk handkerchief that he wore tucked in his breast pocket. Like the panama it was a relic of one of Avril’s occasional attempts to smarten up her husband. He had resisted her at the time, grumbling loudly, but since her death he had tried to make it up to her by turning out on sunny days in the outfit she had prescribed: cream linen jacket, silk handkerchief and the panama from Gieves & Hawkes in the town.

He had his fair share of vanity and knew that the outfit suited his tall, lean figure and that the blue of the handkerchief brought out the matching blue of his eyes. Harriet teased him about the hat, accusing him of only wearing it so that he could doff it with a flourish when he encountered any female acquaintances, thus revealing his impressively thick silver hair.

Sam always countered the slander by pointing out that Harriet was only jealous. Her own mousy hair had turned pepper and salt in her early forties and when it became evident that she hadn’t inherited the same genes as Sam, she had gone a discreet honey-blonde instead.

Now, inside the cool glory of the cathedral, Sam looked round and caught sight of Edith, scuttling along in the wake of Rory’s long strides.

‘You got stuck with her, I see?’ His eyes twinkled as he noted
Rory’s glance of dismay when he spotted Dr Sutherland. ‘Me too,’ he nodded, then turned to introduce them all.

‘So,’ the old man said, after shaking hands. ‘Are you poking your noses into this business too?’ He wagged a finger at them both. ‘I’ve just warned our friend here that he ought to leave it to the authorities, and – something you ought to know, young Sam,’ he frowned at his friend, ‘I think you’re being followed. I’m sure I spotted someone keeping a close eye on you just now.’

‘What?’ Sam smothered his incredulous exclamation. ‘For heaven’s sake, Oliver, you saw no such thing!’ He stared at the other man and shook his head. ‘This isn’t some back alley in gangland, and we’re not playing cops and robbers. Now, we’re going up to look at the cathedral library. What about you?’

‘I’ll stay on guard.’ The old man sounded undaunted by Sam’s scolding. ‘Here, by the Wilberforce tomb.’ He waved a fond hand at the exuberant Victorian gothic angels. ‘I’ll hoot like an owl to warn you if I see the same bloke again; tall fellow, dark hair, sunglasses. Noticed him particularly, definitely keeping an eye on you.’

‘You silly old fool.’ Sam clapped an affectionate hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘God help anyone who does get into your clutches; you’d talk them to death.’

Oliver Sutherland grinned cheerfully at Rory and Edith who were watching in amusement. ‘Might pop into the chapel next door for a sit-down in a minute, actually. Check on things through the iron grilles,’ he whispered, his face alight with mischief. ‘Here, Sam, you’d better give me that wretched hat of yours. It’ll only get in the way.’

Sam, who was attempting to stuff the panama into his jacket pocket, gave in and meekly passed it over to the old man who immediately began to fan himself with it. ‘All right, you old fraud,’ he laughed. ‘You can come out to lunch with us when
we’re done here, but only on condition you buy me a drink to compensate for all the aggro you cause me.’

The Triforium Gallery was crowded but Edith and Rory were happy to squeeze in and look at the various treasures.

‘I haven’t been up here for ages,’ Edith said, pointing out a silhouette of Jane Austen, “done by herself”, according to the inscription on the back. ‘Don’t let me forget to show you her memorial on our way out.’

Sam looked on benignly as they admired a green bowl made of fluted glass. ‘That’s said to have contained the heart of King Canute,’ he told them. ‘The bowl was found at Shaftesbury, where he died, but he was buried here in Winchester. It’s said to be the only complete piece of Late Saxon glass in England. It’s a crying shame you can’t finance a dig in your Burial Field, you might come up with some treasures of your own. Maybe you’ll get a grant some day. Now come along, time to take a look in the library. You mustn’t miss the Winchester Bible.’