A Dirty Death (13 page)

Father Edmund had been the last to leave the Mabberley barbecue. He very much liked Jonathan, and knew how to please him. Jonathan valued outspokenness, and the vicar kept a small repertoire of stories for his delectation. He knew that Jonathan had hoped he would relate some of them as a kind of comic turn at the party. Instead, he had saved them for more private exposure.

‘Interesting group of people,’ he remarked, draining the last of the punch. ‘I was surprised to see the little Beardon girl.’

‘Not so little,’ smiled Jonathan. ‘She’s probably running that farm now. Her mother’s a bit scatty for the job.’

‘Strange family, don’t you find?’ queried 
Father Edmund. His neck was mottled, and he was shifting his head and shoulders as if nervous.
Who’s he to call someone ‘strange’?
wondered Jonathan. He jerked an eyebrow to encourage further comment.

‘I mean, they never quite seemed to fit in. Too much past history. I’ve noticed that with second families – they have a sort of insecurity. Not that Beardon ever said anything. I only found out through the church network.’

‘Oh?’ Here was a most juicy indiscretion, if Jonathan wasn’t mistaken. What a pity everyone else had gone.

‘You didn’t know?’ Jonathan shook his head. ‘Well, I happen to be acquainted with the Rector at West Bridgford, which by coincidence is the home of the first Mrs Beardon. We found out the connection by accident – you know how you do. Mentioning names and so forth. I’ve known for a long time.’

‘Does she know he’s dead?’

‘I imagine so. Even if she hasn’t been informed by Miranda, she’ll have heard it from my friend. Apparently she’s quite a keen churchgoer and I did suggest he break the news, if necessary. Fascinating woman, by all accounts. Converted to Anglicanism from the Romans – unheard of. At least, I suppose she’s still officially RC, but she’s a pillar of his little church.’

‘Maybe she’s just in love with him?’

‘Possibly,’ conceded Father Edmund, rendered broadminded by Cappy’s fruit punch. ‘But you see what I mean about them being a strange family. Wherever they are, they seem to make themselves felt. Even young Roddy has presence. Those brooding eyes, like his father’s. I often think that lad’s a born priest. Inner depths. There were several like him at my theological college.’

‘Nonsense!’ laughed Jonathan. ‘There’s nothing spiritual about that lad. I’ve watched him mooching about the fields, swiping nettles and stamping on toadstools. He’s a duck out of water, as Cappy would say. He should be in a town, with a gang, beating up old ladies and abusing substances.’

The vicar adopted a forbearing demeanour. ‘Don’t be silly, Jonathan. You’re just trying to be controversial. The boy lives an idyllic life, and you know it.’

‘Idyllic perhaps. Lonely, certainly. There’s trouble brewing for the wretched kid if I’m not mistaken. I’d bet he doesn’t even know who owns Redstone now.’

The vicar waited for the relevation.

‘Sam Carter is the joint owner with Miranda. My dad sold the place to them, all three jointly. He never got over the oddness of it. It was far too democratic for his taste. I’ve often wondered just who knows about it.’

‘Fascinating,’ said the vicar, with a gleam in his eye. ‘But I’d better go now. You’ll be getting tired of me. Shall I see you on Sunday?’

‘Can’t say, I’m afraid.’ They both knew there was very little chance of the Mabberleys turning up for Sunday service. The congregation was static at nine or ten, all elderly, mostly from far-flung farms. Father Edmund had been given charge of two other parishes in recent years, which meant a circuit of three village churches. None of them boasted any real vitality or spirituality.

Jonathan and Cappy were restless when left alone. The glasses and plates were in the dishwasher, the remnants of the salads all thrown into one bowl. They made coffee and sat indoors, saying little. Jonathan was still thinking about the Beardons.

‘Did you know Guy was married before? The vicar just told me.’

She shook her head. ‘Any children?’

‘I don’t know. They’d be well into adulthood by now.’

‘How did the vicar know? I can’t imagine Guy confiding in him.’

‘He’s got a chum who seems to have a thing going with the first wife. Small world.’

‘She wasn’t at the funeral, was she?’

‘I shouldn’t think so. Someone would have said.’

‘Is it important, do you think?’

‘
Important
?’ He wasn’t sure what she was implying. ‘How could it be important?’

‘Oh – well, the whole thing’s such a mystery, isn’t it? This might be – you know – part of it.’

‘I don’t see how. How could it be?’

‘I don’t know. Don’t get excited. I was just burbling. Didn’t you think Sylvia was a bit … funny?’ The change of subject was typical of her, and Jonathan had no difficulty in following the switch.

‘When isn’t she? I can’t say I noticed her being any different from usual. But then she’s not a woman I take much notice of.’

‘You should. She’s an example to you. All that hard work.’

‘Ha ha. Why did you invite her, anyway? She didn’t fit in particularly. I’m sure she despises Tim, for a start. And the vicar’s terrified of her.’

‘I wanted to see how she was. She’s in love with Miranda, you know. I was curious to see whether Guy’s death has changed anything.’

‘Well, that’s very odd—’ His tone was mock-serious, his eyes wide open with pretended surprise. ‘How extremely devious of you to keep the secret for so long!’

‘Shut up. If we’re to live in a village, it makes sense to keep up with all the gossip. Isn’t that what a village is
for
?’

‘Perhaps it is, my darling – for an idle layabout like you, at least.’ He leant across and kissed her, and thought once again that it was time they had some children. It was a thought he had almost every day, but Cappy perversely refused to consider it.

‘Anyway,’ he offered, ‘I did overhear Sylvia and Lilah chatting, and it would seem that Sylvia has seen almost nothing of Miranda since this all happened. That holiday in Corfu seems to have made it all slightly unreal to her. Or maybe you think she’s just biding her time until she can decently move in with Miranda?’

‘She’d have Sam to reckon with.’

‘Not to mention Lilah. Sounds as if there isn’t going to be a lesbian love-nest next door for a while yet. How disappointing for you.’

‘Very funny,’ said Cappy cheerfully.

Next morning, the Mabberleys lay in even later than usual, rewarding themselves for their hospitality of the night before. ‘Lazy farmers’, Guy had styled them, and he had a point. ‘Thank God we don’t milk,’ said Jonathan at regular intervals. ‘Strictly for masochists, that.’

Cappy had her own little enterprise, a farm within a farm. It comprised peacocks, unusual poultry and cashmere rabbits. All her creatures reproduced themselves feverishly, in coddled
conditions. The rabbits had to be frequently brushed and ‘plucked’, and the resulting hair sold to a spinner for the luxury knitting market. This work alone absorbed three or four hours each day. Her birds were moderately famous, and chicks were frequently despatched to far corners of the country. Some singular skill ensured that her eggs always hatched and her specimens were always perfect. The haunting alien cry of her peacocks fitted the atmosphere of decadence which was characteristic of the Mabberleys.

Jonathan too made money from breeding. His mixed breeds of beef cattle took care of themselves, calmly calving in the fields, and rearing the offspring to saleable size, fed largely on the lush grass for which the area was renowned. He had his animals killed and butchered by the last small slaughterhouse in the county, and sold the meat to specialist shops. The rewards were substantial. This had been another sore point with Guy, who although more or less officially organic, which should have given him an edge on Jonathan, felt himself to be always at a disadvantage. He lacked his neighbour’s effortless luck and patrician relationships with everybody for miles around. Jonathan outdid him unfairly, in Guy’s view. He openly accused him of being part of an upper-class network which absolved him from running his business according to the rules.

‘Your trouble is that you resent him for being the real Squire around here,’ his wife had accused him.

‘He does everything he can to sabotage me,’ Guy had grumbled.

‘Don’t be so paranoid,’ Miranda had said, with a sigh.

At nine o’clock next morning, Cappy and Jonathan got out of bed. Each went about their animal husbandry, Jonathan accompanied by the setter, Roxanne, as usual. First he strolled up to his top field, almost half a mile away, to count his bullocks and ensure that all was well. His route took in part of the path covered by Lilah the evening before. As she had done, he noted how dry the ground was and how rare and few were days like this. His thoughts centred upon the passage of time and the rapid transience of each season. Approaching forty, he was discovering how easy it was to lose hold of time. A brief lapse of attention and a year had flown by. One reason why he had soon abandoned gardening as a pleasure activity was the tormenting brevity of each plant’s glory. It seemed to be a matter of perpetual looking forward, which made him uneasy. Almost constant now was his nagging wish for children, their absence the single blot on an otherwise perfect life. Five short years ago,
he had agreed with Cappy that they had no need to become parents, and no desire to do so. There were nephews or nieces to inherit the farm and carry on the Mabberley tradition. They would be sufficient to each other, they declared, and babies could only spoil things. Cappy continued to hold the same view, and both felt that Jonathan was a traitor to change his mind. He tried not to mention it more than once a month.

Roxanne ranged across each field, ever distracted by rabbits and birds, her extraordinarily keen nose leading her to cover awesome distances. Jonathan once tried to work out how many miles she ran each morning, and concluded that it could be as much as ten. One of his greatest joys in life was watching her in full stretch, red feathers flying, long ears streaming behind her like a girl’s hair. The dog was five years old now – a wedding present from Cappy – and already he found himself dreading her old age and death. Now and then the anticipated pain of it would strike through him, bringing tears to his eyes.

The bullocks were fine. The grass was at its best, and their short, dense summer coats glowed with health. His favourite was a pure Hereford youngster, who had been special from a calf. They had reared him on a bucket, having bought him on a whim, and he was still very attached to his people. They called him Gregory, and now he
came trotting up to greet Jonathan. Jonathan had planned to rear Gregory as a working bull, but he turned out to be a lean individual, with genes that even Jonathan would hesitate to reproduce. So Gregory had been castrated, and would eventually go along to the slaughter with all the others. Roxanne was fond of him too; the matching red of their coats made them a handsome pair.

Jonathan rubbed the soft folds under Gregory’s neck, and slapped the broad, curly forehead, playing their customary game. Roxanne barked a little and ran round and round the steer, enticing him to run across the field with her. He bucked playfully, and Jonathan turned for home.

He took a different path, remembering that he ought to inspect a particularly neglected hedge bordering Redstone. That field was the next one to use for the bullocks, and he knew he would have to do some fencing before they could be turned in there.

An odd sound from the dog drew him to a particularly obvious gap in the deplorable hedge. She was pulling at something, which seemed to have been half-buried in the soft earth at the root of the few scrubby thorn bushes. It was very unusual behaviour for her: she would sniff and chase, but very rarely touch. A cold shiver ran through him as he strode over to investigate. Already he could see that she had some kind of
cloth in her mouth, which was rapidly coming free from its concealing soil.

‘Drop it!’ he told her, trying to make himself look closely at her find. He realised he was holding his breath, anticipating some horrible stench of rotting flesh. When none came, he let out a deep sigh, and nudged the object with his boot. Roxanne looked up at him, her liquid eyes concerned at his tension. She had been content to let the thing fall when told to. Already, she seemed to have lost interest in it.

With some reluctance, Jonathan extracted a bulky bundle from its hiding place. Loose soil fell away, along with large flakes of dry manure. With the tips of his fingers, he unfolded the material and held it out for inspection. As he lifted, he realised that garments had been bundled up and stuffed into an old rabbit hole, surrounding soil shovelled or kicked in to conceal them. Three items revealed themselves, as he peeled them apart. The first was a plain blue anorak in moderately good condition. No rips in it, both sleeves intact, nothing to justify throwing it away. The second was a pair of tracksuit bottoms, caked with manure. As the dry flakes peeled away, there was damper stuff underneath, especially lower down on the legs. When he tried to unfold them, he could smell the muck. Finally, a heavier object rolled free and fell to the ground. It was a shoe, so filthy with manure as to be impossible to describe.

It took very little time to link his find with the death at Redstone Farm. It seemed obvious that whoever had owned these clothes had gone into the slurry pit wearing them. And that person had removed them, still wet, bundled them up and hidden them here. Implications crowded in on him, filling him with foreboding. He almost decided to leave it well alone, to push his find deeper into the burrow and cover it properly, so no one would ever find it.

But he knew he did not dare. He would have to tell Lilah, and probably the police. He’d have to see the whole thing through, from the proximity of the next farm, and face whatever came of it. Murder was unreal, the stuff of stories. Mysterious murder, of a man whom few had liked, was fantastic and because of that, it carried its own excitement. Slowly his apprehension abated and a rather appealing sense of intrigue took its place. At worst it would mean answering too many dreary questions, and having ghoulish sightseers come to peer over his hedges. At best it would involve seeing more of Lilah, and an interesting intellectual challenge.