The Asharton Manor Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1 - 4) Page 10

  “Has it?” I asked, astonished. “Why’s that?”

  Her eyes flickered. “Something to do with the police. They said they were going to conduct an autopsy.”

  “Are they?” I exclaimed with great satisfaction.

  Celia looked a little startled. “Yes, in fact, I think they’ve already done it. They’re just waiting on the results now. At least that’s what the constable said when I asked him.”

  “You’ve spoken to the police?”

  Celia was already hurrying away. “Sorry, Vivian, I must go. See you later…” Her voice trailed away behind her as she disappeared through the door at the end of the corridor.

  I stayed put for a moment, thinking hard. I was in such a funk I didn’t realise I was blocking Doctor Clift’s path until he’d said ‘excuse me’ three times– politely – before I heard him. I blushed and stepped aside, apologising.

  I was standing there still when Rose swept through the front door, late as usual, but this time dressed in a quite magnificent fur coat. I felt my eyes widen as she got nearer.

  “Goodness, Rose, have you won the pools? That’s a wonderful coat.”

  “I know,” said Rose with great self-satisfaction. She didn’t explain further but sashayed past me and up the stairs towards the dispensary. I shrugged and went to get on with my work.

  It was a busy day. There was an influx of new patients moving from the wards where they required more intensive care to Ballroom Ward, which was the last ward of convalescence before patients were finally discharged. It hurt to see a new face in Norman’s bed, but not as much as it would have done three days earlier. I was moving past the early stages of grief, into anger. Anger that someone, for whatever twisted reason of their own, had killed him. I thought of all the amazing things Norman had done, the memories he’d had, the life he’d experienced – and because of some evil person’s selfishness, that had all been snuffed out in an instant. I was filling the tea trolley with clean cups and saucers when the news filtered through from the police. Nurse Bennett came to tell me, in a hushed and scandalised tone, that Norman hadn’t died from an overdose of sleeping tablets after all. He’d been given a large dose of morphia. The police were now treating his death as murder.

  I looked appropriately shocked when she told me, but inside I could feel the rage start to burn a little hotter. So, I had been right. I was even more thankful that I’d gone to see Inspector Clegg when I had. I continued stacking cups, my hands moving automatically, but I was thinking furiously. An overdose of morphia. That meant that anyone with access to the dispensary – anyone in the hospital really, apart from the immobile patients – could have done it.

  That day was a day of petty annoyances, where little things go wrong all the time. I dropped not one, but two cups that smashed into smithereens and when I went to find the dustpan and brush to sweep up the shards, someone had put it back in the wrong place, which meant a wearying search through a long row of cupboards. Nurse Bennett gave me the wrong prescription which meant that Rose refused to give it to me, despite my protests, and I had a long walk back downstairs to fetch the correct papers before going back up to try again. As Rose grudgingly doled out the tablets, I caught sight of her lovely new fur coat, hanging on the back of the dispensary door, and that annoyed me too. I thought of my clothes; all shabby, all patched and worn – thoroughly make-do-and-mend – years of rationing meant that new clothes were out of the question, especially for someone on a limited income like mine. My good coat - the one I’d worn to the police station – was only ‘good’ in comparison to my twelve-year-old raincoat, and the coat I’d made for myself out of an old blanket. And here was Rose, with a fur coat that could have graced the shoulders of a Hollywood starlet. The unfairness of it all made me grind my teeth.

  To top it all off, I realised, when I left the manor at the end of the day, that my bike had a flat tyre. And of course, I hadn’t got my puncture repair kit with me. Clenching my teeth again, I left my bike against the fountain and stomped off down the driveway on foot. The only saving grace of the whole situation was that it wasn’t raining.

  I’d walked about a mile and a half before I became aware that there was someone following me. At first I thought I was mistaken. It was a blustery evening and the light was drawing in. The wind made the tree branches dance and sway, and the shadows flickered enough to cause me to turn my head sharply at the movement. The second time, I did see someone, about fifty yards behind me, a tall dark shape walking silently along the road. For some reason, the first thing that came into my head was the shiver that had gone through me when I’d looked at the pine forest, the day I’d pushed Norman onto the terrace at the back of the manor. Someone must have been walking over my grave.

  My heart began a slow, painful thudding. I put my head down and walked faster. After a few steps, I looked back again. The man – if it was a man – was still there. I thought then of how there was a murderer on the loose. Oh God… what if I had seen something that I shouldn’t have, without even realising it? Was I in danger? I began to walk even faster, in that kind of ridiculous hurrying gait which is a half-run – and then thought, blow this, I don’t care how silly I look – and broke into a real run. Thankfully I was wearing my brogues, not my heels, and I got up a good pace. Soon the dark figure was left far behind me and then I was in the well-lit streets of Midford, with people about me, and I felt safe once more.

  I puffed up the path to my front door, feeling rather exhilarated for some reason. I was just unlocking my door when there was a heavy step behind me and someone cleared his throat. I screamed and whirled around.

  It was Constable Chivers, looking considerably startled. “I’m so sorry, madam,” he said, stepping backwards. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “Well, you did,” I said, almost panting. Then I pressed a hand to my heart and attempted to regain some dignity. “What is it that you want?”

  It turned out that Inspector Clegg wanted to me to give an official statement, essentially what I’d told him on my visit to the station. I was quite happy to do so. As well as wanting to do what I could to help the investigation into Norman’s death, there was something comforting about spending the evening in a building filled with policeman, given the kind of journey home that I’d had. As we walked towards the station, I wondered whether to mention what had happened on my way home. But, what had happened? Had someone been following me? Or had I just read a sinister interpretation into someone making their own innocent way home?

  I had to walk back to the manor the next morning; despite my qualms, I had no other way of getting to work, apart from a taxi and I just couldn’t justify the expense. I took a different route to my usual way, though, as an elementary precaution, and made sure I kept a sharp eye out as I walked quickly along.

  The bad weather had cleared; the rain clouds had gone and the sun shone from a sharp and dazzling blue sky. The spring flowers were almost over but I spotted a patch of late bluebells, like a blue mist around the base of the beech trees, and thought, oh, I must tell Norman about that, before remembering what had happened. The little jab of pain it brought made me wince. I walked on farther, blinking the tears away.

  The footpath I was following eventually brought me out on the other side of the lawns at the back of the manor. I wondered whether the young gardener was working today. Had it been him I saw following me last night? The shock of the events of the last few days had driven the memory from my mind, but at that point it reoccurred and I remembered seeing him outside my house on that evening after Norman’s death. Had that been him? The memory was too vague now, blurred by time. I frowned, walking on. I could see the manor through the gaps in the treeline now – I was almost at the lawns. It was then that I saw something.

  At first I thought it was an animal, a large one – a dead deer, or badger, something like that. It was lying just off the path, half underneath a clump of hazel trees. I walked closer. I could see wet fur, the hump of a haunch or a shoulder.
I pushed past a grasping bramble branch, walking ever closer. Then I gasped. Beneath the fur protruded a pair of legs and on the feet were a pair of high-heeled shoes.

  Time stood still. The trees wheeled about me and the sky darkened. I reached out, blindly, and my hands found the rough bark of an oak tree. I clutched at it, trying not to faint, staring at Rose’s body, flung underneath a tree just like rubbish. I could hear that rustling in my ears again, the rustling drifts of autumn leaves. I must not faint. Must not faint in these woods. Suppose the murderer is still here? Suppose he’s watching me now? The rustling in my ears cleared, replaced by the thunder of blood. Suddenly I was running, crashing back through the brambles, running back onto the path and towards the manor, running as fast as I ever had before in my life.

  *

  “Now, Mrs. Holt, how are you feeling?”

  I was a little slow in answering. Instead, I took another sip of the brandy in the glass I held in one shaking hand. I could feel the burn of it all the way down to my stomach.

  “I’ll be fine,” I said in a low tone. Now that I was surrounded by policemen, I felt more in control of myself. I became aware of my surroundings for the first time – I seemed to be in Doctor Spencer’s office. Apparently I’d run full tilt into him on the lawn of the manor, screaming my head off. I winced a little at the thought.

  Inspector Clegg was perched on the edge of Doctor Spencer’s desk. He was talking quite calmly, but I could see a little muscle working in the corner of his eye.

  I cleared my throat and sat up a little. “I was – I was right, wasn’t I, Inspector? It is Rose?”

  Inspector Clegg nodded. “There will have to be an official identification, but yes. Yes, it is Miss Cleever.”

  I closed my eyes briefly and shivered. “It’s so awful. So awful. Just seeing her there, thrown away like a bit of rubbish…” I took another sip of my brandy, swallowed and sighed. “Why, inspector? Why would someone do that?”

  There was a moment of silence. I thought, and said quickly “Of course, it’s none of my business. I understand if you can’t tell me.”

  “There’s not much to tell at this stage, Mrs. Holt,” said the inspector. “We don’t know. Rose may have witnessed something to do with Norman Winter’s death. She may have seen or overheard something that made her realise that she knew someone with some involvement in his murder.”

  “Her coat,” I interjected. “That really expensive fur coat. She suddenly started wearing it, and it’s not the sort of thing that she would have been able to afford to buy in normal circumstances. I know it might have been a gift, but…”

  I trailed off. Inspector Clegg nodded. “Yes, we’ve been informed by several people that Rose had suddenly started wearing some expensive things. The coat, some nice jewellery… it’s certainly a possibility that someone was paying her to keep quiet about what she’d seen.”

  I nodded. I felt tired and ill, and a little lightheaded from the shock and the brandy.

  “Of course,” the inspector went on. “There’s also the possibility that Rose’s death was nothing to do with the murder of Norman Winter. These types of crimes do happen, even in sleepy little villages. There’s a lot of damaged, unhappy men about, these days.”

  I stared. “So, you think it’s a – well, a—“ I didn’t want to say sex crime in front of this man I hardly knew. “It could have been a stranger?”

  “It might be, Mrs. Holt. I can’t discount that possibility. Have you yourself seen anyone strange in the vicinity of the manor, anyone who you thought might possibly be a threat?”

  I hesitated. I knew I had to tell the inspector about the gardener and the way he’d been following me – thinking about the possibility of Rose being killed by a sex maniac made me feel quite weak with fear – but I feared that this story on top of everything else I’d told the police might have me marked down as a fantasist of the highest order. But then, hadn’t everything else I’d told them turned out to be true? I took a deep breath and recounted my encounters with the young gardener, not omitting the fact that he’d actually turned up outside my house. Although, as I conscientiously mentioned, I wasn’t actually sure that it had been him, nor that it had been him following me home the other day.

  Inspector Clegg looked very serious by the time my recital had finished.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Holt,” he said. “I think you can be well assured we’ll be talking to this young man. Please try not to worry too much. We’ll also need a statement from you, but that can wait until tomorrow morning.”

  I nodded.

  “My officers will give you a lift home,” said Inspector Clegg. “Rest assured that we’ll be doing all we can to have this case wrapped up as quickly as possible.”

  It was the first time I’d ever set foot in a police car (and hopefully the last). Constable Chivers, who was driving, was very respectful, but also quiet, and I was glad. I would have found it too hard to try and make polite conversation when I kept relieving the moment when I found Rose’s body, and my panic and hysteria thereafter. Constable Chivers escorted me to my front door and I thanked him. I was very pleased to get inside and lock it behind me. I lit a fire and then wrapped myself in a blanket and lay on the sofa, clutching the wedding day picture of Sidney and myself to my body, like a talisman to keep all evil away.

  I must have fallen asleep. It was dark by the time I woke and, for a moment, I lay disorientated, blinking in the dimness and wondering where I was and what had woken me. The fire had died to a few glowing embers and it was chilly. I shivered, pulling the blanket tightly around me. What had woken me? It was then that I heard it – a steady knocking at the door.

  I stumbled upright. The blanket and the photograph frame slipped to the floor. I stood for a moment trying to rub my face, fix my hair and get my bearings. Without turning on a light, I peered out from the living room window to see who it was knocking on my door. I could see nothing but a vague dark shape and then a car went by on the road and the light from its headlights illuminated the dark, stern face of the young gardener for a brief instant.

  Fear leapt up inside me. What was he doing here? I thought again of Rose’s bare legs, sticking out from under the wet fur of her coat, and my teeth began to chatter. Surely, if he was the killer, he wouldn’t be so bold as to try something in full view of the street? I moved swiftly into the hallway and seized an umbrella, a hopeless weapon but what else could I do? It was then he began to speak, calling softly through the door. His voice shook me. It was so unlike what I expected it to be – rough and local and uneducated. Instead, he sounded – well – like me. And so young, almost a boy’s voice. I put the umbrella down. I stood there in the darkness of the hallway, hugging my arms across my body, listening intently.

  “Mrs. Holt? Mrs. Holt, are you there? I’m so sorry for – I’m sorry for frightening you. I wanted to explain everything. Mrs. Holt?”

  I didn’t answer, but I moved closer to the door. I wondered whether he could hear my fast breathing from the other side of the door. He spoke again.

  “Mrs. Holt, if you’re worried, then Inspector Clegg knows I’m here. He was the one who actually told me to come and see you. Please – if you’re worried, you can call him at the police station.”

  Was it a trick? What was he talking about? I did think fleetingly of slipping out the back door and running to the call box at the end of the road. Then, impulsively, I turned and unlocked the door, pulling it open and putting on the hallway light.

  We both recoiled a little, blinking in the light that wasn’t harsh, but unexpected.

  “Mrs. Holt?” said the young man. He wasn’t half as threatening close up. “Mrs. Holt, I’m Joe Stanford. May I –may I come in for a moment?”

  I had yet to say a word. I’d just stared at him. I still didn’t say a word but I nodded and held the door open for him.

  Seated opposite one another in the living room, we looked at each other in silence. I’d poked up the fire and turned on the lamps and it was quit
e warm and cosy again. I spared a fleeting thought as to how awful I must look, after the tears and the shock of this morning and then an afternoon asleep in the sofa, but it didn’t really seem to matter that much.

  “What is it that you want?” I asked, eventually.

  Joe Stanton looked down at his hands. “I’m so sorry for frightening you,” he mumbled. “Inspector Clegg – he told me what a complete ass I was being. I hadn’t realised how it must have seemed to you, I was so caught up in how I was feeling. I’m sorry.”

  I looked at him in some confusion. “Mr. Stanton, I’m sorry but I’m in the dark here. What exactly is the problem?”

  “Call me Joe, please,” said Joe Stanton. He reddened. “Mrs. Holt, what I’m trying to say is that I wanted to talk to you – I wanted to meet you – and I – I’m not – I wasn’t sure the best way to introduce myself. I kept funking it and – and I hadn’t realised that you might have felt threatened – I mean—“

  “Joe,” I said, as gently as I could. “Why did you want to talk to me?”

  Joe stared at me. “Didn’t I say? I’m sorry. The thing is, I fought with your husband. He actually saved my life, once.”

  I stared just as blankly back at him. “You fought with my husband?”

  Joe nodded. “Yes, Mrs. Holt. I fought with Captain Holt. ‘Bridge’ Holt.”

  I gasped. Bridge Holt. That was the childhood nickname Sidney had been known by; all his old friends had called him that and so had I. I hadn’t heard it for years. It gave me a strange feeling to hear it again, half joyful pleasure, half exquisite pain.

  Joe was looking at me almost fearfully, clasping his hands. I couldn’t imagine how I’d once been scared of him. I got up abruptly. “I’m going to get us both a drink, Joe. Then you can tell me all about it.”

  It was so strange – that this stranger, this boy sitting opposite me, should have known Sidney by the same nickname as I had. It was as if I’d passed a stranger in the street and they’d slipped a little gift wrapped box into my hand. A shared memory, a little glowing secret.