A Grave in the Cotswolds (32 page)

Aha!
‘Oh, yes, I see,’ I said, carefully avoiding Thea’s eye. More rapid thinking threw up new difficulties.

‘I’m very sorry, Drew,’ said Thea. ‘It must feel like a terrible betrayal to you. But I felt that justice had to be done. I knew Greta Simmonds, after all. I couldn’t just let it go, if she really had been murdered.’

‘You never have completely trusted me, have you?’ I accused her.

‘I didn’t
know
you,’ she defended. ‘And when I heard that you’d inherited the house – well, you must see how bad that looks.’

‘You’ve got it all wrong, I tell you!’ cried Jeremy, thumping a fist on the arm of the sofa. ‘You’re not
listening
to me. Nobody ever listens to me.’

‘For God’s sake,’ growled Charles, who had clearly lost the thread some minutes ago. ‘Grow up, why don’t you.’

‘But what about Gavin Maynard?’ asked Oliver Talbot, who had apparently been half asleep for the past twenty minutes. ‘Where does he fit in?’

I almost laughed at having my line so helpfully stolen.

‘Well, I think your wife has got that part right,’ said Thea. ‘He threatened to forcibly remove the grave from that field. And that put him against the whole family.’ She looked hard at Judith Talbot. ‘Who at that point had no idea of what was in Greta’s will. The trouble and notoriety that would arise from the whole messy business would reflect badly on them, and probably reduce the value of the house. It might also raise inconvenient questions about actual ownership of the whole property. That’s why they were in such a hurry to find a buyer. Naïve, perhaps, since the searches would have thrown up the anomalies, but since they’ve never actually had to buy or sell a house, they probably wouldn’t have known that.’

I waited, in some confusion. What was she trying to say?

‘You think my parents killed Gavin Maynard?’ queried Charles, on behalf of us all.

‘Right!’ asserted Thea, with rock-solid certainty. ‘That’s absolutely right. It all fits.’

Judith, her artificially red hair glittering in the bright light, drew back her lips in a snarl. ‘How dare you!’ she spat. ‘You bloody interfering little bitch.’

At which point, in true melodramatic style, a loud knock came on the door.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Harry Richmond went to answer the knock. Helena Maynard came in slowly, startled at finding so many people, obviously in the middle of a heated argument. ‘What’s going on?’ she faltered, losing much of the aggression that had so far characterised her.

‘Mrs Osborne just accused my mother and father of killing your husband,’ said Charles in a neutral tone. ‘And Ma’s not pleased.’

Jeremy snorted, apparently highly amused by this summary. Given the matter under discussion, everyone seemed remarkably relaxed, except for Mrs Talbot, who continued to glare at Thea and flare her nostrils. Her husband had his face in his hands, his knees uncomfortably raised, a low rumbling sound emerging from him.

‘Judith?’ Helena said. Then, ‘Susan?’

It was, after all, the Watchetts’ house. It must have been them she wanted to speak to. The three middle-aged women began to gravitate together, forming the core of the assembled group, leaving the men on the outside. They all had Thea in the full beam of their attention.

‘You’re not seriously accusing Judith, are you?’ Mrs Maynard demanded. ‘After what we talked about this afternoon?’ She threw a contemptuous glance at me, and I wondered whether Thea had actually reinforced the widow’s certainty as to my guilt. It wouldn’t have surprised me.

‘I believe she has a lot of questions to answer,’ said Thea. ‘Now, we can’t stay much longer. The police want Drew at the grave quite soon, and I dare say it’s almost Jeremy’s bedtime.’ Two or three people glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, registering amazement at the lateness on the hour.

‘What?’ The boy regarded her with outrage. ‘I’m seventeen, not seven, you know. Bedtime!’ He flounced back on the sofa, oozing indignation.

‘Although…don’t you think it would be the right and decent thing to call off the exhumation?’ Thea went on, looking first at Charles, then at his brother. ‘After what’s been said, does anybody really believe that Mrs Simmonds was murdered? Drew really couldn’t have done it. He was busy with a funeral on the day she died – and the post-mortem was absolutely clear as to the cause of death. It’s a wild and silly idea.’

‘The police didn’t think so,’ said Judith. ‘And
you
didn’t think so this afternoon, either.’

‘Well, I do now. I’ve spoken to Harry since then, and he’s convinced me it’s all completely untenable. And when the second post-mortem comes to exactly the same conclusion, you’re going to be asked to foot the bill for the whole thing.’

‘My fees alone will be five hundred pounds, at least,’ I said, daringly. ‘As I understand it, I’ll be there in my capacity as funeral director, not murder suspect.’

‘Come on, Ma,’ said Charles. ‘They’re right, aren’t they?’ He gave me and Thea a slow discerning look.

But Judith held firm. ‘We can’t back out now,’ she insisted. ‘And what harm can it do?’

‘It’s no light thing, to disturb a grave,’ I said.

Thea waited quietly, her silence more effective than any words. One by one, everybody looked at her.

‘There’s no getting around it, then,’ said Harry Richmond.

‘I’m afraid not,’ she said. ‘There’s been special Home Office permission, which was quite difficult to obtain at such short notice. Nobody’s going to want to cancel it now, even though it would obviously be the best thing. Official wheels don’t go into reverse very easily.’

‘I’d better go, then,’ I said, on the verge of adding that it would be a lonely walk in the dark down the deserted country road. Before I could say it, Harry stepped forward and offered to drive me, using Thea’s car. This had apparently been decided between them in advance, much to my admiration.

‘Thanks,’ I said, gratefully.

‘Not got your motor?’ asked Jeremy. ‘Where’re you staying tonight, then?’

Touched by his concern, I rolled my eyes ruefully. ‘Police cells, probably.’

He winced, as if I’d said something offensive. ‘Tough luck,’ he sympathised, seemingly sincere.

They all saw me off with varying degrees of anxiety. The solemnity of the imminent procedure had quietened them down, and despite suspicions as to my criminal behaviour, they remembered that I was also an undertaker, with special connections to forbidden and frightening worlds.

Harry and I got into the red Fiesta, greeted joyously by the spaniel, who seemed quite unconcerned at the absence of her mistress. ‘I’ll drop you, and then go back for Thea,’ he said. ‘The police will watch out for you.’

We manoeuvred around the other vehicles parked outside the house, and drove off through the village. ‘Are we really going to the grave?’ I asked.

‘Oh yes,’ he assured me.

‘Is there really going to be an exhumation?’

‘Oh no,’ he chuckled. ‘Well spotted.’

‘Thea set it all up with her police cronies? It was all a pretence – is that right?’

‘Absolutely correct. She’s a wonder, that woman. An absolute marvel.’ It was the word I always used about Maggs. I felt blessed.

‘So what happens now?’

‘Wait and see,’ he advised. ‘It could still all go horribly wrong.’

The sky was clear and a three-quarter moon shed enough light to see by, so long as you didn’t want to read anything, or recognise the nuances of a human face. For anybody knowing their way around, it was more than adequate for a midnight walk.

Harry drove me to the field with the grave, and almost pushed me out of the car. It was completely silent and deserted. ‘What do I have to do?’ I asked.

‘Go and sit by the grave, and wait,’ he ordered me. ‘Oh, and take this.’ He reached over to the back seat and produced a kind of lantern.

I took it awkwardly. ‘How does it work?’ I asked.

He showed me quickly. It could be adjusted, from a faint light to a dazzling beam.

I found myself obeying instructions without any demur. It was no hardship, despite my bewilderment as to what was meant to happen. Of all the people around me on that overcrowded evening, one person above all the others had a hold on my conscience. It was whimsical, and probably counterproductive in several ways, but the more I thought about it, the stronger her claim seemed to be. I acknowledged to myself that I had something to answer for, a duty of care and concern that had not been properly fulfilled.

She hadn’t gone anywhere, of course, since we had all stood around arguing over her remains. The soil was now damp, and deep black in the strange light. I set down the lantern without turning it on, then occupied myself with tidying the edges of the grave where small clods had rolled down from the dome at the top and made a ragged line. It was heavy stuff, and I wondered how difficult it had been to dig out. Ignoring the effect on the knees of my trousers, I knelt beside the grave. ‘Well, here we are again,’ I muttered aloud. ‘Can’t stay away, can I?’

It was never easy to simply walk away from a grave. The separation was always painful, even after a short acquaintance. It felt wrong to just abandon the poor, cold body to its fate below the earth. This was why I did the work I did. I wanted everything to be brought to a proper conclusion, for people to have every chance to do and say what they needed to for that separation to be as smooth as was humanly possible. Much of it had become automatic, from the repetition and familiarity. I had learnt that it was good to follow gut instincts: to rush away without looking back was just as valid as to sit for half a day at the graveside. Some people came every day for weeks. Others never once returned. Either way was fine.

I discovered that I needed this last little communion with Greta Simmonds, in order to gain her absolution for the mess I had made of her funeral. However I wriggled, I could not evade the knowledge that I ought to have checked ownership of the field. I had not even asked her the simple question. And that crucial omission had led to all the subsequent trouble – or so my upsurge of guilt persuaded me out in the midnight field, when I should have been speeding home to my family.

I was so quiet and still that I should have heard when somebody came to join me, but maybe I was too deep in thought to notice. I had forgotten why I was there, for a moment. Whatever role I was confusedly playing in Thea’s grand plan, those minutes by the grave were genuine, and all-consuming. But finally I became aware of a companion.

Stumbling over the rough grass, his infernal mobile still in his hand, Jeremy was within five yards of me before I looked up. His face was impossible to discern, but I had no doubt as to who had joined me.

‘You cheat!’ he shouted. ‘You’ve been lying and cheating all along. And I
trusted
you.’

Within seconds he was on me, hitting wildly at my head and chest, the mobile phone connecting painfully with the bridge of my nose.

‘Stop it!’ I panted, struggling to get to my feet. I pushed him hard, and took the momentary respite as my chance to stand up. He whirled back to the attack, but now I had height on my side, and a cooler head, I could see that he was presenting me with much less of a danger than I’d first thought.

‘Stop it, Jeremy,’ I said again. ‘There’s no need for this. Behave yourself.’

I had slipped into parental mode by accident, but it worked. My face was bruised and throbbing, but no real harm had been done. The boy paused, looking doubtful. ‘You’re not going to dig her up, are you? It was all a trick.’

‘I suppose it was,’ I said, frowning down at him. ‘Did you come here on your bike?’

‘Right. I told them I was going out for a walk, and came over the fields.’

‘You know all the paths,’ I realised.

‘Used to come here when I was small, and again when Auntie Greta came back to the cottage. She took me for walks.’ He laid a protective hand on the grave and I felt sudden tears welling, as the truth hit me.

‘You’re the only one who really cares whether or not she’s exhumed,’ I said. ‘Jeremy – were you here when I was arguing with Mr Maynard that Saturday? Did you overhear us? You followed him and…’ It was all too obvious, and yet still impossible to believe.

‘You’ll never prove anything,’ he blustered.

‘Well, I’m going to have to try. Otherwise they’ll charge me with it, and I’m not taking the blame for what you did.’ Even as I spoke, I found myself thinking that perhaps I should. That perhaps it would be the truly noble line to take, saving the boy from wasting his prime in a miserable prison.

‘She hated him – that Gavin. He was a right little toerag. Charles has a thing with the wife, as well. I reckoned I was doing everybody a favour.’

‘Oh, Jeremy,’ I moaned.

‘I never meant to drop you in it, though. You were decent enough. She thought you were a star. Leaving you the house, and wanting you to start up some natural burial business here. She was all happy and excited about it. Said you might let me work for you.’

This echo of my own idea moved me even more. I slumped beneath the sadness of it.

‘Who do you keep texting?’ I asked.

‘Carrie – just as Ma said. Don’t know where she got the idea, though. She forgets all about her most of the time.’

‘Carrie? Your sister?’

‘Right. She’s in a special hospital. But that doesn’t make her stupid.
She
understands about Auntie Greta and the grave.’

‘How old is Carrie?’

‘Nineteen.’ He gave me a look of pure misery. ‘She’s only nineteen, but she looks like an old woman. She hurts all the time. Her bones never grew right. She won’t live much longer – and then she’ll be buried here as well.’

I tried to keep my expression neutral, while wishing heartily that Mrs Simmonds had mentioned this potential second grave a year ago. Two burials in the open countryside were a very different proposition from one. And then I remembered my inheritance. Suddenly it made considerably more sense. ‘I see,’ I said slowly. ‘That’s terribly sad.’

He stared at me earnestly. I could see the whites of his eyes, the urgent angle of his body. ‘The council won’t make us move her, will they? Not now.’