âWe're investigating certain matters in Lower Stovey.'
âWoman got stabbed, I heard.'
âYes. Do you visit your family there?'
âNo. Never got no cause to.' Young Billy shook his head.
âYou don't visit your father and sister?' Markby asked.
âThem?' Young Billy finished tying up the bamboo canes to his satisfaction and turned his attention fully to his visitor. âLast time I saw the old boy was Christmas. I don't have no car, no more does he. But my neighbour was going out that way and give me a lift. Our dad hadn't changed. He's the same miserable old devil he always was. Don't know how our Dilys sticks it. She pops round to see us sometimes when she's shopping in Bamford. That woman she cleans for, Mrs Aston, she gives her a lift in. She don't change, Dilys, either,' reflected Billy. âShe was always a great lump. Good worker, mind.' This last was added in case Markby should think he sounded disloyal.
Markby didn't think Young Billy was disloyal. He was realistic. You can choose your friends but not your relatives, as the saying went. But poor Dilys did seem singularly unappreciated by her family.
âI was in Lower Stovey years ago,' he said in a conversational way. âWe were investigating some attacks on women in and around the woods.'
Young Billy squinted up at the sky and then at Markby. âThat'll be the old Potato feller.'
âYes, you remember, I see.'
âMy wife wrote me about it. It was in the papers, she said. Made Lower Stovey famous, that did!' Young Billy chuckled hoarsely.
âWrote to you? Where were you living then?'
âI were on the high seas.'
âWhat?' Markby was surprised into exclaiming.
âI were working on the cargo boats at that time. I liked that, you know. I like being at sea. Lizzie wrote me all about it and I got the letter when we reached the Windward Islands. Bananas, we took on board there. Thousands of 'em.'
Young Billy paused and ruminated on that lost period of his life. âI liked it, but not my Lizzie. She didn't like me being away so much. When I left Lower Stovey I took a room as lodger in Lizzie's parents' house. That's how I met her. We got married at eighteen, just as my dad and mum had done. But we turned out happier than they did, thank goodness. We've had our Ruby Wedding. Not bad, is it?'
Markby agreed, wondering whether he and Meredith would ever celebrate any anniversary.
âAnyhow,' said William Twelvetrees, âbecause she didn't like it, I gave it up and came ashore. I got a job down the quarry. I still got a job down there, watchman, though I don't work full time now. But I don't mind that. It gives me time for this.'
During his time afloat Young Billy had probably learned to stow things neatly in small spaces and it might explain his ingenious use of his garden. It also deleted him from the Potato Man enquiry.
âRight,' said Markby heavily. âThank you. I'll leave you to your gardening.'
Two steps forward, one step back. But somewhere he was on the right lines, he was sure of it. He just couldn't see where. It would be difficult, but he had to speak to Linda Jones.
The train rocked slowly out of London. Meredith found herself trapped, cramped in a corner seat, next to a sweaty young man reading a paperback novel. The jacket illustration depicted people living in some mythical past when clothing consisted either of rags or elaborate armour and no one had invented anything in the line of smart casual. As the young man read he chewed gum and breathed through his mouth at the same time, no mean achievement. Meredith had tried to ignore him and concentrate on the
Evening Standard
crossword but that had been difficult because she couldn't move her arms. Nor could she move her feet which were imprisoned against the side of the train by the formidable boots worn by a long-legged tough-looking girl sitting opposite. The girl was reading too,
Captain Corelli's Mandolin.
The fourth occupant of their quartet of seats was a middle-aged man in a business suit who'd fallen asleep the moment the train started.
Well, at least it was Friday once again. The weekend had come around almost before the previous one had gone out of mind. At least it meant two train-journeyless days. What, she wondered idly, did these people do at the weekend? What about the Amazon with the romantic heart? And what about Chewing-Gum-Man here? He wore a wedding ring so it was a fair guess part of his weekend would be taken up with the family weekly shop. As for the business type over there, his head now lolling in a familiar way on the oblivious shoulder of the tough girl, no prizes for guessing he planned a round of golf. And me? she thought. Do any of them wonder about me and what I'll be getting up to during these precious two days of freedom? Some freedom. I shall spend it viewing undesirable properties with Alan, both of us getting tetchier by the minute. She sighed. That was when her mobile phone began a frenzied rendition of the opening notes of
Eine Kleine Nachtmusik.
Meredith scrabbled in her briefcase and retrieved it. Mobile phones had been going off all over the carriage since they'd started but hers caused a minor stir among her immediate companions. The tough girl became aware of the businessman's shoulder and pushed his head away. He woke up, harrumphed, and stood up to take down his coat from the overhead rack. The gum-chewer put away his paperback and made similar moves indicating he was getting off at the next stop.
âHello?' Meredith asked the mobile.
The caller was Ruth Aston, which surprised her mildly, before she remembered she'd given Ruth the number of her mobile at the close of the visit she and Alan had paid to The Old Forge. âGive me a call if you want to chat,' she'd invited and Ruth had taken her up on it.
âI was wondering, Meredith. I dare say you and Alan have plans for the weekend, but if you had time, would you like to come to tea tomorrow? The thing is, Hester made a lot of cakes which are sitting in the freezer. I can't eat them alone. I can't throw them out. I've given a couple away but it made me feel guilty. So, I thought, if you and Alan have a hour to spare around half-past three or four, say?'
Ruth's voice tailed away on a hopeful note. It couldn't hide the underlying despair. She's been crying to herself over Hester, guessed Meredith. She wants the company.
âOf course, we'll come,' she said. âOr I will, anyway. I'll have to check with Alan.'
Ruth was embarrassingly grateful.
âI couldn't refuse. I did tell her to ring me,' Meredith said, twisting her head in the crook of his arm to look up at him. His head was propped on the sofa back and his eyes closed.
âIt's all right,' he mumbled. âI've got to go out to Lower Stovey sometime, anyway. I want to check on something at Greenjack Farm. Why don't I drop you at Ruth's at three-thirty? I'll go on down to the farm and come back to Ruth's when I've finished there. I shouldn't be long.'
Meredith said hesitantly, âRuth may expect you to report some progress. How's Dave Pearce getting on?'
Alan opened his eyes at that. âSlowly. But James Holland at least will be a happy man.'
âYou've found the missing tower key?' Hastily she added, âAm I not supposed to know about it? James told me.'
âI didn't tell him not to. Quite the opposite, I asked him to check everywhere he could to find the key. Half Bamford must
know about it. In the end, we turned up a complete set of keys about which the church authorities had known nothing.'
âWho had them?'
âWould you believe it? Norman Stubbings, landlord of the Fitzroy Arms. Seems he's the local Don Juan and was in the habit of taking his latest conquest to the tower to have his wicked way.'
âThe thought,' Meredith said, âmakes my skin creep. Not the tower so much as Norman Stubbings's amorous embrace. Well, Norman and the tower together. Just imagine, Norman creeping about the belfry like Quasimodo. I always thought that man seriously weird. You don't think he might have had something to do with Hester's death?'
âHe has no motive and I can't put him in the church at the time.' Alan chuckled. âHe got a scare when Dave turned up, demanded the keys and threatened to charge him with withholding evidence. He handed them over as meek as a lamb. His wife, little fat womanâ'
âEvie,' Meredith informed him.
âEvie, then. Evie was hopping about in the background insisting Norman couldn't have been in the church the morning Hester died because he'd been on the phone to the brewery on and off for the best part of an hour from nine onwards. Dave checked that out and it's true. After that, apparently, Stubbings had to fix one of the pumps and didn't leave the bar.'
âHe said something about that to me, not on the day of the murder, on the Saturday when I called by his pub after I'd seen Ruth. Just before he threw me out.' Meredith was loath to support Norman's story but was impelled by a sense of fair play.
âHe has a witness for the day itself. A friend of Evie's popped in for a chat and saw him at work. It seems he was quite abusive towards the visitor who described him to Pearce as “a miserable old git.” Norman doesn't have many friends but he does have an alibi. I'm glad we can rule the keys out of our enquiry but I was never convinced it was a lead. The footprints in the tower were old and dusty and it's so easy to hare off on a false trail, getting too excited about things like that. Investigation into big crimes has a way of turning up a host of small sins.'
âPity you can't arrest him for something,' she said wistfully.
He chuckled. âNot worth the time or trouble, even if we managed to find a charge. It's like I said. You trawl a net hoping it'll snare a big fish. If you pull out a minnow like Norman Stubbings you just have toss him back in the river.'
âHe broke into the church tower!' she pointed out.
âNot technically. He had a key.'
âHe was trespassing.'
âNot of itself a crime.' Markby shook his head. âHe misbehaved up there but he didn't do any damage to the place nor did he steal anything. If the bishop wants to proceed with a civil action for trespass, that's up to him. I'm after a killer.'
âSo you're back at square one?'
âDid we ever leave it?' he asked wryly. âHowever, Dave's a tenacious sort of copper. He's found a witness who saw Hester in the street outside the church.' He frowned. âHis witness says, Hester was carrying something. Ruth had the same impression and it might be worth asking her if she's managed to remember what it was.'
On this low-key note they arranged their return to Lower Stovey.
Markby pulled up outside St Barnabas church, Lower Stovey in mid-afternoon, the following day, Saturday. âWind's getting up again,' he observed.
Meredith peered through the windscreen. The tips of the trees surrounding the churchyard bent and swayed. The inn sign of the Fitzroy Arms rocked agitatedly on unoiled hinges. It carried a faded heraldic representation, the most distinguishing feature of which was a small animal of vague species, apparently a rodent. It seemed particularly apt. Norman the landlord had been standing in his doorway, alone and palely loitering, but identifying Markby's car, he scurried back indoors.
Meredith said, âDoesn't he look like something you find when you turn over a stone?'
Markby grinned. âBetween the police and one of the village women, the mother of his latest dalliance, Norman's got good reason to keep his head down. I'll drop you here and go on to the farm. Tell Ruth I shouldn't be long.' He glanced past her towards the church. âWhy do you want to go in there before you see Ruth?'
âIt's just something I feel I have to do. I have to go in there and see it's all right now, just an empty building with no dead bodies except in stone effigy. If I don't, the last image I'll have of the interior of the place will include Hester slumped in the pew. I don't want it to be that.' She paused. âRuth told me the church was built as an act of atonement for a murder so it's as if history has come round to repeat itself. You can't help, somehow, getting an odd feeling when you're walking round it, outside and inside. Inside you're under the eye of all those Fitzroys and outside you're under the eye of the Green Man, up there on the wall. What do you think the medieval masons thought was over there in those woods?'
âI don't know what they believed,' he said a little sourly. âBut as far as I'm concerned, whatever's been there or is there, is human.'
But even I, he thought, have had moments of doubt, if I'm to be honest. Superstition has deep roots. We all pretend we're not affected by it. We're all just that little bit afraid of what we don't know.
Meredith had pushed open the door and swung her legs to the ground. As he drove away towards Stovey Woods, he could see her in the windscreen mirror, standing by the lych-gate, watching his car.
A little before the road ran out at the edge of the woods, he came upon a wooden board with the name Greenjack Farm burned on it in pokerwork, at the entry to a turning on the right-hand side. Several cattle in a field beyond the sign were lying down. Folk wisdom believed that meant rain. He glanced at the sky appraisingly as he jolted the short distance down the track to the farm gate.
Twenty-two years. Could it really be so long? What had happened in the meantime? He'd married and divorced. He'd climbed to the rank of superintendent. He'd never become a father but he was the uncle of four, thanks to the efforts of his sister and her husband. He had met Meredith, something which still filled him with wonder as a man who had unexpectedly, and undeservedly, been offered a second chance. So why, when life so manifestly went on, opening new horizons, couldn't he let go of this old puzzle?
âBecause,' he said softly to himself, âI believe that in some way I can't yet fathom, it has to do with the death of Hester Millar. Because I feel I'm on the edge of knowing. That I do, in the back of my mind, already know.'
And that other death? That of Simon Hastings? To say nothing of the sense of failure which had dogged him for all those years. Would the former ever be explained or the latter exorcised?
He got out of the car, pushed open the gate and went through, taking care to close it behind him. A black and white border collie dog ran towards him barking but not aggressively.
Markby said, âHello, old fellow!' and the dog wagged its tail and accompanied him, making figure-of-eight movements around the visitor's feet as he continued on his way.
There was someone in a former stable building on the right. The doors of the end loosebox had been removed and part of the stone wall knocked out to make a wider opening. It was from in there that he could hear intermittent rattling and a voice uttering sounds indicating physical effort. Curiously, he poked his head through the gap.
Inside it was dark and it took a moment to accustom his eyes to the gloom. Ancient straw was piled in the corners, a hayrack was used as a receptacle for junk, strings of cobwebs dangled from the roof. Pride of place belonged to a Victorian pony-trap, its shafts resting on the ground. It'd once been painted blue and red and although the paintwork was damaged now and dull the trap was still clean. Someone was engaged in buffing it up still more. He was an elderly man, working slowly but doggedly, a cloth gripped awkwardly in a hand with knuckles distorted by arthritis. He looked up as Markby's shadow filled the opening into the yard and straightened with an effort and another mumbled exclamation. Markby, realising that with the yard light behind him the old man could see nothing but a sinister dark outline, was obliged to step inside and make himself properly visible.
âGood afternoon,' he said.
The old man stood, rag in hand, and contemplated him.
âI seen you before,' he returned at last. He chuckled and shook the rag at Markby. âYes, I know you. I've seen you before.'
âYes, Mr Jones, you have, but it was a long time ago. I didn't think you'd remember me.'
Martin Jones came towards him, head tilted to one side, faded eyes scrutinizing the newcomer's face. âI disremember your name, though. You'll have to tell me.'
Markby told him and added, âIt was twenty-two years ago I came here asking about the Potato Man.'
A long sigh escaped old Martin. âYou still looking for him, then?'
âYes, and for the murderer of Miss Millar.'
Puzzlement crinkled the old man's features. âI don't know her.'
âShe lived in Lower Stovey with Mrs Aston. Mrs Aston used to be Miss Pattinson, the vicar's daughter.'
âI remember little Miss Pattinson. She was a pretty little thing. But she doesn't live in Lower Stovey no more.'
âYes, she does, Mr Jones. Only she's called Mrs Aston now. Miss Millar was her friend and she died, she was killed, in the church here.'
He wasn't sure he was right in talking to Martin about the death. It was possible his son had decided not to worry the old man with the grim news. But the idea of death was less worrying to Martin than the location in which it had occurred.
âIt don't seem right.' Martin waved the cleaning rag back and forth as if wiping away a stain. âNot killing that woman in the church.' He began to look distressed.
Markby decided on distraction and moved nearer to the pony-trap. âGoing to take it out for a spin?'
At this Martin perked up again, the death in the church immediately wiped from his mind. âNo. Only pony on the farm now belongs to young Becky and that's a riding animal. Put him between the shafts and he'd likely bolt away. But it's a good conveyance. I'm minded to sell it. You never know, someone might want it.' He gave the nearest wheel another rub with his rag. Then turning his head so that he could see Markby, he added, âBecky's my granddaughter.'
âYou've got a grandson, too, I believe, Gordon?'
Martin frowned. âI haven't seen him in a while.'
âHe didn't come the other day to see his mother? On his motorbike?'
âHe may have done. The days all seem one to me now.' He squinted at Markby. âI remember you, see. You look much the same, you do. Some folks change. I remember the Potato Man and all kinds of things that happened back then. But I can't seem to keep in my head things that happen nowadays.' He frowned and as if there was a necessary time delay between absorbing a question and focusing on it, went on, âThat's a noisy thing, that motorbike. When I was his age I drove this trap here into Bamford. I didn't need no motorbike. Kevin don't like that motorbike either. He don't like Gordon bringing it in when there's beasts in the yard.'
âWhere is Kevin now?' Markby asked.
A shake of the head. âI don't know. I don't recall seeing him today. He's likely about the place.'
âWhat about Mrs Jones, Linda?'
The old face brightened. âShe's a good woman, Linda. She'll be over to the house.' He turned back to the trap. âYou don't know someone as wants a good conveyance like this 'un, do you?'
Markby said apologetically that he didn't. The old man nodded and returned to his polishing. It seemed the conversation was over.
âNice to have seen you again, Mr Jones,' he said to him, but got no reply.
If Mrs Jones was in the house she was probably in the kitchen. Markby made his way round to the back door and sure enough, it was open and he could see the figure of a woman moving in the dim interior. He knocked on the door jamb and she looked up in surprise.
âSuperintendent Markby,' he said quickly and held up his ID.
She came towards him wiping her hands on a tea-towel pinned round her waist and he saw that she'd been making pastry.
âNever another one!' she said, not crossly but in a mild amazement. âI had a feller here the other day.'
âYes, Inspector Pearce. May I come in and have a word, Mrs Jones?'
She shrugged. âYou can come in. I don't know what word it is you're going to have. I've told all I know. I only saw poor Miss Millar as I drove past the church. I didn't see where she was going. My mind was on other things. I do wish, though, that I'd stopped and had a word with her. You never know, it might have made a difference somehow. But then, it might not. You never know about these things, do you?' She pointed with a floury hand at a chair. âSit down, why don't you?'
Markby sat down and she returned to the table and rolling out her pastry.
âI'm just making a few little sausage rolls and fancy bits,' she said. âCheese straws and that sort of thing.'
âWould that be for your son's twenty-first party?' he asked.
She was startled. âHow'd you know about that? Oh, right, Gordon came when your inspector was here. Yes, for the party. Gordon was for getting it all from a shop but I don't reckon to shop-bought sausage rolls. I've made the cake and all.' She pointed proudly at the nearby dresser on which sat a large fruit cake. âI've got to decorate it yet,' she explained. âI'm going to put twenty-one on it in icing in the middle and pipe “Happy Birthday, Gordon” round the edge.'
âVery nice, too.' Markby paused then said, âI saw your father-in-law in the barn. He's cleaning up a pony-trap you've got in there.'
She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. âThat old trap. He's always in there messing about with it. Still, it keeps him occupied. Did he try and sell it to you?'
âNot really. He just asked if I knew someone who wanted a conveyance, as he called it.'
She laughed. âHe usually tries to sell it to people. He's not, you knowâ' She tapped her forehead. âHe's not gaga, but not quite in working order up there, either. His mind goes along its own road, if you understand me.'
âI understand. He remembered me, though.'
Her hands stopped working. She rested them on the flat disc of dough and her eyes searched his face in a level, thoughtful gaze.
âYou've been here before? I don't remember you.'
âIt was twenty-two years ago.'
The level gaze faltered. She turned her attention back to her work, picking up a knife and cutting the rounded edges from the pastry so that she was left with a neat square. âSurprised he remembered you,' she said, her voice muffled. âHe doesn't remember much.'
âBut he remembers what happened a long time ago better than last week,' Markby observed. âHe even remembered why I came here. It was when we were enquiring into the attacks on women in and around Stovey Woods. The Potato Man. Do you remember that case, Mrs Jones?'
The hand holding the knife shook. âBarely. Is that what you've come about, after all this time? Haven't you got enough
to do with the murder?' Her voice was harsh.
âEnough, certainly. But sometimes one thing leads to another and it can take years for everything to work itself out. You do remember the Potato Man, then?'
She put down the knife and collapsed abruptly into a chair, making it scrape noisily on the flagged floor. âI was only a girl, seventeen.'
âWere you engaged to Kevin Jones then? I met Kevin at the time. I seem to remember he wasn't married.'
âWe were courting.' The words were almost inaudible.
âAnd you got married soon after?'
She raised her gaze briefly to meet his then dropped it again.
âI always believed,' Markby said softly, âthat the rapist was a local man. I've also always believed there were more rapes than were ever reported.'