Country Plot (12 page)

She yielded. ‘Well, I didn't know you were married. She showed me the door to your house and said you both had a key.' He was laughing again. ‘Listen, it was just because I like her so much and I wanted her to have a love interest, that's all.'

‘She does have one, don't worry. It just isn't me.'

Jenna seized the moment. ‘I
did
wonder, because when we were talking about the dinner party she said it was nicer if the numbers were even so I thought she
must
have invited someone for herself. But she didn't say who it was, so it's a mystery.'

‘Not to me,' Bill said. ‘Though she does try to keep it quiet, so don't talk about it to anyone else, will you? Here, catch hold of that twine for me, and I'll tell you about him while I work.'

Jenna picked up the ball of twine and handed it to him. ‘Fire away.'

‘His name's Jim Lancaster. He was a sea officer, and he lives in Barford, the next village, in a house called Barford Lodge. If you go out from here towards Belminster, you'll see it on the right-hand side as you go through Barford. He's a really nice chap, retired from the Navy now, of course, but he does a bit of consultancy work for the Admiralty now and then, which gives him trips up to town, all expenses paid. He makes ships in bottles for a hobby, and tends his garden. He's got a nice garden at the Lodge – only about half an acre, but he's crammed a lot in. Mad about it. He and Kitty can talk gardening for hours together.'

‘I was wondering when you'd get on to Kitty. If he's so nice and wonderful and comfortably off, what's the problem? Why does she have to keep him a secret?'

‘Well, it's not a secret that they're friends, of course,' Bill said, ‘but they don't want it known that it's more than that, because there'd be a scandal. He's married, you see.'

Jenna's heart sank. ‘Oh no! Poor Kitty!'

‘Wait, it isn't what you think. His wife, Rose, has Alzheimer's disease, poor thing. She's in a home, in Belminster. Been there, oh, six years now. She doesn't remember anything or know anyone. She hasn't a clue who Jim is when he goes and visits her.'

‘How sad. But can't he divorce her?'

‘He's too nice. He thinks it would be letting her down.'

‘If she doesn't know him, how would it hurt her? He could still go and visit her.'

Bill shook his head. ‘I know, but he still won't do it. Besides, the County would never forgive him. They'd think it was too tacky by half. Especially if he did it to hook up with another woman. Poor Kitty would cop it worse than him if he went that route.'

‘Surely not?'

Bill grimaced. ‘You don't know country communities. She'd be labelled the scarlet woman who dragged a good man from the paths of rectitude, and betrayed a helpless invalid in the process. She'd be ostracized. They both would, but she'd be the one who was blamed. It doesn't help that Jim has a daughter. Erica. She's grown up, of course, and married, with children of her own, but she's still a daddy's girl, and jealous of any other female. She looks pretty sharply at his friends to make sure no one's going to take her mother's place.'

‘Ridiculous! How old is she?'

‘Oh, forty-ish, I suppose. One of those big-boned, lanky girls who was never popular at school. I suppose she was sort of in love with her father when he was a glamorous sea-captain, coming and going, and never grew out of it. She'd kick up a stink if he ever hinted at divorcing her mother or bringing a new woman into the house. So Kitty and Jim keep it quiet. Just good friends, who only meet at church, and village do's, and other people's dinner parties – all above board.'

Jenna frowned. ‘Then how do you know there
is
anything else?'

‘I saw them together one day in London. Jim had gone up on one of his consultancy things, and Kitty officially went up to stay with an old school-friend. Unofficially, of course, they were having a dirty weekend – except that it was midweek. Well, seeing the cat was out of the bag, Kitty confided in me, and told me all. They meet up in town a few times a year, and manage on away-days otherwise, and simply hope not to get spotted. And try not to hope that poor Rose dies – though who could blame them if they did? But Alzheimer's victims seem to live for ever, and Rose is only the same age as Kitty.'

‘Oh, poor Kitty! What a tragedy,' Jenna cried, really distressed. Then she thought of something. ‘But should you have told me, if it was a secret?'

‘Oh, don't worry, I haven't betrayed anything. The other way they meet is for him to slip over here now and then under cover of darkness, so Kitty told me she was going to tell you, because you'd be bound to find out anyway. She was agonizing over how to spill it to you – worried you'd disapprove, you see – so she'll be relieved I've done the job for her. Don't worry, I know Kitty very well.' He smiled. ‘In fact, if it weren't for Fatty, I could have given the Admiral a run for his money. In another life. I'm very fond of her.'

‘I'm glad. So am I.'

‘I'll tell her I've told you, so don't worry about it. Just don't say anything to anyone else.'

‘Of course I won't. And I suppose I'd better get back to work now.'

‘If you insist. What are you working on?'

‘History of the house.'

‘Oh, that'll take you a while! A lot went on in this place. A lot of famous people came here, one way and another – as you can tell from the artefacts around the house. Have you come across Churchill's inkstand? That's in the library somewhere.'

‘Churchill came here?' Jenna exclaimed.

‘Oh yes. You obviously haven't got up to the Second World War yet.'

‘I haven't even left the eighteenth century. What happened in the Second World War?'

‘Holtby House was a spy school,' Bill said, with a tight, teasing smile. ‘But I won't spoil it for you.'

‘Oh, no, of course I don't mind Bill telling you. I was going to myself this evening. I should have said something last night when we were talking about the party, but I – well, chickened out.' Kitty looked up at her appealingly. ‘I was afraid you'd think badly of me.'

‘Of course I don't!' Jenna exclaimed. ‘It's perfectly understandable, just very sad for both of you.'

‘We ought to have waited,' Kitty went on sadly, ‘but there's no hope that poor Rose will ever recover, and at our time of life, one feels the need to seize happiness. I know that's wrong—'

‘I don't think there's anyone who would condemn you for that,' Jenna said.

Kitty laughed, breaking the mood. ‘Oh my dear, you clearly don't know country people!' she said, echoing Bill. ‘Condemning others is exactly what they like best. What else is there to do, after all? It isn't like London, you know. Country life, especially village life, is one long soap opera. Well, now you know about Jim, I can feel more comfortable – oh, except, you won't mention anything to Mrs Phillips? Fatty knows, of course, but Mrs Phillips only knows Jim and I are friends. She wouldn't approve of anything else. She's Nonconformist. They're terribly strict.'

‘I shan't say a word.'

‘How did you get on today?'

‘I found I was reading everything in too much detail for a first pass,' Jenna said. ‘It was all so interesting. So I made myself skip on a bit, and I've got up to Disraeli.'

‘Oh yes. He came here quite often. He gave the Lady Everest of the time a book of poetry, inscribed and dated. It's in the library somewhere.'

‘I'd like to see it,' Jenna said.

‘I'll find it for you later. Now –' Kitty sighed – ‘if it had been a first edition of one of his
own
books, it might have been worth something. But it's just a collection of English poetry. He was a tremendous gallant, so even the romantic inscription doesn't mean much. There must be thousands of them all over the country.'

‘One thing puzzled me,' Jenna said. ‘There was a reference in one of the journals to the Centurion's Grave. Did they find Roman remains here at some point? I know they've dug up some mosaic floors and so on in the area. And isn't there a Roman villa at Belminster?'

‘Yes, they've got footings, a hypocaust and part of a bath house, and a rather lovely bird mosaic. But we don't have any Roman remains here,' said Kitty. Her eyes were dancing. ‘I'm afraid you misread it. It's not
the
Centurion's Grave or even
a
Centurion's Grave. Centurion was a horse. Have you noticed that rather ghastly ink-pot made out of a hoof on the table in the sitting room?'

‘Yes – I did think it was a bit gruesome,' Jenna said.

‘It wasn't meant to be at the time. Sir Edward Everest was in the Tenth Hussars during the Crimean War. That's his portrait in the library, in the left-hand alcove, in the blue coat. He took part in the Charge of the Light Brigade – one of Lord Cardigan's staff. He was wounded in the thigh but his horse, Centurion, carried him safely back.'

‘Don't tell me! Centurion was killed?'

‘No, no, they both survived. They fought the rest of the war together, then Sir Edward brought Centurion back here and retired him in a field down by the river. Holtby had a lot more land then – it was all sold off between the wars. Sir Edward was devoted to the horse, and went down to visit him most days. Centurion lived to be thirty, which is a good age for a horse, as you know. After he died, Sir Edward had one of his hooves made into an inkstand – which he used every day until
he
died – and he buried the old boy in the garden. The grave is down in that rough area between the woodland and the bottom hedge – what we call the wilderness. There's a cairn over the grave and a folly next to it. You evidently didn't get that far when you were exploring.'

‘It looks a bit overgrown, and I haven't been in bushwhacking mode,' Jenna confessed.

‘Well, you must go and see. The inscription on the cairn is very touching. It always makes me cry. And the folly's most entertaining. If you didn't know, you'd think it was a medieval ruin. They knew how to build in those days.'

‘I'm beginning to feel that nothing in this place is what it seems,' Jenna said.

‘Oh dear, don't say so. Are we disappointing you?'

‘No, just the opposite. It's all very stimulating. I can't wait to find the secret passage behind the panelling that leads to the ruined abbey. And to have the ancient treasure map fall out of an old book.'

‘And meet the mysterious stranger who takes such an interest in Uncle Quentin's work? Or didn't you read the Famous Five when you were a girl?'

‘Couldn't get enough of them.'

‘Well, then perhaps you'll come with me to interview Mrs Phillips about the dinner, and then she'll give us a magnificent tea with lashings of ginger beer.'

Jenna laughed. ‘Whatever you say.'

The following afternoon, having done a good bit of work to appease her conscience, Jenna drove, with Kitty's blessing, into Belminster to buy a dress. ‘You should have a look at it anyway, while you're here. It's an interesting town,' she had said.

The road from Holtby ran north and slightly west through Barford (she slowed for a look at Barford Lodge as she passed – Victorian Tudoresque with maroon paintwork) and Chidding, and ran into the southerly outskirts of Belminster through wide avenues of detached Edwardian houses with large gardens. Then there were narrower streets of Victorian brick terraces and little corner shops. Before the inevitable one-way system, Jenna followed signs for a car park, which shunted her westwards towards the railway station, where she dumped Florence in a pay-and-display, and walked down Station Road and through Horsefair into the town centre.

Belminster was an old market town, and the centre was quite grand, with the wide-open Market Square surrounded by tall, handsome stone buildings. On one side there was a solid-looking hotel, the Red Lion, with stone pillars and a porch, and there was a town hall at one end of the square and a church at the other. The side streets were a mixture of medieval frontages and later stone and brick buildings, and there was every kind of shop and service you could need, restaurants, coffee shops and more pubs. She learned from notices that there was still a market in the square on Fridays and Saturdays. There was also a cattle market on the first Thursday of every month, but the cattle market was a separate place, down near the station. The place was obviously very much alive, and most of the people she saw walking about looked busy and prosperous.

She enjoyed wandering up one street and down another, looking at the shops and the architecture, discovering where the library was, deciding she liked the look of The Bell, a small pub housed in a beamed and crooked building with pretty hanging baskets, and noting which dress shops to investigate. She found herself back in Market Square, and suddenly noticed a red Mazda sports car parked at the kerb a little further along. Of course, there must be plenty of them around, but it struck her as a coincidence, so she turned her steps in idle curiosity towards it.

It was parked outside one of the tall, handsome houses with stone steps up to a huge front door under a pillared portico. All these converted houses had plates beside the door with the names of the businesses now occupying them, many of them solicitors, but with accountants, PR firms and even dentists among them. This door, which was standing open, had only one plate, and she had only just had time to read the name
Beale
Cartwright
– which she assumed was a firm of solicitors – when someone came out of the door and was running down the steps.

He jumped the last three to land in front of her with a delighted grin. ‘Hey, Red!' he said. ‘I told you we'd meet again. What are you doing here?'

‘Shopping. What are
you
doing here?'