Dry Bones (11 page)

The Colonel watched the man working his way slowly and methodically through the borders – rooting out any hint of a weed, dead-heading, trimming and snipping. After a while, he put down his book and went over.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?'

The gardener touched his cap. ‘That's very kind of you, sir. Milk and two sugars, if you please.'

He went away to search in the kitchen cupboards where he discovered a selection of exotic blends – orange blossom, cinnamon, peppermint, camomile and a box of Earl Grey. No sign of the ordinary cuppa kind that Old Matt would almost certainly prefer. He chose the Earl Grey as the least of the evils and carried the brew out in a bone-china cup and saucer, two sugars stirred in. When he complimented Old Matt on the gardens the old man shook his head.

‘None of my doin', sir. They had one of those landscaper people in, and they always send someone to do the fancy clippin'. I just mow the lawn and keep things tidy.'

‘Well, you do it very well.'

The gardener sucked at the tea. ‘When Mrs Holland were alive she wouldn't have nothin' cut back. Roses ramblin' everywhere, shrubs overgrown. Bit of a mess, if the truth be told, but that were the way she liked it. To my mind, there's such a thing as bein' too tidy in a garden.'

Both men looked in silence at the faultless borders, the flawless lawn, the impeccable topiary. The Colonel wondered what Old Matt made of
Redemption.

He said, ‘You must have worked here for some years, then?'

‘Close on forty. Mrs Holland's son, Mr Tim and his wife took over the farm till they got killed in a car crash and young Mr Ben inherited. He weren't interested in the garden – most farmers aren't – all they think of is crops and animals. Then Mr Ben went and got hisself killed on the tractor and poor old Mrs Holland went inside the house and never came out no more, 'cept feet first. I would have retired then and there, but when the farm were sold to Mr and Mrs Heathcote they asked me to stay on. So I did, to oblige. I don't need to work, but it gives me somethin' to do.'

The Colonel said, ‘Rather a shock about that skeleton turning up in the barn.'

‘Nasty business. They think it might be that Swedish girl who worked in the pub, don't they? That's what I heard. Wouldn't surprise me. I used to see her sneakin' into the barn when she was meetin' Mr Ben. He was sweet on her and I s'pose they went up to the hayloft. There's still some old hay up there, you know. I can't say as I blame him – not with her looks. She was an eyeful, all right. But if someone did her in, it couldn't have been Mr Ben. She was still alive and kickin' after he was dead.'

‘Did you ever see her go to the barn again, after Mr Ben's death?'

‘Oh yes. She went there often. I'd see her walkin' through the orchard on her way, pinchin' apples and eatin' them. Once when I went into the barn, she threw an apple core down from the hayloft and hit me on the head. Leanin' over she was, with all that blond hair hangin', and she was laughin' away at me. I told her she was trespassin', but she just went on laughin'. Called herself Rapnuzzle, or somethin'.'

The Colonel smiled. ‘Rapunzel. It's an old fairy tale about a beautiful girl imprisoned by a witch in a tower. When she lets her hair down out of the window a prince climbs up it to rescue her.'

Old Matt wagged his head. ‘Well, I always thought there was somethin' daft about that girl.'

The Colonel carried the empty cup and saucer back into the house and washed them up. The Crimean War having palled, he took a walk down to the village to buy a newspaper. Vera was not behind the counter this time; Alice, the partner who did all the cooking, was in her place. He found the newspaper and took it over to pay.

‘I'd like some of your wonderful-looking cakes, too, please. Which do you recommend?'

She blushed and some of the faded prettiness returned. ‘Well, people seem to enjoy the éclairs very much but you might prefer the carrot cake, perhaps? Or the sticky ginger-and-pear?'

He smiled at her. ‘It's not for me. I thought Mrs Heathcote needed cheering up. Do you happen to know which are her favourites?'

‘The éclairs – especially the coffee ones.'

‘In that case I'll take half a dozen, please.'

‘I'll put them in a box for you. They'll keep in the fridge until she gets back.'

He realized that Alice, and presumably the whole village, knew that Cornelia had gone off to London. It was just the same in Frog End, of course. Nobody could go anywhere unobserved. Naomi always spoke of constant surveillance by the local KGB, which was probably no exaggeration.

He waited while the éclairs were placed carefully in a box which Alice began to tie with a length of silver ribbon. Fortnum & Mason could do no better.

He said casually, ‘I've been hearing a lot about a Swedish girl called Gunilla Bjork who worked at the Golden Pheasant four or five years ago. She seems to have made a big impression on everyone. Do you remember her?'

‘Yes, I remember her.'

‘It seems possible that the remains found in Mrs Heathcote's barn could be hers.'

‘They couldn't be. She went back to Sweden.'

‘So it was thought. But perhaps she didn't, after all?'

‘I wouldn't know anything about that.'

‘Did she ever come in here?'

‘Sometimes.'

‘I'm sure she loved your cakes. I don't suppose they have such things in Sweden.'

‘I've no idea. I've never been there.'

He went on, wanting to keep Alice talking to see if he might learn something. ‘People keep telling me how very striking she was.'

She had finished doing the bow and looked up at him. He caught a flash of some strong emotion in her eyes but it was gone before he could read it.

‘She was nothing special.'

But Betty Turner had said she was beautiful, Susie Fellows had referred to her as a knockout and Old Matt had called her an eyeful.

He said, ‘I hear that she had many male admirers in the village.'

‘You shouldn't believe everything that people tell you.'

‘No, of course not.' He agreed completely. In his experience, people seldom told the real truth and almost never the whole truth.

He paid for the éclairs and she handed the box over, looking at him without expression.

‘There was nothing admirable about Gunilla Bjork, Colonel. She had no morals, no conscience, no scruples, no shame.'

Her voice had been perfectly quiet but the words were unequivocal. Clearly, Alice had done more than disapprove of the Swedish girl: she had hated her.

The Colonel was about to speak again, when Vera appeared from the back of the shop.

‘I'll carry on now, Alice. You take a break.'

It was an order, rather than an offer and it was obeyed at once. He wondered how much of the conversation Vera had overheard.

She said, ‘I'd appreciate it if you didn't talk to Alice about Gunilla Bjork, Colonel. It always upsets her.'

‘I'm sorry. I didn't realize that.'

‘You weren't to know. Is there anything else I can get for you?'

‘No, thank you.'

He walked back along the high street, carrying the box of éclairs and his newspaper and well aware that he was being observed. The twitch of a curtain, a shadow behind a window pane, a glance over a shoulder, a head raised above a wall. As he neared Ester Simmons's cottage, he saw that she was out working in her front garden. When he stopped by her gate, she came over, hoe in hand. She was wearing the same shapeless tweed skirt and the same kind of plain blouse: her own particular uniform.

He raised his cap.

‘A beautiful day, Miss Simmons.'

‘We could do with some rain,' she said. ‘The garden needs it.'

Gardeners, like farmers, were never satisfied.

‘I'm sure Nature will oblige.'

She leaned on the hoe. ‘The village gossip is that the Heathcotes' skeleton belonged to Gunilla Bjork.'

‘No police identification has been made – so far as I am aware.'

‘It adds up, though. The girl was Trouble with a capital T. Some are born that way.'

‘What way, exactly?'

‘Man mad.'

The expression was old-fashioned but to the point.

‘She must have caused some problems in the village.'

‘She did indeed.'

‘Alice in the shop certainly wasn't complimentary about her.'

‘She wouldn't have been.'

‘Oh?'

‘Vera very smitten, you see.'

‘Ah.'

‘Well, obviously, Vera's the ‘man' of that partnership and the Swedish girl was up for anything. She didn't care who got hurt. It was all sport to her. Just a game. I see you've bought some of Alice's cakes.'

‘Yes, they looked very good.'

‘They are. I don't often go to the village shop myself. I go to the nearest supermarket once a month in my old car. It's not so pleasant but it's a lot cheaper.'

He said, ‘I thought I'd take some éclairs to lift Mrs Heathcote's spirits.'

‘I thought she was away.'

Obviously, the whole village
did
know that Cornelia had gone to London.

‘Yes, but not for long.'

‘First the skeleton turns up in her barn, then her servants walk out of her house. I'm not surprised that Mrs Heathcote's spirits need lifting. I gather you can cook, though, Colonel. That's fortunate.'

He wondered if Miss Simmons actually headed up the local KGB herself. If so, he really ought to congratulate her. She seemed to know everything.

‘I'm not sure it could be described as cooking,' he said. ‘I heat things on the stove and stir them around or put them in the oven for the time printed on the container. I can follow recipes if they're straightforward and don't involve anything too complicated.'

‘That's about my level too, Colonel. If I read the words grind with a pestle and mortar
,
I turn the page.'

They talked gardening for a while. She was not as knowledgeable as Naomi, he realized, but she obviously had a similarly natural understanding of plants and planting and the indispensable green fingers to go with it. Some people could make any plant flourish, while others invariably caused them to wither and die. He supposed that he fell somewhere in between the two categories. There had been some gratifying successes, but there were still failures. For instance, he had yet to grow a clematis successfully whereas Miss Simmons had one with mauve-blue blooms the size of saucers vigorously embracing an old tree stump. He'd never seen one like it.

‘
Vyvyan Pennell,
' she said in answer to his question. ‘My favourite. She starts early with double flowers and then produces single ones afterwards. Quite magnificent. And I like
Ernest Markham
and
Jackmanii
, too, but they don't put in an appearance until later in the season.'

‘What's your secret, Miss Simmons?'

She said sharply, ‘My secret? What secret? What do you mean?'

‘How do you get a clematis to grow so well? I've never managed it.'

‘I really don't know, Colonel.'

As he took his leave, she said, ‘It can't be easy to make a positive identification from bones.'

‘Forensic science seems to have made great strides. Apparently, these days they can tell a great deal from almost nothing.'

He raised his cap to her and she went back to her gardening.

At the Golden Pheasant, he stopped for a pint of the local beer. The young landlord, Kevin, was serving behind the bar.

‘Would you care to see our lunch menu, sir? We can offer a range of snacks and sandwiches, or some more substantial home-cooked dishes, if you prefer.'

‘That sounds like an excellent idea.'

He ordered the steak and kidney pie and settled himself at a table in the corner with his beer and newspaper. There were a dozen or so other people in the lounge bar but no inhabitant with briar pipe, walking stick and collie dog to be seen, nor any soft country burr to be heard. He listened, instead, to over-loud, clipped accents and to London talk: the latest must-see plays, the newest smart restaurants, the best holiday hideaways.

The barmaid, Betty Turner, came to his table with a placemat, cutlery and a linen napkin. She arranged them neatly before him.

‘Still staying with Mrs Heathcote, sir?'

‘For the time being.'

‘I'm sure she's very glad to have your company just now, until this shocking business is cleared up. Have the police learned anything more, I wonder?'

She was doing rather more than wonder, he thought: her face was eager with curiosity.

‘Not as far as I know.'

‘Well, we'll hear as soon as there's some news, I dare say.'

She brought the steak and kidney pie, baked in its own earthenware dish, and a small bowl of vegetables.

‘There you are, sir. I'm sure you'll enjoy it. The landlord's wife does the cooking herself.'

He enjoyed it very much and, when he went to pay at the bar, asked Kevin to pass on his compliments to his wife.

‘I'll do that, sir. She'll be very pleased.'

‘She must be a great help to you.'

‘I couldn't manage without her. It's very hard to get a reliable cook, let alone one as good as Polly. I don't know how the Bartons coped, with Mrs Barton being unable to pull her weight. It needs to be an equal partnership to stand a chance. Some people think running a pub's a nice, easy way to earn a living, but that's not true. It's very hard work indeed.'

‘I'm sure. Did the Bartons serve food as well?'

‘Not what I'd call proper food, sir. Nothing home-cooked. It all came frozen from a catering company and Mrs Barton heated it up in a microwave. She could manage that, with Betty giving her a hand. I'm not surprised they gave up in the end. They were getting on in years and when Mr Barton's health started to go downhill, it was curtains for them. No choice. I heard he died not long after they retired, but I think she's still alive.'