Authors: Minette Walters
Cynthia Haversley. She's a- charming woman -- and put
the rapid turnover down to coincidence.
Something that sounded like a grenade detonating
exploded in the heart of the fire and Nora Bentley
jumped. She tapped her heart with a fluttery hand.
'Goodness me, it's just like the war,' she said in a
rush. 'So exciting.' She tempered this surprising statement
by adding that she felt sorry for the O'Riordans,
but it was clear her sympathy came a poor second to
her desire for sensation.
'Are Liam and Bridey here?' asked Siobhan, looking
around.
'I don't think so, dear. To be honest, I wonder if
they even know what's happening. They were very
secretive about where they were staying in Winchester;
unless the police know where they are, well -' she
shrugged - 'who could have told them?'
'Rosheen knows.'
Nora gave an absent-minded smile. 'Yes, but she's
with your boys at the farm.'
'We are on the phone, Nora.'
'I know, dear, but it's all been so sudden. One
minute, nothing - the next, mayhem. As a matter of
fact, I did suggest we call Rosheen, but Cynthia said
there was no point. Let Liam and Bridey have a good
night's sleep, she said. What can they do that the
fire brigade haven't already done? Why bother them
unnecessarily?'
Till bear that in mind when Cynthia's house goes
up in flames,' said Siobhan dryly, glancing at her
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watch and telling herself to get a move on. Curiosity held her back. 'When did it start?'
'No one knows,' said Nora. 'Sam and I smelt
burning about an hour and a half ago and came to
investigate, but by that time the flames were already
at the downstairs windows.' She waved an arm at the
Old Vicarage. 'We knocked up Jeremy and got him
to call the fire brigade, but the whole thing was out
of control long before they arrived.'
Siobhan's eyes followed the waving arm. 'Why
didn't Jeremy call them earlier? Surely he'd have smelt
burning before you did? He lives right opposite.'
Her glance travelled on to the Bentleys' house, Rose
Cottage, which stood behind the Old Vicarage, a
good hundred yards distant from Kilkenny Cottage.
Nora looked anxious, as if she, too, found Jeremy
Jardine's inertia suspicious. 'He says he didn't, says he
was in his cellar. He was horrified when he saw what
was going on.'
Siobhan took that last sentence with a pinch of salt.
Jeremy Jardine was a wine shipper who had used his
Fanshaw family connection some years before to buy
the Old Vicarage off the church commissioners for its
extensive cellars. But the beautiful brick house looked
out over the O'Riordans' unsightly wrecking ground,
and he was one of their most strident critics. No one
knew how much he'd paid for it, although rumour
suggested it had been sold off at a fifth of its value.
Certainly questions had been asked at the time about
why a substantial Victorian house had never been
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advertised for sale on the open market, although, as
usual in Sowerbridge, answers were difficult to come
by when they involved the Fanshaw family.
Prior to the murders, Siobhan had been irritated
enough by Jeremy's unremitting criticism of the
O'Riordans to ask him why he'd bought the Old
Vicarage, knowing what the view was going to be.
'It's not as though you didn't know about Liam's
cars,' she told him. 'Nora Bentley says you'd been
living with Lavinia at the manor for two years before
the purchase.'
Jeremy had muttered darkly about good investments
turning sour when promises of action failed
to materialize and Siobhan had interpreted this as
meaning he'd paid a pittance to acquire the property
from the church on the mistaken understanding that
one of his district councillor buddies could force the
O'Riordans to clean up their frontage.
Ian had laughed when she told him about the
conversation. 'Why on earth doesn't he just offer to
pay for the clean-up himself? Liam's never going
to pay to have those blasted wrecks removed, but
he'd be pleased as punch if someone else did.'
'Perhaps he can't afford it. Nora says the Fan
shaws aren't half as well off as everyone believes, and
Jeremy's business is no great shakes. I know he talks
grandly about how he supplies all the top families with
quality wine, but that case he sold us was rubbish.'
'It wouldn't cost much, not if a scrap-metal merchant
did it.'
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Siobhan had wagged a finger at him. 'You know
what your problem is, husband of mine? You're too
sensible to live in Sowerbridge. Also, you're ignoring
the fact that there's an issue of principle at stake. If
Jeremy pays for the clean-up then the O'Riordans will
have won. Worse still, they will be seen to have won
because their house will also rise in value the minute
the wrecks go.'
He shook his head. 'Just promise me you won't
start taking sides, Shiv. You're no keener on the
O'Riordans than anyone else, and there's no law that
says the Irish have to stick together. Life's too short
to get involved in their ridiculous feuds.'
'I promise,' she had said, and at the time she had
meant it.
But that was before Patrick had been charged with
murder . . .
There was no doubt in the minds of most of
Sowerbridge's inhabitants that Patrick O'Riordan saw
Lavinia Fanshaw as an easy target. In November, two
years previously, he had relieved the confused old
woman of a Chippendale chair worth five hundred
pounds after claiming a European directive required
all hedgerows to be clipped to a uniform standard. He
had stripped her laurels to within four feet of the
ground in return for the antique, and had sold the
foliage on to a crony who made festive Christmas
wreaths.
Nor had he shown any remorse. 'It was a bit of
business,' he said in the pub afterwards, grinning
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happily as he swilled his beer, 'and she was pleased as
punch about it. She told me she's always hated that
chair.' He was a small, wiry man with a shock of dark
hair and penetrating blue eyes which stared unwaveringly
at the person he was talking to - like a fighting
dog whose intention was to intimidate. 'In any case,
I did this village a favour. The manor looks a damn
sight better since I sorted the frontage.'
The fact that most people agreed with him was
neither here nor there. The combination of Lavinia's
senility and extraordinary longevity meant the Manor
House was rapidly falling into disrepair, but this did
not entitle anyone, least of all an O'Riordan, to take
advantage of her. What about Kilkenny Cottage's
frontage? people protested. Liam's cars were a great
deal worse than Lavinia's overgrown hedge. There
was even suspicion that her live-in nurse had connived
in the fraud because she was known to be extremely
critical of the deteriorating conditions in which she
was expected to work.
'I can't be watching Mrs Fanshaw twenty-four
hours a day,' Dorothy Jenkins had said firmly, 'and
if she makes an arrangement behind my back, then
there's nothing I can do about it. It's her grandson
you should be talking to. He's the one with power of
attorney over her affairs, but he's never going to sell
this place before she's dead because he's too mean to
put her in a nursing home. She could live forever the
way she's going, and nursing homes cost far more
than I do. He pays me peanuts because he says I'm
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getting free board and lodging, but there's no heating,
the roof leaks, and the whole place is a death trap of
rotten floorboards. He's only waiting for the poor old
thing to die so that he can sell the land to a property
developer and live in clover for the rest of his life.'
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Monday, 8 March 1999, midnight
The crowd seemed to be growing bigger and more
boisterous by the minute, but as Siobhan recognized
few of the faces, she realized word of the fire must
have spread to surrounding villages. She couldn't
understand why the police were letting thrill-seekers
through until she heard someone say that he'd parked
on the Southampton Road and cut across a field to
bypass the police block. There was much josding for
position; the smell of beer on the breath of one man
who pushed past her was overpowering. He barged
against her and she jabbed him angrily in the ribs with
a sharp elbow before taking Nora's arm and shepherding
her across the road.
'People are going to be hurt in a minute,' she said.
'They've obviously come straight from the pub.' She
manoeuvred through a knot of people beside the wall
of Malvern House, and ahead of her she saw Nora's
husband, Dr Sam Bentley, talking with Peter and
Cynthia Haversley. 'There's Sam. I'll leave you with
him and then be on my way. I'm worried about
Rosheen and the boys.' She nodded briefly to the
Haversleys, raised a hand in greeting to Sam Bentley,
then prepared to push on.
'You won't get through,' said Cynthia forcefully,
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planting her corseted body between Siobhan and the
crossroads. 'They've barricaded the entire junction,
and no one's allowed past.' Her face had turned
crimson from the heat, and Siobhan wondered if
she had any idea how unattractive she looked. The
combination of dyed blonde hair atop a glistening
beetroot complexion was reminiscent of sherry trifle,
and Siobhan wished she had a camera to record the
fact. Siobhan knew Cynthia to be in her late sixties
because Nora had let slip once that she and Cynthia
shared a birthday, but Cynthia herself preferred to
draw a discreet veil over her age. Privately (and rather
grudgingly) Siobhan admitted she had a case because
her plumpness gave her skin a smooth, firm quality
which made her look considerably younger than her
years, although it didn't make her any more likeable.
Siobhan had asked Ian once if he thought her antipathy
to Cynthia was an 'Irish thing'. The idea had
amused him. 'On what basis? Because the Honourable
Mrs Haversley symbolizes colonial authority?'
'Something like that.'
'Don't be absurd, Shiv. She's a fat snob with a
power complex who loves throwing her weight
around. No one likes her. I certainly don't. She
probably wouldn't be so bad if her wet husband had
ever stood up to her, but poor old Peter's as cowed
as everyone else. You should learn to ignore her. In
the great scheme of things, she's about as relevant as
birdshit on your windscreen.'
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'I hate birdshit on my windscreen.'
'I know,' he had said with a grin, 'but you don't
assume pigeons single your car out because you're
Irish, do you?'
She made an effort now to summon a pleasant
smile as she answered Cynthia. 'Oh, I'm sure they'll
make an exception of me. lan's in Italy this week,
which means Rosheen and the boys are on their own.
I think I'll be allowed through in the circumstances.'
'If you aren't,' said Dr Bentley, 'Peter and I can
give you a leg-up over the wall and you can cut
through Malvern House garden.'
'Thank you.' She studied his face for a moment.
'Does anyone know how the fire started, Sam?'
'We think Liam must have left a cigarette burning.'
Siobhan pulled a wry face. 'Then it must have been
the slowest-burning cigarette in history,' she said.
'They were gone by nine o'clock this morning.'
He looked as worried as his wife had done earlier.
'It's only a guess.'
'Oh, come on! If it was a smouldering cigarette
you'd have seen flames at the windows by lunchtime.'
She turned her attention back to Cynthia. 'I'm surprised
that Sam and Nora smelt burning before you
did,' she said with deliberate lightness. 'You and Peter
are so much closer than they are.'
'We probably would have done if we'd been here,'
said Cynthia, 'but we went to supper with friends in
Salisbury. We didn't get home until after Jeremy called
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the fire brigade.' She stared Siobhan down, daring her
to dispute the statement.
'Matter of fact,' said Peter, 'we only just scraped in
before the police arrived with barricades. Otherwise
they'd have made us leave the car at the church.'
Siobhan wondered if the friends had invited the
Haversleys or if the Haversleys had invited themselves.
She guessed the latter. None of the O'Riordans'
neighbours would have wanted to save Kilkenny
Cottage, and unlike Jeremy, she thought sarcastically,
the Haversleys had no cellar to skulk in. 'I really must
go,' she said then. 'Poor Rosheen will be worried
sick.' But if she expected sympathy for Liam and
Bridey's niece, she didn't get it.
'If she were that worried, she'd have come down
here,' declared Cynthia. 'With or without your boys.
I don't know why you employ her. She's one of the
laziest and most deceitful creatures I've ever met.
Frankly, I wouldn't have her for love or money.'
Siobhan smiled slightly. It was like listening to a
cracked record, she thought. The day the Honourable
Mrs Haversley resisted an opportunity to snipe at an
O'Riordan would be a red-letter day in Siobhan's
book. 'I suspect the feeling's mutual, Cynthia. Threat
of death might persuade her to work for you, but not
love or money.'
Cynthia's retort, a pithy one if her annoyed
expression was anything to go by, was swallowed by
the sound of Kilkenny Cottage collapsing inwards
upon itself as the beams supporting the roof finally
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