The Tinder Box (5 page)

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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