Country Pursuits Read online

  ‘You know she’s trying it on with that handsome Mr Towey,’ Brenda said. Caro’s ears pricked up. ‘Inviting him over to dinner and all sorts. The woman’s got the morals of an alley cat.’

  ‘Nice young man like that, can’t imagine why he’s divorced,’ remarked Pearl. ‘He’s awfully rich, you know, runs some hot-shot business up in London.’

  ‘Well, from what I heard, he’s not much better!’ said Brenda in a scandalized voice. ‘Left his wife high and dry for some other woman.’

  ‘Well, I never!’ said Pearl. ‘Men just can’t keep it zipped in their trousers, can they?’

  Clementine turned around. ‘Shush!’ she ordered crossly, and both women finally shut up.

  Caro couldn’t concentrate on the service after that. Just when she had been thinking he wasn’t so bad after all, Benedict Towey’s true colours had been shown up. What a complete bastard!

  Chapter 42

  UNFORTUNATELY, THINGS SOON went from bad to worse between Harriet and her father. The next time she visited him in his study, he informed her he wanted the car park back in its original place. ‘To the left of the Hall, away from the rose gardens.’ It wasn’t a request, it was an order.

  Harriet looked at her father in despair. He gazed out of the window at something in the distance, not even granting her the courtesy of eye-contact. Harriet had had enough.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Daddy!’ she said furiously, raking a hand through her hair. ‘Why? I’ve had to ring the car park people and get them to draw up a new plan, because you didn’t want it out there in the first place.’ She looked at her clipboard and started rifling through the pages loudly, trying to find the contacts page.

  Ambrose suddenly swivelled round in his huge, leather chair. ‘Stop making that bloody racket,’ he roared, staring belligerently at the clipboard. ‘What, is that thing surgically attached to your chest now? I want you to move the car park because I’ve changed my bloody mind. And that, my girl, is a good enough explanation for you, so don’t you dare question me again!’ Harriet felt all of twelve years old again, and had a flashback to the time he’d shouted at her for riding her pony through the downstairs of the house. She turned and fled the room.

  In the hall, she bumped into her mother. Frances was dressed in her snow-white tennis outfit, a shiny new tennis racquet in her hand. She was on her way out to the courts behind the house for her weekly lesson with her coach. ‘Darling!’ she exclaimed, taking in her daughter’s red, agitated face. ‘What on earth is wrong?’ Harriet sighed in exasperation. ‘Bloody Daddy wants to bloody change the location of the bloody car park again!’ she said.

  ‘Language, darling,’ said Frances, guiding Harriet further down the hallway. She had never seen her placid, well-mannered daughter so uptight. ‘I know he can be a trifle difficult at times, but he does know the Hall better than anyone,’ she told her. ‘I’m sure he must have a perfectly good reason for changing it.’

  ‘He’s just trying to ruin everything I’m doing!’ cried Harriet. ‘Why, Mummy? Does he really think I am incapable of achieving anything?’

  ‘Of course not,’ soothed Frances. ‘It’s just that he has his own particular way of doing things.’ As she said it, she wondered why she was defending him. Ambrose was being impossible at the moment. She must be feeling guilty over Devon. Not wanting to think about Devon, she swiftly changed the subject back to one she was more comfortable with: Harriet’s appearance.

  ‘Darling, you really do need a haircut,’ she said critically, eyeing her daughter’s hair. It was a hot September day and the heat had made it even more frizzy than normal. ‘Do you want me to arrange for François to come over?’ François was the family hairdresser who ran a very exclusive, expensive salon called Allure in Cheltenham. The Frasers had been going to him for years.

  ‘Oh, who gives a shit about my hair?’ Harriet snapped. ‘I might just go to the barber’s in Bedlington and get it all shaved off. At least then you wouldn’t be able to have a go at me about it!’ And with that, she stormed off down the corridor, leaving an open-mouthed Frances in her wake.

  ‘She’s probably just having a tough time with her hormones,’ Devon said, when Frances recounted the episode to him. They were in the master bedroom at Byron Heights. Dozens of lit candles cast a bewitching light over the room. With its opulent red rugs and thick, purple velvet curtains hanging luxuriantly from the windows, it looked like a scene from The Arabian Nights.

  ‘She’s thirty, though, not some hot-headed teenager,’ sighed Frances, lying back on the pillow. The cover fell away to reveal one milky white breast, and Devon leaned over to kiss it. They had the place to themselves whilst Nigel was out at some concert recital in Oxford. Frances had told Ambrose she was going out for dinner with a friend.

  Earlier, Devon had played Frances some of his new material and, like Nigel, she had been blown away. ‘Darling, that was just wonderful!’ she had said when he had come to the end of ‘Heart Catcher’, a stirring soulful rock number that had made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

  ‘Well, you’re the one who inspired it babe,’ he had confessed, grinning at her.

  She had flung her arms around his neck. ‘Oh Devon!’ she had said breathlessly. In a more subtle way, Devon had definitely been having an effect on her as well. Frances had become more light-hearted, more girlish. Even her appearance had changed: the elegantly severe chignon, always her trademark, was sometimes replaced by a loose ponytail that made her look softer and even more beautiful. Cook had noticed the change in her mistress and had wondered what, or rather who, was responsible for it. It was so unlike Lady Fraser to have an affair, but Cook had to admit it suited her.

  A slight wind blew in from the open sash window, making the candles flicker momentarily. All of a sudden, there was a thud from downstairs. Devon and Frances both sat up. ‘What was that?’ asked Frances uncertainly. The Reverend’s death flashed through her mind, making her blood run cold. Was it the murderer, back for more victims? Common sense kicked in. Don’t be so ridiculous, she told herself.

  But then there was a second thud, much louder this time, and followed by the horrifyingly unmistakable pad of footsteps. They clutched each other tightly and listened. The noise was right underneath the bedroom now, somewhere in the hallway downstairs.

  ‘The ghost!’ croaked Devon.

  Frances stared at him. ‘The what?’ All of a sudden, there was another thud and a terrible, low howl. It was too much for Devon. He screamed loudly and flung his arms round Frances’s neck. She held him for a second, their hearts hammering as they strained their ears into the darkness. Nothing.

  ‘What in God’s name was that?’ asked Frances. Devon was saved from answering by headlights shining in through the window. Nigel. ‘Oh no!’ Frances cried, leaping up, all thoughts of anything phantom evaporating from her mind. ‘I can’t let him see me!’

  ‘Chill, princess, your car is parked out the front. He already knows you’re here,’ said Devon. He hadn’t told her about his conversation with Nigel. ‘Get dressed quickly and we’ll go downstairs, make out you’ve come round to talk about the ball.’

  By the time Nigel had parked, locked the car and inspected the new flowerbed by the front door, they were both downstairs in the formal sitting room. Devon was on one side of the room and Frances the other, perched ramrod straight in her chair and anxiously smoothing her hair back. ‘As I was saying about the ball, Mr Cornwall,’ she started loudly as they heard the front door open. A few seconds later, someone cleared their throat discreetly outside.

  ‘Come in!’ called Devon, his earlier fright forgotten. He was actually rather enjoying all this; she was even sexier when she got all flustered.

  Nigel put his head round the door. ‘Devon, Lady Fraser,’ he said, not missing a beat.

  Frances nodded her head graciously: ‘Good evening.’

  ‘How was the recital, Nige?’ asked Devon.

  ‘Very uplifting,’ Nigel replied, pretending n
ot to notice that Frances’s top was on inside out and Devon had all his shirt buttons done up the wrong way. ‘Can I get you some refreshments?’ Devon looked at Frances.

  ‘A pot of tea would be wonderful. We’ve just been discussing the ball. That’s why I’m here,’ she added unnecessarily.

  ‘Any news from Mick?’ Devon asked Nigel, as he started to back out.

  Nigel shook his head. ‘He’s still on tour in the Far East, but I am under the impression they have managed to get a message to him.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll just email him, cut out the middle man,’ said Devon. ‘I’ve got his address somewhere.’

  Chapter 43

  THE INVESTIGATION INTO the Reverend’s murder had ground to a frustrating halt. No new leads, no more sightings of the car or Lord Voldemort, as the shadowy figure had now been nicknamed by the rest of the team. Only Rance was still doggedly trying to track down other witnesses who might have seen this stranger in the village.

  It was one of the hottest autumns on record and the windowless incident room was swelteringly hot. Penny and Powers had escaped, claiming they were going to chase up some new leads. Rance suspected the real truth was that they were down the Jolly Boot, in the beer garden. He didn’t blame them. He took off his suit jacket and rolled back his shirt sleeves, shifting uncomfortably as rivulets of sweat trickled down his back. What he’d do to be by a pool with a cold San Miguel right now! Which reminded him, he must get on to Susan about booking a holiday.

  The phone rang and he grabbed it, holding the receiver away from his ear as the angry voice of his Chief Inspector, a po-faced man called Haddock, barked out. Haddock was on holiday in the Dordogne and had just had the Superintendent call him up demanding to know why they still had no suspect nearly six weeks in. Haddock was not happy about having his annual break interrupted, and by the time Rance got off the phone five minutes later his ear was ringing from the severe bollocking. He exhaled furiously. What? Did the old git think he’d just had his feet up on the desk reading Mystic Meg for the last frigging month or something?

  ‘Everything all right, Guv?’ asked the lone detective in the room, cautiously.

  ‘Marvellous,’ said Rance sarcastically. ‘Couldn’t be better. How long have I got before I can retire, again? In fact, don’t remind me.’

  The following Sunday Caro attended church service with Milo and her grandmother. Sebastian had waltzed off back to London first thing, claiming he had to go into the office. They both knew it was a lie, but to be honest Caro was relieved to see him go. Sebastian made it so abundantly obvious how bored he was that Caro would rather have been by herself than having him complain and put her down every five seconds.

  The Revd Brian Bellows was still standing in to take the services, until a new vicar could be appointed. Unfortunately, with his violent stutter, it was taking twice as long as normal and people were starting to grumble about having numb bums and being late to put the roast on. Sitting in the church now, wedged between Clementine and Freddie Fox-Titt, Caro was beginning to wish she hadn’t come. The temperature was still in the mid-eighties, unusually hot for September, and even though the stone walls offered a cool respite, Milo was squirming around on her lap, his little face hot and bothered. About halfway through the service he started to grizzle and, what with that and the Revd Brian Bellows getting his words mixed up on some ramble about the wealth of God, Caro was getting quite a headache.

  Finally, Milo had had enough. Despite whispered cajoling from Caro, he opened his mouth and let out a blood-curdling yell. Startled, everyone looked around.

  ‘Sorry!’ Caro mouthed apologetically. ‘I’ll take him outside and wait for you,’ she whispered to Clementine, and squeezed out past Freddie.

  Outside, the sky was a glorious blue. Caro sat in the shade of a gnarled and aged yew tree in the right-hand corner of the graveyard. Out in the fresh air and soothed by his mum’s rocking, Milo finally fell asleep. Caro looked across the grass to where a tall, impressive white gravestone stood. ‘Fortuna Standington-Fulthrope,’ it read. ‘Born 1885, died 1967. Beloved wife of Oscar.’ Underneath was the family crest and motto: ‘In work one prospers, in life one loves.’ Caro sighed; she wasn’t doing too well keeping the family tradition going on either account. She hoped her great-grandmother wasn’t looking down at her in thin-lipped disapproval.

  Fifteen minutes later the heavy wooden doors to the church opened and the congregation started filing out. Stephen and Klaus, who had been sitting two pews back from Caro, spotted her under the tree and made their way over. Caro had to smile: they stuck out like sore thumbs in Churchminster, but somehow it worked. Stephen was in his sixties, and yet today he was clad in a cream linen safari suit and velvet orange cravat, his silvery white hair under a dapper Panama hat. Klaus, the darker-haired, younger of the pair, had on a pink painter’s smock top that looked very expensive, and dark-blue, knee-length shorts which showed off a pair of long, elegant calves. On his feet he wore brown, Grecian-style sandals. As they got closer, Caro enviously noticed his immaculate pedicure and clear nail-polish. She looked at her own ragged feet in dismay.

  ‘Oh, darling, that’s an awfully long face for such an exquisite girl,’ Stephen exclaimed. He was so posh he made the Queen sound like she’d just stepped off the set of EastEnders.

  Caro blushed slightly. ‘Sorry, I was just thinking what a dreadful scruff I look!’

  ‘Poppycock!’ Stephen said. His blue eyes twinkled. ‘We’ve been commanded to tell you your grandmother is speaking with the vicar about something and will be out in a few minutes.’ He chuckled gently. ‘That’s if the poor chap can get his words out. Last thing I heard, he was attempting to ask Clementine about the merits of lavateras versus rhododendrons.’

  Caro smiled up at him, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand. Milo was still asleep in her lap. ‘Just up for the weekend, then?’

  ‘Yah,’ said Klaus in his thick German accent. ‘Vot vith this heat, London is unbearable at the moment. Stephen suffers vith it so badly, so ve made our escape on Friday.’

  Stephen spoke again. ‘Caro, my dear, do tell me. What do you make of your new neighbour?’

  Caro tried to sound nonchalant. ‘Benedict Towey? Oh, I couldn’t really say, I haven’t had much to do with him.’

  ‘He lives on the same street as us in London, you know.’

  Caro was shocked. She knew the mews where the two men lived, in one of the most desirable parts of Chelsea. She had no idea what Benedict Towey did when he was off skulking away from the village, but she hadn’t imagined him living on a gorgeous cobbled street with enchantingly pretty houses.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh yes, he has a house several doors down. We must admit, we’re rather taken with him, aren’t we Klaus?’ The German nodded impassively. ‘He’s been round to dinner a few times,’ continued Stephen. ‘Frightfully interesting fellow. Runs a fantastically successful design agency in Soho. Works bloody hard at it, too. That’s how he ended up buying next door to you, you know. Benedict mentioned he was looking for a country bolthole to get away to and recharge his batteries and, of course, Klaus and I couldn’t recommend Churchminster highly enough. Benedict was over the moon when he got his hands on the other half of Mill House.’

  This time Caro couldn’t hide her surprise. They must be talking about two different people. Benedict was horrid and unfriendly, she knew that first-hand. She couldn’t imagine him being over the moon about anything in life, far less genially holding court around Stephen’s dinner table.

  ‘I can’t say I’ve seen that side of him.’ She gave them a tight smile. ‘To be honest, we haven’t really hit it off. I don’t think I’m his sort of person.’ And he’s certainly not mine, she thought forcefully.

  Stephen eyed her perceptively for a second. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t write him off just yet, darling. I always find people are full of surprises. Sebastian down this weekend?’ he asked lightly.

  ‘He’s had to go back to London for work
,’ Caro said, a little too brightly. ‘He’s simply snowed under at the moment. Some big deal or another. You know these City boys, it’s all work, work, work!’ She gave a forced laugh.

  Stephen studied her again. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Well, do pass on our regards, darling. We must be off. Oh look, there’s your grandmother.’

  A harassed-looking Clementine was striding out of the church, the Revd Brian Bellows, rather ruffled in his dog collar, trailed along behind her.

  Chapter 44

  THE NEXT MONTH, the new edition of Soirée included a six-page spread about Churchminster. The extensive article, called ‘A Countryside In Crisis’ delved straight into the village’s blueblood heritage and also the fact that it had become the scene of one of the most sensationalist murders of the past decade. It went on to describe many of the residents, including eighties rock star Devon Cornwall who, according to the rumours on the Internet, was poised to make a huge comeback. They hadn’t managed to speak to the man himself, but had got a quote from a ‘Nigel’ confirming: ‘Devon is back in the studio and will be showcasing his new music at the Save Churchminster Ball and Auction.’

  Thankfully, the article’s main focus was the ball and why it was taking place. To everyone’s great satisfaction, they painted a rather unflattering portrait of Sid Sykes as some modern-day Fagin of dubious dealings and character. The piece concluded by questioning the sanity of allowing the new planning law to be passed, and ominously asking what it meant for the future. On the opening spread, there was a stunning overhead aerial shot of Churchminster at its sunny, most succulent best, and further drop-ins of the Reverend and the rectory, looking every inch the gloomy murder scene. There was also a fantastic picture of Devon on stage in his heyday and a rather less flattering one of Clementine in the green drawing room at Fairoaks. Unfortunately she had sneezed just as the photographer clicked the button. She was also furious to see they’d listed her as aged ninety-nine.