A Crowded Coffin Page 6

  He didn’t try to dismiss her fears.

  ‘You mean that Mr Attlin could be right? That someone did try to kill him? With him out of the way, how long would Mrs Attlin resist the pressure?’

  Harriet and Rory stared at each other, their faces grim.

  ‘I can’t really discuss it,’ she said, almost in a whisper, as she suddenly recalled that however sympathetic he might be, Rory was a complete stranger. ‘It’s not really any of my business.’

  She shivered as another thought slid insidiously into her brain. Land with oil underneath it might well be worth killing for. Glancing at Rory she caught his eye and saw quite clearly that the same idea had occurred to him. Sobered, she looked down at her plate. Perhaps murder would be worth the risk – if you had no scruples and if the reserves of oil were great enough to make it worth your while. And if the only apparent obstacle happened to be one frail old man.

  chapter three

  Harriet left Sam to find the whisky and glasses for a nightcap while she slipped out to water her runner beans. The cat greeted her as he ran along the top of the fence and when she picked him up she could smell smoke. ‘You’ve been in somebody’s bonfire again, Dylan,’ she scolded him, burying her nose in his soft fur. ‘Lovely smell of wood smoke, but mind you take care. We don’t want a barbecued moggie.’

  In the sitting room she found Sam poring over an ancient booklet he’d discovered on the coffee table.

  ‘You’ve read this, of course?’ He looked up at her with a chuckle. ‘Is this true? According to this, family legend says that the founder of the Attlin family was supposed to be one Lucius Sextus Vitalis, (though how his name is known is glossed over), newly retired from the army some time around the early fourth century AD and finding himself, so the legend says, “heart-sore and weary”, not far from the city of Venta Belgarum – which is Winchester, of course. I suppose, like all the retired soldiers in the Roman army, he would have been given a land grant and built his villa here – all right for some. It says here that Lucius is supposed to have had a dream when the buildings were finished, that an angel appeared and blessed the house. “There came unto him a vision of a great angel. And the angel said unto him, ‘Lucius Sextus Vitalis, thou shalt live here and prosper and all thy children shall dwell here forever.’”’

  She looked over his shoulder. ‘That little booklet was in amongst my father’s things,’ she commented. ‘I do vaguely remember the story but it must be twenty-odd years since I read it. Mother had kept all Dad’s stuff in boxes and I’ve only just got round to checking them. I unpacked some of the books the other day; they’re just stacked on my desk until I get a chance to go through them properly. That particular one was top of the pile, though, so I fished it out to show you. It was written by a Victorian spinster, one of those poor relations people used to have.’

  She grinned and went on, ‘Unlike now, when we’re all poor relations. Anyway, Miss Evelyn Attlin supposedly cobbled it together from ancient fragments of parchment and called it The Atheling Chronicle but I suspect that what she didn’t know about the past, she simply invented. According to her, as I recall, Lucius married the daughter of a local chieftain of the Belgii – it’s never just a cook or bottle-washer, is it – but we don’t know her name. In fact there are no further names mentioned in the chronicle until the Athelings come into the picture.’

  She twitched the little book out of his hand and flicked through the pages. ‘Yes, here it is. It’s believed the angel story was inspired by the stone in the field. It’s probably a menhir, a standing stone, but it might, if you squint sideways at it, resemble an angel. Only to the eye of faith, as far as I can tell, though. Here, read the bit about Alfred the Great – you’ll like him.’

  ‘Good grief.’ Sam looked up from the yellowing booklet. ‘How does he get in on the act?’ He scanned the next couple of pages. ‘I see, I wondered where the name came from. So Attlin was once Atheling? That sounds Anglo-Saxon. Oh, it’s here, “King’s Heir. The title was borne equally by all the King’s sons.”’ He glanced up at her, and she rejoiced to see the interest in his face; Sam was definitely coming back from the desert of life without Avril. ‘So it means younger ones were eligible as well, and it wasn’t automatic that the eldest son would inherit. The local Atheling is said to have been a sprig of King Alfred’s.

  “Alfred the Great, King of Wessex, lived from AD 849 to approximately 900 and drove the Danes from his territories. He built a navy, restored law and order to his people, encouraged literacy and personally translated works from the Latin into English.”’ Sam stopped reading and grinned. ‘It seems to me that Miss Evelyn is having a little difficulty here,’ he laughed. ‘She’s trying not to admit that the Edmund Atheling that the present Attlin family are supposed to be descended from doesn’t seem to have been legitimate but she’s couched it in such genteel language it’s hard to make out.’

  ‘Ah well,’ Harriet said philosophically. ‘What’s a little irregularity among friends? Didn’t hurt William the Conqueror, did it? Here, put it away, it’s too late for ancient history, especially written in Miss Evelyn’s purple prose. I’ll get us a drink.’

  ‘I enjoyed this evening,’ Sam remarked as they sipped their Laphroaig. ‘I was particularly impressed by the cabaret.’

  Harriet grinned. ‘Yes, our Elveece is terrific, isn’t he? He doesn’t just look the part, he can really sing too.’ She sobered suddenly. ‘I was a bit surprised, though, when I was talking to him tonight, to find he had been here the same day in January that our local murder mystery took place….’ She caught herself up. ‘I mean when that young man went missing. I could have sworn Karen said they hadn’t been in this neck of the woods for years till just before Easter when they heard about the job vacancy at the farm. But Elveece told me tonight that he dropped in for a drink that night, after he’d been doing a plumbing job in Hursley.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘He said that was the first time he’d been over here but he liked the look of the place so when Karen spotted the job here with the Attlins, he was all for it.’

  ‘What local murder? What young man?’ Sam stared at her, bemused, his whisky glass halfway to his lips. ‘Who’s missing? Sorry, Harriet, I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about. And what’s all this about Elvis?’

  She pulled herself together. ‘Of course you haven’t a clue, I’m sorry. And it’s not really a murder, in spite of the village scandalmongering, just a worrying mystery. It all started when you and I went to Sicily over the New Year, remember? We’d had a pretty fraught run-up to Christmas so you came up with a last-minute bargain trip. And don’t forget, as soon as we got home, you went straight off to that course you were teaching. I suppose all the commotion had died down by the time I next saw you.

  ‘It’s just that a young man called Colin Price was last seen in The Angel in Locksley just on six months ago, on the fifth of January this year. He had two pints of beer, according to the landlord, and asked about the village; just chatting, at first, until he seemed to take more of an interest and asked specifically about the old people up at Locksley Farm. And then, for some reason, he started quizzing the barman about the new vicar: what people thought of him, how long he’d been here, that kind of thing.’

  She finished her whisky. ‘Anyway, he hasn’t been seen from that day to this, and the police are worried that he’s not taken any money out of the bank since, or used his credit cards, or gone back to his flat, which was rented, for any of his belongings.’ She frowned as she took Sam’s glass and rinsed it in the kitchen sink, along with her own. ‘I’d almost forgotten about him.’ She put her head round the sitting room door, looking apologetic. ‘Then there was a reminder in the local newsletter last week and on top of that there’s this business with Walter’s accident. God knows why I should link the two, but somehow I do.’

  Sam’s eyes narrowed. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Harriet.’ He gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘You’re not thinking about playing Miss Marple again, are you? Sur
ely once was enough.’ He received only a cold stare in response as she sat down again, so he shook his head, but humoured her. ‘All right then, leave aside the old people for the time being and tell me about the vicar. It’s John Forrester, isn’t it? Why would your mystery man be interested in him? I know of him, of course, but by name only. I’ve never actually met him other than to pass the time of day.’

  ‘Not a lot to tell,’ she shrugged, secretly pleased to be able to use him as a sounding board. ‘He was potentially a high flyer, deputy principal at a theological college and marked for stardom. Late thirties, probably, but he moved to a country parish last autumn to see if his wife’s health would improve. Didn’t work, though, she died a few months ago, poor soul.’ She stared down at her hands. ‘I suppose the vicar will get back on track soon enough, after a decent interval.’ She cast a speculative glance at Sam. ‘You might have come across young Mr Price yourself,’ she said. ‘It turns out that he was on a contract as a temporary researcher at the Stanton Resingham archive.’ She frowned at his blank stare. ‘You do know about it, Sam. I know you often drop in to the county reference library – it’s the mass of papers that’s stored there.’

  ‘Oh yes, I remember, I’ve got a pass for it too, but I don’t recall anyone of that name. Mind you, it must be months at least since I’ve had occasion to go in there. Some old boy left a legacy plus a load of cash to set up a special foundation, didn’t he? With his own collection of local documents to start them off.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘I’ve only got a pass to get in on admin grounds; research isn’t my province. Had this young man worked there long, then?’

  ‘Only since the early autumn,’ she told him. ‘He was temping but he seems to have chopped and changed jobs a fair bit, though his references were all right, according to local report. However, he was apparently competent and he still had several months left to run on his contract. His job was pretty much routine, data inputting, I think. It doesn’t seem likely to have anything to do with his disappearance.’

  ‘Medium height, medium build, mousy hair?’ Sam shrugged and rose to his feet. ‘Now you come to mention it I do vaguely remember someone pointing him out to me in the cathedral refectory, but no more than that. And now it’s way past midnight,’ he reminded her. ‘I think I’ll be off to bed.’ At the door he remembered something. ‘Hang on, what were you saying about young Elvis? I know you’ve got an over-active imagination, Harriet, but you surely can’t link him to some rolling stone of a chap who did a bunk when his life probably got too complicated by debts or women, or both?’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ she agreed meekly. ‘Everyone who’d been in The Angel that night was questioned, Elvis included – he told me tonight. But then, he was the one who found Walter the other night. Complete coincidence, I’m sure.’

  At his questioning glance she explained. ‘Elveece was coming home Wednesday after a gig in Andover and he saw tail lights heading off down the farm track. Luckily he had the sense to go and check it out and found Walter only minutes after he’d fallen and hurt himself. If he hadn’t been on the scene so promptly, God knows what would have happened.’

  Sam shook his head at her. ‘Conjecture, Harriet, based on gossip and a fevered imagination.’ He went off upstairs, leaving her frowning.

  The trouble was, she fretted, recalling recent conversations with local friends, that however illogical and without a shred of evidence, the entire village believed that Colin Price had come to a sticky end. The press of local opinion was compelling, even though common sense told her that it was nonsense,

  No, you’re right, Sam, she said to herself as she turned off the lights and shut the cat in the kitchen. It’s just another oddity, that’s all. Too many oddities: Colin Price disappearing after asking about Walter and Penelope Attlin and the vicar; Elvis being at the pub at the same time that Price was last seen although I could have sworn Karen told me they hadn’t been here till April; and now Walter’s accident – if that’s what it was.

  With a shiver, Harriet recalled her conversation with Rory. Oil. Black gold deep in them thar hills. If it was true … if someone believed or actually knew there was oil there…. Three coincidences….

  Edith ran into her grandmother at about eleven the next morning.

  ‘Oh, Edith, I’m glad you’re up, darling.’ Mrs Attlin was looking remarkably bright-eyed and bushy-tailed considering she had still been wide awake at about one in the morning. ‘I’ve just had a phone call from Gordon Dean. He wanted to know if you might be at his drinks party today. It’s a noon start.’

  A groan from Edith brought a reproving glance. ‘I’m sorry, Edith, I forgot to tell you about it. I’d written to decline for Grandpa and myself – I knew it would be too much for us, even before this business with his collarbone. However, Gordon called this morning to extend the invitation to you and Rory, as you weren’t here, either of you, when he originally asked us.’ She shot Edith a firm glance. ‘I told him I thought you and Rory would be delighted. No, I know you don’t really want to go, but if you’re going to be at home for a while, you might as well make an effort and I’m sure Rory won’t mind accompanying you.’ She dealt her trump card. ‘Grandpa would like it if you went; you know how he feels about our responsibility to maintain links with the neighbours.’

  That was unanswerable so Edith nodded with an ill grace and went off to find Rory who looked equally unenthusiastic.

  ‘Lara asked me last night,’ he said. ‘I told her I didn’t think I’d be able to make it but if your grandfather wants us to be there, there’s not much we can do about it.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Oh well, there’s still some time till we have to get tarted up, why don’t you show me around and tell me some more of the family history. I don’t know any of it; nobody seems to have told my father anything. I know that, because I asked him about it when I was a kid.’

  His lips tightened and she saw the shutters come down, so she led him outside, through the garden towards the old stone wall that marked the boundary between the house and the farmland. ‘We’re heading to this Burial Field of yours, aren’t we?’ he asked. ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘It’s the most ridiculously romantic story, embroidered over the centuries by ordinary people wanting to brighten up their drab lives. The actual truth, if anyone ever really knew it, was lost centuries ago. Nobody has ever done any research; the Attlins have been soldiers or farmers with no academic interests and there’s never been any money to finance an archaeological dig. Mind you,’ she looked thoughtful, ‘I could always try getting in touch with Time Team, I suppose. It might be intriguing enough for them to come and poke around.’

  She looked up at him, with an eager light in her eyes. ‘You know what? I might just do that. Can’t do any harm, they can only say no.

  ‘Now, where was I? You’ll have heard that the family is supposed to have been founded by a Roman?’ He nodded and took the old book out of his pocket.

  ‘Yup, I’ve got the Rev Sebastian right here, ready to rap you on the knuckles if you come up with any of your fanciful Attlin fairy tales.’

  She sniffed. ‘Silly old fool, he was sour about everyone in the district. No house was good enough, no land extensive enough, no family ever noble enough for his taste, and once the Attlin daughter rejected his proposal he took great delight in dismissing her forebears as lowly farmers at every opportunity. Not that they gave a toss, they were lowly farmers after all, and proud of it.’

  She filled him in on the family legend, ending with, ‘Miss Evelyn Attlin says Lucius Sextus Vitalis had some pretty important connections. But then,’ she looked mischievous, ‘nobody is ever descended from the rabble, it’s always the nobility, never some poor sod of a foot soldier who simply ran away and deserted.’

  She paused, looking at him with a slightly abashed grin. ‘I know, I know, it sounds unbelievable but it’s what we’ve always been told, so now naturally it’s gospel truth. Where was I? Lucius was evidently a practical man and decided this wa
s a good place to build, so the angel’s blessing was the icing on the cake. There was a good spring, running water.’ She pointed to a stream sparkling in the sunshine lower down the field. ‘Good access but easily defensible too, and on a slight hill. No wonder he apparently “looked on his work and found it fair.”’

  They had been skirting the low-lying scrub in a field away to the west of the house and she led him now towards a copse atop a rise at the far edge of the meadow. ‘It’s said that he had the stone carved, later on, to make it look more like an angel and built the atrium of his house around it. Money doesn’t seem to have been a problem as he got going on building the house straight away. Look, this is it; this was where the central courtyard of the villa is said to have been.’

  ‘Why did they build the new house so far from the original villa?’ Rory squinted against the light as he looked back towards the farmhouse.

  ‘Grandpa says the stream probably got silted up and turned marshy, which, in turn, would bring mosquitoes and malaria. They used to call it intermittent fever, or ague, he said. Building the new house higher upstream would solve the problem.’

  ‘I didn’t realize malaria was endemic in England,’ Rory said absently, as he examined what he could see of the stone with a critical eye. It stood about four feet high, the base all but vanished under layers of earth and generations of shoots and saplings of the alders that surrounded it. ‘I suppose it does look a bit like an angel,’ he conceded at last. ‘If you allow for two thousand years of wind and weather. And squint a bit.’