Beneath the Soil (9 page)

She wished now she had asked Frances Nosworthy about him. Here, at least, was somebody who appeared to be on her side. Or on Philip's side, she corrected herself. Suzie only mattered to Frances as a possible lead to strengthen her case for Philip's innocence.

She turned restlessly on her pillow and tried again to sleep. The minutes ticked by on the digital clock at her bedside.

Another face swam into her mind. Skin tanned, hair bleached by a southern sun. Matthew Caseley, the only son of Philip and the dead Eileen. His face had been set grimly as he passed Suzie and Frances. She wondered if he was convinced of his father's guilt? Did he blame Frances for trying to defend Philip?

Suzie had been nothing to him. He wouldn't know of her existence, unless the police had briefed him on what DCI Brewer obviously thought were the overexcited attempts of the Fewings family to find themselves a place in a local murder.

But still the hard lines of that face haunted her. It was wrong. She ought to be feeling sorry for the bereaved son. She should be praying for him. For Philip too. What must the relationship between father and son be like now?

She swung her feet to the floor, carefully, so as not to disturb Nick.

She padded barefoot downstairs to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of cold milk and took it into the conservatory to drink.

Down here, with the windows uncurtained, the night was not fully dark. She could see the ghostly outlines of the garden Nick lavished so much love on.

A sudden cry made her jolt, spilling the milk over her hand. It took agitated moments before she remembered the barn owl she sometimes saw sitting solemnly on a bough of the beech tree in the daytime.

She really must find a way to put all these fears out of her mind. Eileen Caseley's death was a terrible tragedy, but it was really none of her business. She had done her citizen's duty and reported what little she knew to the police. Even to Philip's solicitor. It was up to them what use they made of it. For herself now, she must get back to normality. Eileen was dead and buried. Philip was in the hands of the law.

But she still found herself unaccountably shrinking from the exposure of the French windows to the shadowy garden and the owl-haunted night.

Why was she so important to the man in the raincoat?

She went upstairs quietly, hoping the treads would not creak.

The bedroom was still and dark, the curtains shutting out the starlight. Only the luminous green numerals on the clock winked at her.

She climbed into bed as carefully as she could.

Nick stirred. A hand reached out. ‘Having trouble sleeping?' His voice was drowsy.

For a moment, Suzie wondered whether she should fob him off with an excuse that she had just needed to go to the bathroom. Then the memory of that shudder that had come over her in front of the uncurtained French windows gripped her. She was still afraid. It did not help that she could not explain her fear.

She half sat up against the pillows. ‘I went to the funeral today. Eileen Caseley's.'

At once Nick was alert, propping himself up on one elbow. ‘In Moortown? Why ever didn't you say so?'

‘I don't know. I felt … Well, I wasn't sure whether you'd think it was the right thing to do.'

‘I don't think it was
necessary
, if that's what you mean. We hardly knew the woman, God rest her. But we seem to have got more tangled up with her than we meant to … than we
needed
to,' he added with emphasis. ‘If you wanted to put a closure on it by attending her funeral, that's fine.'

‘Only it didn't,' she said in a small voice.

She was longing for him to fill the silence with words of concern. But he was settling down on his pillow again, letting sleep reclaim him.

‘How do you mean?' he asked. But not as if he was really interested.

‘After the service in church I followed the coffin up through the churchyard to where they were burying her. And while I was watching I … felt something. I turned round, and there was this man watching me.'

‘Who?'

‘I don't know. I've never seen him before. Fiftyish, I should think, balding head. And buttoned up in a long raincoat, even though it wasn't raining. He'd taken off his hat for the burial, but when he put it on again it was one of those leather ones with a broad brim. You could hardly see his face under it. He was … I don't know … spooky. And the worst thing was, he wasn't watching the burial, or not when I looked round at him. It was me he was staring at.'

She had expected him to sit up in bed, put his arms around her. Shut out the nightmare of that steely gaze that had come back to haunt her.

Instead he rolled over and said crossly, ‘Suzie! This is getting ridiculous. You put a whole conspiracy together because you hear a twig snapping in the wood. You and Tom go haring off on to someone else's land after a murder that had nothing to do with us. The police tell you to leave it, but you don't. Oh, no. You have to go all the way out to Moortown on your own because you can't let go of it. And once you're there, your imagination is so overheated about all this that you fancy some perfectly innocent friend of the family has sinister designs on you. Really! Just listen to yourself.'

‘You weren't
there.
You didn't see him. And it isn't true that it's nothing to do with us. While I was there I met his solicitor, Philip Caseley's. And no, I really wasn't being nosy. She was the one who spoke to me. She certainly
did
want to know what we'd heard and seen in the wood, anything that might mean Philip isn't guilty of killing his wife. If I hadn't gone to the funeral, she wouldn't have known I existed. It's bad enough that the detective inspector was there, looking at me as if I was something the cat brought in.'

Nick turned over to face her again. ‘Sorry, love. I didn't mean to snap your head off. But it's the middle of the night. Things always seem out of proportion then. I don't know who your guy in the leather hat was, but there'll be some perfectly sensible explanation. You were only scared that he was looking at you because you had a bit of a conscience about being there at all. You said you didn't think I'd approve.'

She slid down under the duvet. She wished she could believe it was as simple as he made it sound. He put his arms around her and drew her close.

‘I know what's bothering you, at the back of your mind. It's that newspaper report, isn't it? The one you found about your great-great-grandfather, who went into the house next door and found the man had murdered his wife. I know what you were thinking, reading between the lines, that your ancestor might have been having an affair with the woman, and she was murdered because of him. And now you've got a real contemporary murder on your hands, and you feel some sort of guilt about it. As though we'd stumbled on something we were partly responsible for. But it isn't true.' He brushed her hair aside and whispered in her ear, ‘It's nothing to do with us, Suzie. We happened to meet her two days before she died. A coincidence, that's all.' His arms hugged her. ‘It's over. You've given all the information to the police. They've told you to leave it to them. Good advice. Now stop worrying. There's no bogeyman out there in the dark watching you. No sinister crook in a buttoned-up raincoat. You went to the funeral. Fine. Now you can put it out of your head. OK?'

He stroked the hair over her forehead and kissed her.

‘Yes,' she said lamely. ‘I suppose you're right.'

But even in the circle of his arms, she lay in the darkness and sleep would not come.

N
ext day, she was tired and restless. Nick made no reference to their talk in the middle of the night. Suzie went off to her job at the charity office as usual.

A little part of her mind half expected to see the figure of a balding man in his fifties watching her somewhere along the way. The bus drew to a halt in the city centre. She took a quick look round as she stepped off. There was no one sinister in sight.

Nick was right. She should put it all behind her. Case over. Other people would deal with it from here.

But her normal morning's work still had an air of unreality. Designing a campaigning leaflet. Organising the Young Farmers' sponsored tractor pull across the moor.

At one, she closed down her computer and said goodbye to Margery, who managed the charity shop that fronted her office. It was not until she stepped outside that she realized the enigma of Eileen Caseley's death had never really left her.

Instead of going home, she bought herself a sandwich and ate it in the cathedral close among the clamorous seagulls and attentive pigeons. Then she made her way to the Local Studies Library.

She asked to see the parish file on Moortown.

The young woman went away and returned with a cardboard box. ‘I did a degree in history. Then a post-grad qualification as an archivist. And what do I do now? Cut out newspaper articles and file them in boxes. Here you go.' She grinned at Suzie and left her to it.

Suzie opened the box. There was a stack of material. The archivist was right. Much of it was articles clipped from newspapers. They showed their age in varying shades of yellowing. There were also manuscripts, typed or handwritten, where other researchers had contributed their findings. Suzie settled down to read some of the more recent entries.

Five minutes later she struck gold – metaphorically speaking. In fact the mineral was tungsten, a substance Suzie knew nothing about and could not even picture. She had a feeling it had something to do with light bulbs, but nothing more. The article told her that a company called Merlin Mines had discovered deposits of tungsten on a smallholding not far from the town centre and were seeking planning permission to develop it further.

Planning consent had been refused. The firm were reported to be offering a substantial royalty to the landowner and sweeteners of new sports facilities for the primary school and the community. But there was a photograph of the apparently vocal opposition. They were waving placards saying,
‘TODDLERS NOT TUNGSTEN. ‘PROTECT OUR CHILDREN'.

Suzie read on. It appeared that the fields in question lay a few hundred metres behind the school. Protesters argued that the mining activity would raise clouds of toxic dust that would settle over gardens and playgrounds, making it dangerous to eat local food or for the children to play out of doors. The mining firm's lawyers had insisted that this was gross and irresponsible exaggeration. Similar mines were opened elsewhere with no detrimental effects, and the struggling community would prosper as a result. They would improve local roads to increase the flow of tourists.

Their statistics and inducements had fallen on deaf ears. The district council planning committee had turned down the proposal flat.

Suzie sat back in her seat, wondering where this left her. At least she had a name. Merlin Mines. There was no guarantee, of course, that this was the same firm who had been interested in Philip Caseley's land. But at least it was a possibility. They were certainly prospecting in the area. And a site at Saddlers Wood, two miles out of Moortown, with no other habitation nearby except for the farm, would certainly make for a more realistic bid to the planning committee a second time.

Had that been it? But if so, why would Philip Caseley turn it down? He obviously needed the money. Suzie had seen the land for herself. It was a rough outcrop of moorland, which looked of little use for farming. He might graze his sheep up there occasionally, but it was not like the rich meadows lower down the hill.

Could it simply be a sentimental attachment to the land of his forebears? Suzie frowned. She had researched enough family history to know that the idea of families working the same farm since Domesday was rarely true. As far as her experience of her own family went, a hundred years was a typical time span for a family to stay on the same farm. But then, how much did Philip know about his own family history? Was he being loyal to an ideal that had never really existed?

She checked with the archivist and moved across to a computer, then accessed the 1911 census. She entered a search for the address: Moortown, Saddlers Wood Barton.

There was a flutter of excitement in her throat as the image of the enumerator's handwritten entry came up in front of her.

William Taverner, his wife Anne, and four children, with two farm servants living in. Taverner. Her great-great-grandmother's maiden name. They were probably related.

So, not the Caseleys, even a century ago.

Something twitched at the corner of her mind.

Did it matter? Might Philip not still be defending his old way of life, however unprofitable it seemed to be? His father and grandfather might have worked the same land. That could be enough.

She tried ‘Caseley', location ‘Moortown'. This time her search brought her three results. Two on other farms, and one at a house in Church Street. So the Caseleys were a local family even then. Living in the same parish, if not on the same farm. She remembered something Frances Nosworthy had said. ‘
The Nosworthys are the family's solicitors. Have been for generations. My grandfather and old Michael Caseley
.'

She went back to the parish file. There were earlier reports about the tungsten mining. The general tenor was the same. Right from the start, local people had opposed the scheme.

She returned the file to the reception desk and gathered up her things.

It was only then that the memory fell into place. Hadn't Eileen told Suzie she was a Taverner before her marriage? Saddlers Wood had been, not Philip's, but
her
family home. Suzie was tempted to dash back to the computer and check the marriage records to be sure. But no, that was something she could do at home on her own computer.

On the way home her excitement faded. What, after all, had she discovered that she hadn't known already? The neighbour had told them about local opposition to mining. All she had achieved was a name. Merlin Mines.