Country Pursuits (29 page)

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 not 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.'

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.

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.

The piece caused incredible uproar. In the House of Commons the next day, a Conservative MP for Millford-On-Sea attacked Gordon Brown, accusing him of ‘raping our country for unscrupulous financial gain'. In the papers, columnists had howling debates about the countryside, asking what place landowners had in society, and whether or not the power of the building contract industry had got out of hand.

‘I have no comment to make,' said a smug, oily Sid Sykes on the six o'clock news that night, after reporters ambushed him coming out of a private golf club in Essex. ‘Apart from the fact that I am a victim of persecution by those lucky enough to have been born with a silver spoon in their mouths.'

Freddie, watching the bulletin, had been so incensed he'd taken off his deck shoe and flung it at the television screen. ‘Utter crap,' he howled. ‘We just don't want you ruining one of the most beautiful places in the country, you bloody scoundrel!'

Within twenty-four hours, the story had spread across the national press and Churchminster had become the most famous village in Great Britain. Brenda, ever with an eye for a deal, had had some commemorative ‘The charms of Churchminster' tea
towels printed, and was doing a roaring trade selling them at the local shop. Coach-loads of tourists were turning up every day to visit the Meadows, making a macabre stop at the rectory to see where the Revd Goody had met his untimely end, before popping into the Jolly Boot for lunch, ever hopeful that they might discover Devon Cornwall propping up the bar.

The village felt like it was under siege but everyone tried to remain stoic. ‘I'm sure when the ball is over, it will all return to normal,' Angie said consolingly when Freddie came home fuming one day after a tourist had jumped out in front of his car, only to ask if he knew Liz Hurley.