Stately Homicide (19 page)

‘Early days.'

‘Not really.' The woman shook her head, her eyes troubled. ‘Early for you, perhaps. Late for us, the Bullen people, looking each other up and down and wondering which of us has it in him – or her – to end a human life.' Then: ‘Elena did give you the key?'

‘The one to the fateful drawer with the Anne Boleyn letters?' Jurnet nodded. ‘I don't mind admitting I took a look. Put me properly in my place. Could just as well have been Chinese for all the sense I could make of them.'

‘You have to get your eye in to read Tudor handwriting. After that, it's easier than most of the scrawls that go by the name of letters nowadays.' Jane Coryton hesitated, then went on, a little tentatively: ‘Did Elena also let you know that Francis has quite genuinely come to the conclusion he isn't the right person to do the book?'

‘She said you'd persuaded your husband in bed that same night it wasn't for him.'

Mrs Coryton laughed.

‘I did it in the car on the way home. Otherwise it would have had to wait till morning. All that excitement, I couldn't wait to get upstairs and get my head down. I was out like a light the minute it touched the pillow.'

‘And Mr Coryton the same, I don't doubt.'

‘We were both flaked out. It was all he could do to take the dog out before turning in.'

‘And were you awake when he came back?'

Jane Coryton stood up.

‘This really won't do,' she said crisply. ‘You're trying to get me to incriminate my husband.'

Jurnet protested: ‘All I did was ask a straightforward question which could be answered yes or no.'

‘So you did.' The woman's habitual good humour returned, only modulated to a minor key. She put a hand across her eyes, and rubbed them, as if they troubled her. ‘You need to know all about us, don't you? Which is difficult, because we don't begin to know ourselves.'

She showed Jurnet over the church, much as Percy Toller had shown him over the bungalow, with as much pride, but less hyperbole. She explained that she was a churchwarden, which also explained her presence in the place. They had to keep the church locked for fear of vandals, but she had a key and could come and go as she pleased. She took him into a side chapel he had not noticed, crowded with tombs of bygone Appleyards.

‘Luckily for the village, they buried George Bullen in the Tower,
under the altar of St Peter-ad-Vincula. Three days later they prised
up the stones again, and shoved Anne Boleyn down beside him.
Did you know there's a story that Henry was so wild with the two
of them he had them crammed into an old arrow chest, body to
body and the two heads pressed together in a kiss? Sick, wasn't
it, if it was true – but I don't find it horrible, do you? Just very
sad.' Mrs Coryton considered for a moment, then resumed brightly:
‘Well! Can you imagine, if they'd brought them back here! The
coaches ploughing up the lane, the litter on the green –'

Jurnet asked: ‘What about Appleyard of Hungary? Isn't he in
here with this lot?'

‘In his will, bless him, he left instructions that he was to be
cremated and the ashes strewn from the roof of Bullen Hall. All
that's here is a plaque Elena had put up. Not enough, thank heaven,
to be worth going out of your way for.'

The tablet, gold letters on black marble, stated merely:
To the undying memory of Lazlo Appleyard
Appleyard of Hungary
A Hero of our Time
1926–1973

Jane Coryton said: ‘Francis and I hadn't come to Bullen then, of course, but, from all I've heard, the funeral rites were quite hairy. Elena went up on the roof to scatter the ashes, and, being her, I don't suppose she'd ever noticed that the wind sometimes blows from one direction, sometimes from another. Anyway, she opened the box containing the ashes facing the way the wind was blowing from. Instead of drifting away over the grounds, which was the whole idea, they blew back against her, plastering her from head to foot. Mr Benby, who was there, says she screamed. Elena screaming – can you imagine! He says he scraped as much of the ash off her clothes as he could, back into the box, and tipped it over the balustrade, but he didn't like to touch her face, of course, and she just stood there screaming, her face, her lips and eyelashes, grey with ash.'

‘It must have been a harrowing experience.' Jurnet stood looking at the memorial plaque. ‘I wonder who she'll get to write his life now.'

‘The time she took to fix on Mr Shelden, Francis doesn't think it'll ever get done in her lifetime, even if she lives to be a hundred.'

‘So that if Shelden was killed to stop it being written, the murderer's pulled it off.'

‘For all he knew, she could have gone out the very next day and brought home a new writer to do the job. How could he ever be sure?'

Jurnet pointed out without drama: ‘Mr Coryton appears to have been, for one.'

‘There you go again!' Mrs Coryton protested angrily. ‘Laz Appleyard had been dead for nearly two years before we came to Bullen. How can it possibly matter to us whether somebody does or doesn't write his life story? Francis must be right when he says the reason he hasn't heard from you yet is, you're doing it to make him sweat.'

‘We're all of us sweating, this weather. Not to say touchy. All I'm saying, with respect, is, your husband's so certain Miss Appleyard's not going to make up her mind in a hurry, other interested parties could be equally certain. On the other hand, if they're wrong, and she does come up with a substitute for Shelden, who's to say the new boy won't end up in the moat like him?'

Mrs Coryton asserted calmly: ‘You'll never know till you try it out, will you? What you ought to do is get Elena to hire someone – anyone – and then stake him out on the Hall roof like a goat to catch a tiger.'

The detective laughed.

‘Not a bad idea, except I doubt we'd find a goat willing to cooperate. From what I hear of them, writers are a nervous lot.'

‘More heads off,' Jane Coryton said, in front of the font. ‘It must be something in the Norfolk air.'

‘What are they – saints?' Jurnet asked, taking in the mutilated figures with a certain feeling of commiseration for a God who couldn't even cope with dilapidations on his own premises.

‘They're supposed to represent the Seven Sacraments – baptism, confirmation, the Eucharist, matrimony, extreme unction – that's five, isn't it? I can't think of the other two.' Mrs Coryton bent over the wide rim of the empty basin and dabbled both hands inside, an invisible swishing of holy water. ‘As if a child – or anybody else brought for the first time into the fellowship of Our Lord, needs any other sacrament than the sacrament of love.'

Jurnet said with careful calculation: ‘I reckon Mr Winter's one to go along with that.' The detective was not unprepared for the head uplifted in sudden alarm. The tears momentarily brightening the bright eyes were more of a surprise. ‘Except, when it comes to love, some might say he's got a funny way of showing it.'

‘You can't possibly think Charles had anything to do with –' Mrs Coryton broke off and began afresh, with more attention to her own words. ‘I don't have to tell you he drinks too much – you saw that for yourself – and he's a terrible tease. But underneath he's a gentle, loving person who just happens to find life more than he bargained for.'

‘Don't we all? At least he's lucky to have a pal like you to give him a reference.'

‘He's a genius.'

‘Is that why you make yourself so responsible for him?'

‘It's part of it.' The woman looked at the detective in her forthright way; with appraisal, and finally – or so it seemed – a deliberate decision to trust. ‘You're a bit of a tease yourself, Inspector, if it comes to that. I think you know quite well what I feel about Charles Winter.'

‘Not really,' Jurnet answered, with truth. ‘After all, the man's a queer.'

‘Isn't it lucky for me? No temptation, no danger. Fifty-two, and still feeling the fire in the belly! Isn't it ridiculous?' The light half-mockery did not quite cancel out a tremor in the voice. ‘Not that I wouldn't elope with him tomorrow, if only I had the chance, and anyone eloped any more. Though, having said that, who knows? If the impossible happened, and Charles started chasing me instead of the other way round, I might equally run away, screaming blue murder.'

‘Run, perhaps. Not scream.'

The other nodded gratefully.

‘Not scream. Not even if they cremated him and the ashes blew all over my face. D' you know what I'd do if that happened? I'd put out my tongue and lick them off. Eat him the way I partake of Christ's body at the Communion table. Does that disgust you? It oughtn't to – I saw your face when you spoke to me about your girl in Greece. You know what love is.'

Jurnet said: ‘I got the impression you and Mr Coryton had a good marriage.'

‘Oh, we do! We have what I believe people today call a caring relationship. But love's a many-sided thing, Inspector Jurnet. Loving Charles doesn't imply unfaithfulness to Francis. In a way, it isn't even sexual.' Jane Coryton put her hand out to the font; touched with a delicate sympathy one of the maimed sculptures at the point where the neck had been broken off. ‘Charles is not only the lover I've never had. He's the child I've never borne, and never will.'

‘A cruel, vicious child.'

‘What do you mean?' The woman's eyes flashed an angry denial. ‘You don't know what you're saying. Charles wouldn't hurt a fly.'

‘He's certainly hurt young Botley.'

‘Charles! You're joking!'

‘I can see you haven't paid a visit to the Coachyard these past few days.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Because, if you had, you'd have seen young Botley with two black eyes, a split lip, his head in bandages – and that's only reporting on what's visible to the naked eye. If Botley had been prepared to make a complaint I'd have had your gentle genius down at the station before he knew what hit him. And it wasn't the first time, either.'

Jane Coryton countered fiercely: ‘Now I know you're joking!'

‘He admitted as much to me himself. Not to put too fine a point on it, Mr Winter's a ruddy sadist.'

‘If you only knew how ridiculous you sound! Next, I suppose, you'll be telling me he killed Chad Shelden.'

‘No. Only that he could have. If you feel the need to check up on what I've said, I'm going back to the Hall. I could give you a lift.'

‘No, thank you!'

For a moment, face flushed, breasts heaving, the woman confronted the detective. She didn't look fifty-two, thought Jurnet, who wouldn't have minded seeing Miriam get as angry on his behalf. As he watched, she took a deep breath, regained control of herself.

‘I'm sorry. I know you're only doing your job. It's not your fault you have to come out with such nonsense.'

‘Do you want that lift?'

‘I don't think so, thank you.'

‘Ah. Take the back way, do you?'

‘No.' Surprised. ‘It's terribly overgrown. Nobody uses it any more except the woodcutters, and riders going to the forge, or cutting through to the bridle path.' With a sudden tilt of the head she challenged: ‘Was that another of your trap questions?'

‘There aren't any such things. Questions don't trap. Only lying answers.' When she made no further observation he said: ‘I'll be getting along, then.'

She moved away, without speaking; down the centre aisle and into one of the pews. Jurnet was almost at the door when she called to him; and turned to find her regarding him almost with affection across the intervening space.

‘Would you like me to tell you what I was thinking just now, down on my knees, when you came in?'

‘If it's relevant.'

‘Oh, it's that!' She clasped her hands together as if each took comfort from the other. ‘I was thinking that at the very moment of death – even a violent death like Mr Shelden's, full of fear and terror – there must be a sudden piercing of joy, a sense of being on the point of regaining something one has been looking for ever since the moment one came unconsulted into the world.'

Jurnet commented, but not as if he would have bet any money on it: ‘Let's hope you're right.'

With what sounded like pity in her voice, the woman said: ‘I don't think you're a religious man, Inspector.'

‘That's right,' he answered, feeling vaguely affronted.

Sergeant Ellers sat on a bench in front of the house, examining the big toe of his right foot with a tender concentration. When he saw the police car turn into the driveway he drew on his sock, levered the foot painfully into its shoe, and hobbled across to greet his superior officer.

‘What happened to you?' Jurnet asked unfeelingly. The detective released his seat belt, slid out of the car and locked the door. ‘Somebody tread on your toe?'

The little Welshman looked hurt.

‘Next time you send me out unarmed into darkest Norfolk, remind me to make my will first, will you? What with being dive-bombed by mosquitoes, mugged by stinging nettles, and bogged down in cowpats the size of manhole covers, I'm lucky to be here to tell the tale.'

‘Glad to hear you had a pleasant stroll. How far, d'you reckon? Mile? Mile and a half?'

‘Somewhere between the two. Felt more like twenty. Tell you one thing, though. Nobody's going round by that way for choice, long as there's a road.'

‘Unless he wants to make sure nobody sees him.'

‘Never get up it in a car, that's for sure. Even a tractor'd think twice. About two-thirds of the way along, on the left, there's a track that goes off through the woods. That's the one bit that looks navigable. The main highway – if you can call it that, which you can't – ends in a paved yard and a lot of outbuildings, and there's that foreign fellow – the one with the eyebrows – shoeing a horse.