The Tinder Box (4 page)

'There's no one left to agree or disagree' he had said. 'Mrs Fanshaw's grandson denies knowing anything

about it, although he admits there might have been a

private arrangement between Patrick and the nurse.

She's known to have been on friendly terms with him . . .'

'The police are saying Patrick only invented the

contract in order to explain why his fingerprints were

all over the Manor House.'

'That's not true.'

'Are you sure? Wasn't it the first idea that came

into his head when the police produced the search

warrant? They questioned him for two days, Bridey,

and the only explanation he gave for his fingerprints

and his toolbox being in the manor was that Lavinia's

nurse had asked him to sort out the dripping taps in

the kitchen and bathroom. Why didn't he mention a

contract earlier? Why did he wait until they found the

jewellery under his floorboards before saying he was

owed money?'

Teardrops watered the washing hands. 'Because

he's been in prison and doesn't trust the police . . .

because he didn't kill Mrs Fanshaw . . . because he

was more worried about being charged with the theft

of her jewellery than he was about being charged with

murder. Do you think he'd have invented a contract

that didn't exist? My boy isn't stupid, Siobhan. He

doesn't tell stories that he can't back up. Not when

he's had two whole days to think about them.'

Siobhan shook her head. 'Except he couldn't back

it up. You're the only person, other than Patrick, who

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claims to know anything about it, and your word

means nothing because you're his mother.'

'But don't you see?' the woman pleaded. 'That's

why you can be sure Patrick's telling the truth. If he'd

believed for one moment it would all be denied,

he'd have given some other reason for why he took

the jewellery. Do you hear what I'm saying? He's

a good liar, Siobhan - for his sins, he always has been

- and he'd not have invented a poor, weak story like

the one he's been saddled with.'

28

Three

Tuesday, 23 June 1998

It was a rambling defence that Patrick finally produced

when it dawned on him that the police were serious

about charging him with the murders. Siobhan heard

both Bridey's and the inspector's versions of it, and

she wasn't surprised that the police found it difficult

to swallow. It depended almost entirely on the words

and actions of the murdered nurse.

Patrick claimed Dorothy Jenkins had come to

Kilkenny Cottage and asked him if he was willing

to do some odd jobs at the Manor House for a cash

sum of three hundred pounds. 'I've finally persuaded

her miserable skinflint of a grandson that I'll walk out

one day and not come back if he doesn't do something

about my working conditions, so he's agreed to

pay up,' she had said triumphantly. 'Are you interested,

Patrick? It's a bit of moonlighting ... no VAT

... no tax . . . just a couple of weeks' work for money

in hand. For goodness sake don't go talking about

it,' she had warned him, 'or you can be sure Cynthia

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Haversley will notify social services that you're working

and you'll lose your unemployment benefit. You

know what an interfering busybody she is.'

'I needed convincing she wasn't pulling a fast one,'

Patrick told the police. 'I've been warned off in the

past by that bastard grandson of Mrs F's and the whole

thing seemed bloody unlikely to me. So she takes me

along to see him, and he's nice as pie, shakes me by

the hand and says it's a kosher contract. "We'll let

bygones be bygones," he says. I worked like a dog for

two weeks and, yes, of course I went into Mrs Fan

shaw's bedroom. I popped in every morning because

she and I were mates. I would say "hi," and she would

giggle and say "hi" back. And yes, I touched almost

everything in the house - most of the time I was

moving furniture around for Miss Jenkins. "It's so

boring when you get too old to change things," she'd

say to me. "Let's see how that table looks in here."

Then she'd clap her hands and say, "Isn't this exciting?"

I thought she was almost as barmy as the old

lady, but I wasn't going to argue with her. I mean,

three hundred quid is three hundred quid, and if that's

what was wanted I was happy to do the business.'

On the second Saturday - 'the day I was supposed

to be paid . . . shit ... I should have known it was a

scam . . .' - Mrs Fanshaw's grandson was in the hall

waiting for him when he arrived at the Manor House.

'I thought the bastard had come to give me my

wages, but instead he accuses me of nicking a necklace. I called him a bloody liar, so he took a swing at

30

me and landed one on my jaw. Next thing I know,

I'm out of the front door, face down on the gravel.

Yeah, of course that's how I got the scratches. I've

never hit a woman in my life, and I certainly didn't

get into a fight with either of the old biddies at the

manor.'

There was a two-hour hiatus during which he

claimed to have driven around in a fury wondering

how 'to get the bastard to pay what he owed'. He

toyed with the idea of going to the police - 'I was

pretty sure Miss Jenkins would back me up, she was

that mad with him, but I didn't reckon you lot could

do anything, not without social services getting to

hear about it, and then I'd be worse off than I was

before . . .' - but in the end he opted for more direct

action and sneaked back to the manor through the

gate at the bottom of the garden.

'I knew Miss Jenkins would see me right if she

could. And she did. "Take this, Patrick," she said,

handing me some of Mrs F's jewellery, "and if there's

any comeback I'll say it was my idea." I tell you,' he

finished aggressively, 'I'm gutted she and Mrs F are

dead. At least they treated me like a friend, which is

more than can be said of the rest of Sowerbridge.'

He was asked why he hadn't mentioned any of this

before. 'Because I'm not a fool,' he said. 'Word has it

Mrs F was killed for her jewellery. Do you think I'm

going to admit to having some of it under my floorboards

when she was battered to death a few hours

later?'

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Thursday, 18 February 1999

Siobhan pondered in silence for a minute or two.

'Weak or not, Bridey, it's the story he has to go to

trial with, and at the moment no one believes it. It

would be different if he could prove any of it.'

'How?'

'I don't know.' She shook her head. 'Did he show

the jewellery to anyone before Lavinia was killed?'

A sly expression crept into the woman's eyes as if a

new idea had suddenly occurred to her. 'Only to me

and Rosheen,' she said, 'but, as you know, Siobhan,

not a word we say is believed.'

'Did either of you mention it to anyone else?'

'Why would we? When all's said and done, he took

the things without permission, never mind it was Miss

Jenkins who gave them to him.'

'Well, it's a pity Rosheen didn't tell me about it. It

would make a world of difference if I could say I knew

on the Saturday afternoon that Patrick already had

Lavinia's rings and necklace in his possession.'

Bridey looked away towards her Madonna, crossing

herself as she did so, and Siobhan knew she was lying.

'She thinks the world of you, Siobhan. She'd not

embarrass you by making you a party to her cousin's

troubles. In any case, you'd not have been interested.

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Was your mind not taken up with cooking that day?

Was that not the Saturday you were entertaining Mr

and Mrs Haversley to dinner to pay off all the dinners

you've had from them but never wanted?'

There were no secrets in a village, thought Siobhan,

and if Bridey knew how much Ian and she

detested the grinding tedium of Sowerbridge social

life, which revolved around the all-too-regular 'dinner

party', presumably the rest of Sowerbridge did as well.

'Are we really that obvious, Bridey?'

'To the Irish, maybe, but not to the English,' said

the old woman with a crooked smile. 'The English

see what they want to see. If you don't believe me,

Siobhan, look at the way they've condemned my

Patrick as a murdering thief before he's even been

tried.'

Siobhan had questioned Rosheen about the jewellery

afterwards and, like Bridey, the girl had wrung

her hands in distress. But Rosheen's distress had

everything to do with her aunt expecting her to perjure

herself and nothing at all to do with the facts.

'Oh, Siobhan,' she had wailed, 'does she expect me to

stand up in court and tell lies? Because it'll not do

Patrick any good when they find me out. Surely it's

better to say nothing than to keep inventing stories

that no one believes?'

33

Monday, 8 March 1999, 11.55p.m.

It was cold on the footpath because the wall of the

Old Vicarage was reflecting the heat back towards

Kilkenny Cottage, but the sound of the burning house

was deafening. The pine rafters and ceiling joists

popped and exploded like intermittent rifle fire while

the flames kept up a hungry roar. As Siobhan emerged

onto the road leading up from the junction, she found

herself in a crowd of her neighbours who seemed to

be watching the blaze in a spirit of revelry - almost,

she thought in amazement, as if it were a spectacular

fireworks display put on for their enjoyment. People

raised their arms and pointed whenever a new rafter

caught alight, and 'oohs' and 'ahs' burst from their

mouths like a cheer. Any moment now, she thought

cynically, and they'd bring out an effigy of that other

infamous Catholic, Guy Fawkes.

She started to work her way through the crowd

but was stopped by Nora Bentley, the elderly doctor's

wife, who caught her arm and drew her close. The

Bentleys were far and away Siobhan's favourites

among her neighbours, being the only ones with

enough tolerance to stand against the continuous

barrage of anti-O'Riordan hatred that poured from

the mouths of almost everyone else. Although, as Ian

34

often pointed out, they could afford to be tolerant.

'Be fair, Siobhan. Lavinia wasn't related to them. They

might feel differently if she'd been their granny.'

'We've been worried about you, my dear,' said

Nora. 'What with all this going on, we didn't know

whether you were trapped inside the farm or outside.'

Siobhan gave her a quick hug. 'Outside. I stayed

late at work to sort out some contracts, and I've had

to abandon the car at the church.'

'Well, I'm afraid your drive's completely blocked

with fire engines. If it's any consolation, we're all in

the same boat, although Jeremy Jardine and the Haversleys

have the added worry of sparks carrying on the

wind and setting light to their houses.' She chuckled

suddenly. 'You have to laugh. Cynthia bullied the

firemen into taking preventative measures by hosing

down the front of Malvern House, and now she's

tearing strips off poor old Peter because he left their

bedroom window open. The whole room's completely

saturated.'

Siobhan grinned. 'Good,' she said, unsympathetically.

'It's time Cynthia had some of her own

medicine.'

Nora wagged an admonishing finger. 'Don't be

too hard on her, my dear. For all her sins, Cynthia can

be very kind when she wants to be. It's a pity you've

never seen that side of her.'

'I'm not sure I'd want to,' said Siobhan cynically.

'At a guess, she only shows it when she's offering

charity. Where are they, anyway?'

35

'I've no idea. I expect Peter's making up the

spare-room beds and Cynthia's at the front somewhere

behaving like the chief constable. You know

how bossy she is.'

'Yes,' agreed Siobhan, who had been on the receiving

end of Cynthia's hectoring tongue more often

than she cared to remember. Indeed, if she had any

regrets about moving to Sowerbridge, they were all

centred around the overbearing personality of the

Honourable Mrs Haversley.

By one of those legal quirks of which the English

are so fond, the owners of Malvern House had title to

the first hundred feet of Fording Farm's driveway while

the owners of the farm had right of way in perpetuity

across it. This had led to a state of war between the

two households, although it was a war that had been

going on long before the Lavenhams' insignificant

tenure of eighteen months. Ian maintained that

Cynthia's insistence on her rights stemmed from the fact that the Haversleys were, and always had been,

the poor relations of the Fanshaws at the Manor

House. ('You get slowly more impoverished if you

inherit through the distaff side,' he said, 'and Peter's

family has never been able to lay claim to the manor.

It's made Cynthia bitter.') Nevertheless, had he and

Siobhan paid heed to their solicitor's warnings, they

might have questioned why such a beautiful place had

had five different owners in under ten years. Instead,

they had accepted the previous owners' assurances

that everything in the garden was lovely - You'll like

36