Chapter 12
Beth’s mind was full of the Wolverine when she left the craft shop to pick up Grace. Telling Lucy that he was a no-go wasn’t the same as believing it. Like teenagers in the grip of their first crush, her hormones capered about with excitement at the mere thought of seeing him again. It was ridiculous.
She drew level with the immense stone plinth outside the preschool playground and paused to stare up at the statue of the fourth Lord Astley. Immortalised in stone, the old man glowered across the village green much as he’d done in real life nearly a century before. From all reports, the sixth Lord Astley wasn’t much better. Beth had driven past the grand gates to the Astley Manor estate often enough and seen countless plaques on local buildings, all bearing testimony to historic Astley benevolence. But rumours about the current lord told a different story. As she had never encountered him in person, Beth preferred to keep an open mind. Shivering, she dug her hands into her pockets for her gloves and her fingers brushed against the pink card.
Blast. It’s only fair to Lucy to put it back on the noticeboard.
She checked her watch. There was just enough time. Plus, she needed milk.
Outside the general store, a minor game of car Tetris was underway. A green Mini, a white van and a tractor edged past a gleaming Land Rover that had been casually abandoned and was sticking out into the road near the postbox. A gaggle of onlookers offered well-intentioned but contradictory advice to the struggling drivers. Skirting the chaos, Beth slipped into the shop and repositioned the card on the noticeboard. She tensed at the sound of Mrs Trenchard’s voice from the far end of the shop.
‘Perhaps you could park with more consideration, next time, Lord Astley?’
Curiosity got the better of Beth’s good sense. Despite the fact that the best course of action with Mrs Trenchard was always to slip away unnoticed, she wanted to know what Lord Astley looked like. She peered past a tower of baked beans at the only other person in the store, half-expecting to see a stereotypical bumbling aristocrat in tweeds and a flat cap. Instead, a tall, middle-aged man in a double-breasted grey suit stared at his phone, ignoring Mrs Trenchard.
Mrs Trenchard glared. ‘Do you not think that, as local gentry, you should set an example and obey the rules of the road?’
He looked up. ‘Do you have those Spanish olives Lady Astley ordered?’
‘But… oh, never mind. Yes, I do. And the prosciutto and aubergine. It’s all packed and ready to go.’ She brandished a medium-sized box. ‘Let me just ring it up.’
‘Send an invoice to the house. Maria will settle it.’ Lord Astley pocketed his phone and reached for the box. ‘Why she insists on buying from you is beyond me.’
Mrs Trenchard held on to the box, forcing his lordship to look at her. ‘Maria understands the importance of supporting the local community. She’s not a nouveau riche snob. You’re no better than me, you know, Bobby. I remember you from primary school.’
‘It’s Lord Robert Astley to you.’
‘If a plane crash and cancer hadn’t seen off your cousin and his boy, it wouldn’t be, though, would it? You’d be the poor distant relative still. Not poncing around in snazzy suits and a posh car. But seeing as you are Lord Astley, you could make a real difference around here. Be a force for good.’
‘What exactly do you suggest I do?’
‘For starters, you could have a word with your people about the mess they leave behind after your shooting parties. All that rubbish isn’t good for the environment.’
‘If you wish to complain, drop a line to the estates team, but…’ He towered over the older woman like a serpent preparing to strike. All trace of bored condescension disappeared as genuine menace crept into his tone. ‘I wouldn’t if I were you. People who cause trouble for me find they get more trouble back.’
Mrs Trenchard didn’t flinch. ‘So I’ve heard. You tried to force Justin out of the Crashing Boar.’
‘So?’
‘You have fingers in a lot of pies, but you’re only out for yourself. I, for one, am glad Justin managed to find the money to keep you out.’
‘You’d be wise to stay out of my business, Barbara Trenchard.’
‘I’m not scared of you.’ The faint wobble in the older woman’s voice said otherwise.
‘You should be.’
Beth had heard enough. Without giving herself time to think, she reached for the open shop door and nudged it with enough force to make the bell at the top dance a merry jig. Then, grabbing a couple of random tins from the nearest shelf, she marched over to the counter and plonked them down, forcing a bright smile to her face. ‘Good morning. Lovely day, isn’t it?’
Mrs Trenchard and Lord Astley froze.
Lord Astley moved first, snatching his box and marching out. A waft of overpowering cologne rolled over Beth as he passed.
Mrs Trenchard blinked. ‘Mrs Hope. I… uh… you came back.’
‘I forgot something.’
Not at all her usual bombastic self, Mrs Trenchard picked up the tins. ‘Cranberry sauce and artichoke hearts in brine. Are you sure?’
‘Oh no. Silly me. Actually, I just need milk. Jack gets through it like there’s no tomorrow.’ She hurried to the fridge and returned with a large carton of semi-skimmed.
Mrs Trenchard rang it through the till. Her hands trembled. She fumbled with the card reader. Beth found herself in the unusual position of wanting to stick around to provide distracting chat, until she could be certain the older woman was alright. Casting around for a subject, she asked, ‘Are Lord Astley’s shooting parties really responsible for rubbish in the forest?’
‘Oh yes. They bring city people here, which might be good for the economy, but they never clear up properly afterwards. It’s a disgrace.’ Mrs Trenchard looked directly at her. ‘You’re from London, aren’t you?’
‘I was brought up in Cardiff, actually, but I worked in London for several years.’
The older woman frowned. ‘You don’t sound Welsh.’
‘That doesn’t stop me being Welsh.’
‘Huh! I suppose you got used to lots of rubbish in a city.’
A muscle clenched in Beth’s jaw. ‘Not especially. And the shooting parties aren’t responsible for all the rubbish in the forest.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There’s all manner of junk dumped in a field near Old Farm Lane.’
‘What?’ Mrs Trenchard gasped. ‘Since when?’
‘Oh, I… uh… I don’t know. Grace spotted it all this morning.’
‘Don’t tell me the phantom fly-tipper is back. That’s all we need.’
‘The who?’
‘A few years back, some blasted crim saved a fortune in local tip fees by dumping random junk all over the forest. It caused so much damage. They were never caught.’ Mrs Trenchard placed an urgent hand on the counter between them. ‘Tell me you’ve done something about it?’
‘Like what?’
‘You can’t ignore it – it’s not right. Have you rung the council? Logged it on their website? You have to get it removed. Preferably before the storm comes through on Friday. Or who knows where it’ll end up?’
‘It’s the tail end of a hurricane, Mrs Trenchard, not a full-on tornado. I don’t imagine the wind will be strong enough to shift a sofa or a fridge-freezer.’
‘That’s not the point. It needs to be sorted before the rain starts. You may not be from around here, but you should do your civic duty and report it.’
Beth supressed an eye roll. Her job here was done. Normal self-important Trenchard services had been resumed.
‘You’ve made it abundantly clear that you don’t like me, Mrs Trenchard, but I’m not completely incompetent. Now that I know the rubbish can be reported to the council, you can rest assured I will do so.’ She scooped up the milk and stalked towards the door. ‘And another thing: I may not be from around here, but I do care about the forest. It’s my children’s heritage. I’ll do whatever is necessary to protect it and them. Don’t ever think I won’t.’