Chapter Two #2
After the service the sparse congregation milled in the vicinity of the stone porch of All Saints, waiting for the emergence of the coffin, marking the start of Neville Hilton’s last journey on this earth: the short drive to Maple Park Crematorium.
Like the rest of the countryside that summer, the graveyard was bleached and dusty after nearly four weeks of blazing sunshine and little rain; the various stilettos and designer trainers of the Lodestone group sparked little puffs of sandy dust.
Whilst Derek gravitated to the couple of fellow Rotarians, jackets over their arms, Liz, Pat and Thelma retired to a discreet distance under the shade of one of the gently rustling trees by the honeyed stone wall.
‘So,’ said Pat bluntly, removing her black hat (roots be damned). ‘What was that all about?’
‘I’m wondering,’ said Liz, ‘why the funeral was here and not in the church at Hollinby?’ She made a grab for her bag, and a balsam tissue. Standing in this graveyard was doing nothing for her hay fever.
‘There is no longer a church at Hollinby,’ said Thelma. ‘It was deconsecrated a couple of years ago.’
Pat shook her head impatiently. ‘I don’t mean where the funeral was but who was at it,’ she said. ‘Or rather who wasn’t at it. There was hardly anyone there!’
‘Most of the Rotary lot were away on holiday,’ said Liz. ‘At least that’s what they told Derek.’
‘There’s the group from Lodestone,’ pointed out Thelma. The three looked over to the huddled group. Chris Canne had his back to them.
‘That’s something else,’ said Pat. ‘Is it me or is Chris Canne avoiding us?’
‘He certainly looked surprised to see us,’ said Liz, blowing her nose.
‘I did say “hello”,’ agreed Thelma. ‘But he didn’t seem willing to talk. Though of course he could just be embarrassed about the last time we met.’
There was a brief pause as they all remembered the scandal involving a certain member of the Lodestone Trust personnel they’d been involved in uncovering.
‘I wonder,’ said Liz, ‘if there was maybe some issue with Neville at work?’
‘Some murky goings-on?’ mused Pat. ‘Neville?’
‘He’d only been there ten minutes,’ said Thelma. ‘According to Chris Canne.’
‘And all those lilies,’ continued Liz. ‘Don’t you think they were a bit OTT? There’s so many lovely flowers at this time of year – and a lot cheaper. Remember all those daffodils at Laura Barton’s funeral?’
‘Nev would have been on a fair old whack if those Lodestone suits are anything to go by,’ observed Pat. ‘And apparently the fuddle’s at Ainderby Golf Club. No expense spared according to Jax.’ At the mention of their former colleague there was a significant exchange of glances.
‘I suppose what I’m wondering,’ said Thelma, ‘is why we’re here.’
‘Because Jax “asked” us,’ said Pat. The inverted commas round the word ‘asked’ were audible.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Liz frowning.
‘Jax was very insistent I came,’ said Thelma.
‘And me,’ said Pat. She looked at her friend. ‘You think maybe she wanted us here for a particular reason?’
Thelma nodded. ‘The thought did cross my mind.’
Liz remembered that dark undertone in Jax’s voice. She had a sudden nasty feeling she might be committing herself to something she’d much rather not.
‘But what reason?’ she said worriedly. She could feel another sneeze coming on.
Thelma nodded to where a blonde ponytail could be seen making a purposeful passage through the graves towards them.
‘I think we might be about to find out,’ she said.
‘I’m completely gutted,’ said Jax emphatically.
On her unspoken but unmistakable bidding, they had relocated to a more discreet distance from the other mourners, next to a pile of pungent, crawling grass clippings and the last resting place of Fred Webster.
Beyond the yew trees, a combine was making dusty progress across a baking beige field.
‘I tell you’ – she looked at her three ex-colleagues – ‘I’ve been in absolute bits since it happened. But it’s Chelse. She’s the one I feel sorry for.’
‘Chelse?’ asked Liz politely.
‘The girl who works for me. She’s the one who found him. Terrible, she is. Won’t go to clean on her own anymore – me or her mum have to go with her, poor love – and with twelve holiday lets to do on a Saturday, it’s a complete nightmare.’
‘It must have been very upsetting for her,’ said Thelma drily.
‘It was more than that,’ said Jax darkly. The three looked at her, wondering what could possibly be more upsetting than coming across a corpse.
‘It was a heart attack?’ asked Pat bluntly.
‘Oh, yeah.’ Jax nodded vigorously. ‘Nev had been having all murmurs and stuff even when we was together. Used to worry me half to death. But you know him – he wouldn’t be told.’
‘What was it that upset Chelsey so much?’ asked Thelma.
‘Apart from finding a body on the sofa,’ said Pat.
‘Two things.’ Jax lowered her voice and looked round at the three.
‘Nev – he weren’t one for getting scared or owt.
He wasn’t sensitive, not like me.’ Here Pat hurriedly converted a snort into a cough.
‘But according to Chelse, the look on his face … terrible, it was.’ There was a pause when no one – not even Pat – thought it appropriate to point out that a sudden heart attack was unlikely to result in an expression of calm serenity.
‘And the other thing?’ prompted Thelma.
‘Excuse me.’ The voice that broke in was both abrupt and rather harsh. They looked round to see the advancing black-purple figure of the second Mrs Hilton.
‘Ffion.’ The ponytail gave an agitated flick. ‘I want to introduce you to Thelma, Pat and Liz – they used to work with me. They all wanted to pay their respects like.’ Jax spoke in a nervous rush, and all at once the three realised the reason for their discreet relocation.
‘We’re so sorry for your loss,’ said Thelma earnestly, if not strictly truthfully.
Ffion nodded perfunctorily, was that a gleam of antipathy in those hard features?
‘Does any of you own a white Fiat?’ she said. ‘Only it’s blocking in the hearse.’
Liz’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘I am so sorry,’ she said, sounding as guilty as if she’d managed to stumble into the grave itself. She stiffened and emitted two sharp, horrified sneezes.
‘It’s okay,’ said Ffion grimly. ‘Only if you could shift it.’
‘I’m going now,’ said Liz, fumbling for more tissues as she set off as rapidly as she could in her black court shoes, followed at a distance by the second Mrs Hilton.
‘So go on,’ said Pat. ‘What was the second thing?’
‘We really can’t talk here.’ Jax frowned after the retreating figure. ‘You are going to the fuddle, aren’t you?’
Both Thelma and Pat instantly and emphatically shook their heads; both began evoking appointments and commitments, but Jax spoke quickly over them.
‘Don’t apologise, it’s fine,’ she said (making both of them feel the need to say sorry).
‘I’ll come across and see you. You do still meet at the garden centre on Thursdays? I’ll see you all then.’
‘But what was it?’ said Pat. ‘What happened?’
Jax shook her head. ‘Something inside the holiday let where they found him,’ she said. ‘Something really weird.’
She looked round uneasily as if expecting the second Mrs Hilton to make a reappearance.
‘In what respect weird?’ asked Thelma.
‘The police thought nothing of it, and neither did Ffion – but then she never sets foot in the place. But I know that holiday let, inside out.’
‘And there was something wrong there?’ Thelma prompted.
Jax nodded, eyes still roaming around the churchyard. ‘It’s been done out right tasteful,’ she said. ‘I mean one thing Nev did have was an eye for colour schemes. And the living room – where they found him – it’s been done out in greys: grey sofa, grey walls, all set off by a crimson carpet.’
‘So?’ said Pat.
‘It was one of the walls,’ said Jax. ‘When Chelse went in and found Nev, she noticed someone had gone and painted it.’
‘Like graffiti?’ said Pat.
‘No.’ Jax shook her head emphatically. ‘No, they’d painted a line. Someone had painted a bright yellow line down the back wall.’