Chapter Ten #2
‘Clichéd stunning’ was a phrase that she and Derek had coined during their many hours of watching Escape to the Country.
The beechwood units, the granite countertops, the gleaming steel hob and hood, were all exactly what you’d expect from a top-of-the-range North Yorkshire barn conversion – except like the hall there was more evidence of Ffion Hilton’s priorities: another jacket, more boots, a rather smelly blanket and what appeared to be an old saddle.
Jax was at the far end of the room, by a back door, staring intently into a walk-in cupboard. ‘Oh my God,’ she was saying. ‘Oh my God, I do not believe this.’
Liz hurried to join her and peered over her shoulder.
‘I thought she might have stashed the keys in here maybe,’ said Jax. ‘Hung them up or something. And I saw these.’ She flung out a dramatic finger.
Stashed at the back of the cupboard amongst a nest of toilet rolls was an object – a pair of objects – riding boots. Scuffed women’s riding boots. Liberally splashed with pale-yellow paint.
‘Oh my God,’ said Jax. ‘What should we do?’
‘Don’t touch them,’ said Liz firmly, taking out her phone. Cursing silently as she grappled with unlocking it without her glasses, she eventually managed to find the camera app and took a couple of pictures (as well as nearly ordering more sugar-free biscuits off ).
‘Oh my God,’ said Jax for a third time. ‘Do you reckon you ought to tell someone?’
Liz shot her a glance at the use of the pronoun ‘you’; there was that distinct ‘Shall I leave it with you?’ tone to Jax’s voice. Liz opened her mouth to speak but at that moment there was a pistol-like click from the front door lock.
The two women stared in horror.
‘I thought you said she was away,’ hissed Liz angrily. Quickly, Jax stashed the boots back in the cupboard and shut the door; by the time Ffion appeared in the doorway the pair were stood by the counter, side by side, like naughty children.
‘What the fuck?’ said the second Mrs Hilton.
‘I left my keys here,’ blurted Jax. ‘My keys for the houses in Pickhill. When I was in the other week.’
‘Just what is going on?’ said Ffion angrily. ‘What are you doing in my kitchen?’
She’s just said, thought Liz, but nevertheless said nothing.
‘When I was cleaning the Snuggery earlier,’ babbled Jax, ‘I came in for some more spray like I do and I reckon I put some keys down.’
Ffion shook her head. ‘So why didn’t you ring and ask?’ she snapped. Even without being seated on an enormous horse she had a powerful presence.
Why not indeed? thought Liz.
‘I was just passing and I thought I’d drop by.’
‘Listen,’ said Ffion. ‘I’m just gonna say this the once.
I do not want you coming in here.’ She emphasised each word with ice-cube hardness.
‘I don’t give a fuck about keys or spray.
In fact—’ A carmine-nailed hand shot out.
‘In fact, give me the keys you’ve got. You cannot be coming in here; I didn’t even know you had any keys. ’
‘Neville let me have them.’
‘Yeah, well, Neville’s dead. This is my house and I do not want you barging in here, especially not when I’m not in.’
Heart pounding and sinuses swelling, Liz regarded the angry figure of the second Mrs Hilton. Had this woman lied to the police? Had she not been in Carlisle but there, screaming at her husband?
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, speaking for the first time. ‘I do apologise. We’ll go now.’
Ffion looked at her. ‘You were at the funeral,’ she stated flatly. ‘And you were in the village the day of the festival.’
‘I came with Jax because she doesn’t like coming in here,’ said Liz.
‘There’s a simple answer to that. Don’t come.’ Her hand closed over the key that Jax shamefacedly handed her. ‘I’m serious – if I find any of you anywhere near the place again, I’m calling the police.’
Teddy was sitting in the backyard of number 32 College Gardens, back pressed against the warm brick wall, now alive with night-blooming honeysuckle, face relaxed and turned up to the sun under his battered white sun hat.
Watching him from the kitchen window, Thelma could see again that blond rugby player she had married all those years ago.
He was wearing what these days was his standard summer outfit: tan shorts and a blue polo work shirt, the orange and yellow of the WAMMP (Wait A Minute Mr Postman) logo bright on his left breast. She thought he might be asleep, but when she opened the back door his eyes immediately snapped open and his face broke into a warm smile.
No two ways about it, her husband was looking way more relaxed, youthful even, than he ever did when working at Ripon and St Bega college – or ‘the vicar factory’ as he termed it.
‘Having a pause?’ she said, having clocked the stack of parcels in the hall waiting to be delivered.
‘Something somewhat longer than that,’ he said easily. ‘It was so jolly hot in the car, even with the windows down. Each time I got back in, the seat was almost unbearable. So, I decided to call it an afternoon. One of the joys of this job.’
‘I’m surprised you’re so busy,’ said Thelma, thinking of parcels piled high on his study desk.
‘Holiday lets,’ said Teddy simply. ‘Predominantly. People go away from home and realise they’ve forgotten some necessity of life, which somehow cannot be managed without.
That and, according to Big Cyn, self-help books.
There’s something about this heat that apparently makes people strive for perfection. ’
‘I’ll make some iced elderflower,’ said Thelma.
‘Sit a moment,’ said Teddy. ‘It’s so lovely. I was thinking of going for a walk presently.’
Thelma sat down on the warm bench, feeling the comfort of his cool fingers reflexively twining with hers. For a moment they sat in companionable silence enjoying the shade of the garden, the drone of insects, the various flowers and in the distance shouts of children on the college playing field.
‘So,’ said Teddy. ‘How are things?’
Involuntarily Thelma felt her hand slacken and pictured the letter hidden neatly in her bag. She needed to tell him and she needed to tell him now. Lord, give me the right words.
But before she could grasp the sentences forming in her head, Teddy was speaking again. ‘How did you get on this afternoon?’ he said. ‘Talking with Liz and Pat?’
Heart thudding at the reprieve, Thelma reached into her bag for her teacher’s mark book. Opening it at the right page she handed it to her husband, who scanned her teacher’s print with the same concentration he afforded scripture and his WAMMP delivery app.
‘Murder, question mark,’ he read. ‘So, you do think Neville was murdered in some way, shape or form?’
‘I honestly don’t know,’ said Thelma. She thought of that glinting steel knife nestling in the dishwasher with the three plates and the vegetable dishes.
She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts.
‘The police are adamant he died of natural causes,’ she said as much to herself, as to Teddy.
‘They surely wouldn’t get a thing like that wrong. ’
‘Of course, murder isn’t necessarily a deliberate act of violently taking life,’ said Teddy thoughtfully. ‘It can just as well be the facilitation of a fatal act—’
Thelma looked at him. ‘Oh?’ she said.
Teddy nodded. ‘Removing batteries from a torch, so someone is forced to walk in the dark – or the loosening of a rug at the top of a flight of stairs.’
‘I suppose so,’ agreed Thelma. ‘But it’s hard to see how a heart attack could be anything other than – well, a heart attack.’
‘It could be something as simple as withholding medication. Remember Lesley Grey?’
Thelma nodded, remembering Mrs Grey in Teddy’s first parish. That fatal heart attack after she apparently ‘lost’ her digoxin. And then Mr Grey remarrying so quickly afterwards …
‘At the end of the day,’ said Teddy, ‘a man is dead. And as you say’ – he indicated the green mark book with its neat writing – ‘there does seem something very deliberate at play here … this rumour – and of course that yellow line – someone must have bought paint – and paintbrushes.’
‘There was something else odd about that line,’ said Thelma. ‘Beyond the fact it was there. There was something almost slapdash about it. It certainly wasn’t done as any sort of decorative feature, I’m sure of that.’
Teddy was looking at another part of the page in the green mark book. ‘Have pity,’ he read. ‘For pity’s sake.’
‘That’s important,’ said Thelma. ‘I know it is. I just don’t know why.’
‘And this.’ Teddy’s finger traced the scrap of paper with the curious symbol, neatly sellotaped into the book.
‘Do you recognise it?’ asked Thelma.
He slowly shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘And yet I know I’ve seen it before somewhere.’
Thelma took the book off him and bent her head, squinting at the white paper in the glaring sun.
‘Come on.’ Teddy stood up. ‘I’m going to grab a quick shower and then let’s walk out to Studley.’
‘Do you not want to wait until it’s cooled down a bit?’
Teddy shook his head. ‘I’ll just keep on thinking about all the parcels,’ he said. ‘And feeling guilty. Let people strive for perfection tomorrow.’
Thelma smiled. ‘Talking of striving for perfection,’ she said, ‘Liz was in St Barney’s – apparently it’s poised in a constant state of excellence, waiting for Ofsted, even though it’s the end of term.’
Teddy smiled. ‘That’s the thing about perfection,’ he said, ‘it’s so utterly exhausting to maintain. Especially in hot weather.’
As he went indoors, Thelma had a strong feeling of missed opportunity.
She fingered the letter in her bag. She needed to tell him; it wasn’t like her to ignore an issue.
In a way there was a parallel to be drawn with St Barnabus – they hadn’t ignored the possibility of Ofsted arriving, even though it was the end of term.
She paused, frowned. St Barnabus!
Of course!
When Teddy emerged some fifteen minutes later, freshly showered and changed, his wife was pink in the face and stabbing at her phone almost frantically.
‘What is it?’ he said. ‘Has something happened?’
‘It’s just come to me.’ Thelma looked up, her eyes wide and unfocused. ‘I know where I’ve seen that symbol before.’
Teddy regarded his wife.
‘It’s Ofsted,’ she said. ‘It’s the Ofsted symbol. That’s why it was so familiar. And that phrase Judy Bestall heard. It wasn’t having pity or for pity’s sake or anything like that – it was Pity Me!’
Teddy frowned. ‘Isn’t that a place near Durham?’ he said.
Thelma nodded. ‘It’s a village,’ she said. ‘On the outskirts. A village with a school. And Neville Hilton led the last inspection.’