Chapter Twenty-Seven
James was gone, there was no news yet about my impending trial, and of course, the police now knew a bit more about James and Lennie Green. Mrs. Billings’s last shift was approaching.
She duly arrived on her final day and we went through our usual tea and biscuits routine, but for once, we had nothing to say.
I’d thought we were friends, just as I’d thought I was more important to her than Jo Newman, innocent victim though Jo was.
I knew it wasn’t friendly of me to have considered killing Mrs. B, but I was sure now I would never have done that.
And she didn’t know about it anyway, so that hadn’t influenced her decision. I felt the rejection sharply.
Eventually, tea drunk in somber silence, Mrs. B took out a duster, while I went to catch up with Miss Marple.
Before I settled down, I set out the shepherdess she had once taken and given to a charity shop, the one Arty had valued at seventy to eighty thousand.
I wrote down Arty’s estimate, tucked the paper into the basket of flowers she carried, and put it in the usual spot for pocketing.
“That will be me done, then,” Mrs. Billings said at the end of the morning, putting her coat on and picking up her bag. “Off to pastures new.”
“Thank you for your help here,” I said. “Altogether, I mean, not just the cleaning that we paid you for.”
She nodded. “Well, I can’t grumble about the biscuits…or the gifts.” She gave me a wry smile and left. When I checked the lounge, the figurine was gone, replaced with the key to Langley Hall I had given her when I first moved in.
***
Parker and Khan came round again. This time they brought with them a team of forensic investigators, and they set about tearing the rooms we lived in apart.
“What’s that smell?” Khan asked, as they made their way up the staircase. “Smells like teenage boys.”
“No teenagers here,” I said. “I can’t smell anything.”
They took away James’s laptop and all his gadgets.
Then they took away me and spent an afternoon asking me what I knew about his business.
I told them about my own investment and how I hadn’t been able to get my money back and in the end, they explained to me, in as sympathetic a manner as they could muster, that the business was a fraud and I would probably never see my money again. I did my best to look shocked.
They asked me if James had any connections to Greater Manchester, so they must have discovered the purchases. I said no. They let me go.
They put out a bulletin asking for sightings of him, but they came to Langley Hall to search, just in case.
They brought sniffer dogs, who paused and barked on the step above the priest hole, only to be told, “Come on, Monty,” or Dido, or Samson.
“There’s nothing to see here. Think the ghosts are getting to them. ”
***
So it were Lord Langley did it! Mrs. Billings started a thread on the forum. Killed Doug Newman in a fit of jealous rage, then ran away before they could put him in prison.
It does make him look guilty, Mrs. Faulkner replied, and everyone agreed.
When they find him, they should lock him up and throw away the key, Mrs. Chambers said, and that was also received with approval.
Disappointing that Daisy had an affair, though, Mary Bishop wrote. I thought better of her. Lorna would be mortified.
Did you have it out with her, Brenda? Mrs. Faulkner asked of Mrs. Billings.
No, I just left, in solidarity with Jo. I’m doing the season cleaning at the cricket club, then Eric and I are going to retire. We had a little windfall.
The residents of Upper Iffley didn’t need the niceties of a trial to come to their conclusions.
Had there been one, it would have been for entertainment purposes only.
James was tried and found guilty in the forum and would be thought of as an outlaw on the run forevermore.
There would be theories as to where he had gone and supposed sightings when people went on holiday.
There might even be an exhibition in the village hall, but verifiable answers would forever elude them.
I hoped. If anybody noticed, nobody commented on the fact that BigDreams no longer took part in the conversations.
But what happened to Lennie Green? Mrs. Thrussell asked. Did James Dixon kill him as well?
They arrested Daisy Dixon for it, NoseyParker made his first contribution. But now they don’t think it was her. The investigation is still open, and James Dixon is the prime suspect.
There were those on the forum who would have preferred a neater ending, but they would have to learn to be content with theories and hypothesizing. Lennie had been avenged, but I could hardly tell them how.
There would be no further speculation on this forum, though. The next time I went to log in, it had been shut down, its purpose served.
***
What followed was a lot of legal wrangling as the Ponzi scheme was investigated. James’s assets were frozen, including the contents of the house, but Langley Hall was owned without a mortgage and I was able to stay there, salting James’s body every day until the forty days were up.
Then it was time to move on to the bandages stage, and buying the material would raise nobody’s eyebrows, so frequently did I buy fabrics.
Once wrapped, I took his body—much lighter now, dry and sans organs—to Mr. Billings’s shed for temporary storage, until he was ready to meet his public.
I hid him in the IKEA bag and put a “No entry” sign on the door, not that there was anyone around to enter.
I had to live on a shoestring at that time, eating little and using the minimum of gas and electricity, just like after my mum died, because without James’s money, there wasn’t enough in my account to cover the day-to-day running costs. I did run up a few debts in that time.
Eventually, enough money was found in what remained of James’s business, the classic cars, and the sale of a tenant farm—not the Newmans’—for warehouses to repay the investors who hadn’t already withdrawn their money. I didn’t have to sell Langley Hall.
The life assurance paid out on the life of Mr. Newman, and Jo made an offer on the farm. The money was enough for me to continue with the renovations James and I had planned all those years ago.
I hired builders, roofers, carpenters, plumbers, electricians, plasterers, decorators, and historical experts and began restoration.
I told them I thought there was something strange about the grand staircase and asked them to look into it; we subsequently rediscovered the priest hole.
It made the local news, and schools all over the county asked if they could come to see it.
“Yes,” I emailed back to them. “Just as soon as Langley Hall is ready to reopen to the public.”
When it was time, I made James some priest’s robes and a mask. I dressed his mummified corpse as a sixteenth-century Roman Catholic priest. He was slightly potbellied because of the overstuffing I had done, but I wasn’t concerned. I put him back in the priest hole.
Now, he is the star attraction on the tours as Mary Bishop leads our visitors around, flinging the step open to reveal him and shouting, “Do not touch!” every time a curious customer gets too close, without ever knowing why that is so important.
Every night, before I close the step up and go to bed, I check that his costume is still on tight: I do not want that mask to slip.
Then I wish him good night and leave him to his eternal, infernal rest.
A couple of times Mary Bishop has asked, over tea and biscuits, to borrow James to use as a prop for an amateur dramatics production, but I have had to say no.
The issue has the potential to work itself up to a quarrel at some point—Mary Bishop isn’t well acquainted with the word “no”—but that is a problem for another day.
I try to hurry through tea and biscuits with Mary Bishop; she’s no Mrs. Billings.
The income from the tours and the remaining tenant farms comes close to paying the bills, but only close, now and then I have to sell an antique and replace it with a replica, courtesy of Arty’s friend, Freddie.
Yet, it’s so infrequent, I could go on indefinitely and still, one day, leave the hall in a better state than that in which I found it.
The space where the blank family tree was now has a mural, painted by Upper Iffley Junior School, of the history of Langley Hall. I chose something completely different because I don’t need the constant reminder of the children I never had.
I’d be overstating the case if I said I was greeted with enthusiasm in the village these days, the memory of my supposed affair with Mr. Newman continuing to linger, but I no longer imagine whispers behind my back and slights in everyday comments.
They can say them to my face if they have the gall; otherwise, I don’t think about it.
The bones were reburied in the churchyard, with the slab from the mausoleum wall, cleaned up and listing their names and dates, standing over the site.
In years ahead, I shall be laid down with them, but that is a long time away.
Meanwhile, the Bone Bonanza continues as an annual event.
It has taken on some of the attributes of Halloween, mixed in with some pagan Beltane traditions, and has become quite a tourist attraction.
The ruins of the mausoleum were taken away and replaced with stables, and now the field is home to three rescue donkeys.
Now and then I get a postcard from Arty as he and his girlfriend roam across the world.
It makes me wonder if I could ever have spread my wings like that, but I can’t leave Langley Hall now, not with James the way he is.
I am tied to him forever “for better, for worse” and beyond: “Till death do us part.”
I recently opened a café for our visitors, using the old kitchen and the space around it.
The chef is from outside the area and has agreed to keep it a secret that I do some of the cooking myself.
After years of grilling and microwaving frozen products, I have enjoyed learning some new techniques.
There has been the occasional stomach upset among our customers, but that is only to be expected when you’re learning.