Death Out of Season Read online

  Death Out of Season

  Meg Elizabeth Atkins

  © Meg Elizabeth Atkins 2001

  Meg Elizabeth Atkins has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2002 by Constable & Robinson Ltd.

  This edition published in 2016 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  To my friends Margaret and Peter Lewis, with love.

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  PROLOGUE

  The house was called Ferns. People who had known it in the past recognised the change. There were immovable features: wood panelling, moulded ceilings, wide, galleried staircase; and of the original furnishings a great deal remained: curtains, carpets — these of muted, restful shades. No, the transformation was not material — like double glazing or a refitted kitchen …

  It was an insensible lightening. A buoyancy, as if a current of air had dislodged all the old presences — harsh, furtive, desperate — that for so long shaped the life in the house.

  And it had not taken long. A few years. Not a lifetime.

  A deathtime.

  Outwardly, the house was unaltered. Stonework, gables, weatherboarding, Gothic windows — the madness of English architecture at its most interesting.

  But then, the entire town of Clerehaven could be mad — at least, that was what DCI Sheldon Hunter came to think.

  CHAPTER ONE

  It came in like a sea-fret — a recurring local condition — except the sea was over twenty miles away. Mist rising from the deep gorge of the river, threading through the massive pillars of the viaduct, whispering about the steep streets of the winter town, revealing fragments: shifting, surrealistic …

  Deserted boathouses at the water’s margin, closed cafés, empty tennis courts, benches un-sat-upon affording scenic views.

  This was the real magic of Clerehaven — out of season. Its fame and notoriety (deplored by entrenched residents) were lately earned. There had been, for so long, just the gentle rhythm of its days, composed, visibly, of leftovers: the shell of a castle, the remains of an abbey, the ruins of a manor house … All the decrepitude that should have allowed it to sink into the slumber of a forgotten English town. Had it not been for Alfred Lynchet. And the Toddies.

  *

  Early Saturday morning, the streets deserted, the shops unopened, Inez Bryant set out on her walk. A brisk ten minutes brought her to the door of old Mrs Hanks’, which stood straight up from the pavement on high, narrow steps. The door opened, minimally, to a glimpse of a dressing-gowned figure, a smile too early in the morning to contain teeth, ‘Hallo, Inez, dear.’ And a small dog shot out, trailing its lead.

  Compact body, short busy leg at each corner, dense, dun-coloured coat, long-snouted face. Mysterious components went into its breeding — something of a Jack Russell; a great deal of armadillo, Inez suspected.

  ‘Well, where to this morning?’ she would ask softly. It lifted its sweet, intelligent face. It knew they would walk three to four miles. It knew she had biscuits in her pocket.

  *

  Set into a scoop of cliff, looking down upon the broad, slow-moving River Clere, across to the viaduct, Clerehaven had nowhere to expand, except at its highest level, the Stray — the precipitous open ground to the west of the town. Some enterprising developer would have seized on this but for the Moreland family, who intended to keep Clerehaven firmly in its grip and were too rich to be coerced, bullied or bought off. Charles I had made the original gift of land to Lord Moreland (in appreciation of Lady Moreland’s favours) under the impression he had given away a bit of Wales, his gonads functioning more efficiently than his geography.

  Inez made her way up to the Stray so that she could have a view of the town descending on its many levels as the fret, shifting and moving, took away vistas, yielded glimpses here and there — as if the bones of the town were showing through. Then came the alchemical moment when the mist dissolved and it was all revealed: worn stone, painted stucco, old brickwork; trees and gardens, bowling greens, a corner shop, a grandiose gateway, a labourer’s sturdy cottage; roads twisting, pathways appearing, turning back on themselves.

  Afterwards, on the way back, they took a tour through High Town, appropriately named for its location, the loftiness of its old houses, its soaring trees. In deep gardens, behind high hedges and ranges of shrubs, summerhouses awaited their season. Tennis courts yes, even in 1990 — with their far-away echoes of Eton-cropped girls, epicene young men, tea on the lawn, curtseying servants … all the ghosts of High Town.

  And then, Ferns. No house pre-dated the middle 1800s; Ferns had its own, undiscoverable timescale: architecturally both superb and potty, it was visible evidence of lives lived in it by secretive, arrogant people.

  It had possibly, now, to Inez’s eyes, reached its peace, with only Nella Lynchet left of the family — she might have odd bedfellows in the Toddies but they were providing her with a lifestyle she could never have looked for as an ugly child, a plain girl, a fat spinster.

  Nella, with no resource but loyalty, had never been heard to breathe a word of criticism of her selfish, pompous brother, Alfred; her terrifyingly autocratic grandmother, Georgina Lynchet. But Inez, who found her difficult to like, felt the random heart-tug of fellow feeling that would have astonished Nella, had she known of it. Inez could read the muffled anguish in Nella’s subservience, her need to placate, apologise, recompense. Continually, publicly, put down — Nella, you were born a fool, like your mother — Nella’s good manners, ironically drilled into her by Grandmother Georgina, ensured she would never speak out in her own defence against the appalling old woman.

  As for Inez, somewhere in her growing up she had found the strength to take a stand against her bullying mother. Her parents’ marriage had been catastrophic, ensuring a wretched (unnoticed by them) childhood for her. Her mother fed upon aggression, dominance and paranoia. Jettisoning Inez’s father, she married a second time and, when Inez was sixteen, accused her of carrying on with her stepfather and threw her out. The accusation was completely unjustified. Inez’s stepfather, a sweet, ineffectual man, secretly pushed money into Inez’s pockets when she left with her suitcase and rucksack. She never saw him, or her mother, again. She managed with help from friends and temporary shelter from her cousin and best friend, Mary Weller, who lived in Clerehaven. Coping with uncomplained hard times, Inez got through art college and, determinedly single, endured, succeeded. She had her career teaching and practising interior design. To her astonishment, when she was in her forties, she married.

  She was wife number two; for Joe she was the gold at the end of the rainbow … Too short. Too late. The rainbow faded. Disappeared. Joe died of cancer, rapidly, painfully. But why in the name of G
od should he leave her with a freight of relatives: in-laws, stepchildren, aunts, uncles, nieces? She had never wanted any of them; after her destroyed and isolated childhood she could never grasp what families were about, why her late husband’s should need to congregate, reminisce, gossip — a non-stop, nerve-racking cacophony of cheerful exchanges, all as beloved Joe was being lowered into the grave. Why should they not? Perhaps this was what was important — this stuff, this hugger-mugger of the commonplace. How could she, a loner, ever tell?

  After Joe’s death it became impossible for her to remain in their home in Cornwall. There was too much shared, too briefly, now forlorn — this was when Clerehaven indeed became a haven. Her dear Mary, dying of a stroke a year before Joe, willed to Inez her Rumpelstiltskin house, hidden away in the heart of the steep town. All the contents went to various friends, relatives, charities; Mary, with loving prescience, knew that when Inez moved into the house she would require a shell, a hollowed-out life to fill.

  This was where, widowed, Inez sought to escape all Joe’s relatives. An absurd optimism … The younger ones, unstoppably breeding, were particularly persistent. They kept turning up with babies who had to be instantly pottied or breast-fed, whose necessities spread a trail through the house. Inez, literally tripping over bundles of nappies, blankets, woolly animal things, packs of food, thought dazedly of Africa, of strapping black women, naked baby on thigh — innocent of the blandishments of Mothercare.

  She really did not know what to do with Joe’s family; she tried, but any meaningful communication was beyond her. In a way she could never define she knew she did not exist for them: they talked around her, above her, beyond her, never meeting her eyes, never addressing her directly. Nobody had ever said a word about her lack of relatives, any allegiance she might have when theirs was so labyrinthine. How could she explain herself? She settled for cunning, which happily coincided with truth. Her house was small — only two bedrooms. Parking was restricted. She was scarcely accessible in Winter … Bugger them, they wanted to come in summer. She began to pretend she was going on an extended tour of somewhere; a cruise. Weeks. Months. If — with the tenacity of the unwanted — they did turn up, she simply hid. They had maddening persistence, going round the house looking through windows, rattling doors. Once, shell-suited parents and four rampaging children picnicked in her garden — She’ll be just out shopping, we’ll wait … They had a car loaded with luggage. Trapped upstairs, what could she do?

  She telephoned her friend, Sam. Shortly afterwards, he appeared in her garden with a story about her being rushed to hospital with a dangerously infectious disease. They left, precipitately. Later, he asked, ‘Didn’t they send a get-well card?’ She muttered, ‘Oh bugger off.’ She hadn’t much idea who they were and, so far, they had not turned up again.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Down in the town, after she had delivered the armadillo back to Mrs Hanks, Inez made her way through quiet streets towards the one shop that would be open at that hour. On the sudden, startling opening of vistas, the cramped road gave way to a small, elegant square where a Victorian shelter stood, sturdy and practical, built to last for ever, its seats facing the four points of the compass, its wrought ironwork a burst of frivolity.

  It was there Sam came upon her, crouching down by the seat, making herself as small as possible.

  ‘Inez, what are you doing?’

  For reply she reached up, grabbed him, pulled him down beside her.

  He said, ‘Not Joe’s marauding family?’

  ‘No, Jaynie Turner. There, talking to Mrs Arbuthnot.’

  ‘Ah … ’

  Jaynie Turner, following her divorce, had moved from Chatfield to Clerehaven two years before. To everyone it seemed much, much longer.

  She was in her early fifties and the entire course of her life was written all over her radiant prettiness: winner of the Beautiful Baby competition, enchanting child, exquisite girl, glamorous woman. As her dazzling presence was her passport, she had never seen the point in paying regard to anyone’s feelings. Nerve-racked people muttered, Why doesn't the stupid woman call herself Jane?

  Somebody once asked her.

  Because, she answered, wide-eyed, as if it were only too evident, she had always been Daddy’s Little Princess, little Jaynie. And because, as it was also only too evident, she needed the dispensation of the diminutive to behave badly, be selfish and vain and hurt people with cruel comments. But then, there was always the smile behind the beautifully manicured hand, the luxuriantly lowered lashes, the girlish giggle; never having moved on from the pampered and adored province of childhood, she knew she would be forgiven.

  From their hiding place, Inez and Sam watched her making gestures towards herself: flowing, curvaceous. ‘Oh, God, another bloody new frock,’ Inez breathed.

  Sam said, ‘Well, I don’t think she’s asking Mrs Arbuthnot about her sciatica.’ He was irredeemably practical. ‘Listen. Suppose she walks round here and finds us.’

  ‘We’ll pretend we’ve lost something.’

  He had a precise turn of mind, entirely appropriate to his work poring over minute differentiations in grasses at the Plant Research Institute. It did occasionally make people short with him, which he good-naturedly overlooked. ‘Urn … What exactly … ?’

  ‘One of your contact lenses.’

  He thought about this for a moment before pointing out, painstakingly polite, that he didn’t wear them.

  ‘Oh, all right. My ear-ring.’ She took one off, stuffed it in her pocket.

  ‘Now what?’ he asked.

  ‘Let’s look … ’

  They peered over the dividing partition. Jaynie had disappeared.

  ‘Where were you going?’ Inez asked.

  ‘To have a walk with you and the armadillo, but I was too late.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. That would have been lovely. Let’s go and get our papers and then come and have breakfast.’

  This called for caution. Alert for the least sign of a lingering Jaynie, they made their way — flattened against buildings, sprinting across openings, peering and dodging back from corners.

  When they had filtered into the shop, the newsagent (an imperturbable man) exchanged pleasantries, served them, watched the manner of their leaving with resignation.

  Poised in the doorway, Inez said, ‘We’ll just have to make a break for it … ’ So they raced: Inez, a tall, stately woman with tousled brown hair, a broad, serene face, eyes full of laughter. Sam, elegantly casual, streamlined as a whippet, following her pounding Doc Martens, allowing her — twenty years his senior — to win.

  It was not long before they reached their destination. The seven-foot high, weathered, exquisitely carved oak gates, always standing open; the name plate: Cremorne. Private.

  It was a secret place at the heart of the town, people walked, drove past without realising it was there. In the 1700s there had been a farm, outbuildings. Then, when through the slow evolution of social life the farm became redundant, a spacious house of great charm was built upon its shell. The outbuildings became assorted dwellings — somebody, in 1930, built a perfect Metroland bungalow. By the time gas and electricity arrived, there were five houses and gardens set amongst the foliage and gravel paths, privacy and community. No one knew who had given Cremorne its name, or why, or who was responsible for the glorious gates.

  They fell into her house, breathless with laughter. Inez gasped, ‘It’s Nella I feel sorry for.’

  ‘Is Jaynie still pursuing this idea of their being related?’

  ‘Of course, what else has she got to do?’

  ‘Is there anything in it, do you think?’

  ‘It’s very doubtful. Nella is resisting the idea to the death, who can blame her? But Jaynie is amassing all this evidence … ’

  ‘Is it evidence?’

  ‘What? Well, it’s um — things she’s finding out, reading old letters, looking at old — Sam, that’s an odd thing to ask.’ Realising as soon as she’d said it that it
wasn’t; he had an analytical mind, devoted to detail; she was slapdash, leaping from one assumption to the other.

  He said, ‘I’ve just never fathomed how a woman with the IQ of a tea bag ever got started on such a project — never mind shutting up and sitting down and diligently researching — ’

  Ah, yes, I see. Come on. Kitchen. And I’ll tell you.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  They made breakfast companionably and lavishly, a feast with all the mad pleasure of the forbidden: buttered eggs, sausages, fried potatoes, mushrooms, crusty bread, a jug of fragrant coffee.

  Sam had known Inez since he was a child; her house, with its enfolding calm, always held a special welcome for him. Although he had been brought up in Chatfield, he remembered his mother bringing him to visit her friend, Mary Weller, and Inez, her cousin, had often been there.

  Inez explained about Jaynie. ‘It was after the divorce — ’

  ‘Yes, he went off with a teenager or something, didn’t he?’

  ‘No, dear heart. He went off with a woman at least eight years older than himself, plump and motherly and dowdy.’

  Sam stopped setting out their places at the big kitchen table and stared at her. ‘I never knew that. I thought — well, she’s always so bitter about husbands who dump their wives for younger models.’

  ‘Of course, bitter because it didn’t happen to her. He’s a really nice chap, Arthur. I think he just got cheesed off living up to her expectations. He wanted to put his slippers on, wear old cardies, potter in his greenhouse. She’d never stand for that.’

  ‘God, no,’ Sam said, awestruck at the thought.

  ‘So, yes, he took his chance of happiness when it came along … ’ And he had, during thirty years of married life, fulfilled his obligations: showy house, children’s education, exotic foreign tours, smart holiday villa somewhere, social status. Who could blame him for settling into the arms of his undemanding, comfy mistress? His children didn’t. They had their own lives, all they wanted was to be left alone to get on with them but Jaynie, enraged, set about making the divorce as ferocious as possible and life hell for everyone. Her husband was a beast, her children disloyal, her replacement an old tart. Yes, yes, said her friends, you’re so brave, dear. She was concentrating so hard on being beautiful in distress it took quite a while for her to realise her friends were getting far too much enjoyment out of feeling sorry for her.