Classic Mistake (16 page)

‘Her disappearance from Wychwood is no ordinary theft, Belinda.’

‘But Gran had nothing to do with it, Jack,’ wailed Daisy.

Belinda ignored her. This was between her and me. ‘You’ve got a very strange bee in your bonnet, Jack, and it’s stung you this time.’

‘All the Charros were at Wychwood just after Melody disappeared. Why?’

She was looking at me with pity. ‘You’re trying hard, Jack, but you’re still way out. Look elsewhere. Not at me. And for goodness sake, let’s have lunch.’

I’d mishandled this discussion big time, even though we patched things up over lunch. I’d had a hunch about Melody and Belinda that had been punctured like a tyre on a bed of nails. Furthermore I’d upset Daisy and, worst of all, I didn’t know where I was going with this. The key lay in Wychwood, I was sure, but the key to what? Melody? Carlos’s death, or Frank Watson? Or perhaps all three. Just one would do at present.

If the key to this puzzle did lie at Wychwood, the odds were it included Ambrose as well as Josie. I didn’t know much about Alzheimer’s but I suspected it wasn’t a condition that left much room for considered deception. If, however, I could hit the right note and gain some rapport with Ambrose I might get somewhere – provided I could avoid that lug wrench.

I spent some time studying Eastry, since I reasoned that was the way to get Ambrose’s attention – even if he performed another reincarnation of King Egbert. I mugged up on its archaeology and history, discovering there had been no less than three major digs there in relatively recent times: one in late 1970 at Eastry House, which from its finds proved to be an Anglo Saxon burial ground, of which there are now several known in the vicinity of the village; the second dig was in 1980 at Eastry Court, next to the church. This was specifically in search of the Anglo-Saxon royal palace. The results of that were inconclusive from the finds; the palace might have been there, or it might not.

The third dig, as recently as 2006, was by television’s famed
Time Team
presented by Tony Robinson; this had pinpointed Highborough Hill to the north-east of the village, and the dig there had led to further digs again in the village itself. Once again, Eastry Court failed to reveal any conclusive evidence, and from the overall effort the surest result was that the hill site had been a ritual meeting place. Christianity had come to Kent at the end of the sixth century, but it had obviously taken time to change over completely from pre-Christian faiths and rituals, as there was little doubt that inhabitants would hedge their bets with only gradual merging of the two.

Had Ambrose been involved with the Eastry digs? It was highly possible, at least for the first two, although his chief claim to fame, I had discovered, had been an Anglo-Saxon hoard found in Suffolk. And yet: ‘Are you going to take me to Eastry?’ he had asked when I first met him. Not Suffolk. Was it Eastry’s royal palace or the burial grounds that attracted him, or both? Had he dug there, or did he wish he had done so? I remembered his quoting Shakespeare: ‘Let’s talk of graves, of worms and epitaphs.’ Buried treasure and King Egbert. Grave goods rather than buried treasure? For a king they would be treasure indeed. Was I at last on the right track? I could find no evidence that Egbert had been buried at St Augustine’s in Canterbury, which had been founded with the express intention of providing a burial place for the Kings of Kent and was now in ruins. That did not mean Egbert was not buried there, but Ambrose might well have – or had – his own theories as to where the grave was.

‘Ambrose, you’ve got your wish,’ I breathed to myself. ‘I’m going to take you to Eastry.’

Fridays were thought to be unlucky in earlier times, and this was a Friday. On some days misfortune seems to hang around in the air from the time one fires the engine by simply getting out of bed, but this did not seem to be the case when three days later I drove through the woods to Wychwood again. I was beginning to have doubts on the merits of this mission, however. Even if Ambrose did want to go to Eastry, what relevance could that possibly have to Carlos, the Charros and Frank Watson? Looked at from that angle, this mission was only a crazy whim. I reminded myself that Ambrose had been a May Tree regular, and Carlos had paid regular visits too. Did they overlap? Even if they did, however, Ambrose, for all his large house, did not seem to be a rich man, so he could hardly qualify for Carlos’s ‘business meeting’.

I almost changed my mind about going to Wychwood, but as I was so near I steeled myself to go ahead. What was so wrong about humouring an old man’s whim, even if it did not have relevance to my case? It was gone midday when I reached the house, and the door was opened immediately. Josie looked distraught and was only too pleased to see me.

‘He’s gone,’ she cried. ‘I can’t find Ambrose.’

‘I’ll help you look,’ I offered. ‘He’s probably just wandered off.’

She shook her head. ‘He wouldn’t do that. It’s his lunchtime, and he knows that when it’s my shopping morning I bring some back with me. He’s always waiting for me. But today he wasn’t, and I’ve searched everywhere I can think of.’

This sounded bad. ‘Has his Renault gone?’ If he thought he could still drive, there might be trouble ahead. As his son sometimes took him out in it, there would be petrol in the car, so Ambrose might have seized the opportunity.

She took the point, and we raced over to the garage. I pulled the door down, and she peered inside. ‘No, the Renault’s here, thank heavens. But he’s not in the house, so he must be out here somewhere.’

‘We’ll call the police to keep a lookout but I expect he’ll come back in his own time.’ I didn’t even convince myself, and it was clear a major hunt was necessary.

Josie disregarded me. ‘He’d never miss lunch. He must have hurt himself.’

‘We’ll check the grounds. What about the old barn where I found the car? That’s been on his mind recently. He might have walked up there.’

She clutched at this straw and, as we hurried along the track without a sign of him, all sorts of wild scenarios – or not so wild – chased through my mind. Would we find a king in full regalia, a Saxon warrior, a monk …? Was he digging trenches looking for his precious Anglo-Saxon remains?

I ran ahead and saw the doors were closed. ‘I can’t see any sign of him around,’ I called back to her.

‘Where is he then?’ Josie wailed.

The doors weren’t locked so I pulled them open – and found Ambrose.

No King Egbert now. No Melody either.

Ambrose Fairbourne lay spreadeagled on his back with distorted blue lips, through which his tongue bulged, specks of blood on his face, eyes staring sightlessly upwards, his neck—

He had been strangled.

I
was barely aware of Josie at my side as I knelt to check there was no life left in him. The only sound was that of her deep rasping breaths. I registered that she was trying to hold back panic, but even as I went to help her, her screams began, piercing through me with almost physical pain. I put my arm round her and half pulled, half pushed her out of that terrible place until we were some ten yards down the track and surrounded by the greenery of the trees rustling in the cool breeze. I waited a moment or two until her breathing was more regular, then pointed further down the track to where I could see a fallen tree trunk.

‘Over there,’ I said gently. ‘Sit down while I ring the police. Then I’ll come to join you.’

Josie said nothing, but looked at me with humbling gratitude. In nightmare situations such as this it is a relief when someone takes the initiative, and in this case I had no choice. It had to be me. I watched as she followed my instructions, and I rang for the emergency services. I double-checked that Josie was still sitting on the trunk, then forced myself back to the barn. I’d often met violence in the past, but this time the poignancy and pointlessness of this crime overwhelmed me. Who on earth would want so badly the death of an old man suffering from Alzheimer’s, when his active participation in this world was past? Was Ambrose wealthier than he had seemed? Was this a case of his heirs wanting to gain their inheritance more quickly than nature had planned? I clutched at this scenario, but his son seemed to have an established career of his own so it hardly seemed likely.

Had Ambrose disturbed a casual intruder? But why would any casual intruder want to break into a garage that a peek through a crack would reveal was empty? I checked the padlock without touching it, but it did not look forced, so Ambrose must have unlocked it himself unless it had once again been left open. Was his killer someone who wanted the Morris Minor and didn’t know that it was no longer there? Why
kill
Ambrose though? Casual intruders would probably be local and news of Ambrose’s condition would have spread, which meant they would know that they had nothing to fear from leaving him alive to tell the tale. That’s what logic told me, but life is not always logical and nor are inflamed emotional reactions.

Ambrose had been strangled manually, as far as I could see. There was no sign of a ligature but that would need closer examination. I remained in one spot at the door, partly not to disturb the crime scene any more than I had already done and partly to ensure that Josie was still sitting on the tree trunk. I could see that she was. In Ambrose’s weak condition, physically as well as mentally, it was conceivable a woman might have been his killer, but that was for the police to work out. The idea that Josie might have killed him repelled me, not just because of the nature of the crime but because I had begun to have an unexpected liking for her. I could see no motive – quite the contrary – but nevertheless she was undoubtedly in the best position to kill him. Her alibi that she was shopping would need witnesses to convince the police. However, if she wanted Ambrose to die there were easier ways than strangulation for her to kill him –
if
she had any reason to do so. For the life of me I couldn’t see what she had to gain from his death. Years ago Carlos had deprived her of one career avenue, and Ambrose’s death would mean the end of a job that seemed to suit her well.

I walked along the track to join her, still pondering why Ambrose might have come to the barn. I sat down at Josie’s side, but the wood felt cold to the touch – unless it was me who was cold. She was a pathetic sight: long grey cardigan over jeans and T-shirt, lank hair, and a weather-lined face that at the moment was sagging under all the cares of the world. She looked in a terrifying state of confusion, and no wonder, with all that must be running through her mind. I put my arm round her and she seemed glad of it, although in a world of her own which must be spinning out of control. Was that through shock at the discovery of Ambrose’s body or – I had to consider – the horror at facing what she herself had done or brought about? Had the Charros’ visit two days earlier anything to do with this? Is that what the meeting had been about? Again I could not think of a single reason linking the two events, but the coincidence could not be ignored, for all its sinister implications.

‘The police will be here soon,’ I said to Josie, just to make contact. ‘I think I hear sirens.’ I couldn’t, but it seemed to break the ice.

‘Who would have wanted to kill him?’ she blurted out.

It was a rhetorical question, so I didn’t answer it directly. ‘He’s been dead some while,’ I told her. When I had briefly touched it, the body seemed already to be slightly cooling. ‘How long were you out?’

‘Left about nine thirty,’ she said dully.

Blood cools at about one and a half degrees centigrade in an hour in average conditions, if I remembered correctly. So if I was right, Ambrose could have died not long after Josie had left and certainly more than an hour ago. I hesitated whether to continue or not, but as she had made the first move, I decided to keep the conversation going, without pushing her.

‘Was he OK when you left – nothing unusual?’ I asked, making it sound a casual enquiry.

‘No. I helped get him up as usual. Eight o’clock. Gave him his breakfast. Got off to the supermarket, did the shopping as always, but when I got back he wasn’t there.’

I thought she was going to break down again, so I raced ahead as fast as I could. ‘As far as you know, was anyone coming to visit or sit with him?’

‘Like I told you,’ she told me dully, ‘he’s safe enough for short periods. Matt said he might come to do some work on the garden.’

‘Did he do so?’

‘No sign of him, but then there wouldn’t be. He doesn’t care if I’m out. He knows I’ll pay him next time. Haven’t had time to see if he’s done work or not.’ Her voice broke, perhaps because she realized there would be no next time.

‘What reason might Ambrose have to walk up to that barn?’

‘Only bloody Eastry,’ she replied without rancour. ‘I kept telling him that Morris Minor wasn’t there any more, but he kept on going on about it and going to Eastry, so he might have gone to the barn instead of the garage where the Renault is. The garage is locked too but I think he knew where I keep the keys. He might have got mixed up, thinking the Renault was up there.’ She jerked her head towards the barn, then shuddered, perhaps thinking of what
was
up there. ‘He’s supposed to take another test before he drives again but he couldn’t drive a pedal bike the way he was.’

‘Did you do the shopping alone?’ A step too far because she glared at me.

‘With my mum. Sainsbury’s. Any objection?’

‘Good choice,’ I said placatingly.

She didn’t miss the implication though. ‘And if you think I’d kill old Ambrose, what do you think I am? A flaming maniac? Why would I? I’ve – had – a job and a place to live. What am I going to do now, eh? You tell me that!’

Her voice reached a screech but, fortunately for me and perhaps for her, I could now hear the sirens and they were close by. I’d rung Brandon as well as dialling 999, and my guess was that as Brandon might see the possible link with Carlos’s death he would gear up straightaway to come with his full team. It was time to move, to my relief. While one is
doing
one doesn’t have to
think
so much, and so for me the image of Ambrose’s body might retreat for a while.