The Death of Lucy Kyte (29 page)

‘Not at all. It isn't about distance, is it? It's about a way of life. Sometimes a change can be a blessing, and sometimes not.'

He nodded, pleased that she understood. ‘Don't get me wrong – Hester loved it here, otherwise she would never have stayed. When she and Walter bought that cottage, it was a dream come true, a symbol of everything they'd worked for and shared, part of who they were. But she had no sense of purpose here after he was gone, and I could understand that. Another day was just another day. That became less true as time went by. I suppose she got used to it, and learned to accept it.'

Or found a new purpose, Josephine thought, picturing the transcript of Lucy's diary and all the work it must have entailed. ‘Was Hester thinking of going back to London?' she asked.

‘She mentioned it once or twice in the long term. I think it was a question of practicality more than anything else. She started to say that her years were catching up with her, although I can't say I ever thought of her as old.'

‘Not even towards the end of her life?'

‘Not really, but bear in mind that we didn't meet very often. She'd come to us for dinner two or three times a year, and I'd occasionally see her in the village or drop in to the cottage. The last time I called, she had a visitor already so she didn't invite me in, and I have to admit – when she died, I was surprised and saddened by how long it had been since we talked properly. I regret that now. And you're right – when I went to pay my final respects, I was shocked by the change in her.'

‘You went to the cottage after she died?'

‘Yes. Bert Willis and his wife called me in. It was Bert who found her in bed.'

Josephine didn't correct him. ‘Yes, I know. Bert's wife was there as well?'

‘Yes. Bert was quite upset. I think she was worried about him.'

So much for Hester's final instructions, Josephine thought: Red Barn Cottage was beginning to sound like Finchley Central after her death. ‘Did you notice anything different about the house?'

‘Only that it was a mess. It didn't seem right to look too closely. Hester was always a proud woman.'

‘Did she ever confide in you?'

He looked at her curiously, and Josephine knew that it was only a matter of time before she had to justify her questions to him. ‘About what?'

‘I don't know really. Anything that was on her mind, any worries or fears that she might have had. Obviously I wouldn't want you to break any professional confidences.'

‘Oh, don't worry about that. If Hester had told me anything, it would have been as a friend, not as a vicar. She never needed any counselling on matters of faith. Her beliefs were quite straightforward, but very certain.'

‘So
did
she tell you anything?'

‘Not in so many words, no. The only thing I can think of was that she gave me the name and address of her solicitor in case anything happened to her. It came completely out of the blue and I thought it was a little strange at the time, but in hindsight it made sense and I'm glad that she did. Hester must have known she was likely to die alone. Sadly, that proved to be true, but at least I knew who to contact for her final wishes and we were able to look after her decently and make sure they were carried out.' He shivered, as much from the thought as from the chill that hung over the graveyard. ‘Shall we talk somewhere more comfortable? Why don't you come back to the rectory and have some breakfast with us? I'll dig out the parish register for you, and if there's anything else you'd like to ask me about Hester, then please do.'

Josephine was about to refuse, but she suddenly realised how much she would welcome some company. She was still shaken by everything that had happened overnight, and a warm dining room and some easy banter with Hilary sounded considerably more enticing than returning to Red Barn Cottage with God knows who roaming about upstairs. ‘Thank you. That would be lovely, and if it's not too much trouble, I wonder if I might use your telephone as well? There's a call I need to make, and I'd rather not do it at the post office.'

‘Of course.' Instead of going back via the road, Stephen led Josephine across the fields to the rectory and they were there in a matter of minutes. It was a fine-looking house, a fifteenth-century building enhanced during the Georgian era and much less forbidding than its austere iron gates and high walls had led her to believe. The hallway was a classic example of good taste defeated by day-to-day living, and Josephine guessed that it set the tone for the rest of the house: a set of three miniatures on the wall by the door was obscured by an overburdened coat rack; gloves, loose change and a bewildering number of scribbled notes and memos swamped the elegant Sheraton telephone table; and the striking effect of a classical statue was considerably undermined by the old leather football that had become lodged between it and the wall. Even so, it was comfortable and inviting, and a reminder of everyday living was exactly what Josephine needed. For the first time, she realised how isolated her days had become. A smell of bacon wafted enticingly out from the kitchen, and upstairs she could hear Hilary telling the boys to do something; even at a raised volume, there was a note of weariness in her voice that suggested very little hope of a positive outcome, at least for the next five years.

Hilary appeared on the landing a few seconds later, and beamed when she saw she had a guest. ‘Josephine! What a nice surprise! Where on earth did Stephen find you at this time of day?'

‘In the graveyard. I was looking for Lucy Kyte.' Hilary seemed confused, and Josephine brought her up to date. ‘I was wrong about her being a friend of Hester's. She was contemporary with Maria Marten and she lived in Red Barn Cottage – at least, I think she did. That was Hester's interest in her.'

‘And?'

‘No luck, I'm afraid. Her husband's there, and her stepdaughter, but there's no sign of Lucy.'

‘A mystery – how intriguing. That must be right up your street.'

‘I've brought Miss Tey back to look through the registers and have some breakfast,' Stephen said.

‘Only if that's no trouble.'

‘It's no trouble at all. Stephen hasn't eaten yet and it'll give Beattie a chance to practise on another pan of bacon. She's marvellous at most things, but judging that fine line between crispy and buggered seems entirely beyond her. Take your coat off and I'll make some coffee while we're waiting. You look as though you could do with some.' She took Josephine's coat and balanced it precariously on the others, piled one on top of the other until it was only an act of faith that a hook had ever existed. ‘Are you all right? You look exhausted.'

‘I'm fine, but I've been up all night working and I would kill for a cup of coffee. Can I make a telephone call first, though?'

‘Of course,' Stephen said. ‘Come with me – I'll take you somewhere more private.'

He showed Josephine into his study and shut the door discreetly on his way out. It was a peaceful room, if thoroughly masculine in its tastes, with a fine view across sloping lawns and parkland back to the church. While the trees clung stubbornly to their leaves, the distinctive spire was only just visible in the distance, and the church was more easily located by the pattern of gravestones on the hillside. There was no other house in sight, and Josephine tried and failed to think of another village in which both church and rectory were so utterly divorced from the heart of the parish they served.

Showing rather less discretion than her host, she allowed her eyes to wander along the bookshelves before going over to the telephone. It was a motley collection, more academic than she would have expected to find in most rural parsonages, but she also recognised some of the spines from the now-familiar histories of the Red Barn murder, and wondered if the ownership of those books was a sure-fire way of telling the house of an incomer from that of someone born in Polstead; she still found the lack of interest amongst local people hard to understand.

A grandfather clock struck the hour in the hallway and reminded Josephine of what she was supposed to be doing. She picked up the receiver, hoping that she was not too early to find anyone at the office, and was in luck on the third ring. ‘Stewart, Rule & Co. How may I help you?'

Miss Peck's voice – as clipped and as economical as ever – sounded oddly out of place in the garrulous disorder of Stephen's study, but Josephine made an attempt to respond in kind. ‘It's Josephine Tey. I'd like a word with Mr MacDonald, if he's available?'

‘I'm afraid Mr MacDonald won't be in until lunchtime, Miss Tey. Can I ask him to ring you then?'

‘That's kind, but I'm not at home.'

‘Are you still in Suffolk?' The question was innocent enough, but the slight disapproval implicit in its tone irritated Josephine immediately. Quite why she felt the need to explain herself to her solicitor's secretary was beyond her, but she did it all the same. ‘Yes. I'm still sorting through Miss Larkspur's things, and I have one or two questions. I wondered if Mr MacDonald had had a chance to look through the papers I left for him.'

‘Yes, he did it straight away.' The pause made it clear that anything else would have been unthinkable in an office run by Jane Peck. ‘I sent a letter out to Crown Cottage on Monday, but of course you won't have seen it yet. Just a minute . . .' Josephine opened her mouth with a more specific request, but the thud of the receiver on the desk told her that she was wasting her breath. She pictured Miss Peck in the ordered office, going immediately to the correct drawer to find the correct file with the correct letter that she had carefully typed according to John MacDonald's dictation, and wished that efficiency in other people did not grate on her quite as much as it did. ‘Yes, here it is,' the secretary said, returning to the telephone. ‘The balance owing to you once all funeral expenses are dealt with and all debts settled is £32, 15s and 6d. There is also a list of stocks and shares which I can read to you now if . . .'

‘No, no,' Josephine cut in quickly, horrified to think that Miss Peck could assume that she was chasing Hester's money. ‘That's not what I was phoning about at all. I wanted to ask Mr MacDonald if he had come across anything unusual when he was going through Miss Larkspur's financial papers.'

The question had been vague, even to Josephine's ears, and it got the treatment it deserved. ‘Unusual?'

‘Yes. Any …' She faltered under the enquiring scowl of the voice at the other end, and started again. ‘I wondered if he had found any large sums of money coming into or going out of Miss Larkspur's accounts, any transactions that seemed a little . . . well, a little irregular.' Miss Peck's silence seemed to underline to Josephine that Hester's accounts while she was alive had been Hester's business and hers alone, so she tried a more confiding approach. ‘Miss Peck, from what people have told me since I've been here, my godmother had an enviable collection of memorabilia and antiques pertaining to the village and its history,' she explained. ‘I've had a chance to sort through most of the cottage now, and many of the things that Hester owned seem to have vanished. It's quite possible that she sold them before her death, which is why I wanted to ask Mr MacDonald if there was any sign of that in her financial affairs before taking the matter any further. The sums involved would be quite substantial.'

She had been prepared to share her anxiety over Hester's death if necessary, but when Miss Peck spoke again, her attitude had changed completely. ‘I see. How terrible – for you, and for Miss Larkspur. Mr MacDonald didn't give any indication that things weren't perfectly in order, but of course he might have preferred to talk to you privately about his concerns if he had any. I'll certainly make sure that he looks into it as soon as he gets in this afternoon.'

‘Thank you.'

‘Not at all. How would it be best for him to get in touch with you?'

‘I'll telephone again tomorrow. Will that be convenient?'

‘Just a moment.' Josephine heard the pages of a diary being turned, and her tiredness began to get the better of her patience. ‘Yes, he'll be here all day, so feel free to call whenever suits you.' She was about to ring off, but Miss Peck added: ‘I was sorry to hear about your father. It must have been quite a shock for him and a terrible worry for you.'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘Your father had a fall down by the river when he was out fishing with Mr Finlayson.' She paused. ‘Surely you knew?'

Josephine considered trying to bluff her way through the conversation, but her concern for her father outweighed her need to keep up appearances in front of Miss Peck. ‘No, I had no idea. Is he all right?'

‘Yes, I think so. A sprained wrist, apparently, and I believe he was quite badly shaken, but other than that he was lucky. It could have been much worse.'

‘When did this happen?'

‘At the weekend. I called into the shop on Monday and Annie was rushed off her feet because he wasn't well enough to come in.'

‘Why on earth didn't he let me know?' Josephine's guilt made her react unreasonably; it wasn't Miss Peck's fault that her father had had an accident while she was four hundred miles away, although she resented the self-righteous note in the other woman's voice.

‘He probably didn't want to worry you. I shouldn't have said anything, but I was sure you'd know.'

‘No, I didn't.' She swallowed her pride and added: ‘Thank you for telling me. I'll telephone him now. Oh – one other thing. Will you tell Mr MacDonald that I've found Lucy Kyte?'

‘Oh?' There was a long pause at the other end, and Josephine wondered if it was childish of her to enjoy her own sense of one-up-manship. ‘Would you like me to give him some details of how to get in touch with her?' Miss Peck asked, recovering quickly.