And then there was the destruction of Dingle Dell. Although the police had not released details of the threatening message that had been found on Sir Magnus’s desk, it was well known how much anger the proposed development had provoked. The longer you had lived in the village, the more angry you were likely to be and by this logic, old Jeff Weaver, who was eighty-three and who had tended the churchyard for as long as anyone could remember, became the number one suspect. The vicar, too, had plenty to lose. The vicarage backed directly onto the proposed development site and it had often been remarked how he and Mrs Osborne liked to lose themselves in the wood.
Curiously, one resident who had every reason to kill Sir Magnus but whose name had been left out of the loop, was Clarissa Pye. The impoverished sister had been by turns ignored and humiliated but it had not occurred to any of the villagers that this might make her a murderess. Perhaps it was the fact that she was a single woman – and a religious one at that. Perhaps it was her eccentric appearance. The dyed hair was absurd, visible at fifty yards. She tried too hard with her hats, her imitation jewellery, her wardrobe of once-fashionable cast-offs when really simpler, more modern clothes would have suited her better. Her physique was against her too: not fat, not masculine, not dumpy, but perilously close to all three. In short, she was something of a joke in Saxby-on-Avon and jokes do not commit murder.
Sitting in her home in Winsley Terrace, Clarissa was trying not to think about what had happened. For the last hour, she’d been absorbed by the Daily Telegraph crossword – though normally she’d finish it in half that time. One clue in particular had confounded her:
16. Complained endlessly about Bobby
The answer was a nine-letter word, the second letter O, the fourth letter I. She knew that it was staring her in the face but for some reason it wouldn’t come to her. Was the solution a synonym of ‘complained’ or was it somebody famous, first name Bobby? It seemed very unlikely. The Telegraph crossword didn’t usually involve celebrities unless they were classical writers or artists. In which case, could ‘Bobby’ have some other meaning that had eluded her? She chewed briefly on the Parker Jotter that was her special crossword pen. And then, quite suddenly it hit her. The answer was so obvious! It had been in front of her all the time. ‘Complained endlessly’. So drop the D at the end of the word. ‘About’ indicating an anagram. And a Bobby? Perhaps the capital B was a little unfair. She entered the missing letters … Policeman and of course that made her think of Magnus, of the police cars she had seen driving through the village, the uniformed officers who would be up at Pye Hall even now. What would happen to the house now that her brother was dead? Presumably, Frances would continue living there. She wasn’t allowed to sell it. That was all part of the entail, the complicated document that had defined the ownership of Pye Hall over the centuries. It would now pass to her nephew, Freddy, the next in line. He was only fifteen years old and the last time Clarissa had seen him he had struck her as shallow and arrogant, a little like his father. And now he was a millionaire!
Of course, if he and his mother died, if – for example – there was a terrible car accident, then the property, but not the title, would have to move sideways. That was an interesting thought. Unlikely, but interesting. Really, there was no reason why it couldn’t happen. First Mary Blakiston, then Sir Magnus. Finally …
Clarissa heard a key turning in the front door and quickly folded the newspaper and set it aside. She wouldn’t want anyone to think that she had been wasting time; that she had nothing to do. She was already on her feet and moving towards the kitchen as the door opened and Diana Weaver came in. The wife of Adam Weaver who did odd jobs around the village and helped out at the church, she was a comfortably middle-aged woman with a no-nonsense attitude and a friendly smile. She worked as a cleaner: two hours a day at the doctor’s surgery and the rest of the week divided between various houses in Saxby-on-Avon with just one afternoon once a week here. Seeing her as she bustled in with the oversized plastic bag she always carried, already buttoning the coat which surely wasn’t needed on such a warm day, it occurred to Clarissa that this was a real cleaning lady, which is to say a lady for whom such work was entirely appropriate and indeed necessary. How could Magnus have possibly placed her in the same category? Had he really been serious or had he come here simply to insult her? She wasn’t sorry he was dead. Quite the opposite.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Weaver,’ she said.
‘Hello there, Miss Pye.’
Clarissa could tell at once that something was wrong. The cleaner was downcast. She seemed nervous. ‘There’s some ironing to do in the spare bedroom. And I’ve bought a new bottle of Ajax.’ Clarissa had got straight to the point. It wasn’t her habit to engage in conversation: it wasn’t just a question of propriety. She could barely afford to pay for the two hours each week and she wasn’t going to eat into them with small talk. But although Mrs Weaver had divested herself of her coat, she hadn’t moved and didn’t seem in any hurry to start work. ‘Is something the matter?’ she asked.
‘Well … it’s this business at the big house.’
‘My brother.’
‘Yes, Miss Pye.’ The cleaner seemed more upset that she had any right to be. It wasn’t as if she had worked there. She had probably only spoken to Magnus once or twice in her life. ‘It’s a horrible thing to happen,’ she went on. ‘In a village like this. I mean, people have their ups and their downs. But I’ve lived here forty years and I’ve never known anything like it. First poor Mary. And now this.’
‘I was just thinking about it myself,’ Clarissa agreed. ‘I am mortified. My brother and I weren’t close but even so he was still blood.’
Blood.
She shuddered. Had he known he was about to die?
‘And now we’ve got the police here,’ Diana Weaver continued. ‘Asking questions and disturbing everyone.’ Was that what she was worried about? The police? ‘Do you think they have any idea who did it?’
‘I doubt it. It only happened last night.’
‘I’m sure they’ll have searched the house. According to my Adam …’ She paused, unsure whether to spell it out. ‘… someone took his head clean off his shoulders.’
‘Yes. That’s what I heard.’
‘That’s horrible.’
‘It certainly was very shocking. Are you going to be able to work today or would you like to go home?’
‘No, no. I prefer to keep myself busy.’
The cleaner went into the kitchen. Clarissa glanced at the clock. Mrs Weaver had actually started work two minutes late. She would make sure she made up the time before she left.
5