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Authors: Rebecca Tope
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told him you’d say.’ She picked up a china dog, wiping dust off its head with one finger. ‘This room is a disgrace. It would have been worth moving house, just to get rid of all this junk.’
‘It’s my junk and I like it,’ he said.
‘As you’ve said at least five thousand times in the past eighteen years,’ she returned.
‘You mentioned me then – to the Slocombe chap?’
‘Oh, you were quite central to the conversation.’
‘In what way?’
‘I told him you were less than sympathetic to my wish to find out what’s happened to my mother. That you thought I was just being neurotic, and she’d turn up any day now. Which is true, isn’t it?’
Willard addressed himself studiedly to his toasted cheese for two full minutes before replying. ‘In that case,’ he said slowly, ‘I don’t understand why you went to him, and I don’t suppose he does, either. Doesn’t it worry you that when they get to know you just about everybody regards you as deranged?’
She flinched at the skilful thrust. ‘I don’t believe that Drew thinks I’m deranged,’ she said softly. ‘I think he understands my need to know .’ She lifted her head, her hands curled into fists. ‘And I do need to know, you see,’ she stated clearly. ‘I very much need to know exactly what has happened to my mother.’
Jim Kennett was an avid consumer of all news items – television, radio, local and national papers – absorbing the stories like a gossipy old woman and retelling them with embellishments over the bags and benches of the small old-fashioned sorting office in Cullompton. Jim had been a postman for twenty-five years, a job perfectly suited to his temperament.
The reported discovery of a dead woman in a new cemetery in a small village, buried there before the first official interment, appealed to him enormously. He chuckled over it more than once. ‘Someone was in a hurry,’ he said. ‘Jumping the gun and no mistake. Makes you think, though. What was in their minds – murdering her and then burying her all nice and tidy in a field that everybody must have known was going to be a natural burial ground?’ He mused on this, while his fellow postmen ignored him. ‘I mean – if you’d just killed someone, you’d bury them in a quiet place where you wouldn’t expect anyone togo digging. Wouldn’t you?’ He looked at Pete and Fred thoughtfully, not really expecting any reply. ‘So, maybe they wanted someone to find her. Makes no sense, even then.’
Pete and Fred were even more unrewarding than usual, but Jim needed to worry away at the story for a while yet, before he could let it go. He took it home with him, and started thinking aloud over the supper table, with his wife Caroline and son Jason. ‘That murder’s a poser,’ he began, chewing his fried liver thoughtfully. ‘I was just saying to Pete and Fred this morning – why bury someone in a place where you know she’ll be found?’
His wife and son seldom read the papers or followed the more obscure news stories. ‘What?’ said Caroline.
‘Two or three weeks ago – they found a body, dead six months or more, in a field which was already due to open as a natural cemetery sort of place. They still haven’t identified her. It was on again last night. Asking for people who think they might have known her to come forward.’
‘What’s a natural cemetery?’ said Jason.
‘You know – where they have trees and wild flowers and bits of rock instead of proper gravestones. It’s catching on all over the place. Sounds OK to me. Time we got back to a more sensible way of doing the necessary.’
Caroline slowly raised her head from the task of removing the rind from her bacon. ‘I never told you, did I?’ she said. ‘Last summer, when I was coming back from Taunton. I’d been to see Auntie Hilda, we’d gone shopping together, and then to a film. Uncle George had toddled off to some Masons’ do – though heaven knows what they made of
‘It’s my junk and I like it,’ he said.
‘As you’ve said at least five thousand times in the past eighteen years,’ she returned.
‘You mentioned me then – to the Slocombe chap?’
‘Oh, you were quite central to the conversation.’
‘In what way?’
‘I told him you were less than sympathetic to my wish to find out what’s happened to my mother. That you thought I was just being neurotic, and she’d turn up any day now. Which is true, isn’t it?’
Willard addressed himself studiedly to his toasted cheese for two full minutes before replying. ‘In that case,’ he said slowly, ‘I don’t understand why you went to him, and I don’t suppose he does, either. Doesn’t it worry you that when they get to know you just about everybody regards you as deranged?’
She flinched at the skilful thrust. ‘I don’t believe that Drew thinks I’m deranged,’ she said softly. ‘I think he understands my need to know .’ She lifted her head, her hands curled into fists. ‘And I do need to know, you see,’ she stated clearly. ‘I very much need to know exactly what has happened to my mother.’
Jim Kennett was an avid consumer of all news items – television, radio, local and national papers – absorbing the stories like a gossipy old woman and retelling them with embellishments over the bags and benches of the small old-fashioned sorting office in Cullompton. Jim had been a postman for twenty-five years, a job perfectly suited to his temperament.
The reported discovery of a dead woman in a new cemetery in a small village, buried there before the first official interment, appealed to him enormously. He chuckled over it more than once. ‘Someone was in a hurry,’ he said. ‘Jumping the gun and no mistake. Makes you think, though. What was in their minds – murdering her and then burying her all nice and tidy in a field that everybody must have known was going to be a natural burial ground?’ He mused on this, while his fellow postmen ignored him. ‘I mean – if you’d just killed someone, you’d bury them in a quiet place where you wouldn’t expect anyone togo digging. Wouldn’t you?’ He looked at Pete and Fred thoughtfully, not really expecting any reply. ‘So, maybe they wanted someone to find her. Makes no sense, even then.’
Pete and Fred were even more unrewarding than usual, but Jim needed to worry away at the story for a while yet, before he could let it go. He took it home with him, and started thinking aloud over the supper table, with his wife Caroline and son Jason. ‘That murder’s a poser,’ he began, chewing his fried liver thoughtfully. ‘I was just saying to Pete and Fred this morning – why bury someone in a place where you know she’ll be found?’
His wife and son seldom read the papers or followed the more obscure news stories. ‘What?’ said Caroline.
‘Two or three weeks ago – they found a body, dead six months or more, in a field which was already due to open as a natural cemetery sort of place. They still haven’t identified her. It was on again last night. Asking for people who think they might have known her to come forward.’
‘What’s a natural cemetery?’ said Jason.
‘You know – where they have trees and wild flowers and bits of rock instead of proper gravestones. It’s catching on all over the place. Sounds OK to me. Time we got back to a more sensible way of doing the necessary.’
Caroline slowly raised her head from the task of removing the rind from her bacon. ‘I never told you, did I?’ she said. ‘Last summer, when I was coming back from Taunton. I’d been to see Auntie Hilda, we’d gone shopping together, and then to a film. Uncle George had toddled off to some Masons’ do – though heaven knows what they made of
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