The potting shed murder, p.25
The Potting Shed Murder, page 25
“I meant that it was worth watching over her. Taking care of her. She was far too fragile, far too needy and yes, far too spoiled for him. He didn’t know how to cherish her like I did. I understand her, you see; I’ve known her since she was eighteen. I knew that it would come to a head one day. I knew that I had to be in the right place at the right time to save her—and I was. He didn’t deserve her. He’d never even loved her. What a waste. I knew that she would be happier without him, I just had to wait until she could see that too, and after that night—she knew. All I ever wanted was to help her see that he wasn’t worthy of her. To make her realize that it was my job to save her.”
The doctor seemed exhausted after his emotional outburst, but he was still forthcoming. He seemed so willing to share his emotional baggage with Daphne. He had always struck her as a lonely man, despite his amiable nature. Now she knew she hadn’t imagined the air of loneliness to him, and she knew the reason behind it.
“And so how did you ‘help her to see it,’ Ptolemy? How did you save Augusta?” Daphne wasn’t sure whether she was ready to hear the answer to this question while there was nothing between herself and the doctor but an antique pine table and a bone china teacup . . . but the conversation was reaching a natural conclusion and she wanted to keep him talking. She also couldn’t deny how compelled she felt to ask the inevitable question. “How did you ‘save’ Augusta, Doctor Oates?” she repeated.
“Why—I disposed of Charles, of course. Just as she asked me to.”
CHAPTER 19
August 1983
“Pregnant?”
Charles sat miserable and cross-legged opposite Clo on the floor of the cramped makeshift bedroom. It was the furthest that they had sat apart from each other all summer, but he had been instructed that this was to be a “hands off” discussion, where touching and kissing were strictly off limits. He’d known that it must be serious as they had hardly been able to keep away from each other since they had left the local sixth form the previous year, having worked incredibly hard to find the most imaginative and covert ways to spend time together, away from the disapproval of their families. Not that Clo’s mother was particularly against their relationship per se—and there was no father around to speak of—rather, she was worried that her daughter would be hurt by this conservative young man from the village who appeared to be masquerading as a free spirit for a summer or two, before he “buckled down and got serious at university with a nice girl from a proper environment,” as his own mother described it.
Both mothers had been wrong of course. Charles was utterly and completely committed to Clo. He hadn’t realized that being in love would make him feel so strongly about another human in the way that he felt about Clover right now, and had hardly believed his luck that she’d deigned him worthy of her attention in the first place. Despite the stigma attached to the community who lived at the Cringlewic commune by the adults of Pepperbridge parish, the younger generation had seemed incredibly cool and mysterious to the youths in the area—or at least those who chose to attend lessons at the school. As the son of the headmaster, the academic, polite and always smartly dressed Charles Papplewick had possessed the opposite attributes of anyone who could be deemed cool or funky. Clover had said so herself when they first sat next to each other in A level English. She had laughingly called him “square” because his ties were always pushed up to the hilt of his neck and his shirts were always unnecessarily stiff and starched—especially for a boy of his age.
Several months later, as he had lain with his head nestled comfortably in Clover’s lap in the cow parsley-covered woodland at Cringlewic, he had explained that his uptight exterior was to do with his mother’s obsession with keeping up appearances. She insisted on dressing him up as the person she wanted him to be and, as there seemed to be little else that made her happy, he was obliged to keep the peace. In fact, for as long as Charles could remember, his parents’ marriage had been about putting on a good show, and concealing the reality of what was actually a hollow shell of limp politeness.
There had never been much emotion in the Papplewick household—no arguments nor any passionate reconciliations. Just a blandness that remained on an even keel, which felt almost worse in Charles’s eyes. Nothing to rebel against, no evidence of spite or hatred: in fact, there seemed no intensity of feeling at all beyond a hope for a similar life for their only son. A mild acceptance of a life based on made-up social rules. He’d always longed for the day he could escape and live the relaxed and carefree life that had evaded his rigid and stagnating parents. With a maturity beyond his years, he had vowed that he would never enter into an emotionless marriage like his parents’. He wanted the angry passion, the happy kisses and the wild laughter that he’d seen at his friends’ houses—and he also wanted a noisy and chaotic house filled with children.
Now Clover seemed to be offering that chance to him. Yes, they were only young. Yes, he would have waited if he could have planned it better, but now that the “issue” had presented itself, he couldn’t help but feel a bubbling excitement welling up within him. He would marry Clover, of course, and attending university in September was now out of the question. He’d have to get a proper job—or perhaps they could travel around Europe, baby in tow. He’d already deferred a year before university to spend more time with Clover. He couldn’t bear the thought of being parted from her and so had begged his parents to allow him a gap year on the pretext of helping his father out at the school and offering maths and English tutorship to earn money. They had reluctantly agreed—not knowing the true reason.
“I’m not keeping it,” Clover said with a quiet finality that sent a chill down Charles’s spine.
“What do you mean? I want us to keep it, I want to be a dad—I love you!” He tried to launch himself across the room to hold her but was stopped in his tracks when she put out her hand in a silent command.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Charlie. We’re kids ourselves, and you’ve already compromised your life by staying back a year. Besides, I want to travel and make music and do other things. Things that don’t include having a baby.” She looked directly at him then, her face expressionless and her eyes unmoved, if a tad shinier than normal. “I’m serious. I’m not having it, and Mum has agreed.”
Charles was convinced that he could feel the sound of his heart beginning to crack a little as they sat in silence. Could she hear it too? He didn’t know what to say or do. Was this a moment to stay polite and accept her decision, or should he fight? He’d never been taught how to fight. He’d never learned how to allow his emotions to run free and express what he really felt. He’d had a beautiful year of coming close to that with Clover, but now he could feel the constraints of his upbringing start to enclose him again. He could almost feel the tight knot of an imaginary tie at his neck. The stiff scratching of a nonexistent shirt against his arms.
“I think you should go. It’s raining and Mum says that it’s only going to get worse—and Charles . . . I won’t change my mind, so don’t ask.” Her face expressed an unflinching and stubborn determination that showed clearly that the matter had been decided and was now closed.
He didn’t know what to do. Beg her? Force her? He had never felt so powerless as this in his young life. He had no right to force her to do anything. He knew that. He was dismissed. No longer required. He could tell from her tone that this was it—the end. This was the break-up that he heard so much about in books and films. Was it really supposed to be this quick—this simple? There would be no baby and with that there would be no more Clover.
He stood up numbly and walked down the narrow staircase and straight out through the back door, narrowly avoiding Clover’s mother in the kitchen, who was tapping her foot along to the raspy tones of Rod Stewart singing “Baby Jane.” Ironic. He wasn’t ashamed to see her because of the baby situation—he would have proudly left with Clover there and then if anyone else had challenged his desire for them to remain together and keep the baby—even her mother. No, he was leaving because Clover had told him to do so. He simply didn’t want her mother to see how much he had been hurt by the decision. How much his inability to fight Clover for what he wanted was hurting him right now.
Why had she not wanted to keep the baby? They could have done it together—not without a few hardships, but they would have been fine. Was it her mother—did she not approve? Hadn’t she been in exactly the same situation herself? Or perhaps that was it. She had been through it herself as a young mother, and didn’t want the same life for her daughter.
The sky turned slate gray and thunder had started rumbling just as he was leaving—matching his darkened mood perfectly. Even in the gloom, he could tell that the clouds were low due to the absence of stars and the oppressive thickness of the air. A heavy downpour had followed shortly after while he walked and kicked at tufts of muddy grass, childishly launching his steel-capped Dr. Martens boots against fallen branches just to hear them snap. He’d cycled there that evening and was just making his way over to the ancient oak tree where he had left his bike propped up, when he saw another figure emerging from the dirt track that led to the other properties in the Cringlewic enclave. The figure was tall and willowy, hunched over and visibly drenched by the downpour.
“Patsy?” he called out. “Patsy, is that you?”
Patsy looked up from her folded arms and rounded shoulders.
“Charles?” Patsy acknowledged, hardly looking up.
“Are you OK?” As devastated as he was about his own situation, he was suddenly aware that he had been neglecting Patsy over the past few months, and here she was looking like a drowned rat, with an expression as miserable as he felt.
Patsy tried to put on a brave face, but at the last minute her face crumbled and she began to sob, taking in huge gulps of air as she tried to find the words to explain.
“They’re leaving, Charles! Did you know? They’re all leaving to go and live with family in Somerset—and Seraphina and Clover are going with them! Did she tell you?”
Patsy and Seraphina had been going out with each other for far longer than Charles and Clover. It was an open secret within the Cringlewic community, but not widely known among the members of the Pepperbridge parish community, or indeed to Patsy’s own parents or older sister, Nancy. Patsy had come out to her close friends when she was fifteen years old. She had told them that she had known about her sexuality her entire life, but that she wanted her two closest friends, Charles and Ptolemy, to be the only people who knew until she was ready to tell her parents. Unfortunately, that moment had not arrived before her father had died prematurely, and as the years went by, Patsy had simply chosen to keep her two lives separate, dividing her time between home life and her authentic life known only to a few select friends. Despite her mother’s reluctance to support the idea, Patsy knew that one day she would go off to art school in London and, in a dream that mirrored Charles’s own dreams of small village emancipation, she would be free to be the person she’d always known she was without hiding anything ever again. For the moment though, she needed to stay and help her mother and sister with the village shop until they were on their feet again. Dreams would come later, and besides, she had fallen in love with one of the girls from Cringlewic who loved her just as passionately back. Her dual life had been easy enough to negotiate until now.
Wordlessly, Charles hugged his old friend close. No words were needed. He knew exactly how she felt. Their silent embrace was meant to comfort himself just as much it was intended to soothe Patsy, and they stood getting drenched by the rain and clutching each other, crying in mutual empathy. Their shattered dreams were accompanied by a dramatic symphony of thunder and lightning, as though emphasizing the despair they both felt at being deserted by their first loves. It was during this embrace that a desperately worried Nancy drove along the woodland lane towards Cringlewic and discovered her clearly heartbroken sister sobbing and gasping for air in Charles Papplewick’s arms.
August 1987
Ptolemy couldn’t help but congratulate himself as he neatened his bow tie and straightened his collar in front of his parents’ dressing room mirror at the family home in Pudding Corner. For the first time in years, he had the upper hand over his best friend Charles Papplewick. Charles had always been taller, fitter, better looking and far more likeable than him—despite starting out as the nerdier of the two (that girl—who was it, Clover?—had supervised his transformation) while Ptolemy had stopped growing at fifteen and ended up as the “runt” of the pack. The bespectacled joker, the unsexy one. Well, wasn’t this a turn up for the books? Ptolemy would be turning up to the Pepperbridge school reunion with the most beautiful girl that the village had ever seen on his arm. Not only that, but she also had class and beauty as well as brains.
Augusta Churchill was training to be a doctor just as he was. The village would surely be in awe at these two shining beacons of respectability and intelligence. Two young doctors in love—they would be the pride of the town, just as everyone had assumed that Charles would be when they were growing up. Charles, who had apparently been destined for great things, who had been teacher’s pet (not hard when your father is headmaster) and even Ptolemy’s own mother’s favorite.
“When is Charles coming over again, Ptolemy?” she would ask him. “Why not invite young Charles over for lunch? How is that fine young friend of yours doing—did I see him in the village the other day?”
Well, look at him now. Charles had returned home with his tail between his legs to teach at the same small village school they had attended. Imagine that! Getting all those A levels, being accepted into Cambridge and turning it all down to become a teacher back where he started, and under his own father too. Not that Ptolemy wasn’t still fond of his old friend, of course. Charles had never been anything but kind. It was just that, in a small village, people tended to be stuck with labels for the rest of their lives, and as someone who had once been known as the awkward one within the Three Musketeers, it was a joy to be the one who came out on top for once.
Tonight, he would show everyone what success outside of Pepperbridge looked like. With Augusta Churchill on his arm and a medical degree firmly in his pocket, this was his time to shine.
He twirled his signet ring around on his pinkie finger absent-mindedly while thinking of another ring—his mother’s engagement sapphire, which she had so kindly given him—that was safely hidden in a box in his bedroom. There was also a bottle of champagne chilling in the freezer back home. It was going to be a perfect evening. He was sure of it.
August 1990
“Do you have the rings?” Charles asked Ptolemy for the third time in a row and with such solemnity that one would have questioned whether they were about to take part in a funeral rather than a wedding ceremony.
“Of course I do. Just as I had them five minutes ago, and again when I checked five minutes before that,” Ptolemy replied pointedly.
If he wasn’t feeling so wretched inside, then the whole thing would be laughable. Here he was acting as best man to his so-called best friend, who was about to marry Augusta Churchill—the great love of his own life. The very person he had proudly brought home three years ago now to show off to the village on the assumption that he would be the man that she would be marrying today. Not Charles Papplewick—his miserable, humorless, angst-ridden friend who had shown little to no interest in the instantly smitten Augusta.
It had taken Augusta three years to break down the tightly clamped emotional defenses of the noncommittal Charles. Three years of using the unwittingly gullible Ptolemy as an excuse to return to the village with the specific intention of flirting with his oldest friend.
Even then it hadn’t started out as some great romance. Augusta had simply been obsessed with making Charles want her. Being ignored wasn’t something that Augusta was accustomed to—especially by someone who came from a tiny village in the middle of who-knows-where. Charles had started out as a challenge, of that Ptolemy was sure, and Augusta liked nothing more than proving people incorrect. Charles had shown not a flicker of interest in Augusta on first meeting her, and that infuriated her to the point of needing to conquer him like a climber conquering Everest. It was as plain as it was simple—Augusta was a spoiled little rich girl who refused to take no for an answer and despised the monotony of things that came too easily. Unfortunately, Ptolemy in his gratefulness had presented no challenge at all. He had been a willing puppy, eagerly accepting Augusta’s occasional crumbs of affection, showing himself to be far too easy and willing to do her bidding. Not only had he kicked himself on numerous occasions for having worn his heart so clearly on his sleeve since then, but Augusta had joined in and given him a kicking too—especially when she was feeling particularly infuriated by Charles’s inattentiveness.
His greatest weakness was that he kept coming back for more abuse from the very people he knew could hurt him the most. Even now, when the two people that had meant more to him than anyone else in the world had betrayed him, here he was playing one of the most important roles at their wedding. He hated himself for it—and yet, like a moth to a bonfire, let alone a flame, he couldn’t tear himself away from them.
Only that very morning, when Augusta had requested that he bring some aspirin to her in her dressing room, then purposefully pressed herself up against him wearing only a sheer silk dressing gown, he had been ready to do anything for her in that moment. Anything at all. Her hand had lingered far too close to the top of his inner right thigh. She knew what she was doing. Always promising, always manipulating. Occasionally delivering—when it suited her. He had become unsteady on his feet as he felt her warm breath on his ear and she had made him promise to always look after her and never leave her.
