The potting shed murder, p.5
The Potting Shed Murder, page 5
Either way, Daphne would rather determine things for herself. She was due to deliver the bed’s pieces to Minerva at some point on Friday; they would then build the bed together and dress Silvanus’s room into a magical fairy-tale abode just before his birthday tea. Minerva had already given her a few complicated directions through the wooded area that led to the “so-called” commune—a place that she had previously only heard described via Marianne’s disparaging and spite-filled tongue, although when or why Marianne had had reason to visit the “commune,” Daphne did not know.
What she did know was that in the absence of the magazine shoots filled with high-maintenance editors, photographers and stylists to organize that had dominated her old life, Daphne welcomed this new challenge of defiantly breaking through village hierarchy. Perhaps, despite the sense of quiet, Pepperbridge wasn’t so far removed from the politics of the city after all. It was bound to be an interesting afternoon.
CHAPTER 3
At first glance, one wouldn’t have known that there was anyone else in the bedroom apart from the quietly sleeping child, whose floppy limbs lay half-under, half-uncovered by a crocheted blanket on the rickety makeshift camp bed. It would have taken a while for the eyes to adjust before noticing an almost imperceptible movement in the corner. A sliver of moonlight highlighting the subtle shift of a bent knee as it settled itself into the battered armchair—a discarded gem discovered atop a pile of renovation rubbish in a village skip and rescued from almost-certain destruction at the recycling center. It had a slight hint of mustiness to it, of course, but living in a single-glazed, three-hundred-year-old gamekeeper’s cottage, among dense woodland, brought a musty aroma to most things.
Sleep evaded Minerva. She was feeling nervous about many things—not least the birthday tea that she had reluctantly promised and that was due to take place in about twelve hours’ time. Minerva had often feared that Silvanus would fall victim to the cruelty of the village children, just as she had growing up. Minerva had never had a birthday party of her own as a child . . . and neither had she been invited to any.
Her childhood might have been described as idyllic to anyone stumbling across their little enclave of Cringlewic. It consisted of three ancient and small farmworker’s cottages—including the gamekeeper’s cottage where she and Silvanus lived—a derelict gatehouse, some ancient church ruins, four mobile homes and a Romany caravan nestled deep within the wood adjoining the Oxwold Overy Estate. She had grown up with an immense amount of freedom. Climbing trees, bathing in the stream at Oxwold, campfires on most evenings, and a distinct lack of rules or restrictions—beyond attending the local school. The group of women who had made up the little community known as Daughters of Agnes were symbolically named after Agnes Waterhouse; the first woman to be executed for witchcraft in England in 1566. They may have believed in the Wiccan freedoms of an unstructured upbringing, but they were astute enough to understand that even the most intuitive and wise Wiccan needed the practical tools of at least a basic education—alongside the Magickal tools of Pagan teachings. Some of her contemporaries had been home-schooled, and a small minority of others had attended the village school on and off over the years. Minerva’s mother, however, had insisted that she attend conventional school and receive a basic education alongside her Wiccan one—much to the disapproval of other community members at the time.
Minerva continued to watch Silvanus sleep—as she did most nights from the close and comfortable proximity of her salvaged armchair. He had arrived quite accidentally late in her life. Motherhood had never been a particular aim for her. But from the moment he had arrived, serious and watchful even as a newborn, he had become the all-consuming purpose to her life. He was her light, her heart, her everything—and she was willing to sacrifice anything in order to protect him and give him the best possible start. Even if that meant sending him to the very same school that had caused her years of suffering at the hands of playground bullies, many of whom she pretended not to notice at the school gates now.
School was a necessary evil—at least, it would be until Silvanus turned thirteen. Then, like her, he could make up his own mind about whether to continue with a formal education or not, and they would battle it out with the council when the time came. She had considered home-schooling from the start but, like her own mother, she feared the act of isolating him from other children of his own age, as well as depriving him of an education that was beyond her own capabilities to impart. And then there was the not-so-small fact that he was at the school.
It was a decidedly sticky situation, what with the secret that had the potential to derail a fair few lives in the village. She was surprised that no one had noticed the family resemblance as yet. The serious eyes, the narrow face. The fear that someone would put two and two together induced the metallic taste of fear in Minerva’s mouth at every morning drop-off. Each morning she sat fussing in her old Ford Fiesta, pretending to check random things in the glove compartment or on the back seat so she could reach the playground just before the first ring of the final bell. She had become expert in the accuracy of her timing, arriving at the perfect moment to simply wave Silvanus off into class. Eyes downward at all times, she would give him a quick and self-conscious kiss as he joined the crocodile line winding its way into the reception class. Although her heart would be crying out to stay and protect him at all costs, she would force herself to do an immediate about turn and hurry back to her junk heap of a car without bumping into anyone.
Head down, hood up, eyes on Silvanus only. She was aware of how awkward she looked, but as defense mechanisms go, avoiding eye contact and being labeled as the village weirdo was a good one—a label that she had, after all, worn for most of her life. She was as rarely spoken to now in her forties as she had been in school. Just as she preferred it these days. She felt bad for Silvanus, of course. She didn’t mean to intentionally scupper his chances of having a play before school each morning, but it felt safer that way. It was selfish, she knew, and she had to pretend not to notice the disapproving looks from other mothers, or the occasional glare of disdain from the self-appointed queen of Pepperbridge, Augusta Papplewick. She always avoided eye contact with the headmaster, too, although every once in a while she would catch his silently supportive glance and she felt compelled to look back shyly.
Now, she sat in her chair and shivered despite the mild evening air. He’d told her that tonight would be the night that he finally told Augusta the truth, and it made her feel sick to her stomach. She tasted that familiar sensation of metal in her mouth again. She felt the terror of having opened up a Pandora’s box of secrets. She knew that even her fellow Daughters of Agnes would be shocked to know the whole truth. Perhaps she would become the social pariah of her own small community as well as the village. She hoped that they would be forgiving towards Silvanus, at least. After all, he was just a child and an innocent part of an otherwise complicated situation. Thank goodness Daphne Brewster and her friendly gaggle of confident children had showed up. For the first time in his life, Silvanus had a real friend whose mother didn’t disapprove of him.
Daphne would be bringing the new bed along after school and had also volunteered to bake a cake for Silvanus’s “party,” which meant that at least three children would show up for him. Daphne seemed lovely. Fearless and buoyant, despite also standing out from the other people in the village. Minerva was glad that Daphne would be with her when the truth came out. She needed that distraction, and who knew whether Daphne or anyone else from the village would speak to her after tomorrow?
Silvanus stirred and mumbled incoherently in his sleep. She could see from the violet and pink tones filtering through the cracks in the shutters that it was beginning to get light outside. It was what locals called a “vanilla” sky and it was supposed to be a lucky omen. Yet she feared and longed for, in equal measure, what the day would bring.
* * *
A few miles away, the early light was beginning to seep through the pantry window and through the crack of the kitchen door where the silhouette of a man in pajamas sat in semidarkness, nursing a cup of hot water and honey. All sensible people would be tucked up in bed at such an ungodly hour, desperate to squeeze in a few more hours of slumber before the day truly began. But despite his lack of sleep, Charles Papplewick was feeling more alive and invigorated than he had in decades. He’d spent far too many years living a half-life and now, at last, he could see a clear way out—and that fact thrilled him to the point of ecstatic insomnia. He swirled the honey round the mug slowly—being careful not to make any sounds that would awaken his sleeping wife—and contemplated his years as headmaster in the village.
He had a few big regrets, but dedicating his life to the children of Pepperbridge Primary had not been one of them. Pouring all his feelings into a job that he did indeed enjoy had made good moral sense, but he had always known it hadn’t truly necessitated the full extent of his time over the past forty years. Deep down, he knew that every opportunity to take a vacation—even during school holiday time—he had refused selfishly and unfairly. He had instead encouraged his wife to take holidays on her own, often letting her down at the last minute and citing Ofsted reports, staff shortages and school inspections as the excuse. At the age of sixty-five and with retirement looming at the end of the term, he was conscious that time was running away with itself and, finally, he’d grown tired.
Yet it had not been the endless commitment to work that had left him feeling weary and in need of a change . . . No, work had been a blessing. Work had been a distraction, and seeing children flourish and mature and leave the village school equipped to face young adulthood and beyond had been an absolute pleasure. Being faced with a marriage that left one feeling an empty sense of duty—rather than love—would drain the life force out of even the most resilient of spouses. To put it plainly, keeping up the charade of being devoted to Augusta had sucked him dry of feelings—and better late than never, he had decided that he so wanted to feel again.
Today, he already felt different. Today, Charles had woken up and felt a sense of release. Tonight, he would tell his wife that although he felt affection, he no longer loved her . . . The truth was that he had never actually “loved” her, but telling her that would be cruel and a truth too far. Tonight, he would pack up a bag and leave Wellingborough House, his neat and organized home of forty years. Tonight, on the last leg of his final months before retirement, he would finally be free to live his life properly. A little late in the day, perhaps, to become the man that he wanted to be, but it felt right to put plans in place before it was too late.
Would he have felt this way if it hadn’t been for Minerva? No, probably not. She made him feel excited about the future. At last, something to feel truly passionate about and to really live for. Life, at last, had some meaning beyond simply a sense of duty. The future was calling, and once he had got through the potential ugliness of this evening, tomorrow would be the start of a brand-new life—come what may.
* * *
Marianne Forbes shoved her heel into Timothy’s calf for the seventh time in a row and still he lay fast asleep, blissfully unaware that his wife was wide awake beside him, seething with pent-up anger. They weren’t even facing each other in the bed. She couldn’t actually see his face—but she could hear him breathing far too rhythmically and deeply, and simply the knowledge that his relaxed and recumbent form was enjoying any sort of respite from the current situation annoyed her.
Surely only an immature man who was obliviously secure in his position in life could be so complacent about their child’s future? Marianne lay trembling with fury—or was it the cold? The house was so big and draughty (far too expensive to heat properly), she wasn’t sure. No, it was most definitely a feeling closer to rage . . . She had shoved the prep school rejection letter under Timothy’s nose when he eventually arrived home last night, but his only response had been to resignedly ask her whether their darling son was really cut out for St. Jude’s Prep in the first place. How dare he question his own son’s suitability?
If her husband’s lack of ambition infuriated her, then the village school’s hold on the potential advancement of its “more deserving” pupils drove her mad. She blamed the weak headmaster, Mr. Papplewick. Between him and his ghastly snob of a wife, he had blocked the only inexpensive option they had to get her child into St. Jude’s Prep. Charles Papplewick had refused to play ball with the reference. He claimed that little Tarquin might struggle academically with the curriculum at St. Jude’s. Well, what the hell did he know? School wasn’t about suiting the curriculum to the child—it was about choosing the best opportunity to elevate your child’s future.
Today she was going to give him a piece of her mind. She would find him and tell him exactly what she thought of his small-minded attitude and his ridiculously small-fry school. She was fed up with playing nice and she was not beyond using a threat or two to aid her cause. She’d demand that he write that reference or she would threaten to make a formal complaint about the looks she’d seen passing between him and the traveler mother who tried to sneak in quietly every morning at the school gates. Marianne was no fool. She knew flirting when she saw it. She had seen how he watched Minerva as she attempted to make herself as invisible as possible in the playground. Why was that? An affair perhaps? She’d threaten to make trouble for Charles Papplewick all right—and for his dreadful wife.
Tonight, after school, and as soon as she’d dropped the children home to Pudding Corner—maybe she’d dump them at Daphne’s—she would return to Pepperbridge where she would corner Charles Papplewick and blackmail him to write that recommendation if it was the last thing she did. She would make it happen by any means necessary—anything at all. This little backwater village would not get the better of her.
* * *
At precisely 8:30 p.m., Charles Papplewick walked determinedly out of Wellingborough House for what he knew would be one of the very last times.
It had been an eventful day of mixed emotions, and, despite his current distress, he was desperately trying to hold on to that fading feeling of optimism. A very eventful day indeed. The rain was driving down hard but he hardly noticed as he made his way towards the safe haven of his allotment. The allotment always made him feel calmer and more at ease. It had an almost meditative impact, which was one of the reasons he chose to flee there each afternoon after school.
He took his usual route, albeit several hours later than normal and through rising puddles in the semidarkness, but it had been the first and only place that he wished to retreat to after the showdown with Augusta. He pulled up the collar of his thin jacket against the driving rain and avoided the brambles along Mrs. Smythson’s cottage front on the corner. She’d had many a warning from the local authority to cut her hedge back so that people could pass without having to walk in the road, but it seemed that she had either forgotten or ignored the notices. The route was reassuringly familiar and brought him much needed comfort as he passed the traditional cottages, and the occasional far grander Georgian frontage, despite the inclement conditions.
The conversation hadn’t gone entirely as planned. In fact, no conversation today had gone as planned, and he’d had to rethink quite a few things. He feared that, whatever happened next, he was going to let down quite a number of people—at least for a while—and that made him feel miserable. He would sit in his potting shed for a few hours, smoke his pipe and gather himself together before making his next move. At least he had the whole weekend to compose himself and contemplate this new turn of events before returning to school on Monday and, very soon, at the end of term and the commencement of his retirement, he would have the rest of his life to make things right.
He didn’t like to break promises. After a few false starts, he had made it his life’s work to always do the honorable thing by people. But that had been compromised in recent years, culminating in today not feeling like an honorable day at all. He sighed deeply and continued his familiar walk up the lane, through the shortcut in the Bergensons’ orchard, past the post office on Fleet Street, and towards the paddocks that made up Grimoire Equestrian Center.
He heard a car pull up a tad too quickly before he saw it, the headlights startling him as he turned to see who on earth was screeching along the lane at this time of night . . .
It was yet another tick to add to his list of miserable encounters for the day. Moments later, as the car eventually screeched off, he continued to make his way even more slowly and miserably towards the allotment, wondering how he had been able to handle the chaos of other people’s emotions around him. He recalled the many angry faces and threatening words of those who had seemed so disappointed in him in the past twenty-four hours. As if on cue, the rain poured down even harder in a particularly dramatic fashion, drenching him to the bone. No more than he deserved. He had a spare gardening tunic and dungarees hanging up in the shed, along with a pair of old wellington boots, so he knew that he could change into dry clothes in a minute or two.
It would be strange to return to school on Monday. No doubt the village would talk at first, but he’d given them forty years of service with not a hint of gossip thus far. A few wagging tongues wouldn’t hurt him now. He continued up through the gap that led to the gate, signaling the start of the allotment. At last, he could rest his mind for a while. He’d reached it. His happy place. His space for quiet introspection and contemplation surrounded by all manner of flora and fauna and expertly cultivated vegetation. He would get out of his wet clothes and wait it out until the storm passed—the meteorological one at least.
