An Unholy Whiff of Death Read online

  Linda popped a gum bubble.

  Sean eased off his work shoes by the back door and entered the kitchen like a returning solider, sniffing the aroma of baking ham appreciatively.

  ‘Did you see the rain this afternoon?’ he asked, eyeing his wife fondly as she broke some eggs into a frying pan. ‘And the lightning? I thought at one point it was going to short out the electric.’ He sat down at the table, got told off by his wife, and promptly got up again to wash his filthy hands.

  The food was served and duly eaten, and it wasn’t until later, as the tea was poured out and the greasy dishes were soaking in the sink that the trouble started.

  ‘Fancy going out for a drink tonight, love?’ Sean asked, looking across at Belinda, who sighed in response. Friday night at the local was darts night. It hardly offered a Breakfast at Tiffany’s experience but it was better than staying in and watching the telly, she supposed.

  ‘Yeah, might as well,’ Belinda said indifferently. ‘You coming, Lin?’

  Linda shook her head, and helped herself to another spoonful of sugar in her tea. ‘Nah. I’m going to Oxford. There’s a new nightclub just opened.’ She’d managed to persuade Gordon to take her there, even though he always looked like a fish out of water in such places, poor sod.

  ‘Oh? Going with Jim?’ Sean asked, his shaggy grey eyebrows going up questioningly as he looked across at her. He was a big man with the beginnings of a beer belly and the strong arms of a manual worker.

  Linda sighed. ‘No. I told you. Me and Jim don’t go out no more.’ When would the silly sod get it through his head? Jim Lavers was the son of Sean’s best mate Colin, a fellow mechanic. Jim was looked on with approval by her parents because he had a good head on his shoulders and a steady job working on canal barges. At a nearby canal wharf, he and a team of electricians, plumbers, and carpenters converted the shells of old craft into the kind of boat that people liked to rent out for holidays.

  ‘I thought I saw you with him the day before yesterday, down at the Arms,’ Sean challenged, his stubble-shadowed jaw jutting out pugnaciously.

  Linda sighed with the exaggerated patience of the put-upon. ‘I went in for a drink. He was there. We said hello. Don’t make nothing out of it, Dad. I’m gonna marry Gordon. I keep telling yer.’

  ‘No you ain’t, see!’ Sean shot out, before he could stop himself.

  ‘I dunno what you got against Gordon,’ Linda said, flushing as her own volatile temper began to rise. ‘He went to Oxford! He earns a fortune over at the lab, and he’s single – he’s not even been divorced. Most dads would be pleased to see their daughters get a catch like him.’ She shot her mum a look that appealed for support.

  Belinda bit her lip and asked if anyone wanted pudding. There was a nice mint and chocolate chip ice cream bar in the freezer… .

  ‘For one thing, he’s too old for you,’ Sean snarled, leaning across the table aggressively. ‘He’s nearly the same age as me.’

  ‘Nowadays that don’t matter,’ his daughter retorted stubbornly.

  ‘And he’s too damned slick. Talking down to you all the time.’

  ‘He’s just very clever. He’s a scientist, for Pete’s sake. What do you think he’s going to talk about, Manchester bleeding United?’

  By now, father and daughter were squared off across the table, eyes blazing, faces only inches apart.

  ‘He’s a twerp. He thinks just because he’s got that fancy job he’s better’n us. I tell you, my girl, you carry on with him, and you’re heading for a fall. Jim’s the one you want to—’

  ‘Oh, sod Jim,’ Linda howled. ‘I want to marry someone who’s gonna take me outta this dump. Gordon says, when his contract’s through with Ferris Labs, he’s gonna go to America. He says that’s where—’

  ‘America?’ It was Belinda who wailed now. ‘But, love, that’s so far away.’

  ‘Hah, he won’t take her to America, never you fear,’ Sean snorted. ‘He’s just after one thing from her, and that ain’t taking her to bloody America.’

  ‘Sean!’ Belinda wailed.

  ‘You’re so out of it, Dad,’ Linda scorned. ‘He’s already “had it” from me, and he’s still coming back for more. And he’ll keep on coming back for more, and I’m going to—’

  She shut up abruptly as Sean lunged to his feet, pushing his chair back and looking fit to burst. ‘You think you’re so damned clever, my girl, such a know-it-all. But your precious doctor, arty-farty scientist friend is two-timing you!’

  Linda paled, but her eyes narrowed ominously. ‘Who with?’

  If her terse response was somewhat less than the outraged, hurt reaction he’d been expecting, her father was too far gone to notice.

  ‘Some woman who works in Cirencester. Burt told me he saw them checking into a hotel together. So what do you think of that?’ he asked brutally, no doubt hoping that what she thought was that she should dump her unfaithful beau and go back to the stalwart Jim.

  What Linda was actually thinking, however, was that she’d have to find out just who this interloper was and figure out a way to scupper her good and proper.

  ‘I’m going to get ready,’ she said abruptly and, turning on her heel, flounced out and headed for her bedroom. She had just the eye-popping outfit needed to make sure that Gordon forgot all about his hotel-loving little bit on the side.

  The Gregsons watched their daughter go and sighed simultaneously.

  ‘That bastard,’ Sean said bitterly. ‘The rotten, cradle-snatching, two-timing, arty-farty bastard.’

  The church at Caulcott Green was nowhere near as ancient as that of Heyford Bassett, (as Graham Noble was always joshing his friend James Davies) but it did the village very well nonetheless. Pushing open the rusty gate that always seemed to squeak no matter how often James oiled it, Wendy Davies walked up the weed-strewn path, following it around to the back of the church, where the latest graves were located.

  The thunderstorm had passed, leaving the air fresh and the grass wet, and the birds singing in the trees. In one hand she carried a brightly coloured mixed bunch of asters and in the other, a bottle full of water. In the long shadow of the church, she set off across the drenched grass, unaware that her shoes had a hole in them, and that her feet were getting wet.

  The last gravestone in the on-going line looked shockingly white and new against the moss and lichen-bedecked Victorian stones set at the front of the church. As she approached it, her knees got that old weak feeling, her body cooled down to a shivering mass of pain, and her mind, as usual, made itself quickly blank.

  It was a pity that it didn’t help numb the raw ache in her chest.

  At thirty-five, Wendy’s curly blonde hair was already turning silver. She’d always been plump, but the ravages of grief in recent months had resulted in lost pounds that now made her look positively haggard.

  As she crouched beside her son’s grave, over against the dry-stone wall, Lady Daphne Cadge-Hampton was putting a vase of chrysanthemums on her husband’s much grander stone sarcophagus. She was dressed in old riding jodhpurs caked with mud, a man’s lavishly embroidered waistcoat, and a long cardigan with more holes in it than Swiss cheese.

  People tended to put her bizarre dress sense down to senility (she was over eighty) or eccentricity, but the simple fact was that she hadn’t bought herself any new clothes since 1951. She couldn’t afford to. All the money there was left in the Cadge-Hampton estate (and there wasn’t a fat lot to begin with) had gone to her son when he’d inherited the title. Hence, she’d long since been reduced to raiding her husband’s old wardrobe as well as the trunks stored in the attic for something to wear.

  It was better than going about buck-naked, the countess had always thought, philosophically.

  ‘There you go, old boy,’ she said fondly, depositing the flowers and then standing back and rubbing her arthritic bones with a wince. ‘Don’t say I never give you anything.’

  She turned, and was about to tramp back to her dower house with its pr
ecarious wiring, damp rooms, and one grumbling retainer (who was nearly as old as she was) when she spotted the vicar’s wife.

  Daphne’s face took on a grim, unhappy look. A bad business, losing an only child like that, and a son to boot. Young Tommy Davies had been such a scamp, too. A face full of freckles and a mouthful of cheek, there had been no real harm in the lad; she’d caught him scrumping her apples only last year, and had chased him out of the garden, an experience they’d both thoroughly enjoyed.

  And then a cough, a rise in temperature, a bit of a rash, and he was gone. In one night. Just like that.

  Careful of the uneven ground, the old woman made her way towards the younger, and stood watching as Wendy arranged the flowers. Daphne raised a hand to scratch an itchy wart on her chin. As she did so Wendy caught the impression of movement in her peripheral vision, and her hands trembled wildly.

  She turned to see one of her husband’s most illustrious parishioners, and smiled. ‘Oh, good evening Your Ladyship,’ she said respectfully.

  In this modern age, cash-poor families with obscure titles were an anachronism that most people thought should be allowed to die out with dignity. But Wendy was rather fond of the old lady, who was nothing if not a character; and besides, Daphne was always going to be someone who commanded respect.

  ‘Evenin’,’ Daphne said gruffly. ‘Nice asters you’ve got there. You entering some for the flower show?’ she demanded in that gruff way she had of barking out questions.

  ‘Oh no, I’m judging them this year,’ Wendy said, hastily getting to her knees and ignoring the damp patches left on her skirt. She was too afraid to turn her head for a quick look at the flowers. If she did so, she might just catch a glimpse of those stark black letters on the headstone, and read her son’s name, and know …

  Know… .

  ‘Er, what are you judging this year, Your Ladyship?’ she asked desperately.

  Daphne gave her a quick, gimlet-eyed look as if to say, what an extraordinary question! ‘The gladiolas, same as always,’ she said, her gruff voice just a little bit gruffer than usual.

  Wendy felt herself flush. How stupid could she get? Everyone knew that the countess always judged the gladiolas, but she was very reluctant, James said, to actually award anyone the ultimate prize and part with that big silver cup of hers.

  James had a sneaking feeling that the old girl really wanted to melt it down or sell it, but didn’t quite dare.

  ‘Well, I mustn’t stop chatting,’ Wendy said, her smile as brittle as a cracked vase. ‘Got things to do, you know?’

  Daphne smiled. ‘The lot of a vicar’s wife is not a happy one, eh?’ she said, and chuckled robustly. But something in her voice made Wendy shoot her a quick look.

  ‘Oh, I mustn’t complain,’ she said, and, giving the imperious old woman a quick bob of the head, turned and hurried away.

  The Dowager Countess of Fulcome watched her go, a distinctly worried look on her lined, ancient face. Then she turned and looked sadly down at the headstone.

  ‘Your mother, Tommy-me-lad, is cracking up,’ she said pityingly. ‘Yerse, definitely cracking up. And that’s not good… .’

  CHAPTER 3

  The early evening sun shone warmly through the big French windows, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air. Sir Hugh Featherstone climbed carefully back down a nineteenth-century oak library ladder that creaked a little alarmingly under his weight, a book clutched triumphantly in one hand.

  He knew it had been up there somewhere.

  He took the book, an 1894 dissertation on gladiola growing by an eminent Victorian luminary on the subject, to a padded window seat covered in badly faded chintz, and sat down to read.

  The man looked himself as if he were an intrinsic part of the furniture, which was not surprising, since he’d been born in the house of well-to-do parents and had grown up as a typical country squire. He’d gone to a good (but nothing fancy) public school as a boarder, earned a BA at Durham (squeaking by with a Third) and had then gone on to enjoy a career in the army, following in his father’s, grandfather’s, and great-grandfather’s footsteps. Retired at sixty, he was now back home to see out his golden years.

  Unfortunately, the Featherstone family fortunes had not survived the twentieth century very well, and Sir Hugh had to make do with one live-in housekeeper and old Malvin Cook in the garden. What’s more, and much as he’d bitterly hated to, he’d been forced to sell off the part of his family estate that had included the mill house and its grounds. Although the milling part of the operation had, of course, long since ceased to function as a business, the house was still a prime property, and no doubt the capital from it would see him out nicely.

  Sir Hugh slowly lowered the book in his hand, gladiolas temporarily forgotten.

  At almost seventy-two, he was still a distinguished-looking man, having retained the upright bearing of a soldier and a fine head of silver hair, although at the moment his face was angrily reddening in colour. It was something that tended to happen to him whenever he thought about Ross Ferris.

  Nowadays he seldom thought of anything else.

  When he’d sold the mill, the buyer, a charming Irishman, had assured him that he wanted it only for a country residence for himself and his growing family. A big wheel in the horse-racing fraternity and celebrity trainer, he’d seemed just the sort you wanted in Caulcott Green, and Sir Hugh, all things considered, couldn’t have been happier.

  Unfortunately, his best horses and the bookies’ hot favourites began, unaccountably, to finish last, which had led to some very nasty rumours flying around at the jockey club, which in turn resulted in the trainer’s rather hasty ‘retirement’ back to Ireland. This had seen the mill house once more coming onto the market.

  Unfortunately, this time Sir Hugh had no say in the purchaser and the Irishman, curse him, had only been interested in a quick sale at the right price. And thus, Caulcott Green had become home to that one-man plague, otherwise known as Ross Ferris.

  With a snort, Sir Hugh thrust the book to one side and stood up. He had the look of a man still active and alert and his face, after his many years spent outdoors in various climes, had a leathery look to it that was not unattractive. His clothes – old but good tweeds – completed the picture of a perfect English squire. Not that Sir Hugh would ever have paused to consider the impression he presented.

  Now he walked to the French windows and glanced out across the lawns and rhododendron bushes before going over to his desk. There he pulled out the latest correspondence from his solicitors concerning their long-running battle against Ferris Labs, and re-read it, a ferocious scowl creasing his thick white eyebrows together.

  When the racing chap had still been in residence, Sir Hugh had decided that just living off the money from the sale of the mill house was wanton laziness. A man had an obligation to make money work for itself, after all, and so he’d cast around for a scheme to suit him, but it had been an old friend of his who’d finally suggested the trout fishing scheme.

  Sir Hugh’s family had owned the fishing rights to a long and clean stretch of a trout stream for centuries. His friend, a decent chap even if he was a civil servant, had bought him magazines dedicated to game fishing, and the prices charged for a single day’s fishing had made Sir Hugh’s eyes bulge. As his friend had pointed out, nothing could be simpler, easier, and less hassle-free than to get into something like this. All he had to do was acquire the necessary licences, then advertise in all the right magazines – Country Life, Homes & Gardens – that type of thing, and then just sit back and rake in the dough.

  It had seemed ideal.

  And for the first three years, so it had proved. Sir Hugh’s stretch of river was only an hour or so from London, after all, and could almost guarantee you a catch of some description. Also, since the proprietor of the country residence in question was the real McCoy and gentry from centuries back, (which pleased the snobs) it was hardly surprising that it had caught on.

  And th
en disaster had struck.

  The first problem came when he met the new owner of the mill house, Ross Ferris. A big personality with a correspondingly big head, he’d riled Sir Hugh in a way that few men had ever done before. The old soldier had sensed something sneering and grasping about the man right from the beginning, and his hackles had been duly raised. But there had been very little that he could actually do about the Ferris blight. The luckless horse trainer had already sold up to the man, not even telling Sir Hugh about the change of ownership until it was a fait accompli.

  And then, six months later, the first rumours began to circulate.

  Ross Ferris was becoming a very prominent figure in the village by then, and was making noises about running for the local council. Also, so it was said, he had plans for the mill house itself. Big plans. The very whisper was enough to make Sir Hugh’s blood pressure soar with a sort of atavistic foreboding that soon became all too real when the bombshell struck. Ferris really did have plans for the mill house that were far worse than merely turning it into a hotel (which had been the most favoured rumour).

  No. The man was turning it into a research complex, complete with labs, full-on security, and its own independent hydro-electric power source. No doubt the big rooms, easy access and millrace were ideal for the job.

  ‘But how did the clever bastard ever get planning permission, eh?’ Sir Hugh heard himself speak aloud, then flushed, fighting back the instinctive urge to look around to make sure that no one had overheard him, knowing that he was quite alone in the room.

  Damn it, he was even beginning to talk to himself now!

  Gruffly, he rattled the letter from his solicitors, making a half-hearted attempt to read it again, but he couldn’t bring himself to concentrate, even though the case was due to come to court next month. Slowly he leaned back in his chair, and tiredly rubbed his forehead. He was getting a headache, something he’d rarely ever suffered from until Ferris had come on the scene.

  He put the letter to one side and wondered again how Ferris had ever got permission to turn the mill house into a working laboratory. The conversion of the outbuildings he could perhaps understand, but the main house itself? True, it wasn’t a listed building, nor yet of any particular historical interest. And true again, Ferris hadn’t changed the outside of the building by one iota. No, all the radical changes had gone on inside, or so he’d heard. The locals who worked there said that it was like NASA inside the complex itself – all computer equipment, and fancy labs, and high-tech security.