Beneath the Soil (19 page)

And John had looked scared. She remembered his anxious eyes going round the square as he talked to her.

‘You know,' Millie cut across her thoughts, ‘it's all this damned secrecy. If there's so much panic about who knows and who doesn't, and you think somebody wants to stop it getting out, then wouldn't the best thing be to give the story to the press? Splash it all over the papers and nobody's got a reason to try and keep it quiet any more.'

Suzie stopped dead on the pavement. She looked at her daughter with a new respect.

‘I hadn't thought of it. But you're right. I've been hating this hole-and-corner thing, looking over my shoulder to see who might be watching or listening.'

‘Well, then,' Millie demanded, ‘who's going to tell them? You or me?'

It would be such a relief to have it out in the open. Then a new thought struck Suzie.

‘The police already know about it. Dad went to them and told them about Bernard Summers finding gold. They obviously haven't mentioned it in a press release. Do you think they might be following it up? They could have someone in their sights. How do we know that, if we go public with this, we're not going to foul up their investigation before they can nail whoever is behind this?'

Millie made a face. ‘Like you said,
we
could be the ones in danger if it's just us that know. I've been trying to keep cool about it, but a guy's dead. And you don't honestly think it's an accident, do you?'

DS Dudbridge. Her mind curled round his name, like a shipwrecked passenger clutching at a rope. Was there a chance he might give his permission to go public on the news she no longer wanted to keep to herself?

‘Leave it with me,' she told Millie.

‘Are you sure?' The teenager's face looked disappointed. ‘I was looking forward to landing a scoop on some lucky reporter's desk. It's too late for the local rag. They don't publish again until next week. But the nationals would go mad for a story like this. “Murder over a gold mine.” You can just see the headlines, can't you? Mum, please, let's do it.'

‘Not until I've squared it with the police. I feel the same as you do, but the last thing I want to do is get had up for fouling up a murder enquiry. I'll get on to the DS we talked to straight away. Promise.'

Millie still hovered, frustrated. ‘OK. I'll be with the girls. Ring me. And don't take too long about it.'

‘Will do.'

Suzie watched her elegant daughter stride off confidently into the busy crowds.

She got her phone out. Should she ring Nick first and tell him what she wanted to do? No, Nick would be busy at work. He had enough to worry about. She was convinced that what she was doing was the sensible thing. If she cleared it with the police first, there was no danger of making a terrible mistake.

Her thumb hovered over the keypad. Should she ring John Nosworthy before the detective sergeant? She felt an unexpected desire for the reassurance of his soft voice. Of course, there was little doubt about it. Matthew Caseley must be the heir to Saddlers Wood – could she risk letting his solicitor know just why it was of such importance? Was it possible that both Matthew and John knew already what lay beneath the soil of Saddlers Wood?

A little note of caution sounded in her mind. Trust nobody. Frances Nosworthy had changed her tone unexpectedly. So might her cousin John. She would have to be careful.

She made her decision, She had to find out more. She felt the tension in her throat as she dialled the number.

‘John Nosworthy.'

A small feeling of relief. It still sounded like a friendly voice she could trust.

‘This is Suzie Fewings. We met at the tractor pull in Moortown.'

‘I remember.'

‘Thanks for the extra cheque from the stalls, by the way. On top of the sponsor money that's a fantastic sum.'

‘No problem. I take it that's not the only reason you're phoning me. You emailed me to say the cheque had arrived.'

‘No, look, I know it's a bit of a cheek asking you, but I suppose the contents of Eileen Caseley's will are no longer private. I just wondered … who gets the farm?'

There was silence at the other end of the phone.

‘Sorry,' she said. ‘Have I stepped out of line?'

‘No. It's not that. Anyone can get a copy from the Probate Office. Look, I'd rather not discuss this on the phone. Is there somewhere we can meet?'

She thought rapidly. ‘It'll have to be somewhere in town. I don't have a car.'

‘Right. Do you know the Fenwick Barton? It's a pub out on the edge of the city. You could get a bus there.'

‘Next to the old priory? Yes.'

‘About four?'

She glanced at her watch. ‘Fine.'

‘I'll see you there.' The call was cut off.

Suzie looked down at the phone in her own hand. She had wanted the reassurance of talking to a solicitor, someone who could tell her the legal facts. If Bernard Summers' death related to what lay under Caseley land, then it was important that she knew who owned that land now. Matthew? Philip? Who stood to gain by Eileen's death?

But surely the police would have looked into all of that.

Still the doubts nagged at her. Why had John Nosworthy cut off her question so abruptly, and why was it necessary to meet him in person? Was there something he was afraid of?

Or was it her question that had scared him? Was
she
what he was afraid of?

It was a disturbing thought.

With an effort, she pulled herself back to the task in hand. She had promised Millie that she would ask DS Dudbridge if there was any reason why the police would not want the Fewings to go to the press with the story of Bernard Summers finding gold at Saddlers Wood. She couldn't imagine he would be overjoyed at the idea. Well, it would do no harm to ask.

She did not have the detective sergeant's personal number, but when she told the operator who answered that she wanted to speak to him about Bernard Summers' death, she was put through.

‘DS Dudbridge speaking. What can I do for you, Mrs Fewings?'

‘Look, I know this may sound a rather odd request, but we've reported several times that people seem to be warning us off the Eileen Caseley case.'

‘It's in police hands, Mrs Fewings. You can leave it to us.'

‘I don't mean you, the police. Other people. Frances Nosworthy, Philip's solicitor. Clive Stroud, the MP. Some farmers in Moortown. And my husband went to you with the information that Bernard Summers had found gold at Saddlers Wood. It's just that he might have been killed to keep that quiet. And
we
know. My family. It occurred to me and my daughter that the only way we can be sure something doesn't happen to us as well is to put the information out in the open. Tell the press. That way, it won't be a secret any longer. There would be nothing to be gained from anyone trying to silence us.'

A pause. ‘Don't you think you're being a little melodramatic? We have no reason to believe that Bernard Summers' death was not an accident. We're looking into it, of course, as we would any other sudden death of this sort. I'm sorry if you feel threatened. But since your husband has told us the story, I think you can consider it in safe hands.'

‘Are you saying I shouldn't tell the press, or that I can?'

‘I would prefer it if you left the police to manage the release of information that could just possibly be related to a criminal case. Not that I'm saying it
is
relevant, you understand.'

‘So is that a no?'

‘I would advise you to leave everything concerning this case to us.'

Suzie was left with a feeling of dissatisfaction.

She rang Millie.

‘Well? Is it on?' Millie demanded.

‘He didn't exactly say no, but I think that's what he meant.'

‘Bollocks! We can still do it, though, can't we? If he didn't come straight out and say we couldn't?'

‘I wish I knew what was the right thing to do. Look, I'm meeting someone. John Nosworthy, Eileen Caseley's solicitor. I think he's going to tell me something about the will.'

‘You mean something important? Something nobody else knows?'

‘I've no idea. It can't exactly remain secret once the will is proved. He didn't want to discuss it over the phone. I'm meeting him at the Fenwick Barton at four o'clock.'

She was about to put away her phone when she noticed a text message she had missed. It was from Nick.

‘
Working late. Don't wait supper. X.
'

She hesitated, then phoned him. When there was no answer, she decided not to leave a message on his voicemail.

T
he ruins of Fenwick Priory stood on the very edge of town. The thatched pub beside it still had a rural air. There was a row of modern houses on the other side of the road, but beyond their back gardens the green fields began. The expanding city had only just caught them in its net.

Suzie walked along the road from the bus stop with questions tumbling through her mind. It had been her initiative to ask John Nosworthy about the dead woman's will, but why had the solicitor thought it sufficiently important for him to make this journey in from Moortown to speak to her? What was it that he had to tell her which could not be communicated over the phone?

Could she even trust him that this was not some sort of trap?

On an impulse, she stopped and got her phone out. She had told Millie where she was going, but it suddenly seemed important that Nick should know too. She dialled his number. His phone was still switched off. With a sag of disappointment, she left a message with the bare facts of whom she was meeting, where and when. At the last moment she added, ‘It's something to do with Eileen's will.'

There was nothing more she could do to protect herself. She had been half-hoping that he would forbid her to go to the meeting alone, that he would insist on dropping whatever work he was expecting to keep him late and come rushing over to join her. She even considered phoning Tom. But he didn't have access to a car. He wouldn't make it, even by bike, in time for four o'clock.

She straightened her back and turned in at the gate of the Fenwick Barton.

The interior was dark after the sunlight. It was more sleekly modern than the thatched roof suggested. Chrome rails and green tiles gleamed at her. She looked around for the slight, fair-haired figure she remembered from the market square in Moortown. There was no one there she recognized.

‘What can I get you?'

The soft voice behind her startled her. She turned. John Nosworthy was looking at her uneasily. Again she was struck by the neat formality of his dress, even on a heat-soaked summer afternoon. He wore dark trousers and a crisp blue-and-white shirt, the sleeves carefully folded to above his elbows.

‘Just a lemonade, please.'

He brought the glasses from the bar. She noticed with some surprise that he had got a whisky and soda for himself. He motioned with a glass in each hand towards the side door.

‘Shall we take these in the garden? It'll be quieter there.'

The pub was hardly crowded at this hour of the afternoon – Suzie could see only three tables occupied – but she followed him outside. Sunlight struck her eyes as they emerged into the pub garden. There were the usual wooden tables and benches, some with sunshades. A fountain played in a raised basin set in a circle of cobbles. A cartwheel leaned against a wall.

John Nosworthy led the way across the grass to where a table stood in the shadow of a tree overhanging from the priory next door. Suzie slipped gratefully on to a bench out of the sun. There was not much of the old priory left. The few ruined walls were the same red sandstone as the Norman castle in the city centre.

She sipped her drink, savouring the tang of Sicilian lemons, and wondered who should speak first. She was aware of John Nosworthy looking at her with a silent solemnity.

‘Thank you for meeting me here,' she said, to break the ice. ‘I really didn't mean to put you to a lot of trouble. It's just that we seem to have got ourselves involved in this case, whether we want to or not. At first sight, it looked as if it might just be another domestic murder. Husbands do kill their wives every week. And I know farmers are under a lot of strain. But the more we found out about it, the more it seemed as though it must have something to do with whatever has been found under Saddlers Wood.' She paused. She was struggling to remember whether she had spoken to John Nosworthy about Bernard Summers' discovery of gold. Perhaps he knew about it anyway. The serious face across the table gave nothing away. ‘So,' she made herself go on, ‘I felt we need to know just who inherits the farm. Is it Matthew?'

He set down his whisky glass. A cautious look around the garden. There was no one within earshot. Still he bent forward until his head almost met hers.

‘Yes. That was the will as she first drew it up. Everything to Matthew, but Philip would have the right to stay on the farm for his lifetime.'

‘But the son would hold the mineral rights?'

‘Of course.' He frowned, questioningly. ‘Why?' Again that quick look round. ‘The will's gone through probate, so there shouldn't be any harm in telling you. There was a codicil. She made it the day she died.' A leaf from the tree drifted down on to the table. He twiddled it nervously in his fingers. Then his pale blue eyes looked straight at her. ‘Matthew still gets the bulk of the farm, but there's a rough bit of land just on the far side of the wood, Puck's Acre. It looks like an outcrop of moorland, not much good for farming. She's left it to … Clive Stroud.'

‘The MP?' Suzie was startled into speaking more loudly than she intended. She too looked behind her. A couple of men in green and khaki, the sort of army-style clothing farmers favoured, were drinking beer. She did not think they could have heard her, but she remembered the knot of farmers in Moortown and her stomach tightened.