Death of a Friend (8 page)

The other member, Bartholomew White, kept his distance from Alexis; she had never spoken to him, as far as Hannah knew. He’d farmed all his life on an isolated property to the north of High Copse. He’d been a Quaker for decades, but rarely involved himself in anything more than the Sunday meetings. He’d been ‘convinced’ as the archaic language put it, in his twenties, and been staunchly loyal ever since.

Preparing to get Bill to his feet and make the short journey home, Hannah was once again drawn to look at Clive Aspen, hearing his voice
rising above the general murmur. Clive always seemed more self-consciously Quaker than any of the others, on whom faith sat lightly and unobtrusively. Clive talked about ‘God’s work’ and ‘spiritual paths’ more like an Anglican vicar than a Friend. He complained constantly of the small size of the Meeting, and urged everyone to find ways to bring in new people. Hannah had eventually spoken to him about it. ‘We prefer to leave people to find their own way here,’ she had said. ‘We do no good by forcing them.’

His manner, then and now, conveyed reproach, a sense that nobody quite came up to his expectations. Here was this most wonderful of all religious groups, ready for the taking, and the perverse human race failed to avail themselves of it. For Clive, this was inexplicable. He couldn’t help but evangelise.

Now he was saying to Dorothy, ‘I hope this meeting has been helpful,’ with a self-conscious glance at Hannah. When he met her eye his normally pale skin seemed to flush. She could see his jaw clenching, his body taking on a momentary rigidity. Clive Aspen was a trial to her, in her capacity as Clerk to the Meeting. All around him conflict was generated; arguments, misunderstandings, a sort of deception. Clive lived by a set of precepts that disturbed Hannah. Not least, there was his treatment of Mandy, who
seemed to melt away, diminished, when in his company.

Nagging at the back of Hannah’s mind was the memory of a scene between Clive and Charlie on the day before Nina Nesbitt died. Charlie had found out that Clive intended riding to hounds in the hunt meeting, and was upbraiding him ferociously. The exchange had taken place in the Meeting House kitchen, while Hannah had been in the small back room, trying to find a particular volume. It all seemed a long time ago now, but Clive’s words were etched on her memory.

‘I’ll do what I like, Charlie Gratton. There’s nothing wrong with following the hunt. It isn’t for you to dictate how people behave.
If you try to stop me, you’ll be very, very sorry. I’m warning you – don’t try to interfere with me.’

The words themselves were bad enough, but the tone had made Hannah shudder. She had never before heard such hatred in a man’s voice.

Back at High Copse Alexis told Martha all about the Quaker gathering and what they had said about Charlie, going on to describe a strange encounter with Val Taylor just as she was leaving.

She had been intercepted at the door by Val’s plump arm encased in an expensive silk blouse. Val had begun slowly, apologising for not having been at Nina’s funeral because of a vital case conference, commiserating on the appalling impact of the two deaths so close together. ‘We all loved Charlie,’ she had continued in a low, strangled voice. ‘He was the life and soul of the Meeting. We might be small in numbers, but we have a force, something good and vital. Charlie did that. Without him, it’s going to fall apart.’
Alexis had looked nervously over her shoulder at the other Quakers, still chatting over their tea, but they didn’t seem to have heard.

Val went on, ‘Some people think everything can go on the same, but it can’t. Some people even think that without Charlie it might be
better
than before. He caused trouble, yes, but it was
good
trouble. It challenged all the bad things. Look – I can’t talk to you now. Can I come and see you at High Copse? Tomorrow afternoon? Four o’clock? I know Polly already said something to Martha and you probably think it’s a bit soon, but I think we should start a collection right away.’

Alexis had been bemused, but there’d been no reason to refuse the woman’s request. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘but I don’t really understand …’

‘You will,’ said Val.

‘So she’s coming here,’ Alexis told Martha. ‘To talk to us about some sort of memorial to Nina. I have no idea what she has in mind. To be honest, I’ve never taken much notice of her before.’

‘Polly Spence was on at me about the same idea, at the funeral. Nina groupies, both of them. They probably want to build a statue to her outside the village hall.’

‘If they do it for her, they should do it for Charlie as well,’ said Alexis vehemently.

Martha spread her hands. ‘Don’t ask me. I
would have said hero-worship isn’t very Quakerly anyway.’

Alexis snorted. ‘If you want my opinion, the Quakers themselves wouldn’t know what’s Quakerly and what isn’t. One minute they’re making banners and handing out leaflets about animal cruelty; the next they’re complaining that Charlie gives them a bad image.’

‘That’s what comes of not having a proper doctrine, I suppose,’ murmured Martha. She returned her attention to a button she was sewing on to Hugh’s trousers.

‘How do
you
know they haven’t got a … doctrine? Whatever that is?’

‘Charlie told me. You must have known that.’

‘What makes you so bloody well-informed all of a sudden? What’s
doctrine
got to do with anything?’

Martha bit her lip and said nothing. It was the strategy she had always used when dealing with her younger sister’s anger.

Den made a start on his interviews early that afternoon, beginning with Clive and Mandy Aspen. The Wardens of the Meeting House lived in a spacious first-floor flat attached to the premises. As Den raised his hand to ring the bell, he was surprised by the door silently opening and Clive Aspen appearing. He was dressed in a long
black coat, which combined with his black hair and deep dark eyes to give him the appearance of the villain in a Victorian melodrama. The two men stared at each other speechlessly for some seconds, before Clive said, ‘You’re not wasting much time, are you?’

‘I’m sorry to be a nuisance, but I would appreciate a few minutes of your time.’ He noticed how difficult it was to speak calmly in the face of Clive’s hostility. He felt as if he were interrogating a known felon with the requisite anti-police grudge, rather than a respectable Quaker.

‘I’m just going out,’ said Clive superfluously. ‘Can’t it wait? Or maybe Mandy would do? She’s upstairs.’

‘I’m sorry, sir, but I think it would be better if I could speak to the two of you. It won’t take very long.’

Clive was tall, but still three inches below Den, and the disadvantage clearly discomforted him. His face flushed, and he glanced over his shoulder. ‘Oh, all right then,’ he capitulated. ‘You’d better come in.’

The door led directly into a hall and up a steep flight of stairs. The Meeting House on the ground floor had its own entrance. Clive led the way, calling for his wife as he reached the top of the stairs. There was no response. ‘Mandy!’
he tried again, a harsh note in his voice snagging Den’s attention. A door opened, and the woman stood in the doorway, her head turned towards the stairs.

‘Yes?’ she said, the word carrying a wealth of resentment and misery. As Den approached her, he could see the marks of tears on her face.

‘That policeman’s here, wanting to talk to us about Charlie.’

‘Well bring him up,’ she said wearily. ‘We knew he’d come.’

Clive preceded Den up the stairs in silence and then into the living room. The couple took up positions of distinct unease, Mandy leaning awkwardly against a table and Clive standing in the middle of the room, as if guarding his territory.

‘Come in. Sorry about the mess,’ he said curtly.

The flat was not messy in the least. Two or three books lay on the table, and a piece of knitting was just visible under a cushion on the sofa. Otherwise, it was almost inhumanly tidy and clean. The contrast with the shambolic but life-filled High Copse Farmhouse was almost ludicrous.

Den sat down on the sofa, encouraged by a wordless wave of Mandy’s hand, and took out his notebook. ‘I’m going to need to run through a few points with you.’ 

Clive went to an old-fashioned Ladderex storage system and opened the flap of a desk. He took out a slim booklet and brought it to Den. ‘This is the Monthly Meeting Membership List,’ he said. ‘Our Preparatory meeting is here, look. All Members and Attenders are listed. I think you’ll find twelve names in all. We’re an extremely small Meeting.’

‘Thank you,’ smiled Den. ‘May I keep it for a day or two? Or should I copy the names out now?’

Clive shrugged. ‘Keep it. I know them all by heart anyway.’

‘Thank you,’ repeated Den, wishing they would both sit down and relax a bit.

‘Would you tell me anything you knew about Charlie Gratton that you think might be useful?’ he began, having learnt the value of non-specific questions of this type. If you stuck with stark facts, when you knew almost nothing about the set-up, you were virtually certain to overlook something vital. Encourage people to waffle, and important information sometimes emerged.

Not with these two, though. ‘I really don’t think we can usefully contribute to your investigations,’ said Clive stiffly. ‘You’ll already be aware that Charlie lived with his father and aunt, that he was heavily committed to animal
rights activism, and that Alexis Cattermole was his girlfriend.’

Den looked casually at his own feet, and asked, ‘Did you like him?’

Clive’s breath hissed as he drew it in sharply. Mandy suppressed a small moan.
No
and
Yes
respectively, Den guessed. ‘He was all right,’ Clive managed. ‘Made a lot of trouble for everybody, and had some intensely stupid ideas, but he was sincere. The Quaker way is to find something to value in everybody.’

‘But it’s easier with some people than with others,’ Den supplied recklessly. ‘Bound to be.’ He looked across at Mandy, as if for support.

‘He’s a great loss,’ she said in a voice overlaid with a strong Birmingham accent. Accustomed to the musical rhythms of the Devon dialect, Den found the strained, nasal flatness of the woman’s speech jarring.

He wanted to ask:
To you or to the Meeting?
but didn’t dare with her husband present. To judge from the tear stains and her hesitancy, there was no need, anyway. If he’d read the signs correctly, Mandy Aspen was missing Charlie Gratton very much indeed.

‘Were either of you involved in the animal rights activities?’ he continued. ‘I assume from what you’ve just said, Mr Aspen, that you’re not in much sympathy with it?’ Again he glanced
at Mandy, trying to invite her to make her own contribution.

Clive drew himself up tall; his nostrils flickered. ‘No,’ was all he said. Den heard a wealth of suppressed contempt behind the word.

‘And yet a number of other Quakers seem to have agreed with Charlie,’ Den remarked. ‘As I understand it.’

‘One or two,’ Clive acknowledged. ‘There’s an element of Quakerism which attaches a lot of importance to the welfare of animals.’

‘Which you don’t endorse?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I see. Now, I just need to check a few dates and so forth, and I’ll be out of your way. How long have you lived here at the Meeting House?’

‘Three years.’

Den made a careful note, mindful of his Inspector’s censure. ‘And do you work anywhere else – or is this your sole occupation? Being Warden, I mean?’

‘I freelance in a small way as a software consultant – working from here – and both Mandy and I assist the community by giving our time to local schools. You probably know how eager the Government is to ensure computer literacy in the next generation. Unfortunately, the teachers aren’t always up to the challenge. So I go into the local primary school and Mandy
performs a similar role at the comprehensive in Tavistock. She couldn’t find paid employment here. She’s a trained librarian, as it happens.’

‘So you both work mostly without payment?’ Den queried. The couple nodded in unison.

‘We didn’t come here in order to get rich,’ said Clive stiffly. ‘Besides, we have a small private income – inherited from my parents – which gives us a certain amount of freedom.’

‘And the Wardenship?’ Den pursued. ‘What exactly does that entail? I gather it’s not in any sense like being a vicar or priest.’ He spoke cautiously, uncertain of his ground.

‘The Society of Friends does not favour any sort of priesthood,’ said Clive pompously. ‘We have a Clerk, who conducts our business meetings, and two Elders. Our job here is to keep the place clean, to welcome visitors and show them around if necessary, and to take responsibility for lettings of the Meeting House. At the moment it’s only used on one afternoon a week, by a small discussion group, and one evening a fortnight, by what was Charlie Gratton’s Animal Rights Campaign. We provide tea and biscuits for the Sunday meetings, and ensure that the heating, water, electricity, rubbish collection and telephone are all maintained and regularised.’ Den could almost hear the quotation marks from the Wardenship job description. 

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘That’s all very clear.’ Though just where it left him in regard to his murder inquiry, he had very little idea. Clive’s manner was offputting and mildly intimidating, but there were no detectable signs of guilt. He decided to wind up his interview with the usual unsettling request.

‘Could you both tell me where you were on Sunday and Monday of this week?’ he said flatly.

Clive answered for them both. ‘We were both here on Sunday morning, of course, for the meeting. Mandy was at the school all day on Monday, but Monday is one of my free days …’

‘So is Friday, by the look of it,’ Den remarked.

‘We’re here today because of this morning’s special memorial meeting for Charlie,’ said Clive acidly. ‘We were needed here. I had hoped to make up the time this afternoon instead—’ His sigh was loud and exaggerated.

‘I don’t work Fridays,’ Mandy offered. ‘Not usually, anyway.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Den retreated. ‘If you could just—’

Clive took up his thread. ‘I was here on Monday morning, and went out in the afternoon to see a friend. It is rather difficult, Constable, to account for every moment of two whole days, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate.’

‘May I ask exactly who this friend was that you visited?’ 

Clive frowned almost imperceptibly. ‘It was Miriam Snow, one of our members. You’ll find her in the booklet, including her phone number, if you want her to corroborate what I’ve told you. She lives alone, and tends to get agitated about small difficulties. She wanted to complete her tax return, and asked me if I would help her. I was happy to be of that small service.’

‘How long did it take?’ Den queried.

‘The whole afternoon,’ he said shortly.

Den made another few lines of jottings, and then looked up. ‘Just one last question,’ he smiled. ‘Do either of you ride?’

He could see that Clive was under no illusions as to the import of the question, but Mandy seemed to be enlivened by it. ‘Oh yes!’ she beamed, finally pushing herself away from the table. ‘We both do. It’s one of our greatest pleasures. We hire horses from the riding stables, every chance we get.’ Suddenly aware of Clive’s silence, she cut herself short. ‘Don’t we?’ she asked anxiously, pressing him for agreement.

‘We do,’ he said. ‘We find it very … therapeutic.’

‘And did you go riding on Sunday or Monday this week?’

‘No,’ said Clive emphatically. ‘Definitely not.’ Mandy blinked, but said nothing. Den made another superfluous note. 

‘Well, I’m sorry to have disturbed you,’ he said, putting his notebook away. ‘Especially as you were just going out.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Mandy quickly. ‘We’re all very upset about Charlie, you know. He was one of our most energetic members.’ 

Just about the youngest, too,
thought Den, trying to imagine what a thirty-three-year-old animal rights activist could get out of membership of such a peculiar outfit as this small group of Quakers seemed to be.