Dry Bones (18 page)

‘I'll bear it in mind.'

He returned to his whisky, and when it was finished, he poured the other half. He had no appetite for any supper and no desire to go to bed, in spite of what he had told his daughter-in-law. He slept better now, but the nights still held too many wakeful hours and too many remembered memories and regrets.

After a while, he put on one of his old Gilbert and Sullivan records and sat listening as Mabel sang from
The Pirates of Penzance.

He could only hope that Thursday would do likewise.

During the next two days, the Colonel kept busy. Jacob had cut the lawn in his absence, but there was plenty to be done in the flower beds – weeding, staking, deadheading, trimming, and the white lavender that Naomi had looked after needed to be planted. The irises beside the pond were looking happy with their damp feet and he admired their tall branched stems of beautiful golden-yellow flowers. He could see what attracted Detective Chief Inspector Rodgers.

The terrace was also looking good and growing some rather nice moss, but garden chairs were needed if it were to fulfil its function. Naomi had suggested a place to look for them locally and he followed her advice and found just what he wanted – sturdy things made of a wood that would weather to silver-grey and look right with the old flagstones. He also bought a matching table for the sundowner drinks. All to be delivered the next day. On his way home, he stopped at a pet shop and bought some Cats' Treats.
Shake the pouch
, the makers promised,
and watch your cat come running!
He thought that most unlikely. Thursday was not some performing circus animal or interested in pleasing humans.

He kept on patrolling the garden and hunted in the ditches along the road outside the cottage in case Thursday had been hit by a car, but, to his relief, there was no sad, wet bundle of black and tan fur.

Ruth Swynford phoned.

‘Naomi told me that Thursday's gone missing?'

‘I'm afraid so.'

‘I've spread the word round. Somebody might spot him.'

‘Thank you, Ruth. That's kind of you.'

‘I expect he'll come back on his own.'

He'd given up expecting any such thing. ‘How are the wedding plans going?'

‘Chaotic. I'm thinking of backing out.'

He hoped that she was joking, knowing that she had had cold feet about accepting Tom Harvey. There had been a long and unhappy love affair with a married man before the young doctor had so fortuitously arrived on the scene. Then she laughed.

‘Don't worry, I'm only joking. I hope you're still going to give me away, Colonel?'

‘It will be an honour and I'm looking forward to it very much.' Both statements were more than true.

‘Almost the whole village is coming, so it should be fun. Let's pray the weather's kind to us.'

Ah, the unavoidable lottery of the English summer! Weddings, fêtes, school sports, garden parties, barbecues, open air plays and concerts all depending on the whim of the weather. He hoped the sun would shine for Ruth and Tom. They deserved it.

Major Cuthbertson was at the bar of the Dog and Duck when he strolled over for a lunchtime pint. He seemed somewhat taken aback to see him.

‘Thought you were away, Colonel.'

‘Yes, I was.'

‘Heard you'd probably be gone for some time.'

‘No. I'm back now. What will you have, Major?'

‘Very good of you. A whisky, if you don't mind.'

‘A double for the Major, Bill.'

The Dog and Duck's landlord had none of the professional slickness of the Golden Pheasant's Kevin, and Crispin Fellows would abhor the patterned carpeting, the cheap glint of modern copper and brass and the synthetic shine of plastic, not to mention the unexceptional beer and the microwaved food. But there were at least a dozen people in the bar who had spent most of their lives in the village and one old man sitting with his dog in the corner who had never been out of it.

The Major raised his double whisky. ‘Good health, Colonel. I take it you're recovered from that bad dose of flu you had?'

‘Yes, thank you.'

‘No lasting effects?'

‘None whatever.'

‘We can't be too careful at our age.'

He forbore to point out that he was actually several years younger than the Major.

‘No, indeed.'

‘Feeling up to snuff, then?'

The Major was looking at him as though he very much hoped he wasn't and the Colonel suddenly remembered Miss Butler's little bird who had spread the word that the Major had felt himself to be the obvious choice to give Ruth away at her wedding.

It would be kindest, the Colonel thought, not to give him any false hopes.

‘I'm in excellent health at the moment, thank you.'

‘Jolly good!' The Major conceded defeat and changed the subject. ‘Did you hear there's going to be a rounders match on the green?
Rounders,
for God's sake! A girls' game! What'll they think of next?'

‘Baseball?'

‘
Baseball!
The bloody Yanks play that.'

‘It's rather similar and I believe it's getting quite popular over here.'

The Major shook his head fiercely. ‘I don't know what this country's coming to. All these damn fool modern ideas. The village green's meant for cricket, and
only
cricket. Everybody knows that.'

Back in the cottage, the Colonel sat down in the wing-chair with the latest parish magazine and flicked through the pages. There were the usual announcements for club meetings, coffee mornings, jumble sales, a talk, with slides, on someone's visit to Katmandu, details of recent weddings and funerals and a notice about the proposed Rounders on the Green that had so appalled the Major. Several gardens were to be opened for charity and the Twinning Association had held a pétanque party for their opposite numbers visiting from France. A monthly lunch club had been started up and the proposed menu for the next meeting was cottage pie and vegetables, followed by fruit trifle. The forthcoming village fête, of which he was treasurer, was given a whole page. As usual, there would be cake, plant, bottle and bric-a-brac stalls, as well as pony rides, cream teas, quoits, a guess-the-weight cake and a grand raffle – all to the accompaniment of a silver band. And, something quite new to him – a duck race. Who on the committee had put that novel idea forward? Certainly not the Major.

The magazine advertisements were always intriguing. A funeral service offered prepayment plans (pay now, die later?) a builder made yurts to order (whatever yurts were), a local photographer's credentials proclaimed:
Shoots Everything
.

He wondered if King's Mowbray produced a parish magazine and, if so, what it would be like. Rather different, he thought. The residents were unlikely to be interested in other people's cast-offs, or in amateur slide shows, or in opening their landscaped gardens to the general public.

He put down the magazine and his mind went back again to the Wiltshire village, to the old barn and to the death of Gunilla Bjork.

You must do what you think best.
So far as he could still see, after a good deal of thought and soul-searching over days, the best thing was to do nothing. Maureen Barton would be left to die in peace; Detective Chief Inspector Rodgers would retire happily to his irises; and King's Mowbray would soon forget all about the troublesome, heartless Swedish girl. The police investigation would soon be closed for lack of any leads and the file put away to gather dust with all the other unsolved cases, just as DCI Rodgers had predicted.

He had told Maureen Barton that he had wanted to know the truth and she had given it to him, as she believed it. Gunilla's fall to her death had been an accident, her husband had not meant to harm her. He had been a good man, according to her.

On impulse, he lifted the phone and called DCI Rodgers.

‘Any developments yet, Inspector?'

‘Not a thing, Colonel.'

‘By the way, I went to see Mrs Barton in hospital.'

‘Oh? Why did you do that?'

‘I just thought she might have something to say. In a lucid moment.'

‘And did she?'

‘Nothing that would make much difference.'

‘Don't waste your time any more, Colonel. This is our job.'

‘No,' he said slowly. ‘I won't.'

H
e must have drifted off to sleep because the next thing he heard was the sound of the grandfather clock striking five, and when he opened his eyes he saw Thursday sitting in the doorway, watching him.

He said, not daring to move, ‘Hallo, old chap. Nice to have you back again.'

The cat's gaze was unblinking and unforgiving. A basilisk stare.

The Colonel understood the form. Humble obeisance was required. A respectful distance kept. Repentance clearly demonstrated.

He got up and walked past the cat and on into the kitchen. In the cupboard he found a tin of sardines intended for human consumption (his). He emptied the fish into the clean bowl marked DOG, set it down on the floor and waited. He knew better than to insult the cat by shaking the pouch of Cats' Treats.

After what seemed like a very long time, Thursday appeared and stalked huffily towards the dish. The Colonel held his breath. Sardines, he knew, were a particular favourite and not often on the menu. The cat stopped to sniff the air from a distance, turned away, and then turned back again to approach closer. More sniffing and more hesitation before he finally crouched down on his haunches and began to eat.

The Colonel breathed a deep sigh of relief.

He went to phone Naomi.

‘He's back.'

‘Thank heavens for that, Hugh! I was beginning to get worried.'

‘So was I. Come round and celebrate. The sundowner terrace has chairs and is officially open.'

‘I'll be there at six.'

‘Earlier, if you can make it.'

‘I'll come now. By the way, Hugh, have you realized today's Thursday?'

When he opened the front door to her, she was wearing the furry white tracksuit that always reminded him of a polar bear, her moon boot trainers and an enormous hat on her head – an elaborate creation, garnished with an assortment of flowers and feathers, and trimmed with a gauzy veil that covered her face and finished in a large bow under her chin.

‘My wedding hat,' she said, enlightening him. ‘For Ruth and Tom. I was trying it on. Wondered what you'd think of it.'

‘Magnificent,' he said, gallantly and truthfully. ‘Where did you buy it?'

‘I didn't
buy
it anywhere. I found it in the trunk up in the loft. I think it must have belonged to my Great-Aunt Rosalind. It's Edwardian, of course.'

The same trunk had already produced an impressive wolf-fur hat and her grandfather's Canadian lumberjack's cap. He wondered what other treasures it contained.

He led the way through the kitchen and out on to the terrace where the sun was playing its part to set the scene. The new furniture looked good and so did the decanter and glasses placed ready on the table, with a jug of water for Naomi's splash. She settled herself comfortably while he poured their drinks.

‘This is very nice, Hugh. What a good idea of mine!'

‘Yes, it was.'

‘Where's Thursday?'

‘Fast asleep on the sofa. I'm still in the doghouse but I think he's coming round to giving me the benefit of the doubt.'

‘No ill effects?'

‘He's a bit stiff and dusty, but otherwise he seems fine.'

‘Extraordinary that he came back today, of all days.'

‘Yes, wasn't it? He obviously knows the days of the week.' He handed her her glass, sat down and raised his own to her.

‘To many more sundowners, Naomi.'

‘I'll second that.' She tried drinking through the veil, without success, untied the bow and flung it back over the hat. ‘This stupid thing. I don't know how women managed in those days.'

It was very pleasant sitting in the gentle warmth of the evening sun, watching it sink gradually beyond the trees, and with a full glass in hand. Naomi had been quite right.

He said, ‘So, tell me about the fête committee that I missed.'

‘Well, you're rather in the doghouse with Madame Chairman as well, but, I dare say, she'll come round too, like Thursday.'

‘Did the meeting go all right?'

‘If you call lasting for nearly three hours going all right. There was the usual pitched battle of the trestle tables, with the Major and Mrs Bentley almost coming to blows. Marjorie had to put a stop to it in the end. I really don't know why she lets the Major run the bottle stall – it's like putting a fox in charge of chickens. Philippa Rankin's down to one pony for the rides, which is a shame, and there was a big argument over the teas and what to charge this year. Ruth was present, of course, and she's a jolly good sport about everything. Doesn't mind us selling ice creams or having a pet show for the children. Not a bit difficult like her mother used to be.'

‘I read in the magazine that there's to be a duck race.'

Naomi chuckled. ‘Mrs Warner put that forward – she'd seen one at some other fête. It should be a hoot. Then somebody else suggested a samba band instead of the silver one we always have – you should have heard what the Major had to say about that. Damned foreign rubbish, he called it! Anyway, Marjorie shot the whole idea down in flames.'

The Colonel smiled. No English summer fête would be complete without the sound of a band – silver or brass – and its faltering version of
Born Free
and
The Dam Busters.
The pulsating, exotic rhythms of South America would strike all the wrong notes. He rather agreed with the Major.