Gone Away Read online

  Chapter Six

  For a moment I couldn’t take in what she was saying.

  ‘Her – what!’

  ‘Her daughter-in-law. She’s the one who went off with Jamie Hertford. Broke up his marriage. You must remember!’

  I put my cup carefully down on the saucer and looked at her in astonishment. The Hertfords were the leading county family, and although they no longer lived at Hertford Manor, which they had had to give to the National Trust, their name was still evocative of bygone glories to people of Mrs Dudley’s generation, and, indeed, to mine as well. Jamie was their adored eldest son, a golden boy, wonderfully handsome and with immense charm – as young girls we were all, more or less, in love with him. He had for us the sort of glamour that an actor or a television personality has for the young today. I had known him quite well because my brother, Jeremy, who was six years older than me, was at boarding school with him (being the only son, he was, of course, sent to Clifton, my father’s old school) and they saw each other a lot in the holidays. Sometimes they would let me tag along with them when they went out rough-shooting or fishing. I remember stifling my misery at the sight of the pathetic furry bodies, or the poor gasping fish, because I was full of the glory of being with Jamie and I knew just how envious my contemporaries would be. They also went hunting together – Colonel Hertford was the Master for several seasons. I was never keen on horses (frightened of them, if I am honest) so I could only admire Jamie and Jeremy from afar as they rode off, like two young gods. They did their National Service in the same regiment, but Jeremy was sent to Cyprus and never came back – shot one hot morning on the road to Limassol. Jamie didn’t go abroad, and when he came out of the army, he married Alison Freemantle, and everyone had said how suitable, because their families were connected in some way.

  Alison was only seventeen, a fair, pretty, gentle child, who worshipped Jamie. But, alas, in the army he had acquired a taste for drink and gambling, and his youthful high spirits and sense of adventure had turned to recklessness and uncertain temper. They settled at the Home Farm, but Jamie had not cared for farming, preferring to spend his days hunting and horse-dealing and riding in point-to-points so wildly that I could hardly bear to watch him pushing his horses ruthlessly over the fences. Alison, poor girl, couldn’t really cope with him and so she withdrew more and more into herself, devoting her time to her two children, a boy and a girl. On the rare occasions when I met her, she had developed a sort of plaintive, complaining manner, which must have made Jamie even more bad-tempered and impossible to live with.

  After a few years they had moved out of the district. The Home Farm was sold and there were a lot of debts – his father was dead by then, but I think he’d run through most of the family money, apart from an annuity of his mother’s which he couldn’t get his hands on. I knew that he and Alison were divorced, because a little while after-wards she was back in Taviscombe, more subdued than ever, living with her parents and the little girl. I heard that the boy had stayed with his father, and was surprised that Jamie could be bothered with a child.

  ‘When did he marry Lee then?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, she got hold of him when he left Taviscombe and went down to North Devon. I think she came from somewhere near Instow. Then, after the divorce, she married him.’

  ‘But how do you know all this?’

  Mrs Dudley tossed her head slightly. ‘Poor Mrs Hertford and I have always been great friends.’

  This was certainly news to me. In the old days Mrs Dudley had certainly not moved in county circles. For that matter, neither had we. It was only Jerry and Jamie being at the same school that had given us a limited entree into the charmed circle. I supposed that after the financial troubles and Jamie’s general disgrace after his father’s death, Mrs Dudley had seized her chance to ‘take up’, as she would have said, ‘poor Mrs Hertford’.

  ‘Where is he living now?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, still in North Devon. He has a sort of market garden

  – can you imagine such a thing! – near, now where is it ... Georgeham! That’s right. I believe he’s in quite a bad way. Though of course Mrs Hertford never says as much, she’s still very loyal, but I can always read between the lines. So,’ she finished triumphantly, ‘what do you think of that!’

  I was still reeling from all this unexpected information and made no reply.

  ‘Now, you really must have a piece of Elsie’s Victoria sandwich – you always used to like it so much. No one can make a Victoria sandwich like Elsie.’ She spoke as if she was personally responsible for the excellence of the Victoria sandwich.

  ‘No thank you – I really couldn’t manage another crumb! It was all quite delicious.’

  ‘Well, I expect you have to watch your figure. Like poor Rosemary – I’m always telling her she should go on a proper diet, but I’m afraid she’s really letting herself go nowadays. I said she ought to try that new little man I’ve found in Taunton for her next perm, but she said she can’t be bothered. Do you know.’ she said in a shocked tone, ‘she may be my own daughter, but I do believe she has never had a proper manicure in her entire life!’

  I hastily hid my unvarnished, garden-stained nails in my lap and gave a non-committal murmur. I felt I should tackle Mrs Dudley about the extraordinary information she had just given me.

  ‘You will be telling all this – about Lee and Jamie Hertford – to the police, won’t you?’

  She gave me a cold look.

  ‘Certainly not. I wouldn’t dream of letting that self-

  opinionated young man of Jilly’s know all poor Mrs Hertford’s business.’ ‘But Mrs Dudley, they ought to know – it might help them with their enquiries.’ ‘You are not suggesting, I hope, that any of the Hertfords had anything to do with this unsavoury affair?’ ‘Well, no, not necessarily – but it might be relevant in some way.’

  ‘And just suppose the Echo got hold of it. How do you think Mrs Hertford would feel, having all her private affairs splashed across the front page?’

  Since Mrs Dudley was an avid reader of any sort of local gossip, I felt this was a bit thick.

  ‘Well, I suppose Mrs Hertford may be going to the police herself, when she hears the news.’

  Mrs Dudley gave me a triumphant look. ‘Oh, didn’t you know – but, of course, how could you, I don’t suppose you ever see the family nowadays – she’s not in England at the moment. She always spends the worst part of the winter with her nephew in South Africa. He has a sugar – can it be? – plantation somewhere near Durban. Of course, he pays her air-fare, because I don’t think she could possibly afford it now. His wife’s a South African, but quite a nice girl I believe.’

  I made another attempt to persuade Mrs Dudley that it was her duty to tell the police what she knew about Lee’s background, but her stubbornness and snobbery made it very unlikely that she would do anything of the sort. So yet again – as in the case of Carol – I had been given information that the police might not have. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do with either item.

  I got to my feet and thanked Mrs Dudley for my splendid tea.

  She shook my hand in both of hers and said, ‘My dear Sheila, you know I always like to see old friends. The world is so full of dreadful things nowadays. I sometimes feel that I am an old, old woman who has outlasted her time.’

  She paused, waiting for me to say that of course she wasn’t old and that she would see us all out – but I rather meanly didn’t. I simply said that it was nice to see her and that I hoped Rosemary would be better soon.

  ‘Oh, she always seems to have something wrong with her

  – I really don’t know about you young people. I don’t know what it is to have a day’s illness.’ I remembered various occasions when Rosemary had been summoned to her mother’s side for some trivial complaint that Mrs Dudley had decided was terminal, but made no comment, merely saying goodbye and getting away as quickly as possible.

  As I drove home I was in a state of total confu
sion. At the best of times a prolonged tête-â-tête with Mrs Dudley left me feeling drained and limp, and this, together with the amazing news I had just been given, made me quite incapable of coherent thought.

  I put the car away, went into the house and busied myself with mindless household tasks. Tris and Foss, left alone all afternoon, demanded my attention. I let them both out into the garden and stood at the back door watching them idly in the twilight. Tris ran round and round in circles barking madly and making little darts at Foss who, feigning alarm, rushed up a tree. I groaned. It was an old beech tree with a smooth trunk, and although Foss could get up it perfectly easily he always forgot that he couldn’t get down. He perched, as he always did, in the first fork, peering down forlornly and howling for help.

  Resignedly, I went to the garden shed to get the step-ladder, praying that he would stay where he was and not go any further up. Fortunately the higher branches were swaying in the wind, so he stayed put until I gingerly climbed the steps and snatched him down. His claws dug into my shoulder and Tris jumped up and down round my feet at the bottom of the steps and I wondered aloud why I ever bothered with tiresome animals in the first place. Foss leapt down and rushed into the house, pursued by Tris, and they both sat hopefully in the kitchen, waiting for me to put away the steps and come and feed them.

  All this activity cleared my mind, and when I finally sat down with the glass of sherry I felt I had really earned, I had decided what to do. I would go to Georgeham and see if I could find Jamie Hertford. At the very least I could tell him that his ex-wife was dead, and maybe he could tell me something about her that would help in some way to solve the mystery of her death. And – if I was absolutely honest with myself – I was very curious to see what Jamie looked like nowadays.

  After supper I finally nerved myself to tell Charles what had happened. Because of the time difference I had to ring him at his office, which involved get-ting past a collection of strong-minded secretaries, so that when I finally got hold

  of him I was feeling decidedly on edge.

  ‘Yes, Sheila.’ he said, ‘what is it? Have you any news?’

  ‘Charles, look, I’m awfully sorry – it’s very bad. Lee’s dead.’

  ‘Dead?’ The single word sounded as lifeless as its meaning.

  ‘She was murdered. I found the body.’

  Through Charles’s exclamations of shock and incredulity I tried to explain as simply and clearly as I could just what had happened.

  ‘But how did you know she’d be there?’

  ‘Charles’, I told you – it was just a feeling I had ... no reason. I was still trying to find out for you...’

  ‘Yes, I see...’

  There was a pause, and I had the impression that Charles was working something out in his mind. When he spoke again his voice was steadier.

  ‘Look, Sheila,’ he said, ‘how about the police? Have they been through the papers at her office?’

  I was startled at this sudden business-like approach.

  ‘I don’t know – they hadn’t this morning. They just interviewed Carol – that’s the girl who works there – and looked through Lee’s appointment book, but that’s all so far, I think.’

  ‘Ah.’

  There was another pause, and then Charles said, ‘Actually, I didn’t tell you everything last time. But now Lee’s dead – well, it makes a difference. You see, I handed over a very much larger sum of money, much more than I told you. There was this deal...’

  ‘A property deal?’

  ‘Yes. She’d got wind of this hypermarket development – she was buying up property in single lots as my agent. Well, we stood to make a pretty good killing...’ The ineptitude of this phrase didn’t seem to strike him and he went on, ‘It was all very hush-hush – planning permission from the local council and all that, it all had to be done very carefully.’

  Councillor Bradford, I thought suddenly. That was her contact. But what was in it for him, and why was he so anxious to see her, making those visits to her flat? No wonder she didn’t keep the documents about that deal in the office.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I expect the police will find the papers soon enough – probably at her flat.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. It’s going to be a bit embarrassing.’

  ‘Well,’ I said sharply, ‘there’s nothing I can do about that:

  Surely Charles didn’t expect me to break into Lee’s flat and steal the papers, like some secret agent.

  ‘Look, Sheila, my dear, this has been the most dreadful shock – I haven’t really come to terms with it yet. I need time to think. I’ll ring you tomorrow.’ Then, as an afterthought, ‘It must have been pretty awful for you.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said with restraint, ‘it was, rather.’

  ‘Well, Sheila dear, I’ll ring you tomorrow. Or perhaps the day after – soon, anyway. And if you can find out what the police are doing, I’d like to know.’

  As I put down the receiver my previous concern for Charles was replaced by irritation. It seemed to me that he was far more concerned about his wretched money than with the fact that the woman he was going to marry was dead. Well, perhaps that wasn’t fair, he probably still hadn’t taken in the fact that she actually was dead. And, I suppose, with someone like Charles one’s business instincts always come to the fore, no matter what. Still, I felt slightly resentful. Had all his concern about Lee’s disappearance really been because of his money? Did he think, as I had momentarily thought, that she had simply taken the money and gone? But as I recalled my talk with Lee that day, I couldn’t doubt that she had been speaking the truth. She really had intended to marry Charles, I was quite sure. Her voice as she spoke of him had the quality of confidence and satisfaction that another woman can always recognise in such circumstances. Besides, Charles was rich and reliable. I had no idea what her second husband, the unknown Mr Montgomery, had been like, but certainly Charles would be a vast improvement on a gone-to-seed Jamie Hertford. I wondered how long that marriage had lasted.

  Jamie ... my thoughts returned to him. Ja ... Jay! Of course, that was who she had been going to meet the day before she disappeared – it had to be. But why? What could she possibly want with him and why had she been so anxious to see him? Now there was a stronger reason than mere curiosity for me to go to Georgeham tomorrow.

  Chapter Seven

  I reached Georgeham about mid-morning the next day, having got myself lost in the narrow Devon lanes which run between high banks and which all look the same. I have absolutely no sense of direction. Peter used to be very patient with me but he never understood how anyone could not know which way to turn at a junction. (‘But don’t you see – that way will simply take us back the way we came!’) Still, I got there eventually. It was a small place and I didn’t think it would be too difficult to find out where Jamie lived. I had a choice really

  – I could enquire at the garage or at the post office. My tank was almost full so I opted for the post office.

  There were several people in the post office, which was also the village shop. I took my place in the queue and settled down for a long wait. As purchases were made and local news exchanged, I looked around to see what I could buy. I was rather impressed by what they had. Presumably having decided that this was their best way of competing with the supermarkets in Barnstaple and Ilfracombe, the owners had laid in stocks of health and speciality foods. When I finally reached the counter I had quite a little collection of delicacies – smoked trout pâté and local goat’s cheese, as well as some organically grown carrots.

  As I paid for my purchases I asked, ‘Can you tell me where I can find Mr Hertford’s market garden?’

  ‘Market garden?’ The young woman behind the counter looked doubtful. ‘Well, there’s Mr Hertford up at West Lynch, but I don’t know that you would call it a market garden – though I suppose he does grow some veg and things.’

  ‘It sounds like him. Mr Jamie Hertford...’

  ‘Oh yes, that’s him. Lives up th
ere with his son. Keeps bees, the son does, and a few goats. That’s his cheese you just bought.’

  ‘Can you tell me how to get there, please?’

  West Lynch was apparently about a mile and a half out of the village, and she gave me directions which I repeated carefully after her. The other people, who had come into the shop after me and were waiting to be served, looked at me curiously, and I imagined the speculation there would be when I had gone.

  It was a milder day, but damp and rather miserable. The countryside looked bleak and sodden. It wasn’t a particularly picturesque part of Devon anyway – it all looked a bit rundown, and there seemed to be a lot of old tyres and rusting corrugated iron around in the farmyards. As I drove, I wondered just how I would approach Jamie – how I would get in, even – but to my relief, when I reached the turning to West Lynch, I saw a hand-written sign that said ‘Farm Shop’.

  I drove cautiously up the rutted, muddy track and drew up in front of a dilapidated barn, which also bore a ‘Farm Shop’ sign. There was a small tractor in the yard and bits of what I took to be agricultural machinery in varying stages of decay. Behind the barn I could see a horse-box and a very old Land Rover. The house was stone-built – unusual for this part of the country – square, grey and ugly. It looked as if it would be cold and uncomfortable. Behind the house and some other out-buildings there was a walled garden, with rows of rather frost-bitten vegetables, and beyond that a field with two horses. Four goats were tethered in a corner of the yard and I hoped they were secure, since I have never entirely trusted goats after having been charged by a particularly ferocious one when I was a child.

  I got out of the car and went into the barn. Inside, there were trestle tables with boxes of apples and washed vegetables. Someone had obviously tried very hard to make an attractive display. There were also pyramids of jars of honey – all labelled ‘West Lynch Organic Honey’ – and some goat’s cheese, like that I had bought from the shop. At one end of one of the trestles there were some dried-flower arrangements, not very well done, and rather touching. I couldn’t imagine that any of this was Jamie’s handiwork. I also wondered who on earth they expected to drive up their muddy track for such a relatively meagre display of goods – especially at this time of the year.