‘Did you hear anything in the late afternoon or early evening? A vehicle driving down the back track? It is very quiet here. Surely you would hear.’
Karan thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. It’s very quiet now, but it’s not when Duncan has all his toys out. I didn’t notice a thing.’
Holly got to her feet. She had a suspicion that she was being played, that these people were too pleasant, too charming. She imagined secrets cleverly hidden, stories still to be told. Then she told herself she spent too much time with rude, aggressive and ignorant people, and that she’d lost any sense of perspective. She was standing just inside the door, when something else occurred to her, the sort of question that Vera would have asked.
‘Juliet and Mark. Are they happy?’
The couple seemed surprised, almost shocked, and there was a moment of silence. In the end, it was Dorothy who answered. ‘They come from very different worlds,’ she said. ‘Mark’s a city boy. It must be hard for him here. I struggled at first too with the whole feudal, lord-of-the-manor thing. It seems so outdated; that sense of history must weigh the family down. I think the theatre project will help. It’ll give him his own identity – he won’t just be Juliet’s husband and Harriet’s son-in-law.’
‘What did Harriet make of the match?’
A pause. A little smile. ‘I don’t think Mark would have been her first choice. She’d have preferred someone with a similar background, someone who understood the responsibilities. A member of the Northumberland landed classes. Mark didn’t even have any money. But at least he was willing to move to Brockburn to make it his main home. If Juliet can give her a grandchild to inherit the estate, I think Harriet will tolerate Mark as a son-in-law.’
‘I think they’re happy,’ Karan said. ‘Not as happy as we are, obviously. We’re ridiculously in love still. Horribly soppy. But I think they’ll make a go of it.’
He put his arm round Dorothy’s shoulder and she looked up at him and smiled. Holly felt as if she were intruding on a moment of intimacy and again there was a flash of envy. What must it be like to have a relationship like this? She couldn’t imagine it ever happening for her; she wasn’t sure she’d have the confidence to let anyone get that close. Perhaps she’d end up like Vera, wedded to the job.
The thought still haunted her as she drove home down the straight, empty roads.
Chapter Thirteen
IT WAS SUNDAY MORNING, STILL DARK, and the roads were quiet. On the outskirts of Kimmerston, a couple of elderly women were going to the early service in the Catholic church on the edge of town, huddled into coats, heads down to face the raw weather. Vera got to the station before the rest of the team and put the kettle on. She was still thinking of the phone conversation she’d had the night before.
She’d called a former colleague, a man who’d been based in the police station in Kirkhill when there were still village bobbies. Ernie Moorland had lived in the police house and knew everyone in the village and the surrounds. He’d been a passionate conservationist, a ringer of birds and surveyor of the uplands’ natural history, for a while the county’s police wildlife liaison officer, dealing with all things rural from poaching to badger baiting. His particular interest had been animal welfare and the theft of raptors from the wild. So, Hector’s natural enemy. Vera had gone to him for advice when she contemplated joining the police force and he’d encouraged her, more, she’d realized even then, to annoy Hector than because he thought she’d be any good. He’d retired years ago, but she bumped into him occasionally in Kirkhill. He was in his late eighties now, but still a force of nature.
‘You’ll have heard about the murder at Brockburn, Ernie?’
‘Aye.’ Ernie had never been one for wasted words.
‘What can you tell me about the lass?’
‘Not a lot. I don’t have much contact with the youngsters. Not these days.’
‘Anything you can tell me about the Stanhopes then? I haven’t had much to do with my relatives recently.’ Not that I ever did, much.
‘You know I never thought much of that family.’
Ernie would never have thought much of any major landowner. If he’d been born a bit earlier, he’d have been one of the ramblers marching on a mass trespass to get rights of access to the uplands.
‘I need details, pet.’ Vera had started losing patience at that point. ‘I didn’t get any sleep last night and I’m ready for my bed.’
‘Crispin Stanhope was a randy goat. He thought it was part of his laird’s privilege to have sex with his workers.’
‘Eh, man, that was years past. When did he die? I read it in the Journal. Three years ago? And he’d have been ill before that. Have you nothing more recent to tell me?’
A pause. ‘I’ve heard word that the new man in the house treats his wife with the same lack of respect as his father-in-law did Harriet.’
‘You’re saying that Mark Bolitho has affairs? With the tenants?’
‘Well, maybe not so close to home. But I understand he’s a bit of a lad. He’s been seen in the city with another woman.’
‘With Lorna Falstone?’ Her imagination had been running wild at that point.
‘Nobody’s put a name to the lass,’ Ernie had said. ‘You know that the dead woman had a kid, though.’ At that point, he’d said he needed to be away to his bed too.
Now, in the police station, Vera looked down at the street and replayed the conversation in her head again. She thought there’d been little substance in it. They needed more than gossip and rumours.
There’d been rain overnight and it had cleared the remaining snow.
