Joe shook his head. ‘We think she was killed early on Monday morning.’
‘I still feel dreadful.’
Jane reached out and put her hand on his arm.
‘She didn’t tell you what was worrying her?’ Joe said.
‘No. She was just about to explain a bit more, when the family from Brockburn came in, Harriet, Juliet and her husband. Connie saw them coming and said she’d tell us on Monday.’
‘Did Miss Browne talk to the Brockburn family at all? Before or after the service?’
‘No,’ Doug said. ‘She seemed actively to avoid them. It seemed rather odd, because they’d always been on good terms.’
‘But Connie hadn’t been invited to the Friday-night party?’
‘No,’ Jane said. ‘I think we were there to represent the whole community. And it was a fund-raising event really. Connie only had her teaching pension.’
‘So not worth bothering about,’ Doug said.
‘Are the family at Brockburn regular worshippers?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Jane broke in, before Doug could answer. Joe thought that was a pity. Doug might have been more honest.
In the end the man spoke anyway, muttering under his breath. ‘Bloody parasites.’
‘You’ll have to excuse my husband.’ Jane grinned. ‘He disapproves of inherited wealth. I’m afraid he’s a bit of a socialist.’
‘As was Our Lord.’
They smiled at each other. Joe had the impression that there was no real argument between them. This was a kind of dance, a ritual. ‘Are they really wealthy? I thought they were dreaming up schemes to keep the house from falling down.’
‘It’s all relative,’ Doug said. ‘If they sold Brockburn, they’d make a fortune.’
‘What would the village make of that?’
‘They’d hate it.’ Jane was definite. ‘This is a place where tradition matters.’
Chapter Thirty-Two
HOLLY WAS ON CANVASSING DUTY IN Kirkhill. She stood for a moment in the main street. Despite being dressed for the weather she felt the wind slice through her clothes and chill her bones. She felt spacy with tiredness. The night before now seemed like a nightmare; occasional images would explode in her brain, monochrome and weird. The twisted roots of the abandoned area of clear fell felt like a dystopian background to a horror film. The memories had disturbed what little sleep she’d managed.
She turned and climbed the bank to the old people’s bungalows beyond Lorna Falstone’s house, and knocked on the door of Matty Fuller, the elderly retired shepherd. The light inside flashed and after a moment it was partially opened. Matty’s face appeared at the gap in the door. He seemed almost embarrassed.
‘Eh, lass, it’s you. You’d better come away in. Don’t mind the mess.’
There were underpants and socks drying on the radiator. Awkwardly he cleared them into a laundry basket.
‘No point putting them on the line, this weather. They’d just freeze.’ He picked up the basket as if it were something to be ashamed of. ‘I’ll make us both a cup of tea. You’ll need warming up.’ And he disappeared into the kitchen, taking the offending underwear with him.
Holly stood at the living-room window and looked out over the valley. There was a view of the village and the hills beyond. A view down to Constance Browne’s bungalow. Because of the angle of the slope, she could see over the fence and into the dead woman’s garden. Matty returned with two mugs of tea, a packet of biscuits in his cardigan pocket. ‘I’ve not put in any sugar,’ he said. ‘Most young folk don’t take it these days.’
They sat for a moment. He opened the packet of biscuits and passed it to her.
‘Have you heard about Constance?’ She turned towards him so he could read her lips.
‘The schoolteacher? What about her?’
‘We found her dead in the forest last night.’ Holly paused. ‘Murdered, like Lorna.’
There was no response. She was surprised that he seemed so little shocked or upset.
‘Didn’t you know her?’ Holly asked.
‘Oh, aye, I knew her. I couldn’t keep her away. She was one of those women who think they know what’s best for you.’ He looked up. ‘I didn’t mean she deserved to die, like, but she could be interfering. One of the women who don’t have bairns to boss about, so they boss the rest of the world.’
‘You think she was killed because she interfered?’
‘I suppose not,’ he said. ‘That’s no reason to kill a woman. But she could be irritating, all the same. That confidence, you knaa, that she was always right.’
This sounded personal. ‘Did she try to boss you about?’
‘She succeeded, didn’t she?’ He gave her a sad smile. ‘She was the one to persuade me I needed to move closer to the village. She kept on at me. And then when I was here, she was in every day about the old folks’ lunch club and bingo in the hall.’ He paused. ‘I told her I didn’t want company. I needed my lass Lizzie, but that’s something different. In the end, she gave up and left me alone.’
There was a silence. Holly didn’t know what to say. She’d never met anyone with whom she could spend her life, couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be alone after a lifetime’s company.
‘We think Constance left home on Monday morning, maybe with her killer. You’ve got a good view of the village from here. Did you see anything unusual?’
He thought. She could see he was taking the question seriously. ‘I sit by the window for a couple of hours every morning. A cup of tea and watch the world go by, until I feel ready to go down to the Co-op for my shopping. Watch the weather on the hills. Maybe the woman was right and I’m better here. There’d not be much to see from my old place. Monday is the art class in the hall. Constance walks there. Gets there before
