A Crowded Coffin(22)
Sam shook his head at her. ‘Conjecture, Harriet, based on gossip and a fevered imagination.’ He went off upstairs, leaving her frowning.
The trouble was, she fretted, recalling recent conversations with local friends, that however illogical and without a shred of evidence, the entire village believed that Colin Price had come to a sticky end. The press of local opinion was compelling, even though common sense told her that it was nonsense,
No, you’re right, Sam, she said to herself as she turned off the lights and shut the cat in the kitchen. It’s just another oddity, that’s all. Too many oddities: Colin Price disappearing after asking about Walter and Penelope Attlin and the vicar; Elvis being at the pub at the same time that Price was last seen although I could have sworn Karen told me they hadn’t been here till April; and now Walter’s accident – if that’s what it was.
With a shiver, Harriet recalled her conversation with Rory. Oil. Black gold deep in them thar hills. If it was true … if someone believed or actually knew there was oil there…. Three coincidences….
Edith ran into her grandmother at about eleven the next morning.
‘Oh, Edith, I’m glad you’re up, darling.’ Mrs Attlin was looking remarkably bright-eyed and bushy-tailed considering she had still been wide awake at about one in the morning. ‘I’ve just had a phone call from Gordon Dean. He wanted to know if you might be at his drinks party today. It’s a noon start.’
A groan from Edith brought a reproving glance. ‘I’m sorry, Edith, I forgot to tell you about it. I’d written to decline for Grandpa and myself – I knew it would be too much for us, even before this business with his collarbone. However, Gordon called this morning to extend the invitation to you and Rory, as you weren’t here, either of you, when he originally asked us.’ She shot Edith a firm glance. ‘I told him I thought you and Rory would be delighted. No, I know you don’t really want to go, but if you’re going to be at home for a while, you might as well make an effort and I’m sure Rory won’t mind accompanying you.’ She dealt her trump card. ‘Grandpa would like it if you went; you know how he feels about our responsibility to maintain links with the neighbours.’
That was unanswerable so Edith nodded with an ill grace and went off to find Rory who looked equally unenthusiastic.
‘Lara asked me last night,’ he said. ‘I told her I didn’t think I’d be able to make it but if your grandfather wants us to be there, there’s not much we can do about it.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Oh well, there’s still some time till we have to get tarted up, why don’t you show me around and tell me some more of the family history. I don’t know any of it; nobody seems to have told my father anything. I know that, because I asked him about it when I was a kid.’
His lips tightened and she saw the shutters come down, so she led him outside, through the garden towards the old stone wall that marked the boundary between the house and the farmland. ‘We’re heading to this Burial Field of yours, aren’t we?’ he asked. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘It’s the most ridiculously romantic story, embroidered over the centuries by ordinary people wanting to brighten up their drab lives. The actual truth, if anyone ever really knew it, was lost centuries ago. Nobody has ever done any research; the Attlins have been soldiers or farmers with no academic interests and there’s never been any money to finance an archaeological dig. Mind you,’ she looked thoughtful, ‘I could always try getting in touch with Time Team, I suppose. It might be intriguing enough for them to come and poke around.’
She looked up at him, with an eager light in her eyes. ‘You know what? I might just do that. Can’t do any harm, they can only say no.
‘Now, where was I? You’ll have heard that the family is supposed to have been founded by a Roman?’ He nodded and took the old book out of his pocket.
‘Yup, I’ve got the Rev Sebastian right here, ready to rap you on the knuckles if you come up with any of your fanciful Attlin fairy tales.’
She sniffed. ‘Silly old fool, he was sour about everyone in the district. No house was good enough, no land extensive enough, no family ever noble enough for his taste, and once the Attlin daughter rejected his proposal he took great delight in dismissing her forebears as lowly farmers at every opportunity. Not that they gave a toss, they were lowly farmers after all, and proud of it.’
She filled him in on the family legend, ending with, ‘Miss Evelyn Attlin says Lucius Sextus Vitalis had some pretty important connections. But then,’ she looked mischievous, ‘nobody is ever descended from the rabble, it’s always the nobility, never some poor sod of a foot soldier who simply ran away and deserted.’