‘Could it be something to do with this oil business?’ he queried. ‘Drilling for oil? It seems a bit amateurish if it is.’
A small plane buzzed self-importantly overhead and Rory looked up, his puzzled frown deepening. He turned his attention back to the disturbed earth.
‘Highly unlikely, I’d have thought. Much more likely old Misselbrook’s been out here digging out the badgers, just the sort of thing he’d do. And he’d be sure to keep it quiet as it’s not allowed these days. I suppose it might be amateur archaeologists, treasure-hunters,’ Edith frowned. ‘Fat lot of good it’ll do them; only the odd shard of burnt and blackened pottery has turned up over the hundreds of years the field’s been ploughed but Time Team has a lot to answer for. Could have been someone trying to see if there’s an inscription on the stone, which there isn’t. We do get them now and then, lurking about the place with their metal detectors and it’s a real problem when this field is planted. Not so bad now, as it’s not ploughed, but it’s a flipping cheek all the same.’
The church clock struck the quarter and they looked at each other aghast.
‘Not a word about this,’ Edith warned as they cantered across the field towards the house. ‘I shouldn’t think it’s anything to worry about but I don’t want the grandparents upset and Grandpa gets really cross about trespassers. Besides, if it was old Misselbrook, Grandpa’s upset enough because the old devil’s just died – they’d known each other all their lives.
‘We’ll talk later, but for now we need to get cleaned up for this drinks party. It’ll be awful,’ she warned him. ‘Lara Dean will latch on to you and I’ll get stuck with a boring old fart, some crony of Gordon’s.’
Rory followed obediently in her wake but at the field gate he turned and stared back at the distant copse. It might be badgers, he supposed, but it had looked a little too tidy for an old man bent on illegal badger killing. Treasure-seekers seemed a more likely bet, but what could they be looking for? And – the thought struck him unpleasantly out of the blue – had someone been digging there on the night a car was driven at Walter Attlin? Because – perhaps – could he have seen something he shouldn’t?’
chapter four
‘Champagne, eh?’ Sam took an appreciative sip from his glass and grinned at his cousin. ‘And it’s Veuve Cliquot too, I caught sight of the label. Very nice, bit over the top for a village drinks party, I’d have thought, but very welcome all the same.’
‘I ought to feel guilty.’ Harriet looked over the rim of her glass at their host. ‘Enjoying Gordon’s drink when I dislike almost everything about him.’ She sighed and made a face. ‘He tries too hard, that’s the trouble, but you can trust him to serve up the best. About the only thing you can trust him with.’
She glanced round the room and turned back to Sam. ‘How do you feel now you’ve had a chat with some of them? These people will be your neighbours, friends even, once you move in next door and although you don’t have to embrace them wholeheartedly you’ll still see a fair amount of them. You’ll need to rub along.’
‘They seem a nice enough bunch,’ he said, smiling and nodding in answer to a friendly wave from someone. ‘I’ve been listening to some of their concerns about this rumour that’s going round, about possible oil drilling. They’re very worried but nobody seems to be asking questions of the right people.’
Harriet hid a smile. Sam would fit right in, she thought, glancing across at him with deep affection, and before he knows it he’ll be on the parish council and he’ll be the one who asks the questions. Oh well, perhaps it will help with the bad times, when he’s missing Avril even more than usual.
‘They’re also fretting about Walter Attlin’s so-called accident.’ Sam was still absorbed in village gossip. ‘The police seem to be taking no further interest and apparently some bright spark of a constable suggested he could have been knocked over by a cow.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake.’ Harriet was half amused, half irritated. ‘Even if Walter were dotty enough to mistake a cow for a car, there’s no livestock anywhere near the house. They’re all over by the other farmhouse under the cowman’s eagle eye. I was talking the other day to Alan, the chap who’s taking over as Walter’s manager come Michaelmas. He said they’re planning to plough a couple of fields now old Misselbrook’s popped his clogs. Alan’s a local man and knew the old misery by repute, so he’s delighted the old fellow won’t be around to be a thorn in his side. Got all sorts of plans apparently,’ she grinned. ‘In fact I suspect he’s had his eye on the place for a while, speculating about what might be done there. He’s itching to get his hands on several of those fields, along with some near the house, including the Burial Field, and sow them as wild flower meadows. Very trendy these days and good for wildlife as well as looking lovely, and a vast improvement on the current scrub; there are even some little oak trees nearly a yard high.’