A Crowded Coffin(57)

‘I hadn’t realized she was going to do that, but it makes sense, I suppose. I did try calling her but she hasn’t replied to my voicemail. I don’t think she likes me very much.’

‘Oh no,’ Edith murmured. ‘She’s very shocked, of course, and not really thinking straight.’

He looked curiously at her and cleared his throat. ‘I was surprised Mr and Mrs Attlin decided to go ahead with their party, in view of everything.’

‘Oh, they wouldn’t cancel, not when everyone was coming,’ she said. ‘And it won’t affect Harriet, after all. She’s doped to the eyeballs and won’t hear a thing from downstairs.’

She wondered at all the concern for Harriet. Brendan and Mike Goldstein had sent their sympathy and now here was the vicar at it as well, though it could simply be professional courtesy on his part. She took a sip from her glass and changed tack very firmly.

‘You’re looking very smart,’ she commented. ‘Most unvicarish.’

‘How kind,’ he grinned complacently, as he glanced down at his dark-grey, herringbone tweed jacket, expensive and understated, as were all his clothes. ‘I like to strike a balance between fogeyish and über-trendy and when I spotted this in Gieves & Hawkes in Winchester at lunchtime today when I gave our American visitor a lift in, I decided it was about as daring as the village would tolerate.’

‘Mike Goldstein was in Winchester today?’ She tried not to weight her question too heavily, but her mind was racing. No time to think about it now, though, not with John Forrester smiling down at her. For a moment she felt her pulse race – he really was unreasonably attractive – but even as she smiled in response, she glanced up to see Rory pause just behind the vicar. A frown wrinkled his forehead but he must have felt her eyes on him because he glanced up and grinned at her. Of course, it was true after all, she scolded herself, aware that John Forrester would assume her sudden blush was for his benefit. What a fool she’d been, her only possible excuse a mixture of anxiety and jetlag. Grandpa wouldn’t lie. If Rory happened to be his grandson, illegitimate or not, he would have said so. It must be so and besides, now she came to think of it, Rory would never have kissed her if the relationship had been closer. But why did Gran look so sad when anyone mentioned Rory’s father? She’d never known him, so what was the mystery?

Rory was about to speak when his phone rang. ‘Sorry,’ he called as he headed outside again. This time it was a woman’s voice, with a slight accent. She sounded familiar.

‘It’s Margaret Mackenzie,’ she announced. ‘I was at the cathedral this afternoon? I’ve just remembered something.’





chapter eleven





The Great Hall was dark and shadowy, echoing with strange, unearthly chords. Harriet was watching some kind of ceremony, performed by a central robed figure, tall and magisterial, silhouetted against the dazzling light shining in from the front windows. The figure took a step towards her and she woke in a flutter as she realized it was an angel.

She should have slept the night through, judging by the number of painkillers she had taken, but no, here she was at – she groaned as she glanced at her watch – just after 2.30 a.m. Her head aching and feeling uneasy after the strange dream, she sat up and wondered what to do. Karen had thoughtfully left a kettle and tea things in case of need, but it didn’t appeal. She staggered slightly as she went to the bathroom and on the way back she crossed over to the window.

A flash, a second flash, hastily dowsed. Torches? The moonlight made them superfluous and she could just make out a figure right over at the far edge of the Burial Field. Oh not again. There hadn’t been much time to think about Edith and Rory’s glimpse of the two men, Brendan and Mike Goldstein, who had been up to no good in the same place. Edith had rung the police but too much had happened since, and that odd little incident had slipped Harriet’s mind. But what on earth were they up to now? Treasure-hunting, presumably, but what treasure? It was widely known locally that the remains of a Roman villa were supposed to be under the field and it was Walter Attlin’s cherished dream that one day there would be enough money to finance a proper dig. It was also known, however, that the field had been ploughed and planted for centuries and that nothing but fragments of pottery had ever shown up.

Harriet tried to clear her throbbing head. There was no time for that puzzle but what should she do? If I’m going out there to see what’s happening, she shivered, I’m not going alone. Sam would never forgive me and anyway, I’m not that stupid, but – she hesitated – someone needs to check it out.