The Haunting of Mount Cod Read online

  The Haunting of Mount Cod

  Nicky Stratton

  In memory of Mark

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter one

  Chapter two

  Chapter three

  Chapter four

  Chapter five

  Chapter six

  Chapter seven

  Chapter eight

  Chapter nine

  Chapter ten

  Chapter eleven

  Chapter twelve

  Chapter thirteen

  Chapter fourteen

  Chapter fifteen

  Chapter sixteen

  Chapter seventeen

  Chapter eighteen

  Chapter nineteen

  Chapter twenty

  Chapter twenty-one

  Chapter twenty-two

  Chapter twenty-three

  Chapter twenty-four

  Chapter twenty-five

  Chapter twenty-six

  Chapter twenty-seven

  Chapter twenty-eight

  Chapter twenty-nine

  Chapter thirty

  Chapter thirty-one

  Chapter thirty-two

  Chapter thirty-three

  Chapter thirty-four

  Chapter thirty-five

  Chapter thirty-six

  Chapter thirty-seven

  Chapter thirty-eight

  Chapter thirty-nine

  Chapter forty

  Copyright

  Chapter one

  Lady Laura Boxford folded the Telegraph obituary page, put it back in the drawer of her desk and took out the local paper.

  “Spectacular Death of Heroic Military Gentleman,” stated the Woldham Herald.

  She sat down on the sofa next to Parker, her old grey pug and began to re-read the article.

  ‘Dear Arthur, what a way to go,’ she said, as Parker began to snore. She patted him, noticing the rich patina of age spots on her once elegant hand and then the glint of the slightly insignificant ruby and diamond ring on her finger.

  Laura Boxford had only been engaged to Brigadier Arthur Stanway for three weeks when he was killed at Woldham’s annual Spring Agricultural Show and “Spectacular,” was not a word she would necessarily have chosen to describe her late fiancé’s fatal encounter with the marauding Limousin bull. It had broken loose from the young farmer who was handling the beast as they made their way to the main arena for judging.

  ‘Christ Boxford, that brute’s going to stampede the children’s play area,’ were the Brigadier’s last words to her before he had removed the red silk spotted handkerchief from the pocket of his tweed jacket and waved it at the bull. At eighty-six, he did not have the agility of a Spanish matador and that was that. Children saved, Brigadier trampled to death.

  ‘I wonder if he’d have stopped calling me Boxford after we were married?’ Laura pondered aloud.

  Parker looked up at her momentarily and went back to sleep.

  She checked her watch. It was three-thirty – that sort of noncommittal time of the afternoon when one had almost forgotten what had been for lunch and one wasn’t quite hungry enough to wonder what was for dinner.

  Life at the residential care home of Wellworth Lawns, that had formerly been Laura’s own family home, Chipping Wellworth Manor, was, she thought, merely a matter of waiting for the next influx of food. Well, obviously there was drinks time to look forward to, and the possibility of joining in one of the evening activities, but she had tended to avoid these occasions since the arrival of the new manager, Edward Parrott. There was a limit to the amount of inheritance tax seminars a person could stomach.

  She decided to ring for a cup of tea.

  Mimi, the Bulgarian maid answered the phone. ‘Hello there Ladyship, you not coming down? Alfredo making special Black Forest cake, cherries and all.’

  Laura declined the chef’s gateau and said she’d prefer to remain upstairs.

  Some minutes later there was a knock and Mimi popped her head round the door smiling prettily, her lips coated today, Laura noticed, in an iridescent apricot colour.

  ‘I bringing tray in?’ she asked.

  ‘Thank you Mimi; put it over there would you?’

  Mimi placed the tray on a small round table by the window and turned to Laura. ‘You needing get out more, Ladyship. No good sitting up here all on the tod. You not still thinking poor old Brig?’

  ‘I feel he should be commemorated.’

  ‘But you already collecting his ashes.’

  ‘There should be something to remember him by. A gravestone, if he had been religious.’

  ‘Ah, I getting it.’ Mimi smoothed her sleek dark ponytail. ‘How ’bout nice park bench. Brig’s name on type thing.’

  ‘There are more memorial benches in the garden than at Woldham Bowls Club. The last thing we need is another.’

  ‘Maybe making nice photomontage?’ Mimi’s voice lilted up at the end of the sentence as she stretched out her arms to indicate the size of the tribute. ‘I see something like this when my Tom is taking me to Tate Modern, London time. Maybe Mr. Parrott letting you put it at the reception desk?’

  ‘That’s certainly an idea. But then I have a feeling Mr. Parrott’s not much of a one for ostentation.’

  ‘Him that too?’ Mimi tutted. ‘I know he having arthritis.’ She picked up the little chrome teapot and poured.

  ‘Yes, it’s jolly bad luck,’ Laura said. ‘You expect it at my age but he can’t be more than fifty.’ She thanked Mimi as the maid handed her the cup and saucer.

  ‘No probs Ladyship, I see you dinner time.’

  As Laura sipped the tea she mused on the idea of the Brigadier’s memorial. Thinking that perhaps her friend Venetia Hobbs might have some input, she replaced the cup and rose from the sofa. ‘Come along Parker,’ she said, making for the door. He leapt down onto the carpet, bounding after her and together they took the few short paces along the corridor to the room next door.

  Venetia was on the edge of her chair, watching afternoon TV. ‘Come in, come in,’ she said, beckoning Laura over with a wave of one frail arm. ‘It’s such a good programme; all about redecorating on a shoestring.’ She gave a little shiver of excitement, her face radiating a childlike exuberance. ‘I’m thinking about turning this into a lampshade.’ The lime green plastic earrings dangling from her somewhat sagging lobes swung as she leant over, picked up her raffia wastepaper basket and turned it upside down.

  ‘Don’t you think it’s more useful in its present form?’ Laura said, collecting up the used tissues and Venetia’s glasses that had fallen onto the floor.

  ‘What about upholstering this Zimmer frame to match the soft furnishings?’ Venetia jumped up with surprising agility for one whose delicate frame could have disintegrated at any second into a pile of brittle bones. She pulled the appliance to the window, draped the hem of a chintz curtain over the tubular steel and reflected on the effect.

  ‘Perhaps not, but you see, I’m keen to be creative.’ She let the curtain fall and stared out of the window. ‘Who’s this arriving, I wonder?’

  Laura walked over to join her and they watched as a burly middle-aged man with dishevelled blond hair, wearing a checked shirt got out of an old Land Rover in the driveway below. He walked round to the passenger door, opened it and pulled an aged figure in a dark blue blazer and grey trousers out of the vehicle by one arm. As the younger man let go, the gentleman, clutching something to his chest with his other arm, swayed back and forth as he fought for his balance.

  ‘Unless I’m much mistaken, that is my cousin Repton Willowby,’ Venetia said.

  ‘Sir Repton Willowby, the actor?’ Laura focused more closely. ‘Goodness I believe
you’re right. I remember seeing him in Hamlet, at least forty years ago. But what do you mean your cousin?’

  ‘By marriage.’

  Laura turned to Venetia. ‘Your cousin by marriage? You are full of surprises.’ She returned her gaze to the scene below. ‘He used to be so good looking, of course his nostrils let him down – too wide for my liking. But would you look at him now; he’s positively haggard.’

  ‘That’s guilt for you; the murderous psychopath.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Laura asked.

  ‘He drowned her in her bath.’ Venetia crossed her arms and gave a little shudder. ‘Must be six months ago now. I hadn’t seen or heard from her in ages, but I remember clearly because she rang me out of the blue just before Christmas and asked how much my room cost and shortly afterwards I heard she was dead.’

  ‘Hold on a minute. Who?’

  ‘His late wife; my cousin, Matilda Laverack, that was. She had diabetes – who doesn’t by the time they get to eighty – but she sounded perfectly all right on the phone.’

  Laura watched as Sir Repton Willowby brushed something from his lapel with his one free hand and then she noticed that underneath his other arm he was carrying a small brown dog. She sighed in disgust; there was no breed worse that the silk coated dachshund.

  ‘She was thinking of leaving him, I’m sure,’ Venetia continued.

  ‘Did they have marital troubles?’

  ‘Inevitable at their age I’d have thought. Anyhow he convinced the police she had died of natural causes and the post-mortem showed up the diabetes so the silly fools said she must have fallen asleep.’

  ‘It sounds fairly plausible. What makes you so sure he killed her?’

  ‘To get his hands on her money of course.’

  ‘Did she have a lot?’ Laura knew Venetia was careful with her limited resources.

  ‘Matilda came from the rich side of the Laverack family; the Yorkshire branch. They know how to hold on to it up North and she kept Repton on a tight rein.’

  ‘Surely he has money of his own? He is, or was, famous after all.’

  ‘Spent it all I assume and he hadn’t had a part in ages. Not since Matilda refused to back any more of his duff vanity projects. Under Milkwood on Ice was a disaster. Heaven knows how much she forked out for his skating lessons.’ Venetia huffed. ‘Then he tried reinventing himself and ended up making a complete hash of it doing that silly washing liquid advertisement on TV.’

  ‘I remember.’ Laura laughed. ‘Dressing up as a plastic bottle was not a good career move.’

  ‘And the strange blue beak thing on his head that was meant to be the dispenser.’

  ‘Preposterous,’ Laura said. ‘But what’s he got on his head now?’

  They pressed their noses back to the window. Sir Repton stood waiting as the driver went to the back of the Land Rover.

  As Laura wiped the condensation from the pane with her shirtsleeve she noticed ink on the cuff. How did it always manage to happen to her? ‘Have you any binoculars?’ she asked.

  ‘I think I may have left them in the pub after the Horticultural Club outing,’ Venetia said. ‘I remember having them while I ordered the chicken liver pate. It was £8.95, rather dear I thought at the time. Topsy Reynolds agreed with me.’

  Laura strained her eyes. In what remained of the hair around Repton Willowby’s almost bald head she could see small coloured bits of paper. ‘Has he just got remarried?’ she asked.

  ‘I knew it. He’s no sooner got his hands on Matilda’s money and he’s found a newer model, some brainless teenager in all likelihood. But what makes you think he’s married?’

  ‘Because, if I’m not mistaken, he’s got confetti in what’s left of his hair.’

  Venetia peered back down at Sir Repton. ‘Well there’s no sign of the bride…unless…?’

  The younger man was busy unloading a small suitcase and a large pink and grey checked dog bed when they saw the manager of Wellworth Lawns run down the steps from the house and greet Sir Repton.

  ‘Did Edward Parrott just kiss him?’ Laura said.

  ‘This is all too much for me.’

  They watched as the younger man handed over Sir Repton’s possessions to the manager. He returned to the vehicle and drove away as the other two walked slowly up to the front door and out of sight.

  ‘Well, it looks like Repton’s come to stay either way,’ Venetia said. ‘But leaving Mount Cod? I’m surprised.’

  ‘Mount Cod?’ Laura remembered the rambling, turreted Edwardian pile, from her hunting days, when her first husband, Tony, was briefly Master of the Vale of Woldham. Mount Cod had its own railway halt just outside the village of Chipping Codswold and once on the morning of the lawn meet at Mount Cod, their horse box had broken down. It was particularly foggy, and they had ended up sequestering the goods train from Woldham station. The journey was only about twenty minutes but Laura could still remember the sound of the horses hooves stamping and Tony’s pack of hounds baying wildly from the end carriage. Other than that, it was not a part of the Cotswolds that they visited much, being situated on a small hillock in an otherwise boggy area intersected by the river, roads and railway. Rumours were rife when it came on the market in the late 1980s and was sold for what was said to be an absurd amount of money.

  ‘Of course, I’d forgotten the Willowby’s bought Mount Cod,’ Laura said. ‘Mind you they never really mixed did they? I mean it was more of a weekend place.’

  ‘As they got older, they were less and less in London. Then they became quite reclusive. That’s when the marital rot must have set in.’

  Laura cast her mind back to the day’s hunting. The fog hadn’t lifted even by mid-afternoon. No scent, entirely foxfree. She had been pleased to get back home for dripping on toast and a hot bath. ‘So, Sir Repton owns Mount Cod,’ she reiterated.

  ‘He does now. The house was Matilda’s.’

  ‘But are you really so sure he murdered her?’

  ‘Undoubtedly. Matilda would never have drowned; she had the lungs of a walrus. As children we spent summer holidays with her family at Whitby. She was a very strong swimmer; she could breaststroke across a riptide like a frog through porridge. Besides that, her last words to me were, “If anything happens to me Venetia, you’ll know it was him. But if he does bump me off, one thing’s for sure he won’t rest easy.”’

  ‘You’re making it up,’ Laura said.

  ‘Well, those may not have been her exact words, but something like that anyway.’ Venetia returned to the little round table on which stood her TV; the 42” inch flat screen like a huge oversized sail on a dinghy. She picked up the remote control. ‘Is it time for Judge Rinder d’you think?’

  Chapter two

  Laura was keen to meet Venetia’s murderous cousin by marriage but by the time they got down to the dining room for dinner, Gladys Freemantle had already bagged Sir Repton. Sitting beside him, Gladys’ generous frame accentuated his lack of physique. Sir Repton was putting on the half-moon glasses that were dangling from a thin gold chain around his neck as, Laura noticed with disquiet, Gladys undid the top two buttons of her normally prim white shirt and began fiddling with the one below. As it happened, the table was laid for four so she and Venetia made their way over to join them.

  Parker sniffed the air and rushed ahead towards the table. From underneath, a high-pitched yapping could be heard. The white tablecloth fluttered and Sir Repton’s dachshund appeared, its teeth bared. Parker whimpered and trotted back to Laura’s side.

  ‘Have you met Sir Repton Willowby and his delightful dog?’ Gladys said. ‘She’s called Sybil Thorndike. Isn’t it charming?’ Gladys giggled and leaned towards Sir Repton with an unsubtle hint of intimacy. It was out of character from the serious minded stalwart of the Horticultural Society. Apart from Parker, who she tolerated, Gladys was normally averse to dogs and complained that their urine ruined the lawns.

  Sir Repton, who had brushed his hair free of the confetti, bent down and
picked up the dog. Then he got up and shook hands first with Venetia – he appeared confused as to why she was present until it was explained that she lived at Wellworth Lawns – and then with Laura, who put Parker on his lead as the dachshund growled.

  Sir Repton sat back down and put the dog on his lap. It wriggled, put its front paws on the table and ate a slice of bread and butter from his side plate.

  ‘Sybil Thorndike,’ he intoned with Bardish grandeur. ‘You are a most vexatious creature.’ The dog swallowed hard and turned its attention back to Parker, eyes ablaze with vicious intent.

  Laura said she’d take Parker back upstairs.

  ‘It’s most unfair,’ she said to him, as she pressed the button for the lift. ‘Fancy having to take my own dog out of my own dining room, all for an ill-tempered dachshund.’

  The lift door opened and Edward Parrott got out.

  What was it about him that was so unappealing? She had nothing against short stature in a man – in fact she was used to looking at men directly in the eye, being tall herself. And again, many people had broken blood vessels around the nose and pockmarks and it had never bothered her. She supposed it must be the combination of these things and the fact that he always seemed to have had some sort of shaving mishap.

  ‘Good evening Lady Boxford,’ he said. ‘Leaving dinner early?’ He took a tissue from his pocket and held it over his mouth as he sidled round her, his flat feet shuffling on the carpet. ‘Not ill I hope?’ he mumbled.

  ‘Me? Never.’ Laura carried on into the lift.

  Returning to the dining room some minutes later, Laura saw her friends Strudel Black and Jervis Willingdale who, amongst other things ran ballroom dancing classes and the dating agency, Ancient Eros, that had been so instrumental in her courtship of the Brigadier. The unmarried couple were a decade or so younger than the average residents of Wellworth Lawns and lived in one of the newly built bungalows in what had been the old kitchen garden. She greeted them and complemented Strudel on her pink organza dress and latest striking hairdo, before re-joining her table.