Any Man's Death E-Book

Hazel Holt

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Sheila Malory Mystery
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 295

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

When local author Sheila Malory is asked to research the history of Mere Barton, she has her reservations; particularly as 'The Book' is one of the many projects of Annie Roberts, the most unpopular resident. Indeed, it seems that hardly anyone has a good word to say about her. When Annie suffers a fatal bout of self-inflicted food poisoning, there is more relief than grief around the village. However, as Sheila continues work she discovers there is more to Annie's unpopularity than just a forceful personality. Was the death as accidental as it first seemed?

Leseprobe

Any Man’s Death

HAZEL HOLT

For Laura With love and thanks

‘Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind.’

JOHN DONNE

Contents

Title PageDedicationEpigraphChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter FifteenChapter SixteenChapter SeventeenChapter EighteenChapter NineteenChapter TwentyAbout the AuthorBy Hazel HoltCopyright

Chapter One

‘If you ask me,’ Anthea said, ‘I think it’s a great mistake.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I said mildly. ‘They are sisters, after all, and they always used to get on well together.’

‘Years ago. Things are very different now. Rachel’s used to having her own home and doing things her own way. And you remember how she always used to want to run everything.’

This, coming from Anthea who runs most things in Taviscombe, was pretty rich. ‘I’m sure they’ll work it out,’ I said. ‘After all, they both live alone and if Rachel wants to come back here now that Alastair’s dead, it makes a lot of sense.’

‘I can’t think why Phyllis stayed on in that enormous house after her father died, she’d have been much better off in a nice bungalow.’

‘Oh, but it’s been the family home for generations,’ I said. ‘Her grandfather built it before the Great War. It was one of the first new houses to be built in Mere Barton – I remember Mother saying there was quite a bit of excitement about it at the time. I know Phyll couldn’t bear to live anywhere else, and I expect Rachel has many happy memories of it.’

‘Well, it’s still far too big for the two of them,’ Anthea persisted. ‘I thought as much when Dr Gregory was alive and it was just him and Phyllis.’

‘Oh, he’d never have moved,’ I said. ‘He loved the house and being in the village, especially after he retired; he was so much part of the place. I must say, I couldn’t imagine the village without him.’

‘Anyway, why does Rachel want to come back after all those years in Scotland? I’d have thought she’d have made her own life up there.’

‘Inverness was Alastair’s home,’ I said, ‘and when he was offered a practice there, of course he took it, and I’m sure she was quite happy while he was alive, but I don’t think she would have wanted to stay there without him.’

‘But what about the son? Where’s he?’

‘Jamie? Oh, he’s gone off to Africa somewhere – Médecins Sans Frontières – something like that. So Rachel’s quite on her own.’

There was a brief silence while Anthea considered and filed away the information she’d acquired.

‘So when’s this welcome-home party, then?’ she asked.

‘Rachel’s due here next week, and I expect she’ll want time to settle in, but Phyll thought she’d just let us know what she’s got planned.’

‘Well, I hope it’s not on a Wednesday,’ Anthea said. ‘I’m never free on a Wednesday.’

‘I’m sure Phyll will remember that,’ I said.

Rachel Craig was an old school friend, part of our special group, whom Rosemary also remembered when I met up with her later on.

‘It’ll be nice to see her again,’ Rosemary said. ‘It’s ages since she’s been back in Taviscombe.’

‘Well, it’s quite a journey from Inverness, even if you fly. She did come back for her mother’s funeral; though, if you remember, she couldn’t get away for Dr Gregory’s because Alastair was so ill then. Poor Phyll was very upset about that.’

‘Oh, Phyll always put her father before anyone else,’ Rosemary said. ‘Look at the way she gave up a perfectly good job to come back and look after him when her mother died.’

‘She never seemed to me to be that keen on a career – not like Rachel.’

‘She could have been head of her department if she’d stayed on at that school in Portsmouth.’

‘I suppose so…but she always said she really only liked the teaching – and I can see she’d be a splendid teacher, but she’d be hopeless with a lot of paperwork. Rachel, now, was Alastair’s nurse practitioner and pretty well ran the whole thing. I only hope she finds enough scope in Mere Barton for all her energies!’

‘Well, if Anthea’s right,’ Rosemary said, ‘and she does intend to run the village, she’ll find pretty stiff opposition from Annie.’

Annie Roberts used to be the district nurse, and even though she’s retired she’s still greatly in demand for unofficial consultations. She sees herself (rightly) as the hub of the village, living where she does right in the middle of the main street, next to the village shop. The door of Willow Cottage usually stands open so that Annie can see who’s passing and engage them in conversation. She’s the repository of a great deal of information about what goes on in the village, but she never gossips. ‘Patient confidentiality’, she always says if asked about anything, pressing her lips tightly together to indicate the degree of her integrity. In addition to all that, she runs most of the village activities – she’s in charge of the village hall, president of the Women’s Institute, treasurer of the parochial church council, and it’s Annie who makes the collection for Poppy Day and other flag days for worthy causes. ‘Well, I’ve got the time, you see’, she says, ‘now I’m retired’, ignoring the fact that a large proportion of the population of Mere Barton are also retired and longing for something to occupy their newly acquired leisure. Though, of course, she is perfectly happy to enrol them as her lieutenants, carrying out her orders, as it were, and, as yet, no one has had the courage to challenge her leadership. Not that she is a formidable figure – barely five foot – she has, however, the immense energy that small people often have, and to see her about the village on some ploy or other is like watching a purposeful darting insect.

I laughed. ‘Oh, I think Rachel knows enough not to take on Annie.’

‘Or Anthea at Brunswick Lodge?’ Rosemary suggested. Brunswick Lodge, a large eighteenth-century house, is the social and cultural centre of Taviscombe and Anthea’s own particular fiefdom.

‘Don’t! That’s a terrible thought! But, actually, Rachel is far too tactful to make any sort of overt takeover. If she wanted to, she’d do it so subtly that the person taken over from would actually thank her! Do you remember at school how she always got her own way without seeming to try?’

‘Oh well,’ Rosemary said, ‘it’ll be interesting to see what happens.’

Phyll rang about ten days later.

‘She’s dying to see you all,’ she said, ‘so could you come next Tuesday? I thought a lunchtime thing would be best – a lot of people don’t really like driving at night. Twelve for twelve-thirty. Drinks and a few odds and ends to eat, nothing formal. Not a lot of people, mostly neighbours from the village, and you and Rosemary, of course.’

‘That sounds lovely,’ I said. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’

Rosemary and I arranged to go together. ‘If you think it’s going on too long,’ she said, ‘just give me a nod and I’ll say I’ve got to go and collect Alex from school.’

The road to Mere Barton is very narrow with virtually no passing places, and any encounter with a lorry or a tractor means backing a long way with your head uncomfortably screwed back over your shoulder.

‘I must say I’m grateful not to have to drive down this road in the dark,’ I said, ‘and thank goodness for a solid Edwardian house with a proper drive so there’s plenty of space to park!’

Higher Barton, as its name indicates, stands on a slight eminence just outside the village. It is very handsome, its red brick mellowed by time, and with a multiplicity of lovingly crafted architectural adornments which would actually justify that house agents’ favourite phrase ‘many period features’. There were already several cars there, some of the local residents electing to drive the short distance from the village, and I parked beside the shiny new Range Rover that belonged to Diana Parker. Her husband, Toby, is an MP with a London constituency, but Diana chooses to live down here on the farm that used to be his family home. Not that it’s a farm now, just a done-over farmhouse with several fields and stabling where Diana keeps her horses.

‘All the usual suspects,’ Rosemary murmured as we went into the drawing room.

‘I think you know everybody,’ Phyll said, leading us forward. ‘Rachel, here’s Sheila and Rosemary.’

Rachel never really seems to change. Obviously she’s grown older as we all have, but her hair is dark and her face unlined – and all, I’m quite sure, without any artificial aids – and she still has the air of relaxed confidence that marked her out even as a schoolgirl.

‘How lovely to see you both again.’ She came towards us, her hands outstretched and with that particularly sweet smile I remembered so well, and I felt a wave of affection – and I’m sure Rosemary did too – as she embraced us. Rachel always was a special person.

We exchanged a few disjointed remarks and Rachel said, ‘We can’t chat properly now and there’s so much I want to catch up on. Shall we have lunch at The Buttery, for old times’ sake? How about Tuesday?’

As schoolgirls the three of us always used to go to The Buttery after games (though it wasn’t called The Buttery then – I think it was The Periwinkle) to drink hot chocolate and complain about being forced to participate in athletic activities.

She went away to talk to the little group that were standing beside a table where Phyllis’s odds and ends to eat were laid out; though, since she is a splendid cook, they were considerably more than that.

‘Come and have some of these gorgeous crostini,’ Judith Lamb called out to us. ‘I don’t know how Phyllis manages to do all these wonderful things. The spread she put on for the village hall Christmas party was fabulous!’

Judith is the widow of an accountant – they both came here from Birmingham when he retired. He died a few years ago and Judith lives in the cottage next to Annie’s and is her most enthusiastic helper. She, too, is small and purposeful, but built on fuller lines. She has a round face perched on a round body, and to the fanciful eye resembles an old-fashioned cottage loaf.

‘Here,’ William Faber proffered a plate, ‘do try some of these excellent miniature pizzas – such a good idea!’

William Faber is the rector of All Saints, the handsome village church, and has the care of two other parishes. He likes to be called Father William (though I do find my thoughts fly instantly and inappropriately to Lewis Carroll when I hear him addressed in this way) and has, as they say, spiced up the services (in the face of some opposition – appeals having being made to the bishop) in all three parishes. He can quite frequently be heard giving witty, inspirational talks on the radio in the Thought For The Day slot and is, consequently, very popular in the village.

A group of other people now came into the room: Fred and Ellen Tucker, who have the one remaining farm in the village, Maurice Sanders, who used to be some sort of civil servant but who, with his wife, Margaret, now keeps the village shop, George Prosser, a retired Navy captain, Jim and Mary Fletcher (he had been a bank manager and she was a librarian), Lewis and Naomi Chapman (he still works as an anaesthetist and she is engaged in some sort of medical research) and, finally, ushering them all through the door like an efficient sheepdog, Annie Roberts.

‘We all walked up from the village,’ Annie said, ‘it’s such a lovely day.’

The room, large as it was, suddenly seemed very full of people and I retreated, with my plate of food, to one of the window seats where I was joined by Lewis Chapman.

‘I’ll wait for the scrum to subside,’ he said, smiling, ‘before I attack the food.’

Lewis is a really nice man, a cheerful soul with a jolly, outgoing disposition, in contrast to his wife’s austere and withdrawn manner. I never feel entirely at ease with Naomi – I always think of that description of Katisha in The Mikado, ‘As hard as a bone with a mind of her own’, and there’s something of Katisha’s imperiousness there too. I always feel she’s judging me – and usually finding me wanting.

‘I’m really sorry about poor old Alastair,’ Lewis said. ‘We go back a long way: we did part of our training together at Barts. But it must have been a dreadful time for Rachel – he was ill for so long and he needed a lot of nursing. I must say,’ he continued, looking across the room, ‘she looks pretty good after all she’s had to go through.’

‘Rachel’s always been tough,’ I said, ‘mentally and physically, right from when we were at school together. She always coped, no matter what. That’s why I’m glad she’s back here with Phyll. Poor Phyll – I don’t think she’s really got over her father’s death, even now.’

‘He was a good age.’

‘I know, but I suppose we all expect our parents to be immortal.’

‘Ah, there you are, Lewis.’ Naomi came towards us holding her plate, glass and handbag in the sort of elegant and effortless way that I can never achieve. ‘Are you getting some food?’

Lewis got up obediently and went over to the table while Naomi joined me.

‘So, Sheila,’ she said, ‘and what are you writing now?’

‘Writing? Oh, nothing special, just a few reviews.’

‘Such a pity. I greatly enjoyed your book on Mrs Gaskell.’ She gave me what might pass for a smile. ‘We shouldn’t let our talents rust as we get older.’

‘I never seem to have the time,’ I said, disconcerted as I frequently am by Naomi’s style of conversation, ‘what with the house and the animals, and the children.’

‘I find that one can usually make the time if it’s something one really wants to do.’ She bit neatly into a vol-au-vent without, I noticed with loathing, scattering shards of puff pastry as other people do.

It was with some relief that I saw Annie Roberts making her way towards us.

‘Sheila,’ she said, ‘just the person I want to see.’ My heart sank because I knew immediately that there was something she wanted me to do – and one never says no to Annie. ‘Just come over and have a word with me and Ellen. It’s about The Book.’

The Book, always referred to in capital letters by those involved with it, was Annie’s latest project. Realising that there’d been a proliferation of village history books – not meagre little brochures, but substantial, glossy publications – with documents going back (if possible) to the Domesday Book, and ancient photographs and reminiscences, Annie decided that Mere Barton should not be left out. Unfortunately, to produce such a volume it’s necessary to have suitable material (especially pictorial records), and the only people able to provide that would be those whose families had lived in the village for generations. Mere Barton was singularly lacking in such people. Of the original inhabitants only Fred and Ellen Tucker, Phyll and Rachel, Toby Parker and Annie herself remained.

Annie detached Ellen from the group she had been happily engaged with.

‘Right, then, I thought you two ought to get together,’ Annie said. ‘Sheila’s our local author so she’s obviously the person to help you, Ellen, and I thought we could all meet sometime next week and get things moving. We’ve got some material – that stuff of Fred’s, for instance, Ellen, and I’ve got all those photos of my grandfather’s. Sheila will be able to tell you what we can use – and I’ve got a lot of ideas we can all of us follow up. So shall we say next Monday morning – ten o’clock at my cottage?’

Ellen and I looked helplessly at each other and silently nodded our agreement to this arrangement.

‘Right,’ Annie said, ‘I’ll see you then. Oh, there’s Diana – I’m sure Toby has all sorts of family things that we could use. I’ll get her to look them out, and I’ll have a word with him when he comes down.’

She dived across the room and Ellen and I looked at each other and smiled.

‘Poor Diana,’ I said, ‘and poor Toby too. Perhaps he’ll take refuge in the House where she can’t get at him.’

‘I’m sorry, Sheila,’ Ellen said. ‘I’m sure you didn’t want to get roped in for this, but I really would be grateful if you could lend a hand. It’s not my sort of thing at all and I haven’t the faintest idea how to go about it.’

‘Well, apart from being resentful at being pushed around by Annie, I’d really quite like to have a look at the material. I love old photos and things like that so it will be a pleasure.’ I saw Rosemary making little waving gestures to me across the room. ‘Oh, I think Rosemary wants to go, but I’ll see you at Annie’s on Monday.’

Driving home I told Rosemary about my involvement in The Book.

‘It might be interesting,’ I said, ‘if only I didn’t feel so cross at being manipulated by Annie!’

‘Well, you know what she’s like – she’s got the whole village under her thumb; I wish I knew how she manages it! Still, she does get things done, I’ll say that for her.’

I cautiously overtook a tractor with an unsteady load of silage. ‘I wonder what happened to Anthea?’ I said. ‘Do you think she’s ill?’

‘And,’ Rosemary said, ‘did you notice, nobody asked about her? I wonder,’ she continued thoughtfully, ‘if she was actually invited?’

Chapter Two

Foss, my Siamese, in his endless quest for entertainment, has invented a new ploy. When I go upstairs he rushes past and lies across the stair in front of me. This means that I either have to step over him (difficult because they are steep cottage stairs) or pay him the attention he requires by stroking him. This continues all the way up the stairs (mercifully he doesn’t do it for the downward journey). I suppose I should have sharply discouraged him when he first started it, but because he thought of it all by himself, and because (of course) I’m a fool about animals, I go along with it even though it makes going upstairs a very slow business indeed. This, and the fact that it took me ages to find anywhere to park in the village (the main street is always full of people who have driven the short distance to the village shop), meant that I was late getting to Annie’s.

I went in through the open front door and found Annie and Ellen seated at the large round table that takes up the greater part of her small sitting room.

‘Oh, there you are,’ Annie said, ‘we’d almost given you up.’

I made my apologies, aware that I’d started off on the wrong foot and would have to be especially cooperative to make up.

‘Well, sit down now you’re here, and see what you think of these photos that Ellen’s brought.’

A collection of old sepia pictures was spread out, mostly of agricultural pursuits – harvesting with open wooden carts and heavy horses, ploughing (the horses again), people in old-fashioned clothes, holding farm implements, standing self-consciously in front of groups of sheep or cattle – the collective memory of one family pinned down in time.

‘Aren’t they splendid!’ I said enthusiastically. ‘And look at this one of the village street: all the cottages look quite shabby, very different from now when they’ve all been done up.’

‘Oh well,’ Ellen said, ‘the village is full of offcomers now – retired people or commuters. Everything’s been buzzed up. Fred’s father said that when he was a boy it was a proper working village. There was a tailor, a baker, a wheelwright, a shoemaker, a blacksmith and an alehouse.’

‘An alehouse?’ I asked. ‘Where the hotel is now?’

‘Bless you, no,’ Ellen laughed. ‘It was at Rose Cottage, just down from here – you knocked on the door and handed in your jug and they filled it with ale.’

‘I remember old Johnny Yates at the bakery,’ Annie said. ‘When I was a child he’d bake your pies for you in his big oven. And the blacksmith’s only been gone a few years – when Ted Andrews died.’

‘Still, his son, Geoff, has kept on the business,’ Ellen said. ‘Well, he’s just a farrier now, and drives around with a portable forge in the back of his truck.’

‘I suppose that’s something,’ I said, ‘but it’s very sad to think of how things have changed, and not necessarily for the better.’

‘Well, and that’s what this book’s all about,’ Annie said briskly, ‘putting it all down so it isn’t forgotten.’

Called to order we went back to sorting through the photos.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘it’s a splendid start. Do we have the promise of any more?’

‘I asked Diana to see what she can find of Toby’s family,’ Annie said. ‘They’ve been in the village for generations – gentlemen farmers is what they used to be called. I must get her moving on that. And there’s my photos, of course – I didn’t get them out today because there’s still a lot of stuff in a chest upstairs and I wanted to see what I’ve got.’

‘And I suppose there should be some from Rachel and Phyll,’ I said. ‘Dr Gregory’s family goes back quite a long way. Has anyone asked them?’

‘Oh, I’ve got Rachel on to that. She’s more organised than Phyllis,’ Annie said approvingly. ‘And Ellen here has some old newspaper cuttings and objects that could be interesting.’

‘That’s splendid,’ I said. ‘Lovely to have things like that; I wish we did.’

‘Oh, nobody ever throws anything away in our house,’ Ellen said. ‘The place is full of stuff – honestly, trying to keep it clean and tidy is a nightmare!’

‘Now, Sheila,’ Annie said, ‘I’ve asked Father William to let you have access to the church records so you can deal with all that side of things, and I want you to write a history of the village – it was mentioned in the Domesday Book, you know.’

My heart sank. ‘A history?’

‘It can be quite short, and I’m sure you can find a lot of material in the County Records office.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed despondently, ‘I’m sure I can.’

Ellen gave me a sympathetic glance. ‘Well, then, if that’s all, I’ve got to be on my way. Fred’s moving the sheep up into the top field and he’ll need me to lend him a hand.’

She got up and I looked at my watch and said hastily, ‘Oh, is that the time? I really ought to be going too.’

‘Well,’ Annie said disapprovingly, ‘we haven’t got nearly as much done as I thought we would. Now Sheila, do keep me up to date with how you’re getting on, and Ellen, if you can look out those old farm implements soon Jim Fletcher said he’d photograph them.’

‘Yes, of course,’ I said.

‘As soon as I can,’ Ellen said as we both backed quickly out of the room.

When we were outside, we walked a little way along the village street together and Ellen said, ‘Do you fancy coming back for a coffee?’

‘What about the sheep?’ I asked.

She laughed. ‘I always go prepared with some excuse when Annie corners me like that. I advise you to do the same!’

‘How very sensible,’ I said admiringly. ‘Yes please, I’d love to come.’

‘We’ll go down in your car – I walked up because I know how impossible it is to park anywhere near the shop in the morning.’

I looked back along the village street, lined with a variety of vehicles and with people standing about in the middle of the road chatting. Everyone seemed to be oblivious to a large van trying to make a delivery and a dilapidated Land Rover – with two Jack Russell terriers inside, their paws on the open windows and barking furiously – attempting to make its way through.

‘I do see what you mean,’ I said.

We retrieved my car from the driveway of the Exmoor Hotel at the edge of the village, where I’d left it in desperation earlier on, and drove down to Blackwell Farm. A couple of sheepdogs came bounding out to meet us, with Fred Tucker coming in behind them.

‘So you managed to get away, then,’ he said. ‘Hello, Sheila. So she’s got you roped in as well, then.’

‘I’m afraid so,’ I said ruefully. ‘I suppose I did sort of offer, but I’d no idea what I’d let myself in for – hours in the County Record Office in Taunton for a start!’

‘Never offer to do anything for Annie,’ Ellen said. ‘You’ll always get more than you bargain for. Come on into the kitchen, Sheila, and I’ll put the kettle on. Do you want one too, Fred?’

‘Can you fill a flask for me? Dan and I are going to put up that new pig arc.’

‘Dan is working for you now, then?’ I asked. Dan, their youngest son, has just left school; Mark, the older one, is away in the army.

‘He’s helping out for a bit before he goes to agricultural college next year,’ Ellen said.

‘And then he’ll come back here?’

‘If there’s anything to come back to,’ Fred said. ‘I don’t know why I bother with pigs – they don’t fetch enough to cover the feed. If the wheat prices keep up I can put some more fields down to arable, but a lot of the land, on the edge of the moor, is only fit for sheep, and they’re no more profitable than the pigs.’

He sat down opposite to me at the kitchen table and seemed prepared to continue to air his grievances.

‘Fred’s always been one to look on the gloomy side,’ Ellen said, spooning some coffee into a jug, filling it with hot water and milk, pouring it into a flask and screwing the top down tightly. ‘There you are, then,’ she said, picking up a packet of biscuits from the table and giving it to him along with the flask, ‘that’ll see you and Dan all right for a bit.’

A young man put his head round the door and called out, ‘Are you coming, Dad? Those weaners’ll be here in an hour and we haven’t got that pen ready for them.’

‘I’ll be off, then.’ Fred got up reluctantly. ‘Nice to see you, Sheila. Don’t let Annie work you to death.’

Ellen laughed. ‘Poor old Fred – he does love a chat and we don’t get many visitors he can let off steam to.’

She pushed a cup of coffee towards me. ‘It’s only instant,’ she said. ‘I gave up the proper stuff years ago – too much effort.’ She opened another packet of biscuits and put some on a plate. ‘And I never seem to have time for baking any more.’

‘It must be pretty hard,’ I said.

‘Market prices are dreadful and the feed goes up all the time. I do all the paperwork now – there’s no way Fred could spare the time. I mean, in the old days there’d be two or three men working on the farm, but now, even with the machinery (and that costs the earth) it’s still a lot of work for the two of us.’

‘Dan must be a great help.’

‘He’s a good lad, and I do hope Fred’s just being gloomy and we can manage to carry on somehow.’

‘Oh you must!’ I exclaimed. ‘You’re the last farm in the village. Everyone would be devastated if you had to give up.’

‘Not everyone,’ Ellen said. ‘We get all these complaints.’

‘Complaints?’

‘Oh, the tractors leave mud on the road, it isn’t nice to have trailers with manure going through the village, the bird scarers are too noisy, the pigs smell – that sort of thing.’

‘But that’s ridiculous!’ I exclaimed. ‘How can they complain about country living?’

‘That’s it, of course,’ Ellen said bitterly, ‘they don’t want to live in the country – they want to live in some idyllic rural spot with people just like themselves and no nasty noises or smells.’

‘Not all of them, surely,’ I said.

‘No. It’s the Fletchers really, the others are more or less all right – the Sanders are quite sympathetic. Though, mind you, I don’t think they realised what they were taking on with the village shop.’

‘People have a dream,’ I said, ‘and I suppose it’s inevitable that reality sometimes gives them a real awakening.’

‘I must say, though,’ Ellen said, ‘that Maurice has been very clever.’

‘Really?’

‘He’s worked out that people in the village are going to go to the supermarket for their main shopping, just for cheapness, and he knew he couldn’t make a living relying on them coming to him if they just run out of sugar or something. So he’s specialised in fancy foods and deli things – they cost the earth, but all the newcomers are well off and can easily afford them. They think it’s rather smart to have a specialist shop right here in the village – they’re always boasting about it to their friends when they come down from London.’

‘Well, good for him. Come to think of it, I seem to remember he stocked a rather nice smoked eel pâté. I must call in on my way back to get some.’ I took a biscuit and said, ‘It really is awful to think how the village has changed – even in the past few years.’

‘What really gets me,’ Ellen said sadly, ‘is not having the school bus stopping here any more. There’s not a single child in the village now – not since Dan left school.’

‘That’s terrible. ‘

‘Oh, people’s grandchildren come to stay in the school holidays, but it’s not the same.’

‘No continuity,’ I said.

‘No…when these villagers die they’ll simply be replaced by other people who’ve retired, and so it’ll go on.’

‘Well,’ I said encouragingly, ‘your Dan will marry and have children one day.’

‘I hope so – if we haven’t been driven away by the Fletchers.’ She laughed. ‘Listen to me, I’m beginning to sound like Fred!’

When I left Riverside I managed to park quite near the village shop. I looked in through the window to make sure Annie wasn’t there. Fortunately she wasn’t, though there were quite a few other people in there and a great deal of conversation, but not, as far as I could see, much trade being done. I suppose Mere Barton is lucky to have a village shop and (I suppose) it’s mainly thanks to the offcomers who can afford to pay fancy prices to keep it going. When I went in, I gradually identified some faces that I knew: Mary Fletcher, Diana Parker, George Prosser and Judith Lamb, who, perched on a stool by the counter, looked as if she was a permanent fixture there. She greeted me warmly.

‘Sheila…fancy seeing you again so soon!’

I explained my involvement with the village book. ‘Annie’s just been giving me my orders,’ I said.

Captain Prosser gave a bark of laughter. ‘I bet she has!’ he said. ‘I’ve served under admirals who frightened me less than our Annie.’ Sometimes he overdoes the bluff seafarer act.

‘Isn’t she marvellous?’ Judith said. ‘All the things she does for the village – I can’t imagine what we’d do without her. And always full of new schemes, like the book – such a marvellous idea, and of course she has all those wonderful family photos and things going way back!’

‘There certainly seems to be a lot of material,’ I said without enthusiasm. I turned to Diana. ‘I believe Toby has quite a few things that we might include.’

‘There’s a lot of junk out in the barn if the rats haven’t got to it,’ she said carelessly. ‘A couple of old trunks full of God knows what. You’re welcome to have a look at it if you like.’

‘It’s very kind of you,’ I said hastily, ‘but I’m sure Annie would rather look through things herself – she is in overall charge. I’m just doing the background stuff – the history of the village itself – documents in the County Record Office, things like that.’

‘Documents, how interesting,’ Judith said reverently, ‘as well as all the things from people in the village – people from every walk of life. The rich man in his castle, the poor man at the gate, as you might say.’

There was a slightly uneasy silence at this politically incorrect statement.

‘Did you know,’ I said hastily, ‘that Mrs Alexander wrote that hymn when she was staying down here at Dunster? I believe the purple-headed mountain was Grabbist and the river running by was the Avill.’

Diana raised an eyebrow. ‘Fascinating,’ she said.

‘Of course, you’d know all about that sort of thing,’ Mary Fletcher said, ‘since you’re such an expert on the Victorians.’

‘I’d hardly say that,’ I protested.

‘When I was working in the library at Farnborough,’ she went on, ‘I found your books were quite popular – for books of that sort, of course.’

‘Really,’ I said weakly. ‘How interesting.’

‘Well,’ Judith said, ‘what with your books and Father William’s broadcasts we have two celebrities in the village! Oh, and Mr Parker, of course.’ She turned to Diana. ‘It’s a great privilege to have a real live Member of Parliament right here on our doorstep!’

‘I must remember,’ Diana said, ‘to tell Toby that he is real and alive.’

Judith gave her an uncertain smile. ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I know we’re all looking forward to this book.’

‘I hope you can get it out soon,’ Captain Prosser said. ‘Quite a few villages have already published theirs – I’ve seen them in Smith’s – and we don’t want to be seen lagging behind.’

‘These things can’t be rushed; there’s a great deal involved in publishing a book, you know,’ Mary said, with the confident air of one who had professional knowledge of such matters. ‘Even today, with the new technology.’

‘Oh, that,’ the captain said. ‘I can’t make head or tail of it. Wouldn’t have one of those computers if you gave it to me!’

‘I did a very good course when I was at Farnborough,’ Mary said. ‘It was quite advanced – well, you had to be right up to date in the library – but I believe there are several really simple ones for beginners.’

While this exchange was going on I’d edged my way to the counter and addressed Maurice Saunders, who’d been listening to his customers’ conversation in an abstracted way.

‘What I really came in for,’ I said, ‘is some of that delicious smoked eel pâté you have.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s very popular – goes almost as soon as I get it in. But I’m expecting some next Tuesday – I’ll put some by for you.’

‘Thank you so much,’ I said, ‘I’ll look forward to that. I expect I’ll be back and forth to the village quite a bit now.’

And whether that would be a good thing I couldn’t, at the moment, decide.