Innocent Victims Page 10

  Siobhan had questioned Rosheen about the jewellery afterwards and, like Bridey, the girl had wrung her hands in distress. But Rosheen’s distress had everything to do with her aunt’s expecting her to perjure herself and nothing at all to do with the facts. “Oh, Siobhan,” she had wailed, “does she expect me to stand up in court and tell lies? Because it’ll not do Patrick any good when they find me out. Surely it’s better to say nothing than to keep inventing stories that no one believes?”

  11:55 p.m.—Monday, 8th March, 1999

  It was cold on the footpath because the wall of The Old Vicarage was reflecting the heat back towards Kilkenny Cottage, but the sound of the burning house was deafening. The pine rafters and ceiling joists popped and exploded like intermittent rifle fire while the flames kept up a hungry roar. As Siobhan emerged onto the road leading up from the junction, she found herself in a crowd of her neighbours, who seemed to be watching the blaze in a spirit of revelry—almost, she thought in amazement, as if it were a spectacular fireworks display put on for their enjoyment. People raised their arms and pointed whenever a new rafter caught alight, and “oohs” and “aahs” burst out of their mouths like a cheer. Any moment now, she thought cynically, and they’d bring out an effigy of that other infamous Catholic, Guy Fawkes, who was ritually burnt every year for trying to blow up the Houses of Parliament.

  She started to work her way through the crowd but was stopped by Nora Bentley, the elderly doctor’s wife, who caught her arm and drew her close. The Bentleys were far and away Siobhan’s favourites among her neighbours, being the only ones with enough tolerance to stand against the continuous barrage of anti-O’Riordan hatred that poured from the mouths of almost everyone else. Although as Ian often pointed out, they could afford to be tolerant. “Be fair, Siobhan. Lavinia wasn’t related to them. They might feel differently if she’d been their granny.”

  “We’ve been worried about you, my dear,” said Nora. “What with all this going on, we didn’t know whether you were trapped inside the farm or outside.”

  Siobhan gave her a quick hug. “Outside. I stayed late at work to sort out some contracts, and I’ve had to abandon the car at the church.”

  “Well, I’m afraid your drive’s completely blocked with fire engines. If it’s any consolation, we’re all in the same boat, although Jeremy Jardine and the Haversleys have the added worry of sparks carrying on the wind and setting light to their houses.” She chuckled suddenly. “You have to laugh. Cynthia bullied the firemen into taking preventative measures by hosing down the front of Malvern House, and now she’s tearing strips off poor old Peter because he left their bedroom window open. The whole room’s completely saturated.”

  Siobhan grinned. “Good,” she said unsympathetically. “It’s time Cynthia had some of her own medicine.”

  Nora wagged an admonishing finger at her. “Don’t be too hard on her, my dear. For all her sins, Cynthia can be very kind when she wants to be. It’s a pity you’ve never seen that side of her.”

  “I’m not sure I’d want to,” said Siobhan cynically. “At a guess, she only shows it when she’s offering charity. Where are they, anyway?”

  “I’ve no idea. I expect Peter’s making up the spare-room beds and Cynthia’s at the front somewhere behaving like the chief constable. You know how bossy she is.”

  “Yes,” agreed Siobhan, who had been on the receiving end of Cynthia’s hectoring tongue more often than she cared to remember. Indeed, if she had any regrets about moving to Sowerbridge, they were all centred around the overbearing personality of the Honourable Mrs. Haversley.

  By one of those legal quirks of which the English are so fond, the owners of Malvern House had title to the first hundred feet of Fording Farm’s driveway while the owners of the farm had right of way in perpetuity across it. This had led to a state of war existing between the two households, although it was a war that had been going on long before the Lavenhams’ insignificant tenure of eighteen months. Ian maintained that Cynthia’s insistence on her rights stemmed from the fact that the Haversleys were, and always had been, the poor relations of the Fanshaws at the Manor House. (“You get slowly more impoverished if you inherit through the distaff side,” he said, “and Peter’s family had never been able to lay claim to the manor. It’s made Cynthia bitter.”) Nevertheless, had he and Siobhan paid heed to their solicitor’s warnings, they might have questioned why such a beautiful place had had five different owners in under ten years. Instead, they had accepted the previous owners’ assurances that everything in the garden was lovely—“You’ll like Cynthia Haversley. She’s a charming woman.”—and put the rapid turnover down to coincidence.

  Something that sounded like a grenade detonating exploded in the heart of the fire and Nora Bentley jumped. She tapped her heart with a fluttery hand. “Goodness me, it’s just like the war,” she said in a rush. “So exciting.” She tempered this surprising statement by adding that she felt sorry for the O’Riordans, but her sympathy came a poor second to her desire for sensation.

  “Are Liam and Bridey here?” asked Siobhan, looking around.

  “I don’t think so, dear. To be honest, I wonder if they even know what’s happening. They were very secretive about where they were staying in Winchester; unless the police know where they are, well”—she shrugged—“who could have told them?”

  “Rosheen knows.”

  Nora gave an absent-minded smile. “Yes, but she’s with your boys at the farm.”

  “We are on the phone, Nora.”

  “I know, dear, but it’s all been so sudden. One minute, nothing; the next, mayhem. As a matter of fact, I did suggest we call Rosheen, but Cynthia said there was no point. Let Liam and Bridey have a good night’s sleep, she said. What can they do that the fire brigade haven’t already done? Why bother them unnecessarily?”

  “I’ll bear that in mind when Cynthia’s house goes up in flames,” said Siobhan dryly, glancing at her watch and telling herself to get a move on. Curiosity held her back. “When did it start?”

  “No one knows,” said Nora. “Sam and I smelt burning about an hour and a half ago and came to investigate, but by that time the flames were already at the downstairs windows.” She waved an arm at The Old Vicarage. “We knocked up Jeremy and got him to call the fire brigade, but the whole thing was out of control long before they arrived.”

  Siobhan’s eyes followed the waving arm. “Why didn’t Jeremy call them earlier? Surely he’d have smelt burning before you did? He lives right opposite.” Her glance travelled on to the Bentleys’ house, Rose Cottage, which stood behind The Old Vicarage, a good hundred yards distant from Kilkenny Cottage.

  Nora looked anxious, as if she, too, found Jeremy Jardine’s inertia suspicious. “He says he didn’t, says he was in his cellar. He was horrified when he saw what was going on.”

  Siobhan took that last sentence with a pinch of salt. Jeremy Jardine was a wine shipper who had used his Fanshaw family connection some years before to buy The Old Vicarage off the church commissioners for its extensive cellars. But the beautiful brick house looked out over the O’Riordans’ unsightly wrecking ground, and he was one of their most strident critics. No one knew how much he’d paid for it, although rumour suggested it had been sold off at a fifth of its value. Certainly questions had been asked at the time about why a substantial Victorian rectory had never been advertised for sale on the open market, although, as usual in Sowerbridge, answers were difficult to come by when they involved the Fanshaw family.

  Prior to the murders, Siobhan had been irritated enough by Jeremy’s unremitting criticism of the O’Riordans to ask him why he’d bought The Old Vicarage, knowing what the view was going to be. “It’s not as though you didn’t know about Liam’s cars,” she told him. “Nora Bentley says you’d been living with Lavinia at the manor for two years before the purchase.” He’d muttered darkly about good investments turning s
our when promises of action failed to materialise and she had interpreted this as meaning he’d paid a pittance to acquire the property from the church on the mistaken understanding that one of his district councillor buddies could force the O’Riordans to clean up their frontage.

  Ian had laughed when she told him about the conversation. “Why on earth doesn’t he just offer to pay for the cleanup himself? Liam’s never going to pay to have those blasted wrecks removed, but he’d be pleased as punch if someone else did.”

  “Perhaps he can’t afford it. Nora says the Fanshaws aren’t half as well off as everyone believes, and Jeremy’s business is no great shakes. I know he talks grandly about how he supplies all the top families with quality wine, but that case he sold us was rubbish.”

  “It wouldn’t cost much, not if a scrap-metal merchant did it.”

  Siobhan had wagged a finger at him. “You know what your problem is, husband of mine? You’re too sensible to live in Sowerbridge. Also, you’re ignoring the fact that there’s an issue of principle at stake. If Jeremy pays for the cleanup then the O’Riordans will have won. Worse still, they will be seen to have won because their house will also rise in value the minute the wrecks go.”

  He shook his head. “Just promise me you won’t start taking sides, Shiv. You’re no keener on the O’Riordans than anyone else, and there’s no law that says the Irish have to stick together. Life’s too short to get involved in their ridiculous feuds.”

  “I promise,” she had said, and at the time she had meant it.

  But that was before Patrick had been charged with murder. . . .

  There was no doubt in the minds of most of Sowerbridge’s inhabitants that Patrick O’Riordan saw Lavinia Fanshaw as an easy target. In November, two years previously, he had relieved the confused old woman of a Chippendale chair worth five hundred pounds after claiming a European directive required all hedgerows to be clipped to a uniform standard. He had stripped her laurels to within four feet of the ground in return for the antique, and had sold the foliage on to a crony who made festive Christmas wreaths.

  Nor had he shown any remorse. “It was a bit of business,” he said in the pub afterwards, grinning happily as he swilled his beer, “and she was pleased as punch about it. She told me she’s always hated that chair.” He was a small, wiry man with a shock of dark hair and penetrating blue eyes which stared unwaveringly at the person he was talking to—like a fighting dog whose intention was to intimidate. “In any case, I did this village a favour. The manor looks a damn sight better since I sorted the frontage.”

  The fact that most people agreed with him was neither here nor there. The combination of Lavinia’s senility and extraordinary longevity meant Sowerbridge Manor was rapidly falling into disrepair, but this did not entitle anyone, least of all an O’Riordan, to take advantage of her. What about Kilkenny Cottage’s frontage? people protested. Liam’s cars were a great deal worse than Lavinia’s overgrown hedge. There was even suspicion that her live-in nurse had connived in the fraud, because she was known to be extremely critical of the deteriorating conditions in which she was expected to work.

  “I can’t be watching Mrs. Fanshaw twenty-four hours a day,” Dorothy Jenkins had said firmly, “and if she makes an arrangement behind my back, then there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s her grandson you should be talking to. He’s the one with power of attorney over her affairs, but he’s never going to sell this place before she’s dead because he’s too mean to put her in a nursing home. She could live forever the way she’s going, and nursing homes cost far more than I do. He pays me peanuts because he says I’m getting free board and lodging, but there’s no heating, the roof leaks, and the whole place is a death trap of rotten floorboards. He’s only waiting for the poor old thing to die so that he can sell the land to a property developer and live in clover for the rest of his life.”

  Monday, 8th March, 1999

  The crowd seemed to be growing bigger and more boisterous by the minute, but as Siobhan recognised few of the faces, she realised word of the fire must have spread to surrounding villages. She couldn’t understand why the police were letting thrill-seekers through until she heard one man say that he’d parked on the Southampton Road and cut across a field to bypass the police block. There was much jostling for position; the smell of beer on the breath of one man who pushed past her was overpowering. He barged against her and she jabbed him angrily in the ribs with a sharp elbow before taking Nora’s arm and shepherding her across the road.

  “Someone’s going to be hurt in a minute,” she said. “They’ve obviously come straight from the pub.” She manoeuvred through a knot of people beside the wall of Malvern House, and ahead of her she saw Nora’s husband, Dr. Sam Bentley, talking with Peter and Cynthia Haversley. “There’s Sam. I’ll leave you with him and then be on my way. I’m worried about Rosheen and the boys.” She nodded briefly to the Haversleys, raised a hand in greeting to Sam Bentley, then prepared to push on.

  “You won’t get through,” said Cynthia forcefully, planting her corseted body between Siobhan and the crossroads. “They’ve barricaded the entire junction and no one’s allowed past.” Her face had turned crimson from the heat, and Siobhan wondered if she had any idea how unattractive she looked. The combination of dyed blond hair atop a glistening beetroot complexion was reminiscent of sherry trifle, and Siobhan wished she had a camera to record the fact. Siobhan knew her to be in her late sixties because Nora had let slip once that she and Cynthia shared a birthday, but Cynthia herself preferred to draw a discreet veil over her age. Privately (and rather grudgingly) Siobhan admitted she had a case, because her plumpness gave her skin a smooth, firm quality which made her look considerably younger than her years, though it didn’t make her any more likeable.

  Siobhan had asked Ian once if he thought her antipathy to Cynthia was an “Irish thing.” The idea had amused him. “On what basis? Because the Honourable Mrs. Havers­ley symbolises colonial authority?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Don’t be absurd, Shiv. She’s a fat snob with a power complex who loves throwing her weight around. No one likes her. I certainly don’t. She probably wouldn’t be so bad if her wet husband had ever stood up to her, but poor old Peter’s as cowed as everyone else. You should learn to ignore her. In the great scheme of things, she’s about as relevant as birdshit on your windscreen.”

  “I hate birdshit on my windscreen.”

  “I know,” he had said with a grin, “but you don’t assume pigeons single your car out because you’re Irish, do you?”

  She made an effort now to summon a pleasant smile as she answered Cynthia. “Oh, I’m sure they’ll make an exception of me. Ian’s in Italy this week, which means Rosheen and the boys are on their own. I think I’ll be allowed through in the circumstances.”

  “If you aren’t,” said Dr. Bentley, “Peter and I can give you a leg-up over the wall and you can cut through Malvern House garden.”

  “Thank you.” She studied his face for a moment. “Does anyone know how the fire started, Sam?”

  “We think Liam must have left a cigarette burning.”

  Siobhan pulled a wry face. “Then it must have been the slowest-burning cigarette in history,” she said. “They were gone by nine o’clock this morning.”

  He looked as worried as his wife had done earlier. “It’s only a guess.”

  “Oh, come on! If it was a smouldering cigarette you’d have seen flames at the windows by lunchtime.” She turned her attention back to Cynthia. “I’m surprised that Sam and Nora smelt burning before you did,” she said with deliberate lightness. “You and Peter are so much closer than they are.”

  “We probably would have done if we’d been here,” said Cynthia, “but we went to supper with friends in Salisbury. We didn’t get home until after Jeremy called the fire brigade.” She stared Siobhan down, daring her to dis
pute the statement.

  “Matter of fact,” said Peter, “we only just scraped in before the police arrived with barricades. Otherwise they’d have made us leave the car at the church.”

  Siobhan wondered if the friends had invited the Haversleys or if the Haversleys had invited themselves. She guessed the latter. None of the O’Riordans’ neighbours would have wanted to save Kilkenny Cottage, and unlike Jeremy, she thought sarcastically, the Haversleys had no cellar to skulk in. “I really must go,” she said then. “Poor Rosheen will be worried sick.” But if she expected sympathy for Liam and Bridey’s niece, she didn’t get it.

  “If she were that worried, she’d have come down here,” declared Cynthia. “With or without your boys. I don’t know why you employ her. She’s one of the laziest and most deceitful creatures I’ve ever met. Frankly, I wouldn’t have her for love or money.”

  Siobhan smiled slightly. It was like listening to a cracked record, she thought. The day the Honourable Mrs. Haversley resisted an opportunity to snipe at an O’Riordan would be a red-letter day in Siobhan’s book. “I suspect the feeling’s mutual, Cynthia. Threat of death might persuade her to work for you, but not love or money.”

  Cynthia’s retort, a pithy one if her annoyed expression was anything to go by, was swallowed by the sound of Kilkenny Cottage collapsing inwards upon itself as the beams supporting the roof finally gave way. There was a shout of approval from the crowd behind them, and while everyone else’s attention was temporarily distracted, Siobhan watched Peter Haversley give his wife a surreptitious pat on the back.

  4.

  Saturday, 30th January, 1999

  Siobhan had stubbornly kept an open mind about Patrick’s guilt, although as she was honest enough to admit to Ian, it was more for Rosheen and Bridey’s sake than because she seriously believed there was room for reasonable doubt. She couldn’t forget the fear she had seen in Rosheen’s eyes one day when she came home early to find Jeremy Jardine at the front door of the farm. “What are you doing here?” she had demanded of him angrily, appalled by the ashen colour in her nanny’s cheeks.