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.
There was a telling silence before Rosheen stumbled into words.
“He says we’re murdering Mrs. Fanshaw all over again by taking Patrick’s side,” said the girl in a shaken voice. “I said it was wrong to condemn him before the evidence is heard—you told me everyone would believe Patrick was innocent until the trial—but Mr. Jardine just keeps shouting at me.”
Jeremy had laughed. “I’m doing the rounds with my new wine list,” he said, jerking his thumb towards his car. “But I’m damned if I’ll stay quiet while an Irish murderer’s cousin quotes English law at me.”
Siobhan had controlled her temper because her two sons were watching from the kitchen window. “Go inside now,” she told Rosheen, “but if Mr. Jardine comes here again when Ian and I are at work, I want you to phone the police immediately.” She waited while the girl retreated with relief into the depths of the house. “I mean it, Jeremy,” she said coldly. “However strongly you may feel about all of this, I’ll have you prosecuted if you try that trick again. It’s not as though Rosheen has any evidence that can help Patrick, so you’re simply wasting your time.”
He shrugged. “You’re a fool, Siobhan. Patrick’s guilty as sin. You know it. Everyone knows it. Just don’t come crying to me later when the jury proves us right and you find yourself tarred with the same brush as the O’Riordans.”
“I already have been,” she said curtly. “If you and the Haversleys had your way, I’d have been lynched by now, but, God knows, I’d give my right arm to see Patrick get off, if only to watch the three of you wearing sackcloth and ashes for the rest of your lives.”
Ian had listened to her account of the conversation with a worried frown on his face. “It won’t help Patrick if he does get off,” he warned. “No one’s going to believe he didn’t do it. Reasonable doubt sounds all very well in court, but it won’t count for anything in Sowerbridge. He’ll never be able to come back.”
“I know.”
“Then don’t get too openly involved,” he advised. “We’ll be living here for the foreseeable future, and I really don’t want the boys growing up in an atmosphere of hostility. Support Bridey and Rosheen by all means”—he gave her a wry smile—“but do me a favour, Shiv, and hold that Irish temper of yours in check. I’m not convinced Patrick is worth going to war over, particularly not with our close neighbours.”
It was good advice, but difficult to follow. There was too much overt prejudice against the Irish in general for Siobhan to stay quiet indefinitely. War finally broke out at one of Cynthia and Peter Haversley’s tedious dinner parties at Malvern House, which were impossible to avoid without telling so many lies that it was easier to attend the wretched things. “She watches the driveway from her window,” sighed Siobhan when Ian asked why they couldn’t just say they had another engagement that night. “She keeps tabs on everything we do. She knows when we’re in and when we’re out. It’s like living in a prison.”
“I don’t know why she keeps inviting us,” he said.
Siobhan found his genuine ignorance of Cynthia’s motives amusing. “It’s her favourite sport,” she said matter-of-factly. “Bearbaiting . . . with me as the bear.”
Ian sighed. “Then let’s tell her the truth, say we’d rather stay in and watch television.”
“Good idea. There’s the phone. You tell her.”
He smiled unhappily. “It’ll make her even more impossible.”
“Of course it will.”
“Perhaps we should just grit our teeth and go.”
“Why not? It’s what we usually do.”
The evening had been a particularly dire one, with Cynthia and Jeremy holding the platform as usual, Peter getting quietly drunk, and the Bentleys making only occasional remarks. A silence had developed round the table and Siobhan, who had been firmly biting her tongue since they arrived, consulted her watch under cover of her napkin and wondered if nine forty-five was too early to announce departure.
“I suppose what troubles me the most,” said Jeremy suddenly, “is that if I’d pushed to have the O’Riordans evicted years ago, poor old Lavinia would still be alive.” He was a similar age to the Lavenhams and handsome in a florid sort of way—Too much sampling of his own wares, Siobhan always thought—and loved to style himself as Hampshire’s most eligible bachelor. Many was the time Siobhan had wanted to ask why, if he was so eligible, he remained unattached, but she didn’t bother because she thought she knew the answer. He couldn’t find a woman stupid enough to agree with his own valuation of himself.
“You can’t evict people from their own homes,” Sam Bentley pointed out mildly. “On that basis, we could all be evicted any time our neighbours took against us.”
“Oh, you know what I mean,” Jeremy answered, looking pointedly at Siobhan as if to remind her that she was tarred with the O’Riordans’ brush. “There must be something I could have done—had them prosecuted for environmental pollution, perhaps?”
“We should never have allowed them to come here in the first place,” declared Cynthia. “It’s iniquitous that the rest of us have no say over what sort of people will be living on our doorsteps. If the Parish Council was allowed to vet prospective newcomers, the problem would never have arisen.”
Siobhan raised her head and smiled in amused disbelief at the other woman’s arrogant assumption that the Parish Council was in her pocket. “What a good idea!” she said brightly, ignoring Ian’s warning look across the table. “It would also give prospective newcomers a chance to vet the people already living here. It means house prices would drop like a stone, of course, but at least neither side could say afterwards that they went into it with their eyes closed.”
The pity was that Cynthia was too stupid to understand irony. “You’re quite wrong, my dear,” she said with a condescending smile. “The house prices would go up. They always do when an area becomes exclusive.”
“Only when there are enough purchasers who want the kind of exclusivity you’re offering them, Cynthia. It’s basic economics.” Siobhan proped her elbows on the table and leaned forward, stung into pricking the fat woman’s self-righteous bubble once and for all, even if she did recognise that her real target was Jeremy Jardine. “And for what it’s worth, there won’t be any competition to live in Sowerbridge when word gets out that, however much money you have, there’s no point in applying unless you share the Fanshaw mafia’s belief that Hitler was right.”
Nora Bentley gave a small gasp and made damping gestures with her hands.
Jeremy was less restrained. “Well, my God!” he burst out aggressively. “That’s bloody rich coming from an Irishwoman. Where was Ireland in the war? Sitting on the sidelines, rooting for Germany, that’s where. And you have the damn nerve to sit in judgment on us! All you Irish are despicable. You flood over here like a plague of sewer rats looking for handouts, then you criticise us when we point out that we don’t think you’re worth the trouble you’re causing us.”
It was like a simmering saucepan boiling over. In the end, all that had been achieved by restraint was to allow resentment to fester. On both sides.
“I suggest you withdraw those remarks, Jeremy,” said Ian coldly, rousing himself in defence of his wife. “You might be entitled to insult Siobhan like that if your business paid as much tax and employed as many people as hers does, but as that’s never going to happen I think you should apologise.”
“No way. Not unless she apologises to Cynthia first.”
Once roused, Ian’s temper was even more volatile than his wife’s. “She’s got nothing to apologise for,” he snapped. “Everything she said was true. Neither you nor Cynthia has any more right than anyone else to dictate what goes on in this village, yet you do it anyway. And with very little justification. At least the rest of us bought our houses fair and square on the open market, which is more than can be said of you or Peter. He inherited his, and you got yours cheap via the old-boy network. I just hope you’re prepared for the consequences when something goes wrong. You can’t incite hatred and then pretend you’re not responsible for it.”
“Now, now, now!” said Sam with fussy concern. “This sort of talk isn’t healthy.”
“Sam’s right,” said Nora. “What’s said can never be unsaid.”
Ian shrugged. “Then tell this village to keep its collective mouth shut about the Irish in general and the O’Riordans in particular. Or doesn’t the rule apply to them? Perhaps it’s only the well-to-do English like the Haversleys and Jeremy who can’t be criticised?”
Peter Haversley gave an unexpected snigger. “Well-to-do?” he muttered tipsily. “Who’s well-to-do? We’re all in hock up to our blasted eyeballs while we wait for the manor to be sold.”
“Be quiet, Peter,” said his wife.
But he refused to be silenced. “That’s the trouble with murder. Everything gets so damned messy. You’re not allowed to sell what’s rightfully yours because probate goes into limbo.” His bleary eyes looked across the table at Jeremy. “It’s your fault, you sanctimonious little toad. Power of bloody attorney, my arse. You’re too damn greedy for your own good. Always were . . . always will be. I kept telling you to put the old bloodsucker into a home but would you listen? Don’t worry, you kept saying, she’ll be dead soon. . . .”
00:23 a.m.—Tuesday, 9th March, 1999
The hall lights were on in the farmhouse when Siobhan finally reached it, but there was no sign of Rosheen. This surprised her until she checked the time and saw that it was well after midnight. She went into the kitchen and squatted down to stroke Patch, the O’Riordans’ amiable mongrel, who lifted his head from the hearth in front of the Aga and wagged his stumpy tail before giving an enormous yawn and returning to his slumbers. Siobhan had agreed to look after him while the O’Riordans were away and he seemed entirely at home in his new surroundings. She peered out of the kitchen window towards the fire, but there was nothing to see except the dark line of trees bordering the property, and it occurred to her then that Rosheen probably had no idea her uncle’s house had gone up in flames.
She tiptoed upstairs to check on her two young sons, who, woke briefly to wrap their arms around her neck and acknowledge her kisses before closing their eyes again. She paused outside Rosheen’s room for a moment, hoping to hear the sound of the girl’s television, but there was only silence and she retreated downstairs again, relieved to be spared explanations tonight. Rosheen had been frightened enough by the anti-Irish slogans daubed across the front of Kilkenny Cottage; God only knew how she would react to hearing it had been destroyed.
Rosheen’s employment with them had happened more by accident than design when Siobhan’s previous nanny—a young woman given to melodrama—had announced after two weeks in rural Hampshire that she’d rather “die” than spend another night away from the lights of London. In desperation, Siobhan had taken up Bridey’s shy suggestion to fly Rosheen over from Ireland on a month’s trial—“She’s Liam’s brother’s daughter and she’s a wonder with children. She’s been looking after her brothers and her cousins since she was knee-high to a grasshopper, and they all think the world of her.”—and Siobhan had been surprised by how quickly and naturally the girl had fitted into the household.
Ian had reservations—“She’s too young . . . she’s too scatter-brained . . . I’m not sure I want to be quite so cosy with the O’Riordans.”—but he had come to respect her in the wake of Patrick’s arrest when, despite the hostility in the village, she had refused to abandon either Siobhan or Bridey. “Mind you, I wouldn’t bet on family loyalty being what’s keeping her here,” he added nonetheless.
“What else is there?”
“Sex with Kevin Wyllie. She goes weak at the knees every time she sees him, never mind he’s probably intimately acquainted with the thugs who’re terrorising Liam and Bridey.”
“You can’t blame him for that. He’s lived here all his life. I should imagine most of Sowerbridge could name names if they wanted to. At least he’s had the guts to stand by Rosheen.”
“He’s an illiterate oaf with an IQ of ten,” growled Ian. “Rosheen’s not stupid, so what the hell do they find to talk about?”
Siobhan giggled. “I don’t think his conversation is what interests her.”
Recognising that she was too hyped-up to sleep, she poured herself a glass of wine and played the messages on the answerphone. There were a couple of business calls followed by one from Ian. “Hi, it’s me. Things are progressing well on the Ravenelli front. All being well, hand-printed Italian silk should be on offer through Lavenham Interiors by August. Good news, eh? I can think of at least two projects that will benefit from the designs they’ve been showing me. You’ll love them, Shiv. Aquamarine swirls with every shade of terra cotta you can imagine.” Pause for a yawn. “I’m missing you and the boys like crazy. Give me a ring if you get back before eleven, otherwise I’ll speak to you tomorrow. I should be home on Friday.” He finished with a slobbery kiss which made her laugh.
The last message was from Liam O’Riordan and had obviously been intercepted by Rosheen. “Hello? Are you there, Rosheen? It’s . . .” said Liam’s voice before it was cut off by the receiver’s being lifted. Out of curiosity, Siobhan pressed one-four-seven-one to find out when Liam had phoned, and she listened in perplexity as the computerised voice at the other end gave the time of the last call as “twenty thirty-six hours,” and the number from which it was made as “eight-two-seven-five-three-eight.” She knew the sequence off by heart but flicked through the telephone index anyway to make certain. Liam & Bridey O’Riordan, Kilkenny Cottage, Sowerbridge, Tel: 827538.
For the second time that night her fist instinct was to rush towards denial. It was a mistake, she told herself. . . . Liam couldn’t possibly have been phoning from Kilkenny Cottage at eight-thirty. . . . The O’Riordans were under police protection in Winchester for the duration of Patrick’s trial. . . . Kilkenny Cottage was empty when the fire started. . . .
But, oh dear God! Supposing it wasn’t?
“Rosheen!” she shouted, running up the stairs again and hammering on the nanny’s door. “Rosheen! It’s Siobhan. Wake up! Was Liam in the cottage?” She thrust open the door and switched on the light, only to look around the room in dismay because no one was there.
Wednesday, 10th February, 1999
Siobhan had raised the question of Lavinia Fanshaw’s heirs with the detective inspector. “You can’t ignore the fact that both Peter Haversley and Jeremy Jardine had a far stronger motive than Patrick could ever have had,” she pointed out. “They both stood to inherit from her will, and neither of them made any bones about wanting her dead. Lavinia’s husband had one sister, now dead, who produced a single child, Peter, who has no children. And Lavinia’s only child, a daughter, also dead, produced Jeremy, who’s never married.”
He was amused by the extent of her research. “We didn’t ignore it, Mrs. Lavenham. It was the first thing we looked at, but you know better than anyone that they couldn’t have done it because you and your husband supplied their alibis.”
“Only from eight o’clock on Saturday night until two o’clock on Sunday morning,” protested Siobhan. “And not out of choice either. Have you an idea what it’s like living in a village like Sowerbridge, Inspector? Dinner parties are considered intrinsically superior to staying in of a Friday or Saturday night and watching telly, never mind the same boring people get invited every time and the same boring conversations take place. It’s a status thing.” She gave a sarcastic shrug. “Personally, I’d rather watch a good Arnie or Sly movie any day than have to appear interested in someone else’s mortgage or pension plan, but then—hell—I’m Irish and everyone knows the Irish are common as muck.”
“You’ll have status enough when Patrick comes to trial,” said the inspector with amusement. “You’ll be the one providing the alibis.”
“I wouldn’t be able to if we’d managed to get rid of Jeremy and the Haversleys any sooner. Believe me, it wasn’t Ian and I who kept them there—we did everything we could to make them go—they just refused to take the hints. Sam and Nora Bentley went at a reasonable time, but we couldn’t get the rest of them to budge. Are you sure Lavinia was killed between eleven and midnight? Don’t you find it suspicious that it’s my evidence that’s excluded Peter and Jeremy from the case? Everyone knows I’m the only person in Sowerbridge who’d rather give Patrick O’Riordan an alibi if I possibly could.”
“What difference does that make?”
“It means I’m a reluctant witness, and therefore gives my evidence in Peter and Jeremy’s favour more weight.”
The inspector shook his head. “I think you’re making too much of your position in all of this, Mrs. Lavenham. If Mr. Haversley and Mr. Jardine had conspired to murder Mrs. Fanshaw, wouldn’t they have taken themselves to—say, Ireland—for the weekend? That would have given them a much stronger alibi than spending six hours in the home of a hostile witness. In any case,” he went on apologetically, “we are sure about the time of the murders. These days, pathologists’ timings are extremely precise, particularly when the bodies are found as quickly as these ones were.”
Siobhan wasn’t ready to give up so easily. “But you must see how odd it is that it happened the night Ian and I gave a dinner party. We hate dinner parties. Most of our entertaining is done around barbecues in the summer when friends come to stay. It’s always casual and always spur-of-the-moment and I can’t believe it was coincidence that Lavinia was murdered on the one night in the whole damn year for which we’d sent out invitations”—her mouth twisted—“six weeks in advance. . . .”
He eyed her thoughtfully. “If you can tell me how they did it, I might agree with you.”
“Before they came to our house or after they left it,” she suggested. “The pathologist’s timings are wrong.”
He pulled a piece of paper from a pile on his desk and turned it towards her. “That’s an itemised British Telecom list of every call made from Sowerbridge Manor during the week leading up to the murders.” He touched the last number. “This one was made by Dorothy Jenkins to a friend of hers in London and was timed at ten-thirty p.m. on the night she died. The duration time was just over three minutes. We’ve spoken to the friend and she described Miss Jenkins as at ‘the end of her tether.’ Apparently Mrs. Fanshaw was a difficult patient to nurse—Alzheimer’s sufferers usually are—and Miss Jenkins had phoned this woman—also a nurse—to tell her that she felt like ‘smothering the old bitch where she lay.’ It had happened several times before, but this time Miss Jenkins was in tears and rang off abruptly when her friend said she had someone with her and couldn’t talk for long.” He paused for a moment. “The friend was
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