CHAPTER ONE
June 1956
‘You will come to my funeral, won’t you?’
Rupert Fletcher locked the driver’s door of his Armstrong Siddeley Sapphire limousine and addressed himself to the stable boy. David Mitchell looked up from grooming the chestnut mare, somewhat taken aback by the question. Without waiting for an answer, Rupert strode off though the courtyard towards the family home, Hayton Hall. David studied Rupert’s retreating figure thoughtfully and wondered what his employer had meant.
Mary Fletcher was sitting in the drawing room relaxing after her canter, sipping her afternoon gin and tonic. She heard her husband come in through the side door into the hallway and the unmistakable creak of the fifth step as he climbed the stairs. She could hear him moving around in his bedroom which was directly overhead. She reached across to the coffee table and picked up her packet of Embassy cigarettes. She lit one and inhaled deeply, waiting for him to come down and greet her. There was a squeak, which she guessed was the wardrobe door, followed by indeterminate rattling, a click, then the sound of him getting in, or on, his bed. There followed a short period of silence, during which Mary wondered whether Rupert had fallen asleep - he had just driven all the way from London, after all. Then she heard what she would later describe as a soft boom. She knew at the time that it was Rupert’s four-ten shotgun. The sound made the hairs on her neck stand on end, and her stomach flipped. Stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray, she set off towards Rupert’s bedroom.
Rupert was lying on his back on the double bed which they had never shared. From the doorway, where Mary stood, he looked as though he could have been asleep, but as she walked closer, she could see that his eyes were wide open, pointing unseeing at the ceiling. She skirted around the foot of the bed to the other side and gasped. Blood was pouring from Rupert’s mouth and ear. The shotgun lay by his side, the end of the barrel inches away from his throat, the stock held loosely in his lifeless hand.
Waves of nausea flooded through her and she returned to the other side of the bed where there was wooden chair, which she pulled up and sat on heavily. The bed was high and, from a sitting position, she could see only Rupert’s left-hand side, still complete and unmarked. Mary contemplated his profile, taking in the fine, straight nose, the slightly too-thin lips and the greying hair, which had been such a vivid orange, the first time they had met, twenty years earlier.
She had been sitting in the churchyard, reading, when the awkward young man came and stood in front of her. He lifted his trilby politely, revealing a shock of orange hair, and offered her his hand. ‘Rupert Fletcher,’ he stammered, blushing furiously.
Mary briefly took his limp, clammy hand in her own and smiled, ‘Mary Simmons, pleased to meet you.’
‘Do you mind?’ Rupert enquired, indicating the space beside Mary on the bench.
‘No, of course not.’ He sat down and Mary waited uncertainly.
‘How do you like the village?’ Rupert began.
‘It’s fine. I just wanted to get away from Yorkshire for a while, so my Aunt and Uncle invited me to stay.’
‘Yes, yes I know. I saw you with Mrs Simmons last week in Church.’
Mary wondered what else this awkward young man had heard about her.
‘Where do you live?’ she asked.
Rupert cleared his throat in an embarrassed sort of way and stammered, ‘At the Hall.’
Of course he did. The Fletchers owned virtually everything in Hayton: the cottage her Aunt lived in, all the houses around the green, the green itself, even the pub.
‘Oh,’ seemed to be the only answer she could think of and, although it appeared unsuitable, Mary gave it anyway for want of something better to say.
There was a pause which threatened to become as long as the whole conversation so far, when Rupert cleared his throat again and blurted out, ‘Would you like to come for dinner this evening?’
If Mary had been standing up, she would have fallen over. She gripped the arm of the bench and looked straight ahead, wondering whether she had heard him correctly.
‘I, err,’ he paused, then continued in a rush, ‘I would like to welcome you properly to Hayton and perhaps get to know you better.’
Mary raised her eyebrows – she’d heard that one before, but when she turned to look at him, Rupert’s face was so open and so earnest, and he was blushing so brightly, that she believed he did, truly, just want to get to know her. She nodded her acquiescence and Rupert leapt to his feet with relief. His freckly face was beaming and he raised his hat again. ‘That’s settled then. Dinner is served at eight.’
***
The grandfather clock downstairs in the hallway chimed. Mary’s faraway gaze returned to Rupert’s lifeless profile, then she stood up slowly and approached the bed. With a shaking hand she reached over and closed his eyes with her thumb and forefinger, being careful not to touch the blood which was starting to congeal on the right side of Rupert’s head. The red stain had spread across the counterpane almost to the farthest edge of the bed. She planted a kiss on his faintly lined forehead and wiped away a stray tear which fell onto his once-freckly cheek.
‘Poor Rupert,’ she whispered. ‘I’m so very sorry.’
***
