Chapter 2

Just so Peter doesn't feel so bad about posting on the blog (we love to read it, Peter), here is the follow up to my new start.  Comments gratefully received.  I will bring part three with me, printed out, on Monday.  Hope to see you all then.

June 1956

The village policeman arrived on his bicycle half an hour after Mary had sent the cook’s son off to get him.  Mary felt sick to the pit of her stomach, imagining the reaction of the villagers and, most of all, dreading how she would tell Charles.

PC Morrissey stood in the hallway, holding his police helmet and his bicycle clips in what Mary supposed was intended to be a respectful way.  ‘I hear there’s been an incident, Mrs Fletcher.’

Mary nodded.  ‘You’d better come upstairs.’

She led the way up the sweeping staircase, past the familiar portraits of Rupert’s ancestors, to the first floor landing and the entrance to Rupert’s bedroom.  She had shut the door earlier and, as she hesitated outside, she half-wondered whether she had made a terrible mistake.  Could it be that her husband was not really dead, but that she had been the victim of some awful hallucination?  Reluctant to find out the truth, Mary stood, her eyes shut tight, willing for Rupert to be sitting at his writing desk by the window when she opened the door.

PC Morrissey cleared his throat noisily and shuffled his feet on the wooden floor.  Mary opened her eyes, slightly annoyed at the interruption, and turned to look at him. 

‘Shall we, Mrs Fletcher,’ he asked, indicating the closed door.  She bit her lip and turned the handle.

A quick glance indicated that Rupert was lying exactly as she had left him.  She waited by the door while PC Morrissey took out his notebook and pencil.  ‘So you found him like this?’ 

‘Yes,’ Mary replied quietly.  PC Morrissey strode up to the bed and peered intently at the occupant.  With a thoughtful ‘hmmm’ he walked around the other side.  He prodded Rupert in the ribs with the end of his pencil and then tapped it on the stock of the shotgun.  ‘Is this your husband’s gun?’

Mary nodded, trying to avoid looking at the bed.

PC Morrissey licked the other end of the pencil and wrote something in his notebook. ‘Did he leave a note?’ he asked, staring pointedly at Rupert’s writing desk.

‘He was hardly up here long enough,’ Mary replied, but she went over to check.  The only items on the desk were a sheet of blotting paper, a large bottle of ink, and a selection of pens.

‘Did he say anything to you?’

‘No.  He came straight upstairs.  He’d just got back from London.’

PC Morrissey made another note in his book, then he looked up, as a sudden question seemed to strike him.  ‘Were you surprised he didn’t speak to you?’

Mary shrugged.  She hadn’t considered it odd at the time.  ‘He probably didn’t know where I was.’

‘I will have to speak to other members of the household.  Could you give me their names, please.’

‘Well, there’s our son Charles, and there’s Rupert’s sister Annabelle and her husband Peter Welch, they live in the East wing.’

PC Morrissey frowned and looked up from his writing.  ‘East wing?’

‘This is the West wing.  They live the other end, over there.’ Mary indicated the general direction with her arm.

‘I see.  Who else?’

‘No-one else lives in the house.  Rupert’s father passed away some time ago.’

‘What about the staff?’

‘Is this really necessary, Herbert?’ Mary asked.  PC Morrissey had lived in Hayton almost as long as she had and he knew perfectly well who lived and worked at the Hall.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Fletcher, but I must take a note of everything.’

She sighed.  ‘There’s Mrs Parsons, the cook, and her husband, who manages the estate.  They live in a cottage in the grounds with their four children.  Or is it five?  Other than that, there’s just David Mitchell, the stable boy.’

PC Morrissey stopped writing and raised his eyebrows.  ‘Boy?’

‘Well, the position is called stable boy, but he’s nineteen, the same age as Charles.’

‘And where is master Charles now?’ 

Mary sighed again.  ‘He is travelling back from University today, for the summer break.’  She felt tears pricking and took her handkerchief out of her sleeve, dabbing her eyes.  ‘He should be home soon.’

Right on cue, she heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs.  A voice, which she thought was probably David’s, called up ‘No, Charles, wait!’ then there was the sound of a second set of footsteps running upstairs.

Mary turned towards the doorway as first Charles appeared, then David, looking over his shoulder.  Both young men took in the scene before them with horrified expressions. 

Charles broke the silence with an anguished question.  ‘Oh my God, Mother, what have you done?’

Julie