They were serving teas in a large striped tent shaped like a big top. I was making my way towards it, thinking I would have my free tea then escape, when I came to a stall run by the Countryside Consortium. They weren’t selling anything, but they were handing out leaflets, car stickers and helium-filled balloons with SAVE OUR COUNTRYSIDE in big black letters. And they were recruiting members. That seemed to be their main pitch. They were doing a roaring trade too. While I waited, three people filled out forms and cheques. I watched from a distance for a while. It was possible that Ronnie was there. Perhaps he had first met Philip at an event like this. Apart from an interest in country affairs, I found it hard to think what else they might have had in common. The thought of bumping into him again made my heart race. I told myself it was ridiculous, but it did no good.
After circling for a quarter of an hour I sauntered over. I didn’t think Ronnie was manning the stand, but it was hard to be sure. The Consortium workers all wore animal masks – shaped-paper cutouts held on by elastic which hid the tops of their faces except for their eyes. A bear peeled away from his position at the back of the table and came to stand beside me. I pretended not to notice him and studied a leaflet about the importance of field sports to the traditional English countryside.
‘Can I help you with anything?’ The voice was young, well educated. I turned and looked at him. He wore khaki shorts and a white polo shirt. Sandy hair was caught up in the thin elastic of the mask, but I couldn’t get any impression of the shape of his face. His eyes were brown. I didn’t think I’d know him again. Pinned to the shirt was a green badge – Marcus Tate, Volunteer. Marcus had shared a house with Thomas in Seaton Delaval. He’d worked for the Consortium during his gap year; now he was back, helping out. Filling a space left by Thomas? If he hadn’t been murdered, would Thomas have been here, working in the house where his father had lived?
He was waiting for me to speak. ‘Just curious.’ I paused, then confessed, ‘I’m a townie myself, actually. Interested but ignorant.’
‘A lot of our members live in towns. Their support is vital.’ He had the enthusiasm of the evangelical Christians who came to the door occasionally to convert me, though they didn’t dress up as bears. Jess always invited them in and gave them tea, so I’d have noticed. I smiled encouragingly and waited for him to go on, but he was too clever to push it. ‘The facts speak for themselves,’ he said. ‘Take the literature and come back if you’re interested.’
‘What would I be signing up to?’
‘As much or as little involvement as you wanted. The membership fees support our work. We’re grateful for that.’ He smiled, acknowledging that the money was what they were after. His teeth were straight and even. ‘Your membership buys certain privileges too – discounts at country house hotels, restaurants, camping shops, that sort of thing. Since foot and mouth, things have been tough for rural businesses. If you wanted a more active role – helping out on farms, supporting our research in a practical way – that would be welcome, but it’s not a condition of joining.’
‘And fund-raising?’
‘Of course. Every charity is always on the scrounge. There’s no obligation to dress up, though.’ The smile again. ‘And in fact we’re very fortunate. We have a number of generous corporate sponsors.’
‘Can I think about it?’
‘Sure.’ If he was disappointed he was too professional to show it.
‘And you’ll be here all afternoon?’
‘No. I’ll have done my stint soon. Someone else will be here to help you. Or if you’d rather…’ He took one of the brochures I was holding and scribbled in the margin. ‘That’s my mobile number. If you have a credit card I can join you up over the phone.’ His voice was insistent and it seemed an odd thing to suggest. I wondered if he knew who I was and wanted an excuse to talk to me without an audience. Someone else wanting ghoulish details about knives and blood. But how could he? There’d been no photograph with the newspaper reports of my discovery of Thomas’s body and I wasn’t wearing my name on a badge. Perhaps there was a competition among volunteers to see who could recruit most members. He could even have been on commission. There was another queue to get into the tea tent. When I looked round from my place in the line he’d gone, disappeared into the crowd.
Chapter Twenty-one
Although there was a queue to get into the tea tent, inside it was peaceful and ordered. No self-service or plastic beakers here. The canvas filtered the noise from outside and, after the glare of the afternoon sun, the light was hazy. I seemed to see the scene in soft focus, as if from a long way off. There were small tables covered with gingham cloths, a posy of flowers set in the centre of each. It could have been a tearoom in Harrogate, mid-week, locals only, if the waitresses hadn’t been wearing fishnet tights and top hats. One of them approached me. She was plump and I thought she’d be stuck with the pattern of the net on her thighs for days.
‘There’s a seat over there if you don’t mind sharing.’
She pointed to a table where a couple were in conversation. The woman was dressed as Pierrot in a quartered silk costume in pink and white. Her hair had been tied back from her face, which had been painted white too, with delicate black triangles above her eyes and a black teardrop on her cheek. It was Joanna Samson. I couldn’t tell if her companion had dressed up for the occasion or not. He had on a tweed jacket in loud checks of various shades of brown and mustard. It was just what the owner of a tacky, provincial circus would have worn, but it could well have been Stuart Howdon’s idea of casual weekend chic.
‘That’ll be fine,’ I said.
When I approached the table Joanna gave me a look which could have been bemused half-recognition or a polite welcome to an intruding stranger. Howdon had his back to me and continued to talk. It was something about papers to be signed. His voice was hectoring. I remembered what Dickon had said about hating him. What hold could he have over Joanna? Why did she put up with his bullying?
‘We’ll need some sort of decision,’ he said. ‘Honestly, Jo, things can’t go on as they are.’
Something about her face made him fall silent, but still he had his back to me.
‘You don’t mind if I join you?’
He hesitated for a moment – perhaps he recognized my voice – then he did turn and he shrugged an acceptance of the inevitable. He gave no sign that we’d ever met. He had some nerve.
It wasn’t the place for a scene. Once I wouldn’t have bothered about that. Now I wasn’t up to telling a woman who’d been recently widowed that her husband’s illegitimate son had been brutally murdered. Not in front of a crowd. I did wonder if the police had been to see her to discuss a possible link between Philip and Thomas, but it didn’t seem likely. Farrier hadn’t believed my story in the end and he was kind enough not to want to deliver that particular bombshell. Why cause her grief for nothing?
I drank tea and ate scones and jam. The conversation between Joanna and Howdon spluttered into self-conscious small talk about mutual friends and then about the preparations she’d been making for an exhibition of her work in Morpeth.