‘I should have explained to you, Mrs Winters. A woman was murdered in London two days ago, a theatre critic by the name of Harriet Throsby. She was stabbed in her own home. I believe her death may be connected to what happened at this school. I know it was a long time ago, but murders cast long shadows. I’m just trying to shed a little light.’
If he was being deliberately provocative, it had an effect. ‘I never met Harriet Throsby,’ she said. ‘But I know who she was. She wrote a book about Moxham Heath and I don’t think any of it was very kind.’
‘She didn’t visit the school?’
‘Yes. I believe she did. But that was long before my time. I was living in Bath Spa when all this was happening. I only became aware of what had happened here when I became head teacher, and as I told you, I try not to let these awful memories intrude.’
‘But there must be someone in the village who was here when it happened.’
Helen Winters considered. She quite probably didn’t want to give Hawthorne a name, but at the same time it would be the fastest way to get rid of him. She made her decision. ‘I suppose you could talk to Rosemary Alden.’
‘Major Alden’s wife?’ I said.
‘His widow. She still lives in the village. She was allowed to stay on in the house she occupied with Philip Alden when he worked here.’
‘For twenty years? Isn’t that a bit unusual?’ Hawthorne immediately homed in on that one detail.
‘She had nowhere to go and, to be fair to them, the Longhursts were very generous. They set up a trust in Philip Alden’s name and bought Glebe Cottage so that she could continue living in it rent-free. It cost them a pretty penny, but I suppose it was the least they could do, given what had occurred.’
‘And where is it?’ Hawthorne asked.
‘Glebe Cottage? It’s just up the road from the Ginger Box. But I should caution you. She’s quite elderly and her health hasn’t been good. She had a stroke last year and she doesn’t go out very much any more. If she agrees to speak to you, you’ll have to be gentle.’
My eyes glazed over when I heard her telling Hawthorne that, but I said nothing.
She insisted on escorting us back to the main entrance. ‘You never had any contact with Stephen Longhurst?’ Hawthorne asked her as we made our way.
‘No. Neither of the boys returned to Moxham Heath. There was a rumour that Wayne joined the army, and as for Stephen, he went to America after he came out of prison.’ She stopped. ‘I did meet his brother, though.’
‘Martin Longhurst?’
‘Yes.’
‘He visited the school?’
‘It was all a bit strange. This was a couple of years ago. He said he was thinking of sending his children here …’
That was strange indeed. Martin Longhurst was in his mid-thirties and it was perfectly possible that he had children of primary-school age, but he hadn’t mentioned that he was planning to return to Moxham Heath. His business was in central London. And given its bad associations, the fact that the village had been responsible for the almost total destruction of his family, this was surely the last place he would want to be.
‘I suppose you knew who he was?’ Hawthorne asked.
‘He told me his name and of course I made the connection immediately. He was a very tall man. Quite aggressive. I didn’t feel at all comfortable with him.’ We were passing the library a second time and that jolted her memory. ‘As a matter of fact, he mentioned you.’
She meant me. ‘Oh – really?’
‘Yes. I have to say, it’s a funny coincidence you being here, but maybe there’s some sort of connection.’ She thought back. ‘He saw one of your books in the library and he mentioned that he’d loved reading it as a child.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘Not really. I’m not sure I should be telling you this, but he went on to say that he’d sent you a fan letter when he was fourteen years old and you never replied. He was quite upset about it.’
This was something else he hadn’t mentioned.
‘I always reply to all my fan letters,’ I told her.
‘Well, you must have missed his – not, I’m sure, that you did it on purpose. But it’s funny, isn’t it, how some things matter to people.’ We had set off again and a moment later we reached the front door. ‘Glebe Cottage,’ Helen reminded us.
‘Thank you,’ Hawthorne said, adding: ‘It seems like a nice school.’
She smiled. ‘We try to keep it that way.’
We set off back down the hill.
20
Past Crimes
‘Mrs Alden won’t see you!’
The woman who had answered the door at Glebe Cottage was short and ferocious. From her accent, I would say she was Eastern European. She had dark skin colouring, hair tied back, aggressive eyes. She wore a loose-fitting tunic with a watch pinned to her chest, which gave her the look of a nurse although she had introduced herself as a private carer. Hawthorne had told her who we were and what we wanted. She was uninterested.
‘Mrs Alden is having her rest.’
‘We won’t keep her long. It’s important. It’s about her husband, Major Philip Alden.’
‘She doesn’t want to talk about him.’
Glebe Cottage was one of a row of three former almshouses nestling side by side just off the high street. Everything about it was half-sized, like a theatrical set. The roof sloped unevenly. The walls bulged. Shrink it further and you could sell it in a tourist shop, a perfect reproduction of what a Wiltshire cottage should be.
The carer was about to close the perfect oak door in our faces, but just then there was a movement behind her and Rosemary Alden herself made an appearance, supporting herself on a walking stick. ‘Who is it, Tara?’ she queried.
‘They want to talk about Major Alden,’ the carer replied.
‘What about him?’
Hawthorne would clearly have liked to explain for himself, but Tara had imposed herself firmly between him and the hallway. ‘They’re asking questions.’
‘What questions?’
‘I’ve told them to leave.’
‘No. Let them come in.’
The carer hesitated. She wanted to disobey, but there had been something in the old lady’s voice that persuaded her otherwise. I’d heard it too – a steely determination that seemed odd, given that she had no idea who we were. Grudgingly, Tara stepped aside. We went in, through a hallway barely larger than the WELCOME doormat, and into the rather too cosy living room.
Rosemary Alden was already lowering herself into a high-backed chair, carefully resting the walking stick against the arm. She was surrounded by clutter, as if the contents of two or three different properties had been poured into this little space. There were ornaments everywhere: on the mantelpiece, the window sills, on occasional tables that had no purpose other than to display ornaments. Many of them were related to hunting and I remembered how John Lamprey, the caretaker at Moxham Hall, had described the major. ‘A big supporter of the local hunt until the day he died.’ Well, here was the evidence. A silver stirrup cup above the fire. A porcelain fox wearing a bright red jacket. A riding crop pinned to the wall. Cushions with embroidered beagles. Several photographs of Philip Alden on horseback, often surrounded by fellow enthusiasts.
Rosemary’s own life – or what was left of it – was interwoven into all this. She liked books; not modern paperbacks, but miniature volumes in leather bindings that might have been in her family for generations. She collected tiny silver boxes and crystal jars, porcelain animals and glass ballerinas. A bowl of hyacinths had been placed on a table next to where she was sitting. They were the very worst flowers to have in this confined space, their sickly smell permeating the overheated air.