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  Our sympathy for the boy, hardly more than a child, didn’t chime in with Brian’s mood, so she added dryly, ‘And I hear our government doesn’t think there’s sufficient demand for a lorry-park to be cost-effective.’

  ‘They should try living down here,’ Brian snorted. He turned to me, effectively cutting Diane out of the conversation. ‘What’s this I hear about you having an accident, Jane?’

  I wasn’t sure how I felt about his narrow-eyed scrutiny. ‘Some idiot knocked me off my bike,’ I said. ‘I landed in a good solid hedge, so there was no real damage done – except to my dignity,’ I added ruefully. ‘They’ll be able to repair the bike and my skin’s healing.’

  At last he seemed to register my linen trousers and prettiest long-sleeved top – there seemed no point in displaying my scabs to the world. ‘You’ve not been cycling long – did you wobble at the wrong moment?’ His laugh was meant to be indulgent.

  ‘I certainly wobbled when the SUV hit me. On my side of the road.’

  ‘Hit and run!’ Diane put in, passing me a Pimm’s she would put on my tab.

  ‘Exactly,’ I said.

  ‘Any idea who did it?’ Brian asked seriously.

  Diane, giving me a wink, moved off to take food orders at the far end of the bar.

  ‘I’ve wracked my brains. I can think of any number of people I’ve annoyed,’ I said with a self-deprecating grin, ‘but I’d rather people moaned to my face than upended me on a public road. Anyway, a passing motorcyclist rescued me, so here I am.’ I was being economical with the truth, of course. I was rattled by Brian’s assumption that it was my fault, of course, but for some reason I didn’t want to bring Doreen and Harry into the anecdote, just in case I blabbed about their elusiveness. And I still tried to block from my mind the idea that the whole thing might not have been a genuine accident.

  At this point a cheery voice greeted us all: Ed van Boolen’s.

  Brian bristled like a hostile dog as Ed approached us, greeting me with a kiss and a rather sweaty hug. When I’d seen him earlier, he’d been leading his teammates in a vigorous fielding practice. But now he was back in gardening mode: when was work going to start on the new place so he could turn my tangled garden into paradise?

  Pointedly ignoring the double entendre I spread my hands: ‘No one seems to want to tackle the job. If it was new-build I think they’d be interested. But it’s simply renovation: I’m not changing the footprint of the existing cottage. Diane contacted one of her friends, but they were booked up well into the new year. Come on, Ed, you must know people round here: if people need pretty cottage gardens, it stands to reason that at least some of them have bought cottages to go with them. Give it some thought, lad. And you, Brian, of course.’

  Though he almost blushed, Brian was at his most repressive. ‘The firm that did mine is tied up over in St Margaret’s Bay. Long term.’

  ‘More of your empire, Brian?’ Ed asked dryly. Presumably Brian didn’t use his services. When he got no reply, he continued, ‘As it happens, I do have an idea. Leave it with me, Jane – I’ll see what I can do.’ He downed his shandy in one draught and, patting me on the arm, strode off, as if already on his mission to rescue me.

  Part of me could have wished that Ed had eaten at the Cricketers too: it would have spared me an impending tête-à-tête with Brian, who would assume, as he always did if he found me here, that he was welcome to join me and then insist on paying the bill, becoming tetchy if I declined. But tonight I was spared any embarrassment. Just as he was reaching for the menus, his phone rang. Excusing himself, he turned aside to answer it. He frowned, and then, with no explanation or even courtly apology, he headed off into the still warm evening.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Although I should have been working, the next day was so lovely that I couldn’t resist collecting my newly repaired bike and tootling off – with my camera switched on – to the place where I was knocked off in the first place. To be strictly honest, I was really more interested in Doreen and Harry’s cottage. Actually, in them.

  After a trip mercifully without incident I propped the bike up against their fence, but decided it was pointless to venture further. Or was it? Despite the heat, all the windows were firmly closed. When I peered through the kitchen window, I could see that the dishcloth was still draped over the mixer tap. But it seemed to me that the deep tracks I’d noticed before had been ground a bit wider by a vehicle somewhat larger than a Fiesta – which hadn’t, as I recalled, been kept there anyway, but on the side drive. The oil patch was no longer fresh. All of which added up to precisely nothing that was any of my business. Why did I feel uneasy? For one thing, they were such a garrulous pair, Doreen particularly, that I was surprised they’d not mentioned a forthcoming holiday – especially when I’d asked for their contact details. For another – well, that was probably enough. And once again I was snooping, and indeed trespassing. Switching on my helmet camera, I set off home. Slowly. Not just because my joints had stiffened. I was keeping an eye out for another cottage that might loosely be described as neighbouring. Nothing. So blow me if I didn’t turn round and cycle equally slowly in the other direction. Nothing. What a strange isolated life they must lead, even with a car. After my recent brush with silence, it certainly wasn’t one I’d choose.

  I headed back, guiltily, to Wray Episcopi to assuage my conscience with some work.

  As I propped my bike up by the school gate, an Audi pulled up, the driver waving. With a grin I trotted over: it was Jo Davies, whose policeman husband Lloyd had been immensely supportive during an outbreak of vandalism centred round the school. Now Jo was not just a friend but also an invaluable part-time maths teacher busily improving Wrayford Primary’s results.

  ‘So this is the latest outpost of your empire! Can I come and have a look?’ She zapped the car’s central-locking system with some intangible panache as she walked with me – for so short a woman she had a very long stride. She stopped abruptly as she stepped into the entrance hall, so small it was barely a vestibule. ‘God, why do schools always smell the same? Even when there are no kids around? Every single one I’ve ever taught in smelt like this. And you can’t blame it these days on overcooked cabbage or burnt rice pudding.’

  ‘Nor even on sweaty clothes and trainers: I asked my predecessor to insist that absolutely everything was removed at the end of term with the promise of the skip or a charity shop for anything left behind. I needed only a small skip and one trip to Oxfam. But there are some things that leave a different sort of stink.’ I pointed to the PTA noticeboard, currently stripped of any paperwork, but with scribbled graffiti still showing despite my best efforts with bleach and abrasive pads. Nasty old-fashioned racism with nasty old-fashioned words, even if the targets were refugees from a hideous twenty-first century war zone. Syria had proved too tough for the culprit’s spelling. Yet I sensed the writing was adult.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Jo asked, shocked.

  ‘I’ve written to the PTA chair – he’s called Gerry Paine – telling him to get a new noticeboard. He’s not favoured me with a reply yet, though I’ve tried two or three times. It’s PTA property so I can’t bin it out of hand unless they fail to act before the start of term. Hey, where are you going?’

  ‘Getting a screwdriver from my car: we can at least take the damn thing down. There you are. Woman-power,’ she declared a couple of minutes later, as we lowered the heavy board to the floor.

  ‘Just so I don’t get accused of criminal damage – you never know with committees like that, do you? – I’ll fasten the screws and Rawlplugs to the back. Provided there’s an envelope and sticky tape somewhere in the school office,’ I added cautiously.

  There might have been, but everything was meticulously locked away. As for my new desk, in my cubbyhole of a room, freshly decorated and carpeted at my own expense, it was completely empty. ‘Sorry: I’ve not got around to stocking up on all things headteacherly yet.’ All the usual stuff. Plus tissues. Wet wipes.
Even pads for kids getting their first period. ‘Drat. But I’ll stow the detritus in my desk, for safety’s sake.’

  We continued our tour. Most of it looked terribly down at heel with none of the usual artwork and exhortatory material schools use to paper over cracks – sometimes quite literally. But Jo was quick to pick up the connection between the odd white splodge on my hair and the newly painted reception classroom.

  ‘I wanted the littlies to feel welcome and valued at the very least,’ I confessed. ‘It’s quite therapeutic,’ I added, perhaps defensively. ‘Plus the decorating firm pulled out at the last minute: the gaffer broke his leg. Boss,’ I added by way of explanation: not everyone got my Midlands lingo.

  ‘And I suppose you’ll say it was a very good way of checking every inch of the fabric,’ Jo said tartly. ‘Fine. But who’d have come to your rescue if you’d fallen off a stepladder? At least you’ve got the grace to look ashamed of yourself!’ She looked around, assessing the work still to be done.

  Despite my good intentions, I found myself scratching a scab.

  ‘Hang on,’ Jo said, pulling up my sleeve. ‘I wondered why you weren’t wearing a T-shirt. What have you been up to?’

  I explained. Partially.

  ‘If you’re that accident-prone, ladders are verboten. OK? Now, which room do we tackle next? I’ll be here tomorrow. Carys and Geraint are bored to tears and even I have to admit they’ve completed all their holiday work …’

  There was quite a party atmosphere the following day. Geraint and Carys tore themselves away from teenage technology to wield a useful paintbrush and roller and actually seemed to enjoy themselves. Lloyd, their father, who described himself as an old-fashioned cop, joined us after work one afternoon to help too. Why could Simon and I never have functioned as a family like this?

  They were making mock of his efforts when there was an authoritative peal on the old-fashioned pull-operated doorbell, the sort you associate with National Trust houses.

  ‘Cassandra Preston,’ the tall woman announced as I opened the door. She’d be in her late sixties or seventies, but it was hard to tell precisely from a face that had obviously spent a lot of time in the open air. Was she ex-military? She had the posture and demeanour, but her clothing might have been donated by a bag-lady. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Jane Cowan. The new head teacher.’ I would have offered my hand but to do so would have involved wiping it on my particularly tatty jeans – a gesture I dismissed, somewhere deep in my psyche, as being somehow subservient. Instead I spread both hands to show the paint. It wasn’t intended to be an invitation to step inside, but was taken as such.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s very messy in here, Ms Preston.’ My apology inched out of its own accord. Or was it really a polite warning? I straightened my back. Did she hear the clunk?

  ‘Ms! I heard you insisted on that weird form of address. Well, I’m Lady Preston, as it happens. Are you sure all this is appropriate work for a headmistress?’

  I suspected there might be slight stress on the second two syllables; however, I would pick my battles and the title on my office door would certainly be gender-free.

  ‘It’s not term time yet,’ I countered. ‘And I didn’t want decorators interrupting schoolwork. Besides, a clean bright classroom might encourage everyone to observe the uniform code. Anyway, Lady Preston, how can I help you? My office is just through here.’

  ‘I know exactly where it is. I was a governor here for years. Why have you taken down the PTA noticeboard?’

  ‘Offensive graffiti it was impossible to remove. The PTA will have to replace it.’

  ‘And the paintings?’

  ‘Paintings? The children’s artwork?’

  ‘I said paintings and I meant paintings. Oil. Landscapes and such.’

  Oh, dear. They must have been donated by the Preston family during a previous head’s incumbency.

  She stood arms akimbo in her irritation: ‘The ones that always hung in here. I’ve heard from the Wrayford people you’re always making unnecessary changes. Not that I’m here to criticise in any way, you understand. I just wanted to see for myself what’s going on.’

  And see the family pictures, of course.

  I would not rise to her bait. ‘I’ve never seen any paintings apart from children’s efforts during my many visits to the school. Perhaps the previous head teacher found another location for them. We’re still in regular touch to ensure a straightforward changeover so I can enquire.’ Ask! Why hadn’t I said ask? What a craven toady! I pushed open my office door to let her step in first. ‘How can I help you, pictures apart?’ I checked my watch. ‘First, if you’ll excuse me, I must see my fellow decorators off the premises.’

  They announced that they’d tidy everything away while I finished with Lady Preston: apparently we were all going bowling together in Ashford.

  I didn’t think that such a frivolous way of passing an evening would suit her ladyship’s idea of pedagogic dignity. In any case, I didn’t need to tell her why I needed to keep our meeting short.

  She was looking around my office, but had not taken a seat. ‘You know how to spend money.’ Her voice boomed round my little domain.

  ‘My own, as it happens,’ I said crisply. ‘Now, how may I help you?’

  ‘I told you: I wanted to see what you were up to since you’re here all hours.’

  ‘But you would like your pictures back if I can locate them?’

  ‘Mine? Good God no. My grandfather’s. Lord Langleigh.’

  The vowel sounded far too long to be a simple Langley, which was in my experience far too humble a town to give rise to a lord.

  ‘The one who donated the land for the school,’ she continued. ‘What’s all this about a school running track?’

  She certainly had her aristocratic ear to the ground. ‘Not here.’ There was scarcely room in the playground to swing a kitten: Lady Preston’s ancestor had skimped on some things, if not on others. ‘Over in Wrayford. The aim is to get the children – and staff! – running a mile before the start of school.’

  ‘Well, good luck with that, the way people are today. Why not here?’

  ‘Circuits of the playground.’

  She nodded. ‘Not a lot of fun compared with a field. Come over to the Great House one day and we’ll see if we can find a bit of field for you. Good day to you then, Miss Cowan.’

  She was not the sort of person to twitter good wishes and thanks to. ‘When would be convenient, Lady Preston?’

  ‘You can come round tomorrow. We’re just round the corner. I’ll expect you at eleven-thirty.’

  I was going to get a good score if it killed me, so I rolled up my sleeves purposefully and weighed the ball. Lloyd stopped in his tracks. ‘Well?’

  There was no point in prevaricating. ‘I told Jo: I had an argument with a hedge. It won.’

  He shrugged, and seemed to accept it. But over a curry later – a fairly good one too – he returned to the subject of my injuries. He listened while I gave a cheerful precis of the affair, but didn’t join in the general laughter at my expense.

  ‘You didn’t think to report it to us? To me in particular?’

  ‘Come on, Lloyd, what could I have said? I didn’t see the vehicle that tipped me over because it came up from behind. The witnesses gave garbled and mutually contradictory accounts and haven’t responded to any of my calls—’

  ‘You tried to call them?’

  ‘Several times. To thank them. And to make sure they’d received some thank you flowers I’d ordered.’ I still sounded bright and positive but airing the details once more was nurturing the doubts I’d tried to kill off. ‘And actually I couldn’t have spoken on the phone to anyone – I had that throat bug that silenced half Kent.’

  ‘Lame excuse, Jane. You can phone them but not me? And in any case you could have emailed or texted me. Hmm.’ He gave me a hard stare. ‘No problems since?’

  ‘None. Or I would have told you.’

  ‘Good. But
not good enough. I want more details. I promised Pat I’d keep an eye on you.’

  ‘Thank you kindly, good sir,’ I said dryly. ‘Actually, it’s no good trying to talk to Doreen and Harry. Whenever I’ve been round, there’s been no one at home. The place is locked up. No sign of their car. But I get the sense that someone else has been on the property. Someone with quite a big vehicle. Probably just someone else looking for them,’ I conceded.

  ‘Probably. But keep me in the loop. Meanwhile, I’ll run a few checks – see if any of your ex’s known associates live round here. And I want you to think much harder than you appear to have been doing: is there anyone whom you upset down here enough for them to want to rub you out? It’s hard to make someone on a bike have just a little accident, Jane, as you ought to know. I’ll expect to hear back from you with a few ideas, OK? Tomorrow evening latest. After all that’s happened to you, you can’t afford to be so damned cavalier.’ He nodded home his point. I found I was hanging my head. ‘Now, Geraint, I’ll fight you for the last of this jalfrezi.’

  Lady Preston’s notion of how many metres constituted just round the corner was pretty liberal, and I was already having misgivings as I made my way towards the Great House, which I never actually got to see: her ladyship was waiting on the gravelled drive by the estate gatehouse, a cramped cottage with a turret, no less, atop the tiniest of rooms with arrow-slit windows. It no doubt fulfilled some Victorian landlord’s idea of romantic tweeness, but I couldn’t imagine anyone taller than Victoria herself being able to live there – and on her own at that.

  Her ladyship was on horseback looking, like her mount, magnificent, despite her faded baggy top and filthy trousers. Her boots gleamed, however, as did everything about the horse. I approached gingerly.