Read Online The Death of a Much Travelled Woman by Barbara Wilson - Free Book Online
Authors: Barbara Wilson
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aren’t they?”
“Yes, everything that Putter couldn’t get his hands on is there.”
“I read somewhere that he destroyed her last journal and the manuscript of a novel she was working on.”
“Oh, yes, it’s true. He couldn’t stand the idea of anything bad about himself coming to the public’s attention.”
“Any chance he could have removed the bones himself?” I asked.
Andrea nodded. “Oh, I would say there’s a very good chance indeed. All this rowing over her headstone has not been good publicity for our Peter Putter. It puts him in a bad light, keeps bringing back the old allegations that he was responsible in great measure for Francine’s death. It’s quite possible, I think, that he began to read about the appearance of all these new blue plaques and thought to himself, ‘Right. I’ll get rid of the grave entirely, blame it on the radical feminists, and there’ll be an end to it.’ I’m sure he’s sorry he ever thought to bury the body here in the first place and to put ‘Putter’ at the end of her name. But he can’t back down now, so the only solution was to arrange for the bones to disappear.”
“I don’t suppose we could go over to the graveyard and have a look?”
Andrea peered out her small-paned front window. “We’ll go when it’s quieter. Let’s have our tea first.”
We had our tea, lavish with Devonshire cream and fresh scones, and then Andrea went off for a brief lie-down and I, left to my own resources in the parlor, went to the bookcase and found the volume of Crofts’s most celebrated poems.
They struck me with the same power as they had when I had read them twenty years before, especially the poems written at the very end—when, translucent from rage and hunger, Francine had struck out repeatedly at the ties that bound her to this earth and that man. Even as she was starving herself to death in the most barbaric and self-punishing way, she still could write like an avenging angel.
Around five, when the autumn mists had drifted down over the small village in the valley, Andrea roused herself and we walked across the road to the tiny churchyard of St. Stephen’s. The small church was from the thirteenth century and no longer in use; its front door was chained and padlocked. The churchyard was desolate as well, under the purple twilight sky, and covered with leaves damp from rain. It was enclosed on all sides by a low stone wall and shielded by enormous oaks. We went in through the creaking gate. The ground was trampled with footprints, and many of the graves were untended.
I could barely see my feet in front of me through the cold, wet mist, but Andrea led the way unerringly to a roped-off hole. There had been no effort to cover the grave back over, and dirt had been heaped hastily by its side.
It had the effect of eerie loneliness and ruthless desecration, and even Andrea, creator of the cool-headed Philippa Fanthorpe, seemed disturbed.
“You can see they didn’t have much time,” she murmured.
Suddenly we heard a noise. It was the gate creaking. Without a word Andrea pulled me away from the grave and around the side of the church. Someone was approaching the site of the theft, a woman with a scarf, heavy coat, and Wellington boots. She stood silently by the open grave a moment. And then we heard her begin to cry.
Ten minutes later we were warming ourselves in the local pub, The King’s Head. A few journos were there, soaking up the local color—the color in this case being the golden yellow of lager. Andrea bought me a half of bitter and herself a pint of ale, and we seated ourselves in a corner by the fireplace. The woman in the churchyard had left as quickly as she had come. We were debating who she could be when the door to the pub opened and a paunchy man in his fifties came in, wearing a tweed jacket and carrying a walking stick.
“That’s how he dresses in the country,” Andrea muttered. “Sodding old fart.”
It was Putter, I assumed,
“Yes, everything that Putter couldn’t get his hands on is there.”
“I read somewhere that he destroyed her last journal and the manuscript of a novel she was working on.”
“Oh, yes, it’s true. He couldn’t stand the idea of anything bad about himself coming to the public’s attention.”
“Any chance he could have removed the bones himself?” I asked.
Andrea nodded. “Oh, I would say there’s a very good chance indeed. All this rowing over her headstone has not been good publicity for our Peter Putter. It puts him in a bad light, keeps bringing back the old allegations that he was responsible in great measure for Francine’s death. It’s quite possible, I think, that he began to read about the appearance of all these new blue plaques and thought to himself, ‘Right. I’ll get rid of the grave entirely, blame it on the radical feminists, and there’ll be an end to it.’ I’m sure he’s sorry he ever thought to bury the body here in the first place and to put ‘Putter’ at the end of her name. But he can’t back down now, so the only solution was to arrange for the bones to disappear.”
“I don’t suppose we could go over to the graveyard and have a look?”
Andrea peered out her small-paned front window. “We’ll go when it’s quieter. Let’s have our tea first.”
We had our tea, lavish with Devonshire cream and fresh scones, and then Andrea went off for a brief lie-down and I, left to my own resources in the parlor, went to the bookcase and found the volume of Crofts’s most celebrated poems.
They struck me with the same power as they had when I had read them twenty years before, especially the poems written at the very end—when, translucent from rage and hunger, Francine had struck out repeatedly at the ties that bound her to this earth and that man. Even as she was starving herself to death in the most barbaric and self-punishing way, she still could write like an avenging angel.
Around five, when the autumn mists had drifted down over the small village in the valley, Andrea roused herself and we walked across the road to the tiny churchyard of St. Stephen’s. The small church was from the thirteenth century and no longer in use; its front door was chained and padlocked. The churchyard was desolate as well, under the purple twilight sky, and covered with leaves damp from rain. It was enclosed on all sides by a low stone wall and shielded by enormous oaks. We went in through the creaking gate. The ground was trampled with footprints, and many of the graves were untended.
I could barely see my feet in front of me through the cold, wet mist, but Andrea led the way unerringly to a roped-off hole. There had been no effort to cover the grave back over, and dirt had been heaped hastily by its side.
It had the effect of eerie loneliness and ruthless desecration, and even Andrea, creator of the cool-headed Philippa Fanthorpe, seemed disturbed.
“You can see they didn’t have much time,” she murmured.
Suddenly we heard a noise. It was the gate creaking. Without a word Andrea pulled me away from the grave and around the side of the church. Someone was approaching the site of the theft, a woman with a scarf, heavy coat, and Wellington boots. She stood silently by the open grave a moment. And then we heard her begin to cry.
Ten minutes later we were warming ourselves in the local pub, The King’s Head. A few journos were there, soaking up the local color—the color in this case being the golden yellow of lager. Andrea bought me a half of bitter and herself a pint of ale, and we seated ourselves in a corner by the fireplace. The woman in the churchyard had left as quickly as she had come. We were debating who she could be when the door to the pub opened and a paunchy man in his fifties came in, wearing a tweed jacket and carrying a walking stick.
“That’s how he dresses in the country,” Andrea muttered. “Sodding old fart.”
It was Putter, I assumed,
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