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The plain headstone looked much more modern than most of the others here. An elderly lady in a headscarf was placing flowers beside what looked like a very recent grave, a few rows away, the mound of earth along it still well above ground level, not yet settled.
Ollie knelt and photographed the headstone. As he was standing back up he was startled by a cultured voice behind him.
‘Is that a relative of yours?’
He turned and saw a tall, lean, rather gangly man in his late forties, wearing a crew-neck Aran jumper with a dog collar just visible, blue jeans and black boots. He had thi
‘No, just someone I’m rather interested in!’ He held out his hand. ‘Oliver Harcourt – we’ve just moved into the village.’
‘Yes, indeed, Cold Hill House? I’m Roland Fortinbrass, the vicar here.’ He shook Ollie’s hand firmly.
‘A very Shakespearean name,’ Ollie replied, thinking of the odd coincidence of Harry Walters mentioning Shakespeare in his dream.
‘Ah yes, a very minor character, I’m afraid. And he only had one “s” – I have two. Still, it has its advantages.’ He smiled. ‘People tend to remember my name! So, are you all settling in? I was pla
The drizzle was coming down more heavily now, but the vicar did not seem bothered by it.
‘Actually, my wife, Caro, and I were saying that we should try to get involved in village life a bit.’
‘Excellent! You have a little girl, I believe?’
‘Jade. She’s just turning thirteen.’
‘Perhaps she’d like to join in some of our youth activities? Does she sing?’
Privately, Ollie thought Jade would rather take poison than join in any local church activities. ‘Well . . . I’ll have a word with her.’
‘We could do with a few more in our choir. What about you and your wife?’
‘I’m afraid neither of us would be much of an asset.’
‘Pity. But if you’re keen to join activities, we’ve plenty on offer. When would be a good time for me to pop up?’
‘Caro’s at work all week – she’s a solicitor. Perhaps Saturday sometime?’ He looked back at the grave for a moment. ‘Actually, there is something I’d—’ He stopped.
‘Yes?’
‘No, it’s OK.’ He looked back at the tombstone. ‘Did you know this man – Harry Walters?’
‘Before my time, I’m afraid. My predecessor would have – Bob Manthorpe. He’s retired now, but I have his contact details. May I ask what your interest is?’ The vicar shot a glance at his watch. ‘Look, tell you what, I’m free for half an hour or so – I’ve got a couple coming to talk about their wedding plans at one o’clock. Fancy coming out of the rain and having a cuppa?’
‘Well – OK – if it’s no trouble?’
Roland Fortinbrass smiled. ‘I’m here for the community. It would be a pleasure. My wife’s out but she might be back in time to meet you.’
The vicarage was a small modern box of a house, spartanly furnished. Ollie sat on a sofa, cradling a mug of scalding coffee, while the vicar sat, legs crossed, in an armchair opposite him. Copies of the parish magazine lay on a simple wooden table between them, next to a plate of gingerbread biscuits. A crucifix hung as the central decoration on one wall and, rather incongruously, a framed colour photograph of a 1930s British Racing Green Bentley three-and-a-half on another. A row of birthday cards was on the mantelpiece, above an empty grate.
Fortinbrass noticed Ollie looking at the car. ‘My grandfather’s,’ he said. ‘He was a bit of a motor-racing man. Shame we no longer have it.’
‘I have a client who has one up for sale at £160,000,’ Ollie said. ‘With a decent racing pedigree it could be double that.’
‘He raced it at Le Mans, but didn’t finish! What line of business are you in – something to do with the web, I believe?’
Ollie gri
‘Oh, we’re townies, too! My first church was in Brixton. Then Croydon. This is my first foray into the countryside. And I must say, I love it – but you are right, it can be very parochial. I fear I’ve upset some of the older folk here already by introducing guitar music into some of my services. But we have to do something. When I took over in 2010 we had just seven people coming to Communion, and twenty-three at Matins. I’m happy to say we’ve increased that now. Anyhow, tell me a bit more about your interest in that grave? Harry Walters?’
‘How much do you know about our house, Vicar?’
‘Please call me Roland. I always think vicar sounds dreadfully old-fashioned and rather stuffy!’
‘OK, and I’m Ollie.’
‘It’s very good to meet you, Ollie.’
‘Likewise.’
‘So, Cold Hill House. I don’t know a great deal, really. I gather it’s been in need of some TLC for rather a long time. A big restoration project that needs someone with passion – and quite deep pockets.’
‘I was talking to a local, A
‘Good, you’ve met her. Now she is a really delightful lady! And quite a character. Her late husband was a hero in the Falklands War.’
‘So I understand. I really like her.’
‘She’s most charming!’
‘She said there had been a number of tragedies at the house – I think I’m going back a few years here. That’s part of my reason for my interest in Harry Walters. He was killed in an accident at the house – or rather, in the grounds.’
‘Oh?’
‘He drowned in the lake – a mechanical digger he was driving toppled over.’
The vicar looked genuinely shocked. ‘That’s simply dreadful. I hope it hasn’t put you off in any way?’
Ollie thought for some moments. This was an opportunity to quiz the vicar on his views on ghosts, and yet he didn’t want to come across as a flake on their first meeting. ‘Absolutely not. The past is . . .’ He fell silent.
‘Another country?’ Fortinbrass prompted.
Ollie sipped some coffee and smiled. ‘That’s what I’m hoping.’
20
Tuesday, 15 September
‘So did you find that fellow you were looking for?’ Lester Beeson asked, placing a Diet Coke on the counter. ‘You wanted ice and lemon you said?’
The landlord was distracted today, as there were a dozen elderly, noisy ramblers in the bar, all in soaking wet cagoules, brightly coloured anoraks and muddy boots, a couple of them poring over a soggy map at a table.
‘Yes, thanks, ice and lemon is fine. Yes, I’ve found him.’
‘Good.’
‘Where are the toilets, please?’ a woman called to the landlord.
Beeson jerked a finger over to the far wall.
Ollie ordered a prawn salad, carried his drink over to an alcove, as far away from the ramblers as he could get, and sat down. Then he pulled his phone out of his pocket, opened his photos and looked at the two he had taken an hour earlier in the graveyard, of Harry Percival Walters’s headstone. Born May 1928, died October 2008. That made him eighty when he died, he calculated. Then he swiped across to have another look at the photograph of Harry Walters himself.
It was no longer there.
Puzzled, he checked through his albums. All the most recent photographs he had taken, over the weekend and yesterday, chronicling every step of the restoration work on the house, were still there. Even though he backed up all his photographs to his laptop and iPad and to the Cloud, he usually kept them on his phone too, for quick reference.