Arriving at Wyveridge shortly after four, Francis and Priya found the police presence substantially reduced. The vans and cars crowded onto the gravel circle at the back of the house had gone, leaving just one marked car behind. There was a single uniformed PC stationed at the front door, the big-bellied fellow they’d seen earlier. Yes, he confirmed, the young lady’s body had gone off to post-mortem early that morning, though even if he knew the results, which he didn’t, he wouldn’t have been able to give them out, as a matter of policy. Was DS Brian Povey still around, Francis asked. No. Where was DCI Julie Morgan? That was confidential information, but yes, he could confirm that she wasn’t here. Could they pop into the house to look for someone? No, they couldn’t. He had a list of eight resident guests he was allowed to let through and they weren’t on it. Were any of those people currently in the house? That he couldn’t say.
‘I was here yesterday,’ Francis said. ‘Detective Sergeant Povey gave me permission to go in and see my friend Ranjit Richardson, who’s the organiser of the house party here.’
‘That was yesterday, sir. I’m afraid I have to stick to my orders.’
‘Are we even allowed to go round the front?’
‘I can’t stop you walking in the gardens, sir. But strictly not within the areas marked off with tape. The terrace is still a crime scene.’
‘What a knob,’ said Priya, as they walked off.
‘Only doing his job,’ said Francis. He winked. ‘Doesn’t mean we can’t get what we want.’
He led her round to the top of the grassy bank that flanked the terrace, which was completely outlined by blue and white scene-of-crime tape. Above them, the Hall looked haunted in its emptiness. There on the gravel was the taped-off body shape of poor Grace, now damp with gleaming rain droplets and slightly askew. Priya shuddered visibly.
‘That’s where she was …?’
‘Yes.’ Francis, right beside her, put a comforting arm around her shoulder. ‘Horrible, isn’t it?’
‘Poor, poor girl,’ she said. ‘She was younger than me.’
‘I know she was.’
Suddenly she had broken down in tears.
‘Come on,’ said Francis, ushering her to a nearby bench. ‘That’s it, take your time.’ He pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said eventually, dabbing at her face. ‘I barely knew her.’
‘None of us did,’ he replied. ‘Doesn’t mean we’re without feeling, does it.’
Now she looked up at him with an expression he’d not yet seen; more open, yet simultaneously more helpless. ‘I didn’t tell you,’ she said, ‘but I had a sister who died young. She was almost exactly the same age as Grace.’
‘Priya, I’m sorry. I had no idea …’
She shook her head. ‘Don’t worry, it was a long time ago. It’s just like … all this … has brought it back. I feel so vulnerable. I’m sorry, you really don’t need to hear …’
‘Don’t be silly.’ He sat quietly with her, then took her hands between his. ‘Tell me about her,’ he said.
‘She died in a fire. At my parents’ house in Derby. We’d all gone out for the evening to see some cousins, and Chinni stayed behind to do some course work. When we got back the place was ablaze. You could see the flames from three streets away.’
‘And why didn’t she get out?’
‘I don’t know. None of us knew. We thought she must have fallen asleep …’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Chinni was like my role model growing up,’ Priya went on, eyes gleaming. ‘She always stood up to my parents, told them she wasn’t going to listen to their stupid ideas about what Punjabi women were born to do, look after their families, cook, clean, and when the time came marry some man they didn’t know and probably didn’t like or fancy either. She managed to get her A-levels and go to college. So many of the sisters of my friends were the total opposite of that, would go along with their parents, let them enforce the old traditions. But Chinni was always different, always said what she thought, what she wanted, she was so cool …’
Priya trailed off and there was silence. Her lip was trembling. ‘She was pregnant,’ she said quietly. ‘That was the worst of it …’
Francis looked out over the terrace, to the garden and big field that sloped down to the woods below. Heavy grey cloud was moving in right above them, but down the hill, beyond the gleaming snake of the river, that patchwork green and ochre quilt of English countryside stretched away in the sunshine to distant blue hills.
‘For what it’s worth,’ he said, eventually. ‘I lost someone very dear to me, in my twenties.’
‘Who was that?’
‘My wife, Kate.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Priya. ‘How?’
Even as he told Priya the story of the felucca and the storm, Francis could hardly believe he was doing it. He had been through whole relationships and not shared this. But there was something about this woman that pulled it out of him.
‘It probably sounds a bit ridiculous,’ he said. ‘But Grace reminded me of Kate. This death has brought it all back to me too.’
‘I get that,’ said Priya, squeezing his hand.
They sat in silence for a while. ‘So why exactly did you bring me here?’ she asked.
Francis shook himself and got to his feet. ‘You up for a short stroll?’
‘OK.’
He led her across the lawn and – via a quaint little bridge with a cattle grid – over the ha-ha that separated it from the field beyond. At the bottom of the valley was a herd of black and white Friesians, which now started to lumber up the pasture towards them.
‘I’m frightened of cows,’ Priya said.
‘Don’t worry. As long as they’ve got udders they’re all right. It’s bullocks you need to watch out for.’
The foremost animal was now approaching, wide eyes watching in a slowly turning head, at the front of a clutch of its peers.
‘Boo!’ shouted Francis, holding up both his arms like a scarecrow. The cow jumped back, then turned and loped off, pursued by its gaggle of supporters.
‘Very impressive,’ said Priya. ‘Now what?’
‘I just wanted to see what magic our thoroughly miserable summer might have worked.’
Leaving Priya close to the bridge, he paced down across the field, pausing every now and then, stooping, then returning to the upright.
‘Eureka!’ he cried and came running back towards her. He arrived, breathless. ‘Oh ye of little faith. Just as I was starting to think I was on totally the wrong track, I find not just one, but two.’ He held out a browny-white mushroom with a head like a little bell. ‘This, Priya Kaur, is the liberty cap, known colloquially as the magic mushroom. Odd-looking chap, isn’t he? I have now, by plucking it, committed a criminal act. But I expect we can get past PC Intransigent without him searching us and sending us to Dewkesbury nick.’ He slipped it into his jacket pocket. ‘That wasn’t so far from the house, was it? Easy enough to spot on a casual foray.’
‘So what are you saying? You think Grace had one?’
‘I don’t think anything,’ said Francis. ‘For sure. But it’s a possibility, isn’t it?’
‘That Eva woman was offering magic mushroom tea at the party on Saturday.’
‘Was she?’ said Francis. ‘You didn’t mention that before.’
‘I didn’t think it was important. There were drugs everywhere that night.’
Francis paced on, back over the ha-ha and the lawn, with Priya following. At the end of the terrace away from the body shape, he bent down and picked up a handful of gravel. His arm swung up in a circle and a spray of fine stones hit at least two of the first floor windows.
‘What on earth …?’ Priya said, but her question was answered by a familiar face, peering out from the side window of the mullioned bay; which was then pushed open.
‘Francis!’ shouted Ranjit. ‘And Priya. What are you two doing here?’
‘Not allowed in, I’m afraid,’ said Francis.
‘That effing copper?’
‘Yes.’
‘Silly arse. I’ll come down.’
A minute later he was striding towards them in a full-length purple coat. ‘I can’t think what he’s so worried about,’ he said. ‘Most people have left now anyway.’
‘Back to London?’
‘’Fraid so. The whole thing’s been altogether too traumatic. We’re down to a hard core of eight, and not for much longer.’
‘And where are they? Inside?’
‘They’ve all gone into town. I don’t blame them, really. It’s a bit spooky out here. And Rory wanted to see that SAS guy that was wounded in Afghanistan.’
‘Marvin Blake? He was actually a Marine.’
‘Same difference. I was about to call a taxi. Thought I might join them. I don’t suppose …’
‘We’re driving back in? Yes, we are. We’re going to the same talk.’
‘Sounds interesting, doesn’t it?’ Ranjit said. ‘The soldier and the ghostwriter. What kind of relationship is that, I wonder?’