Sarah had expected the proprietor of the ‘Why Knot’ knitting shop to be a little old lady, round and soft and sweet, wearing a knitted cardigan and almost certainly in a misery of mourning.
In fact, she was anything but – and Sarah had to contain her surprise when they finally met at the start of the river-walk down by Cherringham Bridge. Jayne Reid was in her early fifties, lean, sharp, in jeans and a runner’s fleece, and Sarah realised that she recognised her from walking around the village.
Sarah had gone to Why Knot and had found it closed. Next door, the shutters were also down on Otto Brendl’s jewellers shop. A little discreet asking around had turned up a mobile number, and Sarah had finally got through to Jayne.
Sarah’s tentative suggestion that perhaps they could meet for a chat had turned into a brisk instruction to meet her ‘in one hour precisely or not at all’. Jayne led a busy life it seemed and if Sarah was going to find out more about Otto Brendl she was going to have to pay the piper …
“I usually walk up as far as the old church and back,” said Jayne after they’d made their introductions by the stile on the river path.
“Lovely,” said Sarah.
“Good,” said Jayne, striding ahead along the river bank.
Sarah caught up – and tried to figure out her tactics.
She’d always found that walking together was a good way to interview someone. Plenty of time to think and there were no awkward silences. Distractions, possibilities of finding shared interests, ways of changing the subject if one particular direction got awkward …
And here in the meadows opposite the residential moorings, on a warm summer’s afternoon, under a blue sky, there should be no shortage of things to talk about. The river was busy with little boats, fishermen and kids in kayaks.
All she had to do was get Jayne talking, get the information flowing …
“You’re sure you don’t mind me asking you about Mr Brendl?” she said, keeping step with Jayne’s brisk, no-nonsense pace.
“That depends upon the questions.”
“We’re just trying to get a sense of his background so that we can —”
“— get Mrs Harper off the hook,” said Jayne. “That’s really what this is about, isn’t it?”
“Sorry?”
Sarah hadn’t expected that comment.
“Oh come on, Sarah, I wasn’t born yesterday,” said Jayne. “Otto never got round to those ridiculous checks and now instead of people remembering him for his charity work, that bloody stupid woman is going to pollute his reputation by sending you and your American —”
Jayne Reid stopped dead and spun round, to point across the river towards Jack’s boat, moored just thirty yards away.
“That where he lives, isn’t it?” she said, as if accusing Sarah of some kind of crime.
Sarah nodded.
“I suppose he’s watching me through binoculars,” said Jayne, shaking her head. “So, where was I? Yes – my good friend dies and minutes later I’m being questioned by two bloody amateur detectives trying to dig up dirt.”
“Ms Reid, that’s not true. We’re just trying to —”
“For God’s sake call me ‘Jayne’, will you,” she said, spinning on her heels and carrying on up the footpath. “Ms? Ms? Ridiculous form of address!”
Sarah hurried along behind her to catch up. This wasn’t going at all the way she’d imagined – she needed to change tack and fast.
“I’m not sure if you know, but somebody broke into Mr Brendl’s house over the weekend and stole his puppets.”
Jayne stopped so suddenly that Sarah nearly bumped into her.
“What? No, I didn’t,” she said, her brow furrowed in anger. “How do you know? And why wasn’t I told?”
“We only found out this morning. Jack and I took the Punch and Judy back to his cottage and —”
“So you’ve got his keys? I don’t believe this …”
“The keys were actually in the little theatre, so Mrs Harper —”
“I asked at the hospital for them; they wouldn’t give them to me —”
“I’m sure that’s only because they didn’t have them —”
“I thought they were just being bloody-minded, I didn’t expect the school to be in on it too.”
Sarah realised that Jayne was still in shock at Otto Brendl’s death – somehow she was going to have to calm her down.
“I’m sure Mrs Harper intended to pass the keys onto you,” she said.
“Oh God, back to Mrs Harper again – I really don’t want to talk about that woman – okay?”
“Of course.”
“Come on,” said Jayne, striding off once more down the river path.
Sarah watched her marching away and thought:
I could just leave this for now. Catch her later. Take a breather. Grab a cuppa over at Jack’s boat.
But something – some instinct – told her that there might never be a better time to question Jayne Reid.
She hurried after her.
Ten minutes of fast walking had passed without a word between them.
Sarah had decided to let Jayne Reid stew for a while. In silence they’d followed the slow winding shape of the river path upstream, occasionally crossing stiles or footbridges over small brooks. Up here there were fewer pleasure boats and holidaymakers. The meadows turned to pasture and Sarah kept an eye on groups of inquisitive cows as they walked by them.
On any other day this would be a lovely walk, she thought.
But she was determined not to give in.
Eventually the path curved in across the meadow and Sarah saw they were close to the old church, which stood on a raised mound just a few hundred yards from the Thames.
Ahead of her, Jayne had reached the dry stone wall which surrounded the churchyard. She pushed the ancient wooden gate and held it open for Sarah.
“I haven’t been here for years,” said Sarah.
“We – I – come here every day,” said Jayne over her shoulder, striding up the stone path to the church entrance.
Sarah paused and took in the familiar view.
St Paul’s Church, Ingleston.
When she was a teenager she and her friends used to come up here, drink cider in the graveyard and scare each other half to death.
In truth, it had always been, to her, the most peaceful, romantic place. She’d even written an essay about it as a local history project.
The church had once been at the heart of Ingleston, she remembered – but the village had been decimated during the Black Death. The fields all around were dotted with grassy mounds, under which slept the grim remains of the abandoned cottages and barns.
“Come on,” said Jayne, holding the heavy church door open. Sarah walked up the church path, past ancient gravestones, marked with skulls and gothic texts.
Through the open church door, she could see only darkness. She crossed the threshold.