Poppet

Jam-Making Season

AJ TRAILS THOUGHTFULLY back to his car. He drives home with the radio turned off because he wants to keep his head clear. The business cards of the cops who were at that conference are in the big folder in Melanie’s office – but AJ doesn’t need their names. If he wanted to, he could just bell the unit they work for: the Major Crime Investigation Team, if he remembers rightly. It can’t be that hard to find. If he was sure his suspicions about Handel were justified, he might do it. Yeah right, he thinks, as he turns into the rutted track to Eden Hole, like it’s entirely because you’re not one hundred per cent certain. And absolutely nothing to do with the fact you’d upset Melanie if you did. Coward.

He gets out and stands for a moment in the cold, his back to the car. From here the land rises up to a plateau that runs across the top of an escarpment at the beginning of the Cotswolds. The escarpment is bleak and wind-blasted, with skeleton trees dotted along the summit.

Upton Farm is less than four miles away, on the other side of the escarpment. He’s never been there, but he knows where it is, because people locally whisper the name. Until now, with his usual philosophy of seeking only necessary information and nothing more, AJ hasn’t wanted to know what went on there. Or what Isaac did that weirded Jane Potter out so much.

Inside, the cottage is warm, with a fire lit and good smells coming from the kitchen. It’s jam-making season, which means the kitchen’s overrun by a constant succession of bubbling cauldrons, spoonfuls of jam smeared on frozen plates in the freezer and sticky jam thermometers on every surface. Patience mocks AJ for his wassailing, tree-hugging ways, but when he comes home from a walk laden with blackberries from the hedgerow and the pink-streaked Kingston Black apples that fall in the abandoned orchard at the end of the forest, she’s delighted. She rolls up her sleeves and starts sterilizing jars.

Today she has an apron on and is clucking around the place with skimmers and piles of sealing discs. Breakfast is set – banana fritters and toast and coffee and one of the Forager’s Fayre jars he bought her. He takes off his jacket and greets Stewart, then he sits and butters toast, spreads some jam on it. Stewart watches him from his bed next to the Aga.

‘Turns out your dog was born under a wandering star,’ Patience says tightly. ‘Maybe he’s like his daddy – got himself a lady friend.’

‘Why? Where’s he been?’

‘I dunno – sowing his wild seed, I guess.’

‘He’s neutered, Patience.’

‘Doesn’t stop him disappearing. Maybe we should neuter you too.’

There’s a little barb in there, and AJ wonders whether to explain to Patience where he was last night and where he’s going tonight. He decides not to. She’s a grown woman, she can work it out. He butters another piece of toast.

‘Have you ever been up past that orchard?’ he asks. ‘The one I get the Kingston Black apples from. It’s up in The Wilds. Between the church and Raymond Athey’s land.’

‘I know where it is, thank you. But you won’t catch me up there. The place on the other side of it is haunted.’

‘Haunted?’

‘Things happen up there.’

‘Upton Farm, you mean?’

Patience doesn’t answer. Her mouth forms an irritated moue as she busies herself, clattering around with the jam pots, lining them up on the table where he’s eating.

AJ’s not ready to let it go though. ‘We were living here fifteen years ago. Something happened at Upton Farm. Do you remember what?’

‘I remember a boy went mad – killed his parents. Is there more I need to know?’

‘Killed his parents?’

‘That’s what I said.’

AJ’s been in the mental-health system so long nothing should shock him any more – he’s known serial killers who’ve had a far higher body count than two. Even so he still can’t quite imagine Isaac Handel doing it. And so nearby too.

‘Why’re we talking about it?’ Patience says. ‘Hey, Stewart, your dad’s come home, but instead of walking you he’s sitting around eating and talking about ghosts. What do you think about that?’

AJ shakes his head resignedly. He finishes his toast then takes his cup and plate to the sink, washes them and sets them on the draining rack.

Imagine – little pudding-basin-hair Handel killing two people. How does it work that someone can do things like that and there’s no sign of it left on their faces for the world to see?

AJ gets his coat and the dog lead. ‘Come on, Stewie. Let’s get some fresh air, eh?’

Outside, it soon becomes obvious that, although Patience might be in a strop, she is at least right on one count: there’s definitely something odd about Stewart. AJ stands in the rain, hood up, throwing a stick into the field, but Stewart is hesitant to run after it – as if he’s suddenly grown cautious about his surroundings.

‘Go on, boy, go on,’ AJ urges.

Eventually the dog goes into the field, but AJ knows something is wrong. Sure enough, Stewart doesn’t pick up the stick but wanders around sniffing. Then he trots to the edge of the field where a stile leads into a patch of woodland.

‘What’re you doing? Come here.’

Stewart is reluctant to come back. He turns in a little circle, then sits. When AJ approaches with the lead, he begins to whine.

‘Stewart, you headcase – what’s up?’

The stile where Stewart has stopped is a single slab of stone with a crossbar above it. AJ leans over and glances left and right into the wood. A path leads away from the stile, meandering off into the trees. A faint mist hangs in the air. He can’t see what’s bothering Stewart. In all the years he’s lived here and with all the rambling he’s done he can count on his fingers the number of times he’s been along that path – there are far nicer and easier paths to take. He can’t quite recall its exact route, but he does know it leads up to the edge of the plateau. And he knows that if you followed it far enough it would drop down on the other side, down through the place they call The Wilds, and ultimately, if you let it, it would lead to Upton Farm.

Isaac, he thinks. You killed your mum and dad in that farm.

He glances down at Stewart. He wouldn’t put anything past this dog. It’s not hard to believe that Stewart picks up on people’s silent preoccupations, but to the point of being psychic?

‘Not even you are that special, Stew. Sorry, mate – there’s nothing there. Now come on – let’s get you home. Your dadda’s got a hot date.’