The Twist of a Knife

19 Long Shadows

Once we’d arrived at the centre of Moxham Heath, Hawthorne asked the driver to stop and we got out and continued on foot. Neither of us spoke. Maybe Hawthorne was trying to absorb the atmosphere of the village, imagining what it must have been like for the Longhursts as they adapted, unsuccessfully, to their new home. Or perhaps his mind was dwelling on what John Lamprey had told us. Mine certainly was.

For somewhere that had been the cause of so much sadness, Moxham was strikingly beautiful, the sort of place that turns up in jigsaw puzzles or Harry Potter films. In the summer it might be crowded with visitors, but on this bright April day – not quite the weekend yet – it seemed completely authentic; less a tourist attraction, more somewhere to live. We had been dropped off at the bridge, which formed the centre point of the community, its two stone arches spanning a stream doing its best to pretend it was a river. The houses and shops on either side were constructed out of Bath stone, with that warm glow no other building material has ever replicated, and one by one my eye picked out the little details: the ivy, the mullioned windows, the chimneys, the stone urns with their spring flowers bursting through, the original lamp posts, the war monument and the stone trough for horses. I could imagine the Longhursts arriving here for the first time and seeing the gurgling water, the church spire in the distance. Perhaps it wasn’t so surprising that they had decided to stay. It was hard to believe that Chippenham, with its ring roads and business parks, and the six-lane M4 motorway to London were just a few miles away.

There were only three shops. We passed a newsagent’s and a butcher’s-cum-grocery-store before we came to the Ginger Box, still open, selling sweets and souvenirs. This had been the target of Stephen and Wayne on their shoplifting spree and it reminded me that as much as I had fallen for the charms of Moxham Heath, it must have been insufferably dull to a rich boy who had grown up in London. There were a few people in the streets, none of them under sixty. A vicar walked past on the other side of the street and smiled at us. A vicar! Had I accidentally wandered into an episode of Midsomer Murders?

But as we climbed the hill towards the church, the twenty-first century began to impose itself. Suddenly there were yellow lines and – paradoxically – more parked cars. A modern house and a bungalow stuck out like teeth added by a blindly inept dentist. I was glad to see that the village had its own library, but it was a 1960s monstrosity. We came to the church – St Swithin’s – and seeing the name, I wondered if we were going to visit the grave where Major Alden was buried. I should have known better. I don’t think I’ve met anyone who was less of a sentimentalist than Hawthorne and he didn’t even glance that way.

His destination was on the other side of the road: another old building, this one Victorian red brick, just one storey, with an ill-fitting glass extension on one side. A sign told us that this was Moxham Heath Primary School. The classroom windows would have a view of the graves; a vivid illustration of the transience of life, though one probably lost on the children. There were a few parents milling around on the pavement and, looking at my watch, I saw that it was five to three. Presumably the school day finished on the hour. We had timed it well. We lingered until we heard the class bells ring. The doors opened and the children streamed out, the girls in blue-and-white checked dresses, the boys in shorts and blue polo shirts. I watched them rush into their parents’ arms, delivering the usual bundles of exercise books, curling watercolours and disparate objects made from cardboard. Suddenly the building was empty. We went in.

The school didn’t have a lot of space for the forty or fifty children who went there, but there was still a generous reception area with a glass-partitioned office on one side, a visitors’ book and security passes. Swing doors would have to be buzzed open to allow us access into the school itself. The arrangement reminded me of the stage-door entrance of the Vaudeville. Here, Keith’s role was taken by a businesslike young woman in a blue suit. Hawthorne told her who we were and asked if we could speak to the head teacher. The receptionist looked doubtful but rang through anyway.

A primary school is about the only place where my name opens doors and less than a minute later, a large, energetic woman came bursting into the reception area to greet us. I could see at once that she was exactly the sort of head teacher I’d have liked to have when I was ten years old. There was just enough of the Miss Trunchbull about her to make her eccentric, but she was all warmth and smiles, middle-aged, her corded glasses tangling up with the beaded necklace around her neck. She introduced herself as Helen Winters.

‘The children would have been so excited to see you here,’ she announced, ignoring Hawthorne. ‘Your books are very popular in the library.’

‘I’m afraid I’m not here for a school visit,’ I said.

‘We’re wondering if there’s anyone here who was around when Philip Alden was killed,’ Hawthorne said, getting straight to the point.

‘Oh …’ The head teacher faltered. This wasn’t what she had been expecting at all. ‘I’m afraid not. To be honest with you, we’ve tried to forget what happened all those years ago. It’s not a nice memory to have in the school.’

‘There are no teachers? Nobody who might remember Stephen Longhurst?’

‘Absolutely not. We have quite a young staff here. I’ve only been at Moxham four years myself.’

‘Do you work in the study that Alden used?’

‘No. That’s our quiet room now.’

‘I wonder if we could see it?’

‘I can’t imagine why you would want to, Mr Hawthorne. Nothing is the same any more. All the furniture was taken away … even the bookshelves. It’s been repainted.’

‘It still has the door.’

I could see that Helen Winters was regretting she had ever met us. ‘Well, all right,’ she said. ‘But I really can’t see how it will help you.’

She led us through the double doors and along a corridor decorated with the children’s paintings. As we went, I tried to cheer her up by admiring the artwork and talking about books. We passed the library, a bright space with miniature desks and beanbags. A plaque showed that it had been opened by Michael Morpurgo.

‘Such a lovely man,’ Helen said, a little caustically. The inference was clear. Unlike me, the former children’s laureate hadn’t come here investigating the half-forgotten death of the deputy head. ‘Have you met him?’

‘Many times. I’m a big fan.’

We reached her office – long and narrow, with papers piled high on her desk and certificates on the wall. The quiet room was next door. It had been modernised, carefully designed to soothe the more volatile children. Everything was soft: the sofas, the carpet, the beanbags, the stuffed toys and the lighting that faded from pink to mauve to green even as we stood there. One wall was covered with a mural showing an underwater scene and there were liquid lava lamps morphing away on low tables. Turning on the lights had also turned on music: the theme from the film of War Horse. Morpurgo’s fingerprints seemed to be all over the school.

‘This is where Major Alden worked,’ Helen said. ‘It was an office until I arrived, but we haven’t had a deputy head for years and I decided to adapt the room to its present use.’

‘Do you have a lot of difficult children here?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘We don’t consider any children to be difficult.’ Helen Winters replied in a way that suggested Hawthorne was once again straining her patience. ‘All young people need to calm down from time to time. Modern society can seem very stressful when you’re nine or ten years old. Children are under so much pressure these days. This room is a facility for everyone to use. I sometimes sit in here myself.’

Hawthorne had already turned his back on her. He was examining the door frame, which was unusually high. He opened the door and held it. I could see him working out how easy it would have been to balance the bust of Cicero above and for once I was sure we had both arrived at the same conclusion. There was no way one of the boys would have been able to set the trap on his own. They had to be working together. And the bust had a long way to fall. If the sharp edge of the plinth had been pointing in the right direction, it could easily have fractured Alden’s skull.

‘Have you seen enough?’ Helen asked.

Hawthorne nodded. ‘There must be people in the village who remember Major Alden,’ he said.

‘I don’t understand why it’s of such interest to you, Mr Hawthorne.’

‘I should have explained to you, Mrs Winters. A woman was murdered in London two days ago, a theatre critic by the name of Harriet Throsby. She was stabbed in her own home. I believe her death may be connected to what happened at this school. I know it was a long time ago, but murders cast long shadows. I’m just trying to shed a little light.’

If he was being deliberately provocative, it had an effect. ‘I never met Harriet Throsby,’ she said. ‘But I know who she was. She wrote a book about Moxham Heath and I don’t think any of it was very kind.’

‘She didn’t visit the school?’

‘Yes. I believe she did. But that was long before my time. I was living in Bath Spa when all this was happening. I only became aware of what had happened here when I became head teacher, and as I told you, I try not to let these awful memories intrude.’

‘But there must be someone in the village who was here when it happened.’

Helen Winters considered. She quite probably didn’t want to give Hawthorne a name, but at the same time it would be the fastest way to get rid of him. She made her decision. ‘I suppose you could talk to Rosemary Alden.’

‘Major Alden’s wife?’ I said.

‘His widow. She still lives in the village. She was allowed to stay on in the house she occupied with Philip Alden when he worked here.’

‘For twenty years? Isn’t that a bit unusual?’ Hawthorne immediately homed in on that one detail.

‘She had nowhere to go and, to be fair to them, the Longhursts were very generous. They set up a trust in Philip Alden’s name and bought Glebe Cottage so that she could continue living in it rent-free. It cost them a pretty penny, but I suppose it was the least they could do, given what had occurred.’

‘And where is it?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘Glebe Cottage? It’s just up the road from the Ginger Box. But I should caution you. She’s quite elderly and her health hasn’t been good. She had a stroke last year and she doesn’t go out very much any more. If she agrees to speak to you, you’ll have to be gentle.’

My eyes glazed over when I heard her telling Hawthorne that, but I said nothing.

She insisted on escorting us back to the main entrance. ‘You never had any contact with Stephen Longhurst?’ Hawthorne asked her as we made our way.

‘No. Neither of the boys returned to Moxham Heath. There was a rumour that Wayne joined the army, and as for Stephen, he went to America after he came out of prison.’ She stopped. ‘I did meet his brother, though.’

‘Martin Longhurst?’

‘Yes.’

‘He visited the school?’

‘It was all a bit strange. This was a couple of years ago. He said he was thinking of sending his children here …’

That was strange indeed. Martin Longhurst was in his mid-thirties and it was perfectly possible that he had children of primary-school age, but he hadn’t mentioned that he was planning to return to Moxham Heath. His business was in central London. And given its bad associations, the fact that the village had been responsible for the almost total destruction of his family, this was surely the last place he would want to be.

‘I suppose you knew who he was?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘He told me his name and of course I made the connection immediately. He was a very tall man. Quite aggressive. I didn’t feel at all comfortable with him.’ We were passing the library a second time and that jolted her memory. ‘As a matter of fact, he mentioned you.’

She meant me. ‘Oh – really?’

‘Yes. I have to say, it’s a funny coincidence you being here, but maybe there’s some sort of connection.’ She thought back. ‘He saw one of your books in the library and he mentioned that he’d loved reading it as a child.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘Not really. I’m not sure I should be telling you this, but he went on to say that he’d sent you a fan letter when he was fourteen years old and you never replied. He was quite upset about it.’

This was something else he hadn’t mentioned.

‘I always reply to all my fan letters,’ I told her.

‘Well, you must have missed his – not, I’m sure, that you did it on purpose. But it’s funny, isn’t it, how some things matter to people.’ We had set off again and a moment later we reached the front door. ‘Glebe Cottage,’ Helen reminded us.

‘Thank you,’ Hawthorne said, adding: ‘It seems like a nice school.’

She smiled. ‘We try to keep it that way.’

We set off back down the hill.